Kathleen Kirkwood & Anita Gordon - Heart series

by The Defiant Heart

  Ailinn writhed beneath him, each breath hard won, the air pressed from her lungs. Just when she feared she might suffocate, he shifted. Grasping the fullness of her breast, he coarsely caressed her. Ardor blazed in his eyes. Impatient, Hakon fisted the gown’s neckline and tore it free.

  Crippling fear overtook Ailinn as the fabric ripped. The sound of it filled her ears, then changed and swelled in volume to an earsplitting roar. Just as cool air touched her breast, Hakon’s weight abruptly left her. He catapulted backward by an unseen force, and Ailinn next found herself staring up through open space at the rafters.

  Twisting, she caught sight of Skallagrim as he hurled Hakon across the room. Like a great, raging bear he set upon Hakon. Dragging him to his feet, he slogged him in stomach and jaw, then backhanded him across the face.

  Hakon hurtled backward against the side-floor, yelling out as his ribs struck against the edge of board. Mouth and nose bleeding, a cut above his eye, he stirred to gain some advantage.

  But Skallagrim’s fury stormed unabated. Grabbing an ax down from the wall, he clutched the shaft at each end then started once more for Hakon. As Hakon recovered his footage, Skallagrim caught him straight on with the ax handle. Ramming it across Hakon’s throat, he shoved him up against one of the hall’s stout posts, nearly lifting him from his feet.

  »«

  “Cease, Uncle!” Hakon rasped beneath the wood. “Would you kill me for a mere kiss of your slave? I did but seek a taste of her lips and pleasure my hand with her breasts.”

  “You lie,” Skallagrim snarled in his face.

  “Nei,” Hakon spat with disdain. “I would not spoil your prized gift to the Byzantine. I have not forgotten her usefulness to you.”

  Skallagrim eyed him with a hard, incisive gaze. “See that you remember,” he bit out. “ ‘Twill be a long journey, Hakon. Take what slavewomen you will to satisfy your lusts for the duration. But be assured, touch this one and I shall personally cut your throat, nephew or not.”

  At that, Skallagrim released Hakon. Angrily Hakon snatched up his tunic from the side-floor and stalked from the hall.

  »«

  Ailinn gripped the wreckage of fabric to her breast. Eyes wide and nerves racked raw, she trembled violently as her grim-faced master approached.

  The chieftain looked down on her, marked her ruined dress, the fear in her eyes, and then examined her for bruises. Freeing the chain from the post, he led Ailinn to the back of the hall, where he secured her, as the night before, to the foot of his bed.

  As Ailinn huddled upon the pallet, Skallagrim positioned his great chair to face the door, then took up his seat. Placing his ax across his lap, he kept watch, prepared for anyone who would give challenge or dare to thwart his plans.

  Chapter 4

  The twins trotted happily along the lane ahead of their uncle, their little mouths puckered around a piece of honeycomb.

  As they approached the hús, Lyting lengthened his stride to catch up with them, then pushed open the door before sticky little hands could touch it.

  Aleth greeted them with a smile and shake of her head as the three entered, licking their fingers and lips.

  “Lyting, how you do spoil the children!” She laughed, catching up a damp cloth and coming forward.

  Her smile widened as, one after the other, Richard and Kylan offered up their portions of the waxy comb for her to taste.

  “Merci. Mais non, mes petits. Though, mayhap we best tidy you up before you give your maman and papa a big hug.” Aleth swept a glance to Lyting. “You as well.” She raised on tiptoe to wipe a trace of honey from his chin.

  Lyting chuckled at her motherly attentions and shifted the small crock of golden nectar from beneath his arm.

  “For you, my lady. A small token. How would men such as we fare without your tender ministrations?” He winked at the boys.

  “You could use a little fussing over,” she chided, tugging at one of the long, pale locks that reached low on Lyting’s chest. “When you are of a mind to part with some of this bountiful mane, come to me. I shall see that you have a fine cut.”

  “Soon, Aleth.” He flashed her a smile, the creases deepening in his cheeks. “I confess, I do not look forward to the tonsure and have been enjoying the full wealth and measure of my hair these months past. But ‘tis yours for the shearing when the time comes.”

