The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  “Careful, Uncle,” Lyting cautioned with mock seriousness, “or you’ll have Ketil fair green with envy.”

  Laughter rippled down the table and in the hall among those who gave ear to the repartee. Rurik tipped back in his chair, amusement flickering in his eyes as his mouth eased into a wide smile at the monk’s expense.

  Brienne laughed as well as her gaze settled on Rurik’s strikingly handsome face. A shudder of desire flashed through her and her heart rose in her breast. Her fingers suddenly ached to trace the firm curve of his lips and explore the deep cleft in his chin.

  Brienne arrested the course of her thoughts with a sound mental shake and averted her gaze to Lyting who sat chuckling, well pleased with himself.

  An unexpected chill skimmed over Brienne as she felt the pull of another pair of eyes. Tensing, she glanced past Lyting and met with Hastein’s silent regard. The corners of his mouth curled with the satisfaction of his thoughts as his gaze lowered and slowly roamed over her.

  Brienne recoiled, remembering the assault of his hands on her body. She shot him an angry look but it served only to amuse him. He taunted her with smirking self-confidence, then leveled his gaze past her shoulder. Brienne turned to find the object of his interest. Only two held seats to the right of her — Brother Bernard and Robert Coustance.

  Her stomach knotted as the Seigneur d’Esternay inclined his head. A faint smile tipped his lips yet failed to reach his dark eyes. With a satisfied look, he lifted his goblet and savored a long draught.

  Suppressing a wave of panic, Brienne forced her attention to the progress in the hall as the first courses were presented. Rollo kept his conversation light, yet she sensed his mind was turned in on itself, dissecting some weighty matter. He avoided discussing Atli, diverting the tables’ parley onto other paths instead.

  Brienne grew restive under his attentions. That he desired to share her trencher was obvious when he separated her from Rurik and placed her to his right. She had no qualms over usurping Katla from her mother’s chair and expected the fiery Norsewoman would take a position with Rurik. To her surprise, Katla was relegated to the far end of the table beside Hastein.

  The vaguest of impressions settled over Brienne. It bore no sense, but it seemed that Rollo’s attentiveness was aimed to an end other than gaining her smile or blandishments. In truth, it appeared that Rollo sported with Rurik, the little considerations but a guise to nettle his nephew. Had he read their hearts so easily? Brienne attempted to channel the conversation into a safer harbor, asking of Poppa.

  The glowing pride of fatherhood charged the duke’s features as he settled back into his chair. “The birthing was swift. Young William now has a sister, Gerloc. And such a tiny mite. She fits in one hand, but her lungs are fit and hale. She squalls a great protest should I hold her overlong, keeping her from her mother’s breast.” He laughed. “Poppa has promised many other sons and daughters,” he added, his eyes shining softly.

  Brienne did not worry over the duke’s attentions after that, perceiving the lay of this great Norseman’s heart. He grew pensive at times and spoke quietly with Rurik in Norse.

  Brienne was lost to her own thoughts when Katla’s voice scraped away the calm. The Northwoman rose, hurling a terse remark in her direction. Brienne felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. A heartbeat later, Brother Bernard leaned forward and retorted in the Nordic tongue. Brienne grasped Atli’s name in the exchange, flooding her with relief to know that she was not the mark of Katla’s attack.

  Ketil quickly joined in the verbal fray, drawing in Rurik and Lyting who seemed at odds in their opinions. Rollo next entered the dispute, and when it spilled into Frankish, Esternay added his own comments. Additional sentiments echoed in the hall as the argument reverted to Norse once again.

  Rollo’s patience suddenly gave way. He brought his tankard down so hard upon the table that Brienne thought it would crack. Slowly, he rose from his chair and fixed the hall with a quelling look.

  “Gruel Atli was a man of heiður og sæmd, honor and respect. Fearless in battle, steadfast in friendship, and true to a trust. More than once he saved my life and stood in my place, unflinching before the jaws of death.”

  Rollo’s gaze swung over the assemblage, then to Brother Bernard. “Verily, Atli took the Christian waters at my side this year past. But he was raised to manhood among the Vendel, and bálför is their practice.” His voice rumbled in his throat as he thumped his massive chest. “The roots of youth tap deep into a man’s soul.”

