Free Heart's War (Heart and Soul) by Kathryn Loch Page A

is that?”
    The woman’s fingers tormented some prayer beads on a braided twine. “We are hearing rumors. Is it true? Our prince is to marry an English woman?”
    “Now, now ,” Petran said reassuringly, “worry not over it.”
    “It cannot be,” she whispered. “He would not sell us to the enemy.”
    “Cease,” Petran said harshly, his humor fading. “Our prince, as always, acts with our best interests.”
    “’Tis an ill omen.”
    “’Tis to guarantee our future,” Petran snapped. “The lass has held a special place in his heart ever since he rescued her all those years ago.”
    The woman ducked her head, appearing properly remorseful. “Aye,” she said softly. “ He is a good man. And she is at least rumored to be kind and caring.”
    “She i s.”
    “Forgive me, I am old, I worry so about our young lord. I’ve heard others talk. They are angry and frustrated. They know we cannot win a war with England but nor can we tolerate their insults. Unwanted curs get more respect from them. I fear the lady may become the focus of their loathing for the English.”
    Petran hesitated only an instant, scowling. But he quickly recover ed and shook his head. “Your concern is appreciated but unfounded. Go on now, worry not over this.”
    The old woman nodded and scurried away.
    Brynmor gritted his teeth. While Petran may have dismissed the concern, Brynmor did not. The woman had a very valid—and possibly dangerous—point. A whisper of fear sent a cold tingle down Brynmor’s spine. He suddenly understood he had made a grave error in not realizing how his own people might view his marriage to an Englishwoman. He shook himself and tried to force the icy tendril away, but it clung stubbornly to him.
    “Petran,” he said softly.
    His steward turned, startled. “My prince,” he said as he approached. “Forgive me.”
    “Worry not,” Brynmor said , attempting to dismiss his apprehension, but it would not leave him. “We have more refugees approaching.
    “Aye,” Petran said , nodding sadly.
    They strode for the keep and Brynmor looked up, surprised to see Rose at the base of the stairs.
    She stood, watching the wounded, her face pale, her blue eyes grief-stricken.
    “Nay, Rose,” he said stepping next to her. “You're ready to drop.”
    “I have to, Brynmor. They're our people and they need help.”
    His heart tightened in his chest and he took her hand in his. She was not his wife yet, they did not even know if Longshanks would approve the union, but her care for these people, her desire to stop their suffering , tugged at emotions he had not known he possessed. He drew her hand to his lips and softly kissed her fingers. “What can I do to help, little one?”
    She smiled at him and his heart took wing.
    Hours later, after the sun had long since descended, Rose was still working to save lives. Brynmor watched her like a hawk. The amount of refugees in this group had filled the great hall to bursting. They had moved the high table and all the furniture out to make more floor space for the wounded.
    Those who were uninjured or bore only minor wounds bedded down in the stable and every other available space and outbuilding in the bailey. Brynmor's steward and the other servants tasked them to help serve food, clean clothes and bandages, and manage others whose injuries were simple, freeing Rose to tend to those who needed her skills. Many times she would examine someone, instruct a servant as to his or her care, and move on to the next.
    Brynmor had changed into a comfortable tunic secured at his waist with a wide belt. But unlike the nobles he was suppose d to mimic, he couldn't tolerate wearing hosen; instead he fell back to his roots as a freeman and wore braies of soft doeskin tucked into leather cross-quartered boots. Much more comfortable, and considering he was constantly kneeling on the stone floor to help wounded, much more sturdy and practical.
    Rose stood and wavered unsteadily. He quickly