A voice they both recognized bellowed Roger’s name from the hall, drowning out Brigitte’s words. She stared at Roger and could almost smell the fear in him. Rowland had come to her rescue once again. But then, he could not know that Roger had detained her. Was there another reason for the sound of death in Rowland’s voice?
Rowland appeared at the end of the corridor, the arched window at his back. He charged forward with a cry of rage. Brigitte stood frozen, her breath caught in her throat as Rowland’s large hands closed around Roger’s neck. She was knocked backward by Roger’s struggle and fell to the floor, the clothes she had been clasping spilling around her. When she looked at the two men again, Roger was choking to death. He could not tear loose Rowland’s fingers. The realization that she was witnessing a death made her stomach lurch. She couldn’t bear to think that Rowland could really kill Roger.
“Stop!” she screamed, unable to stand it anymore.
Rowland looked up, giving Roger the chance to bring both arms up between Rowland’s and break his hold. He threw a blow to Rowland’s jaw, but Rowland was not moved, not even a little. Roger was terrified. He had not fazed Rowland. In a panic, Roger doubled his legs up and kicked out blindly. His booted feet caught Rowland’s chest, and Rowland was thrown back, stumbling toward the arched window. Brigitte screamed as the window ledge, less than two feet from the floor, caught the back of Rowland’s knees and he fell through the opening.
Brigitte closed her eyes, her mind refusing to accept that Rowland was gone. How many times had she stopped at that window to look down on the hall before descending the stairs next to it? It was a killing height, with the hard stone floor of the hall many feet below. And Roger had pushed him! Roger!
She opened her eyes, but Roger was no longer beside her. He was at the window, gloating. Watching him peer down through the window, she was struck suddenly by a desire alien to her, the desire to kill. It made her rise and move forward slowly, carefully. She could actually see her desire in her mind. As she inched forward, she had time to consider that this was murder, and still she did not stop. Her hands reached out.
Roger, still standing at the window, looking down, had not moved. She steeled herself. Her hands were inches from Roger’s back. She had only to lean forward. But Roger bent over at that moment and began hammering on the window ledge with his fists. And then she saw fingers clinging to the ledge. Rowland’s fingers! He had managed to catch the ledge, and now Roger was trying to beat him off and break his grasp.
Brigitte would always wonder where she got the strength to pull Roger away from that window and shove him the several feet to the stairs, where he tumbled down the stone steps, giving Rowland the chance he needed to climb through the window to safety. Roger, unhurt, ran the rest of the way down the steps and fled, Rowland tearing down the stairs after him.
Rowland caught up to Roger in the stable and quickly Roger flew through the open doors and slid several feet into the muddy yard. Rowland leaped on him. A crowd soon gathered, and Brigitte arrived just as Sir Gui got there. Luthor was there, watching his son kill with only his hands. Sir Gui stood next to him, also watching, and Brigitte ran to them and dug her fingers into Luthor’s arm. He turned his inscrutable eyes on her. “Will you stop them?” she pleaded earnestly.
“No, damosel,” Luthor said curtly, before he turned back to the bloody scene.
“Please, Luthor!”
If he had heard her, he gave no sign. She looked once more at the two men on the ground. Roger was no longer moving, but Rowland’s fists still pounded him.
Brigitte turned away, tears burning her eyes as she ran back to the hall. She did not see Rowland stop the assault, did not see him leave the courtyard in disgust. Roger was badly beaten, but still alive.
Chapter Thirty-one
Brigitte spent the remainder of that day shut up in Rowland’s chamber, brooding and crying and cursing Rowland. It was not until late that evening that she learned Rowland had not killed Roger after all.
It was Goda who told her the news. Rowland had sent the girl up to summon Brigitte to the hall. He had always come himself to escort her to the evening meal. But tonight he had sent Goda. She quickly learned why.
“Sir Rowland is drunk, mistress,” Goda informed Brigitte reluctantly. “He took to the ale as soon as Lord Roger was led through the gate by his squire. I say good riddance to that one.”
