The Warlord's Bride

To her even greater surprise, his mouth curved up in a genuine smile that made him look like a juvenile version of his uncle, and just as harmless. “I was angry because John didn’t send what he promised. Aye, and shocked at what he did send, too, but I’m beginning to think I was too hasty in my temper.”

This was not what she wanted to hear. Not now, not ever.

Not from him.

If he saw her dismay, he wasn’t upset by it. “There’s no need to decide about this marriage today,” he said genially, holding out his arm. “I don’t mind making Lord Alfred wait. Do you?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell this man that her decision was already made and she would never be his wife, until caution warned her to say nothing. However Lord Madoc behaved now, he was a stranger to her and he could still be planning to put the blame on her if they didn’t wed. It would be much better for her, her friends and her family if Madoc ap Gruffydd thwarted the king’s will.

So she lightly placed her hand on his muscular arm and ignored the little thrill of desire that seemed to snake its way from that touch to her heart. “Not at all, my lord,” she said. “Whatever you decide, I’m delighted by the prospect of a sojourn in Wales.”

His eyes narrowed, but she simply smiled that bland, meaningless smile she had used so effectively at court.

ACUTELY AWARE OF the beautiful woman seated on his right in the torch-lit hall, Madoc tried to eat as if he had not a care in the world. Unfortunately, he did, not the least of which was hoping that his desire for Lady Roslynn wasn’t completely obvious.

He had felt it the moment he’d first laid eyes on her, and even after he’d learned why she and the Norman nobleman had come to Llanpowell, although that should have stemmed his passion immediately and permanently. To his chagrin, it had only seemed to make his lust grow stronger. How else to explain his request to be alone with her, and the almost overwhelming urge to take her in his arms when she spoke of her brute of a husband?

Yet he had been around beautiful women before. He had made love to more than one. What was it, then, about Lady Roslynn that seemed to cast such a spell over him?

Her beauty, to be sure. Her bold spirit, as he’d said. But there was something else, a challenge in her shining eyes that made him think being chosen by her would be no little accomplishment.

Unfortunately, if he agreed to marry her, it would also mean accepting a permanent bond with a woman he didn’t know, and a stronger alliance with the Plantagenet king.

He set down his silver wine goblet, careful not to so much as brush his arm against Lady Roslynn’s. He didn’t want to imbibe too much, lest he say more than he should—about her, about himself, or what he really thought of King John.

Uncle Lloyd obviously had no such concerns as he finished yet another cup of braggot. Interestingly, and although he’d likely rue it tomorrow, Lord Alfred was keeping up with him, goblet for goblet.

If his hall wasn’t the biggest or the most luxurious, at least he need not be ashamed of the food and drink his larder and buttery provided, Madoc reflected.

His cook, Hywel, had learned his trade in the kitchen of the Earl of Pembroke himself and was well versed not just in ordinary fare, but cream soups and cheese tarts, baked apples, pastries, salmon, trout and even swans, curlews and blackbirds, although the latter were too expensive to be served at Llanpowell. Farmers and fishermen came to Llanpowell with their best, freshest produce, and what wasn’t roasted, Hywel turned into savory stews, pottages and soups. His bread was the best to be had in Wales and his sweets and custards as fine as anything in England.

Even though these visitors had come upon them unexpectedly, Hywel had risen to the occasion and admirably so, with six courses, including a beef stew, roasted mutton, pike with a green sauce made with vinegar and parsley, chicken stuffed with eggs and onions and ending with pears served in a wine syrup, as well as his speciality, baked apples, spiced with his own secret recipe.

Lloyd caught Madoc’s eye and raised his goblet in salute. “Quite a beauty John sent you, nephew,” he crowed in Welsh. “Like the first flowers of spring she is!”

Madoc didn’t need reminding that Lady Roslynn was a beauty, with her pale smooth skin, bright blue eyes and lips as red as holly berries, or that she was young. Her manners were impeccable, and she ate and drank with the delicate daintiness one would expect from a highborn lady.

Her dress was likewise demure and modest. Her gown was of deep blue wool with a square-necked bodice, without trim or other embellishment. Even so, there was no disguising her shapely figure.

The tooled-leather belt that sat on her slender hips had accentuated the graceful sensuality of her walk. Most of her hair was covered by a white veil, but that seemed meant to tease him with the hint of thick chestnut-brown hair beneath.

What man in this hall wouldn’t envy him the chance for such a bride? What man here wouldn’t want her for his own?

Ivor, his friend and his steward, no doubt.

