Brienne’s brows winged upward. Katla had lost little time claiming her place, Brienne thought as she noted the symbol of authority that signified her position as mistress of the keep. She was surprised and somewhat hurt that Rurik would allow Katla to so boldly displace her while her own status was uncertain and he himself had yet to be confirmed as baron. It struck her curious as well that, until now, Katla had never worn the keys. As Atli’s daughter-by-marriage and the only Norsewoman present, she certainly held the right. Brienne could only wonder at Atli’s reasons in denying her that privilege.
“Is there aught you seek here, Lady Brienne?” Katla’s sharp voice cut through her thoughts.
Brienne bristled at Katla’s overbearing manner. “Nay,” she responded stiffly, thinking of several choice remarks she would like to level at the woman. “I need to speak with Brother Bernard.”
Katla laughed harshly. “You wish to seek his counsel? The man is a fool.”
The bald charge took Brienne aback. Apparently, Katla had been privy to the morning’s deliberations, and the monk, being his verbal self, had managed to thoroughly estrange the Norsewoman.
“You Christians are all fools,” Katla hissed contemptuously, taking a small step forward. “You take those you honor and shut them away in the moldering depths of the earth.”
“Atli accepted Holy Baptism and embraced the Faith,” Brienne countered defensively. “He merits a Christian burial.”
Katla scoffed. “He simply took no chances. What is one more god?”
Brienne felt her hackles rise, but before she could bite out a retort, Katla turned and fixed her gaze on a crackling torch braced against the wall. Even at this distance her green eyes captured the flickering light. They glowed oddly as Katla smiled into the flames.
“Fools,” she muttered. “We of the North set the spirits of our dead free in an instant so they might escape to the heavens undelayed.”
A chill spread down Brienne’s spine as Katla continued to stare into the licking flames, entranced. Silently, she withdrew and slipped from the hall.
Brienne traversed the courtyard with brisk steps, eager to place the greatest distance between herself and the Norsewoman. A frown puckered her brows as she stood ready to defy any who would thwart her in departing the confines of the bailey. To her amazement, the tall young Norman who guarded the gate bestowed a warm smile and a slight bow as she crossed the bridge. His words seemed pleasantly given though she could grasp but one word — baronne.
Brienne increased her pace, pleasuring in the exertion as she stretched her limbs and inhaled deeply of Valsemé’s sweet fragrance. Brother Bernard would not be pleased with her decision, but she saw no other course.
»«
Esternay smiled as his dark eyes followed Brienne’s purposeful strides toward the gate.
“A rare beauty to warm a man’s bed, is she not?” he asked, baiting his companion.
Hastein scanned Brienne’s elegant profile as she passed over the bridge, his hands aching with the memory of the full swell of breast and silken thighs.
“‘Twas the king’s desire to award her to Valsemé’s Norman lord,” Esternay continued casually, “regardless the man who claimed that title.”
Hastein cast a glassy eye back over the knight. “What do you want, Frank?” Not awaiting an answer, he crouched down and flung his small dagger into the dirt.
Esternay propped a foot on a small boulder. “Rumor has it that Rurik is not the eldest of Atli’s sons.”
“Did you tumble one of the village whores for that worthy piece of gossip?” Hastein sneered. He bent to retrieve his knife, flinging it into the dirt a second time. “ ‘Tis no secret, Frank. Atli captured my mother in a raid upon the Celtic kingdom. She was his slave.”
“And his lover?” Esternay pressed.
“‘Twas his right.” Hastein shrugged dispassionately but twisted the knife free of the ground with more force than was necessary. “Atli favored her above the others. He would have set her free and taken her to wife had it not been for the high-strutting Ranneveig.”
“Rollo’s sister?”
“Rollo’s sister,” Hastein repeated sourly, digging at the ground with his blade. “He was bedazzled by her golden beauty and quickly forgot my mother.”
Esternay gave a slight nod of understanding. “And so you served your father in his hall, no more than a slave yourself?”
