by Nancy Morse
On the other hand, Rowan took on more duties while Marian tended her newborn son whom she’d inexplicably named Rolf. Based on that, and the size and coloring of the child, Rowan told Fia he suspected the father might be a Northman, and based on their reputation, further feared the boy’s making had been the result of a rape, though Marian betrayed nothing but tenderness and longing in the quiet moments when she held the child, thinking she was unobserved as she studied his tiny, defined features.
When Rowan was free from estate business, mostly after dinner or in the early mornings, he labored in the forge, first on the weapons he’d been commissioned to complete, and then, as the time for departure for the army neared, more feverishly on an unusual project. He showed it to Fia the night before he and David had to leave.
She held the red glass, set securely in an even-sided cross of iron, the corners of which he’d meticulously worked with knobs and the flats marked with primitive circles and flames.
“I’ll have the goldsmith in Ribeauville attach a clasp to the back. My fine work isn’t as accomplished as that,” he admitted.
She touched one arm of the cross, as long as the first two joints of her longest finger. “It is very good.”
“And I’ll wear it here,” he said, patting his neck where his cloak would fasten. “Or on my belt. So you’ll always be with me.”
She nodded and bit her lip, unwilling to look up at him.
“Fia the Defiant.”
The nickname startled her. He hadn’t called her that since before they were married.
“That’s what you’ll be while I’m away, yes? You’ll move into the big house so I don’t have to worry about you at night, and you’ll learn about Mother’s plants, and you’ll think of how we can convince your mother to let Julius come work with me next winter and make sure the carpenter builds our house behind the forge reasonably square.”
“But not too big,” she offered.
“That too. And then I’ll be home.”
“I can do that,” she finally said to the disc of red glass safely held within metal.
“I know you can.”
She looked up at him, unable to hide her deepest fear from him any more. “And you will come back to me.”
She tried to say it decisively but couldn’t stop the quiver of her voice as the hint of a question crept in.
He cupped her face. “You of all people know how cruel life can be. If I do not return, you will always have the protection of my name and my fortune.”
When she began to protest how unimportant any of that was, he pressed a finger over her lips.
“And, my only, you will always carry my heart, no matter where I am.”
Epilogue
Autumn 866
Rowan lay the heavy ornament on his two-month old son’s rounded chest, over skin impossibly soft, marked only by tiny pale nipples. He’d unwrapped him completely as he often had since finally coming home from the army a week ago to be greeted by Fia, long since healed from the June birth, and the squeals of their four-year-old daughter and two-year-old son.
When he could steal a moment, he did as he’d done with each of his babies. He unswaddled them and held them naked in hands that looked like giant rough paws against their pink, sleek skin. He admired the perfection of the chubby arms punching through the air with the unexpected freedom, the hint of those barrel ribs above the bulge of belly where Fia’s milk gurgled, and for his sons at least, the impressive testicles hanging between the rolls of their short thighs.
The breath caught in his throat as he studied this young one. Another strong, hearty boy, safely delivered.
Three healthy children and a wife still willing to join him in bed at night. Hard work on the estate and at his forge. A worthy existence amidst the ever-present upheaval of foolish kings and invaders. Yes, all was nearly perfect.
He sighed and touched his boy’s forehead with his lips, then kissed the precious brooch where it rose and fell with the baby’s steady breaths. This son had emerged from the womb with flaming red hair he seemed intent on keeping, skin a few shades paler than his brother’s and sister’s, and blue eyes that were already shifting toward green, not brown. Fia had named him Heric after her father, but it wasn’t the name that prompted Rowan to give the boy the heirloom. Somehow he knew it was this child’s right to have it. Perhaps because he was the third child, as Rowan was, or perhaps because being the second son might not be an easy position to hold. Perhaps because, even at two months, those greenish eyes looked right back at him, fearlessly.
A powerful legacy belonged to this one as much as his siblings. This token, with pieces from both his mother and father, would remind him of his place in the world and of his destiny. It had been Theophilus, the studious Lord of Ribeauville and something like an uncle to Rowan and his sisters, who had recognized the additional meaning in the words etched on the red glass. In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni.
“A palindrome,” Theo had said one afternoon by the army campfire at the beginning of that first lonely summer when Rowan pined for Fia with almost physical pain. Theo had been entertained and rather proud of his discovery. “The letters are the same, read backwards or forwards.”
Rowan had squinted at the disc he’d held and studied hundreds of times. “So they are,” he’d exclaimed.
“A bit of a riddle, too,” Theo added. “The answer is moth.”
Rowan had blinked at him for a moment.
Theo smiled. “I can see why the man wanted it out of his hilt. Circling and consumed by fire,” he said with scorn. “Who would want such a sentiment at hand during battle?”
Rowan chuckled to himself at the memory. Not as grand a meaning as it carried in his marriage, but no matter. What it symbolized between he and Fia was much more important than reading backwards or riddles.
He looked again to his son, to the future.
“Heric, third born, and second son of Rowan, I present you with this token of your family, a message from generations before, and a gift to the generations to spring from your loins as you have blessedly come from mine.”
