by Maura Seger
Leaning back against the bench, Guyon sighed. He wished there could have been some way to bring Brenna with him. But the journey was too dangerous, and its implications too serious to allow for any distraction. Regretfully, he wondered how long it would be before he held her again. Having been so briefly reunited following his illness, he was not at all pleased by the prospect of several more weeks of celibacy. Nor could he think kindly of the seemingly casual way Brenna had parted from him. After all her pleas to be taken along, he had expected a more emotional farewell.
Shading his eyes against the sun, Guyon glanced absently toward the bow. He had personally checked all the men's equipment when it was stowed and knew it to be in good order. But something about the way it looked just then caught his attention. He straightened slightly as a flash of grayish-green flitted between the piles of shields, blankets, and saddles.
Perhaps he imagined it, he thought when several moments of careful scrutiny revealed nothing untoward. Lulled by the smooth motion of the longboat, he was half-dozing when the same vivid color rippled again in the corner of his vision. As he watched, eyes widening, the fabric was pulled hastily back by a delicate, white hand.
A harsh scowl distorted Guyon's features. His men looked up in surprise when he rose abruptly and strode toward the bow. His large, powerful hand shot out to pull aside the concealment even as his fierce expression made it clear he was already certain what he would find.
Chapter Thirteen
"I should make you row the rest of the way!" Guyon snarled.
Startled by his enraged stare, Brenna hung her head. A small foot trailed self-consciously across the wooden deck. She had expected him to be angry, but not this angry. "I'm sorry, Guyon. It's just that I didn't want to be away from you and there seemed no reason..."
"So you took it on yourself to come along," he interrupted furiously. A dark flush stained the high arc of his cheekbones. "God's blood, you are the most infuriating woman! Have you no sense at all? I said you could not come. I bade you remain at Falaise. I went off expecting some modicum of obedience from you, as, Lord knows, is my right. But no! You have to show yourself willful and impulsive and blindingly foolish! Yet again!"
Under his tirade, Brenna paled. Painfully aware of the nearness of his men, who were staring at her in astonished disbelief, she couldn't blame Guyon for feeling embarrassed. No man liked to be thought incapable of controlling his own wife. Yet surely the whole matter was being taken much too seriously.
About to say something to that effect, she was forestalled when Guyon demanded, "I suppose my idiot sister knows about this?"
"I didn't confide in her," Brenna shot back, annoyed that he should seek to blame Roanna. "When she realized I was gone, she must have thought it would be better to keep silent than risk creating a scene."
"So she does have some sense. Far more than you, at least." Eyes glittering dangerously, he rasped, "Did you give any thought at all to the consequences of what you were doing? Did you for even a moment consider that I had ample reasons for leaving you behind?"
"No, I didn't think you had reasons!" Brenna exclaimed, choosing to ignore his first question. Rather than admit she had behaved impulsively, she chose to take refuge in righteous indignation. "You left me without any explanation, expecting me simply to accept your will. I will not stand for that. I have a mind of my own which I am perfectly capable of using. I won't be treated like some... some whore to be taken or ignored as you wish!"
Guyon's fist clenched white at his sides. A pulse throbbed amid the golden stubble on his cheek. The immense effort to hold himself in check and not to do her some harm made him tremble. Through lips drawn tight in rage, he hissed, "Don't you ever again suggest I think of you as less than my wife. Never have I treated you with less than respect and love, which I can only think now has been a mistake!" Seizing her by the wrist in a grip so painful that Brenna yelped, he hauled her toward midships where his men, after hastily removing themselves from the scene of their lord and lady's dispute, were busy erecting a small tent. The moment it was in place, Guyon shoved her inside.
"You will stay here until I decide what to do with you. Be warned, Brenna. Don't let me see or hear you until my temper has cooled or I will not be responsible for what I do!"
