The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  Rurik caught and held Brienne’s gaze with his. She felt the warmth of his approval flow through her and wrap around her heart. Flushed with pleasure, she was gladdened by the comfort her presence obviously gave him. ‘Twould have been unforgivable — feckless and weak — to cower in her chamber as impulse pleaded after the turbulent episode with Katla. Nay, ‘twas not a time for spineless indulgences. She would bring solace where she may. There was so little time left to them.

  She watched with a faint ache in her heart as Rurik stepped to the great black. Gripping Sleipnir’s reins, he led the procession out of the courtyard. As the cart lumbered across the bridge and down the road toward the church, the Norsemen intoned a dirge and beat their shields with sticks.

  Brother Bernard awaited the mourners outside the church as did the Seigneur d’Esternay and his men-at-arms. With sacramentary in hand, the monk offered up his prayers, then sprinkled horse, cart, and its occupant with holy water. He trod ahead of the procession as the journey progressed to the river’s edge, sprinkling the ground as he went, striving to hallow the pagan ritual.

  Lyting escorted Brienne and Aleth to a position short of and to the right of the pyre. Leaving them in Rollo’s care, he and Hastein joined Rurik and together the brothers set to loosing the ropes that secured the wagon. For a moment they paused as Lyting appeared to question Rurik on some point. When Hastein shrugged at Rurik’s reply, Lyting conceded with a nod and the three finished their task.

  To Brienne’s amazement, they lifted the entire body of the wagon off its wheels and carried it to the pyre. Cautiously, they climbed the small ramp onto the platform and set the beautifully wrought coffer down amid the dry tinder. As Brienne studied the complex carvings of snarling monsters and clutching beasts, she realized their intent was to burn the piece along with Atli and deemed it a sad waste of fine craftsmanship. But Rurik must own good reason, she decided, for his brothers obviously approved the gesture as well.

  Several moments later, Lyting rejoined Brienne and Aleth. Brienne’s eyes rounded as he stepped behind her, muttering to Rollo, “Let us hope Rurik has the good sense to keep on his loincloth.”

  The remark struck her as exceedingly odd and certainly in poor taste if purposed as a jest. But when she looked over, Rurik already stood bare-chested and was removing his boots.

  Heat climbed into her cheeks as he stripped away his tightfitting breeches to reveal long, hard-sinewed legs. Her throat parched as her eyes riveted on his hands and followed them to the top of his loincloth. His fingers worked the fastenings and parted the material. Her breathing grew quick, shallow, then ceased altogether as his hands stilled. A mixture of relief and disappointment flooded through her when Rurik secured the cloth back in place.

  Brienne’s face burned with the wantonness of her thoughts and the startling desire that jolted through her. She drew into her mantle, grateful for the evening’s concealing darkness.

  Ketil came forth weighted with Gruel Atli’s prized sword, shield, and spear. Rurik first accepted the spear. Raising it high with outstretched arms for all to see, he addressed the crowd with gravity in his Norse tongue before bringing it down and snapping the wood shaft over his knee. With marked formality, he placed the fragments upon the furs in the cart, next to his father.

  Rurik next relieved Ketil of both sword and shield. Again he raised the weapons, extolling Atli in somber tones, this time evoking a rejoinder from the Norsemen. Some cried out and waved their torches, others beat against their bucklers. Setting the shield upon the platform, Rurik smote it with a heavy, sweeping blow of the sword and sundered it in two. As before, he placed the fractured weapon alongside Atli.

  Sword still in hand, Rurik leaped from the pyre and bore it to a burly-looking man tending a coal fire in a brazier. Brienne judged him to be a smith by trade, for tongs and hammers of varying sizes were laid out next to a small anvil, this sunk into a stumplike block of wood. Rurik thrust the blade into the brazier and waited as the smith packed it with glowing charcoal and pumped the flames with his bellows.

  When the metal tested to the smith’s satisfaction, Rurik clamped on to the sword with heavy tongs, withdrew it, and laid the steel across the anvil. With powerful blows, he hammered the blade till it bent. Brienne stood awed by the beauty of his corded muscles as they rippled and bulged with each jarring stroke.

