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“Giles. ’Tis good to see you.” Raymond extended his hand and Giles engulfed him in a hug, slapping his back with hearty thumps before releasing him.
“’Twould appear you have been busy,” Giles observed, dumping his sword, shield, helm and gauntlets onto the tabletop. A carpet of glittering bits lay on the floor and were liberally sprinkled over Hamfast’s sleeping form.
Raymond remained silent.
“Oh, come, tell me what is on your mind. We have no secrets between us. At least none that I am aware of,” Giles said.
Raymond refrained from rolling his eyes at Giles’s deliberate obtuseness. “It would not be much of a secret if you were aware of it, then, would it?” Throwing his leg over the bench, he sat heavily and stared at the cracks in the oak planks of the table.
“Hamfast, what is wrong with your master? His tongue’s sharpened cruelly and he is sulking like a child kept home from the fair.” Giles helped himself to a drink of ale.
Raymond groaned and put his head in his hands.
Giles eyed Raymond thoughtfully. “You need help, my friend. What can I do for you?”
“Put me out of my misery.”
Giles asked knowingly, “Who is she?”
Helpless in his grief, Raymond replied at last. “Ceridwen. My betrothed.”
“Ah. Then what is the problem? Have at her!”
“She has gone.”
“What have you done?” Giles gazed steadily at Raymond.
“When I departed she was dying.” Raymond thought of Ceridwen, ill unto death—and by his hand. Guilt seared his soul anew. “I ordered that she not be here upon my return.”
“Lord, you make things easy for yourself. But why?”
“She reminded me of Meribel. I could not bear it.”
“Then you should have plowed her and have done with it.”
Raymond’s jaw tightened. “You show me less respect than does Alys. Ceridwen is not meant for reckless plowing.”
“Oh, pardon me. I have yet to meet a lass who was not. But what will her father have to say?”
“I know not—nor even for certain whether she yet lives. Alys will not speak to me. But never mind all that for now.” In an attempt to keep despair at bay, Raymond took back the jug briefly from his friend. “How did it go, Giles?”
“Well enough. Robert of Dinsdale will send twelve men, two of whom are knights. Conrad Shortneck has promised twenty in all. Five knights, five horsemen, and ten men-at-arms. Another eight from Cruikshank, and Lucien de Griswold has graciously offered to come himself, along with ten of his best. He hates Alonso almost as much as you do.”
“Fifty-one, plus the twenty of us. We will need more.” Raymond drummed his fingers on the tabletop.
“There are no more who can be trusted,” Giles said.
Hamfast rose and shook himself violently, showering the floor with bits of glass. As the dog lumbered by, Giles reached out to scratch the animal’s craggy head. The parting of black lips and a low growl made the warrior withdraw his hand.
“What is the matter with him?”
“He has been out of sorts lately.” Raymond did not add what he thought—since leaving Ceridwen behind. Just like himself. “If there are no more, then we must hire mercenaries. What of those Teutons out Rotham way?”
Hamfast settled on top of his master’s booted feet.
“That is a risky proposition. And expensive.”
“I have a bit set by. God knows I have not spent a penny on this place since the fortifications.” And Ceridwen’s burial.
“What about arms?” Giles asked. “Do we have the spare lance shafts, axe heads and all?”
“Aye. Bruce and the armorer have seen to it. But for the most part everyone must bring whatever they can.”
Wace knocked, poking his head around the edge of the door. At Raymond’s nod he slipped into the chamber.
Giles raised a hand in salute. “Hey-hey, Wace! Are you ready for some warring and wenching?” Giles was ever jovial when a fight was imminent. The squire flushed and turned uncertain eyes to his master. Raymond merely raised his brows, as if he too wanted to know.
“I am ready for anything, sir.” Wace straightened his shoulders and his expression grew fierce.
Giles laughed aloud and slapped the table with his palm.
Raymond tilted his head, coughed to mask the twitch of his lips, and recovered his stern demeanor. “Wace, take Sir Giles’s gear and clean it. Make sure his mount is properly bedded down, and give the beast a hot bran mash. The icy weather tells on that one’s gut.”
“Aye, milord.” Wace gathered up the gear and departed.
“Ah, would that I had the same careful attention you assure my horse,” Giles sighed.
“What are you whining about?” Fitfully, Raymond ran both hands through his hair.
“You do need more women in this place, Raymond. A wife, to bathe your guests. And all the maids and ladies of quality that come along with a wife, to entertain and serve your friends.”
“Serve, or be serviced, Giles?” Raymond unsheathed his dagger and began to carve the tabletop with a vengeance.
“Why not both?” Giles laced his fingers behind his head.
“Why not indeed? No woman in her right mind would have me apurpose, and ’tis for the best. You know what they say of me.”
