A Warrior's Heart

by Laurel O'Donnell

  She recognized with numbing clarity that she was a weapon in Arnulf’s game of power. He cared naught for her wishes or desires, or even her safety. She’d seen it in his eyes on the day he’d left her. But she wouldn’t reveal her torment to this man who had captured her heart but who considered her a hostage to be ransomed.

  ~*~*~

  Magnus shifted his weight from one foot to the other. The moment he’d entered the dwelling his body had reacted predictably. It was shameful. Even talk of Ida hadn’t dampened his need for Judith. He wanted to blurt out that he sensed Arnulf wouldn’t pay, and in any case he didn’t want her to return to Bruggen. Demanding a ransom was a tactical move. It was expected.

  She looked vulnerable, as if she wished to disappear into her beloved chair. It distressed him that the dilemma in which they found themselves had caused this feisty and courageous woman who fired his blood to falter.

  Beatrice fussed and clucked over her mistress.

  There was nothing for it but to take his leave. “I must go. Abbatis.”

  She glared, her eyes welling with tears.

  He had to say something, anything. “I will call on the way back.”

  He left, mounted his horse and rode away, irritated he’d arranged to see her again when he should stay away. His heart and loins had overruled his head.

  LONGSWORD

  Magnus sensed something was afoot as he approached the environs of Abbatis. Normally only birdsong and the occasional deferential peasant greeted his arrival, but today he heard urgent male voices. A cloud of dust hung over the town.

  Horses.

  He slowed his pace, alarmed that perhaps Arnulf had managed to somehow attack Abbatis without coming through Saint Riquier. His immediate concern was for his cousin, and he was relieved when Bendik appeared. He reined to a halt and waited to greet him.

  “Magnus,” Bendik said, reaching across to grasp his hand.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  Bendik smiled broadly. “We have been honored by the presence of our illustrious duke.”

  “Vilhelm? He’s in Rouen.”

  “No longer. He has brought significant numbers of reinforcements.”

  Hope surged. “Good. Perhaps he’ll be more likely to grant my request to return to Montdebryk.”

  Bendik shrugged. They motioned their horses forward, riding at a leisurely pace. Magnus sensed his cousin’s hesitation. “What is it you’re not telling me?”

  “The duke is mightily pleased with the progress in Abbatis and intends to also visit Saint Riquier. You may have done such a good job of subduing and controlling this region, you’re now indispensable.”

  Magnus snorted as he thought back over the past sennights. “The most action we had was the capture of a few dispirited soldiers trying to dig a cart out of the mud. Hardly heroic deeds.”

  “And you hold Arnulf’s sister.”

  Magnus’s heart thudded against his ribs. “I don’t hold her, as you put it. She’s wed to a local nobleman.”

  Bendik eyed him curiously, one hand raised as if warding off an attack. “Whoa! No need to get defensive. I’m simply saying Vilhelm thinks she’s a great prize.”

  Magnus groaned inwardly. He too prized Judith, but not for the same reasons as his duke. “He’s mistaken if he believes Judith can influence her brother. He left her at our mercy, wed to a nithing.”

  Bendik smiled. “Sounds to me like you care for this woman.”

  Magnus shrugged. “She’s a casualty of war. I feel pity for her.”

  Bendik leaned over and shoved him hard. “You can’t fool me, cousin.”

  Was he so inept at hiding his feelings? Dag had seen through his attempts to shrug off his desire for Judith, now Bendik. He would have to be careful not to betray his emotions when he obtained an audience with Vilhelm.

  They rode into the town. Soldiers swarmed everywhere. Great numbers of horses stood tethered in groups, boys with brushes and buckets buzzing around them like bees. A man approached and grasped his horse’s bridle. Magnus drew his sword but then recognized the warrior as Raoul Yngre, one of the duke’s bodyguard and son of an old friend of his father.

  “My lord. Our chieftain awaits your arrival.”

  He and Bendik dismounted. Magnus handed the reins to his cousin. “Wait here. Pray this goes as planned.”

  Bendik nodded. “I too would like to return to Montdebryk. I’m weary of Abbatis.”