Rowan’s deep voice startled the baby, but he did not cry, merely pursed his lips as if considering the words. His son studied him intently in that insightful, slightly disturbing way, as if he knew a great deal more than his squeaks and sour milk vomit might suggest. A flailing hand landed on the iron, certainly by chance, yet it rested there for a moment in benediction, as if to say, “I accept.”
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading Rowan’s Legacy, the first story in the Hearts Aflame set by four Love Historicals authors. If you enjoyed this story you can learn more about me, Jill Hughey, at my page on the Love Historicals website, http://www.lovehistoricals.com/historical-romance-authors/jill-hughey/.
Rowan’s Legacy is also the first book in a series featuring the next generation of my characters in the Evolution Series – Charlemagne’s Heroes. If you’d like to read about them, starting with David and Rochelle’s tempestuous beginnings, the entire series is available as a set, including a bonus short story.
The Evolution Series Set
Or you can read them individually. In chronological order they are
Unbidden
Love Like A River: Historical Romance Novella
Redeemed
Vain
Little Witch: Historical Romance Novella
Now, keep enjoying the Hearts Aflame set! Happy reading.
Jill Hughey
Passion’s Fire
by
Anna Markland
Dedication
Dedicated to a bright spark, my grandson, Peter
Dubious Reward
York Castle, England, 1175 AD
Matthew de Rowenne couldn’t have been any hotter if he’d been cast into the fires of hell.
Which he had.
“I’m to return to Scotland, Your Majesty?” he asked warily, lest he raise the ire of
his volatile king. He fervently hoped the fury burning in his heart wasn’t evident on his face. Filled with the relief of at last being recalled to England, he certainly hadn’t anticipated being sent back north of the border. The grant of some small estate as a reward for his service was more what he’d had in mind, or at least a knighthood.
Several of the King’s dozen advisors shifted their weight from one foot to the other, their leather boots squeaking on the tiled floor of the royal antechamber.
“Ranulf assures me you’re the man for the job,” King Henry Plantagenet replied, narrowing his blue-grey eyes. “You helped capture the upstart Scottish king at Alnwick last year during my son’s rebellion.” He turned to his advisors. “We quickly showed them where the true power lies.”
To a man, they nodded in unison, agreeing heartily with the monarch’s smug pronouncement.
Matthew risked a glance at Ranulf de Glanville. Few could claim England’s Chief Justiciar as a mentor. Only Henry wielded more power. Matthew was the second son of an obscure Anglo-Norman family—a nobody. It had been his great good fortune to have aided Ranulf in the capture of William the Lion in Northumbria. His unhorsing of the Scottish king that day had brought him to the great warrior’s attention. “I am as always deeply humbled by the faith my lord Ranulf has in me,” he tried, “and it was a distinct honor to escort King William to imprisonment in Falaise, but—”
Henry waved him to silence as if shooing away a pesky gnat. He was clearly losing patience, his always florid face turning as red as his hair. Everyone recognised the bloodshot eyes as a clear indication he’d been away from his hunting addiction for over an hour. He’d arrived late clad in riding attire. “The treaty is ratified and the Scots king has sworn fealty to me,” he declared in his gravelly voice, thrusting out his leonine head. “Hopefully my Scottish cousin has learned his lesson.”
While the assembled courtiers grunted their agreement with the regal optimism, Matthew’s attention drifted to memories of his visit to Falaise. It had been a challenge escorting a humiliated king in chains across the Narrow Sea, but it had brought him close to Montbryce Castle, seat of his ancestral family on his mother’s side. He’d trained as a page there, then as a squire. Normandie was the place of his birth and the fortnight spent at Montbryce had reminded him again of how much he loved his native land. Though he was an offshoot of a minor branch of the family, the Montbryces always treated him with respect. He thirsted to rise to the higher echelons of Norman nobility.
But his older brother had inherited the small de Rowenne estate, forcing Matthew to earn his living as a mercenary. The de Rowenne holdings weren’t substantial. It was family lore that their medieval patriarch had been a Frankish weapon-smith.
Ranulf coughed loudly, jolting Matthew back to the antechamber. Surely the king hadn’t just said—
“You’ve proven by your exploits with the army I sent north after William’s capture that you know how to subdue dissident barbaric factions,” Henry shouted.
The counsellors shifted their gaze from the king to Matthew, as if they were watching a jeu de paume. He cleared his throat while he considered his response. It would be useless, and probably deemed impudent, to retort that he’d found the Scottish court a surprisingly cultured place. But the ancient town of Scone didn’t seem to be the destination the monarch had in mind on this occasion.
“The King has granted William the Lion permission to return to Scotland,” Ranulf announced. “It’s to be expected his pledge of fealty to the English Crown has stirred unrest in certain regions. There are renewed rumblings of discontent and rebellion in the so-called Kingdom of Galloway,” he added with some sarcasm. “Castles must be built in the area. You will assist the Scottish king to bring these wandering sheep into his fold.”
Matthew racked his brain. Where in the name of all the saints was Galloway?
