The Valiant Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART series) Read online

A distant rumbling intruded upon Brienne’s musings, growing steadily louder. Her head snapped up as the sounds clarified into the muddled shoutings of human voices. Shielding her eyes from the brilliant sunlight, she spied the thatched roofs of a small village nestled snugly in the neighboring vale. Patches of color moved hurriedly across the open fields toward the escort.

  The troops grew agitated as the forms assumed recognizable shapes, brandishing objects in their upheld hands. Rurik halted the retinue, quickly assessing the unruly crowd.

  Brienne distinguished her name upon the lips of the approaching villeins as a sword sang out among the guard. Dozens of soldiers followed the edgy knight, unsheathing their blades in a deafening clamor.

  “Nay!” Brienne cried as she dug her heels sharply into Candra’s sides and bolted from the line. The ground blurred beneath her as she drove the palfrey across the sloping meadowland. Moments later, she reined in before the crowd, shielding them protectively with her white steed. Rurik appeared instantly beside her, the Norman and Frankish guard trailing short of his pace.

  The villagers cowered before the flashing metal, but Brienne held her ground protectively and glared at the soldiers in defiance. Norsemen required little provocation to shed blood. Forsooth, ‘twas their favored pastime. If these simple villeins were deemed a threat, they would be hewn down where they stood. Such was the way of this barbarous race. Well, she would be the first to taste their metal, she vowed. Her eyes fell, then, to the sword at Rurik’s hip, still buried deep within its scabbard.

  Rurik pinned her with a penetrating look, silently probing the corners of her mind, then, at the flick of his wrist, the Norman swords were resheathed. Esternay likewise signaled his men after heaping choice curses upon one particular soldier for his hasty actions.

  Brienne sickened. One of her own was responsible for the near calamity. ‘Twas the astuteness of a silvery eyed Norman that saved her people. And they were silvery, she noted as Rurik continued to hold her gaze. The man had the most changeable eyes. Did their grayness herald his anger or his displeasure now? she wondered. Had he guessed her condemning thoughts?

  Cautiously, a few villagers ventured forward, regaining their shattered confidence. As their fervor returned, they showered their blessings upon Brienne, crowding round and thrusting gifts of food and flowers into her hands. Some lifted their children to be cradled and kissed, while others clutched at her garments, babbling out a mixture of praise and woe-filled tales. Still more kept a small distance apart, reed crosses clasped to their breasts, tears marring their features as they quietly observed her.

  Brother Bernard reined in alongside Rurik, chuckling. “‘Twould seem Lord Robert’s messengers could not keep their tongues in their head.”

  “What say you, monk?” Rurik furrowed his brow.

  “Do not be alarmed, my son. These people believe that the maid is a sign from Heaven, plucked from her cloister expressly to intervene in their behalves — Beaumanoir’s daughter and God’s chosen vessel.” He cocked a bushy brow at the Norman. “She is their hope for the future. I would venture that many of these villeins are displaced from the soil they once tilled, perhaps even the soil of Valsemé.”

  Rurik watched Brienne, resplendent in crimson and gold and perched upon her snowy palfrey. She leaned down just then to clasp the hand of an elderly, white-haired Frank, surprise and joy reflected clearly in her face.

  He grunted his agreement as the monk moved off to minister his blessings. Still, Rurik failed to comprehend the furor that Brienne’s presence created.

  He studied the perfection of her profile, allowing his gaze to wander over the elegant curve of her neck and rest upon the swell of her breasts where they flirted above her gown. She spoke animatedly with the old man, unaware of the arousing image she created.

  What was the king’s purpose in offering so tantalizing a prize? Why did the sovereign insist that the offspring of this marriage inherit the titles and lands to the barony, disregarding Atli’s grown sons, nephews to Rollo himself? He pondered that a moment, shifting his attention to the white-haired Frank who suddenly fell silent and stared at the ground. Brienne continued speaking as the man considered her words.

  Of course, there would be no heir. ‘Twas a point the Frankish envoy neglected to question and his father did not offer. Atli was no longer capable of siring children, not that the girl would remain a virgin. Atli boasted that he could rut as well as any stag after the scent. Better, by thunder! But for a man once known to easily swell a woman’s belly with his seed, there had been no issue in over a decade. Not since a Saxon lance spitted him through the groin. His father was well pleased that he could foil the game yet gain the prize.

