The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  Muscle locked against muscle. The keen, double-edged blade shuddered between them, nicking and grazing them till the steel was mottled with crimson.

  They pitched again, Rurik rising atop Hastein. But Hastein snaked out a hand and trapped a fist-sized rock then smashed it against Rurik’s temple and brow. Rurik sprawled backward, stunned by the blow.

  Lurching to his feet, Hastein caught up the sword in one hand and stood spread-legged on the brink of the cliff. He gasped for air as he looked down on Rurik. The dog barely stirred. He grinned and reversed his grip on the weapon.

  Hastein’s dark laughter filled the air as he grasped the hilt with both hands, blade down, and aimed for Rurik’s chest. Eyes glittering, he raised his arms above his head to plunge the sword home.

  Rurik watched through slitted eyes and rolled at the last moment. Coming up on one knee, he snatched the dagger from his belt and hurled it with every ounce of strength that remained. The knife burred through the air and lodged in Hastein’s chest.

  Hastein froze in his stance, arms upraised, eyes wide with shock. The sword dropped from his hands, and he took a few unsteady steps backward. The ledge of the cliff began to crumble. Before Rurik could rise, the earth gave way beneath Hastein’s feet and he plummeted from sight.

  Hastein’s strangled cry reverberated against the wall of stone as he fell, and then it ceased abruptly. Only the chink and clack of loose rocks could be heard. Then all was silence.

  Rurik dragged himself to the very edge of the cliff and lay gasping for breath. Below, Hastein’s contorted body spilled over the rocks. His vacant eyes stared up as the sea pounded against the shore. Not even the cry of a lone gull mourned him.

  ‘Tis done,” Rurik murmured. He drew himself up and crouched at the edge of the precipice as time passed unmarked.

  Ketil huffed loudly as he trudged up the steep incline from the shore, bearing Kalman’s chains. Rurik questioned the piece with a lift of his brow.

  “The Hebridean sought to use this toy on me. But when he whirled it above his gleaming pate to deliver his attack, well . . .” Ketil shrugged. “A man needs to protect himself and the invitation was clear.”

  Rurik rose slowly to his feet, his every muscle a dragging weight, his blood pulsing sluggishly through him.

  “There is one last thing we must do.” Rurik met Ketil’s eyes briefly, then returned his gaze to the sea.

  Ketil nodded in solemn agreement, with no love for the task.

  “Bring Hastein’s ship. I will drag the stone.”

  »«

  Heavy-hearted, Rurik returned to the cliffs of Étretat. Together with Ketil, he labored long and without word to raise a great stone, a hautasteinn, in honor and remembrance of Brienne.

  Hastein’s ship yielded several chests, one containing sufficient tools to carve the kenning. Hollowly, Rurik gave over the chisel and hammer to Ketil, then drew together his thoughts.

  His heart compressed as though some unseen fist squeezed it. Clearing his throat, he fastened his moist gaze on the distant horizon.

  “Set your finest hand to the stone, my friend. Grave the runes thusly: Rurik raised this stone in memory of his beloved wife, Brienne, Baronne de Valsemé. Be it known that she gave her life that he might live. For hers — “ A rush of hot tears congested his throat and stung the back of his eyes. He finished in a roughened whisper. “Hers was a valiant heart.”

  Unable to speak further, Rurik moved away, leaving Ketil to his efforts, and strode to the empty peninsula. There, he retraced the path Brienne had ridden to the sea, then sat upon the lip of the cliff, looking out over the expanse, over the watery depths that held her.

  His every sense was deadened. For a time he simply watched the seabirds swoop and dive for fish, then watched their landings and departures from the narrow skirt of shore below. The bank was deeper now that the tides had receded. The skies themselves seemed to have brightened at Hastein’s death. But not so his heart. No light shined within that empty chamber. Brienne was his light — his sun, his moon, his stars. Her brilliance had been stolen from him, extinguished forevermore. All was an aching, fathomless void. Rurik drew a quavering breath and gave in to his grief.

  The sky, sea, and sand shimmered through his tears. He made no effort to staunch the flow. A dark speck intruded at the corner of his vision and made a slow path through the liquid haze. He swiped at it, clearing the droplets away. The speck remained. He blinked several times, then squinted as his eyes focused more clearly on the shoreline below. The blot sharpened into a tattered figure of a man plodding toward the sea.

