The Seine and Loire soon became favored among their watery highways, and it was at the mouths of those mighty rivers that the Norsemen wintered and entrenched themselves. No longer did they lust for booty and flesh alone, but now for the land itself. They rooted themselves in Frankish soil and the death bell knelled for Valsemé.
Brienne shut her eyes against the keen edge of memory. The barony lay along the river Toques, which flowed to the great Channel, La Manche, nearby, as did the Seine. So close, so close to the pirates’ den.
Coming back to the moment, Brienne found herself gazing into Aleth’s small, distressed face.
“He tried so hard, but to no avail,” she explained achingly, as though she had been sharing her thoughts all the while. “Valsemé lay too close to the Norsemen’s lair.”
“Who tried?” Aleth prodded.
“Father . . .” Her thoughts slipped away on a river of memory.
Richard Beaumanoir defended his lands tirelessly for many years until he, as other neighboring lords, was forced to abandon them. He withdrew with his family and retainers to his wife’s dower lands at Chaudrey. The shame of failing to protect the barony festered in his soul like a rotting pustule.
He soon became a king’s man, allying himself with the powerful, and pursuing the Northmen relentlessly in a private war of revenge to regain his forsaken lands. Then in his obsession he sought to win God’s favor — and Brienne was his offering. A younger daughter would not suffice, only the firstborn, the unblemished lamb, a sacrifice pure and holy. Overnight, Brienne was dispatched from the heart of her family into cloister at Levroux.
Lisette’s marriage was next arranged to gain the might and power of Esternay, that self-made knight, the king’s own champion.
For a time, God smiled on Beaumanoir. He triumphed in the meanest of battles till his fame swelled throughout the realm.
Despite his success, Beaumanoir was bitterly disappointed that Brienne refused the veil, as though she would invite God’s displeasure. She argued that many noble ladies lived in cloister without benefit of vows, and she was not yet prepared to make her profession. Angrily, he warned that such stubbornness would bring misfortune upon their house, and when the wheel of fate turned round, it was she whom he blamed.
Brienne’s mother soon succumbed to a mysterious ailment. Shortly after her death, Brienne’s elder brother, Thomas, was cut down at their father’s side by a Norse blade. Not a year had passed when Beaumanoir himself was felled before the walls of Poitiers in a daring ruse against the heathens.
“Brienne, Brienne,” Aleth broke through her ruminations. “What do you mean, ‘a Norseman’s acre’? What of Valsemé?”
“Do you not know, Aleth?” She looked hard at her companion. Truly, the girl had never left her solar. “King Charles seeks to control the Norse menace. This year past he conceded lands to their chieftain, Rollo, in return for his homage and created him duke. My father’s lands are part of the new duchy. They belong to the foreigner now.”
Rollo, she thought bitterly, and his hated duchy of Normandy.
“I-I’m so sorry.” Aleth groped for a comforting word.
“I am happy here at Levroux,” Brienne reassured her. “And I feel safe, if that is possible. ‘Tis a man’s world, Aleth, and they threaten to tear it apart.
“The abbey seems set apart from our enemies, and I have not known such peace since I was a small child. Here, I am an equal with my sisters, not a man’s piece of property. I have learned reading and ciphering, and have been taught the gift of healing.”
Brienne sighed and managed a small smile. “The Lord is a gentle and loving master. To Him shall I pledge my troth.”
Aleth abandoned the subject, grieved at the fresh pain she had caused her friend.
»«
The soft pealing of bells, sounding distantly across the vale, roused Brienne from her drowsy state.
She suddenly became aware of the lengthening shadows of the trees and the low angle of the sun. With a sharp gasp she scrambled to her feet and gathered up the remains of the half-eaten meal.
“Aleth, hurry. We’ve overstayed and I was to help Sister Margaret in the scullery this eve.”
Aleth stirred and rubbed her eyes. “No doubt you volunteered for that honor,” she said through a yawn.
“Nay, not so. I do it for Lutigard. ‘Tis spring and she suffers the rheum.”
‘Tis naught but her delicate hands that suffer from scrubbing pots! Ever she slips out of her duties, that one,” Aleth retorted.
