A Warrior's Heart

by Laurel O'Donnell

  Beatrice persisted. “And you’ll make this dwelling your own. We’ll add tapestries, carpets, furniture.”

  The mention of furniture evoked a memory of her father’s chair. She blinked way the welling tears. “I never appreciated how happy I was in Bruggen, foolishly longing for marriage,” she lamented. “Why would Arnulf give me to a man like Theodoric? He’s more interested in Father Innocent. Ha! How ludicrous it sounds.”

  “Some women might be content with a man who makes no demands on them,” Beatrice said.

  Judith bristled. “How would you know? You’ve never been married.”

  She instantly regretted the cruel words. She embraced her maid. “I’m sorry, Beatrice. I’m distraught. My nose is plugged and I cannot think or breathe. I wish Arnulf would come. Surely he won’t miss the wedding of his sister? Is Montreuil far away?”

  Beatrice shrugged, patting her mistress’s back. “Halfway to Rouen, I believe.”

  Judith gripped her maid’s arm. “Rouen? Viking territory.”

  Beatrice pulled away and put her hands on Judith’s shoulders. “Listen to me. There’s no need to be concerned about Vikings. The days of marauding barbarians are over. You are to be wed today. True you don’t have a wedding gown, but your dress looks presentable now it’s dry.”

  Judith chided herself for her selfish thoughts. Beatrice had worked tirelessly well into the night to clean and air her clothing by the meager fire, after she’d swept a mountain of choking ashes out of the hearth and scoured the dilapidated house for wood and a tinderbox. Two old wooden stools in need of repair had burned slowly and provided the only warmth.

  Judith had helped by filling any vessel at hand with water from rain barrels so they might at least cleanse away the filth of the journey. She wished she’d had the chance to wash her hair for the ceremony. What would Theodoric think of his disheveled bride?

  Anger surged again. Her bridegroom’s eyes would likely be fixed on the man conducting the rite. He’d scurried back to the abbey after delivering them to the wretched house midway between Abbatis and Saint Riquier the day before.

  She scratched the back of her ear. “We didn’t sleep in the bed, but I feel itchy nonetheless.”

  Beatrice wiggled her shoulders. “When we return from the abbey, I’ll launder the linens. Can’t have my lady spending her wedding night in a lice-infested bed.”

  A thousand crawling things crept up Judith’s spine. “Nay. I cannot share a bed with Theodoric. Better to doze in the rickety chairs by the hearth as we did last night. And I thought my father’s chair was worn.”

  Beatrice peered down the long lane to Saint Riquier. “Doesn’t appear your betrothed has provided an escort, so we’d best be off,” she said. “It’s a good hour’s walk. You’ll feel better once the deed is done. At least the rain has stopped.”

  They walked arm in arm towards the abbey. Beatrice was right, but Judith’s mind filled with secret longings she’d harbored for her wedding day. She conjured a vision of the man she’d hoped to marry—a strong, tall, brave and proud nobleman who would cherish and protect her, perhaps grow to love her. She tucked the impossible dream away in her heart. Better to forget those thoughts. Pining for the unattainable would only make reality more difficult to bear.

  She studied her feet as they walked. “I never imagined I’d get married in muddy boots,” she lamented.

  Beatrice squeezed her arm. “Good. Keep your sense of humor.”

  Judith refrained from retorting that the comedy of the situation was breaking her heart.

  She was conflicted when she caught sight of Theodoric waiting at the door of the abbey. It was a relief, though she’d hoped he would decide against the marriage. It was evident he didn’t desire the union.

  Yet, there he stood, playing with the cuffs of his unfashionable black doublet, the same one he’d worn the day before, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He smiled briefly when he caught sight of her.

  “He doesn’t want this any more than I do,” she whispered to Beatrice.

  It saddened her there were no relatives present. His father had died not too long before, but did he have no siblings? Only a stern-faced Father Innocent waited with him. “He’s a lonely soul,” she murmured.

  She looked down the lane in the direction of Montreuil. No sign of Arnulf.

  Theodoric held out a pale hand. “Judith,” he rasped.

