Heart's War (Heart and Soul) (15 page)

The surprised murmurs grew in strength
, but the people obeyed and filed out. Brynmor looked to one of his guardsmen and tilted his head. “Wait at the door,” he whispered. The guardsman nodded and they too left.

Finally Brynmor stood with only Llywelyn and the man’s steward.

“When?” Llywelyn asked wearily.

Brynmor studied him a moment,
he had never seen Llywelyn in such a state. Always he commanded an air of respect, but the powerful ruler he had come to know was gone.

“
A day. I nearly killed men and horses getting here.”

Llywelyn nodded. “Forgive me
, Brynmor,” he whispered. “My wife went into labor last night. It was quite difficult for her and she is not doing well.”

“And the child?” he asked softly.

“She lives, but it is feared her mother will not.”

Brynmor’s heart lunged in his chest and the answer suddenly came to him.
“Your Highness, order Dafydd to deliver Rose forthwith. She is a healer.”

Llywelyn’s head came up. “A healer?”

“Aye. My adopted sister—the women of her line have been healers for generations. Brother Cedric of Shrewsbury Abbey guided her knowledge after her mother’s death.”

“Shrewsbury?”

“All know the abbey’s reputation for their gardens, their knowledge of healing and herbs. Gwen learned then passed this knowledge to Rose. With the wounded from this war lining my great hall, I have witnessed firsthand Rose’s ability to save lives. Send for her.” Brynmor held his breath, praying Llywelyn would trust him this once.

Llywelyn looked to his steward and gave him a curt nod. Brynmor released his breath as the man hurried away.

****

Once again in the wagon, Rose was certain she was going to be covered with bruises as it jolted over the trail. It was pitch
-black and she had no idea where they were going.

Was Brynmor searching for her? Rose remembered that her captors had moved her constantly when she was a child. Her father had searched and
grown increasingly closer. Her captors had struggled to stay one step ahead of him. Brynmor would no doubt be the same way. Her father had come so close to finding her that her captors had been forced to threaten her life in order to get him to stop searching. Would the same happen again? Would they force Brynmor to stop by threatening her life?

Rose clenched her fists and swallowed hard. She was no longer a helpless child. As soon as the opportunity presented itself, she would escape.

But as the wagon continued, she realized that opportunity would not come for a long while. They reached a smoother part of the trail and Rose managed to doze off but awoke when the wagon came to an abrupt halt. She peeked out of the archer opening in the front but could see only armored men on horseback, carrying torches, with Owain leading them. Once again the sky glowed a faint pink as dawn approached.

But this time
, the armored men she saw were not only Owain’s. A large group mounted on horses stood before him, blocking the trail. They spoke in Welsh and Rose could not understand them. Yet if Owain’s tone and gestures were any indication, he was displeased.

Rose bit her lip. What did this mean?

The man Owain spoke to pointed to his right.

Finally Owain cursed in English. “
Turn west,” he snapped to his men.

Once again the lurch threw her to the floor as the wagon started forward and made a sharp left.

“Bloody hell, but I’m tired of this,” Rose muttered.

The journey was the most uncomfortable Rose had ever endured. Locked in the wagon, she could see nothing. Only because of the archer openings did she know if it was day or night. Once again it grew dar
k and the wagon stopped. A key turned in the lock and Owain flung open the door.

“Come here,” he growled and seized her arm.

Rose did not try to lunge for freedom; her legs were too cramped to be useful. She hauled herself backward but Owain simply jerked her out of the wagon. Her feet hit the ground but her legs refused to support her. The only thing keeping her from falling into the dirt were his fingers digging into her arm.

H
er thoughts spun as Owain dragged her forward. Where was she? In the dark she could see little of the keep. Owain’s stride didn’t hesitate, but she continued to try to jerk away from him. His threats resounded in her head. Where was he taking her? What was he going to do? She dug her heels into the unyielding stone. Owain ignored her and pulled her along as if she were nothing more than a waif.

He entered the keep and ascended the stairs.
His threats kept sounding in her mind. Terror clawed at her and she fought harder. “Release me!”

They reached the top of the stairs
where a single guttering torch cast a weak light. “Cease!” Owain snapped and jerked her toward him. He lifted his free hand to strike her.

Rose did not flinch but braced herself for the blow.

A giant shadow moved behind him. She heard the scrape of steel. A large dagger appeared at Owain’s throat.

“
Harm her and die,” a deep voice rumbled through the darkness.

He
r heart hesitated in her chest.

The shadow stepped forward again but the gleaming steel blade did not waver. The light from the torch fell
on long, shining black hair. For a moment, the graceful planes of his handsome face possessed her attention. His blue-green eyes glittered like dark emeralds in the weak light and her heart soared.

“Brynmor,” she whispered.

