So Speaks the Heart

by Johanna Lindsey

  Tonight Amelia was not at her usual place at the lower table, but was serving ale to a stranger who sat next to Hedda on Luthor’s right.

  “Your father has a guest,” Brigitte said to Rowland in a low voice.

  His eyes followed hers, and then he froze. His expression turned murderous, and his hand went to the hilt of his sword. And then Brigitte jumped back as Rowland rushed forward to the lord’s table. She gasped to see him pick the stranger up from his chair and throw him a good distance across the room. Everyone at the lord’s table leaped up, and Luthor grabbed Rowland’s arm to hold him.

  “What is the meaning of this, Rowland?” Luthor demanded, furious. That a guest should be attacked by his son!

  Rowland jerked loose and turned to his father in a cold rage. “Did Gui not tell you what happened in Arles when he found me?”

  Luthor understood then and tried to pacify Rowland. “Yes, he told me about the fight between you and Roger, but that fight was settled.”

  “Settled?” Rowland exploded. “How could it be settled when that villainous dog still lives?”

  “Rowland!”

  “Obviously Gui did not tell you the whole of it. Roger was intent on murder that day. He went for my back, Luthor. The Frenchman stopped him, and for that Roger tried to kill him as well.”

  “That’s a lie!”

  Father and son turned to the golden-haired man standing just out of Rowland’s reach.

  “Who claims I went for your back?” Roger of Mezidon demanded indignantly. “You accuse me falsely, Rowland.”

  “Are you calling me a liar, Roger?” Rowland asked hopefully, desperately wanting an immediate reason to fight him.

  “I call you no names,” Roger was quick to protest. “I say only that you…were misinformed. I came for you, but I would not have struck you unawares. I was just ready to call your attention to me when some fool Frenchman attacked me. I settled with him first.”

  “Attacked you?” Rowland cried, incredulous. “He stopped you from killing me, and for that he nearly died.”

  “You see, you are wrong,” Roger said evenly. “There was no murderous intent.”

  Luthor moved carefully between them. “We have an argument, and no easy way of settling the dispute. There will be no fight here when the reason is clearly in doubt.”

  “There is no doubt,” Rowland declared adamantly.

  “Leave it that I have doubts,” Luthor replied gruffly. “The argument is at an end, Rowland.”

  Rowland was livid, but his father had made a pronouncement, and he could not go against him without shaming him. But he could not remain silent either.

  “Why is he here? Do we feed our enemy now?”

  “Rowland!” Luthor warned in exasperation. “Roger is no enemy of Montville until he declares himself so. I hope I will never hold a man responsible for his brother’s actions.”

  “But he will fight with Thurston against you!” Rowland exclaimed.

  Roger shook his head. “I take no sides between Luthor and my brother. Luthor has been like a father to me. Though Thurston is my brother, I do not join him.”

  “So you say,” Rowland scoffed.

  “I believe him,” Luthor said. “So let us hear no more of it. For many years this was Roger’s home. He is welcome here until I have reason not to make him welcome. Now come, let us sit down together and eat.”

  Rowland grunted.

  “At least lighten your mood, Rowland,” Luthor chided. “The lovely Brigitte does not know what to make of you.”

  Rowland turned to see her looking at him, confused and wary. He started toward her, but she backed away, intimidated by his dark scowl. He tried to reassure her with a smile, but he could not manage a smile. Brigitte turned to run from the hall.

  “Brigitte!”

  She stopped, but her heart did not stop its rapid beat.

  “What has come over you, Brigitte? I mean you no harm,” Rowland murmured as he closed the distance between them. “Forgive me for frightening you.”

  “I do not understand, Rowland,” she said hesitantly. “You changed so—like a madman. Why did you attack that man without a reason?”

  “I had reason, very good reason. But if I speak of it, I fear I will lose my temper and attack him again. Roger is an old adversary.”

