So Speaks the Heart

by Johanna Lindsey

  “What is it?” she asked hesitantly when he still made no move to leave. “I am ready.”

  He sighed. “Are you as ignorant as you seem, or do you provoke me intentionally?”

  “Provoke you how?”

  “You must hold onto me, damosel, or you will find yourself in the dust.”

  “Oh!” Brigitte’s face reddened, and she was thankful that he couldn’t see her. “But I cannot reach my arms around you. My sack of clothes hinders me.”

  “Grab hold of my hauberk,” he said cuttingly, then looked over his shoulder and said even more harshly, “And I warn you, do not let go. If you fall from your seat and break any part of your body, I will not be detained to attend you.”

  “And if my injuries make riding impossible?” she asked, shocked.

  “I will put you out of your misery.

  She gasped. “I am not an animal, to be destroyed when injured!”

  “Do not put it to the test.”

  Brigitte was too shocked to pursue the subject. With great reluctance, she took hold of his mail shirt. The second she did, he was off. He rode swiftly through the open gate and on through the village. Holding fast, she could not wave at the serfs who waved at her as she galloped by.

  Rowland’s pace quickened when they reached the road. He seemed to want to leave the area as quickly as she did. Her spirits rose when he turned north toward Orleans, for Maine was north. It was unfortunate that Arnulf was not in Berry, for the less time she spent with this knight the better. Maine was many days away, and there was nothing she could do about that.

  Ah, but it would be good to see Arnulf again. The old knight was truly formidable, but Brigitte was not intimidated by his brusque manner, for she knew he had a heart of gold. He would weep over Quintin’s death, and she wished it was not up to her to tell him, for she knew she would feel Quintin’s loss all over again.

  The road took them through a valley which was rich with crops all during the summer and fall. Cypress trees had been planted as windscreens some three hundred years before, for the valley was a treeless plain. These cypress trees were now bent and gnarled, and gave the Rhone Valley a bleak and lonesome look.

  While Brigitte anticipated her reunion with Arnulf, Rowland brooded. His anger was mounting steadily. The unwanted baggage behind him would cost him, yet she would give nothing in return, for he wanted nothing from her. There would be food to buy or hunt on the way, and her passage on the Loire River between Orleans and Angers to pay for. Worse, she would delay him, for his horse was burdened by the extra weight. Rowland’s homecoming would be hard enough, but this delay was going to make it much more difficult. He sighed with irritation and bad temper.

  The wide road cutting through central France was much more frequently traveled than were the numerous dirt tracks. There were many people going south, but only a few traveling to the colder regions of the north, so Rowland was not slowed by other travelers. But Gui was surely far ahead, having journeyed most of the way by river.

  And what of the urgency to reach home? Had Thurston of Mezidon made his move, as Gui feared? Rowland had at least a week of travel before he would find out. As the two galloped toward Rowland’s home, he felt his temper growing shorter and shorter.

  Chapter Ten

  It was midday when they approached a hostelry on the side of the road. They would not reach Orleans until the next night. The Hun could rest while they went by river, but after that there were more than eighty miles of land yet to cross before they reached Montville. Rowland’s horse was his greatest treasure, the best from his father’s stable. He was not used to carrying more than Rowland’s weight, and Rowland hated to burden him.

  There were a few others at the hostelry, which was an inn run by monks. There was a small village beyond the inn. One of the travelers had the look of a merchant, another was an old knight with his squire and a wife and two daughters. The third traveler was a pilgrim. Rowland nodded briefly to the three men before he rode his horse around back to a bubbling stream. He wondered what the others thought of him, traveling alone with a female. She was certainly not his squire, but she would make do in that capacity for the time being.

  He dismounted, then reached up to the girl to help her down.

  “Do you never wash, girl?”

  Her eyes widened, and he noticed that they were large and a light blue. The tilt of her chin indicated pride, something he would have to break before he reached Montville. An insolent serf would suffer greatly under his stepmother’s hands.

  “I am accustomed to bathing often,” she answered him softly, but her eyes challenged him. “But I fell last night before you stopped me on the road, and I have had no time since then to attend to myself.”

  “Make use of this stream while you have the chance,” he said curtly.

  “But there are people nearby,” she gasped. “I cannot bathe with strange men nearby.”

  “You are unlikely to draw their attention,” Rowland replied with deliberate sarcasm. “Be quick about it. We leave within the hour.”

  By God, she would not let him call her filthy again! She started walking upstream, where she might hide from curious eyes, but he shouted, “Stay where I can watch you.”

  Brigitte bristled. Did he think she would be attacked, or did he think she would run away? She could hardly run away now. She needed his protection until they reached Maine, and Count Arnulf.

  She found a reasonably flat rock by the water’s edge and knelt down on it. She took off her mantle and rinsed it several times, then slowly and painfully bent to scrub her face in the freezing water until it tingled. Her arms were next, then as much of her legs as she could modestly expose. Last she unbraided her hair, stiff with dried mud, and dunked her head in the water. She could feel many eyes on her, and her face burned with embarrassment. But she had made herself clean, and she decided that if that hulking knight called her filthy again she would spit in his face.

