Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series

by The Defiant Heart

  Nearly four years past, the Frankish king, Charles, came to terms with Rollo, granting him both fiefdom and title and creating for him a coveted place within the ranks of Frankish aristocracy as Duke of Normandy. For their part, Rollo and his men agreed to defend Charles’s realm and take the waters of Holy Baptism.

  In his stead, Rollo awarded Atli for his loyalty with the barony of Valsemé, the former holding of Richard Beaumanoir, Brienne’s father. Atli did not enjoy the fruits of his warring for long. Scarcely did Lyting arrive from Limfjord and Rurik return from his travels in the East than their father died. With his last words Atli conferred the barony and his untouched bride — Brienne — to Rurik’s keeping.

  Yet, ‘twas a position swift challenged. Jealousies and treacheries ran deep within the barony. The blood of the brothers spilled upon the blade — so much, near lost.

  Near lost. Lyting touched the faint scar that lined his cheek, his gaze drifting to Brienne.

  “By the Mass!” Ketil’s oath ruptured his thoughts. “Did you bring your full worth?” He grunted as he hoisted a small, iron-clad chest from the cargo hold onto the deck’s planking. “ ‘Tis a rock, Lyting.”

  Lyting shook free the old specters and crossed over the ramp. “There will be little need for coin or goods where I am destined,” he tossed easily, smiling. “And I have brought my wealth apurpose.”

  “Destined indeed,” Ketil rumbled, poised to argue the point. But when Lyting forbore him a glance, Ketil harnessed his tongue.

  His lips twitched beneath the curling blaze that shrubbed his face. “Say you, ‘apurpose’?” Ketil notched a brow at Lyting, then bent to retrieve a second trunk from storage. “Mayhap you shall yet restore my confidence and lavish the treasure on some fair damsel.”

  “Have heart, Ketil,” Rurik called back as he aided Brienne down the ramp. “ ‘Tis burdensome enough that Brother Bernard watches henlike over Lyting, sparing his virtue all earthly temptation. But you are ever eager to thrust every unpledged maid onto his path.”

  Barely suppressed laughter rippled through the baron’s crew and men-at-arms who labored to make fast the Sea Falcon, preparing to haul her ashore.

  “And well he should have heeded my advice on the day I wed Aleth,” Ketil persisted. “There is no want of maidens in Normandy who would welcome him to their arms and beds. ‘Twould be of little surprise should Hedeby’s daughters prove as ardent.”

  Lyting shook his head good-naturedly and began to interrupt Ketil’s discourse, but his friend gave him no pause.

  “That snow-bright hair of yours tempts the women as honey does flies.” Ketil gestured to the exceptional white mane that spilled past Lyting’s shoulders. “I held hope ‘twas to that end that you avoided my lady’s shears of late. Forsooth, you look as fierce as any of our battle-hungry kindred gone i viking. Women admire men of courage and steel,” he asserted with a stout nod of his head. “Especially the lustrous maids of Danmark.”

  “Oh, Ketil.” Aleth wagged her head, a soft smile etching her features. “Grant Lyting a measure of peace and do come along.”

  Aleth turned to Rurik as he remounted the plank and accepted his outstretched hand. Leaning upon his strength, she allowed him to assist her ashore.

  Eager to follow his diminutive wife, Ketil caught up several bundles from the hold and motioned for Lyting to aid him with the solid chest that stood between them. Together, they took up the weight and crossed the deck.

  “Do not be disheartened, my friend,” Lyting cheered as they descended. With a shrug of hard-muscled shoulder, he repositioned the small coffer of riches so that it rode more securely against the curve of his neck. “This is for no silken-thighed temptress but for one of true metal and a voice that fair rings to the heavens. ‘Tis the Bell of Saint Anskar I seek.”

  “Bell? What need have you of a bell?” Ketil’s brows hoisted apart.

  “Have you heard naught of blessed Saint Anskar?” Lyting beamed him a glance as they gained the wharf. “He established a church at Hedeby this century past and furnished it with a fine bell. When Anskar died, so did his mission. ‘Tis said the church yet stands, boasting its bell. ‘Tis my intent to make fair purchase of the piece for Valsemé’s own church. Again, there is little use for coin when I enter the cloistered walls of Corbie.”

