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“Then no more alliance with John, either,” Ivor said, and it was clear he considered this a good thing.
“Aye, but what will happen to Llanpowell?”
Ivor sighed and shook his head. “Glad I am it’s not me making such decisions,” he admitted. “When do you have to give Lord Alfred your answer?”
“He’ll stay two days, then he’s going back to court.”
“Not much time, is it?”
“No. Rest assured, Ivor, I’ll think carefully on the matter before I decide.”
Madoc gave his friend a wry smile, although he was feeling anything but amused. “Now I had best go back before Uncle Lloyd drinks himself under the bench and Lord Alfred with him.”
AFTER A RESTLESS NIGHT and a mass presided over by an elderly Welsh priest, Roslynn sat in the hall of Llanpowell, breaking the fast. Lord Madoc, who’d been as plainly dressed as before in a leather tunic, linen shirt, wool breeches and boots, with his swordbelt around his narrow waist, had already eaten and departed. He’d said very little as he consumed his bread, cheese and ale. She’d said even less and asked no questions, determined not to encourage him in the slightest. That also meant she had no idea where he’d gone, or why.
Lord Alfred had been seated at Lord Madoc’s right. He hadn’t touched a morsel and could barely hold up his head, having had too much of that Welsh mead, no doubt.
Sitting beside her, Lord Madoc’s uncle seemed as merry and in favor of the marriage as he’d been the day before.
“I warned you about the braggot, didn’t I?” he said as he clapped the slightly green-faced Lord Alfred on the shoulder. “Normans haven’t the stomach for it. Got to be brought up to it, you see. Now me, I can drink a bucket and be—”
Lord Alfred bolted from the table, clutching his stomach as he ran.
“Blessed Saint Dafydd, no capacity for braggot at all,” Lloyd sighed with a sorrowful shake of his head.
“Any man who drinks a bucket of anything might be sick in the morning,” Roslynn observed, feeling duty-bound to stand up for her countryman, even if she didn’t like him and he had treated this journey as an extremely onerous duty.
“That’s true enough, my lady, true enough,” Lloyd replied. “You look a little peaked yourself. I hope you’re not coming down with something.”
“I am rarely ill.”
“Well, there’s a mercy.”
The older Welshman’s heartfelt response made Roslynn wonder if Lord Madoc’s first wife had been somewhat delicate. Or perhaps he simply didn’t want his nephew to lose another spouse.
“Madoc’s healthy as a young ram,” Lloyd continued. “Strong, too. And virile. His son was born just over nine months after he married Gwendolyn. Such a pity she died so young and so soon after marriage.”
Not sure what to say to that, if anything, Roslynn concentrated on finishing her bread and peas porridge, and wondering how she could avoid the lord of Llanpowell for the rest of the day. Perhaps she should remain in the hall, although the sun was shining and the sky was cloudless.
Maybe she should stay in the upper chamber. She could always do a little sewing, perhaps finish the piece of embroidered trim she was making for her blue—
A cry came from the battlements.
Had Lord Madoc returned already? Her heartbeat quickened, then raced even more as several of the soldiers not already on duty grabbed their weapons and rushed out of the hall.
CHAPTER FOUR
“WHAT IS IT?” Roslynn demanded of Lord Madoc’s uncle as she started to stand. “Is the castle under attack?”
“No, no,” Lloyd hastened to assure her, patting her arm. “Them over the mountain have been after the sheep on the north slope, that’s all.
“There’s no need for you to worry, my lady,” he continued as she slowly resumed her seat. “They’ll have gone back to their own land by now. Madoc and his men will make certain of it, though, and see how many sheep were taken, and ensure that the shepherd and the rest of the flock are safe. And come tomorrow, the thieves will find themselves lacking an equal number of sheep.”
“Won’t Lord Madoc try to catch them and get his own sheep back?” she asked incredulously.
“No.”
“But why not? Especially if he knows who’s taking his sheep.”
“It’s a sort of feud, my lady,” Lloyd explained.
A sort of feud? “Is this a Welsh custom of some kind?”
He colored and ran a hand over his beard. “I’d better let Madoc tell you about it,” he said, before resuming his usual jovial expression. “It’s nothing to get upset about, my lady. Just accept that every now and then, a few sheep will go missing, and Madoc or his men will go to collect the same number from Trefor’s flock.”
“I should think a feud of any kind is a serious business,” Roslynn replied. “Who is this Trefor?”
Lloyd looked as if he wished he were anywhere else. “It’s Madoc’s brother taking his sheep. Trefor has fewer men and the lesser estate, though, you see, so Madoc doesn’t think it’s fair to set the law on him.”
In that, Lord Madoc was quite a contrast to the king. John would stop at nothing to get his brothers’ lands and titles.