  He followed the soldier to Vilhelm’s tent and waited outside for permission to enter, taken aback when the duke emerged from the canvas shelter and clamped an arm around his shoulder. “Kriger! The security of Montreuil is assured. I came to see how you fare out here in the countryside. I am pleased with what I’ve seen.

  “I should not be surprised. My father and yours were strong allies. Bryk Kriger was a great warrior.”

  Magnus recalled the tales his sire had told him of the many years of enmity that had simmered between him and Vilhelm’s father, the legendary Rollo, but now wasn’t the time to mention it. It irked when the duke spoke of Bryk Kriger as if he were dead. “My father is still your loyal subject, my lord.”

  Vilhelm laughed heartily, slapped him on the back then beckoned him into the tent. “Yes, yes. Of course. And I wouldn’t be alive today were it not for the courage of Torstein Kriger. How is Bendik’s father?”

  “He’s well. He is second in command at Montdebryk.”

  Perhaps this was the opportunity to ask—

  “Commendable for a freed slave,” Vilhelm remarked. “I expect as the oldest son you will soon take over the post.”

  It had been many years since anyone in the Kriger family had thought of his Uncle Torstein as a former thrall, and Magnus wasn’t sure he cared for the duke’s condescending tone. He was heir to the title of Comte, not Second, and Vilhelm’s own mother, the haughty Princess Poppa of Bayeux, had only escaped thralldom because her Viking captor had been smitten with her. He shifted his weight, biting back a retort. He had to stay in the duke’s favor. “Forgive me, my lord, now you’ve brought reinforcements—”

  Vilhelm suddenly picked up his sword from the trestle table on which it lay and unsheathed it with great flourish. No matter how often Magnus set eyes on the magnificent weapon it never failed to rob him of breath. The duke traced his fingertips over the legendary inlay, still visible nigh on twenty-five years since his father had presented the sword to him. “Ulfberht,” he said with great reverence, gazing at the long sword that had earned him his name. “I am Vilhelm Longsword, second Duke of the Normans, and I have pledged to hold these lands for Comte Herluin of Ponthieu.”

  Magnus wondered why he was on the receiving end of this pompous show of strength and power. Worry gnawed his belly. “Indeed, my lord. You have secured these lands, and it has been my honor—”

  Vilhelm swiped the air with the sword. Most men would have needed two hands to wield the weapon, but the duke arced it back and forth with ease, as if swatting pesky flies.

  “But now you wish to return to Montdebryk.”

  Magnus saw no point in protesting, though Vilhelm’s tone gave no inkling of his opinion on the matter. “My daughters still grieve the recent loss of their mother, my lord.”

  Vilhelm studied his sword. “The only one in the whole of Francia.”

  Magnus didn’t see what this had to do with—

  “I’ll wager Arnulf of Flandres would love to get his greedy hands on my Ulfberht.”

  His remark made Magnus nervous. Where was this discussion headed? Vilhelm seemed determined to turn the conflict with Arnulf into a personal matter. “I have no doubt he would, my lord, but—”

  Vilhelm eyed him. “Talk to me of his sister.”

  The snake writhing in Magnus’s belly hissed. He had no wish to betray his feelings for Judith, but neither did he want her to be a plaything in Vilhelm’s plan. “She is Flemish,” he said.

  The sword sliced the air in a blur of steel that sent a chill up Magnus’s spine. Vilhelm
grimaced. “I’m aware she is Flemish. Is she comely, dimwitted, loyal to Arnulf?”

  Magnus clenched his jaw. Somehow they had left the topic of returning to Montdebryk and gone onto something he would prefer not to discuss. “She is comely,” he replied, remembering the shining chestnut hair and unforgettable breasts that haunted his dreams, “but certainly not dimwitted. You question her loyalty to her brother?”

  “Half brother,” Vilhelm said. “Have you demanded ransom?”

  Magnus frowned. “I have asked for a ransom.” A voice inside warned him to be wary. He feigned ignorance. “She is his half sister?”

  “A bastard,” Vilhelm replied, looking as if a rotten odor had suddenly assailed his nostrils. Magnus clenched his fists. This arrogant duke had been born out of wedlock in Norway when his mother was Rollo’s concubine. Apparently, his parents’ later Christian marriage had erased the truth of his bastardy.