“He was all right, though?”
“He is cursing one and all, and in a black mood,” Goda replied. “But it’s the drink. I doubt he even knows what he is saying.”
“I meant Roger. Was he all right?”
“He was as right as could be expected,” Goda answered. “His face is terribly swollen, and he has some broken bones—a finger and a few ribs, I think. But he will mend well enough—more’s the pity.”
“That is cruel, Goda,” Brigitte snapped, then sighed dismally. “Forgive me. I am a fine one to pass judgment, when I almost killed Roger myself.”
“When did you do that?” Goda’s eyes grew round with wonder.
“This morning,” Brigitte admitted. “When the fight first began.”
“But Sir Rowland is not dead. So why are you so upset?”
“Why?” Brigitte’s voice rose. “How can you ask me why? Roger is an evil man, but still, he was terrified of Rowland. It was not a fair fight, that is what sickens me. Rowland was too enraged for it to be a fair fight. He wanted blood, and he got blood. He meant to kill Roger with his bare hands.”
Goda placed a hand gently on Brigitte’s shoulder “Did you not mean to do the same?”
“That was altogether different,” Brigitte replied stonily. “I thought Rowland was dead.”
Goda left quietly a little later, and Brigitte sank down in her chair. No, she did not want to join Rowland in the hall, not if he was drunk.
Rowland was not so drunk that he could not sense something wrong. Goda returned to the hall alone. Why would Brigitte not join him? He scowled darkly. The answer came readily enough. It was the very reason he kept refilling his tankard, the reason he had stayed in the hall all day, afraid to face Brigitte. She knew of his deception. Someone must have told her. Perhaps Roger had done so. Why else would the snake seek her out after he had been warned to stay away from her? Yes, that was it. Brigitte knew he had not honored their bargain, had not sent the message to Count Arnulf after all.
He rested his head on his arms and heaved a great sigh. Damn this for happening when everything was going so well. He wished this day to hell. Well, there was nothing else he could do but face her. She knew he had lied, and she would be furious. He would just have to get the confrontation over with. Rowland left the hall. A few moments later he entered his chamber to find Brigitte tying up her bundle of possessions, the few articles that she had moved to his room when she began sleeping there.
Finding her doing this had a startling effect on him. He saw himself losing Brigitte. He saw them growing apart again, and he couldn’t bear the idea.
“Is that necessary?” Rowland asked softly, when he could think of nothing else to say.
Brigitte deigned to glance at him briefly before she looked away. “Of course it is. Roger is gone. There is no reason for me to stay in this room anymore. You wanted me here only because of him, didn’t you?”
“And if I ask you to stay? I know Roger was the reason you first began staying here, but—”
“You can insist I stay in this room, but I do not want to be here, not after today.”
Her voice was of ice, and that further unnerved him.
“Brigitte, I know you are angry-
“Angry is putting it mildly,” she snapped.
“Then curse me. But get it over with. If I could take back the lie I would.”
“Lie?” she asked, bewildered.
Rowland saw her surprise and could have bitten his tongue. But if it was not the deception that had her riled, then.
“Why are you angry?”
She ignored
that. “What lie, Rowland?”
He feigned innocence. “What are you talking about?”
“You…oh!” she exclaimed. “I refuse to talk to you when you are drunk!”
Brigitte moved to the door, forgetting her bundle, but Rowland stepped quickly in front of her. “Why are you so angry?” He tried a cajoling tone. “Because I have drunk a bit too much?”
“You can drown in ale for all I care,” she hissed, her blue eyes flashing. “Your brutality is what appalls me. You were bestial today in your thirst for blood. You nearly killed Roger!”
“But I did not kill him, Brigitte,” he replied softly. He was trying to understand her anger, but he could not.
Rowland raised a hand to caress her cheek, but she cringed. “I cannot bear to have you touch me after I witnessed such cruelty.”
