Ironheart

He’d been a fool to leave his shield and armor, even to his helmet, at Chirk with his squire this morning, and he was beginning to regret it. He might be strapped with ropy muscle, tough as an oak tree and as hard to kill, for he’d been to hell and beyond and survived. In all truth, most men would rather not face him with or without his sword. Even so, he regretted the sacrifice of his mail. Linen and wool were poor protection against edged steel.

He had, he thought, taken a great deal on himself. He’d seen that much in his squire’s eyes when they’d parted; a cool kind of reckoning he had gotten in the drill yard. Now it seemed mad to have done, and a light sweat lay on his limbs, for all that the wind was chill.

Wrenching himself free, Tudur dodged a fist, scurried past the ring of people gathered by the table, scampered across the road, and stopped, panting, in midsprint in front of Leon. The young face came up, the mouth opened and the eyes widened. The boy flinched visibly, caught himself, and drew back, the look on his face changing in an instant from surprise to confusion.

Leon sighed. His forehead ached. He realized he was scowling. He stretched his mouth into a smile.

“Are you a knight?” The boy looked afraid—not greatly so, but uneasy all the same.

Leon inclined his head to him.

A peculiar animation had come to the boy’s face, a keen anticipation. “The sort that saves maidens in distress?”

No, Leon began to say. But…

“So ’tis said,” were the words that tripped off his foolish tongue.

“Yes. Yes! I knew it! Some say I am daft, but I could tell straightway you were Brenna’s knight!”

“I’ve no notion what you mean.”

The boy’s eyes darted from Leon’s face to the postern opening, back again. “Of course. My mistake. Being daft, I get confused, so I don’t—” His eyes flicked back to the postern. “You are most needed here, sir.” There was tremulous expectation, as if Leon would act now, at once, in a breath.

Leon inwardly cursed. He was not usually a man given to rash acts of compassion, and, though the boy’s pluck touched him, he saw no obligation to have his throat cut. Or to die for nothing because some self-righteous slip of a girl was too cocksure stupid to take heed of the curfew. He stared down his nose at the boy, who went beet-red.

“If you would give aid, good sir!” Tudur said, blinking wildly. “There may be trouble—at the gate.”

Well, what the hell. Nobody else was going to play the hero, and Deso needed hay and a warm stable. Condemned now to simple workaday practicalities, Leon cast common sense to the winds. He handed the reins to Tudur, pointed silently to the open gate and stepped into the shadow of the wall, drawing his hood over his head. This action had the added benefit of concealing the greater part of his features.

He held still while Tudur led the destrier through the gate. Deso went with his ears laid flat and pricked up by turns, dancing and skipping through imagined obstacles, iron-shod hooves ringing on the gray cobbles. Ravens still circled aloft, dropped lower, as if urging him forward.

The girl came running out of the postern once more, her dark braids whipping loose from under the confining net, each with a mind of its own, her skirts aflurry, her slippered feet hardly touching the stones. This time she carried a large basket piled high with bread and meat.

“Hurry, Telyn, we are already past the hour!”

A smooth-faced youth clad in a vivid green tunic and bright yellow hose followed her, also bearing a basket. “This is foolishness. Curfew has rung. The gates should be locked!”

She gave a laugh, easy and merry. Leon caught his breath at the sweet, open sound. “Shall these poor folk go hungry because the hour grows late?” The laugh died. “Come, good people…here is some bread for you…and for you.”

A vague fluting of tones rose among the group, and a voice said, “It is unsafe, Brenna. The air is charged with danger!”

The woman lifted her face, and a sudden flash of lightning bathed her features in light. There was something about the expression on her face that struck a cord within Leon; and he found himself ensnared by her face, he who did not generally pay attention to women.

His throat went tight. She reminded him of the angel in his dreams. He had never seen such perfect milky skin or such large dark eyes. She could not be considered beautiful in the strictest sense of the word, for her mouth was too large, her chin too pointed, her cheekbones too wide. But the result was somehow magical. The notion dazed him. He lost his breath and his clarity of thought both at once and stood shaking like a leaf.

She showed a smile of pearly teeth, and held out her hand, palm up. “Come, sir, there is enough for all,” she said; and snared him twice over.

