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The Welshman called out a few orders in his native tongue, and immediately grooms and boys appeared from the stables to take hold of their horses.
Apparently the lord of Llanpowell’s servants were as well trained as his soldiers, in spite of his jovial appearance and friendly manner.
“Come inside and get dry!” the Welshman cried as he waved his hand toward the large stone building that must be the hall, paying no heed to the drink that spilled from his mug.
Roslynn sincerely hoped Madoc ap Gruffydd wasn’t a drunkard.
His expression grim, Lord Alfred swung down from his saddle and came to help her dismount. Once on the ground, she took a deep breath and shook out the full gored skirt of her gown of perse, while Lord Alfred stiffly held out his arm to lead her into the hall behind their host.
The soldiers in the yard remained where they were, watchful and suspicious.
The hall was rather small, and close, and old, the beams dark with age and smoke. Unlike more recently built halls, it had a central hearth and the roof was held up not by pillars of stone, but wood, some plain, some carved with vines and leaves and faces of animals. Rushes covered the floor, and three large hunting dogs, as shaggy as their master, lumbered to their feet, sniffing at the Normans as they passed. Several servants waited by the walls, watching like the soldiers in the yard, as their host led them toward the hearth and the benches and single wooden chair arranged around it.
After seeing the castle’s fortifications, Roslynn had assumed that the living quarters of Llanpowell would be more modern and comfortable. It was disappointing to discover they were not, but at least they would be dry.
And no matter how primitive the accommodations, this was still better than being at King John’s court, where she had to fend off the advances of the king and every other lascivious courtier who believed, given her recent history, that she should be grateful for his attention.
“Sit you down by the fire, my lady,” their host said as he threw off his cloak, goblet still in hand. He didn’t seem to notice or care that his cloak fell to the rush-covered floor before a servant had time to grab it.
“Bron, what are you about, girl?” he demanded of another maidservant standing by the wall, who looked about eighteen years old. “Take her ladyship’s cloak.”
The young woman darted forward and waited while Roslynn removed the rain-soaked garment. The servant, just as quickly, hurried to hang it on a peg on the wall before returning to her post.
It was warmer near the fire, and Roslynn was well dressed in a thick woolen gown and heavy boots, but she shivered nonetheless and wrapped her arms about herself as she took a seat on the bench.
Smiling expansively, the Welshman settled his bulk in the chair and grinned at Lord Alfred, who stood so stiffly, one might conclude he was incapable of bending at the waist.
“No doubt you’re wondering what has brought us here,” he began just as stiffly.
“Aye, I do, but sit down, man!” the Welsh nobleman commanded with a deep chuckle. “Drink and food before business. Can’t think of important matters when my belly rumbles. Bron, some mulled wine for our guests, and barley bread and the soft cheese, not the hard. No braggot. Not yet, anyway.”
As the young woman disappeared into what was likely the corridor to the kitchen, the Welshman turned to Roslynn with a wink. “Braggot’s Welsh mead, my lady, and strong, so we best stay with the wine for now.”
She managed to return his smile. Madoc ap Gruffydd was neither young nor handsome, but that was surely all to the good. Had she not learned how deceptive youth and a comely face and form could be? Besides, a man of his age could well be past greed and ambition, happy to live out his days in quiet contentment on his estate. That could explain why Madoc ap Gruffydd was so cheerful and welcoming: he had no reason not to be.
“So, my lord, how does the king fare these days?” he inquired as he tossed his now-empty goblet at another of the servants, who caught it so deftly, she assumed this happened often. “Still happy with his little French wife?”
“King John is quite well and, yes, happily wed. We have every hope an heir to the throne will soon be forthcoming,” Lord Alfred coldly replied. “Now, if you will permit me to introduce myself, my lord. I am Lord Alfred de Garleboine and this is—”
“Lord Alfred de Garleboine? There’s a mouthful. Can’t say I’ve heard of you, but then, I don’t pay much attention to the English court and the mischief they get up to.” The Welshman patted Roslynn’s hand. “Much more pleasant to tell stories round the fire and sing songs of brave deeds, eh, my lady?”
