Lyting rolled with the fall and sprang immediately to his feet. Miraculously, his sword lay several paces away. He dove for it but came up amid a tangle of hooves as Hastein and the others crowded their beasts around him.
Metal flashed and sang out. Brienne’s pulse throbbed against the knife’s blade as she lost sight of Lyting. She needed no great training of warfare to know he was sorrowfully disadvantaged afoot beneath sword and hoof.
Then Kalman’s broad movement drew her eyes. In one long motion that branded itself in heart’s memory even as it was wrought, the Hebridean grasped the dagger from his teeth, arced it high overhead, and plunged it into Lyting’s back.
“Lyting!” Brienne shrieked from the depths of her agony. She struggled in Katla’s hold, pressing against the blade till she felt its sting and the warm trickle of blood on her throat.
Lyting pitched forward upon the ground. Still they slashed at him. Brienne sobbed, cursing them. Cursing her helplessness. When at last they ceased, he lay motionless. Even in the dim light, she could see that his beautiful snow-pale hair was bathed in blood.
Hastein dismounted to stand spraddle-legged over his brother.” ‘Twas your bane that Ranneveig’s blood flowed through you,” he panted. “And a greater curse that you so strongly resemble her firstborn — the one I truly seek.”
He bent and wrested the knife from Lyting’s back. Wiping it on his thigh, he then hefted it to Kalman.
Hastein’s glassy eyes drew to Brienne.
“Bring her,” he snapped. “We ride for Fécamp. There my ship lies moored. We’ll sail for the Faroes and wait the next turn.”
Brienne realized, of a sudden, that in the clash, Lyting’s horse had bolted for the wood. With her mount, the troop possessed only three. Hastein wasted no time and took Brienne up before him on his horse, while Katla climbed behind the wounded man. Kalman rode alone.
“I shall enjoy pleasuring myself on you, my sweet.” Hastein fondled Brienne’s breasts roughly before taking up the reins. “But I’m willing to wait until Rurik can join us and witness our first coupling.”
His dark laughter spiraled behind them as he kicked into the horse’s flanks and led the small band east.
Brienne dared a final glance back. Lyting’s still form lay sprawled in the dust. But for the briefest of moments, her eyes played her a trick. She thought that silvered head did lift itself then bow again to the earth. She blinked through fresh tears. She was wrong, she knew. The form lay as it had, death still, wrapped in a soft mantle of moonglow.
Chapter 21
Rurik bore down hard upon the steed, setting a brutal pace. Impatience rode his concern. For a countless time this night, he swore an oath for want of Sleipnir.
He had exhausted the limits of his brother’s gray on his rapid return to the abbey. Then, learning of Lyting’s and Brienne’s departure, he was compelled to secure fresh mounts for himself and his men at Caudebec.
He chafed at the time lost but was rewarded when the stable grooms remembered the couple from the previous hour. Rurik estimated that he could yet overtake them if the horse served him well. Still, he would have the black and hold every advantage now that Hastein was back.
Rurik concentrated his thoughts to the crossing downroad and urged the mount on.
The small troop rounded a narrow neck of road, its edges collared with growth. As the course straightened, they beheld a horse impeding their passage. It tarried, steadfast and vigilant, over a bulk in the center of the road.
A shaft of foreboding lanced Rurik. The shape took the form of a man sprawled facedown on the ground. As he closed on the figure, he spied the pale luster of hair.
Rurik hard-reined his mount to a skidding halt and flung himself to the ground.
“Lyting! Nei!” he denied on tortured breath as he dropped to his knees.
He reached out, then hesitated to touch his brother. Blood soaked Lyting’s back. His clothes lay slashed to ribbons. Rurik shed his mantle, cursing the craven whoreson who had wreaked this butchery. He placed the cloak beside Lyting then eased him onto it with infinite care. Beneath Rurik’s hand, blood flowed warm. The movement brought a faint, anguished groan.
“Broðir,” Rurik gasped, astonished that Lyting yet lived. He bellowed for torches and whatever might serve as wrappings.
Without waiting, he looked to the seepage of blood on Lyting’s back, its source a vicious gash. With the pressure of his fingers, he staunched the issue.
