Rurik found himself thoroughly annoyed. Annoyed to be confronted with a matter of religion so soon, while he himself was unsure where to place faith. Provoked that by his oath he must champion a god with whom he had yet to come to terms.
He well understood his kinsmen’s uncertainties and their desire to ensure the harvest. Just how many clung to the old gods and how many embraced the new he could not say. Mayhap few resisted as he, but when he took up a cause ‘twas with his whole being. For the present, as baron, he deemed it more urgent that his men adhere to the new structures of authority. The rest would follow with time.
But how greatly should a man’s cloth be altered in one fitting when the changes cut into fabric woven from youth? Fabric whose warp and weft wove a man’s soul, whose dye ran deep.
The crowd began to shift restlessly when at last Rurik nodded to the cleric. “Take your holy waters and sprinkle the fields if that is your wish.” He turned to the hunched Frank. “There be no reason the animals must stand unwashed. See it done and give over the garlands to their makers. They might do with them as they will.”
Brienne recognized his words to be but an appeasement. It disturbed her that he did not denounce the pagan act outright. For a moment she wondered if he truly intended to accept the one true God, or if, like his father, Rurik’s faith would skim shallow depths.
Brienne still tumbled those troublesome thoughts in her heart when a young woman broke through the assemblage, clutching a bundle to her bosom. Hurriedly, she threw herself down at Brienne’s feet and none too soon, for she was dogged by a strapping man who grabbed a fistful of veil and hair and dragged her upward. But the woman caught at Brienne’s gown, found an ankle beneath the folds, and gripped tight, unseating the baronne from her chair.
Rurik, six soldiers, and Bolsgar bolted to give aid. They quickly overpowered the man, fettering him with a tangle of arms, and brought him to his knees. Rurik quickly lifted Brienne and secured against his side while Bolsgar parted the sobbing woman from her hem.
Swift words passed between Rurik and the man who named himself as Herjolf. Impatient for a translation, Brienne steadied her footing and eased from Rurik’s grasp. Dipping down, she raised the woman to her feet only to find her to be no woman at all but a girl, perhaps of fourteen.
Tears streaked paths over the girl’s smudged cheeks. “Have mercy, my lady,” she cried miserably, clutching the bundle high against her throat. “Do not let him kill my baby.”
“Certainly not!” Brienne exclaimed roundly, and skewered the man, Herjolf, with her gaze.
As if to emphasize the surety of her words, she encompassed the girl with one arm and laid a hand protectively over the small lump of cloth. The bulge shifted and snuffled beneath her touch. Had the circumstance been otherwise, she would have smiled.
Brother Bernard chose the moment to intervene. “In the Northern world, ‘tis the father’s right to accept or reject his newborn,” he explained carefully for Brienne’s benefit, noting that Rurik once again masked any show of feeling. “After a birthing, the child is laid before its sire. If hale and whole the father will take the babe upon his knee. But if weak or deformed, he will spurn it.”
“What becomes of a babe who is spurned?” she demanded. “What fate?”
“Such an innocent would be exposed . . . or drowned,” he added, emphasizing the callousness of the practice, and was rewarded by shocked gasps among the villagers and a buzzing of voices.
Bile climbed Brienne’s throat and she squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, her gaze locked with Rurik’s. Silently she pleaded for a denial, pleaded that at least he would safeguard this tiny being. But his thoughts remained closed to her.
“Take courage, my lady. There are minds and hearts to win to God and a life to be spared this day,” Brother Bernard murmured, then he turned to the girl. “Might I hold the child?”
She gripped the wriggling bundle to her breast. The monk stepped closer, an understanding smile warming his face as his plump hands closed over the infant. “You do wish the babe baptized, of course.” It was more a statement than question.
The girl twisted her hands and bit into a knuckle as the monk laid open the cloth. “ ‘Tis a girl child,” she said quickly, fresh tears welling as the precious face appeared.
The infant blinked at the light, then crossed her eyes at the stranger hovering above her. The rosebud mouth instantly puckered then opened wide to let loose a lusty squall. She pumped her tiny feet and thrashed the air with small rigid arms — one whole, one withered.
