The monk shared her frustration. He promised to confront Rurik on the issue upon his return and press him to honor the baronial vows. Meanwhile, he urged Brienne, should she have need, to send to St. Wandrille’s. If he was not there, his cousin would see her message delivered with all speed and discretion.
Early morn, late in the third week, Rurik and Brienne sat quietly at table breaking their fast. A brooding look weighted Rurik’s eyes as it had for several days past. Brienne reflected on this as she broke a crust of bread, restraining her impulse to ply him with questions.
The glint of metal caught her eye as he slipped a small round case from his jerkin and turned it thoughtfully in his hand. Brienne recognized the talisman at once. It did little for her appetite.
Just then, Bolsgar entered the hall with apparent urgency. Before he reached the dais, Lyting appeared at the portal, followed by Ketil. They, too, hastened with purpose before Rurik.
“My lord, two more oxen were taken during the night,” Bolsgar spilled out. “That brings the number to nine. Nine oxen, nine pigs, nine goats, mayhap as many cocks — males all. By the Mass, where will it end, my lord?”
Rurik’s gaze shifted to Lyting and Ketil. Something passed betwixt them. Brienne felt a ripple of alarm.
Clearly, Rurik kept affairs from her. The stock and what more? she wondered. And what significance lay in the number nine, or in the copper talisman, for that matter?
She studied his profile as he pressed Bolsgar for the names of the watchmen responsible for the oxen. Then her gaze drifted to Lyting who listened impatiently. Shadows deepened his eyes, and a pale stubble covered his jaw and chin. He looked to have gone for nights without sleep. Indeed, she had missed his presence in the hall these two days past.
Rurik rose abruptly, interrupting the conversation to adjourn to less communal quarters. Before he departed, he charged Brienne firmly to keep from the forest.
»«
Rurik, Lyting, and Ketil rode out within the hour, each with a small company of soldiers, each driving in different directions. Rurik left without comment other than to say that so many animals could not long be kept secreted.
Brienne’s nerves knotted up, memories of runes and snakeskin, of scratchings in the night and watchers in the wood haunting her. She decided to exhaust her time and ragged energies in the weaving shed while she awaited Rurik’s return. It had been closed up since her fall, the great falcon left near complete.
As Brienne headed across the courtyard, the young maidservant she had sent to air the shed rushed toward her, exclaiming that the hut’s door had been broken open.
Brienne ran the distance to find the entry yawning wide. Cautiously, she stepped inside, then her hands flew to her mouth. She stood in stunned silence.
The sail hung in shreds on the loom, the Beaumanoir falcon slashed to ribbons.
»«
Brienne withdrew to her chamber and for a time took to her bed.
Aleth sought to calm her, offering light refreshment, goblets of perry, and gentle conversation. It was not until Waite and Patch appeared below her window, full of antics, that Brienne’s mood lifted. Long after they moved off, she remained looking over the grounds, mulling through her thoughts.
‘Twas as Lyting said — the offenses committed thus far were affronts as much against Valsemé’s baron as his baronne. To the malcontents — whoever, wherever they be — she represented the age-old order of nobility. Thus was she recipient of their misdeeds — the curses upon her brooch and chamber door, and now the destruction of the great sail. But their message was unmistakable. They would not be fettered with the yoke of Frankish law.
She recognized that if Rurik concealed things from her, he did so with reason — no doubt so as not to distress her. The thought warmed her. She trusted Rurik. Trusted him to set the barony’s troubles aright. Trusted him to expose the dissenters and deal them a swift, stern justice.
She offered a hope-filled prayer that the greater portion of his men held faithful. Though the original garrison that once served under Gruel Atli, now Rurik, appeared outwardly content, reports reached her on occasion of quarrels among the new arrivals. Some expected Normandy to replicate their Norse homeland in all its practices.
But this was Francia. Its soil, by any name — Normandy or otherwise — was the flesh of the Frankish kingdom. Above all, this was Valsemé, holding of her forebears and of her children to come. She would neither shrink in the face of discord nor shirk duty or calling. Certes, she would put on her best and greet her husband cheerfully before all. Let the dissenters mark it well. A Beaumanoir does not cower before adversity.
