“I have heard the tale,” she assured him. “There are those who speak easily enough. I am also to understand that your lady wife did not object.”
Rurik recalled how Brienne’s nails dug into his arm, how agitated she became. And there was the time on the archery field when he thought she would swoon. Was there truth in what Katla said? Was this what upset Brienne so? It eased him a portion, for it affirmed her resistance to Esternay’s designs. And surely the scheme was his for it reeked of his foul stench.
“You best not lie in this, Katla,” Rurik bit out through clenched teeth.
“You have but to ask your wife,” she replied easily, confidently. “She conceals her hatreds well, but be mindful. ‘Twas Norse blades that slew her father and brother. She seeks vengeance for the House of Beaumanoir.”
Katla tossed her head. “The Seigneur d’Esternay is more simply obsessed with greed and power.”
“ ‘Tis power she craves. Position.” Lyting’s warning floated through Rurik’s thoughts once again.
He measured Katla for a long, searching moment. “I need wonder if the seigneur stands alone in that.”
Her eyes blazed. “Believe what you like,” Katla spat, filled with sudden fury. “You are warned.”
Rurik watched as she turned back into the shadows and disappeared.
He tarried a while longer, tumbling Katla’s words over and about, searching their many angles. Katla would make Brienne appear the worse to advance her own goals. Did love blind him? He thought not, but if he was wrong, he would not be the first to be brought low by a woman’s trickery. A maid’s heart is made on the whirling wheel, does not the poet say? But, nei. Unfair. ‘Twas a bitter poet who set the verse, once spurned in his own pursuit of a lady.
Until this encounter he trusted Brienne with his life. His instincts told him to continue in that trust, at least a time longer. He would wait for her to share what had transpired between herself and Esternay. But he would not wait forever.
With that he headed for the manor house.
»«
When Rurik entered their chamber, he found Brienne awake beneath the coverlets of the great bed. Her pale countenance drew his concern.
“Does aught distress you, ástin mín?” He eased his weight onto the mattress edge, discarding his tunic.
“I would have you come back safe to me.” She clasped his hand and pressed it to her cheek. He felt the warmth of a tear.
“Should I not, my love?” He lifted her face and looked at her searchingly.
Brienne’s throat caught as his eyes held hers. He waited, somehow expectant. Again she ached to speak her thoughts. Again she dreaded to do so.
For all her love and trust of him, Rurik bore the heart of a Norseman. ‘Twas a harsh race with harsh ways. She feared what retribution a Norseman might exact for treachery such as Lord Robert’s — even if only conceived, and ill conceived at that. Dear God, would he think her part to it? She thought not. But should Rurik issue challenge to Lord Robert and either be . . . nay, she could not live with their blood upon her conscience.
Was she a coward? she wondered, then minded that Charles vehemently opposed his barons warring upon one another. Scandal all the greater should the houses be bound by blood, as were theirs. Danger and dishonor lay upon that path. Coward, mayhap, but she would bide her time. She carried no child. Esternay would make no move.
“The warrings of men have cost me dearly,” she said at last. “Forgive a woman’s weakness that I should fear the clash of arms.”
She rose partially and slipped her arms about Rurik’s neck.
“Take heed. I am a most selfish wife,” she whispered against his lips. “When I am old and gray and tottering about our hall, I wish to do so at your side and have you still to comfort me in the night.”
Brienne drew Rurik down with her into the pillows. The worries and uncertainties that hovered between them lingered on the moment’s edge, then silently took their flight.
»«
At dawn, the troops stood armed and mounted in the bailey. Brienne accompanied Rurik from the hall as he charged Lyting to secure the keep in his absence. There was something about keeping the stock from the forest, but it made little sense to her and Rurik ended his instructions in Norse.
Katla waited in the courtyard with a loaf of fruited bread. With this she gifted Rurik and bid him safe return. Though she said no more, something unspoken passed between them. ‘Twas in their eyes.
Brienne felt challenged in some manner. Wanting none of it, she diverted her gaze to the baggage wain. Wracked by the dark possibilities that threatened the days to come, she bore no patience for the Norsewoman’s games.
