So Speaks the Heart (9 page)

“An ax,” she replied. “You are lucky. The blade was turned away.”

“Humph,” he grunted. “It feels embedded in my head now.”

“It would have been better for me if it were,” Brigitte thought, then blushed at her own cruelty.

T
he smell of roasting meat woke Brigitte. A quick glance about the camp showed her that the dead Saxons had been moved away. The clearing was as it had been. Rowland squatted before the fire with Wolff beside him, and she glared at them both.

“My, you have been busy for a man sorely wounded,” she remarked caustically.

“Good morn, damosel.”

She ignored his greeting. “Pray, did your wound open?”

He chuckled. “No, the Hun did the work,” he said, nodding toward his horse.

“And the meat?”

“Your dog provided that.”

Brigitte turned a damning look on Wolff. “Traitor! Must you expend yourself to please
him!
”

“Do you always talk to animals?” Rowland asked her with a sidelong look.

“Only to that one,” she replied sourly. “Though it seems to do little good of late.”

“I hope you do not expect him to answer you.”

“Of course not,” she said huffily. “I am not addled, Rowland.”

He frowned. “I did not give you leave to address me that way.”

“I did not ask your leave.”

His brows narrowed. “You will address me properly as Seignior.”

“I will not. You are not my seignior,” Brigitte said firmly. “My father was indeed my seignior, and my brother after him. But now my lord is the Count of Berry. I will call him Seignior, but you are Rowland of Montville and no more. I will call you either Rowland or bastard Norman—it matters not which.”

Rowland stood up then and approached her, his eyes glinting.

“I warn you, wench—

“Wench!” Brigitte burst. “My name is Brigitte-do you hear?
Brigitte!
If you call me wench once more I will scream!”

Rowland's scowl vanished with his surprise at her outburst. “You have a devil in you this morning. What has come over you, girl?”

“You have!” she shouted, near tears. “You have no right being up and about when you were near death a few hours ago. You have the devil in you. You should be weak, but he gives you strength!”

“So that is it.” He laughed suddenly. “You still had plans to flee, thinking me too weak to stop you. Well, I am sorry to disappoint you, but I was taught from earliest youth to bear pain and bear it well.”

 

They came to Angers that morning after a few hours of slow progress. Rowland did not push the Hun as hard as he had. Rather than pay their respects to the Count of Anjou, Rowland stopped at the monastery there for provisions and to make arrange
ments for the two dead Saxons. Then they left the old city.

Brigitte was more than a little put out. “Why could we not stay at least one night? Surely you could use the rest. One more day would not matter.”

“I saw no need for it,” Rowland replied curtly.

They had both been silent on the way to Angers, but now Brigitte was ready to do battle again. “Why do you avoid towns? Each one we have come to, you have left as quickly as you could.”

He did not look back at her. “It's not wise to stay in a place you do not know.”

“Of course not. Better to sleep out in the open on the cold ground,” she said sarcastically.

“You nag like a wife,” Rowland said sharply. “Cease your prattling.”

Brigitte was stung, but hardly daunted. They passed vineyards on low lying hills outside Angers, and then entered a marsh. And the farther they rode from Angers, the more irritated Brigitte became. She would not have a warm bed this night, nor would there be company. She would never get any help this way.

“I cannot believe Angers is strange to you. Surely you must know someone there. It's not too late to go back.”

“I have no intention of going back, girl. And no, I know no one there.”

“But your home is not that far from here, is it?” she ventured.

“A few days more. But that is no reason why I should know people in Angers. I never spent time there. My father always kept me close to home. And when I left home, I went east.”

Brigitte giggled at that. “You were kept close to home? What noble's son is kept close to home? A lord's son is sent to another's court for his training. If you were not, then you must come from peasant stock.”

Rowland's back stiffened. “My father wished to train me himself,” he said icily. “And once we reach Montville, you will no doubt learn that I am a bastard. My mother was a serf, and I am my father's bastard.”

“Oh.” She could think of nothing to say.

“I admit it freely.”

“I might, too, if it were true in my case,” she said. “But I am no bastard.”

