Ironheart. Emily French

winter mornings, but she was always so indulgent, so tolerant, not at all stiff and proper. She was also very superstitious.

      “You are trying to make my blood run cold, Elen. Well, I am not so easily frightened.”

      “Nevertheless, such talk is dangerous,” Elen said in a low voice. “I’ve seen you grow up, Brenna. You run, jump, indulge in all manner of masculine pursuits, speak four tongues and even read. ’Tis not expected of a woman, and disturbs the natural order of things.”

      Brenna bit her lip to keep from laughing. “I can also sew a fine stitch, spin wool, bake bread, grow herbs, tend the sick and sing to the bees.”

      “It is magic. Which is why they call you a she-devil.”

      “Nonsense. The bees like my singing and make honey in appreciation. I use no magic, else I would make that upstart Kil Coed weak, turn his muscles to pudding. Instead he bends an iron axle over his knee as if it were wet bread dough.”

      Low and thick, Elen said, “Don’t give them any more substance to talk about!”

      “What does it matter?”

      “It matters,” Elen said harshly. “I’m just trying to protect your reputation. I know you say I gossip too much, but I worry—”

      “Dear Elen, you have always been worried about me, haven’t you? I remember when I was a child you were always in a flutter for fear I should fall down and hurt myself. Well, sometimes there have been reason in your fears, but no more. My knight’s presence is enough, and his strength and golden voice. I need no more.”

      From now on her whole life would be dedicated to him. Yes, that’s what they’d do—walk through the years together. As if provoked a little by this resolve, thunder boomed out above the towers, making her jump. A door shut downstairs, echoing.

      “It seems unreal, but I will wed Aubrey of Leeds on the Sabbath, Elen. From that moment, I will behave like a saint, that I promise you.”

      Chapter Three

      Leon set his weapon belt on the bench nearest the bed, thinking how unexpected this all was, lodging in the room that had been Brenig’s own in his youth. He hoped he was wrong, but he did not take for granted all that he could.

      Wales was a savage and rebellious place, with great mountains and strange customs. Odd things happened, and law was a matter of local option. Beyond the Dee the land turned primitive, towns and villages growing fewer, hill and forest rising toward the western mountains. The rumors were dark here, tales of marauders upon the roads, villages sacked and burned.

      He sat down on the edge of the bed and tugged off his boots. Suspicions had begun to move about inside his mind, causing swirls and ripples of unease like the movements of something large and ominous lurking beneath the surface of deep water. Had not the king but lately revoked the title of Lord of the Northern Marches, throwing this western realm into turmoil and confusion? Had not the same king dug up old grudges from his childhood days and found reasons to heckle and harass that obliged Lord Fulk to flee from Whittington?

      Why? The answer was as simple as it was distressing. The king had deliberately unleashed a potentially explosive power struggle to distract his increasingly antagonist parliament from what was happening in his provinces on the other side of the English Channel.

      Leon knew what would happen. The plots would multiply until those who sought to take Fulk FitzWarren’s place would be overwhelmed. He also knew that the Brenigs were political animals. Intrigue was second nature to them.

      He was no novice in deceit, but mayhap he was suspicious and uncharitable even to suspect Brenig treachery in housing him in this grand chamber—without ascertaining who he was—as he was suspicious and uncharitable to suspect Brenig treachery in permitting the heiress, with no guards, risking danger—

      Only Brenna had faced no danger of alleged outlaws. The rescue, if rescue it could be called, was so easy as to be ridiculous.

      Too easy.

      There had been guards within call, and the boys Telyn and Tudur ready to call the alarm. He liked that stroke; he truly did. A fine jest, if it were not so reckless. Respectful. Convincing, if less in the province were amiss.

      A brief flash of lightning chased the shadows. Thunder cracked close. Rain thumped down as if scattered by an enormous hand. The wind battered against the shutters, making the timber slats dance to its rhythm. He crossed the room, unlacing cuffs, collar, and side laces and hauled off shirt and tunic together, before throwing open the shutters. The wind gusted in through the slitted window, setting the candles fluttering wildly.

      Too much, he thought, beginning to sway. Too much. The feeling of falling clung to him like a shroud. His head throbbed. He was having trouble focusing his eyes. He put his hand to his head. Abruptly the realization came that he had a lump on his skull the size of an egg.

      Disposing his clothes on the peg against the wall, he stripped off his filthy breeches and reached out again for his shirt. He retrieved the amulet from its hiding place, and took it in his hand, feeling a warmth where it touched his palm, a sweet, sad warmth.

      Memory, swift and involuntary: a dark night, a pale face out of which two eyes stared like living cinder, a vow. It was nostalgia, but he held it fast, and it sang to him of elvish dreams and memories. It took him back so vividly.

      He’d had a dream of changing the world in his golden youth, when such things were possible…

      And he’d gone all the way to the Holy Land.

      But that was not far enough for his troubles, not far enough for safety from falsehood and deceit, his foster father’s scheming, his own damnable stupidity—

      He shook his head, and laughed angrily, giddily, to himself. He tucked the amulet into his weapon belt and stood in front of the slitted window, shivering in the wind that blew in out of the dark, in the hope that the damp air would clear his wits.

      Brenna hurried along the corridor ahead of the servants, and wondered why she had left Aubrey so suddenly. Why was she so beset by doubts? Surely there was no harm in kissing her betrothed on the very eve of their marriage? She thought of the ceremony to take place on the Sabbath, and of how this storm would not be viewed as a particularly good omen…

      There was an air of chill in the chamber as she entered, despite the cheerful fire burning on the hearth. His bulky shape was outlined by lightning from without and the contours of him shone where they caught the light.

      She stood, stone-still. The light burnished his hair and accentuated the planes of his handsome face, transforming it for her into something splendid, something awesome. The perfect tapestry of one half of his face was a splendid foil to the tracery of livid white scars on the other cheek. The contrast was absolute.

      It was not the face of a scholar or a seer; it was the battle-hardened face of a warrior, a man who had faced death and would not allow its dark promise to control him.

      The face was dauntless—but the eyes were striking. Shielded by thick sable lashes, they were his best feature, eagle-keen and very clear. She’d liked their singular silvery color, so translucent they took color from lake or moss or stone.

      The light shone, too, on the rest of him, bathing him in a nimbus of flame and making his bared skin gleam ruddy. He had removed his outer garments, and was wearing only his linen loincloth. She found it impossible not to stare, transfixed, listening to the wild beating of her heart.

      He appeared incredibly beautiful, his shoulders wide, the skin of his chest stretched taut across his squared muscles. His abdomen was flat and without superfluous flesh. In the pulsing light, his massive torso looked as though it had bathed in iron dust. Even the down on his chest had a peculiar metal sheen. But his whole body was a map of injuries and hurts, old and new, and his arms were laced with myriad scars that served further proof he kept his livelihood by the sword. This was not, she thought, a man to cross.

      The thunder