“But never mind about Trefor now,” Lloyd said. “Come to the kitchen, my lady, and have a pastry. Hywel’s a dab hand with them.”
Since there was nothing else for her to do, Roslynn dutifully rose to go with him, although pastries were the last thing on her mind.
MADOC SILENTLY cursed as he galloped along the rutted road leading up the northern slope of the highest hill of his estate. Of course Trefor would choose this time to harass him. No doubt he wanted to embarrass his brother in front of his Norman guests. Perhaps Trefor had learned the purpose of their visit and considered that even more reason to trouble him.
Madoc spotted a man running along the ridge—Trefor himself, Madoc realized with a surge of anger.
He immediately turned his horse to follow, but once at the top of the hill, he discovered a mist covering the slope just beyond the ridge, like a white curtain.
Cursing aloud this time, Madoc slipped from his saddle. His black gelding snorted and stamped, as anxious to give chase as his master. Unfortunately, from here it would be too dangerous to ride at a gallop, or even a canter. There could be hidden holes and loose scree that could cause a horse to slip or fall.
“Steady, Cigfran, steady,” he murmured, running a hand over the horse’s strong neck as his men caught up to them.
“Should we go after him, Madoc?” Ioan asked when he and the others reached the top of the ridge and dismounted.
“No.”
Trying to give chase on foot would be just as risky as on horseback. Besides, although he and most of his men had lived all of their lives on these hills and could run like deer, Trefor was just as familiar with the land and as fleet of foot.
Madoc’s curt answer brought at least one groan of frustration from his men. Ioan, no doubt, for he was young and anxious to fight because he was good at it. Or maybe Hugh the Beak, who had the biggest nose in Llanpowell and was an expert with both sword and bow.
“I said no,” Madoc repeated. “He’s gone to ground like a fox. We’ll never catch him.”
“Madoc!”
Taking hold of Cigfran’s reins, Madoc followed the call of his name, his disgruntled men behind him. He soon found Emlyn, the oldest and best of his shepherds. The gray-bearded man held a lamb in his arms as if it were a child, and at his feet lay a larger white shape splashed with violent red.
A ewe dead and a lamb left to starve, or be the prey of fox, wolf, eagle or hawk.
It was a cruel thing to do, and something new for Trefor.
“A fox?” he asked the shepherd, although he already knew the answer. A fox would have killed the lamb, too.
“Men for certain,” Emlyn replied.
“Only the one ewe dead?”
“No,” Emlyn replied. “Five more—and the big black ram is missing.”
Madoc called Trefor an earthy Welsh epithet as he looked across the brow of the rise to the higher land, where Pontyrmwr, Trefor’s small estate, lay. He’d been counting on that ram to build his flock. Trefor would recognize the value of it, too. No wonder he’d taken it, the vindictive, disgraceful lout.
Maybe he’d gotten more vicious and aggressive because he’d heard of Lady Roslynn’s dowry and assumed Madoc meant to have it, although that was still no excuse.
“Not a broken branch, not a hoof-or footprint,” Emlyn noted. “Like magic it is, how they come and go, invisible as demons.”
“Aye, like demons, but no magic,” Madoc said. “Trefor knows these hills as well as we do.”
Emlyn sighed as the lamb in his arms continued to pleat plaintively. “Aye, that he does. I never thought he’d use that knowledge against us, though.”
“He’s not the man he was,” Madoc muttered. Indeed, once he’d thought his older brother the epitome of a noble warrior—handsome, brave, skilled with weapons, irresistible to women but too honorable to take advantage of it. He’d trotted after Trefor like an admiring puppy and tried to imitate his brother in every way.
Until his brother’s wedding day, when Trefor had disgraced not just himself, but his family, and nearly destroyed an alliance that had held for three generations.
Madoc turned to the man who’d met his patrol yesterday to tell him the Normans had come. “Dafydd, take ten men and get me six sheep in kind from Trefor’s flock and try to find the black ram. No killing any of his animals, though. My quarrel is with my brother, not his livestock or his people who depend on him.”
Dafydd nodded, then fingered the hilt of his sword. “What if them with the ram put up a fight?”
“No killing, not even for the ram.”
Madoc saw his men’s displeasure and ignored it, as he always did. His brother was still his brother, and he wouldn’t be the cause of Trefor’s death, for hanging was the punishment for theft. He wouldn’t attack Pontyrmwr unless Trefor attacked Llanpowell. He wouldn’t sacrifice other lives because of this feud with his bitter, resentful brother.
“You three,” he said to the men standing nearest him, “help Emlyn with the carcasses. You’ll see to the lamb, Emlyn?”
“Aye, Madoc. I’ve got a ewe lost one.”