  “Corbie. Bell. Bah! ‘Tis no bell you need, but a flesh-and-blood woman. A flesh-and-blood woman who will help you ring your blessed bell of Saint Anskar!”

  Ahead of them, Rurik and Brienne broke into gales of laughter. Their twins looked on them in wonder, then, caught up in the merriment, joined with peals of unrestrained delight.

  The small party of Normans threaded their way through the crowds and carts that choked the waterfront. Arabs in long, fluid robes strolled the docks, some stopping to haggle slave prices with Rus traders who offered sturdy young Slavs. Frisians, garbed in striped tunics and possessing long wilting mustaches, bartered fine Rhenish glassware from straw-packed barrels.

  Lyting and Ketil exchanged glances to see how prominently the merchants of Sverige figured among the Danes this season. Hedeby changed masters with regularity these days, Lyting acknowledged soberly, a bedeviled state spawned years past when the Swedish king, Olaf, seized control of the market-town. Thenceforth, Hedeby had passed back and forth, between Swede and Dane, in an endless power struggle to control the bounty that trafficked her borders.

  For all that, Hedeby prospered and life proceeded largely undisturbed. Though it might rub his Dane’s pride, ‘twas the Swedes who had fortified her with defense works. And likewise, through them, that the most exotic of goods flowed — luxuries from Byzantium, the Bulgar Khaganates, and the Caliphates of Baghdad.

  Ketil gave a snort, drawing Lyting’s attention to one Swede who dangled a bauble before a shapely Danish maid. She trilled a small laugh as he folded the trinket into her palm. But at the same moment her gaze fell on Lyting and her lips fell open. The Swede twisted round to follow the maid’s interest. Icily he flicked an impatient glare over Lyting, then turned back, shifting his stance to block the maid’s view.

  Lyting caught the flash of white teeth cutting a swathe through Ketil’s beard.

  “Nei, friend. Not a word,” he warned but was hard put to temper the grin from his own face.

  From above, a horn sounded, long and deep, drawing Lyting’s gaze to the earthen rampart that rose over Hedeby and to the watchtowers atop it. Again, the horn resonated, rich and full-bodied, signaling ships arrived from the sea.

  The oddest of presentiments rippled along Lyting’s spine as he turned to view the palisaded harbor.

  “Let us hope they be not more Sverige-men,” Ketil gruffed.

  Lyting watched as the first warship slipped through the sea gate, lying low to the waterline, its serpent’s prow gleaming.

  Keen of sight, he marked the boisterous celebration onboard. The sea warriors axed open casks, ladling up horns full of ale and hailing those ashore before they swilled the contents. As the oars dipped the waters, the men took turns stepping out upon the shafts and dancing over them along the length of the ship. Their comrades cheered them on, then roared with laughter when they lost their balance and splashed into the Schlei.

  Those who accomplished the deed rewarded themselves with more drink and gladded themselves further, pillaging lips and fondling breasts of the female captives chained at the mast.

  “Nei, friend. Not Sverige-men.” Lyting steeled at the sight. “They’re our own kinsmen, fresh from a raid.”

  »«

  Shackled together by ankle cuffs and chains, their wrists tethered, the maids of Eire shuffled along the timbered street in a single column.

  Ailinn strained to glimpse Deira and Lia where they walked ahead, separated by a dozen or more women. She could not see them. Rhiannon, unhappily, trod directly behind, her tongue no less sharp for her trials.

  “Why should these Norsemen favor you above the rest?” she hissed past Ailinn’s shoulder. “Every wretched day
since our taking have I struggled on that, choked on that. And though I am ill to think on it further, ‘tis plain. Their greed for gold outweighs the lusts of their loins.”

  “Hush, Rhiannon.” Ailinn cautioned in a tight half-whisper. “They keep watch of us. Hold your tongue lest you would see us flogged.”

  “Flogged? Not you,” Rhiannon bit out. “Not you who they spare of their appetites and suffer no hardship. You, who they cloak warm in wool while the rest of us near freeze upon the open sea. Have you not guessed it?” Rhiannon baited. “They think you to be me — daughter of Mór, princess of the Eóganachts and Domnal’s bride. They see a hearty ransom in that.”

  Ailinn clenched her teeth, incredulous at Rhiannon’s assumption.