He stopped the Hun and then turned around to look at her. “Your tongue needs a rest, damosel,” he said matter-of-factly. “A little walking might help.”

And with that he lowered her to the soggy ground, ignoring her cry of rage. He urged his mount on, and Brigitte had no choice but to follow, Wolff trailing her.

R
owland halted on a hilltop. Below him was Montville, his home. Brigitte leaned to one side to get a better look at the place she would be living in for a while. It was white, snow thickly covering everything from the fortress on a raised mound to her left to the village alongside it and the pastures, orchard, farmland, and forest beyond.

The snow fell relentlessly, reminding Brigitte uncomfortably of the previous night when the first flakes descended, prompting Rowland to seek her warmth. She would have preferred freezing, but he would not let her, pulling her soft body against his, ignoring her protests. But he did not force himself on her. Whether because of his wound or because of Wolff's low growls she did not know. But he placed warm kisses on her neck until she wiggled away. He did not bother her after that, except to place a heavy hand on her hip and leave it there, as a mark of possession.

Brigitte tried to wipe the memory of last night away as she gazed down on Rowland's home. She thought instead of meeting his father and what she would say to that noble lord. Would he believe her if she told him who she was and what had happened
to her? Rowland started down the hill, and Brigitte felt the first twinges of fear. What if no one here believed her? What if she never left this place, but was forced to spend the rest of her life in service here?

A guard motioned them through the open gate, waving a greeting at Rowland. No one came out to greet them. The bailey was windblown and deserted. Not even a groom came out from the stable to take Rowland's horse.

“Is all well here?” Brigitte asked uneasily as Rowland dismounted just outside the stable and helped her down.

“Nothing seems amiss.”

“But why has no one come to greet you? The guards must have seen us coming and informed your father,” she asked as they left the stables and began walking toward the manor.

“Yes, I am sure he knows I am here.”

“And he does not come?” she asked, astonished.

He smiled tolerantly. “Only a fool would leave a warm fire on a day like this.”

“But not even a servant has come to tend you,” Brigitte persisted.

Rowland shrugged. “You will find Montville is not very hospitable, Brigitte. I do not expect it to be otherwise.”

“You said your father had many serfs.”

“He does, but they dance to Hedda's tune, and she no doubt sent them off with a hundred tasks when she heard of my approach. That lady goes to great effort to see that I am not made to feel welcome here. I did not think she had changed simply because I have been away these last six years.

“My stepmother is a vicious lady. I would advise you to stay well out of her way, for she will not like you.”

“Why? She does not even know me.”

“She will not have to.” Rowland chuckled. “Hedda will despise you simply because you serve me. She has always taken great pleasure in making my life miserable. She manages to make sure there is never a servant around when I need anything. But now I have you, and she will have no say over you. She will not like that.”

“She hates you then?”

“I remind her of her failure to give my father a son. My mother was not of Montville. When she died, Luthor brought me here and placed me above the two daughters Hedda had given him. All that you see here will be mine one day—given to a bastard son rather than Luthor's lawful daughters.”

“Then I suppose your sisters hate you as well,” Brigitte sighed. “A fine family you have, Rowland. And you have brought me here to live with these disagreeable people.”

“Fear not, little jewel,” he told her lightly. “I will protect you from their wrath.”

The manor house was larger than most, and the great hall was cavernous. Built half of wood, half of stone, it would have dwarfed the Louroux hall. The cooking was done right in the hall, Brigitte saw, for there were two hearths. Cauldrons were bubbling in one, and a large hind of meat roasted. Servants were bustling around the hall, serving dinner to a large company.

Three trestle tables were in the center of the hall. One was raised on a dais and was placed parallel to
the longer two below, which were filled now with soldiers, men-at-arms, pages, knights and their squires, and several ladies. The smaller warming hearth had benches before it. To the left, above the cooking fire, was an open arched portal which gave a view from the second story at the rear of the manor and enabled the viewer to see everything going on in the hall.

