The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  “You surprise me, Katla. I would think you to prefer that I slit her throat.” The man smirked as he drew on his cup, taking a mouthful of ale.

  “And have her bear but a moment’s pain? Nei! Brienne Beaumanoir must suffer a lifetime. Let the men use her highborn thighs to their contentment, and the women work her till she’s haggard and bent and too loathsome to look upon.”

  “Careful, Katla. Hatreds devour more keenly than lusts, and I know your appetites to be many.”

  “Do you lecture me while your own bitterness feeds upon your gut?” Katla tossed her chin defiantly, her nostrils flaring. “I want the bitch gone from these shores. Forever!”

  “So you might supplant her as baronne?”

  “ ‘Tis unlikely Rurik will allow me in his hall, leastwise not soon. Still, if I cannot have him, neither will Brienne. She has ruined everything.”

  The man tossed out the remaining drink from his cup but kept all emotion from his face. Katla gloated, knowing she had touched a nerve. Yet he was dangerous when in such humor. She did not wholly trust him.

  “Very well,” he rasped. “Brienne Beaumanoir will satisfy my purposes.” He weighted the words with double intent as he drew his dagger and thumbed its sharp edge.

  Triumph spread through Katla’s breast. But when she looked back, her smile slackened. The man’s eyes had crystallized to icy shards as he sat lost in his thoughts, his look as cold as death.

  Chapter 20

  Brienne knelt unseeing, unfeeling upon the cold slabs of stone that floored the abbey church. A winter of despair blanketed her heart. Spirit seemed severed from substance.

  “My lady. Lady Brienne. Come. You must take nourishment.” Lyting enfolded her icy hands within the heat of his own and lifted her to her feet. She met his concern with tear-swollen eyes.

  “Oh, Lyting, do you hate me too?”

  “Nei.” He shook his head with the most tender of smiles. “Nor does anyone else. Least of all Rurik.”

  Huge droplets rolled over her cheeks. “He must,” she denied, her throat aching raw. “The things I said, they were so cruel, so horrid. I would blot them out if words could be recalled. But they cannot, and ever shall they burn in Rurik’s heart. He shall never forgive me. Never.”

  “Cease, my lady. You torture yourself to no avail. ‘Twas not Brienne Beaumanoir who spoke, but a distraught young woman who had suffered the outrages of another’s madness and survived. You survived,” he emphasized, “despite untold peril and pain and shock of loss — no less real for being imagined. Deep within, Rurik realizes you were not of right mind. Once he overcomes his anger, he will not only forgive you each word, but lament his own. Then shall he return.”

  “If only that is true,” Brienne said through her tears, “I’d wait a lifetime for him.”

  Lyting smiled, his crystal blue eyes shining softly. “You won’t need to. Rurik will repent his harshness soon enough.”

  Not wholly believing, Brienne’s head sank forward, but Lyting tipped her chin up with a finger.

  “Has heart loved that has not grieved? That has not borne its trials, and shouldered wrongs, or harbored regret? ‘Tis written, in fire gold is tested, and silver, seven-dross refined.” He wiped a lingering tear from her cheek. “Have faith in your husband, Brienne. He shall come for you.”

  Brienne touched his cheek. “Lyting. So full of wisdom and compassion. I have erred in much.”

  “Enough.” Lyting drew away her hand. “Brother Bernard has arrived from Rouen. He and Abbot Godfrey await us in the refectory. Come. You need to strengthen yourself. Tomorrow is already in God’s care.”

  The thick soup and fragrant monastery bread, drawn fresh from the oven, brought warmth back into Brienne’s bones. She sat listening to Brother Bernard’s chronicles of Norman court life, with Abbot Godfrey seated to her left at the head of the table and Lyting to her right.

  At one point, Brother Bernard rose at his place across from her, impassioned as he detailed the duke’s many undertakings. It seemed that Rollo made it a point of honor to repair the devastation wrought by himself and his marauding kinsmen over the past century. The banks of the Seine were currently being reinforced with quays, the riverbed narrowed and deepened. Marshlands were designated to be built up and downstream islands linked to the mainland. At Rouen, the duke planned to endow a magnificent cathedral. This enthused both churchmen, and they fell to discussion of it and then to the restorations begun at St. Wandrille’s.

