She held it up now against her forehead, her thoughts gloomy. Would her female body imprison her in her husband’s land? Would she ever be able to wield this sword again, to fight for what was her own as any man would? Or would she be expected to act the wife in every way, never to use her skills again, to be a woman and do only what a woman should?
Curse men and their set ways! She would not be treated thus. To be undermined and ruled, nay! She would not be acquiescent. She was Brenna Carmarham, not some simpering, cowering maid!
Fuming indignantly, Brenna did not hear her aunt enter her chamber and quietly close the door. Linnet stared at her niece with tired, heartsick eyes.
She had nursed her own husband through months of suffering, each day sapping more of her strength. When he died, a part of her did too, for she loved him dearly. Now she had been doing the same for her brother Angus. Lord in Heaven, please: no more death.
Brenna gave a start when she perceived the haggard figure out of the corner of her eye. She turned to Linnet, hardly recognizing her. Her hair was unkempt and her gown soiled, but it was actually her face which was so disturbingly different. It was powder white, her lips were taut, and there were dark circles under her red-rimmed eyes.
Brenna got off the bed and led her aunt to the long gold couch beneath the window. “Linnet, you have been crying. ’Tis not like you,” she said worriedly. “What is wrong?”
“Oh, Brenna, lass. Your life is changing so much. ’Tis not right to have it all happen at one time.”
Brenna smiled weakly. “You have been crying for me, Aunt? You need not.”
“Nay, love, not for you, though I will surely. ’Tis your father, Brenna. Angus is dead.”
Brenna drew back, her face a sickly white. “How could you jest about this?” she accused harshly. “’Tis not so!”
“Brenna,” Linnet sighed, and reached out to caress her niece’s cheek. “I would not lie to you. Angus died but an hour past.”
Brenna shook her head slowly, denying the words. “He was not so ill. He cannot die!”
“Angus had the same illness as my husband, but at least he did not suffer overmuch.”
Brenna’s eyes were the size of saucers, and filled with horror. “You knew he would die?”
“Yea, I did.”
“In God’s name, why did you not tell me? Why did you let me go on believing he would be well again?”
“’Twas his wish, Brenna. He forbade me to tell anyone, especially you. He did not want to see you weeping by his side. Angus never could tolerate tears, and ’twas enough that he put up with mine.”
Tears now sprang to Brenna’s eyes. They were altogether unknown to her, for she had never shed them before. “But I should have been the one to nurse him. Instead, I went on my way as if naught was amiss.”
“He did not want you grieving overmuch, Brenna. And you would have if you had known. This way you will mourn for a while, then you will put it behind you. Your forthcoming marriage will help you.”
“Nay! There will be no wedding now!”
“Your father’s word has been given, Brenna.” Linnet spoke a bit impatiently. “You must honor it, even though he is dead.”
Brenna could hold back the heartbreaking sobs no longer. “Why did he have to die, Aunt? Why?”
Lord Angus Carmarham was laid to rest on a clear blue morning. Birds had only just begun to greet the day, and the fragrance of wild flowers drifted through the chill morning air.
Brenna, her eyes dry now, was dressed in black from head to foot. She wore a tunic and trousers gartered with leather, topped by a short, flowing mantle trimmed with silver thread. Her long raven tresses were braided and as usual tucked securely beneath the mantle. The only outstanding colors were the white of her face and the shining silver of her sword.
Her aunt had expressed disapproval at her apparel, but Brenna remained adamant. Her father had treated her and raised her as a son, and she would dress like that son for their final farewell.
The people of the village were present, and many wept loudly. Linnet stood on Brenna’s right, her comforting arm wrapped around the girl’s shoulders. Cordella and Dunstan were on her left. Dunstan spoke words of praise and past glory, but Brenna did not hear them. In those few moments she was reliving memories: a young child sitting on her father’s knee; a proud man yelling encouragement when his daughter rode her first horse. She recalled the tender, cherished moments.
Brenna felt lost without him, and a terrible feeling of emptiness washed over her. But she stood proud for her people to see. Only her eyes, lackluster and deadened, told of her heartache.
The moment when Dunstan spoke no more was silent and solemn. It was with much surprise that those in attendance saw a rider burst through the trees and descend upon the large gathering. He jumped from his horse and made his way quickly through the throng to Brenna’s side.
“Your betrothed has come.” The young man spoke breathlessly. “I was returning from Anglesey and passed the party on the way.”
“How do you know ’twas my betrothed?” Brenna asked apprehensively. She was not prepared for this news, not with her father just laid in his grave.