He glanced at Ivor, seated nearby. Simply attired in a long, belted woolen tunic, the steward was as watchful as always. Nothing escaped his shrewd hazel eyes, and while his crippled left leg made it impossible for him to hope for military glory, his cleverness and loyalty had made him indispensable at Llanpowell.

Yet Ivor had been the first to speak against helping the Plantagenet king round up traitors who were planning a rebellion, until Madoc, seeing little risk for greater gain, had overruled him.

Madoc had been right, for he’d not lost a single man in the effort. And then John had sent him not silver as promised, but a bride, although her dowry was considerable.

What kind of woman was Lady Roslynn de Werre? How would she run his household and raise their children? What would she be like in his bed? He’d already had one weeping bride; he didn’t want another.

“I hear you paid Lady Roslynn a little private visit before the evening meal,” Uncle Lloyd remarked in Welsh, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous grin. “Having a little chat, were you?”

Madoc forced himself to smile and tried not to notice that Lady Roslynn was listening, even if she couldn’t understand the language. “As a matter of fact, we were,” he replied. “Don’t you think I should get to know her first if we’re to marry? And she should get to know me?”

Uncle Lloyd frowned. “What, you just talked?”

“She’s an honorable woman and I’m an honorable man, so what else?”

“What’s to talk about?” Uncle Lloyd replied. “She’s a lovely woman and you’re the best catch in the country. And it’s time you married again, nephew. You can’t live like a monk forever. It’s not natural.”

Madoc reached for the heel of a loaf of barley bread in the basket in front of him. “I’m not celibate and you know it.”

“As good as,” Uncle Lloyd charged. “How long has it been? And you in the prime of life, too! Why, if I was your age and had your looks—”

“Yes, Uncle,” Madoc said, hoping to cut the conversation short. Even if the lady didn’t know their language, several of the household nearby, including Ivor seated at the Norman’s left, did. Most of them were snickering, or trying not to.

Except the slender, thoughtful Ivor. He looked as grim as death, no doubt because he was considering what this marriage would mean politically, as well as financially.

“Your uncle seems to be a very amusing fellow,” Lady Roslynn noted in the ensuing moment of silence. “It’s a pity I can’t understand what he’s saying.”

Uncle Lloyd’s eyes fairly danced with glee. “Will you tell her, Madoc, or shall I?”

“He says you’re very beautiful and I’m a lucky man,” Madoc replied.

Uncle Lloyd laughed and patted Lady Roslynn’s arm. “Isn’t that the truth! I hope you aren’t upset by my nephew’s temper. He’s a passionate fellow, is Madoc.”

Lady Roslynn’s eyes were as enigmatic as eyes could be. “Yes, so I’ve noticed.”

Uncle Lloyd’s bushy gray brows furrowed with a frown. “Nothing to worry about there, my lady. Madoc flares up quick as lightning and cools down just as fast. Not one to hold a grudge, either—well, not often, anyway, and not without good cause.”

Madoc shot his uncle a warning look. Lloyd was venturing into dangerous territory.

“He’s a fine bowman, too,” his uncle said, wisely changing the subject. “He can hit the bull’s-eye from a hundred feet easy as you please.”

“You, a nobleman, use a bow?” Lord Alfred asked with disdain.

Madoc didn’t care what the Norman thought of him, so he answered without rancor. “I do. Whatever the Normans think, it’s a valuable weapon. Puts the enemy at a disadvantage when they’re still far away. A good volley, and they’ll run before you’ve struck a single blow.”

“Hardly chivalrous,” Lord Alfred sniffed.

“So says a man who wears sixty pounds of armor,” Uncle Lloyd noted. “Tell that to your foot soldiers.”

Madoc realized he’d reduced the heel of bread to a heap of crumbs. “The Welsh have their ways, and the Normans theirs,” he said as he brushed the crumbs off the table and the ever-hungry hounds licked them up. “Time will tell which is effective, so perhaps we should discuss something other than warfare.”

“You’re right,” Uncle Lloyd magnanimously agreed. “Three to one John’s overthrown before he has an heir.”

“I don’t think politics is a fitting subject, either,” Madoc said quickly, and trying not to show his exasperation in front of the Normans. He loved his uncle like a second father, but there were times Lloyd could test the patience of a saint—and he was no saint.

“Speaking of heirs, I had hoped to meet your son this evening,” the lady remarked.

God help him, it would have been better to talk about John—or anything else. But he was trapped now. “Owain is fostered elsewhere, my lady,” he truthfully and succinctly replied.

Mercifully, the servants arrived to remove the last of the fruit and the linens and take down the table before he had to say more. Nevertheless, he took steps to avoid having to talk about Owain, or the boy’s mother. “Nobody knows or tells the history of Wales better than my uncle, my lady. Perhaps you’d care to hear some of his tales?”

