By this time, Mama Starke had stopped weeping and was listening with wide-eyes. She sniffled hard, wiping at her nose with the white cloth. After a moment, she looked up at her son.
“Do you think that is true?”
His expression was calm. He looked his mother in the eye. “If the lady says it, then I believe it.”
Mama Starke sniffled again, her big blue eyes wide with thought. “There… there was a little brown mouse in my kitchen today,” she told him as if it meant something. “I have never seen that mouse before. He stared at me a long time before running off. Perhaps it was Shaw come to visit me!”
Brogan patted her shoulder. “Perhaps.”
Mama Starke suddenly stood up, still holding on to Avalyn’s hand. “I must go and put out something for the mouse to eat,” she said, filled with her mission. But before she went about her business, she turned swiftly to Avalyn, grabbed her face, and kissed her loudly on each cheek. “You are right, my lady, so right. Angels are all around us. I must go feed the mouse!”
She was off, disappearing into the back of the shop. Avalyn stood there, watching the woman rush about in search of something to feed the rodent. The death of a child was never an easy thing and beyond hurting for Mama Starke, she felt a good deal of sympathy for Brogan. As she was coming to discover, he had more than his share of things to be bitter about. More than cruel knights and a relegated existence, the death of his only child would be enough to embitter the man more deeply than most.
Avalyn looked over at Brogan just in time to see him approach her. Without a word, he reached out and gently cupped her face, nearly swallowing up her entire skull with his massive hands. They gazed at each other for a long moment, Avalyn’s surprised eyes against his warm ones. With more sweetness than she had ever imagined possible, he bent down and kissed her as Mama Starke had, on both cheeks. But there was much more to his kisses than Mama Starke’s had conveyed; something far deeper and fine.
Wide-eyed and breathless, Avalyn stared back at him. Brogan smiled faintly.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, dropping his hands. “For what you said to Mama. Thank you.”
She wasn’t quite over the feel of his hands on her head, his lips against her flesh. It had been an innately kind and tender gesture, but it had been something that set her heart to racing like nothing ever had. She felt as if she had been struck by lightning.
“My pleasure,” she managed to say. “But it is true what I said… the priest told me so.”
He continued to smile faintly at her, his massive dimples carving canyons down either side of his face. “I have no doubt.” They could hear Mama Starke bustling about in the back and Brogan called out to her. “I must leave, Mama. I shall return later.”
She said something to him in German, perhaps a farewell, and Brogan took Avalyn’s elbow and escorted her from the shop. Out into the clear sunshine again, the day seemed brighter and sweeter somehow. He didn’t let go of her elbow as they made their way onto the busy avenue that would, with a right had turn at the next intersection of streets, lead them back to the Tower.
“I am very sorry if I upset your mother by bringing about talk of your son,” she looked up at him; he was so tall that she very nearly had to lay her head back to see him. “I hope she will not hold it against me in spite of the comforting ending.”
He shook his head. “Mama has never held a grudge. You were very kind to her.”
“She was kind to me.”
The conversation quieted, but it was not uncomfortable. Avalyn’s gaze moved off to the Tower in the distance. Thoughts of her aunt and uncle suddenly filled her mind, of their conversation last night. She’d gone well beyond disobeying them in spite of her earlier intentions of merely returning a borrowed gown. More than that, she did exactly what they told her not to do; she had come into contact with d’Aurilliac again and she was enjoying it immensely. She was torn between defiance and the fear that she would be found out. The longer she stayed with him, the more chance there was for discovery.
“Brogan,” she said slowly. “Where will you be tonight? On the bridge again?”
He looked down at her, momentarily surprised by her question. “I do not plan to be. Why?”
She looked back at him, her golden eyes wide and lovely. “Because I am supposed to attend a feast tonight in honor of the Duke of Clarence. My uncle is announcing the duke’s betrothal to my cousin, I think, though nothing has been confirmed that I am aware of. Though I should attend, of course, I was thinking….”
She trailed off, suddenly realizing how forward she was about to sound. Brogan took his hand off her elbow, collected her fingers, and tucked them into the crook of his arm. His big hand remained intertwined with hers.
“What were you thinking, my lady?”
She cast him a sidelong glance, thinking that she was committed to finishing her bold sentence. There was just something about Brogan that made her feel alive and warm, and she did not want to lose that feeling. The thought of never seeing him again when she left the Tower on the morrow was becoming increasingly distressing.
“I was thinking on taking in an entertainment instead,” she said after a moment. “I thought you might like to accompany me.”
His eyebrows lifted. “An entertainment?”
“Aye. A play.”
Brogan had been to one play in his life; it had been complicated and he did not understand what was going on. But he would have gone with her to sit before the Devil himself if that was what she wanted; anything just to be near her.
“I would like that,” he said. “What play?”
“I do not know. But I have been told that the Rose and Thistle Playhouse has performances every night of the week. Since it is my last night here, I would like to see one.”
The thought of seeing her again that night brought lightness to his heart and a rush to his head. “And you shall,” he said. “When shall I come for you?”
