So Speaks the Heart

by Johanna Lindsey

  She saw Rowland’s boots next to her, planted far apart. She looked a little higher, and saw his hands removing his belt. Still higher revealed the set expression on his face, and her own turned white.

  Before Brigitte could find the words to plead with him, Rowland’s belt descended on her back. She gasped and cried out. He struck her again, and she screamed. Far away she heard Wolff snarling furiously, and then he made a terrible sound as the rope stopped his charge.

  By then, she was curled tightly in a ball, cringing as she waited for another lash. It did not come, but she feared to look up at Rowland so she did not know that he had thrown his belt aside and stalked away, disgusted with himself and deeply upset. After taking a few deep breaths to calm himself, he came back and dropped to his knees beside her.

  Rowland drew her into his arms and she let him, needing comfort, even from him. Her tears dried, but Rowland continued to hold her, stroking her hair. For a long time neither said anything. At last, she moved away, and he saw accusation in her eyes.

  “Be damned!” he growled as he rose to tower over her. “Do you dare to be unrepentant?”

  “Repentant?” she threw back. “After what you just did?”

  “You led me a merry chase all day, woman. You deserved more than you got for it!”

  “To be found by you is my punishment, and more than I can bear,” she spat at him. Scrambling to her feet she faced him with flashing blue eyes. “But that means nothing to you. You want to make me suffer!”

  “I do not ever want to hurt you!” he said furiously. “You force me to it!”

  “Oh, of course, milord,” she said, just as furiously. “I am the cause of all my pain. I even beat myself.” He stepped toward her menacingly, but she stood her ground. “What? Am I going to beat myself again, milord?”

  “You are awfully saucy for a wench who has just been beaten.” He frowned.

  Her eyes grew larger. “Norman bastard! If I were a man I would kill you!”

  Suddenly he laughed. “If you were a man, cherie, the drift of my thoughts would be a sin.”

  She gasped and backed away from him. “I am a woman, and your thoughts are still sinful.”

  Rowland grinned. “You need not run from me, Brigitte. I have had a hard ride, and only sleep entices me at the moment.”

  Brigitte watched him warily as he moved to his horse for food and blankets. He returned to the fire and stirred it up before lying down near its warmth.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  She was amazed. He was behaving as if nothing had happened. “No,” she said tautly. “I have eaten very well.”

  “Ah, provided for by your pet.” Rowland turned and looked at Wolff, and his brows knitted thoughtfully. “Do you think if I got rid of that beast, you would not be so quick to run away again? Without him to hunt for you, what would you do?”

  “No,” she cried, sinking down on her knees beside him. “Wolff is all I have.”

  “You have me,” he reminded her softly.

  She shook her head. “You give me only pain and anguish. Only Wolff gives me comfort. I love him.”

  “And you hate me?”

  “What you do to me makes me hate you.”

  Rowland grunted. “Give me your word that you will not run away again.”

  “You would take the word of a servant, milord?” she asked sarcastically.

  “I would take your word.”

  She raised her chin proudly. “I could give it, but it would be a lie. I will not make promises I cannot keep.”

  “Be damned!” he rasped, throwing a stick into the fire, sending sparks flying. “Then I cannot promise not to beat you again, and the next time you may not be so heavily clothed.”

  “I would expect no less of you!” Brigitte snapped.

  Rowland stared at her furious face and sighed. “Go to sleep, Brigitte. I can see there is no winning with you, and no reasoning either.”

  Rowland lay down, but Brigitte stayed where she was, kneeling rigidly. After several moments had passed, she said softly, “There is one thing you could do, Rowland, to assure that I stay with you.”

  “I am aware of what that is,” he replied irritably. “But I cannot keep my distance from you.”

  “Not that, Rowland.”

  He sat up quickly, for she had managed to prick his curiosity. “What?”

  “Send an inquiry to Count Arnulf for the proof of my claim, and I will be content to wait at Montville for his reply.”