  Rurik returned his attention to the white-haired man who nodded slowly, then bowed over Brienne’s hand and brushed it with his lips. Straightening, he trudged away in the direction of the village.

  Rurik settled back in his saddle, watching the old man’s retreat. The Frank’s bearing was proud and straight, not bent like that of a field laborer, his manner almost courtly. There was no hint that he had ever strengthened his body for the skills of war or wielded an instrument heavier than his eating knife. It spurred Rurik’s curiosity.

  Rurik looked about him. He would have a name to this place and the Norman lord who ruled here. Odin’s eye! Where were the liege lord’s men? ‘Twas unlikely they would remain at their tasks while the inhabitants emptied the village. The absence of his Norse kindred settled ill with him. He thought to follow the villein and question him.

  As he began to press his heels to the stallion’s flanks, he felt a tugging at his boot. The horse pranced sideways as Rurik spied a small, disheveled girl clinging to his toe and tendering up a fistful of wilting wildflowers.

  “Easy, Sleipnir,” he soothed, fearing his steed would trample the sprite. Reaching down, he swept the child up with one arm and set her before him.

  Gasps punctuated the air at the sight of the Northman snatching up the little girl. The crowd fell silent as if holding its breath, distrusting the man’s purpose.

  “Elsie!” A round little woman, obviously stricken, rushed forward but stopped short of the great black.

  Brienne came instantly alert to the fear-laden mood and guided Candra alongside the stallion. Leaning from her saddle, she smoothed the child’s mass of brown curls, then casually laid her hand on Rurik’s forearm and embraced the two with a smile. The contrast of the huge warrior and the small child pulled at her heartstrings; she could not say why.

  As though a new dawning broke, the villagers came back to themselves, now chattering and smiling, nodding their approval of the couple. Brienne averted her gaze from their excited speculations and tilted her face upward, only to next lose herself in the blue sea of Rurik’s eyes.

  Elsie squirmed in Rurik’s arms, snuggling against his broad chest. “Can I come to your wedding?” she asked, her eyes sparkling with innocent hope. Without waiting for an answer, she chattered on. “When you make your babies, I will come sing them to sleep. I’m very good with babies,” she proclaimed, confident of her talent. “Mama says so.”

  Warmth flushed through Brienne at the thought of being intimate with this man, but she had not the heart to spoil the child’s fantasies and reveal that Rurik was not her husband-to-be. Looking out over the smiling faces, she realized with a start that most of these people shared Elsie’s impression, obviously mistaking Rurik for his father. She drew her eyes back to his, wondering for the first time of his age. Mayhap he had seen twenty-nine or thirty years. She furrowed her brows. How old, then, was Atli? She had never considered that the bridegroom would prove long of tooth, and resolved to question Lord Robert more thoroughly on the matter.

  Brother Bernard appeared at Rurik’s side and promptly set to conveying the small girl’s requests. Rurik smiled at the tousle-haired mite and, cupping her chin, whispered in her ear.

  “Elsie, come down,” called the sturdy little woman, shifting the babe at her hip.


  Rurik carefully lowered the child to her mother’s arms, then secured Elsie’s flowers in his belt with some flourish.

  “Don’t forget!” she trilled gleefully.

  A short while later the escort took up its travels, wending its way through the picturesque countryside, steadily conquering weed-choked roads and deeply rutted byways. Brienne found herself flanked between Rurik and Brother Bernard who engaged in light banter. She interrupted what she suspected to be a ribald jest and prodded the monk to discover what Rurik had whispered to Elsie, not that the child could have understood a word of his peculiar tongue.

  At first it seemed that Rurik would not answer, but when she stared overlong at his fine profile, he turned his eyes on her. Blue. That was a good sign, Brienne mused, smiling expectantly.

  “Ho!” Brother Bernard smacked his thigh when the Norman finally spoke. “My lady, Rurik would barter with you one morsel of information for another.” He leaned toward her in jovial conspiracy. “Be warned, my lady, he is skilled at his trade. He has bargained his way from Hedeby to Constantinople, only to double his profit along the Volga and return a wealthy man to the envy of every merchant from Birka to Kaupang. Hold for the better deal and guard well your valuables.”

