The Viking's Heart

by Jacqueline Navin

  “Someone helped you. This Davey—who is he?”

  “A crofter’s son who, but for his humble station, would have made a fine knight. He had been friend to my brother, Harold, who I lost in my tenth year. Often, I would hide in the pantry and he and Harold would come and keep me company. He remained my friend after Harold died, always there to help me in so many ways. Often, I would be banished to my room for hours on end, sometimes days, to contemplate my ‘lessons,’ and Davey would steal manuscripts from the library and sneak them to me under my food tray because he knew I liked to read. A few times, he lied for me. ’Twas much for him to risk. He was my only protector, my friend. If Cyrus had ever known of it—” she shuddered “—I dare not think of what he might have done to us.”

  A cold fist closed over his throat. “Did Cyrus raise his hands to you?”

  “Beyond the normal beatings given a child, nay,” she answered. She sniffed, drawing herself up as she shook off the worst of her melancholy. “He was obsessed with my mother, you see. She was his. I was nothing of consequence. A tool to get to her, sometimes, but beyond that, nothing. After she died, he kept up my instruction in proper behavior under Father Leon, but until he thought to make an alliance with Robert, I do not think he ever gave me much thought.”

  “Perhaps a blessing.” He felt weaker. He felt he was fading. He struggled to remain alert.

  She looked down at him, her hair falling on either side of her, pooling on his shoulders. It seemed to curtain them in a secret place, just the two of them alone. Her long, graceful fingers fiddled absently with his tunic. The action was nearly affectionate. “I often dreamed of killing him. I wish I could have. I wish I had.”

  “Nay, you do not want that.”

  “How can you know, Agravar?”

  “Oh, Rosamund, have you never wondered why we seemed drawn to each other? What is this bond we share? You feel it, too, that I know. We have had it between us from the first. ’Tis the attraction of like souls. Yours and mine. We are a kind. We understand each other.”

  Her honey-brown eyes were clouded. “How can you understand anything? Oh, I realize you comprehend it, but understanding…’tis different. ’Tis deeper. That I have no hope of. Not from you, nor from anyone else.”

  “And yet you have it. You would detest pity, so I’ll not offer such a paltry thing. But I can know what burdens your heart bears, for I have shared similar ones in my time. I know, Rosamund. The suffering you describe tears me asunder, for I know what it is to feel it.”

  “Then you will know why I must leave. I shall never vow to obey a man, and should it be sin, I shall gladly pay my debt to the Lord. No roasting in purgatory could serve up as much suffering as a husband. I want no man.”

  “You want me,” he said with a sudden burst of knowing.

  Her head fell forward, chin to chest, and all at once she began to weep. Quickly she scrabbled to her feet and walked away.

  He wanted her back. He would have called her, but the weakness was coming again, and this time it wouldn’t let him go. She stood on the edge of the copse, her back to him.

  He needed her.

  His world was shrinking, the pain growing larger and larger. His own words were faint and faraway.

  “I’m afraid I have to sleep now. I do not know what undid me more—” he chuckled “—your kiss or the blow.”

  His dry laughter echoed as he faded into the depths of darkness.

  Chapter Seventeen

  His words stayed with her, dogging her, leaping up to nip at her conscience.

  You want me.

  Oh, aye, she wanted him. But what good was it?

  Sighing, she raised her eyes and scanned the woods. Where was Davey? He should have returned by now. When she had refused to leave Agravar until she was assured he would recover, he had ridden to the rendezvous spot to leave a message for the boat he expected, informing them of the delay and arranging another time. It had been midmorning when he left, and now the sun was drifting along on the waning side of its zenith. She had no talent to tell the hour by it, but would suppose it was two or three hours after noon.

  Sometimes she stole looks over at Agravar’s sleeping form. She had taken the blanket from her horse to cover him, even though it was warm enough here where the sun slanted down in yellow bars between the remnants of the cathedral walls. Still, if it didn’t bring him comfort, it made her feel better to see him tucked up more cozily than just strewn carelessly onto the ground.

