So Speaks the Heart (10 page)

Rowland stopped a serving maid who passed near him and whispered to her. He then watched the girl approach Brigitte. The picture Brigitte presented was one of serene reflection, but she simmered inside, near to boiling over with suppressed rage. She could not take much more of Rowland and his arrogance.

Brigitte did not hear the maid's approach, and when she tapped Brigitte on the shoulder, Brigitte jumped.

“What do you want?” she snapped.

The maid's eyes widened in confusion. She did not know what to make of this beautiful French woman whom her lord's son called a servant, but who seemed noble.

“Sir Rowland bids you join him at table and eat before you retire,” the maid said nervously.

“Oh, he does, does he?” Brigitte looked to the center of the hall to see Rowland watching her, and her temper flared anew. “Well, you can tell that arrogant cock that I would not lower myself by sitting at table with him!”

The maid's eyes bulged. “I could not say that!”

Brigitte rose. “Then I will.”

“Please! Do not do that. I know him and he has the devil's own temper, mistress.”

Brigitte stared at the girl curiously. “Why did you call me mistress?”

The maid ducked her head shyly. “It—it seems appropriate.”

Brigitte suddenly smiled. She did not know it, but that smile dazzled many onlookers. “You have done me a world of good. What is your name?”

“I am called Goda.”

“Goda, I am sorry I snapped at you. I have never been one to take my anger out on a servant, and heaven forbid I should become like Rowland.”

“Will you join Sir Rowland then?”

“I will not. But you can show me where I am to sleep. I want nothing more than a little privacy.”

“Yes, mistress,” Goda said quietly.

Rowland's eyes followed Brigitte as she left the hall with the maid. He thought of the smile she had bestowed on Goda, and he suddenly realized he had a great desire to see that smile again, but only for him.

Listen to me, Rowland thought in amusement. I am wooing a servant!

B
rigitte was taken to a small servants' hut across the bailey. It was not much better than the hovel she had been forced into at Louroux, but at least there was a clean cot and plenty of blankets. After putting her things away in an old chest and sweeping the cobwebs out of the room, she beseeched Goda to take her to the bathhouse and to bring her some food there.

The maid complied without questions, for which Brigitte was grateful. She had taken to dreaming of a hot steaming bath, and she did not even care that she would be using the servants' bath, a tub used by countless others. She had already overstepped herself by asking Goda to bring her food, for servants did not ask other servants to wait on them.

A little while later, Brigitte sat on her cot drying her hair, her feet resting near the brazier of hot coals Goda had kindly brought. Rowland opened her door, unbidden, and it rankled her. She chose to ignore him.

“Does your chamber meet with your approval, damosel?” Rowland asked after a few moments of silence.

“What brings you here, Rowland?” she asked wearily.

“I came to see how you fared,” he replied. “And you have yet to answer me.”

“What does it matter if the room meets with my approval or not?” she asked bitterly.

“The hut is more sturdily built than the hut I know you used at Louroux.”

“You know nothing of that!” she hissed. “You presume because you saw me go there.”

“I suppose you will tell me that those were not your quarters at Louroux.”

“I would not dream of telling you anything,” she replied heavily. “Speaking to you is like speaking to a stone wall.”

Rowland ignored the insult. “If those were not your quarters, Brigitte, then why did you go there?”

“Because I am stubborn. Or have you not noticed?”

“Aye, I have indeed noticed.” He chuckled.

“It was not amusing, Rowland,” she said stiffly. “The very things that made you think I was a servant were conditions I brought about through my own stubbornness.”

“What do you mean?”

“You won't believe anything I tell you, and I am weary of being disbelieved.”

Rowland strolled into the room and stopped in front of Brigitte. He lifted her chin with a finger. forcing her to meet his penetrating gaze.

“Will you not agree then, that it is time to change your attitude?” he asked softly.

“You toy with me, Rowland, and I do not like it!” she snapped. “I would not consider seducing you even if that were my only recourse.”

Rowland grabbed her shoulders and drew her up to him. “Seduce me, little jewel? But you have already done that.”

He cupped her face in his hands, and his lips caressed hers in a tender assault. Brigitte was surprised by the pleasing sensation his kiss aroused, and it was several seconds before she stopped him, pushing against his chest until he moved back.

“If you had any decency, you would not subject me to your lust!” she cried.

“Ah, Brigitte, you do not play the game well,” he sighed in disappointment.

