The Viking's Heart Page 7

He paused for a heartbeat, stopping in his tracks. “So am I.”

  She had noticed. A man like other. A man, but not terrifying, for all of his fierce looks. A man—the only man she had ever met—who just might have a heart.

  Oh, aye, she had noticed.

  She bowed her head. “Do you not understand…to have you hear these awful things…to pity me—I cannot bear that.”

  “’Tis not your shame to bear. It is they who should be embarrassed.”

  “But if they spew it at me, am I not despoiled?”

  “Stop it!” he commanded, and for the first time, she heard his voice sharpen. He took three strides and grabbed her by her shoulders, giving her a little shake. “Do not do that. Your dignity is yours. Do not surrender it, not for anything. They can hurt you with words, but only if you let them. Do not allow it, Rosamund. Never listen to that filth.”

  His words were far too profound. She tried to shrink away. “What do you know of it?”

  His head fell forward, his forehead brushing against hers. “Would that I did not know anything.”

  “What kind of answer is that?” she accused.

  She could see his jaw clench in spasms as his nostrils curled against his inner thoughts. “No kind of answer.” He released her and stepped away. “God, I do not know why I even came here. He said those things and you fled and I…I acted without thinking. I do not do that often.”

  “Should I be grateful?” Her voice was rising. In a detached manner of observance, she considered that she might be becoming hysterical. She had never felt closer to the brink of losing control.

  “I will tell Lucien to send him away if you wish,” he said, ignoring her question.

  “It matters not, Agravar. He is down there in the hall.” Tapping a slender finger against her temple, she added, “And he is in here.”

  He bowed his head. It was a sign of defeat. “I shall leave you. Accept my apologies for disturbing you.” He left.

  She felt worse for him being gone. Why had she fought with him when he was only trying to help her?

  Why would he want to help her? She was too confused to contemplate it. All she could fathom was that Leon was here, and that meant Cyrus was here, in spirit if not in the flesh. Thus, everything was changed now. Gastonbury was no longer her refuge.

  It was that thought that brought on the tears. She fell onto the bed and cried. She wanted to die, like a rabbit when it cannot bear its fear any longer. It just dies of fright.

  If only she could, she thought. What a great relief it would be.

  “If you are angry with me, I am certain I deserve it,” Lucien said as he and Agravar walked along the edge of the training field. From the iron frame that housed a few dozen long-handled spears, he picked one out and examined it. “How long did Father Leon abuse your ears with his prattle?”

  “You did me a favor, actually.” Agravar squinted into the sun. “’Twas enlightening.”

  “Enlightening? You mean to say you found his opinions worthy?”

  “Not at all, but his ridiculous philosophies go a long way to explain the strange behaviors of your wife’s cousin.”

  “Oh. I suppose.” Lucien cast his friend a curious glance. “What care you about the chit? Unless…”

  “Nay, do not think it,” Agravar warned, stalking off toward the lists. “She is but a bother, and soon to be gone.”

  “Oh, admit it, you fool. She has interested you from the start.” Lucien was on him in an instant. “Aye, of course she has. If I wasn’t so bound up with my own worries, I would have seen it sooner.”

  “Lucien, you are perpetually bound up in yourself. You rarely see beyond that huge beak of a nose of yours.”

  “I will allow I am not the most delicate of men when it comes to other people’s sensibilities. ’Twas what I always relied on you for.”

  “You say it as if you are proud of it.”

  Lucien shrugged. “It is what life has made me. And you have no prettier tales to tell than I.” He regarded his friend with something dangerously akin to compassion in his hard face. “Ah, perhaps worse. At least my early years were spent with a father whom I loved, and my mother, although a wretch, never loathed me as did—”

  “Enough. Are we going to spar with blades or will you torture me with these clumsy words?”

  “Let us have at it then,” Lucien conceded.

  Agravar stalked a few paces away and whirled, sword drawn and at the ready.

  Lucien met the first blow. “You surprise me, Agravar. You have never been unwilling to talk of your past.”

