So Speaks the Heart (21 page)

“I was told so, lady, by the man who claims to be my father.”

“Who is the man who took you from us?” Goddard asked Rowland.

“Luthor of Montville.”

“He will pay dearly!” Evarard said angrily.

“I will tend to him, brother,” Rowland replied coldly, then added in a lighter tone, “but I do not wish to talk of him. You are French?” At Goddard's
nod, Rowland chuckled. “Then I am French. Ha!” He winked at Brigitte. “No longer can you call me Norman as an insult.”

“Rowland!” she cried, embarrassed.

“You were raised in Normandy?” Goddard asked now. “That is where he took you?”

“Yes.”

“No wonder we could not find you. We searched all of Anjou and the surrounding borders, but we never thought to search as far away as Normandy.”

“But what brought you to Angers?” Evarard asked.

“Chasing this little one,” Rowland said. Pulling Brigitte closer, he chuckled. “I have you to thank for finding her, and her to thank for finding you. She saw you this morning when she came to see the Count. But she thought you were me, and she ran from the palace. If she had not run when she did, I would never have found her.”

At their looks of bewilderment he added, “It is all a very long story, and best saved for another time.”

“Tell me what happened all those years ago,” Rowland said to his parents. “How was Luthor able to take me from you?”

Eleonore answered. “We were here in Angers for the celebration of St. Remi's Day. The Count had such a fine harvest that year that there was a huge banquet, with nobles from all over the land. We had taken both you and Evarard down to the great hall, to show you off, I fear. We were so proud of our twins. You were so small then, still in swaddling, and so dear.” Rowland reddened, but Evarard laughed, used to his mother's coddling. “Later that night my lady's maid took you back to this very
room. And that was the last ever we saw of you, Raoul.”

“Rowland, my love,” Goddard corrected her gently. “He has been called Rowland most of his life. We will have to let go of the name we gave him at birth.”

“For me he will always be Raoul.” Eleonore shook her head stubbornly.

“Your mother is a sentimental woman, Rowland,” Goddard explained. “We were both heartbroken when we returned to our rooms and found the maid unconscious and only Evarard in his bed. You were gone. I had enemies. What man does not? I feared one of them had taken you, and I feared you were dead. But your mother never gave up hope. In all these years, she never gave up hope.”

“Was this man, Luthor, good to you?” Eleonore ventured softly.

“Good?” Rowland frowned, his gaze reflective.

There were things he would never tell these people. Who could truly understand the harshness of his life? How could he explain that life to them?

“Luthor is a hardened warlord,” Rowland began. “He is well respected in Normandy. Nobles wait years to send their sons to him for training, rather than sending boys to another lord. My own training began as soon as I could hold a sword. Luthor took special care with me. He was…a hard taskmaster. He taught me not only the skills of war, but the strategies as well. He made me strive for perfection.” Rowland grinned to make light of it. “I was prepared from an early age to take over Montville and be able to keep it against all odds, for though Luthor has two daughters by a wife, Montville comes
to me. Now that I know I am not blood kin to Luthor, I suppose Montville does not belong to me.”

“There can be no question of that, of course, since there are daughters,” Goddard pointed out. “But you—”

Rowland interrupted in an overly harsh tone. “I could take Montville even without the right to it. There is no question of that.”

That told his family more about him than anything else could have done. He was a man of war, a hardened man, a forceful man who was prepared to take what he wanted. These gentle people would have a difficult time understanding such a strong force.

“Rowland is short with words,” Brigitte said lightly, breaking the silence. “He did not mean that he intends to take Montville by force, only that he could if he wanted to do so.”

Rowland frowned at her, for he did not feel his words needed explaining. She pinched him in answer and got an even blacker scowl.

“You should not feel you have lost anything because you are not the man's son,” Goddard said. “I know nothing of Montville, but you have a large estate in Poitou, given you at birth by my liege, the Count of Poitou. Evarard has managed your lands there with the same care he has given his own. Like your mother, he never gave up hope of your returning to us one day.”

