Heart's War (Heart and Soul) (26 page)

Brynmor held his horse to a slow canter as he galloped from his pavilion to the staging area. The cheers and cries of approval grew like a rolling wave as he passed. He could scarce come to terms with all that happened, but the one thing he could acknowledge was that Rose was safe.

He pulled his horse to a stop at the head of the staging area and gave
Montgomery a nod of acknowledgment. The deafening cheers dizzied him. Never had he imagined such a thing would be possible. Suddenly both Welsh and English stood unified under the banner of a freeman farmer . . . nay . . . unified under his banner, the Earl of Powys.

He held up his hand for silence as his horse danced in place.

“You all know what is at stake here, you all know what is required of you. I'll not speak the words that are already in your hearts. I will simply say my lady and I thank you. Your courage and loyalty do us great honor. I am proud of my lady, who defied our enemy and stood bravely on the walls. I am proud to fight with you. Together we shall reclaim our home.”

Cheers exploded, startling his horse. The animal reared violently
, screaming its challenge in answer to the roaring troops, but Brynmor easily controlled it and settled the mount on all fours.

H
e raised his hand again for silence. “I have only one instruction,” he said when the noise settled. “No one touches Owain ap Gwenwynwyn.” He paused, feeling the rage seethe within him. “He answers to me and me alone.”

Brynmor touched his spurs to his horse
; it reared again and he spun, galloping toward the castle. Montgomery's horse fell in stride only a pace behind him, followed by his mounted commanders. The troops lifted their weapons and roared their battle cry, sprinting after him.

They approached the castle w
alls like a maddened horde. Brynmor grinned viciously as he saw several archers on the battlements throw down their bows and abandon their posts.

He turned his horse away and headed to the place where he and the rest of his commanders could view the battle. The troops charged ahead, screaming their frenzy
, but the serjants maintained control. Drummers began their beat, a rhythm which not only carried the surge of anticipation before a fight but also instructed the soldiers to form their battle set and await orders. Brynmor looked again to his commanders, but none asked him to hold, all were ready.

The drums stopped and a heavy silence descended.

Brynmor drew a deep breath. “Now, Commander,” he barked.

The commander lifted the horn to his lips. As the wail echoed through the valley, Brynmor's soldiers roared their rage and charged.

****

Thanks to the sappers Brynmor had sent into the tunnel, the castle gates fell with surprisingly little effort. Brynmor put on his helm and drew his sword. His battle commanders following, he spurred his horse through the open gates. His sword rose and fell, hacking through the enemy who dared stand against him. He no longer thought of them as his Welsh brethren
—these men had sacked his home and tried to murder his wife.

The enemy faded away, most running through the gates
, but shouts caught his attention. He pulled his horse to a stop and tore off his helm. Montgomery pulled his horse up alongside.

He saw his soldiers forming a loose ring around a man. The man tried to charge and engage
, but Brynmor's soldiers simply defended themselves until they could kick him back into the center of the circle.

“It's
Owain,” one of his men said. “Don't touch him!”

“Find the
earl!” another cried.

Brynmor growled a curse, red tinting his vision. He vaulted from his horse and stalked toward the ring of men.

“The earl approaches!”

“Justice for our lady!”

“Make the sod pay!”

He
gripped the hilt of his sword, his fist straining the seams of his glove. Cheers rose around him and men moved aside, giving him a clear path to the center of the ring.

Owain
faced him. His lip curled into a sneer. “I'm surprised you have the courage to face me, farmer.”

Rage burned in his gut
; the soft sound of Rose weeping haunted him.

Owain
brought his sword on guard and slowly circled; the sneer on his face did not fade. “I heard rumor you found your little slut. Did she survive?”

Fury nearly robbed him of his reason
; he felt the dampness of Rose's tears against his skin.

“You should have learned your lesson. You will never be nobility
—you have always been outmatched and outclassed. When this is over, I will watch you hang, and then I will take your noble wife to my bed.”

With a roar, Brynmor charged. His sword slammed down and nearly caved
Owain's block. Owain stumbled backward and barely regained his feet before Brynmor was on him again. Knights and seasoned veterans feared Brynmor's skill and strength for a reason. He vowed to show Owain exactly why. His sword crashed against Owain's in a series of lightning-fast combinations. Brynmor pushed the man back; Owain was barely able to maintain his defense.