  Lyting gave over the jar to Aleth, then glanced toward the door at the rear of the skali.

  “They are in the yard,” Aleth offered as she set the crockery on the side floor. Kneeling to the boys’ height, she began wiping Kylan’s face. “Be along with you, now.” She shooed him blithely. “I’ll bring the boys in a moment.”

  “Þakk, Aleth.”

  As Lyting emerged from the building, he beheld Brienne, all grace and loveliness, sitting beneath an ancient silver lime tree. She looked off to the right, her elegant profile silhouetted against the dark luxury of her hair, which flowed freely, as Rurik preferred.

  The lime spread out all about her, above and behind, shimmering with pale green foliage. Translucent and heart-shaped, the leaves were richly silvered underneath with fine hairs so that each new breath of air stirred them to glitter and wink with sunlight, the effect spellbinding.

  Had it not been for the faint line that traced Brienne’s forehead, Lyting would have thought her to be merely preoccupied, lost in pleasant thoughts. But now he saw that her gaze was fixed on Rurik where he stood stone still, gazing out over the fence, a parchment in his hand.

  Brienne began to lift a hand toward Rurik and her lips parted softly as though she would speak. But then she hesitated, apparently deciding otherwise, and let her hand fall once more to her lap. As though Rurik sensed her thoughts, he looked toward her and met her eyes. Lyting felt the fine strand of tension spun out between them.

  Uncertain of the scene, Lyting cleared his throat. The two turned as one, Brienne smiling with a genuine warmth and gladness to see him, Rurik coming away from the corner of the yard to greet him.

  Feeling the moment to be yet awkward, Lyting glanced again to the spectacular tree and attempted to lighten the mood.

  “My lady has chosen her time well,” he teased gently. “For all its glory, one is not able to long enjoy the shelter of the lime. Soon ‘twill begin to drop a sticky dew from its leaves and continue until summer’s end — a vexsome trial for even its most devoted admirer.”

  “Mayhap ‘twould be worth enduring.” Brienne lifted her gaze and scanned the luminous canopy overhead.

  Just then Rurik came to stand beside her, propping his foot upon the bench where she sat. Brienne placed her hand on his knee, her violet eyes coupling with his.

  “My dear husband holds that the lime is much like a beautiful woman, difficult to possess and not without her trials. Each ordeal, he says, is a testing of a man’s true mettle — his steadfastness and determination. A testing of his very heart and soul.”

  Lyting swept his gaze to the tree, all expression deserting his face. Golden-brown eyes and deep auburn hair shimmered before his mind’s eye as one with the leaves. He blinked away the vision and suddenly became aware that his heart had picked up its beat and his blood pulsed through his veins.

  The boisterous invasion of children broke the spell. Giggling and squealing, the twins scurried across the yard and into the arms of their parents. Lyting stepped apart and rubbed a hand across his eyes. When he glanced back, he met Brienne’s silent, questioning gaze, her head tilted to one side.

  Kylan quickly reclaimed his mother’s attention, placing small hands to her cheeks and turning her face to his. Rurik, meanwhile, had plucked up young Richard and perched him on a hip. Irrepressible, the babe tugged to be higher and would not be satisfied until he could wrap his arms about his father’s neck.

  Rurik chuckled. Giving over the parchment to Lyting, he disengaged his young heir and resettled him against his chest. At once Richard began to pat at his father’s chin.

  Lyting’s gaze drop
ped to the cockled vellum as it curled in on itself. It bore precise, heavily inked characters. He recognized them to be Greek.

  His brow rose a fraction. A message from the East? Byzantium? It had been years since Rurik served there as one the emperor’s elite Varangian Guard.

  He skimmed the parchment once again. What nature of missive did the scroll contain? he wondered. Surely it held importance to have been transmitted from so great a distance and after so many years of silence. Its content obviously troubled his brother.

  Lyting cut a glance to Rurik and found him watching. With a brief nod Rurik indicated he should examine the document more closely, then turned to walk about the yard with Brienne and the children.

  Unscrolling the piece, Lyting studied the rows of neat, compact lettering. At first glance the script appeared as thwarting as the Roman system of writing. He had begun instruction in both forms — Greek and Latin — under the tutelage of Brother Bernard in preparation for Corbie.

