Brother Bernard hastily concluded services. Not trusting Esternay, he vowed that he and his companion would alternately keep vigil and assure no offense was committed in the house of God.
Mother Annice, in turn, instructed several of her nuns to remain at their devotions and keep watch over the others, most especially Brienne.
Brienne groaned now at the furor she had created and fell to silent prayer upon the altar steps.
Throughout the day, Esternay returned glowering and seething as he paced about, inspecting the building over and over, noting carefully all exits and passageways, particularly those in the rear of the church where a small maze of chambers lay. At times he strode boldly to the gate to hurl threats at Brienne, one time vowing he would bring the Norsemen themselves to lay waste to the abbey if she did not relent.
It was early evening when Brother Bernard entered the sanctuary with a small parcel of food and settled himself on a step next to Brienne. She stared curiously at the sword that had been resheathed in its rich and unusual scabbard.
Brother Bernard chuckled at her inspection. “We made quite a display for them, did we not?”
‘Twas you who were the spectacle, I think, good brother,” she replied with a wan smile.
He patted his weapon. “Aye, my lady. But if you have not heard, I’ve spent considerable time among the heathenous Northmen. It gives me good comfort to keep my friend at my hip while I wield the Word of God upon my tongue!”
Brienne’s laughter tinkled brightly in the gloomy church, dispelling the melancholy that had shrouded her moments before.
‘Tis a most unusual friend, and foreign born by its look, yet quite handsome.”
It was the monk’s turn to smile as he proudly shifted the scabbard onto his lap to display its fine workmanship. Brienne’s eyes widened at the delicate ribbons of silver and gold, inlaid in intricate, interlocking patterns, convoluting gracefully and sprouting into stylized heads of fearsome animals.
“Rollo’s gift,” Brother Bernard said simply.
Brienne lifted her gaze hesitantly. “You know the man?”
“Aye, indeed, since his early days as sækungur, ‘sea king’ in their language. I return to labor in his duchy. There is much work to be done in Normandy, and the harvest is promising.”
Brienne frowned, “Have you come, then, to persuade me to leave sanctuary?”
“Nay, child. Only to see if you have set the matter before God.”
Brienne nodded as sea-green eyes regarded her. “Ever since I learned I was to be given over to Gruel Atli, I have beseeched our Lord for deliverance and He has seen fit to do so.”
“Has He, my lady?”
Panic, confusion and frustration clogged her heart all at once. “What do you mean?”
“Only that you have told God what you want. But have you sought out His will for your life?”
“This is His will. It must be!”
“You want it to be.”
Brienne fell silent and brooded.
“Listen, my child. Whether it be God’s will or not, I cannot say. But do not deny that He may call you forth from cloister to serve Him in a greater way.”
“In a Norman’s bed? I cannot believe it,” she protested.
“Is that all you see? Think, Brienne. The Normans swore fealty to Charles and embraced our faith, though that needs careful nurturing, to be sure. They bring few of their own women. Not even a half dozen have I witnessed. ‘Tis our Frankish maids they take to wife. Do you not understand what sway our women hold, first with their husbands and then over their children, the next generation of Normans? They may not realize their own power.
“Our peoples must meld, Brienne,” he continued. “Together, they must become one. Men can do so only through words, alliances, and loyalties, but women bring it about through their very flesh. I know ‘tis not an easy task, nor is mine, to change the heart and mind of a heathen, but we are all God’s children. All. As the Baronne de Valsemé, you can wield exceptional influence for the sake of our people and the future of their offspring.”
He looked directly into her eyes. “Before you say nay, set the matter before God and most earnestly seek His direction. Will you do that, my child?”
Brienne lowered her gaze, and with her heart sinking somewhat, she nodded in agreement.
The next hours followed, fraught with anxiety and fresh fear. Most desperately, Brienne would have it that her destiny lay in the arms of the Church, not those of her enemy. But then she fretted at the prospect of spending years in sanctuary. Such was known to happen. What future there? More, she feared the wrath of Esternay should she dare leave its protection. What matter the day or hour? He would be waiting to appease his bruised pride and she had no champion to aid her cause. And what of the king’s own anger, or that of Gruel Atli? Father in Heaven, what had she done?