Uncle Lloyd smiled proudly as he made way for the servants taking down the trestle table. “Aye, my lady, there are plenty of exciting tales. Battles galore and clever tricks and love—oh, sweet Jesu, the lords of Llanpowell have always been known for love.”

“Is that so?” Lady Roslynn replied, sliding Madoc a vaguely quizzical look. “I should like to hear all about Lord Madoc’s family.”

Did she really, or was she saying that only because it was expected? And why the devil was he blushing?

He saw no need to linger. After all, he’d heard these stories a thousand times before, so once the tables were taken apart and removed, benches set in a circle around the hearth and seats resumed, he left his guests to speak to Ivor. Meanwhile, Lloyd launched into the story of how Madoc’s ancestors had fought off the Romans, and then any Northmen who dared to venture this far inland.

As he joined Ivor, who was nearly hidden behind a pillar, he noted that Lady Roslynn appeared genuinely interested and even Lord Alfred relaxed, although perhaps that was merely the effect of the braggot.

After exchanging a few words in greeting, Madoc drew Ivor farther back behind the pillar. “You checked the dowry?” he asked quietly.

“Aye, it’s as much as you said,” he replied. “Eight hundred marks’ worth of goods and silver, including some of the finest jewels I’ve ever seen.”

Ivor tilted his head to study his friend in the flickering light of the flambeaux. “You’re not thinking of agreeing to this marriage, are you, Madoc?”

It was on the tip of Madoc’s tongue to say no. He didn’t want to marry a woman he’d never seen before, and especially one sent by John. But then he remembered the fire in Lady Roslynn’s eyes, her shapely figure, those full red lips and her vibrant boldness as she confronted him and the Norman who’d brought her.

He also thought of the life Lady Roslynn must have endured in John’s court. He’d heard enough of the king and his courtiers to guess that it hadn’t been easy for a proud and beautiful woman like her.

So instead, he slowly and cautiously replied, “When all is said and done, I may not have much choice in this. John and his favorites like William de Braose are powerful men who can crush us if they choose.”

“But she’s a traitor’s widow!”

“She wasn’t the traitor,” Madoc replied, “and you’re always telling me we need money to get the castle repaired and buy feed for the winter, and there’s that fellow in the south with those good bows, and we could use more armor, too. With a selfish weakling like John on the throne, war’s more likely than not.”

“Not to mention she’s beautiful,” Ivor said flatly, as if he were taking a tally of fleeces.

Madoc saw no need to acknowledge the obvious. “Did you find out anything more about her from Lord Alfred’s soldiers?”

“Apparently she’s a quiet, gracious lady, and was no trouble at all on the journey. But she helped to get her husband captured, Madoc. She arranged some kind of trap for him.”

“From what we know of Wimarc de Werre,” Madoc replied, “and what she herself told me about him, I can’t blame her. The man was a beast, Ivor, as well as a traitor to his king.”

“It sounds as if you’re halfway to agreeing to marry her.”

“It means I’m not ready to say no. There’s the dowry, and the fate of the lady to consider, too.”

Ivor’s sparse brown brows drew together over his straight, slender nose. “Why should her future be our concern?”

“Because she’s a woman and we’re honorable men. If I don’t accept her, she says she’s not going back to the king. She’d rather go to a convent.”

“Then let her go to a convent, if that’s what she prefers.”

“I don’t think it is,” Madoc replied, “or she would have done that instead of coming here with Lord Alfred.”

“So if it’s marriage she wants, let her marry—but why should it be you?”

“Because Lord Alfred says that’s the only way I’ll get the money I was promised,” Madoc answered, trying to focus on what he could do with the dowry rather than envisioning Lady Roslynn in his bed and in his arms.

Ivor regarded his friend with sympathy and a bit of remorse, too. “Look you, Madoc, we all know you were heartbroken when Gwendolyn died, but there are plenty of honorable Welshwomen who’d be happy to marry you. And I know I’ve told you more than once we’re not well off, but we can get by without this dowry.”

Once again Ivor proved that, like everyone at Llanpowell, he believed Madoc’s marriage to Gwendolyn had been one of love and happiness, in spite of how it had come about. Nobody knew what had happened between the bride and groom on their wedding night, and the other nights afterward. Nor was he about to tell him.

“Our lives would be easier and safer with the money, though,” Madoc pointed out. “That’s why I went to John’s aid in the first place. You were right to warn me, Ivor. You said there’d be a catch somewhere. But it’s too late now. It’s marry the woman John has sent and get the dowry, or let her go and the money with her.”

“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.”