Surprisingly, the small trapdoor to the roof lay open, the ladder braced in place. The sight that greeted him as he emerged atop the keep swelled his heart. Brienne stood looking out over the barony, her veil and mantle astir with the breeze.
“Ástin mín?” He did not wish to startle her.
She turned to face him, her eyes red and swollen, her cheeks wet.
Rurik moved instantly to take her in his arms. “What distresses you, my heart?”
Brienne attempted to twist away but he would not have it. She gripped him then, with aching need, and buried her face against his chest.
“Rurik, I fail you. Forgive me. I have prayed and prayed, but I . . . I cannot . . .”
Concern seized him and he held her at arms length so he could look into her eyes. “Brienne, what is it you say?”
“I fear I am barren.” Her voice broke miserably. Unable to meet his eyes, she looked away. Tears clinging to her lashes. “If true, I can provide you no heir, Rurik. You may need seek another.”
“Nei!” he denied harshly. “I will beget my sons — and daughters — of you, my wife. None other.”
“But your heir, Rank. If I be barren — “
“None other,” he declared adamantly. “Ástin mín, have patience. We have been wedded scarce four months. There is much time for children and I can bear the wait, however long.”
“But if — “
He pressed a finger to her lips and brushed the wetness from her cheeks. “One of my aunts did not bear her first babe till the sixth year of her marriage. Then she and my uncle begat so many, their hall could scarce contain them!”
A small smile flirted over Brienne’s lips. “Is that true or did you weave the tale to cheer me?”
“Ástin mín, you wound me sorely.” A note of amusement colored his protest. “Ask Lyting of our notable aunt if you doubt me.”
“I shall.” Brienne smiled broadly now. “Has she a name?”
“Borghild.” He nuzzled her ear. “Shall we name our first maid-child after her?”
“I think not.” Brienne felt a ripple of warmth flow through her.
“Ástin mín.” His breath fell warmly on her ear. He began spreading kisses along her jaw and neck. “We speak much of begetting babes but ‘twill require more than mere words to accomplish the deed.”
Brienne leaned back in his embrace to survey the stone beneath their feet, then kissed the base of his throat. “ ‘Tis a hard bed we must bide. The mattresses have all been removed to the manor house.”
“There is a lake I know of . . . .” Rurik captured her lips and drew her into a deep kiss.
»«
Katla paused in the shadows, watching Rurik’s and Brienne’s passage from a distance. Their hair was wet, hers a sodden tangle, dripping past her waist. They clasped hands and laughed — laughed! — as they strolled toward the bailey.
Katla clenched the knife at her side.
“Enjoy your time of him, bitch. Enjoy sitting beside him, enthroned upon your high seat. They both shall be mine. Soon, soon,” she vowed on the wind.
Chapter 15
Brienne stretched slowly, like a drowsy cat. Drawing a long, contented breath, she reached out to Rurik but met with cool air.
One eyelid dragged open, and she scanned the empty space beside her, then looked at the sunlight spilling past half-opened shutters and into the chamber. Brienne moaned to have overslept, then smiled for all the reasons she had.
She stretched once again, extending her arms wide and sweeping them overhead. Her fingers brushed against cold metal. Inclining her head, she rolled to one hip. On Rurik’s pillow rested a beautifully wrought silver brooch.
Brienne rose, smiling as she took up the piece and envisioning Rurik placing it there while she slept. Obviously, he was as well pleased with their night of lovemaking as she.
As Brienne delighted in the fine detailing of the brooch, the underside rasped at her fingers. Hesitantly, she inverted it in her palm. Runic characters etched the back in a single, crowded band, several of the scorings rough and unfiled.
She gazed on it for a prolonged moment, mindfully recalling Ketil’s words. Her name, perchance? An endearment?
Curiosity surged in her. Brienne slipped from the bed and hastened to dress.
»«
Rurik entered the hall with brisk, purposeful strides, accompanied by Lyting, Ketil, and Brother Bernard.
