The Viking's Heart

by Jacqueline Navin

  Robert swallowed hard. “For honor’s sake.”

  Her shoulders drooped. “What a hideous price to pay for something as precious as a man’s life.”

  “Duty demands—”

  “What duty, my lord?” she asked wearily. “Christian duty?”

  He faltered again. Shaking his head, he tried to dismiss her. “I cannot ignore what happened.”

  “Why not? It matters not to you. You care nothing for me. You love another. Tell me, my lord—you who are famed for your kindness and fairness, you say you do this for honor’s sake. I ask you, then, what would you do for love’s sake?”

  His eyes narrowed. “I do not understand.”

  Rosamund took a step toward him. Agravar watched her in awe. She was not ridiculous any longer; she was magnificent. Back straight, head high, she moved steadily, unwavering until she stood just before the point of his sword. With two hands, she grasped the blade of Robert’s sword and brought the gleaming steel to rest at her chest.

  “For love’s sake, Agravar would die for me. For love’s sake, I would die for him. So, I ask you, Lord Robert, what would you do for love’s sake?”

  Turning, she pointed to the left, where Cyrus sat under his pretty awning. Agravar saw the man was leaning forward, his lips curled back from his teeth like a pagan mask of terror.

  “His evil has tainted us, all of us. Would you let him spread his poison to all you love? What of those who love you, Robert? Do you let them suffer to please your honor? Look at Veronica, and see in her face what misery your honor has wrought, and then tell me, please, what master does honor serve.” With a flick of her chin, she again indicated Cyrus. “Him?”

  Veronica came to stand by Robert. “Listen to the girl, Robert, for she makes more sense than you clod-headed males. ’Tis time to talk of amends. This has gone on quite enough and I am weary of it.”

  There was utter silence. Robert looked first to Veronica, then back at Rosamund. Agravar winced when he saw blood trickling from her palms, down her arms to stain her sleeve. She was grasping the blade so hard it was cutting into her hands, yet she seemed oblivious.

  Lucien came into view. He said, in as gentle a voice as Agravar ever heard from him, “Robert, she is right. This serves no purpose. No honor is lost here.”

  There was a long silence. Agravar’s eyes were locked on the crimson stripes snaking down Rosamund’s arms. He stayed perfectly still in obeisance of his reason, but his arms throbbed with the need to hold her.

  “There is no honor in murder,” Robert announced at last. He lowered his sword. “And I am a hypocrite to avenge a wrong that has hurt me not at all. I refuse to be a puppet to evil.” He glanced up at Cyrus, then turned his back. “I am done with this.”

  Taking Rosamund’s bloodied hands, Robert closed them in his own. “Agravar, come and take this child. I release her. When the church declares she is free, you shall marry her with my blessing.”

  Agravar moved, forcing himself to walk, not run, to her side. It seemed to take an eternity. Robert placed her wounded hands in Agravar’s and stepped aside.

  Rosamund gazed up at him, her brown eyes wide and clear. “I did it,” she said with awe.

  “You did, my most fearsome lady,” Agravar said.

  “I was so afraid.”

  “Never be afraid any longer. All your dangers are past.”

  She smiled, then. God, how he wanted to kiss her, but he held himself in check. To do so would be a tasteless insult to Robert’s generosity.

  “Come,” Lucien called, “let us away from the battleground, lest I be tempted to treat this crowd to the bloodsport they’ve been cheated of. I can think of a pretty show I would like to give them.” His dark eyes pinned Cyrus in his seat. “You, my lord, may take your leave. My soldiers will escort you to the boundaries of my lands. Be grateful I allow you your life.”

  “Crow all you like, de Montregnier, but you will rue the day you made an enemy of me. And you—” he turned to Agravar and Rosamund “—will beg for pity when I am through with you.”

  Putting Rosamund aside, Agravar’s swift strides ate up the ground between him and Cyrus. “A threat heard plainly by one and all is ample cause for a challenge. Perhaps this crowd will get their entertainment this day.”