Brynmor called on every ounce of strength he possessed, determined to smash through
Owain's blocks. At that moment, Brynmor was not an earl, he was not a freeman farmer, he was simply a man demanding justice for what had been done to his beloved wife. Brynmor knocked Owain to the ground and raised his sword for the death stroke.

Brynmor's vision tunneled strangely,
and in his mind’s eye all he could see was Rose. He staggered back a pace, then two. The terrible bruises on her face contrasted sharply against her pale features. Just thinking about the pain she had suffered at this man's hand nearly destroyed Brynmor's sanity. Why couldn’t he kill the bastard?

Suddenly, Brynmor understood
his hesitation. He was a farmer. If something happened in this war to take his rank from him, he would hang for killing a nobleman. Nausea clenched his gut, sickening him with revulsion. He was a farmer and a coward. Everything Owain had said had been right.

Owain
slowly hauled himself to his feet laughing. “You are a worm! You don't even have to courage to slay me.” He turned to look at the men standing around them, lifting his sword and pointing it at Brynmor. “How can you follow him? How can your pledge your blades to a farmer . . . he is nothing but a pretender.”

Brynmor sucked air into his lungs and steadied his ragged breathing. He forced his rage dow
n, struggling to think. Chivalry demanded that Brynmor act. If he did not, he would lose the respect of his men. He thought of the woman he loved more than life. He remembered the words she had spoken not long ago—before he had made her his wife. For the first time, he acknowledged their truth. It did not matter to her that he was born a farmer, she loved him for the man he was. He looked back to Owain. What he had done to Rose . . . the bastard should pay for each . . . and . . . every . . . injury.

Brynmor drew himself to his full height and squared his shoulders.
A new confidence swelled within him. He stepped forward, towering over Owain, the man's sword only a hairsbreadth from his chest.

“I am Earl Brynmor ap Powys,” he said, his conviction g
iving his voice power and carrying it over the throng, silencing all. Brynmor's left hand seized Owain's right. He twisted sharply and heard a soft snap as he broke Owain's arm. Owain howled in pain and dropped his weapon.

“The
princes of Powys bow down to me.” Brynmor's fist, clutching the hilt of his sword, slammed into Owain's face, knocking him flat on his back.

“Kings of nations fear me,” he snarled. Brynmor pulled
Owain to his feet and pounded his fist home again. Owain's left eye rapidly swelled shut.

“They care not what blood runs in my veins.” He slammed his fist into
Owain's gut. Air whooshed from the man's lungs and he dropped like a sack of feed.

“They care only of the power I wield.” He crushed his boot down on
Owain's ankle, he didn’t break it, but the man howled in pain.

“I am
the earl here and you put your hands on my wife.” Brynmor hauled Owain up again. The man swayed but did not fall. Brynmor took a step back and swung his sword with all his strength, but he made sure he struck the man's side with only the flat of his blade. Owain howled as his ribs cracked, and he collapsed again into the dirt.

“Now you know the same agony you visited on her.”

Owain writhed on the ground, moaning in pain.

Brynmor dropped his sword and grabbed the front of
Owain's armor. This time, he hauled him up until Owain's nose was only inches from his.

“But there is one loss you cannot answer for,” he said his voice deadly soft. “If you ever step foot on my lands again I will kill you for the death of my unborn child.”

Owain blanched, terror in his eyes. “F-f-forgive me, my lord.”

Angry shouts rippled through his men as they learned the heavy price the earl and his lady had paid. Brynmor shoved
Owain to the ground. “Run,” he snarled. “Run back to your benefactor and tell him the Earl of Powys sends his regards.” He picked up his sword and strode away.

Every instinct within Brynmor
raged at him to kill the bastard, to permanently remove the threat to his family. But he knew leaving Owain alive to suffer such a public defeat at the hands of a farmer would be a far better punishment.

He had taken only two steps when a peculiar sound behind him caused his hackles to lift and his body to
tense.

“
Lord Powys!” someone screamed.