  Rurik bounded to his feet. Mayhap the man knew aught of Brienne. Mayhap he had witnessed her fearsome dive to the waters below. Heart outpacing his strides, he sprinted back the length of the promontory and chased along the cliff’s cragged rim. Farther down the coast, where the ship was moored, Ketil had managed to climb the rock to the top of the plateau using the many hollows and valleys that ruptured Étretat’s face. Surely there are those here that would serve him as well.

  Remembering the ropes with which he had dragged the stone, he ran back to where Ketil busied himself with the inscription. Grabbing a length of hemp rope from the ground, he wheeled on his friend and motioned excitedly to his hip.

  “The chains, Ketil! The chains!”

  Astonished by Rurik’s outburst, Ketil rose but did as bade and freed the Hebridean’s flail from his side.

  Rope and iron firmly in hand, Rurik raced to the ledge and descended into a gorge. He followed the rugged grooves to their end, then made his way across the cliff’s furrowed face to a deep ravine that cleaved the rock halfway down its scabrous height.

  Rurik hastened on but slipped on a vein of rubble and slid partially down the incline. Undaunted, he secured his footage and continued his descent to the base of the chasm.

  Swiftly, he tied the hemp through the heavy ring of the flail. Then he wedged the clawed chains and rod in a cleft in the rock and tested for fastness. Gripping it firmly, he climbed down the crannied wall to the rope’s end. With a shove, he swung out from the rock and dropped the short distance that remained.

  Rurik rose and quickly scanned the shore. The man was gone. But a second glance caught the shabby figure as it disappeared into the face of the cliff. Rurik fixed his eyes on the point and hurried across the strand. The shifting grains beneath his feet slowed his pace. Heart pounding, he drove all the harder as he spied the breach in the rock.

  Without slowing his steps, Rurik burst through the opening and entered the cramped hollow of a cave. He locked eyes with the startled man, who scuttled back crablike into the shallow recess. As Rurik started forward, his gaze fell to the rude floor. His breath caught in his chest. Brienne lay motionless before a small fire, swathed in a coarse mantle.

  Incredulous, Rurik sank to his knees beside her. For a moment he only stared, consuming the sight of his beloved. He trailed his gaze over her still form and waxen features, then brushed the back of his fingers along her cool cheek. Heart rending anew, he bent and kissed her tenderly upon the lips.

  Rurik willed that life should flow from him to Brienne through that kiss, and that she should awake to him. But she lay unresponsive. He began to withdraw, then felt the faint warmth of her breath. Hope surged. He lifted his gaze to the ragged man who yet retreated against the rock.

  “She lives.” Rurik voiced the obvious, needing to hear it said.

  Hesitantly, the man came away from the wall of the cave. “Certes, my son. Certes.”

  Rurik took a hard look at him and realized for the first time that he was one of the reclusive wanderers of whom he had heard tales — a hermit and a holy man. From his shredded robes and fearful manner, Rurik guessed him to be one of the many monks who had fled in the wake of his Norse brethren and took to the open roads. This one did not appear Frankish, though he apparently understood the tongue and spoke it.

  “You have saved my wife,” Rurik said with genuine gratitude. “Ever shall you be welcome i
n my hall.”

  The hermit edged closer, showing relief at the words, yet he remained wary. “I did but pull her from the waters, my son. There was no help for the horse, though I could scarce have aided it had it lived. The beast broke the fall for your lady and spared her. But — “ He hesitated, plainly concerned how his next words would be met. “Your lady has yet to wake. Methinks she rests in the ‘endless sleep.’ Lest she awaken within the next days, she cannot long endure.”

  Rurik nodded, his chest thickening with a knot. He knew well of the deep, unnatural “sleep” from which few awoke. He had witnessed such, a lifetime ago, in Byzantium.

  Feeling powerless and fearing death to be near, Rurik took a long, raw swallow that reached from his heart to his soul. If Brienne was to die, she must not die here. Not in this cold, miserable cave, half frozen by the sea. Nei, not here. He would take her back to her beloved Valsemé. There he would wrap her in the finest furs and brocades. There he would keep vigil over her.