  “And when his reply comes and you are proved a liar—then what?”

  “Are you still so sure I lie, Rowland?” she ventured solemnly.

  He grunted. “Very well. I will send the message just to put an end to all this. But I cannot see what you hope to gain.”

  She smiled, deciding to pretend. Until the message was sent, she needed to keep him believing that he was right. “It’s simple. If you send the message, then you are admitting the possibility that you might be wrong. I can live with that admission.”

  “Humph!” he retorted, turning over. “Such logic could only be a woman’s.”

  Brigitte wanted to laugh. How easily he had accepted the lie! She lay down a few feet from him and went to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Rowland woke with the dawn. He lay stretched out on the ground, staring thoughtfully up through the trees at the pale sky. Brigitte slept on peacefully, unaware of the turmoil she had caused in his mind.

  How furious he had been yesterday, not even so much because she had left him but because of the risk she took in setting out alone. The little fool might have fallen prey to thieves or worse. It also rankled that she had run from him, and more so because everyone at Montville was aware of it. His hurt needed assuaging. What had this girl done to him? At one turn he wanted only to master her, at the next, only to protect her. He did not understand the feelings she aroused in him, and he felt confused for the first time in his life. Why, he had even agreed to her ridiculous request.

  Rowland frowned, thinking of the message he had agreed to send. Either she really was of noble birth, or Count Arnulf was fond of her and she hoped he would help her. Either way, Rowland stood to lose her, and that made him miserable. He had known her only a brief time, but he knew he did not want to lose her.

  “Damn and be damned!” he muttered, as he rolled over to face another day.

  It was not all that late when Rowland and Brigitte rode past the gatehouse and into the Montville courtyard. Brigitte was confused when they sighted the fortress soon after sunset, for she had ridden half the night and a day to get away, but it did not take that long to return. She must have gone out of her way somehow, and lost valuable time. She sighed. It was too late to wonder about that now.

  As they dismounted and led their horses into the stable, Brigitte asked, “You have not forgotten the message you agreed to send, have you?”

  “I have not forgotten,” Rowland murmured. He reached out and lowered the hood of her mantle, then pulled her braids out. With one in each hand, he drew her closer to him. “Nor have I forgotten that you could have asked me never to touch you again, but you did not.”

  “You had already said you would not agree to that,” she replied stiffly.

  “But you did not even try to bargain, cherie,” he pointed out, his eyes twinkling.

  “I got what I wished, Rowland, and I need only tolerate you for a few weeks more. It makes a difference, knowing my misery will soon end.”

  “Misery, damosel?”

  His lips touched hers ever so lightly, then her cheek, then the sensitive area below her earlobe. When gooseflesh spread down her back, she moaned. He let her go then and grinned devilishly.

  “Only a few weeks more? I will have to make the most of them, won’t I?”

  He did not wait for her answer, but walked toward the passageway leading from the stable to the great hall. Brigitte stared after him in confusion, wondering why she had stood there and let him kiss her. What was the
matter with her?

  She rubbed her arms briskly and hurried after him, shaking her head. It was his gentleness, she told herself. It always surprised her.

  The dinner hour had passed, but the large hall was not empty. There was some drinking going on at the lower tables among the men there. By the warming fire, Luthor was tossing dice with Sir Robert and another knight, while Hedda, Ilse, and their lady’s maids worked fine stitchery close by. Hedda was a tall, bony woman whose brown hair had gone to gray, and Ilse looked exactly as her mother had looked thirty years before. Servants were still busy in the cooking area. A young lad was set to keep the dogs away from the meat still roasting, while another fanned the smoke out through a hole above the pit.

  Rowland waited for Brigitte to join him before he proceeded into the hall. “Fetch some food for both of us and join me at table.” When she started to object, he raised a finger. “I insist. We will weather the storm together.”

  She stopped in her tracks. “What storm?”

