The first ringing of metal against metal drew others to the courtyard. The sounds of battle woke Brigitte from sleep, and she hurried to her door, fearing Montville was under attack. She gasped when she saw Rowland and his father in earnest combat. Brigitte quickly drew on her woolen mantle and ran outside, not even bothering with the hood to cover her unbraided, flowing hair. She stood near two soldiers and watched in fascinated horror as Luthor bore down on Rowland, striking blow after blow with his heavy sword, forcing him to retreat. Rowland was hard-pressed to do anything but counter the blows with sword and shield. This continued the length of the yard, until finally Rowland dodged one powerful downward swing of Luthor’s sword and began his own assault, forcing Luthor to retreat.
“How long has this been going on?” Brigitte whispered to the soldiers, her eyes on Rowland.
“Not long,” one of them answered.
But it became long. The sun rose and climbed higher, and the battle raged on, neither man giving in. Brigitte grew tired just watching. She knew how heavy a knight’s sword was. She could barely lift one with both hands. The strength of body and will it took to last this long awed her.
But the scene became monotonous as the two men crossed the yard back and forth, first one assaulting, then the other. Then suddenly the tempo changed, as if each man were drawing on a new reserve of power. Rowland’s sword swung quickly for Luthor’s right side, but in a flash it changed direction midway and struck to the left. Luthor was caught off guard. He did not raise his shield quickly enough, and Rowland’s weapon sliced through several links of Luthor’s mail into his shoulder.
Both men stood still. Brigitte assumed the match was over. Then, to her utter amazement, Luthor began to laugh. What kind of people were these? In the next moment, however, Luthor knocked the sword out of Rowland’s hand and his own sword pressed against Rowland’s chest.
Rowland threw his shield down, silently admitting defeat, and Luthor lowered his sword.
“Having drawn blood, you should have pressed on, Rowland,” Luthor chuckled, “not stopped to see how gravely you had wounded your enemy.”
“Were you my real enemy, old man, I would indeed have pressed on,” Rowland replied.
“Then perhaps I will take that into consideration and admit to an even match. Yes…for once we have no victor. Do you agree to that?”
Rowland nodded, then grinned. Gesturing to Luthor’s shoulder, he said, “You must get that tended.”
“I barely feel this scratch,” Luthor grunted. “Your own scrapes could use the tender hand of yon pretty maid.”
Rowland glanced around and saw Brigitte watching him. She was a vision of loveliness, her hair cascading in disarray over her shoulders like spun gold in the sunlight. She shyly lowered her gaze, and Rowland found himself mesmerized, forgetting his aching muscles.
But the sound of Luthor’s rumbling laughter drew him. “You strip the poor wench with your eyes, my boy,” he chided. “Can you not wait until you are alone?”
Rowland reddened.
“You do me proud this day, Rowland,” his father said. “You are a worthy son. Aye, you were a fine challenge, and I know your wound is not fully healed. You learned all I taught you and more.”
Rowland did not know what to say. This was the first time Luthor had ever praised him, let alone so lavishly. Fortunately, Luthor expected no reply. He turned and walked away, leaving Rowland staring after him, wondering. His father had changed. Perhaps he was getting old after all.
Brigitte and Rowland were alone in the courtyard, the others having gone to the hall.
“You have opened your wound,” Brigitte scolded.
Rowland grinned apologetically. “It was not intentional. Will you tend it?”
“I suppose I will have to, for I see no one else coming forward to do so,” she said severely.
“What troubles you?” he asked hesitantly.
“You!” she snapped, her hands going to her hips in an angry stance. “That foolishness I just witnessed!”
“It was just sport, cherie.”
“It was not sport. It was madness,” she retorted heatedly. “You could have killed each other!”
“We did not fight to kill, Brigitte,” Rowland explained patiently. “It was a test of strength, no more. Do French knights not test their skill in sport?”
“Well, yes,” she replied reluctantly, “but not so earnestly. You fought as if your honor was at stake.”