  Brother Bernard’s recountings heaped coals upon Brienne’s conscience. Rurik had been right. Beneath her carefully maintained exterior as baronne, she held herself apart of the Normans, preferring to hold tight to old hatreds, ever willing to believe the worst should doubt arise, and equally minded to ignore the qualities that recommended them.

  Brother Bernard would not approve, she thought dully, avoiding his gaze. ‘Twas his life’s mission to “win the hearts and the minds” of the Norsemen to Christ. They were “all God’s children,” he impressed upon her distant months ago, “the same flesh and blood.” She imagined he would have much to lesson her on the capacities of Christian forgiveness.

  Brienne paused, her cup at her lips, as Brother Bernard pushed his bowl to one side and set his goblet before him.

  “My child,” he began, his gaze a solemn sea of green, “Lyting and Abbot Godfrey have apprised me of all that befell you at Valsemé and here at St. Wandrille’s. Let us praise God in His mercy that you are safe, as are the others who await you at the keep.”

  Brienne’s heart contracted. “I fear they wait to no avail. Rurik sends me back to Levroux. He sets me from his side.”

  “And for how long?” The monk smiled, shaking his head as though he believed her visit there would indeed prove brief. “Meanwhile, Rurik has favored you with the use of his ship. The rivers will provide the safer transport,” he added mysteriously.

  Brother Bernard’s wayward brows drew together. “I have other news you must bear. Rumors abound that Hastein has returned to Normandy.”

  Brienne stilled, as did Lyting.

  “ ‘Tis said he travels with two companions. One is Kalman the Hebridean.”

  “Kalman One-Ear?” Lyting frowned.

  Brother Bernard nodded. “The same. They travel in disguise, changing often, I expect. But Kalman is a distinguishable creature with his scarred face and shining pate.”

  The earthen goblet slipped from Brienne’s fingers and crashed to the floor.

  “God forbear! I encountered them on my journey here, south of the Seine. They were dressed in churchmen’s robes. I came upon their campfire.”

  “Sweet Virgin, Brienne! Did they harm you?” Alarm tore at Lyting’s eyes.

  “Nay, I was well hidden in the forest. One sat with his back to me, hooded. But the two others were visible enough. When I saw the scarred man I thought them to be brigands and fled.” She turned anxiously to Brother Bernard. “But why does Hastein risk returning to Normandy when he is marked for death?”

  “ ‘Twas ventured at court that he would seek Rollo’s pardon. But thus far he has dispatched no messengers nor issued any appeal.” The monk rubbed his bristly chin. “Hastein is a simple man, governed by simple passions. If he deems himself wronged, naught will change his mind.”

  “ ‘Tis true.” Lyting leaned forward. “Hastein is one to fixate upon his grievances. He would return for but one thing. Revenge.”

  Brienne bolted to her feet, legs quaking. “Then he seeks Rurik!” she cried. “And because of me, Rurik rides south to Valsemé and into his snare.”

  She rounded on Lyting, her eyes desperately pleading. “I love Rurik above life itself, though sorely have I failed him. Help me set it aright. I beseech you. Ever have you pledged to aid me. Then do so now, Lyting. Now! We must warn him, lest it be too late.”

  Lyting rose at once. Looking down into her tortured face, he knew she would not be left behind. He turned to Abbot Godfrey who had sat in silence throughout the entire discourse.
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  “We shall need mounts. Rurik left with my own. Can you arrange for two?”

  The abbot’s heavy brows slashed straight upward, and he shuffled to his gaunt height, which left him shy of his cousin by two inches.

  “We have no better than Bernard’s nag, but we can see you to nearby Caudebec by wagon. Swifter horses can be had there.”

  “So be it.” Lyting turned to Brienne and offered his hand. “Let us be away.”

  »«

  Rurik watched the firelight splinter red and gold into his wine. He swirled the liquid several times around in the cup, then lifted it to his lips.

  “Females!” Ketil huffed as he stretched his legs toward the campfire. “They’re a thorny lot, with enough tongue in their heads to beshrew a man.”

