Beauchamp Besieged

Ceridwen narrowed her eyes and searched her father’s face for a sign he might relent. Finding none, she felt for her ivory flute, stuck through the belt at her waist. She twisted the warm cylinder in her hands and wished her mother were still alive. There were questions she could not ask Da, and even Mam had never fully explained the intimate details of what marriage meant for a woman. Now at nineteen—old enough to have borne several babes—she was mortified to admit her ignorance to anyone else.

Ceridwen caught the look her father exchanged with Rhys, who lounged in a confident sprawl on a bench near the fire. Her brother’s head moved in a small negative shake. They always had secrets, those two. And kept them from her with great success.

Morgan casually unsheathed his dagger and picked up a whet-stone from the table. “You think me heartless, Ceri, but I have not forgotten Owain. I believe Alonso would rather eliminate Raymond altogether than have him as an outright enemy. Once you are at Rookhaven, there will be many opportunities for you to set brother against brother. And if some unfortunate incident should result in Raymond’s death—well, you are but a woman, and cannot be held responsible for your untoward passions.” Spitting upon the stone, Morgan began to grind the knife blade against it in tight circles.

“Oh, Da!” How could he think her capable of cold-blooded murder? But a tiny part of Ceridwen wondered how far she would go to be free of the terrible ache that consumed her whenever she thought of Owain, dead in her arms. But it was no use bemoaning her fate. Whatever her feelings, her duty was clear.

Morgan paused in his sharpening and smiled at his daughter. “An innocent lass, yet woe unto anyone who crosses you. I doubt even the formidable Raymond will give a beauty like Ceridwen much trouble, eh, Rhys?” He looked at his eldest son, who merely raised his brows and shrugged.

Ceridwen shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench and scuffed her bare foot on the rough wooden floor. Da always said she looked like her mother. She had the same shining, raven hair, the same eyes that changed color with her moods. But Ceridwen ignored her father’s compliments. Beauty and innocence were their own kind of trouble. And Da was a shameless flatterer when the need arose.

“Has Sir Raymond agreed to this union?” she demanded.

Her father stroked his sleek, black moustaches. Chuckling, he winked at Rhys. “He will, sweet. He will.”

“You like dogs, do you not, Ceri?” Rhys gifted her with a mischievous smile, showing his even, white teeth. “Sir Raymond loves his wolfhound better than he does any woman. Be kind to the creature, and I’ll wager the master will leave you alone.”

Ceridwen scowled at her brother. “This is more shame than I can bear, to be held in lower esteem than a beast. How will I live with myself?” She covered her face with her hands.

Impatience flickered in her father’s tone. “You will live with him, and stop thinking of yourself, girl. This is important to me, to the prince, and to the Cymraeg. Raymond is not one to take lightly. When he makes a promise—or a threat—he fulfills it. But once you have charmed him, he may learn sympathy for our cause. Perhaps some of his violence can be used to our ends. Or another solution may become necessary.”

Morgan’s voice grew smooth, and Ceridwen recognized the cunning, silky inflection. “I have every confidence in you, Ceridwen. After all, you are of my blood, and I am ever victorious. One way or another.” He grinned, flashing the beguiling smile each of his children had inherited. Then he tested his honed dagger on a piece of leather. The blade slid through the skin in effortless silence.

Ceridwen’s heart wrenched into a familiar knot. You are of my blood. Da had shed a great deal of it, keeping them alive. His own and English, too. She shuddered. The very thought made her feel faint. Peace was the only solution. Vengeance might be sweet, but it had no place in this situation. She paused at the expectant gazes of her young brothers and sisters. In truth she was no substitute for Mam. The best thing she could do for them would be to help keep the Beauchamps at bay, regardless of the personal cost. Ceridwen sat up straight. “Right, Da. If it pleases you and saves even one Welsh life, I will go to him.”

“They have done what?” Raymond leaped to his feet. The bench crashed to the floor behind him, sending an echo through the cold solar. He leaned over the trestle table and grabbed the front of his lieutenant’s linen surcoat with both fists. He’d spent the third day in a row combing the woods for his wolfhound and was in no mood for Giles’s usual sideways approach to bad news.

