The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  Esternay joined him just as a knot of men descended. Their interest fixed on Rurik, but the knight drew off one after another.

  Rurik felt it strange to be abetted by Esternay but could not think on it as he twisted to turn a blade with his shield. No blade did he meet but a club spiked with metal. The blow fell hard, shattering the wood upon his arm.

  Esternay glanced at Rurik as he took the sundering blow. Yet another Franconian closed in on Valsemé’s lord, whose back was now unguarded. Esternay marked the man. Bringing up his sword, he slashed through the air. But at the last instant, he angled his stroke wide of the mark.

  »«

  Pain splintered through Brienne’s left arm, causing her to drop the bucket of apples.

  “My lady!” Elsie’s mother quickly captured the rolling vessel and runaway fruit. “My lady, you needn’t be about this labor. ‘Tis servants’ duty.”

  Brienne only half listened to Galwinth’s scolding as she massaged her arm and looked across the bailey to the east. A shiver ran through her. For a moment she stood unmoving, then a shadow fell over her. She gazed up into Lyting’s crystal-blue eyes.

  “Are you still intent on stocking the keep yourself?” He smiled, but worry lined his brow as it had since early morn when he first learned of the runes. “I fear we shall next lose you under a sack of oats or barrel of wine,” he continued in a light vein.

  Brienne shook off the dire feeling that enfolded her and answered his jest. ‘Would you prefer I worked at the sail and anchored you to my weaving shed all the day? Really, Lyting, you mustn’t feel you need guard me every minute. This morning’s incident — “

  “More than an incident, Brienne. ‘Twas another rati that was carved upon your door, directed at you as the Baronne de Valsemé. I cannot give you the precise rendering, but someone appears ill content to bide under Frankish law even with a Norman lord. You may be at risk.”

  Confusion clouded her thoughts. “But why? I have naught to do with how men govern their affairs.”

  “Yet you are the baronne, the symbol of Frankish nobility, of your father before you, and of the king. In truth, the curse may be aimed equally at Rurik. It can be argued that the runes were put to the baron’s bedchamber and cast against his wife. We do not know wholly with what we deal.”

  Brienne found no ready response. She looked toward the keep.

  “There is comfort in work, or, at least, in distraction. Michaelmas will soon be upon us when the accountings must be taken. The tower was fairly stripped bare when we moved to the manor house. ‘Tis good that we take stock of the siege provisions and provide some simple furnishings. A secure keep is one prepared — for whatever emergency.”

  She gave Lyting a meaningful look.

  “Very well, let us make an accounting, but leave the apples, and the heavier work, to the servants. We shall raise their choler if we usurp their duties,” he bantered as they crossed the courtyard and began to climb the long wooden staircase. “Do you think Bolsgar will be maddened that we tend to his cipherings?”

  “Mayhap,” Brienne replied with a smile. “Best we bid him join us with his writing implements.”

  As Brienne approached the top of the steps, she rubbed the dull ache in her arm and gazed once more with uncertainty toward the east.

  The hours passed swiftly as Brienne immersed herself in the details of the keep. Aleth joined her along with a number of maidservants. Together they cleared the stale rushes from the hall, aired the chambers, and replaced the burnt torches with fresh ones.

  Brienne wished to partake in more of the work herself, but Aleth and Galwinth reproved her every effort. A lady’s place was to supervise, they admonished time and again. Brienne saw latent promise in Aleth as castellan, and Galwinth should have been born to title for her stout tongue and ability to dictate. They paid her little heed when she made comment, and only kept her from further soiling her hands.

  At least Lyting eased his watch when she was well companioned. He aided Bolsgar in the depths of the keep, tallying the stores of foodstuffs, drink, and fuel.

  Wearied by a long day of more idleness than toil, Brienne left the women stuffing pallets with fresh straw and moved into the passageway. A single torch blazed upon the wall, illumining a narrow stretch of corridor and leaving the rest in darkness.

  Brienne made her way in the dimness to an adjoining room. Just as she prepared to enter, a crisp current of air rushed over her and parried with the torch’s flame. Hesitantly, she stretched out her hand and felt the cool flow against her palm. It emanated from the far end of the passage where all lay cloaked in shadow.

