HEARTS AFLAME

by Nancy Morse

  At night she cried for Cadha, denied her vocation, a hostage. She felt sorry for the girl, but hated her at the same time. She was to be Matthew’s wife. Brig resented the thought of him even touching Gilbride’s daughter.

  She sobbed into her bed linens, longing for Matthew. He needed a strong woman, a fiery woman. A protector. A Brigandine. But he believed himself cursed.

  Her misery was compounded daily by Le Cordier who strutted around, looking pleased with himself. She cringed whenever he came near the smithy, thrown off balance by the lecherous way he looked at her. Either he’d found out she was a girl, or he was one of those men who—

  “Bellows, Brig,” her Da shouted. “By the saints, stop yer daydreamin’.”

  Jolted from her thoughts, she hastily pumped the lever she’d been leaning on, bringing life to the fire.

  Things had to change. There was no going back to being a lad. She resolved to do everything in her power to save Matthew from a disastrous marriage and the enslavement of his curse.

  It wasn’t difficult to find the location of Cadha’s chamber. Lincluden was a small castle, much of it too dilapidated to be habitable. However, the maid who told Brig where it was also mentioned the two-man guard posted at the door.

  Nothing for it but to enter from outside. Brig was confident she was skinny enough to fit through the narrow window, even wearing one of her father’s brigandine jackets. She hoped Cadha hadn’t grown any fatter.

  Though not on the ground floor, the chamber’s window was fortuitously located next to a buttress. She crawled up the sloping wall like a crab, dismayed that the top seemed a lot higher than she’d thought. She’d brought along one of her father’s smaller swords, just in case, but it was proving to be a hindrance. It scraped on the stone, and she almost tripped over it more than once. The belt of the scabbard was far too big, despite the extra holes she’d dug into the leather with an awl and the padding provided by the brigandine.

  When she reached the more gently sloped top she rested on all fours, trying to catch her breath.

  She was about to tap on the window when a patrol of sentries went by, talking loudly in Spanish. In the event they did look up, she was confident the clouds obscuring the moon would be enough to conceal her. The version of the brigandine she’d borrowed had thin plates of armor on the outside and if she survived this escapade she resolved to mention to her father that wasn’t necessarily appropriate for clandestine nighttime sorties.

  Cadha came to the window after three taps, the third more insistent than the first two. Brig motioned for her to open the window. She seemed hesitant at first, but her peculiar eyes widened in recognition and she complied. Brig crawled into the chamber and pressed a forefinger to her lips.

  “You’re the armorer’s s-s-son,” Cadha whispered.

  “Aye,” Brig replied. “I’ve come to help ye escape.”

  Cadha made the sign of her Savior across her body. “G-g-god b-b-bless you, for He has s-s-surely sent you to m-m-y aid.”

  Brig felt like a fraud. Was she doing this for Cadha’s sake or for her own? No time to worry about that. The Day of Judgement would come soon enough. “We’ll have to escape through the window,” she whispered.

  “Th-th-then wh-wh-what?” Cadha asked.

  Brig was reluctant to admit she hadn’t really thought about what came next. “We’ll need a horse.”

  Cadha nodded. She had no way of knowing Brig had never ridden a horse, except behind Matthew. But there was one mount she might be able to control. She’d take Belenus and have him back in the stables by dawn. Matthew would never know. “We’ll ride to the Abbey and ye’ll be safe.”

  Cadha shook her head. “N-n-not unless I pr-pr-pr-profess my f-f-final v-v-vows.”

  This was true. King William had paid no mind to the sanctity of the Abbey, but forcing a nun to break her vows would consign him to Hell. “We’ll get the priest, from the village,” she declared, fearing the bad-tempered Father Ailig wouldn’t be happy about being awakened in the middle of the night.

  “No n-n-need,” Cadha replied. “B-b-bishop M-m-m-mort-t-timer is on r-r-r-etr-r-r-eat at the A-a-a-abbey.”

  To Brig’s further relief, the would-be nun hoisted the hem of her postulant’s robe and raised her knee to the sill of the window.

