So Speaks the Heart

by Johanna Lindsey

  “And what led you to me here?” Rowland asked.

  “The battle here, of course.” Gui grinned widely. “If I have learned nothing else I have at least learned that wherever there is a battle, that is where you are to be found. You must have as many fiefs as Roger, after all your battles.”

  Rowland chuckled, and his eyes sparkled like sapphires. “I fight for gold, not land. Land needs caring, and I like the freedom to roam where I will.”

  “Then you must have a fortune in gold.”

  Rowland shook his head. “Alas, most was spent on women and drink, but I do have some wealth.”

  “And plunder from the Saracens?”

  “That too. Those pirates had silks and glass works, gold plates and lamps, to say nothing of jewels.”

  “And the battle?”

  “There were many battles,” Rowland replied. “The Saracens had bases all along the coast. But the biggest was at Nice. They did not make a good showing, however, for they fought without armor. They fell like peasants against skilled knights. Some escaped in their ships, but we plundered their bases and then set fire to them.”

  “I suppose I came just in time then.”

  “Yes. My service to the Burgundian duke is over. We can leave in the morning. But tonight, tonight I will show you a fine time, mon ami. I know of a decent alehouse by the north gate, where they serve an excellent spiced pottage and the ale is sweet.” Rowland suddenly laughed. “You cannot imagine how much I have missed my father’s ale. The French can drown in their cursed wine, I will take ale with the peasants any day.”

  Rowland strapped on his scabbard, sheathed his long broadsword, and gathered a long woolen mantle around his broad shoulders. His mail and armor were left behind. He had grown into a fine figure of a man, Gui thought appreciatively. Rock hard, firm and strong, Rowland was truly a man of war. Luthor would be proud to have this son by his side in battle, whether he admitted it or not.

  Gui sighed. Rowland had grown up without the love of a single soul. It was no wonder he was surly at times, bad-tempered and bitter, he had every right to be. Yet Rowland did have good qualities as well. He could show as much loyalty to one man as he could hate to another. And he was not without humor. In truth, he was a good man.

  “I must warn you, Gui,” Rowland said now as they entered the city. “Roger of Mezidon has also discovered the merits of the alehouse where we are going, for a certain maid has caught his interest there.”

  “And yours, too, no doubt,” Gui remarked in amusement. “You and he always were attracted to the same women. Did you compete over this one?”

  Rowland grimaced, the memory recent. “Yes, we fought. But the sly varlet took me unawares, after I had raised one too many cups.”

  “So you lost?”

  “Did I not just say so?” Rowland snapped. “But that will be the last time I fight him over anything so insignificant. Women are all alike and too easy to come by. He and I have enough reasons to go at one another without making women one of them.”

  “You have not asked about Amelia,” Gui ventured warily.

  “That is right, I have not,” Rowland retorted.

  “You are not curious?”

  “No,” said Rowland. “I broke my claim on Amelia when I left. If she is still free when I return, then perhaps I will claim her again. If not…” He shrugged. “I will find another. It matters little to me.”

  “She is free, Rowland. And she has waited faithfully for you for these six years.”

  “I did not bid her do so.”

  “Nonetheless, she has. The girl hopes for marriage with you, and even Luthor is not opposed. Already he treats her like a daughter.”

  Rowland stopped and scowled. “She knows I have no inclination to marry. What did marriage do for my father but give him two nagging daughters and a shrew for a wife?”

  “You cannot compare all women to your stepmother,” Gui pointed out. “Surely your travels in France have shown you that all women are not the same.”

  “On the contrary. I know a woman can have sweet words when she wants something, and that otherwise she is a bitch. No, I want no wife nagging at me. I would sooner rot in hell than marry.”

  “You are being foolish, Rowland,” Gui risked. “I know you have said this before, but I thought you would have changed your mind. You should marry. You will want a son one day. You must leave Montville to someone.”

  “I will no doubt have a bastard or two. I need not marry for that.”