Rowland’s temper finally exploded. “You dare to take that vermin’s side against me! My touch revolts you, does it? Damn you, wench, it’s my protection you enjoy. You are a serf, yet I treat you like a queen. I am your lord, yet you condemn me!”
“I did not ask for your protection,” Brigitte countered hastily.
“By God, then I will withdraw it, and see how well you fare without it!”
“Rowland!”
“Your disloyalty sickens me. Be damned!” he stormed. “I suffered worse beatings from Roger when I was younger. Now that I finally gave back what he deserved, you condemn me and cannot bear my touch.”
“Rowland, please,” Brigitte cried. “I did not mean to seem disloyal.”
“You change your tune now out of fear, but I know your true feelings!” Rowland’s fury was boundless. “Get out of here, Brigitte. I shall give you what you want. You are free now, free of me!”
Brigitte could not speak for the lump in her throat. She grabbed her bundle of clothes and ran from the room without looking back, closing the door. Once shut away from him she burst into tears. What had she done? What in heaven’s name had she done?
Chapter Thirty-two
“So, Rowland has broken his bond to you?”
Brigitte stirred her breakfast absently, uncomfortable under Luthor’s scrutiny. She could not look at him. She was sitting on a bench where the servants ate, which proclaimed to all that something was amiss between her and Rowland. Rowland was apparently oblivious to her presence, which confirmed it. Luthor knew all about the matter, for Rowland had told him.
“Were you not a bit hard on him?” Luthor continued, as he stood by the servants’ bench looking down at her.
Brigitte kept her head bowed, unwilling to face him. “Yes, I was.”
“Why, damosel?” Luthor asked gently. “He had done nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I realize that now,” she confessed. “Too many disturbing things happened too quickly yesterday, and I was upset and angry.”
“And now he is in a fine temper. Perhaps if you told him what you just told me, he would understand.”
She finally looked at Luthor. “You do not believe that any more than I do. I hurt him, and now he wants me to suffer for it.”
“Rowland will relent,” Luthor said gruffly.
“Maybe,” she said wistfully, her blue eyes clouding, “but I will not be here when he does.”
Luthor looked sternly at her. “And where will you be, damosel?”
“I cannot stay here any longer. I will leave today.”
“On foot?”
“Milord, I do not own a horse.”
Luthor shook his head adamantly. “You will not be allowed to leave here on foot.”
“Everyone here accepted Rowland’s claim on me, and you must now accept that I am without a lord because he has given me my freedom. No one here can stop me from going where I will.”
“I can.” Luthor was irritated. “As lord here, I cannot let you do anything so foolish as to try to walk from here to the next fief.”
“I asked you once for help, milord, but you did not give it. Now you offer it when I do not want it.”
“Before, you asked me to go against my son,” Luthor reminded her.
“Ah! You are not worried about my safety. Rowland is your concern. You would keep me here because you think he will change his mind about me.”
“I know he will.”
“Am I to understand then that you are offering me your protection?”
“Yes.”
“Rowland will not thank you for interfering, milord. He expects me to go.”
“Nonsense,” Luthor scoffed. “My son will come to his senses.”
Brigitte shrugged. “Very well, I will stay for a while. It will not be long before my lord sends for me. You will have to let me go then, or risk war with the Count of Berry.”
“What the devil do you mean?” Luthor demanded, angered by yet another new turn.
Brigitte smiled. “Rowland sent a messenger to Berry to inquire about my claim. He will learn that I am daughter of the late Lord of Louroux. When Count Arnulf sends for me, Rowland will know at last that I have not lied to him and that all this has been a mistake.”
“A messenger, eh?” Luthor said, more to himself. “Rowland told you he sent someone?”
“Yes,” she answered. “He agreed to, if I promised not to run away again.”
“I see.” Luthor grew thoughtful.
“You realize what proof of your claim would do to Rowland? He is a man of honor, damosel, and he will accept whatever retribution Count Arnulf demands. If combat to the death with a champion of Berry is demanded, Rowland will agree. He could die.”