Fresh energy flowed through Brienne as she moved to her coffer and chose a fine azure gown. She coupled it with a snowy underdress, then bid Aleth bring her bride gift, the golden girdle set with sapphires and iridescent shell.
As she finished robing herself, Waite appeared below her window in search of Patch. Apparently, the furry scoundrel stole off with a tart from the cookhouse, rousted by a severe tongue-lashing and several well-aimed objects.
Brienne laughed in earnest. “Fear not, Waite. Most likely the pup is enjoying his booty somewhere nearby under a bush.”
The day grew late, and still Rurik and the others had yet to return or send word. Brienne delayed the evening meal, then paced the chamber, her nerves unraveling once more.
Aleth soothed her, sitting her down and combing out her long tresses. As she wove them with ribbons, Brienne closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to drift back over the day.
The morning’s events played through her mind — the abrupt arrival of the men in the hall, Bolsgar’s and Rurik’s exchange, Lyting’s exhausted appearance, and Ketil — what tidings did he bear? Rurik had forestalled conversation before Ketil could give voice to them. Now, Bolsgar’s words came back to harry:
“Nine oxen, nine pigs, nine goats, mayhap as many cocks — males all.”
Brienne’s brow furrowed. So many animals, but no mention of hounds. Still . . .
She bit her lip as Aleth finished dressing her hair. No need to burden her friend. The last ribbon secure, Brienne admired the creation in a small hand mirror, then she bid Aleth to see the hall readied for supper.
Minutes later, Brienne descended the steps of the manor house and crossed the courtyard in search of Waite and Patch.
After a hurried check around the manor and keep proved fruitless, Brienne progressed to the smithy and stables. When this yielded naught, she pressed on to the various outbuildings, asking those she encountered whether they had seen the lad or pup. Only one recalled the earlier ruckus about the cookhouse. None remembered seeing either since.
As a tide of apprehension welled inside her, Brienne returned to the manor house to check the cellar, a prime place for a boy to tuck himself away with an ostracized pet. Disappointment twined with growing unease. They were not to be found.
Her footsteps carried her swiftly to the kitchens. Too swiftly, she reproved herself. But though she strove to conceal her worry, she could scarce slow her pace.
Intentionally, Brienne delayed this visit until last, knowing the rascally pup would be least welcome here. She needed to speak with Waite’s mother but feared distressing her prematurely, for the woman was heavy with child.
Brienne’s presence caused an immediate stir. The servants assumed she came to order the supper served up, or worse, to give complaint or both. To their dismay, she issued no directives whatever. The meal remained held.
Just inside the door, Brienne found Elsie ladling out mustard sauces into bowls. She chided herself for not seeking the girl out straightaway, for the children ever ran together.
“Elsie, I have need of young Waite. Do you know where he is?”
Her brows puckered. “Down to the village, methinks. Your Patch got away.” She wore a mixture of embarrassment and guilt. Brienne wondered what role the sprite played in the earlier incident.
“Can you show me where he might be? Have you children
a favored place — somewhere the pup might hide?”
Elsie slowly placed the spoon on the table, obviously reluctant to reveal such a secret.
“Come, Elsie,’twill soon be dark,” Brienne prodded more urgently. “We must find them.”
At that, Elsie nodded and doffed her apron. Taking her lady by the hand, she led her out of the cookhouse and toward the bailey gate.
As they approached the bridge, Brienne realized that her most immediate challenge lay in convincing the guard to allow them to pass without escort. Rurik most likely had left word that she needed to be accompanied outside the walls, but who could she trust? What was to distinguish a loyal soldier from a dissenter? She would feel safer simply moving among the villeins in the village.
Predictably, the guard gave argument, but Brienne cited her own authority in her husband’s absence and pointed out that she would be clearly visible from his perch as she and the child were but headed for the church. Not quite an untruth, she thought, and hoped the misstatement earned her no penance in purgatory.
The dour-faced guard relented at last but Brienne felt his keen gaze burning into her back as she crossed over the great ditch and hastened down the road.