  He was such a beautiful man. In sleep, his features in repose, he was perfect. It made her heart ache a little to look at him.

  After a while, she went to the far corner of the ruin and sat to await Davey.

  When he awoke again, he was in the same spot, in the same position. There was a blanket over him. It smelled of hay and horse sweat and it was making him impossibly hot.

  Looking above him, he saw that there were shattered remnants of stone arches reaching aimlessly toward the thin blue of the sky. He hadn’t noticed before how the place looked like a carcass, bare ribs cradling him in the cavity where once the heart had resided.

  Rosamund? Where had she gone? Had she left already?

  Turning his head, he saw her. She was sitting a ways off, where the nave would have been in this derelict cathedral.

  “Weren’t you going to leave England?” he said dryly.

  Her head came up at the sound of his voice and she was at his side in an instant, a skin of water in her hand. “Here, drink,” she prodded.

  He did so and felt better. His head still ached, but his thoughts were clear. His limbs were stiff from their immobility and the bindings cut painfully into his flesh. “Where is your man?” he asked. “How long have I been sleeping?”

  “Only a few hours. Davey is down the river a ways. We were to make a rendezvous, but the delay meant he had to go to his friend to arrange—” She cut off abruptly, perhaps considering that it was not wise to tell him so much.

  His laugh was humorless. “I was merely curious. I am hardly in a position to stop you.”

  “I shall never underestimate the mighty Viking Agravar,” she said, and nearly smiled.

  “You imbue me with powers I do not have, I assure you.” Slowly he began to work his wrists together, remembering just now that before he lost consciousness, he had thought he felt them loosening. He was right. There was enough give for him to twist his wrists into a different position. His fingers curled inward, probing for the knot.

  “Does your head pain you?” she asked, threading her hands through his hair. She had touched him frequently enough that it shouldn’t cause these frissons of pleasure to jolt through him like this.

  “It will be all right,” he said, jerking away. Not that he didn’t like it—he did. But it was nearly too much. And he couldn’t stand being helpless. “Where shall you go, Rosamund?” She hesitated and he laughed. “I am not going to come after you and fetch you back, considering my present circumstances.”

  “I am leaving England.”

  “So you have said.” He found the knot. His fingers explored it, located the ends and began to pluck at it. All while he endeavored to keep the rest of his body as still as possible. “Shall you go north? South?”

  “To the continent,” she said, then pressed her lips together.

  “You do not have to do this.”

  “Nay?” She gave him a look that seemed to say she found him daft. “What alternatives do you propose?”

  “You have friends, you know. People who will help you.”

  “I think that people like to think themselves good, but when the test of their charity comes, they find excuses to avoid mixing in other’s affairs.”

  “Think you Lady Veronica to be that sort?”

  That snagged her. Her breath caught in a ragged gasp, and her face closed, a signal their conversation was over.

  Of course, Agravar pressed on. “And what of Alayna? I have known the lady a long time and she has proved no more timid than her mo
ther. These people would never betray you, Rosamund. Go to them and let them help you.”

  “What would they do? There is nothing unlawful in my being given in marriage to Robert. There is nothing even immoral. Cyrus may do with me what he will. Do you think he will lament and give me my freedom? I assure you, you are mistaken if that is your hope.” She notched up her chin and asked again, “Who could stop him, Agravar?”

  “I would fight for you.”

  “Nay.” She sat quietly. “I shall fight for me. I will depend on no one, and I will go to a place where I can live in peace. And there no one will hurt me again.”

  “How can that be when your disquiet is within yourself?” he challenged.

  “You speak nonsense,” she scoffed, but she was disconcerted.

  “Do I? Sometimes, Rosamund, even after our tormentors are gone, we do not have the sense to let go of what has passed.”