“Well, brother.” Rowland grinned. “Am I a rich man then?”

Evarard was delighted to answer. “You are quite richer than I, since your rents have accumulated
over the years whereas I have had to live from my rents. I must admit I live in a grand manner.”

Rowland laughed. “Well then, for the trouble you have gone to on my behalf, I insist you take my rents, those that have accumulated, and keep them for yourself.”

“I cannot!” Evarard protested, surprised.

“You can,” Rowland insisted. “I want nothing that I have not earned. And I would be grateful if you will continue to look after my lands until I claim them.”

“You will not claim them now?”

“Now,” Rowland said darkly, “I must return to Montville.”

“I will go with you to Normandy,” Evarard offered.

But Rowland shook his head adamantly. “I must confront Luthor alone. He will have the devil's own loathing for you, brother, for were it not for your face, I would never have learned about my family, or known of his sin. Your life would be in danger at Montville.”

“And what of yours?”

“Luthor and I are equally matched. I have no fear of him. It is he who must reckon with me.”

“Rowland,” Evarard began hesitantly, frowning. “Perhaps it would be wisest not to see this man again. Could you live with yourself if you killed him?”

“I could not live with myself if I do not hear from him why he did what he did,” Rowland said softly, his voice calm but his eyes hard.

They talked on through the night, moving to a comfortable room and eating as a family for the first time in twenty-three years. Rowland listened quietly
to his family reminiscing, and Brigitte wondered if hearing these things did not add to his sorrow over not having been a part of it all. He was enthralled, and could not take his eyes from them.

“
D
o you realize, Brigitte, that if you had not run off to Angers, I might never have found my family? For years Luthor protested my going there, knowing what I might find. I never asked myself what he had against the town of Angers. This time he failed to keep me from Angers, and he failed because of you.”

They were on the south hill overlooking Montville. Brigitte was worried about the confrontation at hand, for it had been a silent Rowland who had ridden beside her for three days.

He grinned at her. “Each time you have run from me, something good has come of it.”

“What good came of the first time?”

“Were you not mine after that?”

She blushed. “Will you confront Luthor in private?” Brigitte asked, getting back to her immediate fears.

“It matters not.”

“It matters terribly, Rowland. Please, you must speak to him alone. No one else here need know what has happened. I know there is a rage in you, Rowland, but do not let it blind you. Luthor has called you his son all these years. You share a bond with
Luthor, a bond of years that weighs as heavily as kinship. Remember that when you face him.”

Rowland did not answer her, but moved slowly on down the hill, leaving Brigitte with her fears unrelieved.

Luthor was in the great hall when they entered. As he watched them approach, there was a wariness about him, as if he already knew.

“So you brought her back once more,” Luthor said jovially, rising from his seat before the fire.

“I brought her back.”

Luthor looked at Brigitte. “Did I not tell you he would relent, damosel?”

“You did, milord,” Brigitte answered softly.

“You were gone a week,” Luthor said to Rowland now. “I suppose she reached Angers?”

“She did.”

There was long silence, and then Luthor sighed the sigh of a broken man. “You know?”

Rowland did not answer. There was no need. “I wish to talk to you alone, Luthor,” he said. “Will you ride with me?”

Luthor nodded and followed Rowland from the hall. As Brigitte watched them go, she was filled with terrible pity for the older man. She had seen Luthor's shoulders slump, had seen the weary resignation in his face.

Rowland drew up and dismounted on the crest of the hill where he and Brigitte had stopped only a while earlier. He remembered her warning. But there was a rage in him that fought to be released, the rage of a little boy begging for love, the rage of a little boy beaten, scorned, humiliated cruelly. All of it, his rage reminded him, need not have been.

Luthor dismounted, and as he faced his son, Rowland demanded, half in fury, half in anguish, “Damn you, Luthor! Why?”

