Ironheart

He shrugged. She went to him, took his arm and steered him toward a chair as if he were a child, never mind that he was a head taller and thrice her weight.

“A bath and a glass of mulled wine and you’ll soon feel more the thing. There are soap and herbs and clean towels in the chest, and this is a fine feather bed.”

Why had she said that? Brenna felt the heat rush to her face. He would think her most unmaidenly, or that she could not wait to be bedded! But he seemed not to notice her confusion. He shrugged out of his sodden cloak, threw it over a chair and gave a curt wave of his hand.

“It’s very fancy.”

In truth the chamber was plain enough, all bare wood and aged stone. It was spacious and the furnishings were comfortable, with a faint scent of flowers. On the table beside a pot of ink and a heap of quills lay a bowlful of rose petals, sending up sweet fragrance like a silent blessing.

Brenna knelt and poked at the fire with an iron rod. She looked up and up. He looked down and down. The eyes that met hers were the shifting color of the forest. Her breath quickened; her heart was beating so hard it hurt her throat.

“It was my father’s chamber. The bed came from France.”

By which answer Brenna knew she had hit a raw nerve. Two deep grooves appeared on his face, running from the flare of his nostrils to the corners of his suddenly grim mouth.

“I can assure you, lady, that this sacrifice is quite unnecessary. I have traveled far and am weary. A cot in a corner will suffice.”

There was a sharpness in his tone that startled Brenna. He looked horrified. Her heart stilled. Had she offended him? Or did he find her unattractive? That stung her vanity a little, but not enough to cause this pain that clenched her heart.

No, it is not that, she said to herself.

It was true that men always reacted to her with admiration. It was also true it had never concerned her whether they had or not. This time she cared. For the first time in her life she felt a frank stirring of curiosity in a man, an honest awareness of him. This man reacted to the notion of using the marriage bed as if just told he had to share it with a leper.

She rose to her feet, and clutched her hands together, finding them shaking. She kept her back straight and her chin up, but she was all too painfully aware of the figure she cut. Her gown had been her mother’s; it was shabby, threadbare, and covered with mud. In short, she was unkempt.

She had never believed it would come to this. How badly she wanted to make a good impression. The hospitality of Dinas Bran was well known. A visitor was sure of shelter, refreshment and ale, with meat for his hounds and oats for his horse without stint. Would she offer her betrothed any less?

Knights, it was said in the codes, had a common trait. It was honor. Privately, Brenna thought it was pride. Of which this man had an excess. If only he would catch her eye, reassure her with a curve of those generous lips, bring a glimmer of certainty surging into her heart. But no, he would only look straight ahead, his bearing contained, aloof. What was she supposed to do?

“Sir Edmund dislikes having the customs upset. He’ll ask me why. What will I say?”

“That ’tis most kind, but—”

“Be not mistaken. My father no longer has use for this room. He is dead. Killed at Acre.”

“Your pardon, lady. I am not at my best.”

He looked feverish, but then that was to be expected; God alone knew how far he’d traveled in that damp cloak.

“In that case, I insist,” she said firmly. “Besides, ’tis the custom here to give the best accommodation to our noble guests. I would not have it said that Dinas Bran lodged you meanly,” she snapped, the sharper for that her cheeks had caught fire.

Leon wrapped his arms about him against the sudden coolness and looked at her. Simply looked. He had thought her magical at first sight. Now he was sure. She was indeed quite the most exquisite woman he had ever seen. Her smooth pale skin was rose-blushed. Her eyes were dark and enchantingly tilted, their brilliance set off by their fringe of long black lashes. Her fine dark brows slanted across her forehead like a raven’s wing, and her hair beneath its drift of veil was black as night. Her one flaw, the chin that was a shade too pronounced, a shade too obstinate, only strengthened her beauty. Without it she would have been lovely; with it, she was breathtaking.

He leaned on the wall, scrubbing at his sweaty cheeks and chin. The chamber felt unaccountably hot. It was hard to breathe, let alone think.