Hastein cut the knight with a sharp look. “We are not uncivilized, Frank. A Norseman’s bastards do not suffer for the accident of their birth as do yours. My mother may have remained a slave but I was raised as an equal alongside Ranneveig’ s sons.”
“Equal?” A challenge laced the word. “Yet ‘tis Rurik who shall rule Valsemé.”
Hastein gripped the knife, his eyes hardening, and slowly straightened. He fixed Esternay with an icy glare as he stroked the keen edge of his dagger with a callused thumb. “Whose cause do you serve, Frank?”
The Seigneur d’Esternay likewise straightened his stance. He met Hastein with an even look. One corner of his mouth curved upward. “My own.”
Hastein suddenly flipped the weapon end over end. Catching it by the tip of the blade, he hurled it at a log in the woodstack. The knife thudded solidly into its newfound home. “As do I.”
Esternay contemplated the quivering piece of steel. Hastein was a dangerous man but would be manageable enough until his usefulness was past and he could be eliminated.
The knight smiled inwardly. Hastein’s hatreds blinded him where Rurik was concerned, and his obvious lust for Brienne played to advantage. Of all the Norsemen they had encountered thus far, she clearly feared this man the most. Brienne would yet be pliable to his terms.
Hastein worked the dagger free of the wood then, turning slowly, allowed a rare half smile to cross his face. “Now, Frank, what is it you want?”
»«
It took several moments for Brienne’s eyes to adjust to the dimness inside the church. Yestermorn the nave was brightened by dozens of candles while her marriage vows were blessed. She curled her fingers into her palm, all too conscious of the golden weight missing from her left hand.
In part, the past week seemed some ghastly dream. There were moments when she feared she would awake and find herself, still, Gruel Atli’s bride. Charles would not use her to his ends again!
Muffled voices drew her attention to the rear of the church, where a small door stood ajar in the back wall, behind and to one side of the altar. This, she knew, led into the sacristy, a robing room where clergy donned their vestments for mass.
Brienne called the monk by name as she started down the long, narrow interior of the church, genuflecting as she passed before the tabernacle. Brother Bernard poked his head out the door, obviously taken by surprise.
“My lady!” he gasped. “One moment, please.”
Hastily, he turned back to his companion. So many sheep to tend this day! ‘Twas unforgivable that he should have forgotten the Lady Brienne.
“My son, you need not bother yourself with these simple repairs.”
Lyting glanced toward the nave where Brienne waited, then looked back to the sacristy’s side door, which opened to the outside. “Nei,” he said, testing the planks of the door for a second time. “ ‘Tis good that I use my hands and rest my mind apace. See here, the wood is rotted round the lock and the latch is rusted. ‘Twill scarce secure the church.”
“Very well. There be tools in the chest, there by the wall.”
Lyting nodded as the monk retreated toward the church proper, then crouched down to rummage through the chest.
“My lady, forgive me. That you must seek me out in such an hour, alas — “ Brother Bernard gestured with open hands as he joined her. “ ‘Twas a morning given to much confusion and cross purposes. I fear I have sorely neglected your own needs. Does all fare well with you, Lady Brienne?”
Brienne managed a small smile. “I am fine, truly, but I would avail myself of your wisdom.”
/> “Of course, my child. How might I aid you?”
“I need clarify a matter of some import.” She caught her lower lip between her teeth for a moment before adding, “Concerning my position here.”
“Your position here? At Valsemé?” The monk puzzled, uncomprehending. “You are the baronne.”
“I think not, good brother.” Brienne stepped away to stand before the altar, giving him her back, and gazed up at the crucifix.
Brother Bernard looked at her blankly. He had not yet threshed out the ramifications of Gruel Atli’s death. His energies had been consumed, thus far, in preventing the Norsemen from sending Atli off in a blaze down the river Toques.
“Is it not so,” Brienne began carefully, “that even though vows be spoken, if one of the spouses dies before the marriage can be consummated or the Morgengabe, the morning gift, be endowed, that the marriage is invalid?”
Brother Bernard’s brows flew up. At the same time, the shuffling noises in the rear of the church ceased.
