Defiant Love Read online

  The brooches, and the equally lovely bracelets at her wrists and ankles, were among the more outward signs of Harold Godwinson's favor. Even more telling was Edythe's confident, assured demeanor. After fifteen years, Harold still showed no sign of putting her aside in favor of a Christian marriage, even though such a union would many times have been politically useful to him. She was his lady— mother of his only acknowledged children, mistress of his household, companion of his heart. And even Brenna, suspicious though she was of the dealings between men and women, could not help but recognize her happiness.

  Beside her sister, the younger girl thought her own looks dimmed to insignificance. But in fact they were the perfect foil for each other. The ebony richness of Brenna's hair, her lithe body poised between the unconscious grace of childhood and the sensual promise of womanliness, and her faintly challenging expression never failed to attract the attention of men. Only her tart tongue, which she exercised frequently, kept them at bay.

  Touched though she was by the Earl Harold's consideration for one who might otherwise have felt a little lost in the Great Hall surrounded by strangers, Brenna was certain her sister was teasing her about the degree of interest she would arouse. She said as much to Edythe, who surprised her again by insisting, "There will be much curiosity about you, Brenna. You must be prepared for that."

  Before she could question her sister as to her meaning, the King entered the Hall. Edward was dressed simply in a rough brown robe. Small of stature, his translucent skin was drawn tightly over bones as delicate as a child's. Only the long white beard and the deep shadows beneath his pale eyes proclaimed his age. Though the years had bent his back slightly and weakened a constitution that had never been strong, a sense of urgency flowed from him. He seemed confined even by the Great Hall, as though his spirit required some larger space.

  Excited though she was to be in the royal presence, Brenna barely noticed the King. All her attention was focused on the Seigneur Guyon D'Arcy. He was dressed in the Norman manner in a rich blue tunic and scarlet doublet, both embroidered in gold. Beneath the tunic, which ended at mid-thigh, he wore finely spun chausses with the tops of the stockings tucked into soft leather boots. A wide, metal-studded belt held the doublet closed around his waist. From the belt hung the scabbard of a dress sword set with uncut gems.

  The dress sword was worn out of deference to the King who, in his holiness, would have preferred men to come unarmed into his presence. No one was foolish enough to endanger his own safety, so the dress sword offered a compromise. Its rich ornamentation was meant to distract from its true purpose as a fighting weapon. Brenna had no doubt that in Guyon D'Arcy's case, the weapon could prove deadly at the slightest provocation.

  True to his conditioning as a warrior knight, his tall, lean body moved with fluid grace. Wide, powerful shoulders and muscular arms framed a brawny chest tapering to a narrow waist, slender hips, and long, sinewy legs.

  His dark blond hair, cut short, glistened with evidence of a recent bath. Without long hair or beard, his rugged features stood out clearly. Helpless to stop herself, Brenna's eyes lingered on the hard planes and hollows of his square face, drawn irresistibly upward to meet his gaze.

  Brenna stared straight into gleaming topaz eyes half-hidden by sun-tipped lashes. A slight smile curved the unexpectedly sensual mouth as the Norman betrayed his amusement at her scrutiny.

  "And may I present the Lady Brenna, kinswoman of the Earl Harold," the King was saying. "I don't believe you have met."

  "The honor is mine," Guyon D'Arcy mocked softly as he took the small, cold hand reluctantly extended to him.

  Brenna struggled to appear calm. Determined to ignore the tingling sensation that spread upward from the fingers Guyon so lightly grasped, she murmured, "You are far from home, my lord. Do you plan to stay long?"

  What audacity had seized her? Brenna wondered in dismay. Why couldn't she have simply acknowledged the introduction and left it at that? Why prolong the uncomfortably intimate contact with the man who had yet to release her hand?

  "That depends on a great many things, my lady. England shelters unexpected charms I am only beginning to discover."

  Common sense told Brenna to remain silent and let the encounter end, but some contrary spirit forced her to respond. "I'm sure that England's charms cannot compare with Normandy's."