  The sword hissed angrily as Rurik thrust it into a waiting tub of water. Drawing it out, he mounted the pyre for a last time and placed the misshapen blade atop Gruel Atli.

  Before Rurik could move, Brother Bernard hastened forward and, taking the cross from his neck, handed it up to Rurik with instructions to fold it into his father’s hands. This done, Rurik abandoned the platform and took up a torch.

  He waited as additional kindling was heaped beneath and around the sides of the pyre. Holding the torch high as he faced the crowd, Rurik backed ceremoniously toward the pyre. Then he turned and set it aflame.

  Wordlessly, Lyting conducted Brienne forward along with Rollo and Hastein. Quick, disturbing thoughts stabbed at Brienne, and she shook the haunting image of Katla from her mind. She was safe, she reassured herself, but her eyes briefly searched for the Norsewoman before settling on Lyting. He supplied her with a fiery brand, and following his lead, she tossed it into the tinder. The garrison now crushed forward, each soldier hurling torches and kindled sticks onto the pyre.

  Brienne watched the flames feed upon the tinder, hungrily devouring it, the licking tongues of fire battling among themselves. Her thoughts drifted to Rurik. Then he was suddenly standing beside her. Their eyes met and she perceived the strain and exhaustion buried within. She wished to take him to her and comfort him there as she would a child. A child? Her eyes slipped over the hard planes of his chest and shoulders, sculpted in firelight and shadow. When she looked up, he smiled softly and turned her back toward the pyre, his hand lightly at her waist.

  Together they gazed silently on the crackling fire. In that moment it seemed to Brienne that they stood on the brink of time — of their past and their future. A crossroads of sorts. Rurik took up his future at Valsemé and she was satisfied that her people were safe under his hand. But her days would be lined with fabric of black and high brooding walls. A lump constricted her throat. Valsemé her heart could relinquish to his care, but Rurik it held fast.

  She chastised herself. Rurik had never been hers to have.

  A breeze stirred about them, rousing the flames to billowing heights. Brienne caught sight of Katla then, and a deathlike chill slid through her. The Norsewoman stood enraptured by the brilliance and splendor of the fire, oblivious of all.

  A great cracking noise brought Brienne around. She watched the coffer disappear as the blaze engulfed the pyre and climbed the dark skies, releasing Atli to the heavens.

  Chapter 11

  Rurik braced a stiff arm against the sandstone pillar and massaged the back of his neck. The day had racked him, mind and body. He forswore the hall a short while past, greatly in need of a breath of time to himself.

  The manor house drew him. Or was it the memory of sweet torment and desperate yearning that lured him here? Of Brienne, soft and yielding beneath his touch?

  Brienne. How could she think to leave? He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Her stubborn insistence ‘twas but one of the spiny concerns that afflicted his ease.

  The scuffing of boots brought Rurik around to see Lyting duck through the entrance. Mildly surprised, he smiled. “Have you done with feasting so soon, broðir, or has the ale run dry?”

  “We need talk, Rurik.” Lyting appeared all seriousness, his mouth set in firm lines.

  “Is aught amiss?” Rurik straightened, puzzled. “Has some unpleasantness disrupted the hall?”

  Points of light shimmered in Lyting’s crystal blue eyes as he stepped forward. “I would know your intentions toward the Lady Brienne.”

  “My intentions?” Rurik stared at Lyting.

  “Will you return her
to Levroux or — ?”

  “Nei! Not to Levroux.”

  “You cannot hold her here without proper position.”

  “She has position enough as Gruel Atli’s widow.”

  “‘Tis no position at all and well you know it,” Lyting bit out tersely. “She is simply a captive of wardship. Brienne Beaumanoir returned to Valsemé to assume her place as baronne. Can she claim that right by blood or marriage now? Nei. Yet you would force her to remain without station and suffer the insults of that hóra!”

  Stunned by his brother’s outburst, Rurik opened his mouth to counter, but Lyting thundered on without heed.

  “How long do you think to keep her? Your oath this night shall bind you to duke and king alike. Charles has proved his artfulness in using the lady to benefit his crown. He’ll seek another match. And what of our celebrated uncle who sups with her even now in the hall? Do you think he is unaffected by her beauty?”

