A Warrior's Heart

by Laurel O'Donnell

  The idea of trying to rescue the weapon filled her with misgivings. Arnulf needed two hands to lift it. How to get it safely back to Normandie was beyond her paralyzed wits.

  It was a small satisfaction that her brother hadn’t buckled the huge sword on his own hips. He’d probably trip over it if he did, she mused. It was strapped to his back and his rounded shoulders betrayed the strain of the extra weight.

  They skirted Abbatis, which convinced her the village must still be in Norman hands. She recognized the lane leading to her house. “I cannot go further,” she called to Arnulf riding ahead of her. “We must stop at Theodoric’s house.”

  “There is still daylight left,” he replied. “I plan to stop at Saint-Riquier. There is room in the abbey to billet my officers.”

  He must have secured the town en route to Picquigny. She glanced at the rising moon. “I prefer to sleep in a house. You and I will be more comfortable there.”

  But he was adamant. “On to Saint Riquier.”

  Judith had no love in her heart for Theodoric’s house. She might have been buried alive there. Yet, as they passed, she was filled with an inexplicable wistful fondness. She could have lived there with Magnus and been happy. Happiness lay wherever he was.

  She closed her eyes to conjure an image of him. He must be aware by now of the duke’s death and believed she had betrayed him. She imagined fury contorting his handsome face into a mask of loathing. He would seek revenge for his people. She would prefer death to Magnus’s hatred.

  Darkness was descending as they rode past a ring of weary looking Flemish soldiers guarding Saint Riquier, but it didn’t conceal the pile of Norman corpses shoved to the side of the road. She covered her nose with her sleeve, praying fervently none of Magnus’s kin lay among the dead.

  Arnulf must have needed to protect his flank if he’d taken Saint Riquier. Had he expected to be fleeing in haste from Picquigny? Or was it a precaution?

  They rode on to the abbey. To her surprise, Father Septimus stood at the door, protecting villagers who clustered around him fearfully when they caught sight of the Flemish soldiers.

  “Looks like they are going into evening Mass,” Arnulf said. He waved to the old priest. “They need have no fear. My men will not harm them.”

  A glimmer of hope sparked in her breast. She lacked the physical strength to overwhelm her brother and take the sword. If by some miracle she escaped, Arnulf would pursue her. But if she persuaded him to let her go—

  “It’s a sign from God,” she told him. “We must say our Penance and receive the Eucharist. Only then will our souls be cleansed.”

  Protesting he had nothing to confess, he turned in the saddle to look down the road to Abbatis. His second in command followed his gaze.

  They sense the Normans can’t be far behind.

  Her heart filled with conflicting emotions. She didn’t want Arnulf to be caught. What if he hadn’t plotted the Duke’s death? Had the Vermandois acted alone, on Herbert’s orders? Or had the assassins assumed their leader wanted Vilhelm dead?

  But someone had to atone for the crime.

  To her surprise, Arnulf dismounted. “Send the men on,” he commanded his lieutenant. “I’ve changed my mind. We won’t billet here. Our army will remain in harm’s way until we reach Flandres. I will catch up after Mass.”

  It seemed his Second might object to a forced march in darkness, but he apparently thought better of it, saluted and rode off.

  Arnulf handed the reins to a peasant and reached up to help her dismount. Her knees buckled when her feet touched the ground forcing her to lean heavily on him. She’d never smelled fear on him before.

  “You’re innocent of the crime,” she whispered, the truth of it calming her troubled heart.

  Some of the stiffness went out of his spine. The enormous sword shifted. “You must believe me, Judith,” he replied, hitching the strap of the scabbard back onto his shoulder. “I did not plot Vilhelm’s death. I may have in the past, but why now?” He patted the place where she suspected the signed parchment lay beneath his gambeson. “Peace was in our grasp.”