Servants bustled to assemble the tables for the midmorning meal and set out basins of water. Avoiding the paths of activity, the foursome proceeded to a side hearth where a small fire crackled.
Rurik cast a swift glance about for Brienne but found that Aleth directed the hall in her absence. She had noted his entrance and summoned a servant to fill his goblet, but Rurik motioned the woman away. He had no taste for wine this morn. Indeed, he had little appetite at all.
“What manner of blót do you think it to be?” Rurik spoke Norse, not wishing to concern any who might hear.
Lyting shook his head.” ‘Tis difficult to know. We found pigs, hens, and sheep, three of each kind sacrificed. But deeper in the wood we discovered a vé.”
Rurik’s eyes cut to Ketil. “You are sure?”
“Já.” Ketil nodded forcefully. “A triangular area is marked out upon the ground and lined with upright stones. ‘Twas used for ritual.”
Rurik stroked his thumb along his jaw, considering what significance might lie in that.
‘Tis not uncommon for men to falter from time to time when they embrace a new faith, my son,” Brother Bernard interjected. “But ‘tis needful we redouble our efforts of conversion and instruction, lest they endanger their immortal souls.”
Rurik shot him a look of impatience. “If I seem short-spoken, take no offense, but their souls are your concern. My care is more immediate.”
The monk began to object, but Rurik pressed the point. “The sacrifices may indicate unrest and discontent among my soldiers. Not all accept the duke’s unbounded authority despite their oaths. Some wax jealous of his power. Others, I suspect, are like-minded with Hastein and would carve Normandy free from Francia’s side as a country unto its own. Regardless, I must see that my men honor their oaths — not only to me but to duke and king alike — lest we divide against ourselves within our own borders.”
“And what of God?” the monk blustered. “The very oaths of which you speak bind the men to Christ as well as liege. They have taken the waters.”
“Then do what you must, churchman, as shall I.”
Brother Bernard gave Rurik a ponderous look. “Do not discount the importance of faith to a man’s disposition. Sword and faith — the two are intertwined. And have you forgotten your own vows? A soldier looks to the example his lord sets. If your concern be oaths sworn and honored, then ‘twould strengthen your position to take Holy Baptism and rightly honor your own. ‘Tis time, do you not think so, my son?”
Rurik turned and gazed into the fire. “There still remain matters I must reconcile. I have told you as much.”
Lyting shifted his stance, displeased with the response, for he held the Faith more dear than did most of his kindred. “You cannot delay indefinitely, broðir.”
“Nor shall I. You have my word on it. But for now we must determine whether these sacrifices are offerings simply to worship the gods, or if someone leads the men to other purposes.” He ran his hand through his hair. “We need find something more specific than the vé, something of substance that could point to an individual.”
“Have you a thought as to what that might be?” Ketil asked gruffly, tugging on his beard.
Rurik shook his head, studying the flames. The sound of his name drew his attention back to the body of the hall. His spirits lifted to see Brienne cross its width.
Brienne smiled as Rurik took up her hand and pressed it with a kiss. “My lord,” she greeted, eyes sparkling, then nodded to the others. “Good morrow.”
“My lady seems surpassingly happy.” Lyting tipped his
silvery-blond head in what might pass for a bow.
“If it be so, ‘tis the fault of my husband. See how he spoils me.” Brienne held forth the handsome silver brooch. “Of course, ‘tis fair maddening that he secrets messages beneath its shell and leaves me to ponder the cipher.”
Rurik grinned and took the brooch from her hand. “Are you certain you wish it divulged before these ears?”
As Brienne made to reply, he reversed the piece and glanced down at the markings. His brows pulled slowly together.
“Ketil? Have you been clever again or do my skills fail me?”
Ketil relieved Rurik of the brooch, chuckling that the inscription should baffle his lord. True, he favored compressing several words into a single character, but Rurik knew the device.
“Your duties as baron have sapped your wit, ‘tis all,” he quipped, chuckling once more. But his smile stilled as he looked on the markings, then faded altogether.
