Читать книгу Ironheart - Emily French - Страница 10

Northern Marches, Wales, 1204

“The priest is here. All we lack is the groom.” Brenna heard the words as if from a great distance. They hung in the air above her head like flaming arrows, separate and solid, one after another, shooting from some unseen bow…

“He will come.”

“I fear the worst.” The voice drew nearer, a high sweet voice like a bird’s. ’Twas her great-aunt Alice, all aflutter. “If no evil has befallen him, surely he would have arrived by now.”

A creeping chill went down Brenna’s back. The wind whipped her hair and her gown. But her eyes never blinked, her face never flinched, though her heart was hammering against her ribs. She said nothing, only stared fixedly over the merlon, gazing beyond the southward sweep of the battlements.

The walls fell sheer below her, stone set on stone, castle and crag set high above the green valley, field and forest rolling into the mountain bastions in the distance. In the world below, children shouted, a stallion screamed and a tuneless voice bawled a snatch from a drinking song.

The wind sighed upon the stones.

Marry. Marriage. Husband. Wife. Bed.

Children.

A great churning dread welled in her heart. She knew nothing beyond the valley and its inhabitants and the limited knowledge and experience acquired as a healer. The secret tales told by the village women baffled her and yet beckoned with promises more provocative and lurid than the vague tutoring her aunts had imparted on the duties of a wife. She was not certain now whether she wholly welcomed the idea of marriage, of a husband, but it was still, all things considered, a good way to preserve the peace on the border.

He had to come! Her anxious glance went back to the valley. The priest had come trailing in, complaining of heavy rain, and confessing that he had mistaken an intersection of roads and ridden an hour or more along a road before discovering his error. She hoped that her groom was late for as silly a reason, but it was making her increasingly concerned. The only other alternatives were either that he had met foul play or that he had changed his mind.

Why? was the next obvious question, but she only frowned for even thinking of it. Come the Sabbath she would be wed, and she had never even met her betrothed! The feeling of doubt and confusion at the news of her future husband’s impending arrival came laced with a dread that she couldn’t shake, a dread made up of fear for what he might have learned…what he might have already reasoned…

She was being foolish. Don’t think maybe he’ll come today and maybe he won’t, she told herself. Don’t believe that it’s not worth keeping a lookout.

He is coming. She knew it. Yet the shadow of the gray stone walls joined the shadow of the tower and grew long across the courtyard. Not an hour of daylight left.

“Brenna!” Slowly she became aware of a plucking at her sleeve. Her aunt was talking again. What was she saying? “What of the wedding? The feast is being prepared even now.”

Brenna swallowed hard and as close to invisibly as she could. “I am not ready to abandon all hope.”

“Should the preparations be halted?”

“No!” Brenna’s fingers clutched the unyielding stone. Her breath left her slowly. She had not known that she was holding it. “No. Grandfather is the most indulgent of guardians, but I fear his patience is exhausted, and to halt all the preparations now would cripple his purse.”

“What will you do?”

Brenna wrinkled her nose. Since childhood, she had dreamed of her perfect knight. She had built her own romance about him as she grew older. Her experience as a healer had given her a knowledge of the male anatomy, so she could even visualize in vivid detail the fascinating play of muscles across his shoulders, the rippling sinews along his broad ribs, and the taut, flat belly with its tracing of hair that she knew led downward to the manly part of him. It was at this point that her mind games always stopped for she could not totally catch the import of what lay beyond. When she thought of the future, it was of some romantic meeting with her hero.

But it had not come true…

How ridiculous, to waste time on such thoughts. Her knight was but a dream, a memory. It was no use indulging in romantic fantasies, for marriage was not a romantic business. Marriage was a shackle and no pleasure, however you looked at it. Romance belonged to the troubadours, an elaborate conceit made of flowery language, poetry and lute-twanging.

“I am forsworn, surely and irrevocably. I am betrothed to Aubrey of Leeds.”

“Who has not come!”

“Have you ever asked yourself why I agreed to marry a man I have never met?”

“You don’t really expect me to answer that?” her aunt replied.

Brenna shook her head.

“When I was as old as you, I had been two years a wife and nigh three seasons a mother.”

“And you didn’t mind?”

“Aye, but I had not so doting a father, nor so lax a grandfather. With the coming of my woman’s courses, I had perforce to put on a gown and bind up my hair and accept the husband my family had found for me. From all accounts, Aubrey is an admirable fellow…and…according to my brother, who is your guardian, I remind you, your marriage will prevent persistent suitors raiding the marches to gain an advantage over each other.”

The way Lady Alice spoke told Brenna her great-aunt considered marriage but a trifle. She shuddered. Her entire life had been spent following the dictates of authority. She was naught but a female and consequently all decisions were made for her and around her. It was unfair.

And it hurt.

It was all so terribly matter-of-fact. Chattel of one man to be chattel of another. No choice. No argument. It was as the man dictated, as the man ordered. She, the woman, meant nothing to any of them. As her grandfather, Grandy wanted a great-grandson. As Sir Edmund, he also wanted someone willing and able to keep the border barons from each other’s throats, so he could spend his time plotting the stars. Aubrey was only going to marry her because of the political advantage a stronghold such as Dinas Bran would bring. The aunts wanted security in their old age, and the villagers were pleased their healer would not be leaving them.

