by Nancy Morse
His eyes roved over the Aragonese she sensed had assembled around her. She could smell as well as hear them. “They’ll kill me anyway,” he rasped.
“Nay, Hamish. If ye unhand him, ’twill be me and thee, a sword fight to the death. If ye win I guarantee yer freedom. William, King o’ all Scotland is here, and he’ll see they bide by what I say.”
She hoped the King was in fact behind her and that he understood Gaelic. Relief surged up her spine when a regal voice declared, “I so bear witness.”
Matthew babbled something about Saint George, wincing when Hamish forced his arm further up his back. Brig feared he’d soon succumb to his injuries.
“Let him go,” she repeated, pleased to see an arrogant glint appear in Hamish’s eye. He might be good with his fists, but he was no swordsman.
“I’ll kill ye quick,” he crowed. “After all ye’re just a lass and ye look like a toy soldier in that costume.”
That did it.
“Let him go,” she hissed, “and we’ll see who is the lass.”
There was laughter from the Aragonese, though she doubted they understood what had been said. Evidently they respected her bravado.
Hamish unexpectedly shoved Matthew aside and lunged for her. She’d no time to see if he’d slashed her beloved’s throat. The fight was on for her own life now she’d hopefully saved Matthew’s.
The point of his sword stung her arm, sharpening her determination to win. She thrust and parried and feinted and ducked, remembering everything her father had ever taught her. She twirled, whirled and danced, her feet taking on a life of their own. She poked Hamish on the arse. He squealed, his sweating face red with indignation. The bystanders howled.
She thanked the saints for the strength in her arms and legs, strength born of a lifetime of hard work. Her opponent tired quickly as she evaded his every attempt to land a blow. When he could barely lift his sword, she flicked it out of his grip and lunged hard for his shoulder. He howled in pain, crashing to the ground as blood spurted from the deep wound she inflicted.
“That’ll teach ye to mess with girls,” she taunted amid cheers from the onlookers.
Hamish was hauled away. She didn’t have it in her to finish him off, but doubted he’d leave Lincluden alive. She picked up the dagger he’d dropped. Her dagger.
Suddenly she was in her gleeful father’s beefy arms. “I’m proud o’ ye, Brig. Ye were payin’ attention after all.”
All her life she’d longed to hear words of praise from her father. She hugged him, but her concern was for Matthew.
“They’ve taken him to the healer,” her Da explained. “Broken ribs, I’d say.”
She handed him her weapons and hurried off to tend the man she loved.
The Moth
The castle’s healer ushered Brigandine into Matthew’s chamber. He lay on his bed, as still as death. His garments had been removed. A linen sheet covered the lower part of his body. She suspected he was naked beneath it.
His cheekbones were bruised. An angry red line betrayed where the dagger had dug into his neck. But his body—
Brig licked salty tears that ran unbidden down her face. Every inch of his broad chest was black and blue. The bruises covered his belly. She fervently hoped he’d not been kicked below the belt.
“Dinna cry, laddie,” the healer chided. “He’s a braw man. He’ll recover, God willin’.”
“I’m nay a laddie,” she murmured in response, “and I’ll cry for the man I love if I wish.”
Leighis eyed her curiously. “Ha! Always suspicioned there was summat funny about ye, Brig Lordsmith. When ye first came from Cruggleton, I said to—” She wiped Matthew’s forehead with a wet cloth then narrowed her eyes at Brig—“Weel, doesna matter now what I said. Would ye like to bathe his face?”
Brig accepted the linen with trembling hands and nervously dabbed Matthew’s forehead. “My love,” she whispered.
He blinked open bleary eyes. “Brigandine?” he rasped.
“Aye, I’m here.”
He took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Thank God,” he whispered. “I dreamt you were in a sword fight. Saint George saved you. He came on his red dragon.”
“Ye didna dream it,” Leighis interjected, winking at Brig. “He fought some bully named Hamish and won handily. Did ye know Brig’s a lass?” She guffawed loudly, slapping her thigh. “O’ course ye did!”