“Come along or I’ll have a sharper tongue wagging at me.”
Their eyes locked in merriment. “Sister Margaret!” they chorused.
Progress toward the abbey was slowed by Aleth’s frail leg. By the time they reached its high brooding walls, the light was falling rapidly. Brienne did not look forward to the scolding and lecture Mother Annice would surely deliver for their tardiness. Worse, she feared losing the privilege of ministering in the village. Perhaps if she revealed her intentions to take her vows, Mother’s heart would soften.
As the girls approached the stony portal with its heavy iron gate, Brienne sensed something out of the ordinary. She detected movements and sounds uncommon to the hour. Her breath caught as the soft nickering of horses and low rumble of male voices drifted clearly above the courtyard beyond.
“Soldiers!” Brienne exclaimed in hushed tones.
It was not unusual for the abbey to offer its hospitality, as it was a place of rest and healing. That men had been permitted past the outer wall pricked her curiosity mildly, but such was allowed when the escorts were small and composed of kindred to the noble ladies who resided within.
Levroux was an unusual abbey in that it had been built upon the site of a Roman fortress overrun by invading Franks centuries before. The ruins were incorporated into the present monastery and offered the advantage of two enclosure walls. The inner partition embraced the tight cluster of buildings and church comprising the heart of the abbey, while the outer wall encompassed a sizable tract of land boasting orchards, a fish pond, storage sheds, stables, livestock shelters, and quarters for the servants that attended the abbey’s needs. It was here that the travelers would be lodged, though several cells were reserved near the abbess’s chambers for the more important guests.
Normally, Brienne would have eagerly looked forward to the worldly news the visitors brought with them, yet after her disturbing reminiscences of the afternoon, her stomach knotted at the prospect of encountering men-at-arms.
“Perhaps we best use the side entrance, Aleth. I shouldn’t like to walk through a courtyard of soldiers and war horses.” She shuddered at the thought of the enormous steeds.
The two slipped around the corner of the abbey as quickly as they could manage and proceeded to a small gate toward the far end, where they set off a jangling of bells.
A plump little figure garbed in black bustled across the grounds. “My lambs! Where have you been?” Sister Ursuline puffed excitedly, thrusting a massive key into the heavy lock. “Nothing is amiss? Come along. Come along,” she jabbered. “Brienne, your hair! ‘Tis sown with grass. Saints be with us! Hurry now. Mother Annice has been seeking you for ever so long. No, not you, Aleth, only Brienne.”
“Yes, sister.” Brienne held forth the basket, barely suppressing her amusement. “We brought herbs for your medicants.”
Sister Ursuline peeked into the basket delightedly, then her eyebrows flew up in astonishment. Snatching up a bedraggled green, she exclaimed, “Good gracious! Wherever did you find this!”
“‘Tis mugwort,” Aleth proclaimed, tossing a little look of triumph at Brienne.
Sister struggled to compose herself. “My ladies, ‘tis an aphrodisiac!”
Brienne and Aleth choked on the pronouncement as Sister Ursuline scuttled off toward the garderobe. An instant later she reappeared, rubbing her palms vigorously against the rough wool of her gown.
“We are well rid of that! Now, be off with you, my lady.
Aleth, you may help me in the scullery. Lutigard fell victim to her rheum.”
“I know,” pouted Aleth. “Ever I pray for her deliverance!”
»«
Brienne quickly plaited her hair as she darted across the cobbled pathway, past small stone buildings, and through a heavy archway. She hurried down the length of the refectory, rounded the corner, then halted abruptly, barely catching herself as she pitched forward.
At least twenty pairs of eyes greeted her own, now wide with surprise. The courtyard before her was filled with a colorful assemblage of grooms, squires, men-at-arms and their magnificent horses, all seemingly frozen at their tasks as they studied her with undisguised interest.
Brienne snatched the hood of her mantle up, over her head as heat suffused her cheeks. She thought at first to retreat from the scene before her, then realized that this was the quickest way to Reverend Mother’s quarters.