With diminished hope, she scanned the valley once more. The road was clear enough even in the gloom. Nothing.

She drew a long sigh. She was dallying, and the day was running on. A storm was brewing. The clouds were darkening and thickening. She had to work fast. There was much to do before supper. So she controlled herself as well as she could, and twisted ’round to face her great-aunt.

“What profits me to object? I am constrained and cannot stray from Grandy’s decree.”

“How long can we wait?”

“Wait for what? Grandy sees his lordship of the northern marches foundering. If the knight does not fulfil his promise by the morrow, then Grandy will find another willing to wed me.”

“I can understand how sweet freedom is, Brenna, but you must wed sometime. My brother would not insist on your marrying someone who displeases you, and you must have a life of your own.”

“I have a life…in my thoughts, and in my dreams. That will have to suffice.”

“You were never so credulous before.”

“The bride-price has been paid. The wedding feast is prepared. The priest is here. Most surely, there will be a marriage.”

Follow the road, the leper said.

Trouble was, the road appeared and disappeared by turns in the uneven light of the forest. At a lichen-mottled outcrop of rock, Leon reined in and dismounted. Deso tugged at the rein, impatient, and leaves stirred and rustled under his massive hooves.

Leon walked, leading his big creamy-pale destrier along the brown, wet depths of the drifting leaves, following the ancient stonework until the trees grew so close he could no longer find the next white stone to guide him. It was like a ghost road; the only other soul he’d seen in five hours was a leper.

Shadows enveloped him. Even on a sunny day the massive trees in this region were dense enough to filter light, but this had not been a sunny day. The last hours plodding through rainy mist and mud had scarcely discomforted him, for he was already beyond weariness, his flesh chilled by the wind.

I am lost… he thought. He wished he could lie down and rest. His head throbbed, his mouth was dry and his throat burned. He kept walking, light-headed with hunger. He had given the last of his bread to the leper squatting beside an empty alms bowl at the crossroads in exchange for directions to Valle Crucis.

That had been midmorning. Now it was near nightfall. Wrong way, something said to him. He was certain of it. This was not at all where he’d intended to go. He looked back. Already the trees had closed in upon the path. He could see no more than a few lengths behind, a few lengths ahead.

I have done a foolish thing, he thought, wishing he and his escort had never been parted; and then he shook off the feeling as too much caution. Within a day of his meeting with the king’s chamberlain, he’d taken his leave, gathered his men and headed for Wales, though the frosts were still too bitter for any greening of the land.

Six weeks later, appalling storm rains swelled the rivers and brooks, drowned the upland bogs and rendered the hillsides treacherous. The company had wrapped their weapons in oiled leather and themselves in heavy hooded cloaks and pressed on without pausing. Wagons bogged in roads turned to quagmires, sumpter mules sank to their haunches in mud and tempers became frayed.

Lodgings had been small and scant. His men grumbled under their breaths, laying wagers on whether Ironheart would command them to harden themselves yet further by camping in the open. It was cruelly hard, but then had come the worst blow of all. Wet fever struck down half his company. Rather than delay further, and only after much argument with his sergeant, he’d left his men at Crewe under the command of Rodney of Leyburn, while he continued on with only his squire, Thomas, to attend him.

It had seemed a good idea at the time. Now, though, he wondered if he’d been too rash. He desperately needed food and shelter for the night, for by now it was painfully obvious that the leper had not had the faintest notion of Valle Crucis.

A chill convulsed him. His brain was whirling with half-formed thoughts. Was this a fool’s mission, riding for Wales? It was a long way to go on a hunch.

Still, he had a duty. He would deliver the relic of the Holy Cross entrusted to him by the monks at Cluny, a perfectly natural reason to visit the abbey—and to discover whether the informant’s reports were true or false. After that, he was not certain. He was tired of political intrigue. Mayhap he could resign as the king’s judiciar and so buy some time, a chance to decide what he should do next.

He could go to Dinas Bran. His heart slammed against his ribs. It was not sane. It was, if one was a fool. And no one could accuse him of that. Intemperate, perhaps. But not a fool.

Or he could take another fork in the road. He could go to Whittington, claim it as was his legal right. Then perhaps he could move forward and not constantly think back toward the lost things he remembered. Making peace with that, he could perhaps begin to see things as vividly ahead of him, instead of the gray space that seemed to occupy all his future…

“I think we’re a long way from nowhere, don’t you?” The destrier twitched its ears at the sound of his voice, and a rising wind whispered assent through the wet branches.

The road bent around an out-thrust knee of rock. It was the solid ground ahead that beckoned him, and his feet were very glad to feel that solidity under them as he left the forest behind. He was onto a well-worn path. He glanced up the slope, saw stones and vines through the trees, saw stone walls and turrets, saw…

A truly wondrous sight.

Dinas Bran!