  Removing an unlit torch from its bracket, she kindled it with the other’s fire. Cautiously, she progressed down the corridor, tracking the breeze till she came to a stone wall. To the right, as she anticipated, a stairway joined it, leading upward into the highest part of the tower.

  Brienne lifted her skirts, torch held aloft, and began to climb. The draft proved strongest here, fresh and sweet-scented. She followed it, ever upward, until she gained the uppermost reach of the keep and entered the familiar low-ceilinged chamber.

  The room’s chill slid over her as she stepped further inside, its inky dark scattering before the torchlight to crouch in corners and shift along walls. Her eye drew to where the day’s grayed light spilled through the open portal overhead. A ladder stood braced in place, rising to the tower roof.

  As a fresh gust of air curled over her, Brienne shook away her unease and moved to close the small door. Apparently, someone had been there apart from herself. She shut the thought from her mind along with the possibilities. The trapdoor above opened outward, challenging her nerve. She would need to climb the ladder to get hold of it.

  Brienne gripped a rung and tilted her head, listening for a long moment. All was silence. Plucking up her courage along with her gown, she mounted the crosspieces one by one, placing each foot carefully, mindful of her skirts about her ankles and the torch above her head.

  Dusk veiled the barony as Brienne emerged atop the keep. She swept the fire before her full circle, quickly searching out the shadows, then sighed her relief. She was alone.

  Briefly, she allowed her eye to travel over the darkened contours of Valsemé, amazed that the day should have slipped so rapidly toward eve, unnoticed by herself and those within. As she bent toward the door, something gleamed in the fire’s light an arm’s reach away.

  Brienne stretched to take up the item, her fingers meeting the coolness of metal. It proved to be a slim copper box, round and hinged. Turning it over, she worked the square catch with her thumb and pressed the top open.

  Brienne cried out, dropping the case as though burned. Minutes leaped past before she recovered her breath. When the object of her distress remained unmoving, she stooped to retrieve it with the greatest of caution. Hesitantly, she examined the receptacle. What appeared to be a snake coiled within proved to be only one’s skin, perfectly preserved.

  Hastily, she closed the lid and secured it. Despite her best effort, she could not master the tremor that began in her hand then quaked along her arm to find the pit of her stomach.

  The torch sputtered in the breeze, hissing and smoking. Brienne threw it to the stone, maddened and unnerved. Its rush was ill prepared, the tallow already spent. In the dimming light, she descended the ladder and felt her way from the room and down the stairs. When at last she reentered the passage with its single, flaming torch, she heard the women’s muted laughter and chatter in the chamber beyond.

  Lyting was foremost in her thoughts. She must find him at once and show him the talisman. No need to distress the others. Brienne moved silently down the corridor, listening, watching, then slipped unseen past the chamber door.

  On she rushed, hurrying down another flight of steps and into the great hall. Several torches crackled about the walls, mottling the chamber with patches of light. But the greater portion remained swamped in darkness. Impatient to reach Lyting, Brienne quickened her pace, gl
ancing neither right nor left as she crossed the chamber, her purpose of more import than prudence.

  As she approached the portal, a small sound caught her ear. Real or imagined, she found nothing amiss and hurried on.

  »«

  Aleth threw a swift questing glance into the last of the garret rooms. “Brienne?”

  To her mind, Brienne had been gone far too long. She returned to the passageway and quickly limped down its length.

  »«

  Brienne slowed her step on the stone staircase that spiraled to the depths of the keep. Many a torch was missing from its bracket. Only a few blazed in place.

  She had ordered the old ones replaced earlier, and such negligence was inexcusable. The steps opened clear to the bottom, a considerable drop even to the first level where the entryway expanded. Clutching the copper box more tightly, she vowed to deal with the servants later and continued her descent.

  The sparse light distended her shadow, casting it down over the stairs before her to clash with the curve of the wall. Brienne paused as she caught the faint echo of male voices, Lyting’s and Bolsgar’s. Relieved, she began to take another step when she felt the air stir and heard a soft scuffing from behind.