Ketil hastened to him with a kindled brand while Gyrr and Eirik stripped away their tunics. Another, Gunnar, unfastened his leggings, which he wore in the Frankish fashion, wound with bands of cloth.
Anxiously, Rurik listened for the strength of Lyting’s heartbeat. It fell dim but steady. Someone handed him a flask of wine and he set it to his brother’s lips. Lyting managed a portion, but most spilled over his chin and down his neck. Rurik swore at himself and blotted the mess, cleansing away blood in the effort.
“Broðir, who did this to you?”
Lyting stirred. His lids parted over pain-clogged eyes. When he managed to mouth an answer, it came so faint, Rurik had to bend his ear to catch the words.
“Ha . . . stein.”
Rurik started to straighten, but Lyting closed his fingers on the fabric of Rurik’s tunic with a feeble grip.
“Bri . . . enne.” Each word purchased new suffering. “To Fécamp . . . Rides. . . to Fécamp. . . ‘Tis you . . . he wants.”
Lyting shuddered then as though a chill passed through him. His hands were like ice, his face ghostly. Rurik worked swiftly, binding his wounds in silent fury. Ketil aided as well, cutting away the bloodied tunic and lifting Lyting when necessary. The slightest movement brought much pain, and Lyting quickly lost consciousness.
‘Tis better for him,” Ketil reassured Rurik.
They finished their hasty ministrations after relieving several more men of their tunics and wrapping Lyting in no less than five mantles. Rurik rose to his feet without ceremony and enjoined his men.
“Fashion a litter that will bear my brother to St. Wandrille’s with the least discomfort or jolting. Carry the pallet yourselves if you must, but don’t kill him in the transport!” He shoved his hair back from his face, worry set upon his brow.
“Give him over to Brother Bernard’s charge. One among the churchmen must be able to tend his wounds. My ship yet lies near the abbey. When Lyting can withstand the voyage, sail with him to Valsemé and place him in Lady Aleth’s care.”
Rurik turned his thoughts eastward, his jaw hardening. He cast a glance to Ketil then back into the dark.
“Choose the two swiftest steeds. Unburden them of packs and unneeded trappings. Keep our provisions spare. We ride for Fécamp.”
Ketil nodded in brusque agreement and began to stride past Rurik, but Rurik’s hand shot out and trapped his arm. Their eyes locked. Even in moonlight, Rurik’s shone as though of highly polished steel.
“One thing more, Ketil. Hastein is mine.”
»«
At gray dawn, Brienne and her captors galloped across the vast chalk plains of the Caux toward the cliffs of Étretat. The raw salt breeze stung her face. Benumbed, she took no more notice than she did of the occasional clumps of trees that relieved the monotonous plateau. Only the sea drew her interest. It stretched bleak and unwelcoming, churning in its bowels.
“Are we to ride another day without respite?” Katla shrilled. “I am frozen stiff to the bone and wolfish with hunger. Have a care, Hastein. We stop, or I’ll warm myself as I roast your liver and feast on it as well!”
Hastein laughed at her threat, then ran his gaze along the jagged coastline where the cliffs dropped dramatically to the sea. Little of the shore was visible from their elevation. The tide swelled high and angry, blunting its temper against rock and sand.
“There — we’ll halt by the wood.” He pointed to an outcrop of trees sprouting in monkish solitude from the yellow marl. “Be quick with your fires. We’ll not bide here lo
ng. Fécamp lies another hour north.”
Hastein led the party toward the break of timber, drawing Brienne’s mount along by its reins. She clung to the saddle’s high pommel, her hands bound before her, and strove to maintain her perch. Strove to purge the latest horrors from memory — so much blood spent in one day’s passing.
After the bitter attack that saw Lyting slain, they’d ridden at a heated gait along the Seine to Lillebonne. There, they turned north and east to press seaward. At a merciless pace, they traveled through hillside and valley till one mount misstepped and fell lame.
Hastein’s anger overtook him, and he slew the beast in a most pitiable way. Later, ‘twas his own man who delayed him, white-faced and faint for loss of blood. Lyting’s blade had hewn deep and wide. With so much constant jarring, the wound was impossible to keep staunched and bound. In the end, Hastein dealt the man the same fate as the horse, though swifter.