Owain’s eyes widened in terror. Rose knew in that instant that despite his bravado, Owain had absolutely no desire to face Brynmor in a fair fight.

“Enough!” a voice barked.

Rose tore her gaze away and saw another man striding toward them.

“Owain, let her go. Wait for me in the great hall
. I will deal with you later.”

Owain finally released her arm.

Brynmor curled his lip but lowered his dagger.

Owain staggered back then
turned and lunged for the stairs, disappearing into the darkness.

Before Rose could catch her rattling breath, Brynmor’s arms wrapped around her and he hauled her to his chest.
“Thank God, ye are safe,” he whispered.

Rose clung to him, wanting to sob her relief.
A massive wall of power surrounded her. His arms held her tightly but with infinite gentleness. She felt him press his lips against the top of her head. “Praise the saints,” he murmured.

Despite her best efforts she felt herself shaking violently. “Please,
Brynmor, take me home.”

Brynmor backed away slightly. His fingers caressed her cheek, sliding along her jaw to her chin where he gently tugged until she looked up at him. “
On my soul, little one, I will take you home, but I’m afraid not quite yet,” he said softly.

Confusion
swirled through her and she tried to make sense of his words.

“My lady,” the man said as he stopped before
them, “I pray for your forgiveness. I had no idea such a scheme had been plotted against you.”

She looked at the man in confusion, instinctively moving closer to Brynmor.

His arm slid around her shoulders.
“Rose,” he said, his voice still soft, still wonderfully soothing. “This is Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, Prince of Wales.”

Her eyes widened and she tried to bob a quick curtsy, made impossible because of Brynmor’s arm locked around her shoulders. “Y-
Your Highness.”

“Lady Rose of Montgomery,” Llywelyn said
, “worry not over formality. I fear I must ask a boon of you.”

She looked up at Bryn
mor, wishing her mind would start functioning again.

“His wife, Eleanor, needs your help.”

She remembered learning of Llywelyn’s wife and also hearing that the woman was close to giving birth. Rose studied the man before her, seeing the grief and fear in his eyes. It was also rumored that theirs was a genuine love match, and from what she saw in that moment, she believed it. Rose sucked in her breath as the pieces fell into place. “The child?”

“The baby survives,” Llywelyn said. “My wife, however, has taken fever.”

Rose swallowed hard. The same had happened to her own mother, who was also named Eleanor. She pushed down her emotion. “Brynmor, my medicants are at Powys.”

“We should have everything you need,” Llywelyn said. “Please
, my lady. I know my brother has done nothing to endear us to you.”

Rose straightened her spine. “Take me to her.”

Llywelyn sighed in relief and turned. “Follow me.”

She glanced up at Brynmor and saw his lips lift ever so slightly. His arm remained firmly around her shoulders as he guided her after Llywelyn.

Brynmor took a deep breath, bidding his heart to return to its normal pace, but it thundered against his ribs as he followed Llywelyn into Eleanor’s room. He finally convinced his arm to release Rose and stepped back out of the way. He folded his arms across his chest and stood in the corner, watching Rose work. She never ceased to amaze him. She
spoke softly to Eleanor and asked a few questions, smiling reassuringly. She then moved to the medicants on the table, sorting through them.

Llywelyn took his wife’s hand and pulled it to his lips as he sat beside her, his grief and worry agonizingly obvious. Eleanor, her face ashen
, managed to smile weakly at him. Rose found the herbals she needed, measuring them into a mortar and lifting the pestle.

“Is there anything you need, Rose?” Brynmor asked softly.

“Place an iron in the embers,” she said nodding toward the fireplace. “I need to heat it to make some mulled wine. I fear this concoction will not taste very well.”

Brynmor did as she asked.
As he returned to his place, he watched Rose closely. She worked with an urgency he had not often seen, but he recognized it instantly. She fought to measure more herbals but her hands shook. Brynmor quickly stepped forward, his chest pressed against her back, his hands covering hers, stopping their tremor.

“Rose?” he whispered, his lips brushing her ear.

To his dismay, she lowered her head, shaking even harder. “Forgive me.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I . . . I . . .” Her weight shifted and she leaned back against him.

Brynmor’s worry grew. “Rose, you weren’t hurt
, were you?”

“Nay, but
 . . .” A shudder passed through her.

Brynmor frowned at her unusual behavior. If she was not hurt
 . . . wait a moment . . . “Did Owain threaten you?”

She looked up, her eyes liquid with unshed tears.
“He threatened you.”

His throat tightened and he longed to kiss her soft lips.
“Rose, ’tis all right.” He lightly ran his hands up her arms, but as his left hand brushed over her arm, just below her shoulder, she flinched, almost spilling the mortar. Worry cut through him and he gently gripped her wrist, pushing up the sleeve of her chemise. Then he spotted the ugly purple bruises on her arm, marks that could only be made from a man’s fingers clamping down on her. He clearly remembered seeing the crushing grip Owain had on her arm when he dragged her up the stairs.

