The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  Brienne felt warmth pour through her. They looked to be monks — or pilgrims, perchance. She began to step from her cover but hesitated as a third man came into view and stood before the one seated. He was uncommonly tall and she thought to see a flash of metal at his hip. A moment later he pushed the hood from his head.

  Brienne flattened herself against the tree, her heart vaulting to her throat. The man’s face was a mass of scars, his skull baldpated, one ear sheared off.

  “Brigands!” Brienne breathed.

  Swallowing her fear, she withdrew into the swamp of darkness and hurried from the place.

  »«

  The great Seine posed a far more dangerous challenge than passage of its broad, winding depths and ever shifting currents. The crossing point was dominated by three fierce-miened bargemen, Norsemen all.

  Brienne regarded them from a distance, her nerves aquiver. She realized at once that she could not shield herself with the cloak and bell, for she would never win transport. ‘Twas more than likely they would drive her from the place under a barrage of stones and the threat of sword.

  With tense fingers, she folded away the sorry disguise, then tried to smooth the tattered folds of her once fine gown that marked her nobility. Mayhap if they understood her relation to their duke, they would deal her no harm. Her husband was, after all, Rollo’s blood kindred as well as his baron. She fully intended to exploit every advantage that offered.

  Mustering her last ounce of courage, Brienne proceeded toward the quay, dredging her sparse Nordic vocabulary for the words she required.

  The Northmen watched her approach through wary eyes. One started forward, a slow grin spreading over his face as he surveyed her contours. But a second stepped in his path and halted him with an outstretched arm. A hint of recognition tinged the second man’s eyes.

  Brienne steeled herself and continued under the weight of his scrutiny. At her approach, he greeted her in broken Frankish, his grasp of the language as limited as her own of Norse. The man listened without comment while she framed her tale. Again came the look of recognition.

  A dark presentiment unfurled through Brienne as she recalled the troop of soldiers that had passed her along the road. Conceivably, they searched for her. If so, they would have alerted the rivermen. Brienne swallowed. These men might intend to hold her there.

  A sense of urgency strengthened her. ‘Twas imperative she reach St. Wandrille’s and claim sanctuary. Emboldened with need, Brienne decided to deal with the men straight on. She made no pretense that she traveled to Rouen but made it plain she sought passage to St. Wandrille’s.

  Surprisingly, the man did not oppose her transit or argue her destination. He refused, however, to accept the nag in payment. When his gaze went to the gold on her finger, Brienne’s temper flared. Despite all that had gone before, deep in her heart she could not relinquish her marriage ring. ‘Twas odious he should seek it.

  Brienne clenched her fingers into her palm and reproached the man. He stepped back, blinking in the face of her onslaught. Through gestures and broken sentences, he declared that he would transport her without charge. He simply did not want the nag.

  Brienne calmed herself, a trifle embarrassed. She vowed ample recompense in Rurik’s and Rollo’s names if he would deliver her to the shores near St. Wandrille’s. Double if he could scratch out a map that would take her directly to the abbey steps.

  The man agreed, obviously envisioning rich reward from duke and baron alike. Brienne did not fret over her deception. No doubt he would head straightaway to Rouen to barter his knowledge for coin. But, in fairness, she insisted on leaving the nag. The Norseman little realized the beast’s value, or the great price at which she had made its purchase.

  The passage downriver lasted well over an hour. At Brienne’s insistence, the bargeman set ashore a safe distance from the abbey’s normal avenues of traffic. Once they disembarked, he traced a map in the damp soil, detailing a short route through the woods. It would bring her to Fontenelle Valley where the monastery lay.

  Brienne committed the directions to memory, undoubting of its accuracy. Norsemen, after all, knew well the road to St. Wandrille’s. They had devastated it ofttimes enough.

  Late in the afternoon, Brienne emerged from the forest path to discover herself in the little vale of Fontenelle. She nearly cried for joy. At its heart rose the centuries-old monastery, staunch and sound. Relief renewed her energies as she hurried across the clearing.