  Turning back to the hall, his words carried strong and clear. “My friend. . . minn ‘broðir’ . . . shall have his last wish. Build the funeral pyre high at the river’s edge. In deference to the Christ, the deathship and goods shall be forsworn save for personal weapons. Let the preparations begin. We send Atli to his reward at sunset.”

  »«

  Brienne drew away from the chamber window and chafed her arms. The great keep stored the winter’s cold in its stony marrow and remained a chilly fortress against the warmer airs of spring.

  “The sun is nearly set,” Aleth observed, moving to stir the embers in the small hearth. The flames leapt to life as she added bits of wood, brightening the darkened room and exaggerating the shadows to eerie dimensions against the walls.

  “Are we to await Rurik?” Aleth inquired as she huddled near the fire.

  Brienne shook her head, lifting her hands to warm them. “He departed the bailey a short time ago, but he promised an escort. Another will come.”

  Aleth’s lashes fluttered to her cheek. She turned back to the fire but could not hide the anticipation washing over her. Brienne smiled, wondering if her friend silently hoped for a particular escort, one possessed with flaming red hair.

  Her smile slipped a degree as she gazed back into the flickering light. She must leave Valsemé. Aleth, too. And though it lay like a stone in her heart, ‘twas foolery to consider otherwise. First, she must bear through the coming hours. But on the morrow, she would reassert her will to leave.

  She fingered the small cross that lay at her throat, her thoughts churning with frustration. Rurik intended that she participate in the funeral ceremonies, precisely how, she did not know, but he was adamant that she stand with him and his brothers as a member of Gruel Atli’s family.

  She released a weary breath. Did he think to strengthen his claim over her by insisting she play the widow before all? Mayhap Rollo would aid her return to Levroux. She dismissed the thought. Blood ran thick among these Norsemen. Rollo would heed the wishes of his nephew. Nay, she must argue the issue with Rurik. Could he not see how it tore at her?

  The discordant creaking of the oaken door pulled Brienne’s and Aleth’s eyes to the portal. A figure poised there, silhouetted against the glimmering torchlight of the passageway.

  Brienne felt a cool whisper of air curl through the room and brush over her. Instinctively, she moved to Aleth’s side as, seemingly, a thousand pinpoints prickled over her scalp and down her spine.

  The form moved, accompanied by the soft rustle of cloth and faint clinking of metal as it stepped from the shadows into the golden glow of the hearth.

  Brienne released a pent breath as Katla emerged from the darkness, splendidly robed and bearing a small tray with an object hidden beneath a linen.

  “I am instructed to see that you are prepared,” Katla announced as she crossed to the small table.

  “Prepared? How so?” Brienne’s pulse quickened, her senses sharpening.

  Katla paused and regarded Brienne. The play of firelight and shadow distorted the contours of her face. “For the rites, of course. Surely you realize why Rurik keeps you here.” Her lips spread into a thin smile. “He has need of you.”

  She set the tray down, turning it a quarter, her gestures smooth, ceremonious.

  “You are his father’s widow. And Rurik is a loyal son who will see his father’s requests . . . and necessities fulfilled completely.”

  Katla withdrew the linen, revea
ling a heavy silver goblet incised with mysterious angular markings about its base.

  “Atli must not go unattended to the nether regions.” Her voice carried an odd, distant note as she stared into the cup’s dark contents. “You must join him.”

  Alarm shot through Brienne as Katla lifted the vessel and faced her. The woman was mad! She could scarce take a breath as Katla moved toward her, proffering the cup. From the corner of her eye, Brienne glimpsed Aleth reaching for a stick of kindling, but Katla’s dulcet tones netted back her attention.

  “Do not be frightened,” Katla continued in a lulling tone. “The nabid will take away your fears. It will soothe you. When the moment of passage comes, you will know naught but tranquility.”

  Katla stopped before Brienne, her green eyes dark, hypnotic pools. “Drink the nabid,” she chanted, holding out the cup. “Drink the nabid.”