Madoc knew Emlyn would skin the dead lamb and put the pelt over the living one, then put it to suck at the ewe’s teat. If all went well, the ewe would accept the living lamb as her own.
Content that he had done all that was necessary, Madoc gestured to the rest of the men to follow him back to their horses. There was no reason to linger here, and he had guests at home.
Not that he was in any particular hurry to meet with them again.
LLOYD WAS AT Madoc’s heels the moment he dismounted in the courtyard. “Was it Trefor and his men?”
“Aye.”
Uncle Lloyd’s face turned red and his dark eyes glowered. “I’m so ashamed of that boy, I could spit!”
“We’ll get our recompense,” Madoc assured him, dismissing the stable boy and leading Cigfran to the stable. “He’s taken the black ram, though.”
Lloyd cursed as he followed Madoc inside the dimmer, hay-scented stable. “He always had a good eye for an animal.”
So he had, Madoc reflected, whether for horses, hounds, sheep or women.
What would Trefor make of Lady Roslynn? Would he take her to wife if she were offered to him, even by John? Or would he say no woman, not even a beautiful one with a large dowry, was worth that alliance?
As for her spirited nature, Trefor had always preferred more placid women, like Gwendolyn.
Uncle Lloyd upended a bucket and settled himself upon it. Madoc put his saddle and blanket on the stand outside the stall, then began to rub Cigfran down with a handful of straw.
The motions helped to calm him, and the familiar scent of horse and leather reminded him that if he had much to regret, he also had much to be thankful for. No matter what Trefor said or did, he had Llanpowell—and justly so. Whatever Trefor thought, he hadn’t stolen it from his brother. Trefor had lost Llanpowell and his title by his own selfish, dishonorable behavior.
“I trust you’ve been entertaining our guests in my absence,” Madoc said to his uncharacteristically silent uncle, who sat twisting a piece of straw around his thick fingers.
“Aye, I have.” Lloyd cleared his throat and tossed aside the straw. “I had to tell Lady Roslynn a bit about your troubles with Trefor.”
That was unfortunate. Although he should have expected that some explanation of that morning’s alarm might be necessary, he would rather the Normans didn’t know about his conflict with his brother. John liked to pit Welsh noble against Welsh noble, the better to keep their attention on each other and away from whatever he was up to. “What did you tell her?”
“Just that you’ve a quarrel with your brother and it’s nothing for her to worry about.”
“Aye, it’s not.” Especially if she was leaving. And thank God Lloyd hadn’t said more. “Where are the Normans now? In the hall?”
“Last time I saw Lord Alfred, he was lying on his cot, moaning, poor man.” Uncle Lloyd sighed with completely bogus sympathy. “Like all the Normans, the man can’t handle even a bit of braggot.”
Lloyd’s false gravity gave way to a bright-eyed grin. “He’s got to be feeling better by now, though. I’d be feeling better with a pretty woman to nurse me. Lady Roslynn’s tended to him with great kindness, Madoc, although he’s only got himself to blame for his state.”
“You shouldn’t have offered him the braggot,” Madoc said as he filled the manger with fresh hay.
“Not his mother, am I? And I did warn him, the day they arrived, before you came charging into the hall like the wrath of God.”
“If I looked like the wrath of God, it was because Dafydd told me an armed party of Normans had come. I thought Llanpowell was being attacked.” Madoc straightened his tunic and adjusted his swordbelt before giving his uncle his formal smile. “Well? I look amiable enough now, don’t I?”
Uncle Lloyd wrinkled his nose. “You look fine, but you smell of the stables. It’s a fine, sunny day and the river’s nearby. Why not go for a swim?”
A surreptitious sniff proved his uncle wasn’t exactly wrong, and while it was not shameful for a man to smell like a horse, he didn’t want Lord Alfred to go back to the king and his courtiers and tell them the Welsh smelled bad.
“All right,” he agreed, “if you’ll bring me some linen, I’ll be down by the alders. Quickly, mind. I can’t loll about like a lad with nothing to do.”
“Right you are, Madoc!” Lloyd cried, already halfway to the stable doors. “You head off and I’ll be there quick as a fox.”
SITTING ON A STOOL behind the wooden screen painted with a hunting scene and beside the cot of the snoring Lord Alfred, Roslynn heard a commotion in the yard and guessed Lord Madoc and his men had returned.
If they had, she wasn’t sure what she should do. Stay here with Lord Alfred, or go to greet him? Then what? Ask him about the feud? Try to find out how it had started and why, as if she cared?
Or use it to her advantage?
She could question Lord Madoc’s reluctance to go after the thief, implying he was a coward. A man as obviously proud as he would surely take offense at that. Or she could suggest the Welsh must be childish, indulging in such petty games.
