The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  She strained her ear to the rim of wood above and, through trembling lips, prayed that the mantle of darkness and brush would conceal her.

  Brienne’s thoughts began to slip and her fears dimmed. As the effects of the drug-dipped thorn overtook her, she faintly heard Aleth’s voice calling in the forest.

  Chapter 18

  Brienne moaned as she stirred to consciousness. The dank, rich odors of the earth — bark, leaf, and soil — filled her lungs. Something teased at her cheek. A frond, she thought vaguely, and lifted a hand to brush it away. Fire shot through her arm at the movement. Every inch of her felt bruised.

  Dragging open her eyes, she met with blackness. High above, a parcel of sky hinted of deepest blue, illumined by the moon’s brilliance and seeded with stars. All was silence.

  Waite. Aleth. Patch . . . poor Patch. Her thoughts skittered. Was he among the animals slain?

  Cold dread wreathed through her. She must get to the keep. Find help. Rurik. She needed Rurik.

  Brienne pushed herself up, enduring fresh spasms of pain. Her limbs seemed consumed with unnatural fatigue, leaden. She worked them, each movement costing her as a portion of strength returned.

  With shaky arms and unsteady legs, she began the steep climb, gripping vines and saplings to drag herself upward. Time and again, her feet slipped, sinking into the soft layers of earth and leaf.

  She paused to catch her breath, then took up a branch to use as a cane only to have its decaying wood crumble in her hands. Tears stung her eyes, and she wondered if the Almighty intended her to rot here as well.

  Scraped and soiled, with her hair pulled from its braids, Brienne clawed her way to the top of the ravine. She lay panting a moment, then pulled herself to her feet and leaned against a tree.

  Which way to go? She was unsure of her bearings, but knew that the forest stretched indefinitely in several directions. Her only choice was to return the way she’d come, keeping well away from the glade and hoping to emerge somewhere near the church.

  Brienne swiped the dirt from her cheek and pushed away from the tree. Time might be crucial for Aleth and Waite, if it was not already too late.

  God all powerful, all merciful, she implored. Help me reach Rurik.

  Locating an animal trail, she hastened along its narrow confines. Branches whipped against her and stung. Her arm throbbed. Remembering the thorn there, she felt for it, seized hold, and with gritty determination, drew it out.

  On she rushed as fast as she dared and could manage. At times, she feared the path swung full circle, but with few alternatives, she continued to follow its track.

  When she thought she had retraced the distance she had fled earlier, Brienne left the trail, praying to avoid the dread grove. She made her way through the unbridled wood, instinct guiding her direction.

  In a short time, she connected to another trail, one she hoped would lead her from the forest. Her confidence rose and she hurried on, less cautious of the crackling of twigs underfoot, or the sporadic gasps she uttered when assaulted by briars and brambles.

  Abruptly, she wrenched to a halt, then abandoned the path altogether and sought shelter. Light radiated through the foliage ahead. Her pulse surged. Mayhap her instincts were not so well directed. She distinguished voices, male voices, but Frankish or Norman she could not say.

  Brienne crept closer. She recognized that these could well be the men who perpetrated the lurid, heathen sacrifice. Still, she hoped against hope that they were Rurik’s faithful soldiers, sent in search of her.

  Relying on the shroud of darkness, she advanced nearer than she knew to be wise. Inch by inch, guarded and watchful, she progressed toward the light, crawling the last distance to a clump of bushes.

  Voices rumbled. Norsemen for a surety and many. Fire crackled against the night. Brienne could nearly feel its warmth. A distinctive odor pervaded the air, but it was not the burnt fragrance of hardwood. More of incense — an indefinable musky scent. A scent she recalled now with alarming clarity. A scent that once lingered about her bed and chamber door.

  Hands trembling, she reached out and parted the bushes. Instantly, her eyes encountered the bloodied carcasses still slung from the trees. She sucked a sharp breath, appalled to discover that she had returned to the site of the sacrifice.

  In the clearing before her stood a circle of Northmen, shields in hand, waiting, it seemed, their attention directed to the right of her. She strained forward to mark their interest, then choked back her astonishment at the sight of the Nordic high priest.

