So Speaks the Heart (22 page)

“It would be easy. You know that, eh?” Rowland said coldly, putting just enough pressure on the sword that a trickle of blood ran down Quintin's neck.

Quintin disdained to answer. His shoulder throbbed. He had failed. Oh, Brigitte!

The sword fell abruptly away. “I give you your life, Quintin de Louroux,” Rowland pronounced. “I give it to you only because I owe it to you. Thus we are even now. My debt is paid.”

Rowland mounted and rode back to Montville as four French knights rode down the southern hill to collect their fallen lord. Brigitte. She knew—she knew! She had seen Quintin. And she
was
Lady Brigitte, Quintin's ward. No wonder he meant to marry her. A lady, not a serf. Druoda had lied to him! But she had not lied about what Brigitte and Quintin
felt for each other. That was obvious. And obvious too was the realization that Brigitte would never stay willingly with him. Rowland had heard the joy in her voice as she cried out to Quintin, her love.

“
W
hat the hell was Brigitte doing up on the wall?” Rowland demanded when Luthor met him in the stable.

“She came up with the others to witness a splendid fight,” Luthor replied in good humor. “You showed those French what they are up against, by God!”

“Where is she now?” Rowland snapped irritably.

“Ah, well, the wench is not as strong as I supposed. She fainted dead away when you bested the French knight. I had her taken to your room.”

Rowland ran from the stable into the hall, charged up the stairs, and threw open the door to his room.

Brigitte lay on his bed, unconscious. The noise stirred her, and she began to moan. But she was still not quite conscious, lost in some torment deep within her.

Rowland sat down beside her and smoothed the hair back from her face. “Brigitte? Brigitte!” he said more firmly, patting her cheek.

Her eyes opened, and then widened when they fell on Rowland. A sob tore from her throat, and she began pounding her fists on his chest until he grabbed them.

“You killed him!” Brigitte screamed shrilly.
“You killed him!”

Rowland's eyes narrowed with anger. “He is not dead,” he said curtly, “he is wounded.”

He watched the play of emotions that swiftly crossed Brigitte's face. She sat up.

“I must go to him.”

But he held her firmly on the bed. “You will not go to him, Brigitte.”

“I must!”

“No!” he said harshly, and then, “I know who he is, Brigitte.”

This statement shocked her. “You know? You know and yet you fought him! Oh, God, I hate you!” she sobbed. “I thought you cared a little for me. But you have no heart. You are made of stone!”

Rowland was surprised by the depth of his own hurt. “I could do nothing else but fight him!” he told her furiously. “I will
not
let him have you! The only way you will marry him is if I am dead, Brigitte!”

“Marry him?” she cried brokenly. “Marry my brother?”

Rowland fell back, staring at her stupidly “Brother?”

“How dare you pretend? You know Quintin is my brother! You said so!”

Rowland shook his head, stunned. “I thought him your lord. Quintin de Louroux is your brother? Why did you not tell me?”

Brigitte heard his denial through her sobbing. “I thought he was dead, and it was too painful to speak of.”

“Then who is Druoda if not his sister? She told me he meant to marry you, but that she would pre
vent it. She said she would kill you before he returned to Louroux unless I agreed to take you with me.”

“Lies, all lies!” Brigitte stormed. “She is Quintin's aunt. I told you, and told you that she had lied about me.
Why
could you not believe…?” Brigitte gasped. “Before Quintin returned to Louroux? You knew he would return? You knew he was alive, and you did not tell me?”

Rowland could not meet her gaze. “I thought you loved him, that you would try to return to him,” he began.

But Brigitte was too enraged to listen. “Loved him? Of course I love him! He is my brother. He is the only family I have. And I am going to him—now!”

She scrambled from the bed, but Rowland caught her around the waist before she reached the door. “Brigitte, I cannot allow it. If I let you go to him, he will stop you from coming back to me.”

She stared at him, aghast. “Do you think I want to come back? I never want to see your face again! You fought my brother, and you nearly killed him!”

“You are not leaving here, Brigitte,” Rowland said with stony finality.

“I hate you, Rowland!” she hissed. “You can keep me here, but you will never have me again. I will kill myself if you do!”

She collapsed on the floor in broken sobs. Rowland stood staring at her, and then left the room.

 

It was late night. The French army had withdrawn that day, but not far. Smoke spiraling over the hilltop from many camp fires gave evidence that
the French knights were only just beyond the hill. They intended to stay.

Rowland had not gone back to his room for the rest of the day. He didn't know what to say to Brigitte. Each time he thought of what he might say to her, he imagined her reply, and he realized he could not face her.