  As night fell, Rurik and Ketil lashed torches around the sides of the captured ship and laid Brienne gently inside on a bed of blankets. They covered her with a mantle lined with marten, found, as were the woolens, within the sea chests. The holy man declined joining them, but watched them from the shore. He signed a cross over them, then pressed his hands together in prayer as the fiery ship began its homeward voyage.

  Though they raised the great square sail to speed their journey, Rurik set his muscle to the oars, in need of the physical exertion. The high-prowed ship plowed the waves of Normandy’s coast, ablaze against the pitch-dark night. Small fires sprouted along the shoreline at their passage. Rurik recognized them as signs of honor and reverence. Only the celebrated and the highborn would be carried upon a funeral barge. Such must they appear. For a breath of time, he did not feel so alone.

  As he plied his strength to the oars, Rurik watched the golden glow of torchlight play over Brienne’s serene features. How exquisite she was. The delicate arch of brow and tilt of nose, the high, fine bone of her cheek and fragile jaw, the soft lines of her lips — all he stored to heart’s memory.

  Never would he forget the days of their love. Never would he forget the fires of their passion. Even in the winters of tomorrow would he remember Brienne as he first saw her, arrayed in crimson and gold. Remember the joy of making love with her, the sweet tastes and silken caresses. Remember the blaze of ecstasy as they melded together and became one.

  Nei, he would not forget. He would hold her, heart-fast, and love her for all time. He would bear her back to the barony, to the soil from whence she sprang. And when the time of her passage came, he would lay her to rest in Valsemé’s sweet earth. There would he watch over her and their lands for the remainder of his days. And, when his own time found its end, he would join Brienne in that sleep and take up his place beside her.

  The fiery vessel sliced through the dark waters. Curving wide, it entered the river Toques and passed into the night.

  Chapter 23

  The pull at Rurik’s sleeve brought his attention from the chamber window. He glanced down to find Elsie tendering up a clutch of catkins and fragile pink campion. She looked up at him with huge, doleful eyes that swallowed her face. Her bottom lip quivered. Rurik lifted her in his arms and hugged her close. Slipping his fingers into the mass of curls, he drew her head down to rest on his shoulder and turned back to the window. They waited, comforting each other in silence, as the women finished their ministrations to Brienne.

  Below, villeins and soldiers alike gathered in the courtyard to pray. At any time, day or night, dozens upon dozens collected, dinting the earth with bent knee, heads bowed over folded hands. Others shuffled gravely about their duties, their supplications moving over their lips.

  One could not pass through the great hall or corridors without having to step about the kneeling forms. At the door of the lord’s chamber, they crowded the thickest. Ofttimes Rurik would order them away, for the air grew so oppressive he thought he would suffocate. But never did he remove young Waite. The boy crouched even now at the portal, Patch steadfast beside him.

  Early morn of the second day, Rurik’s ship arrived from St. Wandrille’s bearing Lyting, his men, and Brother Bernard. During one of Lyting’s short spans of wakefulness, he learned of Brienne and insisted that he be carried to her chamber so he might pray in her presence.

  Rurik had objected at first, fearing for his brother to be moved yet again. Lyting remained exceedingly weak, his condition precarious at best. But Lyting fretted so much, writhing in his sleep as he relived each horror, that Rurik decided to give in to his wishes before his brother ripped his many stitches. Lyting calmed once he was settled on a pallet in the bedchamber and could hold Brienne in his view. Rurik deemed it best in the end. Aleth was better able to tend both her wards in one room, and Lyting slept most of the time.

  The soft whispers behind him alerted Rurik that the women had completed the change of linens. To his surprise, Ketil had entered with a fresh gathering of herbs for Aleth. They spoke quietly, together with Elsie’s mother, Galwinth, their gazes all centering on Brienne.

  Rurik set Elsie down and bid her to cheer Lyting with the flowers, for he looked to have awakened. Then he crossed to the others and asked of Brienne. When Aleth would not meet his eyes, he tensed. She moved away to the bed and lifted Brienne’s hand in hers.

  “My lord, Brienne has lingered thus for a sum of three days.”

