Heart's War (Heart and Soul) (7 page)

The old woman nodded and scurried away.

Brynmor gritted his teeth. While Petran may have dismissed the concern, Brynmor did not. The woman had a very valid—and possibly dangerous—point. A whisper of fear sent a cold tingle down Brynmor’s spine. He suddenly understood he had made a grave error in not realizing how his own people might view his marriage to an Englishwoman. He shook himself and tried to force the icy tendril away, but it clung stubbornly to him.

“Petran,” he said softly.

His steward turned, startled. “My prince,” he said as he approached. “Forgive me.”

“Worry not,” Brynmor said
, attempting to dismiss his apprehension, but it would not leave him. “We have more refugees approaching.

“Aye,” Petran said
, nodding sadly.

They strode for the keep and
Brynmor looked up, surprised to see Rose at the base of the stairs.

She
stood, watching the wounded, her face pale, her blue eyes grief-stricken.

“Nay, Rose,” he said stepping next to her. “You're ready to drop.”

“I have to, Brynmor. They're our people and they need help.”

His heart tightened in his chest and he took her hand in his. She was not his wife yet, they did not even know if Longshanks would approve the union, but her care for these people, her desire to stop their suffering
, tugged at emotions he had not known he possessed. He drew her hand to his lips and softly kissed her fingers. “What can I do to help, little one?”

She smiled at him and his heart took wing.

Hours later, after the sun had long since descended, Rose was still working to save lives. Brynmor watched her like a hawk. The amount of refugees in this group had filled the great hall to bursting. They had moved the high table and all the furniture out to make more floor space for the wounded.

Those who were uninjured or bore only minor
wounds bedded down in the stable and every other available space and outbuilding in the bailey. Brynmor's steward and the other servants tasked them to help serve food, clean clothes and bandages, and manage others whose injuries were simple, freeing Rose to tend to those who needed her skills. Many times she would examine someone, instruct a servant as to his or her care, and move on to the next.

Brynmor had changed into a comfortable tunic secured at his waist with a wide belt. But unlike the nobles he was suppose
d to mimic, he couldn't tolerate wearing hosen; instead he fell back to his roots as a freeman and wore braies of soft doeskin tucked into leather cross-quartered boots. Much more comfortable, and considering he was constantly kneeling on the stone floor to help wounded, much more sturdy and practical.

Rose stood and wavered unsteadily. He quickly closed the distance and caught her in his arms before she toppled over. “I'm
 . . . I'm all right,” she murmured, but she sagged against him, depending on his strength. “I just need a moment.”

He sighed heavily. She would work herself until she dropped
, but he understood and appreciated her desire to help. Though many may not be happy he was to marry an Englishwoman, her work here would do much to prove herself in the eyes of his Welsh brethren. But she was also his responsibility. He couldn't allow her to push herself to collapse.

He guided her away from the wounded and found an empty alcove where he unceremoniously sat on the floor and pulled her into his arms. He motioned for a servant to bring them food. Cook was already rationing and had made a stew, thinner than normal, but still hearty enough to sustain everyone.

Rose rested her head against his chest and he was abruptly reminded of his rescue of her so many years ago. She had been exhausted from her captivity and near starved. Many times she had fallen asleep as they rode for home, resting her head against his chest, trusting him to keep her in the saddle.

The servant brought him two bowls and he released her enough to eat but she
hardly moved. She ate very little, only picking at her food.

He finished his bowl and set it aside
and she had still barely touched hers. He closed his arms around her again and stroked her silky hair. He didn't wish to move. The hall had fallen silent and the night aged. There appeared to be a break in the refugees streaming through the gate. He didn't know how long it would last but welcomed the respite. He really should take her upstairs; the peace would not last long.

“Rose,” he whispered.

She didn't respond and he bent his neck to look down at her. Her eyes were closed and her breathing was deep and even. She had fallen asleep already. He had not the heart to wake her.

Brynmor pressed his lips to the top of her head and allowed himself a tiny smile
, again reminded of their journey home. “Aye, little one, rest. I will not let you fall.”

****

Sunshine streaming through an archer loophole and onto her face slowly woke Rose. As her awareness unwillingly pulled itself together, she realized she had fallen asleep in Brynmor’s arms,
and her head was still resting on his chest. She found herself unwilling to move and give up the pleasant sensation.

His hand gently caressed her hair and she felt his lips pressing against the top of her head. “Are you awake?” he murmured.

“Aye . . . barely.”

A soft chuckle rumbled through him.

She lifted her head enough to look up at him. The stubble on his chin had grown darker but his eyes gazed at her with a warmth she had never seen before. It was probably her exhausted imagination but it seemed with his weariness, the defenses that he brought to bear keeping everyone at arm’s length had slipped a bit. “How long?”

“A few scant hours.”

“And you?”

“
I dozed for a time.” His arms tightened around her and he shifted to the side, pulling her with him and out of the sunlight shining in her face. She blinked rapidly against the spots in her vision.

“Bryn
mor, you need to rest too.”

“I rested as much as you did.”
He pulled her back to his chest. “It seems this respite is lasting longer than I expected. We have a short time before more arrive.”

“More?”

“I heard the sentries. They have spotted more refugees on the road, headed this way.”

She sighed miserably.

“I know, little one.”

She rolled her eyes at the nickname
, but Brynmor could not see the action.

“I should get cleaned up,” he grumbled, “but I have no desire to move.”

