Defiant Love

by Maura Seger

  Brenna's eyes, reddened by suppressed tears, widened. How much of that terror-filled night at Falaise did Guyon remember? Though he was deeply unconscious when she put the knife to his wound, had some awareness of her preparations somehow reached him? And if so, why did he seem disposed to tolerance rather than condemnation?

  All her doubts were written clear on her face, but she still did not shirk from the opportunity he offered. For Harold—and most importantly for Edythe—she would do what she could.

  From beneath her surcoat, Brenna drew a knife brought from Winchester. She had carried it for some illusion of protection. Now it would be put to better use. Using the knife, she cut a bunch of late asters, adding to the orange and russet pile a sprinkling of wild herbs. Some small distance from the grave stood a gnarled oak which for centuries had endured wind and storm. By standing on tiptoe, Brenna was just able to break off part of a branch on which a few leaves remained.

  Looking at her small collection, Brenna sighed. There was so much that should be there but was not—true weapons, a shield, gold, food, mead. So much a king should have to accompany him on the journey to the other world. But she had done everything possible. Carefully, she tucked the small objects beneath the shroud so that the Normans who closed the grave would not see them. She was almost done when Guyon touched her shoulder. Wordlessly, he held out a gold band taken from his own arm. When Brenna hesitated, unwilling to involve him, he pressed the ornament into her hand. "Take it. It is little enough to do."

  Afraid to let herself wonder why Guyon might be willing to do anything at all for Harold, who had after all tried to have him killed, Brenna nonetheless obeyed. She laid the band on top of the other objects before tenderly lowering the shroud back into place. Hesitantly, unsure how far Guyon's forbearance would stretch, she began to pray. At the first ancient words, he stiffened, but with surprise rather than censure. When no effort was made to stop her, Brenna gained confidence. So softly that the wind could carry no sound, she called upon the gods of earth and fire and water to protect and guide Harold to his rest.

  "In the Hall of Warriors," she chanted, "may he find welcome. May those who have gone before greet him at the door with food and wine. May the bards sing his victories. May his heart find peace and his spirit flourish. In the fullness of eternity, may all those he has loved become one with him."

  In the silence following her prayer, Brenna bowed her head. Deep within her was the conviction that what she had just done would not be soon repeated. With the coming of the Normans, the old ways would truly end. Even in that part of her that was thoroughly Christian, Brenna knew regret. There was good in the ancient faith, in the knowledge of healing and the reverence for nature. All that would be lost. At what price, she could not begin to guess. But she did know that the world her child would inherit would be far different from that which had spun out its last poignant moments on the cliff above Hastings. The only life she had ever truly known was over, yet she had to go on. If only for Alain's sake.

  Rising, Brenna fought back a wave of unutterable weariness. She swayed, only to be steadied by Guyon's strong arm around her shoulders. Together they left the cliff, pausing only long enough for him to give final orders to the escort. Back in the Norman camp, Guyon led her to his tent.

  His eyes mirrored her own fatigue but otherwise gave no indication of his feelings as he said, "I must speak with the Duke and attend to several other matters. Go inside and rest."

  For once in her life, Brenna was too exhausted to argue. All the fear and tension of the last ten months, coupled with the lingering effects of Alain's birth, combined to overwhelm her. Her face was ashen and her body trembled. She could think of nothing but the desperate need to throw off her burdens, if only for a little while.

  Mutely, she did as Guyon said. His tent was small and spartan, but to her it looked more luxurious than a palace. A cot was set up in one comer, covered by a neatly folded blanket. A chest held extra clothing and small weapons. His shield and the longsword he kept in reserve were propped against it. There was no sign of anything taken from the English dead, for which she was grateful. In the heat of battle, even the greatest lords were known to indulge sometimes in grisly trophies. But that was not Guyon's way. He had fought often enough for material reward without having to do so in his own wife's land. What lives he took had been only to preserve his own, and to advance the cause of the Duke he still followed loyally.