  Blessed St. Wandrille’s! Who had not heard of it? She quickened her pace. Famed throughout the ages as a center of learning, its library was renowned. Home to the saints, Einhard and Ansegise among them, laboring long for the emperor, Charlemagne.

  As she advanced across the open field, she imagined St. Wandrille himself as he first toiled there, freeing the land of root and stump, easing her flight this day to his abbey door.

  But her cheer dampened as she approached the ancient enclosure walls. An odd, unsettling feeling began to chafe at her. She paused to peruse the empty terrain that surrounded the monastery. There was no life there. All lay stark and forsaken, vacant of human, beast, or vine. Where wondrous vineyards once flourished, the fields now lay untended. A few blackened stakes survived, rising like grave markers over the ruined tillage, mourning the Northmen’s destruction.

  ‘Twas said the holy monks returned to St. Wandrille’s and restored it. Yet as Brienne stepped through a side entrance in the thick wall, she wondered whether they secluded themselves within or had abandoned it afresh. She evidenced no sign of man. Was there no one to aid her in her plight?

  As Brienne passed through the portal, she came to a standstill, realizing ‘twas no portal at all. Slowly, she turned back and saw that a portion of wall had been demolished. Again, she turned. Rubble lay everywhere, segments of stone great and small lay scattered over the grass.

  She proceeded down a path among the smaller service buildings, all roofless shells, many half standing. The wooden structures had been torched long ago, though their foundations remained. As she neared the cloister she found much of it despoiled. One arm of the colonnaded portico upheld naught but the cloudless sky. The grand abbey church, to which it led, stood charred over much of its side. Whether ‘twas further defiled, she could not immediately judge.

  Brienne wished to weep over the wreckage. The fragments of St. Wandrille’s illustrious past lay at her feet. Her anger deepened and flamed her loathing and revulsion.

  Norsemen! ‘Twas a race that thrived upon death and destruction. Could they do naught else but blood their swords? How many of Wandrille’s gentle sons did they run upon their blades? How much holy blood was spilt and now hallowed these grounds?

  Brienne burned with a bitterness equal to her fury. The heathens would gut all of Francia if allowed, slaughtering and pillaging and wasting the domain. Not long, they had robbed her of everything she held most dear . . . and now, once more. Her gaze dropped to the rust-colored stains marring her skirt where she had cradled sweet Aleth, lifeless in her arms.

  They must be stopped. At all costs, their steel must be met and turned lest all of Francia lie in ruin.

  A movement at the edge of a nearby building caught Brienne’s eye and pulled her from the haze of her choler. A dark-robed figure stepped out upon the path. Immediately, another man followed, taller by a head and wearing the red mantle of a Norseman.

  “Dear God, nay!” Brienne started. “Do not deliver me to their hands again.”

  She snatched up her gown and ran toward the abbey church as though demons nipped at her heels. Shouts followed her, but she drove herself all the harder, desperate to reach sanctuary.

  As Brienne gained the first step, her foot skidded on debris that littered the stone and she sprawled forward. Pain seared her arm as the stone scraped it raw.

  Prostrate upon the stairs, she looked to her goal. The heavy square tower frowned down on her and the remaining climb seemed an eternity. But shouts fell near, giving her no moment to dwe
ll upon the distance. The two men closed fast upon her, and now she spied more red mantles.

  Brienne thrust herself to her feet, heart pounding as she hoisted her skirts and scaled the course. Her side cramped and her lungs ached, but she forced herself up the last of the steps to the top. Without a backward glance, she rushed for the portal, her objective of sanctuary nearly gained.

  One of the substantial double doors stood open. Her confidence welled. The arms of the Lord waited to enfold her. She would not be left beating upon the door, barred at His gate.

  As Brienne raced forward, a figure emerged from the building’s shadowy interior. His large pectoral cross and heavy, unkempt brows marked him at once as Brother Bernard’s cousin, the abbot. Elated, Brienne quickened toward him. But in the next instant she pitched to a halt as a second, more imposing figure materialized from the depths of the church, a man powerfully built and golden of hair.

  Brienne staggered back as her eyes locked with his steel-blue gaze. “Rurik!” she choked out.

  Two others issued from the interior of the church — Lyting and Ketil. Those who trailed her now closed behind.

