The inside of the house was simple and unadorned. The stone walls were damp, unpainted, unpaneled. The small windows let in little light. It was cold inside the castle, colder even than the outside autumn chill, but there was no fire burning.
Bronwyn sat down in an uncushioned chair. “Now, Douglas, tell me of what has been happening.”
Stephen stood to one side, watching. No one asked after her comfort or suggested she should rest.
“The MacGregors have been raiding again. They took six head of cattle two nights ago.”
Bronwyn frowned. She’d deal with the MacGregors later. “What problems inside the clan?”
The man called Douglas tugged absently at a long lock of hair. “The land by the loch is in dispute again. Robert says the salmon are his while Desmond demands he be paid for them.”
“Have they drawn swords yet?” Bronwyn asked.
“No, but they are close. Shall I send some men in to settle this thing? A little blood shed in the right places will stop their quarrels.”
Stephen started to rise. He was used to making decisions of this sort. Tam’s hand on his arm stopped him.
“Can you think of nothing else but your sword arm, Douglas?” she asked angrily. “Did it never occur to you that the men have a reason for their quarrels? Robert has seven children to feed, and Desmond has an ailing wife and no children. Surely there must be a way to solve their problems.”
The men gave her blank looks.
She sighed. “Tell Robert to send his oldest and youngest children to Desmond to foster. Robert will not demand fish that are going to feed his own children, and Desmond’s wife will stop feeling sorry for herself for having no children of her own. Now, what else has happened?”
Stephen smiled at her wisdom. It had come from her love and knowledge of her clan. It was a wonder to see her in her home surroundings. With each passing moment she seemed to come more alive. Her chin no longer jutted forward in anger as she looked at the people around her. Her shoulders were still straight but not as if she meant to ward off blows and angry words.
He watched the faces of the men around her. They respected her, listened to her, and each decision she made was wise and in the best interests of her clan.
“Jamie taught her well,” Tam said quietly.
Stephen nodded. This was a completely different side of her, one he’d never imagined existed. He knew her to be angry, impulsive, filled with hatred, given to using a knife and making impossible demands. He remembered laughing at her when she fell into the stream.
Suddenly he felt a swift wave of jealousy. He’d never seen this wom
an who sat so calmly before these men and made decisions that affected their lives. They knew a side of her that he’d never even guessed at.
Bronwyn rose and walked toward the stairway at the far end of the hall. Stephen followed her. It suddenly occurred to him that the men knew nothing about the backs of her knees. He smiled to himself and felt somewhat reassured.
“Look at him,” Bronwyn said in disgust. It was early morning, the late-autumn air nippy. She looked down at Stephen from the window of their third-story chamber. He was in the courtyard below, he and Chris wearing full armor. The Scotsmen around them stood and stared in sullen silence.
They had been married for two weeks, and during that time Stephen had made a strong effort to train her men in the English way of fighting. She’d stood by while he lectured the men on the importance of protecting themselves. He’d offered to purchase armor for the men who trained the longest and hardest. But the Scotsmen had said little and didn’t seem the least interested in the valuable prize of a suit of hot, heavy armor. They seemed to prefer their own wild costumes, which left half their bodies bare. The only concession toward war Stephen could get them to make was to wear a shirt of chain mail beneath their plaids.
Bronwyn turned away from the window, smiling to herself.
“Ye needn’t be so pleased with yerself,” Morag snapped. “Those men of yers could do with a little work. They sit about too much. Stephen makes them work.”
Bronwyn kept smiling. “He’s an obstinate man. Yesterday he dared to lecture my men that Scotland is a land of unrest, that he is trying to teach them to protect themselves. As if we didn’t know! It’s because of the English that—”
Morag put up her hand in defense. “Ye can try to drive him insane with yer constant lectures, but not me. What is it that upsets ye about him? Is it the way he makes ye cry out at night? Are ye ashamed of yer passion for the enemy?”
“I have no—” Bronwyn began but stopped when she heard the soft click of the door behind Morag. She turned and looked back at Stephen. She had to admit to herself that it upset her the way her body reacted to his touch. Quite often she found herself trembling as soon as the sun began to set. She was careful never to allow Stephen to see the way she felt. She never made an advance toward him or gave a word of affection to him; after all, he was her enemy, he was of the race that killed her father. It was easy to remember that he was her enemy during the day. He dressed as an Englishman, talked as one, thought as one. His difference screamed at her and her men. It was only at night when he touched her that she forgot who he was and who she was.
“Stephen!” Chris said as they walked across the sand-covered field. They stopped by the edge of the peninsula, gazing out at the sea. “You’ve got to stop working like this. Can’t you see that they’re not interested in what you’re trying to do for them?”
Stephen removed his helmet. The cool wind rushed at his sweat-dampened hair. Each day he was increasingly frustrated at his attempts to work with Bronwyn’s men. His own men trained each day, learning to handle their heavy armor and weapons. But Bronwyn’s men stood on the outskirts and watched the Englishmen as if they were animals in King Henry’s menagerie.
“There must be a way to reach them!” he said under his breath.
Suddenly he heard a man running toward them.