Gulping, Brenna subsided on the hard floor inside the tent. Never had she seen Guyon in such a fury. Even when she fled from Thorney in that misguided effort to prevent their marriage, he had shown more control. She needed no convincing that he was on the edge of violence. Frightened tears slipped down her ashen cheeks as she wondered why her simple desire to be with him enraged him so.
No answer was forthcoming as Brenna spent a miserable day inside the tent. Guyon did not come near her, but around midmorning one of his knights did reach inside to deposit a jug of water and a bowl of food. He said nothing, nor did he look at her. She was clearly in profound disfavor.
A little while later, after Brenna gingerly ate some small portion of the meal, the knight returned. He took the dish away, left the water, and added a blanket which she welcomed gratefully. The wind was picking up. Even inside the tent, it was becoming bitingly cold. Shivering, Brenna wrapped the blanket around her. The soreness caused by jostling in the wagon increased as the hardwood planks beneath her rose and fell. Try though she did, it was impossible to get comfortable. At last she gave up. Standing, she looked longingly out between a crack in the canvas.
Guyon was sitting at the oar. Hoodless, his hair glistened in the pale sun. Wearing chain mail under his cloak, he looked even more massive than usual. The hard, angular bones of his face stood out in high relief, but his expression was masked. Even as he automatically guided the longboat, his thoughts were clearly elsewhere.
The knight who had come to Brenna's tent approached him gingerly. They exchanged a few words. Guyon hesitated for just a moment before nodding. The knight went away, only to return shortly with a mug of warmed mead. He handed it through the tent flap silently.
Brenna smiled hesitantly, breathing in the fragrance of spices and honey. "Thank you."
The knight sensibly refused to meet her eyes. Even windblown and half-frozen as she must be, he had never seen a more beautiful woman. No wonder their lord had so rushed her into marriage, and no wonder he would not take kindly to any man looking at her too closely. "Do well to stay under the blanket, my lady." He advised her gruffly, withdrawing from the tent.
Brenna sipped the mead slowly. It drove some of the chill from her body but did nothing to ease the cold grip of dread inside her. Through the long hours of the afternoon, she had plenty of time to consider why Guyon might have been so intent on her staying at Falaise. During his illness, she had managed to block out the likelihood that his attackers were English. But now she had to give real consideration to that possibility. If her suspicions were correct, he was going into a very dangerous situation. No wonder he hadn't wanted her along.
Glad that her stomach at least was at peace, Brenna settled down to consider why anyone in her homeland might wish to harm her husband. She was no closer to deciding that when a shout from the bow alerted her to the nearness of land. Easing aside the canvas flap, she gazed out at a secluded stretch of the English coastland barely visible in the gathering dusk. There was no town in sight, much less a port. As the longboat drew closer to shore, she could make out a small band of men on horseback, apparently waiting for them. Brenna's surprise deepened as she realized all the men were Norman, most likely some of those who used King Edward's fondness for their land to secure positions at Thorney. Their presence was deeply resented and carefully watched by all the English lords, most particularly Lord Harold, who made no secret of intending to dispose of them as soon as he took the throne.
The absence of any native lords among the entourage, as well as the landing on such a deserted beach, alarmed Brenna greatly. Both seemed to indicate that Guyon was entering England secretly, in clear breach of all protocol. His manner, when he at last came to collect her,
strengthened that belief.
"Come on," he ordered brusquely. "We have to get moving."
Brenna kept sensibly silent as she followed him from the longboat. The knights were already mounted. Ignoring the startled glances of the reception committee, she waited as Guyon slid smoothly onto his palfrey. He reached down a hand to her. "There is no horse for you. You will ride with me."
Nodding wordlessly, Brenna was lifted onto the steed's broad back. Held securely against the iron width of his chest, with his mail-sheathed arm tight around her waist, Brenna had to fight to retain her composure. If only he would talk to her, express some willingness to forgive her impulsiveness. But Guyon remained stubbornly withdrawn as the miles passed and Brenna grew more and more weary. At last, when the combination of cold, dread, and exhaustion could no longer be denied, she slumped against him. Thick black lashes closed over her troubled eyes. A little sigh escaped her as she instinctively nestled deeper into his arms.