Brynmor instantly spun,
instinctively bringing up his sword. Somehow Owain had regained his feet. In his eyes Brynmor glimpsed a wild rage—Owain no longer possessed his sanity. Despite his wounds, Owain lifted his sword and charged. Brynmor’s battle lust rose and he moved with the speed and grace of a warrior trained and tested. He blocked Owain’s blow, slamming his sword out and down, opening Owain’s guard.

His free hand seized the hilt of
the dagger on his belt. Brynmor took another step and drove it forward, finding the narrow gap under the gorget. The dagger plunged into the man’s throat. Owain’s eyes widened in horror as he gasped for air and strangled on his own blood.

Brynmor took a step back and jerked the steel from the man’s body. Owain colla
psed in the dirt, blood gushing from his throat with every heartbeat. His hand reached out to Brynmor as if pleading for help, his eyes wide with shock and terror. He could not speak; a chilling gurgle sputtered from his mouth. Within moments, he fell still and died.

Brynmor
stared at the dead man, his chest heaving as he fought to catch his breath. “So be it,” he growled. “You made your choice.”

Brynmor’s men cheered
wildly.

Brynmor
walked to his horse and leaned heavily against it, squeezing his eyes closed. He could not deny his relief now that Owain was dead. But his revenge did little to heal the wound on his soul. His heart bled for the loss of his child and he worried terribly over his wife.

He felt a strong hand grip his shoulder
and knew Montgomery stood once again steadfast beside him. “Well done, Brynmor.”

Brynmor only shook his head, refusing to look at him. “’Tis a hollow victory,” he murmured.

A fortnight passed and Brynmor rose from his bed at dawn, staring at the empty place where his wife should have slept. Sorrow and grief battered him, and the knowledge of just how close he had come to staring at the empty spot for the rest of his days would not leave him. He began to dress, trying to dismiss his thoughts and failing. Rose was recovering in the ladies’ solar upstairs, so Brynmor’s coming and going would not disturb her. When he was not overseeing the repairs to his heavily damaged keep, he was with her. If Brynmor had his way, he would not leave her side at all, but Llywelyn’s army at last report was moving closer. Powys Castle had endured one siege and perhaps another awaited it. If Brynmor did not finish the repairs, it was a good chance the castle would fall again.

His heart twisted as he left his solar and hurried upstairs. The past few days, if Rose was feeling strong enough, he
had broken his fast with her. But the thought of Llywelyn’s army bearing down on him provoked a fear that he would still lose all he held dear. He wished he could send Rose to Montgomery, where she would not face such a threat, but Gwen had told him she was not strong enough to endure even a short journey. Of course Montgomery and Gwen had stayed. Gwen to oversee Rose’s healing and Montgomery because his troops were sorely needed to reinforce the damaged castle. Brynmor had also kept his retainers. Perhaps seeing two armies camped outside its walls would dissuade Llywelyn from trying to attack the keep.

He knocked on the door of the solar and opened it enough to stick his head inside.

Gwen sat in a chair, next to the bed. Rose, propped up with pillows, spoke with her but stopped and smiled at him.

The worst of the bruises had turned black and Brynmor cringed every time he saw them. But he thought this was the darkest they would get and woul
d hopefully start to fade. No matter the bruises, her smile still lit a room and made Brynmor’s heart race, especially since he understood how close he had come to never seeing it again.

“How are you feeling?” Brynmor asked as he crossed the room. He took Rose’s hand in his and lightly kissed her forehead.

“Much better today,” Rose replied. “The pain has eased quite a bit.”

Gwen gave up her chair so Brynmor could sit. “I am most pleased. She has not taken fever at all. This is very good.”

“Excellent,” Brynmor said, taking the offered chair.

“I must make Rose’s medicant this morning. I will send a servant up with your food.”

“Thank you, Gwen,” Brynmor said as she closed the door.

“I just wish I could get out of bed for a time,” Rose said. “Mother told me I might, except for that.” She pointed at her badly swollen ankle, bandaged and propped up on pillows.

“And your ribs prohibit me carrying you to a chair.”

She nodded, giving him a delightful little pout. “So I’m stuck staring at the same four walls all day.”

His tried to suppress a smile, but he could not deny the joy within him at seeing the return of the Rose he loved. When they had first brought her from his pavilion and into the castle, she had been in so much pain, so terribly weak. He had stayed with her for days while she slept, praying she would recover her strength, praying she would heal without complication.

