The Heart of a Queen (A Historical Romance)

Chapter 2

From her private vantage point, Brienna watched the King wipe the sweat from his brow and adjust the heavy sword resting on his hip. He brushed a hand down his horse's tawny neck and Brienna saw him say something, as if he was praising his steed for a job well done. Then he turned to enter the keep and disappeared from her sight.

Perhaps there was a strain of kindness in him, she hoped, judging from the way he treated his animal.

She left the room without a word to the mischievous blond and retraced her path down the steps with Lasair at her heels. When she reached the great hall, she nearly collided with the solid chest of a man as he was about to enter the tower stairwell himself, and stumbled out of his way.

King Llewellyn stopped, looking down on her as if she were a rabbit that had shot under the hooves of his horse and thrown him off his gallop. The look, and nearly falling, took the wind out of her sails and Brienna was unable to regain the prideful anger she had planned to use to put him in his place.

"Your majesty," Lasair inserted herself between them, speaking up for her charge as she recovered from her close encounter with the floor. "May I present the only daughter of the clan of Connaught, and your ward, Brienna Ó Conchobhair."

Llewellyn peered into the dark past Lasair, sizing up Brienna where she stood, her calm and proud demeanor regained.

"They've sent a girl?" he rumbled. "Worthless."

Without another word, he charged past them up the stairs, entering a door on the first landing.

Brienna and Lasair chased after him, carrying the skirts of their heavy cloaks in hand so they wouldn't trip over them in their haste. The room Llewellyn had entered was a combination of sitting parlour and war headquarters. A clean hearth was well-appointed with a cowhide rug and low chairs, while behind that was a broad table covered with an unrolled map of Wales and England, crudely-carved stones marking the positions of allies and enemies in a logic that Brienna had never been inducted into. Unlike the fireplace, the war table had no chairs, and Brienna understood that her host preferred to plan his campaigns while standing.

Once inside, Llewellyn threw off his outer cloak and sank into one of the worn chairs by the hearth, which was immediately attended by the servant they'd first seen sweeping downstairs. The man seemed to have prepared for his master's return by having the fire built and ready, for it sprang alight with one touch of a match.

The servant left and Brienna and Lasair faced Llewellyn, who was scraping clods of dried mud from his boots and flinging them into the flames, where they flared and crumbled. He glanced up at their discomfited faces.

"A girl is no good for fostering," he said, resigned in the presumption that they already knew this. "No use at all, unless in marriage." He raised his stark black eyebrows at Brienna, expecting the comment to raise a reaction. Brienna remained silent.

"My mistress is promised to wed a prince of Leinster, once he takes the throne."

"You mean once his father dies and old Conchobhair can be sure his daughter is marrying a king, and not a pretender," Llewellyn observed shrewdly. "Go back home," he commanded, addressing Lasair, "and tell the old man that if he wants an ally of Gwynedd he'll send me one of his sons, and not a cowslip."

"Your Majesty," Brienna spoke up, her voice strong despite the fact that she was trembling with anger. "If you want my father's many warriors, war-trained horses, and weapons forged from Viking steel in your fight against the English, than you will accept me graciously into your home and treat me as an honored guest."

Llewellyn sat back, staring at her with aloof disdain.

"I admire your fealty to your people," he said, "but you've got it quite backward. Ó Chonchobhair has sent you because he seeks my support in a war that threatens his lands as much as mine." He threw an arm out, gesturing to the narrow windows the faced inland. "Look about you. What do you see?"

Brienna hesitated.

"Hills," she said.

"Hills, yes, and beyond that, mountains," Llewellyn pointed his finger east. "The English face a tough time of sending their forces over Welsh terrain, but your Ireland has no such natural defence. It has only the sea. And what do the English know better than anyone? Boats."

Having taught her the lay of the land, Llewellyn stood and rested his fists on the map covering the war table, lowering his brow at the two women. "What I need right now is more men. Strong men who know how to be useful in a war. Go home," he said again. "Tell your father to send a son."

Brienna said nothing for a long time, her eyes distant, as if gazing at the very mountains Lewellyn spoke of.

"I'm afraid that's impossible," she finally said. "My father has lost all but one of his sons in recent battles with our common enemy. I have only one brother left, and there's no way he would be parted with him. Not even for an alliance with such an esteemed figure as yourself."

She held Llewellyn's eye for a long time, until it was he who first looked away, down at the lines etching the map.

"Shall I stay, sir?" she asked.

He waved a hand at them.

"Geoffrey will take you to your quarters. I'll need a day or two to think over my decision."

At his dismissal, Lasair took Brienna's arm and scurried them into the stairwell, where the servant from earlier stood dully waiting for his next command. When he saw them he gestured them to follow with a hooked finger and led them up the stairs.

The door he opened for them was so small and unexceptional that Brienna hadn't seen it in her first ascent while looking for Llewellyn. Despite her slight stature, she had to duck her head to enter the modest room, which contained nothing more than a bed, the plainest of porcelain for her toilette, and a wooden chair and desk near the window. There were no acknowledgments to the comfort and vanity usually made to a woman of her position.

Geoffrey left as swiftly as he'd shown them in and Lasair and Brienna were left to themselves.

"He clearly had a boy in mind when it was fitted out," Lasair said of the room. She put a consoling palm on Brienna's shoulder. "Don't fret. It'll be dark soon, but in the morning we'll tell Ulf to bring the horses and we'll sail back to our island," she promised.

Brienna nodded, accepting the undisguised attempt to make her feel better. She and Lasair both knew that it was in her family's best interest for her to stay, even if Llewellyn didn't want her. She'd been shocked by the revelation of her father's tenuous situation with the English, although once Llewellyn had voiced it is seemed all too obvious. She'd always seen her home as a place of unparalleled safety and continuity, as sure as the green grass beneath her and the piercing stars above her.

Her father and brothers had always avoided discussing politics with her; when she was younger, any such talk would have seemed boring anyway. There was always a war. Someone's nephew was always trying to steal the kingship of one of the neighboring clans, alliances broke as easily as they were formed, clans from the South raided their land for wealth and the injury had to be avenged. The action never came close enough for Brienna to pay it any mind.

Part of her was terrified by the responsibility that she was faced with. Another part, the part that envied how her brothers were born into a destiny of heroism and being immortalized in bardic songs and poems, was ecstatic that her existence had finally been graced with the same sense of gravity and import that her brothers had always enjoyed.

Now, she realized that not only was everything she knew and loved in peril, but that she played an intrinsic part of keeping her family, her home, safe. With what was at stake, she had to put her personal wishes aside and do what was best for the clan, and for Ireland. It was her job to convince Llewellyn to let her stay.