On and on he quaked, exploding within her, groaning with a pleasure akin to pain, till at last he had emptied himself.
Heart pounding, certain he had raised the temperature of the entire lake, Rurik sank back into the water. He grinned wickedly, drawing Brienne half atop himself, and drifted.
“You should know better than to tease a man armed, ástin mín.”
He gave her no chance to reply, rolling to caress her mouth pleasurably with his own, his hands wandering to intimate ground. And of complaints she had none. Not then — nor later — nor later still.
Rurik and Brienne visited the lake again the next evening and the two after that. A week later, when they plotted to steal away once more, they were forestalled by sullen skies.
By midafternoon, an unnatural darkness shrouded the land as surly clouds invaded from the west. Winds kicked high bringing the fresh, heavy scent of damp earth, and thunder belched its approach. Hastily, animals were herded to shelters or penned, tools and implements stored, dwellings secured, and children accounted for.
The first huge drops of rain presaged a roaring downpour. Roads turned to mire while lashing winds whipped at trees and clawed the thatching from cottages.
The storm railed long into the evening, losing little of its choler. Jarring bolts of lightning and thunderous peals split the skies and rain sheeted against the manor house.
But within the great hall its menace went largely unnoticed, if not ignored. Fires crackled in each of three hearths, warding off the day’s uncommon chill. Torches blazed brightly along the walls and the harper played above the dull rumblings.
Brienne smiled from the dais, pleased to be in her father’s spacious hall. This night recalled others from childhood. Her gaze drifted to the heavy timbers arching overhead, and she watched as a small, high-set window flashed with momentary brightness. Then she drew her eyes downward to peruse the Byzantine carpets and decorative shields cheering the walls. Richard’s hall but Rurik’s, too. It bore his seal in many ways, she mused, her smile deepening, such as the small bathing chamber he added off their bedchamber.
“Does aught gladden you?” Rurik leaned to her ear. “There is much here that gladdens me.” She squeezed his hand beneath the table.
Looking out again into the busy hall, Brienne nodded toward Aleth and Ketil. The last remnants of supper were being cleared away and the tables dismantled. The two remained at their trestle, Ketil shooing away the servant who sought to take it down, and Aleth adeptly setting out a gaming board with little bone pegs.
“Should I worry over yon maiden?” Brienne teased blithely.
Rurik rubbed his jaw and grinned. “Did they share a trencher again this night? Mayhap I should set them a guardian, but more for Ketil’s behalf. ‘Twould appear your lady tames that bullish creature, and I can ill afford to lose his warrior prowess to more gentle refinements. He’d be of little use unmanned.”
“I think Aleth would agree.”
Laughter broke out somewhere in the hall, eclipsing Rurik’s response. But his lips brushed the curve of her neck and his hand moved along her thigh, telling her he was of a mind to retire.
As he drained his goblet and prepared to rise, the sturdy planked door of the manor house burst open. His man, Eirik, entered grim-faced and dripping into the far end of the hall to announce an arrival. Behind him, a figure poised at the portal, concealed within a heavy hooded cloak.
A sudden streak of lightning illuminated the night skies without, outlining the specter against the howling torrent. The form moved slowly into the room and crossed the rush-strewn floor. With no hint of identity, it came to stand before the dais but remained at a distance. Hands gloved to the elbows appeared from beneath the cloak and pushed back the rain-soaked hood. Bright red hair tumbled out, molten in the glow of torchlight.
Rurik brought the goblet from his lips and set it firmly on the table while Brienne’s heart slammed against her ribs. A single word escaped her lips — “Katla.”
Katla smiled darkly, glorying in the attention she now commanded. She allowed her gaze to stray over the faces for a measured moment.
“Am I to receive no welcome?” She tugged at her gloved fingers and removed their covering. Her eyes swept to Rurik and gave him an extended, appreciative look. “Do you not bid me welcome, my lord? Or am I so soon forgotten?”
“Gott kvöld, Katla,” he said tonelessly.