  Agravar lunged, striking hard. “I am not unwilling. What is the point? Aye, you had love once, and have it now again. And I do not.” He struck again. “There is no disagreement.”

  “Then why are you angry?” Lucien asked, ducking as the great broadsword came at him, slicing the air just beyond his ear.

  “Because, you stupid cur, you are an ass!” To his surprise, Agravar saw how Lucien braced himself for the Viking’s next blow. Maybe he even cringed. Was he striking at him that hard?

  The realization sobered him out of his rage. With a grunt, he tossed his broadsword into the air where it arced in the sunlight, throwing off glints of fire, then landed with a thunk in the dust.

  But he was not done with Lucien. He stalked a tight circle around his puzzled friend. “Does love trouble you with fits of temper, Lucien? How unfortunate. My heart aches for you and your surpassing trials. My God, are you a complete dolt? You tell me to guard my heart and how fortunate I am not to have a wife to trouble me. Do you have not the slightest inkling of how unthinking you are?”

  Lucien stayed very still, following the stalking Viking with his eyes. Agravar tossed his head and scoffed, “What trials you bear, friend, when your happiness is so great your only care is that you will lose it. What pity I hold for you when I see that incredibly lovely woman whom you hold as wife watch you with devotion in her eyes, and when those children whom you have sired run to you with smiles and shouts of happiness.” His voice had risen to a shout. “You think I am better off with my lonely heart, Lucien. I ask you what do you know of it? What do you know of it?”

  Lucien shifted uncomfortably at the interest they had drawn from those nearby. “Peace, friend. Do not forget I am no stranger to suffering. I was once as lost as a man could be—”

  “You have forgotten. Aye, long ago you were as troubled a man as set foot on this earth, but the love of your wife and your children is too sweet to see clear into that distant past. You are soft, Lucien. You have lost your edge, and I envy you that, but don’t, for God’s sake, pretend for a moment that it wasn’t the luckiest damned thing that could have happened to you. And do not ever begrudge one moment of pique, one instant of worry or vexation or anything else your lady gives you, because you are the most fortunate, undeserving bastard on God’s earth.”

  Lucien hung his head and breathed in deeply, letting it out in degrees. “You are wrong, Agravar.” He looked up and tried a smile. “’Tis you who are the bastard. ’Twas your parents who were unmarried. Mine own were safely sealed in the blessed union of wedlock.”

  All at once, Agravar’s anger drained out of him. He shook his head and grinned. “’Tis the poorest excuse for a jest I have ever heard.”

  Lucien grew serious. “You are unwanted no longer. Your home is here. You have chosen it so. When I would have given you the lands of my own birth to compensate you for your service, you chose to stay here at Gastonbury, by my side. And so you have, because you are not merely my captain, but my brother, as well. Never say you have nothing. You do have family.”

  Agravar went for his sword, taking a long time to wipe the dust off the blade. He held it up and examined its edge, concentrating on the honed steel. “’Tis your family,” he said without taking his eyes off the weapon. “I am happy to have it. But mayhap, Lucien, for the first time, I want something of my own.”

  Lucien came up beside him and spoke softly. “I am sorry for the desire
you may hold in your heart for the girl, but it does not change the situation. You cannot have Rosamund.”

  Agravar swallowed and sheathed his weapon. “I know it.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “I must speak with you,” Veronica said, taking Rosamund’s elbow as soon as the younger woman entered the ladies’ solar.

  “I—I…”

  “Come here, by the window. Sit.”

  Rosamund did as Veronica instructed, and settled herself at a discreet distance from the others who were busy carding wool. Folding her hands on her lap, she kept her eyes downcast.

  “Look at me, child.”

  It took a moment, but Rosamund complied. There was never any refusing the quiet command of the older woman.

  “Now, you listen to me. If I ever look at you and see by your eyes or your posture that you are even remembering the things those vile men taught you, let alone believing in them, I vow before you right now to take you over my knee and wallop your backside.”