Sleipnir snorted and stamped, keen to the high energy that enlivened the yard as the groom brought him forth. Rurik stepped quickly to calm the stallion, bantering in deep, soothing tones while he stroked the horse’s neck.
Brienne looked on with admiration as Rurik gentled the mighty steed. Dear God, how she loved him. A rush of panic swarmed through her. She must tell him, forewarn him of Lord Robert’s duplicity. But if the tale should so distract him that in the midst of battle . . .
Nay, best wait. He needed his concentration at present lest it cost him his life. She would let it bide until his return when the clash of steel had ceased. Merciful God, he must return.
As Brienne struggled with her thoughts, Patch barreled into the courtyard out of nowhere. Full of himself, he scurried along the file of horses, darted among several of the foot soldiers, then went yapping after a new curiosity — Ketil, fitted in shaggy fur boots.
Ketil plucked the pup up by the scruff of its neck and laughed heartily. With a flash of inspiration, Brienne hastened to retrieve the mongrel. Taking the squirming ball of mismatched fur, she spoke in low clear tones so none but Ketil could hear and so he could not mistake.
“By the oath that binds you — by the friendship that ties you there — watch my lord’s back, I pray. Watch his back.”
“My lady?” Ketil’s brows shot up, but she was already moving away.
Rurik made a final check of the straps. Turning to Brienne, he gave her a swift, hard kiss, then vaulted into the saddle.
Brienne watched as he set his helmet in place and accepted shield and lance. She had never seen him thus, equipped for war. His armor was a mix of Norse and Byzantine garb — thick leather corslets, sewn one upon another, tall, square-toed boots, vambraces and greaves splinted over forearm and leg. The conical helmet — so painfully familiar — concealed his features behind protective eye and nose guards. Yet she would know his mouth and line of his jaw at once, she told herself, and the steel-blue eyes that grazed her now from iron sockets.
With a shout, Rurik wheeled the great black around and led his men thundering over the bridge, out and through the village.
Brienne snatched up her skirts and ran for the keep. She scaled the wooden steps, then the stone ones. Pain seared her lungs, but she hurried on till at last she reached the topmost chamber. Scrambling up the ladder, she pushed open the roof hatch, climbed through, and gaining the top of Valsemé’s keep, rushed to the crenellated wall.
Across the valley, the dark line of soldiers advanced, spears bristling above their heads, shields swung to their backs. She strained to pick out Rurik’s blue mantle where he rode before his men, then smiled when she thought to glimpse it.
There she remained, hands grown cold upon the stone, watching in her mind’s eye long after the dust resettled, long after Rurik had passed with his men into the distance and beyond the horizon.
Chapter 16
The scratching came again, a soft clawing upon the door. Brienne lay quiet in the dark and breathed a thin shred of air. Patch growled from the foot of the great bed where Aleth’s pallet was spread.
“Aleth,” Brienne called in a soft, urgent whisper.
“Oui. I hear it. ‘Tis as before. Shall I light a tinder?”
The scraping ceased.
Silence oppressed the chamber for one long, un
bearable moment.
Then the rasping began anew.
“I’ll see to it.” Brienne slipped from the bed, the floor chilling her feet. She flamed a candle and gestured for Aleth to calm Patch.
As she eased toward the door, she prayed Rurik would soon return. The unsettling nocturnal occurrences had begun shortly after his leave-taking, nigh on to a month ago.
At first she thought it some ill dream that awoke her, spawned by her fears and longings for her husband. Then one night, from the depths of sleep, she felt a foreboding presence. When she fought through to a foggy consciousness, she discovered herself alone. Yet a vague scent lingered about the bed.
After that, Aleth moved her pallet from the antechamber and Patch was invited to join them. Brienne spoke to none of the incident save her friend. Lyting seemed overburdened of late with some matter concerning the barony, and Brother Bernard was away to Rouen. How mad would she appear to complain of — what? — ethereal visitations tormenting her rest? ‘Twould seem she was unsound of mind.
‘Twas a relief when several weeks passed without event. Then the dull grating began, three nights past . . . and now once more.