At the center of the raised table sat an older man of considerable bulk, with hair the color of wheat and cut short in the Norman fashion. He was beardless, as were many of the men, and his face was etched with hard lines. It was a face of strong character. Though he bore little resemblance to Rowland, Brigitte had no doubt that this was Luthor, the lord of Montville.

On either side of him were two women, one of whom was somewhat older than Rowland. The other was older still. Daughter and mother they certainly were. The same plain features marked each: pointed chins, narrow eyes, hawk noses.

With so much noise coming from the crowd, no one took notice of Brigitte and Rowland, and Brigitte was able to study everything in the hall. But she didn't have long to look around. Wolff caught the scent of the hounds running loose in the hall, let out a howl of challenge, and attacked the nearest mongrel before Brigitte could stop him. Other hounds joined in the melee, causing a din.

Brigitte's face turned bright crimson. Her pet was causing such an outrageous commotion that the rest of the hall fell silent. Nervously, she moved to call Wolff off, but Rowland stopped her.

“Leave him be, Brigitte,” he chuckled, thoroughly
amused. “This is new territory for him. He is wise to assert himself at the start.”

“But he is shaming me.”

“How so?” Rowland quirked a brow. “You forget he belongs to me now. And he is only showing my father's hounds that they have a new leader. That is something we at Montville understand very well.”

“What? Fighting for dominance?”

“Aye.”

“But your father is lord here, is he not?”

“He is indeed.” Rowland nodded. “But I am bound to challenge him or he me.”

“That is unheard of!”

“Not here, damosel. Luthor would have it no other way. He rules by strength, as did his forefathers. He believes that if he cannot best his men, then he is not fit to lead them. And all must know that he can still beat his heir.”

“That is barbaric!” Brigitte gasped, then recovered enough to say, “
You
are barbaric as well!”

Rowland grinned into her light blue eyes. “Have you only just discovered that?”

At that moment a buxom maid ran toward them, her auburn curls flying. Brigitte watched in surprise as the girl threw her arms around Rowland's neck and kissed him soundly.

“What is this?” the girl pouted as he moved away from her embrace. “Why can you not greet me properly,
mon cher?
”

Rowland scowled. “Amelia, what we had once was private, yet you would make it public. Have you no shame, wench, to throw yourself at me before everyone?”

Amelia gasped, and her blue-black eyes widened
angrily. “I have waited all these years for you to return. Luthor knows it, and he does not mind.”

“What does he know?” Rowland demanded. “Did you tell him of our dalliance? Have you disgraced your father by proclaiming your wantonness?”

“Why do you attack me?” Amelia cried. “I have told no one about us. Luthor only saw how I pined for you when you left. He thought it amusing.”

“And now what will he think, after witnessing this boldness of yours? And your father, who watches us now? Be damned, Amelia!” Rowland growled. “I did not bid you wait for me. For what have you waited? I never promised marriage.”

“I thought—”

“You thought wrong!” He cut her short. “And you were silly to wait when your father could have made a match for you. I had no intention of ever returning here, and you knew that.”

“Oh, no, Rowland,” she said quickly. “I knew you would come back, and you have.”

“Enough, Amelia. My father awaits me.”

“Nonsense!” She looked from Rowland to Brigitte, who had stepped away from them, embarrassed at hearing their conversation. “Ah! So that is it?” Amelia cried. “You have already taken a wife. Bastard!” she spat, her eyes black with fury. “Unfaithful dog!”

Rowland stiffened, glowering at her in earnest. “Take care, woman, or you will feel the back of my hand, and I will have to kill your father when he challenges me because of it. If you have no thought for yourself, then think of him.”

Tears leapt into Amelia's dark eyes. “How could you marry another?”

Rowland sighed in exasperation. “I have not mar
ried! Nor will I, for you are all the same with your cursed nagging and whining. You drive a man beyond patience. I will take no woman whom I cannot set aside when the allure is gone and she becomes a shrew.”

Rowland walked away then, and Brigitte was left wondering what she should do, for he had completely forgotten her presence. The girl Amelia turned hostile eyes on her, and Brigitte quickly followed Rowland. She did so with her head held high, ignoring the curious stares. She felt totally alone, but she took heart when Wolff joined her, having defeated the last of the Montville hounds. At least Wolff had made a proud showing.