Guyon watched her warily. Only when he was certain she was asleep did his expression soften. The futility of trying to stay angry at her hit him hard. Much as he wanted to, he could feel nothing but worry about how he would keep her safe, and even some niggling gladness that she was with him. Courage she had aplenty. If only she might learn to temper it with a little caution. Smiling ruefully, he enveloped her in the folds of his own cloak. A soft sound of contentment reached him as she drifted into even deeper sleep.
When Brenna awoke, it was night. The knights and their escort were camped in a small grove of winter-bare trees. A meager fire burned, surrounded by a wall of shields to mask it from any curious eyes that might happen to be hidden on the nearby hills. The men were talking together in low tones she could not catch. Stretching gingerly, she bit back a moan of protest. There seemed to not be a single part of her body that didn't ache. She sat up slowly, instinctively cautious of the great looming shapes of men in helmets and armor. Though they clearly intended to stay there through the night, Guyon was not letting his men relax. Guards were posted, weapons were within easy reach, and an atmosphere of watchfulness permeated the campsite.
Brenna's movement, tentative though it was, brought quick attention. She glanced up, finding her husband towering above her. "Are you all right?" he demanded tersely.
Sore in every muscle and joint, she was anything but. Not for any torture, though, would Brenna admit as much. Defiantly, she insisted, "I'm fine."
A reluctant smile flitted across Guyon's hard features. Unwarranted burden though she was, he had to admire her fortitude. "Have something to eat," he said more gently. "We will rest for only a few hours before moving on."
Brenna did as he wished. Sleep had only partially restored her mind and body. She knew she would need all the energy she could muster to keep up with the battle-hardened, tense-faced men around her. Chewing the dried beef, she was unaware of Guyon watching her. The shadows under her eyes and the frailness about her shoulders concerned him. His mission was such that he could not stand any delay, no matter the reason. Sighing, he steeled himself for what must be.
Brenna remembered very little of the next few hours. She knew she dozed briefly, only to be awakened too soon as they once again set off. Mile after mile passed in a weary blur. They stopped briefly the following morning, long enough to see to personal needs and water the horses. Brenna's exhausted body protested as she was lifted back into the saddle. Without the added protection of cotton padding and chain mail, she felt the cold far more keenly than the men. Even Guyon's nearness did not warm her, separated as they were by a layer of metal. Added to her physical discomfort was acute awareness of how out of place she was among the band of warriors on a mission where no woman was welcome. Her husband spoke to her rarely and then only to give instructions. The other men ignored her altogether.
The second night since their landing was spent at an abbey run by a Norman-born prelate. Glad though she was for the shelter, Brenna could not help but notice the cautious eagerness of their welcome. The monks seemed at once greatly excited and fearful. Every move the small group made was avidly if surreptitiously watched. The abbot himself, after recovering from his shock at Brenna's presence, unbent enough to see to her comfort. Confined to the small guest house, the furthest within the abbey's precincts that any female could go, she was brought food, blankets, and warm water.
Left alone in the small, bare room, Brenna scrubbed her hands and face before eating as much of the frugal meal as she could manage. Curled up on the hard palette, she let down her plaited hair and brushed it vigorously. When the ebony mass hung in a gleaming cloud to her waist, she wrapped herself in the blankets and lay back wearily. Sleep came more readily than she would have thought possible, but proved fitful. Scattered images of mail-clad warriors, clashing swords, and a pervasive sense of approaching danger kept her from true rest.
When Guyon at last came to join her, having dined with the other men in the refectory, she was awake. The candle he carried shone on her white, strained face. Lying down beside her, Guyon observed her for some time in silence. He was still trying hard to be angry, and to impress on her through hardship the foolishness of her actions. But he could not bear to see her so distressed, especially when he knew far worse was to come. Sighing, his arms reached out to gather her close.