What good were these doubts? he asked himself. If he were enchanted, there was little he could do. If it were naught but the fever, then a bath would cool his overheated senses. After so many days in the saddle, his clothes were so dusty, muddy and sweaty that they would probably be able to walk back to France all by themselves, and despite his attempts at washing them and himself in rivers so cold they made the teeth ache in his head, the body inside the garments wasn’t much better.

All he knew for sure was that he’d never find out standing still, and the thought of hot water and soap and razors, was a pleasant one. He felt suddenly very weary. The energy that had driven him during his rescue mission was now taking its toll. In short, he felt rather disheveled and somewhat shaken. His head hurt in savage counterpoint to his heartbeat. He pressed his fingers hard into his forehead, pushed away fatigue.

“Is it also the custom here, as it is on the Continent, for the lady of the house to offer guests assistance in their bathing?” he asked, fearing to know.

Brenna was taken aback. For a moment, breath and sense failed her. She lost her thread of thought, everything unraveling. Was he actually suggesting she attend him? Or was he simply making conversation? A feeling of embarrassment arose in her, and then resentment. Why were things so contrary? Her wits rallied; she gathered her forces.

“If you so desire,” she said in a voice that she tried to make sound calm. Dared she do such a thing? Her grandfather did not ever allow her to help bathe their guests. It was a chore left to the maidservants. But this was her future husband!

“I must trust your judgment, and hope that you do not come to regret your decision.”

Brenna stared, puzzled. Filled with uncertainty, her mind went ’round and ’round, struggled with the meaning of his words. What was he talking about? He had paid the bride-price. The wedding was prepared. He had come. Why was he hesitating now? Or was he talking about what was to happen afterward in the marriage bed? The bed he had so summarily rejected?

“It is the least I can do, my lord.”

Leon felt like a man hit by a pole-ax, still on his feet, but reeling. He searched her face, looking for duplicity, but finding something else, something he couldn’t put his finger on. His mind screamed, Beware! But his body shrieked even louder. A chill grew in his limbs, a slight giddiness like too much ale. Like too much heat and too much cold. Like love. What had put that thought into his mind?

“I fear you flatter me too much, lady. I am only a soldier, not a great lord,” he found the strength to say.

Brenna’s assurance foundered as she realized the significance of what he’d just said. She drew a slow breath; her first sign of temper.

“You dissemble well, sir knight. I think you are more than a simple soldier.” When he opened his mouth to argue, she shook her head. “I will not bandy words with you—if you wish me to believe you only a modest soldier then so be it. I care not what your rank may be, but there is nothing common about you.”

“I am glad you think so.”

“What reasonable person would not?” Brenna changed tacks abruptly, fixing him with her most disconcerting stare. “I heard you were a great knight, all amiable and devout. Were the rumors wrong?”

A curl of stirred air touched Leon’s cheek. The lines of his face turned icy as hill granite. A small shiver trickled down his spine like a drop of ice water, and for the merest instant the chamber seemed somehow darker than it had any reason to be. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. Shutters rattled, one after another. The wind howled, roared and stirred the shadows in the corners. Outside the night was alive with the hammering of rain, streaks of bouncing energy, silvered where the lightning hit it. All of it utterly foolish, of course, and just to be laughed at later, with a glass of good wine in one hand. And yet…

“How could you have heard such things?” Grabbing her wrist, as if by this gesture he could wrench the knowledge out of her. “You didn’t know me at all, before this evening.”

Brenna was startled at the bite in his voice. Were the rumors wrong? Her eyes looked up involuntarily into the chips of ice that were his eyes. Hers wavered the merest fraction. She rallied with a flare of Brenig temper.

“It’s surprising what news comes from the court, but now I am beginning to think it was all just exaggeration. You are wound so tight, I don’t think you are amiable at all!”

He stood there, unmoving, unperturbed. A little silence passed, barely endurable, before he released her wrist and said mildly, lazily, “You’re probably right.”

Brenna felt her cheeks turn warm. This wasn’t going as planned at all. Caution and guilt warred with vague, half-formed desires until, finally, duty dictated a more sensible attitude. But the itch of curiosity assailed her. More than an itch, her curiosity was a torment.

“Some said that you would not come to us, that you were bound in close friendship with the king, and that the court has need of you there. We both know that to be a falsehood…do we not?”

