The Viking's Heart

by Jacqueline Navin

  Panic seized her insides, draining away all her rebellion. “Why would you kill Robert?”

  “Kill Robert? An interesting thought, especially when I see it causes you anxiety. But I was not referring to Robert. I meant him. The Viking.”

  She went utterly still. She didn’t even breathe for a full minute.

  There were words of denial, of challenge, that sprang to her mind, but she didn’t bother to say them. There was no doubt in her mind that Cyrus did mean to do what he said.

  He had killed Davey, and Davey was but a poor besotted boy. He had killed her mother, when her mother was gone with child.

  She fought against the pull of fear. “You cannot best him. And…and I will tell Lucien…I will tell him what you have threatened.”

  He spread his hands before his and sighed. “Then you widen the circle of death, my dear. You do not wish to make Lucien my enemy. The man has children. And a wife, I hear, whom he allows unbelievable freedoms. They would be ridiculously easy to access.”

  She swallowed back bile. “Why are you doing this?” she cried.

  He blinked arrogantly. “Because ’tis my will. Now, the wedding is tomorrow morn. I want no more delays. You will come to the chapel and say your vows and if anyone suspects the tears you shed are anything but ones of joy, you shall know regret.”

  Agravar stood in the archway to the hall and stared at the man seated at the high table. Cyrus of Hallscroft wore an emerald-green tunic, his thinning hair neatly combed into place and a trimmed beard concealing most of his face. His eyes were small and half-veiled with puffy eyelids.

  “Stop glaring,” Lucien said beside him.

  “My God, Lucien, the man is a monster—how could you let him in your house?”

  “Rest easy,” Lucien said in a low voice. “As I have been given no cause to order him from my home, there is little I can do.”

  Agravar ground his teeth. “After what he did to Rosamund?”

  “He did nothing to her while under my roof. Alayna told me Rosamund fainted when she saw him, and he insisted on staying with her until she awakened. There is nothing sinister in that.”

  Fury exploded into Agravar’s brain. “My God, you let him alone with her?” Surging forward, his face was twisted into a snarl, his mighty fists clenched tight. Lucien shoved him back. “Disgrace me, and I will have your own men put you in a cell until your head cools.”

  “You do not know what he did—”

  “There is nothing I can do, Agravar. He did not harm her while she was here and Rosamund has not made complaint about him. He has given no offense to me or anyone else. I am bound by my position, Agravar. I am lord here. There is a responsibility in that.”

  Black eyes locked with blue, both shouting steel-clad determination.

  Agravar relented slightly. “Very well. But if he does anything that even hints at a threat to Rosamund, I shall go for him.”

  “Agreed.” Lucien let out his breath, a belated sign of the tension he had masked during their confrontation. “Let us go, then. You know what to do.”

  Agravar’s nod was grim. “I know exactly what to do.”

  Cyrus was the consummate polite guest. Upon meeting Lucien and Agravar, he bowed in a courtly way and commented on the excellent experience he had had thus far in Lucien’s gracious home. He managed to string together several compliments without seeming to fawn.

  As he spoke to a stoic Lucien, Agravar remembered Rosamund’s description of him, how he had been well liked by his people and unsuspected of his crimes. He had to admit, the man had a kind of oily charisma. Yet, even without Rosamund’s having told him, Agravar would have sensed something wrong in Cyrus. It was in the way the man tried too hard.

  Lucien was not taken in, either. He remained frostily polite throughout supper and the ensuing entertainments. Alayna was conspicuously reserved, but only to those who knew her well enough to contrast her present demeanor with the warm generosity she usually extended to guests in her hall. Cyrus hardly took notice of her, or Veronica, who sat frowning at her daughter’s side.

  Rosamund didn’t appear. Agravar wondered desperately what had happened to her, but in no seemly way could he avail himself of any information. With this frustration, he excused himself early.

  “Captain,” Cyrus called, stepping down off the dais to follow. “A word with you.”

  Agravar hid his surprise.