  He rolled an eye toward Rurik to garner the effect of his words. “Well, if God had to bestow that member upon them, leastwise there are convents to shut them in. No man need to be fettered with a fitful wife. There’s nectar aplenty to gather from the other fair blossoms of Francia.”

  Ketil replenished his drink and waited, but Rurik continued to sit without comment. “Of course, some value a woman with mettle. Not Valkyrie fierce, mind you, but with spirit and courage. And should she possess great beauty as well . . .” He let the thought trail away. “Some would overlook much for such a prize.”

  “And some would keep their tongues in their head if they mean to keep it!” Rurik snapped sourly.

  Ketil shrugged and drew on his wine, the corners of his mouth spreading upward beneath his whiskers.

  One soldier headed from the line of horses and approached the fire. But at Rurik’s surly look, the man hesitated and diverted his gaze to Ketil. Bewildered, he gestured to the horses, still saddled and awaiting the baron’s orders. Ketil raised and dropped his brows. He could offer no encouragement that they would soon press on or pitch camp. Rurik remained as restive and bearish as he’d been throughout the day.

  After leaving the abbey, Rurik drove the men hard to the river, but once there, he changed his mind and set west for Lillebonne. Halfway to their destination, he reversed himself again and turned east for Rouen. An hour outside the city walls, he ordered a respite. Darkness fell. Fires were built. And now the moon filled the sky like an amber plate. And Rurik sat bedeviled, his cup yet brimming with its first fill of wine.

  Ketil expelled a wearied breath. Young bucks. Pride fighting with heart. Why not shut his wife up in his own tower until he could decide his mind, rather than some distant monastery? ‘Twas only a matter of time before he’d be taking the door from its hinges to have her. Meanwhile, they could all rest easier at Valsemé. And for himself, there would be the added pleasure of Aleth’s company.

  Rurik stared into the gamboling flames, his face fixed in solid lines. Anger had blunted his senses long ago. Why, then, this throbbing ache in his heart?

  Had he traveled the world to its ends, won fame upon his sword, amassed riches, and ruled men to be unmanned by the tongue of one woman? And then exist half whole for the want of her?

  He dropped his gaze to glower into his cup. As though some deep-seated desire conjured her, Brienne’s image took form upon the wavering surface. Rurik clenched both jaw and cup. But try though he might, he could not hold on to his anger. Deep inside, the truth gnawed at him. He was a fool to let her go.

  Even while she raged, he knew ‘twas anguish and exhaustion that spoke. But he had allowed her words to bite. Anger answered anger. He released the fears he had borne for two days, and heaved back the pain she inflicted. Fool again. Naught had been the same since he had spurned her upon the steps of St. Wandrille’s and stormed from her side. Nor would it be, so long as they were apart.

  Blood began to pound through his veins as will forged action. Whatever grievances Brienne held against his people, she would have to come to terms with them. Above all, she was his wife. His! If he had to keep her under lock forever, he meant to have her back!

  Rurik thrust to his feet, startling Ketil as he tossed down his cup and hastened toward the horses. The soldiers stirred to motion, alert that their lord was about to alter their course once more this day. One rushed to untether the baron’s steed and bring it forward.

  Wordless, Rurik leaped into the saddle without touching the stirrups, seized upon the reins, and rode off at full gallop. The others scrambled to mount, but by the time they were horsed, he had far outdistanced them.

  Rurik leaned into the gray and rode with the wind. Lyting’s courser was smaller than Sleipnir but swifter. He should reach St. Wandrille’s easily before night’s breaking, before his brother set out with Brienne for Levroux.

  He took heart. Brienne might not accept him as a Norseman, but she ever loved him as a man. Their passions had been spent in every corner of the barony. So would they be again, till “Frank” and “Norse” no longer mattered, till heart and flesh melded to one.

  Rurik spurred the horse on. It lengthened its stride, churning the earth beneath them. Against the fiery moon, he thundered over the gilded road, outpacing the others and leaving them to trail far behind.

  »«

  Brienne clung to rein and saddle as she raced alongside Lyting over the moon-washed road.

  The Caudebec steeds were strong and stouthearted, but the ill-kept roads beleaguered their efforts. Fear and impatience abraded every nerve. If only she could sprout wings to fly!

