by Maura Seger
"I fear my brother will have little time to rest," she murmured when the room at last emptied out. "Lord William is pacing the floor right now, worrying about who attacked him and why. He sent more messengers north to try to discover what happened, but so far there has been no word."
Her words penetrated the haze of Brenna's relief. Until then, she had thought only of the desperate need to heal Guyon's injuries. There had been no time to consider how they had occurred. Now she said slowly, "There must have been more than one attacker. I can't believe that a single man could have overcome Guyon. The gash in his chest and his left arm were made by the same weapon. But something else struck his head. Perhaps a..."
She broke off. Color flooded her face, then receded sickly. Her stomach churned. The sound of her own horror-struck heartbeat resounded against the words she had been about to utter.
Once before she had seen a wound like the one on Guyon's forehead. It occurred when the Earl Harold's younger brother, Leofwine, grew careless on the training field and was grazed by a two-headed axe wielded by a comrade. The resultant injury was distinctive and unmistakable. As was the fact that the weapon was not used in Normandy. It remained the exclusive province of English lords. Even as Brenna tried desperately to convince herself she must be wrong, the dim outlines of Guyon's anonymous assailants began to sharpen and grow frighteningly clear.
Chapter Twelve
"I cannot take you with me," Guyon repeated.
He lay on the bed, propped up by the bolster, sinewy legs crossed over each other and arms folded behind his head. Although this was his first day back on the training field since being injured, he looked surprisingly fit and strong. Only the still-healing gash on his chest remained to remind Brenna of the horror they had passed through.
Lying back in her bath, she eyed him lovingly. "Why not? It's bad enough for the Duke to send you away when you're still healing. I don't understand why you want to go alone."
"I won't be alone," Guyon explained patiently. The sight of her alabaster skin gleaming in the light from the braziers predisposed him to tolerance. Smiling, his gaze drifted over a feathery tendril of hair that escaped from the lustrous mass piled on top of her head. For a few more minutes, it would be pleasant to anticipate what was to come after she bathed. Longer than that and he would have to find some way to coax her from the tub. His smile deepened. His beautiful wife would not be too difficult to convince. They had been so long without each other.
For weeks after the attack on him, Guyon was forced to remain in bed. Chafing at the weakness of his own body, he proved to be a miserable patient. It was difficult to know who was the more relieved when Brenna at last pronounced him fit to move around, with caution.
Weeks more passed before he could do more than stand or walk for short periods. The slightest exertion left him trembling with exhaustion even as he raged with frustration. Only frequent meetings with the Duke, during which they discussed in depth the political strategies which so fascinated them both, kept Guyon from losing his reason. Never in his life had he been forced to be immobile for so long. But then never before had he been so severely injured.
He frowned, thinking of the men who had come at him out of the darkness as he waited to meet the Duke's messenger. He had not seen their faces, but their weapons and their manner of fighting left no doubt of their origins. Determined to spare Brenna the knowledge that it was her countrymen who tried to kill him, he had turned aside her questions with a claim of forgetfulness. But he guessed she was not fooled. Something in the way she dropped the subject told him she already knew more than she wished.
A slender, alabaster leg propped on the side of the tub to be soaped distracted him from painful memories of that night. Gratitude for the continuance of his life surged through him. Rising, he strolled over to the tub.
"You are clean enough, my lady."
For just a moment, Brenna pretended not to understand him. Luxuriating in the recovered sense of well-being, she was content to remain awhile longer at her bath. Or so she thought, until the teasing look she shot him settled on the turgid swelling of his manhood springing from its nest of golden curls.
A small gasp escaped her. "You seem fully recovered, my lord," she murmured thickly, not moving her eyes.
Guyon trailed a hard hand across the silken smoothness of her shoulder, just grazing the curve of her breast. He noted with satisfaction that her nipples were already hardening. "On the contrary. I find I have a pain which requires your immediate attention."