  Brienne tossed a challenging look at the Norman and joined in the badinage. “Fear not, noble monk, I can haggle over a crumb like a fishwife. And my treasures are hidden safe within my heart where I alone hold the key.”

  “Ah, then secure the key against the day, for he will surely test your skills. And if you be not firm of purpose, he will wrest that prize in a twinkling and claim the riches therein.” Brother Bernard chuckled at his cleverness, missing Brienne’s startled expression.

  “Certes,” she agreed softly, touching her hand to her breast. She settled her gaze on the golden man and took up the waggery once again. “But warn yon Northman that I am no simple maid, nor easy prey to honeyed words and silken tongues. Bid him name his price.”

  After a brief exchange, Brother Bernard sat back in his saddle with an exaggerated sigh. “You are spared this day, my lady. He seeks but to know of the old man with whom you spoke earlier.”

  “Bolsgar?” She hesitated to disclose the man’s identity but yielded under Rurik’s penetrating look.

  “He was Valsemé’s seneschal, steward to my father’s estates. I have not seen him since — “ She quashed the dark memories and struggled to still the tremor in her hands. “He did not accompany my family to Chaudrey, but sought out his sister and her children. We feared his end was sealed with a Norse ax.” She smiled slightly, her eyes moist. “But he lives, good brother. For now, he dwells with his family at Ivry. I was amazed to discover him there.”

  “ ‘Tis strange that the Norman presence was so lacking.”

  “Bolsgar said that there are several pagi that have yet to feel the duke’s hand.”

  “ ‘Tis true. Rouen and the king eat up his energies. He has not yet fully extended his authority to all corners of Normandy. Go on, my child.”

  “Rumors abound that the lands which include Ivry are to be granted as a benefice to one of the duke’s kin. He is said to be a man of fearsome reputation.” Brienne moistened her lips. “I confess, I may have overstepped myself. The people would pledge themselves to a Norman lord if he be fair, but they fear this new master. I assured Bolsgar that Valsemé’s arms are always open to those who seek her doors.”

  “Did he put a name to the man?”

  She nodded. “Hastein.”

  Rurik’s eyes hardened to brittle shards.

  “Mayhap Rurik has knowledge of him.”

  “No need to ask.” The monk ran a hand through his coarse hair. “Hastein is his half brother, and a devil if there ever be one.”

  Brother Bernard turned to Rurik and they engaged in a discussion of such length that Brienne thought her original question forgotten. Just as she sought to interrupt their exchange, the monk cleared his throat and smiled over at her.

  “Rurik confesses he promised the child that she may nursemaid all his children when they come.”

  “Oh,” was all Brienne could manage. It was an agreeable answer, yet the image of Rurik siring babes with some faceless woman pricked her not a little.

  The man was indeed magnificent. Women must fall at his feet. She denied that it discomfited her and, instead, pondered his words, when they come. Evidently, he had fathered no children thus far — at least none beknownst to him.

  As his rich voice mingled with Brother Bernard’s gravelly tones, she slid her eyes over Rurik unobserved, and for a fleeting moment wondered how it would feel to be enveloped in those arms. She shook the thoughts free and berated herself thoroughly. What madness had come over her? This man was the offspring of her betrothed. Would she bed the father and lust after the son? And if her heart be read, what fate would befall her people? Nay, she would guard well the her heart and bury deep its key.

  The entourage continued on for several hours until the light began to wane. As the camp was laid out, a controversy erupted between Rurik and Esternay over the location of the bridal tent. They argued heatedly, each in his own tongue, while Brother Bernard hopped about trying to interject his fatherly guidance. Brienne slipped away from the uncomfortable scene to seek Aleth. At length, the bridal tent was erected in the center of the small settlement, with a Norman guard to one side and a Frankish to the other.

  Brienne and Aleth paid scant attention to the evening’s simple fare. They were enormously relieved to be off their mounts and wished only to stretch their limbs and move about the campfires. Leveque soon joined their aimless wandering, and the trio fell to sharing lighthearted complaints of life in the saddle. The knight pined for a well-laden table, and Aleth longed only for a soft cushion to ease her sorely abused posterior.