She laughed softly. “Nay, Brogan, this is clandestine. I must sneak out of the feast in order to attend. Just meet me at the Playhouse. Have you ever heard of it? Do you know where it is?”
“You should not walk unescorted to the Playhouse,” he said firmly. “I will not hear of it.”
She frowned. “Well, you cannot call on me.”
“I can stand outside of the Beauchamp Tower and wait for you.”
She shook her head exaggeratedly, an almost teasing gesture. “You cannot, silly boy, because I will not be there.”
“Where will you be?”
“Near the Martin Tower. There is a large banquet hall on the first floor south of the turret.”
He nodded. “I know it. I shall wait for you just outside.”
They had made the turn onto the avenue that would take them straight to the Tower. Avalyn wasn’t quite so anxious to reach it and neither was Brogan. Their pace slowed, though neither one was aware of it. They were simply enjoying walking together.
“Brogan?”
“Aye?”
“What were you doing on the bridge last night?”
He looked at her, startled anew by the question. “Why do you ask?”
She shrugged. “For a few reasons, I suppose. For one, it was nearly pitch black last night, barely a moon, so I would assume you weren’t standing there observing the beauty of the night. Secondly, I remember racing for the bridge and I remember my horse veering off, enough to dislodge me. And I remember sailing through the air before everything went black. But if I went up and over the guides and still managed to knock you in, that means you had to be at least standing up on the guides. I couldn’t have knocked you in the river had you be standing on the footbridge.”
He didn’t say anything for a few long moments. He had never expected that question to come from her. She was more astute than he gave her credit for, reasoning out the disturbing circumstances of their meeting. As much as he was inclined not to tell her what he had been doing on the bridge, there was something about Avalyn that to
uched him deep, as if she could look into his eyes and know all about him. He didn’t have to say a word. There was a connection, and there was attraction.
It was uncharacteristic of him to reveal himself, to anyone. But he had already done it once to Avalyn and she had respected him. Still, he was reluctant to tell her of his darkest weakness. He was afraid she would think less of him and he did not want to risk it.
“I was up on the guides,” he admitted. “I was… I was looking at the water. I was thinking.”
She gazed up at him and he swore those golden eyes could see everything that was in his heart. He met her gaze but he knew that she was aware he was lying. He felt like a weak little lad, gazing into the most beautiful face he had ever seen and being terrified she would distain him if she knew the truth.
After several long moments, she finally looked away. “Oh,” she said. “Whatever the reason, ’twas a good thing you were there. Otherwise, I would have surely died.”
Brogan was relieved that she did not press him. He began to think that perhaps God had put him on that bridge for a reason that night, only not for the reason he thought. He believed he had gone there to end his life. What he had ended up doing was saving one. His fingers around her hand tightened.
As they walked in cozy silence, a shadow suddenly fell across their path. Avalyn looked up to see her uncle’s knight, William Inglesbatch, gazing down at them astride his big red charger. She came to a halt, startled at his appearance. She knew, in that instance, that she would have a good deal of explaining to do. If William had found her, they must be looking for her, and the warm situation of a simple stroll with Brogan suddenly turned dark and tense.
She felt like muttering a curse, but she spoke plainly and tried not to appear rattled. “What is it, William?”
Inglesbatch was in full battle armor, armed to the gills with broadsword and weapons. He flipped up his three-point face plate, of the latest style. There was menace on his handsome face.
“Your uncle is looking for you, my lady,” he said in a deep, unsympathetic voice. “I am to escort you back.”
Avalyn could have done one of two things at that moment; she could refuse, or she could go with him. How she behaved could very well dictate how Brogan behaved as well, for already she could feel him tensing against her. Rather than to create a scene and invite possible bloodshed, she slipped her hand from Brogan’s elbow and moved towards Inglesbatch. She put herself between the men in a calculated move; William would not move for Brogan if she was in the way. There was nothing else, in her opinion, that she could have done at the moment.
“Very well,” she said compliantly, turning to Brogan as if he was an afterthought. “Thank you for the escort, my lord. A very good day to you.”
Inglesbatch bailed of his charger, his blue eyes shooting daggers at Brogan. He took possessive hold of the lady’s arm and, in that instant, it took all of Brogan’s self control not to charge the man. The sudden appearance had been shocking enough, but now that he’d had a moment to let it sink in, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to let the lady go. When William turned his back on him in order to help Avalyn mount, Brogan clenched and unclenched his fists and prepared to charge. But Avalyn caught his gaze over the top of William’s shoulder and she shook her head, a hard snap that begged him not to do anything foolish. Their gazes locked and he could see that she was as reluctant to go as he was to let her. But another flick of her gaze, which he followed, showed that there were several De Neville knights and soldiers surrounding them.