Rage shot through him, tinting his vision red
. “I’ll kill him,” he growled and took a step back.

“Brynmor, nay,” she said firmly and turned to face him. “I am fine.”

“He did hurt you.” Brynmor could not find the words to describe the fury coursing through him at that moment. That Owain would treat a woman with such disregard provoked Brynmor, but knowing that Owain could have done far worse and Brynmor would have been helpless to stop it roused a beast within him.

“Brynmor, please,” she whispered harshly.

“What’s wrong?” Llywelyn asked.

Brynmor, his hand still gripping Rose’s wrist, turned enough for Llywelyn to see her arm.

“I would have words with your man,” Brynmor growled.

Llywelyn’s gaze turned flinty as he spotted the mark. “I will deal with him, Powys
. You have my word on that.”

Brynmor glared at him, only partially mollified.

“Bryn,” Rose said, gently disengaging her hand then moving it to caress his cheek.

Brynmor found his rage fading and clo
sed his eyes for a brief moment, savoring the softness of her touch and thanking the saints he was able to experience it again.

“I need your help.”

He opened his eyes again and nodded, but caught Llywelyn watching him like a hawk.

Rose mixed the herbals into
the mulled wine and gave it to Eleanor. She drank it without complaint, although she wrinkled her nose in such a fashion that it caused Llywelyn to smile. Rose then called for a servant to bring fresh linens and a bucket of cold water. Brynmor helped her douse the linens and wring the extra water from them.

“I fear this will be uncomfortable,” Rose told Eleanor. “But it is ne
cessary.”

Llywelyn’s face turned gray as he watched his wife shiver violently under the damp cloth.

“Easy,” Brynmor said, gripping Llywelyn’s shoulder. “I have seen her methods work. The damp linens and the willow bark will bring Eleanor’s fever down.”

“Willow
bark?”

Brynmor felt his lips
curve. “I have learned much from my betrothed by simply helping her.”

Llywelyn nodded once, studying him intently. “A day ago I counted you as an enemy, Powys.”

Brynmor weighed his words carefully. “I have never been your enemy, Your Highness.”

“Now your betrothed fights to save my wife. You offer kindness and encouragement.”

“I know how I would feel if it were me.” He paused, his gaze falling on Rose as she spoke quietly with Eleanor.

Llywelyn took a breath to speak but stopped as Rose approached. “Your
Highness,” she whispered. “She wants to see her child.”

“But the other healer said it would vex her too greatly.”

“She wants to see her child. Let her hold the babe.”

Llywelyn swallowed hard but nodded and sent a servant to fetch the wet
nurse.

Rose guide
d Brynmor out of the room as Llywelyn’s steward escorted the wet nurse, who brought the babe to them.

“Rose?” Brynmor asked. He took her hand and tugged her to a bench in the corridor. His arms wrapped around her and he pulled her close.

“Bryn . . . there is little more I can do,” she said, her voice thick. “They summoned me too late. The fever is too high and has lasted for too long.”

Brynmor’s gut clenched. “You mean
 . . . ?”

“
I’ve never seen anyone survive this,” Rose said miserably. “I’ve done all I can.”

Brynmor squeezed his eyes closed and held Rose as tightly as he dared.
After a bit, he moved so he could lean back against the corner of the bench. Rose rested her head against his chest and he wrapped his cloak around her. He knew she was exhausted and needed to rest as the opportunity presented itself. He worried about Llywelyn, not only because of what the man was suffering through, but that he might blame Rose for failing to save his beloved wife.

The night aged and the soft sound of weeping reached him. He sat up, listening intently. “Rose,” he murmured.

She lifted her head and blinked her eyes in confusion. Then she too heard the sound and her face paled. “Oh nay,” she whispered.

The door opened and the wet
nurse, crying terribly as she held the infant, hurried out of the room. Llywelyn’s steward also emerged. He glanced at Brynmor, his eyes red-rimmed and his face pale, but said nothing and also vanished down the corridor.

Brynmor stood, pulling Rose with him, and watched the door. Finally, Llywelyn stepped into view. The grief Brynmor saw in his eyes twisted his heart.

“She is gone,” Llywelyn whispered, his voice cracking.

Rose choked on a sob and covered her face with her hands.

Brynmor instinctively pulled her closer, but his gaze did not leave Llywelyn’s. “My condolences, Your Highness.”

Rose
lifted her head and brushed the tears from her cheeks. “I . . . I will help tend to her body, Your Highness.”