If her resolve wavered throughout the night, it was quickly restored at the mere thought of the despicable Normans. They were Danes, mostly, or so she was told, though no one seemed certain of Rollo’s origins. She had seen such men once from the tower in the bailey when they laid siege to Valsemé. She shuddered as she recalled the ferocity with which those heathens fought. That day was nearly lost, and it was shortly thereafter that her family withdrew to Chaudrey.
Brienne hugged herself against the chill of night. Once again she felt the scrutiny of the shrouded monk, Brother Lyting. Feigning prayer, she glanced at him surreptitiously from beneath her lashes.
He studied her intently, of that she was sure, though his features remained heavily concealed within the folds of his cowl. He would prove tall should he unfold himself from his cramped posture. The startling breadth of his shoulders strained the limits of his robes, suggesting a physique hardened more by the rigorous training of sword and shield than by cross and gospel.
Brienne knew she should hate this man for the very blood that flowed through his veins. Yet he was a man of God. Could she condemn where the Father forgave?
As the night deepened and melted into early morn, Brienne lay exhausted upon the cold stone floor, prostrate in prayer before the altar. Divine guidance had shed no light on the path she should choose, and now she fell into a light, restless sleep.
She was a child of twelve summers once again, standing tiptoe upon an uneven stool and peering out the narrow slit of a window in the tower wall. Below, her father’s army was retreating inside the defense works. Anxiously, she scanned the fields beyond where the enemy pursued a few straggling Franks, racing for the protection of the motte and bailey.
They were huge men, red and golden of hair, wearing conical helmets with noseguards that concealed their features. Her eyes fixed upon a black-haired heathen, the only one of his kind, as he closed in upon a fleeing soldier. Whirling his battle-ax round in a mighty arc, he cleaved the Frank in two from head to shoulder. Brienne screamed at the sight, deafening her own ears as watched in horror. As though the Norseman had heard her, he lifted his battle-fevered gaze to the high window above and smiled, chilling Brienne to her immortal soul. He hefted his bloodied ax upon his broad shoulder and continued in his pursuit of her kinsmen.
Brienne bolted upright, fully awake. Sheer terror washed through her and she began to shake violently. Never could she be a bride to a bloodthirsty spawn of the Devil!
Throwing herself down again onto the stone floor, she frantically beseeched the Almighty, fear strangling every fiber of her being. “Lord, set aside this bitter cup, I beg of thee.”
Drink. The word was instantly impressed in her mind.
Brienne’s head jerked upward. Had someone spoken? She lifted herself and surveyed the small gathering in the church. Sisters Basina and Lioba knelt in silent prayer, as did Brother Lyting. Two of Esternay’s soldiers whispered quietly together at the rear of the church, while a third appeared to doze near a side door.
Brienne turned back to her prayers, sure that the anxieties of the past days were fast overcoming her.
“Grant, O Lord,
that this cup may pass.”
Drink. The word was strongly impressed once more. Live the love that is within you.
“Nay!” Brienne gasped, pressing her cheek to the cold floor. “Merciful Father, do not ask it of me, I beg Thee.” Hot tears flooded her eyes. “I am so afraid.”
Scripture poured into her mind. Perfect love casts out all fear.
Pressing both hands to her temples, she fought to still the flow of thoughts. “Nay, I am but one, only one” — her breath came in shallow gulps — “and I am all alone.”
In that moment, she was flooded with a presence, suffusing her with warmth and wrapping her in a tender, loving embrace.
I am with you always.
The presence lingered awhile, casting away all doubt and objection, and soothing her heart’s distress.
As the first golden threads of dawn spun through the lofty windows and spilled down over the altar, Brienne rose to her feet. Smoothing away the tears, she bowed reverently toward the altar.
“Thy will be mine.”