  The boathouse at the quay came into view, illumined by the soft spill of moonlight. Lyting shouted out for the bargeman as they pulled their mounts to a hasty halt. The warming fires lay cold by the river’s edge. No one appeared. Lyting flung himself down and disappeared into the hulk of the building. He emerged a moment later, dark-faced and somber.

  “The man’s throat has been slit,” he said tightly, throwing a brisk glance about before hurling himself into the saddle. “We must not linger here. Another crossing point lies downriver.”

  They wheeled their horses from the boathouse but had gone no farther than a league when the shadowy forms of two riders descended from a cover of brush and blocked their passage.

  Lyting’s sword flashed from its scabbard. “Behind me, my lady!” he commanded Brienne.

  Laughter, dark and rasping, grated against the night. Hastein’s eyes gleamed in the black depths of his cowl.

  “Broðir. ‘Tis a surprise to find you here and in possession of what I seek. Does all Normandy lust after this woman?” His companion shared in another spate of laughter.

  Lyting uttered something akin to a growl, deep in his throat but did not answer. He steadied his blade, ready.

  “But, come. I have little quarrel with you, Lyting. We can share her, can we not?”

  “Rot in hell, Hastein,” Lyting snarled.

  A smile spread, hard and narrow, over Hastein’s lips, curving upward to colorless eyes. A serpent’s smile, Brienne thought with panic as she struggled to control her horse.

  Hastein pushed back his hood. “I cautioned you long ago never to cross me, little brother. But of course Rurik was ever there to interfere, shielding you till you grew into your strength. How much of a man are you now?” Hastein taunted, eyes glinting. “Come. Let us test your steel and see who takes the woman.”

  Hastein’s sword arced from his side as he heeled his horse forward. The beasts collided. Steel rang out on steel. The second man joined them, heaving his blade, and together with Hastein, the two hammered down on Lyting.

  Stroke upon stroke, Lyting met their blows. But he was hard tested, for even saddled, Hastein was like a eel, swaying and dipping, drawing Lyting’s sword so as to open him to the other’s strike.

  Brienne groped for her small eating dagger, then remembered she had none. She was helpless to aid Lyting in the least of ways.

  Hands suddenly seized her about waist and hip. Brienne cried out in terror as she looked down into the Hebridean’s grizzled face. But before he could dislodge her, the horse reared, startled by the attack. Kalman stumbled back. As the beast’s h
ooves returned to earth, he lunged once more.

  Brienne whipped the reins across Kalman’s seamed face. He flinched not at all but grinned the wider and dragged her from the horse. Throwing her to the ground, he sat astride her and bound her hands. For a heart-stopping moment he reached for the fabric covering her breast and she thought he meant to tear it away. But Hastein’s curse drew his attention to the fray. The Hebridean muttered something indistinguishable to her on foul breath, then drew a blade from his belt and fixed it between his teeth. Still grinning through the bank of scars, he rose and swung up onto her horse.

  Brienne struggled to gain her feet, but as she won her knees, she was shoved down again. Nails dug deep into her aims. Roughly, the hands jerked her upright and forced her to sit back on her legs. A cold blade pressed against the flesh of her throat. Bracelets clinked, followed by Katla’s contented laughter.

  Brienne looked on with horror, unable to move or call out. Lyting’s pale head, shining in the moonlight, marked him all too well among the other dark forms. Blades angled and glanced, parried and thrust. Lyting turned blow after blow with hardly a breath to strike his own. Hastein’s companion surged forward, raising his sword a fraction too long. Lyting caught him straight on, slicing deep to the bone then up and out. The man screamed, his arm falling useless to his side, but he clung to his saddle with the other.

  The measure cost Lyting, opening him to Hastein’s blade. He pitched low, barely missing the slash of steel, but its tip caught his cheek and laid it open. As he came up again to deflect the next blow, Kalman advanced from behind and to the right. About his shiny head he swung three chains suspended from a rod and weighted at their ends with iron claws. The broadswords clanged as they met and locked. But as they scraped free, the chains lashed around Lyting’s wrist, entrapping his sword arm. With a mighty yank, the Hebridean hauled Lyting from his horse and hurled him to the ground.