  Guyon's eyebrows arched. He had not expected her to banter as the other ladies did. But since she had begun the game...

  "Normandy's charms are certainly warmer, my lady. But what England hides behind chilly winds can be more tempting."

  "But surely, my lord," the Queen interrupted, "you are not complaining about our weather? Rarely have we enjoyed a summer so pleasant."

  Reluctantly, Guyon released Brenna's hand and turned to his hostess. He had no choice but to presume that this consort of the holy Edward was as naive as she sounded. The plainness of her face and form was emphasized by a rough brown robe devoid of any ornament save a simple crucifix hung on a leather thong around her neck.

  Hours spent on her knees in prayer had permanently stooped the Queen's shoulders and rounded her back. Her face beneath the starched white coif was dry and lined, unenlivened by small black eyes. At thirty-five, she looked far older. There was little left of the vivacious girl who had grown up in Winchester, sister to Harold and only daughter of the powerful Earl Godwin.

  Those who had known the old earl said the Queen resembled him. Perhaps she did in appearance, but it was well known that if there had been any true resemblance in their characters, King Edward would never have married her.

  The King, deeply religious though he was, had hated Earl Godwin with a rare passion. Between the two men there was never anything more than an uneasy truce, and that frequently broken. Though Edward could never prove it, he was certain Godwin was responsible for the murder of his younger brother who had foolishly attempted to return from the family's exile in Normandy before the time was right.

  When fortunes changed and Edward became king, the realities of power politics forced him to accept Godwin as Earl of Wessex. He even went so far as to wed his daughter, after first determining that Edith shared his religious devotion and was possessed of an amenable, docile nature. Ties of marriage, however, had not prevented him from rejoicing at Godwin's death even as he bowed to the inevitability of Harold's succession as the new Earl of Wessex. Over the years, the uneasy truce was continued between them, as Harold jockeyed to become the next king and Edward strove mightily to assure the throne would go only to one of his own Norman upbringing whom he could trust.

  Thus Guyon's presence at the court, and his determination to maintain at least the facade of diplomatic courtesy behind which useful maneuvering might occur. Politely, he assured the Queen that he was indeed enjoying his stay, rarely had he known such balmy weather, and yes, he did believe the butterflies had never been so numerous.

  Brenna barely managed to swallow a giggle of relief. With Guyon seated between the King and Harold, the Queen and Edythe on either side of them, and Brenna next to her sister, she was far enough away from the Norman to recover at least somewhat from his presence.

  At least until Edythe suddenly leaned over and hissed in her ear. "What was that all about?"

  "What do you mean?" Brenna returned nervously.

  "You know perfectly well! That business with the Norman. What's going on?"

  "N-nothing! I was just... making conversation."

  "Some conversation," Edythe snorted. "Another minute and we would have been thinking the two of you wanted to be alone!"

  "What are you talking about? There was nothing improper...."

  "Oh for heaven's sake, Brenna! I know how innocent you are, but surely even you understand what it means when a man and a woman look at each other like that."

  The two women broke off as a priest rose to bless the meal. As could be expected in the King's house, the prayer was longer and more involved than usual. Only Edward sat through the whole of
it with his white head bowed and his gnarled hands folded reverently before him. Even the Queen, who could generally match anyone for holy endurance, had begun to shift restlessly before the final "Amen" was offered.

  A collective sigh of relief swept through the Hall as the company fell to. Servants rushed forward with basins of water and towels for hand-washing. Trenchers of bread were set at each place to serve as plates for the succulent bits of fowl, beef, game, and fish that followed. Silver goblets were kept filled with cool wine as conversation mounted, providing ample cover for those who wished to speak discreetly.

  "You have served the Duke for many years, my lord?" the King was asking.

  Guyon nodded. "Some fourteen years, since the siege of Domfront."

  "You could have been little more than a child then," the Queen exclaimed, her gentle face darkened at the thought of what that little boy must have seen.

  "I was eleven, my lady," Guyon told her calmly. "I had the honor to serve as the Duke's squire after my cousin, who had held the post, died from a fever a few days into the siege."