“I will tell you, Rowland,” Luthor said quietly. “I will tell you of the shame of a man with no sons.”

“There is no shame in that,” Rowland cried.

“You cannot know, Rowland,” Luthor said earnestly. “You cannot know how much I wanted a son until you want one of your own. Daughters I have-dozens of daughters, all over Normandy. But not one son, not one! I am an old man, nearly sixty years old. I became desperate for a son to take my lands. I nearly killed Hedda when she gave me another daughter. That is why she never conceived again, and why she hated you so.”

“But why me, Luthor? Why not some peasant's son—a child who would be grateful for what you could give him?”

“You are not grateful? I made you a man to be reckoned with, a great warrior. You are not grateful for that?”

“You brought me here to be raised by that harridan, to suffer at her hands. You took me from a loving mother…and gave me to Hedda!”

“I made a strong man of you, Rowland.”

“My brother is a strong man, yet he was raised by loving parents. You denied me everything, Luthor!”

“I have loved you.

“You do not know love!”

“You are wrong,” Luthor replied softly after a shocked silence, his eyes reflecting pain. “I just do not know how to show love. But I do love you, Row
land. I have loved you as if you were my son. I made you my son.”

Rowland steeled himself against pity and said harshly, “But why me?”

“They had two sons, two sons born at one time, when I had none. I was in Angers with Duke Richard. When I saw the Baron and his wife with their twin boys, I was overcome by the injustice of it. I had not planned to take you. Impulse ruled me, an idea came to me suddenly. I felt no remorse, Rowland. I will not say I did. They had twins. One would be gone, but they would still have one. They would still have a son, and I would have a son. I rode for two days, killing my horse, to bring you straight here. You were mine.”

“God!” Rowland shouted to the heavens. “You had no right, Luthor!”

“I know that. I changed your life from what it would have been. But I will tell you this. I will not ask your forgiveness, for if I had to do it again, I would do what I did. Montville needs you,” he said in a different voice, straightening a little.

“Montville will have another lord after you, but that will not be me,” Rowland said bitterly.

“No, Rowland, you do not mean that. I have devoted nearly half my life preparing you to be lord here. You are not my blood, but I would trust Montville to no one but you.”

“I do not want it.”

“Will you let Thurston have it then?” Luthor demanded angrily. “He cares nothing for the people here, or the land, or the horses we both love. He wants only more property, then more after that. He will bring down Duke Richard's wrath with his petty
wars for more land, and Montville will be crushed between them. Is that what you want to happen here?”

“Enough!”

“Rowland—

“I said enough!” Rowland shouted, throwing himself toward his horse. “I must think, Luthor. I do not know if I can tolerate you now, knowing what I know I must think.”

Rowland entered his chamber a little while later. The warmth of it was like a balm, soothing the raw edges of his anger. The room had never before been a warm place to come to, but with Brigitte in it.

She was watching him anxiously. Rowland sighed, dropping his shoulders and sinking down in a chair, avoiding her probing eyes.

“I do not know, Brigitte,” he said quietly. “I cannot forgive him, but I am not sure what to do.”

“Did you fight?”

“Only with words.”

“And his reason?”

“As you guessed, he was desperate for a son.” Rowland rested his head in her hands and then quickly looked up at her. “I wish to God it had not been me!”

Drawn by his anguished cry, Brigitte went down on her knees in front of him and wrapped her arms around him. She did not say anything.

Rowland stroked her hair tenderly, moved. “Ah, my little jewel. What would I do without you?”

T
he tightly drawn skins over the windows glowed faintly with the dawn's first light as Rowland's pacing woke Brigitte. A tiny flame in an oil cup cast dim shadows around the room. The tallow wick was nearly gone.

Brigitte leaned on an elbow, her hair falling over her shoulders in golden disarray. “You could not sleep?”

He was startled. “No.” He went on pacing.