  Brigitte looked curiously toward the golden-haired man who sat next to Hedda at the lord’s table. He was a handsome young man, very darkly bronzed by the sun, and dressed in grand clothing. He was of Rowland’s height and appeared formidable.

  Rowland followed Brigitte’s gaze and frowned. “Roger is impressive. Perhaps you are thinking to use him against me as you did Gui?”

  Her eyes flew back to his. “I have told you that was never my intent!” she snapped, but he ignored that argument.

  “Women are drawn to Roger despite his black moods. Stay away from him,” Rowland warned darkly. “He cannot be trusted.”

  “I have no reason to seek him out,” Brigitte replied huffily.

  Rowland’s eyes roamed slowly over her before they locked with hers again. “But he would have every reason to seek you out, damosel.”

  Brigitte drew herself up. “I do not like this discussion, Rowland. And we have dallied long enough. I will bring your food to you.”

  “And your own.”

  “Not this evening,” she said firmly. “I will eat with the servants.”

  He caught her wrist. “Why?”

  “Let go of me, Rowland. There are many watching.”

  Rowland remained standing where he was, thoughtfully watching Brigitte walk away. He shook his head, wondering at her moods. He had wondered so often if there could really be these two different sides to Brigitte. And the more he thought of it, the more he realized that the vixen he had known might not be a vixen at all, but simply a gentle lady appalled and affronted by her present circumstances. It would explain a great deal—too much, in fact.

  Rowland prayed he was wrong, and that the demure, sweet, gentle qualities Brigitte had displayed this last week were entirely false. If they were not false, then he had to face the possibility that she was a lady. He did not want to think about that, not at all.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The great hall of Louroux was a nearly empty, somber chamber. The Baron crouched in a gilt-edged chair, drowning his misery in strong wine. There was no one else in the room. Quintin de Louroux was home, but his homecoming had been a thing of great sorrow. The one he had returned for was not there to greet him. And he could not yet understand the reason for her absence. His vibrant, beautiful sister had gone to a nunnery!

  It was so unlike Brigitte to want to shut herself away from the world, to sequester herself in a bleak convent. He might understand it better if she had believed him dead. But Druoda had told Brigitte that Quintin was alive, and she had still chosen the austere life. She had left without waiting to see him. Why?

  Druoda said that Brigitte had become passionately religious soon after he left for the south of France, and that she had prepared herself for the austere life by moving to the servants’ quarters, toiling endlessly about the manor in preparation for the hard life she had chosen.

  The worst of it was that Brigitte had told no one which nunnery she planned to enter. It might take years to find her again, and by then, she would be so firmly devoted that he would never be able to convince her to return home with him.

  “She bid me tell you not to look for her, Quintin,” Druoda said solemnly, her brown eyes sad. “She went so far as to say she would assume a new name, making it impossible for you to find her.”

  “Did you not try to talk her out of this?” Quintin demanded. The news had hit him hard and he was angry.

  “Of course I tried, but you know how stubborn your sister can be. I even offered to find her a fine husband, but she was appalled. If you ask me, the thought of marriage had something to do with her decision. I believe she fears men.”

  Had Druoda been right? Did Brigitte fear mar
riage?

  “You should never have let the choice of a husband be hers, Quintin,” Druoda had added. “You should have insisted Brigitte marry long ago.”

  Now Quintin was overcome by remorse. If he had found her a good husband before he left, she would be here now, married, perhaps anticipating a child. Now she would never know the joys of motherhood, never know the love of a devoted man.

  Was a life devoted to God what she really wanted? Ah, he did not believe it was so. Could Brigitte have changed so much? And it was too terrible to think he might never see again his sister’s sweet smile, her gay manner. His sister, the only person he truly cared about, was gone.

  Quintin drank from the bottle, no longer bothering with a goblet. Two other bottles lay empty on the table before him. A lavish meal was also there, prepared especially by his aunt, but he had no desire for food and tossed scraps of meat to the three hounds at his feet. He had come home to find the dogs penned, something never done before at Louroux. But that was not the only change. The servants were pleased to see him, but they were not their usual cheerful lot. Many had tried to speak privately with him, but Druoda had shooed them away, for she did not want him disturbed.

