So Speaks the Heart

by Johanna Lindsey

  Four knights rode up to Montville’s gates, Thurston in the lead. Rowland recognized another of the four and sneered. Roger. He had joined his brother, perhaps using the battle as a chance to kill Rowland. Roger would have reported the strength of Montville to Thurston, yet his brother was foolish enough to make war. Rowland was sure Geoffrey was down there somewhere, too.

  “Luthor!” Thurston bellowed from below. “I challenge you for Montville!”

  “By what right?” Luthor demanded.

  “By the sacred right of marriage to your eldest daughter. Montville will come to me upon your death. I do not choose to wait.”

  “Little dog.” Luthor laughed contemptuously. “You have no rights here. My son, Rowland, will have Montville. You? Never!”

  “He is a bastard! You cannot favor him over your legitimate daughter.”

  “I can, and I have!” Luthor shouted down. “I raised him to take my place, and so he shall.”

  “Then I challenge your bastard!”

  Rowland had listened impatiently to this exchange. He was burning for a fight. The despair he had sunk into after Brigitte’s leaving had recently turned to uncontrollable anger. This was the opportunity he needed to release his fury.

  But Luthor had other plans. He gripped Rowland’s arm, warning him to silence.

  “Lord of jackals!” Luthor threw at Thurston. “My son would not lower himself to a contest with the likes of you. He does not waste his skill on peasants.”

  “Cowards!” Thurston blustered. “Hide behind your walls then. You will yet face me!”

  The knights rode back to join their army on the field in front of Montville. Rowland watched them go, then turned on Luthor furiously.

  “Why? I could have made short work of this by meeting him.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Luthor shrewdly, “you would have—in a fair contest. But use your wits, Rowland. Thurston came to me in his youth, but he was always lazy, contemptuous of learning. A sorrier knight never rode through these walls. Consider what chance he would have against you or me. Thurston knows full well he could not win, yet he still made the challenge. Why? He would never have done so if he did not have some foul plan to assure his winning.”

  “Do you intend to hide behind these walls, then?”

  “Of course not,” Luthor roared. “He may have expected to avoid a war by killing me, but a war he will get. A battle will be joined on the field, but it will be when I choose.”

  “In the meantime you will let him lay waste to Montville?” Rowland asked, watching Thurston’s divide, many with torches lit, and head for the village.

  Luthor’s eyes blazed as he saw what Rowland was looking at. “The bastard! So be it,” he growled. “We ride out now and finish this matter quickly.”

  Rowland tried to stop Luthor from a rash move, but it was too late. Luthor would not listen. He was not thinking clearly but letting his anger dictate to him, and that was something a warrior could not afford to do. Yet Rowland had no choice but to follow. Forty of the finest warhorses in the land were soon mounted, and Luthor gave the order. The knights and soldiers of Montville charged through the gates to meet the Lord of Mezidon and his men.

  Rowland led half of the Montville defenders after the torch bearers. The village was already in flames, every hut, every shelter toppling in black smoke and orange fire. Thurston’s men had left the fires to circle around the manor and join their comrades once more. Rowland doubled back after them.

  When he reached the field of battle, his blood chilled at sight of the slaughter there. And then horror struck, pain tore him as he saw Luthor fall. It happened before Rowland could reach Luthor. and he saw that they had been tricked. Thirty more horsemen had come over the southern hill to attack Luthor and his men. An old ploy, but it had worked. Luthor was down. Half the men with him were down.

  Rowland was no longer thinking clearly. As Luthor had reacted through his emotions, so did Rowland. A madman, he charged into battle, his twenty warriors charging behind him. He broke the flank, his sword cutting left and right, until he reached the center. There he found Luthor. Thurston’s blade had gone clear through him.

  Lord Thurston of Mezidon froze when he saw Rowland’s eyes. Death was in them. The Hun bearing down on him, Rowland’s bloody sword raised, Thurston was trapped. There was no escape for him, and he became transfixed by Rowland’s bloodcurdling cry of rage.