“Elsie, where are you taking us?”
“Why, to the church as you said, m’lady.” She smiled up and gave an impish wink.
Brienne thought she glimpsed herself in that small jest, but years younger.
“There is a copse of trees across the field, behind the building.” Elsie pointed.
Brienne and Elsie slipped around the side of the church that faced away from the guard, hoping it would appear from his view that they actually entered the building. The copse lay a greater distance away than gave Brienne ease, but she hurried as Elsie tugged her along.
As they arrived at a grove of scrubby trees, they shouted out to Waite and Patch. No answer came. Brienne’s disquiet returned as they made a thorough search and gained naught but brambles and stickers.
“Where else, Elsie?” Worry threaded Brienne’s words as she crouched down and caught the girl by the shoulders. “The light fails. Quickly, child, where else might they be?”
Elsie felt her lady’s urgency and pointed across the field to the edge of the forest. Pulling from Brienne’s grip, she dashed forward. “In the glade . . . among the berry bushes, m’lady,” she called back.
“Elsie! You were told to stay away from there! Elsie!”
Brienne hurried after the child, but the field was uneven and its stubble clutched at her dress. She was nearly upon the woods before she reached the girl and stopped her.
‘Tis not far, m’lady. Please, let me show you. They will be there. You will see.” Elsie assured, trying to wriggle from her grasp.
Before Brienne could decide whether to send Elsie back to the keep for assistance or brave the wood herself, a figure emerged from the shadows of the forest. She quickly thrust Elsie behind her as the form drew near and took the shape of a wizened woman, bent with years.
“Baronne,” the crone hailed, quickening her hobbled step. “Praise the saints that I’ve found you.” She stopped and cocked her head, seeing the lady shrink back. “Do you not remember me? I am Gilles the Forrester’s wife, from the cot in the glen.”
Brienne did not recall her, but she watched as the woman extended a gnarled finger toward the wood.
“My husband waits there now, my lady. Found a small dog sore injured. Some devil took a blade to its leg. But the pup’s a scrappy piece. ‘Twill allow none near. My Gilles vows the hound to be yours, my lady.”
“What of the boy?” Brienne asked, her heart pounding.
“Boy?” The woman crooked her head, shifting her yellowed eyes behind wrinkled lids. “Ah, I thought to hear a voice a time ago. Do you think he could be hurt as well?” Her gaze held a curious glint.
Brienne turned to Elsie. “Run to Lady Aleth — quickly! She will know what to do. Hurry now! We must have help.”
Elsie raced off as rapid as the hares. Brienne watched her retreat for a minute, then turned. Holding rein on her fears she followed the old woman into the forest.
»«
Dusk wrapped its dim cloak about the wood and obscured the paths, but the crone picked her way with certainty. They traveled deeper and deeper into the forest. Lofty trees loomed dark and silent all about. Too silent, Brienne realized uncomfortably, fighting back the claws of the underbrush.
“Mayhap we should turn back and wait for the others.”
“Just ahead, just ahead.” The woman pressed on.
The trail narrowed. From somewhere above came the sudden cry of a hawk. To Brienne’s horror, when she looked up she spied several dark shapes circling, wings outstretched, as they marked some carrion.
“Where is my dog?” Brienne demanded fiercely.
“A mite further, ‘tis all.”
“You lie. Let us go back.”
Brienne turned, but the hag seized her roughly by the arm and shoved her ahead. Brienne struggled against her grip, but the woman possessed uncommon strength and propelled her on until they burst into a clearing moments later.
Brienne’s eyes rounded with shock. From every tree in the glade hung the gutted carcasses of animals: oxen, goats, pigs, sheep, fowl — and some dogs she recognized — their blood soaking the earth.
A piercing scream rang in Brienne’s ear, then she recognized it as her own. The old woman tightened her grip and forced her to look upon the signs of ritual — a triangle stamped out with upright rocks and the crimsoned altar stone.
Brienne’s thoughts flew to Waite. Her strength and will surged. She kicked back, catching the woman sharply in the shin. The crone loosened her hold enough for Brienne to tear free and clout her alongside the head, sending the creature to the ground.