  “My God . . . Brienne!” Aleth’s scream broke from above as she shrieked a warning.

  In the same instant, a shadow rippled over the steps past Brienne. Hands came down hard upon her shoulders, thrusting her toward the open edge of the stairway. She jerked violently away, twisting back toward the wall. But her foot met with air and she toppled forward, dragging her attacker off-balance and over the side.

  As Brienne plunged full length down the stone, Katla’s piercing cry rang in her ears followed by a sickening thud.

  Pain exploded through Brienne’s head, then all fell to darkness.

  Chapter 17

  The keep rose staunch and somber against the evening sky — a welcome sight to Rurik’s eyes. Signaling his command, he pressed his men the last distance. His thoughts quickened to Brienne.

  A blare of horns accompanied the baron’s return, repeated along the watch points as Valsemé’s soldiers drove across the terrain, through the village, and on into the bailey. Grooms, servants, and garrison hastened to greet them. Impatient for Brienne, Rurik quickly scanned the faces, then looked to the steps of the manor house. There, Lyting stood alone, his countenance solemn.

  A knot twisted in Rurik’s stomach. He detected a guardedness among the castle folk. He dismounted slowly, favoring his left leg. Fresh pain fired through his thigh. He set his jaw and willed the discomfort from his face. The gash he bore had been seared but ‘twould require little to split it anew.

  Striving to hold the limp from his gait, he mounted the stairs. Rurik locked eyes with Lyting, acknowledged him with a curt nod, then entered the manor without word. Surely Brienne awaited him within.

  Scarce inside the great hall, he halted, stone-still. Aleth came forth with sober countenance, bearing his goblet.

  Rurik rounded on Lyting, dark thoughts riding him. His throat so constricted he could not find voice but demanded explanation through his stormy gaze.

  Lyting exchanged glances with Aleth then took a step toward Rurik, proffering a hand. “Broðir . . . Brienne, she . . .

  Rurik felt the blood drain from his face. Without thought, he seized Lyting’s arm. “Where is my lady?” he growled.

  “I am here.” Brienne’s voice fell softly across the chamber.

  The three turned as one to see Brienne move with a slow measured pace into the hall. Her hair fell unbound and her robes flowed about her as though she had just risen from bed.

  Rurik crossed the space, ignoring the complaint of his leg. Anxiously, he embraced her, drawing her tight against his chest, against the sharp sudden fear that lanced through him, more keen than any blade. Rumbling endearments in a rush of Norse, he buried both his face and hands deep in her hair.

  Brienne gasped at his touch and sought to pull away. Surprised, Rurik drew back and gazed down upon her strained features. Alarm lurched through him. Bruises spread into her hairline and blotched her neck. He followed their path and gently eased the gown from her shoulder, uncovering more discolorations.

  “By the gods, Brienne, what has befallen you?”

  She stilled his lips with her fingers. “Come, love. There is much to tell and your journey has been long. You need to freshen and — “

  “Nei, I will have it now,” he insisted, then cast a hard look at Lyting.

  Lyting relieved Aleth of the goblet and bore it to Rurik. “Best fortify yourself, broðir. ‘Tis a disagreeable tale.”

  Ketil joined the others as they moved to the dais, and Galwinth was called over. Lyting carefully recounted Katla’s attack, how she had secreted herself in the keep and attacked Brienne on the open stairs only to be foiled by Aleth and plunge over the side herself.

  Brienne’s fall had been broken by the curving wall, but still she had tumbled a considerable length down the stone and was struck unconscious.

  Katla had been less fortunate. Though she had miraculously survived without breakage of bone, she had fallen full upon her abdomen and lost the child. Galwinth had attended her while Aleth ministered to Brienne.

  “Screech she did, and claw at me too,” Galwinth charged, round-eyed. “That and more, my lord. When the babe was birthed dead, she cursed your lady, Aleth as well, and vowed revenge.”

  Wringing her skirt in her hands, the maidservant hesitated, then looked Rurik full in the eyes.

  “You need know. The babe was not yours, my lord. Katla hid her months well, but her time was far advanced. The babe proved small yet well formed, its hair black as a crow’s wing.”

