HEARTS AFLAME

by Nancy Morse

  She was about to retort that she wasn’t a stable boy when he winked and whispered, “Especially Belenus. He’s special.”

  Belenus? God of fire? The knot in her belly loosened. It was the perfect name for the horse. She’d never ridden in her life but suddenly wanted to leap on the animal’s back and gallop away.

  The Captain had entered the smithy and was examining some of the weaponry her father had made. He seemed particularly interested in the brigandine mailshirts Gorrie had attempted to perfect. De Rowenne joined them, acting as interpreter.

  She led the horses to the stables, wondering where he’d learned to speak her language. Her resentment of him eased. At least the man knew a thing or two about naming horses. But she was strangely irritated that he hadn’t asked her name.

  Odd

  Odd.

  Matthew couldn’t get the thought out of his mind.

  The armorer’s lad was odd.

  Why it preoccupied him, he didn’t know.

  He joined Le Cordier in the smithy, but barely paid attention to the well-crafted weapons, though the mailed jacket was intriguing. If the armorer ever perfected it—

  Belenus had certainly snared the youth’s attention.

  He chuckled when he remembered the reddening toe. He was sure the urchin wanted to curse, but he’d kept silent.

  There was something odd about the lad’s feet, and the trembling hands, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was.

  The apprentice was likely terrified. Judging by what he’d heard of goings-on at Lincluden Castle, how was anyone to feel safe there? A man who mutilated and murdered his own brother would do away with an armorer’s apprentice without batting an eyelid.

  He shrugged off his worries. He had bigger problems to take care of, an army to billet, the routiers to control, a plan to devise for scouting the environs, guards to be posted. They’d have to unearth the servants, get the castle going, reassure them they were safe if they obeyed.

  And the tufts of red hair! The armorer must have taken his shears to the lad’s head. He wondered if the youth was the man’s son.

  “Bon,” Le Cordier said decisively. “Tell him I am impressed with his work. See that any weapons in need of repair are sent to him. He is to give his full attention to our needs. However, if he has spare time he can continue his experiments with the mail shirt.”

  He strode off, leaving Matthew with the armorer who nodded his understanding of what was expected of him. A thought occurred. “What is your name?”

  “Gorrie,” the man replied. “Gorrie Lordsmith.”

  Matthew arched a brow. “You were weapon-smith to MacFergus?”

  “I was,” Gorrie responded proudly.

  “And your son’s name?”

  Why he’d asked, he didn’t know. But the man suddenly looked sheepish and shifted his considerable weight from one foot to the other. He dabbed his forehead with the filthy cloth tied to his apron.

  “He is your son, is he not?”

  “Brig. His name is Brig,” Gorrie finally replied, resuming his hammering as the sullen lad reappeared from the stables and took up his post at the bellows.

  Odd name, Matthew thought. Must be Gaelic.

  He set off in search of Le Cordier. There was much to be done and his Capitaine would no doubt expect him to do it.

  Brig cursed, thankful the arrogant soldier with the wondrous horse had left them alone. Why hadn’t she worn her shoes? She never went barefoot in the smithy. Even the Norman knew it was foolhardy, and the last thing she wanted him to look at was her feet. They were too small for a tall youth.

  And the gloves. She always wore them.

  She resolved to be more careful. No one in the invading army must uncover her secret. Her father’s livelihood had been at stake before, but now her life depended on the ruse. Who knew what kind of men lurked in the rank and file of the English army?

  As if to bear out her fears, a long line of weary looking infantrymen appeared in the distance, heading for the fields on the banks of the Nith.

  Gorrie stopped hammering. “They’ll set up camp near the river,” he said.

  The Nith was where she drew their water. “I’ll have to fetch water from the Cluden instead,” she said.

  Gorrie narrowed his eyes. “I doubt we’re seeing the whole army. I’d guess some will camp by the Cluden too. Dinna worry. I’ll refill the water-skins.”

  It pained her to make more work for her Da, but she was grateful he’d sensed her fear.