“Is it so difficult, Rowland? Can I help?”

Rowland came over to the bed and sat down on the edge, his back to her. “I must decide this for myself. It's Montville that is in question, not Luthor. He still wants me to have it.”

“Why does that displease you? Have you not always known you would be lord here one day?”

“When I left here six years ago, I gave it up. I planned never to return. And now I have given it up all over again.”

“You came home when you were needed. You are still needed. Montville is still under threat. This is what troubles you. You cannot leave, knowing you are needed here.”

“I swear you are a witch,” Rowland said, looking over his shoulder at her.

“You cannot separate Montville from Luthor, Rowland, that is the problem. But they are separate. And Montville will always need a strong lord.”

He stretched out on the bed beside her. “But Luthor is still here. If I go now, when Montville faces war, I will have no right to claim it later. But if I stay, I must stay here with Luthor. That I am not sure I can do. I wanted to kill him, Brigitte. I wanted to challenge him for the last test of strength—a battle to the death. I do not know what held me back—you, perhaps, and what you said to me. But, if I stay, I may still challenge him.”

“Who can say what we will or will not do?” Brigitte spoke softly and laid her head on his chest. “You can let time resolve your problem, Rowland. You can stay and see what happens. If it comes to the point where your bitterness is stronger than anything else and you must kill Luthor or leave—then leave. For now, let the matter rest. Control your resentment and stay here. Is that not what you really want to do?”

Rowland tilted her face so that his lips could gently caress hers. “As I said, you are a witch.”

 

It was several hours later, when Brigitte and Rowland were below in the great hall, that a knight ran through the hall to Luthor with the news of an approaching army. “Thurston of Mezidon has not waited for the end of winter. He comes now!”

Rowland and Luthor both stood, glancing quickly at one another. “What can he be thinking of?” Row
land demanded. “He knows we can withstand a siege. His army will die from the cold.”

“Is he sure he can draw us out?” Sir Gui suggested.

“Perhaps he is confident of a way in,” Luthor said darkly, looking at his daughter Ilse, who looked down at her lap. “Where did your husband, Geoffrey, really go when he left here three days ago? Did he go to Thurston?”

“No!” Lady Ilse was ashen in the face of her father's accusation. “Geoffrey went to Rouen to visit his family there as he told you!”

“If I see him outside these walls with Thurston I swear I will kill you, woman. Daughter or not, no one betrays Montville and lives.”

Ilse burst into tears at her father's heartless words and ran from the hall. Outside, the villagers were pouring into the courtyard, having been warned. The gates were closing, the walls manned.

Rowland turned to Luthor. “We will know about Geoffrey when we see what Thurston does. How close is the army?” he asked the knight.

“Some—probably half of the army—were sighted just over the south hill. The rest have not been seen yet.”

“They will be,” Rowland said ominously. “Thurston undoubtedly plans on making a good showing by surrounding us. To the walls then.”

They ran from the hall. Rowland ordered Brigitte to stay there and not to leave the hall for any reason. “I will bring you news when I have a chance.”

She watched him go with a tightness in her chest. How quickly his problem had been solved. He and Luthor had not spoken that morning. The icy silence between them had caused whispered comments. Yet
here was a threat to Montville, and they were instantly joined.

From his position on the high wall, Rowland looked out across the snow-covered hills. Luthor, Gui, and Sir Robert stood beside him. No one could see a soul moving out there, not to the north, west, or south.

“He is mad,” Rowland said confidently. “Look at all that snow. The last storm left several feet. He must be mad.”

“Aye,” Luthor replied. “Or very clever. Yet I cannot imagine his plan. I do not see how he thinks he can have victory now.”

Rowland frowned. “How large was the army?”

Sir Robert summoned the knight who had seen the army on his patrol.

“I counted more than a hundred riders, and at least half of them were knights,” the man answered. “There were two wagons as well.”

Rowland was stunned. “Where in hell would he get so many horses?”