Long minutes passed before he spoke. When he did his voice was low and tinged with something very like regret. "We will reach London tomorrow."
Brenna said nothing, waiting for him to continue. In the hours before they reached the abbey, she had begun to recognize the countryside they passed through. Realizing that the capital was their likely destination, it was not difficult to determine how close they were. Guyon merely confirmed what she already suspected. But what he said next did surprise her.
"Edward knows we are coming, although not exactly when."
"Then why all the secrecy?" Brenna asked. "If the King approves your presence, why didn't you sail straight to London to be received by him?"
"Because," Guyon explained grimly, "powerful forces at the court oppose our being here. It's quite possible that had the time and place of our arrival been known, we would have been slain before ever getting near the King."
Brenna did not have to ask who her husband suspected of engineering such a plot. Only one man in England had the power and audacity to attempt such a subversion of royal will. But she could not believe the Earl Harold capable of such an action. Though he fought fiercely and with great success when he had to, he was far too subtle and wily to risk the scandal that would naturally result from murdering emissaries the King wished to receive. Harold had lived all his life under the stigma of his father's crime against Edward's brother. Of all men, he would surely wish to avoid any slur to his name. The stakes would have to be great indeed for the Earl to do what Guyon suggested.
But when she tried to convince her husband of this, he brushed aside her arguments with a single statement she could not refute. "Edward is dying. If my latest information is correct, he can't have more than a few weeks to live."
Shocked into temporary silence, Brenna thought swiftly of what this would mean. Edward had been king some twenty-three years. Most of his subjects, including Brenna, could remember no other ruler. Granted, his intense religious devotion removed him too much from ordinary people to make him greatly loved. But neither did he inspire hatred. Thanks in large part to the careful control of the Godwinsons, Edward's rule was generally benevolent.
The knowledge that he would die soon, therefore, caused some sorrow. But hard on it came the comforting assurance that the Earl Harold would succeed to the throne he already held in all but name. With his kingship essentially guaranteed, it seemed even more inconceivable that Harold would do anything rash. Other English lords, however, might not be so circumspect. Remembering the great resentment of the Normans who clustered so profitably around Edward, Brenna wondered if the attack on Guyon might have come from those who feared his recent bond of kinship to the Earl would give him inf
luence with Harold after he took the throne. Perhaps the Duke had also considered that bond and sent Guyon to England to safeguard the interests of his countrymen.
"I think I understand now why you are here," Brenna said slowly, "and why you did not wish to bring me. But I cannot help but believe you exaggerate the danger. When Harold takes the throne, he will certainly want good relations with Normandy."
Guyon did not comment. His arms tightened around her. Silently, he fought against the desire to explain to Brenna exactly how she had misread the situation. But he could not. Certain though he was of her love, he was not yet willing to put it to the ultimate test. No one, least of all a young and lovely woman, should be asked to chose between homeland and husband. Yet Brenna might all too soon be confronted with just such a choice. The possible outcome filled him with dread.
Brenna sensed the tautness in him but had no idea of its cause. Gently, she said, "Perhaps when we reach Thorney I should speak with Edythe. She could arrange a private meeting between you and the Earl. I'm sure if you only had the chance to speak alone, without interference, you could reach some understanding."
Guyon smiled into the darkness. How he wished his mission could be handled so easily. But there was no possibility of a meeting, private or otherwise, between himself and the Earl. The gulf between them was unbreachable and had been ever since that night months before when death had reached out across the miles to brush Guyon far too closely. Unwilling to mention any of this, he said only, "Your sister may not be at court. It's possible she remains in Winchester."
"But why?" Brenna asked anxiously. "Is she ill?" The Earl and his lady were never willingly apart. Separations when he went on campaign were inevitable, but Edythe always accompanied him to court. If she was still at Winchester, something was very wrong.