“You seem surprised to see me.” She tapped the gloves to her chin. “But, já, I did leave rather hurriedly and without word. Dare I hope my absence distressed you?” She shrugged when he did not reply, her green eyes taking in Brienne. “But of course not. You have been occupied with your new duties to the barony.”
The implication hung clear. This wife was but a duty, a millstone Rurik must bear.
Rurik’s jaw hardened. “How is it you travel about on such a night, Katla?”
She stepped closer to the dais, her eyes glinting with needlepoints of firelight.
“ ‘Twas imperative that I return to Valsemé, and to you, my lord baron. It seems while I was apart, soothing my wounded pride, I found myself in possession of something that is yours. Being of good conscience, I have returned.”
“I know naught of mine that is missing.”
“Missing? Nei, Rurik, I pilfered no chests. But there is this — “ She unclasped the jeweled brooch at her throat.
As the cloak fell away, Brienne gasped audibly. The hall was stunned to silence, not a breath heard drawn.
Slowly, Rurik rose to his feet. His hard, silvered gaze lowered to the swell of Katla’s abdomen.
Laughter floated from her throat and rose to mingle with the sound of the storm raging without.
Chapter 14
“You are a fool to let her stay and more the fool to believe the child can be yours. God’s teeth! Katla lifts her skirts to nearly every pair of breeches she encounters.”
“You overstep yourself, broðir,” Rurik growled, moving from the shadows of the small chamber set off the main hall and into the flicker of torchlight.
“Do I? How do you think she gained passage from Danmark? Her coffers were filled long before your arrival, no doubt each piece well earned.”
Rurik advanced on Lyting, but the younger man stepped back and flung a hand to the air.
“Forsooth, the babe could easily be any man’s, even our father’s or Hastein’s. I cannot believe you gave place to that hóra.”
“What are you saying?” Rurik demanded, brought up short by his words.
“Only that Katla spreads herself for more than what a man’s trousers or purse can yield. ‘Tis power she craves. Position.”
Lyting fixed Rurik with a sharp, layered look. “When our father gained the barony, she followed him from Rouen and applied herself eagerly to his bed. Atli recognized her game but did not deny himself her pleasures. He shared her equally with Hastein before passing her to the others.”
“Including you?” Rurik snapped, his ire peaked.
Lyting gave a harsh laugh. “I wasn’t interested and for once Katla did not offer. She realized she would gain no place of permanence with Atli and set her sights on the son he boasted of so often in the hall, the son who obviously would inherit.”
Lyting pushed a hand through his pale hair, feeling the keen bite of Rurik’s eyes. “I would have cautioned you, but I thought her wiles plain enough. Women are in short supply and Katla unquestionably fair. Why should you withhold yourself from what most others enjoyed?”
Rurik braced his elbow against the wall and dragged a hand over his face. “I did not know the full of it, but I suspected her snare.” He smiled faintly. “I thought to put her aside but had no pressing reason. None till first I met Brienne.”
“Then do so now. See Katla away. She’ll not long be satisfied to sit in your wife’s shadow.”
“Would that in good conscience I could, but if her reckoning be correct, the babe is very likely mine. I cannot ignore that. The circumstance of birth is
no fault of the child. I would give it a place in my hall.”
Lyting expelled a long, exasperated breath, planting his hands low on his hips. Did Rurik honestly think Katla’s bed ever grew cold? That she was capable of fidelity even during that first brief month after his arrival to Valsemé? When Rurik departed to meet the bridal escort, Katla kept herself well amused. There had been sufficient boasting among the garrison.
“ ‘Tis a high-minded gesture, Rurik, and I do not fault you for that. But be wary of repeating our father’s mistakes. Think on it. Would you see Katla set this child against those Brienne will bear you, even as Morrígú set Hastein against us?”
Rurik’s eyes hardened. “Katla can be sent away once the child is born.”
“Do not underestimate Katla, broðir, whatever else you do. I tell you, she is like an adder coiled up. Give her no corner from whence to strike.”
