The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  Rurik, on the other hand, had known extraordinary freedom since leaving the emperor’s service. Generously gifted for foiling a palace plot and saving the imperial neck, he traveled widely, increasing his wealth, bound to no land or man. For the years past, he had come and gone as pleased him, answerable to himself alone. Nor were any dependent upon him. Now he was both lord and vassal, ruling over fief and serf, in command of his own troops, all the while pledged to serve Normandy’s duke and defend the Frankish domains against his countrymen.

  Now, too, he had a wife to provide for, care for, and cherish. Wife! The thought still tugged a smile from his lips. He had had little intention of taking on that particular responsibility when royal schemes brought Brienne into his life and into his arms. Rurik had believed he would never love again. Now he wondered if he had ever loved at all. Brienne was his heartmate. Were he free to do so, he would sweep her away to a secret trysting place and not return for the waning of many moons.

  But the ceaseless demands of the barony left him no time for even the smallest of indulgences. Garrison, keep, land, and villeins pressed him on every side. Amid all the concerns, the monk proved intent on lessoning him in a god he felt every compunction to reject. He had nearly embraced the Christian god once, for Helena’s sake. But where was that god when she lay dying? When her pain was without end? Where was his power to save? Rurik’s disenchantment with the old gods did not impel him to accept another in their place. If the Christ was divine, Rurik doubted he took interest in the pleas of a Norseman. It bothered him no more than his father to give lip service to this deity if required. What truly disturbed him was the gnawing void his uncertainty left within.

  Bolsgar proved invaluable in the running of the estate. Having managed the demeine under Richard Beaumanoir, he was fully knowledgeable of its many-sided operation. Rurik restored him at once to his former position as steward.

  Initially, they spent a hefty portion of each day immersed in the details of the barony. Bolsgar apprised him of the Frankish system of tenure and explained its rents and liabilities. The spring plantings had begun under Atli but, for the lack of hands and time, only a portion of the fields allotted were tilled and seeded. Rurik ordered that the grain stores be counted throughout his holdings along with the stock — oxen, pigs, goats, and sheep. The month of June, Brachmanoth, was upon them and the fallow land must be broken. The hemp, linen, and flax necessary to make cloth still needed to be sown, and soon enough it would be time to plant the autumn crops, wheat and rye.

  Like his father, Rurik worried over how it was all to be accomplished. Much to the consternation of the Frankish nobility, Normans, regardless of rank, willingly set aside sword for plow to work the fields. They sprang from the land. Their love of the soil ran as richly in their veins as did their lust for warring. But what concerned him most was that King Charles could task Rollo, and thus himself, for arms at any time. Valsemé’s villeins were a pitiable number to rely upon.

  Brienne involved herself in the domestic provisioning of the keep. She overstepped Bolsgar’s duties, she knew, for it was a steward’s charge to see that the smoking and salting of meats and preparation of dairy items all met prescribed standards of cleanliness.

  Both she and Bolsgar were surprised to discover that the manor lacked a cheesemaker. Katla had previously supervised its production. The Norse were fond of a variety of cheeses and particular in its making. None had seen Katla since the night Rurik swore his oath and bid for Brienne’s hand in marriage.

  At the end of the third week, Rurik sat at table well pleased with his progress. Additional fields had been cultivated, the manor house was under construction once more, and early each day, he trained his men with Varangian discipline in the exercise yard.

  He lingered over dinner this night, tired but content, Brienne at his side. Lyting, Ketil, and he were discussing the breeding of horses for size when Brienne drew his eye. She sat quietly, absently pushing chunks of meat around in her stew with the edge of her spoon while she studied one of his soldiers in the hall. The man smeared butter on a thin board of dry fish, then consumed it with gust. Rurik laughed inwardly as Brienne wrinkled her nose and downed a mouthful of wine, as though washing the imagined taste from her mouth.

  He squeezed her hand beneath the table. “ ‘Tis not so vile as it looks, especially when chased with good, stout beer.” He chuckled at her grimace. “Nei? Then perhaps with the mulberry wine our steward has promised. Need it age long, or can you bide the wait?”