Brienne paused and listened. Did the guards in the passageway sleep? she fumed. How could anyone go unnoticed or enter the room without? Her hand trembled and the flame capered.
Flesh or shadow? What are you? she raged silently, temper eclipsing nerve. As her fingertips brushed the door’s handle, she took a deep breath.
Patch suddenly nipped at Aleth and scrambled free. Barking raucously, he darted across the floor and scrabbled at the door.
The scratching stopped. Something clunked on the other side followed by a faint shuffle, then silence.
Brienne swung open the door and thrust her candle into the outer room, punctuating the darkness.
Cool air played over her. The chamber stood empty. Yet an indefinable scent lingered about the portal.
“Brienne?” Aleth drew behind her, dragging an iron poker from the hearth.
“There is naught.” Brienne strove to collect herself, her courage flown.
As she turned back to the bedchamber, the candle’s narrow light arched across the door.
Brienne’s blood ceased its flow as her gaze fastened on the oaken panels — fastened on the runes carved fresh upon the wood.
»«
Rurik wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve and settled back in his saddle. Tucking his helmet beneath his arm, his eyes roamed over the soldiery for a hundredth time, then he peered into the distance.
He disliked the situation. Sharply mistrusted it.
The attack on Creil had proved in part a display of Franconian force, a warning, and in part retaliation.
Barely a year past, when the East Frankish king, Louis the Child, died, Charles succeeded in regaining Lorraine on the eastern frontier, lost to him a decade earlier. The people of Lorraine readily accepted Carolingian Charles when the unpopular Duke of Franconia, Conrad, was elevated to the East Frankish throne. Conrad, for his part, vowed reprisal.
Creil’s destruction was an insolent slap, dealt to Charles’s heartland. But ‘twas more than the assault that weighed on Rurik. How were the Franconians able to penetrate Francia’s borders so deep and remain unmarked? How, lest they received aid from interests within?
As the combined forces of Normans and West Franks pushed the raiders back to the frontier, an unshakable impression beset Rurik. It seemed the Franconians baited them, drawing them ever toward Burgundy’s borders to some appointed hour.
Burgundy. A burr lay in that. Before he could work through the thought, Ketil drew alongside.
“A dragon must lie near,” Ketil rumbled, pulling off his helmet. “It reeks a foul breath hereabouts.”
“I smell it as well. ‘Od’s blood, ‘twould seem we march into that great worm’s jaw.” Rurik shifted his gaze left to the ranks of Neustrians. They had joined Esternay’s banner scarce a fortnight ago. “Ofttimes I wonder whom I distrust the more, Conrad’s forces or our own. What do you know of our comrades there?”
“Only that I’d prefer meeting them head-on to having them at my back.” Ketil squinted over at them. “You did know that the late Marquess of Neustria wore the crown before Charles. Nei? The magnates rejected Charles due to his youth and offered the throne to Odo. But later, some of the more powerful lords revolted and crowned Charles while Odo fought in the Aquitaine. Francia was not reconciled under one crown till Odo’s death.”
“And the present marquess?”
“Brother to Odo — Robert. He pledges loyalty to Charles easily enough.”
Ketil nodded to where a dark, thickset man rode, conversing with Esternay. “He has sent us his son, Hugh. Already does that one gain honors in battle. But what might interest you more is the marquess’s son-by-marriage, Raoul, Duke of Burgundy.”
“Burgundy,” Rurik muttered. “Therein lies the burr.”
“Or the ‘worm.’ “Ketil smiled grimly.
“That, too, my friend. That too.”
The bray of trumpet brought their eyes to the distance. Dust clouded the horizon.
“The Franconians have turned,” Ketil observed.
“Já, with Burgundy to their backs and Neustria at our sides.”
“Do you think Esternay is part to this?”
Rurik shook his head, unknowing. “As I understand it, he won his land and spurs of Charles, and claims title as king’s champion.”
“Mayhap beneath the title he is a man of shifting loyalties.” Ketil pulled on his helmet.