He hesitated. She waited.

“Come,” she reiterated. Her voice was music.

Leon was thrown into a turmoil of self-awareness, caught for a moment in two flashing, dark eyes. Eyes that sat far apart above a fine, straight nose. Eyes that understood, accepted. His face burned. He could feel the cords standing out along his neck. His body knotted from throat to thigh. He must look a fool, he thought, the greenest of country bumpkins, undone by a woman.

Every part of him was drawn to her. Never had his limbs seemed so beyond his control. Every step he took seemed fraught with the potential for calamity. What if his overlong legs betrayed him? What if he tripped and fell?

Unsettled by such strange thoughts, he drew his cloak close. His feet beat out a grim refrain.

Brenna. Brenna. Brenna.

Until, finally, he stood very still, towering over her, staring down at her, sharing a look with her. For a moment there seemed a confusion in her dark eyes. Gradually he began to comprehend what he saw there: it was a reflection of his own emotions. She was shocked and trying to hide it.

Then came the thunder, rumbling, the intervals shortening between claps. Brenna shook herself, as if awakening from a trance, and held out a cup filled with milk. The smile faded to gravity. The eyes stayed upon his, dark as river water.

Fingers touched fingers. Oh, very gladly would he have touched more. He longed for a thousand things, all of them dangerous.

“My good fellow, you have enough scars to stitch a tapestry. Stand aside and I’ll find some salve that lets the skin stretch—” a frown formed on her brow and she bent her head to an ailing urchin, while her cheeks suffused with color “—and that cough, child, needs an herbal tisane…that sore on your hand needs a poultice—”

Leon felt another flush heat his ears, as if he were a grass-green stripling undone by his first glimpse of a trim female ankle. He buried his nose in the offered cup, thanked her in a low voice, drank deeply, put the cup on the table and retreated a short distance.

The shadows above his head stirred, as if a gentle wind was blowing. He slitted his eyes and looked up at the sky. The ravens screamed, swirling, and vanished into the tower.

He picked up a movement out of the corner of his eye. Instantly alert, he did nothing out of the ordinary, simply allowed his eyes to track the beggars once more. One of the churls eased himself away from the wall and slid toward the postern, his hand resting lightly on his hip. But he turned back to his original position when he noticed Leon watching him.

There was trouble afoot. Deep inside Leon’s mind he could feel a subtle unease. It was as if he felt, not heard, the echoes of the alarm bell clamoring across the desert air from the furtherest outpost long before the enemy has reached the gate.

The girl gave a cry of protest, which brought his head jerking up. The beggars! It seemed she was refusing their demand for a bed for the night.

“No,” she said, stepping back.

The beggar scowled. “There is shelter for women and children, but not for men?”

The girl did not rise to the bait. A woman and her two children had been ushered through the postern gate into the bailey, but now the girl barred the door to the beggars with her own person. “They want herbs and potions. You have no such need. Be off with you and seek a bed at the inn in the village.”

Leon stood calmly for all that his heart was racing. Four assailants or nine didn’t matter to him, as long as he had his trusty dagger in his hand. That, and his own wits, skill and strength, sufficed, and he’d killed more than that in one skirmish. Armorless and alone, he was still more than a match for these churls.

Lightning flashed and edged everything in fire; the beggars, the edges of the buildings, the woman. For an instant their eyes met. Her head tilted to one side, her lips parting. He narrowed his eyes to deeper slits. She met his gaze unblinkingly, her eyes dark, staring at him strangely sharp, then she drew a long, uneven breath, as if to say, I am the one you have been seeking, and you are the one I have sought.

Leon had time to wonder whether his mind was going. Time to wonder about the question, but no time to find an answer. The churls inched closer, regaining his attention. Not now, Leon cautioned himself. Be still a little longer.

Five paces more.

“Give us alms and we will go in peace,” said one, edging toward her. His eyes were on the purse that swung from her girdle as he rested his hand upon his hip—a subtle threat.

She was not so easily intimidated. “Do you threaten me, sir? Are you so bold? Food you have had in plenty. No more can I give you!” Her eyes were blazing hot as coals and her small hands formed tight fists at her sides.