He had stubbornly refused to believe her all those many weeks, when all along she had told the truth. He had raped a gentlebred lady. He had forced her to serve him. He had treated her very badly. She had forgiven him for all of that. Miraculously, she had forgiven him. But she would not forgive him for fighting her brother. She would never forgive him for that, or for failing to tell her that Quintin was alive. He had no right to keep her, but he could not bear the thought of losing her. And Quintin would never let Rowland have her in marriage.

Perhaps when Quintin realized he would never see his sister again unless he agreed to the marriage, then the Frenchman might relent. Brigitte would not be willing, but a woman could be married without her consent. Only the guardian's permission was necessary.

Perhaps if he told her, if she knew how sorry he was for every wrong he had done her, then she would hate him less. He had to see her. He could not stand imagining her hatred any longer.

Rowland opened the door to his room with a small degree of hope, more than he had felt all day. But the room was empty. Brigitte's possessions were still there, but she was not. A search of the manor only wasted time. Neither Brigitte nor her dog could be found. What was found at last was that the door in
the rear wall had been unbolted from within and left unbolted.

Rowland ran and saddled the Hun. Brigitte had to have left after dark, or someone would have seen her crossing the field. Perhaps she had not yet reached the French camp. Maybe, maybe he could catch her before she did. He had to hope.

At last, his heart beating wildly, he crested the top of the southern hill. There was no army beyond it now, nothing but empty pasture and the remains of many camp fires, cold now, ashes blowing over trampled snow.

“Brigitte! Brigitte!” It was a passionate, hopeless cry that no one heard except the wind.

B
rigitte huddled in the wagon next to her brother. They were in no real hurry, for the knights of Berry would have welcomed pursuit. It was slow traveling, but each hour took them farther and farther from Montville.

Brigitte leaned her head back wearily and stared up at the starless sky. Quintin slept fitfully. He was burning with fever and in pain, moaning in his sleep, and she could not help him. She had even worsened his condition, for they had argued terribly, just as terribly as she had fought with Rowland.

Quintin had not wanted to leave. He was fierce about staying. He wanted to attack Montville, to reduce the walled fief to rubble. What he wanted most was Rowland's head. She had paled when she heard that. She didn't know exactly how it had happened, but suddenly she was defending Rowland.

“He spared
your
life! He let you live when he could have killed you!” she had cried.

But Quintin's black rage had not cooled. It had even grown. “He must die for what he has done to you!”

“But Rowland is not at fault for what happened,” Brigitte insisted. “Druoda is.”

“No, Brigitte. The Norman convinced Druoda to let him take you away.”

Brigitte considered the idea and then laughed bitterly at the absurdity of it. “Did she tell you that? Ah, Quintin, do you not know yet how skillfully she lies? Rowland did not want me. He was furious that he had to take me with him. He may want me now, but he did not then. Druoda told him she would kill me if he did not take me. And because of what he had done to me, he agreed.”

“
That
is another reason he must die!”

“
That
did not even happen at Louroux!” Brigitte had countered.

“You—you are saying he did not rape you?”

“No. He was drunk, and I was too terrified to speak. We both thought it had happened, but the truth is that he passed out, and I fainted. In the morning, we both assumed the deed had been done, and so did Druoda. But it was all a mistake.”

“He still took you away, knowing you were my sister, knowing Druoda had no right to give you to him!”

“Is this more of Druoda's lying? Rowland thought me a servant. He would not believe me when I told him otherwise because that is what Druoda convinced him I was. Even today, when you came, he thought you were my lord. He did not know I was your sister. He thought Druoda was your sister.”

“Why would Druoda still lie to me, after she had admitted everything else she had done?”

“Can you not guess?” Brigitte asked. “The answer comes easily to me, for I know her, having lived with her. She made her own deeds seem less terrible by lying about Rowland's. Did you kill her?”

“No, I banished her.

“You see? She has been let off lightly, but you came here to kill Rowland. You still want to kill him, even when he spared your life.

“But Rowland knew you lived, and he never told me,” Brigitte said then, more to herself than to him. “I thought you dead until today.”

“You cannot defend him for that, Brigitte, for I sent him to Louroux to tell you I lived.”

“He told Druoda, thinking her your sister. He did do as you bid him, Quintin.”

“You make excuses for him,” Quintin accused. “Why do you defend him?”

Brigitte cast her eyes down before admitting softly, “I have been happy here, Quintin. I was not at first, but then I became happy. I do not want you to kill Rowland any more than I want him to kill you. And one of you will certainly die if we do not leave here. I want to go home now. No more need be done. I do not need to be avenged, for I have not been harmed.”