Rowland chuckled. “In a way it was. We do fight in earnest here. Luthor insists that everyone he teaches be the best. He is a master of war, and, in truth, I have never lasted so long with him before.”
“But you were evenly matched,” she pointed out. “Even I could see that. In fact, you would have beaten your father if only you had not stopped.”
“Do you realize you are praising me, cherie?” Rowland teased with a grin.
Brigitte blushed becomingly. “I… I…
“Come now,” he said with mock severity. “Do not spoil the only praise I have heard from your lips with a sharp reply. Be merciful for just this once.”
“You jest with me, Rowland. And you have conveniently changed the subject.”
“It was a tiring subject,” he said evasively. “And besides, we have wasted enough time here. I begin to think you intend to weaken me through loss of blood by keeping me standing here arguing with you.”
“That is not such a bad idea,” Brigitte said. “But come. My room is near.”
“No, I need a change of garments, and I have bandages in my chamber. If you will just help me there.”
“You need help walking?” Her eyes widened.
He nodded. “I feel as if I cannot move a muscle,” he groaned. “But if you will just give me your hand, cherie, I will follow you anywhere.”
“My hand, is it?” she snapped. “I don’t know about that.”
He snatched her hand and started for the manor. “Then you must follow me, I suppose,” he said as he pulled her along, mindful for once of his grip.
Rowland’s chamber was a cluttered mess, and Brigitte’s eyes flew from one opened chest to another, to the scattered clothes, the rumpled bed, and the crumpled rug. Dust thickly covered a marble-topped table and a single high-backed chair, and the walls were blackened with soot.
“Do you actually sleep here?” Brigitte asked distastefully.
He grinned. “The room was left unused for many years, and I did leave it in a hurry this morn. But it will not take you too long to put it to rights.”
“Me?” she gasped and turned on him.
Rowland sighed. “Please, Brigitte, do not start again. Is it too much to ask that you tend a few of my needs?”
Brigitte hesitated. He was asking, not demanding, and that was enough, at least for now.
After she had bandaged him, Brigitte turned toward one of the chests. Rowland grinned. He had Brigitte alone in his room, and for once Wolff was not with her. And she was even in a pleasant mood.
“What color would suit me, cherie?”
“Blue definitely, and maybe dark brown. I think you would cut a fine figure in dark brown.”
“Then you won’t mind making me a new tunic or two, will you? I have so few tunics.”
“I am not fooled by that innocent look. I will sew for you, if only to prove that I can. But do not think I mean to be your slave.”
The old brown tunic selected and the bandaging finished, Brigitte turned to leave. Rowland called to her. “I do not want you to run away yet.”
“Why?” she asked, her voice rising.
“Brigitte, calm yourself and stop edging toward the door. I am not going to rape you.” He sighed. “Do you fear me so much?”
“Yes,” she answered truthfully.
He frowned. “Was I so rough with you before?”
When she failed to answer, he asked, “Do you think me a harsh man, Brigitte?”
“You have been harsh,” she answered truthfully again. “Your manner leaves
much to be desired, Rowland, and your temper is too quick.”
“So is yours,” he pointed out.
She grinned. “I know. I have many faults. I am aware of them. But we were discussing yours, which you seem not to be aware of at all.”
He brought his hand up and caressed her cheek with his fingers. “For you I will change.”
There was a long, surprised pause, and then she asked, “Why?”
“To see you smile more often.”
“I have had little to smile about, Rowland,” she told him frankly.
“You will have.”
She drew away from him, her eyes darkening. “Are you toying with me?”
“No, I am most sincere,” he said softly.
He leaned over and kissed her, softly at first so as not to frighten her, then more intently. She was indeed frightened, and pushed against his chest. Rowland did not release her. His arms pulled her to him even harder. Where her breasts pressed against his chest, he burned. Where she squirmed between his legs, he ached. He was inflamed by her, but she resisted him.