  A faint smile touched her pale lips as she noticed the sheafs of vellum peering from beneath a discarded tabard. Even here, Guyon could not relinquish his beloved scrivening. The sight of those pages reminded her of the partially completed book she had left at Winchester. Wondering if she would ever be able to finish it, she sat down on the cot and drew Alain from his sleeping sling.

  He was such a good baby. After being fed earlier in the day, he had slept peacefully through all the upheaval and torment signaling the end of an age. Lucky, as well as good, Brenna thought wistfully. She wished she too could sleep and wake to find the nightmare over.

  After changing Alain's damp wrapper, Brenna stretched out on the cot. The baby snuggled against her, waking just enough to seek her breast. Opening her surcoat, she gently eased the nipple toward his mouth. He nursed avidly for a few minutes, but was quickly satisfied. Barely had he finished when Brenna felt her eyes closing. She just managed to straighten her clothes before joining her son in deep sleep.

  When she woke, Brenna started up fearfully. For a moment she did not know where she was. The looming shapes of the tent, exaggerated by the setting sun, alarmed her. An unconscious memory of blood and death made her heart pound. When awareness at last calmed her, she sighed in relief. The sigh changed to a soft exclamation of surprise as she spied the basin of water and food brought into the tent while she slept. In addition, two braziers had appeared. Their glowing charcoal fires radiated welcome light and warmth through the small interior.

  A finger tipped tentatively into the water determined that it was still hot. Tempting fragrances rose from the bowl of spiced chickens accompanied by a mug of mulled wine. Brenna was a little uncomfortable with the idea of someone coming into the tent while she slept, but she banished her unease. Guyon certainly had servants with him. If they cared to minister to her needs, she would not object.

  Setting Alain carefully on the cot between two rolled blankets, Brenna made short work of the meal. Except for some salted fish reluctantly swallowed that morning, she had eaten nothing in the last day. The terrible events of the past hours would normally have destroyed her appetite. But Alain's claim on her body was still too great to be denied.

  Hunger satisfied, Brenna turned her attention to the basin of water. For the first time she noticed that a towel and fragrant soap were laid out beside it. Smiling at such unexpected thoughtfulness, she quickly washed her face and hands, then considered the possibility of a full bath. After so many days on the road, she had almost forgotten what it felt like to be truly clean. Hesitantly, she glanced toward the closed tent flap. Dare she risk it?

  Fingering the closure of her surcoat, Brenna went to the flap and peered out. There was no one in sight except a knight she recognized as one of Guyon's men. He had clearly been set there to keep watch over her. Reassured that she would not be disturbed, she hastily stripped off her clothes. Thanks to the braziers, the air in the tent was no worse than comfortably cool. Standing on a blanket, Brenna began quickly to scrub herself.

  A sigh of pure bliss escaped her as the water soothed her skin. Rarely had she enjoyed a bath more. After the worst of the grime was washed away, her movements became more lingering. Balancing a slender leg on the edge of the cot, she hummed softly as she ran the rose-scented soap all the way from her toes to the curve of her thigh.

  Alain's birth had left no scars on her body, she noted critically as she spread a hand over her belly. It was flat once again with none of the stretch marks she had feared. Her waist was still small. The Norman clothes left behind at Falaise
would continue to fit well. She wished she had them now. At least they were clean.

  The only changes she could see were in her breasts. Still high and firm with generous nipples surrounded by rosy aureoles, they were much larger than before. Her milk was copious and Alain flourished on it. She savored a moment of purely maternal pride before searching for her comb. When the unruly mass of her ebony hair was at last tamed, she reached for her clothes. Only to be frozen in place by a sudden sound from the tent entrance.

  "Leave them," Guyon directed laconically. "I told you once they don't do you justice." Coming away from his casual pose just inside the tent, he added, "Besides, I much prefer you as you are."