  “Ye did the right thing, Brig. Keep silent. Say naught. Give them no reason to suspect. We do their bidding while we watch and wait.”

  But what are we waiting for? she wondered, distracted by loud shouting coming from the fields.

  Gorrie shaded his eyes with his hand. “Looks like a dispute. Lots of pushing and shoving. Probably mercenaries.”

  Brig shuddered. She’d never heard anything good about mercenary soldiers who were reputed to owe loyalty to no one but themselves.

  As the brawl escalated, Matthew de Rowenne strode into the midst of the melee. A hammer pounded in Brig’s head. “They’ll tear him to pieces,” she murmured.

  After only a few minutes, the ruckus quieted. Men went back to pitching tents. De Rowenne stood watch, arms folded across his chest.

  “He’s got the measure of that mob,” her Da said.

  She snorted. “Sounds like ye admire him for it,” she scoffed.

  He picked up his hammer. “And ye sounded like ye cared if they turned on him.”

  “Nay,” she protested. “I just dinna like brutality. Ye know that.”

  He looked at her curiously for a moment then resumed his hammering.

  Working the bellows, she gazed out to the field. Matthew de Rowenne looked rather splendid standing calmly while his unruly minions set up the camp. There was more to the man than met the eye.

  Annan

  “The Nith might not be the best location for a castle,” Le Cordier declared. “I have reports the Annan also empties into the Solway and its mouth is closer to Carlisle.”

  They’d gone back and forth over this ground for two days. Matthew privately thought the Nith was a better choice. Any seagoing threat to Scottish control of Galloway would likely sail up the Solway and encounter the Nith first. A fortification just south of Lincluden, in his opinion, would provide faster access to the Solway.

  Their mission was to build a defensive position to protect Galloway, not Carlisle, from Gilbride. The Lord of Galloway surely wouldn’t risk launching an attack close to Henry’s Cumbrian stronghold.

  However, Le Cordier had so far not proven himself to be a man tolerant of anything other than his own opinion, therefore Matthew said nothing.

  “Bon. I’ve made my decision. Take a contingent of routiers and scout the Annan,” his Capitaine commanded.

  Matthew was tempted to roll his eyes. He might have known Le Cordier would assign troublemakers to the task instead of regular army. But he had to keep the prize in mind. Henry wouldn’t grant land or a knighthood to a soldier who challenged his commanding officer.

  “I’ll pick out some of the Aragonese,” he replied. “Shouldn’t take more than a fortnight to get the lay of the land.”

  Le Cordier fiddled with the end of his moustache. “Be thorough. Meanwhile we’ll explore the valley of the Nith. And take some locals with you who know the area. It will save time.”

  Few able-bodied men were to be found in the castle. Matthew suspected locals had been among the stone throwing skirmishers. The armorer would be an asset on such an expedition, but he was needed at Lincluden.

  “Take the lad from the smithy,” his commander suggested.

  Matthew was taken aback. The notion was strangely appealing at first, but he realized he hadn’t really thought of Brig as an able-bodied youth, though the lad was tall and strong looking as well as odd.

  “Who will help the armorer?” he replied.


  “Don’t be concerned with that. I can easily find a Brabanter to pump bellows.”

  Matthew felt a momentary pang of pity for the armorer obliged to work with a troublemaking routier, but who else was there? He’d have to warn the lad to stay out of the way of the Spaniards. Brig was the kind of victim they took pleasure in picking on.

  Brig perched on the low stone wall surrounding the smithy, fretting over her father’s mounting frustration. The foreign lout assigned to work the bellows seemed to have the brains of an ox. He had the muscles for the job, which was the root of the problem. He was putting too much force into his effort, sending flames leaping in the air that nigh on scorched Gorrie’s eyebrows. She anticipated before much time passed, sparks would fly, and not just from the fire.

  She’d been given no choice about joining the expedition to the Annan. It was comical since she’d never been further east than Lincluden and had little idea how to get to the eastern river. She’d have to rely on asking locals if her father’s directions proved wrong.