  Rowland grinned at the sudden alarm that flashed across her face. “You have committed a grave crime, and my lady stepmother was most upset. She was raving when I rode out after you, and no doubt she ranted all day long about what a terrible example you are to the other servants. Not a single serf has ever run from Montville.”

  Brigitte paled. “What—what will she do to me?”

  “Hedda? Not a thing. You forget, I am your lord, which means that you must answer only to me. For once you will be grateful for my protection.” He did not give her a chance to reply, but placed his hand on her back and pushed her toward the food. “Go on. I am a starving man.”

  Brigitte hurried forward to gather food. The cook grumbled at her tardiness, for she had been in the process of cutting the remaining meat off the bone for pies. But she served up two trenchers while the other servants eyed Brigitte speculatively.

  Brigitte began to feel increasingly alarmed. She had actually thought the worst was over, but apparently it was not.

  When she started toward the lord’s table with a tankard of ale and the two trenchers balanced on her arms, she saw that Luthor and Hedda had joined Rowland and were sitting several seats down the table from him. She slowed her pace, but she could not avoid hearing most of it.

  “So?” Hedda demanded of Rowland. “Will you have her stripped and flogged in the courtyard? The horrible example she has set must be corrected.”

  “This is not your concern, wife.” Luthor spoke first.

  “It most certainly is,” Hedda cried indignantly. “He brought that French bitch here, and her haughtiness has already upset my servants. Now she runs away, and she steals to do it! I demand—”

  Brigitte, numb, dropped the trenchers on the table, spilling the ale across the wide boards. She turned wide, frightened blue eyes on Rowland.

  “I did not steal.”

  “You can hardly claim that the horse was yours, damosel,” he said lightly, amused.

  Brigitte felt her knees go weak, and Rowland grabbed her quickly and lowered her to the chair beside his. What was she being accused of? A hand could be severed for stealing food. But a horse? A horse was a knight’s lifeblood, the most highly prized of animals, worth far more than a servant, worth even more than land! A free serf would gladly sell his farm for a horse, because a horse was a mark of wealth, setting a man clearly above the peasant class. To steal one was a crime equal to murder, and for a servant to steal one was beyond imagination.

  Rowland’s amusement vanished when he saw how truly horrified Brigitte was. “Come now, what is done is done.”

  “I…I did not mean to steal,” she murmured brokenly. “I did not think— I mean— I did not consider I was stealing when I took the horse. I have never had to ask for a mount before and…Rowland, help me!”

  She began to cry, and Rowland became enraged at himself for letting her fears mount unnecessarily. “Brigitte, calm yourself. You have nothing to fear. You stole a horse, but it was Sir Gui’s, and he will not press the matter.”

  “But—”

  “No,” he said softly. “I spoke with Gui before I came after you. He was more concerned for you than for his horse. He will not demand retribution.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes, truly.”

  “This has been most entertaining,” Hedda interjected, her long nose seeming longer than usual and her pale gray eyes riveted on Brigitte. “But hardly to the point. Gui may not demand punishment, but I surely do.”

  “Who are you to demand anything of me?” Rowland began ominously.

  Hedda turned livid, her olive skin mottled with red. “You coddle this bitch!” she accused. “Why? Has she bewitched you?”

  “I do not coddle her,” Rowland returned. “I have already punished her.”

  “If you did, it was not enough!” Hedda snapped. “She moves easily, without pain!”

  Rowland rose, a threatening gleam in his eyes. “Do you doubt my word, lady? Do you wish to feel what Brigitte suffered?” He reached for his belt. Hedda paled and shifted in her chair, glancing toward Luthor. He did not look at her, but continued to gaze at his son.

  “Luthor!”

  “Nay, do not look to me, wife. You provoked him after I warned you this was not your concern. You never know when to leave well enough alone.”

  The second Rowland moved a step toward Hedda, she jumped up and ran from the hall. Luthor chuckled.

