The Viking's Heart Read online

  One of the two others with whom she was standing said something and there was a chorus of laughter. The woman smiled coldly and turned around with an arrogant sniff.

  “My lady, this way,” Margaret said politely.

  “Oh, aye.” Dutifully, Rosamund fell into step.

  Lady Veronica of Avenford, an older, slightly shorter, and perhaps less spectacular version of her daughter Alayna, smoothed the last of Rosamund’s garments and handed it to Hilde to place in the trunk. “There,” she pronounced with a flash of a smile. “Everything seems to be in order. After all of that jostling, they just needed to be refolded and laid again.”

  “It is kind of you to help,” Rosamund replied.

  Hilde said, “I’ll take out your green gown for you to wear to supper.”

  It was Veronica who replied, “Nay, Hilde. She is to rest this night. Was a difficult day for your mistress, and you, I imagine. Let her have her supper on a tray in here, and then you both can find your rest early.”

  Rosamund drifted to the window. “You need not trouble yourself, Hilde. I am not very hungry.”

  “Go fetch it,” Veronica said in a tone that was gentle but commanding. Hilde—who had a tendency to be bossy herself and was never docile—shocked Rosamund when she muttered, “Yes, my lady,” and scurried out the door.

  Veronica had a manner about her, Rosamund considered. One simply didn’t disobey her. “Rosamund, come here. You are restless.”

  “My thoughts disturb me,” Rosamund admitted. She sat in the seat indicated.

  “I know it has been a trying day,” Veronica said. “Your maid is busy with setting your clothing to rights and fetching your supper. Let me brush your hair for you and you will be ready all the earlier for bed.”

  On the small table, Hilde had set out her silver brush and a matched set of pearl-encrusted combs. Veronica picked up the brush and admired it. “Lovely,” she commented, then came behind Rosamund and began to stroke her hair.

  “’Twas a gift from my stepfather,” Rosamund said stiffly.

  “Ah. It must be a beloved memento.”

  Rosamund did not reply.

  After a while, Veronica chuckled softly. “I hope my daughter has not given you a poor view of our home here at Gastonbury.”

  “Alayna? Why ever would that be so?”

  “She is not herself. Lucien is worried sick over it. Oh, he would never admit it, but he fears for her. I can see it in his eyes, the anxious way he watches her. And she makes it not one whit easier with her disposition so sour and her reasoning utterly gone. Bless him, he tolerates much. Even Alayna knows it, yet she says she cannot stop herself from some of the most obnoxious fits of temper I have ever witnessed. And I am her mother!”

  They laughed together, then Rosamund asked, “Are you worried about her?”

  “Aye. Nay. Oh, I suppose. A mother always worries, but I know ’tis merely the heat and the heavy weight of the babe that makes her cross. ’Twas not like this with the others. This is the third, you know. I have a grandson who you will espy running around the keep. And then there is the pretty little angel who just coos the sweetest song. Bah! What a foolish woman I am to go on so.”

  “Nay, my lady. ’Tis pleasant to hear the pride and delight in your voice.”

  “You indulge an old woman.”

  “’Tis not true. ’Tis I who benefit from your great kindnesses, and I am grateful for your attentions.”

  “If my daughter were feeling better, she would be seeing to you and trying to comfort you after your terrible day. I know she feels dreadfully responsible.”

  “Nay, my lady, she must not. I cast no blame.”

  “Lucien has sent word to Lord Robert. He wishes you to stay with us until we receive a reply.”

  “Oh.” The mention of Robert of Berendsfore set Rosamund’s pulse thumping a bit harder.

  Veronica twisted the dark blond tresses into a thick braid and fastened the end with a leather thong. “There, now I shall leave you to your supper and your rest.”

  “Thank you, good lady.”

  Veronica smiled down at her, touching her slim hand to Rosamund’s cheek. A look of uncertainty passed over her features, then was gone. “Rest,” she said with a renewed pleasantness.

  “I shall.”

  “And eat!” she called over her shoulder.

  Rosamund laughed despite her distractions. “I shall try.”

