Heart's War (Heart and Soul) (16 page)

“Nay—” Brynmor began.

Montgomery waved him off.

“Rose,” Gwen said cupping her face in her hands. “Are you well?”

“Aye, Mother,” she said, smiling. She looked at Brynmor over her shoulder. “Thanks to my betrothed.”

Brynmor knew he grinned like a saphead but he could not deny the
happiness within him. Seeing their reunion stirred emotions he had not realized he possessed. He had returned Rose to Montgomery’s keep in the past, but Montgomery had been away in service to Longshanks at the time, and young Rose had not known Gwen. It had been their first meeting. But seeing them now as a family, and witnessing the power of their happiness, caused his throat to tighten and his eyes to mist.

Damnation, what was wrong with him?

Gwen looped her arm through Rose’s and escorted her into the keep. Brynmor and Montgomery fell in stride a pace behind. It was only then that Brynmor realized his men cheered their return.

A few hours later,
Brynmor gazed up the stairs leading to the ladies’ solar. Gwen had escorted Rose to the room on the floor above his and had not emerged. He had cleaned up and changed but suddenly felt lost. He knew Rose needed to rest. Hell, he did too for that matter. His emotions had run the gauntlet the past few days and were now tangled in a confusing knot.

He started to turn away. He should at least get something to eat
, even though he wasn’t that hungry. He heard the door open upstairs and hesitated.

Gwen descended, smiling when she saw him. “She’s fine, Brynmor,” she said, answering his unspoken question.

Brynmor allowed his own smile to break through.

Gwen’s smile grew and she patted his arm. “Go on,” she said and inclined her head toward the door.

He took a step forward then hesitated.

Gwen laughed softly. “Go on,” she said again and gave him a gentle push in the right direction.

Brynmor couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him and ascended the stairs. Gwen continued down.

He knocked softly on the door. “Rose?” he called, not wishing to wak
e her if she had fallen asleep.

“Enter.”

He pushed the door open. Only the hearth fire cast a dim glow in the room. Rose had buried herself under a mound of blankets. She moved slightly and peeked out at him, grinning. “I never thought a real bed would feel so wonderful.”

He chuckled again, crossed the room
, and sat on the edge of the bed. She reached for him, and to his surprise, moved into his embrace, sighing in contentment. Brynmor held her close, his arms tight around her.

“I am sorry,” she murmured.

“For what?”

“I made you a promise. I failed you.”

He frowned in confusion. What in the hell did she mean? He felt as if he should know but the reason escaped him. But it didn’t matter. “Nay,” he said firmly. “You did not fail me.”

She sighed again and burrowed closer.

“I should let you rest.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

Brynmor knew he shouldn’t move, but he couldn’t stop himself. Keeping the blankets firmly around her, and promising himself he would do nothing to offend her, he crawled onto the bed next to her, wrapping his body around hers. He would keep her safe this night . . . and each night forward.

Three days until his wedding and Brynmor felt his nerves jumping. He was dressing in his solar when he heard the cry of the sentry. He looked out a loophole and saw four of his lords, mounted upon fine horses and with their entourages trailing behind, approaching the gate. Brynmor's throat went dry and he swallowed hard. The last of the wounded had been moved from the great hall, but the servants were still scrambling to clean and prepare for a wedding feast and revel. The high table had been returned to its place, but the secondary table still needed to be moved back. No doubt his lords would think him useless if he was unable to greet them properly.

He quickly wrapped his belt around his waist and hurried below-stairs. The sight that greeted him in the great hall stunned him.
The rest of the furniture stood in the proper places. Five servants, on their knees with brushes and buckets, scrubbed the last of the bloodstains from the wounded on the floor while a young boy spread fresh rushes over the areas they had cleaned.

His gaze fell on one servant and he blinked in surprise. Make that four servants and one noble lady who worked her fingers to the bone. Bless her for her efforts. But it would not do to have his
nobles see her in such a state.

“Rose,” he said softly and knelt next to her.

She looked up at him, a wild strand of hair falling into her face. His smile grew and he caught it, gently tucking it behind her ear. “Your work here has been impressive,” he said.

Her worried expression eased a bit
, but it returned as she looked around. “Forgive me, Brynmor,” she whispered. “I heard the sentries, I know your lords are arriving. I tried . . . I tried so hard . . .”

“I know, my sweet, and I could not ask for more.” He traced over a dirty smudge on her cheek. “Go upstairs and change.”

She looked around again. “But there is still so much to do.”

“The servants will take care of it
and I would challenge any lord who dares find fault with your work. Let them tend to as many wounded as you have done, manage this household, and prepare for a wedding. They could not begin to achieve all that you have.”

Her smile lifted his heart.

