So Speaks the Heart

by Johanna Lindsey

  Still the beast did not rise to join her. Brigitte lost her temper and shouted, “I tell you he does not need our help! Now come!”

  She began to walk away, but glanced over her shoulder to see if Wolff was following. But he had moved closer to the Norman and lay with his head resting by Rowland’s side.

  “Damn your hide, stay with him then!” Brigitte cried. “But if you think he will treat you better than I do, you are very much mistaken. You will get his boot for your efforts to please him, for that is the kind of man he is.”

  She stalked away, determined not to look back. But before she reached the stallion, Wolff suddenly let out the most forlorn howl she had ever heard. It echoed through the forest. She turned back to find him nudging the Norman’s side as though trying to turn him over.

  “Leave him be, Wolff!” she gasped, afraid Rowland would awaken before she could leave.

  She ran back to pull the dog away, and then she saw the puddle of blood seeping out from under the man. He was badly wounded. But how? With great effort, Brigitte managed to turn him over. Then she saw the sword Rowland had dropped before falling. The tip of it had landed on a large stone, pointed just right to slide into Rowland’s side when he fell on it.

  “It would serve him right to die by his own weapon,” Brigitte said coldly.

  She could not see how bad the wound was, but there was a great deal of blood on the ground and more soaking his tunic. She turned to Wolff, who was staring at her expectantly, and said stubbornly, “I am not bound to help him after what he has done to me. And do not look at me with those sad eyes, Wolff. If I bind his wound he may awaken, and I will lose my chance to escape. And besides, we do not know for certain that he will die if I do not help him.”

  Brigitte stopped and looked once more at the unconscious knight. And then her shoulders heaved as she said, “Listen to me. I sound as mean and cold-hearted as he is. I cannot leave a man to die, not even this one.”

  “I am glad to hear that.”

  Brigitte gasped as Rowland’s dark eyes opened and locked hers. “How long have you been conscious?” she blurted.

  “Since you turned me over so ungently,” he grunted. “I feel a terrible stabbing in my head.”

  “Look to your side, Norman, for you are bleeding like a stuck pig,” she said bluntly.

  Rowland sat up slowly, but he fell back on one elbow, bringing his other hand to his head. “God, my skull is splitting in two.” And then he looked at her sharply. “Did you do this to me?”

  “If it is hurting you, then I wish I had,” she said. “But I did not. A man you did not see struck you from behind.”

  “I would more easily believe you did it,” he said skeptically.

  “Then look around you. There are two bodies ready to be buried.”

  Rowland looked, stunned, and then his eyes fell on Wolff lying beside him. “It seems I underestimated you, dog.”

  “Remember that the next time you think about attacking me,” Brigitte warned him. “If even I had known just how formidable Wolff is, you would have felt his teeth long ago, as those two Saxons did.”

  “Saxons?”

  “They’re the two who traveled with us on the river.

  Rowland scowled. “They must have been thieves. Why else would they follow us?”

  “Oh, yes, they were thieves,” she returned bitterly. “But it was me they meant to steal.”

  “Be damned!” Rowland growled. “I knew you would cause me trouble with that winsome face of yours. I suppose you encouraged those Saxons on the barge?”

  “How dare you!” She caught her breath sharply. “I cannot help the way I look, but I tempt no man intentionally. I want no man lusting after me. What you did to me was as vile as I always expected it to be.”

  “Enough!”

  “No, it’s not enough,” she stormed, wanting to wound him further. “You call yourself my lord, but you did not protect me from those brigands as a lord is bound to protect his serf. I would say you have lost your right to my services, since you did not fulfill your obligations to me.”

  “Were you hurt?” he demanded.

  “Well…no, but no thanks to you.”

  “If no harm has been done, then I will hear no more talk of rights and obligations. And I did make an effort to protect you. I have wounds to show for it.”

  Brigitte felt a twinge of remorse for provoking him and was silent.

