Ironheart

Leon stood calmly for all that his heart was racing. Four assailants or nine didn’t matter to him, as long as he had his trusty dagger in his hand. That, and his own wits, skill and strength, sufficed, and he’d killed more than that in one skirmish. Armorless and alone, he was still more than a match for these churls.

Lightning flashed and edged everything in fire; the beggars, the edges of the buildings, the woman. For an instant their eyes met. Her head tilted to one side, her lips parting. He narrowed his eyes to deeper slits. She met his gaze unblinkingly, her eyes dark, staring at him strangely sharp, then she drew a long, uneven breath, as if to say, I am the one you have been seeking, and you are the one I have sought.

Leon had time to wonder whether his mind was going. Time to wonder about the question, but no time to find an answer. The churls inched closer, regaining his attention. Not now, Leon cautioned himself. Be still a little longer.

Five paces more.

“Give us alms and we will go in peace,” said one, edging toward her. His eyes were on the purse that swung from her girdle as he rested his hand upon his hip—a subtle threat.

She was not so easily intimidated. “Do you threaten me, sir? Are you so bold? Food you have had in plenty. No more can I give you!” Her eyes were blazing hot as coals and her small hands formed tight fists at her sides.

A humming. Leon heard metal hiss and knew the sound. He cursed under his breath. Mutters rose behind him.

“He’s got a sword!” somebody yelled.

People scattered, running in every direction, screaming. The rest of those who had sought food and alms moved back and away, or fled, leaving a clear space.

Now.

“I’ll get help.” The motley-clad youth ran past Leon, blocking his thrust. The churl made a mad lunge across the table. A lance of pain struck Leon’s temple. Spots swirled in front of his eyes. His fist came down. The milk pail burst apart, sending its contents showering in all directions. The girl was sent reeling.

“One against four and I have her purse already!”

This time, Leon didn’t hesitate. His hand lashed out in a blur of motion, of bone-jarring impact to wrist and elbow as his fist slammed into the assailant just below the ear. The man’s eyes bulged and his head danced like that of a puppet. Leon had a momentary glimpse of the other’s eyes, open wide, terror burning in them like an uncontrollable fire, before the man doubled over.

He kicked the weapon out of the man’s hand as another of the churls advanced, his cudgel raised to smite him. He lunged and caught the uplifted hand. His free hand crunched across the elbow. Then he grabbed another man plunging past him, spun him around, and felt armor beneath the brown robes.

It was a poor sort of a fight. Gripping the man’s arm, Leon twisted it and snapped it like a twig, grasped another attacker by the throat and flung him with contemptuous ease into the wall behind him. He planned none of his moves. They had all been drilled into him for so many years that they came automatically.

Time seemed to leap forward. There came the sound of many footsteps, all running toward them. A half dozen assorted servants and men-at-arms erupted from the postern. Hands went to swords, steel rising to the light. A roar went up.

“Get them, get them, get them!”

The four churls fled. Telyn chased after them, leading the detachment of men in full pursuit.

It was over. Done.

Leon stood with hand on hip, breathing easily. He had not even drawn his dagger. “Are you all right?” She nodded and he said, “In the name of all devils—why?” He jerked his head to the baying throng. “A sentry on watch would prevent such incident, lady.”

Brenna did not move, save that her head came up. He saw a sheen on her cheek as of light on polished, shining stone, or firelight on water.

“I am sorry. It was mine own folly that brought it about,” she faltered in a voice that was scarcely audible. “I should have called for help earlier.”

Leon kept his eyes on her. He had great confidence in his wit and skill, but when it came to women, he had no confidence at all. The flick of temper faded into something else: curiosity. She looked bedraggled, her veil askew, her thick black braids in disarray. Her eyes were burning bright. She was, perhaps, more shaken by the incident than she cared to acknowledge.

“It shouldn’t have happened.” Memory put violent pressure on his voice. What a different ending this day could have had! He could hardly think, his heart was hammering so in his chest, and his insides twisted in his belly.

She drew back a little. Her lips quivered, and she shook her head. “No one has ever threatened me before.”

Leon looked levelly into her eyes and did not move. “Such idiocy can prove fatal. Did you never think what might be the probable result? Did you never think that you might endanger others?” Driven by bitter memories, his voice was still hard and unconvinced.

A wild shake of the head. “No! I am unhurt.” Another space for breath. “I suppose it was a lucky coincidence you were on hand when those churls attacked,” she said with just the hint of a smile.

Leon felt the tightness around his mouth as his lip curled. He had spent too many years in action, and he was not accustomed to being made light of. Yet it was more than that. Under the bravado, he could sense something else in the girl. He could taste it; a nervous tension that came perilously close to fear.

“Coincidence, chance, luck. I don’t believe in any of them. I keep a sharp sword.” In spite of all his efforts, it was hard not to sound cynical.

She looked at him sharply. Her head was high now, her expression haughty. “You are very brave, sir. I would that all knights showed such courage. If they did, the Crusaders would have taken the Holy Land.”

“Devil take that! I am one man, not the Crusader army, lady,” he exclaimed.

“You were bold and confident!”

“A man of my trade lives every day of his life under threat of death,” he replied with a pragmatic shrug.

“But you are valiant! With neither armor nor weapon, you sent the dogs running. You felt no fear!”

“I have nothing to lose, therefore nothing to fear,” he said, too bluntly, perhaps, for she bit her lip a moment, frowning as if it were a challenge and she were searching for a proper response.

“A man who fears nothing loves nothing and, if he loves nothing, what joy is there in his life?” she asked with passionate urgency.

All his senses seemed foggy of a sudden, and his head on the edge of hurting. “I’ve never met a woman who speaks to me as you do,” he told her.

“Even your wife?” She fixed that direct look of hers on him, challenging him.

“I have no wife.”

Her scrutiny was both leisurely and thorough, taking him in as if he had been a bullock at market. Swift anger flooded through him. He felt his jaw clenching. Years of living by the sword had wrecked any comeliness he had ever possessed and any chance of winning a woman’s heart.

Something changed, lifted, in the set of her mouth and eyes. Tiny facial muscles relaxed. He caught a momentary expression as she stood before him, watching him intently—something intense and satisfied, as if it were enough to know.

“And I have no husband. Yet.”

“If you did, you would be more circumspect.”

Slowly the proud head bowed. She spread her hands. “It’s not like that here.”

“No doubt it is different in the marches,” Leon agreed with a touch of irony. “I do not think it is that. You knew I would intervene, if necessary.”

Her cheeks flamed, but she did not evade the charge. “Yes,” she said with a directness that he guessed was characteristic of her.

There were footsteps, the ringing of swords in scabbards. The men-at-arms were returning with two of the churls, and the girl’s purse. There were shouts and cheers from a tangle of servants and hangers-on. The youth had collected the baskets and was urging her within, saying it would rain soon and that Sir Edmund would be angry.

Brenna grinned up at him, her eyes bright. “Here I was wishing you away, but there was nothing I wanted more to see than you coming up that hill.” She laid a slender hand on his arm. “Welcome to Dinas Bran.”

Chapter Two

Could it be…was it…? Yes! He was here! He had come!