“Stolen, no doubt,” Gui suggested. “From the Bretons he has raided.”

“Yet that is only half his army, or even less, for all we can know now,” Sir Robert pointed out.

“How many men on foot?” Rowland questioned.

“None.”

“None at all?”

“That is right,” the knight said soberly.

“But so many horsemen! We have not half that many trained to ride,” Luthor cried.

“Thurston knows that. It could be the advantage he thinks he has.”

“Look there!” Gui was staring at the top of the hill.

A single rider came into view and stopped, looking down at Montville. He was a knight and in full armor, that much was clear even at such a long distance.

“Is it Thurston?” Gui asked.

“I cannot tell,” Luthor replied. “Rowland?”

Rowland shaded his eyes against the glare of snow, then shook his head. “He is too far away.”

At last the knight on the hill was joined by another and then many more, until a very long line of horsemen was spread out across the southern hill. But these were not all of Thurston's men. Even so, the horsemen were terrible to look upon. Nearly all of them were knights, and one knight was worth ten men on foot.

“Now we will see what he has in mind,” Luthor said levelly as the first knight started down the hill toward Montville.

He came alone, and Rowland watched, amazed at Thurston's boldness. What did he expect, coming alone? A single arrow would put an end to it all.

Rowland began to frown as the knight drew nearer. He was not Thurston.

The knight was directly below. He looked up at the high walls of Montville, and Rowland saw his face clearly. He gasped. It could not be. But it was.

“Be damned!” Rowland growled, his body stiffening.

“What is it, Rowland?” Luthor demanded.

“The devil sent here to vex me!” Rowland rasped.

“Will you make sense!”

“That is not Thurston's army out there, Luthor. Montville will have to face Thurston another time. That army of knights is from Berry!”

“Rowland of Montville! Will you come out and face me?” the knight cried from below.

Rowland took a deep breath before he shouted down from the parapet, “I am coming!”

Luthor caught his arm. “Who the devil is that?”

“That is the Baron de Louroux, the man who saved my life in Arles, the man who sent me to Louroux with the message that delayed my coming here.”

“Louroux? The wench is from Louroux!”

“You do understand. That is why he is here.” Rowland might have laughed if he were not so furious. “Can you credit this? He marched an army across France during winter for a servant! For a servant!”

“Then maybe not a servant,” Luthor ventured, murmuring.

“I do not give a damn what she is!” Rowland stormed. “He cannot have her.”

“You will fight a man who saved your life?”

“If I must I will fight his whole army.”

“Rowland, then there is no need for you to go out there,” Luthor said rapidly. “They cannot take the wench if we do not open the gates for them.”

Luthor was willing to back Rowland when this was not his fight. Rowland did not fail to understand that.

“I will still go down,” Rowland said in a calmer tone. “I owe him that courtesy.”

“Very well,” Luthor agreed. “But at the first sign of trouble an arrow will pierce his heart.”

Rowland rode through the gates at a swift gallop. Quintin had moved back to a distance halfway between Montville and his army. So much for Luthor's arrow, Rowland thought with dark humor. He was angry, furiously so. Lady Druoda had lied to him.
There was no way Quintin could have known where to find Brigitte unless Druoda had told him. But his anger came not so much from that as from jealousy. Another man wanted his Brigitte enough to bring an army to take her away. Was Quintin de Louroux so in love with her still?

Quintin watched the approach of Rowland of Montville with narrowed eyes. He was burning with a violent, bitter rage, rage that had stayed with him since leaving Louroux more than a fortnight before. His rage had festered and grown since then.

Druoda had confessed everything, confessed to scheming and conniving to obtain Louroux for herself, confessed to forcing Brigitte into betrothal to Wilhelm d'Arsnay, confessed to keeping Brigitte from Arnulf, confessed to beating her.