  Brienne began to shake violently as Rurik advanced, a look of relief breaking over his features. But she threw up her arms to ward off his embrace, her eyes flashing as one possessed.

  “Pagan cur! Keep your hands from me!”

  Rurik went to rock, but Brienne railed on without notice as she frantically entreated the abbot.

  “Grant me refuge, father! Do not let him take me! He commits offense against God and king. I saw him. I saw them all . . . performing heathenous rituals in the forest!” She splayed her hands as though she envisioned the scene. “Animals . . . strung from the trees all around . . . and the cross . . . desecrated beneath their heels and spat upon.”

  Brienne leveled an accusing finger at Rurik, though her voice grew anguished. “And he, my lord husband, has betrayed us more grievous than any other. He is their high priest!”

  Stunned, Rurik took a step toward Brienne, but she shrank back, wild-eyed.

  “Nay, do not touch me! I know of what I speak. My eyes did not deceive. Norsemen are faithless to the fealty they pledge. They heap sacrilege upon their oaths. ‘Tis clear they mean to vanquish all of Francia and perpetuate their heinous rites.

  Her voice strained as tears congested her eyes and throat. “God have mercy upon our souls. The Northmen’s hands are drenched with the noble blood of Francia . . . the blood of her sons . . . the blood of my father, my brother . . . and Aleth.”

  “Aleth?” Ketil burst from his silence. “Naught has befallen Aleth. She is safe at Valsemé.”

  “Nay, she lies dead in the forest,” Brienne cried. “I held her in my arms. Her blood marks my gown.”

  Ketil shook his head with solemn assurance. “Not Aleth, my lady. She led us into the woodland in search of you and later bid us Godspeed upon the manor steps when we departed Valsemé. Although — “ He hesitated, tossing a glance to Rurik. “We did find another in the forest. A crone, in the underbrush.”

  Brienne grew statue still as she encompassed his words. The hag. Katla had promised her “fit reward.” For a moment, Brienne relived the nightmarish events — her panicked flight, her fall atop the lifeless form shrouded in darkness. ‘Twas the thin leg that gave her to believe ‘twas Aleth. Yet she misjudged. Aleth lived? What, then, of aught else? She witnessed it plainly . . . did she not?

  A terrible silence fell.

  Rurik speared Brienne with his look. Her words cleaved him. In that raw chasm she laid open, his anger gathered like a mounting storm. It rose, building in intensity until it broke through him, sweeping every thought and emotion into the maelstrom of his fury.

  “Two days,” he began in a low, tightly leashed voice. “Two long, excruciating, torture-ridden days did I search for you, turning the countryside over and tearing it apart. I am fully acquainted with the grim details of our Nordic sacrifices. My dread for your fate was unspeakable.”

  Rurik freed the pouch at his waist, his face stony. “Fortunately, there are those Franks who favor living under Norman rule and honor their vows of service. One such villein brought me this.”

  Brienne watched aghast as Rurik drew her precious gold and sapphire girdle from the bag.

  “I clung to the man’s words and prayed — já, I prayed — to whoever in the heavens would listen. Lyting and Ketil set out with their parties by land, while I sailed for St. Wandrille’s. You will recall, my wife” — he hurled the words as though they were hollow — “water is much faster than land. Ardently, I hoped to find you here in advance of me, safe. If not, I was prepared to uproot every tree between the abbey and the Seine. But it seems my cares were misplaced.”

  He shoved the belt back into the leather pouch and cast it at Brienne’s feet. His features remained sharp and unyielding.

  “Your eyes did not deceive you. I ‘played’ the great high priest. But did your trust in me go no further than your sight?” His voice carried the depths of his bitterness and disappointment.

  “Dissenters bided in our ranks — as well you have known — men who would forswear my rule and the duke’s alike. They eluded me these weeks past, convening in secret to devise their plans and appease the gods. ‘Twas they who raided the stock and carried out the sacrifice in the grove. When you disappeared, I feared they had seized you as an offering to Odin, that I would next find you — “

  He did not finish his words, but Brienne saw the pain that lanced his eyes and perceived the anguish he had suffered for her sake.