  “Ye’ll have to crawl onto the top of the buttress wall,” Brig explained, “then go down backwards, like a crab.”

  Cadha looked at her as if she’d spoken in Greek, but then smiled and said, “B-b-best not to look d-d-down, I s-s-suppose.”

  Brig worried about the lazy eye. Did the girl have any balance? “Aye, and stay still if sentries pass by.”

  Heart-stopping minutes later they were running for the stables. The sword felt strange bouncing on Brig’s hip, and she feared Cadha’s white robes would stand out like a bonfire if the clouds rolled on. Thanks be to the saints it was a new moon.

  They heard the snores of the stable guard before they got to the door. They tiptoed past him and easily found Belenus. The horse nickered softly in recognition, but there was no saddle, and Brig didn’t know how to put one on. “We’ll have to ride bareback,” she rasped.

  To her surprise, Cadha seized a saddle from the partition wall and hefted it across the horse’s back. It seemed to take her only a few seconds to saddle and bridle the animal. Belenus stood stock still. Brig gawked in amazement when Cadha straddled the beast and held out her hand. “R-r-ridden s-s-since I was a ch-ch-child,” she said with a smile.

  Of course. This girl was the daughter of a nobleman. Brig took her hand and scrambled up.

  “G-g-god is w-w-with us,” Cadha whispered as they rode slowly out of the stables and on to the path to the Abbey.

  Brig’s heart filled with hope. Mayhap Cadha was right.

  From the shadows Matthew watched Brig and Cadha make their escape. A certainty something was amiss with Belenus had roused him from his bed. Not that he’d slept, tormented by the dilemmas he faced.

  He should raise the alarm, but Brig’s rescue of Cadha might solve one of his problems. From the direction the pair had gone, he’d guess the plan was to take his betrothed back to the Abbey. Why hadn’t he thought of that? While he’d been mired in worry, the courageous Brigandine had acted. She had risked everything for her childhood friend, though she’d intimated they had never been close, their social class being too disparate.

  Something had pushed her to ride off with Cadha. Mayhap she understood his desperate wish to protect the innocent postulant from an agonizing death. Or was there another reason?

  He considered his own motives. Did he abhor the notion of wedding Cadha simply because of the curse? Or was there someone else he wanted for wife? Someone he burned for, someone with tufts of red hair.

  He cursed himself for a fool. All he had to do was wed a sweet, stammering girl with a lazy eye, fight off her vengeful father, aid in the building of a castle, impress King William and thus King Henry, and live happily ever after. But his heart recognised that true happiness lay with Brigandine Lordsmith.

  “Go with God,” he rasped before returning to his bed, confident Belenus would be contentedly munching oats in his stall by daybreak.

  Fire

  Brig ambled along the pathway back to the castle atop Belenus. A radiant Sister Cadha had given basic instructions on how to control the animal, but she’d soon realized she didn’t need them. The horse knew where it was supposed to go.

  She thought back to their arrival at the Abbey, overwhelmed with relief when the Bishop greeted them, ranting and raving about the heathen English and their barbaric Scots cronies.

  He was only too willing to proceed with Cadha’s ordination into the sisterhood. She remembered the ceremony she’d been privileged to witness in the chapel. She was part of something wondrous as Gilbride’s daughter swore her vows to Christ.

  I would dedicate my life to Matthew. If only it were possible.

  She gazed at the pinks an
d reds of the sunrise, filled with a fanciful notion she was heading for an enchanted land where she and Matthew—

  It came to her suddenly that she was traveling west; the sun was rising behind her.

  Fire!

  The whole sky was ablaze. Belenus pricked up his ears. “Something’s burning,” she whispered to the beast.

  The horse took off like a bolt from a crossbow. She clung to his mane, fearing for life and limb if she tumbled to the ground. Despite her fear, it came to her that animals ran away from fires. Belenus sensed danger—to his master.

  She urged him on then. “Faster, faster.”

