Heart's War (Heart and Soul) (17 page)

Brynmor waited at the base of the stairs of the chapel, struggling not to fidget. He wore his best finery, a
linen horseman’s surcoat of green with an intricate pattern woven into the fabric over a white linen tunic. Delicate silver embroidery graced the hems and sleeves, the pattern matching the one etched into the wide silver coronet on his brow. He had worn this coronet only once before, during his investiture as Prince of Powys. His long hair fell straight down his back. Once again he had rejected the hosen so popular with nobility and wore doeskin braies, dyed repeatedly to give them a true black color. He wore fine black leather boots, with a jeweled dagger stuck into each one. A long black belt wrapped around his waist and he carried his jeweled ceremonial sword. He had folded his gloves to neatly tuck into his belt at his waist. A heavy gold chain descended from his neck to his chest, with his heraldry emblazoned on a large pendant.

Not long after old man Powys
had adopted Brynmor, his mother had started on creating the finery with the goal of the wedding he would surely have one day, but it seemed he had grown a bit more than she had predicted. His shoulders and chest strained the fabric and seams, he noted ruefully.

His throat tightened and he s
wallowed hard. How he wished his mother could be here to witness this event. He could only imagine her joy and her pride in her son. But her health was still too poor and the war made things too dangerous. He had no choice but to keep her sequestered in one of his holdings. He only prayed she would forgive him.

He started to draw a deep breath but stopped, fearing he’d rip
the seams of the surcoat.

“Steady on,” Montgomery murmured from behind him.

Brynmor shot a glance over his shoulder at him and was surprised to see his bright grin. Next to him stood Mortimer, who also grinned knowingly. Behind them stood a handful of Brynmor’s nobles; the remainder observed from the audience surrounding the chapel.

Despite Montgomery
’s and Mortimer’s support, Brynmor found himself growing impatient. Where was Rose? He looked to the door of his keep. Unlike their betrothal, Rose had chosen not to meet him in the great hall. Instead she would walk from the keep to the steps of the chapel with her mother and her handmaidens, many of whom were the wives or daughters of Brynmor’s visiting nobility.

What in blazes was taking her so long?

Before his mind could focus on his worst fears, the door to the keep opened. Cheers resounded throughout the bailey as Rose stepped onto the stairs. But the noise became nothing more than a dim roaring in his ears as his vision tunneled.

She wore an ivory gown cut in an older style but one that complimented her beauty perfectly. The gown accented every sweet curve and line, flaring out just below her hips. A golden
, beaded girdle swept around her waist—so narrow he knew he could span it with his hands. Matching embroidery graced the low-cut bodice, drawing his eye to the gentle swell of her breasts. The sleeves were tight on her upper arms but flared dramatically past her elbows, falling in perfect triangles to her knees. Her hair, appearing as finely spun gold, descended her back with tiny white rosebuds braided within it, and larger roses crowned the top of her head. Her blue eyes rivaled the summer sky above her at that moment.

Brynmor felt his throat tighten even more
, and surprisingly, his eyes misted. He blinked rapidly, struggling to clear his vision. She was so beautiful she stole his breath away.

Rose gracefully descended the stairs, like an angel descending from heaven. Unlike their
betrothal, she did not gaze in apprehension at the crowd around her, though once again the cheering throng was held at bay by men-at-arms. They rejoiced at the arrival of their beautiful lady and threw white rose petals in her path. They fluttered softly around her and Brynmor knew at that moment he would never forget the sight before him.

Her gaze locked on him and did not waver. He struggled to remember how to breathe
and his heart pounded so hard in his chest he was certain Montgomery could hear it.

She walked with a metered but
confident pace toward him, holding a beautiful bouquet of colorful flowers, her mother and handmaidens following behind her.

Once again Brynmor tried to draw a deep breath but managed to stop himself at the last moment. She approached and he extended his left hand to her
, but he noted he shook badly. What in the bloody hell was wrong with him? He had faced and defeated many an enemy on the battlefield, but even for his first battle he had not felt such rioting nerves within him.

She took his hand and awarded him with a brilliant smile that made him weak in the knees.

It was not part of the ceremony, but he could not help himself as he bowed over her hand and brought it to his lips. The soft warmth of her skin destroyed the last of his defenses around his heart. In that moment, he realized he had lost himself to her long ago.

He straightened and she placed her hand lightly upon his arm. Bidding his feet to obey him and his heart to be still, he guided her up the stairs to the door of the chapel.

Rose moved closer to him as they stopped before the priest at the top of the stairs. The gentle scent of her namesake reached him, and he fought down a sudden desire to bury his face in her hair and inhale deeply.

The priest, an old but kindly man, smiled as they stood before them
and spoke of the mandates that Christ and the Church placed upon marriage. But Rose so captivated Brynmor’s attention that he barely heard the man’s words.

He could not deny the terror raging within him at that moment, the fear of the future and the unknown, but something unexpected rose within him to counter it. Something powerful enough to battle the fear within him. It did not defeat it entirely, but it roared through him and brought him brilliantly alive.

Is this love?
His heart asked the question, but try as he might, he could find no good answer.

The priest turned to him and cleared his throat.

Brynmor abruptly realized it was time for him to speak the vows. He drew a breath, feeling a stitch pop against his ribs, but he ignored it and looked into her eyes as he voiced the words that meant everything to him.