Shrill laughter filled the glade and rippled over Brienne. She turned to see Katla step forth from the cover of the wood.
The Norsewoman wore a blue cloak strapped over her breast and set with stones down to the hem. Strings of amber crowded her neck, and upon her head she wore a wide black hood, cuffed to expose its white catskin lining. In her hand she gripped a staff capped with a gleaming brass knob and set with precious jewels.
Katla continued to laugh as she came forward, but when Brienne’s gaze fell to the limp in her gait, the laughter changed to a snarl.
“Highborn bitch! Did you think to have what is mine? Did you think yourself a match for me, Katla of the Valsgärde?” Hatred flashed in her eyes.
Brienne fell back a pace before the Norsewoman’s advance, but the old woman shuffled to her feet and grabbed her once more.
Katla’s lips curled back in a harsh semblance of a smile. “Better for you to have drunk the nabid. Look about you.” She gestured to the trees. “ ‘Tis the ninth year. The year of Festival. Nine of every creature must be sacrificed. But, lo! The rite is incomplete.” She leveled a burning gaze at Brienne. “It lacks a human offering.”
A deathly chill found the core of Brienne’s bones. Pain centered in her breast. “I thought the victims were to be male,” she gamed for time. If no persons had yet been killed, then Waite was safe, but she doubted ‘twould be so for long.
“Satt. True.” Katla tossed her head, the hood slipping back. “But given that this is Francia and that you Frankish sows have so bewitched our men that they forget their own bright maids of the North” — the look in her eyes held more hatred than Brienne thought possible — “mayhap the gods won’t object that you are a woman. One Frankish whore for nine Frankish bastards,” she spat.
“Hold her firm,” Katla commanded the hag as she reached for the skin pouch at her hip.
“The coin. You promised coin,” the old woman whined.
“When we are done.”
“You said naught of killing. The girdle, then. I will have the lady’s girdle for my service.”
Katla narrowed her eyes over the woman, slid a glance to Brienne’s jeweled belt, and smiled archly.
“Very well,
” she replied all too compliantly. “When we are done, I shall give you fit reward.”
She dipped her fingers into the pouch and drew out a wicked-looking spine.
“The Sleep Thorn.” The words hissed through Katla’s teeth as she held it before her. At the sight of it, Brienne tried to jerk free of the crone.
“Hold her, I say!” Katla snapped.
She cut her eyes from the woman to Brienne, then her lips spread into a malicious smile. “You need to rest atime while we prepare you. But have no worry.” She stepped to Brienne’s side and grasped her arm. “You will not miss the ceremony.”
With a quick thrust, Katla stabbed the thorn deep into Brienne’s flesh.
Pain speared Brienne’s arm to join with the panic that flooded her. Terrified, she twisted around and sank her teeth into the crone’s hand. The woman shrieked and released her hold, giving Brienne the moment she needed to shove the hag to the ground.
Brienne whirled and backhanded Katla across jaw and cheek. The Norsewoman reeled, screeching as she fell back upon the triangle of jagged stones.
At that, Brienne ran, heart and lungs bursting. Ran without looking back, fear providing her with an explosion of energy.
Branch and bramble tore at her. The underbrush blurred. But just as quickly as her vigor flared, it deserted her. Her limbs grew heavy as she fled through the forest, the sleep thorn taking its effect.
Brienne snatched at her arm, wincing as she tried to wrest the spine free. But her fingers slipped on her blood and she could not grasp it firmly. On she stumbled in a sluggish haze, battling back the tangles of growth that rose to block her passage. Without warning, a root trammeled her foot and sent her pitching forward.
For the briefest of moments, Brienne found herself in flight. Then pain sheared through her as she crashed to the ground and plunged down a long incline, toppling head over heels, stone and twig tearing at her, until at last she slammed to a halt in a thicket at the bottom of the ravine.
Brienne lay motionless, wanting to cry out in despair and for the desperation of her plight. If her body was broken, she could not say. There was no pain now, only a numbness that spread through her limbs.
The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series) Page 30