  She took hold of the cold, thin fingers. “My lord,” she replied, wondering if he was aware of the destruction of most of his demesne.

  She gasped when Father Innocent dove into the Latin rite without preamble. Theodoric let go of her hand. Behind her she heard Beatrice grinding her teeth. She hazarded a glance at her betrothed, shocked to see a tear rolling down his cheek. Would this be the abiding memory of her wedding? Grey skies, leaden heart, weary spirit, reluctant bridegroom.

  Everyone tried to ignore the distant pounding of hoof beats that became progressively louder, but the priest finally paused and looked impatiently down the path. Judith’s heart raced. Was her guardian angel coming to the rescue, or was it Arnulf riding hard to interrupt the wedding, to tell everyone it had been a big mistake?

  Theodoric must be as anxious as she for a reprieve. He too looked down the path. She followed his gaze and her heart careened around in her chest.

  “Arnulf,” she breathed.

  “Saints be praised,” Beatrice murmured.

  But something was awry. Muck flew as her brother reined his steaming horse to a skidding halt. The handful of men with him did the same. They looked haggard, anxious. He tossed his reins to one of them as he dismounted and strode towards her.

  Judith’s feet seemed to be mired in the mud. She longed to run into her brother’s embrace, but his grimace confirmed her suspicion that something was wrong.

  He gripped her arm. “Sister,” he hissed.

  “Arnulf,” she wheezed out of her constricted throat.

  He glanced from her to Theodoric, eyed the scowling priest, then looked back at her betrothed. “You’re Theodoric of Abbatis?” he asked, his voice full of incredulity.

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but took hold of Judith’s hands. The bleak look in his eyes made her nervous. “I’m sorry, Judith. This marriage has to take place for your protection. If I’d known—”

  He looked over his shoulder, back the way he’d come. “We cannot hold Montreuil and I must not be captured when it falls. They won’t pursue me into Flandres. I wish I could take you with me, but you have no horse. I’ll be back with reinforcements.”

  The nightmare had taken a demonic twist. “When it falls?” she parroted.

  Arnulf was already running towards his comrades. “The Norsemen,” he shouted.

  He mounted quickly and rode away westward towards the sea.

  “—take willingly—”

  She swiveled her head to the priest who had resumed the rite, his voice low and menacing.

  “Protection? If he’d known? Known what? Norsemen?” she babbled, gripping her maid’s hand.

  Theodoric mumbled something, his pale face ashen.

  “—man and wife—”

  “Nay,” Beatrice shrieked. “We’d have found a horse.”

  Utter silence reigned as if God had paused to decide what might happen next.

  Hoof beats once again caught everyone’s attention.

  He’s turned back. Praise be to the saints.

  The unmistakable sound was coming from the north—the wrong direction. A dark shape loomed, floating on the fog. She narrowed her eyes as it came closer. Was it a man or a demon from hell? The noise grew louder, but the shape no easier to name. She gasped when a giant on horseback emerged from the mist, a horde of riders behind him. Perched atop his head was a rounded helmet with chain mail hanging from it. Even in the grey light, it shone silver. Leather flaps covered his ears. But the studded metal mask encircling his eyes and covering his nose captured her attention. The oval eye slits transformed him into a cr
eature of myth, a bird-like raptor.

  He was the embodiment of every gruesome tale she’d ever heard about Vikings.

  She welcomed oblivion as she died of fright.

  DAMSEL IN DISTRESS

  Magnus leapt from his horse and strode to the door of the abbey where an older woman—a servant he’d guess—struggled valiantly to keep her mistress from falling into the muck. He scooped up the mud-splattered maiden who’d swooned on first catching sight of them. His thoughts went back to the last time he’d held a woman in his arms, but he shook away the bitter memory. This one was still very much alive, as evidenced by the rapid rise and fall of her breasts.

  The appealing mounds of female flesh were big enough to fill his hand. A tingling tugged at his balls, but then shame swamped him. He’d only recently buried his wife.

  Judging by the presence of the priest and a young man in black who’d fled at their arrival, he’d wager the wedding had been underway. But where were the well-wishers?