“It’s imperative we gain control of a region on our northwestern border,” the Chief Justiciar continued. “Gilbride MacFergus is already overrunning the Scottish king’s defences there. It’s a threat to Carlisle.”
The counsellors mumbled their consternation at this possibility. Carlisle was after all where King David had knighted Henry long ago during the Civil War.
Matthew deemed it curious that the folk of Galloway evidently didn’t want to be Scots.
Henry was already on his feet, heading for the door, shoving his big, rough hands into leather gauntlets. Matthew surmised he was off to play with his hawks. The King was fond of boasting that was the only time he ever wore gloves.
He breathed a little easier. At least he wasn’t being sent to the barren Highlands. All heads bowed as the energetic monarch strode towards the door with his bowlegged gait. But he turned unexpectedly and winked. “Oh, and I’ve instructed Ranulf to find you a bride in Galloway. Such alliances make for peaceful relations.”
Utter silence greeted this nonsensical declaration. The King’s marriage to Eleanor of Aquitaine had resulted in years of civil strife among his children. Henry’s Council hurried out after him, leaving Matthew alone in the empty chamber.
Summarily being ordered to return to Scotland filled him with impotent fury and indignation. But the King was well aware he was a second son with no responsibilities to keep him in England.
Being an officer in an invading army was fraught with dangers. The prospect of keeping the peace now the Scottish king had been humiliated and forced to cede lands, castles and authority to the English king was daunting. The Scots would be in uproar if they were obliged to pay taxes to support the occupying English army.
As if those obstacles weren’t enough, there were folk in the northern wastelands who apparently didn’t want to be Scots. Their origins must lay elsewhere.
Henry apparently had confidence in Matthew’s abilities to calm the troubled waters and he resolved to do his utmost to carry out the mission entrusted to him. Eventually the King would reward him.
Marriage, however, was out of the question.
He absent-mindedly fingered the blood red glass set in the cross-shaped pin that held his woollen cloak in place. A Frankish ancestor had acquired it long ago. A Latin palindrome was engraved into the glass. It was his legacy, the only thing of value traditionally passed on to the second son.
He supposed that three hundred years ago such amusing palindromes had been the fashion. They were the same no matter which way you read them. In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni. The clever humor was completely lost in his own language; we go in circles at night and are consumed by fire. But the engraver had the humble moth in mind when he conceived the riddle, and that still held true in any language. Moths drawn to fly in circles around a flame were quickly consumed.
However, the legacy had proven to be a curse. The wives of the last three de Rowennes to possess the brooch had all perished by fire, his own mother included.
Marriage to Matthew carried a ghastly death sentence.
Brig
Lincluden Castle, Galloway
Brigandine had been a boy for as long as she could remember.
Her mother had died when she was a babe in arms. Grieving the loss of his first wife, and seemingly unable to sire children with his unlamented shrewish second partner, Gorrie Lordsmith was obliged to recruit his daughter as his assistant.
Almost before she could walk she learned how to rekindle the forge fire, blow into the tubes to keep the embers hot, and keep the smithy swept clean of debris that might catch fire. However, girls didn’t apprentice to sword-smiths. In desperation her Da had dressed her in boy’s clothing and kept her hair shorn. From the start he’d taken to calling her Brig. Some days she believed he’d completely forgotten she was a girl. Most days she forgot it herself.
At the time of her birth, word had reached his ears of the brigandine, a new style of plated mailcoat made in such a way to allow for easier movement. Impressed by the idea and certain the Arabic design would eventually reach Galloway, he’d insis
ted his daughter be named in its honor. He’d spent the seventeen years since trying to produce something comparable.
Her father’s fine handiwork in fashioning and repairing weapons and armor eventually came to the attention of Gilbride MacFergus, Lord of Galloway.
Gorrie became Gilbride’s armorer and his arrival at MacFergus’s stronghold at Cruggleton caused no more than a brief stir. Everyone assumed his apprentice was a boy.
Brig loved the intense heat of the fire on her face, the sweat trickling down her back, the smell of burning wood, the magical spread of the red hot glow in the heated metal. Working in the forge was better than being shut up in Lincluden Abbey with the nuns, and certainly preferable to slaving in the castle’s kitchen or laundry.
Her father had plied his trade in Gilbride’s western stronghold at Cruggleton. They’d only recently been obliged to follow their Lord to Lincluden, seat of Uchtred MacFergus, co-ruler of Galloway and brother to Gilbride. No one at Lincluden suspected she was a girl.
A MacFergus family gathering was not the reason for Gilbride’s visit. He summarily blinded and castrated Uchtred, cutting out his tongue for good measure. As far as anyone knew the wretch was dead.
“Better we have one leader,” her father declared for the umpteenth time since Uchtred’s murder. He prodded the burning logs with the poker. “More chance of fending off them Scots.”
Brig sensed he was trying to come to terms with the shocking turn of events. “But our champion has fled back to Cruggleton now the Scots king is on his way with an English army at his beck and call,” she retorted, gripping the rough wooden lever of the bellows. She had to be alert for the moment air would be needed to kindle sufficient heat.