“You are saying he never touched you in all this time?” Quintin asked doubtfully.

“He did not,” Brigitte replied firmly, hoping the lie would put an end to it.

It did. Quintin agreed to leave. No more was said.

She would never see Rowland again. She would bury her feelings for him, never to remember them ever again. Somehow she would manage to forget everything that had passed between her and Rowland of Montville.

T
he warming breath of spring thawed the land and brought Thurston of Mezidon to Montville. The Norman army was not so impressive, not after Montville had been threatened by a much greater army only months before. There were at least two hundred fighting men with Thurston, but no more than a dozen trained knights.

Rowland looked with disdain at the gathering of men come to take Montville from him. Mercenaries, most of them, perhaps a few good fighting men, but mostly peasants trying to better their lot. There was no loyalty there. Men for hire would not fight to the bitter end.

Four knights rode up to Montville's gates, Thurston in the lead. Rowland recognized another of the four and sneered. Roger. He had joined his brother, perhaps using the battle as a chance to kill Rowland. Roger would have reported the strength of Montville to Thurston, yet his brother was foolish enough to make war. Rowland was sure Geoffrey was down there somewhere, too.

“Luthor!” Thurston bellowed from below. “I challenge you for Montville!”

“By what right?” Luthor demanded.

“By the sacred right of marriage to your eldest daughter. Montville will come to me upon your death. I do not choose to wait.”

“Little dog.” Luthor laughed contemptuously. “You have no rights here. My son, Rowland, will have Montville. You? Never!”

“He is a bastard! You cannot favor him over your legitimate daughter.”

“I can, and I have!” Luthor shouted down. “I raised him to take my place, and so he shall.”

“Then I challenge your bastard!”

Rowland had listened impatiently to this exchange. He was burning for a fight. The despair he had sunk into after Brigitte's leaving had recently turned to uncontrollable anger. This was the opportunity he needed to release his fury.

But Luthor had other plans. He gripped Rowland's arm, warning him to silence.

“Lord of jackals!” Luthor threw at Thurston. “My son would not lower himself to a contest with the likes of you. He does not waste his skill on peasants.”

“Cowards!” Thurston blustered. “Hide behind your walls then. You will yet face me!”

The knights rode back to join their army on the field in front of Montville. Rowland watched them go, then turned on Luthor furiously.

“Why? I could have made short work of this by meeting him.”

“Oh, yes,” said Luthor shrewdly, “you would have—in a fair contest. But use your wits, Rowland. Thurston came to me in his youth, but he was always lazy, contemptuous of learning. A sorrier knight never rode through these walls. Consider what chance he would have against you or me. Thurston knows
full well he could not win, yet he still made the challenge. Why? He would never have done so if he did not have some foul plan to assure his winning.”

“Do you intend to hide behind these walls, then?”

“Of course not,” Luthor roared. “He may have expected to avoid a war by killing me, but a war he will get. A battle will be joined on the field, but it will be when I choose.”

“In the meantime you will let him lay waste to Montville?” Rowland asked, watching Thurston's divide, many with torches lit, and head for the village.

Luthor's eyes blazed as he saw what Rowland was looking at. “The bastard! So be it,” he growled. “We ride out now and finish this matter quickly.”

Rowland tried to stop Luthor from a rash move, but it was too late. Luthor would not listen. He was not thinking clearly but letting his anger dictate to him, and that was something a warrior could not afford to do. Yet Rowland had no choice but to follow. Forty of the finest warhorses in the land were soon mounted, and Luthor gave the order. The knights and soldiers of Montville charged through the gates to meet the Lord of Mezidon and his men.

Rowland led half of the Montville defenders after the torch bearers. The village was already in flames, every hut, every shelter toppling in black smoke and orange fire. Thurston's men had left the fires to circle around the manor and join their comrades once more. Rowland doubled back after them.

When he reached the field of battle, his blood chilled at sight of the slaughter there. And then horror struck, pain tore him as he saw Luthor fall. It happened before Rowland could reach Luthor.
and he saw that they had been tricked. Thirty more horsemen had come over the southern hill to attack Luthor and his men. An old ploy, but it had worked. Luthor was down. Half the men with him were down.

Rowland was no longer thinking clearly. As Luthor had reacted through his emotions, so did Rowland. A madman, he charged into battle, his twenty warriors charging behind him. He broke the flank, his sword cutting left and right, until he reached the center. There he found Luthor. Thurston's blade had gone clear through him.