  She held his hand as they entered the abbey. They hesitated at the back of the church. Judith looked to the altar, and knew what had to be done. The memory of kneeling beside Magnus in this holy place to receive the Eucharist strengthened her resolve. “You must let me go,” she whispered, tightening her grip on his hand. “There is no life for me in Bruggen. Magnus of Montdebryk is my destiny.”

  He studied his feet, shaking his head.

  “For the sake of the love you bore our father,” she whispered.

  He swallowed hard. “They may kill you,” he murmured.

  “I would prefer death to returning with you.”

  He remained silent for long minutes, then looked into her eyes. The love in his gaze reassured her. “Go with God, Judith. Take your horse and return to your beloved. Tell him I didn’t plot this murder. Think of me from time to time.”

  Her heart leapt, but there was one more mountain to climb. She held out her hands, thinking how proud Charlemagne would be of his descendant. “Vilhelm’s sword will never be anything but a burden to you. Surrender it to me, brother.”

  TEETERING ON A PRECIPICE

  Magnus stared in disbelief at his dead chieftain, thankful someone had at least closed his eyes. The men gathered around him removed their helmets and went down on one knee. The enemy camp had vanished from the opposite bank. It seemed eerily quiet, except for the chanted prayers of the trembling monk.

  “They have taken his sword,” was all that emerged from his dry throat, the desire for revenge burning in his belly. He hadn’t always agreed with Vilhelm’s decisions, and in truth held no great love for the man, but his death had to be avenged. Arnulf would pay. As would his sister. The pain of her betrayal lay like a lead weight on his heart.

  As more Normans arrived on the bank, they too bent the knee, making the sign of the cross. Some wept openly, grieving not only for their slain leader, but also for their country. The future of Normandie teetered on the edge of a precipice. Without a strong leader, they were doomed to be overrun by powerful Frankish nobles who despised them. He thought of Montdebryk and what his father and mother had achieved in the valley of the Orne. The prospect of its destruction broke his heart.

  Loath to bear the obscenity of the protruding arrow any longer, he curled his hand around the shaft. “Forgive me, my chieftain,” he whispered, then pulled it quickly from Vilhelm’s throat, swearing a silent oath to do everything in his power to defend his homeland.

  The edge of a ribbon peeking out of the bloodied chain mail caught his attention. He reached in and slowly drew out a parchment. Resisting the urge to throw the useless document into the river, he tucked it into his own gambeson.

  One latecomer elbowed his way through the crowd and came to stand beside the body. Magnus recognized Raoul Yngre. “I begged him not to come alone,” the soldier rasped. “Who has done this foul deed? I must avenge my lord.”

  Magnus pointed the bloody arrow at two naked shivering wretches dangling by their bound wrists from the sturdy limb of a nearby tree. “The monk identified them as the assassins. They were foolishly trying to swim to the far bank and would have drowned had my men not hauled them out.”

  Raoul drew his dagger. “They are mine,” he said between gritted teeth.

  Magnus stayed his hand. “We must find out who sent them,” he said. “Then they are yours. Firstly, I want my Duke’s body carried back to our camp. Dag, I charge you with the responsibility.”

  “My honor,” his brother croaked.

  The wind stilled and not a single bird chirped as Vilhelm, Second Duke of the Normans was lifted onto the broad shoulders of ten Norsemen and borne away.

  Magnus approached the captives, Raoul close behind him, the dagger still gripped in his hand. “Did Arnulf of Flandres order this murder?” he hissed.

  One of the men spat, narrowly missing Magnus’s boot.

 
Raoul edged forward.

  “My friend here thirsts for vengeance,” Magnus said. “Who are you?”

  The man who had spat glared. “You will kill us anyway.”

  Magnus noted his manner of speech was different from Judith’s. “You are not Flemish.”

  “We are from Vermandois,” the second man said angrily. “It was not my arrow that felled your duke.”

  “Nevertheless, you are this wretch’s confederate, and you are loyal to Arnulf of Flandres.”

  “Nay,” the assassin shouted. “We are loyal to Adela, daughter of Herbert of Vermandois.”