  “But—”

  Rowland’s dark blue eyes narrowed. “I feel strongly about this, Gui, so do not prick me about it.”

  “Very well,” Gui sighed. “But what of Amelia?”

  “She knew how I felt when she came to my bed. She is a fool if she thought I would reconsider.” They started walking again, and Rowland’s tone lightened. “Besides, she is the last woman I would recommend for a wife. Comely she is and finely shaped, but fickle. Roger had her before me, and no doubt many others before him. You have probably tasted her yourself. Come now, and admit it.”

  Gui’s face reddened, and he quickly changed the subject. “How much farther to this alehouse?”

  Rowland laughed heartily at Gui’s discomfort and slapped him on the back. “Relax, mon ami. No woman is worth fighting a friend over. You can have any woman I have, with my blessings. As I said before, they are all the same and too easy to come by, including Amelia. And as to your question, the alehouse is just up ahead.”

  Rowland pointed to a building at the end of the street. Two knights were leaving, and they waved to Rowland.

  “They fought by my side in the last battle,” Rowland explained. “Burgundians from Lyons. It seems the whole country has contributed to the ousting of the Saracens. Even Saxons sent their knights.”

  “Would that I had come sooner,” Gui said wistfully.

  Rowland chuckled. “Have you yet to taste your first battle? Surely Luthor has not been idle all these years?”

  “Nay, but only skirmishes with brigands.”

  “Then you must be looking forward to the confrontation with Thurston.”

  Gui grinned as they reached the alehouse. “In truth, I have not given it much thought. The only thing on my mind since I left home was what I would do if you refused to come back, for then I could not return either.”

  “Then you must be much relieved, eh?”

  “To be sure.” Gui laughed. “I would rather face the devil than Luthor’s displeasure.”

  They went inside and found the alehouse crowded with knights drinking alongside their squires and men-at-arms. The alehouse was large, at least two hundred feet square, and made of stone. It was full. Men stood near the great fireplace in which meat was roasting, or stood in groups talking. There were twenty hardwood tables with stone benches, and most were filled. Despite the presence of two doors, one at each end of the large room, the place was smoky and very warm. Nearly all the knights wore leather and mail, and their squires wore leather. No one seemed comfortable.

  At home, away from battle, Rowland and his neighbors, Gui and Roger and Thurston and Geoffrey, all favored the three-sided cape over under-shirting and leathers. Fastened on one shoulder, it allowed free access to the sword these men always wore, but was not nearly as cumbersome as mail or a leather overtunic. Rowland did sometimes prefer the tunic, however, as he had never quite gotten used to the cape. It seemed womanish, and the fact that Roger of Mezidon postured so in his made the garment even more suspect in Rowland’s eyes.

  Roger of Mezidon was there, with two of his vassals and their squires. Gui had traveled without his squire, and Rowland’s squire had fallen under a Saracen’s scimitar and had not been replaced.

  Rowland knew one of Roger’s vassals, Sir Magnus, who was a ward of Roger’s father. Sir Magnus, like Rowland, was twenty-four, and he had taken his training with Gui and Roger and Rowland.

  Roger, at twenty-six, was the oldest of them, and from their first days together, he had been the le
ader. He had been a bitter youth, knowing that, as a second son, he would have to make his own way in the world. He envied Rowland because Rowland was assured of having Montville one day, bastard or not. That a bastard should inherit while Roger, a noble’s son, would not, rankled deeply. Rowland and Roger competed against one another in all things, and Roger, being the older, usually won. He gloated every time. They fought and bickered throughout their youth, more than if they had been brothers, and the fighting did not stop with age.

  Roger spied Rowland first and decided to ignore him. But Sir Magnus saw Gui and jumped up to greet them.

  “By God, Gui of Falaise, the runt!” Magnus called exuberantly. “It has been years since I saw you. Did you not take old Luthor of Montville as your liege?”

  “Yes,” Gui answered stiffly.