  Speaking low, Cyrus spit the words from between gritted teeth. “Are you forgetting my little arrangement? I promise you, my death will bring you no ease. Rather a host of my agents will descend upon you until every last one of my wishes is met. This earth will run red with the blood of Gastonbury.”

  Agravar looked droll. “My father was a man such as you. He was a Viking, a veritable warmonger among a race renowned for that occupation. He was very vile, very cruel, and very rich. We killed him, Lucien and I. I held him and Lucien sliced him in two.”

  To Agravar’s satisfaction, Cyrus looked disconcerted. “What? Why do you tell me this?”

  “We took his gold. Mountains of it, chests filled with jewels and coins and valuables beyond imagining. Cyrus—I am a very wealthy man.”

  Placing his booted foot on the board next to where Cyrus was seated, Agravar leaned in close. “I shall use every last piece of gold to buy off your minions. Far and wide will I spread the news that any assassin in your employ will find double his purse by coming to me in peace. Now I ask you, what man, no matter how twisted, would rather risk capture and execution for half the money he will win by becoming my friend?”

  Cyrus’s mouth worked, but no sound came out.

  “It is brilliant, is it not? I must say so myself, even though my modesty, as all can attest, is one of my greatest virtues.” He couldn’t keep the gloating triumph from ringing in his voice. “I only regret my wit is not one as well. It took me far too long to realize such a simple solution.”

  Agravar stood and said in a sharp, clear voice, “I call you out to a challenge, Cyrus. Right here and now. Grab your armor and meet me on the lists.”

  He turned his back and called to his men. “Ready my destrier. I will fight after all—”

  There was a single, sharp pain exactly where Davey’s blade had found him. The scars tore and agony took him over.

  He went down on his knees, his gaze locked on Rosamund’s puzzled face. “Damn,” he said. “Ever since I met you, I have been felled more times than in the entirety of my life before. I think you are unlucky.”

  “Agravar?”

  He pitched forward.

  Rosamund bent over Agravar, her hands swiftly assessing the damage. She was sobbing, screaming for Eurice, the healer, and she was covered in blood—her own and his. It mingled on her hands, making them slick.

  A shadow blocked the sun and she started. Looking up, she saw Lucien charging toward her, his sword already raised.

  She was confused. Why did Lucien come for her? Did he think she had done this?

  Then she saw his blazing glare was fixed on a point just above her head, and she swung her gaze up to find Cyrus looming over her. His eyes were feverish, mad. Sensing the menace, she held her bloodied hands in front of her to ward him off.

  Cyrus grabbed her by the hair, dragging her up and throwing her before him as a shield. The cold, sharp edge of steel pressed against her throat. The smell of blood was everywhere.

  Alayna’s voice sounded, calling a warning to her husband.

  Lucien skidded to a stop just in front of Agravar’s prone body.

  Cyrus laughed, a short, sharp bark. “Step any closer and I shall cut this worthless serpent into shreds.” He pushed her forward, advancing on Lucien. “Drop your weapon.” Rosamund gasped as pain flared. Lucien’s dark gaze flickered down to the knife and she saw the rapid tick at his temple. Heat tickled her skin just under the knife, and she realized Cyrus had cut her.

  “Go around him,” Cyrus spat in her ear. With Cyrus shoving her forward, she carefully skirted Agravar’s prone body. The wound began to sting. The knife slipped, cutting deeper. A cry went up from the onlookers and Lucien twitched in indecision.
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br />   Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a shadow stretching along the ground to her left. A familiar shape—large, broad-shouldered with a massive chest fitted with hard muscle.

  She sobbed once, but the increased pressure of the knife stopped her. “Now,” Cyrus said to Lucien, “do exactly as I say. The girl comes with me. I want my horse and my men assembled at the gates, and I want it done now.”

  Robert called out, bringing Cyrus’s attention to the right, away from the encroaching shadow. “You cannot think to get away with this,” Robert said.

  “This girl belongs to me, since you do not want her. I admit my methods are crude, but I am within my rights. We all know a woman needs to be shown a little force now and then.”