  Brenna blushed furiously. She fumbled for the blanket. The silken veil of her hair fell away, revealing even more of her body glowing honey-warm in the lamplight. Guyon's dry smile vanished. He stepped forward quickly, the small tent seeming to shrink with his presence. Hard hands grasped her arms, pulling her to him.

  "God," he muttered thickly, "you're even more beautiful than before!"

  The scent of him filled her—sweat and horses and the essentially male aroma that made her senses whirl. Afraid she would fall, Brenna instinctively reached out to him. Small hands clutched his tunic, beneath which the iron muscles of his chest rippled sinuously. Dimly, she realized he had removed his armor. There was nothing between them but a single layer of sun-washed linen. Her softness threatened to melt into his taut length even as Brenna moaned in protest. "D-don't..."

  "Don't what?" Guyon growled. "Don't hold you? Touch you?" His massive torso heaved from the overwhelming desire to bury himself within her. "You ask the impossible, Brenna. Nor do I think you really want it."

  He was right, she admitted silently. His touch kindled a fire she had almost despaired of ever feeling again. Nothing else mattered except being as close to him as possible. His big hand cupped her buttock, squeezing gently as his warm, tugging mouth sought her nipple.

  A low, keening moan broke from Brenna. She arched against him fiercely, unrestrained in her response. Her slender arms wrapped strongly around his neck, fingers tangling in the mass of golden hair. A tremor began in her stomach and rippled outward. Trembling uncontrollably, she moved her hips against him, relishing the proof of his desire.

  Guyon stiffened. His mouth ceased its delightful play on her nipple as he abruptly raised his head. A dark flush spread over his high-boned cheeks. A stab of frustration so acute as to be painful darted through Brenna. She stared at him in bewilderment. "G-Guyon... why...?"

  The amber eyes fell, drawing her own down to the aroused peak on which a few drops of milk shone opalescently. "I didn't mean..." Guyon began harshly. "God! For a moment I actually forgot. The baby..."

  It was Brenna's turn to draw away. His sudden mention of the child was like a draught of ice water thrown over her heated flesh. Dismally she remembered the moment in the Duke's tent when he questioned the child's birth date. Tearing herself from his arms, Brenna wrapped herself quickly in the blanket. It was flimsy protection indeed from Guyon's wrath, but all that was available to her. Not until she was completely covered did she face him again.

  Her head high, the glorious ebony hair spilling over her shoulders, Brenna said firmly. "The baby is yours, my lord. He was born two weeks ago, about ten days overdue. I cherish the memory of his conception, but you may choose to doubt me. If so, you deny your own son."

  Her husband's look of stupefied bewilderment finally silenced her. For a long moment they stared at each other, comprehension slowly dawning on Guyon's face even as Brenna became increasingly puzzled. When he suddenly smiled, a beaming grin that reached clear to his eyes, her mouth dropped open.

  "You thought," he chided gently, "that I believed you unfaithful? That I didn't think the child is mine? How could you be so foolish? I would have to be blind not to see how he resembles me. But far more than that, I would have to be of little honor myself to doubt yours."

  "B-but... he was conceived so soon before we parted... and then born late..." Brenna faltered, "...so that I feared... considering the circumstances of our parting..."

  "Oh, yes, our parting." Crossing the small distance between them, Guyon took her once again into his arms. He held her a little way apart so that he could look into her eyes as he said, "I have thought about that quite alot these last months." His smile became self-deprecating. "There we had just shared what was to me at least a remarkably beautiful and moving experience. You had endured great hardship to be with me, which made me admire and love you even more. Your words, your gestures, everything about you spoke of your profound desire to stay with me. Then suddenly you were gone."

  "I can explain," Brenna began, only to be cut off by Guyon's gentle kiss.

  "You don't have to. After I ranted and raved for several days, the truth began to penetrate. I realized the English troops had been about to discover us when you distracted them. I tried to go after you, only to be stopped by my men." He laughed ruefully. "They hit me over the head. By the time I regained consciousness, we were back in Normandy.