“Flesh and blood! These runes have been altered. Look — here, here — and here again! Fresh lines have been added and hastily, ‘twould seem. See, the incisings are coarse and unpolished. My own I smoothed so as not to tear at my lady’s fingers.”
The disquieting words sent a shiver along Brienne’s spine. She glanced from one man to the next.
Rurik’s expression darkened. “Can you construe its meaning?”
Ketil puzzled over the characters. His lips moved with each word, then abruptly he stopped. His eyes wrenched to Rurik.
“ ‘Tis a rati!”
Rurik snatched the brooch and glared at it. A chill, winter-cold, rippled through him. Without hesitation, he flung the ornament into the fire.
Aghast, Brienne started forward but Rurik gripped her by the arms and held her firmly to his chest.
“Let it burn, Brienne. It bears a curse.”
»«
‘Tis a ‘baying man’ we deal with.” Ketil downed the contents of his cup.
Rurik leaned forward on his elbows, one hand fisted into the other, and watched as the servants cleared away the remains of the meal.
“What makes you so certain?”
“One rune in particular, ōðila, was refigured to the likeness of a head wearing the horned helmet of a high priest. Such a man would have knowledge of the runes . . . and curses.”
Lyting rose at his place. “Let us act swiftly to find him, then, or there shall be sacrifices aplenty and discontent skulking at our door.”
Rurik motioned his brother to reseat himself. “Not overfast, broðir. We must move with care.”
“You mean to let it bide?” Lyting asked, rankled by his brother’s caution.
“Nei. I am as eager as you to reach the heart of this matter, but we do not know who is part to it, and who can be trusted.”
Rurik eased back in his chair, waited as a manservant refilled their goblets and removed the salt cellars, then came forward once again.
“Sound out five men you deem the most reliable, and set watches by night, deep in the wood. Likewise, double the guard over the stock. The offenders will seek to thieve again.”
“There still be several goats and an ox unaccounted for. Perchance they are confined hereabouts,” Brother Bernard ventured, having followed the discussion silently till now.
“Satt. True. Ketil, take a complement of men of your choosing. Patrol the reaches if you must. ‘Twill be expected that I shall seek what is mine, and I have delayed overlong as it is. Your ride should breed no undue attention.”
Rurik looked to where Brienne spoke with a maidservant. He must warn her to keep from the forest. Nei, he must forbid it outright. Brienne had a will of her own when her medicants fell in short supply.
Brienne felt Rurik’s eyes upon her. As she lifted her gaze to seek his, horns sounded at the bailey gate without, two short blasts that announced a sole rider.
Rurik rose at once to quit the hall, sparing her a brief glance and a shade of a smile as he stepped from the dais. With a second thought, he stopped and waited with open palm for her to join him. She did so at once.
There was a tenseness in his grip, a leashed energy that belied his calm as they passed out of the hall, Lyting, Ketil, and Brother Bernard following behind. What unwelcome news did he wait on? she wondered. Rurik rarely commented on his affairs with the duke.
Brienne wondered whether she should have prepared a goblet to welcome their visitor, as was her duty. But the highborn traveled with escort, not alone. ‘Twas likely a messenger, no more. He would seek his respite in the kitchens once he had delivered his missive. But what missive might that be?
She looked anxiously to the rider dismounting in the courtyard. Rollo’s envoys came and went most often by water, the journey a short distance by river. But this man arrived by courser, a distinctive mount with one stockinged leg. ‘Twas familiar, as was he. No Norseman here, but Frank. He was of an age with herself, smooth-faced and lean, having yet to grow into his strength. Her journey from Levroux did not lay so far in memory that she should forget him. And in remembering, she knew whom the courier served.
A shiver of apprehension passed through her. Her discomfort grew. What mischief now, Lord Robert? she asked silently as the man gave his greetings from Castle Roubaix.
»«
Rurik closeted himself with Lyting, Ketil, and the messenger. When they emerged, it was with solemn countenance, yet they seemed afire with purpose. The scent of battle filled the air and stirred the soldiers to action.
