Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  George put up a hand; he was a small man with a bad complexion. Not particularly likable, he was nonetheless a skilled and cunning negotiator. But one had to get past the boorish personality in order to appreciate his finer points.

  “And we are in agreement,” he assured Richard. “Isobel and I shall be married come summer. What I was merely pointing out is that if you betroth Avalyn, a proper husband will keep her foolish female mind from wandering.”

  “Avalyn has the least foolish female mind of any woman you will meet,” Richard shot back softly. “Her counsel is wise and I value her opinion, as you well know.”

  George sat his wine goblet down. “Then why do you fret over a dalliance with nothing more than a common soldier?”

  Richard looked at his cup again. Anne looked at George. “Because she is destined for far greater things,” she said softly, firmly.

  George lifted an eyebrow. “Then you had better direct her in the path of those far greater things.”

  “Anyone in mind, my lord?”

  George smiled. Odd that they should ask such a question.

  “He does not appear lame,” Avalyn was crouched beside the big bay colt. “’Tis surprising with the sprinting he did over the cobblestones last night. He should have a bowed tendon at the very least.”

  Brogan was crouched on the other side. He ran his big hands up and down the horse’s pastern, up the fetlock, feeling closely on the joint. Though he was inspecting the animal, his gaze kept moving to the lovely lady on the other side. It was difficult to concentrate. Finally, he stood up and slapped the horse affectionately on the neck.

  “He seems sound,” he said. “This is a big horse, my lady. Why do you not ride something more your size?”

  She stood up as well, an amused twinkle in her eye. “He is more my size,” she said firmly. “I like a horse with some spirit and speed, not those docile little palfreys. They are a bore.”

  Brogan lifted an eyebrow. “Spirit and speed almost got you killed last night.”

  She shrugged. “’Tis possible. Thankfully you were there to break my fall.”

  He rubbed the back of his head. “And almost snapped my neck in the process.”

  She laughed softly, patted the horse one last time, and came around from its other side. “Is that where I hit you?”

  He took her arm to steady her as she picked her way across a pile of horse dung. “You hit my entire backside from my waist up.”

  “You can take it,” she teased him. “You are a nice, big lad. You could probably get hit by a runaway ale cart and not feel it.”

  He scowled at her, lightly done. “I would feel it, I assure you. But I am surprised you are as sound and whole as you are. Our collision was very hard.”

  She rubbed at her belly. “Well,” she began reluctantly. “Truth be told, I am rather sore. My ribs and belly hurt a good deal.”

  He paused, looking concern. “Did you see a physic? Perhaps you have cracked some ribs.”

  She waved off his concern as they emerged from the stable and into the bright sunlight. “Even if they are cracked, there is naught the physic can do for me. I shall survive.”

  Brogan just stared at her. She caught his expression and lifted her shoulders. “Why do you look at me like that?”

  He hadn’t realized he was. He just shook his head. “You are unlike any fine lady I have ever seen or heard of.”

  “How is that?”

  “You are… strong.”

  She laughed, the gesture lighting up her entire face. “Strong? Strong like an ox, you mean?”

  He was chagrined that she took his meaning wrong. He was so stupid not to know the correct words when speaking to her. He’d done more talking in the past few hours than he had done almost in his entire life and he still wasn’t any better at it.

  “Nay,” he assured her. “I simply meant that you do not seem like one to complain. Your fall yesterday was violent yet you hardly say a word about it.”

  Her laughter faded and she patted his massive arm in a comforting motion. “I know what you meant,” she said, thinking perhaps that he didn’t have the quickest wit about him. “Not to worry, my lord.”

  The feeling of her hand on his arm, however innocent, was enough to start his heart racing again. “I respect a woman who does not complain.”

  She lifted an eyebrow at him. “Is that so? Well, I suppose I’ve never had much to complain about.”

  They emerged once again into the sunshine. The stables were busy around them, a stray dog wandering close and Avalyn bending down to pet it. Brogan simply watched her, every movement, every gesture. There was something about her that made him gravitate towards her like a moth to flame. She could have walked into the fires of hell and he would have followed. But after the past few months of unadulterated grief, he was subconsciously clinging to the only bright thing that had entered his life. There was attraction most definitely, but there was also need.