  Without thinking, Brienne knocked the cup away. Crimson liquid swashed wide of the goblet, catching Katla against the side of the face and spattering her dress. The Norsewoman shrieked her fury. Curling her fingers like talons, she lashed out at Brienne. But Brienne pitched to one side as the nails raked through air and barely missed her head.

  “Leave, Frankish bitch!” Katla hissed. “Either attend Atli in the realms beyond or run back to your tight-legged sisters and hide behind your cloister walls. This keep will not hold the two of us, nor do I share Rurik!”

  Katla lunged forward, but suddenly her feet left the floor and she was jerked backward. An arm seized her from behind, lifting her high in a swirl of gown and hair, and flung her to the rush-covered floor.

  Lyting loomed above her, his vivid blue eyes filled with rage and slashing into her. He spat into the rushes then thundered furiously at Katla in rapid Norse. Yanking her to her feet, he shoved her toward the door.

  Katla hurriedly snatched up the goblet from the rushes and clasped it to her breast. Hastening through the portal, she halted abruptly and spun round, knifing Brienne with a poisonous look. Her mouth held an ugly slant and her eyes flashed pure hatred.

  “Be gone, hóra!” Lyting stormed.

  Brienne swayed, her legs dissolving beneath her. Aleth caught her by the side and at the same moment Brienne felt Lyting’s hands close around her, encompassing her more fully.

  “Brienne! My lady!” Lyting’s voice seemed distant above her.

  Brienne clung to him till the rushing in her ears receded and the room righted itself. Looking up, she found his eyes, usually a brilliant blue, now clouded with worry and anxiously searching her face. Carefully, Lyting helped her into a chair while Aleth brought wine and a damp cloth to cool her brow.

  Suddenly conscious that he still clasped Brienne’s hand, Lyting released it and straightened. Even in the poor light, Brienne could see that his features had deepened with color.

  “My lady, I am sorry. This should not have happened.”

  Brienne was unsure if he spoke of Katla’s bizarre behavior or of his holding her in so familiar a manner, though in verity she knew he sought but to aid her. She cleared her throat and decided to keep to the safer course.

  “What nature of drink did the goblet hold?”

  Lyting pressed his lips into a line. “Nabid. ‘Tis an intoxicating potion used in our funeral ceremonies and imbibed during the many feasting days that accompany them.”

  “Given, I presume, to the unfortunate souls who are sacrificed upon the pyre?” She could not keep the small thread of hysteria from rising in her voice. “To the luckless wife who survives her husband and finds she must now perish with him?”

  “ ‘Tis not as it seems.” A look of pain lanced his eyes. “Customs vary greatly among my people. Bálför, burning the dead, is practiced chiefly among the worshipers of Odin, most notably the peoples of Sverige, such as the Vendel and the Valsgärde, and the Rus along the Volga. If any accompany the deceased, whether upon the pyre or into a bog, they are thralls who volunteer.” Lyting gave her a considering look. “This may be difficult for you to accept or even conceive of, my lady, but ‘tis considered a privilege to follow one’s master and serve him in the afterlife.”

  “And wives?” Brienne asked warily.

  “Wives are not sacrificed,” he reassured her gently, shaking his head. The corner of his lips tugged upward. “Though, if she wished — “

  “She does not!” Brienne stiffened at his attempt at levity, fresh strength flooding her limbs.

  Lyting’s smile broadened. “May I assume by your words that you acknowledge you are my father’s widow and shall therefore remain at Valsemé?”

  “I cannot,” Brienne sputtered, then with a start realized ‘twas Lyting who had tarried in the church’s sacristy when she spoke with Brother Bernard. “You overheard and still you ask?” She quickly rose to pace on unsteady legs. “There is no place for me now. Rurik shall be baron and Katla — “ An involuntary tremor shuddered through her.

  “Katla has naught to do with this.”

  “Katla has everything to do with it!”

  “Katla is a warped, self-seeking creature who nourishes her hatreds and jealousies and clings implacably to the old ways,” Lyting argued. “She can be dealt with or sent away if need be.”

  Brienne was astonished at his suggestion, disbelieving Rurik would discard a wife so casually for her sake. And to what purpose? Could she remain at Valsemé and prevail as what? Rurik’s lover? She knew with a certainty that if she dare stay, her days would inescapably find their beginnings and endings in Rurik’s bed.