  Rosamund’s mouth fell open. Veronica raised a chastising finger. “Do not make the mistake of thinking I am bluffing. If it takes treating you like a child, I will do so to retrain you away from those hateful beliefs. I have lived a good many years, and though I am not old and frail just yet, the value of my experience allows me a certain perspective on these matters. In all modesty, I assure you I am a most excellent judge of character.”

  Taking Rosamund’s trembling hands in hers, she continued in a softer tone. “Now, Rosamund, heed me. The men who speak so against women are weak. They do not understand our mystery, our very differentness from them. They perceive it as a threat, and thus must try to control that threat because of their very fear of it. They are not strong, masterful men, but inadequate, frightened boys who use their superior position to dominate what they cannot fathom, or appreciate. These men are loathsome, and the farthest thing from godly that can exist on this earth. But their most insidious danger is what they can make us believe about ourselves.”

  That last statement made Rosamund wonder. “Were you ever under the power of such a man?”

  “Nay, not I, child, but a very dear friend of mine made a disastrous marriage. ’Twas almost her undoing, but she gained courage in the end to defy her husband and prevent him from strangling all that was precious and unique out of her. This story had a happy ending, for she survived the wretched man and is happy today.” She paused, pressing her lips together. “But she nearly went a different course. At times, I feared for her life.”

  Rosamund snatched her hands out of Veronica’s grasp and stood. Flustered, she said, “I will remember your kind words, my lady.”

  Veronica came around to her side and placed a reassuring arm about her shoulder. “Use them as a shield in your weak moments, Rosamund, when your thoughts slip back to those horrid lies.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Rosamund said with feeling, and gave her a quick hug.

  And she did feel better. Veronica’s insights had the ring of truth in them. The more she thought of all the lady had said, the more she recognized that Cyrus and this knave in priest’s garb were exactly the weak, feeble-willed men Veronica had described.

  In the ensuing days, if she did not exactly walk about the castle freely, leaving herself open to meet with Father Leon, she did not cower in her room, either. Only in the evenings did she see him, at supper, but luck gave Father Leon no chance to get close to her. He did not approach the high table, being much too intent on making himself as drunk as possible. She felt protected, thinking that perhaps it was because Lady Veronica was always nearby that he dared not speak to her.

  She spent mornings with the other ladies in the solar, afternoons on her own, sometimes in her chamber, sometimes venturing out to the children’s rooms to play with sweet Leanna or laugh at Aric’s antics. That one was showing the beginnings of developing into a tyrant, despite his mother’s sharp reprimands. He adored his father, and only Lucien’s stern scoldings checked his exuberant, if overbearing, personality.

  “He orders the older boys about, and they let him,” Alayna lamented one day. “And the younger ones think the sun rises and sets on him, but he will have naught to do with them. He says they are a nuisance and dismisses them in the most abominably rude way.”

  “He struts about like the lord of the manor already,” Lady Veronica added, but there was a twitch in the corners of her mouth.

  Rosamund thought for a moment. “I promised him I would tell him stories of the Crusades. I have been working very hard to learn some.”

  “Ah, that will serve his bloodlust,” Alayna said with a disapproving click of her tongue.

  “Mayhap not. I was thinking I might relay instead a story to teach a lesson, and put in a moral or two.”

  “An excellent idea.” Veronica beamed at her. “An indirect approach is sometimes best.”

  Alayna nodded, apparently liking the idea. “Aye, and ’tis better coming from you. Sometimes little boys have enough of mothers telling them what to do.”

  “And grandmothers,” Veronica added. “Our thanks to you, Rosamund. It is good of you to help us with our little problems.”

  It wasn’t all good, at least for Rosamund. She was getting too involved with the people here. It would only make them all the harder to leave, when the time came.

  She liked the little orchard where she and Agravar had once shared quiet company and flirted with confidence. She would often sit and read in the cool shade late in the afternoon, when the heat was at its worst.

