Heart's War (Heart and Soul) (4 page)

“Papa, please!” Rose cried from the tower door.

“Look, you sodding fool,” Montgomery growled and pointed at the bright orange glow of the burning castle in the distance. Brynmor did not want to look. The memory of the time he had served with Longshanks and the sickening stench of burnt flesh assailed him. The glow of the fire in the night sky seemed stronger than before.

Brynmor tried to wrest himself away, nausea clawing at his gut.
Montgomery expertly moved into a painful hold, wrenching Brynmor’s arm behind his back. Although a score of years older than Brynmor, Montgomery was still very strong, a picture of perfect health.

Brynmor snarled another curse.

“Look!” Montgomery growled, shoving Brynmor’s face toward the destruction. “Look what awaits you if you do not heed my words. Would you bring the wrath of hell down on your own head and that of your people? Would you condemn so many to die because of your stubborn pride? The people who work this land, who build their homes, who bear their children, these people look to you for protection. Would you betray their trust and condemn them to die so viciously?”

“Edward has no right to destroy us.”

“Right or not, he will do it. Open your eyes, Brynmor, the best you can do is minimize the danger to your people. Longshanks will win. Your only hope of survival is to ally with Montgomery. Would you so easily condemn your people, those who have put their trust in you, to die so violently for a cause that has already been lost?” Montgomery abruptly shoved Brynmor into the opening again and stepped back.

For a moment
, Brynmor continued to stare northward. He remembered well the screams of the dying, of the women mourning the loss of their men. Brynmor squeezed his eyes closed, praying he did not retch in front of Montgomery.

“Wisdom, Brynmor,” he said tightly.
“Wisdom is what is required of you as a leader. Protect your people; do not condemn them to suffer so grievous a fate.”

“And by allying with you through marriage I can stop this slaughter?” Brynmor asked
, incredulous, as Llywelyn’s warning sounded again in his head. Even if Longshanks did not attack because of the alliance, Llywelyn would.

Montgomery
nodded. “Llywelyn will think twice about taking Powys, especially if you are allied with Montgomery and backed by Longshanks. You are a good strategist, Brynmor, you have developed a fine military mind and Powys is a strong castle. I cannot promise he will not attack, but you have a better chance to save your people from the sword with the alliance than without it.”

“But you swore to Rose you would not force her to marry outside of her choosing.
Now you barter her like a horse at market.”

Montgomery
stiffened, his dark eyes sparking furiously. He clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly, his powerful body coiled. “Aye, I made her that promise, and I uphold it. It is Rose who wants this marriage. Personally, I’d prefer to find a lord who deserves her.”

Shock assailed Brynmor and his gaze slid to Rose
, still standing at the tower door. She wanted this marriage?

Rose gazed up at him, as beautiful as a vision bestowed from heaven.
Once again, Brynmor found it difficult to breathe and impossible to think. A deep longing rose within him. He tried to remember the child he had rescued, but the woman before him robbed him of his wits. Under her gown he saw clearly the graceful curves of her body. His hands ached to touch her, to feel the softness of her skin. He longed to taste her mouth and discover the fire within her spirit. She was perfect, exquisite in every way.

And he had absolutely no right to the thoughts he was having.
Montgomery spoke the truth, she deserved far better than a freeman’s son, a farmer by trade without a drop of noble blood in his veins. Only happenstance had arranged for Brynmor to be in the position to make this decision. Fate toyed with him, offering temptations he did not deserve.

His gaze returned to the glow in the night sky.
He could not deny he stood in command of Powys, a massive principality, one of the largest in Wales. So powerful that the landed nobility under him were called the princes of Powys, and Brynmor—the son of a freeman farmer—held sway over them like a king.

Brynmor sighed heavily, the weight on his shoulders increasing.
It was no matter if he stood as prince by birth, luck, or divine jest. Montgomery was right; the alliance would save his people from Longshanks. Brynmor did not doubt Longshanks would eventually win. But how deep would the blood of his Welsh brethren flow before the English king was finished? Brynmor had a greater responsibility to his people, noble and serf alike, to keep them from that terrible fate.