  He bristled at the nickname given him in his youth and never forgotten. The runt. He was short of stature, and he could not change that. It had made him the brunt of jokes as a youth and an easy target for men like Roger and Magnus, who threw their weight around. Rowland had taken pity on him and tried to protect him, fighting often in his stead. It had made a bond between Gui and Rowland, and Gui felt that he owed Rowland his loyalty because of it.

  “And what brings Luthor’s vassal to Arles?” Roger asked.

  “There is trouble—

  Before Gui could get any more out, Rowland elbowed him in the ribs and broke in. “My father has missed me,” Rowland said lightly, causing Magnus to choke on his ale. Everyone present knew the statement was ludicrous. Roger scowled at the answer, and Rowland anticipated a battle sooner than the one awaiting him in Normandy.

  Rowland sat down on a stone bench across the table from Roger. A serving girl, the same one he and Roger had fought over, brought ale to the newcomers and then hovered nearby, aware of the tension her presence was causing and reveling in it. She had been fought over before, but never by two so brutal yet desirable men as these were.

  Gui stood behind Rowland, wondering at Roger’s black scowl. He was a handsome man with the distinctive blue-eyed, flaxen-haired looks of the Normans, but Roger’s face was etched now with hard, angry lines. He seldom laughed except in derision, and his smile was always closer to a sneer. Rowland and Roger were much alike in stature, both brawny, well-fit young men of considerable height. But Rowland’s countenance was not as hard as Roger’s. Handsome by any standards, Rowland also retained a sense of humor and a hint of kindness.

  “So your father misses you, does he?” Roger remarked laconically. “But why send a knight to call you home, when any lackey could have found you?”

  “You show an untoward interest in my affairs, Roger,” Rowland said flatly.

  Roger offered a sarcastic grin. “My brother has married your sister,” he said, reaching for the serving girl and pulling her onto his lap with a sideways glance at Rowland. “A mismatch, I do believe.”

  “I hope you do not think that makes us kin,” Rowland growled.

  “I would not claim kinship with a bastard!” Roger spat.

  The silence was heavy. Then Roger’s derisive laughter filled the room. “What? You have no reply, Rowland?” Roger goaded. Hugging the girl he held on his lap, he added, “The bastard has lost his nerve since I defeated him.”

  An explosion ought to have accompanied the sudden blaze that appeared in Rowland’s eyes, but he spoke calmly. “A bastard I am, that’s well known. But a coward, Roger? I had begun to suspect that of you. The last time you attacked me, you made sure I was besotted with drink before you fought me.” Roger started to rise, throwing off the girl, but Rowland’s sharp gaze impaled him. “I was wrong, Roger. You are not a coward. You tempt death with your words, and you do so with purpose.”

  “Rowland, no!” Gui gasped, and he tried to stop his friend from rising.

  But the volcano inside Rowland could not be stopped. He shoved Gui aside, stood, and drew his sword, moving so quickly that he pushed the stone slab bench from its supports. It crashed to the floor. scattering the others.

  The attention of the whole room was on the combatants, but Rowland and Roger were oblivious to everything but each other. In an act of bravado, Roger swiped the table clean of ale. But the ale splattered over a drunken knight, and the man attacked Roger before Rowland could.

  Rowland waited impatiently, his anger simmering, but he did not wait long. The combat between Roger and the knight sparked others to fight, and in moments the room was a battlefield. Drunken warriors attacked, while sober ones defended. Two soldiers attacked Rowland without cause, and he lost sight of Roger in the confusion. Gui came to his aid and the two friends made short work of their foes.

  Rowland was about to turn to search out Roger when, behind him, he heard the sharp clang of steel. He turned to see Roger standing, surprised, his sword knocked out of his hand. Beside him was a knight Rowland did not recognize. The stranger faced Rowland and was about to speak when suddenly Roger retrieved his sword and ran the man through.

  Rowland was too outraged to move against his old enemy. Before he could recover, a sodden squire came upon Roger from behind and bent the flat edge of his sword over his head. Roger crumbled at Rowland’s feet, next to the knight he had wounded.