  Listening to his matter-of-fact recital of the events that first brought him to the Duke's notice, Brenna shivered. She knew well enough what had happened at the siege of Domfront. When that town, loyal to rivals of the Duke, refused to surrender, William hit upon the master-stroke of making an example of its unsuspecting neighbor, Alencon. That town, believing all attention to be focused elsewhere and having no role in the quarrel anyway, was poorly defended. Worse yet, its citizens had made the mistake of publicly mocking William for his bastard birth. Seized in a lightning-stroke, scores of Alencon's residents had their hands and feet cut off as a sign of the Duke's displeasure.

  When word of the atrocity reached Domfront, the stronghold speedily surrendered, putting an end to challenges to William's rule at least from northern France.

  "Your cousin?" Harold queried. "Would he also have been a D'Arcy?"

  Something in the seemingly innocent question made Brenna stiffen. She sensed the answer even before Guyon murmured. "No, my lord, he was not. D'Arcy was my mother's name."

  So Guyon, like the Duke he served, had also been born out of wedlock. And like the Duke, he clearly did not care to be reminded of the fact. Tension flickered between the Norman and the Earl, which Edward sought hastily to ease. "My guests," he said, gesturing to the assembled lords and ladies, "seem to be enjoying this style of dining."

  That was true, Brenna admitted grudgingly. The novelty of men and women sitting together at the same tables lent a special air of vivaciousness to the evening. Moderating their normally rough-edged manners, the lords offered subtle encouragement to the ladies bent on indulging in a little mutually pleasurable flirting. Whereas talk of politics and war usually held the men's attention at meals, a different sort of combat now held sway. Eyes gleamed and lips parted in smiles as, under the shelter of the tables, battle-toughened thighs pressed temptingly against soft, slender limbs.

  "It's just as well the priest did such a thorough job of the blessing," Edythe teased, sending her Earl an inviting smile.

  Harold wasn't shy about returning her look. His eyes wandered appreciatively over the ripe lithesome form of his lady. While nothing could cause him to relax his guard in the King's house, especially not while Guyon D'Arcy was present, he could see no harm in a little light distraction.

  Watching the wordless loveplay between her sister and the Earl, who though almost forty was still as handsome and well-built as any woman could want, Brenna felt as though she viewed a mystery whose contours were only just beginning to become known to her. The fact that she had any sense at all of what it might be like to feel desire made her flush.

  Always before, the sensual feint and parry she witnessed would have meant nothing to her except that the promised trip to London market the following day would be delayed. Certainly, Edythe would not be rising early. When she did emerge, there would be an air of contentment about her that Brenna could not help but envy. That puzzling sense of fulfillment lay at the center of the mystery she had never before dared to contemplate too closely.

  Glancing up, her heart skipped a beat. Guyon D'Arcy was staring at her openly. The thick-fringed topaz eyes wandered over her hair and face, down the slender line of her ivory throat, to settle on the soft rise and fall of her ripe breasts.

  He was leaning back in his chair, the goblet twirled absentedly between lean fingers as he appeared to give his attention to the King. In fact, his mind was firmly engaged elsewhere. Brenna could almost feel those steely hands on her, moving at will over her back and waist to the smooth curve of her hips. She flushed hotly.

  Seeing her discomfort, Guyon grinned. The action stripped years from his age, making him look almost boyish. Brenna could not help but stare as before her eyes the relentless warrior was transformed into an undeniably attractive, even charming man.

  As though he could read the very passage of her thoughts, Guyon's smile widened. In his look lay a challenge Brenna could not acknowledge. She let her own gaze fall to the table, praying that the evening would soon be over.

  Chapter Two

  "Have you a full bolt of the cloth? I am not interested otherwise."

  "Indeed, my lady," the merchant hastened to assure Edythe. "The bolt is as yet untouched. It should be ample to your needs." Anxious to please, he added, "Few have your discernment."

  "Few can afford your prices," Edythe scoffed, but not too harshly. The cloth she eyed was velvet, just beginning to be imported from the East. Thick and lush, the gray-green fabric glowed with a sheen no other could match. Come winter, it would be perfect for a lady's mantle or even, if there was enough, a cloak.

