The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  THE VALIANT HEART

  by

  Anita Gordon

  writing as

  Kathleen Kirkwood

  Winner 1989 RWA Golden Heart Award

  “Anita Gordon joins the ranks of the finest medieval novelists.”

  ─ Romantic Times

  Table of Contents

  THE VALIANT HEART

  Dedication

  Author’s Notes

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Author Biography

  Also Available

  Coming in Late 2013

  © Copyright 1991, 2013 Anita Gordon

  Revised Edition, 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the author, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review.

  License Notes:

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents, other than those in attributed quotations or references, are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All characters are fictional and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Cover art: edhGraphics

  Cover image of models Jimmy Thomas & Annika Pampel licensed from Romance Novel Covers at www.RomanceNovelCovers.com

  ISBN-13: 978-1624540066

  Dedication

  For my husband Mark.

  Your unwavering support and unbounded

  patience enabled me to reach for the stars

  and fulfill my dreams.

  “Through The Years,” I’m still loving you.

  Author’s Notes

  The language of the ninth century Norsemen is preserved and spoken today in Iceland. “Old Norse” (Íslensk) has changed so little through the millennium that school children can read the Eddas and sagas in their original form. Though Íslensk was handed down from mainly Norwegian colonizers, at the time of the settlements Scandinavians spoke easily among themselves, their dialects being a variation of an original tongue. For these reasons and with few exceptions, I have used Icelandic (Íslensk) throughout the book, feeling it to be a more authentic usage for my Danish-born Norsemen than modern Danish. The term viking, a relatively recent word, is avoided altogether. My special thanks go to Mr. Jón Sigurdsson who assisted me in translating the various dialogues.

  Note on pronunciation: the character “ð” is pronounced like the th-sound in “the”; “þ” is pronounced like the th-sound in “thin”; and “æ” is pronounced “i” as in “like.”

  Normandy and its “dukes”: In 911 A.D. the Frankish king granted the Norse chieftain, Rollo, lands and titles on condition he and his men receive Christian baptism and protect the kingdom from their marauding kinsmen. Rollo honored this agreement but continued to enlarge his new domain at the expense of his neighbors, claiming their lands along with their varied titles — ‘count’ and ‘marquis’ named among them. Although the first Norman rulers did not yet bear the title of “duke,” nor was Normandy yet deemed a “duchy,” historians have found it more practical and less confusing to refer to them as such, recognizing Rollo as the first Duke of Normandy. I have followed that convention in this book.

  Danish or Norwegian? – Rollo’s origins are lost in the mists of time, still they continue to give rise to lively debate even today. Was he Danish or Norwegian? Rollo’s grandson, Richard I (Normandy’s third duke), summoned Dudo, dean of the collegiate church of Saint-Quentin, to his court shortly after 987 and tasked him with writing the history of Normandy. Dudo’s writings, though not without criticism, are the earliest accounts that survive of the first Norman dukes. “Rollo,” he tells us, was the Latinized version of “Hrolf” (sometimes written as “Rolf”), given at the time of Rollo’s baptism. Dudo identifies him as being of the Dani (Danes). On the other hand, Icelandic sagas written several centuries later, claim Hrolf to be the son of a Norwegian jarl who fled his homeland for Scotland in the early 900s and later made his way to Francia via Iceland and England. The Norman Rollo/Hrolf is glimpsed in one historical record during his failed attack on Chartres in 911. He commanded a large force, mainly of Danes with some Anglo-Saxon mercenaries. After sifting through numerous arguments on the matter of Rollo’s origins, I have decided to follow Dudo, giving Rollo a Danish origin — the same as his men. This may disappoint supporters for a Norwegian “Hrolf,” but short of new revelations, we simply don’t know. For further discussion on this, see THE NORMANS, by François Neveux (translated by Howard Curtis).

  Prologue

  Valsemé, France, 912 A.D.

  The tall blond Norseman did not move as the Frankish emissaries quit the hall. Not until the great oaken door groaned shut behind them. Then, in two long strides, he mounted the dais and slammed his hands down full force on the table in front of him. His steel-blue eyes locked with a second pair that perfectly matched his own.

  “Surely you do not intend to accept their offer.”

  “Calm yourself, Rurik.” The older man settled back in the carved chair and emptied his drinking horn. “There are advantages to be gained with such a match.”

  “I tell you it reeks fair full of devilry.”

  Gruel Atli wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then squinted up from beneath a sagging lid. “Does it trouble you that I would take a wife so soon after your mother’s death?”

  “Nei.” Rurik released a long breath as he straightened to his full height. “But the king was quick enough to unearth this heiress and foist her upon you. She is probably a dragon of a woman, ancient and diseased. Why else would they shut her away for nearly a decade?”

  Atli threw back his head and roared with laughter. “ ‘Tis a Christian holy house, Rurik. Beaumanoir’s daughter dwells in cloister at the Abbey of Levroux.” He wiped tears of mirth from his eyes. “Ah, my son, you have been too long at sea.”

