Defiant Love Page 4

  Years before, Brenna remembered her father growing curious about the main road that cut through Norfolk. How, he wondered, could anything so well endure the endless traffic of men and carts without showing the slightest sign of wear? On a whim, he set a group of theows to work digging up the road. His neighbors watched in respectful amusement, aware that the reeve of Norfolk was a good man cursed by an overly inquiring mind.

  After three days of digging, he gave up. The theows had uncovered layers of flagstones interspersed with gravel reaching down some dozen feet, but they had yet to find the roadbed. Shaking his head in amazement, Brenna's father ordered the excavation filled in and went back to his ledgers. But he never ceased to wonder at the skill and power of the ancients who had built for eternity, only to vanish beyond memory.

  As they neared the royal island two miles west of the city, Brenna could see the evidence of King Edward's own striving for immortality. For decades, craftsmen and laborers had swarmed over the abbey that would serve London's west minster. Intended as a monument to the King's godliness, its Norman design complete with fierce gargoyles, weight-defying buttresses, and high-pointed towers did not endear it to the English men and women who watched it slowly rise above the surrounding trees and buildings.

  Now that the Abbey was almost completed, it stood taller than the royal residence itself. Built of light-hued stone, the sheer walls punctuated only by slit windows were surrounded by a deep defensive ditch which could be taken as a symbol of the King's distrust of his nobles and subjects. After decades on the throne, the English-born but Norman-reared king was still very much a stranger in his own land. His mother's treachery when she rejected the children of her first marriage in favor of the second's had sent Edward and his brother into exile in the Duchy. By habit and conviction, he still looked to it as the bastion of all that was good.

  But was it? Brenna wondered. Though she found her room at Thorney quite comfortable, she greatly preferred the Anglo-Saxon design of her home in Norfolk and Harold's stronghold at Winchester. Built of native woods, wattle, and thatch, they were far more human in both size and style. No one, Brenna thought, could look on the Norman structures without recognizing their warlike nature. Every house, even every church, was built to withstand siege. She shivered, considering what it must be like to live in such an environment.

  "Are you chilled?" Guyon asked, his hand already on the fastening of his cloak. He would have immediately stripped it off and wrapped it around her had not Brenna forestalled him.

  "I was just wondering what it must be like to live behind stone walls all the time." Gesturing toward the royal residence, she asked, "Is your home like that?"

  "It's not quite as large," Guyon told her gravely, "but yes, the design is similar." He looked at her closely for a moment before adding, "Many women find our keeps quite comfortable. The walls are white-washed and hung with tapestries. They hold back the wind quite well. The floors are stone, but spread with rushes so they aren't too cold. And the rooms aren't as smoky as in English homes. We've started using what we call a 'chimney' to carry the smoke away."

  Brenna, who knew well what it meant to cough and tear in a smoke-filled hall, was immediately interested. "What is a 'chimney'?"

  "A sort of funnel for drawing smoke outside. It also makes it possible to sit closer to a fire and so benefit more from its light and heat."

  "Why don't we have them here?" she asked.

  "They have to be built of stone," Guyon explained, "so they don't catch fire themselves. Since very little stone is used for building in England, they haven't caught on yet. Perhaps they will in a few years. We're really only just getting used to them in Normandy." He laughed, thinking of how poorly some people took any change. "When I built my stronghold, I took care to include several chimneys. Many of my neighbors are still shaking their heads over them."

  "I can't quite picture how they work," Brenna admitted, "or why." Her smooth brow furled with the effort. How wonderful it would be never again to have to endure a smoky room, or be unable to get close enough to a fire to fully enjoy its benefits.

  "Perhaps you'll see for yourself one day," Guyon murmured. His eyes were suddenly very intent as they studied the slender form sitting so erect on the chestnut mare.

  "Perhaps," Brenna agreed politely, thinking there was really very little chance of her ever visiting Normandy. With her move from Norfolk to Winchester, and this trip to London, she had already done far more traveling than almost anyone she knew.