Luthor of Montville rose as Rowland approached, but that was his only acknowledgment of his heir's return. Brigitte was confused by this strange reunion between father and son. Neither man smiled a greeting or spoke. They stood facing each other with stony expressions, more adversaries than kin. They looked one another over thoroughly, noting the changes that had taken place in six years.

Luthor spoke at last. “You are late.”

“I was detained.”

“So Sir Gui informed me,” Luthor replied, his voice marked with displeasure. “You attended some Frenchman's deathbed. You felt that was more important than the future of Montville?”

“The man saved my life. To stay and see if he lived only cost me a few days.”

“And did he?”

“Yes.”

“Have you paid your debt to him?”

Rowland nodded.

That seemed to pacify Luthor. “Good. I want no loyalties to call you away from here once the trouble begins. You traveled alone with this baggage?” Luthor asked, indicating Brigitte without deigning to glance at her. “Where is your squire?”

“I lost him in the south.” Then Rowland grinned. “But this baggage serves well enough.”

Luthor guffawed, as did the other men within hearing. Amelia had joined them on the dais, and she said stingingly, “I did not know it was fashionable in France to call a whore a squire.”

Rowland turned to Amelia with a ready retort, but his glance fell on Brigitte, and he saw the tears glistening in her eyes.

“I apologize, damosel,” he said gently. “There are ladies here who belong in the gutter.”

There was more than one gasp in response to this, including Brigitte's. To hear him come to her defense after he had just slurred her himself astonished her.

Before Brigitte could gather her wits and reply, Amelia snapped, “How dare you insult me like that, Rowland?”

He turned an icy look on her now. “If you cannot stand insults, Amelia, then do not give them yourself.”

Amelia confronted Luthor then. “Milord, your son has no right to speak to me thusly. And it is not just me he insulted. He
did
say ladies.”

“Ha! So he did.” Luthor chuckled, not coming to Amelia's defense as she had hoped, or that of his own ladies, who were silently growing indignant with anger. Turning to Brigitte, he said, “Does the wench have a name?”

“The
wench
has a name,” Brigitte replied boldly. “I am Brigitte de Louroux, milord.”

Rowland's brows narrowed. “She is Brigitte of Montville now—my servant.”

“
That
is open to question,” Brigitte said flatly. Then she turned and walked stiffly toward the warming fire, calling Wolff to join her.

“Ha!” Luthor chuckled. “I understand why you were detained.”

“The girl has yet to adjust to a new master. She has been only trouble so far.”

“How came you by such a pretty maid and such a superb animal?”

“The girl was forced on me,” Rowland answered briefly, “and the dog followed her.”

Luthor gazed hard at Brigitte. “The wench carries herself like a lady. I would swear she is of noble birth, for she has that proud look about her.”

Rowland looked hard at his father. “Do not let her hear you say that, sire, for that is just what she would like you to believe.”

“Are you saying she claims to be a lady?”

“She will no doubt make every effort to convince you of it.”

Luthor frowned. “Are you so sure she is not?”

“Be damned!” Rowland exclaimed. “I am most sure! And I am badgered enough by the girl, so do not plague me about it too, old man.”

“Old man, is it?” Luthor grunted. “You meet me in the courtyard at sunrise, and we shall see who is an old man.”

Rowland nodded, saying nothing. He wanted no recurrence of their old argument.

After being apprised of Thurston of Mezidon's
preparations for battle and the precautions taken at Montville, Rowland glanced over to the fire where Brigitte sat, her back to the others. Her slim hand rested on Wolff's shaggy head, absently stroking the beast. He wondered what she was thinking as she stared into the dancing flames. What was he going to do with the minx? Why did she still persist in lying about her status? She had done everything but swear to God. But he knew she would not do that, for she had real faith. She proved that when she stayed to tend his wound instead of fleeing. She might have left him to die, but she did not. Perhaps she did not hate him quite so much as she claimed.