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“There is one other thing….” Giles began.
“Aye?” Raymond leaned down and set the toppled bench back on its feet with a loud crack.
“Her uncle is Talyessin.” Giles sucked his teeth.
“So? Wales is full of Talyessins.”
“The Talyessin.”
Raymond blinked as this information penetrated. He had not been privy to the details of his late brother’s engagement. At the time he had been profoundly absorbed in more important concerns, namely, staying alive on a battlefield in France.
The Talyessin. A mighty Welsh lord, maneuvering himself from the north to rule the whole of Wales. His kinsmen’s expert archers had left Raymond with the near-fatal thigh wound that had cost him a full summer of recovery. The stench of the infection had kept Meribel away from him, had sent her looking for other, prettier amusements. He still favored that leg.
“Does he approve of this match, or is this an independent scheme of Morgan’s?” Raymond knew he could not escape the marriage, if backed to the wall by both of the powerful Welshmen. Not alone, and not with his prized dog in their hands. Men far greater than he, condemned to death, had purchased their very lives with the likes of Hamfast.
“He agrees with Lord Morgan, that they are well served by persuading you to form an alliance.” Giles wiped the grease from his eating dagger with the hem of his surcoat.
“An alliance based upon treachery. It goes against my grain. But, there is the happy thought that my righteous lord brother would find my new domestic arrangements intolerable.” Raymond rubbed the carved stone head of a knight, sitting on the chessboard he’d had built into the table, and sighed. “I will do it. But if this girl causes any trouble, back she goes.”
“Of course.” Giles grinned. “But she’ll be butter in your hands, I have no doubt.”
A soft knock sounded at the door.
“Come!” Raymond frowned. What now?
His cousin-by-marriage, Blanche, peeked into the solar. As ever, her hair was modestly hidden beneath her head cloth. She wore an unadorned kirtle of russet wool, which lent her graceful form more elegance than any amount of finery.
“Forgive me, my lord, I did not know you were occupied.” Blanche curtsied deeply and immediately turned to leave.
“A moment, lady.” She lifted her head and Raymond could see in her silver-grey eyes that she was nervous before him. A penniless widow, Blanche and her daughter had been thrust into his care by her mother-in-law, his aunt Clarisse. A cunning old witch if ever he knew one. He would try to put Blanche at ease.
“Please, be seated.” Raymond indicated his own place by the fire. She hesitated, then warily sat in the heavy oak chair. Giles followed her every move with his smoldering gaze.
“Tell me what brings you here. I am at your service.” Raymond did not attempt a smile, but he did speak softly and avoided towering over her.
“Ah, well, ’tis but a small matter, perhaps best left for another time.” She clutched the arms of the chair, as if readying herself to flee. As Raymond expected, the gallant Giles filled a cup with the unwatered wine he’d been drinking, and offered it to her with a courtly bow. Blanche was forced to let go of the chair in order to accept the wine.
Raymond cleared his throat. “Bree, again? She is the only small matter of concern at this keep.” The child was a fair delight, but a constant vexation to her mother, and an endless worry to him. At times he wondered if Bree was a changeling. For all her guileless expression, the amount of trouble she caused made it more than a casual jest.
As if Blanche read his thoughts, she averted her gaze.
Raymond hastened to reassure her. “Never mind. As you say, let us speak of it later. In truth, I wish to have your opinion on the subject under discussion when you arrived.”
Blanche looked up at him expectantly, her clear eyes reflecting a keen intelligence.
“Sir Giles believes I should marry again.” Raymond watched in alarm as the color drained from her face. Giles jumped to retrieve her goblet as it slipped from her fingers. “I beg your pardon, Madame. I did not mean that you were the intended, er, bride.” Raymond almost said “victim,” but resisted the temptation. Sarcasm would not help.
Blanche’s relief that she was not the focus of his intentions was immediately apparent. She took several more sips of wine and revived quickly.
“Explain, Giles.” Raymond waved vaguely in his friend’s direction and gazed into the brazier fire while Giles spoke. He did not enjoy being an object of terror. At least not to women. But all too often that was the case, and why not? They knew he’d been the death of Meribel. And Blanche knew it, too. But whatever she thought of him, he respected her. Anyone who had survived the intrigues of his family deserved as much.