“You have been misinformed, my lady. The road but took some crooked turns.”

She tilted her head to one side, studying him. “So you can be devious, too. When a man of your stature travels without his servant, one would suppose him to be—shall we say…in disguise?”

Leon thought how quick of understanding is this girl! He knew the rules of hospitality. Never ask the visitor “From where?” or “Where to?” Never ask them “How many?” or “For how long?” And most of all, never ever ask them “When?” In another minute she would surely guess that he was a king’s man…

“Forgive my rudeness. I meant no disrespect.”

“None taken.”

“I did not realize. I thought…perhaps…” Brenna tried to think of something to say, but no words would come. Her fluency failed her when it was her moment to speak. She could not frame a single sentence. Her cheeks blazed with the shame of it. “You look a little the worse for wear. Were you beset upon the road?”

Leon bit down on a frown. He was certain he detected trepidation in her voice. The sparkle in her gaze, however, made him decidedly suspicious. She stood there, cool, proud, running those dark eyes over his disheveled and travel-worn figure. She wanted a bold, brave answer. He gave her one; though not perhaps the one she had expected.

“Lady,” he said very softly, “I was beset by a breaker of hearts.”

She looked at him, as if not understanding, or not wanting to understand. “Are you a pawn, then?” Raising a brow the merest suggestion of a degree.

“My lady,” he said, and could not resist a bow, ironic mockery of her clear hesitation, “that depends upon your own intent.”

This one could break your bones or your heart, Brenna warned herself. Her pulse began to quicken. Blood rushed up in her ears. Suddenly she was trembling, shivering. She bit her lip. She had to fight off the urge to touch him, to casually brush her hand against his. She had never experienced anything that made her feel like this. Her heart was beating so she felt that she could hardly be sure of controlling her voice. Surely all her senses had flown?

“Sir! I—” Brenna struggled mightily to keep her expression bland, though she was sure a spark of delight lit up her eyes. “I will feel better if you let me make sure you’re cared for.”

“Whatever the lady requests. I cannot deny her. I am resolved to please her.”

That was a refuge. She snatched at it. Closer and closer then, at a careful pace. Her hand rose to his cheek. He caught it.

“No,” he said.

A little silence passed, barely endurable. His eyelids flickered a fraction. A shiver traced her spine, a sensation like a touch brushing her, moth-soft.

“This offense to your person, did it go unpunished?”

“I am alive, aren’t I?” His irises snapped light-sparks briefly, just a glint of cold, then control. He did not like that memory, nor the reminder.

I do not believe in coincidence.

She looked up at him from under her eyelids. All honor was in that bladed curve of nose, in those cheekbones carved fierce and high, in those brows set level over the deep eyes.

“Then that answers the question.”

Her smile won free, startling as the sun at midnight, and more miraculous. Deep down inside Leon a strange feeling, almost of elation, surged—but why? Surely not because this slip of a girl showed neither sympathy nor revulsion of his ruined face? This fact alone couldn’t possibly account for the new emotion ebbing and flowing within him. On the other hand—

His spare hand involuntarily went to the breast of his leather tunic, in an inner pouch of which he kept a stained knot of ribbon. It had become a treasured charm to him through the years, and he had grown almost to believe that it was a safeguard to him from the constant assaults of temptations to thoughts and deeds unworthy of a Christian knight.

He tested his courage by it. He tested it further. He released her wrist. Risked shame that a girl should trust him.

“I give you leave,” he said, a little breathless.

“How generous of you.”

Wordlessly, she reached out and touched his cheek softly. He felt something come alive within him, something that made him feel warm and cherished. He suddenly became aware of the delicious tension tightening his whole body. His heart jumped and started hammering. A fearful thrill ran from his chest to his groin. He had not known he could have so many needs all at once, amid such a nightmare.

Brenna touched him, because she wanted to, because she could not help herself; a brush of fingertips from his cheek to his chin, tracing the path of his scars. It was great daring. He quivered under her hand, but did not pull away. She looked up and caught his eye. A quick smile framed her lips.

“Am I transgressing?” she asked him.

In more ways than one!

