A Warrior's Heart

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Some of the creatures crawling around in Judith’s belly settled. Perhaps she was to witness a historic moment when peace broke out between two warring factions. She looked forward to an untroubled life with the husband she loved and cherished. She would raise his girls, and have children of her own.

  Vilhelm cleared his throat. “My Lord Comte, before we address the matter of the treaty, we should deal with your sister’s predicament.”

  Judith’s heart lurched. She didn’t need Vilhelm to speak on her behalf to her own brother. She opened her mouth, taken unawares when Arnulf declared, “She will return to Flandres with me.”

  Vilhelm shook his head. “She does not wish to go back.”

  Her brother arched his brows. “What Judith wishes is of no importance. She will return to Bruggen and I will grant safe passage to her husband to join her there.”

  Again she had no chance to answer before Vilhelm, his face reddening, retorted, “She is no longer wed to Theodoric of Abbatis.”

  They argued back and forth about annulments, deviant behavior, alliances, women and the Church. It was as if she wasn’t there. The Peace of Picquigny might never come to fruition because of the escalating argument over her future. She feared anyone on the banks of the river overhearing raised voices would come running to defend their leaders.

  “Stop,” she cried, her strident shout sending squawking birds flying from the trees. She inhaled deeply. “Arnulf, I will not return with you. I intend to marry Magnus of Montdebryk. He is the son of a Norman comte, and I love him more than life. Now I suggest you two get on with discussing what is important.”

  They looked at her as if she had lost her wits, then Arnulf smiled. “My little sister is in love?”

  Vilhelm cleared his throat and took his hand off Ulfberht’s hilt. “With a fine man, from a good family. His father is a member of my governing Council, and Magnus will inherit his place.”

  Arnulf’s eyes widened. “I may meet him one day, then.”

  She wanted to rain kisses on her brother’s face. He was going to approve. Or did he mean he would meet Magnus on the battlefield? “I came to seek your consent,” she lied.

  “Granted,” he chirped, pecking a kiss on her forehead. “Sit here on this rock while the duke and I conclude our business. A monk awaits us in a hunting lodge in the wood with the necessary documents.”

  Stunned, she smiled, the Archbishop’s words ringing in her head.

  All shall be well.

  ~*~*~

  The two leaders strode off into the forest. Soon, she no longer heard their voices. Birds twittered, water lapped at the shore, a cool breeze ruffled her hair. She turned her face to the sun and said a silent prayer of thanks.

  She looked over to the bank she had left with such trepidation a short time before. Magnus stood there, legs braced, arms folded across his chest.

  He’d swim across if he believed I was in danger.

  But it was rumored Vikings never learned to swim. Impossible. They were a seafaring people. Fearing he might drown in the fast-flowing waters if he attempted to reach her, she stood up and waved, hoping he understood she was fine, more than fine, happy, ecstatic.

  He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, but it was too far away to hear. He raised his hand in a return salute.

  She sat down on the cold rock, hoping Vilhelm would return before too much time passed. It was getting chilly. She longed to be in the warm embrace of her beloved.

  Her teeth were chattering, her fingers numb by the time Vilhelm emerged from the trees, a beribboned parchment in hand. She’d expected Arnulf would come to say goodbye, but the duke was alone.

  Vilhelm looked across the river and waved the parchment at Magnus. “He’ll have to be patient a while longer,” he said. “Your brother is waiting to be rowed back to the other side of the river, and I insisted you would want to say goodbye.”

  She rubbed her cold hands together. “Surely it would have been easier—”

  But he was already striding off, and she did want to bid Arnulf farewell, to part on good terms, to tell her brother she forgave him. She waved again and followed Vilhelm into the forest.

  ~*~*~

  Dag came up behind Magnus. “Why has she gone back into the forest?”

  He was wondering the same thing. “It concerns me, though she seemed content when she waved earlier.”

  “And Vilhelm had the agreement in hand,” Dag added.

  Apprehension prickled Magnus’s nape. “Why have they gone back into the woods?”

  “Mayhap we should locate a boat and row over,” Dag suggested.

  Magnus was conflicted. “I am concerned, but we might jeopardize the peace treaty. Vilhelm was insistent no one else go to the island.”