  He stared at the woman in his arms. Despite her disheveled appearance and pallor, heightened by the bright red of her nose, she was stunningly beautiful. Her tangled hair was the color of chestnuts. He willed her eyes to open, but she remained oblivious. A peculiar hope rose in his heart that he’d arrived in time to interrupt the wedding, but he quickly dismissed it. What did he care if Arnulf’s sister had wed a coward who’d run rather than defend his bride?

  Dag had already gone in pursuit of the bridegroom.

  The priest scowled, though his anger seemed to be directed more at the woman in Magnus’s arms than at him. Something strange was going on.

  “I am Magnus Kriger of Montdebryk,” he said to the cleric. “I am a Christian. You and your fellow priests have nothing to fear. We are Normans, part of an army sent to recapture Montreuil.”

  The priest eyed him with scorn. “You claim to be Christian, yet you wear a pagan symbol around your neck.”

  Magnus didn’t look down, but surmised his Thor’s hammer must have worked its way free from under his gambeson. He decided to ignore the priest’s comment. “You are a loyal subject of Herluin, I suppose,” he said, trusting the cleric would understand the message behind his words. “Surely you’re pleased to see your rightful comte restored to his lands?”

  The priest shrugged. “What do you intend with the woman?”

  He looked down at Arnulf’s sister. She felt right cradled against his chest, though she’d moaned softly a few times. He feared when she awoke and espied his father’s Viking helmet she’d think him a barbarian. Why it mattered he wasn’t sure.

  “Take her for a moment,” he said to the cleric, intending to remove his headgear, but the priest backed away, his palms held out as if warding off evil spirits. What ailed the man?

  “I’ll take her,” Bendik offered, coming to his side.

  A surge of jealousy addled Magnus’s wits and he clutched the stricken woman more tightly.

  Bendik chuckled. “I won’t harm her,” he said.

  Magnus laughed at his foolishness and handed her over. He removed his helmet, thrust it into the priest’s hands, then retrieved his prize. It was lunacy and Bendik’s frown indicated he agreed. The town and abbey had to be secured, but the only thought on his mind was the desire to comfort a beautiful woman who’d lugged a worn chair hundreds of miles and been obliged to wed a coward while standing in the mud.

  He thought of his sister. Katarina was the youngest of Bryk and Cathryn Kriger’s children and admittedly spoiled as the only girl. “You and I would willingly kill anyone who might treat our sisters in such an abominable way,” he said to Bendik. “Does the Comte of Flandres care nothing for his sibling?”

  ~*~*~

  Judith was warm for the first time in days. A man with a deep, soothing voice was carrying her. It rumbled from his chest—a solid chest, though it felt good to rest her weary head against it. She wanted to murmur her gratitude to the brave hero who had rescued her from a fate worse than death, but her throat was too dry. He must be one of Arnulf’s men.

  “My lady, oh my lady.”

  Beatrice!

  Judith slowly opened one eye and looked up. She was in the arms of a fair-haired giant whose broad shoulders blotted out everything else around her. He was still speaking, but her head was stuffed with the wool of a newly shorn sheep and a drum pounded in her ears. She cleared her throat, but swallowing was difficult.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Beatrice said.

  Judith opened the other eye and strained to see her maid. Where was the confounded woman? If there was no need for fear, that must mean—

  Wait.

  It wasn’t Theodoric carrying her. How unseemly to be in the arms of another man. The memory crashed in. Surely Arnulf hadn’t wed her to a freak of nature. “Husband,” she shrieked.

  “He has fled,” the deep voice said with a strange accent. He must be a foreigner.

  Foreigner? The only foreigners she’d seen recently—

  Riders led by a massive barbarian.

  Her heart raced. She looked up again at the stubbled chin of her hero. Her eyes fell on a silver pendant nestled in the folds of his gambeson. Dread seized her. It was a pagan symbol; the hammer of one of the Norse gods. Her savior was a Viking.

  It didn’t make sense. Vikings didn’t save women. They carried them off, raped then slaughtered them. She flailed her arms and legs, desperate to escape. She had to warn Beatrice. “Vikings,” she screamed.