  The darkness was absolute when she awoke, panting and sweating from the dream. Her mother falling…

  She shook her head, refusing the wispy ghost of memory. Sitting up, she pushed her hair out of her eyes. Tendrils had sneaked out of the braid and stuck to the thin sheen of sweat along her brow and cheeks.

  At the washstand was fresh water and a towel for the morning. She wet the linen and rubbed it over her face and neck, down her arms, until gooseflesh pricked her skin.

  The night was warm but there was a sweet breeze, and now that she had cooled herself down, it was quite pleasant. She wrapped a sheet about her and went to the window, pulling up a small stool so that she could lean out and listen to the night sounds. The pleasant chorus soothed her. She folded her arms on the windowsill and rested her chin on her crossed wrists.

  The dream was gone now, but she was wakeful and troubled. She thought of Alayna, who had been so upset on Rosamund’s behalf. Alayna’s mother, the Lady Veronica, had also touched Rosamund’s heart with her kindness and solicitude. In some ways she reminded Rosamund of her own mother. There was nothing overtly similar save those things common to all mothers. The phrases they are apt to say, a look, a smile—all full of nurturing warmth.

  Rosamund thought of Lucien and his terrible scowls, and Agravar and the surprising gentleness of his hands when they had touched her.

  She wondered where Davey was, and when he would find her. And she wondered what she would do if he did not.

  Chapter Six

  There was a break in the heat, and the denizens of Gastonbury came forth from the shuttered dark coolness of the castle where they had dwelled in exhausted and sweltering stillness for the past fortnight. A large tent was spread out in the meadow just outside the curtain wall. Alayna brought her small children to play there, under the fond regard of her mother and the silent companionship of her cousin.

  The outing was treated with all the celebration of a high feast day. Veronica, Alayna and Rosamund reclined on cushions under the canopy, the men lounged nearby. Couples wandered off together, or gathered under shade trees for more intimate conversation. Spirits were high and musicians played gentle, lilting music, which drifted on the refreshing breeze to mingle with laughter.

  “Margaret, sing us a song!” a man cried out.

  “My lady?” Margaret asked her mistress, eager to comply with her admirer’s request.

  Alayna nodded. Despite the lessening in the heat, she still seemed rather wan. “Yes, go ahead.”

  Margaret scrambled up off the cushions to stand primly beside a grinning lyre player. She muttered something and he began to strum.

  Her song was lovely. Rosamund smiled and closed her eyes, leaning back against the soft pallet upon which she reclined and let the peace of the day seep into her.

  “She sings like a lark,” Veronica whispered in her ear. “But the chit is insufferably vain about it.”

  Another voice, harsher, brimming with violence, spoke from somewhere deep in Rosamund’s memory. Vain harlot!

  Her eyes flew open and locked with the steady, placid orbs of her companion. Veronica smiled and the flash dissipated, leaving only the steady thud of her heart pounding in her ears. Then that steadied as well.

  She made some reply and they fell silent again.

  Rosamund rubbed her temple. Sometimes she feared madness. But the pain was fleeting, like a streak of lightning that is brilliant and stark in the darkened sky, filling the watcher with awe and terror, but when its brief moment of glory is spent, so is its threat. All it leaves behind is the strange scent that
curls one’s nostrils and the dread that it could happen again and that harm might not be avoided.

  Her past was like that.

  “Rosamund?”

  “Aye? Oh, aye, my lady.”

  “Are you unwell?”

  “Nay. Not at all.”

  Forcing a smile, she lifted her gaze and attended the song. But her feelings of disquiet returned. She caught Agravar’s eyes on her. That Viking seemed always to be watching her with more than passing interest in his eyes.

  The knowledge terrified her and thrilled her at the same time, the latter of which she understood not at all. She looked away, feeling an overwhelming self-consciousness all of a sudden, as if that white-hot gaze could see inside her. And know all her secrets…

  A wicked whack on her shin brought her out of her thoughts in a snap. She yelped, “Ah!”

