The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  The hall hushed as the skald plucked at his harp, recalling the exploits of heroes, kings, and warrior gods. He sang of terrifying serpents in oceans deep, of flaming swords and misty realms where the frost giants dwelt.

  Averse to being outshone by their counterparts, and disgruntled for having been excluded from so many of the day’s diversions, the Franks called on one of their own to rival the skald.

  Surprisingly, Leveque came forward and, taking up the lute, proved himself a respectable trouvère. To everyone’s delight, he reminisced of the glorious age and heroic achievements of Charlemagne.

  As Leveque wove glittering tales of far-flung conquests, Rurik rejoined the festivities and took his place next to his father at the high table. Lyting was present there too, sitting to one side of Brienne, but Hastein remained conspicuously absent. Rurik observed him a moment later, moving about the hall.

  Katla slid into the seat next to Rurik and pressed her breast against his arm. Purring throatily, she dragged a fingernail down his arm and into his lap. He caught her hand and thrust it back, disgusted by her whorish ways. Piqued by his rejection, Katla rose, tossing her head, and stalked from the dais.

  Rurik returned his attention to Leveque, who now recounted the celebrated legend of Roland and of Ganelon’s betrayal at Roncesvalles. When the tale ended, even Evyind clapped enthusiastically for the Frank.

  Atli rubbed at his neck and beckoned for more mead. His breathing came short and labored. He despised weakness, especially in himself, and refused to pay heed to the pains now shooting through his left arm.

  Evyind appeared before the high table and, caressing the strings of his instrument, sang tribute to the bride’s beauty.

  Brienne warmed under the attention. Although she held the regard of every male in the hall, she felt only the heat of Rurik’s gaze, drawing her eyes to his. She lifted her lashes to seek that steely blue sea, but Atli broke the enchantment as he stroked the back of her hand and then pressed it with a wet kiss.

  The men cheered and, being well into their cups, clamored impatiently that the bedding ceremony begin.

  Brienne felt the blood drain from her face and limbs. No longer could she close her mind to the reality of her wedding vows. She must summon her courage, for there was no escape. A wife must give freely of her flesh to the man she called husband. She shuddered, knowing full well that somewhere in the hall Esternay was silently laughing.

  Aleth and two maidservants appeared to escort Brienne to Atli’s chamber and prepare her to receive him. Brienne’s possessions had been transferred there earlier and added to her husband’s. All was in readiness. The final adornment the room required was the bride, herself, to grace the marriage bed.

  The Normans grew boisterous, eager to begin. With much merriment and jesting, they would carry off the groom, stripping him down to his pink buttocks, and present him to his bride. If luck be theirs, they would glimpse her silken contours when they drew back the covers and heaved him into bed.

  Atli smiled down on his young wife, anticipating the pleasure her body would yield him this night. She trembled and his heart softened as he reminded himself that she had been shut away for these many years. ‘Twas never easy for a maid the first time. He would use her well. But, for now, she needed fortification.

  Rising from his chair, Atli called loudly for mead. An elderly Frankish servant hobbled forward with a flagon of the strong spirits. Atli unburdened the man and filled Brienne’s goblet to the rim. He then emptied the remainder of the container into his drinking horn. Gesturing for her to take up her cup, he lifted his horn and toasted Brienne’s health and beauty.

  Atli paused for a moment, tilting her chin up with a curled finger, then brushed his knuckles along her delicate jawline. Pleased beyond measure, he saluted her with his drink and drained the horn.

  Atli suddenly sputtered, eyes bulging. Pain crushed down upon his chest and overwhelmed him. Clutching at his heart, his knees buckled and he collapsed to the floor.

  Brienne and Rurik came first to his side. Quickly, Rurik loosened Atli’s tunic where it constricted his neck while Brienne felt his face and hands. Atli had broken into a cold, clammy sweat. Obviously in pain, he fought to breathe, managing only short, quick gasps.

  “Can you speak?” Rurik asked urgently. “What smites you?”

  “Feels . . . like . . . Sleipnir . . . sitting on . . . chest.”

  Atli’s vision began to dim as an impending sense of doom engulfed him. He snatched at the ceremonial arm ring that encircled his forearm.