New mounts were acquired as they renewed their flight, four in all. Their owner was sharply displeased with the transaction, which left him with two hard-spent animals and at a loss for the others. Now he, too, was unable to argue the matter. Brienne closed her lids against the gruesome details. God’s mercy, the hours ran red before her eyes.
Hands closed around her waist and her eyes flew open as Hastein caught her down from the saddle. Brienne tried to twist from his hold, but he grasped her the tighter and dragged her to where Katla massed a small pile of kindling. He dropped her there, then strode restlessly toward the edge of the cliff and onto one of the needlelike projections that overhung the sea.
Kalman tethered the horses then came to squat before the smoldering twigs. Displacing Katla, he coaxed them to an unsteady blaze and ordered Brienne to feed it with sticks. The flames battled for life against the damp wind, but their warmth felt good against her hands. Katla set cups of wine to heat by the fire and withdrew a round of flatbrauð from her pack.
Hastein soon rejoined them, taking the offered bread and wine from Katla’s hands as he settled himself beside Brienne. She cringed at his nearness and would not look on him. When he proffered the drink at her lips, she jerked her head aside, repulsed by the thought of sharing his cup. Bemused, one half of his mouth stretched into a leering smirk.
“ ‘Tis an arduous crossing to my island. You will need nourishment, my sweet.” She continued to avert her face. “If not for me, then for Rurik. You do not wish to look haggard when he comes in search of you.”
“Rurik? What are you saying?” Katla bit out, pausing as she reached for her wine.
Hastein drew a knee up and tore away a portion of bread with his back teeth. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he chewed the piece.
“Rurik knows I have his precious wife, or will soon enough. I have left a wide, unmistakable path, and comment in enough ears at Lillebonne to direct him to me. Did you think I paused there for naught? No matter. Rurik knows of my stronghold in the Faroes, though he’s never breached its shores.” Hastein withdrew his dagger and watched the sky’s light reflect along its smooth length of steel. “When he comes, my men and I shall be waiting with our welcome.”
Katla so paled that her skin appeared translucent. Veins stood out clearly along her temples. Then her eyes grew fierce and emerald hard.
“Naught was said of this! ‘Tis Brienne I wish to be rid of, none other.”
“Foolish bitch! Do you think your petty jealousies mean aught to me? Rurik is the one I crave. ‘Tis his blood alone that shall quench the thirst of my blade.”
Hastein shoved to his feet, paced away, then turned back.
“Long have I waited for this day,” he growled on rasping breath. “I, Atli’s firstborn, shall have my due. And Ranneveig’s dropping shall have his.”
Hastein plunged his knife back into its scabbard as though he stabbed someone there. He cut a glance over Katla.
“Do not dream long on winning him back to your arms or gaining title as the next baronne. Look not in my direction either,” he added with a mocking smile. “I heartily doubt Rollo will offer the barony to me. But then, I shall have all that I desire — Rurik’s head, spitted above my gate.”
An anguished cry escaped Brienne, and she dropped her face to her bound hands, unable to bear more.
“Do I distress you, my lady?” Hastein moved to stand above her. “But be consoled, Rurik dies for love of you.”
He leaned over and sank his hand into her hair, fisting it at the nape and forcing her to look up at him.
“Because of you, my beauty, he will hunt me, bedeviled to gain you back. Because of you will he forgo caution and prudence and be all the more vulnerable. His passion for you is his weakness. He’ll come willingly into my snare. And I’ll be waiting. Waiting to cut him down.”
Heart filled with loathing, Brienne spat full in Hastein’s face. She half hoped he’d be done with her then, but he only yanked her head back the harder. She winced, certain the hair would pull from its roots.
“Such spirit!” he rumbled with perverse amusement as pain marred her brow. “I shall enjoy riding you, my sweet. But I’d advise that you to not provoke me. There are many ways to kill a man. ‘Twill go worse for Rurik if you anger me.”
He ravaged her lips, crushing one breast beneath his callused hand. Just as abruptly, he released her, and she fell back hard upon the ground. Straightening, he gazed down on her and uttered something akin to a laugh. Then he stalked away to the cliff’s edge and looked out over the sea, wrapped in his dark thoughts.
Sullen, Katla rose, then gripped Brienne by one arm and forced her to her feet.
“Where do you take her?” Kalman demanded.