  After watching Cadha’s escape, Matthew returned to his chamber, not even bothering to disrobe. He fell into a fitful doze, dreaming of Brig’s magnificent breasts. He conjured a vision of her with long hair, down to her waist. The hair at her mons was likely the same fiery red. He’d find out when—

  An insistent banging at the door jolted him upright. He raked his fingers through his hair. Someone was calling his name. “Commandante de Rowenne. Fuego!”

  Fire?

  He smelled it then. Burning wood. Was the castle ablaze? He thrust open the door, buckling on his sword. “Are we under attack?” he asked the Aragonese.

  “Sì, sì, foresta, fuego,” the soldier replied as they hastened along the hallway.

  Gilbride had evidently torched the dense forest surrounding Lincluden as a distraction before his assault. It wouldn’t take long before the flames licked at the castle itself.

  His thoughts went to the stables and he thanked the saints Belenus was safe.

  He rushed out to the rear of the castle where the forge stood. Gorrie and Brig lived above it. He had to be sure she hadn’t returned. He caught sight of the armorer down near the river. It appeared he had organised a line of men that stretched from the water to the castle. They passed pails one to the other. Matthew hurried to his side. “Brig?” he asked hoarsely.

  “Nowhere to be found,” her father grunted.

  It occurred to Matthew that here was Gilbride’s armorer trying to prevent the flames reaching the castle. “Good man, Gorrie,” he said, slapping the burly giant on the shoulder.

  The smith eyed him. “Aye, well, it came to me I dinna hold wi’ a man murderin’ his ain brother. What’s to keep ‘im from killin’ anyone he tecks a fancy to killin’?”

  Matthew might have retorted that even King Henry might do away with anyone he took a fancy to killing, but he held his peace.

  “Besides,” Gorrie went on, “this be my home now, mine and Brig’s, and ye English hae bin decent wi’ us, even that Cordier. But ye best tell him to keep his eyes off my lad.”

  He strode away, leaving Matthew dumfounded. Had Le Cordier discovered Brig’s secret, or was he—

  No time to think on that. Gilbride’s army might emerge any minute now the flames in the trees had died down. The heavy smoke would provide good cover.

  Coughing, he made his way around the outer perimeter of the castle, making sure sparks hadn’t caught. Eyes watering, he ran into the bailey. The stables at the far end were engulfed in flame. Some horses that had apparently been saved were down near the Nith. A few animals pranced nervously around the bailey, whinnying and snorting.

  If the attack came now, they’d have no chance. Where was Le Cordier? Why hadn’t a defence been organised?

  The answer came when his Capitaine stumbled out of the Keep, tucking his shirt into his leggings. Surely the arrogant nobleman hadn’t slept through the racket?

  He decided there was no time to waste on recriminations. “Where is King William?” he shouted.

  Le Cordier bent over, hacking up phlegm. Once he caught his breath he panted, “I advised him to stay in his chamber. Safer there.”

  Matthew nodded, but he’d never been in a dangerous situation that was so out of control, and he didn’t like it. “We should have been prepared for this,” he growled at his Capitaine. “We underestimated Gilbride.”

  Still coughing, Le Cordier agreed. “I didn’t think he had enough men to launch an assault.”

  Matthew’s eyes darted here and there, scanning the smoking forest for any sign of attack, pleased to see the routiers regrouping, taking up a defensive position. Perhaps there wasn’t going to be an assault after all. But why set fire to—?

  Not enough men.

  “Their plan wasn’t to attack the castle,” he shouted to Le Cordier as he ran to the Keep. “They are already inside. Send a party of Aragonese to follow me to the King’s chamber.”

  “But William is well guarded,” Le Cordier shouted after him.

  Heart pounding, sword in hand, Matthew took the stone steps to the second floor two at a time. As he feared, three of William’s guards lay slumped against the frame of the door to the royal chamber. It was small consolation that two of the enemy also lay dead. Afraid he’d arrived too late he entered the chamber cautiously. The King was fending off a youth. William wielded a sword. His attacker, armed with a dagger, had backed his quarry into a corner.

  A glint in the king’s eye indicated he’d seen Matthew enter.

  Probably the first time we’ve been glad to see each other.