  “That I well know, Aleth.” A muscle worked along his jaw, and he steeled himself. “What more?”

  “We cannot hope that she will last beyond a fourth or fifth. Yet there is a small hope, though with it, great caution.”

  Rurik came to stand on the opposite side of the bed and looked down on both women. “Speak, Aleth, lest you intend that I go mad with the waiting.”

  Aleth pressed her friend’s hand to her cheek, then replaced it at Brienne’s waist. She met Rurik’s troubled eyes as levelly as she could manage.

  “Her signs are encouraging in that her skin is dry, not moist or cold. Her breathing is clear, and her lungs free of fluid. When last you stepped from the chamber, I tested her response.” Aleth shifted her gaze aside. “It required that I prod her — “

  “Prod her?”

  “Jab her, my lord. Jab her with my pin.” Rurik’s color began to rise and Aleth added quickly, “But lord, both hand and foot did move when tested.”

  Rurik bolted around the bed and caught her up by the shoulders. “What are you saying, Aleth, that she will wake?”

  “Lord, lord,” Aleth pleaded, more for him to calm himself than loose her from his hold. “There is but one, mayhap two, days left to her, and she stirs not at all. Yet even should she wake, she may not possess her right mind.”

  Rurik released her at once and fell back a pace. “What is it you say? That she will be simpleminded? A child evermore?” He searched her face, but found no solace there.

  Aleth’s head bent with the weight of her misery. “The coming hours will take her from us or give her back, but whole or unsound, I cannot say.”

  Rurik backed to the door, her words crashing through him. He looked to Brienne, then Ketil and Galwinth and Aleth once more. Aleth sank to the floor, burying her face in her hands.

  Unable to bear more, Rurik withdrew from the chamber and pressed his way through the crowded antechamber before any could clear a path for him. He hastened on through the hall, maneuvering around more bodies, and quickened out the portal and down the steps.

  On seeing the baron’s hasty departure from the manor house, one of the maidservants in the courtyard began to wail and beat her breast, believing the baronne to be dead. Rurik was forced to stop and reassure all that their lady yet lived. Wrapped in his grief, he hurried on to the stables and saddled Sleipnir, then clattered from the bailey on the huge black.

  Without thought to direction, he rode his mount hard. In a short time he found himself at the secluded lake where, not so long past, he and Brienne
had cherished one another most passionately. Rurik tied Sleipnir to a sapling, then pushed through the brush and headed to the lake.

  Beneath the clear, brilliant sky the waters sparkled, jewellike, as though diamonds had been scattered across its surface. Rurik lost himself in a void without time while he stood on the bank, staring at the play of light, and struggled with the conflicts within him. This interminable waiting ground upon his soul.

  At the rustle of branches he turned to see Brother Bernard approach, then he cast his glance back to the lake. The monk came to stand beside him but kept his peace. Without word, they watched the light spangle the water’s surface. At length, Rurik drew a bracing lungful of air and broke the silence.

  “I would pray, good brother, if I knew in whom to trust my appeals, and whether the All-Being would even listen.”

  “But you have prayed all this while, my son. Mayhap without words, but better. You have prayed with your heart.”

  Rurik bent his head, swallowed the roughness in his throat, then fixed his gaze on the slashes of fire that now splintered the lake.

  “She dies, and I am helpless to aid her.”

  “Do not look with your eyes, my son, but with faith in your heart. God has the power to heal, regardless the circumstance. It requires naught but His will.”

  “And was it His will that Helena should die as she did?” Rurik’s grief ruptured and he was scarce able to contain all the emotions that collided within him. He gave a harsh, shaky laugh.

  “Once I was prepared to take the waters of Holy Baptism, for Helena’s sake. But before my eyes, she fell ill. Her flesh wasted, and each day became an agony, so great was her pain.” Rurik’s eyes clouded with the memory. “I prayed, brother, and I prayed. God’s answer was that she slipped into the ‘unending sleep’ and died before the dawn could shed its light.”

  His tear-glazed eyes drew to the churchman. “And now I look upon Brienne, trapped in that same sleep, and you ask for my belief? Faith?” he questioned bitterly. “What do I know of faith?”