  “Ah, I see you are both younger and more energetic than I,” Cyrus huffed, keeping pace as Agravar continued on his way. They stepped into the corridor that led up the stairs to the second-floor sleeping chambers. Cyrus said, “I wonder for what reason you are in such a rush? Could it be my stepdaughter? Do you have a secret assignation arranged with the little whore?”

  Agravar stopped. Slowly he turned to face Cyrus. The other man was smiling a bland, steady smile that did not extend beyond the stretching of his lips. “You are surprised. Did she tell you nothing of me—of the ways I have to find these things out?”

  With a growl, Agravar launched himself at Cyrus, pinning him against the wall. He pressed his forearm against the other man’s Adam’s apple.

  Cyrus let out a choked wheeze. “If you want to see her dead, go ahead and strangle me.”

  Agravar faltered. The man had too much confidence. It made him uneasy. Loosening his hold, he allowed Cyrus to breathe a bit better. “Speak,” he commanded.

  Cyrus’s eyes were agleam as he said, “You must think me a great fool to imagine I would put myself into your hands with nothing to guarantee my safety. I’ve arranged for an army of assassins to mete out my debts after my death. Harm me, and Rosamund will die. Others, too, that you care for. I promise you, barbarian, mine will be a horrible vengeance.”

  The threat hit Agravar hard. Something about this man, the flat, cold eyes, the thin smile of absolute assurance, reminded him of another he had known. He believed that there existed men—like his own father, like this man—for whom no cruelty or injustice was forbidden, to whom power was all and death a toy to be used for a cause, or mere amusement.

  His voice held a note of uncertainty when he replied, “I can keep my people safe.”

  “Ah, what a ridiculous boast. There are so many ways to kill. Poison, the slip of a knife in a crowd, a stray arrow during a hunt, a small child falls to a tragic end…ah, too many to mention now.”

  Fear flowered inside Agravar’s chest. His lips curled, baring his teeth ferally.

  Cyrus chuckled, seeing the response he had elicited. “It need not happen right away. I am a patient man, and I shall have eternity to wait upon my rewards. But you…imagine a whole life waiting for it to happen. And then it does. Imagine, then, knowing you were to blame for the death of one of those people in there whom you claim to love.”

  Agravar merely glared at him. “You would not…you could not.”

  “You know little of what I would dare.” Cyrus jerked himself free of Agravar’s grasp.

  “What do you want?”

  Brushing at the expensive fabric of his cloak where it had been crushed, Cyrus clucked with admonition. “Rosamund is quite resigned to her fate. You will do nothing to alter that. Nor will you meddle with Robert. Your interference, with either of them, will cost lives dear to you.”

  “Go to the devil.”

  “In due time. ’Tis the women in our blood, you know. It makes us weak. Oh, I almost forgot. Davey sent you a message.” He grinned. “He wants you to know I am serious. Deadly serious. And he should know.”

  Agravar knew his meaning well enough. “You killed him. My God, man, he was just a boy.”

  “Boys, babes, women. It matters not. He was in my way.” He narrowed his eyes and leaned in toward Agravar. “Do not get in my way, Viking bastard. Or you will know an anguish you cannot even imagine.”

  Frustrated, Agravar stood helpless. This kind of man he understood all too well.

  When Agravar had gone to Denmark to find his sire, he had come to know pure greed and blistering mal
ice. It was something he accepted like a cancerous blight—the existence of these creatures who lived only to destroy. He understood that Cyrus of Hallscroft was exactly like Hendron the Viking. And he was afraid.

  Agravar swallowed hard. “Your madness sickens me.”

  “Aye, well, ’tis not your favor I am seeking.” Cyrus laughed, and as he started to walk off, he said over his shoulder, “Do not attend the service. I have no desire to make a mockery of all this. In fact, absent yourself for the day. All will go much more smoothly without you being tempted to do something foolish. And do not see her again. Ever. If you do…well, I might decide a warning would be in order to show you how serious I am about this matter. The only problem I would have in doing it is deciding exactly who will die.”

  Agravar watched Cyrus leave, waiting until he had disappeared out of sight before he drove his fist into the unyielding stone of the wall. The pain didn’t touch him.

  The mighty Viking Agravar was effectively beaten.

  Nay. Not yet.