  Young Aric de Montregnier, who was four years old, stood before her with wide eyes and gaping mouth. His was the panic-stricken face of a child who knows he has gone too far.

  “Uh-oh,” he said simply.

  “Aric!” Alayna exclaimed.

  “I am sorry! I am sorry!” Alayna’s son exclaimed. “I did not mean it, Mother. I was fighting the infidels. Bryan was Saladin and I King Richard and I missed and—”

  “Lucien,” Alayna said calmly, slipping the wooden sword out of her son’s hand, “have you been telling Aric tales of the Crusades?”

  Lucien managed to look wary and stern at the same time as he sputtered some sounds that were neither denials nor confirmation.

  Looking at Aric, Rosamund had never seen so small a face beset with such misery and she was overcome with sympathy. The poor lad had simply gotten carried away with his game, and although she understood his mother’s annoyance, the boy’s gorgeous countenance undid her.

  She found herself moving before she even thought. She came to her feet and put her arms around the boy. “Pardon the child, Alayna. Aric knows how I love to play soldier.” Aric looked up at her as if she had sprouted horns from her brow. She continued, “We both have a fascination for the great Crusades and the grand adventures of the knights who undertake the holy quest.”

  The child knew lying when he heard it, but he had also been taught to respect his elders. The resultant turmoil—should he agree to her fibs or denounce her for honesty’s sake?—was apparent in his trembling grimace. Rosamund had to smile, and stroked his small cheek, touched by his distress. “Oh, we have never spoken of it, I admit, but kindred spirits know these things about each other. And so Aric probably knew I wouldn’t mind playing his game with him.”

  “You mustn’t go about whacking ladies,” Lucien chided gently.

  “Aye,” Alayna added more emphatically.

  “I shan’t, Mother. I promise,” came the solemn vow. Aric cast a grateful glance up at his protectress.

  “Very well. Come for your sword after a space, and we will see if you can find better uses for it than harassing our guests.”

  Rosamund looked down as he nodded bravely, biting his lips to conceal his disappointment at losing his toy for even this little while. She could not resist a brush of her fingertips along his silky hair. Dark, like his mother and father, and softly curled and feeling like silk.

  She had not been around children often. She had not thought to like them this much, nor to think of the child she might bear someday. Not with this gentle longing, anyway. It had always been a bitter dread that took hold of her when she anticipated an existence as a wife and mother.

  Now she found this sprite’s antics could make her smile, and there had been a curious impulse to hold his baby sister. Watching the infant Leanna totter about had put a near-physical ache into her arms.

  Aric scampered off and as she watched him go, she saw Agravar coming for her. He gave a small bow. “A devotee of the Crusader knights, are you?” he asked.

  “In truth, I know nothing about any Crusade or knight.” She paused, considering. “Not true. I have heard of King Richard. But who was the other…Sanhedrin?”

  His mouth twitched. “Saladin was Richard’s great nemesis. A clever adversary and brilliant tactician, he kept our good king in check and safe from victory.”

  “You sound as if you are an admirer.”

  “That would be heresy, would it not? Therefore, I shall amend my opinion to say Saladin was a soulless infidel who had the devil on his side and therefore frustrates the righteous aims of our blessed monarch.”

  Despite her wariness, she was amused. “Rest assured, sirrah, I shall not denounce you.”

  He laid a hand over his chest. “A great relief.” He indicated a spot next to where she had been sitting. “May I?”

  “Of course,” she replied, surprised that the prospect of conversing with him was not nearly as untenable as it should have seemed. They sat together.

  She looked over at him, hiding her curiosity under her lashes. His angular features seemed sculpted out of granite. He seemed content to just sit, his leg drawn up, his elbow cocked on one knee, and watch the gathering in comfortable silence. A warrior angel, both golden and mighty, at rest.

  She was curious about him. “You say ‘our monarch,’ yet you are a Dane, are you not?”

  His head dipped a moment, then came back up. “I am English,” he replied. It was the tightness in his voice that warned her off.

  “Oh.”

  He seemed to regret his harshness after a moment. “My mother was an English lady.”