  Judith had told him of her cold-hearted sister-by-marriage. For the first time, hope glimmered that she hadn’t been involved in this obscene plot. “We heard a scream,” was the closest he dare come to wresting the truth from these untrustworthy men.

  The man spat again. “Women are squeamish.”

  This wasn’t the answer he sought, but at least it confirmed Judith had witnessed the murder and hadn’t expected it. Or perhaps she hadn’t been aware of the whole plan and been taken unawares. He might go mad torturing himself with question after damning question. “Tell me now who ordered this atrocity. If you are truthful, I will let him kill you quickly. If not—”

  Neither accused spoke. Magnus nodded to Raoul and turned to walk away. Grim-faced, Raoul touched a fingertip to the point of his dagger.

  “Wait,” the second man shouted. “Arnulf and his sister had naught to do with the plot. Our lord, Herbert of Vermandois, wanted the duke dead.”

  This made more sense than Arnulf’s involvement. However, he must have known. “Who took the sword?”

  “Arnulf.”

  Guilty.

  Why flee if he was innocent?”

  “He feared you would blame him, and his sister.”

  He inhaled deeply. “Did she go willingly?”

  “No.”

  Guilt surged up his throat, compounding his anger. He’d had little faith in Judith, immediately suspecting her of treachery. Now, she was probably in Flandres, forever beyond his reach.

  It was imperative he return Vilhelm’s body to Rouen and inform the Council of the dire events. If powerful enemies in Francia suspected weakness, they would attack. Pursuing Judith wasn’t an option. He turned to Raoul. “The monk will hear their confession first.”

  He walked away, his heart leaden, his future and that of his countrymen in jeopardy. If only Odin would provide some omen, some sign of hope.

  “They will stop in Saint Riquier,” the assassin’s accomplice shouted.

  He turned back to face the condemned men. He should have felt nothing but disgust for the wretch who was apparently willing to betray Arnulf, but if there was a chance—was this the sign he sought? He decided he didn’t care what the man’s reasons were. “Saint Riquier is in our hands.”

  The assassin cackled hoarsely. “No longer.”

  Nodding to the monk, Magnus turned and left, knowing he owed it to Judith to try to rescue her. He would dispatch the army to Rouen, but he would ride to Saint Riquier.

  ~*~*~

  Arnulf ushered Judith out of the abbey into the overgrown cloister. Did she dare hope? He lifted the scabbard over his head and drew the sword. The air whooshed as he swung it back and forth in an arc. “At least I held a real Ulfberht in my hands for a short while,” he quipped. “Many have imitated this magnificent weapon, but this one is real.”

  “How can you tell?” she asked.

  He lay the blade across his forearm. “It’s too dark to see, but if you trace your fingers over the inlaid lettering you will feel a cross.”

  She obeyed, recalling she had noticed the cross before. “I feel it, between the H and the T.”

  “It’s the guarantee of authenticity,” he said, sheathing the weapon. “Bend your head.”

  She did as he bade and he looped the strap over her head. “Brace yourself. It’s heavy.”

  She put her hands on her hips and straightened her shoulders, but still staggered under the weight of the sword slung across her back. “I’m not sure if I can walk, never mind mount a horse,” she quipped.

  “Take a deep breath,” he said. “Careful it doesn’t get entangled in your skirts.”

  He led her by the back path to the front of the abbey where he helped her climb onto a low wall and then shoved her onto the horse. She feared she might slide off the other side.

  “Abbatis is that way,” he teased as she tried frantically to get the horse under her control. “Your Magnus must be a fine man.”

  Finally, out of breath and bent low under the sword’s weight, she urged the steed forward. “He is. Farewell, brother. Give my love to Adela.”

  Arnulf’s laughter sparked a glimmer of hope as she rode into the darkness.

  NIGHT RIDERS

  Reassured Abbatis was still in Norman hands, Magnus embarked on the path to Saint Riquier. Heavy clouds obscured the pale moon. He chafed at the slow going, but haste might cripple his horse or lead him headlong into enemy troops.