  “Ah, it does me good to see my shrewish wife turn tail and run.” Luthor reached over and slapped Rowland on the back. Taking his chair again, he bellowed for ale. “It has been many a year since she felt my fist—too many.”

  “With me gone, Hedda has been less bitter?” Rowland suggested.

  Luthor shrugged. “Or I simply have not cared.”

  Rowland fell silent at that and attacked his food. More ale was served, and Luthor leaned back so that he could see Brigitte clearly.

  “You do not eat very much damosel,” Luthor commented. “Is the food not to your liking?”

  “I fear I have lost my appetite, milord,” Brigitte replied meekly.

  “That will not do.” Luthor grinned at her. “Such a frail girl as you will need strength if you plan to withstand my son.”

  “A point well taken, milord.”

  Rowland turned a damning look on his father, which delighted Luthor. After taking a long swig of ale, the older man leaned forward and said seriously, “Does my gallant vassal know you have returned, Rowland?”

  Rowland would not meet his gaze. “I will leave it for you to inform him.”

  Luthor’s bushy brows came together in a frown. “The wench delayed your meeting when she ran off. Have you had time to reconsider?”

  “It is not for me to reconsider. Has he?”

  “No,” Luthor admitted reluctantly. “I do not understand the boy’s stubbornness.”

  “He is firm in his belief, only that,” Rowland offered. “I would expect no less of him.”

  “But he has always worshiped you. I would not have believed it could ever come to this.”

  “What would you have me do?” Rowland asked, irritation in his tone. “Ignore a challenge?”

  “Of course not. But if further discussion would resolve the matter.”

  “Not likely, Luthor.”

  “But only to avoid bloodshed?”

  “Leave it be!” Rowland exploded. “I like it no better than you do, but I have already tried reasoning, and he will not change his stand.”

  “Will you?”

  “No.”

  Luthor shook his head. “She could put a stop to it, you know.”

  “I will not ask her to.”

  Brigitte could bear it no more. “Who is ‘she’?”

  “You, damosel,” Luthor replied.

  Rowland slammed his hands down on the table. “You had to discuss this in her presence, didn’t you?” he accused sharply, glowering at his father.

  “You mean she knows nothing of this?” Luthor asked incredulously
.

  “No.”

  “Well, then, she should know,” Luthor returned huffily.

  “Knows what?” Brigitte asked, but both men ignored her.

  “It matters not, Luthor, for she is more stubborn than you and I together.”

  Luthor set down his tankard, rose stiffly, and left them. It was obvious that he was not pleased.

  They were alone, and she waited for an explanation, but he said nothing, neither would he look at her. Finally, she leaned forward to prompt him.

  “Well?”

  “Finish your meal, Brigitte, then I will escort you to your room,” he said crossly.

  “Rowland! Who has challenged you?”

  She shrank back from the furious look he turned on her. “If you have finished eating, we will go.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Rowland grabbed Brigitte’s arm and dragged her out of the hall and across the courtyard. At her hut, he threw open the door and shoved her inside. He followed after her, noting the hot coals, and saw that her possessions had been brought from the stable. The room was bright. The oil cups attached to the wall had been lit.

  “Someone has seen to your needs,” he remarked crossly. “It will not go well for that poor soul if Hedda learns that one of her servants is waiting on one of mine.”

  “I did not ask for this.”

  “You do not have to,” he replied coldly. “Your very manner intimidates less fortunate serfs.”

  “Fortunate? Me?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said sharply. “Your back and feet do not ache at the end of the day, and your hands do not bleed at least once a week. You are not seen waiting on many—only on one. You live the life of a lady.”

  He turned to leave, but Brigitte flew past him and slammed the door shut before he reached for it. “Rowland, wait.” She faced him, her hands pressed back against the door, blocking his way.

  “You still have not told me who has challenged you. I must know!”

  “Why?” he scowled. “So you can gloat?”