Llywelyn simply stood there, appearing as if the weight of his grief would drive him into the floor. But he lifted his gaze and stared at Brynmor’s hand holding tightly to Rose’s shoulder. “You spoke truly about your betrothed,” he whispered.

Brynmor said nothing, only giving him a curt nod.

Rose looked at him in confusion and Brynmor knew it was because he had claimed her as his betrothed to Llywelyn but not to Owain.

“My lady,” Llywelyn said, “I thank you for your efforts, but you have been through an ordeal yourself. Take her home, Powys.” He turned and reentered Eleanor’s sick room, closing the door behind him.

Brynmor saw Llywelyn’s steward standing in the corridor. The man motioned to him to follow.

The steward fell in stride with him. “I had your mounts prepared. Your guardsmen await you in the bailey. You will have safe passage out.”

Brynmor nodded and lengthened
his stride. Two of Llywelyn’s personal guard stepped to flank them. Brynmor guided Rose down the stairs of the keep and his foot hit the dirt of the bailey, his horse and men only three strides away.

“What is the meaning of this?
” a voice barked from behind him.

Brynmor pushed Rose behind him as he spun, his sword in hand. His men drew their weapons and surrounded him and Rose. He felt her place her hand in the middle of his back so he knew where she stood.

Owain halted at the top of the stairs, his weapon also in hand and his men directly behind him.

“Cease!” the steward snapped.
More of Llywelyn’s soldiers stepped forward. “The prince has granted them leave.”

“I have my orders!” Owain said, his face florid. He took several steps down the stairs, his men following
, but stopped when the steward held up Dafydd’s writ ordering Rose’s arrest.

“His
Highness has countermanded those orders.” With great deliberation, the steward ripped the scroll in half.

Owain stared at the man, his eyes wide. Then he looked at Brynmor, fury igniting in his eyes. “I am not done with you, farmer.”

Brynmor straightened and returned his sword to its scabbard. “You have been collared and leashed, Owain. Run back to Dafydd like the cur you are.”

Owain lunged down the stairs
, but one of Llywelyn’s men stopped his advance. “Return to the great hall,” the man snapped. “All of you.”

Owain glared at him but seemed to think better of his stance and returned up the stairs, he and his men disappearing into the keep.

The steward sighed heavily and looked at Brynmor. “Go home, Powys. The prince has ordered Owain remain here for a time. You will not be harassed on your journey.”

Brynmor quickly guided Rose to his horse.
He mounted and lifted Rose into his arms. She sat before him, across the saddlebow. Brynmor gritted his teeth against the emotions assailing him in that moment. Their mounts left the gates at a brisk walk, and as soon as Brynmor cleared them, he felt the tension that had been coiling through him fade.

He wrapped t
he folds of his cloak around Rose and she settled her head against his chest. He could not resist lifting his cloak slightly and shielding her as he lowered his head. His lips touched hers, and he reveled in their soft warmth. Her arms tightened around his waist as she returned his kiss. Brynmor nearly lost himself in the sensations rioting through him, she opened her mouth and he deepened his kiss, his tongue tangling with hers.

Joy ignited within him. She was safe in his arms
, and by the Rood he would never let her go again.

He ended the kiss, holding her tightly. Despite his joy, his heart remained heavy. He remembered his thoughts
—that the blessings of family could be tenuous in this harsh land. He had experienced firsthand the desolation of losing a loved one to death and had just witnessed the same grief in another man’s eyes. For a moment, a freeman farmer and a prince of a nation had stood on equal ground in the face of devastating loss. Sweet Mary have mercy, what if it had been Rose? What if instead of holding her now, he was the one grieving over her body? Brynmor shivered and forced the terrifying thoughts away.

Rose
burrowed even closer and clung to him as if he were her anchor.

****

Brynmor was never more grateful to see his own gates as they approached. The sentries cried jubilantly from the walls.

“Powys returns!”

“Rose,” he said gently. She had slept in his arms most of the journey home. She stirred under his cloak. “We are home, little one.”

She moved his cloak aside and peeked through the folds. Her smile was as bright as a new dawn
, and he could not help but answer it with one of his own.

The gates opened and their horses cantered into the bailey.

Brynmor spotted Montgomery emerging from the keep with Gwen right behind him. Montgomery’s gaze locked on Rose and he sprinted down the stairs. Brynmor stopped his horse and helped her dismount. His smile grew as Montgomery swept his daughter into his arms and lifted her from her feet.

Rose laughed. “Papa, please.”

“Forgive me, Rose,” he said, returning her to her feet and grinning broadly.

Rose then embraced Gwen.

Brynmor dismounted but was stunned when Montgomery gripped his forearm and pulled him into a rough embrace. Montgomery quickly stepped back but the joy in his amber eyes did not dim. “Again I owe you a debt I cannot repay. Thank you, Brynmor.”