  Rurik grunted and crossed his arms over his chest. “Mayhap. But I know much of dealings, fair and foul. The king’s terms are as transparent as they are unpalatable. What is to be gained by wedding Valsemé’s displaced heiress? The barony is yours now.”

  Atli rose at that and beckoned Rurik to the narrow window of the keep.

  ‘Tis a year past that I stood with Rollo at the river St.-Clair-sur-Epte when King Charles bestowed on him this fiefdom.” He cast an eye upon his son. “Of course, we already controlled these lands through conquest, but Charles is shrewd. In exchange for our fealty, he granted us a homeland, buying himself a watchdog in the bargain to guard against those who would ravage his kingdom.” Atli cracked a smile “Especially o
ur own kind.

  “Behold. Valsemé.” He gestured toward the gently rolling contours of his domain. “Her good rich soil lies beneath our hands like a ready woman, waiting for man to plow her tender loins and plant his seed deep within.” He brought his fist down against the stone sash. “But we be too few to do the deed. Charles drains me for his endless campaigns while time grows short. The land must be cultivated, and soon, if our storehouses are to stand full next winter. Most of the villeins fled at our coming, and I sorely need them back.” He vented his frustration against the ledge once more, then pushed himself away and crossed to the dais.

  “Do you know what these Franks call us? Normanni. Spring we of Danmark, Norge, Sverige, Zealand . . . it matters not. To them we are one and the same — Northmen — and they tremble before us. While that is to our advantage upon the battlefield, here ‘tis an accursed burden.”

  Snatching up a cup and flagon of wine, he filled the vessel to its rim. “This heiress may prove the key,” Atli rumbled, then tossed the contents down his throat. “Valsemé’s villeins were fiercely loyal to Richard Beaumanoir while he lived. His daughter is perfect bait to lure them home.”

  Rurik frowned. “Still, why would she agree to such a union? Surely ‘tis bitter gall that her titles and holdings are forfeit. Perchance she desires only to slip a bit of cold steel between your ribs as she warms your bed.”

  Atli shrugged broadly, unconcerned. “Evidently, the woman is eager to recover her lands and position.”

  “Too eager and for her own gain, I’ll wager.” Rurik cocked a brow. “ ‘Twould take little time to journey by ship to Levroux and observe this bride firsthand. I could be back in a trice.”

  Atli held Rurik’s gaze for several moments before he yielded. “Very well, but send your broðir in your stead. I have another task in mind for you.” Refilling the cup, he offered it to his son. “And do not worry overlong on these terms the king has set. The Franks are not so clever as they think.”

  Atli barked laughter at some unspoken thought and pressed the flagon to his lips.

  Chapter 1

  Levroux, France

  ‘Tis a weed,” Brienne protested as she considered the spindly plant dangling from her friend’s hand.

  “Nay, mugwort,” Aleth insisted good-naturedly, “and a prize for Sister Ursuline’s collection. ‘Tis a powerful medicant, you know.”

  Brienne sighed and smiled indulgently. “Are all the good sister’s lessons for naught? Mugwort does not grow here in the forest, dear Aleth. ‘Tis but a weed.”

  “We shall see. Sister will know the truth of it.”

  “Aye, she will. And if you’re ever to be a healer, you must learn to identify these herbs properly.”

  Aleth laughed. “I have. ‘Tis mugwort!” she proclaimed with finality and deposited the wilting greens in the basket.

  Brienne rolled her eyes heavenward. “May the Good Lord in all His mercy grant that I never need tending by your hands” — she flashed a mischievous smile — “or your precious weeds!”

  A small shriek escaped Aleth as she caught up a handful of tender shoots and tossed them into Brienne’s midnight hair. The two girls dissolved into a fit of laughter, tears filling their eyes as they collapsed breathless upon the forest floor.

  Brienne clutched the stitch in her side and blinked the moisture from her lashes. Laughter was sweet salve to the soul and a blessed release, for when its merriment overtook her as now, all thought and shadow fled. Then, for a sliver of time, she could forget . . .

  “Enough,” she pleaded as she struggled to her feet and shook out her long tresses. “We’ve been overlong at this. I know of a little clearing ahead. Are you hungry yet?”

  Aleth nodded heartily and stretched forth her hands.

  Carefully, Brienne braced herself and pulled the small form upward, allowing Aleth to favor the thin rail of her right leg. A stab of pity passed through her and she quickly dropped her gaze to shield the look from Aleth.

  Life was often unfair. There were many reasons for families to send their daughters to nunneries aside from love — or fear — of God, as well she knew. Aleth was a gentle maiden with pleasant features, honey-brown hair, and a sprinkling of freckles across a small, abbreviated nose. No doubt it was her infirmity that brought her to the doors of Levroux’s abbey. A husband would be difficult to find for a disabled girl, and spinsters were a burden not to be had. Convents were a useful answer to so many problems.