Brynmor lowered his head and a numbing weariness washed over him.
He could no longer avoid his fate. “I . . . I will think on your offer, Montgomery. We will discuss it in the morning.”

Montgomery nodded curtly and strode down the stairs.
Taking the women with him, he slammed the door to the tower as he left. The booming noise seemed to seal Brynmor’s future as he stared at the death and destruction so near to his home.

Could he do this?
Could he ignore his Welsh blood and heritage, marry an English woman, and swear fealty to a brutal English king while watching his brethren die?

Did he have the courage to save his people?

Brynmor opened his hands and stared at them, first calloused and scarred from a plow, then from learning to wield a sword. He was a wretched creature, unworthy of Rose. How could her father curse such an angel with him?

“So this was all your idea,” Brynmor growled, towering over Rose. He had caught and cornered her entering the great hall to break her fast. He stood with his body stiff, his hands clenched so tightly his knuckles turned white. His sleek black hair fell in soft strands around his face, but that was the only thing about him that was soft. His mouth hardened to a brutal slash across his face; his blue-green eyes were icy.

Rose swallowed hard, marveling at the strange energy that shot through her.
She laced her fingers tightly in front of her to keep her hands from shaking. Whenever she stood near Brynmor, strange emotions swept through the core of her being. Despite knowing the man for years, despite his rescue of her, he remained a mystery—a mystery she was determined to unravel.

“Well?” he demanded.

She shrugged, staring at the ground, fearing he would think her wanton and conniving. “I merely suggested it to my father.”

“And why would you do something so daft?” his voice dropped to a low and silky tone, a sound that sent a thrill through her.

“I did not think it daft.
Obviously my father does not think so either, even though he stated just as much.” She paused, chewing on her bottom lip, unable to raise her gaze past the mammoth chest filling her vision.

Brynmor sighed heavily
, dragging his hand through his hair. Rose sneaked a peek up at him and then wished she hadn’t as her heart hammered wildly in her chest and her blood pounded through her veins. Sweet Mary have mercy, he was handsome, the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on. But another thought occurred to her, sending her pleasant thoughts spiraling.

Brynmor didn’t want to marry her.
Why? Other men had called her beautiful and sought her hand. But Brynmor had not. Perhaps he thought her ugly and did not wish to be chained to her the rest of his life. Perhaps he still saw her as that little, foolish girl he had rescued so long ago. The one who had almost gotten him killed. She sighed miserably.

“Hey, now,” he said, his voice surprisingly gentle.
His Welsh accent, combined with the thicker burr spoken by commoners, grew more pronounced and more enchanting. No matter his learning and practice, he could never truly hide his freeman origin. His fingers touched her chin, sending sparks of fire shooting through her skin. He tugged until she looked up at him. She was surprised to see him gazing at her intently, a frown blurring his brow. He studied her a long moment.

For some reason
, her ire pricked under the intense regard. “Would you like to see my teeth next? I assure you they are all there.”

He blinked, startled, then stiffened as his eyes sparked furiously.
“I am not the one bartering you, you did that to yourself. Do not fault me for it.”

“I am not bartering myself but trying to strengthen an alliance.”
And save your sorry hide,
she added but kept the thought to herself. “Why can you not see the benefits of it?”

“Why would I see shackling myself in marriage to a temperamental spitfire a benefit?” he snapped.
“I like my women soft and willing.”

Anger and hurt roared within her and she clenched her fists.
“Is that what I am to you?” She felt hot tears welling in her eyes but refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry. “You will have to pardon me, for I saw myself as something more.” She turned on her heel. “I will tell my father this will not work. We will leave.”

“Rose,” he said gently a
nd his hand closed over her arm. “Forgive my thoughtless words. I merely spoke in frustration, not to hurt you.”