  Vilhelm’s only son was a bastard, born of his concubine, Espriota.

  Magnus’s heart went out to Judith, but this new information explained in part Arnulf’s abandonment. He had to defend her. “She is a woman of breeding and principle, in my opinion, my lord.”

  “What of her husband?”

  Vilhelm had evidently made sure he was informed of events in this remote area of Ponthieu. Had Bendik told him of the marriage?

  What to say? Resentment for Judith’s predicament seethed in his blood.

  “A local nobleman, Theodoric of Abbatis. He’s—”

  Try as he might, nothing good came to mind.

  “A protégé of the local priest, I understand,” Vilhelm said, arching his brows. “A scholarly lad.”

  Magnus decided scholarly protégé would have to suffice.

  “And the marriage is valid?”

  Magnus was a worm wriggling on the end of a hook. The circumstances of the ceremony were bizarre at best, and he doubted Judith’s marriage had been consummated. But chewing on those matters only heightened his frustration. “I believe so,” he mumbled.

  Vilhelm handed his sword to Raoul who carefully sheathed it. “I would meet this woman,” he said. “Come. Lead the way to Saint Riquier.”

  THE DUKE VISITS

  Judith was napping in the reassuring shabby comfort of her father’s chair. Theodoric was off in the stable with a new servant boy; Liette was busy in the kitchen, and the house was quiet. She startled when Beatrice burst in, breathless and red faced. “My lady,” she panted, pointing vaguely with one hand while mopping her brow with the other. “Horsemen, at a gallop.”

  Judith gripped her crucifix. “Arnulf?” she asked.

  Beatrice shook her head. “Wrong direction.”

  She felt a strange sense of relief, but then stiffened her spine and walked to the door. “Compose yourself. It’s probably Magnus returning from Abbatis. He said he would call.”

  Theodoric appeared at the open door. “Riders,” he said, stating what was by now obvious. His next words took her by surprise. “Stay behind me.”

  It was ludicrous. Her husband had no weapon in evidence, yet he seemed inclined to protect her. It was the first glimpse of the noble blood in his veins.

  She breathed a sigh of relief when Magnus reined his horse to a halt. But he wasn’t alone. A giant dismounted at the same time, a man taller than Magnus. The overlong weapon on his hip convinced her this was Vilhelm, Duke of the Normans.

  Theodoric’s spine stiffened. He had evidently recognized their visitor. She retreated into the main room, dragging Beatrice with her. “He must understand I am Judith of Valognes, sister of a comte.”

  Theodoric bowed low, backing into the room as Vilhelm strode into the house. “My lord duke,” he murmured, “welcome to my home.”

  The Norman ignored him, his eyes fixed on Judith. Behind him Magnus glared, his jaw clenched. Her eyes were fixed on his weapon, the famous sword with the name that always escaped her.

  Ulf..something. What was it Arnulf said? Some kind of special steel.

  The duke’s voice jolted her out of the reverie. “You are Judith of Flandres?”

  She inhaled deeply. “No,” she began, then quickly babbled on when the Norman narrowed his eyes. “I am Judith of Valognes, daughter of Baldwin, Comte of Flandres, granddaughter of Judith of Francia, and proud descendant of Charlemagne.”

  Theodoric gaped.

  The duke laughed, his hands on his hips. “And Arnulf’s bastard sister.”

  Her eyes flew to Magnus. His sympathetic gaze steadied her. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat and clutched the back of her beloved chair. “Arnulf and I are siblings, born of the same father. He is my liege lord to whom I owe my allegiance.”

  The duke strutted closer. She tried unsuccessfully to drag her eyes away from the sword. It was said to have some sort of inlay, but he would have to unsheathe it for her to see it.

  She snapped her attention back when she realized he’d asked a question.

  “But your allegiance now must be to your husband, the scholar, and to his liege lord, Herluin of Ponthieu. You spoke your vows, did you not?”

  For the life of her she had no memory of that wretched day other than shock at first sight of her betrothed and the look on Arnulf’s face when he’d left her behind in the mud. No answer was to be found on Theodoric’s stricken features.