Blanche listened quietly, occasionally murmuring an affirmation. Giles used the opportunity to full advantage. He sat beside her and took small liberties, touching her hand or leaning a bit too close. The young woman was visibly affected, for she started and blushed at each contact.
“I believe Lady Blanche understands, now,” Raymond interrupted Giles. “What say you, Madame?” He did not desire her opinion so much as he did her participation, so she might begin to feel a part of his household. If Giles would but leave her in peace.
“Though celibacy is best,” she began, throwing an arch look to Giles, “marriage is a necessary and proper state, for ’tis part of the divine plan. Of course in this instance there are many advantages, the safe return of Hamfast not the least of them. But have you considered the bride’s willingness, or lack thereof? Has she freely consented, or is she being forced?” Blanche took a deeper swallow from her goblet.
“What difference does it make?” Raymond rubbed his upper lip with the knuckle of one finger. He did not want to be reminded of the possibility of a reluctant bride. “As you yourself point out, she is among the least of the advantages.”
Fresh color flooded Blanche’s cheeks, not entirely due to the imported Rhenish wine, Raymond decided.
“You will feel the difference, my lord. Every day.” She glanced at Giles. “And mayhap every night,” she added boldly, downing the last of her drink.
“I shall suit myself, whatever her position,” Raymond said.
“My lord,” Giles responded, “if I were you, I would succumb to whatever position she chose.” He gazed in apparent innocence at Lady Blanche, who leaned back and returned his look with glazed eyes. She hiccoughed, blushed, and Giles laughed aloud.
Raymond clamped his jaw and frowned. Leave it to Giles to get a lady drunk at the earliest opportunity. And Blanche should know better. Hamfast’s return is all that matters. And the rest can go to hell.
Chapter Three
“Did you hear that?” Rhys put a finger to his lips and halted his horse on the shadowed forest path.
Ceridwen’s senses sharpened in alarm at the question, even as she shook her head “no.” The remote forest through which they passed bore a tense and forbidding air, as though the mountains only waited to rid themselves of unwanted passersby.
Huge groves of beech trees rustled in the breeze, and even here they held a faint tang of the sea. In barren places, rough fingers of black, lichened stone stuck up at odd angles. The Black Mountains were notorious for the bands of outlaws inhabiting their craggy peaks. Such men had no qualms about murdering travelers, whether Welsh or English.
Rhys headed the dozen men escorting her to Sir Raymond’s keep. The Englishman was supposed to have taken her back with him from Trefynwy. But upon retrieving his dog—and the pledge of her land—he had left as abruptly as he had arrived, without even meeting her. Ceridwen had been relieved at the time to be spared Raymond’s attention, in spite of the insult, but now she feared for her company’s safety.
“There it is again,” Rhys murmured.
Heavily armed with both shortbows and swords, the other men of her guard twisted in their saddles to look about, and quickly flanked her. Ceridwen jumped as a flock of small birds burst from the canopy of the thick woods to their left.
“Wait…”
A whistling thud sounded. The horse between her and the forest screamed and began to go down, collapsing into her palfrey. Her mount lurched and lost its balance. She kicked her feet free of the stirrups as the animal careened onto its side. In a swirl of skirts she tumbled to the ground. Something hard struck her head and flashes of red and white exploded behind her eyes. Men shouted and horses whinnied.
“They have crossbows, Rhys! My lady!” Sir Dylan reached down for her hand, pulled Ceridwen up behind him and raced away. It was all she could do to hold on to him. Though her head spun and her heart was in her throat, she would gladly fight. The fear of waiting to be slain was worse than dying in action.
“Leave me, Dylan, I would rather help you than hide!”
Dylan galloped his horse a long way before he halted near a tangled growth of brambles, well out of sight from the lane.
“Do not be foolish, my lady. Crawl into that thicket. Do not make a sound. Don’t move a muscle until one of us comes for you. Do you swear?” He swung her down and held onto her hand, looking into her eyes. “Swear on your mother’s grave you will not follow me back.”
