She gathered her boon and reached up for his hand. Warm, strong, soft and hard, it felt like touching her fingers to a smoldering coal.
Grasping at some semblance of composure, she observed, “’Tis not my duty to see you fed, Agravar. Why did you not find a rabbit or squirrel, or—”
He did not release her hand right away. Instead he pulled it, drawing her closer. Her hip brushed the top of his thigh.
“Because I wished to remain with you,” he murmured. Her eyes lifted, wide with surprise. And pleasure. Those words let loose a cascade of tremors that left her feeling as if her insides had turned to liquid.
Father Leon and Cyrus had not succeeded in stifling her female perfidy, after all, she thought distractedly as her body swayed forward into Agravar’s. There seemed to be some force as immutable as that which anchored things to the earth winnowing away at the space between them.
Catching himself, he let go of her hand and added, “As you do have a penchant for misadventures in woods.”
Despite his flippant words, she saw something naked in his eyes that came at her like a blow to her chest. It was intense, unbearable. She turned away.
Her gaze was caught by something moving out of the trees behind him. Stealthy, fast, with a short ax in one hand, the kind for chopping wood. His face was in a snarl, but it was still Davey’s face, easily recognizable. And there was no mistaking his intent.
“Nay!” she shrieked. It came out before she had even thought.
“What is it?” Agravar demanded, instantly alert. He grabbed for her. “What? Rosamund, tell me?”
She could not allow Davey to murder Agravar, yet neither could she give her man away.
“Run!” she shrieked, snatching his hand and whirling to race in the opposite direction of the approaching menace.
“Rosamund!” Agravar cried, trying to haul her back.
“Run!” she yelled, letting loose of his hand and hitching up her skirts. Looking over her shoulder, she saw that once she was in flight, he was right behind her.
She dove for the tree line, her skirts getting tangled in the bracken of the low copse. It slowed her down. In a few strides, he grabbed her, yanking her to a halt.
“What the devil are you doing?”
She swallowed and turned.
Davey was gone.
Her relief made her go limp. Quickly her mind searched to invent an explanation. “A…a…bear! I thought I saw a bear.”
His head whipped around. The glade was empty, of course.
“Ridiculous. Where did you see it?”
Pointing, she indicated the general area from which they had come. “There. I thought ’twas there. I must have been mistaken. Mayhap ’twas just shadow. Aye. Probably only shadow.”
He stared at her so long and with such doubt in his face, she feared she was found out. Drawing his short sword from the cuff of his boot, he waved her on. “Come. I am certain you were mistaken, but we best not take chances.”
“Aye. Let us away.”
They came out of the woods to cross the short meadow strewn with long, purple shadows from the setting sun. They were almost at Gastonbury’s gates when Rosamund said, “Agravar?”
“Aye?”
“Thank you.” She stopped and faced him. “It was good of you to take me.”
He looked annoyed for a moment, then wordlessly they crossed the drawbridge.
Whatever pleasure the outing with Agravar gave her, it was gone the moment Rosamund saw Father Leon the following day.
As he walked rapidly to her, she stood stuck on the spot, never even thinking of retreat. It was as if invisible irons held her fast to await the inevitable end to her brief flight into contentment.
Leon wore an expression of determination on his pinched features. His small, close-set eyes slid over her, taking in her appearance. “You are impertinent to avoid me. Look at you and your brazen eyes, staring openly and not at all as you have been taught. I see you have already succumbed to vanity.” His eyes glittered malignantly. “Lord Cyrus was right to send me—such a brilliant man, a wise and prudent man—for how well he and I both know your wretched nature. Just as my lord always claimed, you are like your mother and it can be nothing short of Satan’s work to have you bedevil my master and thwart his plans.”
Grasping desperately at the rapidly shredding remnants of the confidence, Rosamund choked, “’Tis not I but his own conscience which plagues him.”
“How dreadful that you malign him.”
“He is a murderer. And…and you are no better. He killed my mother and you know ’tis the truth.”