Brienne received the news with forbearance. Franconian troops had brazenly looted and burned the king’s great hall at Creil and must be dealt with sharply and swiftly. Esternay called upon Rurik to join him at arms, summoned him, in truth, by the tie that bound their houses — the blood bond of marriage. He had boldly made known his request to Charles. To refuse meant dishonor to Valsemé’s lord and insult to the king.
As all was set to readiness for the morrow’s departure, Brienne cloaked her distress and slipped away for a time to the weaving shed. There, she worked out the warp and weft of her thoughts — dark thoughts that kept crowding back — and grappled with her fears. Would Lord Robert seek to harm her husband? Should she caution Rurik of the deceit that knight harbored?
The great falcon, half complete, stared down, reproving her, it seemed, for the secrets she kept hidden. But there was necessity for caution and prudence, she contended, beating up the weft solidly as he gave her a deaf ear and continued to glare.
At length, she exhausted her argument. Her fingers cramped and her head ached. Surely no treachery would be dealt before she was with child. For the first time, she could be thankful she was not.
»«
Nightfall drew its veil over the land. The keep blazed with torchlight as final preparations were completed.
Rurik returned to the manor house, crossing the bailey after his last check with the gate’s watchman.
A soft hiss from a darkened outbuilding brought him from his thoughts. Katla stepped from the shadows and beckoned him to join her.
Rurik wondered briefly if she was unwell. She stood with hands clasped beneath her swollen stomach, a line of worry marring her face. But she did not waver as one ill, he noted as he softly crossed to where she stood, straight and tall. Yet an air of urgency coiled about her.
“There is danger,” she warned, her intense green eyes catching splinters of torchlight.
“Danger?” His lips slid into an uncertain half smile. “When is there not in battle? I have never known fear in you, Katla.”
“Nor do you now, only disgust, disgust for Frankish treachery.”
Rurik’s mien hardened, pleasing her. She tossed her fiery hair, pleased again when his eyes followed it, knowing how the torches lit it with gold.
“Mayhap I should fear. You are blind where your wife is concerned. She plots your death even as she warms your bed.”
Rurik grabbed her by the arms, nearly jerking her off her feet. “Make yourself plain if you seek to malign my lady,” he snarled.
“Ask your wife what evil she and her kinsman dream on. I overheard them in her chamber — já, Rurik, he visited her in her chamber, the night before she wed Gruel Atli. Together they plotted death to Valsemé’s lord.”
He glared at her with a face of thunder, his fingers biting into her flesh. A smile spread through her. He cared for the bitch. And because he cared he would fall the harder and the bitch the longer from her pedestal of grace. She, Katla, would be waiting to ease his pain and salve the gashes in his heart. Then would he turn to her and her child, no more to trust or seek his comforts in Frankish arms.
“Poor Rurik, caught up in the spider’s craft. Your lady has spun her silken threads tight about you, but beware. Her bite brings death. ‘Twas to be achieved upon the battlefield and appear an accident.”
“Why? To what purpose?” he stormed angrily, half believing, half not.
“They seek to regain control of the barony through the heir, the next Baron de Valsemé.”
“I have filled her with no child as yet. If what you say be true, he will not strike.” Rurik warred against Katla’s charge, fought to believe in Brienne’s innocence.
“Do not rest assured. The Seigneur d’Esternay desires to accomplish the deed himself so the heir will, in truth, be his.”
Outrage whipped through Rurik.
Katla’s eyes glinted. Her words dripped fresh venom into his heart. “Did he not invite you both to Castle Roubaix? There would be many rooms in such a place . . . many dark corners.”
She tilted her chin up, a thin smile touching her mouth, eyes glittering beneath half-closed lids.
“Like an adder coiled up . . .” Lyting’s words echoed through Rurik’s thoughts. He withdrew a pace and eyed Katla, wary.
“I did not know you attended Lord Robert’s departure, for ‘twas then that he extended the courtesy of Roubaix.”
The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series) Page 27
