So Speaks the Heart (8 page)

T
he storm had blown south without troubling them, and fair weather followed the barge all the next day. That day they came to the seat of the Count of Tournaine. Brigitte wished she could visit the monastery of St. Michel there, but their barge stopped only long enough to unload passengers and take on two new ones before they were on their way again.

The two newcomers were tall, rough looking Saxons. The Saxon dukes had routed the Eastern kingdom from the Franks, and they now ruled Germany under Otto, a fact that did not please the French. These two had dark, weathered complexions and long, unruly hair the color of dried autumn grass. They wore tunics of thick fur, making them bearlike and menacing. They were armed.

The Saxons kept to themselves, but when their eyes rested on Brigitte with unmistakable interest, she grew uneasy and moved closer to Rowland. He did not look down at her, even when her arm accidentally brushed his. For several days he had seemed to avoid her gaze, and she wondered why.

Late the next afternoon, their sixth day of traveling, they passed the junction where the Maine River joined the Loire, and it was here that Rowland had
them put ashore. Brigitte was reluctant to again take her uncomfortable seat on the rear of his horse, but, when she asked if she might walk awhile, she was denied her request. Rowland was determined to cover as much distance as possible before nightfall.

Nightfall came quickly, and they stopped on the left bank of the Maine River, in a small crop of trees. With the river only a few yards away, Brigitte thought of bathing. As soon as Rowland left her and went off to hunt, telling her to prepare a fire, she raced through the area gathering kindling and left it in a pile. Then, yanking a clean tunic from her sack, she ran down to the water's edge, grateful that she possessed some clean clothes.

Directly across the river were deserted marshes, desolate looking in the blue light of dusk. Upriver was a black square shape floating toward Brigitte, and she froze, then quickly scrambled back up the low bank when she realized the shape was a barge. She hid behind a tree, cursing the delay. Wolff came and squatted beside her, and she absently rubbed his ears as she impatiently watched the slow-moving vessel. Finally she looked down at him and frowned.

“You had best go find your own dinner, Wolff. The Norman accepts the meat you bring him, but I doubt he will return the favor and hunt for you.” The animal didn't move, so she pushed him gently. “Go on, I will be all right here as soon as that barge passes.”

She watched him trot away, then looked back at the river to see that the barge, which carried livestock, was only just then reaching her. It inched along at a maddeningly slow pace. Brigitte knew that she had to be finished and back at the camp before Rowland returned.

Finally the barge diminished in size, and Brigitte quickly stripped herself bare and ran into the water. She gasped at the iciness of it, but submerged herself anyway. Her teeth began to chatter, and she briskly rubbed herself all over while she kept a wary eye out for any more unwelcome vessels. The river was empty now, but it didn't much matter, for the sky had grown black and the moon had not yet risen. She doubted she would be seen even if a vessel passed right by her.

Brigitte finished as quickly as she could and gladly ran from the icy water. She began shaking all over and hastily donned her clean tunic without even drying, tying on the rope belt she had worn before. She was freezing now, and she realized she would probably catch cold for her few moments of luxury. Luxury? No, she would not call bathing a luxury.

Dirt clung to her wet feet so she decided not to put her sandles on yet. She carried them and her other tunic and walked carefully back up to the campsite, cursing herself for not lighting the fire before bathing. It was pitch dark, and she was very cold.

And then she saw the sparks and thought she would die of fright. She held her breath until she made out Rowland's familiar shape hunched down by the fire.

Her breath escaped in a long sigh of relief. “You frightened me terribly,” Brigitte said as she came forward and hastily dropped her things. “How long have you been there?”

The look he turned on her made her cringe. “Long enough to wonder why there was no fire here, and no foolhardy woman, either.”

“I did not think you would return this quickly.”

“You think I have eyes like your dog and can find game in the dark?” he replied caustically. “I waited too long to make camp. There will be no meat unless your Wolff has better luck. I see he is not here.”

“I sent him off after you left.”

Rowland stood up and faced her. “Come here, girl. Where have you been?”

Brigitte hesitated. She knew that tone. The set of his mouth was hard. And the hair that had grown on his chin recently was surprisingly dark and made him look all the meaner. His eyes were a burning reflection of the fire beside him, and when he reached out to her, Brigitte gasped and jumped back. His hand caught her arm and slid down it, coming away wet.

“So a swim was more important than starting a fire against this chill?”

He hadn't struck her, and she took courage from that. “I did not mean to inconvenience you.”

“Me?” he growled. “Look at yourself. Your arm is like ice, and your lips are blue.” He shoved her roughly toward the fire. “Warm yourself. If you get sick on me, by God…have you no sense, girl?”