Swallowing hard, she stepped forward and gingerly began skirting the assemblage of men as their eyes raked her admiringly. At a few overly loud and suggestive remarks, she broke into a run and dashed across the remainder of the courtyard. Husky laughter followed her to the shelter of the portico.
Men! How dare they, Brienne raged silently. This is a convent, not a brothel! They would respect her more when she wore the habit. She hastened along the covered porchway, hoping for no further encounters, and at length stopped before Mother Annice’s chambers.
With a last straightening of her tunic and mantle, Brienne drew in a deep breath and rapped softly upon the door. Almost at once, it drew open and a small nun motioned her inside.
The room was dimly lit and smelled of musty parchment and burning tallow. A simple table served as a desk, flanked by hard wooden chairs and a basket of scrolls. In the corner, a precious psalter lay open atop a waist-high stand adorned with a richly embroidered cloth.
Mother Annice stood silently before a crucifix affixed to the wall. She was a tall, lean woman of uncertain age. As she turned toward her, Brienne noted how drawn and weary the abbess appeared tonight, her face a pale testament to the burdens of her office.
“Sister Catherine, please leave us.” Mother Annice nodded to the diminutive nun.
When the door swept closed, Brienne could no longer contain herself. “Reverend Mother, forgive my belatedness. I am remiss beyond doubt. After ministering to our sick, I stayed awhile in the forest, seeking herbs and meditating . . . and the Lord has blessed that time, truly He has, for I have come to a most important decision. I desire to take the veil, Reverend Mother. I wish to profess my vows.” She caught her breath and smiled hesitantly, awaiting the abbess’s response.
Mother Annice closed her eyes for a few moments, and when she opened them again they glistened with unshed tears. “Come, child. Let us pray for our Lord’s guidance.”
The aging nun gripped Brienne’s hands and pulled her down to the hard stone floor before the crucifix, her touch chill and dry.
With eyes fixed upon the broken body of Christ, Mother Annice intoned the ancient prayer, “Pater noster, qui es in cælis, santificétur nomen tuum . . . . At length she pronounced, “Amen. So be it.”
She pulled her gaze from the crucifix and looked deeply into Brienne’s eyes. Brienne’s breath caught at the abbess’s pain-filled expression.
“Are you familiar with the Book of Isaiah, child? Look to the second chapter and remember it well: ‘He will teach us what He wants us to do; we will walk in the paths He has chosen.’
Silence fell like a pall over the room. Tears brimmed the old nun’s eyes as she rose in a slow, fluid motion. Taking Brienne by the hands, she gently drew her to her feet then kissed her forehead.
“Come,” Mother Annice whispered, and ushered her from the room.
»«
A certain dread crept into Brienne’s soul as she and the Reverend Mother walked silently down the covered passageway and traversed the courtyard. She barely noticed how it had emptied of horses and grooms. Only a few men now milled about in the dusk. She sensed only that something was amiss. Tendrils of apprehension spiraled through her.
A few moments later, Mother Annice swung wide the heavy oaken door to the refectory. Brienne paused cautiously upon the threshold.
The hall was filled with Frankish knights and men-at-arms. Some sat at table, devouring savory meat pasties and drinking heartily of cold cider that the good nuns proffered, while others stood about in small groups deep in their arguments and banter.
As the two women entered the hall, a hush rippled over the room. All eyes seemingly turned as one and settled upon Brienne. She fought not to tremble under their intense regard. There was something in those looks to which she could not put a name.
A tall dark figure broke away from a small cluster of men at the far end of the hall and strode confidently toward them. A moment passed before Brienne recognized the commanding frame of the Seigneur d’Esternay, Robert Coustance.
“My Lord.” She dropped into a deep curtsy, overcome with surprise. “How unexpected to see you. I pray all is well.”
Esternay paused a moment, drinking in her intoxicating beauty. Damn Beaumanoir, anyway. The girl’s existence had been hidden from him until his betrothal was sealed with her sister, and then, only on the wedding day itself, was the elder daughter brought forth from cloister to celebrate the festivities.
Lisette was a comely enough wench and agreeable in all matters that concerned him, but she lacked the vividness and the spirit he witnessed in this beauty. Such a match they could have made. And now this cursed business that brought him to Levroux. Damn Beaumanoir again.