  “How should they know aught of us? These are black-shielded Danes who fell upon Eire like wolves out of the North, not the men of Norge who infest our fair isle. Did you imagine them to have stopped and questioned their Norse kindred before entering the Suir to determine who was who among the Irish? The Norwegians are their foe as much as any. I have heard it in your father’s hall.”

  “ ‘Tis as I say, I tell you,” Rhiannon countered. “They chose to attack the compound of a ruri ri thinking to find great wealth there.” She jabbed the back of Ailinn’s arm. “They did not know we two exchanged places that morn. They found us in my chamber, did they not? And there you were, wearing my wedding mantle, my gown, a garland in your hair.”

  “Enough, Rhiannon!” Ailinn’s temples throbbed as she attempted to block the dark memories from her mind’s eye. “Even should you have the right of it, who would give ransom now? Who among our menfolk survived the slaughter that soaked the dawn? How can any of us know?”

  “Mór lives!” Rhiannon declared fiercely. “And these Norse devils will not treat you so finely once they learn the truth. Ní hea.” A gloat coated her voice beneath the words. “Not when they find that their prize captive lacks one drop of Eóganacht blood, royal or otherwise. That she springs only from the Corcu Loígda — the conquered Érainn — footstool of the Eóganachts for centuries past.”

  Ailinn’s anger screamed through her veins. “I am sure you will hasten to apprise them and better your condition as swift as you can accomplish it.”

  A contented, deep-throated sound reached her from behind, though Rhiannon abstained from comment. Ailinn envisioned the cat who savored its cream. And the one about to swallow its prey.

  As they left the quayside to enter the town’s forest of reed-thatched dwellings, Rhiannon’s silence continued to stab at her back, sharp as any two-edged blade.

  »«

  Lyting hefted the iron caldron into place, suspending it on hook and chain over the room’s central stone-lined hearth. He glanced across the skali, the hús’s fine main hall, and grinned. Brienne and Aleth yet lingered at the door, ogling the vibrant spectacle of Hedeby’s streets.

  Rurik emerged from a back storeroom just then, dusting the dirt from his hands. He glanced to where little Richard and Kylan trotted merrily along the langpallar, the raised side-floors that lined the skali’s walls. A smile warmed his features as he joined Lyting.

  “ ‘Tis a fine lodgment. The lads seem happy enough, and the ladies will be comfortable here for the span of our stay.”

  Lyting chuckled. “If they don’t burst with wanting to explore the merchant’s booths and craftsmen’s quarters.”

  Rurik’s gaze traveled to the women, and he shared the jest. With a gleam to his eyes he stepped toward the sleeping-platforms. The twins giggled with delight when he held out his arms for them. One after the other they launched themselves at their father’s chest. Catching them up, Rurik held them high in the crook of his arms and jostled them gamesomely, like two little wheat sacks.

  “What say you men?” He winked conspiratorially at Lyting as he addressed his sons. “We are finished here for atime — our trunks stored and everything put to rights. Shall we check on the Sea Falcon and see if Ketil and the others have secured her ashore? ‘Twould not surprise me if the crew should need your help to set their camp and raise their tents.”

  Brienne and Aleth came away from the portal as Rurik addressed Lyting, though he spoke for them to hear.

  “The hús must still be provisioned, if only for tonight. Mayhap you would be of a mind to escort the ladies about the town. I would do so myself, but with warships in port, I prefer to see to the Sea Falcon personally.”

  Lyting nodded. “Best we double the watch tonight. I’ll tent with the men and see it done.” Lyting graced Brienne and Aleth with a generous smile. “Meanwhile, perchance, my ladies would accompany me, and we shall discover what pleasantries Hedeby offers this season.”

  Amid high spirits and joyous articulations, the women hurried to gather their cloaks from the wall pegs.

  “Be mindful to return with some food for the kettle and oil for our lamps,” Rurik teased lightly, then dropped his voice as he skimmed a look to Lyting.

  “If there is aught the ladies especially favor, secure it with coin when they are not aware and bid the merchant hold it. Ketil and I will settle with him later.”

  Lyting’s eyes sparkled as they departed the hús. He turned back and set the key to the lock. “ ‘Twould seem I shall spend this journey laboring to empty both our coffers.”

  “Ah, but mayhap you shall find your bell,” Brienne offered brightly.