  Seeming all innocence, Brienne guided her companions into the camp’s Norman sector, regaling them with a rather spirited episode from her childhood. Her outward calm and grace of movement were won through sheer determination. Soon she would be baronne to these fierce warriors and, as such, would be entitled to the same loyalty they pledged to her husband. But ‘twas their respect she would gain, and, yea, even a measure of affection. ‘Twas essential if she was to be influential in her new role and not merely an ornament for her husband’s arm. She dare not betray her deep-rooted fears.

  Brienne smiled and nodded, observant to the smallest detail, as she and her companions made their way among the Normans. She marveled at the color of their hair, pale golds and vivid reds. They were a tall race, clean and well groomed, though the sight of a braided beard gave her pause. Their clothes were carefully tended, and she noted again the penchant for scarlet mantles. She had heard of the Norsemen’s fondness for dress, and recalled tales of their taking the Christian baptism on repeated occasions only to procure the white baptismal garments.

  She stopped to examine a bubbling kettle and watched as a flaxen-haired cook added chunks of dried fish, vegetables, and a smattering of herbs to the steaming broth. Small game quickly appeared on spits over the fires, while planks were assembled into makeshift tables and set with a variety of cheeses, butter, nuts, berries, and rounds of flatbread. Whatever their shortcomings,

  the Normans appreciated good provender and were far less Spartan in their travels than Lord Robert. The man offered Brienne a sampling of the festive board and, before she parted, supplied a handful of slender carrots for Candra.

  Aleth and Leveque stood a short distance apart, captivated by a game of draughts. Brienne studied the intent faces of the players and onlookers, and thought better of disturbing their concentration. Quietly, she withdrew and headed toward the horses with her sweet offering.

  As Brienne approached the animals, she heard a beautifully deep voice humming an unfamiliar tune. Rurik, stripped bare to the waist, stepped from behind the great black stallion, totally engrossed in the care of his steed.

  Brienne watched in unabashed fascination as his muscles flexed and rippled with each m
ovement. Never had she seen the like.

  Rurik stopped abruptly and whirled round. He released his breath at the sight of her and smiled disarmingly.

  “Gott kvöld.”

  Brienne swallowed hard, her cheeks flaming. “I. . . I was just . . . going . . . Candra . . .” She gestured toward her palfrey, dismayed momentarily that she could not make herself understood. “My horse . . . I have carrots . . . see?” She held them forth. Then, embarrassed as much by his nakedness as by her stammering, she stepped quickly away and hastened to Candra’s side.

  Several moments passed before she could breathe evenly again. What magic did Rurik work to affect her so? Candra nudged her, greedy for the promised delicacies. Brienne started to rub the palfrey’s muzzle and coo soothingly when she felt a presence towering over her and warm breath caressing her shoulder. She straightened, tingling, and turned somewhat unsteadily.

  “My lord, I — “

  She gave a small cry as she lifted her gaze and was entrapped in the black depths of Esternay’s eyes. A fire burned there, bright and hungering.

  “Brienne,” he whispered huskily, “so brave. . . so pure . . . so very beautiful.” He brushed aside a tendril of hair and stroked her cheek. “I will not abandon you to a life with these heathens. Trust me.”

  His fingers traced down the smooth column of her neck and paused at the base of her throat. She froze under his touch but he took no notice and bent to her ear. “There is a way.” His breath fell hot and heavy as he pressed his lips beneath her jaw.

  Brienne heard the harsh sound of stone scraping on metal and caught sight of Rurik sharpening his sword. A cold, bitter smile curled his lips. Esternay drew himself up, scowling blackly, while Brienne seized the moment to extricate herself from her embarrassing position. Catching up her skirts, she darted past Lord Robert and rushed for the safety of her tent.

  The knight sneered. “She’ll never succumb to your kind, Norman. She belongs in a Frankish bed.” He gave a small, derisive snort and strode away.

  Rurik watched after him, sharpening his sword with long even strokes. He had expected treachery, though his counsel went unheeded. The Seigneur d’Esternay’s duplicity was predictable. The knight held a personal interest, after all, as the heiress’s brother-by-marriage. But it was the implication of Brienne’s actions that troubled Rurik most. He had not anticipated that the bride would share in that deception and castigated himself for being so beguiled by the woman.