  Brigitte opened her bundle of possessions and withdrew first the food she had brought with her and then her spiked comb. Her steel mirror showed her that where she had scratched her face there were no real cuts, only pink marks that would soon go away. She looked like herself again, she decided.

  A brisk wind helped to dry her hair, and the bright sun dried out her wet mantle. Brigitte hungrily ate Althea’s sweet bread and candied dates, and from time to time looked up at the tall knight in the inn yard who tended his horse and ignored her entirely.

  Rowland pretended to be wholly absorbed in rubbing down the Hun, but he watched Brigitte covertly, astounded by her loveliness. Washing had revealed the fine bones in her face, and her drying flaxen hair was a wonder. She had the look of an aristocrat, and he could understand what had made Quintin act the fool over the girl. He would have to be careful, he decided then and there, not to let her see that he was taken with her beauty. It would not do to give the wench the slightest encouragement. She was his serf, and she would never be anything else, Rowland told himself grimly.

  He was forced to remind himself of that when the three men approached him, moments later.

  “Pardon, sir,” one asked. “You have come from the south?” Rowland nodded, and the bearded man went on. “What news of the trouble there? Have the Saracens all been routed?”

  “Yes, the pirate dens have all been put to the torch,” Rowland replied, turning back to attend his horse, not in the mood for conversation.

  “You see, Maynard.” The merchant clapped the older knight on the back. “I told you you would not be needed. This is good news you have given us, young man,” he told Rowland. “I am Nethard de Lyons, and this is my brother, Sir Maynard. We have come from bringing a shipment of wine to the Bishop of Tours. And this fellow here is—”

  “Jonas de Savoy,” the pilgrim supplied. “I have also come from Tours, having visited the tombs of St. Martin. Next year I go to the Holy Land.”

  Manners dictated that Rowland introduce himself. He could not help grinning at the gruff old
man who had the look of a habitual pilgrim. There were so many like him, men who made journeys to different shrines every year.

  “We could not help admiring your wife, Sir Rowland,” Nethard said amiably now. “Not every man is so fortunate.”

  “You must forgive us, young man,” Jonas added. “It does my old eyes good to look on such beauty.”

  “The wench is not my wife,” Rowland explained before turning again to his horse, hoping they would leave.

  But they stayed where they were. “Your sister then?”

  “No.”

  “Your companion?” Nethard persisted.

  “She is my servant,” Rowland said abruptly.

  “But she has a noble bearing,” Jonas said, surprised.

  “Blood does not always tell,” Rowland said. “The wench was born a serf.”

  “A bastard then?”

  “I know nothing of her parentage,” Rowland replied, becoming annoyed.

  “Would you consider selling her services?” Nethard exclaimed.

  The man had Rowland’s full attention. “I beg your pardon?”

  Nethard de Lyons’s eyes twinkled. “Would you consider it? I would give you a fair price to have her grace my hall.”

  Rowland would have dearly loved to be rid of the girl, but he had given his word to Druoda. “I think not. When the wench was given to me, I promised that she would never return to this area.”

  “Given to you! That is unbelievable!” Nethard replied incredulously. “Her owner must have been a woman then, and jealous of her.”

  “A woman, yes.” Rowland took the explanation offered to him and said no more.

  “But you do not want her, Nethard said shrewdly. “I can see that. And a girl such as that one should be cherished.”

  Rowland grunted. “Even if she were Venus, she would be a burden to me. Yet I must take her with me.”

  Nethard shook his head. “A pity. Ah, that such a gem should not be appreciated.” He sighed.

  “She is comely.” Rowland scowled. “But she is still a burden.”

  “He is blind,” Nethard stated. After the three had offered polite farewells, they left.

  Rowland scowled, his eyes boring into the travelers as they walked away. What did these men know? Franks cherished their women and worshiped their beauty. To Rowland, that was foolishness. A woman was only a woman and nothing more. It was ridiculous to give her any importance. She was there to serve and that was all.

  Chapter Eleven

  With her hair dried and silky, Brigitte braided it into two braids. She tied up her bundle of possessions and reluctantly joined Rowland in the courtyard. He pointed her toward a bench in the shade of the inn and told her to wait for him.

  Brigitte was piqued by his curtness. She had expected him to make some comment on her improved appearance and was rankled because he ignored her. But she did as he bid her and waited patiently for him on the bench. The activity at the hostelry did not improve her mood, for too many men stared boldly at her, making her uneasy.

  Rowland had gone inside the inn for some food, glad that she had brought her own. It was but a few minutes later that a young man approached her. She would have been thankful for the company, but she learned quickly enough that the young man was a foreigner, English or Irish by the dark looks of him, and she could not understand his language. Still he did not move away, but continued to try to communicate with her, his gaze admiring, his manner pleasant.

  Suddenly Rowland appeared out of nowhere to tower above her, legs apart, hands on hips, a furious look on his face. He reached down and yanked Brigitte to her feet. She started to protest his roughness, but thought better of it when she caught his icy glare.

  “Do you know this man?”

  “No.”

  “Yet you bid him sit with you, and you spoke to him,” Rowland stated darkly, his eyes riveted to her frightened face.

