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 his 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; she was 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 mockingbird 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.”
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 been 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 touched 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 an 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.
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