Turning, she took scant notice the wide-eyed stares or gaping mouths of her companions, but descended the altar steps and walked purposely through the gate and out of the sanctuary.
»«
In short order, the Seigneur d’Esternay was apprised of the turn of events, and a flurry of activity swept through the abbey as the escort prepared its departure.
Brienne’s “experience” was recounted by the witnesses in glowing terms, recalling how she had pleaded and cried out upon the altar, then, uttering a few words, quit the sanctuary.
Esternay would have liked to throttle the girl outright for the embarrassment she caused him, but he quickly discovered that the soldiers who held vigil with her now zealously watched over her like three clucking hens.
It was rumored about that the Heavenly Father had called the maid forth from sanctuary. Esternay scoffed at this but fought down his yearning to punish the girl. It would be unwise to harm one so obviously sheltered under the “Divine Wing.”
Instead, he dispersed Brienne’s new champions, sending two, Blanchard and Leveque, ahead to coordinate their rendezvous with the Norman escort. Brother Lyting, though strangely reluctant to leave, agreed to accompany them and interpret the mediations. The men were strictly instructed to make no mention of the girl’s initial aversion to the marriage or of her flight into sanctuary. Mortain, the third bemused soldier, remained to attend to the girl’s needs.
Esternay kicked back his chair as he envisioned the chit in the Norman’s arms. Had he not witnessed her raw fear of their kind? If God protected her, then He also provided a fitting chastisement for the troublesome wench. Aye, the Norseman would tame her with his brand. The image should have placated his craving for vengeance, but it cheered him not at all.
»«
Brienne carefully selected an ensemble for her initial encounter with the Norman host and folded it neatly into her coffer. Knowing it would take several days to reach the borders of Normandy, she chose a gown more suitable to traveling on horseback, nutmeg in hue and devoid of elaborate trimmings.
She wove her thick locks into two plaits and coiled them into a crown atop her head. Then she covered her hair with a couvre-chef, a long, flowing scarf. She arranged the ends modestly across her throat rather than allowing them to fall freely as she was usually wont to do.
For so many years she had lived in community with other women, equal in all things. Now, in one short hour, she would return to the world of men, surrounded first by Frankish soldiers, then delivered to a cortege of Norman warriors. A small tremor passed through her and she adjusted her couvre-chef once more.
A soft rapping sounded at the door and Aleth peeked in. The two clasped each other warmly.
Aleth stammered momentarily and stared hard at the floor. “I want to come with you, Brienne.”
“Aleth! Do you know what you say?”
“Oui. I have thought on it long and well, and would not have you face this fate alone. You will need a friend.”
“Oh, Aleth, your companionship would be most welcome, but I fear for your safety among these foreigners.”
Aleth studied the toe of her leather shoe. “Surely they will have no cause to harm a cripple . . . or the personal maid of the Baronne de Valsemé.”
Brienne smiled wide at this last bit of reasoning and realized for the first time that her position did yield some power. She embraced her friend heartily. “Come, then, Aleth. I shall need a friend such as you.”
It was midday before the entourage was finally assembled in the courtyard. Brienne was astonished to be gifted with a magnificent white palfrey outfitted in rich Frankish trappings, yet another of Charles’s bridal offerings. The sovereign seemed most desirous of this union.
The nuns sent exquisitely embroidered altar linens and vestments for the long-inactive church of Valsemé. To Brienne, they presented the precious gift of a small mongrel puppy which rode in a wicker basket attached to her palfrey’s saddle.
A tearful moment passed as the women exchanged their last farewells. Sister Ursuline sniffed noisily while many of the ladies dabbed at their eyes, chins aquiver. Mother Annice pressed a smooth hollow reed into Brienne’s hand, containing a small, tightly rolled parchment.
“Isaiah. Remember, child.” Reverend Mother smiled through her own tears, then clutched Brienne to her with surprising strength. “Godspeed.”
The gates swung open, and the column of soldiers, attendants, and carts moved slowly out of the abbey. Brienne and Aleth assumed their positions in the center of the escort, with Brother Bernard trailing behind on his stout little mare.