“I will not play
your
game at all!” she retorted indignantly. “You might call me serf, but you cannot deny I was innocent until you touched me. I will not be your whore!”

“Only I have had you,
cherie
, and only I will. That does not make you a whore.”

“To me it does!”

Rowland sighed. “What does it take to make you more agreeable?”

“You jest.” She laughed derisively and jerked away from him. She moved to the end of the bed, then turned and faced him with arms akimbo and eyes flashing. “You rob me of my innocence and then say it does not matter. You humiliate me and force me to serve you. Do you suppose I will say thank you?”

“Be damned!” Rowland growled. “I came here to make amends, but I get only shrewishness.”

“You can never make amends for what you have done—never!”

“Then I waste my time.” He turned and stalked to the door, then stopped and looked back at her darkly. “I give you warning, wench. I can make your
life pleasant or intolerable—I care not which. It's up to you to adjust your behavior, for I grow tired of your obstinacy.”

He slammed the door shut and was gone. Brigitte sat down on the bed, self-pity taking hold of her. Wolff came over and licked her face.

“What am I to do now, Wolff?” she asked dejectedly. “He expects me to just give up gracefully and serve him with a smile. How can I?”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I hate him! I should have left him to die! Why did I not? We must escape this place, Wolff, we must!”

W
hen Rowland met his father in the courtyard for their battle early the next morning, his temper was little improved. Home only one day and already his strength was to be tested. But it was not only that which caused angry lines to crease his face. It was also Amelia.

She had come to his chamber the previous night. Her status as lady's maid warranted her a room near Hedda's, which also placed her near Rowland's chamber. At one time that had been convenient for him, but Rowland had no desire to resume their trysts.

When she had knocked softly at his door, he had believed it was Brigitte, come to admit defeat and make amends. The thought sent a surge of excitement through Rowland, and when he opened the door his face fell.

“Your disappointment is plain, Rowland,” Amelia said with just a touch of bitterness. “You hoped I was that yellow-haired wench.”

“Be gone, Amelia,” Rowland replied angrily. “You were not invited here.”

“I will be once you grow tired of her resistance to you,” she said confidently. “It is only her resistance that charms you, nothing else.”

Amelia giggled. “I know you are a bit rough,
mon cher
. You handle a woman as you do your sword, with a strong grip. But I do not mind. She does, however. Is that right?”

He set his face and said, “You had best start looking for another man to warm you on a cold night, Amelia.”

“Because of her?” she hissed.

“She matters not. Amelia and I shared many pleasurable nights, but when I left here that was all ended. I am sorry you thought otherwise.” He would not discuss Brigitte with her.

Amelia turned and ran. Rowland slammed the door shut, furious with himself for not taking what was so willingly offered. But the truth was that he desired another, a woman he could not have without forcing her, and he was loathe to force her.

As he faced his father in the cold dawn, he brooded on his encounter with Amelia. His thoughtful scowl did not go unnoticed.

“What troubles you, Rowland?” Luthor asked as he flexed his arms. “Have you grown soft in your absence from Montville, and fear you cannot make a good showing?”

“If anyone is afraid it is you, old man,” Rowland answered curtly.

“We shall see.” Luthor chuckled, then continued amiably, “I have heard of your many adventures. Aye, you must have grown tired of King Lothair's efforts to regain Lotharingia.”

Rowland shrugged. “There was no challenge. A skirmish won, a skirmish lost. A battle must someday reach a conclusion, but I wonder if that one will ever be resolved.”

“So you went on to Champagne and then Burgundy?” Luthor added casually.

“You are well informed,” Rowland grunted.

“I have many friends who sent me word of your whereabouts now and then. What I taught you was not wasted in Provence. I would have enjoyed that battle myself.”

“It was over quickly.”

“What route did you travel across central France in coming home?”

Rowland wondered at Luthor's curiosity, but he answered. “I traveled the Loire until Berry. There I delivered the message entrusted to me and was given the girl.”

“You then crossed Blois and Maine in a direct route to Montville?”

“No, I traveled the Loire at Orleans until the junction with the Maine River. Then I rode a direct route north.”

“You passed Angers then?”

Rowland noted the sudden alarm in Luthor's voice, and he frowned. “Yes, but why should that matter?”

“It does not,” Luthor replied, then added curtly. “Let us begin.”

Rowland shrugged off Luthor's interrogation and warmed to the challenge at hand. His father thrived on these tests of strength, but only in the last few years before leaving home had Rowland been able to give a good accounting of himself. The will to best his father had always been there, but the means had been long in coming.