  “I was determined to find you and to root out the malcontents in the doing, once and for all. You might denounce my tactics as ruthless and uncommendable,” he stormed on, “but I promise you, they were effective.

  “In our search we discovered a store of priestly robes and articles of ritual. I put them on. Every soldier who holds oath of me was summoned to the Grove of Sacrifice. There did I portray the high priest, declaring my intent to renounce my oaths and return to the old ways. Of those who would join me, I demanded they desecrate the cross.”

  Brienne’s eyes grew huge and her lips parted to speak, but Rurik slashed his hand through the air.

  “Did you think any would refuse to kiss the cross? Indeed, they would all have embraced it. But even if a man reveres many gods, he will not defile an object he considers sacred.

  “Loyalty can be measured in many ways, Brienne.” He held her with his unwavering gaze. “Those who honor their fealty to the realm and adhere to their baptismal promises refused to violate Christ’s cross. But those who despoiled it were seized at once and questioned till I was satisfied.”

  Rurik paused and wiped his brow. A muscle leaped along his jaw, warning Brienne that his anger was still unabated.

  “Would it disappoint you to know that the dissenters proved to be a small group, leaderless save the one who led them in ritual? No priest but a priestess, daughter of a baying man and knowledgeable of the runes. Need I give voice to her name?”

  “Katla,” Brienne whispered, heavy with remorse. She had dealt Rurik a fierce wrong.

  “Já, Katla,” he growled. “Katla of the Valsgärde. Few knew her origins. She is now revealed, though she has slipped from our grasp.”

  “What of Waite and Patch?” Brienne asked softly.

  Rurik’s eyes burned into her, as though she held him responsible for their plight. “Found, cowering in the forest. They witnessed much, but they are now safe in Aleth’s care.”

  A gulf of misery washed over Brienne. She took a small step toward Rurik and lifted a shaky hand. But he allowed her no quarter, his furor pitching to full gale.

  “Throughout these many months I have striven to be a fair and just lord to all the people of the barony, Frank and Norman alike. But no matter how hard I — or my men — strive, you are ever willing to believe the worst of us simply because we are Norse. You preach a loving and forgiving God, Brienne, yet you cling to your hatreds and refuse to open your
mind or your heart to my people.

  “I require more of a wife.” His anger towered about him. “I require her faith and trust of me, despite all. Return to your abbey!” he thundered. “Live out your days there, since you will never be able to accept marriage to a man of the North.”

  Rurik strode to the edge of the steps, then hesitated and turned back to Lyting.

  “Since you are so ever ready to serve my lady, you can conduct her to Levroux. Take my ship. ‘Twill deliver her there that much quicker. I find I have need to ride out my anger.”

  Rurik descended the steps, snapping out orders that the horses be brought forth. Ketil and the other soldiers followed.

  Brienne remained wrapped in her grief atop the church steps, flanked by Lyting and the abbot. Devastated, she watched Rurik throw himself up into the saddle. The truth of his words struck to the core of her soul. How wrong she had been. How greatly she had failed him. She held little faith she could ever set it aright.

  As tears collected in Brienne’s eyes, Rurik pivoted his horse and signaled his men to ride. In a moment so brief yet so wrenchingly long, he passed through the great arched gate of the ancient enclosure wall and out of her life.

  »«

  “Do you aid me, then?” Katla leveled her gaze over the crackling flames.

  The hooded figure returned a glassy stare. “How do you know that she is near or yet unfound?”

  “I know because Rurik’s men continue to scour the country in search of her. I know, because they concentrate their efforts in this region,” she said with burgeoning impatience. We must move quickly if we are to capture her. I want her taken.”

  Katla whisked a glance at his two companions standing on opposite sides of the campfire — one disfigured with scars, the other unimpressive — then returned her gaze to the hooded figure.

  “I should think you would enjoy the sport.” Her lips drew into a mocking smile. “All of you. Pleasure yourself on the bitch until you tire of her, then sell her as a slave at Hedeby. Whether she goes to the Northern kingdoms or the courts of the East ‘tis of no matter, as long as she never returns.”