‘But, Bruin...’ she spread her arms out, fingers splaying out, a gesture of futility ‘...I have no one.’
‘On the contrary,’ he replied, a generous smile consuming his features, overjoyed that he had found a reason to keep her by his side. ‘You have me.’
* * *
They ate hungrily, devouring hot meat pies from a market seller, Bruin handing over the coin for payment. Standing side by side, Eva watched him eat, licking his lips with obvious pleasure as he consumed the last morsel, giving the merchant more coin in exchange for more. ‘Do you want another?’ he asked, inclining his head towards her in question.
Eva laughed. ‘No, thank you. I have enough.’ She held up the half-eaten pie in her hand, pleasure suffusing her heart, happy that they would be together, in each other’s company, for a little while longer. He was doing it out of a sense of duty; he felt guilty for what he had done to her, but she didn’t mind. But doubt niggled at her, worried at the fringes of her brain; she was the weak point in this plan. Was her resolve strong enough to protect her heart when she was with him? Or would his continued presence, and the memory of what they had done, carve the nub of her soul into tiny little pieces, leaving her wretched? It was a risk she was willing to take. The ruby was just an excuse. She wasn’t agreeing to this plan to retrieve what was owed to her; she was agreeing because she wanted to stay with Bruin. Just for a little while longer.
The pie had been wrapped in a muslin napkin; she wiped her hands on the cloth, dabbing discreetly at her mouth. She shivered; although the inside of her body was warm, nourished from the pie, they stood in the shadow of the buildings, where the air was chill. Ice slicked the cobbles, a treacherous surface; a merchant walking past, slipped, then stumbled, uttering a foul string of curses as he managed to right himself.
‘Bruin, thank you for helping me. It’s very kind of you.’
Kind. The word grated on his conscience. How could he tell her that he had an ulterior motive? He wanted to be with her. He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Steffen is out of control,’ he said. ‘Someone needs to make him account for all he’s done.’ His eye alighted on a horse and rider crossing the square; the animal was misbehaving, tossing its head, hitching to the right unexpectedly. The crowd parted like a sea, not wanting to be kicked by an errant hoof. ‘I should have been prepared for him to try something.’
‘Why?’ she asked. ‘Steffen is your brother; you didn’t think he was going to attack you.’
Bruin smiled ruefully. ‘He’s never been physically violent before. His attacks were always more underhand, more devious when we are children, fuelled mostly by jealousy. He was clever and our parents suspected nothing. And then, when Sophie died, I thought he had changed—for the better. He helped me, you see—’ His voice trailed away, beset with unwanted memories. A gust of wind snagged the swinging sign outside the inn; the gilded angel on the wooden board creaked to and fro, squeaking incessantly.
Eva clutched his fingers, a gesture of support. She thought of the woman in the bailey and the boy who was Steffen’s son. And she thought of Steffen himself, the way he acted around Bruin. ‘I fooled him, good and proper,’ he had said in the great hall. She stiffened, awareness prickling along her spine.
‘How did Steffen help you?’ she asked suddenly. Her voice was sharper than usual. ‘How?’
‘It was he who brought me the clothes Sophie had been wearing when she died; he who comforted me after she had gone.’ His firm mouth tightened. ‘Without him, I don’t know what I would have done.’
‘Did you see her body?’ Eva blurted out. A painful dryness scraped her throat, sweat sheening her palms. Sadness cleaved her heart; she had to tell him and yet to tell him would take him away from her for ever. For he would go back for Sophie and claim her for his own.
‘What—?’ Bruin growled at her, astounded. His head reeled back in shock. ‘She drowned herself, Eva, how can you say such a thing? She’s at the bottom of the sea for all we know.’
She toed the ground, her foot frozen within her boot. A numbness crept across her flesh. How to tell him about the woman she had seen; her suspicions about his brother, about what he might have done? ‘Bruin—’ Her voice was tentative. ‘I think Steffen might have done something awful to you, I think he might have lied—’
‘Well, that wouldn’t surprise me,’ he said mildly, sticking his thumbs into his sword belt. He frowned at the intense expression on Eva’s face. ‘What is it, what are you thinking?’
‘When the guards brought me over to the hay barn I saw a woman and a child,’ she explained slowly. ‘The guard told me that the boy was Steffen’s son.’ Bruin’s eyes burned into her, glimmering dangerously. Her breath wobbled in her lungs; she forced herself to continue. ‘He also told me that the woman was Steffen’s wife and that her name was Sophie.’