»«
Rurik gazed upon Brienne’s sleeping form, dimly outlined in the depths of the great bed. One of the window’s thick, inner shutters stood ajar, admitting a faint stroke of light and crisp, rain-scented air. The storm had subsided to a dull, steady patter. On the table, a flame fluttered in a stub of candle before it hissed at a random breeze and went out.
Folding his clothes over a chair, Rurik slipped between the sheets and carefully drew Brienne into his arms. As he rested his head atop hers, he felt her stir and her hand drift to his chest. For the moment, he wished only to hold her and blot out the day’s tumultuous close. He thought of making love to her, long and tender and sweet, of assuring her naught could intrude upon their happiness and all that they shared. He would not allow it.
Brienne lifted her head from his shoulder, and he felt her eyes upon him in the dark. Neither spoke. Gently he stroked her arm, knowing she waited on his word, on what decision he had made. Brienne had tactfully withdrawn from the hall soon after Katla’s arrival. Well that she did so for Katla proved in high fettle, as fitful and erratic as the storm without.
Painful though the subject might be to his wife, Rurik was determined that Katla not become a wedge between them. He decided on directness and honesty, hoping she would not wall up her heart.
“Katla occupies one of the upper chambers.” He waited to feel her stiffen. She did not. “There is every possibility the babe is mine.” Her hand seemed weightless where it rested, but again, no response. “Lyting would have it that there is greater probability ‘tis another’s. Until I can be certain — and mayhap I might never be — I purpose to keep the child under my hand, leastways until it attains the age of fosterage.”
“And Katla?” Brienne asked quietly.
“What of Katla?”
“Will you also keep her here?”
Rurik knew she spoke of the time after the child’s birthing. He shifted her solidly against him.
“Ástin mín, you are my heart. I think only of the child. ‘Twas conceived ere we met. Could you look on me with respect if I turned out the woman who carries my babe, or provided naught for its well-being? I know not what your Frankish customs decree. I know only what is right, here.” He pressed her hand to the place over his heart.
Brienne knew she must trust Rurik, though it disturbed her that he did not answer directly. She laid her head against his chest and listened to the drumming within.
Silent, they held each other in the dark cavern of their chamber. At last Rurik’s breathing became even, and Brienne floated into a restive sleep.
The skies brightened about her and she found herself once more upon the road to Valsemé. Brother Bernard rode his shabby little palfrey alongside.
“What are the Norsemen like?” she heard herself ask. “I would know how they treat their women.”
“Do not worry overlong on it,” the monk comforted. “In general, they are good to their families, though I would warn you of one thing: the More Danico.”
»«
Ketil ‘s hand disappeared into his blazing thicket of hair as he scratched beneath his chin. “This be the one, my lady. Your ring should bear the key.”
Brienne and Aleth, more than a little winded, joined Ketil before the small storage shed. Despite his efforts to slow his pace, the man possessed a fearsome stride.
‘Twould be wound with a bit of red thread,” he advised, watching Brienne sort through the bulky collection that hung at her waist. “On Rurik’s coming, I aided him with his ship’s cargo. The household goods from Limfjord are in this building. He marked the keys that secure his mother’s belongings with the wool.”
“Are you certain he will not object?” Brienne felt ill at ease disturbing Ranneveig’s possessions in Rurik’s absence. For the second time in a fortnight, he’d answered the duke’s summons to Rouen. ‘Twas Lyting who told her of their mother’s loom, this after a lengthy discussion of sails and the task of weaving one.
How desperately she needed to immerse herself in some project, one that could win her mind away from Katla. A sail seemed the perfect choice and one that would surely please. Still, she felt troubled at violating the outbuilding. What if Rurik preserved it as a sanctum to his mother?
“My lady,” Ketil began, smiling down in a most warm and patient manner, as though instructing a small child, “whatever keys a husband sees fit to place upon his wife’s ring, it follows that he gives her consent to use what lies beneath their locks.”
Brienne regarded the cumbrous assortment beneath her fingertips, nodded with a smile, and plucked out a large spade-shaped key tagged with red.