  Brienne squeezed her lashes shut and expelled a breath. “I must leave, surely you understand that.”

  Lyting’s voice hardened with exasperation. “That, my lady, is what I understand least of all.”

  »«

  Rurik stroked Sleipnir’s glossy coat, then he rechecked the steering traces that ran from the leather harness to the wagon’s front axles.

  Each of the thick ropes was capped with a rangel, a long, conical iron mount. One end was connected to the harness by means of an iron ring from which hung a collection of smaller rings, rattles to ward off evil spirits. The other end hooked onto a larger eye-mount that encircled the wheel’s fixed wooden axle. It was a simple but effective device by which to guide the cart. The reins passed separately through a richly decorated harness bow of gilded bronze that rested on the horse’s back and, in turn, supported the traces.

  His mother had loved this wagon, Rurik remembered as he smoothed his hand over the swirling tangle of menacing creatures that embellished its surface. She had delighted in how easily it disassembled. With little effort, the body could be removed and fitted to runners, converting it into a sledge for winter’s passage over ice and snow. It could also be packed tightly with goods for a voyage and driven down to the sea. The troughlike body would then be unlashed from the undercarriage and hoisted directly onto the ship. How often had he done just that for his mother when he took her with him on trading excursions to Hedeby?

  Not often enough, came the answer as his hand stilled over the carvings. A scant four months past, he bore Ranneveig to her burial chamber in this wagon. Today it would bear his father.

  Rurik guided Sleipnir and the elegant wagon to the motte near the stairs. Once inside the keep he seized one of the torches from its bracket and descended into the bowels of the tower. Ketil and two of Atli’s loyal soldiers, Eirik and Gyrr, awaited him by the stone well that supplied the keep. Casks of wine and grain were stacked shoulder high around the wall save where a door stood slightly ajar, revealing a small storage room.

  “The women have prepared him and clothed him as you bade,” Ketil offered somberly, and started toward the door.

  Rurik stayed his old friend: “I would have a moment.”

  Ketil grunted and stepped aside, allowing Rurik to enter the chamber unattended.

  The crates of glassware, silver, and plate that normally cramped the room had been banked against the walls and a table assembled in the clearing. It claimed a fair portion o
f the cell’s mean dimensions and supported Atli’s bier.

  Rurik inhaled deeply then released the breath with measured slowness as he contemplated his father’s lifeless form. Slipping his hand inside his jerkin, he withdrew a small glass reliquary containing a lock of his mother’s golden hair.

  Atli had been sorely aggrieved when he learned of Ranneveig’s passing. Despite the infrequency of his visits to their home at Limfjord and their many years apart, Atli ever desired to bring Ranneveig to his Frankish holding and set her by his side. But when Rurik sailed to fetch her, he found her suffering a terrible wasting disease. He could not even touch her flesh for the pain she suffered. This he did not tell his father, only that she died in his arms.

  Though Atli was not a man to display his heart, Rurik discovered him brooding over the reliquary more than once. Ranneveig herself had provided the keepsake when Atli first went i viking in Francia. Rurik slid the small gilt-trimmed box inside his father’s tunic and drew the robe of fine brocade over him.

  “I know not if your men will follow me, Father, but I will honor my promise and safeguard that which is yours by my life’s blood. Be assured that Brienne is protected under my shield. King be damned, I’ll not forfeit her to his grasp.” A muscle flexed in his jaw. “Together we will hold Valsemé, I for you and she for her sire, Richard. ‘Tis a time for healing in these lands, as well you understood.”

  Rurik’s gaze moved over Atli. The lines in his brow deepened.

  “No man can predict the hour of his death. Yet even in that moment you contrived to have your will of me and moor me here with Brienne as my anchor. You knew I would set aside my wanderings to see her well.”

  His eyes widened with sudden comprehension.

  “You knew.”

  »«

  Brienne stood with Aleth to the fore of the Norman garrison alongside Rollo, Lyting, and Hastein. The crowded bailey flickered with scores of torches as Atli was borne with great solemnity from the keep and laid upon a bed of furs in the ornate wagon.