  He raised his head. He would think of something.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The first thing Agravar did was round up three of his most trusted men. It wasn’t until he had them assembled, puzzled and anxious at this strange call to arms, that he realized he could tell them nothing. He dismissed them, ignoring their dismay, and went to the battlements to prowl. It was there he saw the first shades of dawn. Rosamund’s wedding day had come.

  In the end he did go to the ceremony, staying off to the side in the tiny alcove that led to the vestry. Silently he watched as Rosamund spoke her vows. She looked beautiful, poised and surprisingly composed. Robert, stoic and regal, said his own promises in a low, serious voice and Agravar felt the exquisite torture of witnessing Rosamund’s slim hand placed into the graceful palm of the man who was now her husband.

  The couple turned to their friends and received their congratulations. Alayna came up immediately to Rosamund, engaging her while Robert walked to where a veiled woman sat in a pew just in front of where Agravar stood in the shadows. It was Veronica, he realized. Although she faced away from him, Agravar could see by the bent of her head and the short dabbing motions she made at her eyes with a square of linen that she was crying.

  Robert let his mask slip as he drew up to her. His handsome face crumpled. He lifted a hand to Veronica, then let it drop before it touched her. Veronica bowed low and her shoulders trembled.

  Turning about, Robert went back to his bride’s side.

  God’s breath! Agravar thought. He loves her. He never wanted Rosamund.

  Backing away, he left the hall.

  Robert loved Veronica.

  Agravar paced the confines of his chamber.

  Robert. Robert was the key.

  When Robert wed Rosamund, he had thought Cyrus was but a protective guardian, not a ruthless conspirator. Cyrus had trapped him. He had played on the man’s sympathy, his honor.

  But if Robert knew…if he was to learn what Cyrus had done, surely he would not wish to maintain a marriage made under such devious circumstances, especially if his heart lay elsewhere.

  Bound by marriage or not, Robert would never hold a friendship with Cyrus. He would certainly despise him, and instead of bettering his prospects, Cyrus would end up the worse for his deeds.

  And then Cyrus would gain nothing. Cyrus would lose.

  If Robert knew.

  Agravar cursed himself for not thinking of this sooner. The vows had been spoken. Robert and Rosamund were duly wedded.

  But not bedded. Yet.

  Of course. He still had time. The union had yet to be consummated. It would be easy to dissolve if Rosamund’s virtue remained intact, at least to Robert’s knowledge.

  Rushing to the door, he swung it open—and ran headlong into two of his own men.

  “Caspar, Desmond. What the devil are you doing here? Is something wrong?”

  The two men exchanged a guilty look. “Ah, sir,” Caspar managed. “Nay. Nothing…ah…wrong. Nay.” He looked to Desmond as if for aid.

  The other looked terrified. “Aye. I mean nay!”

  “Explain,” Agravar demanded.

  They paused. “You tell him,” Caspar said.

  Desmond looked horrified. “Nay, you.”

  “I am the elder. You tell him.”

  “Desmond!” Agravar shouted.

  “Lord Lucien sent us to guard you,” Desmond said in a rush. “He told us that you were not to leave your chamber.”

  “What the devil—?” He tossed his head like an angry bull. “Get the hell out of my way at once.”

  Desmond swallowed. “Sir.” Beside him, an apoleptic Caspar stood firm.

  “I am your captain. Stand aside, I say.”

  “Please, sir. Our lord has commanded we not allow you out of your chamber.”

  He could have taken them, and they knew it. But it was too humiliating, battling the men he himself had trained. Through gritted teeth, he said, “Fetch your master, then, and let me take this up with him.”

  They looked at each other. Desmond, the senior, nodded to the younger man and Caspar went off to get Lucien.

  When he returned, Caspar told him that they were to take Agravar to Lucien’s solar. Agravar couldn’t resist a vicious shove, sending them against the opposite wall, before striding up the turret stairs to have it out with his old friend.

  He opened the door with a slam that echoed in the large room. Lucien was alone.

  “How dare you.”

  Lucien appeared outwardly calm, but a rapid tick in his temple showed his agitation. “Your blood is hot, Agravar. You are not thinking clearly.”