“Where eyes cannot pry. I need relieve myself, idiot, and no doubt so must she. If I must be shackled with her, then she must come now. I’ll not trouble myself again.”
Katla pushed Brienne ahead of her to the cluster of trees where the horses stood tethered. Proceeding to the opposite side, she thrust Brienne to her knees amid the sparse cover of brush and bared a small dagger from her waist. Brienne gasped, but the Norsewoman threw a hand across her mouth and held it firm.
“Listen, bitch, and listen well. Rurik is a dead man — a dead man, do you hear? — as long as Hastein holds you.”
Katla cast a quick glance through the thin shield of woods, spied the men, then turned back. She lowered her hand and set the blade to Brienne’s bindings.
“Hastein spoke truly. Rurik will risk himself for want of you, without care to his own well-being. Do you know aught of the Faroes? They are difficult to gain, the waters turbulent, the shores rocky. Hastein’s island is among the most dangerous, ringed with ‘Fenrir’s Teeth,’ some say. There be few places to win the shore. All, Hastein knows like his hand in the dark.
“But should Rurik land safely, greater peril awaits. Hastein’s men number strong in his lair — an army of miscreants — outcasts the lot. Even if Rurik arrives with a force to outmatch them, think on how easily Hastein might bait his trap. All he need do is bring you forth with a knife at your throat, and Rurik will lay down his arms.”
Katla’s green eyes bore into Brienne. “Do not misjudge Hastein. Among my own kindred, he is considered a treacherous man. He is also considered quite mad.”
The leather strips fell away. Brienne rubbed her chafed wrists, mind and heart racing.
Katla’s words must hold truth, she reasoned. Naught else would impel the Norsewoman to free her bonds or hazard Hastein’s reprisal. That Katla was fully aware of Rurik’s abilities and still deemed him in such peril alarmed Brienne. And that she herself, by Hastein’s possession of her, endangered Rurik tore at her insides.
As Brienne crouched next to Katla, she did not deceive herself. ‘Twas not she the Norsewoman aided. Only Rurik and to Katla’s own ends. Brienne knew that Katla would as soon see her dead. Mayhap that was yet her design. Once they eluded the men, there would be naught to forestall the Norsewoman from slaying her and awarding the deed to Hastein. Brienne tamped down her apprehension
s. ‘Twas far better to flee unbound and alone with Katla than to remain trussed and in the clutches of all three.
“Do not slow me, bitch,” Katla warned as she seized Brienne by the arm and began to rise.
Brienne felt the knife prick at her ribs, proof that Katla yet considered her a captive. She bit down on her resolve and refused to give way to fear.
“Untie the two mounts on the left while I slit the girth straps beneath the others,” Katla ordered, shoving Brienne forward as she released her. “Time is narrow. Be quick about it.”
Together, they threaded among the trees toward the horses. As Brienne slipped from cover, she spoke gently to the animals so as not to affright them. The reins pulled free with a tug.
But Katla took no such precautions. She pushed hurriedly between the other two mounts and grabbed for the strap of one where it ran beneath the belly. Her sawing upon the girth unnerved the beast. It stepped sideways and snorted. Still, Katla persisted. The horse shied again, bumping haunches with the steed beside it and jostling Katla’s hand as she severed the leather. The horse screamed as the blade glanced awry and skimmed along its stomach.
Kalman’s head jerked around at the disturbance. He lurched to his feet with a shout. Hastein, in turn, wrenched himself from his thoughts. Seeing the women’s attempts to escape, he pivoted from the cliff’s edge and threw himself into a full-hearted run.
Brienne read the fury in Hastein’s eyes as he hurtled forward across the plain and closed the distance with Kalman. She forgot to breathe in that moment, so savage was his look. Then all swirled with commotion.
The horses capered. One tore its reins from her hands, burning a trail across her palms. She clung to the other as it pulled against the restraint. Frantically, Brienne moved to its side, pitching the reins over the beast’s head, and jammed her foot into the stirrup. The horse skewed, drawing her along on one foot. Hastein’s nearby roar scoured her spine.
Desperate, Brienne soothed the animal with a rush of words, reset her foot, and sprang up enough to grab the saddle, front and back, and haul herself upward. Needing no urging, the jittery horse took to the hoof before she settled herself, and left Hastein to spit the dust.
The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series) Page 34