Ceridwen hesitated and he crushed her hand in his grip. Wincing, she relented. “I swear, Dylan, but—”
Before she could protest, he was pounding back towards the fray. She cursed him for the stubborn man that he was and felt for her dagger, only to find an empty sheath. With a separate twinge of panic, she checked the slim leather case at her waist. Her stomach was queasy and her head hurt, but she breathed easier when her fingers touched the warm ivory of her flute.
Ceridwen crept into the shelter of the brambles and resigned herself to wait. Her legs cramped, but she could not move without thorns poking her in a variety of tender spots. Waves of dizziness swept her. A spider descended on a thread in front of her nose. As time crawled by with no sign of Dylan’s return, worry gnawed deeper. Enough of obedience. She was a woman, not a mouse. Carefully she disentangled herself from the clinging vines. She abruptly stood upright, stars swirled before her eyes, and she pitched forward.
When Ceridwen woke, her head throbbed with a fierce ache. The day had waned. A fly buzzed around her nose, and she waved at it feebly. She had to find Rhys and the others. See that they were all alive. She wove her way back to the roadway. Dusk lay quiet on the forest, lending the air a smoky blue haze. A heavy stillness had settled, in ominous contrast to the faint clashes and shouts she had heard earlier. She walked along, ready to dart among the trees at the slightest sound of men.
Topping a rise, she looked at the site of the ambush. Nothing. Not a horse, nor a man, nor a piece of weaponry. She scrambled down the gentle slope and came to a skidding stop in the middle of the roadway. Frantically she searched the edges of the wood. Against her better judgment she shouted, calling out the names of the missing men, and even those of the horses.
It was as though they had been swallowed up into the fairy world and made invisible. She returned to examine the path, determined not to panic, not to weep. At first glance in the fading light, its muddy center yielded nothing but an unreadable maze of hoofprints. Kneeling, she touched the cold, wet soil. Her fingers were smeared with mud…and dark, red blood.
Ceridwen swallowed hard as the truth sank in. She had been left behind because Dylan was dead, or so badly injured he could not tell Rhys where he had hidden her. Perhaps they had searched for her and she had not heard them calling her name. In any event it was up to her now. But there was only one honorable way. East, towards the marcher lord’s domains.
Days later, Ceridwen sat by the dusty road, her back to a tree. The blisters on her feet stung, but her mind and the rest of her body were numbed by exhaustion. At least the forest had proved itself a friend. She had found berries and nuts enough to survive. A blessed spring had provided sweet, clear water. A hollow chestnut tree had served as haven. But she had walked and stumbled and ridden in oxcarts until she was too tired to weep, much less marry anyone.
Her state of dishevelment had saved her, she supposed. No one had looked twice at her. She had pushed on, determined to finish what her father had charged her to do. Over and over again, she told herself that Rhys and the others were yet alive.
At the sound of hoofbeats and laughter, Ceridwen got to her feet. Cursing her nearsightedness, she squinted as a glittering cavalcade approached. Horses pranced, jewels gleamed, and a banner proclaimed a white stag, symbol of the house of Beauchamp.
An extraordinarily handsome nobleman sat his horse, a hooded falcon upon one fist. His golden hair, cut blunt and short, contrasted with his dark eyebrows and tawny skin. The winered folds of his mantle glowed with the sheen of velvet, and the ermine lining quivered in the gusting wind. He held the reins of his palfrey with casual elegance, not sparing a glance to anyone afoot. Nay, he could not be her betrothed. Could he?
The small crowd of spectators muttered his name as he passed, and crossed themselves. So, this was Alonso the Fair, whose knights routinely slaughtered her people. Ceridwen’s eyes narrowed farther, and she tried to swallow against her dry throat. Alonso. Her future brother-in-law.
The baron and his retinue rode by, unheeding. If this was one of Alonso’s villages, it could not be all that far to Rookhaven, where Sir Raymond was lord. Carrog Dhu, the Black Dragon, as he was known to the Welsh.