His smile was ugly and cruel. “What is this? Has the serpent been whispering in your ear again, girl? ’Twas not Lord Cyrus who caused her death but—”
And then a strange thing happened. For a moment, Rosamund feared she might have gone mad, for the priest seemed to float in the air. The one thing that saved her from being convinced her sanity had snapped was the amazed expression on the man’s face and the gradual widening of her peripheral vision, which had narrowed to the pinpoint of Leon’s ratlike features, to reveal a huge, blond-maned Viking behind the friar.
Then the priest was fading away, getting smaller. It occurred to her, through the haze of fear and panic that had crowded her brain, that Agravar had the priest by the scruff of his neck and was hauling him out of the keep.
She merely watched the incredible sight—a giant of a man with his burden dangling ignominiously in his fist. He gave Father Leon a shake every now and then, but spoke not a word as he bore the man out the door and into the upper bailey.
Rosamund blinked, pulling herself out of her shock, and stumbled after them. She followed silently all the way to the stables where Agravar dragged the old man’s donkey away from its feast of sweet, fresh straw and dumped the priest onto its back. Flustered, indignant, the priest was beginning to work up a response when Agravar jerked him close and whispered something in his ear.
Rosamund could not hear it, but the widening of Leon’s eyes, the look of horror on his face testified that it was no declaration of fondness the Viking uttered.
Agravar drew back and slapped the beast on the rump. The sound of the blow rang out crisply. The animal took off at a clipped pace, the friar bouncing jauntily on his backside as he kicked his heels for the inauspicious steed to go faster.
Those who had observed the event began to laugh until the sound of it filled the yards and people were clutching their middles and wiping away tears. Agravar turned, his face bearing testament to his snarling fury.
Rosamund took a step back. He had been gentle with her; he had teased, he had laughed. He had been awkward when he confided his ancestry. He had been intense when he had tried to protect her, but he had never been like this. It frightened her a little. It filled her with a kind of awe and a vaguely stirring sensation when she realized it was on her behalf that he raged.
That frightened her even more. But a different fear, an almost giddy, delicious kind.
Stumbling backward, she fled. She collided with someone, muttered an apology, and was about to take up her flight when that someone gripped her wrist.
“My lady!” a voice rasped.
“Davey!”
Glancing furtively back to Agravar, Rosamund saw that he had turned away.
“What is it?” Davey demanded. “What is happening with the Viking? What has he done?”
Rosamund grasped at his thin shoulders. “We must make haste. Come to me tonight by the orchard gate and we will discuss our plan. I must away, Davey. Cyrus sent Father Leon…I was wrong to ignore him. Cyrus will never let me be. In any case, Lord Robert will be here any day, and my time will have run out.”
Davey drew a tongue over his lips. “Finally. I am ready, my lady. Come see me tonight, just after sunset,” he agreed.
If Agravar was a man prone to wager, he would have staked his half of his father’s treasure that things regarding the Lady Rosamund could not get much worse.
I
t was a wager he would have lost.
He was intercepted in the outer bailey by one of his men. “Sir,” the man said smartly, “there is a traveling party spotted, flying the colors of Berendsfore. ’Tis believed Lord Robert has come for my lady’s cousin.”
Berendsfore. The world tilted crazily for a moment. Come at last for Rosamund—his betrothed.
“Sir?”
Agravar looked up and blinked. “I am coming to the watchtower to see for myself.”
Within the quarter hour, the men were clearly visible. It was not much longer when the entire retinue passed through the fortified gatehouse.
Agravar’s attention focused on the man riding a destrier, smartly dressed in expensive traveling clothes. Perhaps two score and five, Agravar guessed his age to be. Robert was distinguished looking, with salt-and-pepper hair and shoulders still square in defiance of the advancing of his years.
He had heard talk of the man. Only good had been said. He had been an excellent fighting man in his day, and peace had reigned in his lands since he had taken them over. He was well-thought-of by the other barons and often served as emissary from them to the dyspeptic Prince John, for his skills in diplomacy were noteworthy.
