HEARTS AFLAME

by Nancy Morse

  He seemed to be heading somewhat in the direction of Lincluden, and yet he wasn’t. She plucked up her courage. “Where are we going?” she yelled in his ear.

  “Twelve Apostles,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  She was none the wiser until he slowed Belenus. In the near distance loomed a circle of stones. “Gatherin’ place for our people for hundreds of years,” he rasped. “Ye won’t ha known o’ it, coming from Cruggleton.”

  “Nay,” she replied, keeping her voice low. “Twelve Apostles. I suppose there are twelve stones.”

  He didn’t reply as they rode into the field of monoliths. Even in daylight the place made Brig’s skin crawl. Most were upright, all twice her height. A few lay on their sides, one or two at least as long as three men lying head to toe.

  “How did they get here?” she asked, nervous that lads didn’t ask such questions.

  Sorley reined Belenus to a halt. “Nobody knows. Some say ’twas the work of the Disciples. Most believe the Druids erected ‘em thousands o’ years ago.”

  He slid from the horse and she followed his lead. “But for what purpose?” she asked, again wondering if her curiosity would arouse his suspicions.

  However, he seemed more than ready to show off his knowledge. “They say ’twas to do with the solstice, others think it was a temple for making sacrifices to the gods.”

  Brig shuddered, despite the heat of the afternoon.

  She thought of Matthew, forced to walk back to Lincluden. How furious he must be. He would know by now she’d betrayed him.

  Sorley pointed west. “There’s a smaller circle a few miles away in that direction where the others are camped, and one more a mile or so to the east.”

  The others?

  It occurred to Brig that most of the folk at Lincluden likely knew of these circles. It wouldn’t take Matthew and Le Cordier long to ferret out information about where the fugitives might have headed. “He’ll come after us, you know,” she said, stroking Belenus’s nose. “If only for the horse.”

  Sorley shrugged and began rummaging through the leather bag hanging from the saddle. He pulled out Matthew’s cloak. Her knees threatened to buckle when she caught sight of the brooch with the red glass.

  “Look at this,” Sorley exclaimed. He unfastened the pin and held it up to the sunlight. “’Tis a treasure we’ve found.” He squinted. “Summat engraved on it. Latin I think.”

  “I canna read,” she said sadly, sure in her heart Matthew valued this keepsake possibly more than his horse. She’d never seen him without it.

  Sorley pinned it to his shirt. It looked like a jewel stuck into a turd. He strutted like a rooster, one hand on his hip, the crossbow still on his shoulder. “Behold the Lord of Galloway,” he crowed.

  Blurting out her fears wouldn’t be manly. She opted for sarcasm. “Ye’ll be a dead lord when the Norman catches up to ye. And what’s the point of a crossbow with no bolts? Some leader ye are.”

  The smile left Sorley’s face. “Better than a coward like ye, Brig Lordsmith. Dinna fash about crossbow bolts. Easy to steal they are. ’Twas the bows we were lacking.”

  She decided to ignore the slur. A suspicion was growing the crossbows had been the reason for the ill-fated attack. Men had been deliberately sacrificed for the stolen weapons. “And what if the others dinna make it here? We had a horse. They’re on foot, some of them wounded.”

  “That’s why ye’ll stay here and I’ll go back,” he said.

  She could have retorted that such a plan was foolhardy, but confused thoughts assailed her. On the one hand she’d be glad to be rid of Sorley’s unpleasant company. On the other the prospect of being left alone in the field of standing stones was dreadful, especially once night fell. Her garments were still damp, and well, the place was eerie.

  She gambled. “At least leave me the cloak,” she insisted with as much bravado as she could muster. “And ye canna be serious about letting the others see yon brooch. They’ll slit yer throat fer it.”

  He hesitated then to her immense relief unpinned the jewel and thrust it and the cloak at her. “Ye’d better still be here when I return,” he said.

  Twelve Apostles

  Brig repinned the brooch onto Matthew’s cloak, then ran her finger over the symbols engraved into the glass, filled with a strange premonition it was important to know what the words meant. But such a notion was hopeless. Latin, Sorley had said. She couldn’t even read Gaelic.