Her words lingered in the air. All around them, the whirling bustle of the market continued: the shouting of the hawkers, the smells of the produce, meat, fish and bread, mingling in the air. Dogs barking, the clop of hooves scraping across the cobbles, water sloshing down from an upstairs window, followed by a snarl of disgust from below.
Eva held his gaze. ‘If we are going back to Deorham, Bruin, then you need to know. A lady called Sophie is married to Steffen and I think she is the same person as the one whom you thought you had lost.’
Chapter Nineteen
His eyes bored into hers, brilliant chips of mineral light. Seized in a taut, suspended bubble, the silence stretched between them, Bruin’s face twisted in confusion. ‘Are you telling me the truth?’ Thrusting his hand through his hair, he winced as his fingers brushed against the wound. His cloak pulled apart with the movement, revealing his red tunic beneath, the wink of gold embroidery.
‘Why would I lie to you?’
Bruin’s broad shoulders slumped. ‘No.’ His gaze prowled over her, eyes gimlet-sharp. He knew her now. ‘But—I can’t make sense of what you are saying—you think you saw—Sophie? What did she look like, this woman?’
Misery flooded through her, a surge of unspent longing, coupled with regret. ‘She was tall and slim; her hair was blonde.’ Even to her own ears, her description seemed woefully lacking.
‘Which describes about half of the ladies in England,’ he replied drily.
‘Her name is also Sophie and she is married to your brother,’ Eva insisted. ‘It’s more than a coincidence, don’t you think?’
‘Possibly.’ A hint of reluctance stained his tone. ‘But if this is true, why was she not in attendance when he was ill? The child wasn’t there either.’
His reticence was puzzling. A questioning look crossed her face. ‘What’s the matter?’ she whispered.
Bruin wiped his hands on the linen cloth that had held his meat pie. ‘I’m sorry, Eva. You’re sweet and kind and I know you want it to be her, but it just cannot be her. Sophie is dead and that part of my life is over. You must have been mistaken.’ It was strange that he could speak Sophie’s name and not feel the shadow of loss drive into him. The sadness was still there, aye, and grief, too, but it was a blunted sensation, muted. He knew why. The woman standing before him lit up his heart and drove the unsettling memories away, like a bright sun burning away cloud.
‘I wanted you to know what I had seen,’ Eva said quietly. ‘Otherwise it might be a shock for you. When we go back, I mean.’
Her protective tone made him smile. Speaking as if she were his knight in armour, as opposed to the other way around. His saviour. And in a way, she was. His prowess with a sword and fists could only keep her safe physically. She was the one who had made his heart feel whole again, patching up the crude lacerations that had harried him since Sophie’s death, knitting together the torn ragged pieces with her gentle ways, and soft voice. Her beauty.
* * *
With a few gold coins, Bruin procured a palfrey
for Eva, a docile grey with white markings, splotches across her rump. He bought saddles and bridles for both of them, tacking up both horses with skilful proficiency, drawing up the girth straps, adjusting the stirrups for Eva.
‘Here,’ he said, pressing some coins into Eva’s palm. ‘Buy some food for our return journey, while I finish this off. I am not sure how welcome we will be when we show our faces at Deorham again. It might be best to eat something beforehand.’
The sun was higher now, flooding the whole market square with brilliant light. Squinting, Eva walked amongst the colourful stalls, eyeing the tempting piles of bread, the great wheels of cheese. At a stall selling all manner of dried herbs, foul-smelling tinctures in glass bottles, she bought an earthenware pot of salve for Bruin’s head. She procured a few bread rolls from a wizened old woman, whose back seemed permanently bent forward, and a square block of cheese.
‘Long journey, my lady?’ the woman at the cheese stall enquired.
‘No, no, just to Deorham,’ she replied, placing the money in the woman’s outstretched palm, gnarled fingers bent in like a claw.
‘That husband of yours is a handsome devil,’ the woman cackled, nodding over to the spot where Bruin tacked up the horses. She must have watched Eva walk over from that direction. ‘Make sure you keep a firm hand on him.’