  Scholar?

  Magnus seethed anger, his teeth gritted, fists clenched at his sides.

  “Did you not?” the Norman insisted.

  “I have no memory of doing so,” she said, sounding pathetic to her own ears.

  Relief brightened Theodoric’s eyes.

  Magnus quickly closed his gaping mouth when the duke turned to him and said, “Kriger, it’s imperative this woman be as far away as possible from Arnulf. He will attempt to rescue her, and she will do whatever she can to aid him. You will take her with you to Montdebryk.”

  ~*~*~

  Duty demanded Magnus follow on the heels of his duke as he strutted out of the dwelling, but his feet refused to move. He stared at Judith, trying to discern her feelings. She returned his gaze, clutching the crucifix around her neck, shock evident on her face.

  His hand went to his Thor’s hammer, but the cold silver revealed nothing.

  Was she devastated at the prospect of being taken to Montdebryk? The notion appalled him, yet his heart rejoiced, and he had a peculiar urge to laugh out loud.

  Was Vilhelm correct that she would try to escape to Flandres? Or did the hint of a smile in her eyes mean she wanted to go with Magnus? It had never occurred to him she might flee.

  Behind him someone coughed. He turned to see Raoul. “My duke commands you make haste, my lord Magnus.”

  He turned to Judith. “It will not be an easy journey, my lady,” he rasped.

  She clenched her jaw. “I beg Beatrice be allowed to accompany me.”

  “Of course,” he agreed, relieved there had been no loud protestation, no outrage.

  “What of me?” Theodoric asked in a shrill voice.

  “You’re to accompany them as far as Rouen,” the bodyguard told him.

  As he left the house, too many conflicting emotions swirled in Magnus’s heart. He wanted Judith with him, yet he didn’t. He desired her, but she could never be his. The prospect of showing off his father’s grand fortress elated him. They’d walk amid the apple orchards and inhale the scent of fragrant blossoms. He sensed his mother would love Judith.

  However, his daughters needed his attention. Judith was a hostage, a spoil of war.

  And why was Theodoric being summoned to Rouen?

  HOMEWARD BOUND

  A fortnight later, as the first pink streaks of dawn lit the sky, Magnus sat stiffly atop his horse outside Theodoric’s house, surveying the final preparations for the journey.

  Satisfied that the commander of the replacement troops Vilhelm had brought from Rouen had matters in hand in the region, he was elated to be at last on his way back to Montdebryk. However, it promised to be anything but an
uneventful experience, and there was too much red in the sky for his liking. He prayed the rain would hold off. His nose and throat problems were close to gone, and Dag was feeling better. Magnus felt a measure of smug satisfaction; Bendik was now sneezing and coughing. His cousin was fond of boasting he never took sick, but had stubbornly refused to share his brandy.

  It was a relief that Judith too seemed to have recovered from whatever ailed her. She’d not objected to being forced to travel to the hinterland of Normandie. He assumed she’d accepted the inevitability of it, as he had. It was obviously Odin’s wish.

  The trek to Rouen would have taken two days at most on horseback, but he had given in to Judith’s insistence that she be allowed to take most of her belongings, including the chair. This entailed having the wagon repaired, fitted with a more weatherproof cover and loaded. He denied Theodoric’s request to take some of his furniture, since he had no inkling why the young man was being summoned to Rouen, nor how long he would remain there.

  To everyone’s consternation, except Theodoric’s, Vilhelm sent word that Father Innocent was also to travel to Rouen. The news puzzled Magnus, offended Judith and outraged Beatrice.

  Despite the refurbishments to the wagon, the vehicle would slow them down considerably. Three or mayhap four days with this odd group loomed like a dragon lying in wait, ready to breathe fire.

  He, Dag and Bendik looked forward to reuniting with their kin in Montreuil, but how to keep his hands off Judith once Rouen was behind them and they were rid of the priest and his lover?

  ~*~*~

  As Theodoric assisted her to climb into the wagon, Judith deemed this the strangest collection of people and circumstances imaginable. She settled into the cushioned seat Beatrice had prepared and reached out one hand to touch the nearby chair, wedged in place between iron trunks.