Romantic Legends Read online

  The door to his quarters was unlocked. He kicked the latch, dislodging it, and the door swung open into the dim, musty chamber. Straw littered the floor and a fat taper burned on the only table in the room. There were two chairs near the smoking hearth; one of them held a body that suddenly leapt to its feet in surprise. It was a round man clad in layers of woolen robes.

  “Good God,” the man exclaimed softly. “What is it that you have, Brogan?”

  “I found her in the river.” Half-truth, half-lie. “I think she may need a physic.”

  There were two beds in the large room, both with rough-fiber curtains surrounding them to create a barrier wall. He moved for the bed to his left and lay the woman down upon the straw mattress. Then he stood back, gazing down at her, feeling the presence of his roommate standing curiously behind him.

  His companion was an old man, gnarled with disease in his joints and bent with age. But in his prime, he had been a massive man, a decorated knight with much glory. St. Alban de Sotheby moved around Brogan, feeling the lady’s pulse and lifting an eyelid. His big, twisted hand clamped around her upper arm.

  “She is nearly frozen,” he said. “We must dry her off or she’ll surely catch her death.”

  Brogan was cold as well. He thought it stupid not to have realized how chilled the lady was. Grabbing a rough woolen blanket from the end of the bed, he handed it to St. Alban, who began rubbing the lady vigorously.

  “There isn’t much we can do about this dress,” the old man said. “She needs dry clothing. Go see if the Sirens have anything that may fit her.”

  They called the barrack whores the Sirens. It seemed appropriate, beguiling women who lured battle-weary men into their traps. There were, in fact, three of them – Thelchtereia, Aglaope and Peisinoe, so named for the Sirens by none other than St. Alban himself. The girls had other names, Christian names, but they were only known by their nicknames. It kept a measure of anonymity to their presence.

  Thel, Aggie and Noe were thrilled to see Brogan standing at their door. He wasn’t a usual customer and his appearance brought squeals of excitement. He was an enormously large man with shoulders as wide as a door, and his granite jaw and close-cropped dark-gold hair were deliciously attractive in a world where slender men with effeminate manners were considered desirable.

  Brogan stood out from the cultured norm with his thick, muscular arms and powerful build. When he spoke, it was in a rumbling voice with a heavy Germanic accent. It could be terrifying and sinister, uneducated and thick.

  “Brogan,” Thel purred. “What can we do for you?”

  Brogan gazed at the woman; she was petite, exotic looking with silky black hair and dark eyes. But women made him uncomfortable. The only woman he hadn’t felt uncomfortable with, besides his mother, had died eleven years ago in childbirth with his son. As he looked at the Sirens, he felt little more than disdain for the sex in general.

  “Give me a gown,” he growled. “Something soft and warm. And none of your vermin on it.”

  The girls looked surprised, then confused. When their confusion translated into a long, puzzled pause, Brogan barked at them and they scattered like frightened chickens. They ran about the room in panic more than in an actual search. But Thel soon calmed the group enough to produce a sheath of well-washed linen and a surcoat of soft lamb’s wool. Both were worn but serviceable. Without a word of thanks, Brogan snatched it from Aggie’s outstretched hand.

  “Who is this for?” Thel asked. “Do you need our help, Brogan?”

  He growled, not much for conversation. He had what he had come for and was disinclined to answer questions. But something told him that St. Alban would send him back down here for female assistance. Since Thel was the only whore of the three that he could even moderately tolerate, he motioned to her.

  “You,” he said. “Come.”

  She bolted after him and they mounted the steps to the second floor. Thel was giddy with anticipation but banked herself well. When they reached the room at the end of the hall, Brogan ushered the woman inside and closed the door. St. Alban’s cat, a fat orange beast, hissed at the woman when she strayed too close to it. She kicked at it as Brogan ushered her over to the bed.

  St. Alban glanced up from his charge. “Ah, Thelchtereia,” he said. “How good of you to come. We have a visitor that requires your help.”