  Lyting straightened to find three widening grins. By their expressions, they clearly held Ketil’s advisements in mind. He began to lift a finger and forestall the all-too-predictable comment when little Richard began to bounce in his father’s arm.

  “I help you ring it,” he chirped.

  “I ring it,” Kylan joined gleefully.

  Lyting squeezed the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger and shook his head in mock dismay. His shoulders vibrated with silent laughter. The Lord’s Cross, he discovered ever anew, must be borne in many ways.

  »«

  Lyting’s bootfall sounded bluntly on the wooden walkway as he guided the ladies along the fresh-water rivulet that flowed through the heart of Hedeby.

  Houses lined the street cramped one upon another — yards neatly fenced, rooftops nearly touching, attendant sheds and workshops to the back. Rapturous aromas of fresh-baked bread, hearty stews, and grilled fish wafted from open doors to swamp their senses.

  For a brief time they wandered. Lyting pointed out curiosities and directed them to tented stalls where visiting merchants spread exotic wares — rare spices and rich brocades, ropes of seal hide and walrus ivory. Brienne took special interest in a belt fashioned with metal plaques from Persia, thinking to gift Rurik. Aleth looked at gaming pieces for Ketil.

  Where the lane abutted the main north-south thoroughfare, they turned left and crossed the rivulet. Diverting once more, they entered the craftsmen’s quarters. Brienne and Aleth examined the potter’s bowls, watched the jeweler cut and polish his amber, then lingered over the weaver’s array of hlað — colorfully patterned ribbons.

  Lyting watched with enjoyment as the women chattered back and forth, excited as two fresh-cheeked maids attending their first fair. While they made their choices, he moved to the horn-carver’s display, hoping to find something fitting for each of them. Something small, thoughtfully chosen. Something by which they might remember their journey here. Remember him. In years to come. Long after he departed Valsemé.

  Lyting lifted a handsome, fine-toothed comb and wondered why so cheerful a task should drag at the heart of his soul.

  “Red deer.” A voice disrupted his thoughts. “The combs are carved from the antlers of red deer.”

  Lyting found a whiskery little man sitting off to the side, whittling an indiscernible object.

  “Each is fitted with its own case. There are also needles, spindles, knife handles, and spoons to satisfy any maid. And should you be in need of a fine wool cloak for your heart’s lady, I have several in trade.”

  Lyting threw up a hand to halt the man bef
ore he attempted to sell him the stool and table as well.

  “Two comb sets will do.” He reached for the pouch at his hip, glancing over to the weaver’s shed at the same moment. The women were gone.

  Lyting’s heart jolted from his chest as he broke into a run and spanned the distance between the comb-maker’s and weaver’s stands.

  “The Frankish noblewomen, where are they?” he demanded sharply, jarring to a halt, every muscle battle-tense.

  The weaver clutched a roll of linen to his chest and fell back a pace at the storm on Lyting’s face. With a quick, trembly gesture he pointed toward the end of the row of workshops where it opened to the streetside.

  Lyting caught sight of Brienne’s flowing veil and mantle and hastened to reach them. Stuffing his heart back into his chest, he came to a stop beside them, but before he could utter a word, his heart jammed against his ribs once more as he beheld the women’s stricken faces.

  He followed their gaze to where a group of sea raiders led their shackled prizes along the wood-paved lane. Females all, the captives scuffed slowly over the planks, dragging the chains that bound their ankles and bit into their flesh. Some sobbed softly while others moved their lips in prayer.

  “Oh, Lyting, Lyting.” Brienne gripped his arm, her voice aching with compassion.

  Lyting knew that both Rurik and Ketil had taken pains to forewarn their wives that Hedeby was a major slave market. Still, to witness the wretched plight of these women was more than either could bear.

  Brienne’s grip tightened, bringing his eyes to meet hers — great violet orbs, filled with her heart.

  “Oh, Lyting. Cannot we help just one?”

  A faint memory whispered, cautioning that the last time Brienne so pleaded for his aid, and in similar tone, it very near cost him his life. But even as he heeded that dim warning, his gaze fell upon an auburn-haired beauty, her face the gift of angels, her form exquisitely modeled and temptingly displayed in her clinging gown. She held herself proudly, defiant, a fierce courage upon her brow.