  Thurston fought wildly, carelessly, and was quickly dispatched. But as Rowland pulled his sword from Thurston’s body, a blade entered his back. His eyes widened in surprise, but he reacted instantly, swinging backward with his sword arm. He hit something, but he didn’t see what it was. It hurt too much to turn and see. The bloodlust was still in him, the din of battle still rang in his head, but he was nearly blinded, and confused as well, for all he could see was Luthor falling, strong, undefeatable Luthor falling to another’s sword.

  A horse collided with the Hun, and Rowland fell, hitting the ground with a great shock of pain. He heard nothing after that.

  “He is dead!” Hedda exclaimed over Rowland as he was carried into the hall by two knights. “Oh, finally!”

  Gui glared at her as he gestured for Rowland to be placed next to the other wounded men, then told the knights to leave. He turned to her and said coldly, “He is not dead, Lady Hedda, not yet.”

  Her brown eyes widened in disappointment. “But will he die?”

  The hopeful plea in her voice disgusted Gui, and he permitted himself to forget her position at Montville. “Be gone from here! You have lost your husband. Have you no tears?”

  Hedda’s eyes blazed. “I will shed tears for my lord when his bastard is dead!” she hissed. “This one should have died long ago. His horse should have killed him. I was so sure! It should have been finished then!”

  “Lady?” Gui demanded, afraid to voice the question.

  She backed away, shaking her head. “I said nothing. It was not I! It was not I!”

  Hedda ran to Luthor. His body had been placed in the rushes. She threw herself over him and her mournful wails filled the great hall. But Gui knew they were false tears.

  “So, I was wrong about Roger.”

  Gui looked down to find Rowland’s eyes open.

  “You heard her?” he asked Rowland.

  “I heard her.”

  Gui knelt down beside Rowland. His voice held bitterness when he said, “You were wrong about Roger on that score, but only that one. You are lying here now because of Roger.”

  Rowland tried to rise, but fell back with a grimace of pain. “How bad is it?”

  “Bad,” Gui admitted. “But you are strong.”

  “Luthor was strong,” Rowland said, and then the bloody scene ran through his mind all over again. “Luthor?”

  “I am sorry, Rowland. He is dead.”

  Rowland closed his eyes. Of course. He had known when he saw Luthor fall. Luthor. Not his father, yet his father still. The bond of years made it so, just as Brigitte had said. The bond was stronger than Rowland had ever guessed. He began to feel pain deep inside him that was worse than he might have imagined.

  “He will rest in peace,” Rowland said at last. “He is avenged.”

  “I saw,” Gui replied quietly. “I saw you avenge yourself as well.”

  Rowland frowned. “Meaning?”

  “Do you not know who put the blade to your back?” Gui asked. “Roger. Your own blade cut into him deeply, and he fell even before you did. Roger is dead.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. And Thurston’s men scattered. But Roger’s treachery was unmistakable. I am sorry I doubted you about him. I did not think it possible that even Roger could attack from behind. But you knew him better than I did.”

  Rowland did not hear Gui’s last words because blessed unconsciousness had overtaken him. He could no longer feel the pain of loss or the pain of his wound.

  As Rowland fought to hold on to life, Brigitte greeted the blossoming of spring with a saddene
d heart. Her secret could no longer be hidden. Quintin was livid when she gave up making excuses for her weight and admitted the truth.

  “A child?” he exploded. “You are going to bear that Norman’s child?”

  “My child.”

  “You lied to me, Brigitte!” Quintin stormed.

  That was the root of his rage, that she had lied to him for the first time ever. She had kept the news of her condition from him ever since they had returned to Louroux, though she had known then. And he was aware she had known, for she was four months into her pregnancy.

  “Why? Why did you lie to me?” Quintin demanded.

  Brigitte hardened herself to the pain in his voice. “If I had told you the truth, would you have left Montville?”

  “Of course not.” He was shocked.

  “There is your answer, Quintin,” Brigitte replied stonily. “I was not going to have men fight for my honor when it was I who gave up that honor. There was no reason for a battle.”

