So Speaks the Heart

by Johanna Lindsey

  “If you value your life, do as I say!” he snapped.

  Brigitte scrambled to her feet and ducked behind Rowland’s broad back. She became truly frightened when she heard an animal’s threatening growl. Hesitantly, very slowly, she peered around Rowland to see what was growling. Even in the dim light, she could not mistake that form. She dashed around Rowland and stood between the man and the dog. Rowland stared incredulously as she hugged the huge beast, giggling as it licked her face and whined.

  “Have you some power over dumb beasts?” Rowland asked, more than a little awed. Was the girl a witch?

  Brigitte looked up at him and smiled brightly. “He is my dog. He followed me.”

  Rowland sheathed the sword and grunted. “I refuse to believe he traced you a full day’s ride from Louroux.”

  “I raised him, and he has been following me for years. He must have escaped from his cage last night at feeding time. He is quite intelligent.”

  Rowland turned from her without another word. He mounted his horse and without a look in her direction, rode slowly out of the clearing.

  “Where are you going?” Brigitte called.

  Rowland called over his shoulder, “With luck I will bring back fresh meat. Make use of your time and tend the fire.”

  And then he was gone. Brigitte sighed. The promises she had made last night were weighing on her heavily. But he had come back.

  She caught Wolff’s large brown eyes on her and smiled with delight. “Well, my lovely, you must be tired after your long journey.” She suddenly threw her arms around him and squeezed tightly. “Oh, Wolff, Wolff, I am so glad you came. I should have brought you with me, but I was afraid to ask. But you found me, and we will not be parted again. I feel so much better now. The Norman will protect me from dangers on the way, and you, my king, will protect me from him!”

  Brigitte’s fears had receded now that her beloved Wolff was there, and she laughed for the sheer pleasure of it. “Come, we must have the fire burning before he returns, for he is a mean-tempered man who does not like waiting. You must be hungry, Wolff.” She gathered sticks and twigs, Wolff trailing by her side. “I imagine you took Leandor by surprise and did not wait for your dinner last night. Or else Leandor let you go. Yes, he would have done that if he thought I needed you.”

  She continued chattering to Wolff as she had always done, speaking her thoughts aloud. The fire took hold quickly from the coals of the old one, and soon she was warming her hands against the morning chill.

  She had just finished combing out and then braiding her long hair when Rowland returned and tossed a fat hare on the ground before her. “Prepare it and save the skin to hold what is left after we have eaten,” he told her curtly, then he turned his dark blue eyes on Wolff, who was lying with his head on Brigitte’s lap. “And he must go. We don’t have enough food to share with him.”

  “Wolff will not leave me now that he has found me,” Brigitte replied confidently. “But you need not worry about feeding him. He is an excellent hunter and can easily catch his own dinner.” She took the dog’s large head in her hands and gazed into his brown eyes. “Show him, Wolff. Bring back your dinner, and I will cook it for you.”

  Rowland watched the dog lope out of their camp and shook his head. “You plan to cook for the beast?”

  “He is not a beast,” she reproached him. “Though his breed is unknown, he is prized for his size and his cunning. And of course I will cook for him. Wolff is tame. He does not eat raw food.”

  “Neither do I,” Rowland retorted. “Get busy.

  Before he had finished speaking a poniard landed in the dirt by the hare. Brigitte picked it up and grimaced at the job before her. She had recently learned how to skin animals, but she didn’t like it at all.

  But he obviously was not going to do it. He had sat down before the fire and started cleaning the javelin he had used to kill the hare. She supposed she ought to be grateful to Druoda for making her learn menial tasks.

  “What do I call you?” Brigitte said conversationally.

  He did not look at her. “Seignior will do.”

  “Seignior Rowland?”

  “Just Seignior.”

  “That is absurd,” she said, keeping her eyes on her task. “I will call you Rowland. And you know my name. I wish you would use it. I do not like being called wench or girl all the time.”