  For a while, all I wanted to do was slay them. Finally, I had to accept the fact that if I had gone after you, I would only have succeeded in getting myself killed and further endangering you." A husky note entered his voice as he concluded, "You cannot know what these months have cost me, Brenna. It was bad enough during the days, but at night all I could do was lie awake longing for you. Every time the Duke sent one of his messages to London, I had to fight the urge to include a letter to you. All our reports said that Harold was getting angrier and angrier, as William intended. I feared any reminder of our marriage might worsen your situation."

  "I longed for you, too," Brenna admitted tearfully, all her doubts about his actions since their separation dissolving rapidly. "Only the knowledge that I carried your child kept me sane. For a while, I feared we might never see each other again. Then when all the talk of invasion started, I lived in dread that you might be killed. Finally, after Alain was born late, I thought you might repudiate us."

  "Oh, Brenna," Guyon groaned, clasping her tightly. "There's been so much pain and misunderstanding. And now, we may be farther apart than ever." He hesitated, as though unwilling to say the words, but finally murmured, "I prayed that William would give up his idea of invasion. I hoped for some diplomatic settlement that would allow our peoples to live in peace. But he was adamant. He believes it is his destiny to rule England, and he would not let anything or anyone stand in his way. When I realized he could not be deterred, I had to go along, if only for the chance to protect you. Believe me, Brenna," he pleaded, "I at least have not come as a conqueror. I did not want the death of your kinsmen or the subjugation of your land. But after what you have seen here, I will not blame you if you regard me as an enemy."

  Brenna leaned back in his arms far enough to stare into his amber eyes. What she saw there made her breath catch in her throat. Never had she witnessed such love, or such fear. Guyon truly believed she might hate him. The embarrassment she had been feeling for her own foolish thoughts faded a little. She was not the only one who needed to learn more about trusting as a part of loving. Very softly, so that he had to lean closer to hear her, she whispered, "You haven't asked me your son's name."

  Whatever he had expected her to say, it was not that. Blinking back his surprise, Guyon said, "Whatever you have chosen is fine with me."

  "Good," Brenna informed him, smiling now. "Our son is named Alain." She paused, waiting to see if he understood.

  Guyon did. It took a moment, but then the meaning of that ancient Celtic word surfaced in his mind. Harmony. The melding of diverse elements to create a new and greater whole. Slowly the tension began to ease from his body, to be replaced by joyful relief. Staring into her sea green eyes, he saw all his own love reflected there. A love that now encompassed the child they had made together.

  "Brenna..." the sound was a breath of exaltation sent soaring on the wind. It was matched by the triumphant beat of
their hearts merging into one. Nothing now could come between them. No matter what lay ahead, the love born in passion and proven in pain would carry them through. Soon the winter snows would drift over the battlefield, hiding its scars. With the coming of spring, life would blossom anew. Different this time because of what had happened on the blood-soaked meadow above Hastings. Yet eternally the same.

  Holding his wife's gaze tenderly with his own, Guyon glanced toward the cot where their son slept peacefully. It was too narrow for them anyway. Gently unwinding the blanket from her, he spread it on the floor. Brenna's hands went eagerly to the ties of his tunic. When they were both naked, their eyes wandered over each other adoringly. For a long, sweet moment, it was enough simply to reaffirm that they were alive, whole, and in love.

  Then the need to touch became overwhelming and they reached out together. The blanket received them gently. There on the floor of Guyon's tent, as the night sentries called the watch and the Channel winds blew through the gnarled oak trees, they welcomed a new world that though born in blood would grow to nurture justice and freedom.

  MAURA SEGER has been writing stories since childhood, but only recently decided to make it a full-time career. She lives in Connecticut with her husband, Michael, whose support and encouragement she credits for helping her fulfill a lifelong dream. Defiant Love is her first historical romance.