“A nobleman must pay heed to what transpires at court if he is to assist the king and protect his family,” she replied, not impressed by his apparently lackadaisical attitude, especially in such times, and with such a king upon the throne.
“Oh, I know enough, I know enough. Not quite at the end of the world, us,” Lord Madoc replied, before raising his voice to shout for Bron. She immediately reappeared in the doorway, a distinctly harried expression on her pretty face. “Where’s the food, girl? And the drink? Our guests are starving! Fine thing if they can’t get a bite to eat after riding in the wet!”
The maidservant said something in rapid Welsh, then disappeared again.
“It’s not that we don’t have plenty in the larder, my lady,” the lord of Llanpowell explained as if it was a matter of grave concern. “It’s just you caught us between meals while we wait for the patrols to come back. Had a bit of bother with them over the mountain.”
As Roslynn smiled to show him she wasn’t disturbed by the delay, she wondered what he meant by “bit of bother” and who “them over the mountain” might be. Enemies, clearly, but how many and how powerful? She’d been told almost nothing about the lord of Llanpowell and even less about any potential enemies he might have.
“My lord,” Lord Alfred began again, his exasperation obvious. “We have come—”
“Ah, here’s the food now!” the Welshman interrupted as the serving girl arrived carrying a large tray bearing three unexpectedly fine silver goblets, a carafe of steaming wine, whose spicy scent filled the air and a beechwood platter covered with a napkin. One of the other male servants hurried forward with a small bench, which he put in front of Madoc ap Gruffydd. After Bron set the tray on it, the Welshman whisked off the napkin to reveal two sliced loaves of fresh, brown bread and several slices of thick cheese, as well as honey cakes.
As the aroma from the warm bread and spiced wine filled her nostrils, Roslynn’s stomach growled loudly.
She blushed with embarrassment, but the lord of Llanpowell laughed and handed her one of the goblets before pouring her some wine. “What did I tell you? Hungry you are, and no mistake. I could see that by the look of you, and a little more flesh on your bones might not be amiss.”
“Perhaps now we could discuss the purpose of our visit,” Lord Alfred said through clenched teeth.
The Welshman’s merry expression disappeared in an instant, replaced by cold disapproval. “You may have come from the Plantagenet king, my lord, and with no invitation I’m aware of, but it’s hospitality first in this household, business after.”
Lord Alfred’s narrow face reddened before he finally, slowly, sat down across the fire from Roslynn and accepted a goblet of mulled wine.
“There now, eat and talk after,” the Welshman said, his anger disappearing as swiftly as the steam from the carafe.
The wine was surprisingly good and did indeed warm her. In spite of its taste and comforting effect, however, she was careful not to drink too much. She didn’t want anything clouding her ability to think.
“Isn’t that better?” the Welshman said after the platters were nearly empty and Roslynn couldn’t eat another bite. “And now to business. So, Lord Alfred de Garleboine, what brings you and your lovely daughter to Llanpowell?”
Roslynn nearly spit out her wine, although it was an innocent mistake. Lord Alfred was old enough to be her father.
“Lady Roslynn is not my daughter,” Lord Alfred sternly replied. “She is—”
“Your pretty wife then, is it?” the Welshman cried, grinning. “What a fortunate fellow you are!”
Lord Alfred couldn’t look more appalled, while Roslynn felt the most unexpected urge to giggle, despite her circumstances. “No, she most certainly is not my wife. She is—”
“Saints preserve us,” Lord Madoc cried as if torn between scandal and admiration, “you don’t mean to say she’s your lehman?”
“No!” Roslynn gasped, breaking into the conversation. “I am not his mistress!”
“Well, thanks be to heaven for that,” the Welshman said with genuine relief as Lord Alfred’s face went from red to purple, “or I’d be thinking you were lacking in taste.”
“My lord,” Lord Alfred ground out, “Lady Roslynn is here at the behest of King John.”
