A Warrior's Heart

by Laurel O'Donnell

“It’ll be our talisman,” Beatrice whispered, patting her hand.

  As usual, the resilient maid had divined her thoughts. “You’re right,” she murmured nervously. “All shall be well as long as I have my father’s chair.” Ludicrous as it sounded, the notion brought comfort.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Beatrice said. “Magnus will protect you with his life.”

  She looked over to where he sat atop his steed. Strong, noble, kind—he embodied everything she wanted in a husband. “You have great faith in him,” she whispered, thankful whatever had plagued her throat seemed to have cured itself.

  “You’ll see,” her maid replied.

  Though the words were meant to be reassuring, Judith fervently hoped Magnus wouldn’t be called upon to risk his life to protect her. The joyful glow in his eyes whenever he spoke of his homeland warmed her heart. It was puzzling that she didn’t feel the same longing for Bruggen, though she’d lived there since birth. She was more excited at the prospect of seeing the vast orchards Magnus spoke of with deep affection.

  “Am I being disloyal to my brother?” she asked as the driver urged the carthorses forward and the wagon lurched.

  Beatrice snorted, clutching the side of the conveyance. “You have no choice. Your darling brother doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to rescue you.”

  “Mayhap he plots a raid as we travel,” she said, praying such a scheme wasn’t in Arnulf’s plans.

  Beatrice shook her head. “He’d be a fool to attack this column. The Montdebryk men number in the hundreds. A skirmish would result in great loss of life.”

  Judith looked to the front of the cavalcade. Magnus rode at the head of his army. Even among a host of well-muscled warriors, the powerful shoulders, the slight tilt of his head were easily recognizable. The sun glinted off his helmet. She recalled how terrified she’d been on first setting eyes on him, riding out of the mist on that fateful day. Now she longed to jump down from the wagon and run to his side. How glorious to ride on his lap, safe in his embrace. The fanciful thought warmed her.

  She turned around to hazard a glance through the open flap of the canvas cover. Theo and Father Innocent rode directly behind the wagon. Her husband looked happier than she’d ever seen him, despite the scowl on the cleric’s face directed at her. She averted her gaze, suddenly chilled, annoyed that he was angry with her. He was the one who had performed the marriage. It wasn’t her fault he’d angered his bishop.

  “I wish they would sneak away, disappear and live happily ever after,” she murmured.

  Beatrice wrinkled her nose. “But they are men.”

  “They love each other,” she replied. “Should they not be allowed to live together happily?”

  “Nay,” Beatrice exclaimed. “One’s a priest, sworn to God’s service.”

  Judith shrugged, settling more deeply into the cushions. “I forgot that detail.”

  MONTREUIL

  After a day and a half of bone jarring travel in the wagon, Judith wished she had overcome her reticence and begged Magnus to let her share his horse—and they’d only come as far as Montreuil.

  They entered the heavily guarded perimeter. Many of the soldiers recognized and hailed Magnus. An eerie silence hung over the town, though it was midday. Evidence of fierce fighting loomed everywhere. Clouds of dust clung to ruined buildings. Filthy, ragged children begged for food, hunger etched on their faces. The stench of rotting flesh hung in the air. Skeletal dogs sniffed at the ruination. Wounded and bandaged men limped about, or slouched in filthy corners. The Montdebryk soldiers rode on, eyes fixed on the road ahead, apparently oblivious to the hellish nightmare around them.

  Judith had fancied they might sleep in a comfortable bed but now held on to the hope she’d be required to spend another night dozing in the wagon. Magnus led them through the ruined streets to an open field at the other side of the town. She was plagued with the guilty notion that blame for this misery lay at the feet of her brother.

  “Why must there be this death and destruction?” she asked Beatrice.

  Her maid sniffed back a tear. “’Tis the nature of powerful men to covet the lands of others. Your brother believes this town belongs to Flandres.”

  “But what profit in gaining a ruin?”

  Magnus had dismounted and now strode towards them, his face contorted in anger. No doubt he too was cursing Arnulf. She’d kept her gaze fixed on him all the way from Saint Riquier, as if he was a beacon guiding her to the light, but they’d exchanged only polite pleasantries when he’d occasionally ridden the length of the column.