“No!” Brigitte said emphatically. “I will not allow it to come to that. This was not his fault at all. Someone else is guilty. And I…I bear no malice toward Rowland.”
“Well, we will just have to wait and see what the future brings.” Luthor chuckled. “Perhaps you will leave us, or perhaps you will stay here so you and my son can be as you were before.”
“We will not be as we were before.”
“As I said, we will see. Truth is, it will take only a few days for Rowland to relent,” Luthor prophesied, shaking a finger at her. “Mark my words, damosel.”
Brigitte frowned. Just a moment before he had been afraid of the consequences of Count Arnulf’s anger, and now he was unruffled. To be sure, the man was strange.
As he began to move away, she said suddenly, “I will accept your protection, milord, but I will not serve you.”
Luthor turned back, stared at her briefly, and then bellowed with laughter. “I do not expect you to, damosel. You are free to do as you will. Just do not attempt to leave Montville alone.”
“And the lady Hedda? Will you keep her from me?”
“She will not bother you.” Inclining his head in a mock bow, Luthor left her.
Brigitte was much relieved. She had not wanted to leave Montville without a horse. Now she could wait for Count Arnulf or his emissary to take her home.
She left the hall shortly thereafter, to return to the hut. She had spent a miserable night there, alone. Rowland was in the courtyard as she passed around it. He saw her, and she stopped, but he quickly turned away. She darted a glance at him and hurried on her way.
With a heavy heart, she closed the door to her little room. She was thoroughly miserable. Sitting on the cot, she moaned, “I should not care. But I…do… I do care!”
She cried for most of the morning, lying on the little bed. At about midday she dragged herself from the cot and went to the old chest where she had dropped her bundle of possessions the night before. Examining her gowns, she decided to wash them all, even the blue linen, which she had not worn since the night she met Rowland. She fingered the glittering sapphires on the bodice and wondered how Rowland would react if she walked into the hall that evening wearing such a gown. She sighed. It would cause trouble. She might be accused of stealing it. But she would wash it.
She draped the gowns over her arm and started for the door, but just as she opened it, Amelia arrived and stood staring at Brigitte, her eyes al
ight with malice.
“What do you want?”
Amelia laughed deeply, tossing her red-brown hair, crossing her arms across her ample chest, and leaning against the door frame to block Brigitte’s way. “Still the high and mighty little whore, eh? I suppose you believe he will take you back to his bed?”
Brigitte blushed, trying not to show how shocked she was. She would never get used to Amelia’s brash ways. But she would not let Amelia know she was shocked by her vulgarity.
“How should I answer you?” Brigitte replied calmly. “I could of course have him back if I wanted him, but I do not.”
Amelia’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “Liar! He is finished with you. And it did not take long for him to tire of you.” She laughed. “He was mine for much longer than he was yours, and he will be mine again. He will wed me, not some frigid French whore who cannot possibly know how to please him. You see how quickly he tired of you.”
Brigitte’s cheeks burned. Amelia had cut her, despite her efforts to remain aloof.
“I have known only one man, Amelia,” she rushed on, unable to stop herself. “You would like to think he was not pleased with me, but I know differently. Rowland knows I came to him innocent of other men. You could not say the same, could you?”
“Bitch!”
Brigitte laughed humorlessly. “Well, perhaps a bitch is what I am, but of the two of us, you are the whore. I have heard the gossip about you, and surely Rowland has, too.”
“Lies! They tell lies about me!” Amelia snapped, her brown eyes darkening to black.
“Oh, I believe Rowland knows a great deal about you, Amelia,” Brigitte purred.
“Well, here is something you do not know,” Amelia screeched, infuriated. “He lied to you, but he has never lied to me!” She grinned delightedly at Brigitte’s obvious confusion. “You are a fool! Everyone knows of the bargain you struck with him. Little Goda has nothing better to do than gossip. Everyone knows Rowland did not honor that bargain. He cares so little for you that he simply didn’t bother.”