  He sat imposingly upon a low stool, wearing a horned helmet. Elaborate nose and cheek guards masked his features. Furred skins draped his shoulders. In his gloved hand he gripped a staff — Katla’s staff — with its brass and jeweled crownpiece. Brienne cast a glance about. Katla was nowhere visible.

  Suddenly, the Northmen began beating their bucklers in a steady drum. Several men came forth to stand before the priest. Brienne saw now that a large crucifix lay on the ground at his feet. Her eyes rounded. It looked to be the very altar cross from Valsemé’s church!

  The beat of the shields increased. The first of the men strode forward. He solemnly exchanged words with the priest and then, to Brienne’s stunned surprise, spat full upon the crucifix and ground it beneath his heel. The second man followed, repeating each action, then kicked dirt over the cross in parting.

  Horrified, Brienne turned away, unable to watch. But moments later the beating ceased. She dragged her gaze back to the grove as the space cleared before her. The men who had desecrated the cross were retreating into the wood opposite her. A dozen more Northmen quit the glade and followed them out, the ceremony at an end.

  Brienne huddled in the cover of the shrubs. But in the next moment, the high priest rose to his feet and turned directly toward her. Her breath congealed in her throat as threw off his mantle of skins and began to remove his ceremonial helmet. Something gleamed at his chest, catching the firelight. Her eyes fell on the round talisman suspended there just as golden hair spilled from beneath the helmet.

  Rurik! She swallowed a strangled moan.

  Brienne’s heart thundered in her ribs. Swaying with shock, she bit into the back of her hand to stifle a cry of disbelief. Thoughts would not connect as her world careened and crashed on its end.

  “Away. I must be away,” she whispered to herself with fevered haste, blood pounding.

  Brienne scrambled from the bush and stumbled through the darkness. Barely had she begun her flight but she toppled over an unseen obstacle and sprawled atop it. She pressed back frantically, realizing the mass possessed head and limbs.

  Anguish knifed to the very center of her soul as she felt the thin rail of a leg.

  “Aleth! Dear God, no!” she keened.

  Tears burned their passage from the depths of her being, scalding her eyes as they tumbled over her cheeks. Shattered, Brienne cradled her friend’s head in her lap, then felt the slickness of blood.

  Voices sounded from behind, followed by the heavy fall of footsteps and the crunching of sticks.

  “I shall avenge you, Aleth,” Brienne vowed with a hushed sob.

  Gently, she eased the lifeless form to the ground, then stole into the underbrush and fled.

  »«

  Great agonies of doubt swept through Brienne, ravaging the landscape of her heart and leaving it a barren desert. For a time, she sat doubled over with great racking sobs, then emptied her stomach on the forest floor.

  Vile, soulless barbarians! Her father’s words harangued her from the grave. Everything contemptible and base. Northmen are the Devil’s excretion. The scourge of God’s creation. Brienne crawled to a nearby tree.

  Deception. All was deception. Her thoughts were but rubble. A pagan kingdom. The Norse intended to establish a pagan kingdom on Frankish soil. They never purposed to meld with her people or uphold their oaths.

  She closed her swollen eyes and leaned her head against the tree.

  Rurik had returned to his pa
gan ways. Nay, she corrected. Never did he forsake them. Why did she not foresee this sorry end, knowing he argued his Christian instruction with the monk, knowing he resisted the waters of Holy Baptism?

  And what of the others? What of oaths sworn? Such mockery.

  Pain stabbed through her head. She could barely press out another tormenting thought. She knew only what her eyes had shown her. Knew only that Aleth was dead.

  Brienne pushed herself upward. She must flee this place. The king needed to be warned. Desperation quickened her thoughts.

  St. Wandrille’s. She heartened, remembering the monk’s words. Though the abbey lay near to Rouen, his cousin, the abbot, could aid her and get word to Brother Bernard. She would take sanctuary if necessary.

  Sanctuary. A wave of desolation washed over her. Mayhap she never should have left it, those many months ago.

  As the skies lightened, Brienne emerged from the forest. She gave thanks at the sight of a small holding across the glen. At her approach, she noted that one dwelling sat apart from the others, and quickly headed there.