  Avalyn glanced up at him when she was finished petting the dog. The Tower was off to the southwest about a quarter mile and the training field where he had just come from was directly south of them, bordering the stables. Now that the task was done, she had nothing further to do except go back to her apartment. But she wasn’t quite ready yet. There was something about Brogan’s presence that made her want to linger with him.

  Well,” she came to a pause, gazing up into his angled face. “I suppose I should return home now. Surely you have other duties to attend.”

  True, he was needed out on the training field. In the distance, he could see the recruits he had been working with earlier. But he wasn’t about to give this moment up without a fight.

  “Have you eaten your morning meal yet, my lady?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Not yet.”

  He smiled. “Would you eat with me, then? There is a bakery in town that makes wonderful Semmeln.”

  She cocked her head. “Semmeln? What is that?”

  “German bread. Sometimes it has raisins or nuts in it.”

  The thought of experiencing something new always appealed to her. The thought of spending more time with him appealed even more. “I would like to try it.”

  His smile broadened and he held out her elbow to her. She took it and once again, they were off.

  It wasn’t a very long walk to the section of London he was speaking of. In fact, it bordered the training field to the southeast. Avalyn had never been to this part of town. One entire section of the street seemed to have nothing but Germanic shops; two bakeries, an import shop, and a merchant shop that sold a variety of goods and services. Brogan took her into the larger of the bakeries, a dimly lit place, and she was hit by the strong smell of baking bread when the door opened. Inhaling deeply, she laughed when Brogan did the same.

  “God’s Teeth,” she exclaimed softly. “What a wonderful smell.”

  There were a few tables set out before them; dark bread, lighter bread, bread in the shape of a basket, braided bread all met with her curious gaze. Brogan pointed to the different shapes and colors.

  “Graubrot, Weissbrot, Schwarzbrot, and Brotbelag,” he said. “These are all different types of Germanic breads.”

  She inspected the loaves closely without touching them. Sniffing at each one, she glanced up at him. “They smell strongly, but differently,” she observed. “How do you know so much about bread?”

  He smiled, his carved dimples deep. “I told you my mother still lived in London. This is her shop.”

  Before Avalyn could reply, a very large, very round woman suddenly came shooting out from the back of the store. Her gray hair was in a braid, woven up around the crown of her head, and she wore a very white shift with an embroidered red surcoat covered in flour dust. She threw her fat, dimpled arms around Brogan’s neck.

  “Mein Lieblingjunge!” she exclaimed happily. “Sie sind gekommen, Mich zu sehen.”

  Brogan put his arms around the woman, those massive things with every muscle, every tendon def
ined. He kissed her loudly on the cheek.

  “Hallo, Mutter,” he replied. “Ich habe jemanden für Sie gebracht, sich zu treffen.”

  The woman’s expression turned to one of surprise and she abruptly turned to Avalyn, standing a few feet away by the bread table. Avalyn smiled timidly and the woman dropped her arms from Brogan, dipping into a practiced curtsy.

  “I am so sorry,” she said in a very heavy accent. “I did not see you, my lady.”

  Brogan, grinning, put his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Lady Avalyn, this is my mother, the Good Wife Starke. Mama, this is the Lady Avalyn du Brant.”

  Mama Starke went right to her, taking her hand between her two puffy ones. She studied Avalyn’s face as if inspecting the loveliest creature on the face of the earth. “Oh,” she sighed. “Brogan, she is just beautiful. So very, very beautiful. How did you be so lucky?”

  Brogan wasn’t sure how to reply; he wriggled his eyebrows, snorting nervously when he couldn’t think of an answer fast enough. Mama Starke, eager and overjoyed, squeezed Avalyn’s hands happily.

  “Do you mean to tell me that you are finally going to wed again?” she asked. “Oh, Brogan, think of the lovely babies you will have!”

  The smile faded from Avalyn’s face as she looked at Brogan. He was positively mortified. “Nay, Mama,” he said. “The lady is… she is….”

  “A friend, Goody Starke,” Avalyn said quickly, helping Brogan out of this mess. “Your son saved my life and we have become friends. He brought me here to try some of your marvelous bread.”