Matthew smiled weakly then closed his eyes and swallowed hard. Brig watched him fight the pain, wishing she could take it from him.
The healer gently lifted his head and held an unstoppered potel to his lips. “A few swigs o’ dwale and ye’ll feel no pain,” she said. “Just a bit, mind.”
Matthew grimaced as he swallowed the bitter potion, and Brig was instantly worried. She’d heard of folk adding too much hemlock or henbane to their dwale recipe. “’Tis yer ain concoction, I trust,” she asked Leighis. “Ye ken what’s in it?”
The woman bristled. “Listen, laddie, or lassie, or whate’er ye be. I’ve been the healer in this castle since before ye were born and I’ve ne’er poisoned anybody yet. Now shoo while I bind this man’s broken bones.”
Brig gripped the side of the mattress. “Nay. I’ll stay to help ye.”
Matthew made a valiant effort to keep his eyes open. As long as the beautiful face framed by red tufts was before him, all would be well. But the dwale quickly carried him out of his pain. Drifting into oblivion, he wondered if he’d told her he loved her. He’d meant to. It had been the last thing on his mind before Saint George had appeared.
She and the healer were binding his chest. He liked the notion of her small hands on him. If she ran them all over his body he’d die a happy man. He chuckled. Ironic. He and Brig, both with bindings around their chests. Of course, his was because he’d broken a rib or two. Her bindings concealed breasts. He planned to unwind hers and suckle at the first opportunity. He licked his lips. Dwale made a man thirsty—and hot.
“He’s raving,” Brig whispered. “Are ye sure about the dwale? He thinks we’re taking the bindings off.”
Leighis remained stern faced, her concentration on her work. “Dinna fash. He’ll mend. We hafta guard agin’ fever, and pray there’s naught else damaged inside. Keep his brow cool.”
Brig dipped the linen in the water bowl, wrung it out and wiped the sweat beading on Matthew’s forehead. To her relief he smiled. Did he know she was there, or had the potion carried him off to a land of dreams?
“Brigandine,” he rasped, licking his lips.
She’d never kissed or been kissed before, but his mouth drew her. When Leighis turned away to replenish the water from the ewer, she leaned over and brushed her lips over his, smoothing a lock of hair off his face. She tasted the bitter dwale, but he parted his lips slightly and his breath mingled with hers. The softness, the sweetness, the wicked exhilaration of joining her mouth to his filled her with joy.
He growled in his sleep and unexpectedly sucked her tongue into his mouth. Some alchemy flooded her body with joy, with need, with wanting.
A desire to moan with happiness rose in her throat.
“Careful, or ye’ll press too hard on his chest.”
She jolted backwards, fearing the healer’s censure for her actions.
Matthew whimpered like a child deprived of something it craves.
“The love o’ a good woman oft helps a wounded man heal,” Leighis said. “Dinna be afraid to put yer hands on him.”
She bustled out of the chamber.
Brig stared at Matthew. She longed to touch him. What better time than when he was asleep. He’d never know. Holding her breath, she put her hands on his shoulders then traced the contours of his arms with her fingertips, exploring the muscles, savoring the soft hair on his forearms. Letting out a ragged breath, she lifted a hand and interlaced her fingers with his, awed by the size and texture of his palm. His hands were powerful, yet gentle. She rested his finger
s on her lips, then sucked one into her mouth, tasting salt and desire.
He stirred in his sleep, sending a flutter scurrying up her spine. She carefully put his hand down by his side and stared at the shape of his legs beneath the sheet. Her fingers twitched. She chewed her bottom lip. Mayhap if she lifted the sheet and just looked at his feet. He’d seen her feet, so why not?
She stood at the foot of the bed and picked up the edge of the linen raising it just enough to reveal his knees. She remembered sitting in his lap in the druid circle, and pressing her thighs to his atop Belenus. She could peek at those wondrous thighs. No harm in that. She raised the linen. Her eyes travelled along the line of muscle, until they fell on a nest of black curls. His male parts lay at rest. A vision of him standing naked in the Nith played behind her eyes. He hadn’t lain at rest then, despite the cold water!