  Quintin had seen no one but Druoda since his arrival early that afternoon and subsequent discovery that Brigitte was gone. He had locked himself in the hall and growled at anyone who tried to enter. The hour was late, and he was exhausted, yet wide awake. The wine was not helping either, and he began to wonder just how many bottles it would take before sleep was possible.

  He had much to do on the morrow and could not afford to be less than alert. He would begin his search for Brigitte immediately. He could have begun today if his men were not so taxed from their encounter with a band of brigands that morning. Two men were wounded, one gravely. But there was no time to think of that. He had to consider which of his men to take with him on the journey to find Brigitte, and what direction to take. There was something missing though, something that would make his search easier, but what it was eluded him. Perhaps he was not as wide awake as he thought.

  And then he sat bolt upright as it came to him. Of course! Brigitte would not have left Louroux alone. Someone had to have escorted her. And that man could tell him where she was. Druoda would know who the escort had been! With that thought Quintin shot to his feet. He swayed, falling back in the chair, groaning. His head was throbbing.

  “Milord, pray, a word with you?”

  Quintin squinted his eyes to try and see into the shadows, but he could not see anyone. “Who is there?”

  “Eudora, milord,” she said timidly.

  “Ah, Althea’s daughter.” He leaned back in his chair. “Well, where are you, girl? Come forward.”

  A small form emerged from the stairway, hesitantly, stopping, then coming closer. The tallow candles on the table were stubs and flickered over the girl, making Quintin see two, no, three figures dancing before him.

  “Stand still, girl!” Quintin snapped irritably, squinting.

  “I…I am, milord.”

  “What is this?” He frowned. “You sound frightened. Have I ever mistreated you, Eudora? You have no reason to fear me.”

  Eudora wrung her hands nervously. “I tried to speak to you earlier, milord, but you…you threw a round of cheese at me and told me to get out.”

  Quintin chuckled at that. “Did I? I am afraid I do not recall it.”

  “You were understandably distraught, and no wonder, considering what has happened while you were away.”

  Quintin sighed on hearing those words. “Tell me, Eudora, why did she do it?”

  “It is not for me to speak badly of your aunt”, Eudora replied uneasily.

  “My aunt? I meant my sister. But I suppose you would not know. Where is Mavis? She was closest to Brigitte. She would know why Brigitte made this decision.”

  “Were you not told?” Eudora asked in surprise. “Mavis is dead.”

  Quintin’s eyes narrowed. “Mavis? How?”

  “She was banished by your aunt and was murdered that very day on the road, by thieves. Though I sometimes wonder if it was really thieves who killed her.”

  Quintin stared at the girl, sobering quickly. “By what right did my aunt do such a thing?”

  “She proclaimed herself mistress of Louroux as soon as we received word of your death.”

  The news did not disturb Quintin. “You mean she was appointed Brigitte’s guardian?”

  Eudora grew more uneasy. “Oh, no, milord, not her guardian. The Count of Berry was never informed of your death.”

  Quintin sat up suddenly. “How is that possible?”

  “Druoda kept the news from him. And she would not let Lady Brigitte leave Louroux so that she could go to him. Not even your vassals would help your sister, for they all assumed Druoda and her husband would soon be milady’s guardians. They followed only Druoda’s orders. Not even Walafrid disputed his wife’s actions.”

  “Do you know what you are telling me, girl?” Quintin’s voice was low and angry.

  Eudora stepped back nervously. “It is the truth, milord, I swear. I thought surely your aunt would have confessed by now, or I would not have been so brave as to approach you. Everyone here knows how she treated your sister—she could not possibly hope to keep all of that a secret from you.”

  “My aunt said nothing to me of any of this.

  “Then I am sorry. I did not come here to malign Druoda. I came only to see if you could tell me what has happened to Lady Brigitte. I have been so worried. She should have returned before now.”