The servant brought their food and Brynmor dismissed him, helping Rose with hers. He had
to admit he enjoyed breaking his fast with her. They had always done so before but in the great hall. Here, he could talk about the happenings of the day with her, much more relaxed and not worrying if anyone overheard them.

“Rose,” he said, as he ate
, “I wondered if after you’ve recovered, perhaps we could continue breaking our fast in the solar, before going below-stairs.”

She smiled at him again. “I would love to. I find it
 . . . pleasant to have a bit of peace before starting the day.”

They ate in silence for a moment, then Rose glanced out the archer loophole. “
It’s cloudy and cold this morning. Do you think there will be rain?”

“I hope not. The repairs are going much too slowly. My scouts have delivered conflicting reports on Llywelyn’s army.”

“Conflicting?”

“Some say he is moving his army south toward Bulith.
Others say he is taking a more direct route here. And still others say he’s trying to find Owain’s army to join with them.”

“With Owain dead
,do you believe his second in command stepped up to lead them?”

Brynmor nodded. “But their true loyalty is with Dafydd. They may seek to return north to him. But if they are smart, they should join with Llywelyn’s forces.”

“Have you heard anything from Lestrange?”

“Nay
, and that worries me all the more. I know nothing of the man who leads more troops into my holdings. I have no idea if he will uphold Mortimer’s word and keep his men from pillaging.”

At the mention of Mortimer’s name, Rose lowered her gaze and swallowed hard.

“I am sorry, Rose,” he murmured and took her hand.

“Do not worry,” she said and summoned a smile. “It’s just hard to believe he’s gone.”

He moved his tray away and then hers, sitting on the edge of the bed. He leaned forward, his lips only inches from hers, and brushed back her hair with his free hand.

“I just want you to heal, Rose,” he said softly. “I don’t want you upset or worried.”

“I’ll be fine, Brynmor,” she said, managing a smile.

“I hope so
 . . . I am growing quite lonely in that solar without you. I am discovering I do not sleep well when I cannot hold you.”

“I fear that may be a long time coming.”

“’Tis all right,” he said again moving closer. “I am a patient man.”

She looked away from him, refusing to meet his gaze, sadness stealing the spark from her eyes. “Brynmor, even though I’m healing well, there is a chance I might not be able to
—”

“Nay,” he said firmly and cupped her face in his hands so she had no choice but to look at him. “Rose, listen to me. I was able to survive losing my family as a child, I was able to survive the death of my sister, and even though it hurts like hell, I am able to survive losing this baby, but if I lost you
 . . . that I would not be able to survive. I need you by my side, Rose. I love you.”

She stared at him a long moment. A tear gathered and
fell down her cheek but she leaned forward. “And I love you, Brynmor,” she murmured.

He touched his lips to hers. His heart soared as she responded to his kiss and he deepened it, hoping it would convey to her what words could not describe
—his heart and how much he loved her.

A knock on the door
interrupted their moment. Brynmor pulled away, smiling as he saw the blush ignite on Rose’s cheeks.

Gwen entered with Rose’s medicants.

Brynmor chuckled softly. “I need to get below-stairs. Those repairs will not wait.”

Rose nodded and smiled up at him, her cheeks still stained with red.

He stood and quickly left the room, praying with all his heart that Rose understood. He wanted a family, but if it became a risk to her, he would not pay so high a price. He wanted and needed her more than anything.

Brynmor entered the bailey and his worries were only compounded. The southwest tower in the curtain wall was nearly destroyed and next to it, the wall itself was heavily damaged.

The hoardings facing south had been completely demolished, but since they were made of wood, Brynmor hoped he would be able to replace them quickly.

But his gaze fell on the gates and his heart sank. A brand new heavy oak gate lay on the ground, the old one too destroyed to repair. But his gates were wide open and unprotected until the blacksmiths could finish the iron fittings that would secure them.

“Lord Powys,” Alec said as he approached.

“Aye?”

“How is our lady this morning?”

Brynmor
smiled. “Improving. She is complaining of being trapped in one room.”

Alec grinned at him. “’Tis good to hear.”

“But I worry, Alec. Without strong gates, I can’t keep her safe.”

“I spoke with the blacksmiths working on the fittings, they say at least two more days before they are completed.”