“Mayhap.” Rurik resettled his own. “Tell the men to give heed. Our Norse archers will precede the slingers and pikemen for the first attack. Let them fold back into the shield wall. We are strong there. But our cavalry is thin. We must rectify that in the future. For now, Esternay’s troops will gird our lines where they are wanting. Let us hope he does not forswear the sovereign now.”
Ketil began to move off, but Rurik stayed him with a last thought. “ ‘Tis against my grain, and yours, I know, but our footmen will be sore disadvantaged once the cavalry breaks through the shield wall, and our greater portion lies there. If need be, bring down the horse to gain the man. The face of our enemy is unknown this day. We may yet find him on all sides.”
A distant horn sounded as the Franconians made their advance, sunlight glancing off their spears. The Seigneur d’Esternay’s standard-bearer returned the challenge, trumpeting defiance. Staunchly, the two armies progressed across the open field, quickening their tread.
As the Norse bowmen hurried to group themselves ahead of the ranks, Rurik silently rebuked himself. ‘Twas he who suggested the tactic. Franks seldom utilized archers in battle. But so caught up was he in his own strategies that he did not question the enthusiasm his plans met, nor the ease with which he persuaded the Franks to employ the measure, especially Hugh. Now he fathomed why.
With the Norman strength concentrated in the bowmen and footmen at the fore — Neustrians holding to the left and Lord Robert’s to the right and behind, “fortifying” the cavalry — his men were caught in a pincer. Maddened, Rurik spurred Sleipnir forward to give charge to his archers. He addressed them in Norse.
“If there be steel in your veins, prove so now. Wait as long as you dare and mark the horsemen. Range your arrows high. On first strike, surprise is yours. On second, their shields will be raised. But these will not cover them wholly. There still be legs and, with luck, a sword arm unprotected or a shoulder to disable. Then ready your axes when your work is done and draw back to me. Much havoc shall be wrought this day.”
The men took up his cry as Rurik wheeled back into the ranks.
As the two armies converged on one another, the archers held firm their positions, steel-nerved and exposed before the enemy. Then, at the last possible moment, they released a shower of arrows, followed by a second and a third.
Many a knight fell under the barrage, the shafts finding home in chest and neck. Others more fortunate
bore the wood in thigh and arm. The luckiest, in their shield.
The slingers had barely shied a volley of stone when a roar went up and the Franconians surged forward.
Steel rang out on steel. Lances clashed and shields shivered beneath axes. Blades ran crimson as the armies locked in battle.
The foot soldiers tightened their ranks, laboring hard with short sword and hatchet — cut and thrust, parry and turn. Shields slammed rim to rim, steel clanged, one stroke meeting another. A man shrieked as an ax sliced off his arm. Another cried out as a spear skewered his side.
Rurik gripped his broadsword, knees pressed tightly against Sleipnir, reins and shield in the other hand as he prepared to join the thick of action. He watched the spot where the shield wall had begun to waver.
The Franconians pushed forward and the Neustrian line appeared to collapse. The enemy poured into the gap, effectively severing the Neustrians from the main body of the army and widening the fissure to create a second front. Predictably, the Franconians turned their efforts inward against the Normans.
“Rot you, Hugh!” Rurik’s blood boiled as his sword sang out.
Esternay’s men were conveniently buffered by his own. More Frankish cravenness! Rurik cursed them all as the shock of sword met shield. He rained blow after blow down on the Franconian that beset him, then with a quick thrust and stab, sent the man toppling to the ground.
Rurik quickly found his metal hard tested and was grateful that Hoth fought to his back. He briefly glimpsed Ketil as the fiery giant thrust his spear through an enemy shield, then dragged the soldier from his saddle.
Another East Frank drove from the left, but Rurik felled him with two strokes. When he looked up, Esternay was battling his way toward him, dark with rage.
“Sod them!” the knight swore as he delivered a hacking blow and planted his blade in a Franconian neck. “Damn the Neustrians to hell!”
Heartened, Rurik raised his steel and met each new attack. Rivulets of sweat poured from beneath his helmet as he slashed and hewed through the torrent of battle. A gurgling cry from behind told him that Hoth had been taken down. He swore fiercely, pivoted Sleipnir, and swiftly avenged the young man.
The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series) Page 28
