She slipped the key into its lock, twisted, then, almost reverently, lifted the chest’s lid.
Atop lay a red woolen blanket. Brienne blinked. Its dark shade possessed the same bluish quality as did the threads upon her keys. Had Ranneveig woven the covering for her son? Had he sheltered himself in its folds on many a storm-tossed night, benumbed with cold?
Brienne drew out the cloth and rubbed its prickly texture against her cheek. A man must love the sea to endure its hardships, she thought as she breathed the scent of oak and brine entrapped within its weave.
Rising to her feet, Brienne dragged the remainder of the blanket from its resting place, but in so doing, sent something tumbling from its folds back into the chest.
She followed the object with her gaze, then her gut clenched. She fell back a pace and grasped the fabric to her breast.
Memories of Katla and her graven cup assailed Brienne as she looked down on dozens upon dozens of wood flats, all bearing like markings to those on the vile goblet of nabid.
Ketil rose to his height, mystified by her behavior. “Does aught affright you, Lady Brienne?”
He peered into the chest, scanned the numerous rune slats that filled it, and wondered if some small, furred creature had managed to make a home in its depths. He rifled the pieces, but chancing on none, his puzzlement grew. Aleth had moved to Brienne’s side and she, too, seemed disquieted.
“What are they? Charms? Curses?” Brienne’s voice broke in a hoarse whisper.
“Curses?” Ketil echoed, baffled.
She took a hard swallow. “Are they Rurik’s? Did he carve them?”
“Carve them he did, as any merchant would carve the markers for his goods. But charms? Nei, my lady. ‘Tis but a cipher — runes. Their purpose is no different than . . . than your Roman script.”
Brienne edged toward the chest. “Markers? To what purpose?”
“They bear many uses, my lady. They might give an owner’s name, record a transaction, label a bundle of goods sold.”
Gingerly, Brienne lifted one of the slats and touched a finger to a twiglike character.
“Runes.” The word came more as a statement than question. “A script, not a charm?”
“That one carries your husband’s name. Each rune is a sound, though a clever man can combine several sounds into one form.”
Brienne traced the angular inscription, each line being a straight or sloping stroke.
Ketil rumpled the underside of his beard. “Legend says that Odin handed down the runes to man, but a secret charm? Nei. If one employed them to that purpose, certainly a Norseman would believe they carried great power. But would not the same words, written in your Roman letters, seem equally enchanted?”
Brienne considered this as Ketil’s shoulders lifted and fell in a careless shrug.
“We Norsemen have a fondness for inscribing anything we might put our knives or chisels to. Have you not noticed our swords and drinking horns, even our needle and comb cases?” Brienne thought of the silver casket that held her bride gift.
“I myself favor incising metal and stone. ‘Tis a more practiced art than scratching lines on wood.” He squinted to a far corner, weighed a thought, then drew his gaze back to Brienne.
“You best be aware, Rurik is partial to putting runes to the finery he acquires. In truth, ‘tis I who does the inscribing. Rurik prefers working with wood and thinks I have the lighter hand.” He threw out an amused laugh at that, then cleared his throat. “Be not distressed should he gift you with jewelry bearing the marks. ‘Twould be but your name or mayhap —” his eyes shifted away — “an endearment.”
Ketil had obviously revealed more than he wished and now dragged on his beard, looking for all the world that he had spoiled some surprise.
Brienne comforted him with a smile. “Merci for setting me aright. I am sure I shall be greatly surprised should Rurik gift me, whether it bears the runes or not. But I shall remember.”
Brienne and Aleth set to opening the yew-wood containers that held Ranneveig’s weaving tools — spindles and distaff, iron combs, shears of three sizes, skein winders, and more. Ketil located the loom weights — small soapstone wheels — and explained how they were to be used to hold the warp threads straight.
The day’s venture more than pleased Brienne. Yet through the course of the hours, her thoughts strayed again and again to Rurik’s sea chest, to the runes, and to Katla.
“Drink the nabid,” Katla’s image tormented. “This keep will not hold the two of us, nor do I share Rurik!” Her haunting laughter clogged Brienne’s mind and constricted her heart.