She faced him, her back to the fire, and felt her lips trembling. “I wanted to get clean and I could not bathe completely with you near.”

“Why not?”

She looked down, glad that he could not see her blush. “It would not be proper.”

“Proper?” he yelled, then stopped, and his eyes traveled down her body slowly. Every line was visible with the soft wool clinging to her wet skin.

When Rowland's eyes finally met hers, his were
smoldering, but not with anger. It was a look she had not seen often in her sheltered life, but which she instinctively recognized. It terrified her.

She started to back away from him, mindless of the fire behind her. But he quickly grabbed one of her braids and yanked her roughly to him. She slammed into his rock-hard body, losing her breath. One of his arms closed around her waist, and she found herself unable to move.

With his free hand he tilted her head up, and his eyes moved slowly over her pale face, possessively covering every inch of it. “Perhaps I can warm you better than the fire, eh?” he said huskily, before his glittering dark blue eyes locked on hers again. He gazed at her hungrily and then said softly, “It will do you no good to fight me, if that is in your mind. You know that.”

But she had been so sure he didn't want her. What had made him change his mind?

He pulled her closer, then released her to reach for her belt. At that moment Brigitte bolted. If she could only get outside the firelight, she thought, the darkness beyond would help her to hide. But she didn't get far before his hands caught at her waist and jerked her to a halt. She was turned around and then lifted up into Rowland's arms. “Did you really think you could outrun me?”

His voice was not harsh. In fact, he seemed amused by her. Brigitte glared at him, and he laughed, apparently delighted.

“Where is the wench who fainted in fear the moment I laid her on my bed? I see that you have gained courage since that recent night.”

“You praise yourself too much,” she said tartly,
enraged by his amused attitude. “I fainted from the pain in my back, not from fear of you.”

“What was wrong with your back?”

“I was beaten—thanks to you,” she spat, her eyes damning him.

Rowland frowned and gently placed her on his blanket near the fire. Against her murmured protests, he removed her belt and tunic, then raised her clothing and touched the area that no longer bothered her. Then he pushed her back down on the blanket and looked at her sharply.

“Does it still pain you?”

“No, why?”

“You still have bruises. A beating that would leave such violent marks a week later must have been very bad. Of course, you might have expected it, having stolen from your mistress.”

“I
told
you I am no thief. What was done to me was done because I tried to run away—”

As soon as she said it, she realized that he wasn't listening.

His mouth came down on hers then, and her chest tightened. She knew she was utterly helpless against his strength, and she was terribly aware that her clothing had been pushed up beyond her breasts.

With both hands she gripped his thick hair and pulled his head back. “You will
not
have me!”

He sat up, moving her hands away easily.

“You think to make it difficult for me?” He grinned. Without waiting for an answer, he chuckled and threw off his heavy mail and tunic. She gasped and sat up, but he pushed her back down and held her there with one hand while his other worked at his trousers.

Brigitte closed her eyes, forcing herself not to cry. Rowland locked his hands on hers and held them by her shoulders. It had been so easy for him, so damnably easy. Her eyes flew open, sparkling with fury. “I hate you!”

He looked at her for a long moment, and she found herself staring boldly back. As she gazed into his deep blue eyes, Brigitte suddenly astonished herself with the understanding that she really cared for Rowland. She could not say that she loved him. That would be going too far. He was, after all, rude and abrupt and sometimes cruel in his remarks. But he was also strong and decisive and fair-minded, and she liked more about him than she had admitted to herself. Besides, she thought, he looks at me with tenderness and, yes, even with love. He pretends he is merely taking what is his, but there's more to this assault than that, much more.

Rowland was thinking how lovely she was, and how much he wanted her. He would never admit as much to Brigitte, but she was special, charming, and he took delight in her strong spirit. No, it would not do to tell her so, but Rowland was beginning to care for her deeply.

He kissed her lovely face, and then moved slowly down her neck to her small breasts. They looked as fragile as porcelain but felt like sun-ripened peaches, and he nuzzled against them for several moments. Then, suddenly impatient for her sweetness, he parted her thighs and entered her.

Rowland gasped. The maiden obstruction was still there! He was stunned, but he said nothing. Gently, he moved back and forth within her, feeling her relax after the first few thrusts. He was very careful to
take her gently, and rode her a long time before he shuddered and fell on top of her. Soon he withdrew and moved to lie beside her, gazing down into her face and smiling.

“Why are you smiling at me so smugly?” Brigitte demanded furiously. “You said you would not hurt me, but you did!”