  Brienne pushed away her thoughts and caught up her basket. Offering an arm to Aleth, she guided them along a crooked path near to the forest’s edge, then veered left to follow a faint trail. In short time the woodland opened onto a small sunlit glade, carpeted in the vibrant green of spring and bejeweled with violets and primroses.

  Aleth’s face brightened like that of a small child presented with a splendid gift. At times, Brienne wondered if the girl had ventured much beyond her solar before leaving her family’s estate. Life was ever fresh and fascinating to Aleth, as though she were seeing it for the first time.

  Brienne unfastened her mantle and spread it over the soft new grass. After settling Aleth down, she joined her on the makeshift blanket and set the basket between them. Dipping under herbs, bandages, and little pots of curatives, she produced a small bundle wrapped in linen.

  “Bless you, Sister Clothilde,” she murmured, setting out a prize wedge of tangy cheese, crusty bread, and dried apples from last autumn’s bounty. A small skin of wine completed the repast. They bowed reverently over the little feast, gave humble thanks, then eagerly attacked the fare.

  Brienne sampled the wine and stretched out to study the lacy canopy of leaves unfurling above her. It had been a pleasant day that began with prayer and chores at the abbey. Then they accompanied several of the sisters to tend the sick of the village. Brienne visited a favorite little patient who nursed a broken leg and cheered him with the gift of a nice fat frog that she had captured along the way. Happily, she and Aleth had been allowed to part from the others to seek herbs in the fringes of the forest — a rare freedom, given upon promises to not venture too far. Sister Ursuline would be so pleased with their findings.

  Brienne rose from her grassy bed and moved about the glade, gathering delicate flowers on long, tender stems.

  Aleth could only admire Brienne’s effortless beauty. Her glossy black hair spilled down over her shoulders, framing a nearly perfect oval face except for its slightly pointed chin. Her startling violet eyes were set under long dark lashes, and her slim nose tilted pertly.

  Aleth thought it odd that Brienne’s father had not sought a wealthy match for her rather than cloistering her away. Brienne seldom spoke of it — rarely so after the deaths of her parents and only brother. Aleth had known Brienne for nigh on to eight years. Still, much about her closest friend remained in shadow.

  Brienne settled down again near Aleth and shared out the fragrant blossoms to weave into chains. For a moment Aleth fumbled with a few stems, then, against better judgment, decided to broach the subject that plagued her.

  “How is it you came to the Abbey of Levroux?”

  Surprise touched Brienne’s violet eyes, then died. She glanced away and focused upon the fluttering dance of a small white butterfly.

  “I mean, ‘tis not common for a family to cloister their eldest daughter,” Aleth added quickly, then broke into a wide grin. “Tell me, did you do something terrible? Did you refuse to marry some rich, hideous toad your father desired for you?”

  “Oh, nay, Aleth! Nothing like that,” Brienne drew her knees up, under her chin, and considered a billowing cloud. “Though I’ve often thought, had my sister been sent in my stead, I would now be the wife of Robert Coustance, the Seigneur d’Esternay.” She grimaced. “He is a brutal man, though Lisette loves him well.”

  “Then why?” Aleth pressed.

  Brienne stared pensively into a thicket of trees, her brows gathering with memory. “I was the pure and holy offering,” she said enigmatically,
then fell silent.

  The comment took Aleth aback but curiosity drove her on. “I don’t understand.”

  Brienne broke away her gaze from the woodland and tossed Aleth a small, thoughtful smile. “ ‘Tis all right, Aleth. God is good. Life is far better here, away from men and their lust for battle and blood.”

  “You do not like men?” Aleth blinked.

  A glint of pain touched Brienne’s eyes, then was gone. “It matters not,” she sighed softly. “ ‘Tis my intent to take the veil.”

  Aleth dropped the flowers she had been carelessly weaving into a circlet. “But you cannot! Not now,” she blurted, daring to say what Brienne would not admit. “You have rightful claim to the barony of Valsemé. And what of your mother’s lands at Chaudrey? You are an heiress, Brienne, and ward of the king. Surely he will call you forth from Levroux and arrange a good marriage.”

  “Dear, sweet Aleth.” Brienne shook her head sadly. “You do not know the way of it. I am heiress to a Norseman’s acre. Valsemé is no more, and Chaudrey is entailed to Lord Robert. ‘Twas part of my sister’s dower.”

  Brienne turned away as tears blurred her vision. Valsemé. Her heart cried out through a mist of time and pain. But that was a world ago, shattered by the ravaging Northmen.

  Out of their icy lairs they came, sweeping boldly up the rivers in their drakken, the dreaded dragon boats. As if from nowhere they appeared, plundering and killing for booty, raping for pleasure, kidnapping those they would sell as slaves, then vanishing back from whence they came. They were vaporous devils at best, and the barons were hard pressed to deal with them.