“He has women ambassadors now, does he?” the Welshman replied with amazement, not the least upset by Lord Alfred’s anger and addressing Roslynn instead of the Norman. “Interesting, I must say, and clever, too. I’ll gladly listen to anything a beautiful woman has to say.”
“If you will allow me to explain, my lord,” Lord Alfred said, his hands gripping the stem of his goblet as if he were wringing a chicken’s neck, “Lady Roslynn de Werre has recently been widowed—”
“Oh, there’s a pity,” Lord Madoc exclaimed, regarding her with sympathy as he patted her arm again. “So young, too.”
“Widowed,” Lord Alfred forcefully continued, “and the king has—”
The door to the hall banged open and a tall, clean-shaven young man with dark hair to his broad shoulders strode into the room.
He was dressed like the other men in a plain leather tunic over a light shirt that laced at the neck, with woolen breeches tucked into scuffed leather boots. Unlike Lord Madoc, he wore a swordbelt, old and supple, and the hilt of the weapon in the sheath was of iron wrapped in leather strips darkened with age and wear.
Also unlike Lord Madoc, he was unexpectedly, astonishingly handsome. Curling dark hair framed a face of sharp planes and strong angles. A wide forehead and brown brows overshadowed equally dark eyes that seemed to glow with inner light. His nose was straight and narrow above full, well-cut lips.
As he returned her scrutiny, she began to tremble. Yet it was not from fear or lust, but from the sudden certainty that he could see her beating heart thudding with dread.
She was just as surprised to realize, from the wrinkle that formed between those penetrating eyes, that he was not pleased that it was so.
The lord of Llanpowell hoisted himself to his feet and hurried forward to meet the man, mercifully taking his disconcerting attention away from her. They conversed in rapid Welsh, the older man seemingly trying to placate the younger.
Their stances similar, they could be relatives. Father and son, perhaps?
She hadn’t been informed that the lord of Llanpowell had been married before, or had a son or other children, but then, she’d been told almost nothing about Madoc ap Gruffydd. All John had told her was that the Bear of Brecon was to be rewarded with a wife and rich dowry for helping to end her late husband’s rebellious schemes, and she was to be the bride.
What if he was his son? A grown son made a second wife’s position much more precarious—if she were to marry the lord of Llanpowell.
“We’re being rude,” the older man suddenly declared in Norman French, turning toward his guests. “Come and meet our visitors.”
Lord Alfred was already on his feet, and Roslynn slowly joined him, sliding her hands into the long cuffs of her gown and gripping her forearms to still their trembling as they approached.
“This is Lord Alfred de Garleboine come from King John,” the older man said, “and this is Lady Roslynn. Not his daughter or wife or anything else to him, apparently, and recently widowed, poor thing.”
The young man planted his feet and crossed his arms as he regarded her warily.
He didn’t mask his feelings, his thoughts or his reactions, as so many did. Because he didn’t have to? Because he had the power and confidence to reveal exactly what he thought and felt, to everyone?
Power and confidence—yes, he fairly exuded those qualities. His manner made Lord Alfred seem a model of gentle courtesy, and his father hospitality personified.
As quickly as the heat of desire had rushed over her at that first glance, it died. He wasn’t some untamed warrior prince to be admired and desired, but an arrogant, powerful man who might do her harm.
She had vowed that she would never again allow a man to hurt her, whatever King John ordered.
Her determination and pride roused, she raised her chin and met his suspicious scrutiny steadily. “I am Lady Roslynn de Werre.”
“De Werre?” the younger man repeated, his eyes narrowing. “Like the traitor?”
“Yes. I was Wimarc de Werre’s wife, and since the king is grateful for your father’s recent—”
“My father?” the younger Welshman interrupted. “My father’s been dead these past three years.”
Roslynn’s startled gaze flew from the younger man to the older one behind him and back again. “Isn’t your father Lord Madoc ap Gruffydd?”
“No,” the young man replied. “I am the lord of Llanpowell.”