“My lady, mayhap you wish to examine the child and see that she is sound. She appears to be scarce — what — a couple of days old?” He chatted easily, as though nothing were amiss, and deposited the infant in Brienne’s arms. Again he spoke in low tones. “When done, see you present her to Lord Rurik.”
Brienne stole a glance at her husband and was encouraged that his expression had softened. She cooed soothingly to the child as she inspected its soft little nose and mouth, its miniature ears and bright blue eyes. Drawing away the cloth, she flexed the small limbs, checked the drying navel cord, and, turning the babe over her arm, assured its spine was straight. This done, she instructed the girl to unfasten her mantle, fold it, and set it on the ground before the baron. After settling the child onto the cushion of cloth, Brienne rose before Rurik and clasped her hands to hide their faint tremble.
“My lord husband, the babe suffers no ailment that I can detect. She is as fit and healthy as any.” A pain weighted her heart, but she continued. “The arm will be no more trouble to her than . . . than Aleth’s leg is to her.”
Just then, Herjolf crossed his arms staunchly over his chest, averting his face from the child, and uttered something tersely in Norse. When Rurik did not immediately respond, the misery of doubt engulfed Brienne. For a long, painful moment she could not bear to look at him. Then a tortuous thought struck at her core: someday, her own children could be at such risk.
Rurik felt his heat rise and his gut clench when Brienne cast her eyes from him. He had never agreed with the practice of exposure. The realization that she believed him capable of such an act lanced through him and left him raw. Not all were hardhearted like Herjolf.
When Bolsgar started to speak, Rurik stayed him with a sharp hand. He had no need to “find the law” — Frankish, Norse, or otherwise. Some values were basic to life. His code was written upon his heart.
Rurik shifted his gaze over his men. They watched him, as did the villeins, each looking to him to uphold their own notion of equity, each ready to judge him if he did not. It was sobering to wield such power, to so totally affect a man’s rule, his faith . . . his family.
Looking upon the infant, he watched her tiny arms club the air and smiled inwardly. Truly he was the “Children’s Man.” If his soldiers deemed it a weakness, he cared not a lick as long as they served him well.
“Many a man born whole has forfeited a limb to battle and still lived a useful life.” Rurik passed a critical eye over the Norsemen that lined the crowd, then marked with great satisfaction that Herjolf himself lacked a portion of one finger. “A demeine has many needs, requires many talents. I have need of each and every soul who would help Valsemé prosper.”
Rurik lifted the naked baby to his knee, accepting her as her own father would not. He nudged her little hand, the one twisted, not whole, till she curled the frail fingers about his own.
“This child will have a place in my hall. Bring her to my wife at such time as she is weaned. Until then, see she is well cared for. I will send my man to attest it is so.”
He paused for a moment, absorbed Herjolf’s ruddy shade and downcast eyes, then looked to the mother.
“Has she a name?”
“Catherine, my lord.” The girl wiped her wet cheek. “I call her ‘Rina.’
“Rina.” He teased the babe’s chin with the tip of his trapped finger. Rina opened her mouth, birdlike, and eagerly sought nourishment. With a soft laugh,
Rurik handed her back to her mother.
“If there be aught you need, or complaint you suffer” — he cast a warning look at the father — “send to me.”
Not for the first time, Brienne was ashamed of her hasty assumptions, her lack of trust. Above any she had ever known, Rurik was a fair and just man.
Many hours lumbered by before they gained privacy in their tent. When they had undressed and laid down, she embraced him, tears of regret spilling from her eyes.
“Forgive me, my love. That I should have believed you able to . . . that you might allow . . . ‘Twas wrong and undeserved to think — “
Rurik covered her mouth as he felt a sting of hot tears in the back of his throat. He held her tight, blocking out the day’s disagreeable memories. Rolling her beneath him, he continued to hush her with strong kisses and gave himself to teaching her more of the ways of love.