  “I did not,” Brigitte replied softly. “Though I did not object when he did. I couldn’t understand anything he said, so it doesn’t matter.”

  “Are you always this way with strangers?” Rowland demanded harshly, ignoring her last remark.

  She answered quickly in defense. “I did nothing wrong. I was in need of a friendly smile.”

  “That is not what you are in need of,” Rowland said ominously.

  He did not give Brigitte a chance to reply, but gripped her arm and jerked her away from the inn. She was embarrassed at being dragged behind him like a naughty child, and tried to pull away.

  “I want you to release me!” she called to him loudly.

  Rowland halted immediately and swung around to face her, a look of disbelief across his face.

  “You want?”

  “You have no reason to treat me this way,” she said.

  “So your mistress was right. Your audacity is astounding,” he growled.

  Without another word, Rowland mounted his steed, pulling Brigitte up behind him. They took to the road again, riding as quickly as they had before. Neither spoke for the rest of the day. When darkness fell, Rowland left the road and entered a forest.

  “Why do we go this way?” Brigitte asked timidly after a while, unnerved by the darkness.

  “Your silence has been a blessing,” Rowland answered curtly. “I must find a place to halt for the night.”

  Brigitte was aghast. “You mean we will sleep here?”

  “Do you see a village nearby?” he asked cuttingly, his back stiff.

  Brigitte fell silent, all manner of disturbing imaginings coming unbidden to mind.

  Rowland stopped where the trees grew so densely that no light shone through at all. There was a small clearing, and he ordered her to gather kindling and place it there for a fire. She complied without question while he secured his horse.

  She thought that he had been unable to buy provisions from the poor monks at the hostelry, and she offered. “I have a little food left if you will share it.”

  “Bring it,” he replied before he struck flint to the kindling she had gathered.

  She laid out what was left of her food, and he fell to. She studied him warily as they ate, the fire crackling and casting shadows around them, making the rest of the woods seem much darker. She could not help wondering why a man so pleasing to look upon could have such a foul disposition. Were all Normans so gruff, so domineering, and so perpetually angry?

  “How soon before we come to Maine?” Brigitte ventured when all the food was gone. “I have never been west of Berry.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “I only wished to know,” she whispered, frightened by his intense glare. “After all, we will part there.”

  “I will hear nothing about parting, and, I warn you, do not provoke me.”

  “But you do not care for my company,” she pointed out calmly.

  “That matters little enough now! You were forced on me, and I am stuck with you.”

  “Why do you hate me so?”

  “Do you not hate me as well?” he asked casually.

  She looked at him in surprise. “If you think I hate you simply because of your rough treatment of me since we left Louroux, then you are wrong.”

  Rowland laughed, and his whole face softened. It was a far more pleasing face with humor in it. “So you think I am rough, do you?”

  “Certainly you are,” she replied indignantly. “You have threatened me, and you bullied me at the hostelry, as if I had no right to speak to whomever I please.”

  “You have no rights at all.” He was cold again, the laughing lights gone from his eyes. “Let us be clear, girl. You speak to no one without permission.”

  Brigitte was amused. “You are not serious. I suppose you cannot help the way you are, but you really do overstep your bounds. I am indeed grateful for your protection, but being my escort does not give you leave to dictate to me.”

  Rowland gasped and then exploded. “By the saints, she was right! She said you would put on haughty airs, but I did not believe you foolis
h enough to try your tricks with me!”

  Rowland had had enough. He knew he had to get away from the girl. He turned and stalked to his horse and quickly rode off in the direction of the road. A brisk ride might cool his temper.

  Brigitte stared after his parting figure in bewilderment that turned quickly to fear as the sounds of his horse became more and more distant.

  “What have I done?” she whispered. “Why does he hate me so?”

  She moved closer to the fire and drew her mantle tightly about her. He would return, she tried to assure herself. He would.

  The night sounds became louder, blowing in the wind. Brigitte shivered and curled up in a ball on the cold ground, pulling her mantle up over her head. She prayed for God’s protection, and then she prayed to Rowland of Montville.

  “Please come back,” she whispered anxiously. “I swear I will not raise my voice to you again. I swear I will not argue. I will not speak at all if you will just come back!”

  Finally the crackling fire drowned out the other night sounds and lulled her to sleep.

  Rowland returned to find her that way. He took a blanket from one of the packs on his horse and stretched out on the ground beside her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Rowland woke instantly, sensing imminent danger. He bolted to his feet, automatically drawing his sword and swinging around for sight of an intruder. The dawn sky made the dark shadows difficult to penetrate, and he strained but could see nothing. Tense, he stood utterly still and waited.

  It was then Rowland saw the beast sitting on huge haunches not more than five feet away from him. It looked like a dog, but Rowland had never seen one so large before.

  Keeping his eyes on the beast, Rowland nudged the sleeping girl with his booted foot. She sat up slowly, and when she moved so did the dog. He started toward her, loping gracefully.

  “Get behind me, quickly,” Rowland ordered in a harsh whisper.

  “Why?” She was alarmed by his tone, and when she saw his raised sword she whispered, “What is it?”