  “I can bide the wait till pigs swim and horses fly,” she declared roundly, then bubbled with laughter as his brows shot up.

  Recovering his wit, his mouth spread with a grin. “Mayhap you will acquire a taste for it once you’re increasing. ‘Tis said a woman with child craves the strangest of foods.”

  “If ‘tis so, mayhap I should keep you from my bed,” Brienne teased, cuffing his arm. But Rurik entrapped the offending hand.

  “Would you suffer naught for me, my vixen?” He feigned to be wounded. “Could you cast me aside with such ease?”

  “Nay, love,” she answered softly now. “ ‘Tis one wait I cannot abide.”

  Rurik smiled and pressed her fingers to his lips. “Would that I could snatch you away for a month of honeyed nights, the hýnætur. ‘Tis custom, when possible, that a groom secludes himself with his bride and together they indulge in blissful idleness.”

  Brienne tilted her head, the corners of her mouth turning upward. “And in what way is it ‘honeyed’?”

  A gleam of pure mischief entered his eyes. “Because each day the happy couple shares a cup of mead.” As she made a disagreeable face, he quickly amended, “But for you, I shall bring a cask of the finest Frankish wine.”

  “A cask? Really, Rurik.” She laughed and admonished all at once. “Shall I remember naught of this hýnætur?” Her lightheartedness suddenly faded a degree. “I would love to hide away. Our time alone has been sore lean, and if you would know, I have ever found this keep a cold and cheerless place, even as a child.”

  “The manor house will soon be finished. The men began laying the floors this day.” He brushed his thumb along the curve of her jaw.

  Brienne turned and dropped a kiss to his hand, her senses kindling. “There is one place to secret ourselves in this tower,” she said a bit breathlessly. “Will you come when I send and see that none mark your progress?”

  Rurik felt the blood surge through his veins as he read her desire, his curiosity high.

  Shortly after Brienne took her leave, he charged his brother and Ketil to address any need that might arise and guard that no one disrupt him in the hours to come. He then quit the hall at Aleth’s bidding and followed her to the top of the keep.

  It was a slow, tiring climb for the girl, Rurik noted, but she did so without complaint. When they reached the uppermost step, she ushered him into a low-ceilinged chamber where a pallet lay spread and candles glowed softly. He stood for a moment, uncomprehending.

  Color blossomed in Aleth’s cheeks and she gestured to the ladder. “Your lady waits above, my lord. I will keep watch here.”

  Rurik thanked her with a swift smile and mounted the rungs, wholly intrigued. As he emerged from the small opening, his breath caught in his throat. Brienne awaited him, a vision in white, her dark hair loosened and stirring about her, the long tendrils caught on the wind.

  Brienne stepped past the thick mattress, claimed from one of the garret rooms, and crossed to Rurik. Standing a scant step apart, she allowed the robe to slip from her shoulders and poise provocatively over the tips of her breasts.

  Rurik’s mouth went dry when Brienne drew his hand to the heat of one full breast and the gown fell away.

  Blinding passion roared through Rurik. He took no time to take her down to the mattress or rid himself of his clothes. One moment they were standing and the next flesh was searing flesh. Their mouths clung and devoured, ravished and plundered. Tongues parried and chased with impatient urgency. Their
first coupling was fierce, primitive, as though long starved for one another. Together they exploded in a shattering climax. Only afterward did they fear their shouts might bring the whole garrison, believing the worst. None came. Rurik and Brienne made love again, slowly this time, tenderly exploring one another, savoring each new discovery.

  Rurik found his wife’s back to be deliciously and erotically sensitive. Brienne’s hands wandered over him, seeking to know his secrets yet timid. When he guided her apprehensive fingers to his ready shaft, she sucked in her breath. He waited as she cautiously touched him, then gently showed her how to stroke and caress. She pleasured him then as he did her. When they could bear it no more, she pressed him home.

  As dawn crimsoned the skies, they stood together, Brienne leaning back against Rurik. He encircled her with his arms, slipping one hand within her robe to caress her breast. Enormously satisfied, they stood in silence and looked over the lush green landscape.