  “Help . . . me.”

  Rurik eased the ring from his father’s arm, but when he placed it in his hand, Atli pressed it back into Rurik’s palm.

  “Hold . . . all that is . . . mine.” He glanced to Brienne, then squeezed his eyes shut in pain. “All!” he rasped.

  A low murmur passed among those gathered about the dais as Atli made his pronouncement.

  The pain subsided for a brief moment and Atli rolled his head back, gulping the air.

  “My sword . . . must . . . have Bíta.”

  Several moments later, Lyting appeared with “Bite” and placed it in his father’s hands.

  Atli suddenly gripped the front of Rurik’s jerkin. “Do not let these Christians . . . commit my body . . . unto the earth to rot.” His breathing came labored and rapid. “Promise . . . my spirit . . . will fly . . . straight to the heavens. . . . Promise!”

  Rurik vowed, easing Atli’s anxiety over the matter.

  Atli visibly relaxed at that. A gleam touched his eye as he fingered the cold steel of his sword.

  ‘Twas not the blade . . . I sought to wield . . . this night!” He smiled faintly.

  Pain flooded him anew. He groaned out a long breath, then slumped in death.

  Brienne bowed her head and whispered a prayer. Several moments later Rurik raised her gently to her feet, as Brother Bernard and Lyting knelt beside Atli’s lifeless form.

  A commotion erupted in the hall, sundering the silence. When Brienne cast about for the source of the disturbance, she found Katla standing alongside Hastein, her lips curled in triumph.

  Hastein drew on his dagger as he shouted out commands that the Franks be surrounded.

  “God’s wounds!” blustered the monk. “They believe Atli has been poisoned at the hands of our people. Hastein means to kill every Frank, if need be, one by one till a confession is wrought.”

  “Nay!” Brienne screamed, seeing Hastein force the elderly servant who had borne the mead to his knees and a knife put to his throat.

  Rurik started forward, but before he could intervene, Brienne rushed past him to the edge of the dais.

  “Not poison!” she protested. “Atli died of a malady. ‘Twas no foul deed!”

  Hastein snorted in reply, unconvinced.

  “Since first I arrived, Gruel Atli suffered an affliction. He sought to conceal it but did not wholly succeed — especially this day. Were you blind to it?”

  “ ‘Tis true.” Ketil came forth. “Atli was bedeviled even as we competed with the rocks.”

  “Lies!” Hastein growled fiercely, pressing his knife deeper into the Frank’s flesh.

  Frantically, Brienne searched for Atli’s drinking horn, but it lay empty upon the floor. Grabbing up her own goblet, she held it high in the air.

  “Behold!” she shouted above the din. “You all witnessed Atli fill my vessel before his own, both from the same flagon.” A rumble of acknowledgment passed through the Northmen. “If Gruel Atli’s drink was tainted, then so is mine.”

  Realizing her intent, Rurik leaped to knock the cup from her hands, but Brienne turned and rapidly downed its contents.

  She gasped as fire seared a trail down her throat and through her chest, burning its way to the pit of her stomach. Doubling over, she groped for the table then pushed herself up again.

  Rurik moved to assist her, but she waved him back. Brienne knew she must see this moment through alone and prove her people’s innocence. She d
are not collapse or faint, lest she awake to find that every Frank had been put to the sword.

  Wiping droplets of mead from her lips with the back of her hand, Brienne rallied. Angrily, she snatched up her goblet and hurled it at Hastein’s feet.

  “Not poison!” she proclaimed defiantly.

  “Enough!” Rurik bellowed. “Release the Frank!”

  Reluctantly, Hastein drew away his blade but grazed the servant’s neck as he did, so that a thin trickle of blood followed his knife’s point.

  “As you wish, broðir.” His lips twisted with a cold smile.

  Ketil stood before the assemblage and quieted the hall with upheld arms. “Before he drew his last breath, Atli recognized Rurik as his heir.”

  At that Ketil turned and dropped to one knee. Closing his hand into a fist, he struck his chest once, over the heart. “I am your man by life and by limb. Accept this my oath.” His shout went up and was joined by a chorus of male voices. “Hail, Rurik, son of Atli, Baron de Valsemé!”