  His grasp for the Greek, though rudimentary, far exceeded his capacity for the latter. But then Greek was already familiar to him. He’d studied it years past when he readied to join Rurik and the Varangians in the East. To that end his brother had dispatched a Byzantine scholar to Limfjord to instruct him personally in the language and strict codes of court etiquette. But he never reached the golden city, for Norwegian Harald struck Danmark and ravaged Jutland’s western coast. Abandoning the prospect of a bright future with the Guard, he took up sword and shield to defend his homeland. Sailing with the Danish fleet, he engaged the Norwegians on the North Sea . . . .

  Laboriously Lyting’s gaze moved across the script as he sounded out each letter, each word, groping for the meaning. Someone had died, a Varangian — Askel the Red. The name rang familiar, but Lyting could not connect it with any accounting that he might have heard. Other names followed, these also Norse. The parchment was dated five months prior at Dyrrachium, signed by one Stephanites Cerularius. Again, the name held no significance.

  “Some ale, Lyting?” Aleth proffered a cup at his elbow.

  Lyting pulled his gaze from the text and accepted her offering. “Þakk, Aleth.” As he drew on the liquid, he caught sight of Kylan yawning hugely in his mother’s arms.

  “You have exhausted these little ones, Lyting,” Brienne called out. “They shall need their naps early.”

  Aleth crossed to disencumber Rurik of little Richard, who was rubbing his eyes. As the women advanced toward the hús with the children, Lyting saw Brienne’s gaze stray to the parchment. She hugged her son to herself, though her smile remained fastened in place.

  “Merci for amusing the boys, Lyting.” Her words gave no hint that anything disturbed her. “Mayhap I shall be able to enjoy a little rest myself.”

  Lyting regarded Brienne as she disappeared into the darkness of the hús. Withdrawing his gaze, he rolled the letter closed and tapped it thoughtfully against his palm. With unhurried pace he approached Rurik and extended the scroll.

  “We sailed for Hedeby earlier than first you intentioned. ‘Twas for this, was it not?”

  Rurik nodded, his eyes somber as he accepted back the parchment.

  Lyting dredged distant memories and long-forgotten conversations from the backwaters of his mind.

  “Askel the Red — did he not serve under your command in Constantinople?”

  “Já. Askel was one of my finest officers. He, Koll, Leidolf, Thengil, and Vegeir were as my right hand when we quelled the palace uprising and preserved Leo’s crown. It earned us the title of the ‘Dragons Around the Throne.’ “

  Lyting recognized the last three names from the scroll,

  “I recall the tale, though the details be somewhat clouded now. You foiled a plot to assassinate the emperor, Leo Sophos, and his infant son. ‘Twas a rather elaborate conspiracy, was it not? Knotted with complexities, double-dealings, deceits. A `tangle of vipers,’ you called it, ‘nesting in every corner.’ “

  “Já. Distinctively ‘Byzantine.’” A grim smile etched Rurik’s lips. “I never told you the full of it, broðir. But mayhap ‘tis well that I do so now, for I know not where this will lead.” He looked to the scroll, venting a breath, then met Lyting’s gaze.

  “I joined the palace guard shortly after Leo’s third wife had died, and he had taken Zoë Carbonopsina as his mistress . The Church’s Eastern ‘Greek’ branch is more rigid in matters of marriage than Rome. Even in the event a spouse dies, second marriages are frowned upon and third marriages strictly prohibited. Leo, himself, had reinforced the Church’s position years earlier, issuing a special law of his own. But then his first wife died childless, as did his second. When he took a third wife, ‘twas an open breach with the Church. But soon she, too, died, leaving Leo without male issue.”

  Rurik pushed a hand through his golden hair and stepped toward the lime tree.

  “A fourth marriage was beyond question. I can tell you that Leo’s brother, Alexander, was well pleased that the line of succession should pass to him. But then Zoë conceived. Leo saw to it that she spent her confinement in the palace’s ‘purple chamber,’ where all the empresses officially birthed their children. Zoë presented Leo with a son, and from that time he devoted himself to seeing his heir legitimized.

  “After much controversy, the Patriarch agreed to baptize the child in the Hagia Sophia and to christen him Constantine Porphyrogentius, ‘born in the purple.’ But ‘twas a condition that Leo set aside Zoë. Instead, three days after the ceremony, Leo married Zoë and elevated her to the status of Augusta.”