  She gave him a strange look. From behind her, the sound of someone approaching went unheeded. He kept her attention. “Free me, Rosamund. Allow me to help you. I promise, we shall think of something together. Davey is but a boy. I will—”

  “Would you aid me in escaping, Agravar?” she challenged abruptly. “Can you promise me that?”

  “Fleeing is not the answer. But I say again, I will fight for you.”

  “In the end, the law is against us, and so we would lose. Can you not see, mine is the only way?”

  She looked so alone and tragic, standing there with the filtered sunlight behind her, her body stiff and straight, her hair like a luxurious ribbon of golden silk. Her man, Davey, had arrived. He came to her, leaning his head into hers and speaking in low tones. She answered in kind. Agravar could not hear what it was they said to each other.

  Davey looked over Rosamund’s shoulder at Agravar. There was undisguised hostility in his face.

  Agravar’s hand slipped, jerking his shoulder. He stilled his movements. Waiting, he held his breath to see if that blasted boy had noticed. After a moment, he began to work the bindings again.

  There was something terribly vile about what they had done to Agravar. Hitting him, trussing him up like that and leaving him in the ruins—everything within Rosamund rebelled against it. She knew he would recover. His wound had stopped bleeding and he was quite alert. He hadn’t even needed to sleep too much since waking this last time. Still, a protective feeling asserted itself, and it was only with a great deal of effort that she refused it and forced herself to follow Davey’s instruction.

  They were to meet the boat in a few hours, and the journey would take them almost that long. It was time to go.

  Kneeling beside Agravar, she said, “I shall send a message to Gastonbury as soon as we are ready to sail. I shall find someone to take it to Lord Lucien, and he shall come for you.”

  He shook his head. His blond hair was lank, dark with dirt and dried blood. “You should not risk it. Lucien will find me soon enough.”

  “You are injured and need tending.”

  “This? ’Tis but a scratch. You should have seen the gash in my head the time we routed the poachers from Deaston Manor.”

  His crooked smile made him all the more appealing, all the more impossible to leave. “I am so sorry for all of the trouble I have caused you,” she said sincerely.

  “You should be.” His eyes were soft and his lips quivered against a smile. “God be with you, Rosamund.”

  “Rosamund!” Davey called, impatience giving his voice an edge. “Come.”

  Agravar raised a tawny brow but said nothing.

  “Thank you,” Rosamund said.

  “For what?” he asked.

  For what. For everything. For all he had done, all he had given her. All that he was.

  “Rosamund!”

  She called, “I am coming shortly. Do not shout at me, Davey.” Turning back to Agravar, she merely looked one last time. He should resent her, even hate her for all her deceit and for this, for what she was doing to him right now. Yet, his face was abnormally impassive, almost sad.

  “Fare thee well.” She rose swiftly and went to Davey.

  Davey was irritated when she told him her plan, snarling, “I do not know why you will take this risk, Rosamund.”

  “Not another word,” she commanded, and this time his mouth snapped shut. “I send word to Gastonbury before we leave, else I do not sail.”

  He slit his eyes but said nothing more. They mounted their horses. Davey said, “I need to see if there is any sign of patrols in the area. I should do it now while we are close. We do not want to be surprised while on the trails.”

  “Should I wait here for you?”

  “Nay. Here, let me help you mount. I’ll take you as far as the river path. It is closely sheltered by the cliff face on the one side, the water on the other. No one can come upon you in surprise. You can follow it down to where the river meets the Trent. Wait for me there. I shall not take long.”

  “Very well,” she said, and they set off.

  She was acutely aware of Agravar, and her guilt troubled her. She would send word, she promised herself. Davey said there was a village not far from where the Trent and Dove came together. She would find someone there.

  I promise, she thought silently as she rode away, never looking back.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The rope was almost undone.

  In the sky, the sun began to swell and sink toward the horizon as if its bloated weight could no longer be suspended. It darkened, casting shadows about him as Agravar worked to free himself.