  The woman’s eyes bulged. “He saved your life?” she gasped. “Mein schatz, how did he do this? What happened to you?”

  “A run-away horse,” Avalyn explained. “Your son was in the right place to save me from certain death.”

  Mama Starke threw a hand up, as if to thank God, and put a big fat arm around Avalyn’s shoulders. She pulled her towards a massive bank of shelves lined with fresh baked goods, practically smothering her with motherly concern. Avalyn had no choice but to follow.

  “Then we must take care of you,” she insisted. “What would you like? I know! You would like honey bread with raisins.”

  The woman had such a heavy accent that it was difficult to understand her, but Avalyn sensed she was a truly loving woman just by her manner. She obviously adored Brogan. Avalyn could hardly get a word in as Mama Starke shoved honey buns into her hands, insisting she eat, but then in the same breath shoving pieces of very dark and other flavored breads at her. It wasn’t long before Avalyn had enough bread to feed a small village and she looked for a place to sit before it all ended up on the floor.

  Brogan was torn between wanting to save Avalyn from his mother and watching the entire situation unfold. His mother was a generous and good woman and loved to dote. As a child, Brogan had been quite spoiled by his mother’s attention. So had his younger half brother, Jeffrey. But Mama Starke had always wanted a girl-child to spoil. She had been given a brief opportunity when Brogan married years ago. But that was short lived when his wife died in childbirth. Brogan found himself with an infant son to raise and Mama Starke took over, raising his son until the boy was pledged to foster. Now he was gone, too. Brogan’s good humor began to fade as the black depression he had been struggling with for three months threatened to consume him yet again.

  “Brogan,” Mama Starke snapped him from his morose train of thought. “Go and bring her some bier. And get the good kind.”

  Without a word, he went into the back of the shop and collected a dark earthenware jug with the sealed top. He popped the top and took a long, healthy drink; aye, this was the good kind. One could get drunk easily on it and forget one’s sorrows. Picking up a small cup from a nearby table, he went back to the front of the shop.

  Silently, he poured Avalyn a cup of the good German ale. Mouth full of honey bun, she took it appreciatively and downed a healthy swallow. The bun, and the bier, almost came flying back out again but she managed to choke everything down. Her wide-eyed look at Brogan told him how strong the drink was. It was enough to bring a smile back to his lips.

  “My apologies,” he said quietly, taking a seat next to her. “I should have warned you. Mama’s bier is potent.”

  Her golden eyes twinkled at him, seeing the humor in the situation just as he was. He sat very close to her, elbows resting on his knees, as Mama Starke fed her more pieces of bread and butter. Leaning forward on his knees as he was, he was almost eye-level with her as she sat on a taller stool. She was so close he could see the texture of her creamy skin and every lash on her beautiful eyes. He still had difficulty believing that such a magnificent lady had been so kind to him. He had come to think that nothing in his life was meant to be kind or beautiful. So much of it had been horrible until last night. As he gazed at her, threats of the black depression faded.

  With the lady stuffing her face, Mama Starke sat back in her chair, her gaze moving between her son and the lovely lady. She knew her son well and she had never seen that expression before on his face. Her mother’s intuition was on high alert.

  “Are you already married, my lady?” she asked in her stilted English. “Do you have children?”

  Avalyn shook her head, finishing the last of the honey bun. “I am not married and I have no children,” she replied. “Thank you very much for the honey bread. It was delicious.”

  Mama Starke threw more at her. Avalyn felt obligated to eat it even though she was already full. “Such a lovely lady unmarried?” Mama Starke gasped with outrage. “I do not believe it. Why are you not married?”

  Avalyn could feel her cheeks growing warm. “Because… well, because I am not,” she said. “This brown bread is very good.”

  “Hmpf,” Mama Starke did not want to talk about brown bread. “Did you know that Brogan was married once? Bless her, Didrika was a sweet girl but unable to live through childbirth. She died giving Brogan a son. And then he…”

  She suddenly burst into soft sobs, grasping for the scrap of material tucked into the waist line of her surcoat. As Avalyn watched in horror, the woman wept deeply into the hand kerchief.