  Thel’s excitement drained into confusion. She peered at the woman on the bed, buried under mounds of both wet and dry material. Now thoroughly puzzled, she put her hand on the pasty forehead.

  “What happened to her?” she asked.

  Brogan just walked away. He wasn’t about to explain how he, literally, bumped into her. St. Alban knew better than to press him.

  “Our friend Brogan rescued her from a watery grave.” He had no idea how close he was to the truth. “We must take her from these wet clothes.”

  Brogan pulled the curtain to allow St. Alban and Thel to strip the unconscious woman and replace her clothing. Odd that he felt a certain amount of anxiety as he paced the floor. Somehow, he felt responsible for the woman. On the most selfish night of his life he found himself concerned for another when he clearly should not have concerned himself. He should walk right back to the bridge and finish what he started. But he couldn’t.

  St. Alban pulled the curtain back after a short amount of time. Brogan wandered over, gazing down at the ill woman; Thel was drying her hair and he could see, now that she wasn’t sopping and there was some color back in her cheeks, that she was an exquisitely beautiful creature. He found himself staring at her fine features with a fair amount of curiosity. She had been small and light in his arms, and her brown hair was drying into a delightful shimmering chestnut shade. He could see hues of gold and red intertwined as the firelight played upon the strands.

  “A friend of yours?” Thel asked him softly.

  He must have been staring harder than he realized. Thel’s voice pierced his thoughts and his reaction was brief embarrassment, followed by his usual growling manner. Thel smiled and it only served to inflame him. They both knew she had caught him in a moment of genuine interest.

  “I dragged her from the river,” he said.

  “What on earth was this woman doing in the river?” Thel held up one of the rough, red palms. “Look at her hands. They’re blistered and worn. Perhaps she is a servant and her master grew angry with her.”

  Before Brogan could reply, the unconscious woman stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, revealing golden-brown orbs the color of a Cat’s Eye stone. The shade was mesmerizing. She blinked once, twice, her gaze falling upon Thel as the woman stood over her. When her eyes came to Brogan, an enormous bear of a man, she stiffened with fright.

  “Where am I?’ she hissed, struggling to pull away. “Who are you?”

  Brogan just stared at her. St. Alban answered. “You are at the Tower, my lady,” he said gallantly. “It seems that you were brought here in some distress.”

  The woman blinked again, attempting to clear her thoughts and form her last recollection. Her lovely face flickered with confusion and a cold hand came up, smoothing a strand of hair from her forehead.

  “Distress?” she murmured with pale lips. “I do not recall.…”

  “You were found in the Thames.”

  It was as if a flame suddenly ignited. Her eyes widened. “My horse… what happened to my horse?”

  St. Alban and Thel looked at Brogan. His granite features were unreadable and he did not reply. Either he did not know or he would not say. St. Alban could see the lady was growing agitated.

  “Were you riding, then?” he asked. “Did your horse fall into the river with you?”

  The woman shook her head helplessly. “I do not know. He was spooked and we were heading for the bridge. I remember… I remember dark streets, a half-moon and naught else.”

  St. Alban motioned Thel to bring the lady some hot broth that was simmering on the hearth. “Then we shall take good care of you until you are ready to leave,
” he said. “What is your name, my lady?”

  “Avalyn du Brant.”

  “Ah,” St. Alban smiled. “A lovely name for a lovely lady. Where do you live so that we may let your family know of your whereabouts?”

  Avalyn Arabella de Beauchamp du Brant glanced at the two men standing over her. Now that her wits were returning, so was her inherent sense of caution. She was at the Tower; that much she knew. But she did not know these men, nor did she know their loyalties. With her family ties and the current political upheaval between the Yorkists and the Lancastrians, she must be very careful. Everyone had sides in the War of the Roses, whether or not they wanted to.

