The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  Brienne’s lips parted under the assault, and his tongue plunged into that honeyed chamber, seeking its sweet nectar, teasing her to dizzying heights, setting her aflame in a swirling vortex of emotions.

  He deepened his kiss and, God forgive her, she leaned into him and, wrapping her arms about him, she answered that fevered quest.

  Suddenly her world fell away and time ceased its passage. There was neither Norman nor Frank. Nor kings with their decrees, nor knights with their honor, nor lands, titles, nor duties. There was only Rurik . . . forever Rurik . . . now and for all time . . . her magnificent golden warrior.

  He splayed his hands over her hips and pressed her to him. She felt the solid brand of his passion against her thigh, but there was no thought to object, for she was lost.

  His mouth left hers and he trailed kisses down her neck, then laid siege to one breast. She moaned as he swirled his tongue over her taut nipple in exquisite torment. Hot shivers of pleasure coursed through her to some hidden place between her thighs.

  He captured her lips once again as his hand began to slip lower . . .

  “Brienne!” Aleth’s voice rang out in the gathering darkness. “Brienne, where are you?”

  Rurik groaned and pulled away, keeping Brienne firmly in the circle of his arms.

  “Here, Aleth.” Her voice sounded strange to her ears. “Just a moment longer.”

  Rurik’s breath fell hot against her cheek, and when she looked up, his eyes were shut tightly as he struggled to master himself. Laying her head against his chest, she listened to the rapid rhythm of his heart and knew it kept pace with her own.

  Rurik lifted Brienne’s face to his and looked at her longingly, dragging his thumb across her kiss-swollen lips.

  “Þu ert unaðsfögur. You are so very beautiful.”

  He released her then and moved deeper into the river. This time he did not look back, but dove neatly under the water and disappeared.

  Brienne held her breath till he resurfaced at a distance and stroked for shore.

  “Brienne, have you taken leave of yourself?” Aleth called. “Come away, or I shall call out the entire guard!”

  “No need,” Brienne called absently, as Rurik disappeared into the night.

  Come what may, she would long remember the touch of his flesh on hers.

  Chapter 6

  Brienne rose in the dimness of her tent, abandoning a fitful sleep, and pulled on her chemise. Carefully, she stepped around Aleth’s sleeping form and recovered her mantle and brooch from the small chest that sat in the corner. She paused over the golden ornament, fingering its rich filigree, then pressed it to her cheek.

  “Sweet Jesu,” she whispered, “why have you awakened my heart to this man? So much happier was I to know nothing of the beauty and power of love than to taste its sweet promise and be forever denied.”

  Slowly, Brienne wrapped herself in her mantle and, holding the brooch to her heart, stepped from the tent and into the early-morning light.

  Rurik kept his bridewatch a short distance apart and was in the midst of breaking his fast with Brother Bernard when Brienne emerged from her shelter. He rose at once.

  They stood gazing at one another for several moments, and Brienne ached for all that must remain unsaid. She crossed the space between them and stood before Rurik, oblivious of the stirrings in the camp.

  Rurik slipped the brooch from her hands and fastened her cloak over her breast. “You rise early, my lady,” he said quietly.

  “Sleep would not come.”

  He nodded his understanding.

  Brother Bernard cleared his throat purposefully, uneasy about the scene playing out before him and keenly aware of Rurik’s use of the Frankish tongue. “ ‘Tis only natural, my child, for a bride to be restless on the day she will meet her future husband.”

  Brienne glanced away, her heart aching. There it was, she reflected simply. Atli lay forever between them, she honor bound by her word and Rurik by his blood. Neither would she imperil her people nor he cuckold his father to appease their unsated passions.

  Silence stretched out among them till Brother Bernard raked it with his gravelly voice, directing several comments in Norse to Rurik. Brienne smiled at last and thought to lighten the moment.

  “There be no need to speak thusly, good brother. This great Norman understands our humble tongue perfectly well.”

  “That I know, but he indulges me the practice that I might sharpen my own skills.”

  “You know?”

  “Aye.” He glanced curiously from Rurik to Brienne. “But how did you learn of his talents?”