“A little.” Meeting her gaze, Leon struggled mightily to keep his expression bland. You must face that which you fear most. Confront and conquer. Know yourself first and you will overcome a legion of adversaries. His arms-master’s words, spoken to him at Whittington. A boy of twelve summers, unaware of the fate that awaited him.

Ever so slowly, her fingers progressed along their tortuous route. He kept still, hardly daring to breathe. She was close, so dizzyingly close! A painful stiffening was pressing against the confining leather of his pants, but he dared not shift to ease his position for fear his actions would be noticed.

Leon closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, allowing himself this rare moment of self-indulgence. Then, with the ease of long practice, he forced the emotional temptation back into a corner of his mind. He’d learned a long time ago that the only way to exist was to keep his feelings under rigid control, his heart hard and unyielding as iron. It was a kind of armor. After everything that had happened years ago, there was nothing left to be afraid of.

They were very close. Brenna could feel the living warmth of him, and catch the scent he bore, faint yet distinct. Musk and saddle leather and wet wool. His face was so close that she could feel his breath, so warm and soft. She hoped he would kiss her—yes, she wanted him to kiss her—and her heart beat faster as she swayed toward him, her soft breasts touching his chest. How would it feel to kiss a man?

Their lips touched. He was very beautiful and very strong, and his kiss was sweet. Swift and startling. Warm and warming. He tasted of spices. She felt his long, lean body pressed against hers, and in her secret places, unfamiliar longings began to stir.

He drew back.

Brenna only stared at him, not moving. His eyes had darkened to emerald, and he was frowning, if only slightly; his gaze gone almost to coldness. He bowed again.

“I am honored, and I hope my presence will cause you no more hardship than is necessary.”

Her throat was locked. She swallowed to open a way for her voice. “It is we who are honored—no, pleased by your presence here, and all will see to your comfort. I will have a servant fetch some wine and a trencher from the kitchen—and some clean clothes.”

And fled.

Two steps outside the door she came to an abrupt stop. Elen, her old nurse and present maidservant, stood there, arms akimbo, blocking the corridor.

“Merciful Mary, what means this, Brenna?”

Brenna did a little jig though she wanted to throw up her arms and yell, to leap and hop and twirl and imitate the merry dance of the minstrels, and burst into the hall shouting the glad tidings to everyone.

“Elen, the inconceivable has occurred! My knight…he has come! He’s a darling, and I shall love him, I know.”

Elen’s face expressed disapproval of so much exuberance. “Telyn made no mention of a knight. He said it was one of the beggars who came to your aid.”

“Whoever heard of a beggar with a horse? A fine horse, at that—and Elen, Aubrey’s magnificent. He’s exactly as I’ve always imagined my knight to look. Fair, powerful, self-assured. I’ve never seen such fearlessness, such absolute recklessness, such wild valor. I’ve no doubt he’s all heroic virtue and unmatched goodness.”

Elen narrowed her eyes. “You sound utterly smitten.”

Besotted, more like, Brenna thought. Every part of her had been drawn to him. Her shoulder still prickled where his hand rested. Her lips tingled from the cool fire of his touch. She laughed lightly.

“He has all the traits of a hero—and his face is that of a warrior—such lovely eyes—all silvery-green and shining like a pigeon’s breast. And his shoulders are the broadest I’ve ever seen. Then again, mayhap ’tis his golden hair. You don’t see much hair that color around here.”

“Upon my soul, Brenna, you are wit-wandering.”

“Not so.”

“No one ought to indulge in passion, it distorts everything.”

“There are passions—and passions.”

“You might as well know that Kil Coed has sent word that he comes not only to propose a new and strong alliance with Dinas Bran, but that it would be his great pleasure to seal that covenant by wedding with you.”

Brenna stared at Elen grimly and let out an impatient breath. “The arrival of my betrothed and our marriage on the Sabbath should halt any ambitions held by another suitor! Assuming, of course, that this isn’t all a joke…?”

“I wish I had told you sooner, but I did not want to burden you until I was sure.”

A wild resentment filled Brenna. “We have taken Aubrey’s coin. I am honor-bound to wed him.”

“Keith Kil Coed is magnificent—and he’s Welsh.”

“I will not marry him!” It was a whisper, lest she scream it.