  Rowland’s eyes flashed. “So it begins again.” He scowled darkly. “The day has hardly begun, and already you are telling me what you will do, what you want!”

  Brigitte looked up in bewilderment. “What did I say to make you angry again?”

  Rowland rose, throwing his javelin down in a sudden burst of anger. “You provoke me intentionally with this pretense at being not what you are. You are a serf, and I am your master, and you will stop pretending otherwise. I gave my word I would keep you, and I am stuck with you till the day you die. But do not press your luck, or that day may arrive sooner than you think.”

  Brigitte was more stunned than she could let him know. Something was finally becoming clear. “You gave your word to Druoda, is that what you mean?”

  “Aye, when she gave you to me.”

  “She had no right!” Brigitte gasped. “I am not a servant. I have never been a servant!”

  “She also told me lies come more readily to you than the truth, and warned me against your flights of fancy.”

  “You do not understand. Druoda is my guardian, since my family are all dead. She is not my mistress, but my half-brother’s aunt. She could not give me to you.”

  “She meant to stone you to death, girl, and would have if I did not agree to take you with me.”

  “She might have murdered me, for you ruined the plans she had made for me.”

  “But you admit I saved your life. Give me peace, if for that reason alone.”

  “You have no right to keep me. I am a lady! My father was a baron!”

  He stood so close that his eyes seemed almost black. “It matters not what you were before. What you are now is my servant. You are bound to me, and if I hear you deny it once more, I will take a strap to you. Now get that meat cooked!” he barked. “We have wasted enough time today.”

  Brigitte moved numbly toward the fire, tears spilling down her cheeks. Hopelessness closed over her like a night sky. She was too weary even to ask him why they hadn’t stopped in Maine. She knew why. Druoda had tricked her about that, as she had lied about so many things.

  What could she do? If she tried to reason with this obstinate man and tell him how wrong he was, he would beat her. She could not endure another beating, not on top of the one she still suffered from.

  Rowland watched her, his temper simmering, until she glanced his way with an expression of such miserable desolation that he looked away, feeling almost remorseful. Almost, but not quite.

  Why did she cry and look so dejected? It was not as if her life with him would be harder than it had been before. He had seen the calluses on her hands and knew that she was used to hard work. She would not have to serve a large household anymore, only him. And hadn’t he saved her life? Couldn’t she at least be grateful for that?

  Rowland’s musings were disturbed when Wolff trotted back into camp and placed two dead woodcocks at Brigitte’s feet. He shook his head, silently conceding that the dog must have come from Louroux after all. One of Brigitte’s tasks there was probably to care for the animal. How else would it have done exactly what she said unless it was used to obeying her?

  With Wolff’s reappearance, Brigitte’s silent tears turned to loud sobs, and Rowland jumped to his feet. “Thunderation, woman! You have spent enough tears!”

  Wolff started howling with her, and Rowland threw up his arms in exasperation and stalked away from the fire.

  Finally she stopped crying, and Wolff licked away her tears. Drawing a deep sigh, she began to finish her task. Soon, Wolff’s food roasting along with the hare, she sat back and looked at her pet mournfully.

  “
What am I going to do, Wolff?” she asked, as if she expected an answer. “He has made me his servant, and there is no one but me to tell him he has no right to do this.

  “Druoda did this to me!” she said vehemently, her eyes bright with anger.

  When Rowland returned, the hare was cooked and Wolff had already devoured his food. They ate silently, Brigitte keeping her eyes on the ground.

  “I would speak with you, girl, and hope to put your mind at ease,” Rowland said gruffly. “You need not fear me as long as you do as I say.”

  “And if I do not?” she asked after a pause.

  “I will treat you no differently from any other serf,” he said flatly.

  “How many servants do you have?” she ventured.

  “I have never had a personal servant other than my squire, who died recently. There are many working in my home, but they are bound to my father. You are the first bound solely to me.”