Lord Thurston of Mezidon froze when he saw Rowland's eyes. Death was in them. The Hun bearing down on him, Rowland's bloody sword raised, Thurston was trapped. There was no escape for him, and he became transfixed by Rowland's bloodcurdling cry of rage.

Thurston fought wildly, carelessly, and was quickly dispatched. But as Rowland pulled his sword from Thurston's body, a blade entered his back. His eyes widened in surprise, but he reacted instantly, swinging backward with his sword arm. He hit something, but he didn't see what it was. It hurt too much to turn and see. The bloodlust was still in him, the din of battle still rang in his head, but he was nearly blinded, and confused as well, for all he could see was Luthor falling, strong, undefeatable Luthor falling to another's sword.

A horse collided with the Hun, and Rowland fell, hitting the ground with a great shock of pain. He heard nothing after that.

 

“He is dead!” Hedda exclaimed over Rowland as he was carried into the hall by two knights. “Oh, finally!”

Gui glared at her as he gestured for Rowland to be placed next to the other wounded men, then told the knights to leave. He turned to her and said coldly, “He is not dead, Lady Hedda, not yet.”

Her brown eyes widened in disappointment. “But will he die?”

The hopeful plea in her voice disgusted Gui, and he permitted himself to forget her position at Montville. “Be gone from here! You have lost your husband. Have you no tears?”

Hedda's eyes blazed. “I will shed tears for my lord when his bastard is dead!” she hissed. “This one should have died long ago. His horse should have killed him. I was so sure! It should have been finished then!”

“Lady?” Gui demanded, afraid to voice the question.

She backed away, shaking her head. “I said nothing. It was not I! It was not I!”

Hedda ran to Luthor. His body had been placed in the rushes. She threw herself over him and her mournful wails filled the great hall. But Gui knew they were false tears.

“So, I was wrong about Roger.”

Gui looked down to find Rowland's eyes open.

“You heard her?” he asked Rowland.

“I heard her.”

Gui knelt down beside Rowland. His voice held bitterness when he said, “You were wrong about Roger on that score, but only that one. You are lying here now because of Roger.”

Rowland tried to rise, but fell back with a grimace of pain. “How bad is it?”

“Bad,” Gui admitted. “But you are strong.”

“Luthor was strong,” Rowland said, and then the bloody scene ran through his mind all over again. “Luthor?”

“I am sorry, Rowland. He is dead.”

Rowland closed his eyes. Of course. He had known when he saw Luthor fall. Luthor. Not his father, yet his father still. The bond of years made it so, just as Brigitte had said. The bond was stronger than Rowland had ever guessed. He began to feel pain deep inside him that was worse than he might have imagined.

“He will rest in peace,” Rowland said at last. “He is avenged.”

“I saw,” Gui replied quietly. “I saw you avenge yourself as well.”

Rowland frowned. “Meaning?”

“Do you not know who put the blade to your back?” Gui asked. “Roger. Your own blade cut into him deeply, and he fell even before you did. Roger is dead.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. And Thurston's men scattered. But Roger's treachery was unmistakable. I am sorry I doubted you about him. I did not think it possible that even Roger could attack from behind. But you knew him better than I did.”

Rowland did not hear Gui's last words because blessed unconsciousness had overtaken him. He could no longer feel the pain of loss or the pain of his wound.

As Rowland fought to hold on to life, Brigitte greeted the blossoming of spring with a saddened heart. Her secret could no longer be hidden. Quintin was livid when she gave up making excuses for her weight and admitted the truth.

“A child?” he exploded. “You are going to bear that Norman's child?”

“My child.”

“You lied to me, Brigitte!” Quintin stormed.

That was the root of his rage, that she had lied to him for the first time ever. She had kept the news of her condition from him ever since they had returned to Louroux, though she had known then. And he was aware she had known, for she was four months into her pregnancy.

“Why? Why did you lie to me?” Quintin demanded.

Brigitte hardened herself to the pain in his voice. “If I had told you the truth, would you have left Montville?”

“Of course not.” He was shocked.

“There is your answer, Quintin,” Brigitte replied stonily. “I was not going to have men fight for my honor when it was I who gave up that honor. There was no reason for a battle.”

“But what else did you lie about?”

She lowered her eyes, unable to meet his accusing gaze. “I kept my true feelings from you,” she admitted at last. “I was furious that day. I hated Rowland for fighting you. I was so hurt by it that I wanted to die.”

“Yet still you defended him to me.

“Yes,” she breathed softly.

Quintin walked away, leaving Brigitte in tears.
He was so disappointed in her, and her heart was torn. Only she knew how much she longed for Rowland. She prayed each day that he would come for her. But how could she explain that to Quintin?