A fine husband he would make, Agravar thought, but it was a bitter sentiment.
Agravar said, “Send word to the keep that Lady Rosamund’s betrothed has arrived.”
Chapter Thirteen
Lucien welcomed Robert of Berendsfore and brought him directly into the great hall. “This is my captain, Agravar Hendronson,” Lucien said when Agravar approached.
It was Agravar’s true name, but he disliked it, mostly because in Danish tradition the son’s last name was derived from the given name of his father. There were not words to describe the revulsion he felt at being identified as his father’s son.
He went by Agravar the Viking, or Agravar of Gastonbury, but he rarely needed the distinction beyond his first name. There were not many half-Viking bastards named Agravar loose on English shores.
Robert inclined his head, a respectful gesture that impressed Agravar. This man was a powerful baron, and not required to take notice of a commoner like himself.
“Your legend precedes you,” Robert said. Turning back to Lucien, he added, “As well as yours. I am honored to be welcomed into your home and thank you most sincerely for keeping my betrothed safe from harm.” His brow furrowed as he looked about. “I must say I am anxious to see for myself that she is well. I have been concerned since news of her near-abduction reached me.”
Lucien answered, “She is indeed well. My wife and mother-in-law shall bring her shortly.”
Robert nodded and switched to other topics, displaying a keen interest in Gastonbury and finding out whether the myriad of tales circulating about how exactly Lucien had won it from the hands of its previous lord held any truth.
Agravar was amazed when Lucien, who was normally reticent to the point of rudeness when curiosity was aimed his way, told the story.
“When I was but a youth, my father was murdered by Edgar du Berg, Lord of Gastonbury, and I would have found the same fate if not for the greedy wastrels whom he sent to do the deed. Instead of killing me, they sold me into slavery for the extra coin it gave them, and told Edgar I was dead. I came to the longhouse of Agravar’s father in Denmark to live as a slave. ’Twas there he and I became friends, for Agravar had come to the lands of the Norse for his own purposes. I…escaped, with Agravar’s help, and we stole the Viking’s fortune.”
Agravar thought how cleverly Lucien spoke, leaving out the most salient of details, like cold-blooded murder. Like Agravar’s own crime of patricide.
“I had sworn to take everything away from Edgar,” Lucien continued. “And declared war on him as soon as I could mount an army and return to England. The defeat was easy and I won all that had been his.”
“Even his bride, so I have heard.”
Lucien seemed a bit awkward. “’Twas advantageous for me for political reasons to take Edgar’s widow to wife.”
Robert smiled. It warmed his noble features and made him look younger. “I daresay, it was more than strategic advantages that visited you upon the union. You are to be congratulated. A good wife is a gift beyond any measure.”
Lucien looked rather guiltily at Agravar. “Agreed.”
“Which brings us back to my present quest. I myself have not made the acquaintance of my bride-to-be. I am anxious to meet the girl.”
“You have not even seen Rosamund?” Agravar inquired. Although this sort of thing was not unusual, it intrigued him. He wondered if some clue to Rosamund’s strange behavior could be found here.
“’Twas an arrangement made with Lord Cyrus of Hallscroft.”
Was this why Rosamund was so ill at ease, so prone to nervousness? Did she dread Lord Robert because he was friend to her stepfather. He knew she despised Cyrus. “Do you know Lord Cyrus well?”
Robert seemed to think this an odd question. Agravar supposed it was. And the way he had asked it made it sound like an accusation, he knew.
Robert answered nonetheless, his tone never breaking from the courteous. “Passingly acquainted I would say. I met him at court. He was looking to make a good match for his stepdaughter, and I was seeking a wife. It was an advantageous arrangement for both of our houses.”
Lucien was looking at Agravar as if he had just sprouted horns. The Viking feared he might have given himself away with his questioning, or perhaps it was just that Lucien knew him so well. Of course, marriages were made for advantage. One didn’t have to be the odious Father Leon to believe that. It was business, nothing more.