  He rehearsed over and over what he would say to Judith if he found her, no easy prospect if Arnulf had her well guarded. He decided to leave his horse at Theodoric’s house and walk to Saint Riquier. The darkness would allow him to approach with greater stealth on foot.

  He tethered his mount behind the house, wondering if he would ever see it again. He was about to set off when he heard the slow, muffled hooves of another horse, coming from Saint Riquier.

  He peered down the lane, eventually making out the vague shape of a rider who seemed to be slumped forward on his horse. Judging by the slow pace, it was mayhap a drunken peasant on his way home. But few peasants owned a horse.

  He crouched by the wall as the rider came closer. He was carrying something on his back. It looked like—

  The moon appeared briefly from behind the clouds, illuminating the rider for only a second. But there was no mistaking the disheveled chestnut curls. “By Thor,” he cried, leaping from his hiding place in time to catch Judith as she slid from the horse.

  The unexpected weight almost felled him and he realized it was Vilhelm’s sword she carried on her back.

  She fought him at first, protesting in her language. He didn’t understand a word of it, except that in her exhaustion she seemed determined to be free of the rogue who had accosted her.

  He sank to his knees in the dust, cradling her to his chest. “Judith,” he rasped, desperately trying to free the strap of the scabbard. “My jewel.”

  She stilled. “Magnus?”

  He brushed a kiss on her lips. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

  A sob wrenched from her throat. “Oh, Magnus, they have murdered the duke,” she wailed. “But I saved his sword. I had to get it back for you.”

  How had she managed to escape with the weapon? His heart filled with admiration and gratitude. “Not for me, little one, for Normandie,” he soothed.

  He helped her remove the scabbard and slung it over his own shoulder, then lifted her into his arms. She was in dire need of rest. “We’ll shelter in the house,” he declared.

  She raised her head, seemingly only now noticing the darkened dwelling. “My house,” she murmured. “How will we get in? Theodoric probably isn’t home.”

  She yawned, nestling into him. He suspected she’d fallen asleep and was relieved when the narrow door opened without his having to kick it in.

  He paused while his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, then located the bed and laid her on it. The sheets smelled slightly musty, but he had to assume they were clean. Staring at the courageous woman he loved, he swore an oath to protect her with his life and to never again doubt her loyalty.

  He stretched out next to her, chuckling when she took his hand and put it on her bottom. “Too much time on a horse,” she murmured.

  He curved his body to her back. She nestled against him. Her nearness aroused him, but he was content to hold her, resolved to seal their union at the first possible opportunity. No ma
tter the challenges ahead, they would face them together.

  THE BOY DUKE

  Magnus and Judith stood side by side near the altar of the cavernous Cathedral. He glanced to the rear. “Looks like the entire populace of Rouen has come for the funeral.”

  “They loved him,” she whispered in reply.

  He shrugged. “Vilhelm was a direct descendant of Rollo. No future Duke of the Normans can ever lay claim to having been born in Norway. Vilhelm represented our roots. Normandie is now in Richard’s hands.”

  Bryk and Cathryn stood in the row in front of them, flanked by the rest of their sons and Katarina. Bryk turned. “Richard is ten years old,” he whispered. “King Louis of Francia may have stepped into the breach and declared his support for the boy, but we must be wary of his motives.”

  They had endured a wearying fortnight of Council meetings. The catastrophe had taken a visible toll on his father. For the first time he pondered the enormous responsibilities he would inherit, doubly burdensome now the Normans were without a strong leader. Bryk Kriger had been named head of the Council, which would require he spend more time in Rouen.

  Magnus thanked Freyja, the goddess of fertility, for providing him with capable brothers. The council was unanimous in its belief King Louis would parcel out Norman lands to his supporters. The Krigers would fight to the death to prevent such a fate befalling Montdebryk.

  A hush fell over the assembly as King Louis appeared near the altar. Beside him stood a boy, resplendent in red ducal robes. Judith gasped. “Richard looks like his father,” she whispered.