  “You are taking me to your home?”

  “Yes.”

  While Brigitte considered this, he went on.

  “You will tend my clothes, serve my food, and clean my chamber. You will answer only to me. Is that not less work than you are accustomed to?”

  “Much less,” she admitted.

  He stood up and looked at her. “I expect obedience. As long as you do not anger me, you will fare well. Will you accept your lot and provoke me no more?”

  Brigitte hesitated, then spoke quickly, before she lost courage. “I will not lie to you. I will serve you as long as I must. But if there comes an opportunity for me to leave you, I will.”

  She expected his temper to flare again, but he only frowned. “No, you will not escape me,” he said in a foreign tongue.

  “What?”

  “I said you had best learn to understand Norse, for there are many at Montville who speak nothing else.”

  “You said all of that with those few words?” she asked skeptically.

  But Rowland did not answer. “Come, we waste time. The dog may come with us. He will make a fine gift for my father.”

  Brigitte started to protest, but thought better of it. Rowland would find out when the time came that Wolff would not be parted from her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  They did not reach Orleans before nightfall and had to make camp again once the sun set. Brigitte spent the long hours on her uncomfortable perch behind Rowland trying to convince herself that her condition could be endured for a while. After all, she was away from Berry, and from Druoda.

  A husband was what she needed, for, once she was safely married, Druoda would have no claim to Louroux and would not profit from her death. But to wed, she needed Arnulf’s permission—or that of his liege lord. The King of France was Arnulf’s liege, and that was the answer. She could go to court and be married before Druoda knew of it. She need only find someone to take her to the Ile-de-France and Lothair’s court. Then she would be free, and Druoda would be forced to leave Louroux.

  By the time they camped that night, Brigitte was so satisfied with her reasoning that she looked on her situation as a blessing. And the third day passed quickly, for Rowland began teaching Brigitte the language of his ancestors. It was not easy to grasp, but she learned several words and impressed Rowland.

  The days began pleasantly, for Rowland soon found that Wolff was indeed a good hunter. They awoke in the morning to find two plump hares and a wild goose waiting for them.

  Rowland was amazed and quite pleased to have the dog do his hunting for him. This put Rowland in so good a mood that he made friends with Wolff, and, to Brigitte’s surprise, Wolff liked him. Rowland was not so brusque with Brigitte either. The three of them moved along the road in a happy frame of mind.

  Their journey downriver began early on the afternoon after they reached Orleans, and Rowland’s disposition improved even more. Brigitte realized that some of his anger had been due to her having delayed him from reaching his home. That evening, after they had both eaten their fill, she questioned him.

  “Why are you in such a hurry?”

  She was curled up on deck, lying on her side with her head on her arms. Rowland sat by her feet, staring absently at the river.

  Rowland explained briefly, telling her that his father had sent a vassal to find him, and that there would soon be war at Montville.

  “Unfortunately, it took many months for Gui to find me, since I was in the south of France. The battle may already be finished.”

  Brigitte’s interest was aroused. “So you have only just come from the south?”

  “Yes, from fighting the Saracens.”

  Her eyes brightened. “I hope you killed many!” she said impulsively, knowing it was a Saracen who had killed her brother.

  “I did indeed,” he grunted. “But why should that interest you? The pirates only threatened the south. You were far from there.”

  “I did not fear for myself,” she explained, her large blue eyes sparkling with hatred for the man who had slain Quintin. “I only hope the Saracens are all dead, every last one of them.”

  Rowland chuckled. “So my Venus is bloodthirsty. I would not have guessed.”

  Brigitte lowered her gaze to the fire and sighed. What good would it do to explain how she felt? He didn’t care about her feelings.

  “I am not bloodthirsty,” she said quietly. “The Saracens needed to be destroyed, that is all.”

  “And so they were.

  Brigitte turned from him, putting her back to the fire, but she sensed his eyes were still on her, and she grew uneasy. What did he mean by calling her his Venus? Did it mean he found her more to his liking now? She prayed not.