A humming. Leon heard metal hiss and knew the sound. He cursed under his breath. Mutters rose behind him.

“He’s got a sword!” somebody yelled.

People scattered, running in every direction, screaming. The rest of those who had sought food and alms moved back and away, or fled, leaving a clear space.

Now.

“I’ll get help.” The motley-clad youth ran past Leon, blocking his thrust. The churl made a mad lunge across the table. A lance of pain struck Leon’s temple. Spots swirled in front of his eyes. His fist came down. The milk pail burst apart, sending its contents showering in all directions. The girl was sent reeling.

“One against four and I have her purse already!”

This time, Leon didn’t hesitate. His hand lashed out in a blur of motion, of bone-jarring impact to wrist and elbow as his fist slammed into the assailant just below the ear. The man’s eyes bulged and his head danced like that of a puppet. Leon had a momentary glimpse of the other’s eyes, open wide, terror burning in them like an uncontrollable fire, before the man doubled over.

He kicked the weapon out of the man’s hand as another of the churls advanced, his cudgel raised to smite him. He lunged and caught the uplifted hand. His free hand crunched across the elbow. Then he grabbed another man plunging past him, spun him around, and felt armor beneath the brown robes.

It was a poor sort of a fight. Gripping the man’s arm, Leon twisted it and snapped it like a twig, grasped another attacker by the throat and flung him with contemptuous ease into the wall behind him. He planned none of his moves. They had all been drilled into him for so many years that they came automatically.

Time seemed to leap forward. There came the sound of many footsteps, all running toward them. A half dozen assorted servants and men-at-arms erupted from the postern. Hands went to swords, steel rising to the light. A roar went up.

“Get them, get them, get them!”

The four churls fled. Telyn chased after them, leading the detachment of men in full pursuit.

It was over. Done.

Leon stood with hand on hip, breathing easily. He had not even drawn his dagger. “Are you all right?” She nodded and he said, “In the name of all devils—why?” He jerked his head to the baying throng. “A sentry on watch would prevent such incident, lady.”

Brenna did not move, save that her head came up. He saw a sheen on her cheek as of light on polished, shining stone, or firelight on water.

“I am sorry. It was mine own folly that brought it about,” she faltered in a voice that was scarcely audible. “I should have called for help earlier.”

Leon kept his eyes on her. He had great confidence in his wit and skill, but when it came to women, he had no confidence at all. The flick of temper faded into something else: curiosity. She looked bedraggled, her veil askew, her thick black braids in disarray. Her eyes were burning bright. She was, perhaps, more shaken by the incident than she cared to acknowledge.

“It shouldn’t have happened.” Memory put violent pressure on his voice. What a different ending this day could have had! He could hardly think, his heart was hammering so in his chest, and his insides twisted in his belly.

She drew back a little. Her lips quivered, and she shook her head. “No one has ever threatened me before.”

Leon looked levelly into her eyes and did not move. “Such idiocy can prove fatal. Did you never think what might be the probable result? Did you never think that you might endanger others?” Driven by bitter memories, his voice was still hard and unconvinced.

A wild shake of the head. “No! I am unhurt.” Another space for breath. “I suppose it was a lucky coincidence you were on hand when those churls attacked,” she said with just the hint of a smile.

Leon felt the tightness around his mouth as his lip curled. He had spent too many years in action, and he was not accustomed to being made light of. Yet it was more than that. Under the bravado, he could sense something else in the girl. He could taste it; a nervous tension that came perilously close to fear.

“Coincidence, chance, luck. I don’t believe in any of them. I keep a sharp sword.” In spite of all his efforts, it was hard not to sound cynical.

She looked at him sharply. Her head was high now, her expression haughty. “You are very brave, sir. I would that all knights showed such courage. If they did, the Crusaders would have taken the Holy Land.”

“Devil take that! I am one man, not the Crusader army, lady,” he exclaimed.

“You were bold and confident!”

“A man of my trade lives every day of his life under threat of death,” he replied with a pragmatic shrug.

“But you are valiant! With neither armor nor weapon, you sent the dogs running. You felt no fear!”