“Two days?” Brynmor gritted his teeth. “Nay, we cannot afford to be so vulnerable.”

“Aye,” Alec said and nodded. “I did my best to convince them
, but I would not hope for an improvement of anything more than a day.”

“Damnation,” Brynmor growled
, dragging his hand through his hair.

“There is a bit of good news though. The portcullis has been fully repaired and the windlass is no longer jammed.”

“It’s not much, but at least it is something.”

“Aye,” Alec replied. “And there is more my lord. Considering our escape route has become somewhat known, I thought it prudent to have a portion of the tunnel filled in. I have located expert tunnelers through Longshanks
’s army who will be able to dig another exit and make sure it is well hidden.”

“Excellent,” Brynmor said and nodded. “I did not wish to give up such a valuable asset.”

“I thought not,” Alec said grinning at him. “Now, there are a few things on the walls I need to show you.”

Brynmor followed him up the stairs.

He was not on the walls long before a sentry in the tallest south tower cried a warning. “My lord! A group of heavily armed men approach, five leagues and riding hard.”

Brynmor cursed. “How many?” he shouted back.

“At least a dozen.” The sentry paused. “My lord, I know not the heraldry. They are not Welsh.”

Brynmor hesitated, scowling. “Not Welsh?” he muttered.

“Could it be Lestrange?” Alec asked. “He’s the only one in the area whose heraldry would not be recognized.”

“Aye,” Brynmor replied nodding.

“My lord,” the sentry cried again. “They are mounted on heavy horse, the banner they carry appears to indicate parlay . . . or at least peaceful intentions.”

“I’ll not risk it,” Brynmor growled. “Not with my lady so vulnerable. Close the portcullis!”

With a screech, the iron gate dropped. Brynmor moved to the top of the barbican, waiting for the riders to approach. He saw them in the distance, their mounts kicking up a trail of dust behind them. The sentry had spoken truly when he said they were riding hard. Lewys brought him his sword belt, which he wrapped around his waist.

“Be cautious,
my lord,” Alec said. “They may come peaceably, but I have no desire to see you exposed to a crossbow bolt on the walls.”

“Aye,” Brynmor replied tightly.

The armies surrounding Castle Powys camped in a similar fashion as that Brynmor had witnessed when he arrived at Denbigh. With the approach of the mounted party, the troops stirred to life.

Brynmor looked around. “Where is my father-by-law?”

Alec pointed. “I believe he was with the troops this morning.”

Brynmor sighed in relief as he realized
Montgomery was ordering troops to block the road. He should have known her father would be as concerned as he over Rose’s safety. Montgomery, mounted on his horse, pulled to a stop, barking orders to the troops around him. The approaching party slowed their mounts. The man in the lead held up his hand peacefully and stopped his group before the assembled troops. Montgomery rode forward to speak with him.

They were much too far away for Brynmor to hear anything
, but Montgomery waved toward the castle. Shouts echoed through the lines as the word passed.

“Lestrange wishes to speak to
the Earl of Powys!”

Brynmor returned
Montgomery’s wave. “Open the portcullis,” he barked.

The gate screeched again. The troops blocking the road moved aside.
Montgomery led Lestrange and his party to the gates. Brynmor descended the stairs and waited for his visitors in the bailey. Montgomery’s horse cantered through the gate, followed by a man in fine armor, wearing more plate than Brynmor had yet seen. The armor appeared new and of the latest design. He glanced at the men who rode with him. Nobles and veteran knights, Brynmor judged. Then he recognized Emrys, the noble he had placed in charge of the troops he had sent to Lestrange at Longshanks’s behest.

The man inclined his head and Brynmor nodded.

Montgomery dismounted, as did Lestrange, and they approached Brynmor. Montgomery made introductions and Brynmor accepted Lestrange’s outstretched forearm with a strong grip.

“Good to
finally make your acquaintance, Lord Powys,” Lestrange said.

“Likewise,” Brynmor replied and gestured toward his keep. “May I offer you refreshment
?”

Lestrange nodded then looked around the bailey. “I also came to check on you
, Powys. I had heard your keep suffered significant damage.”

“Aye,” he said tightly. “Owain captured it and forced me to take it back from him.” He led them to his study
, where they could speak privately.