Brienne opened herself to him, denied him nothing, followed his lead. With her lips and body she adored him. It was a healing, a renewal. And as they joined and scaled the sensual heights, she determined to never doubt Rurik again.
»«
Elsie loved feasts. She’d decided that on her lord’s wedding day. She also decided that he set the finest table in the land, quite possibly finer than the king’s. There had been food aplenty that day, more than she had seen in the full sum of her years, six in all. Celebrations were a rarity in Ivry and none so grand.
Now Lord Rurik ordered another feast — her second such — and this promised to surpass even the first. Her lord and lady had been in high cheer since the manor house had been completed, and declared a holiday so all might be rewarded for their labors.
This, of course, meant that Waite’s mother would prepare the warm crumbly cakes the lord preferred. And indeed she had. They sat cooling on the kitchen’s long worktable, dozens of them, neatly aligned like little ducklings marching in a row. Well, ducklings were not nearly so neat, and better for her if these were not also. Then one — or two — would not soon be missed.
Elsie cast a covert glance to where Waite squatted outside the door, then eased up to the table and slipped a loaf into her skirtfolds. As she reached for a second, the first dropped from her skirt and broke on the floor. Patch scampered from Waite’s hold, tail wagging as he scurried in and gulped the chunks down.
“Here now! What’s this? Out with you!” Waite’s mother hastened across the room and shooed the mongrel away. “And the two of you — do you think to idle about while the rest of us toil? Here.” She snatched up a small wooden bucket and thrust it toward the children. “We’ll be needing berries for the sauces and tarts. See that you bring this back — filled, if you please — and don’t be to it all day.”
Elsie took the container and Waite trapped his furry charge. They left quickly, his mother wagging her head after them.
Suddenly the little girl stopped short, causing Waite to stumble into her. “Look!” she cried.
Waite followed the length of her pointing finger and sighted Lord Rurik and Lady Brienne riding side by side, leading the hunt from the bailey.
“Soon I will move into the manor house,” Elsie announced importantly.
“Says who?” Waite squinched his brows together, vaguely annoyed with her airs.
“I am to care for the lord’s babies when they come. And since they will sleep in his outer chamber, then so must I.”
“Humph.” Waite thought of his lady’s fine, slender shape and his mother’s, round as a melon with his new baby brother. It had to be a brother, he thought, eyeing Elsie. “And what makes you think they’ll beget their babies so soon?”
Elsie sniffed. “Mama says that any man who looks at a woman as our lord looks at his lady will keep her full of wee ones. Mama says.”
“Humph.”
Brienne caught sight of the two waifs and bedraggled pup and sent them a wave and sunny smile. Over the bridge she clattered after Rurik and urged Candra forward, abreast of Sleipnir.
She had warned Rurik that she was no huntswoman, but he had insisted she ride out nonetheless, wishing to keep her near. If Normans shared one trait in common with the Franks, ‘twas their passion for hunting. And her Norman was no exception.
But ‘twas a glorious day, even for one who did not appreciate the sport in and of itself. Glorious because all was right with her world. Because Valsemé flourished. And because her days were replete with love.
At times a vagrant fear fluttered about her heart. It whispered that such happiness was fleeting, that it could not long endure, that it would soon be spoiled or stolen away. But she believed in Rurik’s love, and whenever he looked at her, her fears dispersed like so much chaff before the wind.
In recent weeks villeins had begun to arrive at the keep, having heard of Rurik’s justice and that he dealt with men fairly. This was greeted with great joy on both sides, for the harvest would shortly be upon them.
Norsemen, too, continued to find their way to her husband’s service. Among his requirements, Rurik insisted his men gain the basics of Frankish, hoping to alleviate future difficulties and misunderstandings.
Brienne, in turn, took it upon herself to learn an assortment of phrases in Norse. This proved highly useful during the week past when the household goods were moved from the great tower to the manor house.
The manor house. Brienne was supremely happy. Not only was it complete, but it was furnished handsomely as well. Rurik provided new counterpanes, pillows, and bedclothes. Exotic tapestries, brocaded cushions, ivory carvings, and brass decorated their new bedchamber — and, of course, Rollo’s great bed.