“My lord, be easy. ’Tis a simple matter to get Hamfast back. All you need do is—”

“A simple matter! These Welshmen hold my dog hostage and you say ’tis simple? What if they don’t feed him properly? What if he bites one of them, and they abuse him for it?”

Raymond took a deep breath to banish the painful image of his huge, noble hound in the hands of fierce Welshmen. He smoothed the creases he’d made in Giles’s attire, then gave his friend’s broad chest a thump to indicate he’d finished mauling him. “Where exactly do they have him?”

“At a deserted tower in Trefynwy.” Giles dropped the joint he’d been gnawing, and it fell into his trencher with a sodden plop. He licked his fingers, one by one. For all his knightly virtues, Giles’s table manners were abominable.

Raymond looked to his empty bed, where Hamfast usually slept. “They seek to draw me in, well beyond the border, and play me some trick. What ransom have they demanded?”

Giles cleared his throat. “Only you, my lord.”

“Do not jest. Tell me truly.”

“But I do. Lord Morgan has a comely daughter, one overripe for marriage. In fact, she was once promised to Parsifal, was she not?” Giles reached for his goblet and took a gulp of wine.

Raymond closed his eyes briefly at the stab of sorrow his long-dead brother’s name still evoked. Percy, a brave knight of tender years and tender heart. Would that he had come home from the crusade and taken this Welsh maiden. Another marriage, be it to Helen of Troy, was a dread prospect for himself. “Nay. I will simply storm their defenses and retrieve Hamfast.” Ever restless, Raymond fumed and paced, his hands clasped behind his back. Still, for the good of his people, he had to at least consider the idea. “What does Morgan expect to gain? How will Rookhaven benefit?”

Giles belched and carefully wiped the corners of his mouth with the pad of his thumb. “We are like lame wolves in a herd of wily sheep. Always hungry and never satisfied, worn out with constant moving from uprising to uprising. So, if there is peace between you, both will benefit. And the dowry she brings contains the crossroads of Llanmadog.”

Raymond paused to consider. He had needed control of that area for years. With it in his possession, his western borders would enjoy security. He could better conserve his strength for the final push against Alonso—if it wasn’t already too late. But there was no room in his life, nor in his heart, for any woman, much less a wife. He glanced at Giles. The handsome knight had tied back his thick, dark hair with a leather thong. He seemed able to accommodate any number of women, and his heart never became entangled with any of them.

Whereas with himself and Meribel…never had a lady been better loved, or caused more grief. Raymond pinched the bridge of his nose. “What does this overripe girl look like?”

“She is beautiful, of course.”

It was as well Giles’s hair was pulled back, for a hint of red crept into the curves of his ears. He was hiding something. Raymond crossed his arms. “Is that so? What good fortune. Tell me the color of her eyes.”

“I did not get that close.” The knight’s cheeks pinked.

“Her hair, then?”

Giles bloomed a vivid, rosy hue and said nothing.

“You missed that, too?” Raymond’s impatience waxed. “Is she short, tall, plump? Let me guess. You rode up to their gates and conducted the entire farce as a shouting match without ever dismounting. You saw no proof that Hamfast still lives!”

“I have it on good authority that the maiden resembles nothing so much as an angel, in both form and disposition,” Giles said indignantly. “She is fond of dogs,” he added, “and would never countenance him coming to harm.”

“Whose authority? A shepherdess on her back with her skirts up to her waist, no doubt.”

“Well, I…”

Raymond shook his head. “Giles, you will never change. We both know where your brains reside.”

“Aye. How long has it been, Raymond? Is that why your temper is so short?” Giles speared a piece of meat and eyed it as though it were a tantalizing morsel of peacock, instead of tough, cold mutton.

Raymond stared at his friend. From habit his fingers tightened around his dagger hilt. Giles could needle him like no one else. Except perhaps Alonso. “Methinks you know me not at all, sir. Shall I bemoan my sad lack of romantic exploits and accept the offers of your leftovers? Or should we parley with these barbarians and rescue my hound in proper form?”

“I believe the latter would be for the best, my lord,” Giles said with surprising primness. He actually sniffed, giving Raymond some small satisfaction.

“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.