“Is all well with my sister, my lord?” Brienne met his gaze.
He rubbed the scar above his heavy brows. “Oui, oui. She is abed with child again. We fervently hope she will carry this babe to term.” A trace of bitterness steeled his voice. Undoubtedly he could have sired several sons by now upon the healthy young woman before him, but her frail sister had miscarried all she had conceived thus far.
Uneasiness gnawed at Brienne under Lord Robert’s persistent stare. He was not really a handsome man, with a long, slightly crooked nose, and heavily lidded eyes. Yet his bearing was impressive and imposing. His thick black hair was worn tapered to the shoulders and his beard was cropped close along the jaw, lending him a sinister air. Lisette once confided that the beard hid a most hideous scar acquired in his youth.
Brienne felt oddly entrapped of a sudden, much like a small winged creature entangled in a spider’s web. “If you think me not too bold, how is it that you come to our fair abbey, my lord?”
Esternay’s look darkened. “I come on the king’s business, Lady Brienne, concerning your barony.”
“Valsemé?” Her brows lifted in surprise. “Does our good king regret his generous gift to the Norse vermin so soon?”
“Nay, my lady. Rollo has thus far honored his oath to Charles. He even joins us against Flanders.”
“Ah, the noble pagan,” she scoffed.
Esternay smiled at her unbridled fire. “The noble pagan received baptism at the hand of Archbishop Franco himself, as have his men. Already he begins a cathedral at Rouen.”
“Do you defend this glorified cur of Normandy, who has stripped me of my father’s lands?” Her temper flared.
“‘Twas the king’s gift, not mine,” he retorted. Indeed they would have been his to claim had Brienne been his bride. But Beaumanoir played him false, giving him the second-born daughter. When Beaumanoir fell in battle, Charles moved swiftly to place himself as protector over both Brienne and her lands of Valsemé. By the Rood, he himself would wrest the lands free of the Norse claws given the chance.
“The king purposes to harness these Northmen and use them to our own benefit.” He echoed Brienne’s thoughts from earlier that day. “My mission here will bind them further to our side.”
“How so, my lord? What has it to do with Levroux?”
“Not with Levroux, my dear. With you.”
Brie
nne swayed momentarily under the weight of his words.
Esternay turned and began to pace, choosing his next words carefully.
“Rollo has proven to be astute in matters of state and fashions his duchy in the true Frankish manner. While he retains sole power as its duke, he has appointed his most loyal men and relatives to hold his lands in obeisance to him.”
He measured the maid with a sharp gaze before delivering his next tidings. “Valsemé has been awarded to his sister’s husband, a man named Gruel Atli.”
Brienne stiffened, his words settling on her like a chilling mist.
“Atli sought to bring forth his wife from the northern climes to join him,” he continued, his eyes never leaving hers, “but she fell ill and died before the journey commenced.”
“And how does this news concern me, now that my lands are forfeit?” she asked tightly.
He swept the soft curves of her body with his gaze, and began to pace anew, encircling his quarry.
“As I said, the king seeks ways to influence the affairs of the duchy as much as he dare without interfering directly.”
Esternay drew behind her, his breath falling upon her neck. She flinched.
“The Normans brought few of their own women. In truth, they appear to prefer our own Frankish beauties.” He lifted the heavy ebony plait from her shoulder and inhaled its fresh scent. Brienne bristled at his familiarity. “Their blood already begins to mingle with our own. In time, it will be so diluted they will be more Frank than Norse.” He replaced the braid, allowing his fingers to brush the curve of her neck. “Of course, that will require several generations.”
He moved to stand in front of her.
“Our king would hasten the process by returning our own villeins to the land. Most fled in the wake of the Norsemen. They are understandably afraid. But Charles is ardent in this matter and would grant them, shall we say, a noble example.”
“You speak in riddles, Lord Robert.” Fire snapped in her eyes though her face had gone pale. “Be out with it. I would have an end to this and think no more upon the Norse pox that infests our fair lands.”
The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series) Page 2