  Theodoric had taken to openly calling Father Innocent by his given name of Charles. The two chattered endlessly as they rode side by side, tempting her to order Beatrice to plunge a dagger into the beloved chair and rip out the stuffing to plug her ears.

  Another fortnight of this and she’d go mad, though the prospect of being rid of the two men in Rouen sustained her. This prompted an urgent prayer for God’s forgiveness. What kind of shameful woman longed to be as far away from her husband as possible?

  She avoided turning around to look at them, but when her resolve faltered, she averted her gaze quickly, alarmed at the depth of hatred in the cleric’s eyes as he stared at her. It reminded her of the myth of the Medusa. Did Charles wish she would turn to stone? Her body certainly felt like it had petrified.

  “We’ll camp in this field,” Magnus said gruffly. “Dag will be along to assist you out of the wagon. Our cooks will prepare food, but it will be another night under the stars.”

  Disappointment flooded her. She’d looked forward throughout the morning to the touch of his powerful hands at her waist. She flexed chilled fingers itching to grasp the warmth of his broad shoulders as he lifted her to the ground. Was he avoiding putting his hands on her? She tried desperately to think of something to keep him from walking away, thirsting for any sign he cared for her. Theodoric and Charles had dismounted and disappeared, yet she still felt the cleric’s evil eye on her.

  As if I’m the sinner.

  “Your pardon?” Magnus said, frowning.

  Dismay gripped her innards. One glance at Beatrice’s shocked face told her she’d mumbled the thought out loud. “Er—war—I was saying to Beatrice. War, it’s sinful. Too much destruction. Is there nothing we can do for the starving children at least?”

  His scowl softened. “My men will do what they can,” he rasped.

  Some devilment made her scramble to her feet, arms held out. “Perhaps you will help me alight, my lord, since you’re here now.”

  He looked down the line of dismounting horsemen as if searching for his brother, but then stepped forward and reached for her waist. She held her breath as the warmth of his big hands seeped through the fabric of her garments. She grasped his shoulders, relishing the solid strength. He lifted her carefully. Their eyes met. She was an autumn leaf floating to earth. But her feet touched the damp grass too soon. She swayed, hoping to be held firm against his body, but he steadied her, smiled, then turned his attention to assisting Beatrice.

  She pouted, unsure what to do next, until her maid gripped her hand. “Come, my lady. We’ll seek a place to see to our needs before we eat.”

  ~*~*~

  Magnus watched Judith and Beatrice disappear into the bushes at the edge of the field. By rights, someone should accompany them. He was stupidly relieved when Theodoric appeared and offered to see to the safety of the women. “She is my wife after all,” he quipped with unusual good humor. Spending time with his cleric seemed to improve his disposition.

  Magnus shook his head as Theodoric parted the bushes and stepped tentatively into the thicket as if the prick of a hawthorn might cast some spell on him. He knew firsthand the power of male companionship and camaraderie to lift a man’s spirits. The laughter, revelry and devilment he’d shared with his brothers and cousins had formed him. The bond of trust between him and his brothers-in-arms sustained him in the face of danger. He often referred to Bendik as his best friend, but it was h
is father with whom he had the closest bond.

  Yet he couldn’t conceive of sharing his innermost thoughts and passions with a man. A lusty male needed to mold his body to a woman’s soft curves, plunge his shaft into her warm sheathe, become one with her.

  Even the bravest warrior needed a loving woman to listen when he whispered his fears and hopes in her ear.

  As he made his way to where Dag was supervising the pitching of tents, he struggled in vain to recall the sound of Ida’s voice. What comfort had she offered when he’d shared…

  He stopped abruptly. Had he ever told Ida of his love? Had he loved her? It struck him like one of Thor’s thunderbolts that he had no true notion of Ida’s feelings for him.

  He had no doubt Judith of Flandres wanted him, and couldn’t deny his growing need for her. He’d been tempted to pull her lovely body against his when he’d lifted her down from the wagon. She drew him like a lodestone.