  She studied the lettering, suddenly noticing the symbols were the same whichever way you looked at them. Backwards and forwards, they were the same. Curious. It strengthened her belief Matthew would hunt down the traitors who’d stolen his horse and his unusual keepsake.

  Shivering, she folded the garment carefully and left it on a rock. For close to what she guessed was an hour she wandered from stone to stone, clambering up on each of the lower ones to scan the horizon. Flat land and rolling hills greeted the eye as far as she could see in every direction, but she really had no notion which way to go. Darkness would descend soon and she’d no wish to be out on the moor alone at night. Nor did she want to stumble into the others, whoever they were, camped at the neighboring circle. She suspected the missing men from Lincluden lurked there in anticipation of Gilbride’s return. It was possible they roamed the moor at night, hunting mayhap. Or perhaps there were wolves about.

  She returned to the big rock where she’d left the cloak. It occurred to her the brooch might prove to be a valuable bargaining piece, and she didn’t want Sorley to have it. She glanced across the field to the tallest stone. Part of its base seemed to hang over nothingness. She ran to it and nervously inched her hand underneath. Just enough space. A natural hiding place. She tore a strip of linen off the bottom of her shirt, traced a fingertip over the elaborate knobs and circles worked into the iron cross, wrapped the treasure and secreted it beneath the overhang.

  Her bare feet were cut and freezing. The wind had picked up. She retrieved the cloak from the flat rock and furled it around her shoulders. She threw out the sodden bread, but forced herself to eat the waterlogged cheese and the last sour apple. As darkness fell she huddled against the rock and tented the cloak over her, wrapping the hem around her feet. She inhaled the scent of Matthew de Rowenne that lingered in the wool, wishing he was there to spirit her away. She’d always believed she could take care of herself, but that was before the Norman had awakened feelings and emotions she’d never known. Being a lad had lost its appeal. The protection of a strong man was what she needed. Matthew de Rowenne was the one she wanted. But he already hated her. When he discovered she was a girl, and there was no escaping that now, he would despise her even more. And what business did a smith’s daughter have dreaming of a nobleman.

  She was exhausted but didn’t dare sleep. Without a weapon she had no means of defence. If man or beast stalked her, flight would be the only chance of escape.

  She watched the moon rise, dozing fitfully until she heard someone calling her name.

  It was Sorley, but she hadn’t heard Belenus.

  She thought of staying hidden behind the rock, but he’d find her eventually. “O’er here,” she shouted.

  He and another youth limped out of the darkness. Sorley stumbled to his knees beside her. “Fyking ‘orse!” he rasped. He rolled over onto his back, breathing heavily.

  She couldn’t make out the other lad’s face, but the moonlight glinted off a dagger tucked into his belt—her dagger. She edged away from them. “What happened?”

  “Threw us off,” Sorley whined, rubbing his hip.

  An urge to giggle seized her, but she thought better of it.

  “Middle o’ nowhere. Had to walk back. Cudda broke me leg. Gimme the cloak, I’m freezing.”

  Brig wasn’t done with being a lad yet. “Nay. Me clothes are still damp. I’ll catch me death if I give ye the cloak. ’Tis mine now. I was well accepted by the Englishman. Good way to spy on the invaders if ye’d thoug
ht about it afore draggin’ me off. Ye were too busy accusin’ me o’ being a coward.”

  “A spy?” he whispered, his teeth chattering.

  The other youth loomed over her, one hand resting against the rock.

  She had no choice but to continue with the deception. “Aye, Sorley, ye great mawp. If ye’d think on it, we canna win this fight with pitchforks and a few stolen crossbows. We need to be canny, to watch and wait for the right chances.”

  She hoped her bravado was convincing.

  Sorley was silent for a long while before he bent close to her ear and whispered, “Where’s the jewel?”

  She’d hoped the darkness had hidden the fact the brooch wasn’t pinned to the cloak, and he evidently didn’t want the other lad to know of it. His greed had pushed him to ask. She took a deep breath and whispered back, “I hid it, and ye’ll ne’er find. ’Tis my assurance ye’ll no harm me.”