Well you did a fine job of the latter,
she thought but kept her jaw clamped shut.

Again he studied her a long moment, then he lowered his head and his shoulders sagged. “Rose
 . . . I am sorry,” he whispered, his burr thick. “Ye know I am not good with words.”

As she stared up at him, her anger faded.
The last time she had seen him she had witnessed a part of his struggle. His hesitancy to speak exasperated him and provoked his temper, making his battle all the more difficult. The more frustrated he became, the greater the chance he would speak out of turn. It was a struggle she understood. Although her father encouraged her to speak her mind, not many men appreciated that quality in a woman—another reason why she had not desired a noble suitor, she suddenly realized.

Rose decided
to divert the conversation away from his error. “Do you wish to truly know why I suggested this alliance?”

His eyes narrowed as he gazed intently at her.
“Aye.”

“Unless you form a more binding alliance with someone, anyone, you and your people will
suffer, as my father pointed out so indelicately last night. But the truth of the matter is, you must form a strong alliance, one that cannot be questioned, simply because both Llywelyn and Longshanks fear you.”

He reared back his head, startled.

“Aye,” she said, locking him in her gaze. “Imagine that, the Prince of Wales and the King of England fear the son of a freeman without a drop of noble blood in his veins. It matters not to them that you were not born to this duty. It matters that you have learned it so well. The power you wield with this principality combined with your battle skills terrifies them, Brynmor.”

“Nay
—”

“Even before you reached your majority, fully trained knights feared your sword
, and rightfully so. Although you refuse to acknowledge the power at your fingertips, Llywelyn and Longshanks are wise enough not to make that mistake. They will not ignore you, for to do so would be excessively foolish. You must bind yourself in some sort of alliance or risk the wrath of both. Because you once sided with Longshanks, any alliance you make with Llywelyn will be weak, no matter if it is by marriage, gold, forces, or treaty. Therefore, it stands to logic your best and strongest alliance would be to Longshanks—you have proven yourself to him once already.”

Rose saw his eyes widen. “Good glory,” he murmured
, and Rose knew it was because he did not expect her to have such a grasp of the politics at hand. But her father adamantly believed women should know politics as well as any man. She required the knowledge to be chatelaine, especially if her husband was away in military service owed to the king and it fell to her to manage the holdings during times of war and strife.

“Bryn
mor,” she said her voice gentling, “you cannot change the blood that flows in your veins. Your tie with Montgomery, an equally powerful English earldom, is weak. You cannot strengthen it with gold, for gold is temporary, nor troops, for they can be slain, and a treaty is not usually worth the paper it’s written on. Only a family tie offers the strength you need. And we can only achieve this tie by a marriage. Although my father has told me repeatedly that I do not have to do this, I know I do. I want to do this, Brynmor.”

He gazed at her, awestruck.
“Why, Rose?” his whisper cracked slightly. “Why, pray tell, do you wish to marry the likes of me?”

She huffed a sigh
. Hadn’t he been listening to anything she had said? “I thought marriage between us might work, Brynmor,” she said softly. “At least we are friends, are we not?”

H
e stared at her again. Rose swallowed hard, feeling as if his gaze peeled away her clothes and touched her skin. “We are friends,” he replied, his voice dropping to its silken tone—a dangerous tone, for it felt as if a soft blanket wrapped around her, melting her bones. “But you do not know me, Rose, despite the years between us.”

“Then let me get to know you.”

He shook his head harshly. “There is nothing to know within this hollow shell. Why do you insist on this match when you have noble suitors by the score?”

None of them are like you
: they do not send my heart racing with just a glance, they do not send fire through my skin with a touch, and they do not make me long to discover the strange emotions that wrap so tightly within me whenever I’m around you.

“Bryn
mor—”

He waved her off and rubbed the back of his neck, his gaze
becoming distant. “Enough, little one, I must meet with your father to discuss the marriage contract. The alliance must be carefully written if King Edward is to agree to it.” He turned on his heel and started to stride away.