Perhaps he did not even expect her. But her only course lay in going to him and throwing herself at his dubious mercy. She must get word to her father that she lived and find out what happened to Rhys and the others.
Ceridwen’s stomach rumbled and panged, interrupting her thoughts. Running her tongue over her lips, she tasted dust and salt. She watched as the villagers dispersed to warm cottages and hot food. A small boy stared up at her, his blue eyes wide. With a smile Ceridwen knelt to his level.
His mother ran to him and swept the boy into her arms. “Get away from decent folk, wanton. Go on with ye. Go!”
More people stopped to stare and whisper. The ill will they had summoned at the sight of Lord Alonso was now directed at her. A youth reached down and gathered a fistful of stones. To proclaim her worth would be a waste of time. These English needed someone to hurt, someone who could not retaliate.
Ceridwen eased her way through the villagers. She could feel their hostile stares, and sensed their restraint would be short-lived. She lengthened her stride, but something whistled past her ear even as a hard object struck her back. She flung her mantle aside, the better to run, and her pursuers might be satisfied with such a fine garment.
Ceridwen left the jeering villagers behind and tore across a fallow field towards the woods. For now, that was the only place to hide. The trees were old, majestic, their trunks thick and gnarled. As she ran scarlet and yellow leaves blew around her feet. Yew and ash, oak and linden rustled in the freshening breeze, beckoning her to take their shelter. A path disappeared into the dense array of trees.
Winded, she slowed and tried to focus on which way to go. But panic still claimed her. All the fear and pain and uncertainty of the past few days surged anew, bursting into a conflagration of emotions Ceridwen could no longer control.
She grabbed up her skirts and ran on. Brambles slapped at her, scratching her face and tearing at the green wool of her overgown. Her trailing hems, already soiled, grew heavy with mud. She raced against the heartbreak threatening to overwhelm her. Nothing mattered but to outdistance the pain.
Her breath rasped, and blood pounded in her aching temples. She would run until her heart burst and she was free of earthly bounds. Perhaps God would then forgive her for still harboring the wicked, unseemly passion of vengeance for Owain.
Ceridwen careened on, blinded by tears and her own shortsightedness. She collided with a solid object that had not been there a moment before. Thick arms engulfed her in a stink of rancid pork fat, sour ale and unwashed humanity.
“Oy! Hold on, what have we here?” A beefy young man swung her around, casually trapping her against a tree trunk.
Breathless, Ceridwen stared up at his sweaty face, too close to her own. Her heart sank. Wild beasts were one thing. Beastly men were quite another. She fought to free herself.
He grinned, snaggletoothed.
The tree bark dug into her back. “Let me go. I—I bear a message for my lady. You will have cause to regret delaying me.” She regretted her lack of skill at telling falsehoods, not to mention her imperfect command of English.
“Your lady, eh? I doubt that, since there ain’t none in these parts. Where’s the message then? Where have ye hid it on yer fine wee person?” His hand plunged between her breasts.
Ceridwen ducked under his arm, but the man caught a fistful of her loose hair and slammed her back against the tree. She gasped in pain as her already sore head bounced on the wood, and for once regretted not cutting her hair short, as did most of her countrywomen.
“Don’t be runnin’ off now, pretty.” His voice was congenial, his touch vicious. One greasy palm slid from her cheek to squeeze her throat. Deftly he pulled up her skirts with the other, climbing her thigh as she choked in his grip. She had the distinct impression he’d done this before.
“Ready for me now, wench? Hmm?”
Thick fingers kneaded her buttock. Pools of black flowed into her vision, spread, and merged. Ceridwen fought desperately to breathe, to knee him. She twisted her head. His hand slipped from her neck to grab at her breast. He laughed.
“Think yer too good fer me? Well, I’ll make ye rue that pride, girl. I’ll humble ye right proper.”
Ceridwen inhaled deeply through her mouth. She lunged and bit down on his wrist. Tendons rolled beneath her teeth. The young man howled and began to throttle her in earnest. Her feet left the ground as he lifted her by the neck. She tried to kick but her legs would not obey. Ceridwen shut her eyes. She would die…she had to breathe…
“Come away, my lord. We have avoided Alonso thus far and there’s no time for sport.”