  He stopped and Rosamund felt something wet and hot down her back. The knife fell away. She turned, amazed to find herself soaked in blood and suddenly free.

  Across from her was Agravar, scarlet-tipped knife still in his hand. His other clutched his wound. But his eyes were on her.

  At her feet, Cyrus’s movements stilled. The ground around him darkened, and the darkness spread as life spilled out of him from the neat slice across his throat.

  Agravar only spared him the briefest glance. “He was wearing on my nerves.” Wiping off the knife on the hem of his tunic, he tossed it to a young knight. “My thanks, Pelly,” he called. Grabbing Rosamund, he pulled her away from Cyrus’s body and started up toward the keep.

  “What are you doing?” she asked, too numb to assimilate the rapid chain of events.

  “Well, I am bleeding and you are drenched in blood. I suggest we bathe—separately, I regret—and have our wounds dressed. And I may nap. I am tired. You are exhausting, do you know that? How many times do I have to rescue you?”

  Then feeling returned to her limbs, to her soul, flooding her with relief. Around her were her friends, the women with wet faces and smiles, the men stunned but relaxed now that the danger had passed.

  She laughed. “I shall do my best to keep them to a minimum in the future.”

  “See that you do,” he replied. “I am getting too old for this.”

  Epilogue

  Rosamund’s dream left her at peace for a long, long time. When it came again, it was changed.

  She sat up in the night with a gasp.

  Beside her, the heavy form of her husband stirred.

  “Rosamund?” Agravar asked.

  Smoothing her hair back from her face, she answered, “Aye. I am fine.”

  “Is it the babe?”

  “Nay.”

  He sat up beside her, his arm coming protectively around her shoulders. His free hand slid over the roundness of her belly. “You are not ill? Did you sleep?”

  “I slept. I just awoke, that is all.”

  “Is the sickness back again?”

  “Nay, Agravar. That was over months ago.”

  He stiffened. “The pains have not started yet, have they?”

  Relaxing against the support he offered, she laughed. “Nay, nothing is amiss. Go back to sleep.”

  “Do you need some drink?”

  “Very well,” she conceded, knowing he would not rest until he had done something that—at least in his own estimation—eased her discomfort.

  His hair was wild from sleep. She watched him rise from the bed, his body flexing with tempered power. She could see every detail of his masculine form by the moonlight coming in through the open windows, and she gazed appreciatively as he went to the table by the empty hearth and poured her a glass of mulled wine.

  It was late summer again. Six seasons had passed since their first meeting, and yet she could not still her heart when she looked at him.

  On his way back to her, he tripped and the cup flew out of his hand. It landed on the rushes with a hollow sound and a splash, followed by Agravar’s succinct curse.

  Rosamund bit her cheeks. She knew quite well what ill had befallen her husband.

  Agravar bent and picked up a small wooden sword. “This is the last time this happens,” he growled.

  “I agree.” She tried very hard to look serious.

  “He is careless with his toys.”

  “Aye. ’Tis true.”

  “I could have been crippled.”

  “Nay, not the mighty Agravar.”

  This appeased him. He grumbled something and fetched the cup, refilled it and brought it to her side. Taking it from him, she had to sip it under his watchful eye. She began to giggle.

  “What is funny?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  “You. Look at you, hovering over me. You are silly for protecting me so much.”

  “I cannot help it,” he defended. “When Lucien worried over Alayna, I thought him addled. Yet, I cannot keep myself from doing the same thing. Worry vexes my brain.”

  Reaching out a hand, she placed a slender palm against his cheek. “’Tis the third child. You should be well used to this by now.”

  He sighed. “The third one…’tis the most difficult of all. The first is too exciting, the second, you are still dazed, but by the third the possibilities of danger start to occur to you and you could go insane with it.”

  “Then it is settled.”

  He was puzzled. “Settled? What is settled?”