“That was to be expected, since you were still a virgin.”

“But…” she began awkwardly, and he chuckled at her confusion.

“You cannot blame me for all the misunderstanding. Had you not fainted, you would have realized.”

“But you said you took me.”

“I passed out. A man does things when he is drunk that he does not always remember.” He shrugged. “I only assumed I took you. But I didn't.”

She lay there, her thoughts awhirl, and did not speak.

Rowland ran a finger along the curve of her chin in a soft caress. “What does it matter, little jewel? Then or now, you are still mine.”

“But Druoda would not have given me to you if she had known there was no rape.”

“But you would have been given to another, so where is the difference?”

Rowland did not give her a chance to answer. His lips closed over hers in a long, tender kiss. When he moved away again, he asked, “Did I hurt you very much?”

“No.”

She sounded almost bitter, and he shook his head. “I tried to leave you alone. I wanted you before this, but I did not touch you.”

“Then why now?” She seemed as much curious as condemning.

He raised a brow. “You have to ask, when you greet me with your clothes wet and clinging to you, with every curve plain to see? I am not made of stone, damosel.”

Brigitte sighed. She had been a fool to relax her guard against him.

“You said I did not appeal to you,” she said now. “Are all your statements lies?”

“You were not at your best then. I would have to be blind for you not to appeal to me. And I like knowing that no other man has had you.”

He was grinning now, and his arrogance infuriated her. “I wish there had been a hundred before you!”

He only laughed at that, and she pushed at him furiously. “Get away, you overgrown lout!”

He let her up, still chuckling, and watched her grab her tunic and walk stiffly toward the river.

“Where are you going?” he called, but she did not stop.

“To bathe again, now that you have soiled me!” she threw over her shoulder, and his laughter followed her all the way to the river.

B
rigitte lay stiffly by the fire, her hands and feet bound with ribbons from her sack, unable to sleep.

It was bad enough that Rowland of Montville had taken her and then gloated about it. He had been so sure of himself, so pleased with himself, and she began to hate him for it. So when he bedded down and fell asleep almost immediately, she began to think about running away. Yes, she had thought,
that
would show him just how little she cared about Rowland of Montville.

With the moon not yet high, she edged away from Rowland, grabbed her sack, and, waking Wolff to follow, moved quietly away from the campsite. As soon as the fire was a good distance behind her, she stopped long enough to put on her sandals, then began to run.

The sound of her own movement was all Brigitte heard, so she was completely unaware that Rowland had given chase. When his hand reached out and grabbed her arm, she screamed in terror. He dragged her back to camp.

He stood looking down at her, his body rigid with anger and his eyes malevolent. “You can consider yourself fortunate that I neglected to warn you
against running away. But I warn you now. If you ever try it again, your back will feel the lash, once for each hour it takes me to find you.”

Brigitte felt her flesh crawl, and her back seemed to feel the lash even now. “Then I must be sure you never find me,” she whispered so quietly that he could not hear.

Rowland scowled. “I would know what you just said, wench, and the truth!”

Her chin came up a little, and the lie came easily to her. “I said, what if you do not find me?”

“I will find you. I gave my word that you would never escape me, and my word is my life. And if you are foolish enough to try again, wench, let me tell you this. You will not get a beating like the one that left only bruises. My lash draws blood. What marks I give you, you will keep with you always to remind you. You
will
obey me.”

Then he had fetched the ribbon and bound her hands and feet, joking grimly, “So I can sleep in peace.”

It was a short while later when Brigitte heard movement just outside their camp, and then Wolff's sudden loud barking.

What happened next, Brigitte saw in a blur. Rowland rose quickly, his sword gripped in his hand. But there were two men, and he could face only one at a time. The other struck at Rowland's head from behind, using an ax. Brigitte watched in horror as Rowland crumbled to the ground.

Brigitte screamed, and Wolff attacked the man who had felled Rowland. She had no time to watch though, for the other man ran to her and knelt down beside her.

“Make haste killing the beast,” he called over his shoulder. “And then you will have your reward.”

Brigitte stared at his grinning face. These were the Saxons from the barge! But they had not left the river when she and Rowland had. How had they come to be here?

“Why did the knight bind you?” the Saxon asked as he cut the ribbons at her hands and feet. “Did he steal you from your master?”

Brigitte was too terrified to say anything, but he did not wait for her answer. “No matter. You are worth leaving our course and killing a man for. Aye, you are well worth it.”

