Jacqueline Navin - The Viking's Heart

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.”