  “Leave him, Rowland.” Gui stayed his hand.

  Rowland glared at him. “Did you not see? He meant to run me through the back, and this good man prevented him.”

  “I saw Roger approach you, Rowland, that is all. Surely he would have given warning before he struck.”

  “I know Roger better than you, Gui, and I say his intent was to kill me without warning,” Rowland growled.

  “Then challenge him when he recovers,” Gui beseeched him earnestly. “But do not resort to murder. Let it go for now.”

  Rowland had never killed a helpless man, and he agreed. He bent over the knight who had come to his aid, who had probably saved his life.

  “This man is still alive, Gui,” he cried. “We will take him to the surgeon at my camp.”

  Gui hesitated. “What of Roger?”

  “Leave him,” Rowland said in disgust. “One of these men here may run him through and save me the trouble.”

  Chapter Three

  Rowland waited anxiously outside the physician’s tent. Gui paced the ground near him, vexed.

  “It has been three days, Rowland,” he said impatiently. “If the man dies, he dies. You can do nothing to help him.”

  Rowland stared at Gui irritably. They had been through this once already, earlier that same day.

  “We must be on our way, Rowland. Roger crept off in the night, so you cannot challenge him now. As it is, we will not reach home before the first snow.”

  “A few more days will not matter.”

  “But you do not even know this man.”

  “Your impatience does you no credit, Gui. I am indebted to the man.”

  “You cannot be sure of that.”

  “I can.”

  Finally the tent flap opened, and the Duke’s physician approached the two men wearily.

  “He was conscious for a few moments, but it’s too soon to know if he will live. The flow of blood has ceased, but I can do very little for the injuries inside him.”

  “Did he speak?”

  The physician nodded. “He woke and thought he was in a fishing village. I believe he spent many weeks on the coast recovering from injuries.”

  Rowland frowned. “Injuries?”

  The physician shook his head. “That young man must be cursed. To be left to the mercy of peasants. He barely survived. He claims he did not awaken for a week, and that he could not move or speak for many more weeks. He took a bad blow on the head.”

  “Who is he?” asked Rowland anxiously.

  “Sir Rowland, the man is gravely wounded. I did not press him, I only listened to what he volunteered. He was in a frantic state. When I insisted he could not get up, he tried to explain about the injury. He said something about a sister, his worry over her, but he collapsed bef
ore he could tell me what it was about. He was quite upset.”

  “May I see him?”

  “He is unconscious again.”

  “I will wait in the tent until he awakens. I must speak with him.”

  “Very well.”

  Gui continued his urgings after the doctor left. “There, the leecher does not seem overly worried. Let us leave for home. You can do no more here.”

  Rowland had lost patience with his old friend. He was honor bound to stay. “Be damned, you are like a woman with your nagging! You are so eager to be off, then go—go!”

  “Rowland, I only see the urgency of haste. It may already be too late. Thurston of Mezidon may have attacked while I was away, before the cold set in.”

  “Leave now. I will catch up to you on the road.”

  “But I cannot let you travel alone.”

  Rowland looked at his friend sharply. “Since when do I need an escort? Or is it you do not trust me to follow? I can see you do not.” Rowland chuckled. “Take my possessions with you, then. Leave only my horse and armor. That should assure you that I will follow. Unhindered, I should join you between the Rhone and the Loire rivers. If not there, then just after you leave the Loire. Do not wait if I fail to catch up.”

  Reluctantly, Gui left, and Rowland sat by the cot in the tent for the rest of the afternoon. That evening his vigilance was rewarded when the injured man opened his eyes. He tried to sit up, but Rowland stopped him.

  “You must not move. Your wound will bleed again.”

  The man’s light brown eyes focused on Rowland. “I know you?” He spoke clearly in French, then answered his own question. “From last eve at the alehouse.”

  “That was three nights past, my friend.”

  “Three?” the man groaned. “I must find my men and return to Berry immediately.”

  “You will not be going anywhere, not for some time.” The man groaned. “Do you need the physician?”