»«
While Rurik answered the duke’s most recent summons, Ketil and Lyting cleared one of the less-used outbuildings and transferred the loom and weaving goods.
The maidservants took keen interest in the undertaking, cheerfully offering their hands, time, and advisements for the creation of the baron’s great falcon sail.
Quantities of hemp were steeped with woad leaves that yielded the deepest of blues. From daybreak to nightfall, the shed fairly hummed with activity as the canevas took shape beneath countless agile fingers.
But when Brienne arrived each day, shortly after the midmorning meal, the women waited to test her mood. Increasingly, she grew pensive and grave and desired to work alone.
‘Twas rumored among the maidservants that the Norsewoman’s presence plagued the baronne as much as her husband’s absence. Ofttimes did they witness the sharp-tongued Katla baiting their kind lady. Someone should apprise the baron but certainly not a servant.
»«
When Rurik returned, he teased Brienne considerably over the secrets of her weaving shed, but Brienne extracted his promise to keep from the building and this he honored.
With two solid strips of the sail complete and a third under way, Brienne grew eager to draft the pattern for the falcon. If all progressed well, she could present it at Christmastide.
How greatly she wished to gift him! He had gladdened her immeasurably this sennight past by removing Katla from the manor house to a cottage in the village. Brienne agreed that Katla could continue to oversee several of the kitchen functions — supervising the making of skyr, cheese, and Norse-style beer. ‘Twas Katla’s idleness that Brienne feared more than her participation.
For the most part, Brienne managed to avoid the Norsewoman altogether. It relieved her enormously to no longer suffer Katla’s antagonism in the hall. Brienne’s happiness lasted all of ten days. Lasted until one luckless encounter when Katla intimated that Rurik ensconced her in the village so he might visit her there.
Brienne refused to believe Katla’s viperish tongue, but her words continued to flicker through Brienne’s every conscious thought nonetheless. It pained her all the more that the previous night Rurik fell asleep when she wished to make love. She hated the suspicions Katla spawned. Hated herself for wondering if he was already sated.
»«
Brienne stared at the deep blue cloth, her thoughts heavy. The others she had sent away long ago. Now she sat, weaving sword in hand, motionless before the loom.
Why could she not purge Katla’s venom from her mind? There had been more intimations — significant looks and insinuating smiles. Lies! All lies! She trusted Rurik wholly and Katla not at all. Still the poison seeped into the crevices of her soul.
A movement brought her eyes to the door where Elsie clutched a bouquet of cheerful wildflowers — sky-blue succory, bright yellow tansy, and purple tufts of wild marjoram. Quietly, she padded across the floor and lay the blossoms on Brienne’s lap.
“Oh, m’lady. Do not be sad. M’lord loves you so.”
Tears sprang to Brienne’s eyes. She blinked away the moisture and smiled into the child’s sweet, round face. “Did he tell you so, Elsie?”
“He need not, m’lady. M’lord’s heart shines in his eyes when he looks on you. Mama says.”
“Ah, mama.”
Elsie squinched her straight little brows t
ogether. “Must I nursemaid her babe, m’lady? ‘Tis not m’lord’s.”
“Oh?” Brienne’s brow rose with surprise.
Elsie wagged her head with the greatest of certainty. “My lord would do no such thing. He loves you, m’lady,” she said with a child’s innocent logic.
Brienne’s heart dipped, knowing that Rurik had done “such things” before they were married. The babe could full well be his. But she said naught. Elsie adored her golden lord.
“Mama says Katla is evil, that she’s bewitched m’lord. Oh, m’lady, must I care for her babe? M’lord will give you many babes, and soon, I think.”
Brienne drew Elsie into her arms and hugged her warmly. “And does mama say this, too?”
Elsie nodded.
“Mama knows much, I think.”
“You will speak to m’lord?”
“I will speak to him.”
“And I need not tend Katla?”
“You may tend me, little one.” Brienne glanced over the loom. “ ‘Tis time you learnt of weaving. Would you like to beat the weft?”
Elsie brightened at the sight of the sword paddle.
