Ironheart. Emily French
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if Grandy is about to renege on the deal and have me wed that upstart Keith Kil Coed, my knight has come, as if conjured here by magic. It is a good omen.”
“Don’t say that! The walls have ears,” Elen whispered, making the sign of the cross on brow and chest. “And there are always servants and menials of some sort to carry tales of witchcraft and druidry.”
“Old lies and old spite. How can anyone credit a word of it?”
“Be careful! I can’t prevent hostile ears from attending to some ill-spoken words—I would not have you skinned for a witch or burnt at the stake.”
A flood of fondness washed through Brenna. Elen’s hair might be mostly gray, and she might be moving a bit stiffly on 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.”
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