  »«

  A short, squarish woman, head kerchiefed with a white cloth and thick ankles visible beneath her hem, stood in the wood-yard scattering grain to the hens.

  She looked up as something teased the edge of her vision, then dropped the contents of her apron in a heap at her feet at the sight that greeted her. Stunned, the woman stepped back, oblivious of the flapping of wings and pecking of beaks.

  Her eyes grew huge, straining in their sockets, as she stared at the Baronne de Valsemé, white-faced with exhaustion, her fine dress soiled and tattered, her hair snarled and loose to her waist.

  The woman hurried to assist the lady, thinking she looked ready to swoon. With as much haste as could be allowed, she guided the baronne inside the mean hut and sat her down. Bringing water and cloths, the woman proceeded to cleanse the baronne’s face, neck, and hands, observant of the many scratches she bore.

  “Ease yourself, my lady. I shall fetch my husband from the fields,” the woman said in a rush, setting out a thick slab of bread and bowl of hot broth.

  “Nay!” Brienne seized the woman by the arm, her look haunted. Like as not, the man was Norse. She struggled a moment, then took hold of herself. “Nay,” she repeated more gently, releasing the startled woman.

  Brienne raked a shaky hand through her hair. She had no wish to affright the woman. Even if the man proved Frank, should she rave charges against the Northmen, it would serve only to spawn terror among the villeins. Above all she must reach St. Wandrille’s. Salvation lay with the king.

  “I need only rest atime. My horse did but throw me,” she fabricated. “I shall require another.”

  “A horse?” the woman gasped, abashed. “We own no beast that would befit a lady. Let me send to your lord husband, baronne. You look to have wandered the forest this night.”

  “You know me?” Brienne’s eyes cut to the woman, unease flooding through her.

  “Of course, my lady. I saw you in the neighboring ville this summer while you and Lord Rurik convened the mallus there. Such a splendid lord. Surely he searches for you even now.”

  Tears escaped Brienne’s eyes and trickled over her cheeks. She looked away.

  The woman sank to her knees and took her hands in her own. “My lady, you are ill. Sleep awhile. I shall send for — “

  “Nay!” Brienne’s seized the woman’s arm. “Tell no one I have been here. Do you understand? I command you.”

  Brienne’s agitation mounted. Her thoughts scattered. She could not conceal her presence for long. ‘Twas too dangerous to stay. Too dangerous for all. Once it was known what she witnessed . . .

  Her eyes riveted on the woman. “If there is a nag or mule or anything with four legs that I might ride, I pray, bring it. Then lead me to a track that will bear me north. I must reach St. Wandrille’s.”

  Brienne wished to recall her last words as soon as they slipped out and reproached herself for having revealed the whole of her destination.

  “As you will, my lady,” the woman replied, caution in her voice as though she thought Brienne to be unsound. “Our only mount is a bit of a scrag, but it should bear you, I think. There is a road the merchants use to haul their goods, neglected as any, but it leads to Rouen.”

  The woman rose and packed scraps of food in a pouch. She then searched through a crude chest and returned with a cowbell and a homespun cloak owning a deep hood.

  ‘Tis unsafe to travel unescorted. If I cannot dissuade you, then leastwise shroud yourself in this, and if any approach, ring the bell as do the lepers. Even should they glimpse the fine cloth of your gown, no doubt they will grant you wide berth for fear of contagion.”

  Brienne thanked the woman, touched by her concern and impressed with her cleverness. She waited as the woman brought the spindly mare to the side of the hut, then followed her across the pasture until, at last, they came to a weed-choked road.

  “The track ends at the river Seine. When travelers tarry here, they ofttimes complain of the bargemen there. You will need offer them payment, my lady. Best give them the scrag.”

  Brienne nodded as she fastened the cloak and adjusted its folds, regretful that her visitation should leave the woman that much more impoverished. Her hand brushed the jeweled girdle. Gazing down on it, a profound sadness wrapped itself around her heart. Rurik. Her life. Her love. Love treasured. Love betrayed.

  Does not love transcend all? Aleth once asked.