“Bryn
mor.” Her voicing of his name froze him in his tracks.

“Aye?”

She lifted her chin impertinently. “I am not little anymore.”

He arched an eyebrow at her and the corners of his lips twitched, instantly giving him a beguiling expression of wry gentleness.
“So you keep reminding me,” he said, surprising her with a wink before continuing his stalking stride into the great hall.

Rose sighed, leaning against the wall, suddenly exhausted by the encounter.
“Perhaps this
is
daft. How could I ever make a decent husband out of him?” she asked staring up at the ceiling.

A soft laugh from the stairs startled Rose.
Her mother descended, her green eyes sparkling merrily. “No one makes our dear Brynmor into anything, Rose,” Gwen said.

Rose blushed furiously.
How much had her mother overheard?

“Now, now,” Gwen said, patting her arm.
“’Tis no time for doubts. Marriage frightens Brynmor.”

Rose couldn’t help the unladylike snort that escaped her.
“Him? Frightened?”

“It happens more often than you think, dear heart.
Your father went through the same thing before we were married.”

“My father I can understand, especially with what my mother did to him.”
She knew all about her birth mother. Vindictive and hateful, Eleanor had almost destroyed her father, cursing him to a life of misery and pain on her deathbed. Rose was so glad Gwen was her mother, perhaps not by blood but in all the ways that counted.

Gwen gripped her hand reassuringly.
“True, Rose, Brynmor did not suffer the same things your father did, but he has his own reasons.”

“But what are they?”

“I do not know, but they are his reasons, nonetheless. Do not forget that, Rose, if you are to have a successful marriage. It will be up to you to discover them and counter them with truth.”

“But he does not wish to marry me, Mo
ther.”

“On the contrary
, Rose, I think he does.”

Rose gaped at her.

Gwen flashed a bright smile. “I think he does want to marry you but cannot understand why you would want the same. Since we have known Brynmor he has struggled to accept his role as prince, still seeing himself as nothing more than the son of a freeman. If his life had been normal, he would never have had a chance to win your hand.”

Rose frowned, thinking furiously.
“He said he did not understand why I did not choose a noble suitor.”

“Learning his reasons is the start. Once I learned about your mother and you,
your father’s actions and his feelings became easier to understand.”

Rose smiled and kissed Gwen’s cheek.
“Thank you, Mother.”

“You are welcome.
Now, let us break our fast.”             

****

Brynmor rubbed his temples, a headache pounding in his skull. He and Montgomery sat at a desk in Brynmor’s study with parchments spread around them. Brynmor was actually grateful for Montgomery; the earl had negotiated many a formal treaty. He even helped form the Provisions of Oxford, creating a parliament in Longshanks’s court. If Montgomery had not been the one forcing this alliance down his throat, things would have been just fine. If it hadn’t been his daughter, Brynmor was to marry, things would have been perfect.

“We need to make certain Edward understands you swear fealty to him,”
Montgomery said as his quill scratched on the parchment. “And you will obey all the responsibilities that entails. As the Earl of Powys, if you do as much, the other princes will be more inclined to follow.”

Brynmor growled, struggling to read one of the pages
Montgomery had just finished. He knew his letters, especially those of his native language, but Latin was difficult for him. Being raised as a freeman did not give him leave for much book study, let alone formal documents of treaties and alliances. The difficulty slogging through the nonsense made him feel stupid and set his already tenuous temper boiling.

Montgomery
paused, looking at him thoughtfully. “Perhaps we should take a break; we’ve been at this all morning.”

Brynmor shrugged.
He wanted to, but he also wanted this to be over and done.

Montgomery
sighed, stretching in his chair. “You know, Brynmor, this marriage isn’t all bad. My daughter has a large dowry. My son will inherit the earldom, but her lands are extensive.”

Brynmor snorted.
“Just what I needed, more land to worry over. I do not mean to sound ungrateful, but I understand why Gwen did not want Powys.”