  “I believe you said you would bind my wound?” he reminded her.

  “I will do so as long as you understand one thing— I do not feel bound to do it because you call yourself my lord.”

  “Then do it as a Christian,” he said tiredly, his eyes closing wearily. “Get it done.”

  She turned and went to his horse to rummage through his packs for something to use as a bandage. But Rowland stopped her before she opened them.

  “You will find no cloth there.”

  She faced him. “An old shirt will do.”

  “The strips from a shirt will not be long enough. You will have to find something in your clothes.”

  “Mine!” she gasped, coming back to stand over him. “I do not have so many clothes with me that I can spare any for you. I will use one of the blankets.”

  “We will need the blankets, for the farther north we go, the colder it will get,” Rowland told her flatly.

  She impatiently grabbed her sack of possessions and withdrew her most worn shift, a yellow linen one, consoling herself with the knowledge that it would not keep her warm in the north anyway. Nor would the blue linen she had brought. That left her only two woolen tunics.

  When Brigitte turned back to Rowland, she found he had opened his belt and was trying to remove his tunic. She hesitated a moment, watching his great effort, then pushed his hands away and pulled the garment over his head. He was pale and weak, but he watched her carefully as she cleaned his wound and then bound him tightly with the strips of linen. When she was finished, she helped him into a clean garment, then covered him with the blanket and moved to build up the fire.

  “Will you wash the blood from my shirt, damosel?” Rowland asked.

  Brigitte nodded quickly, because he asked and did not demand it. She picked up the tunic and went down to the river. When she returned to camp, Brigitte laid Rowland’s shirt over a tree limb to dry, then approached him to see if he was asleep.

  “Does the lump on your head bother you?” she whispered.

  “Yes,” he replied with a grimace. “What did he hit me with?”

  “An ax,” she replied. “You are lucky. The blade was turned away.”

  “Humph,” he grunted. “It feels embedded in my head now.”

  “It would have been better for me if it were,” Brigitte thought, then blushed at her own cruelty.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The smell of roasting meat woke Brigitte. A quick glance about the camp showed her that the dead Saxons had been moved away. The clearing was as it had been. Rowland squatted before the fire with Wolff beside him, and she glared at them both.

  “My, you have been busy for a man sorely wounded,” she remarked caustically.

  “Good morn, damosel.”

  She ignored his greeting. “Pray, did your wound open?”

  He chuckled. “No, the Hun did the work,” he said, nodding toward his horse.

  “And the meat?”

  “Your dog provided that.”

  Brigitte turned a damning look on Wolff. “Traitor! Must you expend yourself to please him!”

  “Do you always talk to animals?” Rowland asked her with a sidelong look.

  “Only to that one,” she replied sourly. “Though it seems to do little good of late.”

  “I hope you do not expect him to answer you.”

  “Of course not,” she said huffily. “I am not addled, Rowland.”

  He frowned. “I did not give you leave to address me that way.”

  “I did not ask your leave.”

  His brows narrowed. “You w
ill address me properly as Seignior.”

  “I will not. You are not my seignior,” Brigitte said firmly. “My father was indeed my seignior, and my brother after him. But now my lord is the Count of Berry. I will call him Seignior, but you are Rowland of Montville and no more. I will call you either Rowland or bastard Norman—it matters not which.”

  Rowland stood up then and approached her, his eyes glinting.

  “I warn you, wench—

  “Wench!” Brigitte burst. “My name is Brigitte-do you hear? Brigitte! If you call me wench once more I will scream!”

  Rowland’s scowl vanished with his surprise at her outburst. “You have a devil in you this morning. What has come over you, girl?”

  “You have!” she shouted, near tears. “You have no right being up and about when you were near death a few hours ago. You have the devil in you. You should be weak, but he gives you strength!”

  “So that is it.” He laughed suddenly. “You still had plans to flee, thinking me too weak to stop you. Well, I am sorry to disappoint you, but I was taught from earliest youth to bear pain and bear it well.”