CHAPTER TWO
HE WAS MADOC AP GRUFFYDD? This young, strong, arrogant fellow was the man King John expected her to marry?
She felt for the bench and sat heavily. She could reconcile herself to a marriage to an older man, especially a friendly and generous one. But marriage to an arrogant, virile warrior, who could prove to be as violent and cruel as her first husband? That she could never accept.
“Uncle, what have you been doing?” the young Welshman asked of the man they’d assumed was Madoc ap Gruffydd.
“Welcoming your guests, since you weren’t here yourself,” the older man replied without a hint of remorse. “Proper introductions must have slipped my mind, what with the surprise and the lady’s beauty.” He smiled at Roslynn. “I’m Lloyd ap Iolo, Madoc’s uncle. I’m in charge of Llanpowell when Madoc’s on patrol.”
Lord Alfred glared at the man who’d welcomed them. “What sort of Welsh trickery is this?”
The real Lord Madoc regarded Lord Alfred with undisguised scorn. “There was no trickery or deceit. My uncle is in command of Llanpowell when I’m absent, and I count on him to act as host in my stead. If he says he forgot to introduce himself, that is the truth. No insult was intended.”
“Aye, a mistake, that’s all, what with the unexpectedness of your arrival, you see,” the older man assured them.
“Uncle, will you be so good as to pour the lady a drink?” the young lord of Llanpowell ordered. “She looks a little faint.”
Roslynn was not weak or dizzy. If anything, she had never felt more alive—with furious indignation. Once again, a man had deceived her, and although the explanation seemed harmless and plausible, it nevertheless implied disrespect.
Unfortunately, because she was a woman and a guest, and considering the reason she was here, she was in no position to voice her true feelings, so she silently accepted the goblet of wine Lloyd ap Iolo held out to her.
The young man walked to the chair and sat upon it as if he were a king upon his throne. “I apologize for any distress this mistake may have caused you,” he said, not looking the least bit sorry. “Perhaps you’ll be so kind as to explain why you’ve come to Llanpowell, Lord Alfred.”
“I’ve been trying to,” the Norman nobleman snarled.
“I’m at your disposal, my lord,” Madoc ap Gruffydd replied with exaggerated politeness.
Again she felt as if they were being treated with contempt, and her indignation increased.
Lord Alfred clearly felt that way, too, but he answered with the civility of a man used to the hypocrisy of the court. “King John is grateful for your help defeating the rebellion planned by Wimarc de Werre.”
Lord Alfred then paused, as if giving Lord Madoc time to appreciate the king’s magnanimity.
“His gratitude I can do without,” Lord Madoc remarked instead. “What about the payment I was promised?” His glance flicked to Roslynn and his lips jerked up into a disdainful smile. “Are you about to tell me Lady Roslynn is my reward?”
Roslynn flushed, but met his scornful gaze steadily. “As a matter of fact, my lord, I am.”
She had the brief satisfaction of seeing the arrogant lord of Llanpowell look as stunned as she’d felt when she found out who he was.
“Lady Roslynn and her dowry are indeed your reward,” Lord Alfred clarified.
“Dowry? Did he say dowry?” Lloyd ap Iolo asked as his nephew stared at Roslynn like a man who’d been struck over the head with a heavy object.
“Her dowry consists of eight hundred marks in silver and jewels, as well as many fine household goods,” Lord Alfred added.
Madoc ap Gruffydd launched himself out of his chair as if he’d been set ablaze. “I was promised money for my aid, not a wife! I want no wife, especially one chosen by another man.”
Hope surged through Roslynn. He was going to refuse! She would be spared another terrible marriage and the king couldn’t blame her.
Lord Alfred rose, nearly apoplectic with ire. “How dare you reject—?”
He took a deep breath and got his rage under control. “Think wisely, Welshman, before you reject what King John so generously offers. It is Lady Roslynn and her dowry, or nothing.”
“Be reasonable, Madoc,” his uncle urged. “That’s a lot of money, that dowry, and it’s time you married again.”
Again?