  A short time later they returned to their chamber. Rurik bid her rest awhile, then disappeared. He returned in good cheer and, finding her asleep, swatted her backside.

  “What a lazy wife I’ve wed!”

  Brienne slowly opened one eye but came full awake as she spied her coffer being carried from the room. Rurik loomed above her, maddeningly pleased with himself.

  “Get thee awake — we are off within the hour. Perhaps ‘twill not be a true hýnætur, but we shall journey these lands we now rule and make ourselves known to our people.” He stole a kiss from her lips. “Ah, my heart, I would always have you look on me as you did last night. We both need be away.”

  Elated, Brienne flung her arms about Rurik’s neck and pulled him atop her.

  »«

  The days to follow were among the happiest Brienne had known. Side by side, they wended their way throughout their domain, heading a modest escort of soldiers and wagons.

  It fascinated her to watch Rurik administer the barony’s affairs “from the hoof,” as she termed it. By his direction, one third of the garrison traveled with them while another remained at the keep under Lyting’s command. Ketil ranged between the two points with the remaining number, rotating the troops with each visitation. In addition, he updated Rurik on the manor’s progress, apprised him of new arrivals, and carried missives back to Lyting.

  The soldiers welcomed the diversity. Rurik ensured they were challenged whatever be their task, whether at manor or in the field. Those who imagined their service of escort to lord and lady would be an idle affair quickly learned otherwise. Each morn Rurik tested the skill of ten men. None ever bested him, though it became each man’s ardent desire to do so. Wagers were made, and a quantity of silver crisscrossed hands. But as the weeks passed and the baron remained undefeated, it turned into a matter of pride. None truly wished to see his liege routed, try though he might. The soldiers’ boasts swelled as did their respect for Atli’s son. The man was impressive with sword, magnificent with spears.

  To Brienne’s delight, Brother Bernard and Bolsgar also accompanied the retinue. Aside from Rurik, there were few with whom she could converse, and the two ever afforded her diversion with their varied and dubious tales.

  Entertainments aside, Brienne realized that they traveled apurpose. The monk brought the sacraments to the outlying districts, and the steward, quill and parchment to make his accountings.

  But Bolsgar served his lord in another, equally important role — that of assessor. After patiently detailing the Frankish provisions for justice, he was rewarded when Rurik agreed to reestablish the local court of law, or mallus. The new baron vowed to convene the assembly each month and whenever visiting the distant villes as now. While it was the lord’s role to preside over the hearing, it was the assessor’s function to “find the law” and make advisements.

  This Bolsgar did, bearing the weight of his office with great solemnity. But where he expected Rurik to adhere to the Norse codes and anticipated resistance or a clash of values, none arose. Norman though this lord might be, Bolsgar recognized in Rurik a man of fairness and insight. As they traveled from village to village, Bolsgar’s admiration increased a hundredfold. He ruminated over that admission, for it cost him. Yet he knew of not one Frank better suited to take up the standard of Richard Beaumanoir and serve Valsemé’s needs.

  For Brienne, the days blended leisurely one into another as they journeyed beneath azure skies through the gently rolling hillside. Life settled into a rhythm of sorts. In the cool of early morn, Rurik practiced his men and, after dipping in the river, returned to their gabled tent. Brienne awaited with a light fare to break their fast, but it went forgotten more often than not.

  The camp was dismantled quickly, owing to the Norse love of collapsible implements and furnishings. On the days they approached no ville, the retinue selected a new site early and indulged in a hunt.

  By Rurik’s orders, the baronial tent was erected at a distance, near a private sector of the river when possible. Here, he and Brienne lingered throughout velvet nights, exploring the beauty and mystery of one another. They cherished with lips, tasted with tongues, memorized textures and contours with covetous fingers, and relished each intimacy, each new joining.

  Had Brienne known how close Rurik set his guard, she would have been thoroughly abashed. He did not tell her. Instead, he saved her embarrassment by covering her rapturous cries with his mouth. It eased her little, however, when his own shouts near brought down the tent.

