The Viking's Heart. Jacqueline Navin

placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Of course ’tis so, child.”

      It was an invitation, such a gentle segue for Rosamund to confide in her. And strangely, Rosamund found she wanted to.

      “I was only twelve when she died. The night it happened, she came into my room and sat by my bed. I was sleepy, not yet dreaming but not awake, either. I felt her hand on my brow, brushing away my hair as she often did. Her touch was always cool and soothing. She wished me pleasant dreams, just as she did every night. She said good-night.” And something else. Something she couldn’t quite remember; didn’t want to remember. It was always there in her dreams, the unknown…the threat of what she might recall if she thought long enough….

      “Rosamund, dear, do not speak of it if it troubles you.”

      “Nay, ’tis not difficult.”

      “Of course it is. But sometimes memories are like poisons in an old injury. They fester if we don’t lance the wound. As painful as that is, it is the only way we can heal it.”

      Yes. It was like that. Poison inside, eating at her.

      “She died from a fall from the ramparts. She must have gone up to gaze at the night sky. She sometimes did that, when her mind was restless. Somehow, she leaned too far out and fell.” Or was pushed. Rosamund studied her hands, clasped together. The knuckles were white. “I do not suppose I will ever know what happened.”

      Liar.

      “Poor child.” Veronica leaned forward and clasped Rosamund’s locked hands in hers, stroking them until the tension eased.

      Rosamund bowed her head, fighting the tide of emotion. Her eyes were squeezed tight. Wetness spiked her lashes, making them hot against her cheeks. She could cry right now, if she would let herself. She could weep for ages.

      She pulled her hands away with a deep, halting breath. “Thank you, my lady. You are kind to indulge me.”

      Veronica smiled, reaching out to touch her fingers to Rosamund’s forehead, smoothing aside a twisted tendril. “You may find there are more words after these have settled. When they come, seek me out, child. Sit at my knee and I shall listen.”

      Rosamund only nodded. Leanna toppled another tower and the two of them turned their attention back to the pretty babe.

      Lucien sat by the corner hearth in the hall, clutching a pewter cup in both his hands. Agravar sat on a stool, hunching toward the cold grate, his elbows on his knees, his hands dangling limp.

      “You look like hell,” Lucien said, and drank. “Did the trio of trollops finally get their hands on you?”

      “Who? Oh, those three. God, is there no way you can banish them or something?”

      “Can’t do it. They’ve committed no crime. We’ve had common law in England for two kings now.” He took another drink.

      “Is Alayna in bad spirits?”

      “She’s…she’s weeping. I have no idea why. I do not think she has any idea why. I think…” He stopped, clenching his teeth until the tick showed in his temple. His next words were whispered. “Something is wrong, Agravar. She was never like this before. Something ails her and it goes beyond the babe inside her.”

      “The barber and the midwife have both pronounced her well, you told me so yourself.”

      “’Tis not right. I feel it.”

      “You are sounding like a mystic, Lucien. Next I will see you burning tallow and transmuting into ecstasy.”

      “You may yet, old friend. If I thought it would save her, I would paint myself red and dance naked upon the drawbridge.”

      “No need for that yet, I trust. The harvest is nigh, and with your villeins made ill after such a visual treat as that, the food will spoil in the fields.”

      It was a weak effort, but it got a ghost of a smile, anyway. “So I have an excuse for my wretched state. What of you? Have there been breaches over the curtain wall by Vandals that I am not aware of?”

      “No Vandals.” Agravar paused. But breaches had been made.

      “How is that little ninny, my wife’s cousin? Lord, the chit wears on my nerves. She is always looking at me as if I am a wolf about to devour her.” He held up a staying hand. “And none of your comments about my looks—I have taken a care to be very kind to her.” Glowering into his cup, he added, “I fear she is simple. And I am beginning to think it runs in the family.”

      “Alayna’s maladies shall pass when the babe is safely birthed.”

      “Agravar, the first time someone tried to slay me, I was sixteen years old. They have been trying ever since—men twice my size and expertly skilled in battle. And still I sit here today. However, I do not know that I will survive this.” He gave his friend a baleful glance. “Be grateful you have no woman to twist you up in knots, my friend. Aye, you are wise. Away with your conscience—tumble the three wenches who pant after you and be done with them. Then drink with your comrades at arms and be glad you own your own heart. ’Tis safest, I think, than to live in this wretched fear.”

      Agravar said nothing. He had lived a lifetime of brutal neglect and abuse, yet never had he heard words more cruel. Rising, he left Lucien to his drink and his self-pity and went to fetch himself a serving of the former to wash away the sour taste of the latter.