  “This must be our last child. After the birth, then we must not lie together for—”

  “If you think to tease me, I tell you that you are being too cruel.” He grinned and stretched himself out on the bed. Taking in the fertile curves of her breast and belly, he murmured, “You know I cannot keep my hands off you.”

  “How can you look at me that way? I am bloated and misshapen.”

  “You are beautiful to me.”

  She fell silent, a quiet pleasure glowing in her chest. Agravar made a pile of pillows and insisted she recline.

  “Try to return to sleep,” he said, his voice betraying his own increasing grogginess.

  “Agravar?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I had the dream again.”

  “Hmm.”

  “But ’twas different. This time, I heard her.”

  He raised his head. “Your mother?”

  “Aye. Each time before when I was with child, while I carried our sons inside me, I worried that the dream would come to haunt me again. Seeing myself as she had been when she died, I thought was sure to bring it on again. It never happened, of course. I nearly forgot about it. I thought ’twould never return. But tonight it did.”

  He studied her for a moment. “You do not seem distressed.”

  “I am not. She said goodbye.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “The dream is a memory. It really happened. When I was a child, she came to my room. She bent over me, thinking I was asleep, and she whispered into my ear. All these years I could not remember what it was she said. It was an indistinct sound, blurred because, I believe, I could not accept the truth.”

  “And what is the truth, Rosamund?” He was watching her so closely, with worry etched on his handsome face.

  She had to touch him. It never failed to thrill her, that this man was hers. Hers to touch, hers to love.

  “She told me goodbye because she knew she would die that night. I always thought Cyrus killed her, but I think she went up to the ramparts by herself.”

  His eyebrows hiked up. “You think she jumped of her own will?”

  “Do not sound horrified. And aye, I do. I know she did. I think I knew all along.”

  “Oh, my love, I am sorry.”

  “And yet ’tis not so horrible now to know it. She was unhappy, and she found her own way to freedom. But she had been driven to it. Cyrus did that, and he was responsible, as surely as if he had done the deed himself.”

  She thought for a moment, then continued, “In a way, ’tis almost all right. The sadness has faded. I mourned her for a long time and I think my dream protected me when I was too vulnerable to accept the truth. But now I have gre
at happiness—” she smiled and Agravar pulled her close “—and am safe. And I have the oddest, most firm notion that the past cannot touch me any longer.”

  His finger touched the short thin line still visible at her neck. “There are the scars.”

  “Aye. They are there. But they trouble me not.”

  “That is my brave, fearsome lady.” He kissed her brow and they lapsed into silence.

  After a while, she began to giggle. He pulled back and gave her a wary look. “I fear this extreme moodiness is troubling. I recall how Alayna was so emotional in her last days of confinement with her third child, and I wonder if ’tis a common condition.”

  “Nay, ’tis not madness. I was thinking of our wedding day.”

  “And what precisely did you find funny in that?” Tightening his hold, he brought his lips to her ear and rumbled, “Surely not that night. I recall it well. Do you?”

  She shivered and smiled. “Aye. But since you are possessed of such great modesty, as you have often told me, I know you are seeking no praise for that wondrous occasion.”

  He growled and nuzzled her neck.

  “What I thought was funny,” she continued, chuckling and pulling away, “was the horrible wailing and gnashing of teeth that abounded in the chapel that day.”

  “Rosamund,” he warned. “I have asked you not to mention those three women.”

  “Oh, husband, have a care not to become as serious as your lord.” She held up her hands and rushed to add, “Whom I have come to appreciate as a good man. I know he is only fearsome in his looks, but that he has a very kind heart. ’Tis just that he is so…very…serious.”

  “I swear, I am ever in amazement at the workings of your mind. Pray tell what those three pudding-heads have to do with our conversation? Or Lucien, for that matter.”

  “Well, I was thinking of my mother and how the past is over and my life so different now.”

  “Different in a good way.”

  “Oh, most assuredly. And so thinking of such good and happiness brought you to mind, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “And then for some reason, my mind harkened back to those poor girls who did not succeed in ensnaring the mighty Viking Agravar—”