  Hastein snarled as his kinsmen paid homage Rurik. Glowering, he quit the hall.

  Esternay watched Hastein’s departure with interest. Atli’s death complicated matters, for a certainty, but there were always alternatives. A new plan began took form in the shadows of his mind.

  After Rurik entrusted his father’s body to Ketil and Lyting, he escorted Brienne from the hall. She insisted on traversing the room unaided, even if somewhat unsteadily. But once they passed through the portal she swayed, hiccupping loudly. Unable to restrain himself any longer, Rurik swept her up in his arms and carried her above, taking the stairs two steps at a time.

  Languidly, Brienne laced her arms around his neck, the mead taking its effect. She rested her head against his shoulder and snuggled into his chest.

  Rurik shifted her in his arms, a sudden shaft of desire lancing through him. ‘Twas a time of mourning, not passion, he chided himself. Still, his heart remained at variance with his head.

  Halfway up to the garret rooms, Rurik stopped and reconsidered. Making his decision, he retraced his steps and headed for his father’s chamber.

  He suspected the room had once served Brienne’s parents when they chose to lodge here, for it was larger than the others. Atli had appropriated the space when first he arrived at Valsemé. This night it was meant to serve as the bridal chamber as well. The room could yet serve a purpose.

  Booting open the door, Rurik crossed to the bed and gently laid Brienne down. She sighed drowsily and burrowed into its soft comfort as she drifted into a deep slumber.

  Rurik smiled at her, proud of her courageous spirit.

  “Rest, ástin mín.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Rest, my love.”

  Chapter 9

  Brienne cracked open one eye then squeezed it shut against the stream of sunlight invading her chamber. Her limbs felt strangely numb. She wiggled her fingers successfully, but her toes were another matter. She would have to risk a glance to assure herself they were still attached. And then there was her mouth. It felt as though it were stuffed with a sturdy woolen stocking.

  Again, she peered from beneath sleep-heavy lids and surveyed her surroundings. The room was familiar yet different. Her parents’ bedchamber? she wondered dimly. Skins were scattered everywhere — across the floor, over chests, and onto the spacious bed. She felt lost among their furry presence. More pelts stretched over the walls, crowded by a host of weaponry. Her gaze traveled over the unfamiliar chests and chairs, deeply carved with a rich tangle of design.

  Panic gripped her. No! ‘Twas a Norseman’s chamber and a Norseman’s bed. Atli’s bed! She bolted upright, instantly regretting the action as a sharp pain ripped through her brain. Groaning, she caught her head in her hands and eased herself back down onto the pillows.

  Yestereve’ s calamitous events rushed back, sweeping away the foggy haze that first encumbered her. Soberly, she lifted her hand and studied the small gold band encircling the third finger of her left hand.

  “Ah, you wake at last,” Aleth called softly as she entered the room bearing a platter of broken meats, cheese, and bread. Setting the tray on a small table before the fire, she filled a goblet and crossed to the bed.

  “Here now, a bit of wine to stir the blood. ‘Tis nigh on to noon. The first courses have already been served in the hall, not that any could attend to their meal amid all the argument there. The men are in a terrible humor.”

  Brienne found it difficult to follow Aleth’s stream of chatter. She cocked a questioning brow as she took a tiny sip of the wine.

  “They have quarreled the morning long over the funeral preparations, bickering to no end as to what shall be done with Atli’s — “ Aleth clamped her hands over her mouth, stopping her flow of words. “Oh, I am sorry, Brienne. My tongue outpaces my poor mind, I fear.”

  Brienne gave Aleth a small, reassuring smile. “Do not fret yourself. Pray, go on.” She gestured for Aleth to continue as she attempted a second small sip, her stomach not yet objecting to the first.

  “Brother Bernard insists Atli be buried according to the prescribed rites of Holy Mother Church, but Rurik has set himself to honor his father’s dying wish.”

  Aleth’s eyes rounded wide and she leaned forward. “Why, some of the Norsemen think to place Gruel Atli in his ship, together with his belongings, and set the entire thing afire as it drifts out to the open seas. You can well imagine what Brother Bernard had to say about that!”