“I take thee, Rose, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death us depart, if
Holy Church it will ordain, and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

Brynmor was pleased to note his voice sounded strong and unwavering, completely opposite from the maelstrom of emotions raging within him.

The priest looked at Rose. Her gaze remained on Brynmor as she too spoke the vows.

Brynmor sensed Montgomery move behind him. He held out the rings
, nestled in a piece of blue silk. The priest blessed them and handed the smaller ring to Brynmor.

H
e swallowed hard. Rose held out her hand, trembling slightly, and Brynmor slid the ring on her finger as he spoke. “With this ring, I thee wed, and with my body, I thee honor.”

Rose then picked up his ring and placed it on his finger, although she had a bit of trouble getting it over his knuckle. She spoke the words
and Brynmor felt his lips tug upward. So, she was more addled than she was letting on. Once again he felt as if he had a comrade in arms.

The priest pronounced them husband and wife and bade him kiss the bride. Brynmor
lowered his head and touched his lips to hers. The crowd erupted in a roar of approval. Brynmor could not help himself as he wrapped his arms around his new wife and kissed her deeply.

She laughed against his mouth
, but as he pulled away, he saw her gazing up at him, her eyes shining with a joy he had never seen. He smiled down at her, caressed the soft silk of her cheek with a fingertip, then followed the priest into the chapel for Mass and Communion.

****

He’s really my husband.

Rose sat next to Brynmor at the high table
, listening to various nobles offer toasts to their future. She acknowledged each one and drank as appropriate but found the wine going straight to her head.

Surely
she was dreaming the whole thing, surely she would awaken at any moment. But the more she tried to convince herself, the more her heart shouted the truth.

They were finally married.

Perhaps her imagination continued to run amok, but Brynmor seemed to become a new man before her eyes, laughing and jesting with those around him. Right after Mass and Communion, Mortimer had bid them good-bye, forced to return to the battlefield. She had been stunned but also very pleased that he had been able to attend her wedding.

But
all of the guests had remained and it seemed each and every one was determined to offer a toast. She took another drink of wine in response and realized the drink did nothing to settle her nerves.

Every time she looked at Brynmor, her thoughts raced and her stomach clenched at what awaited her this night.
In one sense she eagerly anticipated it, but fear of the unknown plagued her and she cursed herself for her lack of courage. She was a healer—she should not be acting like this.

In an effort to distract herself, her gaze traveled to the door of the kitchens. Gwen worked herself and the kitchen staff ragged. Rose felt guilty that she sat about doing nothing.

“Rose,” Brynmor whispered softly. His lips brushing her ear and his breath stirring her hair made her jump. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said and looked up at him, then wished she had not.
His blue-green eyes shimmered in the light. His long black hair shone with the rich gloss of a raven’s feathers. High cheekbones only accented the gentle sweep down to a strong jaw and full lips. Sweet Mary, he was still the most handsome man she had ever seen. Nothing would ever change that. “I just wonder if I should see if Mother needs help.”

He smiled
. “Nay,” he said, his hand covering hers. “For if I must endure this, then so shall ye.”

A giggle bubbled through her at the sound of his thickening burr.

He lowered his head and lightly nibbled on her neck before pulling away.

The action, although quick, was not missed by many in attendance
, and Rose blushed at hearing the bawdy hoots from those who saw it.

Brynmor rolled his eyes, his humor fading slightly. “Cease,” he said, his voice taking a harder edge.

A few grumbled, but all obeyed.

The door to the kitchens opened and servants streamed out, bearing roundels with bread and cheese, large bowls of a savory smelling vegetable sauce, and flats with fresh collards and squash.
Smoked fish, fresh from the river, followed. The servants placed the food first before their lord and lady, then served the nobles, moving down the line as rank dictated.

Rose saw movement at the door and gasped.

Two burly servants hefted an impossible flat of wood, one on each end, with a massive roasted boar between them. A large apple was stuck in its mouth, more of the roasted vegetables and greens surrounded it.

For a moment
, the guests in the hall fell silent.

“Good glory,” Brynmor muttered as he too watched the servants struggle to place the great beast on the table.

Rose’s gaze slid from the animal to her father and for some reason, tears filled her eyes.

He smiled at her
in understanding, his amber eyes sparkling merrily.

Someone cheered and applause resounded as the servants began to carve meat from the boar.

Hours later, Rose was certain she had never enjoyed herself so much in her life. But as the guests finished their food, and wine and ale flowed even faster, Rose heard the musicians begin to play.

Brynmor looked at her, his eyes glittering. “My lady?” he asked, extending his hand.

For some reason, she had expected him not to want to dance, so he took her by surprise. She smiled and accepted his hand. He led her to an open area in the hall and released her hand when she stood in line.

People formed two lines facing each other,
men on one side, ladies on the other. At the right end of the line, a couple would step forward, their hands held up, close to each other, but not touching. They would then move sideways, to the left between the two lines, in time with the music. When they reached the end, the man would step back behind his line and the lady behind hers. It was then a mad dash back to the front of the line as the next couple would proceed down the middle. The members would then progress rotating through the line until it started over again.

It was a typical dance at a wedding and one considered quite flirtatious
because the idea was to place the hands close but not so close as to actually touch. When the couple hurried to the beginning, anyone could step from the crowd and move into position before the dancer reached it. If a lady stepped into Rose’s spot before she got there, Rose would have to sit for a spell and the lady would then dance with Brynmor. But after catching her breath, Rose could step in front of any lady and take her turn again with any man she chose.