Claire Delacroix (134 page)

Curiosity flickered through the lord’s eyes. He frowned as his gaze dropped and Bronwyn knew he noted Rowan’s spurs. “You have no blade, no steed, no squire. No doubt you have stolen those spurs!”

“Stolen! Sir, I assure you I am no thief, simply a knight in
less than ideal circumstance.” Rowan made to turn away. “Please, do not let me keep you from your meal.”

The lord gripped the wooden portcullis. “But how did you come to be here? And without your steed?”

“We took passage on a ship destined for Dublin, which sank just off the coast.”

The lord folded his arms across his chest. “I have heard a tale this morn of a ship floundering.”

“Well, ’tis sunk now, you have my personal assurance.” Rowan stepped back with a smile. “But by all means, return to your meal. I would not trouble you with a tale of adventure.”

The lord surveyed them silently, then frowned. “You could tell who the rest are.”

“I would not delay you overlong. Does the meat grow cold?”

The lord’s eyes flashed and Bronwyn appreciated how Rowan had guessed he might be anxious for bold tales. “Tell me!”

Rowan snapped his fingers and Thomas bounded to his side. “My squire, Thomas of Deneure.” Thomas bowed low. “Surely you know of the Deneure clan?” And he descended into a dizzying recitation of genealogy that even Bronwyn could not manage to follow.

It ended with a link to the Norman throne and Thomas’s proud smile. Bronwyn could not tell whether he told the truth or not, though she suspected the latter by Thomas’s silence.

The lord’s eyes narrowed. “So, you would have me shelter you and this fleet of beggars, purely on a tale of a link to the king? Presumably with no compense to me or my house?”

“No compense! Why, I have a tale which will entertain
those at your board mightily.” Rowan offered a confident smile.

The lord snorted, the glimmer in his eyes belying his stern words. “A tale is a fleeting gift and one which does naught to assure my holding.” He turned and walked away, sparing a heavy glance for the gatekeeper. “Pray do not disturb my meal again for such frivolity.”

Bronwyn’s shoulders sagged. She wondered how far they would have to walk when Rowan cast a merry glance her way.

“Ah, well, then,” he said with a shrug. “I shall have to offer this prize of a tale to your neighbor.”

“My neighbor!” The lord spun, his eyes flashing. “That fool would not appreciate a fine tale.”

“And ’twill be his all the same.”

The lord hesitated, his hands bunching into fists at his sides. “You could tell me some of it, then I could better assess the merit of the tale.”

Rowan scoffed. “I
know
the merit of the tale. ’Tis well worth a meal and accommodation for all of my party.”

The lord’s gaze sweeping over the ranks of the ex-slaves. “Why should I feed all of them? They are fit for naught.”

“Because they are hungry, tired, and dirty,” Rowan retorted. “Is it not your Christian duty to show compassion and hospitality? And they travel with me, so my tale sees to their welfare.” He made an expansive gesture. “Not that ’tis of concern to you. Nay, your meat chills even as we linger. I would not presume to delay you further.” He cleared his throat. “Thomas, run ahead to that neighboring estate and warn the lord that we are fast coming to his gates.”

“Aye, my lord.” Thomas bowed and made to duck away, no doubt to do Rowan’s bidding, even though Bronwyn could not imagine where that neighboring estate might be.

The lord hesitated for only a moment before he strode
back to the gates. Bronwyn could see him counting their ranks. “I could take their burden from your hands. How much do you want for them?”

“Me?” Rowan looked astonished. “Naught!” The lord grinned before Rowan leaned closer. “For they are freemen again and freemen they will remain, wherever they abide.”

The lord gritted his teeth. “I would have slaves.”

“Then you will not have these men beneath your hand. They are contented enough with me and my tales. Why, your neighbor will undoubtedly welcome us.” Rowan turned to walk away, beckoning the party with one hand.

They made no more than a dozen steps before the lord cried out. “Come within the hall and savor the fare. I would hear your tale!”

But Rowan turned cautiously, his gaze running over the gates. “You shall give me your pledge, upon your own blade, that none will forget themselves and secure the gate behind us.”

The two men stared at each other for a long moment, then the lord spun to stride away. “Agreed!” he roared. “Let it not be said that Leon of Aulnay does not keep his word!”

Bronwyn was tempted to shout with delight, but she kept her voice low. “You have found a home for them!”

“Not yet.” Rowan shrugged. “Let us hope some of them will choose to remain.”

“How did you know about his neighbor?”

Rowan grinned crookedly. “ ’Twas naught but a guess. In my experience, a petty lord most always has an equally petty lord as a neighbor and they two are fiercely competitive. He may desire the tale for its own merit, or purely to be the first to hear it.”

“Do you think he would be a cruel master?”

The blight looked after the lord, then shrugged. “I suspect he is one who bellows mightily but whose heart is
good. Only time will reveal the truth, of course. In the end, if these people remain as freemen—and I shall ensure the documentation is correct—then they have the right to flee any onerous circumstance.”

“You intend to remain here?”

Rowan sobered. “Aye. They will need someone to negotiate terms.”

“What of our year and a day?”

He studied her carefully, his expression inscrutable. “What if I were to absolve you of that obligation?”

So, this then would be where they parted. Bronwyn’s heart sank to her toes. Far from winning Rowan’s heart, she had satisfied his desire for her and he would be rid of her. The end of their journey together came far too soon for Bronwyn.