  Of course, if she became a nun she might go on a pilgrimage to Rome, or even the Holy Land. Brenna sighed to herself, unwilling to spoil the day with thoughts of the religious vows that seemed more and more a certain part of her future. Guyon's hands, hard and warm at her waist as he helped her dismount, made that prospect no pleasanter.

  She bade him farewell, and resolved to spend what time remained before supper in copying out a particularly difficult passage. Surely that task would soothe her mind and banish her worries. But no sooner did she begin to struggle with the text than a pair of laughing topaz eyes seemed to appear on the blank page before her. She was swept by the remembered sense of him, the warm resiliency of his skin when their hands brushed, the mingled scents of clean wool and burnished leather and manly sweat that he exuded, the deep rumble of his voice when he was amused.

  Brenna's pen snapped between her fingers and she cursed in sheer frustration. Something was happening to her that she could not even attempt to understand. She knew only that for the first time in her life she had truly enjoyed the company of a man not her kin.

  Staring out the tiny window, she counted the hours to supper and wondered how many more days the Seigneur D'Arcy intended to remain in London.

  Chapter Three

  Standing on tiptoe to see over the heads of the crowd, Brenna searched eagerly for Guyon. She knew he and his Norman knights would be taking part in the games, but none of the contestants had yet appeared on the field.

  Only a few young boys could be seen raking the ground where the wrestling matches would take place, setting up targets for archery and ax-throwing, and generally making themselves useful. They hollered dares at one another, each boasting of his lord's unbeatable prowess.

  Spectators already gathering in the stands egged them on. Odds were being set and wages laid. Betting ran heavily in favor of the English since all the games were Anglo-Saxon. There would be none of the fighting from horseback with lance or longsword at which the Normans so excelled. Nonetheless, Brenna was certain Guyon and his men could acquit themselves honorably.

  Almost overcome with impatience, she bounced up and down on her toes and fidgeted restlessly. Beside her, Edythe laughed. "For Heaven's sake, sit down. They won't be starting for a while yet."

  "I know," Brenna sighed, "it's just that..." She broke off, embarrassed by her sister's knowing scrutiny.

  "Yesss..." Edythe drawled. Her bright blue eyes gleamed with mischief. She was greatly enjoying the spectacle of her quiet, studious little sister suddenly eager for the sight of a man. No sport the day could offer would be anywhere near as amusing as the entertainment Brenna had been inadvertently providing all week.

  Granted, it had taken awhile to figure out what was going on. At first, it just seemed that Brenna was unusually preoccupied. When she joined the other ladies in the solar, it was almost impossible to get a word out of her. She was forever staring dreamily into space or out the window, her expression bemused but happy. Edythe presumed she was thinking about the new book King Edward had lent her. But when she asked Brenna about it, the young girl sheepishly admitted she had yet to open the missive.

  About then Edythe began noticing just how constantly Guyon D'Arcy seemed to be around. As was to be expected, he took meals in the Great Hall and put in regular appearances at chapel. Edythe could hardly fault him for that. But he also managed to drop by the stables when Brenna took a treat to her mare, he turned up in the gardens when she walked there to see the new roses, he even wan
dered down to the river where Brenna sat to watch the boats go by.

  When the court rode out to hunt, Guyon was at Brenna's side. When she expressed a wish to view the abbey construction more closely, he voiced a like desire and accompanied her. When she went back to the market to purchase vellum, Guyon decided he needed some too and went along.

  It was all very puzzling, Edythe mused. Not that she was surprised at Guyon's attraction to Brenna. Her sister was a very beautiful and, when she tried, gracious young lady. What did surprise her was Brenna's apparent willingness to be with the Norman. Edythe had never before known her to be truly at ease in the presence of any man save her father and brothers. But with Guyon she was markedly relaxed.

  In the stable yard just stirring at the first gray light of dawn, in the gardens perfumed by the afternoon sun, in the Great Hall after supper, wherever they happened to meet, their laughter rang out frequently. The easy companionship that had sprung up between the Norman lord and Brenna provoked smiles from some, but glares from many. The court ladies in particular grumbled at Guyon's obvious avoidance of them. He made no secret of preferring Brenna's company, a sentiment the young girl clearly returned. Edythe glanced at her sister hopefully. Could it be that the past was finally loosing its terrible grip on Brenna?