  On those days they prepared to enter a village, the baron and baronne dressed with care. Rurik invariably favored his wedding gift and Brienne selected from one of several fine gowns. Together they presented an imposing image as they rode at the head of the retinue, her flowing dark tresses contrasting with his gilded looks, the shimmering white palfrey striding beside the glossy black stallion.

  As became their custom, Rurik and Brienne dismounted in the village center, usually a clearing of some size boasting a well. While the horses were watered and their portable chairs assembled, they accepted offerings of ale and cider from the villeins. Then, assuming their seats, Bolsgar took up his stance, made several pronouncements, and convened the mallus. He urged those bearing grievance to set them before their lord baron and his baronne.

  Many hours were thus spent in the warmth of the midday sun, attending all manner of complaint. Most arose from misunderstandings and obstacles of language, but they were easily resolved.

  The villes were peopled in part by Frankish villeins, predominantly women, children, and elderly serfs. Rarely did freemen number among them.

  Increasingly, Northmen swelled the sparse populations of the villages. Ships arrived regularly to Normandy bringing farmers, smiths, and adventurers. This dealt Rurik a double-edged challenge. While he needed and welcomed their skills, many resisted the Frankish order of nobility and land tenure, insisting they be freeholders.

  Others balked at the strictures of the treaty of St.-Clair-sur-Epte that the duke upheld. Most accepted the new religion, if only superficially, but some opposed blooding their swords on their own kinsmen to safeguard a weak throne. Those who would not comply typically found their way to their kinsmen on the Loire.

  Once the assembly ended, Rurik met with the village officials previously appointed by his father. Brienne asked of ailments, and Bolsgar made his tallies. Brother Bernard conferred penance, baptism, and on one occasion marriage to a couple whose babe was near due. Their visit concluded with a mass of thanksgiving and the escort departed.

  As the weeks stretched into the fullness of summer, the retinue made its return. Brienne thought on those times as idyllic, magical. She folded the memories into her heart. It was not until the escort was within an easy day’s ride of the keep that the long shadow of doubt cast itself across her happiness.

  Their circuitous route brought them to the small holding of Luc. The last mallus no sooner convened than a leathery little man with raisin eyes, a Frank, stalked forward and jabbed his thumb toward two much larger Normans
hulking on the fringes of the crowd.

  His first spewings were unintelligible. When Bolsgar calmed the man with an upraised palm and bid him begin anew, it became evident that the man’s annoyance stemmed from more than a simple misunderstanding of tongues.

  ‘Tis a scourge, an affront to God!” he blustered, undaunted before his lord. “Befouled the land, they did, with their heathenous rites.” He leveled an accusing finger at the two who exchanged amused glances.

  “They forced me to till the soil toward the sun — three furrows — then crumbled in good oat cakes and tossed ale over beast and plow, invoking . . . nay, I shall not repeat that name.” He pinched his lips tight, nostrils flaring.

  “Frey.” The taller Norman ambled forth, barely suppressing a chuckle. “Guntram, here, worries for naught. Our fields are twice blessed.”

  Laughter sprinkled the edges of the gathering where the Northmen clustered.

  The Frank spun around. “Cursed! ‘Tis cursed! The Almighty will set His face against us.” He turned anxiously to Rurik, but expecting little sympathy from a Norse baron, he dropped to his knee before Brienne.

  “My lady, the animals stand besmeared with dirt and the plows wreathed with flowers. Allow me to right this, for God will surely smite us.”

  Brienne beseeched Rurik with her eyes as Brother Bernard stepped forward and bent to his ear. Rurik masked his expression, but a muscle leaped in the hard set of his jaw.

  She felt his irritation and thought it peculiar. Did he object that the old man had made his entreaty to her, or was it something the churchman whispered? Surely he did not approve the rite. But then she remembered the many times she sat with her husband and the good brother during instruction, remembered how Rurik argued the monk round and round on every point and tenet of the faith, how he questioned each teaching and how rarely they made progress. She found herself as frustrated as Brother Bernard at those times. Rurik’s reluctance seemed as thick and impenetrable as the stone walls of Valsemé’s keep.