  Feeling certain that Rowland still watched her, Brigitte became more and more nervous, until she remembered that they were not alone on the barge. Wolff lay near her. Her faithful dog would not let the Norman attack her. With that comforting thought, Brigitte slept.

  A storm threatened the next day, but did not break. The Loire was already swollen and would surely flood with a heavy rain, so they watched anxiously as dark clouds hid the sun. A strong wind helped to make the river uncomfortably cold. The wind also hindered their progress, and this darkened Rowland’s mood so that he was silent most of the day and cross when he did speak.

  He was angry with himself for being affected by the cold, for this was mild weather compared to what he had known most of his life. The last six months in the south of France had thinned his blood, and he felt this was a weakness in himself.

  That night turned out to be their coldest thus far. Brigitte huddled next to Wolff for warmth, and she did not even mind when Rowland came to lie beside her, for he blocked the wind from her back. What a time to be returning home, in the heart of winter! Warmer clothes would have to be made when he reached home. He hoped the wench could sew an even line, for that task would fall to her.

  He turned on his side, toward her, and discerned by her even breathing that she was fast asleep. He picked up one of her long blonde braids and fanned the silky end of it against his cheek. Her lovely features came to him even though he could not see her face, for he had stared at her long enough the night before to have her image forever in his mind.

  Rowland had recently felt the first inkling of pride in this girl. She was not only uncommonly beautiful, but she had a quick mind as well and had already grasped an understanding of Norse.

  She appeared to have accepted him as her lord and was willing to serve him. This pleased him, for it meant that he would not have to depend on his father’s servants. He remembered well that whenever he needed something done, the servants would be busy doing Hedda’s bidding.

  This girl would serve him well. Because of this, he was reluctant to take her to his bed. He felt certain that it would be a mistake to change their relationship. Rowland turned away from her and sighed, cursing the girl for being so lovely.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The storm had blown south without troubling them, and fair weather followed the barge all the next da
y. That day they came to the seat of the Count of Tournaine. Brigitte wished she could visit the monastery of St. Michel there, but their barge stopped only long enough to unload passengers and take on two new ones before they were on their way again.

  The two newcomers were tall, rough looking Saxons. The Saxon dukes had routed the Eastern kingdom from the Franks, and they now ruled Germany under Otto, a fact that did not please the French. These two had dark, weathered complexions and long, unruly hair the color of dried autumn grass. They wore tunics of thick fur, making them bearlike and menacing. They were armed.

  The Saxons kept to themselves, but when their eyes rested on Brigitte with unmistakable interest, she grew uneasy and moved closer to Rowland. He did not look down at her, even when her arm accidentally brushed his. For several days he had seemed to avoid her gaze, and she wondered why.

  Late the next afternoon, their sixth day of traveling, they passed the junction where the Maine River joined the Loire, and it was here that Rowland had them put ashore. Brigitte was reluctant to again take her uncomfortable seat on the rear of his horse, but, when she asked if she might walk awhile, she was denied her request. Rowland was determined to cover as much distance as possible before nightfall.

  Nightfall came quickly, and they stopped on the left bank of the Maine River, in a small crop of trees. With the river only a few yards away, Brigitte thought of bathing. As soon as Rowland left her and went off to hunt, telling her to prepare a fire, she raced through the area gathering kindling and left it in a pile. Then, yanking a clean tunic from her sack, she ran down to the water’s edge, grateful that she possessed some clean clothes.

  Directly across the river were deserted marshes, desolate looking in the blue light of dusk. Upriver was a black square shape floating toward Brigitte, and she froze, then quickly scrambled back up the low bank when she realized the shape was a barge. She hid behind a tree, cursing the delay. Wolff came and squatted beside her, and she absently rubbed his ears as she impatiently watched the slow-moving vessel. Finally she looked down at him and frowned.