  Not suspecting what lay behind Edythe's regard, Brenna met her smile warmly. "It can't be much longer surely? Not now that the King is seated."

  "Oh, I'm certain it will be hours yet," Edythe insisted teasingly. "Perhaps the games will just be cancelled and we'll spend the day in chapel."

  Brenna grimaced. Her eyes, as deep and mysterious as a moss-draped pond, fell to her lap. "You mock me."

  "Never that," Edythe assured her quickly. Her voice was tender as she added, "I merely enjoy your happiness."

  "I am happy," Brenna admitted, vivacity returning. "The court is wonderful. I can't thank you enough for bringing me here."

  Edythe fought back a smile. In some ways, her younger sister reminded her of herself years before when she first met Harold Godwinson. She too had been shy of the strange feelings he provoked within her, and frightened by the fiercely male determination to possess that she had unwittingly triggered in him. But her own case had been much simpler. There were no nightmares to detract from the natural progress of desire into love.

  Silently, Edythe reminded herself she must speak to the Earl about Brenna. As intelligent and observant as he was, Harold certainly knew of the Norman's interest in his kinswoman. But the question remained of what he intended to do about it. Between Guyon and the Earl there was bad feeling, but of a political rather than personal nature. Since there was no certainty that Brenna's unexpected ease with the Norman could be repeated with another man,

  Edythe was loathe to let this chance go by. For her sister's sake, she hoped to work something out....

  Edythe's thoughts broke off as the contestants began to take the field. The crowd cheered raucously, their shouts reaching a crescendo as the Earl Harold and his brother, the Earl Leofwine, appeared with their men. Edythe could not suppress the shiver of pleasure that darted through her at the sight of her lord.

  Well over six feet tall, his powerful, rock-hard body towered over most of the other men. Dark blond hair hung to his massive shoulders. A short beard and a mustache with long, pointed ends draped on either side of his sensual mouth gave him a dangerously vulpine look. Clad only in a loincloth, it was clear that although he was almost forty, Harold Godwinson remained in the peak condition of a seasoned warrior. His brawny chest was lightly covered by fine gold hairs tapering in a narrow line down his flat abdomen. His long legs were heavily muscled, the corded sinews rippling as he moved.

  Without realizing that she did so, Edythe stood up. Their eyes met. The Earl flashed her a grin blatantly evocative of the night they had just spent together. Edythe flushed as the crowd, understanding the look well enough, roared its approval. She hastily resumed her seat, glad that Brenna was too preoccupied to notice her embarrassment.

  The younger girl barely noted the presence of her kinsmen on the field as her eyes swept past them, searching for Guyon's tawny head. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart began to hammer painfully against her ribs as she caught sight of him.

  Like Harold, Guyon wore only a loincloth, but whereas the sight of her kinsman's near-naked body had no effect on her, Brenna's reaction to Guyon was sharp and acute. She bit her lip to hold back a gasp as a sensation very close to pain stabbed through her. In the clear sunlight of that perfect summer day, he stood—the epitome of masculine beauty. Battle-hardened muscle and long, hard bone moved sinuously beneath burnished skin. From the soles of feet, planted slightly apart in an easy but power-laden stance, to the top of his rugged head turning to scan the crowd, an aura of controlled force hung about him.

  Brenna's mouth was suddenly dry. Her small pointed tongue darted out to moisten parched lips. Beneath her thin linen tunic and the fine silk mantle she wore over it, her breasts grew taut, the nipples hardening. An urgent core of warmth began in her middle and spread outward, making her tremble. Swept by alternate waves of heat and cold, she wondered dimly what illness threatened.

  Her small hands were clenched white against the railings when Guyon, finding her at last, approached. He stood before her, smiling broadly, oblivious to any presence save hers.

  "My lady," his deep voice intoned gently, "in Normandy it is the custom for a knight to wear a lady's favor in tournament. Will you indulge me in this?"