  ~*~*~

  Magnus carried the distraught woman into the abbey, wondering how she’d known he was of Viking descent without his helmet. Perhaps because he was fair of hair.

  He passed Dag going the other way, ushering the bridegroom out at the point of his sword. The youth looked terrified. And he walked like a girl! Certainly not the right man for the beauty in his arms.

  “Hiding near the altar,” his brother said in reply to his unasked question.

  An ancient priest hobbled along behind them, his elbow supported by another of Magnus’s soldiers.

  Magnus spoke to the cleric. “Father,” he said softly. “We mean you no harm.”

  The old man looked at the woman struggling in his arms and sighed loudly before continuing out of the abbey. It irked Magnus that he obviously didn’t believe a word of it. If only the Flemish woman would stop screeching. The sure way to silence her came to him in a moment of blinding clarity. He sat down on one of the benches half way to the altar, bent his head and clamped his mouth over hers.

  Her eyes flew open. She stopped squirming.

  Her lips were surprisingly sweet and her skin smelled faintly of wood smoke. It reminded him of home. Her body felt right in his arms now she’d calmed, though she was still panting.

  He dragged his eyes away from her tempting breasts and met her gaze. Something in those startled green depths kicked him in the gut and spiraled into his shaft. He deepened the kiss, running his tongue along the seam of her lips.

  Her breathing slowed and her skin warmed. The fear in her eyes turned to puzzlement. She parted her lips.

  Desire flooded Magnus’s body. He itched to explore her mouth with his tongue, but doing so would frighten her. He sensed she was still a maid, unused to men, and married to a nithing.

  He licked the tip of her tongue, elated when she didn’t withdraw. He kept his eyes locked with hers, making sure he hadn’t alarmed her.

  His shaft turned to granite when she moaned, deep in her throat, and swirled her tongue over his bottom lip.

  Whatever plagued his throat chose the moment to resume its tickling. He eased her away from his body as a coughing fit racked him. She looked at him strangely, but then she too coughed.

  He reached into his gambeson for the flask of apple brandy, hesitating as he uncorked it. There wasn’t much left. Her eyes were watering. He steadied her shoulders with his hand, and lifted the flask to her lips.

  She pulled back when the aroma of the fumes hit her nostrils. “Drink,” he insisted, pointing to his t
hroat. “It helps.”

  She put her hands around the flask and took a sip, then as he’d known she would, squeezed her eyes tight shut and grimaced. But the coughing stopped.

  She smiled weakly. Desperate to keep the smile on her lovely face he searched for inspiration, then drew two of Ida’s linen squares from inside his tunic. He handed her one and blew his nose on the other.

  She gave him the flask, then dabbed at her nose.

  He took the last swig of brandy. The fiery liquid cleared his head. He tapped his chest. “Magnus,” he said.

  She furrowed her brow. “Judith,” she replied in a husky voice, handing back the linen square.

  The sight of Ida’s handiwork in another woman’s hand broke the enchantment. His daughters hadn’t yet accepted their mother’s death. The woman in his lap had wed another man. He was part of a war party and she was his hostage. Her brother would pay a hefty ransom, since he doubted the husband had the wherewithal.

  He shook his head, placing her on the bench beside him. “Keep it,” he said, coming to his feet. “Stay here. There is no escape.”

  SMALL COMFORTS

  Trembling with exhaustion, Judith sat on the hard bench and stared at the crumpled linen in her hand. Doors banged, boot heels rang on flagstones and she heard voices outside. The Viking’s fiery liquid had cleared the wool from between her ears. Having something soft to wipe her sore nose was wonderful.

  She fingered the fine needlework on the hem of the square. His wife had probably made it for him.

  The thought saddened her. His kiss was a surprise. It had addled her wits. She wondered why he’d done it. The gentle brush of his lips had awakened feelings in parts of her body she’d never given much mind to before. Such notions were sinful. He was married, as was she.

  She tried but failed to suppress the wrenching sob rising up her throat when she remembered Theodoric. Perhaps the Vikings had killed him—another sinful wish. She was damned.