  They came to Angers that morning after a few hours of slow progress. Rowland did not push the Hun as hard as he had. Rather than pay their respects to the Count of Anjou, Rowland stopped at the monastery there for provisions and to make arrangements for the two dead Saxons. Then they left the old city.

  Brigitte was more than a little put out. “Why could we not stay at least one night? Surely you could use the rest. One more day would not matter.”

  “I saw no need for it,” Rowland replied curtly.

  They had both been silent on the way to Angers, but now Brigitte was ready to do battle again. “Why do you avoid towns? Each one we have come to, you have left as quickly as you could.”

  He did not look back at her. “It’s not wise to stay in a place you do not know.”

  “Of course not. Better to sleep out in the open on the cold ground,” she said sarcastically.

  “You nag like a wife,” Rowland said sharply. “Cease your prattling.”

  Brigitte was stung, but hardly daunted. They passed vineyards on low lying hills outside Angers, and then entered a marsh. And the farther they rode from Angers, the more irritated Brigitte became. She would not have a warm bed this night, nor would there be company. She would never get any help this way.

  “I cannot believe Angers is strange to you. Surely you must know someone there. It’s not too late to go back.”

  “I have no intention of going back, girl. And no, I know no one there.”

  “But your home is not that far from here, is it?” she ventured.

  “A few days more. But that is no reason why I should know people in Angers. I never spent time there. My father always kept me close to home. And when I left home, I went east.”

  Brigitte giggled at that. “You were kept close to home? What noble’s son is kept close to home? A lord’s son is sent to another’s court for his training. If you were not, then you must come from peasant stock.”

  Rowland’s back stiffened. “My father wished to train me himself,” he said icily. “And once we reach Montville, you will no doubt learn that I am a bastard. My mother was a serf, and I am my father’s bastard.”

  “Oh.” She could think of nothing to say.

  “I admit it freely.”

  “I might, too, if it were true in my case,” she said. “But I am no bastard.”

  He stopped the Hun and then turned around to look at her. “Your tongue needs a rest, damosel,” he said matter-of-factly. “A little walking might help.”

  And with that he lowered her to the soggy ground, ignoring her cry of rage. He urged his mount on, and Brigitte had no choice but to follow, Wolff trailing her.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Rowland halted on a hilltop. Below him was Montville, his home. Brigitte leaned to one side to get a better look at the place she would be living in for a while. It was white, snow thickly covering everything from the fortress on a raised mound to her left to the village alongside it and the pastures, orchard, farmland, and forest beyond.

  The snow fell relentlessly, reminding Brigitte uncomfortably of the previous night when the first flakes descended, prompting Rowland to seek her warmth. She would have preferred freezing, but he would not let her, pulling her soft body against his, ignoring her protests. But he did not force himself on her. Whether because of his wound or because of Wolff’s low growls she did not know. But he placed warm kisses on her neck until she wiggled away. He did not bother her after that, except to place a heavy hand on her hip and leave it there, as a mark of possession.

  Brigitte tried to wipe the memory of last night away as she gazed down on Rowland’s home. She thought instead of meeting his father and what she would say to that noble lord. Would he believe her if she told him who she was and what had happened to her? Rowland started down the hill, and Brigitte felt the first twinges of fear. What if no one here believed her? What if she never left this place, but was forced to spend the rest of her life in service here?

  A guard motioned them through the open gate, waving a greeting at Rowland. No one came out to greet them. The bailey was windblown and deserted. Not even a groom came out from the stable to take Rowland’s horse.

  “Is all well here?” Brigitte asked uneasily as Rowland dismounted just outside the stable and helped her down.

  “Nothing seems amiss.”

  “But why has no one come to greet you? The guards must have seen us coming and informed your father,” she asked as they left the stables and began walking toward the manor.

  “Yes, I am sure he knows I am here.”