  “Oh.”

  “How do you find Gastonbury?” he inquired, taking a fresh tact.

  “Pleasant.”

  He nodded, then fell quiet again.

  She took in a long breath and expelled it slowly. Her fingers drummed idly on the blanketed ground. The silence stretched on.

  “Why are you so nervous all the time?” he asked suddenly.

  She started. “Nervous? Me? Why, I am not nervous.”

  He laughed, though not unkindly. “Aye, nervous. You. You are more skittish than an unbroken colt.”

  Her hand fluttered to her hair, smoothing and tucking in absent movements. “Mayhap you merely think I am because ’tis your nature to be suspicious.”

  “My lady, I have a most congenial nature. Not suspicious in the least. However, I find it most suspicious that you should think me so.”

  Her lips quirked. “Therefore you confirm my opinion, and admit you are suspicious.”

  He opened his mouth, frowned in puzzlement, and then shut it again. “’Tis a silly conversation.”

  “Then let us end it.”

  “Aye.”

  It wasn’t long before she demanded, “Why do you always stare at me?”

  He grinned without even glancing at her. “Your great beauty, of course.”

  “But I am not a great beauty, sirrah.”

  He looked at her then, rather critically and with intense eyes as his gaze slid over her features. “Are you not? Perhaps you underestimate yourself.”

  “No troubadours shall sing verse to my face, I think. Homage like that is deserving of beauty such as Alayna’s.”

  “And yet I have observed that kind of attractiveness can be as much a curse as a blessing. There are other kinds of allure a woman can posses. Mystery, for example.”

  Her heart lurched. Mystery! “How absurd. What mysteries can a woman have?”

  “I would say a great deal.”

  “We are not allowed mysteries, sirrah.” She could not help a touch of bitterness from entering her voice.

  “Allowed? What do you mean?”

  “Why, we have no rights, no choices. We are at the mercy of our men.”

  “All the more reason for your hearts to be held in secret,” he observed blandly.

  “Secrets, aye,” she conceded. “We women have many secrets. But you used the term mystery, and that denotes a secret that would be of interest or consequence. I fear that our secrets are of little meaning to men. They are simply our own, and matter only to us.”

  “Ho
w tragic to hear you say so. And I think your new friend, the Lady Veronica, would chastise you sorely for such sentiments. She would give you a different view of woman’s attributes, and a much fairer one, I’d wager.”

  “You disagree with me? How odd, when we seem to be of a like mind in so many other things.”

  “My lady,” he said with a slow grin, “I would be the last man on this good earth who would profess even the most meager wisdom of women.”

  “You must have some knowledge.” Her tone was sly.

  “None.”

  “Then why do those three women yonder keep staring at you?”

  He started. She saw she had him off guard, and a playful urge asserted itself. “Is it that one of them is your woman? If she is, will you please go to her so that I will be spared the daggers shooting from her eyes.”

  He seemed deeply displeased at this. At first, Rosamund thought it was she who had angered him so well, but he turned his scowl to the trio of blondes whispering behind their hands. They immediately adjusted themselves, thrusting out their chests and donning alluring smiles.

  Agravar made some sort of sound. Kind of a growl. “Those idiots plague me.”

  With feigned innocence, she asked, “Then they are not beloved to you?”

  He appeared appalled. “Damnation, they are not, I tell you.”

  She wanted to giggle in delight. This huge hulk of a man was embarrassed. “You need not be awkward if you are of a mind for a romance, sirrah. Why, I would think any one of them would be willing to entertain your attentions, seeing as they are always smiling this way.”

  He rubbed his chin roughly. “Aye, Rosamund, I know what it is they are willing to oblige me, and I have no interest in it. Now may we please quit the subject?”

  “Very well. ’Tis of no matter to me, of course. ’Tis only they seemed so disturbed by your—”

  “May we speak of something else, madam?”

  She shrugged. “But, sirrah, we seem to have nothing else to say to one another.”

  He narrowed his eyes with ill intent. “Mayhap a return to our earlier topic of how you are more than you seem.”