“Go on, then,” came the curt reply.
The foreign, male voices barely registered as Ceridwen struggled for her life. A rumble of hoofbeats vibrated through the tree at her back. Faintly, through the roaring in her ears, she heard a hideous growl. Then her assailant grunted, and his hands fell from her body.
A searing pain lanced Ceridwen’s abdomen, right below her ribs. She dropped to the ground like a sack of meal. Gratefully, she sucked in lungfuls of air. Never had the simple act of breathing been so sweet. Gulping air until the pain in her middle forced her to stop, Ceridwen lay in a heap and shivered, her eyes clenched shut, forcing back tears.
A hand slipped beneath her neck and gently raised her head. Ceridwen thrashed against it until another hand pressed hard on her stomach, right where it hurt the most. She moaned and opened her eyes to gaze into those of a stranger.
Flinty, cold, and blue. A wave of relief washed over her. It was not the same man who had attacked her. But…the accent of nobility, the hard expression. An Englishman. And no common one at that. She stiffened in renewed fear, and slowly, his features resolved into clarity.
What a face to belong to an enemy, she thought, in spite of her alarm. His hair was hidden beneath his mail coif, but his eyebrows and lashes were thick and dark. The clean line of his jaw was shadowed with stubble. He was blessed with a straight, unbroken nose and smooth skin. His mouth was wide, with a small bunch of muscle at each corner. It was a mouth made for smiling, but remained set in a grim line.
“Forgive me, ’demoiselle, for I have wounded thee.” His voice was deep, rich—and devoid of warmth.
“What…wound? What do you mean?” Ceridwen looked down at herself in horrified disbelief. A dark stain seeped in an ever-widening circle from beneath the leather-gauntleted fingers upon her abdomen. “Oh! Oh, it hurts.”
The knight took her hand and pushed it against the warm, sticky mess on her overgown as he slid his own away. She felt a hole in the fabric and another in herself. This could not be happening. Ceridwen watched in dread as he knelt beside her and unsheathed his dagger. But she refused to cry out at the wave of terror his act induced.
“Nay, do not do it. Not yet,” she implored him in a hoarse whisper, her fingertips barely touching his knee. “I have not yet confessed.”
“What? Speak French. Or English.” He frowned and brushed her hand away with an impatient flick of his fingers. He untied his belt, placed it to one side, then hitched a length of his surcoat up into his lap.
Ceridwen had not realized she’d slipped into Welsh. She tried again, barely able to form intelligible words. “The coup-de-grace. Am I mortally wounded? Will I die slowly unless y-you finish me off?” Rising panic urged her to run, but her head spun and her muscles felt like jelly, as though she had been fevered for days. Each breath moved her abdomen and caused fresh shards of pain. Perhaps he was right to put her out of her misery.
An odd look of sorrow flitted across the knight’s face. But it vanished almost before she caught it, to be replaced by a stony, unreadable expression. With exaggerated care, he held the dagger up for her to see, the blade balanced between his thumb and forefinger. He then proceeded to slice a large piece of linen from the lining of his surcoat.
“You are not skewered nearly so completely as the knave. I misjudged his girth. From behind I thought him fatter than he was.” He folded the cloth neatly and bound it against her wound with the woven belt.
Relief washed over Ceridwen as she realized the knight had not saved her only to kill her himself. “Mayhap the man was going to stab me anyway,” she said, and flinched as the Englishman gave the binding a final tightening twist. Her glance strayed to the body of her attacker, sprawled on the reddened ground, his mouth gaping. Even as she averted her eyes her stomach lurched.
“He wished to run something into you, that is true.” The Englishman unfastened his mantle and draped the thick gray material about her shoulders.
Ceridwen felt uneasy at these words, but their meaning escaped her reeling mind. She could not seem to stop shaking. Gratitude accompanied warmth as the knight enveloped her in the coarse garment. He scooped her up and, stepping around the dead man’s body, carried her towards his horse. Afraid to look, she hid her face in the hollow of the warrior’s sturdy shoulder.