  Brienne could all too well envision the monk haranguing the hall with a spate of vivid remarks and punctuating each one with his trusty little sword. She suppressed a smile. “And Rurik?”

  “Rurik favors the torch.” Aleth shook her head. “He would forgo the ship for a pyre and minimum of grave goods.”

  A chill rippled through Brienne. Rarely had she regarded Rurik as the Norseman he truly was. Had she childishly thought to deny that part of him? She preferred to ignore his fierce heritage, setting him apart — nay, above — his own kindred.

  Aleth interrupted Brienne’s thoughts as she settled on the bed, her brows knit over troubled brown eyes. “What will become of us now?”

  To her dismay, Brienne could offer no answer.

  »«

  With a sharp little needle, Aleth picked out the stitches from her broidery for a third time, then angled a glance sideways to where Brienne stood staring out the chamber window.

  Aleth started to admonish her friend for neglecting the platter of meats and cheese but thought better of it.

  Brienne continued deep in her thoughts, virtually motionless except for the quiet movement of her hands. Slowly, she turned the smooth band of gold round and round her finger. Aleth shook her head with a tiny sigh. Thus her friend had stood for a seeming eternity, sorting through the burdens of her heart as she gazed over the beloved contours of Valsemé.

  Just then, Brienne turned, apparently having come at last to some decision. To Aleth’s surprise, she slipped the ring from her finger then lifted somber violet eyes.

  Aleth rose as Brienne crossed the room. In the next moments, Brienne placed the ring in her palm and folded her fingers over it.

  “Add this to my coffer, Aleth. Bundle it along with the brooches.”

  Brienne forestalled Aleth’s unspoken questions with a gentle squeeze of her hands.” ‘Tis all right, Aleth. But there are matters to be settled. I need find Brother Bernard.”

  Aleth hesitated, searching the strained lines of Brienne’s face, then allowed that the good brother could best comfort her.

  But was there need for comfort? she wondered unabashedly. Brienne had feared her lot with Atli but, providentially, she had been spared. Not that Brienne wished the man dead, Aleth quickly amended, and mentally crossed herself. Now Rurik would be baron, and she suspected Brienne cared more for the golden man than her friend dared admit.

  Of course, Katla’s presence posed an awkward dilemma. There could be but one baronne. Aleth doubted that Brienne could easily step aside while the Norsewo
man directed the affairs of the keep . . . or warmed Rurik’s bed. A small nagging voice pricked at that last thought in the back of her mind, but Brienne snagged her with an expectant look before Aleth could examine it. Her thoughts returned to the churchman. Whether he could offer comfort or not, he could offer guidance and advice.

  “The men abandoned their arguments in the hall a short while past,” Aleth said simply. “Mayhap Brother Bernard has sought some respite at the church.”

  Brienne nodded gratefully. Drawing on her mantle, she moved toward the door.

  Aleth took a quick limping step after her, unsaid words poised on her lips.

  Brienne read the concern in Aleth’s eyes and halted. “How uncertain our futures have become, dear Aleth. Still, we must choose our course anew, as best we can.”

  Brienne’s eyes darkened and she looked away.

  “Who can know the mind of the Lord?” she said with a quiet sadness. “But we must ever seek His way, even when we would rather follow the whisperings of our hearts.”

  »«

  Katla’s snappish tones assailed Brienne’s ears as she approached the hall. Oh, what she would give for a hidden passage to secret her leave-taking. It had long been a childhood fantasy, one that she could well put to use at the moment. She sighed. Alas, to gain the stone staircase leading down to the entrance of the keep, she must pass first through the hall.

  Brienne slowed her steps as she neared the portal. If luck was hers, Katla would be so engrossed in ordering the servants about and putting the great chamber to rights that she would not mark her progress there. But luck was not to be found.

  Katla stood grandly in the center of the room directing the dismantling and stacking of the tables against the far wall. She ceased her dictates as Brienne entered, and turned fully to confront her rival. Deliberately allowing her arm to drop, she caused the large ring of keys that she now wore prominently at her hip to jangle noisily.