His lips moved to the delicate curve of her neck. “Ah, Brigitte, I want you,” he breathed against her ear.
“Rowland, you said you would not rape me,” she gasped, straining against him.
“Let me love you,” he murmured huskily. “Let me, Brigitte.”
He kissed her before she could refuse, but Brigitte finally managed to tear herself away.
“Rowland, you hurt me!” she cried.
He leaned over to look at her and saw her bruised lips. “Be damned, Brigitte, why are you so frail?” he moaned.
“I cannot help the way I am,” she said in a trembling voice. “I was raised with a gentle hand. My skin is sensitive and not used to such treatment.”
He lifted her chin, then touched her lips softly with a finger. “I did not mean to hurt you,” he said softly.
“I know,” she conceded. “But you are trying to force me.”
Rowland grinned guiltily. “I could not help myself.”
Brigitte’s temper rose suddenly. “Do you dare to blame me again? My clothes are not wet and clinging to me this time.”
“No.”
“Then tell me what I did so that I will be sure not to do it again!” she said hotly.
Rowland laughed heartily. “Ah, little jewel, you are so innocent. Just being near you entices me. Do you not know how very beautiful you are?”
“You must stay away from me.”
“Oh, no, Brigitte,” he replied, shaking his head slowly but adamantly. “You are every man’s dream, but only one man’s treasure—mine. I will not stay away from you.”
“I am not yours, Rowland.” She struggled away and moved backward a couple of feet. “I will never be yours.”
Rowland slammed a fist against his thigh. “Why do you hate me so?” he cried in exasperation.
“You know why.”
“I have said I will change.”
“You said so, and immediately afterward you grabbed me again. I cannot believe what you say.”
“You judge me harshly, Brigitte. What happened just now was beyond my control.”
“Must I live in continual fear then? I want to know now, Rowland.”
He frowned darkly. He could not tell her truthfully that he would never force her again, for, although he did not want it to be that way, he knew now just how little control over himself he had where she was concerned. But, damn, he did not want her to fear him either. And it angered him that she should fear him.
“Well, Rowland?”
He turned away in agitation. “Do not push me, wench!” he barked.
Her eyes pleaded with him. “I must have an answer.”
“I will have to think on it. Now let us go,” he snapped. “It is time for a meal.”
Chapter Twenty
The hall was not as crowded that morning, but Luthor was there and called Rowland to join him.
Brigitte went to the cooking fire. A large room near the hearth was where food was stored and prepared. All the utensils for cooking were kept there; iron and leather cauldrons, salt basins, bread bins. Tankards and silver ewers were stacked on shelves, and a buffet held pots of tin, lead, and iron and plates of wood and lead. Spices were arranged on shelves, and barrels of grain stood in the back of the room. A large table near the entrance was filled with cheese and freshly baked bread just then, beside a huge cauldron of apple cider.
Brigitte brought a large portion of cheese and bread to Rowland without being asked, but quickly left him once she set the food down. She sat by the fire, where a gruel of barley and oats was being ladled for the servants, and accepted a bowl from Goda, along with a chunk of rye bread. It was servants’ food, but she did not mind. She was in too great a turmoil to care much about food.
As soon as Rowland left the hall, she asked Goda where she would find strong soap and cleaning materials, and she hurried to his chamber. She spent the rest of the day there, cleaning and straightening his things. He had few clothes, but valuable possessions filled his chests: rare glassware, jewels and gold, tapestries of eastern design, and so much fine cloth that she began to wonder if he planned to become a merchant.
His room turned out to be comfortable and attractive once Brigitte finished with it. The skins covering the windows kept out the cold, but still allowed light to enter. The rug on the floor was a novelty of fur pelts which warmed the feet and was far nicer than rushes. The large bed had feather pillows, linen sheets, and a thick eiderdown covering.
Brigitte saved the straightening of that bed for last, reluctant to even go near it. She could not help wondering how long it would be before she slept there. It was what Rowland wanted. He had made that plain enough.