“Aye,” he forced out at length, settling a ponderous look upon the maid. “ ‘Tis so.”
“Is there aught required, papers from Rome’s legate or the archbishop, perchance?”
“Nay, my lady. ‘Tis as though the vows were never spoken. Nothing further is required. I myself am witness.”
“All is as it was before?”
“Aye, I have said as much.”
“Then it follows that I am still the ward of the king.”
“Aye,” the monk granted cautiously. He could not fault her logic but neither could he perceive where her vein of thought led.
Brienne brought her eyes from the crucifix and faced Brother Bernard with solemn countenance. “I have fulfilled our king’s commands and faithfully so. Those bindings are dissolved. There be no place for me here now. I wish to return to the Abbey of Levroux.”
The clattering of wood and implements sounded in the rear chamber.
“Leave Valsemé?” the monk blustered. “My lady, ‘tis unseemly. How can you say there is no place for you? You are the baronne.”
“By your own admission, I am not.” The words clogged her throat. She turned quickly back to the altar before he could see the tears escaping her eyes. “All is as it was before,” Brienne whispered, her heart breaking. How could anything ever be the same again?
Curse Charles for his interference! She shook with anger mingled with despair. Curse him for reopening old wounds still raw beneath their scars. Better that he had left her buried in cloister and not tampered with her heart. Now, for the second time in her life, she must forsake the lands that nurtured her and once and for all set aside her rightful place as baronne for her people’s sake . . . and for him whom she loved.
Brienne pressed her lashes shut to keep the hot tears from spilling. Rurik would be Baron de Valsemé and Katla his baronne. Where would be her place? Beneath the Norsewoman’s charge, in her father’s keep? And if she stayed atime, how long before the king would seek to use her noble blood to tie alliances to his throne? Who this time? A Magyar henchman to quiet the East, she wondered outrageously, or a Muslim brigand to avert the raids on the southern coast?
But even should she remain and suffer Katla’s domination and the misery of knowing the woman filled Rurik’s bed each night, her own presence could cause naught but division. Her people would never accept the Norsewoman while a Beaumanoir dwelt on Valsemé’s soil. No doubt they would look first to her and create greater problems for Rurik as he established his authority. ‘Twould be direful indeed if he be forced to chasten them for their loyalties to herself should they openly reject his wife. ‘Twas best she leave while she may to live out her days in cloister beneath the veil, haunted by the memories of her golden warrior.
“And what of our Frankish villeins, my lady?” Brother Bernard asked gravely, his heavy brows butted together. “Did you not return to intervene in their behalf?”
Brienne brushed a tear from the corner of her eye and sternly composed herself. “Rurik is a fair and just man. I do not fear for our people under his hand. Those who choose to come to Valsemé and those who remain will do so because of his goodness, not because of my presence.”
Brother Bernard pursed his lips, thoroughly perplexed. Why was the maid so decided on leaving, especially now that Rurik would assume lordship over her lands? There were times in recent days when he worried over their heated looks and stolen glances. Could he have so misread . . .
The low wail of a distant trumpet signaled approaching troops.
“ ‘Twould seem we shall soon have guests.” He gave a mental shudder, wondering whether the visitors would beset him with yet another crisis. “Best I see you to the keep, my lady.” He led her toward the entrance. “We shall speak of this anon.”
Brienne declined his offer of escort, more in need of the time to herself, and promised to return to the bailey forthwith.
When Brother Bernard turned back into the church, Lyting stood framed in the portal of the sacristy, his mouth set in a grim line.
»«
Brienne made haste to the bailey but did not go straightaway into the keep. She took refuge, instead, in the confines of the manor house. Once she was certain that none were about, she secluded herself in a far corner and gave in to her tears.
A short time later, she willed herself to climb the endless flight of wooden stairs and entered the keep. Wearily, she garnered the last of her strength to mount the inner steps that confronted her.
Where the entries of most keeps opened directly into the hall, ‘twas her father’s design to incorporate a second staircase. His mind was ever bent on defense. Should the tower itself fall under siege and be overrun, the enemy would be forced to scale the curving, open stairs with their sword arm against the wall. The keep’s garrison, descending from above, would fight to the advantage, their arms being free.