“He’s a bonnie man.”
She dropped the linen, fire racing through her veins. She’d been engrossed in her exploration and hadn’t heard Leighis return to the chamber.
The healer chuckled. “Naught to be ashamed of. He’s the kind of man who attracts women like moths to the flame.”
The truth of it struck Brig like a lightning bolt. She was the moth drawn to Matthew’s flame, and it was the fire of love that consumed her. If she became his wife, she wasn’t going to die a fiery death. She already had, but her true self had emerged from the ashes. Now to convince him of it.
Choices
For the next fortnight, Brig spent every free moment tending Matthew. Leighis had pronounced he was on the mend and allowed him to get up and walk for a few minutes.
She relished his weight as he leaned on her for support. “You’re strong—for a girl,” he teased.
She kept him abreast of events. “All of Lincluden is agog with gossip about your heroic rescue of the King of Scotland, the sword fight, and the revelation I’m a female.”
She’d told him of the duel with Hamish. He couldn’t seem to get enough of the tale and had her repeat it over and over, asking more than once if she was sure Saint George hadn’t been there.
“The problem of my leaving the forge has been solved,” she told him. “Dozens of lads have swamped Gorrie, begging to be taken on as his apprentice. He’s chosen one. He beams with pride whene’er he sets eyes on me, though I’ve a feeling something is on his mind. I dinna see much of him, what with the new boy.”
He paused in his walking and ogled her. “No wonder he looks at you with pride now you’re dressed as a woman, and your hair is growing. I can’t wait to see it down to your waist.”
She felt the blush rise in her cheeks under his admiring gaze. “Aye. I expected censure from the lasses of the castle, but instead I’m the object of admiration and the recipient of several comely lèines, chemises and shoes. It seemed strange at first, but I dinna miss the uncomfortable bindings around my chest.”
He sat heavily on the edge of the mattress. “I’ll be glad to get mine off too. I suppose men are drifting back to Lincluden after the news Gilbride has sued for peace with William the Lion.”
“Aye,” she agreed, helping him back into bed, “I’m saddened my homeland is to become part of the kingdom of Scotland, but William has proven himself a better leader than Gilbride.”
Matthew took her hand. “Your land will prosper under the protection of William and King Henry. Leighis told me Gilbride will be named Earl of Galloway and allowed to keep Cruggleton Castle in return for swearing homage to William.”
“Where does the woman get this news?” she asked. “She’s always first to know.”
He smiled. “Mayhap she has the king’s ear.”
They laughed together. It elated her to see him on the mend. “The general opinion is that once the castle at Dumfries is completed, Lincluden will be abandoned.”
He shrugged, then winced. “Wish I hadn’t done that,” he quipped. “Dumfries. Who knows how long before I can assist with that grand project? William will probably send me back to Henry.”
“That would break my heart,” she murmured.
He squeezed her hand. “I love you, Brigandine, and I’m beginning to see the wisdom of your explanation of the legacy of the red glass, but even if you’re right, things are uncertain—”
She snatched her hand from his grip. “Ye’re the man for me, Matthew de Rowenne. There’ll be no other. If I canna be yer wife, that will be the hell I’ll burn in. But I’m beginning to get the feeling yer reluctance has more to do with the fact I’m the daughter of a—”
A loud rap at the door drew their attention. He leaned back on the bolster, his eyes full of sadness that tore at her heart. “Entrez,” he rasped.
A Spanish mercenary entered and bowed. “El Rey William has summoned—”
Matthew held up a hand. “Tell His Majesty it will take me a few minutes to get there. I’ll need your help.”
The soldier shook his head. “No, Commandante de Rowenne. It is the lady he wishes to see.”
Matthew lay back and worried.