  Without pausing to think, Brenna's hand flew to one of the jade green ribbons woven through her long ebony tresses. She pulled it free, tossing it to Guyon who caught it with an easy motion. Topaz eyes sparkled as he looped the ribbon around the bulging muscle of one arm, tying it carefully in place. His gaze caressed her warmly before he bowed his thanks and returned to the field. Only then did Brenna become aware of the risqué laughter of the crowd. She shrank back in her seat, torn between embarrassment and pleasure so intense that she could not quite force back the smile that curved her lovely lips.

  Caught up in a world which at that moment included nothing other than Guyon and herself, Brenna didn't notice the swiftly appraising glance her sister sent her. Nor did she see Edythe and the Earl Harold's eyes meet again, this time with serious intent. Some silent communication sped between them. The Earl hesitated, eyeing the oblivious young girl with a gaze at once indulgent yet perceptive. Understanding dawned as he looked again at Edythe, nodding abruptly before he too returned to the field.

  The rest of the morning passed in a daze for Brenna. She was only distantly aware of the startled exclamations from the crowd as those who had bet heavily on the English quickly discovered the Normans were more capable than they had guessed. Guyon and his men might not fight with arrow and ax, but they were skilled enough in their use. Not too surprising when one remembered that although their knightly code prevented them from using such weapons themselves, they were responsible for teaching their use to the foot soldiers who fought with them.

  Guyon, it quickly developed, could shoot an arrow straight and true as any Englishman. He and the Earl tied in the archery competition, the stalemate broken only when Harold managed to splinter the arrow Guyon had sent home straight to its mark. The Norman acknowledged the victory with good grace, only to promptly beat all the English lords, including Harold, in ax-throwing. But it was in the wrestling that Guyon and his knights truly showed their strength. The English were every bit as powerful and agile, yet they could not best the Normans. In every match, they carried the day through sheer determination and stubbornness that kept them hanging on long after any sane man would have given up.

  Brenna closed her eyes in horror at one moment when she could no longer bear to witness the punishment Guyon was taking. His opponent was a bull of a man, even larger and more massive than Guyon himself. Three times he lifted the Norman from the ground and sent him hurtling back with brutal force. Each time Brenna started in terror, fully expecting to
hear the dreaded crack of a bone. But three times Guyon regained his feet and continued the match. The last time, the English bull shook his head in astonishment. His own legs were at last beginning to buckle and he was unsure how much longer he could hold out against the crazy Norman.

  The two men, sweat-streaked and begrimed, circled each other warily. Each was red-faced and panting, but in Guyon's leonine eyes burned the fierce will to win. The Englishman lunged. Guyon neatly sidestepped him and, catching his leg, sent him sprawling to the ground. As the man struggled to rise, Guyon was on him instantly, locking his opponent's arms behind him and ramming his own knee into the man's back in a way guaranteed to break it if surrender did not come quickly.

  Exhausted, the Englishman slumped in defeat. The crowd, partisan though it was, roared its approval. Norman he might be, but Guyon had won the admiration of every man. They knew what it had cost him to continue with the match and though they might privately hope to never meet such fierceness in battle, they could afford to acclaim it on the gaming field.

  From the women came a very different sort of admiration. Brenna's small hands clenched into fists as a lady seated just behind her ventured a whispered comment to a friend about the merits of wrestling with Guyon. "That's a sweet combat I wouldn't mind losing," she giggled.

  "I'd pay the forfeit gladly," her friend agreed. "Rarely have I seen a man so well-endowed or with such stamina. It's a pity to waste such skills in this arena."

  "What makes you think he confines them here?" the first lady challenged, her eyes still wandering over Guyon's powerful body. As he came to stand before the King and accept his congratulations, she deliberately allowed her gaze to linger on that part of him covered by the loincloth which though decent left little to the imagination. "Well-endowed indeed," she murmured thickly.

  A cynical smile played across Guyon's handsome features as he deliberately ignored the lady's interest. His eyes softened as they moved on to Brenna. Her damask cheeks were flushed and those gray-green pools of light he privately thought a man could drown in flashed angrily. Wondering what could have irked her he had to fight down the urge to go to her at once, soothe her temper, and learn what might be wrong. In his present state, he was no fit company for any lady. Reluctantly, he left the field to bathe and dress.