Brienne scanned the marbled blue skies and breathed the ripe, heavy fragrance suffusing the meadows. Elegant blossoms — yellows, pinks, and creams — gossiped in the sun while bees darted about, trying to catch snips of their tittle.
‘Twas a day made for sport. Brienne skimmed the edge of the forest as they approached, this sector familiar to her from her youth. She smiled secretly. Made for sport and diversion. Mayhap she would share the secret of the underwood.
Brienne waited precisely three boar and five deer. The traps had been emptied of rabbit, quail, and curlew. Pheasants and herons were taken as well.
As the party emerged from the cool depths of the wood into the warmth of the noonday sun, Brienne drew open the drape of her head scarf and fanned her throat.
“The boar was well won, my love, but you have yet to win the doe.”
Rurik cocked his head, a half smile playing on his lips. “There are the two stags. Do they count for naught? Or has my wife discovered an overpowering lust for the hunt?”
“Lust for a surety,” Brienne replied, laughing. “Come, my lord, the sport is not yet done.”
Rurik had no moment to puzzle her words, for Brienne leaned into Candra and turned her across the open field. He galloped after her, amazed when she pulled the veil from her head and loosed her hair on the wind. He urged Sleipnir forward, closing the distance, then eased back on the reins so as not to overtake her entirely.
Brienne was a glorious sight, one with the horse. Her midnight hair flowed in the breeze, lifting and falling with the rhythm of the hooves. She smiled back at him, eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed. Her mantle billowed wide, exposing the soft pitch of her breast, small waist, and curve of her hip. Rurik felt his heart pulse, felt the power beneath him, and pressed the stallion to close alongside this vision of beauty.
But Brienne veered away, heading toward a wooded copse. She freed her cloak and sent it floating behind her as she disappeared into the trees.
Rurik slowed as he entered to follow the hidden path scored with fresh hoofprints. It was a dense grove, the trees somewhat dwarfed, crowded and spindly. The wood ended abruptly and Rurik found himself squinting against the crystalline shimmer of a small lake.
Movement and laughter drew his eyes right. Brienne had already dismounted and was in the process of discarding her tunic and leggings. Rurik swung down from his saddle and tossed the reins
over a bush. Before he could accomplish another step, Brienne bounced to her feet and dropped her shift to the ground.
“Hurry!” she called, running naked into the water and diving into the clear shallows.
Rurik was momentarily transfixed by her shapely form, pearllike and leggy, gliding beneath the surface. Then his fingers came alive, hauling the vest from his frame and stripping away boots and pants. His clothes joined Brienne’s in a pile and he plunged in after her, then angled into a shallow dive.
Brienne heard the splash behind her and stroked for the center of the lake. Standing shoulder high in the refreshing water, she turned. Rurik was nowhere to be seen. She glanced along the shoreline then over the movement of light, playing upon the water. She frowned, perplexed.
Just as she formed his name, two hands clasped her waist and lips closed over her breast. Rurik’s bright head broke through the surface, as he hoisted her upward into the air, his mouth still possessing her fully.
Brienne laughed with throaty, triumphant approval. She buried her hands in his hair and wrapped her legs around his waist, opening herself to him as he continued to relish her offering. She felt all-powerful and totally vulnerable as she felt him press into her. This was Rurik, gloriously male, his passions unleashed, his hunger unrestrained.
He molded her hips to his, kneading the soft curve of her buttocks with fevered haste as he began to forge against her. With lip and tongue, he scorched a path over her cool, glistening skin, gathered droplets from her throat, shoulder, and breasts, and drank from the valley between. He then feasted on the nipple that had gone unattended, savoring its beaded peak as fresh fires erupted through him.
Brienne felt Rurik shudder beneath her hands, felt the muscles bunch in his shoulders as he braced his stance and gripped her tightly. He surged against her with stunning force. For a moment, it seemed he would drive up to the very core of her soul.
The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series) Page 24