»«
Waite and Elsie giggled as they plopped dark, sweet berries into their mouths and scavenged the brambles for more. Brienne and Aleth laughed with them. Few of the berries gathered this day made it into their pails. Those that did were crushed to juice long ago in the bottoms. The berries were a rare find this late in the season, and these had been hidden deep in the forest.
Having eaten her fill, Brienne wandered near at hand, seeking whatever prizes the woodland might yield. She needed most to find a birch tree and take of its bark and leaves. One of the young maidservants suffered a skin disorder.
Patch reappeared, yapping and exuberant, then scurried back into the brush. Waite bounded after the pup, upsetting the pail and causing Elsie to scold. Brienne laughed softly as she bent to survey a shrub.
Inexplicably, the hair at the nape of her neck began to rise. Uncertain of the cause, Brienne drew a feathery leaf through her fingers, listening, listening. At length she sighed and massaged her brow. She did not sleep so well of late. ‘Twas fatigue, no more.
Brienne moved further into the forest until she spied several birch trees with their smooth white bark and graceful boughs spreading downward. Just as she touched her fingertips to a leaf, a distinct rustling sounded off to her left. She stilled. It came again, this time from ahead. Then all fell to silence. A deep, foreboding silence.
Brienne turned slowly around, ears strained for the slightest of sounds. None came. Not the twitter or cawing of birds, the chirp of insects, or any of the other skittering noises that belonged to a forest.
Catching up her skirts, Brienne hastened from the place, hastened back toward Aleth and the children. Twigs snapped beneath her feet, shouting her passage in the unnatural quiet. She feared to look back for what she might find. Onward she hurried, her pace quickening.
Aleth and Elsie were squatting happily side by side, sorting their paltry sum of berries, when Brienne came upon them.
“Aleth, get Elsie from this place, and quickly, too. Did Waite return yet?”
When Aleth shook her head, Brienne urged her to be gone, then rushed in the direction where Waite had disappeared earlier.
Branches scratched her hands and tore at her hair as she pushed impatiently through the greenery. Silence still swallowed the wood. Unable to bear it longer, she called out his name. Suddenly there came a rustling, then a voice — Waite’s voice — and blessedly, Patch’s yapping.
Waite appeared moments later, plunging through the growth, his eyes huge pools of brown.
“M’lady! Come, m’lady.” He pulled anxiously on her hand, dragging her deeper into the forest.
Brienne protested but the boy did not listen, tugging her firmly along. He led her to a small clearing. In its center rested a large flat stone covered with blood.
Brienne’s stomach lurched. “We must be leave this place, Waite. ‘Tis fraught with things most dire.”
»«
Brienne did not go again to the forest, but on Rurik’s return she apprised him of the incident. To her knowledge, he investigated the sight but, oddly, did little more.
Immersed in thought, she strode across the bailey toward the weaving shed. As she passed the kitchen buildings, a movement drew her eye in time to see Katla step — or did she stumble? — into Rurik’s arms. He raised one hand to her hip, pressing part of his palm and the length of his thumb against her swollen abdomen. The other he slipped around her back and waist.
Heat blistered Brienne’s cheeks as Rurik continued to embrace Katla thusly. Unable to bear more, she withdrew and sought seclusion in the weaving shed.
»«
Hollowly, Brienne sat before the loom. The falcon stared back at her with its piercing blue eye, the head near complete.
‘Twould be a wondrous sight when finished, stretched to the sun above the high-prowed ship, heralding the lord baron’s approach. She should be cheered. But inside, her heart was crumbling.
Desperately, desperately she longed to give Rurik a child.
Tears rose and spilled. Gripping a fistful of warp thread, she wept against the upright.
Her courses had come again today.
»«
Rurik headed toward the practice field in a disagreeable temper. Katla continued to beset him. Last week she would have fallen and injured the babe had he not caught her. Today she employed other brazen tactics.
He tired of her ploys, and tired of the smirking looks he received from his men. Most were amused by his dilemma, especially the new arrivals. But a good sum of his father’s garrison disapproved of Katla’s presence. As vigorously as they would defend a man’s right to keep whatever woman he pleased, their sympathies lay with Brienne. She had found a place in their hearts.