Waite suddenly appeared, charging like a little bull down the stone staircase with Patch at his heels.
“Oh, m’lady! You must come, m’lady!”
“Waite, you gave me a terrible fright,” Brienne scolded, clutching the boy and pulling him away from the edge and over to the wall. “These steps are uneven and open to below. You must have a care, child, or you will be splitting your fine skull, and that I cannot mend so easily.”
“Sorry, m’lady,” Waite mumbled, instantly contrite, then remembered his urgency. “But, m’lady, Katla is quarreling with the limp-legged girl in your chamber.”
“Aleth?”
“Aye, m’lady, and she is fierce mad, too.”
“Katla?”
“Nay, m’lady, Aleth.”
Brienne gathered her skirts and hurried up the steps. The squabbling reached her ears before she gained sight of the chamber. In the next moment, she found Aleth blocking the portal with her small frame, feet and arms braced wide, as servants tried to pass out of the room with Brienne’s clothing chest in hand.
“Stand aside, you useless cripple,” Katla shrilled, “or I will see your other leg — “
“Not if you value your life!” Brienne exploded, pushing between Aleth and Katla. No one, ever, dare speak in such a manner to sweet Aleth and think to come away unscathed.
Katla’s eyes narrowed, then she suddenly threw back her head and laughed. “You think I would truly harm your woman? What honor is there in damaging that which is already enfeebled?”
Brienne started forward, but Aleth grabbed at her sleeve. “Nay, Brienne, please — “ Her voice broke in an anguished plea.
Katla smiled with satisfaction as the pathetic chit clung to her mistress. How easily words cut at the heart. ‘Twas a talent of hers and one that amused. But these two were such mewling creatures. It robbed the pleasure from her play.
Katla shrugged at Brienne. “I but sought to return your possessions to your former room and ready the lord’s chamber for Rurik. We have need of it now.” She clawed with precision.
“But, Brienne,” Aleth wailed, “I found her sniffing
through your coffers. Methinks she — “
“Do not fear, Aleth. We shall account for the king’s gifts later,” Brienne reassured, cutting the Norsewoman with a hard look. “For I intend to return them, each and every ell of cloth and every fine trinket. If there be a shortage, I am sure Rurik will right the matter directly.”
Brienne was satisfied to see Katla’s smile thin, though it did not fade altogether. There would be little use for such luxuries in cloister, but, by the milk of the Virgin, Katla would not lay claim to the least of them.
“Until then, we are best in our garret room.”
“How gratifying.” Katla uttered a small, throaty laugh laced with derision. “A scrap of Frankish sense is yet found this day.” She clapped her hands sharply at the servants. “Remove the chest.”
The two men hefted the long, narrow chest to their shoulders and bore it from the room. Scarce a moment lapsed before the men backed into the chamber and set the chest down once more.
“Dullards!” shrieked Katla. “Do you wish the lash? I command you to remove — “ She swallowed her words as Rurik filled the doorway.
Brienne’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of him and a smile spread through her whole being.
“Explain yourself, woman,” he growled, cold eyes boring into Katla.
“I have been readying our . . . your chamber,” she sputtered.
“On whose authority?”
“Why . . . I assumed — “
“You assume much, Katla.” Rurik clipped, his voice low and taut with anger.
Katla gasped softly. Mastering her wits an instant later, she crossed to him. The jangling of her keys drew his eye but she quickly pressed against him and trailed her long fingers over his chest.
“My only wish is to please you, Rurik,” she cajoled, toying with the edge of his jerkin.
Rurik gripped Katla by the wrists, his look inscrutable .
“You may begin by restoring all that you have seen fit to remove.”
“But ‘tis your right — “
“My father is scarce cold, yet you eagerly cast his widow from his chamber. I shall not have it!” Rurik blazed.
Katla’s cheeks flamed. She conceded with a curt nod, chafing under his reproach.
The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series) Page 15