Rowland of Montville had raped Brigitte. Knowing who she was, Druoda said, the man had still raped her. In doing this he had ruined Druoda's plans. Druoda confessed to panicking when Quintin came home, trying to poison him. She had begged his mercy. He was merciful in that, wanting to kill her, he had only banished her.

It was Rowland he now wanted to kill, Rowland, whom he had sent in good faith to Louroux, who had repaid the debt he owed Quintin by raping Brigitte and taking her from her home.

The two warhorses came face to face in the open field, the Hun outflanking the French horse by half a foot. As the horses were unmatched, so too were the riders. Rowland had disdained his helm and shield, wearing only a sword strapped to his hip, while Quintin was in full armor. Still, Rowland was
the bigger of the two, the stronger, and perhaps the more skilled.

“Is she here, Norman?” Quintin demanded.

“She is here.”

“Then I must kill you.

“If you want to see me dead, Baron, you will have to send a dozen of your strongest men to challenge me.”

“Your arrogance does not move me,” Quintin replied. “Nor do I send others to fight in my stead, Sir Rowland. I will be the one to kill you. And then Lady Brigitte will be taken home.”

Rowland took the truth without showing that his worst fear had been realized.
Lady Brigitte. Lady!
So, it was true.

“This is Brigitte's home now,” Rowland said evenly. “She will be my wife.”

Now Quintin laughed unpleasantly. “Do you think I would allow her to marry the likes of you?”

“If you are dead, you will have little indeed to say of it,” Rowland said evenly.

“My lord Arnulf knows my wishes in this regard. If I die, he will be Brigitte's lord, and he is here now to see that she is taken from you.”

“So, you brought the whole of Berry to her rescue, eh? You will need a greater army than that to break through the walls of Montville.”

“If that is what it will take, so be it. But if you cared anything at all for Brigitte, you would let her go. You and I will still battle, but she must not be made to feel that she brought about deaths. And there will be many deaths here.”

“I will not give her up,” Rowland said in a quiet voice.

“Then defend yourself,” Quintin replied harshly, and drew his sword.

The clang of steel brought men running to the top of Montville's walls. Brigitte, having grown impatient waiting in the hall, quickly followed the others to the walls.

She recognized Rowland and his warhorse right away, caught her breath, and held it. He was waging a furious assault against his opponent, yet he was without armor. The fool! He could die so easily!

She saw Luthor several feet away and went to him. “Why are they fighting?” she demanded, her fear for Rowland making her tone harsh. “Will there be no war—only this battle?”

Luthor looked down at her solemnly. “You should not be up here, damosel.”

“Tell me!” Her voice rose to a high pitch. “What does this mean? Why does Thurston fight Rowland?”

“It is not Thurston. But if you fear for Rowland, you need not,” Luthor replied with pride. “The Frenchman is an easy prey.”

“Frenchman? A French army?”

Brigitte stared out over the wall at the army lining the long crest of the hill. She saw many banners, some she recognized. And then she saw Arnulf's and gasped. He had come for her after all! And beside his banner was—oh God! Her eyes flew to the knight on the field with Rowland, and she screamed.

Quintin heard Brigitte screaming his name. What he heard was her plea for rescue. Rowland heard her, but what he heard in her voice was joy. The effect on each man was the same, however. Each now wanted more than ever to draw the other's blood.

Quintin was struck from his horse, and they fought
on the ground. Already the mighty blows Quintin was fending off were telling on him. He knew as well as any man could that he was going to die. But he would not die until he had made every effort and used all of his strength.

It was no good. Rowland was just too strong for Quintin, and too skilled. Without even a shield, he blocked Quintin. Rowland kept him on the defensive for many minutes, and then Quintin felt that sword breaking through the chain links of his mail and slip smoothly into his shoulder.

The pain! Quintin dropped to his knees. He did not mean to, but his legs gave way. He tried to hold on to his sword, but he had lost his grip as well as the use of his legs. And in that moment Rowland's sword was at his throat.