  “But our duke has the agreement in hand,” Dag repeated.

  Magnus raked fingers through his hair. “We’ll wait an hour, then if they haven’t returned, we’ll go.”

  ~*~*~

  Clambering over exposed trees roots, dodging wayward branches and sidestepping muddy puddles soon had Judith perspiring, despite the chilly air. Trying to keep up with Vilhelm’s giant strides left her breathless.

  She sensed something wasn’t quite right, but her worries disappeared when they came upon Arnulf waiting by the rowboat. The monk she supposed had served as his scribe sat in the boat, arms folded on his lap. The vital treaty was no doubt tucked safely in the wide sleeves of his habit.

  At the oars sat the man who had rowed them to the island.

  She sidestepped carefully down the grassy bank to stand face to face with her brother. “I wanted to say goodbye,” she said, trying to bring order to her disheveled hair. “Unfortunately, you’ll remember your sister as a wind-blown wreck.”

  He laughed, taking her into his embrace. He smelled of wood smoke, and ink. “Ah, Judith, I regret the hurt inflicted on you. What can I say? It’s a man’s world.”

  It occurred to her he was being flippant regarding the ordeal of her marriage to Theodoric and the danger she’d been placed in. And why had he readily capitulated to Vilhelm’s demands? As far as she understood he’d given up his claim to Montreuil. She stepped back, deciding to put him to the test. “My betrothed is on the other bank of the river, if you wish to meet him. You are allied with the Normans now. No harm will befall you.”

  She doubted Vilhelm heard her words, and he was likely impatient to return to his camp. Arnulf narrowed his eyes, betraying his reluctance to accompany them in any case.

  “I wish you happiness, Judith,” he said with a mock bow as he stepped into the boat. “Farewell, Vilhelm,” he shouted with a salute. “Take good care of that impressive sword.”

  The duke laughed.

  Judith climbed half way up the bank to watch her past sail away as her brother’s boat make its way to the far side of the choppy river. A brighter future lay ahead. She was ready to join Vilhelm, when Arnulf came to his feet, waving his arms and shouting. She clasped her hands to her breast, afraid the rocking boat might tip, but what was he trying to tell them?

  She turned to Vilhelm. Her heart stopped. Behind him, in the trees, stood the two Vermandois, bows drawn, arrows nocked.

  The duke moved to shield her as he reached for his sword. She screamed as blood sprayed across her gown. Vilhelm fell backwards to breathe his last at her feet, an arrow lodged in his throat, Ulfberht still in its scabbard.

  YOU HAVE MURDERED ME

  “Listen,” Magnus instructed his brother. “Do I hear screaming?”

  Dag lifted his chin and cocked an ear. “Might be, or mayhap a flock of birds.”

  “Something is amiss,” he shouted. “Find boats. Peace treaty be damned. We’re going to the island.”

  He hastened to the camp, yelling orders left and right. “Why was no forethought given to providing boats?” he asked no one in particular.

  Espying some of his own troops, he dispatched them to the nearby hamlet. “Round up locals who can tell us about the river,” he ordered. �
�If we can’t find boats, we might have to attempt a crossing on horseback.”

  He shuddered, recalling his father’s tale of crossing the Seine long ago with a string of horses. They’d come close to being swept away. Not for the first time he cursed his inability to swim.

  Men scurried here and there, seemingly without purpose, adding to his growing anxiety. At last, a shout came from further up the bank where soldiers were poking through reeds. “Here, my lord!”

  He ran, his lungs on fire, his feet mired in dread. They had retrieved an ancient boat from its hiding place. Without stopping to check if it was seaworthy, he clambered aboard and grabbed the oars. Dag jumped in after him. He beckoned the three who’d found the boat. “Get in,” he commanded.

  He rowed away from the bank as the last soldier fell into the small craft. “Find anything that floats,” he yelled to those still on the shore.

  “There’s treachery afoot,” he said to Dag, pulling heavily on the oars. “I feel it in my bones.”

  ~*~*~

  Screaming at the top of her lungs, Judith collapsed to her knees beside the slain duke. His eyes stared heavenward as if trying to comprehend what had befallen him. Blood gurgled from the ghastly wound. His dead hand gripped the hilt of his sword.