  Beside her, Brenna shifted restlessly. She was enjoying her slightly delayed trip to London market, but the bargaining over this particular length of cloth had gone on long enough to bore her. She couldn't understand why Edythe was so determined to have it. The velvet wasn't even her color.

  Sighing, she glanced around for some amusement. At a respectful distance, half a dozen of the Earl Harold's thegns kept careful watch. Well-ordered though the market was, there were occasional thefts and drunken squabbles among the tavern patrons. The thegns were there to be sure no such event touched their lady to the slightest degree. Should Edythe be at all discomfited or, the Lord forbid, frightened, the Earl Harold would never let them hear the last of it.

  They were a patient group, Brenna thought wryly. After a morning spent following the ladies from booth to booth, they looked hot and tired, but nonetheless determined to endure. She couldn't say the same for herself. Licking her lips, Brenna found them dry. She was thirsty, as well as bored. Her cool room back at Thorney, the table piled with new books and clean paper, beckoned. But she could hardly desert her sister, especially when the trip had been arranged at her own urging.

  London market, at least, proved everything Brenna had imagined and then some. Never in her wildest dreams could she have pictured the immense array of fabrics, spices, ornaments, household goods, weapons, and livestock spread out among hundreds of flag-bedraped stalls each vying with all the others for attention and trade.

  The rhythmic chants of merchants calling passers-by to come view their goods joined the cacophony. Men of all races and creeds swarmed through the market, making themselves understood in a vigorous mixture of languages through which vulgate Latin ran as the common thread.

  From the market, the city reached out haphazardly along crooked streets of hard-packed dirt. Squat buildings of wood and thatch were decorated by intricate carvings meant to give protection against evil. The talismans were Celtic or old Norse, reminding all that even within the sight of London's many churches the ancient pagan ways still flourished.

  Open fields within the city provided cropland or fodder. Oxen, sheep, cows, and pigs roamed at will, their droppings mingling with the odors of salt water, bilge waste, carcasses, and river mud to give London its distinctive aroma.

  Silently giving thanks for the brisk bre
eze that kept the stench from settling, Brenna caught her sister's eye. "Do you mind if I look for the scribners's stalls? I've heard they're right nearby."

  Edythe smiled resignedly. "Not at all. Go ahead and I'll meet you back at Thorney. But mind, don't be late."

  Brenna nodded reassuringly. Her step was light as she hurried away, barely noticing the two thegns who immediately detached from the others and followed her. Although the crowd was thick, Brenna moved through it easily. Her rich dress and the watchful presence of two armed men behind her gave silent notice that she was not to be disturbed. Observers presumed her to be kinswoman to some powerful lord or, as beautiful as she was, perhaps a cossetted favorite. Either way, they took care not to jostle or touch her in any way.

  She walked speedily enough to almost pass through the scribners's section of the market without noticing it, it was so small. Only when she was drawn up short by a display of pens did Brenna realize she had reached her goal. Backtracking, she began to browse through the stalls offering paper, ink, illuminating paints, and even a few precious books.

  Following her, the thegns sighed. At least the section of the market where fabrics were sold offered the chance to watch pretty women busily in pursuit of the latest fashion. Here there was nothing but a few old monks and some pimply-faced scholars. They could only hope she would not linger long, although her interest as she paused before one booth did not bode well.

  Busy examining the consistency of a particular ink the merchant claimed would neither clog nor blot, Brenna jumped when a voice near her ear suddenly murmured, "It runs."

  She whirled, almost spilling the small jar clutched in her hand as she found herself staring up into the fierce topaz eyes of Guyon D'Arcy. The Norman stood so close to her that Brenna could feel the warmth emanating from his powerful body. Sunlight gleamed on the blond head that towered over her. He was simply dressed in a plain tunic and mantle. A longsword was strapped to his left side with a short fighting dagger opposite it. One large, callused hand rested easily on the dagger's hilt, as though accustomed to being there.