The first ringing of metal against metal drew others to the courtyard. The sounds of battle woke Brigitte from sleep, and she hurried to her door, fearing
Montville was under attack. She gasped when she saw Rowland and his father in earnest combat. Brigitte quickly drew on her woolen mantle and ran outside, not even bothering with the hood to cover her unbraided, flowing hair. She stood near two soldiers and watched in fascinated horror as Luthor bore down on Rowland, striking blow after blow with his heavy sword, forcing him to retreat. Rowland was hard-pressed to do anything but counter the blows with sword and shield. This continued the length of the yard, until finally Rowland dodged one powerful downward swing of Luthor's sword and began his own assault, forcing Luthor to retreat.

“How long has this been going on?” Brigitte whispered to the soldiers, her eyes on Rowland.

“Not long,” one of them answered.

But it became long. The sun rose and climbed higher, and the battle raged on, neither man giving in. Brigitte grew tired just watching. She knew how heavy a knight's sword was. She could barely lift one with both hands. The strength of body and will it took to last this long awed her.

But the scene became monotonous as the two men crossed the yard back and forth, first one assaulting, then the other. Then suddenly the tempo changed, as if each man were drawing on a new reserve of power. Rowland's sword swung quickly for Luthor's right side, but in a flash it changed direction midway and struck to the left. Luthor was caught off guard. He did not raise his shield quickly enough, and Rowland's weapon sliced through several links of Luthor's mail into his shoulder.

Both men stood still. Brigitte assumed the match was over. Then, to her utter amazement, Luthor be
gan to laugh. What kind of people were these? In the next moment, however, Luthor knocked the sword out of Rowland's hand and his own sword pressed against Rowland's chest.

Rowland threw his shield down, silently admitting defeat, and Luthor lowered his sword.

“Having drawn blood, you should have pressed on, Rowland,” Luthor chuckled, “not stopped to see how gravely you had wounded your enemy.”

“Were you my real enemy, old man, I would indeed have pressed on,” Rowland replied.

“Then perhaps I will take that into consideration and admit to an even match. Yes…for once we have no victor. Do you agree to that?”

Rowland nodded, then grinned. Gesturing to Luthor's shoulder, he said, “You must get that tended.”

“I barely feel this scratch,” Luthor grunted. “Your own scrapes could use the tender hand of yon pretty maid.”

Rowland glanced around and saw Brigitte watching him. She was a vision of loveliness, her hair cascading in disarray over her shoulders like spun gold in the sunlight. She shyly lowered her gaze, and Rowland found himself mesmerized, forgetting his aching muscles.

But the sound of Luthor's rumbling laughter drew him. “You strip the poor wench with your eyes, my boy,” he chided. “Can you not wait until you are alone?”

Rowland reddened.

“You do me proud this day, Rowland,” his father said. “You are a worthy son. Aye, you were a fine challenge, and I know your wound is not fully healed. You learned all I taught you and more.”

Rowland did not know what to say. This was the first time Luthor had ever praised him, let alone so lavishly. Fortunately, Luthor expected no reply. He turned and walked away, leaving Rowland staring after him, wondering. His father had changed. Perhaps he was getting old after all.

Brigitte and Rowland were alone in the courtyard, the others having gone to the hall.

“You have opened your wound,” Brigitte scolded.

Rowland grinned apologetically. “It was not intentional. Will you tend it?”

“I suppose I will have to, for I see no one else coming forward to do so,” she said severely.

“What troubles you?” he asked hesitantly.

“You!” she snapped, her hands going to her hips in an angry stance. “That foolishness I just witnessed!”

“It was just sport,
cherie
.”

“It was not sport. It was madness,” she retorted heatedly. “You could have killed each other!”

“We did not fight to kill, Brigitte,” Rowland explained patiently. “It was a test of strength, no more. Do French knights not test their skill in sport?”

“Well, yes,” she replied reluctantly, “but not so earnestly. You fought as if your honor was at stake.”

Rowland chuckled. “In a way it was. We do fight in earnest here. Luthor insists that everyone he teaches be the best. He is a master of war, and, in truth, I have never lasted so long with him before.”

“But you were evenly matched,” she pointed out. “Even I could see that. In fact, you would have beaten your father if only you had not stopped.”

“Do you realize you are praising me,
cherie?
” Rowland teased with a grin.