  Fear soon constricted her throat and her screams turned to sobs. She trembled, expecting to feel the bite of an arrow, but when she looked up at the assassins, they had lowered their bows and were looking out to the river.

  Arnulf was still shouting. She turned her head slowly, unwilling to set eyes on her treacherous brother. The boat had turned and he was leaning forward at the prow. “Put those weapons aside,” he yelled to the Vermandois. “What in the name of the saints have you done?”

  He leapt into the shallows and strode through the water to hunker down beside her. “Judith,” he panted, gathering her into his arms. “Are you wounded?”

  “You have assassinated the Duke of the Normans,” she rasped in an eerie voice she didn’t recognize.

  The monk loomed over the corpse, praying.

  “Nay,” Arnulf replied. “I did not order this.”

  “You thirst for Montreuil. He wouldn’t let you have it. You killed him,” she said, Thor’s hammer pounding in her head, bile rising in her throat. “I feel sick.”

  He hauled her to her feet. “Get in the boat. We must flee.”

  She was trapped in a maze. With no way out. “Flee?” she parroted. “I am not responsible for this,” she choked out, wishing she hadn’t looked again at Vilhelm’s startled gaze. “Please close his eyes, Brother,” she begged.

  “The Normans will not believe I didn’t order his death,” Arnulf growled, dragging her to the boat. “They will accuse you of abetting this crime. You are covered in his blood.”

  “Magnus will never believe such a thing of me,” she screamed. But faces full of hate and false accusations loomed in her mind’s eye. She would be condemned because she was Arnulf’s sister. Her beloved might not be able to save her. “You have murdered me,” she murmured.

  He shoved her into the boat. “Hold her,” he yelled at the oarsman, before turning to climb back to where Vilhelm lay. He looked at the body for a moment, then unbuckled the scabbard.

  “What are you doing?” she screeched, watching him pry Vilhelm’s hand from the sword’s hilt.

  “I intend to leave these two idiots here to answer to the Normans, but I will not abandon this priceless sword.”

  He pulled the scabbard to his chest.

  The assassins hurried from the trees. “Surely, my lord, you will not leave us to face the Norman army alone. Every powerful Frankish noble wanted this man dead. He’s an upstart who meddled in the affairs of Francia. Our lord Herbert has often repeated it.”

  Arnulf drew the famous sword, tossing the scabbard into the boat. “My father-by-marriage and I may have wanted him dead, but not like this. Come any closer and I will lop off a limb or two. Throw your weapons into the river.”

  “But my lord—”

  “Do it,” he shouted, climbing unsteadily back into the boat, the hilt of the sword gripped in both hands.

  Arnulf’s man rowed them away into Hell as she gaped at the assassins tossing their bows into the Somme.

  ~*~*~

  Dag and the other Normans leapt from the boat and shoved it into the bank. Magnus threw down the oars and joined them on shore, pointing to the pathway. “This is where we last saw Judith and the duke,” he explained.

  Dag touched his arm. “They’ve located more boats. We’ll soon have a number of men here.”

  Magnus started up the path, sword in one hand, dagger in the other. “That’s good but we cannot wait.”

  Inside the trees, he halted, crouching down. “I smell wood smoke,” he whispered.

  He was a decisive man, a trait inherited from his father, and it rankled that hesitation plagued him. His next actions might endanger a fragile peace, or save his beloved’s life. Better the duke become aware they’d crossed the river instead of rushing headlong into the forest. Vilhelm and Arnulf might be having a productive discussion around a campfire. He stood and shouted, “My Lord Duke. Your loyal subjects have come to escort you.”

  The wind rustling the autumn leaves whispered an echo, but no reply came save the lapping of water against the shore and the distant shouts of the other Normans crossing the river.

  They crept forward until Magnus sensed movement ahead. He called a halt as a portly monk appeared from the trees, waving his arms.

  “My lords,” the man panted, collapsing into Dag who wrinkled his nose as he struggled to hold him up. “My lords.”

  The monk’s pattern of speech led Magnus to believe he was from Ponthieu. “Who are you? What’s going on here?”