  Brienne flushed with heat at his choice of words, and she silently upbraided herself for not holding her tongue.

  “I revealed myself,” Rurik submitted chivalrously. “Lady Brienne became disoriented last evening and risked discovering my men bathing in the river.”

  Brienne looked to him, wide-eyed. Rurik spoke truly yet revealed nothing untoward or improper.

  “Indeed?” Brother Bernard studied the two, appearing ready to question them further, then let the matter lie. “How fortunate for us all that you intercepted Lady Brienne. It could have proved a most indelicate situation.”

  “Most indelicate.”

  Raising a brow at the slight smile that accompanied Rurik’s words and the quaver in Brienne’s hands as she smoothed the edge of her mantle, Brother Bernard returned to his plate waiting by the fire.

  “Pray join us, my dear. Have you ever tasted flatbrauð? ‘Tis a rye bread, tasty with cheese and herring.”

  Brienne declined with a shake of her head, grateful for an opportunity to excuse herself. “My herbs are sorely depleted, as I left a good sum with the village wife. I would replenish them while the morning is yet fresh, but please, finish breaking your fast. I won’t be far.”

  Reassuringly, she gestured with an upheld hand that the men should stay, then slipped away.

  Rurik gazed thoughtfully after Brienne’s retreating figure. When he turned back, his companion was frowning into his cup.

  “Does something disturb you, churchman?”

  »«

  The morning dew clung to the hem of Brienne’s gown as she brushed through the tender spring grasses and proceeded toward the wooded finger of land projecting boldly into the river. A smile played over her lips as she surveyed the shoreline where, but a few hours earlier, she reveled in the magic of Rurik’s touch. Aleth had the right of it more than she knew. Rurik was indeed most wondrously made.

  She drank in the sweet morning air and entered the grove of trees rising majestically from the peninsula. The earth proved soft beneath her feet as the grasses gave way to denser growth.

  With luck, the moist soil would yield a few prized herbs, mayhap angelica, or eyebright. Brienne would count her venture a great success if she could harvest fresh divisions of comfrey to transfer to Valsemé. These could only be taken in spring and autumn, and would form the mainstay of her physic garden. No healer dare be long without the powerful herb, for comfrey remedied a host of afflictions from fresh cuts and wounds to ruptures, boils, and abscesses, and even aided in the mending of broken bones.

  Just then, Brienne spied delicate yellow flowers winking from beneath a thicket of brambles. Celandine! Triumphantly, she stooped down and separated the tangled growth.

  »«

  Rurik quickened his pace, then fell into a light trot as Brienne disappeared into the woods. The monk was right. He should not have allowed her to wander so freely, much less unattended. Thor! What ailed him? If he did not trust himself with her alone in a secluded glade, he should have sent Ketil to watch over her in his stead.

  Brienne’s scream shattered the early-morning silence. Unsheathing his sword, Rurik bolted into the woodland and crashed through the thick undergrowth. In the next moment he came upon her frozen figure. She stood rigid, her hands clasped over her mouth as she stared in horror at the ground before her.

  Swiftly, Rurik placed himself between Brien
ne and the unseen menace, his weapon braced. He scanned the glade, but the object of Brienne’s distress still eluded him. Throwing a glance back at her, he followed her panicked gaze to a tangled mass of vines and shrubbery.

  Rurik crouched down and cautiously eased back the brush. Beneath lay a skeleton partially encased in the sodden earth, its bones blackened and moldy from the ravages of time. The tattered remnants of clothing proved the remains to be those of a Frankish soldier. The skull lay to one side, split wide into two gaping halves, proclaiming the handiwork of a Norse battle-ax.

  Rurik probed the shredded garments, seeking something by which to identify the man, but all ornament and weapon had been scavenged long ago. Rising to Brienne’s side, he sought to comfort her in his arms, but she shrank back, her face as pale as moonstone.

  Brienne’s fear gave way to shock as dark specters rose from the past. Once again the grim blade whirred before her eyes in a great and mighty arc. Then there was blood. So much blood . . . And the devil smiled up at her, relishing the gruesome victory as though he drew life from death itself.