Brigitte grew nervous as the light faded and the time to return to the hall drew near. It had been so much easier contending with Rowland when they were traveling. She had accepted his harshness and took refuge in her anger. But this was a different Rowland, one actually mindful of hurting her. It had thrown her, for she hardly knew how to behave any longer.
Brigitte returned to the great hall with a heavy heart, knowing full well what she would have to do. Even nature was against her, but that could not be helped. She would rather risk freezing to death by fleeing than stay here to await Rowland’s pleasure.
Even with the hall crowded, Brigitte saw quickly that Rowland was not there yet. She helped herself to a trencher of food and sat down on an empty bench against the wall, hoping to be finished before he arrived. She could serve him quickly and retire to her room. If what he said was true, and she tempted him by just being near, then she had only this night to worry about, for she would be gone on the morrow.
She saw Wolff by the lord’s table. Luthor himself was tossing scraps of meat to him. But when her pet saw her, he bounded over to sit by her, and she greeted him with a smile. Another hound approached, drawn by the smell of her food, but Wolff snapped him away and settled at her feet.
She leaned down and petted him. “I see you are being taken care of by the Lord himself. But do not get too fond of this place, for we will not be staying.”
He licked her hand and she frowned. “You will not change my mind this time, Wolff.”
Too late Brigitte realized she was speaking aloud, and she glanced up quickly. But she was alone except for Wolff. She looked farther to see if Rowland had entered while she was distracted, but he still had not come in for dinner.
At the lord’s table there was a handsome young knight she had not seen before. Her eyes rested on him for a moment, but he sensed her gaze and looked over at her, smiling. He rose and came toward her.
“My lady.” He bowed before her. “I am Sir Gui of Falaise. I was not told we had guests.”
Brigitte knew who he was. Luthor’s vassal, he had been sent to find Rowland and bring him home.
“Has no one told you who I am, Sir Gui?” she asked gently.
“I only just returned from patrol, lady,” he explained
. Then he grinned. “But this hall has never been graced by such beauty. It was remiss of Lord Luthor not to mention you.” His green eyes twinkled down at her.
“You are kind,” Brigitte said shyly.
“Tell me,” he smiled, “what is the name of one so lovely?”
Brigitte hesitated. He had called her lady. He thought her a lady. So why should she not tell him the truth?
“I am Lady Brigitte de Louroux,” she said quietly.
“Who is your lord? I may know him.”
“Count Arnulf of Berry is my lord now,” she said easily, as if no one would dare doubt it.
“You are here with him?”
“No.”
“Pray, do not tell me you have a husband who brings you here,” Gui said in obvious disappointment.
“I have no husband,” Brigitte replied, then decided to tell the whole truth. “Sir Rowland brought me here against my will.”
Gui’s handsome face registered surprise and confusion. “Rowland? I do not understand.”
“It is difficult to explain, Sir Gui,” Brigitte said, uncomfortable.
He sat down beside her. “You must tell me. If Rowland has abducted you—
“Rowland is not wholly at fault,” she admitted reluctantly. “You see, my father was the Baron de Louroux, and my brother after him.” She told Gui her story, and he gazed, in rapt attention, until she had finished.
“But Rowland is no fool,” Gui protested. “Surely he could see you are a lady, no matter what Druoda told him.”
Brigitte sighed. “There were many things that made him believe Druoda instead of me.”
“Rowland must be made to see the wrong he has done,” Gui said earnestly.
“I have tried, Sir Gui, truly, but to no avail. Rowland likes me as his servant, and I believe he prefers to ignore the truth because the truth does not suit him.” Gui smiled at that, for it was a fine description of his friend’s temperament.
The large hardwood door at the front of the hall swung open then, and Rowland entered. Brigitte rose quickly, beginning to doubt now the wisdom of what she had just done. But what really had she done but tell the truth? And Sir Gui believed her. He might become her champion.
So Speaks the Heart Page 12