Brenna giggled at his emphasis. With true wifely endurance, she allowed herself to be lifted from the tub and toweled dry. The rough cloth moving against her silken skin coupled with Guyon's heady nearness sent shivers of delight through her. Long before he tossed the towel aside and lifted her to the bed, she was quivering in expectation.
He had lost some flesh in the last weeks. His chiseled cheekbones stood out more prominently. The hollows at the base of his corded neck seemed deeper. His shoulders and chest were still massive, the muscle and sinew developed from childhood almost indestructible. But his taut stomach was now slightly concave and the bones of his hips jutted sharply.
Her passion heightened by tender awareness of his vulnerability, Brenna melted against him. Careful to avoid the still-healing wound on his chest, her hands and lips caressed and provoked and aroused in loving torment. After so many weeks of being nothing more than a nurse, it was exquisitely delightful to be once again woman and wife.
By the time Guyon gently eased her beneath him, she was vibrating with need. Every touch, every whispered love word, every instant increased her pleasure. Their coming together was a celebration of life and a reaffirmation of all they shared. Never before had Guyon been so tender, so patient. Despite the weeks without her, he held himself back until he was certain Brenna could endure no more. Only then did he plunge within her, his deep, slow strokes bringing them both to an explosion of ecstasy so intense as to make her sob with pleasure.
Weeping in sheer relief, Brenna burrowed her head against her husband's chest as the aftershocks of pleasure echoed through them. Wrapped in the golden cocoon of his love, all the horror of the last few weeks seemed faded to no more than a terrible dream. Blissfully content, Brenna slept, but only for a short time. Too soon the recollection that he was once again about to leave brought her awake.
"Guyon," she murmured tentatively, not wishing to disturb him if he slept.
"Hmm?"
"Do you really have to go to England?" He laughed gently, arms tightening around her. "Duke William did not phrase it as a suggestion."
"But why?"
"I told you, to meet again with the King, as I did this past summer. Only this time," he teased, "there will be no beautiful, ebony-haired temptresses to take my mind off business."
"Of course there will," Brenna retorted. "Edward's court throngs with beautiful women. Why I saw myself how they glared at me and followed you with looks little more than decent."
"Brenna," Guyon began tightly, "you don't still think that I would..."
"Oh, no!" Raising herself, Brenna looked down at him entreatingly. "My lack of trust in you has shamed me. Believe that. I know the ladies of Edward's court may look all they like without ever receiving the slightest encouragement from you."
Reassured, Guyon relaxed again. He dreaded any return of Brenna's jealousy, even as he was somewhat nattered by it. It was good to know his wife cared for him so much. But he also needed her trust, especially since it was completely deserved.
"It is not because of the ladies, Guyon, but simply for myself that I wish to go along."
"I know you would like to see your family but..."
"That's true, but mainly I don't want to be apart from you." A small hand stroked down his chest as she nestled closer. "Oh, Guyon, it was so horrible when you were ill. I was so frightened, thinking that there might never be a chance for us to be together again." Seemingly of its own volition, her hand continued its feather-light c
aress, coming temptingly close to the seat of his desire. "Please take me with you," she murmured against his throat. "I won't get in the way, and we'll certainly find some time to be together."
"I cannot!" Guyon groaned, forcibly putting her from him. "Believe me, Brenna, I would like nothing better than to have you with me. But this is not a journey you can make. Accept that and desist."
Pouting, Brenna frowned at him. He was being amazingly obstinate. She couldn't for the life of her imagine why he wouldn't take her along. Granted there were all sorts of rumors: that Edward was ill, perhaps even dying; that some disposition had to be made of the throne; that the Earl Harold was pushing hard to be named his successor. But none of that was new. Edward was an elderly man who could not reasonably be expected to live much longer. When he died, the Witan would name the next king. Fulfilling their traditional responsibility, the ancient council of wisemen would meet to consider who could best sit the throne.