  “And he does not come?” she asked, astonished.

  He smiled tolerantly. “Only a fool would leave a warm fire on a day like this.”

  “But not even a servant has come to tend you,” Brigitte persisted.

  Rowland shrugged. “You will find Montville is not very hospitable, Brigitte. I do not expect it to be otherwise.”

  “You said your father had many serfs.”

  “He does, but they dance to Hedda’s tune, and she no doubt sent them off with a hundred tasks when she heard of my approach. That lady goes to great effort to see that I am not made to feel welcome here. I did not think she had changed simply because I have been away these last six years.

  “My stepmother is a vicious lady. I would advise you to stay well out of her way, for she will not like you.”

  “Why? She does not even know me.”

  “She will not have to.” Rowland chuckled. “Hedda will despise you simply because you serve me. She has always taken great pleasure in making my life miserable. She manages to make sure there is never a servant around when I need anything. But now I have you, and she will have no say over you. She will not like that.”

  “She hates you then?”

  “I remind her of her failure to give my father a son. My mother was not of Montville. When she died, Luthor brought me here and placed me above the two daughters Hedda had given him. All that you see here will be mine one day—given to a bastard son rather than Luthor’s lawful daughters.”

  “Then I suppose your sisters hate you as well,” Brigitte sighed. “A fine family you have, Rowland. And you have brought me here to live with these disagreeable people.”

  “Fear not, little jewel,” he told her lightly. “I will protect you from their wrath.”

  The manor house was larger than most, and the great hall was cavernous. Built half of wood, half of stone, it would have dwarfed the Louroux hall. The cooking was done right in the hall, Brigitte saw, for there were two hearths. Cauldrons were bubbling in one, and a large hind of meat roasted. Servants were bustling around the hall, serving dinner to a large company.

  Three trestle tables were in the center of the hall. One was raised on a dais and was placed parallel to the longer two below, which were filled now with soldiers, men-at-arms, pages, knights and their squires, and several ladies. The s
maller warming hearth had benches before it. To the left, above the cooking fire, was an open arched portal which gave a view from the second story at the rear of the manor and enabled the viewer to see everything going on in the hall.

  At the center of the raised table sat an older man of considerable bulk, with hair the color of wheat and cut short in the Norman fashion. He was beardless, as were many of the men, and his face was etched with hard lines. It was a face of strong character. Though he bore little resemblance to Rowland, Brigitte had no doubt that this was Luthor, the lord of Montville.

  On either side of him were two women, one of whom was somewhat older than Rowland. The other was older still. Daughter and mother they certainly were. The same plain features marked each: pointed chins, narrow eyes, hawk noses.

  With so much noise coming from the crowd, no one took notice of Brigitte and Rowland, and Brigitte was able to study everything in the hall. But she didn’t have long to look around. Wolff caught the scent of the hounds running loose in the hall, let out a howl of challenge, and attacked the nearest mongrel before Brigitte could stop him. Other hounds joined in the melee, causing a din.

  Brigitte’s face turned bright crimson. Her pet was causing such an outrageous commotion that the rest of the hall fell silent. Nervously, she moved to call Wolff off, but Rowland stopped her.

  “Leave him be, Brigitte,” he chuckled, thoroughly amused. “This is new territory for him. He is wise to assert himself at the start.”

  “But he is shaming me.”

  “How so?” Rowland quirked a brow. “You forget he belongs to me now. And he is only showing my father’s hounds that they have a new leader. That is something we at Montville understand very well.”

  “What? Fighting for dominance?”

  “Aye.”

  “But your father is lord here, is he not?”

  “He is indeed.” Rowland nodded. “But I am bound to challenge him or he me.”

  “That is unheard of!”

  “Not here, damosel. Luthor would have it no other way. He rules by strength, as did his forefathers. He believes that if he cannot best his men, then he is not fit to lead them. And all must know that he can still beat his heir.”