She could hardly hear him over Wolff's vicious growls as he attacked the other Saxon, but she understood well enough. They had followed and attacked Rowland in order to steal her. She would go from a Norman's hell to a Saxon's hell.

Brigitte screamed again as the Saxon moved his dagger to the neck of her tunic, meaning to bare his prize. But in the next instant he disappeared, thrown many feet as Wolff charged him. The man did not stand again. Brigitte turned away, unable to watch as her beloved pet reverted to the instincts of his forebears and ripped the Saxon apart. Brigitte was reminded of the baiting of the dog and wolf at Lord Wilhelm's, and she shuddered at the resemblance her pet bore to the wild wolf of the forest. When Wolff was finished, the man was a gory mess, as Lord Wilhelm's tame house dog had been. Both Saxons were hideously dead. The other man's neck and stomach had been ripped open.

When it was quiet again and Brigitte looked around the camp, her stomach heaved and she could
not stop the violent spasms. Wolff came and stood by her side, but seeing him covered with the blood of his victims made her even sicker.

Brigitte had never seen a man killed before, yet here she was alone in the forest with three dead men. Three? Tearing away the remnants of ribbons at her hands and feet, she ran to where Rowland lay by the fire. She could see no blood on him, but he was terribly still.

She was free, she realized, free! She could make her way to King Lothair! Rowland was dead! And then the enormity of it struck her. He was really dead. Did she feel anything other than relief?

“I cannot stay here,” she told herself aloud.

She stood up and touched Wolff's head to reassure him, but her fingers drew back, smeared with blood. She quickly rubbed them in the dirt and then pointed toward the river.

“Go on, Wolff, and wash. Go swim.” He stayed where he was until she stamped her foot angrily. “Do as I say. I will gather my things, and we will leave as soon as you are clean.”

He trotted off then, but Brigitte did not move to gather her things. She stood where she was, wrapping her arms about herself and staring at Rowland. The wind rustled the trees, and she felt the cold, but she did not stoop to pick up her mantle. She looked down at the blanket where she had lain with Rowland.

She was shivering when Wolff returned to the camp, but she had not moved. Wolff was dripping wet, but clean, and she smiled weakly at him and called him to her. She picked up the blanket to dry him, but first he shook himself, scattering water all
over her and everything else. That was when she heard the moan.

Brigitte froze. One of the men was still alive. But which one? Ah, she didn't want to know, for there was not one of them she wanted to face again.

“Wolff, come! We must go quickly.”

She threw the blanket over him, rubbed him only a few quick strokes, and then grabbed her mantle and her sack. She ran to Rowland's horse, but stopped as she reached the stallion. The size of the animal intimidated her, especially without the huge knight standing beside it. And how was she going to mount him without that knight's helping hand?

After many tries she managed to pull herself up into the hard saddle, breathing heavily with the effort, and she looked down for Wolff. But he was still by the camp fire, sniffing Rowland's body. She called him, and then again, sharply, but the dog sat down by the Norman and wouldn't move.

Brigitte sighed in exasperation. So it was
him
. He was the one still alive. She should have known the arrogant bastard was too tough to die that easily. She slid off the horse and moved slowly toward the fire. Giving Wolff a withering look, she bent down to examine Rowland.

There was a large lump on the back of his head. The Saxon's weapon must have turned when he struck, she thought, and only the flat side of the ax hit the mark. As she was considering this, she saw Rowland breathe. He would awake with a sore head, but he was indeed alive.

Brigitte looked at Wolff, who was lying down beside the Norman. She glared at him. “You do not
expect me to stay here and help him, do you? I must get away.”

Brigitte stood up, but the dog did not rise with her. “I am leaving,” she told him flatly. “If I stay here, this man will enslave me. Is that what you want? You want me to suffer at his hands?”

Still the beast did not rise to join her. Brigitte lost her temper and shouted, “I tell you he does not need our help! Now come!”

She began to walk away, but glanced over her shoulder to see if Wolff was following. But he had moved closer to the Norman and lay with his head resting by Rowland's side.

“Damn your hide, stay with him then!” Brigitte cried. “But if you think he will treat you better than I do, you are very much mistaken. You will get his boot for your efforts to please him, for that is the kind of man he is.”

She stalked away, determined not to look back. But before she reached the stallion, Wolff suddenly let out the most forlorn howl she had ever heard. It echoed through the forest. She turned back to find him nudging the Norman's side as though trying to turn him over.

“Leave him be, Wolff!” she gasped, afraid Rowland would awaken before she could leave.