  “But what else did you lie about?”

  She lowered her eyes, unable to meet his accusing gaze. “I kept my true feelings from you,” she admitted at last. “I was furious that day. I hated Rowland for fighting you. I was so hurt by it that I wanted to die.”

  “Yet still you defended him to me.

  “Yes,” she breathed softly.

  Quintin walked away, leaving Brigitte in tears. He was so disappointed in her, and her heart was torn. Only she knew how much she longed for Rowland. She prayed each day that he would come for her. But how could she explain that to Quintin?

  Chapter Forty-one

  Rowland stretched, then groaned. It seemed as if the stiffness of his wound would never leave him. He looked sideways at his brother to find him grinning at him.

  “I wager you have no scars, or you would not find my pain so amusing, brother,” Rowland growled.

  “You win that wager,” Evarard chuckled. “I have not made war a way of life. I have little sympathy for those who do when their wounds act up and they groan in their cups.”

  “Groan in their cups indeed,” Rowland grunted, not amused in the least. “You will not find me groaning in my cups over a little pain!”

  “Oh, no, only over her.”

  Rowland scowled. “We will not talk of her. I told you more than I should have last evening.”

  “When you were groaning in your cups,” Evarard laughed.

  Rowland jumped to his feet, then winced at the stab of pain. His wound was only two months old and still decidedly tender. “I can do without your amusement,” he said brusquely.

  Evarard was not disturbed by Rowland’s temper. “Where is your humor, man? Did it take flight along with your lady?”

  “Evarard, I swear if you were anyone but my brother, I would tear you apart!” Rowland growled, his fists clenched. “Do not mention her to me again.”

  “It is because I am your brother that I can speak my mind,” Evarard said seriously. “You would think twice before laying a fist to this face, for that would be the same as hitting your own self.”

  “Do not be so sure, brother.”

  “You see?” Evarard grew solemn. “You are much too serious, when I am only jesting. You have an anger in you, Rowland. You let it live in you instead of ridding yourself of it.”

  “You presume too much.”

  “Do I?” Evarard ventured. “She left you. She chose to go with her brother rather than stay with you. You took that lightly?”

  “Enough, Evarard!”

  “You will never see the lady again. This means nothing to you, eh?”

  “Enough!” Rowland exploded.

  “You do not call that anger?” Evarard continued at risk, for Rowland’s face was a mask of rage. “Look at yourself, brother. You are ready to thrash me for pointing out what eats at you. Why do you not just end your life? You obviously cannot live without this woman, yet you make no efforts to win her back.”

  “Damn you, Evarard. Tell me how I am to win her back when she despises me now? Tell me how to get near her, when her brother would kill me on sight?”

  “Ah, Rowland, these are only obstacles you make more important than they are. You do not even try. You fear failure. To fail would really be the end. Yet you do not know if you would fail, nor will you know until you make an attempt.”

  When Rowland remained silent, Evarard pressed his advantage. “What if the lady is as desolate as you are? What if her brother’s temper has cooled? I will not hold my tongue. Whatever you did wrong is between you and the lady. You must make amends to her. She may understand better than you think. But how will you ever know until you see her? Go. Go to Berry, Rowland. Talk to her brother. Then see her and tell her what is in your heart. You have nothing to lose, and if you do not go at all then all is lost.”

  Rowland thought back on his talk with Evarard as he rode closer and closer to Louroux. It had taken his brother’s good sense to show him what a pigheaded fool he was.

  It was the beginning of summer. For too long he had accepted his misery and done nothing. For too long he had been separated from Brigitte, churning with the anger of it. He should have come for her sooner. He should never have let her go to begin with.

  “Lord Rowland of Montville, milord,” Leandor announced uneasily.

  Quintin shot to his feet as Rowland followed the bailiff into the hall, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword.