Why had the King of Scotland summoned Brigandine? It could only be to give her a reward of some kind. Surely she wasn’t to be punished for masquerading as a man. If anyone deserved punishment for the ruse it was Gorrie Lordsmith.
She’d turned fearful eyes on him when she’d left, as if she might never see him again.
The prospect gnawed at his vitals. Brigandine had become essential to his happiness. She claimed to be the moth drawn to his flame, yet he couldn’t foresee a life without her.
She was strong, courageous. She’d saved his life. He’d been attracted to her even before he’d known she was a woman, his body wiser than his brain. If ever there was a moth consumed by the flames of love, it was him.
But he’d striven for so long to distance himself from humble ancestors, to climb the social ladder. Mayhap she was right. He was too proud to wed with her. King Henry would be disinclined to bestow rewards on a man married to a tradesman’s daughter.
The choice was clear. Ambition or love.
Brigandine teetered nervously upon entering the king’s antechamber, not only because William the Lion sat before her, but Gorrie Lordsmith knelt at his feet. She had never curtseyed and hoped she wouldn’t fall over.
“Rise,” the King said. “I see your hair is growing.”
This she hadn’t expected.
He pointed to his own hair. “Same color as mine.”
She’d never paid much attention to his appearance before, except to note he was a big man. She often wondered at the strength it must have taken for Matthew to unhorse and subdue him. “Aye,” she murmured, then hastily added, “Yer Majesty.”
He chuckled. “Strange, isn’t it, that your father doesn’t have red hair?”
She looked at Gorrie’s rigid back. Something was wrong.
The King retrieved a small rolled parchment from inside his gambeson. “Your father has presented me with this document.”
This didn’t make sense. Gorrie could neither read nor write.
William must have perceived her confusion. “You are right in thinking he had no notion what was written upon it.”
He turned his gaze on Gorrie. “Tell me, master armorer, did your wife have red hair?”
Aye! Down to her waist. He’s often told me—
“Nay, Yer Majesty,” her father rasped.
Brig had heard tell of tentacled creatures that swam in the sea. One splashed about in her innards.
The King spoke again. “Your father has kept this document for seventeen, mayhap eighteen years. How old are you?”
The creature was swimming its way up her throat. “I’ll turn eighteen at harvest time.”
“He found it in a basket left at his forge.”
An urge to run for the door seized her. She didn’t want to hear the King’s next words.
“There was a child in the basket, a babe.”
Nay! Nay! Nay!
“Gorrie L
ordsmith and his wife were childless. They saw the babe as a gift from God. As the lass grew they believed there was less chance of her being reclaimed if they pretended she was a boy.”
Gorrie was sobbing. She could bear it no longer. “Nay!” she screamed. “He’s my Da. He loves me.”
“Of course he loves you. That’s why he kept the secret all these years. But he’s a truthful man and thus the reason for the letter’s continued existence. Am I right, Armorer?”
“Aye,” Gorrie whispered.
William the Lion unfurled the parchment and cleared his throat, preparing to read the words that she feared would change her life forever.
Nurture this child of my heart, a bastard born of my love for a soldier. If my lord betrothed discovers the truth he will slay us all. Tell her of my love.
The chamber tilted. The creature was tearing her heart to shreds. She swayed, grateful as she surrendered to oblivion that Gorrie Lordsmith’s strong arms prevented her from crashing to the tiled floor.
The Test
Gorrie carried Brig to the cramped rooms they inhabited over the forge. Once she’d recovered her wits, she contemplated her new circumstances. All she’d heard of the letter initially was that she was a bastard, a child born out of wedlock, an outcast.
But it seemed her real mother had been of the nobility, a woman who’d fallen in love with a soldier and given herself to him though betrothed to another. A soldier! How ironic! The man mayhap didn’t even know he had a daughter.
Her mother had loved her.
Gorrie blubbered, on his knees beside her pallet, begging forgiveness.
She sat up, cupped his face in her hands and kissed his forehead. “There is naught to forgive, Da. I ne’er had any inkling ye weren’t my real father. I know ye love me.”