  To his consternation, the malodorous cleric fell at his feet, his forehead on Magnus’s boots. “Forgive me. I did not know. Murder most foul. I did not know. I’m a humble monk from Abbatis, summoned as a scrivener.”

  Magnus’s blood turned to ice. “Murder?” he growled, looking down at the soiled and tattered robes of the man groveling at his feet. Surely Arnulf hadn’t killed his own sister, his flesh and blood?

  Fearing he might retch if he touched the monk, he signaled two of the men to get him to his feet. “Now,” he said, trying to breathe normally, “explain to me what has gone on here? Where is Judith of Valognes?”

  Fidgeting with the frayed tassels of his belt, the cleric’s eyes flitted from the sword to the dagger. “Er—she is gone.”

  “Gone where?”

  “With the Comte of Flandres.”

  His heart sank. Judith had left him. Had this been her plan? The monk refused to look him in the eye. What was he not being told?

  “And Duke Vilhelm allowed her to go?”

  The monk crossed himself, looking ready to burst into tears. “He had no say in the matter.”

  A shiver of apprehension soared up Magnus’s spine. He leaned forward to stand nose to nose with the sweating cleric. A faint odor of wood smoke lingered on the man’s robe. “No say?”

  The monk prostrated himself again. “I had nothing to do with it, I swear. I was in the boat. The foreigners—”

  Magnus sheathed his sword and dagger, begging the gods for patience. “Tell me now what has happened to our duke.”

  The monk took a deep breath. “He is dead, my lord. On the opposite side of the island.”

  Vilhelm dead?

  Magnus felt like his head had been plunged into icy cold water. He looked at Dag whose face betrayed the same horror coursing through his veins. His first urge was to chop off this liar’s head, but he knew in his heart the terrified man was telling the truth.

  It was as if time stood still in that pleasant glade. Their chieftain had been slain. His bastard heir was yet a child. The future of Normandie suddenly looked bleak. And Judith had betrayed him.

  “Take me to him,” he rasped.

  The monk scrambled to his feet. “Beware, my lord. The assassins ar
e still on the island.”

  “Arnulf?” he asked through gritted teeth.

  “Oh no,” the monk replied. “Arnulf did not kill the duke. I think the assassins were men from Vermandois.”

  Arnulf might not have done the deed, but Magnus had no doubt the Comte of Flandres had planned this assassination meticulously. And Judith had helped him. What a fool he’d been to trust her. Now his duke lay dead as a consequence.

  “How are they armed?” he asked as they proceeded into the wood.

  “Both had bows,” the cleric replied. “But Arnulf ordered the weapons be thrown into the river.”

  The Flemish comte had left his assassins to the mercy of the Normans, but there would be no mercy.

  FLIGHT

  Judith had only a vague memory of the Flemish army’s flight from Picquigny. She had never ridden so hard for so long in her life. She clung to her steed’s mane, fearful of falling to the hard ground at every turn in the rutted road. Her teeth ached from clenching her jaw, and she’d bitten her tongue more than once. She was sure there was no skin left on her raw bottom. The closer they came to the towns and villages of Flandres, the tighter the knot squeezing her heart became.

  Adela would not be pleased.

  Beatrice! Tears welled at the prospect of never seeing her beloved maid again.

  And Magnus.

  Life without him loomed like an abyss of nothingness. He might not believe she’d had nothing to do with the Duke’s murder, but she had to try to return to him.

  His family was her family. She loved his girls, loved him. Montdebryk was where she belonged.

  Arnulf had apparently given up trying to convince her he hadn’t planned the assassination. She’d flatly refused to believe him, eventually ignoring his protestations completely. Her mind whirled with a thousand ways to escape.

  They had followed the Somme and were approaching Abbatis. If she convinced Arnulf to stop for the night at Theodoric’s house she might have a chance. It wouldn’t be easy. She didn’t want her brother’s blood on her hands and wouldn’t try to interfere with his flight to Bruggen, but she was compelled to retrieve the sword with the unpronounceable name, given to Vilhelm by his father. He had adopted the name Longsword in its honor. It belonged to Magnus’s people. To them it was more than a sword.