  How far could they have gone? he wondered. At least he had gotten Rosamund to tell him enough to know that they were headed downriver. He would know where to head, then. His hands wrenched as he lost patience, jerking savagely against the bloodied rope. Stopping, he calmed himself, stilled his hands and began again, this time with a supreme effort of control. The knot loosened further. If he could just snake the end through…

  The crisp sound of footsteps on dry leaves halted him. He cocked his head, listening. Whoever it was was making no effort to conceal their approach.

  “Lucien?” he said. The sound of his voice was like a violation of the quiet. It died down, leaving only the soft noises of the forest and those steady, approaching steps.

  “Who comes?” he called again.

  Davey walked out of the forest. Swaggered, rather. He was smirking. He was holding a short sword loosely in one hand.

  Ah. Of course.

  Agravar watched as the younger man approached, and understood perfectly. He began to yank more furiously at his bindings, clenching his jaw against the pain as the rope tore into flesh and muscle.

  “Do not bother struggling,” Davey said calmly. “I tied those ropes very tight.”

  Not as tight as you think, you self-satisfied little bastard.

  “Does Rosamund know you are here?” Agravar asked, his tone conversational.

  “Rosamund,” Davey answered, “does not know what is best for her.”

  “She will dislike it that you have disobeyed her.”

  “We are men of the world, are we not, Agravar? We know what must be done.”

  “I heard you were a crofter’s son. A man of the world, is it now?” He was stalling. He kept his eye trained on Davey as that one sauntered back around, like a dog circling its weakened prey.

  “A crofter’s son by birth. An adventurer by choice. Not all men can bear the station fate has assigned them. Character does count for something, wouldn’t you think?”

  Playing along, Agravar mused, “I would be the first to agree with that sentiment as the circumstances regarding my own birth are particularly…humbling. So ’tis adventure you choose, eh, Davey. But ’tis for Rosamund you fight. Are you in love with her?”

  He was but a boy, yet when his eyes narrowed craftily, it aged him. Agravar thought perhaps he had dismissed this one too easily.

  “I do not know why my lady finds sympathy in her heart for you, but her tender feelings will be her undoi
ng. ’Tis up to me, her protector, to shield her from threats, even threats she does not wish to see.” He raised his sword.

  “Let us dispense with all this nonsense about ‘protection’ and such. ’Tis not for Rosamund that you do murder now, Davey, but for yourself. You want her. And she wants me.”

  That got him. He took an impulsive step forward, then halted, bringing himself under control. “’Tis true you’ve been a thorn in my side. I could have had her safely to Italy by now. Or France, if she wished.”

  “But she doesn’t really wish to go with you. She wants to stay. You know that. She wants to stay with me.”

  Davey’s sneer was ugly. “Ha, but you cannot have her. If she stays, she belongs to Robert. You silly nobles count a betrothal as good as a marriage done, so she can never be yours.”

  Steady, Agravar cautioned himself. Steady. Smoothly he said, “True enough. But she shall never be yours, either, my friend.”

  That did it. Davey snarled fiercely, drawing back the sword. Agravar waited, holding out for the last moment. He had wanted Davey off guard, crazed, angry. Out of control. The boy was all of that, charging with his eyes bulging and his teeth bared, putting all his force into the blow.

  The sword came down and Agravar surged slightly to one side, just as he had done with Lucien on the practice field. The blow meant to kill missed its mark. Still, with his hands tied and his mobility hampered by his feet being bound, Agravar had not been able to completely get out of the way. The sword sank up to the hilt into his side.

  Davey stared down at the sight of his sword protruding from a man’s flesh, the quickly spreading stain of blood glimmering slick and crimson in the light. He seemed aghast by what he had done, but Agravar knew that he had only seconds before the boy recovered his senses and finished the job.

  Closing his mind to the pain of it, he wrenched his hands to the side and passed the ropes under the tip of the blade protruding from his back.

  He was free.

  His hands came up in two matched arcs to land simultaneous blows to either side of Davey’s head, stunning him. His eyes flew open and he shot bolt upright.