  He looked back at the bushes, only to be rocked by a hearty slap on the back. Furious, he turned, but his anger melted away like a spring frost when he caught sight of Bastian’s grinning visage. He grasped his brother’s outstretched hand and drew him into his embrace. “Well met, Bastian. I’m relieved to see you still in one piece. It appears the fighting here was fierce.”

  “Fierce indeed,” his sibling admitted, “but we survived. Anders and Ulrik are guarding the perimeter, with men from the Cotentin.”

  “Mother will be on her knees giving thanks to Saint Catherine when she hears the good news,” Magnus said.

  Bastian laughed. “And I wish we were accompanying you to Montdebryk. How in the name of Odin did you persuade the duke to allow you to return?”

  “You’re not joining us?”

  Bastian shook his head. “We’re commanded to remain here to garrison Montreuil.”

  “This saddens me,” Magnus admitted. “But I suppose the threat from Arnulf is still imminent.”

  Dag joined them and he and Bastian embraced. “It’s the reason we are escorting Arnulf’s sister back to Montdebryk,” he explained, thumping Bastian on the back. “She’s our hostage, of sorts.”

  Bastian quirked an enquiring glance at Magnus. “I have heard rumors of this woman.” He wiggled his arched brows, drawing a female shape in the air. “They say she is voluptuous.”

  Jealousy stole the breath from Magnus’s lungs. “Who says these things?” he demanded, struggling to control the anger in his voice.

  Bastian laughed, increasing his fury.

  Dag intervened, insinuating his body between them. “Best not say aught to our brother concerning Judith of Flandres,” he told Bastian. “He is smitten with her.”

  His impulse was to deny it, but his brothers would recognize his denial for the lie it was. He inhaled deeply. “Judith is a beautiful woman, and I’ll admit I like her, but she is wed to another and I am a man recently widowed. Now, can we get this camp set up and a meal underway?”

  Dag and Bastian exchanged a glance and a wink, then strode off, an arm around each other’s shoulder.

  Anxious to escape the sound of their laughter he turned his attention back to the ruined streets of the town and set off in search of Anders and Ulrik.

  ROUEN

  The journey from Montreuil to Rouen took the better part of a day, but for Judith it was like travelling from hell to heaven. Shortly after they left the devastation of the disputed territory, the scenery changed. Verdant fields surrounded sturdy cottages. Friendly peasants waved as they passed, exchanging greetings with the Vikings, often in a language she supposed was Norse.

  She’d heard of Rouen, prosperous since Roman times, but the grandeur of its churches, the bright faces of its well-dressed population, the bustle in its busy streets took her by surprise. “It reminds me of Bruggen,” she said to Beatrice.

  “What did you expect?” her maid replied. “Rouen is known throughout Francia as a thriving place.”

  Judith chewed her lower lip. “I suppose I thought that Vikings—”

  Beatrice snorted her usual sound of derision. “Rouen was famous before Rollo and his followers came here. I overheard your brother say they made life in the town better.”

  Beatrice’s words sent a shiver up her spine. Did Arnulf covet Rouen as well as Montreuil? The prospect of this magnificent town lying in ruins chilled her soul. The certainty that Magnus and his brothers would give their lives in defense of it lay like a lead ball in her belly.

  The Kriger men had said their farewells in the field where they’d camped. Magnus had tried hard to hide his distress at leaving three of his brothers in Montreuil, but it was plain the men cared deeply for each other. She envied them. Magnus had mentioned a sister, and she had no doubt the brothers would protect this unknown girl with their last breath. The notion left her feeling bereft and isolated.

  Would Magnus give his life for her? If they were attacked on the journey, would he do his utmost to save her, or would he abandon her to bandits, relieved to be rid of the burden? But then he wouldn’t receive a ransom. She was unaware of the sum he’d demanded for her safe return to Bruggen, knowing in her heart Arnulf wouldn’t pay it anyway. However, the lure of gold might motivate Magnus to protect her.

  The wagon jerked to a stop. She hadn’t noticed her Viking had called a halt outside a splendid two-story dwelling and was making his way towards them. He dismounted and she rose, hopeful he would lift her down.