This time, at least, their choice was a foregone conclusion. No other earl held anything like Harold's power, nor could any other command a fraction of his respect and loyalty. Harold would be king, England would continue to prosper and— perhaps in some small measure because of her marriage—relations between her homeland and Normandy would improve. What did all that have to do with whether or not she could accompany Guyon?
"If you go alone," she said, trying one last ploy, "we will be apart at Christmas."
"I am sorry about that," Guyon said patiently as he rose and began to dress. "But it cannot be helped. Roanna will keep you company, and I'm sure the Lady Matilda will see that you want for nothing." Smiling down at his wife, her nude body still glowing from his lovemaking, he added, "Except, of course, for that which only I have the right to give you." Laughing at her chagrin, Guyon stooped to kiss her. He left the room hastily, wearing a very male grin of contentment.
"I can't make him listen to reason," Brenna complained a short while later as she sat in the solar with her sister-in-law. "I tried and tried, but he won't agree to take me along."
Roanna smiled mischievously. She could well imagine what form such persuasion had taken. It was a wonder her brother was still on his feet. Of course, he had looked remarkably fit as he strode through the Great Hall to meet with the Duke. Roanna's smile faded. There had been so many meetings in the last few days, so much coming and going of messengers and knights. One heard so many strange things.
"It's probably best that you don't go," she ventured carefully. "After all, the weather is bad and..."
"I'm hardly afraid of a little cold and snow," Brenna insisted. In fact, the winter was unusually mild so far. With only a few weeks to go to Christmas, the court still lacked even the hint of a festive air. She sighed, thinking of past years at Winchester when the great hall was decorated with evergreen boughs, mistletoe hung from the rafters, and excitement built early for the holiday feast that went on for days. Edward's court was hardly as gay as Winchester, but just then it seemed like a decided improvement on the dour preoccupation of Falaise. Perhaps it would be good to be home for a while.
"I'm sure Guyon will try not to be gone long. And this time, he's taking a large company of knights, so you need not fear for him." Roanna touched her sister-in-law's hand soothingly. "Perhaps when he comes back, we will be able to go on to Montfort. You must be anxious to see your new home."
Brenna nodded absently, her mind still on what Roanna had said earlier. "He's taking a large company of knights? Will they be leaving from Honfleur?"
"I suppose so." Roanna thought for a moment, then said more firmly, "In fact, I know they will be. They're going to escort that merchant train that's passing through here. I overheard several of the traders talking about it. They had planned to stay several more days, but now they're going to leave tomorrow to take advantage of Guyon's protection."
Glancing unenthusiastically at her needlework, Roanna said, "All those wagons full of silk and spices must be a great temptation to thieves."
All those wagons, Brenna was thinking, must provide many places to hide. She smiled secretly. No longer so foolish as to go off on her own, she believed she just might have found a way around Guyon's stubborn refusal to take her along.
Roanna looked up sharply. She knew her sister-in-law well enough to be alert to the sudden shift in her mood. The anticipatory gleam in those eyes that a moment before had held only disappointment worried her. "Brenna, you're not thinking of..."
"While Guyon's away," the younger girl said hastily, "something really must be done about my wardrobe. There wasn't time when he was ill, but now I'm counting on your help."
The implicit suggestion that she was thinking only of new clothes was not really deception, Brenna told herself. After all, with all her measurements already taken, and both fabrics and colors selected, she didn't really have to be present for the final assembling of her wardrobe. Roanna's relieved smile made her feel guilty, but she fought back the flush that threatened to give her away. Picking up her needlework, Brenna began to think about just how she might be able to insert herself into one of the baggage wagons.
In the end, it proved easier than she had expected. The only truly difficult part was selecting the right moment. There was not very much time between her farewell to Guyon on the steps of the keep and the departure of the train. But her small bundle of clothing and provisions was already hidden in the wagon she selected during an early morning sortie while Guyon was at the stables. Once he and his knights were mounted and moving toward the gatehouse, it took barely an instant to drop behind the other ladies, scamper across the bailey, and wiggle her way under the piles of fabric that effectively hid her from view.