Brigitte blushed becomingly. “I… I…

“Come now,” he said with mock severity. “Do not spoil the only praise I have heard from your lips with a sharp reply. Be merciful for just this once.”

“You jest with me, Rowland. And you have conveniently changed the subject.”

“It was a tiring subject,” he said evasively. “And besides, we have wasted enough time here. I begin to think you intend to weaken me through loss of blood by keeping me standing here arguing with you.”

“That is not such a bad idea,” Brigitte said. “But come. My room is near.”

“No, I need a change of garments, and I have bandages in my chamber. If you will just help me there.”

“You need help walking?” Her eyes widened.

He nodded. “I feel as if I cannot move a muscle,” he groaned. “But if you will just give me your hand,
cherie
, I will follow you anywhere.”

“My hand, is it?” she snapped. “I don't know about that.”

He snatched her hand and started for the manor. “Then you must follow me, I suppose,” he said as he pulled her along, mindful for once of his grip.

Rowland's chamber was a cluttered mess, and Brigitte's eyes flew from one opened chest to another, to the scattered clothes, the rumpled bed, and the crumpled rug. Dust thickly covered a marble-topped table and a single high-backed chair, and the walls were blackened with soot.

“Do you actually sleep here?” Brigitte asked distastefully.

He grinned. “The room was left unused for many
years, and I did leave it in a hurry this morn. But it will not take you too long to put it to rights.”

“Me?” she gasped and turned on him.

Rowland sighed. “Please, Brigitte, do not start again. Is it too much to ask that you tend a few of my needs?”

Brigitte hesitated. He was asking, not demanding, and that was enough, at least for now.

After she had bandaged him, Brigitte turned toward one of the chests. Rowland grinned. He had Brigitte alone in his room, and for once Wolff was not with her. And she was even in a pleasant mood.

“What color would suit me,
cherie?
”

“Blue definitely, and maybe dark brown. I think you would cut a fine figure in dark brown.”

“Then you won't mind making me a new tunic or two, will you? I have so few tunics.”

“I am not fooled by that innocent look. I will sew for you, if only to prove that I can. But do not think I mean to be your slave.”

The old brown tunic selected and the bandaging finished, Brigitte turned to leave. Rowland called to her. “I do not want you to run away yet.”

“Why?” she asked, her voice rising.

“Brigitte, calm yourself and stop edging toward the door. I am not going to rape you.” He sighed. “Do you fear me so much?”

“Yes,” she answered truthfully.

He frowned. “Was I so rough with you before?”

When she failed to answer, he asked, “Do you think me a harsh man, Brigitte?”

“You have been harsh,” she answered truthfully again. “Your manner leaves much to be desired, Rowland, and your temper is too quick.”

“So is yours,” he pointed out.

She grinned. “I know. I have many faults. I am aware of them. But we were discussing yours, which you seem not to be aware of at all.”

He brought his hand up and caressed her cheek with his fingers. “For you I will change.”

There was a long, surprised pause, and then she asked, “Why?”

“To see you smile more often.”

“I have had little to smile about, Rowland,” she told him frankly.

“You will have.”

She drew away from him, her eyes darkening. “Are you toying with me?”

“No, I am most sincere,” he said softly.

He leaned over and kissed her, softly at first so as not to frighten her, then more intently. She was indeed frightened, and pushed against his chest. Rowland did not release her. His arms pulled her to him even harder. Where her breasts pressed against his chest, he burned. Where she squirmed between his legs, he ached. He was inflamed by her, but she resisted him.

His lips moved to the delicate curve of her neck. “Ah, Brigitte, I want you,” he breathed against her ear.

“Rowland, you said you would not rape me,” she gasped, straining against him.

“Let me love you,” he murmured huskily. “Let me, Brigitte.”

He kissed her before she could refuse, but Brigitte finally managed to tear herself away.

“Rowland, you hurt me!” she cried.

He leaned over to look at her and saw her bruised
lips. “Be damned, Brigitte, why are you so frail?” he moaned.

“I cannot help the way I am,” she said in a trembling voice. “I was raised with a gentle hand. My skin is sensitive and not used to such treatment.”

He lifted her chin, then touched her lips softly with a finger. “I did not mean to hurt you,” he said softly.

“I know,” she conceded. “But you are trying to force me.”

Rowland grinned guiltily. “I could not help myself.”

Brigitte's temper rose suddenly. “Do you dare to blame me again? My clothes are not wet and clinging to me this time.”