  Mayhap not all, dear Aleth. Not all.

  Slowly she unclasped the belt and then pressed it into the woman’s hand.

  “My lady, nay — “

  Brienne refused the woman’s efforts to return the girdle.

  “You have aided Valsemé and Francia this day more than you know. Take the belt and pray for me.” Tears clogged her eyes and throat. “And pray for my lord baron,” she whispered.

  Joyless, Brienne led the nag down the derelict road.

  The woman stood, mouth gaping, belt in hand, as Valsemé’s baronne passed out of sight. Dropping her gaze, her eyes rounded as she more fully examined the piece. She clutched it tight and ran back across the meadow, beyond the hut, and out to the fields where her husband labored, turning the fallow.

  Thrusting the gem-studded belt at his chest, she poured forth the incredible story.

  “She is not right of mind,” the woman babbled excitedly. “Fell from her horse, she said. On her head, I’ll wager. I could not hold her here. She took that seedy animal and handed me this!”

  The man doffed his soft cap as he took the girdle, then whistled low over its precious gold links and costly stones. His eye ranged to his wife then back to the wealth that lay in his hands.

  Little did he understand of the ways of nobles and great lords. He did understand that since coming to Valsemé his stomach had been full and he had been dealt with fairness. The baron was a just man. Rightly, he should apprise the lord that his lady wandered ill about the domain.

  He hefted the belt in his hand.

  But he also understood the value of the girdle. It could afford him many comforts in Paris. Indeed, a new life.

  Chapter 19

  Brienne felt her ribs jar apart as the scrawny beast bore her along the rutted pathway. She would favor walking if her feet and legs did not pain her so. Even now their muscles threatened to cramp.

  When she could bear it no longer, Brienne slid from the animal’s back and led it from the road into a shallow cover of wood. Earlier, when a lone rider overtook her by surprise, she realized the need to conceal herself at every turn.

  A faint smile crossed her face, remembering the man’s expression as he took in her garb. She did no more than burrow into its coarse folds and clang the bell twice. ‘Twas enough to send the man wide and speed him down the track, cursing each gouge and furrow that delayed him.

  Brienne settled herself with a chunk of coarse bread that she found in the pouch, unsure whether she possessed the energy
to chew it. Bone weary, her head nodded as she sat resting.

  With a jerk, she snapped back awake, the dull rumble of hooves reaching her ears. They sounded from the direction she had just traveled. Brienne scrambled to her feet and pulled the nag deeper into the timber. Anxious the mare might call out to the others, she foraged in the pouch for the fruit she remembered there, then gripped the reins tight.

  Before long, a small force of soldiers tramped past. She spied them imperfectly through the lace of leaf and branch, but their shouts marked them as Norse. Brienne shuddered as she plied the beast with bits of an apple and clutched the harness. Though the road might lay in neglected disrepair, ‘twas by no means forgotten or untrod. Plainly, it served the ducal court at Rouen. She would need to exercise all the more caution for that. At last the troop moved on, unsuspecting of her presence.

  The hours crawled past, and Brienne and her sorry mare pressed north. The road stretched mercilessly before her, yet she progressed without incident. For that she gave thanks.

  Toward dusk, the nag caught the scent of water. Brienne allowed the horse its head and soon found herself at a breach in the forest where a creek tumbled over a rocky course.

  Wearied and worn beyond measure, she refreshed herself with the tingling waters and drank long of it, as did the mare. She then climbed the gentle slope, drawing her mount a fair distance into the sheltering brush. After she secured the nag and heaped leaves into a small pallet. Brienne curled up within her mantle, utterly benumbed, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  »«

  The smell of roasted meat tickled Brienne’s nose. She lay very still as she eased her eyes open in the pitch-darkness and listened to the low murmur of men’s voices. Quietly, she pressed herself to her feet and edged down the incline. A campfire flickered past the brink of wood. She stole closer, secreting herself behind the expanse of an oak.

  In the clearing, she observed two robed figures. One moved to crouch on a spit of sand by the water’s edge and fill a skin. The other sat enveloped in cloak and cowl, facing the fire with his back to her.