The journey, once her initial excitement died away, was dreadfully uncomfortable. Used to riding, Brenna had never before experienced the incessant jostling of an unpadded wagon passing over rutted roads. Long before they stopped for the night, she was covered with bruises and barely able to suppress her moans. Forced to wait until everyone else had eaten and bedded down for the night, Brenna at last managed to crawl from the wagon. She found a stream some little distance away where she bathed her face and quenched her thirst. Thinking longingly of a hot soak that would ease her cramped muscles, she went hastily back to the wagon. Wrapped in the gray-green velvet cloak that had been a present from Edythe and snuggled down among the bundles, she slept fitfully through the night. By this time, Roanna must certainly have noted her absence. It was quite possible that at any moment, riders would arrive from the Duke to inform Guyon of his errant wife's presence. How humiliating it would be to be dragged out of the wagon and forced to confront his anger.
As the hours passed, and no one came, Brenna rested a little easier. She had counted on Roanna's own adventurous streak to accept what was done and say nothing of it. As the train moved on the following morning, she began to think her plan just might work.
Honfleur was a small, crowded town as chaotic and dirty as any port. Because of the unusually mild winter, the wharves were as crowded as they had been several months before when Brenna and Guyon arrived from England. There was nothing at all distinctive about the place, but because it had been her first sight of Normandy, Honfleur remained sharp in her memory. Although the light was already fading when Guyon and his men said their farewells to the grateful merchants, Brenna had no difficulty finding her way through the winding streets to the docks. Keeping her head down, her hair covered by a hood, she stayed just behind her lord's party. Brenna was taking no chances that some drunken sailor or lustful townsman would decide to amuse himself with her. Should she need help, it would at least be within earshot.
When she reached the wharves without incident, she relaxed momentarily, but still watched carefully to see which ship Guyon was taking. Hidden by bales of wool, she waited as the men dismounted and carefully led their horses onto the largest of the single-masted longboats riding at anchor. With the animals secured, several of the knights took themselves off to find amusement in the town. Brenna c
aught his words as Guyon cheerfully admonished them to be back before dawn since they would sail on the tide. She was pleased to see that he did not go with them, but instead joined his squire in a simple meal eaten on deck before stretching out to sleep beneath the stars.
When it was quiet all along the wharf, the only sounds coming from the nearby taverns and brothels, Brenna slipped through the shadows to the boat. Blessing the concealment offered by equipment and supplies piled up in the bow, she quickly hid herself.
Brenna was still asleep at dawn when the shouts of the men raising the anchor woke her. The day was fair, with a good breeze from the south. Peering out, she saw Guyon and his knights taking their turn at the oars which would carry them far enough out of the bay to raise the square sail. Once the canvas filled out in the wind, there was little else to do but steer by the large oar held by a loop of rope to the right side of the boat. With one man so occupied, and the usual lookout automatically posted at the bow, the rest of Guyon's party sprawled out on the rowing benches.
The men were in good humor. They laughed and joked among themselves, their often ribald stories making Brenna blush. She had never before been in the company of men who did not know a lady was present. It was a revelation to her to realize how much these vigorous, intensely virile warriors tempered their behavior so as not to shock or offend.
Guyon's young squire, in particular, came in for more than his share of kidding. Still a beardless youth, he was the self-conscious recipient of the knights' good-natured suggestions regarding his future with the fair sex. Before very long, it was decided to get the young man bedded while they were all in England.
One of the burly, battle-scarred men began to declaim on the sensuality of English women, only to break off abruptly. Guyon's scowl had reminded him that his lord possessed an English wife. Reddening, the man sat down quickly. For all their master's willingness to relax with them, it did not do to forget he would tolerate not the slightest untoward comment about his lady. The men glanced at each other warily, knowing he was missing her already.