  “Goody Starke,” she put the bread down and put her hand on the woman’s arm. “What is the matter? Why do you weep?”

  The woman waved her off, unable to speak at the moment. Mortified, Avalyn looked at Brogan and received an even graver shock; his deep blue eyes were dulled with pain, his expression tight and defensive. But he met her gaze, the wall of self-protection in his expression crumbling slightly.

  “What’s wrong?” Avalyn asked him softly. “Why does she weep?”

  Brogan took a long, heavy breath. “My son was killed three months ago,” he said it so softly that she barely heard him. “Mama raised him.”

  Avalyn’s expression softened with understanding, with sorrow. Even though her hand was still on Mama Starke’s arm, she reached out and took Brogan’s hand, hanging limp as his elbows rested on his knees. Her fingers tightened around his big digits and he responded, collecting her soft hand into both of his. His hands were so big that the swallowed everything from nearly the mid-forearm down. But his grip was warm, firm and wonderful. Her eyes were soft on him.

  “I am so sorry for your loss,” she murmured. “How did it happen?”

  He had not talked about it since that night he received the horrible news. It had festered, burned deep, destroyed his heart, but he had never voiced his pain. He’d kept it inside. Yet somehow, it was okay for him to talk to Avalyn about it. Her grip gave him courage and her eyes gave him strength. He felt safe enough to speak of it.

  “He was fostering at Rochester Castle,” he said quietly. “He was run over by a spooked horse. He lived a day and a night before finally meeting his death. He was eleven years old.”

  Avalyn felt a good deal of sorrow for the passing of Brogan’s son. “God’s Teeth,” she murmured. “I am so very, very sorry. What was his name?”

  “Shaw,” Brogan said slowly, feeling the name pour over h
is tongue. “Shaw d’Aurilliac.”

  “Shaw,” Avalyn repeated. “I shall remember him at mass.”

  Brogan nodded his thanks, unable to say more than he already had. For three months he had lived with such agony as he had never known. Only in the past few hours, since meeting Avalyn, had that pain dulled somewhat. She had brought some light back into his life, however temporary. Still, she had unknowingly given him strength. That night she had crashed into him had been pivotal. It had been a God-send.

  Somewhere in his thoughts, Avalyn squeezed his hand again. He looked up at her, realizing he must have been very far away, mentally, from the way she was looking at him.

  “Your mother is very upset,” she said quietly. “Perhaps we should leave.”

  Brogan didn’t want to leave. He didn’t want to move. He wanted to stay just where he was, holding Avalyn’s hand, for the rest of his life. But she was correct about one thing; his mother was quite upset. She was as broken over Shaw’s death as he was. Slowly, he stood up to his full massive height and, still holding Avalyn’s hand, put a hand on his mother’s shoulder.

  “Mama,” he said gently. “Hören Sie auf, um zu weinen. Kommen Sie und ruhen Sie jetzt.”

  Avalyn could not understand German, but it was evidently something Mama Starke was unwilling to do. The old woman shook her head vigorously, her round cheeks red. “Nein, die ich machen, will nicht. Ich will mein Shaw.”

  “Mama,” Brogan reluctantly let Avalyn go and put both hands on his mother’s shoulders. He leaned next to her ear. “Shaw is gone. He is not coming back. You must be strong.”

  Mama Starke shook her head again, mumbling something German against her hand kerchief. The material was all but shoved into her mouth. Avalyn felt such pity for the old woman, obviously someone with a great deal of love and feeling for her family. She placed her fingers in the woman’s free hand and took hold.

  “Goody Starke,” she said gently. “I do not know if this will help you, but when I lost my father and mother within a month of each other, the priest told me something very special. He told me that when our loved ones die, they become our guardian angels. He told me that even though I cannot see my parents any longer, they are still all around me, in everyday things. When a butterfly flies close, it is the spirit of my mother hovering around me. When a mocking bird sits in the trees and scolds me, it is my father telling me not to run down the stairs or ride my horse too fast. Perhaps Shaw is still around, Goody. He is your guardian angel now. Just look around and perhaps you will see him still in everyday things.”