  Rurik began to pace. “A storm of angry protest arose, fueling the many factions and quarrels that beset Leo from the past. He was even barred from entering the church on Christmas Day and again, twelve days later, on the Feast of the Epiphany. Yet, Leo was intractable. Resolute. He turned to Rome, circumventing the Patriarch’s authority, and appealed directly to the Pope — much to the Pontiff’s delight. Leo received his dispensation. His marriage was validated. With that accomplished, he forced the Patriarch, Nicholas Mysticus, from his chair and replaced him with another.

  “You can imagine the response that wrought.” Rurik threw a hand to the air. “The political parties — the Greens and the Blues — the exiled Patriarch, a score of others, each with its own squabble, all clawing for power and profit.” He stopped his pacing. “And then there was the emperor’s brother, Alexander, an indolent, self-pleasuring creature who had much to lose.”

  Rurik expelled a long breath, lifting his face heavenward and bracing his hands on his hips. “Mayhap ‘twas best, broðir, that you did not come to Constantinople as we planned. Sharks swam about the throne. Death waited in the shadow of the crown.”

  Rurik fell to a reflective silence.

  Lyting bided the moment, digesting all his brother spoke.

  “And what of the plot to remove Leo?” he prompted several minutes later.

  “ ‘Twas nearly the emperor’s undoing.” Rurik paced to the fence, then turned.

  “Shall we say, I ‘intercepted’ secret directives that involved a conspiracy to murder the Imperial family — exclusive of Alexander, that is. The assassins plotted to provoke the Blues and Greens to riot in the Hippodrome while the emperor was in attendance. Riots in the Hippodrome are also distinctively ‘Byzantine’.”

  Rurik’s mouth set in a firm line, his features darkening with memory.

  “The riots were intended to conceal their treachery. The emperor’s assassins would already be positioned in close proximity to his person — presumably trusted, high-ranking members of court to enjoy such privilege of access. We knew not their names. Meanwhile, within the Sacred Imperial Palace, the child and empress were to be slain.

  “With this knowledge in hand, I chose five of my most capable officers, and together we laid schemes of our own to snare the conspirators. The emperor proved cooperative, though he insisted he keep his appearance in the Hippodrome and force his opponents’ hands openly. Zoë feared for him but refused to lea
ve the imperial grounds for safety, preferring to die in the purple if necessary. The child, we managed to spirit from the palace in Helena’s care and kept them both under heavy guard elsewhere in the city.”

  Lyting’s eyes snapped to Rurik’s. Helena. The noble lady who once held his brother’s heart in Byzantium. The cause of Rurik’s years of wandering. He had not known that she aided him in preserving Leo’s throne and family.

  Rurik shifted his stance. “The designated day came. Our Varangians were carefully posted about the palace grounds and throughout the Hippodrome. Another complement guarded the empress in her private residence, the Pantheon. I, myself, and my officers escorted Leo to the imperial box, the kathisma, which overlooked the arena from an upper balcony in the Hippodrome. Dignitaries and courtiers awaited us in the royal box. They were our chief concern.

  “The mood of the crowd was sullen that day. Early in the games, an upheaval erupted below, then spread through the spectators like a rapid fire feeding on dry kindling. During the tumult, the conspirators made their move.”

  “ ‘Twas your own blade,” Lyting recalled aloud, “that smote the assassins’ steel and saved the imperial neck. You shielded the emperor with your body, did you not?”

  “Já. I to the fore, while Askel guarded both our backs. I felled two of them, Vegeir a third. The trio proved to be patricians of high office, one a member of the Senate. We quickly removed the emperor to safety, but it took hours to quell the broil below. The Blues and Greens had taken over the arena. Scores were arrested and interrogated.”

  Rurik turned and braced his hands on the fence, slightly crushing the parchment.

  “Though the conspiracy lay shattered and most involved seized, ‘twas plain that we had not apprehended the architect of the scheme. Personally, ‘twas my belief that he served Alexander, but every trail we followed evaporated before we could discover its end. He simply faded chameleonlike into the sea of officials and retainers that surrounded the throne.