  “Enough!” bellowed Rurik, his forbearance snapping.

  “Nei! Hear me in this, broðir. Let her go or place her at your side, but decide. And if you cannot, then release her to me. I would pledge her more than my sword arm. I will take her to wife and pledge her my love as well.”

  A searing bolt of jealousy ripped through Rurik. He struggled against it for a moment, balling his hands so he could not wrap them around his brother’s neck. It had long been evident that Lyting honored Brienne, that he was bemused of her. But that he loved her as well?

  Rurik stood wholly speechless, astounded as much by Lyting’s challenge as by his own violent reaction. He strove to shake off the green-eyed serpent that bit at him and form some reply, but Ketil’s ill-timed appearance forestalled him.

  “Rurik, ‘tis time!” Ketil squeezed his hulking frame through the small arched portal. Taking in the two somber faces, he gave each a critical eye yet resisted comment. “Rollo awaits. He would receive your oath and confirm you in your father’s stead as the Baron de Valsemé.”

  Rurik pulled his eyes from Lyting, holding mental rein on their disquieting exchange. Gravely, he regarded his massive friend and weighed an earlier concern. “My father’s men, will they follow me?”

  Ketil cocked his fiery head as though he had misheard, then barked a laugh as if to shed the remark. “Has a maggot infected your brain? What manner of question is that?”

  Rurik’s jaw locked, in no fettle to bandy wit for wit, but Ketil held up a hand.

  “What troubles you, Rurik? Do you doubt yourself?”

  “Nei, but I was never part to Rollo’s campaigns in Francia. I am an utlenður maður here, an outsider, and unproved.”

  “Utlenður maður?” Ketil spluttered. “You, a member of the Varangian guard, the Byzantine emperor’s crack troops, unproved?” He disgorged a few raw remarks into his beard. “Why, Atli boasted of your feats. He even instructed the skald to set the tales to verse and recite them in the hall.”

  “How did he know of my — “

  “He had his ways,” Ketil returned at once, taking in Rurik’s surprise. “I assure you, the garrison holds you in highest esteem.”

  “What of Hastein? Has he not poisoned their minds?”

  “A man is judged by his deed, Rurik, and by the way he conducts his life. Those who serve in the garrison are not blind to Hastein. They know him for the man he is.”

  Ketil pulled a bundle from beneath his mantle. “I thought you might be in need of this,” he said as he withdrew Atli’s golden arm ring from the wrappings, “unless you have considered otherwise.”

  Rurik sighed, bone weary, then looked to Lyting who stood more at ease now. “I shall weigh your words, broðir. We shall speak anon.”

  Lyting acceded with a nod and Rurik turned back to Ketil. Slipping the ring onto his arm, he led the two men from the manor house and headed for the keep.

  »«

  Brienne’s heart swelled as Rurik entered the hall. A leonine strength and sense of purpose filled his stride as he crossed the room toward her. The long, powerful legs stretched out in front of him, easily bridging the distance, while his golden hair flared from his wonderfully handsome face and square jaw.

  His eyes sought and held hers briefly, and she knew in that single moment that she would love him always. Fiercely and unrepentantly would she love this shining man of the North. Beyond life itself. Until the very end of time.

  Rurik halted before the dais, his bearing taut and expectant yet nothing less than lordly. As the duke rumbled out a Norse salutation, Brienne spared a glance down the length of table and met with Esternay’s tethered expression. The nebulous apprehensions that had abraded her throughout the evening now returned, mixing with solid alarm, and tingled over her flesh.

  Brother Bernard shifted forward just then, blocking her view of the knight. Brienne withdrew her gaze and, after a moment’s hesitation, cast it past Rollo’s imposing dimensions to the opposite end of the table. Her pulse stilled as she watched Hastein pass viperish eyes over Rurik then down a bracing mouthful of ale.

  Panic seized her. She swung hard around to warn Rurik, but Hastein chose that precise moment to fling himself from his chair and hammer his voice throughout the hall.

  A challenge! Her heart clogged her throat. No one need tell her what venom he spewed. ‘Twas all too plain.

  “Speak your grievance, Hastein.” A chill clung to the edge of Rollo’s words, these in Frankish.