Rose looked up at him again. Without command, her fingers reached out and brushed the rough stubble on his jaw. She couldn’t resist the smile pulling at her lips. “You appear as a rogue bent on mischief.”

His gaze suddenly grew hooded, and his blue-green eyes sparked.
He curled his finger under her chin and tugged her closer. His thumb brushed her bottom lip and he slowly lowered his head.

The cry of the sentry
announced the refugees approaching the gates.

The
fire in Brynmor’s eyes dimmed and he pulled away. His hand moved to brush the hair from her face and he looked toward the door of the keep for a moment. Then his gaze returned to hers. “Rose . . . I . . .” he hesitated and sighed.

“What’s wrong, Brynmor?”

“I’ve . . . heard some mutterings amongst the people. They . . . do not trust the English.”

“Of course, that’s to be expected.” She paused, her mind suddenly functioning again. “You mean they don’t trust me?”

His arms pulled her closer, pressing her against the length of his body. “Not in the matters of healing . . . in fact, the work you have done here—”

“You mean
they won’t trust me as your wife?” her voice rose.

“Aye,” he said and frowned in confusion. “Did you not realize this possibility?”

She sagged against him, her exhaustion threatening to overwhelm her. “Nay, but I should have.”

“
You had other concerns to worry over, Rose,” he said and levered himself up, pulling her with him. “I do not mean to trouble you, but it vexes me. I want you to be careful.”

She buried her face against his chest, her arms tight around him. “I don’t want to be careful
. I just want to sleep for a month.”

“Aye, litt
le one.” He kissed the top of her head again, but then his arms released her as he strode away, leaving her feeling lost and alone.

****

Rose stood at one end of the great hall, fighting the despair that threatened to swamp her. She stared at Brynmor, speaking with her father on the far side. Separating her from him was a sea of wounded and dying. “Some courtship,” she muttered.

“I know,” Gwen said
, stepping beside her. “I'm sorry, Rose, some things never go as planned.”

“I know, Mother
. It's no one's fault . . . I'm just frustrated.”

“And exhausted.”

“Aye.” Since that morning she had awoken in Brynmor's arms on the floor of the hall, she had only received a few hours of sleep, and that had been days ago.

As if sensing her gaze on him, Brynmor looked up, his ic
y gaze freezing her in place. He turned back to her father, spoke a few more words, then turned and walked to her, picking his way carefully along the small path they had made through the wounded. Her father fell in step behind him.

“Rose,” he said as he approached
, “would you and your mother be so kind as to join us in my study?”

Now what?
she wanted to snap, but managed to bite back the words. It wasn't his fault she was exhausted and a headache pounded between her temples. “Of course,” she heard herself say.

Brynmor offered his arm and escorted her to his study with her parents right behind.

What is going on?

Inside the study, Brynmor
led her to a comfortable chair. She sank into it gratefully and let her head fall back. She closed her eyes, wishing she could grab more than an instant of peace.

“Rose?”

She blinked, focusing her vision.

He crouched before her, holding her hand.

“Aye?”

“Are
ye sure you're all right?”

“I am,” she replied, a tired smile coming to her lips.

As he gazed up at her, her free hand reached for him, moving of its own accord. She longed to trace the gentle sweep of his cheek.

She heard her parents enter and her hand fell back into her lap.

Brynmor's gaze turned flinty as he looked over his shoulder. He released her hand and moved to his desk.

“Here, Rose,” her mother said
, handing her a cup of mulled wine. “It has herbs in it to help combat the exhaustion.”

“Thank you.” She took the cup, praying the herbs would work quickly.

Brynmor unrolled a map on his desk. “We cannot maintain this level,” he said. “We are full to bursting and our supplies are stretched too thin. I am calling in what is owed to us from my nobles, but many of them have their castles barred, waiting for Longshanks to come calling.”

“I hope our messenger reached him,”
her father muttered, looking at the map.

“Aye. If we do not hear from him in the next few days, I will send another. But if the worst should happen and that message falls in Llywelyn's hands, I have to prepare for the possibility of
attack. Castle Powys will not stand if we do not start evacuating the refugees. How many can we evacuate immediately?”

Rose blinked as all eyes turned toward her. She looked
to her mother, who only returned her gaze evenly. Gwen usually made these decisions. Abruptly Rose understood.
I am to be chatelaine here; of course they are looking to me to make the decision.

She drained her cup and stood, looking at the map. “There are about twenty who are uninjured who can help with the others.” She frowned, continuing to gaze at the map
. “Brynmor, these holdings colored the same as Powys, these are your personal holdings as Gwen’s adopted brother?”

“Aye,” he said. “They have not been granted to any other Welsh nobility.”

An idea blossomed. “Wagons,” she said. “There are many who cannot walk or ride, but they can be moved if they have wagons.”

“The fields around the castle appear as if we host the springtime market, Rose,” Brynmor muttered.

She laughed softly. “I can imagine. Which direction do they need to go?”

“Longshanks is focused
north of us. I'm hoping if he approves our marriage he will decide his back is protected. But Gloucester brings troops from the south. Therefore, we need to encourage the refugees to move west, deeper into my holdings and away from the Marches,” he hesitated his eyes narrowing. “And away from Mortimer.”

“Well said
,” her father agreed. He rubbed his jaw, studying Brynmor. “I will send word to Montgomery and have Marcus send as many supplies as we are able.”