  The prospect of travelling with a band of armed men filled her with dread, and yet she was strangely excited. De Rowenne would be mounted on Belenus, a horse she loved. She’d snuck into the stable at every opportunity to pet the animal. The red horse seemed to like her.

  The Norman had mentioned his contingent would be made up of Spaniards and advised her to avoid them. She intended to do just that. But he’d also told her to stick close to his side. That presented a problem. She found she liked him, despite his foreign ways. The first time she’d seen him without his helmet, she’d been struck by how attractive he was, his handsome face framed by long hair as black as night.

  But if she got too close, he might discover her true identity.

  She studied her boots. When they’d travelled from Cruggleton she’d ridden in the wagon with the paraphernalia from the forge. She hoped her worn leather footwear would stand up to miles of walking. Da had given her a sturdy satchel with a long strap. It contained a flask of water and some bread and cheese. He’d assured her de Rowenne’s men would snare and cook food on the way, so carrying excess weight would bog her down needlessly. She’d slung it across her body, though not before secreting within it a dagger, and two small apples from the root-cellar for Belenus.

  Da lamented over and over that he didn’t want her to go, but they had no choice.

  Her heart leapt into her throat when de Rowenne emerged out of the dawn mist that clung to the field, leading a band of twenty or so scowling foot soldiers, all swarthy. They put her in mind of a pack of cowed dogs she’d seen often in Cruggleton. Gilbride’s dogs if she remembered correctly.

  The prospect of marching miles on foot with these men made her knees tremble. She inhaled deeply and squared her shoulders. She was a lad, not some weak lass.

  She rose from the wall and walked purposefully towards the Spaniards.

  “Where are you going?” de Rowenne asked, his hand held out.

  She frowned in confusion.

  “You cannot march with them. They are used to it. You’re not.” He smiled the crooked smile she’d become used to seeing. “Besides, you have a sore toe, my lad.”

  She risked a glance at the Spaniards.

  “Don’t worry. They’re Aragonese. They don’t understand what we are saying,” he reassured her. “Come. You’ll ride behind me. Le Cordier refuses to spare a horse for you.”

  March with brutes or ride behind Matthew de Rowenne on his magical steed? The choice was clear. “I have never ridden before,” she said.

  The Norman narrowed his eyes. “I think those are the first words I’ve heard you utter, Brig.”

  That was worrisome. Had she spoken like a girl?

  “Mayhap you’re learning not to fear me? Stand on the wall and I’ll heave you up,” he said with a smile.

  She breathed again. He’d noticed nothing odd.

  She took his hand. His heat came as a shock. She wished she’d worn her gloves, but they were jammed onto the Brabanter’s meaty fists. For a brief second their eyes met. She couldn’t look away. Something in the blue depths of his gaze held her.

  She struggled clumsily into the space behind him, hefting the satchel onto her back. She reached behind to grip the edge of the saddle, appreciating immediately why noblewomen rode side-saddle. The leather pressed firmly on her most private place.

  Over the years it had been unavoidable to occasionally glimpse other lads’ male parts. She supposed they grew as they became adults, just like her breasts had grown. How did a big man like de Rowenne fare astride a horse? It had to be uncomfortable, though he seemed at ease atop Belenus.

  Her feet dangled, her thighs touched de Rowenne’s arse—no choice. It was very unladylike. She came close to snorting out loud at the notion. She wasn’t a lady. Notwithstanding her masquerade as a youth, she was the daughter of a sword-smith.

  The snort turned to a muffled Oh! as the horse moved forward and the leather of the saddle rubbed against that intimate place. It was a peculiar sensation.

  “Hold on to my hips, lad,” de Rowenne said curtly as they rode out of the bailey. “Don’t want you tumbling to the ground.”

  The prospect of falling beneath the feet of the Spaniards was enough to make her comply. Reluctantly, she put her hands on his hips, gripping the folds of his cloak.

  For the first mile or two she bounced uncomfortably, though they were travelling slowly to allow the infantry to keep up. By the time they reached the Annan she’d have blisters on her bottom.