“Go on,” he said, taking the brush from her and dropping it into the bucket. “I will speak with Cook about preparing the wine and some bread and cheese. I praise the saints that your father provided us with so much food.”

“Thank you, Brynmor,” she whispered and kissed his cheek. She hurried upstairs to change.

He watched her leave, marveling at himself. Even he could no longer recognize himself and he wondered at the change that had come over him. How was it he acted like such a saphead? He felt as if her lips still touched his cheek. He shook his head, unable to answer his own question and took the bucket into the kitchens.

A bit later, Brynmor stood at the base of the stairs to
his keep, waiting as his nobles entered the bailey. He started in surprise when Rose stepped next to him and wrapped her arm in his. She now looked every inch the noble lady from a powerful house. She wore an off-white under-dress that showed off her shapely figure and flared gently at her hips. A blue brocade over-dress, descending past her hips, with wide openings at the arms, made her blue eyes look as rich as sapphires. A lovely golden necklace with small blue jewels graced her throat. He stared down at her, stunned. “My lady, you are remarkable.”

She laughed softly. “I fear my hair is a sight.”

She wore a delicate coronet. Her hair fell down the middle of her back in an elaborate braid with ribbons adorning it. “It is indeed, but I see nothing wrong with it.”

She laughed again but then her gaze fell on their guests and she st
iffened. He felt her apprehension jump just as easily as if it had been his own.

“Rose?” he asked
, suddenly concerned.

She drew a deep breath and stepped closer to him. “Nerves,” she said softly. “I know it’s important that we give a good showing.”

Brynmor couldn’t help the grin that escaped him. Never before had he felt as if he had a comrade in arms in the face of the plots his nobles could hatch, but he did at that moment. He wrapped his arm around hers then turned to his guests, bidding them fair greeting.

****

Two days later, all of Brynmor’s nobles, their ladies, and entourages had arrived. It seemed they were all determined to celebrate a joyous occasion in the midst of war. At least Brynmor hoped that was the case, although he was certain a couple of them only came to plot or poke fun at the freeman farmer playing as a prince.

Tonight they would dine well
, and come the morrow, Brynmor and Rose would be married on the steps of the small chapel. He worried that Dafydd might again attempt to stop his marriage, and Brynmor’s steward had doubled the guard on duty, especially in regard to Rose and her family. Brynmor was happy to note as he entered the great hall that the guards remained sober and alert.

H
e spotted Rose immediately. Once again she was dressed in a fine gown, this one a soft saffron that matched the gold in her hair. He watched her for a moment as she chatted amicably with their guests, completely comfortable acting in the station she was born to. For the barest instant, his shoulders slumped. Unlike himself, she did not struggle with the expectations. He would always be the son of a freeman farmer, and on the morrow he would marry a beautiful, kind-hearted noblewoman he did not deserve. He was terrified that he would somehow lose everything he held most dear, especially Rose, as it had been taken from him before . . . as she had been taken.

Rose seemed to sense his presence and turned, gifting him with a beautiful smile. He felt his shoulders straighten
and his own smile emerge, and his worries eased just a bit. For some reason, he remembered the moment when he had called her a temperamental spitfire. He had inadvertently hurt her feelings with the words, but suddenly he realized that strength within her—that courage—was exactly what he needed by his side as he lived this role. He had regained her and she had borne up admirably in the face of the ordeal. Aye, tomorrow he would marry her, and tomorrow would be the dawn of a new day.

Brynmor’s smile broadened and he stepped forward to join Rose
and speak to their guests.

****

Rose watched her betrothed approach and felt her pulse pound. His blue-green eyes glittered with a fire she had rarely seen. She had noted that the stern expression she had come to know did not appear so often anymore. Brynmor seemed relaxed and he smiled frequently. Rose was glad to see it, even though that smile made the butterflies riot in her stomach every time.

“My lady,” he murmured as he took her hand, bowed over it, then kissed it softly. He straightened and gazed at her a long moment. “You are as beautiful as ever, my dear.”

She felt a blush rise on her cheeks. “Thank you, my lord.”

He
was turning to greet the others when the herald announced the arrival of an unexpected guest.

“Mortimer?” Brynmor asked in surprise as he turned toward the door.

The earl entered, fully armored, the polished steel gleaming in the soft light of the hall. He spotted Brynmor and Rose and grinned broadly as he approached.

The moment Rose saw his smile, her worries faded.
“Roger!”

He glanced at Brynmor. “Praying your pardon,” he said but did not hesitate and swept Rose into his arms.

She laughed warmly, returning his embrace.

He placed her on her feet again and faced Brynmor.

Rose was happy to note Brynmor grinned at him.

“Again I ask for your forgiveness, but Rose is like family to me. I also apologize for arriving unannounced.
” He offered his hand.