Lucien, in a rare display of sensitivity, intervened. “My wife and her mother are quite fond of the Lady Rosamund, and I believe Agravar knows how distressed they shall be to lose her friendship when she leaves us. Therefore, he is a trifle protective of our guest. For their sakes.”
That Robert let the matter drop was pure tact, nothing less.
The ladies entered, first Alayna who made a surprisingly graceful curtsy, considering her ungainly form. Lucien came quickly to her side and put an arm about her. Apparently, the lady’s mood was docile today. She took her husband’s aid and gazed warmly up at him. Lucien closed his free hand over hers and Agravar had to look away. Sometimes it hurt to see their love. Lately, it did, anyway.
“My wife’s mother, Lady Veronica of Avenford,” Lucien said. Veronica dipped low with infinite grace.
Robert’s voice was warm with pleasure. “My lady.”
“My lord,” Veronica replied as she rose. Her eyes took in everything about their guest, making no secret of her assessment. She had always been a lioness when it came to her own daughter, and now their shy, retiring cousin was apparently included in her fierce protectiveness.
It appeared that she was pleased with what she saw. “May I present my cousin, Rosamund Clavier.”
Rosamund was as pale as a ghost, her honey-brown eyes round and staring. With jerking movements, she came forward. When she executed her curtsy, she wavered as if her balance failed her.
Agravar took a step forward, then stopped.
It was not his place.
Robert put his hands out. Rosamund stared at them a moment, then must have understood that he had extended them to her as courtesy. She slid her trembling palms over his and rose, her eyes downcast.
“How good it is that we finally meet, Lady Rosamund,” Robert said gently. “You are as lovely as I was told.”
Agravar fought the urge to snarl and yank them apart.
Alayna suggested they adjourn to the head table for refreshments.
“I believe we have some acquaintances in common,” Veronica said after everyone was settled. “Lord Garon and his wife were dear friends of mine and my late husband.”
Robert seemed delighted. “Garon of Lockenland? How is it you know such an old curmudgeon?”
“He and my husband served the same overlord. He mentioned you from time to time.”
“Oh, I pray you do not judge me by that,” Robert said, and laughed good-naturedly.
Veronica’s eyes sparkled. “Nay, my lord. He spoke well of you, rest assured. I did, however, get the distinct impression that the two of you had some interesting adventures while on crusade together.”
“Misadventures, rather. How is Garon? Have you seen him?”
“I do make an effort to return to London whenever possible. Not as often as I would like since coming to live here, but as much as I can manage. I was there just last year and saw him at court.”
“Wait a moment!” Robert said, stunned. “You are Veronica of Avenford!”
“Aye, I know it,” she responded with amusement.
“When I saw Garon years ago, I believe he spoke of you. He called you…”
Veronica looked uncomfortable. “Le petite marshall.”
Robert slapped the table. “Aye, that was it!”
Veronica tossed her dark head in a gesture that was imperious and feminine at the same time. “Garon was always incorrigible.” Meeting her daughter’s amazed stare, she added, “Well, he was. Your father seemed to think well of him, but I always thought his character was questionable.”
“Aye, Mother,” Alayna said softly, biting her cheeks. “Is that why you speak so fondly of him? And visit him whenever you are in London?”
Veronica waved away the questions. She appeared years younger, nearly of age with her daughter, as she talked animatedly with Robert. They swiftly found they had many other friends in common.
Off to the lady’s other side, Rosamund was silent. Never had a soul looked more lost, Agravar thought.
He was gripped with a strange feeling looking at her sitting there like that. It was frustration that drove him away—the knowledge that there was nothing he could do for her. The realization struck him that there was no place for him here at these proceedings. ’Twas family, he reflected sourly.
Rising, he bowed and muttered an excuse. No one noticed he was taking his leave, except Rosamund. She caught his gaze for a moment before she veiled her eyes once again.
He headed back to the guardhouse.
The Viking's Heart Page 9