  “Norseman,” she hissed, wide-eyed, seeing Rurik as if for the first time.

  Frantic, she swung round and began to run from the scene, but her steps died at the sight of soldiers moving into the glade. Brienne fixated upon the barbarous fair-haired Northmen among them and knew terror.

  A scream rose in her throat but found no voice. As one violent tremor after another racked through her, she managed to back away. Step by tormented step she retreated, her senses reeling. Then, with a burst of energy, she pivoted and flung herself forward. At once, she slammed against Rurik’s chest, and he grasped her by the shoulders as her knees gave way.

  “Brienne? Brienne!” He shook her gently, trying to bring her back to herself.

  Esternay appeared just then. Witnessing the peculiar scene, he reached for the dagger in his belt, but a hand firmly stayed him from releasing the blade. Angrily, he scowled down into Brother Bernard’s green eyes.

  As the world spun to a halt, Brienne ceased her struggles and focused unsteadily on Rurik’s fine features. Anguish wrenched her heart anew.

  “There is much blood between us,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes.

  Aleth appeared in the grove, her hair streaming about her as she clutched a blanket over her thin chemise and limped hurriedly to Brienne’s side. Reluctantly, Rurik gave Brienne over to the girl’s care, conceding that his presence only added to her misery.

  Perceiving her friend’s distress, Aleth gathered Brienne close and silently led her away.

  Esternay broke free of his unwanted guardian and strode forward to inspect the morbid relic in the underbrush. He drew himself up, glaring darkly at Rurik, then turned back to the monk.

  “Churchman, a proper burial is in order for this unfortunate soldier. Tell this heathen that since Northmen took this man’s life, ‘tis only fitting that Northmen dig his grave.”

  “This heathen will dig the grave himself,” Rurik bit out in the Frankish tongue.

  He snapped a curt order for his men to bring him a digging implement and left the knight gaping slack-jawed at his back.

  »«

  Brother Bernard officiated brief rites over the grave, forgoing any personal comment or form of eulogy. Brienne placed a small bouquet of yellow celandine on the fresh earth, and Ketil, to the surprise of all, marked the grave with a small cross he had quickly fashioned of linden wood.

  The gesture did much to bridge the heightened tensions among the soldiers. Norman and Frank stood in silent homage, discrepant allies, joined in an uncertain brotherhood by the bonds of their oaths to sovereign, land, and faith. With the task complete, the troops departed without delay.

  The day proved long and wearisome. Brienne rode shrouded in silence, drawn into herself, seemingly unconscious of her companions and surroundings. Rurik grew unsettled by her gravity and paleness. Would that he could break through the barrier of her quietude she’d erected around her. Esternay’s recurring presence, however, forestalled his efforts time and again. The knight was an accursed affliction.

  The steep hills of the Perche gave way to the dense woodland, deep valleys, and brilliant green meadows of the Auge. As the cortege passed through small scattered villages, there were fewer and fewer villeins to greet Valsemé’s heiress. Yet to those who came forth, she reached out from the depths of her pain, acknowledging their kindness and listening to all manner of complaint. Rurik watched her strained efforts, wishing that he could blot out her grief and restore some measure of happiness.

  Late in the day, the entourage penetrated the baronial lands of Valsemé, pressing on until the light began to fade and the evening dew glistened upon the grasses.

  Valsemé’s keep suddenly loomed in the distance, rising from the motte and bailey like a lone sentinel. A thrill shot through Brienne as she beheld the staunch old friend from long past. Faint torchlight flickered from the slitted eyes of its windows as it kept vigilance over the countryside and, to Brienne’s mind, welcomed her home.

  Beyond, straw-thatched dwellings of wattle and daub sprouted across the landscape, while the church’s silent bell tower lay silhouetted against the deepening skies. Brienne strained to make out the manor house, but it remained hidden in the shadows of nightfall. She prayed it stood whole.

  Commanding the retinue to a halt, Rurik granted a brief respite, then dispatched messengers to announce their approach. He flicked a glance toward Esternay, then motioned to Ketil. Time was of the utmost. There were words that need be spoken before giving Brienne over to his father. Ketil would ensure their privacy.