Brienne. His brows drew together. A sadness shadowed her of late. Her courses came and went, troubling her afresh. But despite his attentions, she remained despondent.
Rurik rubbed his neck. The duke demanded of his time, the harvest preoccupied the barony, and Bolsgar once more reported that stock was missing. From the signs in the forest, he suspected that some had been offered as sacrifices. This concerned him more as a sign of unrest and contempt for his authority than as an abandonment of the new religion. He would bide his time, keeping open-eyed vigilance.
Rurik greeted his men as he arrived at the field and experienced a familiar stab of guilt. The recent constraints on his time prevented him from practicing and conditioning with his men as was his habit. Today he craved to discharge his frustrations in a spirited match. He stripped away his tunic and unsheathed his sword.
First he took on Gunnar and Hoth, two of his most capable swordsmen. Then Lyting came forth to try his steel.
“Your arm is swift and hard today, broðir.” Lyting spurred him on. “Who is it you fight?”
“Do you wish to idle here the day, prattling like a kjerringa, an old woman, or shall we be to it?”
Rurik delivered strong, sweeping strokes that Lyting returned blow for blow but not without effort. When at last their arms tired and their bodies glistened with sweat, they ended the sport and slaked their thirst with a horn of ale.
Nearby, two men postured, unfamiliar to Rurik. Their eyes slid to him from time to time, one’s voice louder than the other’s. He caught the last of their exchange — “Barnakarl.”
Rurik downed another mouthful of the beverage, then confronted the two. “Is there aught that disturbs you?”
“Nei, my lord.” The older man, lean and bearded, straightened. “ ‘Twas a most proficient match.”
“For a Barnakarl?” Rurik challenged but did not wait on an answer. “You have lately arrived to Valsemé?”
“Já, my lord.”
“I do not recall testing your skills.”
The man slid his companion a wary glance as the baron gestured to one of his soldiers.
“Nei, my
lord. We presented ourselves to your man, Ketil, in your absence. We wish to serve Valsemé’s celebrated lord.”
“Pretty words, but you need be able . . . and stouthearted.”
Rurik ungirt his belt and passed both sword and scabbard to Lyting. Hoth, shouldering a half-dozen spears, joined them. Rurik selected two.
“How are you called?” He examined the keenness of a spearhead as Lyting and Hoth retreated from the field.
“Óttar, my lord, and this is Rig.” The man motioned to his friend, aware that the other soldiers had ceased their activities and gathered to watch.
“Well, Óttar, Rig, you look capable enough.” Rurik hefted a spear to each. “Take up your stance there and there, before the straw bales.”
When the two had positioned themselves, Rurik stood facing them, legs braced.
“Aim your spears for me,” he ordered.
“My lord? Nei, lord,” Óttar objected.
“Are you soft-spined? Mark me as if an enemy, and cast your weapons with intent to kill. And men, once the spears are released, do not move if you savor your life.”
Óttar and Rig traded uneasy looks. Hoisting their weapons, they steadied the shafts and sighted the baron’s chest. Grunting through gritted teeth, they heaved the spears, each with a mighty thrust and deadly accuracy.
But Rurik dodged to one side then the other, catching the spears backhanded in midair, and returned them without pause, swinging his arms full circle. The next moment found Óttar and Rig anchored to the straw. One spear secured Óttar’s wrist by his sleeve, while the other moored Rig by the side of his hair, exposing a ringed ear.
“I thought I saw a glint of gold.” Rurik smiled with satisfaction as he took up his jerkin. “My curiosity, overcame me, Rig. ‘Tis good you can follow orders. And, Óttar, next time, do not move your hand. You near lost it.”
Óttar paled considerably at the thought of a “next time,” and Rig continued to gape at Valsemé’s lord, thunderstruck.
Leaving the two skewered to the bales, Rurik strode from the field to the applause of the crowd and made his way through the press of cheering onlookers. He headed for the keep.
»«
Gaining the great wooden staircase that spanned the motte, Rurik climbed its long flight. Once inside the keep, he continued his ascent up the steps of stone. Higher and higher he climbed until he reached the topmost chamber in the tower. He needed this. Needed the exertion. Needed to be alone.
The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series) Page 26