  “Relax,” de Rowenne said over his shoulder. “Lean against me. Feel Belenus’s gait.”

  She couldn’t see his face, but his tone of voice told her he was smiling. He was right. She had to relax. There was naught to fear from Matthew de Rowenne. She leaned against his back, reassured by the solid strength she found there. She wondered if all men carried the musky scent that filled her nostrils.

  It crossed her mind briefly that mayhap it was a mistake to trust this man. But better him that the wolf-pack loping along behind them.

  Under Attack

  Matthew fidgeted with the brooch pinned into the folds of his cloak, half expecting the red glass to be hot to the touch.

  He’d ridden a horse since he was child and never felt discomfort in the groin area. Probably because he couldn’t recall ever riding with a rock hard arousal before.

  He’d heard tell of men who consorted with boys. They lived life in the shadows, constantly in fear of persecution if their proclivities came to light. His blood ran cold at the notion he might be among them. How else to explain the strange excitement that had crept over him as Brig’s slight body rubbed against his back.

  Since his mother’s death he’d been determined not to allow his male urges to lead him into a relationship with a woman. Mayhap he’d suppressed his physical needs too often. He’d begun the day confident in his masculinity. Now he feared—

  He swallowed hard, unwilling to even contemplate the terrifying possibility.

  Brig’s hands still rested on his hips, warm thighs pressed against his arse, but he’d a feeling the lad had nodded off. He was desperate to ease his discomfort, but he might startle the boy if he shifted his position in the saddle. He didn’t want him falling beneath the feet of the Aragonese whose surly dispositions hadn’t improved after a half hour on the march.

  Only a half hour. They’d just forded the Nith. By the saints he’d be a wreck by the time they reached the Annan. There was even something arousing about the lad’s smell.

  A chill raced through his veins when Brig unexpectedly slouched further forward and snaked his arms around Matthew’s waist. He looked down at the lad’s hands. They were—appealing.

  By the saints! He didn’t dare turn around. Hopefully the Aragonese hadn’t noticed anything amiss. If they suspected his aberrant thoughts, he was lost.

  Suddenly, a hue and cry went up from the Spaniards.

  Brig startled and gripped his
shoulders. “Stones,” he cried.

  Matthew turned Belenus, worried the boy had been struck. What he saw knotted his gut. A horde of half naked men were rushing down a nearby hillside towards them, yelling a bloodthirsty battle cry.

  “Gaels,” he shouted to the infantrymen. “Take up your positions.”

  The attackers outnumbered his party, but the Aragonese were fierce, disciplined soldiers when it came to a fight. They quickly fell into formation, crossbows aimed at the oncoming marauders. A few of the Gaels had shortbows, but most seemed to be armed with stones and farm implements.

  He had to get Brig to safety. The lad was no warrior. Espying a rocky outcropping, he galloped towards it. “Stay here,” he yelled. “We’ll soon finish them off. They’re just Gaels.”

  As Brig slid to the ground, his face white with fear, their gazes met. “I’m a Gael,” he rasped.

  Trembling, Brig sat with her back to the rough rock, rummaging desperately in her satchel for the dagger. Why couldn’t she find it? There was barely anything in the—

  She gulped down a sob when her hand settled on the hilt. She cast the satchel aside and held the weapon to her breast, deafened by her own heartbeat. It was likely Matthew’s well trained soldiers would carry the day, but if they didn’t she wouldn’t die without a fight.

  The irony of it. Killed by her own people.

  She touched her temple where the stone had struck, upset when her fingers came away sticky with blood. She’d been enjoying the comforting warmth of de Rowenne’s broad back when the attack had taken her off guard.

  She blinked rapidly, wanting to be rid of the vision behind her eyes. Naked men armed with pitchforks rushing headlong into crossbow bolts shot by men in chainmail. What were they thinking? The hopelessness of the fight against the combined English and Scottish army struck her like a blow to the belly. With King Henry’s help, William the Lion would swoop Galloway into his talons like the eagle fishing for salmon in the Nith.