Brynmor clasped his forearm with a hearty grip
.

Mortimer surprised him with a warm clout on the shoulder.
“But I found I could not stay away from witnessing such a joyous event.”

“You are most welcome here,
Mortimer,” Brynmor said, his eyes wide. “But I thought the war would not allow you to attend.”

A servant handed
their newest guest a cup of wine and he drank deeply, giving Brynmor a wink. “I cannot stay long, but I thought I’d attend the ceremony tomorrow. Since I can’t attend the wedding feast, I was hoping you’d make up for it tonight.”

Brynmor chuckled and nodded.

Rose clasped his hand and impulsively kissed his cheek. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Mortimer grinned down at her. “Know I wish for you a wonderful marriage, my dear.”

“Thank you.”

Montgomery barked a greeting as he approached. “
Mortimer, you old dog, I knew you wouldn’t stay away.”

Mortimer looked at Rose. “
She’s like a niece to me. I would never miss her wedding.”

Her father laughed warmly.

Brynmor’s nobles cautiously approached and he made introductions. While the warmth and the air of celebration strengthened in the hall, the talk soon turned to the war and politics.

Gwen, standing beside her husband, drew a deep breath then excused herself. “Rose,” she said. “I am going to make sure Cook has things well in hand.”

“Do you wish me to come with you?”

“Nay,” she whispered. “It is important you listen and observe Brynmor’s nobles. What they say here can give you insight as to those who would cause him trouble in the future. I’ll see to the feast so you do not have to worry over it.”

Rose nodded. “Thank you, Mother.”

She smiled and moved toward the kitchens.

“Mortimer,” one of Brynmor’s nobles, Lord Brecon, said, “I understand you are having a bit of a struggle with your battles.”

Brynmor’s humor faded in an instant and he glared at the lord.

Brecon caught his look and ducked his head. “I’m still a Welshman after all,” he grumbled.

“Aye,” Brynmor said. “But our alliances have been decided.”

“Worry not, Powys,” Mortimer said, his manner remaining relaxed. “For he speaks truly. After all, this war takes place on terrain that favors the Welsh. I would be a fool not to recognize that.”

Brecon looked at Mortimer
, surprised, then slowly nodded. “Aye, ’tis good you understand that, unlike Gloucester, who allowed overconfidence to blind him.”

Another noble, seemingly a bit into his cups, slapped Brecon’s shoulder. “Aye, Brecon, our country
men trounced the English at Llandeilo Fawr.”

Brynmor’s jaw tightened. “Lord Talgarth,” he growled in warning.

Mortimer shrugged. “It was Gloucester’s own mistake. His victory at Carreg Cennen was too easy. He forgot how quickly the Welsh can move through their own lands, and it caused his downfall. But I must say I am worried.”

“How so?” Brynmor asked.

“Rumor has it King Edward was sorely displeased at Gloucester’s performance and he plans to dismiss him next month. Edward only awaits the arrival of William de Valence, Earl of Pembroke.”

Brynmor’s face paled. “Saints have mercy, the earl’
s son was slain at Llandeilo Fawr.”

Talgarth took another drink then scowled. “So?”

Brynmor locked him in his gaze. “When a grieving man is placed at the head of an army and ordered to take vengeance upon those who slaughtered his son, you can know vengeance will be swift and sure.”

Talgarth studied Brynmor a moment then looked at Mortimer, and his face also lost a bit of color. He excused himself quickly.

Rose was glad to note that after Talgarth’s departure, the talk quickly turned from the more dire aspects of war to predictions as to how Edward might move against Llywelyn’s mountain stronghold in Snowdonia.

Petran
approached Rose discreetly. “My lady,” he whispered, “your mother informs me the meal will be served soon.”

“Thank you,
Petran.”

He
inclined his head, stepping back.

Rose gently tugged on Brynmor’s arm,
leading him in the direction of the high table.

Without missing a beat in his conversation, he stepped toward the high table, causing the group around him to move with him. Rose
fought down her amusement. He did not even realize the advances he made in the subtleties of his station because more and more he did things without even thinking about them.

As they approached the table, Brynmor efficiently but politely ended his conversation so the others could move to their appointed seats.
Petran had scrambled to reassess the seating arrangements so that Mortimer was once again placed on Brynmor’s left at the high table.

Brynmor stood next to his chair as a servant filled a goblet for him. Those in attendance quieted, awaiting his words. Brynmor
picked up the goblet, and for the first time, grinned brightly.

“Welcome to my home and to our wonderful celebration.” He hesitated and turned to Rose, lifting the cup in salute to her. “To my beautiful betrothed, the woman I shall marry upon the morrow. May
God’s blessing be upon us.”