  Rurik’s brows rose at her words. Then warm release flowed through him, release from a burden of conscience that had weighed sore heavily upon him these many months. Still he felt sorrow for the innocent babe, dead due to its mother’s treachery.

  Resting back in the baronial chair, Rurik massaged his temples. “Where is Katla now? I need to deal with her.”

  Lyting met him with a steady eye. “I cast her out in your name, broðir. She is gone. I took her to Valsemé’s borders myself.”

  Rurik held Lyting’s gaze for a long moment. The silence became strained.

  “Gott, good,” he breathed at last. “You have done well.”

  Turning to Brienne, he brought her hand to his lips. “Forgive me, ástin mín. I put you at risk by allowing her to remain. Should she have — “

  Brienne stroked his cheek. “God’s arm is mightier than Katla’s, my love. ‘Twould seem the Almighty has His own plans for us. She could not thwart His will to keep us as one.”

  “Nor could the Seigneur d’Esternay.” Ketil cleared his throat, drawing every eye to him. “I did as you bade, my lady, and looked to your husband’s back, but it cost the Seigneur d’Esternay his sword arm.”

  Brienne took a sharp breath, shocked that the knight had indeed striven to kill Rurik. Then the last of Ketil’s words hit her full force and she paled.

  “Rurik was occupied with two Franconians. When Esternay aimed a blow at his back, I righted the matter.” Ketil shrugged lightly and downed a mouthful of ale. “I dispatched the affronting limb to the king,” he added matter-of-factly. “Charles needs to know what treachery is wrought behind his throne.”

  Brienne squeezed her eyes shut at the image that conjured. Her revulsion quickly passed. ‘Twas fitting retribution and she found justice in the measure. Dishonor was a far more bitter punishment than death, though death was justly deserved.

  “Merci, Ketil. You are a true friend to us both.”

  That Brienne had enlisted Ketil to mind Esternay’s movements both surprised and pleased Rurik. Now he listened as she related the knight’s scheme to regain Valsemé and gave voice to her fears of burdening him with such deceit while he faced the perils of battle. His heart gladdened. Brienne was never part to the knight’s perfidy as Katla had charged.

  Inevitably
, the conversation turned to the clash with the Franconians.

  “Esternay’s was not the only treachery dealt us,” Rurik declared, signaling for more wine. “Neustria and Burgundy hold hands with Conrad. They aided the Franconian attack on Creil and then betrayed us while making it appear that they joined the king’s banner.” Rurik smiled crookedly as he stretched out his leg. “They have no qualms about spilling our Norman blood.”

  “Rurik, you are wounded!” Brienne gasped as she spied fresh blood seeping through his pant leg. “And here you sit gossiping away the hour like an old woman — “

  “A kjerringa,” Lyting supplied, eyes twinkling with a hint of mischief.

  “A kjerringa, then,” Brienne amended. “My medicants are in our bedchamber. Let us see you there so I might tend you and see you to rest.”

  Rurik flashed her a smile. “ ‘Tis why I returned so swiftly, though not to rest.”

  “Rurik!” Brienne flushed warmly, sweeping a glance to the others as smiles broke over their faces.

  His smile waned as his gaze lingered over the many bruises Brienne bore and he saw the tiredness in her face.

  “But rest we will, my heart,” he said gently as he rose and, placing his hand to the small of her back, accompanied her from the hall.

  »«

  The last weeks before Michaelmas came and went without incident. The harvest was gathered and the hedges opened to allow the cattle to graze upon the stubble of the fields. In that time, Brienne’s bruises faded and Rurik’s leg healed under her care. She suspected it remained tender, but he made no complaint.

  Brother Bernard arrived back from Rouen but prepared for a quick return to the duke’s court and to St. Wandrille’s nearby on the Seine, where his cousin had recently been installed as abbot.

  During his brief stay, Brienne sought his private counsel to discuss a deepening concern. Since their marriage, Rurik had made small progress in his Christian instruction. Truth to tell, she admitted sadly, he seemed averse to taking the waters of Holy Baptism.