  At that, Hastein vaulted over the table and leaped from the dais. He took up his stance an arm’s length from Rurik and appealed to the gathering with a sweeping gesture.

  “I, Hastein, am Gruel Atli’s first male child and I claim those rights due me as his eldest son.” He spoke in Norse but repeated himself in Frankish so that all might grasp his protest.

  Turning to Rollo, Hastein pressed his suit. “Did not Atli set me upon his knee before the Assembly and acknowledge me publicly as free and equal to all his other spawnings? ‘Tis I, not Rurik, who should receive my father’s mantle. Do you less for young William, come the day you bind yourself with wife?”

  The barb found its home and Rollo shifted uncomfortably at the thought of his fine son. “Have out with it,” Rollo groused.

  “ ‘Twas I who fought at your side these many years past, securing our foothold along the Seine. ‘Twas I, along with those here present, who accompanied you to St.-Clair-sur-Epte. And all the while, Rurik played the merchant, filling his coffers with riches and easing himself in luxuries untold. Now he returns like a prince of the East to partake of our weal.

  “I have earned Valsemé. Bestow the barony on me. And if you feel bound to confer benefice on Rurik, grant him Ivry instead. ‘Tis fitting, is it not?” Hastein sneered, flickering colorless eyes over Rurik. “Ivry is a ville of old men and suckling babes. Who else would follow the Barnakarl?”

  Argument erupted throughout the soldiery and quickly convulsed the hall. Brienne could not tell if they championed or decried Hastein’s claim, or if ‘twas the slur upon Rurik’s honor that inflamed them. She inclined her head toward Brother Bernard.

  “Barnakarl, what means it?” she asked urgently.

  “The ‘Children’s Man,’ my lady.” He took a brisk sip of wine. “Years ago, when Rurik had barely attained his manhood, he joined Hastein on a raid. ‘Twas his first and last, for he had no stomach for his brother’s ‘entertainments.’ Pillage and rape alone never satisfied Hastein. He sated his bloodlust in unspeakable ways. But Rurik fouled his play that day and saved the . . . A moment, my lady.” The monk gestured hastily. “Rurik doth speak.”

  Brienne’s gaze flew to Rurik but encountered his broad back as he turned to address the hall.

  “I find no sport in catching helpless babes midair upon my sword,” Rurik ground out.

  Brienne gasped in horror and buried her face in her hands.

  “Barnakarl is a title I bear with honor.” His steady gaze swept slowly over each member of his father’s garrison, silently challenging them to take issue with him. “ ‘Ti
s not cowardice for a man to put a cause behind his blade — a cause nobler than another’s perversities.”

  Brienne sucked in her breath, anticipating Hastein’s reprisal, but he made no move.

  “True, my sword was not hardened in Frankish blood,” Rurik conceded, his rich tones filling the chamber. “But ‘twas hardened all the same. Emperor Leo Sophos found it served him well, well enough to trust his life to it. If any doubt my willingness or ability to wield this length of steel” — his hand went to his scabbard — “Hávarðr, High Guardian, awaits.”

  The words struck Brienne to her very core, that he should lay himself open to any and every blade in the keep.

  An uneasy silence hung over the large room.

  “I do not doubt you, Rurik,” Rollo declared firmly, signaling his own position and the attitude he expected his men to espouse.

  “Do not be swayed by the ties of kinship, Ganga-Hrolf,” Hastein hissed. “Your sister’s blood may run through his veins and her image stamp his face, but I am the better choice.”

  A flash of anger grazed Rollo’s eyes. He settled back in his great chair, steepling his fingers, and carefully studied their tips.

  “Interesting, that Atli himself bestowed the ancestral ring upon Rurik? Have I the right of it, Ketil?”

  The bearlike warrior grunted, brusquely nodding his head. Brienne thought he looked fit to smash something, anything, his color was so high.

  Again, Rollo studied his tented fingers. “We have only begun to fortify our holdings. Should I commend Valsemé to your keeping, Hastein — “

  Condemn would be more accurate! Brienne wailed within.

  “ — how do you envision the future of the barony? Of Normandy, for that matter? How would you order the affairs of these lands?” the duke asked slowly, calmly flexing the joints of his long fingers.