  It was a mistake.

  “Harm ye?” he shouted, his sour breath invading her nostrils. “Ye sound like a girl. ‘Course, ye always did.”

  Had he guessed?

  The other boy drew the dagger. “Always wondered what Brig Lordsmith had ‘twixt his legs.”

  She recognised his gravelly voice now. Hamish, the Cruggleton bully she’d avoided. Nervously she looked up at him. His eyes glowed in the dark like some feral beast. If he didn’t know her secret, he suspected. She tried to get to her feet, but Sorley grasped her wrists and held her down. “Let’s find out,” he cried.

  Hamish dropped to his knees, put the dagger between his teeth and ripped open the front of her shirt from bottom to top. He took the dagger out of his mouth. “What’s this?” he asked, trailing the point of the blade the length of the bindings.

  There was no one to aid her as she kicked and struggled, screaming at the top of her lungs.

  Matthew heard a woman’s strident screaming. Not too far away standing stones loomed like black giants against the moonlight sky. Mayhap it was an ancient druid circle where the fugitives might have gathered. Was some sort of sacrifice going on? He’d previously discredited reports of such rituals carried out by barbarians in the untamed regions north of Cumbria.

  He motioned the routiers on foot behind him to halt and lower their torches.

  He patted Belenus. “Good lad,” he said.

  The beast tossed his head.

  What a horse! Matthew had feared his lacerated feet wouldn’t carry him another step when the trusty animal had appeared on the castle road, having evidently rid himself of his riders. Even the Spaniards had cheered when Belenus bucked and pranced, lapping up the praise.

  Matthew had ridden ahead to Lincluden, ignored the sniggers of the men on watch, avoided Le Cordier who was reportedly busy with a more pressing matter, found another pair of boots and fresh clothing, put on his breastplate and been ready to ride out all within the space of an hour.

  The half dressed and weary Aragonese were trickling into Lincluden by the time he’d picked out a handful of Brabanters to accompany him. No one was going to steal Matthew de Rowenne’s horse and clothing and make a complete fool of him—especially not the son of a blacksmith.

  Belenus would lead the way to the enemy—to Brig.

  The screams were unexpected, but a woman was obviously in dire distress. No choice but to urge his horse forward.

  He galloped into what turned out to be a circle of standing stones spread out over a field. He reined to a halt, listening. There seemed to be a scuffle going on beside one of the fallen rocks. He drew his sword and charged, yelling a guttural war cry.

  Two or three people burst forth, running in different directions. It would take a few minutes for the mercenaries to arrive. He stopped, uncertain which fugitive to follow, until the moonlight fell on a red cloak. His cloak. He sheathed his weapon, dismounted and ran after the fleeing figure.

  It was definitely Brig. It would give him no pleasure to give the lad the beating of his life, but it had to be done.

  The youth darted in and out of the stones, following what seemed to be a well worn path, the cloak billowing out behind him. Matthew considered cutting across the field to head him off, but keeping to the circular path was probably a better idea. The lad was tiring, he could tell.

  Matthew’s shredded feet pained him. He wished he’d taken the time to pull on hose. Now he’d have blisters on top of everything else. Enough of this running around in circles in the middle of the night.

  The notion almost brought him to his knees.

  In girum imus nocte.

  But that was only half the cursed motto. He glanced over to where the Brabanters had appeared, flaming torches held high. They were on a collision course with Brig. The mercenaries wouldn’t hesitate to thrust the torches at the lad. He couldn’t let him be burned to death. A memory of his mother’s ghastly demise and his father’s anguish loomed in the giant shadows cast by the standing stones. He forced himself to run faster, ignoring the sharp pain stabbing his ribs. Brig slowed to catch his breath. Matthew leapt on him and they tumbled to the ground.

  He took in great gulps of air, filled with conflicting emotions. He’d taken a liking to this lad, odd as he was, been drawn to him in sinful ways no warrior wanted to admit to. Now the boy’s sobs tore at his confused heart. But treachery had to be punished.