No one was prepared for the greeting they received as they emerged from the age-old enclosure walls. It appeared that every villager for miles around was assembled there waving bright cloths, throwing flower petals, and uttering their blessings as they hailed the maid that God called forth from Levroux. Surely, Heaven was at long last attentive to their prayers.
Esternay scowled at the delirious scene, wondering how word of Brienne’s “holy encounter” had spread so rapidly, then dismissed it. The abbey employed many workers from the village. Since the escort would be traveling the old Roman roads afar of the villages, there was little chance that the spectacle would be repeated. With that consoling thought he commanded the troops forward.
Brienne strained to look back as the gathering faded into specks of color and the silhouette of the abbey melted into the horizon. The last visual tie severed, she turned forward in her saddle to face the uncertain future that awaited her.
Chapter 3
The furry little puppy licked the last droplets of water from Brienne’s cupped palm. She took up the skin from her saddle again, soaking a small scarf, and wiped at her face and neck. She contemplated the soiled cloth with disgust, feeling utterly incrusted with the grime of four days’ travel.
The pup whimpered to be out of his basket, and Brienne scratched his ears comfortingly. “Patience, little one.”
The pup cocked its head sideways.
“What shall I call you?” She stole a glance at Aleth riding several arm lengths away on a small brown palfrey. “Mugwort! Now, there’s a fine name.”
“You wouldn’t!” Aleth exclaimed.
“Nay. He’s not so forlorn-looking as that.” She laughed at Aleth’s withering look.
Brienne studied the uneven splotches that adorned the little fellow’s coat and decided upon “Patch.” The puppy yapped excitedly as though he approved.
She shifted her attention to the beautiful white paifry beneath her. “You are more difficult.” She stroked the shimmering coat. “Etoile, perhaps. Star”
“That would be asta in Greek,” Brother Bernard said, reining in his horse next to Brienne’s, “or stella in Latin. Of course, there be candra, also Latin. It means ‘shining.’
“Candra. Mais oui.” She tousled the white mane playfully. “It suits her well, do you not agree?”
Brother Bernard smiled, n
odding, then watched Brienne’s gaiety fade as she squinted into the distance.
“How much longer?”
“On the morrow, my lady. Blanchard and Leveque returned last evening with the details. Brother Lyting awaits us at Valsemé. Did you not know?”
She shook her head.
“Esternay,” he said flatly, not expanding on the comment. He had developed an acute distaste for the man from the first when he and his companion were pressed to depart the abbey no sooner than they had arrived. Absurd. He was not a young man anymore, to be jostled about the realm on a broken-down palfrey at the whim of some overbearing knight. He said as much. Years among the heathens had given him pluck, by God!
“We meet late morn inside the boundaries of the duchy, my lady, at the site of a Roman ruin. The precise location is marked by an ancient oak. These Norse believe spirits dwell in trees and mounds and such. Hold them sacred. Yet ‘tis an odd place to meet a bride. Mayhap they think it home to some fertility goddess,” he mused with a shrug. “Sorry, my dear. Ah, well, Blanchard and Leveque will direct us.”
“I vow, you are a most irregular churchman with your sword and colorful jests,” she chided.
“I have a colorful past.” His eyes twinkled.
“Pray tell me what to expect when we meet these Normans. Will Lord Robert leave us to them?”
“Nay, child. Both escorts will accompany us to Valsemé. As the king’s representative, the Seigneur d’Esternay must see you safely there and wed before he returns to court.”
Brienne fidgeted a moment with Candra’s reins, lacing them between her fingers.
“Having second thoughts, my child? Regrets?”
“I am only apprehensive, and in truth, somewhat nervous now that I shall come face to face with my — “
“Enemy?” the monk supplied. “You must try not to think of them as such. They are men, the same flesh and blood as you and I — “
“But not the same heart,” she interjected.
“That is why we are here.” He reached over and patted her hands.
The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series) Page 4