  “If you challenge me, Baron, I will not accept,” Rowland said immediately, putting Quintin at a disadvantage. Quintin was speechless, amazed by Rowland’s appearance. Not once, not even in his wildest dreams, would he have thought the Norman so reckless as to come to Louroux. Why, if he wished, Quintin could have him clapped in irons and never released. He was lord here.

  “Either you are a man who has no wish to live out the rest of his life, or you are the biggest fool in Christendom,” Quintin said when he had found his voice. “I had not taken you for a fool, Norman, but then I was wrong about you from the start as well. I put my trust in you, but you taught me a valuable lesson.”

  “I did not come here to fight with you, milord,” Rowland replied. “I came to make peace.”

  “Peace?” Quintin shouted, enraged by Rowland’s calm. Without hesitation, he struck a blow to the bigger man’s face. But Rowland appeared not to have noticed. He held his temper.

  “Damn you!” Quintin exploded. “How dare you come here?”

  “Because I love her,” Rowland replied simply, with a firmness that could not be denied. The words sounded right. He said them with ease, and he said them again. “I love Brigitte. I want her for my wife.”

  Quintin nearly choked. “You wanted her in lust as well and did not hesitate to violate her! You took her violently!”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  “You took her, and that speaks for itself!”

  “I was never violent with Brigitte.” Rowland replied. “I was not gentle at first, I admit that, for I was a hardened man. But it did not take long for your sister to change me, because I wanted desperately to please her.”

  “That matters not.”

  Rowland lost his patience. “Be damned! Put yourself in my place. Brigitte was given to me by Druoda. I thought Druoda was your sister. Brigitte was bound to me as a servant. Traveling alone with her to Montville was a torment, as it would be to any man faced with such beauty. I thought, as did she, that I had already deflowered her here at Louroux. If I had known she was still a virgin, then perhaps I would have let her be— I cannot say. But that was not the case. Have you never taken a woman to your bed without asking her consent?”

  “We are speaking of my sister, not some servant who can expect no less, who is conditioned from birth to serve her lord. Brigitte is a gentlebred lady, and no lady should have suffered what you put her through!”

  “She forgave me,” Rowland insisted quietly.

  “Did she indeed? I know nothing of this, for she never speaks of you at all.”

  “My figh
t with you is what turned her against me,” Rowland returned.

  “Just as well, for she will never see you again.”

  “Be reasonable. I offer marriage. I am Lord of Montville now, and I have a large estate in Cernay as well. As my wife, she would never want for anything, especially devotion. I would make up all the days of her life for the wrong I did her. The past cannot be changed. I can, however, swear to you that I will never again cause her pain.”

  “There is no way you can make amends for what you did to Brigitte,” Quintin said coldly.

  “What does Brigitte say?”

  “That has no bearing.”

  Rowland was losing patience again. “Will you at least allow me to see her?”

  “I have told you she will never see you again! Now be gone from here, Norman, while I am willing to let you go freely. You forget where you are.”

  “I do not forget, Baron,” Rowland replied quietly, his gaze unwavering. “Brigitte means more to me than my life.”

  Quintin watched silently as Rowland turned and left the hall. But he had no time to ponder those last heartfelt words before Brigitte came into the room. Damn! The last thing Brigitte needed was to see that man and be upset. She was utterly miserable and snappish recently.

  “Leandor says we have a visitor,” Brigitte said as she came forward.

  “Leandor was mistaken,” Quintin replied more curtly than he meant to.

  “Mistaken?”

  “It was only a messenger,” he replied. One had come that morning whom his sister knew nothing about. “Arnulf is making a celebration next month. The occasion is a niece’s marriage. I am to attend.”

  “Then you may not be here when—”

  “No.” He cut her off. “I may not.”

  He left the hall quickly, embarrassed by talk of the impending birth. He was embarrassed by her condition, embarrassed knowing what had been done to her, embarrassed that the man who got her that way was still alive. He found it more and more difficult to face Brigitte. She knew how miserably he had failed to avenge her. She had tried to make light of it, but Quintin knew what she must feel. He could not blame her for having lost faith in him.