“Oh, I do, I do. The fair hero, Lord Raymond, whose valiant feats of yore are sung from north to south. The dark, wicked Lord Raymond, whose evil heart lurks behind his crumbling walls, waiting to devour passing maidens. Take your pick. The trouble is, no one knows ’tis the same Raymond.”
“I hardly know myself.”
“Then find this maiden who has bewitched you. Bring her back and get on with it.”
“I must see to Alonso.” Raymond brushed the wood chips to the floor. He didn’t care to tell Giles of his decision not to subject an innocent girl to a short, unhappy life, tied to him.
“Well and good. But do you think it so very wise? What will you do once you’ve sacked his possessions? Kill him? You will have to, you know.”
“I know. I have his demise planned, to the last drop.” Raymond slammed his dagger’s point deep into the oak, and the hilt quivered upright.
“You will regret it in the end. No good will come of it.” Giles leaned back, ever at ease in his big, muscular body. “There is no guarantee he will not overwhelm you. You do not want to fall into his hands alive, once he knows what you are about.”
“That will not happen. I do what I must, Giles.”
“You drive yourself hard. I would but see you content.”
“Thank you.” Raymond looked into his friend’s concerned eyes. “My happiness is in my own hands. And God’s.”
A rustle and slight clatter came from behind the door.
“Come here.” Giles waved the serving-girl into the room.
Shona, the daughter of a knight who had died in Raymond’s service, had no business doing menial labor. But she insisted upon earning her own keep, no matter what arguments he had presented. Neither gifts nor threats had changed her mind, so Raymond had resigned himself to accept her self-chosen role. She was bright and lovely and of course Giles pursued her constantly.
“My lord, Wace sent me up with these things.” Shona smiled at Raymond and glanced at Giles, as she set the trencher of bread, mutton stew, and cheese on the table.
Giles wasted no time on the food. He took the girl’s hand and pulled her to his side, his arm snug about her hips. “Ah, sweet Shona, when shall we be wed, as I have begged for so long?” He gazed up at her, a grin threatening.
“When thou art true to me, sir, and love none other.” She wound a lock of his sable hair about her fingers. Giles bent his head and rested his cheek in the curve of her trim waist.
Raymond averted his eyes from the sight of such comfortable familiarity. It only served to accentuate the terrible hole he felt growing in his own gangrenous core. Despite his bold statement to Giles, he was beginning to question his motives for waging war on his brother. How much was revenge, and how much simply a desire for annihilation? Was it Alonso he wished to destroy, or himself? Either way, it was a road straight to hell. But then, he was already there, burning.
He could not get the mysterious, black-tressed girl out of his thoughts. Ceridwen. He wanted her. Yearned for her. Dreamed of her midnight hair, trailing through his fingers. Her soft lips straining to meet his. He wanted to get his hands on her supple body, and bring a glow of passion to her white skin.
But even if she lived, she preferred the perils of the great forest to being with him. It was his own damned fault. Raymond retrieved his knife and pushed away from the table. Leaving the food untouched he left the solar, Hamfast bounding after him.
Giles sighed deeply and stood. Shona, with tousled blond hair peeking from beneath her linen head-cloth, came only to his shoulder. She tilted her head back to look at him.
“You are ever too great for me, my lord Giles.” She cast her gaze downward.
“Not so great. And who is to notice, lying down?” He tipped her chin back up with his forefinger.
She batted at him with small, chapped hands.
Giles caught both of Shona’s hands in one of his. Putting his free arm about her waist, he lifted her to eye level. “I am yours. Command me as you will.” He moved his mouth nearer and nearer to hers, closing his eyes halfway.
Shona squirmed in Giles’s grip. “Put me down. Nay, wait.” Her lips met his in a girlish, chaste kiss. “Now put me down.”
“That is a start, anyway.” He set her carefully on her feet. “I must go after Raymond before he does himself hurt.”
Shona paused as she reached to clear away the untasted food. “Help him, Sir Giles. None of us can speak to him. Not the way he needs to be spoken to.”
“I will try, Shona-lass.”
The dew had not yet dried on the grass, and the mossy, intricately carved cairn-cross rose like a tombstone at the side of the road. Ceridwen avoided its chill shadow as she sat astride the drowsy pony Alys had provided. Her escort, arranged by promise of payment from her father, was late.
Old Nance rubbed his bulbous nose and peered down the road. “Here ye’ll be safe ’til Rory comes, lass. ’Tis a holy place.”
Ceridwen frowned. “Aye, but how will I recognize him?”
“No matter, he’ll find ye. There’s no other maid waitin’ here, God love and bless ye.” Old Nance scratched himself in a resigned manner. “I’d best be on me way. The missus’ll have me privates in the cheese press if I’m late to Mass.”
“But—”
“That’s settled, then. Godspeed and fare ye well, lady.” With a wave Nance set off for home at a remarkable pace for his bowed legs. The old man wanted his warm hearth, no doubt.