The castle enjoyed a vantage over all the valley and perhaps the plains and hills beyond, to all the distance a clear day would afford. Like a great hog’s back on top of the hill it stood, a brooding stone pile with thick gnarled walls and an air of neglect. Not as fine as some, but a sturdy, well-built fortification for all that, with narrow openings in it here and there through which it might be defended.

A bell began to toll from the walls, waking echoes across the hills. Following these echoes other sounds began to reverberate from within the keep itself: dogs barking, the calling of voices one to the other, the jingling of horses. Birds rose from the tower, wheeled and drove, chattering, black specks against the lowering sky. Ravens, which gave rise to all manner of lore and legend.

Deso’s nose met his shoulders and shoved. Leon gathered the reins, which he had let go slack, and remounted. “Hear that, Deso? Do they wait to pick our bones?”

A dry, distant crack of thunder cut through the gloominess of his thoughts. Ravens were not the only things threatening, it seemed. There was a bank of dark clouds piling up in the north; the kind of clouds that were laden with rain and indiscriminate in their dropping of it. A flicker of lightning ran along the edges of their contours, making them for an instant as sharp and clear as outlines cut from blackened copper.

Leon urged his mount up the steep incline, black shadow against the sullen light, for the motte and the stronghold above, a swift striding that lost not a pace. The tearing thunder-crash repeated itself a few seconds later, and just a little longer than before. The stallion snorted and shied, setting the equipment jingling and creaking. He put them to a quicker pace, and they went pell-mell up a chancy turn, over ground buried in leaves, a stretching and gathering of sinew, a flutter of mane, a streak of mire, as if that could make them safe, get them behind gates and walls.

A vast somber sound boomed out, brazen and measured, the rattle and groan of chains as the portcullis was lowered. It was not an auspicious hour to arrive unheralded and alone. Gates were secured at sundown and reopened with the dawn. Many a traveler who misjudged the timing of his arrival spent an uncomfortable night outside the walls at the mercy of robbers and worse.

“The lower gate should be open still.”

The stallion shifted its weight, bowed its head, and made a quiet, disturbed sound. No doubt Deso was thinking of a warm stable, a good rubdown and some sweet oats. He himself wished desperately for a cup of ale, for a place to lie down and rest. But first he had to discover whether the postern gate remained open. He would know soon enough.

The road bent to follow a curve in the curtain wall where standing stones made an aisle leading to the gate. Here, by the towering arch of stone, a small table had been set up, in front of which stood a motley-dressed collection of beggars.

With a certain disquiet, he noted there was no watch on duty. Doubtless they kept a burly fellow or two on hand to deal with possible emergencies, but there ought to be guards posted in a hold as large this and with constant threat along the border.

Leon slid from the saddle. The stallion stood braced, head high, eyes and nostrils wide. Leon looped the reins and gave the beast a pat on the neck. It shuddered once and was still. He looked about, taking nothing for granted. With a soldier’s practiced eye, he searched for irregularities.

Some distance away, four churls huddled together, talking in low voices and casting uneasy glances around. Shadows lurked and flickered about them. His brows drew hard together. No doubt he was imagining things, but he gained the impression that these ruffians were plotting some villainy. The idea intrigued him, and his spirit lightened at the prospect of a bit of action.

There was the sound of some commotion coming from the vicinity of the courtyard. A woman hurried through the postern gate. She looked about her, letting her glance rest briefly on the beggars. Despite the plain cut and drab color of her gown, he knew she was no peasant wench or waiting woman.

“Tudur?” Her voice was low and musical, with a distinctive husky tone. There was something about it that made him want to hear it again. What folly! He laughed out loud, and surprised himself for it was not a usual thing for him. The woman must have heard him because she swung around and stared at him so intently that he felt both rude and careless. Her eyes held him where he was.

Leon felt his heart skipping. He wished he had come with the clarion of trumpets, the rattle of armor and the gleam of sword instead of by the back door and in the company of beggars. He wanted to leap back onto Deso and race away. He laughed again. Why he thought such foolishness was beyond him.

A tall boy, almost as thin and angular as a spider, came clumping out of the postern with a wooden pail that sloshed with liquid. A flutter of murmurs rippled through the crowd. The woman watched while the boy set the pail on the table, then turned her gaze back to Leon, but her face was in shadow, her features hidden. A swirl of skirts and she withdrew.

The four ragged fellows inched their way toward the open doorway, their shadows following them like cringing dogs. There was a pause in voices. A murmur. A tensing of the air. A deep voice. A sudden exclamation.

A small shadow thrust forward. “Get away from there!”

“Says who?” asked a hoarse, harsh voice.

“Guards!” The sharp quick shout came from the boy Tudur. A hairy hand wrenched the boy’s head to one side.

Abruptly Leon became every inch the soldier. His heart sped up and his hand reached for his sword hilt. Fingers clenched and unclenched on empty air. He had let Deso carry his sword, which he had stowed behind the saddle, though he carried a dagger in his belt. Beneath his brown wool cloak and leather tunic, he wore no mail, not even a padded gambeson, naught but a linen shirt.

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.”