Sunlight plundered the depths of the room, slashing a brilliant swath through the darkness and raking the far wall. Predictably, the interior proved oppressive and hot. Its stale, earthy odors weighted the air and twitched the nose.
Brienne surveyed the room’s contents, which were neatly stored and claimed but half the space. Iron-bound chests sat to one side, and riveted cauldrons occupied two corners. Their collapsible stands with clawed feet lay banked against one wall, and with them, long-shafted iron oil lamps.
She moved to ponder several yew-wood containers, round with matching lids that locked through their tops, then delighted in a small boxy chair, obviously a child’s, its woven rush seat lacking its cushion.
Ketil sifted through a collection of boards, some plain, others richly carved. He drew out two matching planks, each with sizable holes bored down their length and a hooklike brace affixed to the rounded end.
“These are the uprights, my lady.” Ketil glanced about the room, leaned them temporarily against the doorframe, and cleared away the cluster of wood containers and the little chair.
“Our Norse looms are simple affairs,” he explained, bracing the uprights against the wall to show her. “Easy to assemble and dismantle. Very portable.”
He stabilized the boards with a third plank fastened between them across the bottom, then positioned a slender, loglike beam horizontally over the top braces.
“We shall need the pegs for the heddle rods and the weights as well. The chests should hold them.”
Brienne picked through the keys till she found six nested side by side, wrapped with the telling thread.
The day could not have been more delightful, she decided as she opened one chest after another. ‘Twas the best of diversions, and diversions were precisely what she required while Rurik was absent and Katla ever near, vexing in so countless and guileful ways.
But this distraction was better than most. She smiled as she lifted a long-handled frying iron with a revolving disk and set it spinning.
Aleth exclaimed over the treasures she found in the chest she searched: carved whistles, bone skates, and the prize of all prizes, a small cushion woven with diminutive green figures and horses. It perfectly fit the chair.
Brienne tried to imagine Rurik perched on it as a child, then envisioned Lyting. Amusingly, the illusions squirmed and fidgeted just as boys were wont to do, unused to stillness and impatient to be gone. Brienne wondered if Ranneveig had similar difficulty with the two, if that
was why the pillow was unworn and in such good repair.
Ketil located the forked sticks he sought, inserted them in opposing holes in the uprights, then stretched across a slim rod, lodging each end firmly in a prong.
“The loom needs to be braced,” he explained, readjusting the contrivance against the wall and testing its sturdiness. “The heddle rod can be raised or lowered to any position, wherever there are holes. I still need to cap the beam with a turning stick so you might roll your cloth as it lengthens. The warp weights still need be found as well.”
“You know much of looms,” Brienne teased, then wondered if she had embarrassed him. He was, after all, a rugged and seasoned warrior.
“That I do, and you can lay it to my grandmother.” His bewhiskered mouth split into a wide grin. “Many a bitter night did I sit at her knee as she wove her linens and woolens. I had a great fondness for her sword paddle, and she would allow me to beat up the weft. You can be sure I gave her a tight weave!”
He surprised the women with a sparkling wink, then squatted beside an open chest and rummaged through its contents. Brienne slanted a mirthful glance to Aleth and shook her head to think of Ketil as a barefaced lad.
One chest drew Brienne’s attention more than any other. Footed, it was heavily reinforced with iron bands and ornamented with a profusion of tinned nailheads.
“‘ Tis Rurik’s s chest, my lady,” Ketil tossed over his shoulder, noting her interest. “Aboard ship ‘tis used as a rowing bench while it carries the seafarer’s goods.”
“Do you think it might hold the weights?”
Ketil shrugged, but Brienne thought amusement lurked beneath all the fiery hair.
“‘Twould do no harm to see, my lady.” He turned back to his chore.
Brienne smoothed her fingers over the chest’s coarse grain, roughened by years of exposure to rain, wind, and sea. She imagined Rurik sitting on its hard top, putting his strength to the oars, his powerful arms rhythmically pulling then slackening as he plowed the “whale’s acre.”
The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series) Page 25