’Twas no sweet revelation that he shed his pledge to her as readily as he shed all other obligations. Had her father not always said that a man could not be changed, however one might will it? Rowan confessed readily that he wanted naught to his name. She had been a fool to believe her touch could change his thinking!

Bronwyn averted her face, not wanting him to see how his dismissal hurt her. But Rowan touched her chin with a fingertip, coaxing her to meet his gaze.

“What would you do?”

She swallowed and tried to look indifferent. “Return to Ballyroyal, of course.”

“So soon? But I shall have need of your gift for language, in order that they are asked their opinion. ’Tis too long these people have been denied any choice in their circumstance, and I would not deny them that now.”

Rowan hesitated most uncharacteristically, then lifted his gaze to lock with hers. “I should be honored if you would
accept my accompaniment to your home, even with that obligation between us dissolved.”

Bronwyn’s heart skipped a beat at the intensity in his eyes.

Then Rowan grinned mischievously. “After all, ’tis the only way to ensure that you indeed arrive there, let alone that you arrive hale and hearty. Truly,
ma demoiselle
, you have a gift for finding unwelcome circumstance.”

But Bronwyn could not take offense at his charge, not when he smiled so warmly at her.

Nor did she have it within her to decline. After all, it could be naught but encouraging that Rowan was so intent on ensuring her safe journey. Indeed, his protectiveness of her was one consistent thread since they had met.

And her father also said that a man strives to protect only what he loves.

Bronwyn could build upon that.

Leon of Aulnay’s motte and bailey fort was still being constructed, only the palisade complete at this point. The tenants’ huts were clustered in the distance, and the few fields that had been sown waved with crops coming to their fruition. There were few vassals about, though, and Rowan had guessed aright that Leon might had dire need of more helping hands.

’Twas good import for the future of these souls.

Leon stood at the doorway of his hall with his chatelain and greeted each ex-slave individually. They told him their names, at least Rowan assumed that was what they said, and Leon tried to repeat them, to much hilarity.

Inside the hall, the board groaned with dark bread and a wheel of cheese, pickled fish and pitchers of ale, all of which were met with delight. Rowan was pleased that matters
resolved as well as they had, and was relieved that the lord was good to his word.

’Twas a good sign.

And ’twas a merry evening that ensued. Leon proved to have a pair of minstrels in residence, and they took up a celebratory tune once the ex-slaves were within the hall. Though all was simple, there was a joy bubbling from all of them that could not be denied.

This was the life Rowan recalled! Aye, there was ale and laughter, music and dancing, smiles upon every face. Rowan recounted the tale of Brianna of Ballyroyal’s bride quest, the adventure that had brought him all the way to this hall, and Leon was well pleased.

The ale flowed and lanterns were lit as night fell. The dancing began after Rowan’s tale was complete, no need of language to see the more hale ex-slaves on their feet. Truly, this arrangement suited both Leon and these homeless souls.

But
it
was not the ex-slaves the knight found himself watching. Rowan was captivated by Bronwyn’s laughter, her features alight with a happiness he had never seen in her before.

“ ’Tis good to be close to home,” she offered as explanation when he asked, then smiled so brilliantly that he was struck dumb by her beauty.

Leon demanded her hand to dance and Bronwyn was on her feet. The minstrels picked a complicated tune, the ex-slaves clapped in time, Leon and Bronwyn’s feet flew as they danced a merry dance, which was obviously traditional since both knew the steps. The lady’s cheeks were flushed and she danced with an exuberance that heated Rowan’s blood.

Aye, it reminded him of how much she had unexpectedly granted him on the beach. Rowan sipped his ale and found
his thoughts turning to their splendid mating—no less how they would couple again this night.

There was a change in his lady, a liveliness that seized her step now that they were upon Ireland’s shores once more. He was fiercely glad that had he had offered to accompany her home, for this Brownyn was doubly intriguing. As he drank his ale and watched her dance, Rowan realized that their inevitable parting would not be an easy one.

Though he would never so much as hint to Bronwyn of the truth. Nay, he was not the man for her, regardless of this recent and undoubtedly fleeting assumption of duties. He had abandoned his own good counsel; while “Ibernia” might have been a woman with naught to lose and who expected naught of him, the same could not be said of Bronwyn of Ballyroyal.

’Twould be infinitely better for the lady if their paths parted soon and forever.

Aye, Bronwyn had called the matter right. Rowan was no suitable spouse for an heiress like herself. He should find himself a dancing girl, one who would savor a life without responsibilities, as he did.

He drank deeply of his ale and refused to acknowledge the disappointment within him. Perhaps ’twould be easier to abandon Bronwyn to her fate if he had weaned himself from her seductive touch before they reached Ballyroyal. Rowan was by no means convinced of that, but he would try.

He was a man, after all, who was fond of long odds.

As night settled over the coast, the shadows falling long and cool on the beach, a length of the
Angelica
’s mast was finally washed against the shore. ’Twas farther to the north than the beach where Rowan and Bronwyn had come
ashore, even farther than the spot when Troubador’s saddle had been cast.

Clinging to that length of wood was a certain Venetian man. He was pale from loss of blood, and his chattering teeth gritted against the chill that permeated his flesh.

He should have slipped from that length of wood long before. He should have drowned, as he had seen so many of his men drown. He had watched them weaken and slip beneath the waves, never to rise again. He had watched his ship fall prey to the crashing sea, even as his blood seeped from his body.