  Instead, he frowned. “You are not alighting here, my lady,” he said. “This house is the residence of the Archbishop of Rouen. Your husband and the priest are to remain here.”

  Magnus was a kind and generous man who had shared his army’s provisions with starving children in Montreuil when there was no food to be found. He’d come close to tears at leaving his brothers behind in the nightmarish streets of the ruined town. He’d allowed her to bring her worn chair with her on this journey.

  Yet the disdain in his voice when he spat the words husband and priest was unmistakable.

  She turned to look at Theodoric. The disgruntled cleric was already at the door. Her husband dismounted, glanced at her, gave a strange little wave, and disappeared into the house with Charles.

  As long as she lived, she would never again think of her husband’s friend as Father Innocent. It was a travesty. Theodoric had uttered no reassuring words of goodbye, too much under Charles’s thumb to even peck a kiss on her cheek. “I’ll forever remember his fingers curled into a wave of farewell.”

  Beatrice pulled her back onto the cushions. “Bah! He’s a child. You’re well rid of him.”

  If only it were that easy.

  ~*~*~

  Magnus was ushered into Archbishop Gonthard’s library. He’d never been in the room, but recognized it from the tales his mother had often told.

  As a young novice at the abbey convent, she’d been given the task of restoring old manuscripts in this selfsame library, before it had come to light she was actually the niece of the former Archbishop, Franco.

  Gonthard had become Archbishop after Franco’s death nigh on twenty years before, but his mother’s skill and reputation were still acknowledged.

  It remained a mystery to Magnus why he’d been ordered to bring Theodoric and the priest here, and they evidently had not been invited to this interview.

  The Archbishop didn’t keep him waiting long. Magnus bowed to kiss the prelate’s ostentatious ring, wrinkling his nose at the faint trace of fried onions on the man’s hand.

  Gonthard patted the top of his head. “Welcome, Magnus Kriger.” He gestured to the shelves loaded with scrolls and sheaves of parchment. “Look around. Admire your mother’s handiwork.”

  Magnus said nothing about the untidiness of the library. Several piles of documents threatened to slide from their perch. “We have a growing collection of important texts at Montdebryk,” he boasted.

  When the gloating smile left the Archbishop’s face, he deemed it prudent not to mention that Bryk Kriger’s library might be small, but it
was tidier. “My mother spends most of her waking hours taking care of it now her children are grown.”

  Cathryn Kriger was probably more occupied at the moment with Aleksandra and Brynhild. While it was comforting knowing his daughters were in the loving care of their grandmother, it strengthened his resolve to hasten home. “I would indeed enjoy spending time in this place, Your Grace, but I must be on my way soon. I trust now I have delivered Father Innocent and Theodoric of Abbatis to you as ordered, I can—”

  Gonthard retrieved a document from a pile he seemed engrossed in sifting through and unfurled it, revealing an illuminated text. The vibrant red, blue and gold illustrations were breathtakingly beautiful. The cleric acknowledged Magnus’s gasp of surprise. “A rare talent. Your mother’s work has stood the test of time.”

  Magnus was indeed proud of his mother’s skill, even prouder such talent was unheard of in a woman, but the prelate’s avoidance of his request to take his leave annoyed him. “She attributes her skill to the instruction provided by her Superior,” he said with some impatience.

  At least a dozen manuscripts lay unfurled on the massive wooden table in the center of the library before Gonthard turned to him and said, “Rouen, indeed all of Christendom owes your mother a debt. Give her my regards, and to your father of course. You need no longer be concerned with Father Innocent and his protégé.”

  He swept out of the library as quickly as he had come, leaving behind a bewildered Magnus and the lingering odor of onions.

  A memory surfaced of his mother’s tales of her long dead friend, Sister Ekaterina, and the eye-watering odor of flatulence that seemed to accompany her wherever she went. He chuckled inwardly. When he passed on the Archbishop’s greeting to his mother, he’d be sure to mention the odor. He conjured an image of his mother’s laughter, judging it a good omen as he left the library to rejoin his army.

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