“I have nothing to lose, therefore nothing to fear,” he said, too bluntly, perhaps, for she bit her lip a moment, frowning as if it were a challenge and she were searching for a proper response.

“A man who fears nothing loves nothing and, if he loves nothing, what joy is there in his life?” she asked with passionate urgency.

All his senses seemed foggy of a sudden, and his head on the edge of hurting. “I’ve never met a woman who speaks to me as you do,” he told her.

“Even your wife?” She fixed that direct look of hers on him, challenging him.

“I have no wife.”

Her scrutiny was both leisurely and thorough, taking him in as if he had been a bullock at market. Swift anger flooded through him. He felt his jaw clenching. Years of living by the sword had wrecked any comeliness he had ever possessed and any chance of winning a woman’s heart.

Something changed, lifted, in the set of her mouth and eyes. Tiny facial muscles relaxed. He caught a momentary expression as she stood before him, watching him intently—something intense and satisfied, as if it were enough to know.

“And I have no husband. Yet.”

“If you did, you would be more circumspect.”

Slowly the proud head bowed. She spread her hands. “It’s not like that here.”

“No doubt it is different in the marches,” Leon agreed with a touch of irony. “I do not think it is that. You knew I would intervene, if necessary.”

Her cheeks flamed, but she did not evade the charge. “Yes,” she said with a directness that he guessed was characteristic of her.

There were footsteps, the ringing of swords in scabbards. The men-at-arms were returning with two of the churls, and the girl’s purse. There were shouts and cheers from a tangle of servants and hangers-on. The youth had collected the baskets and was urging her within, saying it would rain soon and that Sir Edmund would be angry.

Brenna grinned up at him, her eyes bright. “Here I was wishing you away, but there was nothing I wanted more to see than you coming up that hill.” She laid a slender hand on his arm. “Welcome to Dinas Bran.”

Chapter Two

Could it be…was it…? Yes! He was here! He had come!

Flanked by the knight and Telyn, Brenna walked straight-backed and resolute into the courtyard, around the well and across the crowded bailey, taking no notice of the flurry of guards and flickering torchlight, the mass of shadowed faces and shocked voices. She offered not a word.

This was no time for argument or explanation. The gracious and civilized thing to do was to get her betrothed upstairs where he could bathe and prepare for the festivities. Her eyes did not even follow the guards as they bore the assailants away. She had not meant to cause any trouble by breaking the curfew, but it was done. They’d soon be in a cell for questioning, if anyone had any sense. It was up to the men now. She was too consumed by strange feelings she couldn’t comprehend. Feelings that made her reel with their intensity.

This was her betrothed! He was the man of her dreams! In truth, he was here!

She’d heard him laugh, a black-velvet ripple, sweet as the honey of the southlands, and felt something deep within her move, open. She’d looked wildly about, and her heart was like an arrow hurtling through space. Then eye met eye. A spark leaped in the meeting, and the newcomer had laughed no more. He gazed at her with—recognition, it might be, for she had felt it, too.

This is the one!

It was odd, really. She’d prayed that he wouldn’t let her down, that he would come. But she had an uneasiness now, about his late arrival, the peculiar look of him. There was some strangeness about him. He’d stood there, on the edge of the crowd, his hand seeming to rest on a sword hilt in the shadows, his whole aspect grim and dangerous.

Brenna swallowed hard. There had never been any other like this man. She could not suppress a heated sensation welling deep inside. His hand, heavy on her shoulder, seemed to have the strength of iron. She wanted to tuck herself closer against that strength…and yet she did not know why.

This man might be her betrothed, but he was a stranger. It just seemed impossible that he was truly the man of her dreams, she thought. And how could he so easily, so appallingly easily, become the one?

She had turned away so many suitors that her aunts despaired, but still her knight had not come. She had held to her dream until her grandfather had become impatient and commanded she wed. She had only consented because, with constant skirmishes to defend the border, Grandy’s coffers were empty and he needed the bride-price. Besides, the amiable Aubrey of Leeds sounded more congenial a match than Keith Kil Coed!

Be honest, Brenna. This incomparable knight is something you have conjured up out of an overactive imagination—or a mad notion, brought on by the tensions of the day. She must not allow her emotions to dominate her reason.