  “I must speak to Robert. He must not bed her.”

  Lucien managed to look sympathetic without shifting a muscle. “’Tis too late. They are abed. ’Tis done, Agravar. Please, believe me, friend, when I tell you—”

  “Nay, listen to me!” He took three rapid steps and grabbed Lucien by the collar. Giving him a jolting shake, he demanded, “Cyrus had foiled us all, but there is time. They must not be allowed to—”

  “Stop it, Agravar!” Lucien shook him off, stumbling as he regained his balance. “Look at you! Look at what you have come to.”

  “And what would you have done for Alayna, Lucien? What would you have considered too far to go for her?”

  Lucien let out an explosive breath and shook his head. “Nothing.” He straightened his tunic and began to pace. Agravar hung his head, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to concentrate. He had to calm himself, get his thoughts together to convince Lucien.

  He felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up.

  Lucien stood directly before him. “I’m sorry, friend,” he said, “but this is for your own good.”

  There was a split second when Agravar was aware of Lucien’s fist drawing back, but it was done so quickly he didn’t have time to react. He could only breathe a soft “nay!” Then the pain came, but the blackness swiftly followed, pulling him away into the void.

  When he awoke, the first thing he saw was Lucien bending over him, his elbows resting on his knees. He had a wine flask in his fist. As soon as Agravar sat up, he shoved it at him.

  “Is this supposed to dull my senses until ’tis too late?” he grumbled. He took a swig anyway.

  “’Tis already too late. I had Eurice give you a mixture to keep you asleep.”

  “Ah, God, Lucien, what have you done?” Coming to his feet, he looked wildly about. “What time is it?”

  “The bedding is done. ’Tis after midnight.”

  “What?” Agravar thundered. “Lucien! I should…” He let the sentence trail away and dropped the fist he had raised. “Why could you not have listened to me?”

  “There was nothing you could say that would alter the fact that they are wed. Robert…Robert is a good man. He will treat her well.”

  Agravar nearly went for him. He stopped himself with an effort that left him trembling. He raised a palsied fist in front of him. “How
the devil can you say such a thing to me?”

  As if realizing the horrible ineffectiveness of his words, Lucien shook his head. “I am sorry, friend. I…I…you know I have no facility with words.”

  “Damn you,” Agravar snarled. He rose and made for the door.

  Lucien shot to his feet. “Stay away from her.”

  Agravar paused, his hand on the knob. His voice lowered, becoming nearly strangled. “I shall. You have given me no choice.” He bowed his head. “She is lost to me.”

  When Agravar entered his chamber, he did not bother lighting the torch. He stood at the small window, looked out at the moon and considered the unmanly act of weeping. He wondered if he could, after so many years. Not since he was a very small boy had he allowed tears. He had wept over his mother often, until he had realized it did no good. And then he had resolved not to permit such weakness again.

  He thought now that perhaps it did do good. It solved nothing, true. But it cleansed. He envied women that, the healing of tears.

  It was so silent, even his breathing sounded labored. The tears never came. Instead, rage grew in slow degrees. Rage and ineffectual regret. Savagely he ground the heels of his hands to his forehead, savoring the pain. No tears for him, then, but the pain was good. Clean, crisp, neat, tangible. Distracting from the terrible rending of his heart.

  He made a sound, a half groan, half sigh, and collapsed against the wall, pressing his cheek against the cool stones. There was a noise behind him, a rustling. As if…

  “Agravar?”

  He froze. Delirium? Had his mind snapped, was he dreaming?

  Her voice came again in the unrelenting darkness. “Agravar, is that you?”

  He whirled. “Rosamund?”

  His eyes had adjusted now. He saw her sitting in his bed, wearing a linen shift. She was propped in the midst of his furs, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

  In a flash, he was beside her. Snatching her close, he demanded, “What are you doing? My God, how could you come here?”

  Her arms went around his shoulders and she buried her face in his neck, just under his chin where his racing pulse beat crazily. “I left before…before he came. I was…oh, Agravar, I know I bragged how brave I had become, but I could not do it. I could not allow him to touch me, not as you had, not…”