‘Oh, but he’s—’ Eva spluttered to a stop, a warm sensation stealing across her heart. She savoured the feeling, revelled in it. Was this what it could be like? To be married, bound by the Church to a man she loved, and wander amongst the market stalls, knowing that she was safe, protected; that someone would always look after her? She gritted her teeth. Do not become accustomed to this, she told herself sternly. It is fleeting, ephemeral, and will be blown away when he sets eyes on Sophie again.
* * *
Bruin had finished with the horses by the time she returned, arms laden with provisions. He picked them out of her arms, one by one, packing them into his leather saddlebags strapped to the rump of his horse, until she was left with the pot of salve.
‘What’s that?’ He raised his eyebrows in question.
‘For your wound,’ Eva explained. ‘I know I haven’t had time to clean it, but if you let me put this on, it will help to stave off any infection.’
‘What—you want to put it on now?’ He smoothed his palm down his horse’s nose. His chainmail sleeve pulled back with the movement, exposing his broad wrist, corded veins splaying out across his hand. His animal snorted loudly, scraping one hoof against the cobbles.
‘I do.’ Her reply was emphatic. ‘The wound has been left too long already! I should have looked at it the moment I came into the barn...’ Her voice trailed off, halted by memory.
‘I didn’t give you a chance, did I?’ he murmured below the hubbub of the marketplace. A wave of chagrin catapulted through him.
Eva raised her shoulders listlessly, not wanting to dwell on his obvious regret. ‘You gave me the chance to say “no”, Bruin.’ She tamped down on the hurt, the sadness that wreathed her heart. ‘Please forget about it.’ Wrinkling her nose, she fixed him with what she hoped was a haughty, confident stare. ‘Let me look at your wound.’
Dutifully, he bent his head, allowing her to part the matted hair and inspect his split, bruised skin. How could he forget? Her fragrant body furling around his, the delicious scent rising from her neck, her hair, slippery satin. Why had she not pulled away from him when he had given her the option? Had she been hoping that he might turn out to be a better man than he was? That he would marry her? The thought did not stun him as much as he thought it would.
Eva rubbed a grainy ointment along the puckered lines of his wound, a thick paste that covered the broken flesh. The smell of the salve rose to his nostrils, pungent and acrid. ‘What is that made of?’ he asked, flinching at the overwhelming stink.
Eva stepped back, replacing the cork stopper on the earthenware pot. ‘I’m not entirely certain,’ she admitted, ‘but the woman assured me that it was an excellent treatment for wounds.’ The breeze caught the mud-splattered hem of her gown, blowing the material across his legs.
He smiled at her. ‘Thank you, Eva, for taking care of me.’ He couldn’t remember a time when such a considerate gesture had meant so much to him. Holding out his hand for the pot, he stowed it in his saddlebag. He turned back, mouth quirking in a half-grin. ‘Now, are you ready to claim what is rightfully yours?’
* * *
The grey walls of Deorham rose up forbiddingly, towering blocks of stone. Eva glanced furtively up at the castle, half-expecting a hail of arrows to come arcing down towards them. Intense fear gripped her solar plexus. A blade slicing across her flesh. ‘I can’t believe I’m coming back here,’ she said. ‘I must have been mad to agree to this!’
With the sun sliding down towards evening, she had followed Bruin back through the forest, her gentle-footed mare matching the pace of his stronger horse, and now they rode side by side up the stony track to the castle gates. The low evening light struck the tower windows at an angle, a white-orange flash that forced Eva to screw up her eyes. She saw the spot where she had crouched by the walls, from where she had watched Bruin spring out through the gates. Her teeth bit her bottom lip, worried at the sensitive flesh. ‘What is to stop Steffen and his men locking us back in the stables and keeping us there for ever?’ Her voice trembled and she shivered, the evening chill beginning to take hold of her body.
‘Me,’ Bruin replied. ‘He caught me unawares before, but I’m ready for him now.’ He touched the jewelled hilt of his sword like a talisman.
‘I wish I had your confidence,’ Eva replied, as they steered their horses towards the closed gates. Iron rivets studded the thick wooden planks in a criss-cross pattern. Bruin thumped on the wood with his large fist, the sound reverberating inwards, around the gatehouse.
A voice emanated from the inside. ‘Who goes there?’
‘It is I, Lord Bruin, brother of Lord Steffen. Open up, I must speak with him.’