She ran back to pull the dog away, and then she saw the puddle of blood seeping out from under the man. He was badly wounded. But how? With great effort, Brigitte managed to turn him over. Then she saw the sword Rowland had dropped before falling. The tip of it had landed on a large stone, pointed just right to slide into Rowland's side when he fell on it.

“It would serve him right to die by his own weapon,” Brigitte said coldly.

She could not see how bad the wound was, but there was a great deal of blood on the ground and more soaking his tunic. She turned to Wolff, who was staring at her expectantly, and said stubbornly, “I am not bound to help him after what he has done to me. And do not look at me with those sad eyes, Wolff. If I bind his wound he may awaken, and I will lose my chance to escape. And besides, we do not know for certain that he will die if I do not help him.”

Brigitte stopped and looked once more at the unconscious knight. And then her shoulders heaved as she said, “Listen to me. I sound as mean and cold-hearted as he is. I cannot leave a man to die, not even this one.”

“I am glad to hear that.”

Brigitte gasped as Rowland's dark eyes opened and locked hers. “How long have you been conscious?” she blurted.

“Since you turned me over so ungently,” he grunted. “I feel a terrible stabbing in my head.”

“Look to your side, Norman, for you are bleeding like a stuck pig,” she said bluntly.

Rowland sat up slowly, but he fell back on one elbow, bringing his other hand to his head. “God, my skull is splitting in two.” And then he looked at her sharply. “Did you do this to me?”

“If it is hurting you, then I wish I had,” she said. “But I did not. A man you did not see struck you from behind.”

“I would more easily believe you did it,” he said skeptically.

“Then look around you. There are two bodies ready to be buried.”

Rowland looked, stunned, and then his eyes fell on Wolff lying beside him. “It seems I underestimated you, dog.”

“Remember that the next time you think about attacking me,” Brigitte warned him. “If even I had known just how formidable Wolff is, you would have felt his teeth long ago, as those two Saxons did.”

“Saxons?”

“They're the two who traveled with us on the river.

Rowland scowled. “They must have been thieves. Why else would they follow us?”

“Oh, yes, they were thieves,” she returned bitterly. “But it was me they meant to steal.”

“Be damned!” Rowland growled. “I knew you would cause me trouble with that winsome face of yours. I suppose you encouraged those Saxons on the barge?”

“How dare you!” She caught her breath sharply. “I cannot help the way I look, but I tempt no man intentionally. I want no man lusting after me. What you did to me was as vile as I always expected it to be.”

“Enough!”

“No, it's not enough,” she stormed, wanting to wound him further. “You call yourself my lord, but you did not protect me from those brigands as a lord is bound to protect his serf. I would say you have lost your right to my services, since you did not fulfill your obligations to me.”

“Were you hurt?” he demanded.

“Well…no, but no thanks to you.”

“If no harm has been done, then I will hear no more talk of rights and obligations. And I did make
an effort to protect you. I have wounds to show for it.”

Brigitte felt a twinge of remorse for provoking him and was silent.

“I believe you said you would bind my wound?” he reminded her.

“I will do so as long as you understand one thing— I do not feel bound to do it because you call yourself my lord.”

“Then do it as a Christian,” he said tiredly, his eyes closing wearily. “Get it done.”

She turned and went to his horse to rummage through his packs for something to use as a bandage. But Rowland stopped her before she opened them.

“You will find no cloth there.”

She faced him. “An old shirt will do.”

“The strips from a shirt will not be long enough. You will have to find something in your clothes.”

“Mine!” she gasped, coming back to stand over him. “I do not have so many clothes with me that I can spare any for you. I will use one of the blankets.”

“We will need the blankets, for the farther north we go, the colder it will get,” Rowland told her flatly.

She impatiently grabbed her sack of possessions and withdrew her most worn shift, a yellow linen one, consoling herself with the knowledge that it would not keep her warm in the north anyway. Nor would the blue linen she had brought. That left her only two woolen tunics.

When Brigitte turned back to Rowland, she found he had opened his belt and was trying to remove his tunic. She hesitated a moment, watching his great effort, then pushed his hands away and pulled the garment over his head. He was pale and weak, but
he watched her carefully as she cleaned his wound and then bound him tightly with the strips of linen. When she was finished, she helped him into a clean garment, then covered him with the blanket and moved to build up the fire.

“Will you wash the blood from my shirt, damosel?” Rowland asked.

Brigitte nodded quickly, because he asked and did not demand it. She picked up the tunic and went down to the river. When she returned to camp, Brigitte laid Rowland's shirt over a tree limb to dry, then approached him to see if he was asleep.

“Does the lump on your head bother you?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he replied with a grimace. “What did he hit me with?”