  The man standing to her right was of particular interest; she swore that she had seen him before, though she could not place his face. And it was quite a face; strong, angular lines and magnificent blue eyes set within weather-tanned skin. His hair was brown with flecks of gold and his powerful neck was as wide as his head. A glance at his arms told her they were absolutely enormous, as was the rest of him. She could tell just by looking at him that the man was pure muscle and power, bred for war like the mighty chargers the knights rode to battle. He was a battle machine.

  No, she wasn’t comfortable divulging her background in the least. These were days of vigilance. But she was clever at masking her resistance.

  “That will not be necessary,” she said. “I feel much better, in fact, and shan’t trouble you further. If you would just give me my clothes, I shall be gone.”

  She attempted to toss back the mounds of covers, but St. Alban stopped her. “Please, my lady, rest a while longer. Take some broth. You’ve had a nasty evening.”

  Truthfully, she was very sore. Her head hurt horribly. “Though I appreciate your concern, it is quite unnecessary. I would like to go look for my horse and return home.”

  It was apparent the lady did not want to be their guest. St. Alban looked at Brogan for silent support, though he truthfully expected none. Brogan was not the type to bother himself with compassion or persuasion, which was the very reason why the lady’s presence here was so remarkable. Brogan concerned himself with no one unless ordered to. But in this case, he had.

  “My lady,” Brogan spoke in his deep, heavy accent. “You took a serious fall. You should rest a while before returning home. I will find your horse if that will bring you comfort.”

  St. Alban was both pleased and surprised; perhaps some of the manners he had been attempting to teach Brogan over the years were finally taking hold. He felt the strange pride that a father would for a son who had just accomplished something good. But the lady apparently did not share his surprise or pride. She eyed him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

  “You are not from England, Sir Knight,” she stated the obvious.

  “Nay, my lady,” he replied with some edge. “And I am not a knight.”

  An odd tension developed. Unsettled, and the slightest bit anxious to leave, Avalyn tossed the covers off and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

  “I thank you for your kind attention, but I am afraid I really must go.” Standing up, she bobbed about dangerously but managed to stay on her feet. “I must find my horse.”

  Brogan took a step towards her, preparing to catch her if she fell. “It is the middle of the night, my lady. You will not find your horse in the dark.”

  “Ah, but I will,” she said, uncomfortable with his closer proximity. She tried to move away from him. “I will return to the stable. I am certain he will go back there.”

  Brogan wasn’t used to having his wishes contested, much less having this degree of conversation with someone. Because of his heavy accent, he rarely spoke more than a few words at any given time.

  “Then I will accompany you,” he said.

  Avalyn eyed him. “My lord, if we are at the Tower as you have said, then that will not be necessary. I know my way.”

  Brogan had nothing more to say. He didn’t even look at St. Alban for silent suggestions on how to handle this. He merely crossed his arms and stepped back as the lady regained her equilibrium. Thel brought her a wooden cup filled with warm mutton broth, but the lady shook her head.

  “Please,” she said. “I simply want my clothes so that I may leave. I do not want to trouble you good people further.”

  “Your clothes are wet, my lady,” Thel said.

  Avalyn looked at her, something of frustration and apprehension in her expression. She grasped at the garment she was currently wearing. “Then whose gown is this?” she asked quietly.

  “Mine, my lady.”

  “Then I shall send it back to you.”

  It was all she intended to say. There was no question of her determination to leave. Barefoot, she staggered across the floor towards the door. Brogan watched her go until he heard St. Alban hissing at him.

  “Go with her,” the old man whispered loudly.

  Brogan’s icy gaze lingered on the old man a moment before slowly, deliberately, doing as he was bade. He followed the lady out of the chamber and down the stairs.

  It was cold, dark and quiet on the first floor. Most occupants had long since gone to sleep. Avalyn could hear the enormous warrior’s footfalls behind her, stalking her, and it only served to fuel the panic she had been so adept in controlling.

  Her head was clear by now. Her feet were freezing and she didn’t feel very well, but she picked up the pace until she found a door that led from the maze of chambers. Once out into the courtyard, she could see clearly where she was; she was indeed at the Tower of London. The cluster of towers and buildings created one of the busiest and most populated palaces in the world. The sheer scope and craftsmanship of the complex was overwhelming.