They came up the stairs and into the keep. Light spilled over them from the torches that burned all along the wall. From the kitchens the sweet smell of roasting venison floated on the air, and there was a stir in the hall, the coming and going of servants carrying trays of cider and ale through a door to the great hall where tapestries fluttered and torches flared in drafts.

Brenna stopped and sent a page scurrying with orders to fetch her maidservant. Fingertips tapped her arm. She became aware of Telyn, hovering at her side, still clutching the baskets.

“Thank you, Telyn. You served me well this day.”

The squire made a clicking with his tongue. “My lady, it would be wiser not to disturb Sir Edmund with news of this…he is at table already. Surely he will blame me for allowing you to go out unattended. No harm was done. Your purse has been recovered, and if I…”

“It is all right, Telyn. I accept full responsibility. You go eat. I will escort the knight to his chamber.”

“But surely—” Telyn stopped.

“I’ll be down soon. Will you please tell Grandy that Sir Aubrey has arrived and has retired to refresh himself?”

A polite murmuring. No objections. She supposed he didn’t know what to say. She didn’t, either, except, “Thank you, Telyn.”

As she dismissed the squire, the knight swung about, swirling his gray cloak. “Deso!” he exclaimed, his voice breaking hoarse. He had said nothing up to that point, had let Brenna lead him where she willed. “Deso!”

“Is that the name of your horse? Tudur has taken the animal to the stables. The grooms will see to it.” Brenna tilted her head up, regarding him sidelong. “Is it a real battle charger?”

Her tone must have betrayed something. His glance sharpened. His face was cold and still. For a heartbeat he looked like a great red stag at bay. Then his shoulders and the line of his neck relaxed.

“Yes, it is a warhorse, and a fine one, too,” he said in the most ordinary of tones, but his eyes were as clear as water, with a brightness in the heart of them.

Brenna’s breath shortened. His hood had flown back long since, revealing hair like hot gold. His jaw was square and rugged, his mouth bluntly carved below the jutting blade of his nose. The pale smooth marks traced across half his face like the limbs of a lightning-blasted tree bespoke of courage and mettle and the reflexes of a warrior. And the mantle of wool that swept across his shoulders emphasized their width and suggested great strength.

She swallowed hard. Her heart was thudding against her ribs. Oh, yes, he was a pleasing man, younger than she had imagined—no more than eight-and-twenty. She could do far worse than he.

So why this uneasiness?

It appeared Aubrey was no ordinary knight. For, though her betrothed knew how to defend himself, and his linen shirt was of the finest weave, and the supple leather of his tunic and boots were fastened with ornate metal toggles, he came without armor or shield. Somehow, somewhere, he had lost his armor and weapons. Understanding came. Did not a knight, unhorsed in the lists, forfeit his gear?

Did that matter? He is here!

“Come.” Back stiff, braids swinging, she led him past the inner door that opened on the hall, up the narrow curving timber steps to the bedchambers set high in the tower of the castle, and down the corridor. At the very end, she stopped and pushed aside a beaded leather curtain.

“You may sleep here.”

Her companion stumbled. His fingers tightened. The grip hurt. She drew a long, long breath and let it go. Slowly, the pressure was removed. Her muscles went slack with relief.

The room they entered was circular, with tall narrow windows all about it. A fire blazed in the hearth, and the chamber glowed in the wastefulness of an oil lamp, which shed a low, even light over a crowded table covered with sheaves of parchment and scrolls.

Brenna made her way across a floor carpeted with sweet-smelling rushes, bent, adjusted the lamp wick, and stood uncertainly, looking at him, surprised by the pounding of her heart. She pressed one hand to her chest for a moment and it eased. Why was she so nervous? This was her betrothed!

He lingered, a shadow in the doorway. But the rugged features were devoid of emotion. He might have been carved from stone. And he avoided her gaze, staunchly refusing to glance her way.

For once, the forms of hospitality deserted her. She had kept herself from hoping. As far as she could, as far into her childhood as she might. She’d pondered what to say to him. She wanted to talk to him, to chatter idly, to say something to fill the silence. But now that he was here, her heart beat with a thud of self-conscious dread, and she could only blurt, “Are you tired?”