A narrow door, the outline barely perceptible as it was set within the larger gate, opened. A head poked out: the manservant, Simon, face as pale as eggshell, skin covered with a greasy sheen. ‘Lord Bruin,’ he stuttered out, his hand fluttering across his chin. ‘Oh, God, something awful has happened. Lord Steffen is—he’s dead!’
‘What the—?’ Jumping down from his horse, Bruin grabbed the servant by his collar, dragging him up from the ground, so that the man’s arms dangled uselessly against his sides. ‘What are you saying? How?’ The man trembled in Bruin’s grip, pale eyes rolling wildly, his lips opening and closing, making no sound.
‘Speak!’ Bruin demanded, giving him a little shake.
‘His own man,’ Simon managed to stutter out. ‘They have only this moment returned from Striguil—’ he flicked his gaze over to Eva, apologetic ‘—and one of his knights ran him through, took the ruby. It all happened so fast—there was nothing I could do—’
‘Where is he? Where is Steffen?’
‘In the bailey.’
Bruin helped Eva to dismount and together they led their horses beneath the carved arch and into the dank, shadowed space, the horses’ hooves echoing loudly within the confines of the gatehouse. Green mould streaked the walls. A smell of something rotten permeated the air. Eva’s upper arm nudged against Bruin’s as they walked side by side. Emerging into the light of the inner bailey, her eyes rounded in horror at the scene before her. She gasped, stopping suddenly, fingers clawing at her throat.
Steffen was lying near the middle of the bailey, where the cobbles dipped down to a circular drain. His arms were stretched out either side of him, his legs together and bent over to one side with his knees drawn up. His eyes were open, staring and sightless. Blood seeped across the ground, leaking steadily out from his chest, soaking the pale blue fabric of his surcoat. A red stain. Beside him,
another man, a knight, his body sprawled at an unnatural angle, was also dead.
Eva struggled to comprehend the horrific scene before her, to make sense of it. Shock eroded the strength in her knees; legs buckling, she collapsed against her palfrey, gripping the mane. Bruin turned to her, his big shoulders blocking out the sight of Steffen’s body, and caught her by the elbow. ‘Go back,’ he urged, disentangling her numb grip on the reins and pushing her gently into the shadowed confines of the gatehouse. ‘I don’t want you to see this.’
He pressed her against the damp wall, squeezing her fingers: a swift gesture of reassurance. ‘Stay here.’ His silver gaze locked with hers. ‘I will deal with this.’ The cord fastening of her cloak had come undone; the heavy fabric slipped off her shoulder. Bruin hefted the sides together, knuckles skimming her chin, tying the cord with deft efficiency.
Eva placed her hand on his chest. ‘It might be a trap, Bruin,’ she whispered. Densely packed muscle rippled beneath her fingers. ‘Be careful, you know what Steffen is capable of.’
He nodded briefly, then was gone.
Resting her head back against the stone, Eva stayed completely still, fighting the roiling nausea in her belly, forcing herself to quell the reckless pace of her heart. As her blood slowed, her breath quietened and she opened her eyes, curious now as to what was happening. She peeked around the corner of the gatehouse. Bruin crouched over Steffen’s prone figure, Simon hovering beside him. Eva heard Bruin’s low, oddly inflected tone rap out a question and the manservant answered, too muffled for her to hear, jabbing the air with his fingers, making a point.
And then, cutting across this whole, surreal scene, a woman screamed. An animal sound, hoarse and shrill, echoing out from inside the castle. A door slammed back on its hinges and Eva saw her again, the tall blonde-haired woman she had seen yester eve, now running, stumbling across the bailey with her skirts held up, white veil flowing out behind her. Her beautiful face was twisted up, as if in pain, mouth gaping open in horror. ‘What has happened?’ She flung her hands out before her, skidding to a halt, gesturing at Steffen’s fallen body. Her movements were jerky, awkward, as if she had lost partial control of her muscles. ‘Sweet Jesu, what has happened?’ Sliding to her knees, her loose over-gown pillowing about her, the woman laid her head on Steffen’s chest, then grabbed his tunic, patting at his ashen face. An engraved golden circlet secured her veil; beneath the flimsy silk, her blonde hair was coiled into two plaits on either side of her head. ‘Steffen, speak to me! Steffen!’ Her eyes were glazed, unseeing to all around her except for the dead man.
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