  She liked to read. It was something her mother had taught her, a secret thing—an evil thing, if Cyrus was to be believed. It was the one rebellion her mother had indulged, and well worth it, for Rosamund loved to pore over the illustrated manuscripts and dream of the classical heroes depicted in picture and word. She had a wonderful imagination and a gift for leaving her cares behind and losing herself in fantasy.

  It was that gift that had gotten her through many of Father Leon’s sermons and lengthy discourses on the evils of the flesh. She didn’t really know what that meant, even after hundreds of woeful warnings, since she never paid much attention to them. But best of all, she could spend hours in her lonely chamber flying upon the wings of a gigantic swan, or climbing Olympus only to be so admired by Zeus he awarded her special status as a demigod, or sailing on a ship bound for the Holy Lands disguised as a boy, intent on glorious war in the name of the Christ.

  These were her fantasies—of adventure, like the ones she read secretly. And of freedom. Always freedom.

  On this day, she went to her garden with a particular manuscript and a sullen little boy who would rather be running about with his friends than holed up with a female. However, there was the lure of the promised stories—war stories, no less—of knights and dreaded Saracens and heathenish infidels and that was enough to appease his inquisitive nature.

  “I like to hear about Antioch. Tell me how it fell and how all the knights put their enemies’ heads on pikes along the walls.”

  Rosamund cringed. “Who told you such a thing?”

  “Dervel, the groomsman.”

  “No such thing happened. I am not going to tell you stories of the Crusades today. I have something else I want to talk to you about.”

  “Does it have fighting?”

  “Aye, ’tis a war story, but this war was very long ago,” Rosamund told him. “Come and sit by me here.”

  The little boy perched his bottom on the edge of the stone bench, for he would never be openly disobedient. Neither did he trust that the promised tale would prove entertaining. He gazed at Rosamund skeptically. “Did the men wear armor and carry swords?”

  “Aye. They certainly carried swords, but their armor was much different than what you are used to seeing.” Rosamund opened the book and found a particular illumination. “They relied much more on their shields, because they had no way to make it possible to move in the armor plating. Therefore, they used it sparingly. See, here is a picture.”

&
nbsp; He peered at the parchment. “That looks foolish.”

  “It is merely different. They were Greeks, and they lived in a part of the world that was much warmer than we are used to here, so they dressed differently.”

  “I think they look like girls. That one is wearing a kirtle.”

  Rosamund sighed. “’Tis a gown of sorts, true, but all men wore it back then. ’Tis called a toga.”

  He lifted one shoulder, a gesture identical to his father’s. “I suppose.” He peered at the manuscript and pointed to a heroically drawn figure with impossibly blond hair. “What is his name?”

  “This is Odysseus. See, Aric, how big and strong he is?”

  “He looks like Agravar. Agravar is big and strong.”

  “Aye, I know.”

  “Where is his sword? What kind of soldier is he? He has no sword.”

  She rolled her eyes in despair, then got an inspiration. “He keeps it on his ship.”

  “That is very stupid. A soldier must always have his sword. Agravar would never be caught without his, nor my father.”

  Rosamund remembered once when the mighty Viking had indeed been caught without a weapon. She chuckled softly remembering her own chagrin when she had discovered her great prize was a blade stump. Distinct in her memory was the sparkle of amusement in Agravar’s eye.

  “Was Odysseus a great fool?”

  “Oh, nay, not at all, Aric. Odysseus was a hero. He fought in a long war, called the Trojan War, and won a fabulous victory for the Greeks. But you know what he did then?”

  “Chopped off all their heads and put them on pikes to warn others?”

  Rosamund blinked in shock. “Nay. He angered the gods, and refused to admit that it had been with their help he had won the war. His arrogance nearly cost him his life, several times over. As it was, he was doomed to wander for many, many years in search of his home, lost and yearning for his wife and son. This is the story of his adventures and how he finally had to learn humility. I want to read it to you.”

  “That’s sad that he had to stay away for so long,” he said, then brightened. “Did he kill any dragons?”