  “My lady,” Rurik said as he appeared before her.

  Somehow, Brienne knew he would seek her out, and when he offered his arm, she did not resist but rested her hand atop his own and allowed him to lead her away.

  They proceeded to a small promontory overlooking the vale and stood for a moment absorbed in silence. Brienne held her back to Rurik, focusing on the slivers of firelight that escaped beneath doors and through cracks of the windowless cottages that lay beyond. But even her raw, tangled emotions did nothing to quench the heat that swept through her or the headiness wrought by his nearness. She trembled as he brushed away a tendril of hair that had escaped the heavy plait and curled against her neck.

  “Brienne.” His voice was rich velvet. “I cannot change the past . . . or give you back that which is lost.”

  She bowed her head, pressing her lashes shut against the painful memories gnawing at her heart.

  “Brienne, listen to me.” He turned her gently to him. “You have said it well yourself. Valsemé’s future is sown today. In time, the blood of our people will flow as one.”

  She looked away, not wishing to think on duty or valor or all the dismal tomorrows that stretched out hopelessly before her.

  Rurik stroked her cheek thoughtfully. “My father will be pleased with you, of that I am sure. He is an impatient man and ofttimes stubborn, but if you do not play him false, he will treat you well and give heed to your wishes.” Tilting her face up to his, Rurik drew his thumb lightly across her lips, sending fiery memories shivering through her.

  “How often women are used to bind the divisions of men,” he observed quietly. “You, ástin mín, are the friðarmóðir. The peace weaver.”

  Brienne lifted her large violet eyes as a tear slid over her cheek and fell on Rurik’s hand. His chest constricted. The maid had slipped into his heart, and he had not felt such stirrings in that well-guarded bastion for many a year. The face of another dark-haired beauty flashed through his mind and along with it the accustomed pain. But he could no more traverse the netherworld to regain that which was lost to him than alter Brienne’s destiny as his father’s bride. Silently, he cursed the gods for their indifference.

  »«

  Brienne’s thoughts were in turmoil as the retinue clattered over the bridge, through the thick defense walls, and into the bailey.

  This was not right
. Why did Rurik lead them here and not through the village and on to the manor house? The keep was a refuge in time of siege, not a residence. It served as watchtower, arsenal, and storehouse, capable of sustaining Valsemé’s inhabitants through emergencies. But ‘twas unthinkable that anyone would wish to dwell in its cramped quarters when the comfort of the manor house lay beyond.

  Of course, to men of the North, the imposing fortress would represent power, wealth, and indisputable authority. It had been an extravagant and stubborn gesture on her father’s part, to build of lime, sand, and freestone when the forests were more easily exploited. Most castles were constructed of timber and earthworks. But Richard Beaumanoir, ever determined to prevail over his enemies, placed his faith and wealth in the enduring virtues of stone.

  A full dozen Norman soldiers greeted them in the courtyard. Others quickly emerged from the various buildings that lined the fortress walls. Tension coiled in the pit of Brienne’s stomach and she forced her attention to the great tower dominating the far end of the bailey. It rose majestically atop the massive, sloping mound of earth that was the motte.

  Rurik dismounted swiftly and reached Brienne before Esternay could move from his saddle. Their eyes met and held as she braced her hands on his broad shoulders and he lifted her from Candra’s back. Her weight shifted against him, and for a moment he held her there aloft. Slowly, he lowered Brienne, her body sliding down the long, hard length of him till her toes touched the earth.

  The sound of Rurik’s name being shouted across the courtyard broke the spell that entwined them. A young man bounded forward and, in the next moment, grasped Rurik by the arms, greeting him in rapid Norse. Nearly matching Rurik for height, his body was lean but well muscled and his hair as pale as snow. He turned sparkling blue eyes on Brienne.

  “My lady. Valsemé is graced by your presence. Welcome home.” His lightly accented tones were filled with genuine warmth. Turning back to Rurik, he reverted to Norse.

  “Did I not tell you, broðir, that she is the fairest maid under the heavens?”