Ceridwen hoped the crossroads was indeed a safe place, but the stout dagger at her waist offered reassurance. Rookhaven lay quiet with the master and most of his men at large, but it seemed Raymond’s commands were obeyed whether he was there or not. How she was to return, Ceridwen did not yet know. Meanwhile, she would do her best to sort out a plan.
The pony raised its head, swiveling its shaggy ears forward. Ceridwen tightened her fingers around the knife-hilt as two men crested the hill. Both were stocky, with similar heads of stiff, red hair, and were armed with short swords. Freemen, and brothers as well, she would warrant. But they carried themselves boldly, and their stares made her uneasy.
The taller of the two spoke up as they neared. “Good morrow, lady. Me and Sam here was just telling Old Nance how Rory’s still too drunk to be of any use this day.”
Ceridwen woke her mount with a squeeze of her legs. “Aye?”
The man smiled. “Even sober, Rory couldn’t find his way across the village square to save his own life. We’ll be your guide and guard, and won’t charge much.” He eyed the bag hanging from her saddle. It had bread and cheese in it, but he obviously envisioned something more valuable.
“I will go after Nance and speak to him myself. I have naught with which to pay you until I reach home.” Ceridwen hoped she sounded convincing. The men exchanged glances. The one who had done the talking stood by as Sam took a step closer to the pony. Ceridwen’s heart thudded and her stomach muscles tensed.
The talker smiled again. “Naught? But you’ve just been Beauchamp’s…guest.” He winked at Sam. “When it comes to women, Lord Raymond is generous to a fault. Gives them their due, he does.” Casually, he reached for her pony’s reins.
“Nay!” Ceridwen kicked the sluggish animal forward and whipped her dagger from its sheath. “Back off! I have taken nothing from Sir Raymond. He can keep his filthy blood-money.”
The men hesitated, then shrugged and stepped aside as she brandished her blade. Urging the pony past them, Ceridwen managed to put it into a canter. She pounded down the road. There was but one, and as long as it led away from the ruffians, she was satisfied.
“’Tis a poor bargain you’ve struck, girl! A maid’s innocence is worth a pretty penny to a Beauchamp!”
The guffawing men were soon left behind, and Ceridwen did not look back. It was broad daylight, after all. She would appeal to the parish priest when she found him, to help her find shelter until she knew what to do.
Raymond rode his courser west, cursing the lateness of the day, the glowering clouds over the hills, the stubbornness of Welshwomen, and most of all, his own idiocy. He had thought he could accept not knowing Ceridwen’s fate, but the wondering had been unbearable. Upon his return Alys had given him a look that would have curdled milk, and refused to tell him anything.
But that in itself spoke aloud. Surely if the girl had died, Alys would have shunned him entirely, and made his life a much greater misery than she was doing now. So here he was, searching a dozen sheep tracks and byways, every glen and wayfarer’s resting spot, hope dwindling with every step. Hamfast too scoured the hedgerows, only to follow endless false leads.
Perhaps Ceridwen was lying in a ditch, or wolves had devoured her. Raymond’s fist tightened on his reins. He should have been with her, seen her home himself, or seen her body home, either way. He was a feckless wretch to have abandoned her. It was his duty to see her safe. It did not have to mean he cared.
There was one thing he could still do for her, though. Raymond looked up toward the bruised, purpling clouds, swollen with unspilled rain, and made a promise to God. While I yet live, I will honor Morgan’s request for an alliance. Even without a bride to seal the pact.
The sun had vanished into the gathering storm, and Ceridwen took a path leading into the shelter of the woods. A quiet dell would provide grass for the pony and a haven from the road. In a meadow deep amidst the trees the pony grazed, and Ceridwen leaned against the bole of a hoary oak.
She was tired, and could not afford to give way to fear. The oak sighed in the wind, and her fingers sank into the moss growing thick and cool upon it. Listening to the whisper of the boughs overhead, she watched as red squirrels scampered up the twisted trunk. She felt faint, light-limbed, as though if she released her grip she would float up and away towards the scudding clouds beyond the treetops.
It was as though her will had been drained along with the poison of her illness. Or perhaps her sanity. She was an utterly pride-addled fool to have left Rookhaven. But what choice had Beauchamp given her?
A rattle of chain and the pony’s high-pitched whinny startled Ceridwen into alertness. A huge dog bounded toward her through the grass, a horseman loped after. Her first instinct was to run and hide, but Rhys had warned her not to try to outrun dogs. It was better to curl up in as small a ball as possible. She might have done, had the hound been alone, but even as she realized the beast was Hamfast, so did she recognize Raymond.
There was no mistaking the dark, brooding air that seethed about him, even had his person and horse not been so distinctive.
“What do you want, sir?” Ceridwen swallowed the lump that seemed to grow in her throat as she met Raymond’s chilly gaze.
“Get on that pony. I am taking you home.” His voice had a ragged edge, unusual for him.