  Matthew lay his sword on the bed, and crept up behind the lad, clamping one arm around his neck. As the boy staggered backwards, Matthew grabbed his wrist and twisted hard, forcing the dagger to fall. The youth yelped in pain.

  William pressed the point of his sword to his chest. “Yield,” he shouted.

  Matthew privately thought the regal bravado somewhat late since he’d already subdued and disarmed the assailant, but let the King believe he’d vanquished his would-be assassin. He thrust the scowling lad into the hands of one of the Aragonese who burst into the chamber. It came to him where he’d seen him before. “Make sure he doesn’t escape this time. We need information.”

  The youth spat at him. “I’ll never tell ye aught.”

  Matthew had a strange feeling this was one of the youths who’d attacked Brig. He burned to slap him hard across the face. Men who raped women were cowards. They didn’t last long under torture. “Take him away,” he said.

  As the color returned to his ashen face, the King sheathed his sword. “My thanks, Matthew de Rowenne. I owe you my life. Now let’s see what’s happening with the defences.”

  He disappeared out the door, leaving Matthew standing dumbfounded. He shook his head. Every time he came into contact with King William the Lion, something unexpected happened. Mayhap the saints were looking out for him after all. He now had a second king in his debt, though the rewards from the first had been dubious at best.

  He reached to retrieve his sword, and felt cold steel pressed to his neck.

  Saint George

  “Hands in the air,” a gravelly voice hissed.

  The blade pressed further into Matthew’s flesh. One wrong move and he’d be dead, his throat cut. “The fight is lost,” he said as he complied, trying not to let his fear show. “There’s no escape. If—”

  Something, he suspected a meaty fist, struck him hard on the back of the neck. The blow sent him reeling. His assailant kicked him hard, over and over. He curled into a ball to protect himself.

  When the kicking finally stopped, he waited, wondering if any of the Aragonese lingered nearby. His attacker had the dagger, and Matthew’s sword. Struggling not to surrender to the oblivion that would ease the agony, he half expected to feel the bite of the blade he should have kept to hand. He spat out the bitter taste of his own blood.

  A foot poked him. “Get up.”

  He got to his knees. The pain was intense. It felt like every bone in his body was broken. Breathing was nigh on impossible.

  “Get. Up.”

  He was grabbed by the arm and hoisted to his feet. Eye to eye with his attacker for the first time, he thought of trying to wrestle with the youth. But the brute was big and strong, and in his condition he’d stand no chance. Where were the Aragonese?<
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  The knife was placed against his neck again and his arm twisted behind his back.

  “We’ll walk out of here, slowly. Ye’ll be my shield.”

  He hadn’t the strength to tell the fool the routiers would cut him down. Sacrificing Matthew’s life would mean nothing to them.

  It pained him that he hadn’t told Brigandine of his love for her before he died. The irony of it. He’d been preoccupied with the haunting memory of his mother’s death and failed to grasp the promise that life with the courageous Brig offered.

  He later had no memory of making it down the steps, nor of crossing the Hall, nor of stepping through the outer door of the Keep into the bailey. But as long as he lived he would never forget his wonderment when Saint George of the Golden Legend appeared, riding a red dragon, resplendent in his suit of shining armor. The snorting beast fixed a steely eye on him and he knew all would be well.

  “Unhand him, Hamish,” Brig growled as she slid from the snorting Belenus, sword in hand.

  Strangely, she wasn’t afraid of the bully who’d brutalized her, but she feared for Matthew. He’d been badly beaten and looked about ready to drop.

  Hamish’s eyes darted here and there. It was evident he was struggling to keep his prisoner upright.

  “Unhand him,” she said again. “And surrender to me.”

  Hamish snorted. “Nay, Brig Lordsmith, I’ll nay surrender to the likes o’ ye. Dinna come closer or I’ll kill him.”

  She took a step forward, unbuckling the overly large belt of the scabbard, and tossing it aside. She’d look the fool if it fell to her ankles and she tripped over it. “Nay, Hamish. If ye kill him, where is yer shield? These men ye see gathering behind me, they’ll cut ye doon like a wee sapling and hack ye to pieces.”