  Over head, the moon was barely above the horizon, indicative of the late hour. Avalyn knew that people would be worried over her disappearance. Gathering the soft wool garment about her, she walked very quickly towards the Beauchamp Tower at the opposite side of the compound. Behind her, she could no longer hear footfalls. She dared to glance over her shoulder, noticing that the massive man has finally left her. When she returned her focus to the path ahead, an enormous body was blocking her path.

  Avalyn shrieked in surprise, seeing through the soft moonlight that it was the frightening warrior. She had never even heard him move around her; his skills of stealth were uncanny. She was terrified.

  “If you come any closer to me, I shall scream,” she backed away.

  He didn’t move. “May I say something, my lady?”

  She regarded him fearfully. “What… what would you say?”

  She heard him sigh. It seemed a strange gesture coming from so intimidating a man. “I found you in the river this night. I pulled you from the water so that you would not drown and I took you back to my chamber to take care of you. Now you run off into the dark night, with no shoes, no protection, and you would expect me not to see to your safety.” His head wagged back and forth, slowly. “What kind of man would you think I am to save you from the river and not make sure you returned to your husband safe and whole?”

  “I am not married.”

  “To your family, then.”

  He had a point. If he’d wanted to do her harm, he’d had ample opportunity. Some of her fear began to dissipate and she studied his features in the soft gray light.

  “Then I apologize if I have insulted your integrity,” she said quietly. “I do not even know your name.”

  “Brogan d’Aurilliac.”

  Avalyn had heard that name before. She’d heard her uncle speak of it, a name to be uttered only in the softest tones. She had never paid any attention to the meaning behind the name. Now she wished she had.

  She moved towards him in the darkness, her size diminutive against his sheer bulk. Standing next to him, she barely came to his chest. Avalyn was petite even by normal standards, but next to Brogan, she appeared no larger than a child. Calming somewhat now that she was fairly certain he was not going to gut her, she studied him intently.

 
“I’ve heard your name before.”

  He didn’t react but to slightly cock his head. “Perhaps you have.”

  “Where are you from?”

  “Germania.”

  “Have you been in England long?”

  “Long enough.”

  “And you sure that you are not a knight?”

  He gazed down at her, an ironic snort coming from his lips. “I am sure.”

  “But you are a warrior. You must be in order to live in the barracks.”

  “I am a soldier.”

  “For the king or do you serve a House?”

  “I serve the king.”

  She nodded in understanding, though she could not imagine a man of his size and obvious skill not being some manner of noble knight. Moreover, he was fairly mysterious, and possibly bitter, in his short answers. Having nothing more to say, she lowered her gaze and continued along her path. She hadn’t taken two steps when she suddenly yelped with pain.

  She would have fallen had Brogan not reached out to grab her. She was holding her right foot.

  “I stepped on something,” she hissed. “Ooch, I cannot see it in the dark.”

  He did the only thing he could do. He picked her up. Startled, Avalyn’s arms instinctively went around his neck. He held her with absolutely no effort whatsoever. It was like being held by a tree; strong, solid, unbreakable.

  “You should have let me carry you to begin with,” he sounded a good deal like he was scolding her.

  Avalyn’s eyebrows rose. “You should have given me back my shoes.”

  He looked at her, then. Their faces were a few inches from one another and a very odd spark seemed to ignite. It wasn’t tangible, or even describable. But it was something that suddenly made the moment, from this point on, different.

  “You did not have any shoes on when I found you,” Brogan’s voice wasn’t quite so gruff.

  She didn’t have anything to say to that. She tried to ignore the feeling of him all around her, his strength enveloping her. It was a completely new awareness, bringing unexpected thoughts of safety and comfort. Brogan carried her the rest of the way across the ward until they reached the entry to the Beauchamp Tower. There, he stopped.