“You may have no choice. Since winter loosed its hold, he has begun to gather an army. The Lady Agnita says Sir Edmund suspects he will move against us, thinking to forge an alliance, and use our strength to advance west to Gwynedd.”

“I am betrothed to Aubrey of Leeds!”

“Betrothals can be nullified.”

“Not on the very eve of the nuptials!”

“No more dispute now. Sir Edmund has the right to decide your fate. He is in a foul mood because of this latest folly. He will be angrier if you are not at table. Go and put on your blue gown, and be nice to him, and you may find his anger only hot air.”

“Even if Grandy is about to renege on the deal and have me wed that upstart Keith Kil Coed, my knight has come, as if conjured here by magic. It is a good omen.”

“Don’t say that! The walls have ears,” Elen whispered, making the sign of the cross on brow and chest. “And there are always servants and menials of some sort to carry tales of witchcraft and druidry.”

“Old lies and old spite. How can anyone credit a word of it?”

“Be careful! I can’t prevent hostile ears from attending to some ill-spoken words—I would not have you skinned for a witch or burnt at the stake.”

A flood of fondness washed through Brenna. Elen’s hair might be mostly gray, and she might be moving a bit stiffly on winter mornings, but she was always so indulgent, so tolerant, not at all stiff and proper. She was also very superstitious.

“You are trying to make my blood run cold, Elen. Well, I am not so easily frightened.”

“Nevertheless, such talk is dangerous,” Elen said in a low voice. “I’ve seen you grow up, Brenna. You run, jump, indulge in all manner of masculine pursuits, speak four tongues and even read. ’Tis not expected of a woman, and disturbs the natural order of things.”

Brenna bit her lip to keep from laughing. “I can also sew a fine stitch, spin wool, bake bread, grow herbs, tend the sick and sing to the bees.”

“It is magic. Which is why they call you a she-devil.”

“Nonsense. The bees like my singing and make honey in appreciation. I use no magic, else I would make that upstart Kil Coed weak, turn his muscles to pudding. Instead he bends an iron axle over his knee as if it were wet bread dough.”

Low and thick, Elen said, “Don’t give them any more substance to talk about!”

“What does it matter?”

“It matters,” Elen said harshly. “I’m just trying to protect your reputation. I know you say I gossip too much, but I worry—”

“Dear Elen, you have always been worried about me, haven’t you? I remember when I was a child you were always in a flutter for fear I should fall down and hurt myself. Well, sometimes there have been reason in your fears, but no more. My knight’s presence is enough, and his strength and golden voice. I need no more.”

From now on her whole life would be dedicated to him. Yes, that’s what they’d do—walk through the years together. As if provoked a little by this resolve, thunder boomed out above the towers, making her jump. A door shut downstairs, echoing.

“It seems unreal, but I will wed Aubrey of Leeds on the Sabbath, Elen. From that moment, I will behave like a saint, that I promise you.”

Chapter Three

Leon set his weapon belt on the bench nearest the bed, thinking how unexpected this all was, lodging in the room that had been Brenig’s own in his youth. He hoped he was wrong, but he did not take for granted all that he could.

Wales was a savage and rebellious place, with great mountains and strange customs. Odd things happened, and law was a matter of local option. Beyond the Dee the land turned primitive, towns and villages growing fewer, hill and forest rising toward the western mountains. The rumors were dark here, tales of marauders upon the roads, villages sacked and burned.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and tugged off his boots. Suspicions had begun to move about inside his mind, causing swirls and ripples of unease like the movements of something large and ominous lurking beneath the surface of deep water. Had not the king but lately revoked the title of Lord of the Northern Marches, throwing this western realm into turmoil and confusion? Had not the same king dug up old grudges from his childhood days and found reasons to heckle and harass that obliged Lord Fulk to flee from Whittington?

Why? The answer was as simple as it was distressing. The king had deliberately unleashed a potentially explosive power struggle to distract his increasingly antagonist parliament from what was happening in his provinces on the other side of the English Channel.

Leon knew what would happen. The plots would multiply until those who sought to take Fulk FitzWarren’s place would be overwhelmed. He also knew that the Brenigs were political animals. Intrigue was second nature to them.