  “Returned? What are you saying now, Eudora?” Quintin questioned her slowly. “Perhaps you had best tell me everything you know about my sister.”

  Eudora did so, hesitantly at first and then all in a rush.

  “She tried to run away, and she would have succeeded if that Norman had not found her.”

  “What Norman?”

  “The one who came here seeking the lady of Louroux,” Eudora explained.

  “Rowland of Montville?”

  “Yes… I believe that was his name. She left with the Norman knight.”

  “That explains everything then,” Quintin said. “You see, Rowland of Montville brought the news that I was not dead.”

  “But we were not told so until a week later,” Eudora replied quickly, “and Lady Brigitte did not know at all. I am certain of it.” Eudora then asked passionately, “What I do not understand is how your aunt could hope to keep all this from—” Eudora paused, staring wide-eyed at the three dogs in front of the Baron. “What ails your hounds, milord?” she whispered.

  Quintin turned to see two of the dogs collapsed, trying vainly to rise, and the third just falling, his legs crumpling beneath him. He stared at the dogs and then at the scraps of meat lying beside them. Understanding came slowly, but it came clearly. Quintin looked at the lavish meal spread before him, prepared especially by his aunt.

  “The black hound is unusually still, milord,” Eudora said in a quavering voice.

  “I fear I have poisoned my own dogs,” Quintin said in a quiet voice.

  “You?”

  “I fed them some of this food prepared for me,” he replied grimly. “It would seem I was meant to breathe no more.”

  “You ate this food?” Eudora gasped, horrified.

  “Not a morsel. Only the wine.”

  “She…she tried—”

  “—to kill me,” Quintin finished loudly. “My mother’s sister. My own blood. And now it’s obvious why she did not confess her wickedness and beg my indulgence. If I did not die at supper, she would have tried to poison me again tomorrow. She would have succeeded sometime, since I would not have known what she was about and would have suspected nothing. Eudora, you have saved my life by coming here. Damn! What did my aunt hope to gain by such evil?”

  “With your sister gone and you dead, milord, would she not have a claim on Louroux?” Eudora suggested.

  Quintin sighed. “I suppose Arnulf would look
favorably on her, since she is blood to me. The bitch! My God…where is Brigitte? If Druoda could kill me, she could kill Brigitte as well!”

  “Milord, I do not think so. Lady Brigitte left with the Norman. She seemed well enough.”

  “But where has Rowland taken her?” Quintin moaned. “By God, if Druoda cannot tell me where to find Brigitte, I will kill her with my bare hands!”

  Quintin strode from the hall, sober now, cold fury having taken over his whole being.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “Take me back!”

  The anguished cry caused Brigitte’s eyes to fly open, and she turned over in the large bed to stare at Rowland. He was asleep, but he was talking—pleading, in fact.

  “Take me back!”

  Rowland’s head moved from side to side and he thrashed under the covers. A hand struck Brigitte’s chest, and she gasped, then sat up.

  She nudged his shoulder. “Wake up!” His eyes opened and locked with hers, and she said testily, “I get enough mistreatment from you when you are awake, Rowland. I do not need more when you are asleep.”

  “Be damned, woman,” he sighed irritably. “What have I done now?”

  “Your crying out in your sleep woke me and you hit me. Was your dream so upsetting?”

  “That dream is always upsetting. I do not understand it and I never have.” He frowned into the darkness.

  “You have had this dream before?” she asked in surprise.

  “Yes. It has haunted me as far back as I can remember.” He shook his head. “You said I cried out. What did I say?”

  “‘Take me back.’ You said it so forlornly, Rowland.”

  Rowland sighed again. “In the dream, there are only faces, that of a young man and a woman, faces I do not recognize. I see them, and when I can see them no more I feel such a terrible loss, as if I am losing everything that is dear to me.”

  “But you do not know what it is?”

  “No. I have never valued anything so much that I feared to lose it.” He gave her a strangely tender look. “Until now.”