He knew she was going because she had to. It did not occur to him until later that she left because she was trying to save his life. There was no doubt the De Neville men would have cut him down and called it justice. So Brogan stood there, unmoving, like a massive statue in the middle of the avenue as Inglesbatch mounted behind Avalyn and took off in the direction of the Tower. The surrounding De Neville men, with the green De Neville crest emblazoned upon their saddle blankets and tunics, brought up the rear in a thunderous retreat.
As quickly as they had appeared, they were gone, leaving Brogan standing in their dust. It was a disappointing end to a spectacular morning.
Chapter Four
Seated on a sagging chair that had seen far too much weight put upon it during its lifespan, St. Alban watched his young friend pace around their unspectacular chamber. It was not like Brogan to pace; the man was consummately controlled and usually unflappable. But something had him stirred today and he was displaying as much passion as St. Alban had seen from him in a very long time. A few brief words from Brogan when he had returned to their apartment gave him an inkling as to what it was.
“You promised me that you were going to stay away from her,” St. Alban said casually. “It’s a miracle that Warwick’s men did not cut you down on the spot.”
Brogan’s eyes narrowed. When he was angry, his accent became heavier, making him more difficult to understand. “They were armed. I was not. She got on a knight’s charger and rode away.”
“She had no choice, I am sure,” St. Alban said. “She probably saved your life by doing so.”
Brogan wandered over by the hearth, picking up the poker and toying with it angrily. “Wenn ich eine Waffe gehabt hatte, hätte ich sie alle getötet.”
“In a language I can understand, please.”
“I said, if I’d had a weapon, I would have killed them all.”
“How many were there?”
“A dozen or so.”
St. Alban cocked a bushy eyebrow. “You’re good, Brogan, but you’re not that good. What you would accomplish by sheer brute strength, those men would have overwhelmed you by sheer number.” He stood up from the chair, his joints creaking with age. “I have told you this since the beginning. She is Warwick. You must stay away from her.”
“I do not want to stay away from her.”
St. Alban knew that. He softened his approach, knowing that he could not bully Brogan into submission. “Then tell me; should you fight so hard just to be with her, what do you intend to do with her? Marry her? Surely you cannot be considering anything so outlandish.”
Brogan’s anger seemed to shift into something of frustration and confusion. He tried to look at his mentor but found he could not meet the man’s gaze. They both knew how foolish he was acting.
“I do not know,” he said. “All I know is that I want to be with her. I want to hear her laughter and listen to her speak. Is that so wrong?”
It wasn’t. St. Alban shuffled towards him, putting a fat hand on his shoulder. “It is not wrong, but she is out of your league, lad. I am most sorry to acknowledge that. You may as well wish for the stars.”
Brogan just stood there, staring into the flame. “I have had everything that I love taken from me.”
It was the first thing Brogan had ever said to that regard. St. Alban knew how hard it was for the man to voice his feelings. It had been a horrible three months for them both. His sympathy for the man, for the situation, deepened.
“I know,” he said quietly. “And I am glad this lady has brought a spark back to your life. But just like an angel, she’s not meant to stay. She belongs elsewhere. Now that your spark has been rekindled, seek someone suitable to share it with.”
“You mean someone who is not Warwick.”
“I mean that they will kill you if you continue to pursue her, Brogan. I have no desire to bury you. And I’m fairly certain that your death would destroy your mother.”
Brogan’s anger faded with that simple statement. He knew it would destroy his mother, also. He set the poker aside and wandered over to a big wooden chair, the only chair in the room that was able to hold his massive weight. Lowering himself onto the seat, St. Alban’s fat orange cat rubbed against his leg, purring madly, and he reached down to pet the furry beast. All the while, his mind was tumbling with thought and angst.
“She saved my life,” he finally said.
St. Alban’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
; He gave the cat one last pet. “Just that. The night I was on the bridge… I had decided not to live any longer. I did not want to. But she stopped me from completing the task of selbstmord. She saved my life even though she thinks that I saved hers.”
The old man’s eyes closed briefly, painfully. He had suspected something of that nature that night when Brogan had wandered off. His depression over his son had gotten worse and worse. No one could help him or ease his pain, though St. Alban had tried. To hear it from his lips, however, was a shocking admission.
“Brogan,” he went to his young friend. “You must never try anything like that ever again. Suicide is not the answer, lad. You will never see your son again if you do that. There are special places in hell reserved for those who would reject God’s gift of life. You know this.”
Brogan shook his head, clumsily. “It does not matter. It could be no worse pain than I am feeling right now.”
St. Alban stood in front of him, now kneeled down beside him. “But don’t you see? God was speaking to you last night. The fortuitous appearance of Lady Avalyn simply proves that. God was telling you not to despair. Good things will come back to you, Brogan. You must have faith.”
Brogan looked at him, the deep blue eyes full of anguish. “He brought me a lady I can never have.”
“He brought you a lady that showed you that you can and will feel happiness again.”
“But I want her.”
“She is out of your reach.”
The exchange was softly, urgently spoken, words overlapping. Then they gazed at each other like some bizarre standoff. Brogan finally stood up and went for the door, leaving St. Alban and the cat confused in the wake of rapid departure.
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