  “Follow the others,” he yelled to the mercenaries, satisfied he’d captured his quarry.

  He straddled Brig’s thighs, forced the panting youth over onto his back, and clenched his fist.

  The lad raised his hands to protect his face, but Matthew’s gut knotted at the sight of two perfect female breasts glowing like silver orbs in the moonlight. Nestled in shredded bindings, they rose and fell with each shuddering sob.

  His lungs refused to work. His mind taunted that he’d been a fool, taken in by a chit of a girl. But his heart rejoiced. His body had known she was a female all along. An urge to lick her nipples and suckle hard had him trembling like a leaf. He welcomed the intensely pleasurable erection her body aroused.

  “Brigandine,” he rasped, gathering his cloak to cover her nudity. He wasn’t sure if his faltering knees would sustain him as he scooped her up and got to his feet.

  She snaked her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder. “Forgive me, Matthew,” she murmured. “Your brooch is safe.”

  It humbled him. He kissed the red tufts he’d once deemed ugly, relishing their silkiness on his lips. She’d been brutally attacked yet her concern was for his pin. He’d worried about a ritual sacrifice. Now he understood her attackers had intended to spill virgin blood. A quick glance at her clothing seemed to indicate they hadn’t achieved their goal, but his heart leapt into his throat—he’d almost arrived too late. There was no doubt in his mind she was an innocent, and he burned to be the one to take this woman’s maidenhead.

  The notion stunned him. She was the daughter of a smith. When Henry knighted him and granted an estate he couldn’t take a tradesman’s daughter to wife, a girl who’d been an armorer’s apprentice. The irony of it. He’d spent his adult life trying to distance himself from such humble ancestors.

  In any case, he’d sworn never to wed. Watching his father die of grief and guilt had been enough to dissuade him from marriage. It would tear him apart if Brigandine died a horrible death because of him.

  Et consumimur igni.

  We are consumed by fire.

  “Show me where it is,” he rasped, wishing he had the courage to leave the cursed heirloom where it lay hidden.

  The Campfire

  Brigandine stared into the flames of the hearty fire the Brabanters had lit in the shelter of the tallest stone. She sat in Matthew’s lap. He’d draped his cloak over his shoulders and cocooned her inside it, his arms around her. The fire had stopped her teeth chattering; being held against his body engulfed her in heat. Yet she shivered inwardly, dreading what might happen now he knew the truth.

  He wasn’t th
e only one who’d made startling discoveries this night. Brig the boy had become Brigandine the woman. Her body’s eager acceptance of her femininity had been a shock.

  She’d retrieved Matthew’s brooch. It lay in her palm. He seemed reluctant to take it from her. They’d exchanged few words since the rescue. The mercenaries kept watch around the outer edges of the circle. Sorley and Hamish had eluded them, and she’d no intention of telling Matthew about the other stone circle nearby.

  She touched the red glass. “’Tis beautiful,” she whispered, desperate to break the silence.

  He only grunted in reply, nuzzling her ear.

  She traced a fingertip over the inscription, shoving aside the silly female question that nagged. He was a man. He’d seen her breasts. His surprise had been evident, but did he find them appealing? She’d overheard enough bawdy talk among the youth of Cruggleton Castle to know the hard bulge beneath her bottom said he did.

  Instead she said, “Tell me what it means.”

  The smoke drifted towards them as the wind shifted. She coughed, rubbing her eyes. He pressed her head to his chest and buried his face in her hair. She would never smell woodsmoke again without thinking of him and of this night.

  She harbored no illusions. He was an ambitious nobleman, a warrior, she was a—

  What was she now?

  When the wind changed again, he took the brooch and read the inscription. “In girum imus nocte et consumimur igni.”

  The deep richness of his voice echoed up her spine. He paused but she sensed he would explain the meaning.

  “It’s a palindrome,” he said. “Reads the same in both directions.”

  She felt proud she’d been right.

  “In Latin it’s humorous, but the humor is lost in your language and mine. We run around in circles at night and are consumed by fire.”

  She gasped. “The first part came true tonight. We ran round in circles.”