A tinge of rose touched her cheeks. “I spend all the time here that I can.”
“Away from Fitzjohn, you mean?”
She nodded. “But he encourages my work. Says a girl ought to learn the art of healing to become a good wife.”
Huw leaned back and regarded her thoughtfully. “And has he found a husband for you yet?” It was unusual for a high-born girl her age to be still unmarried, now that it occurred to him. She looked to be about eighteen or nineteen.
To his surprise she went pale. For a moment he thought she wasn’t going to answer, but then words tumbled out in a rush. “When I turned fourteen, I thought this hell was about to end. He would choose me a husband, and I would be free.” She paused. “From him, anyway. But that was five years ago. At first, I wondered why he was delaying. I thought it was because he wanted to keep the revenues from my land.”
“But something changed your mind,” he prompted when she paused again.
She looked down at her hands. Her veil swung forward, obscuring her face. “I learned two months ago that his wife was ill. Dying.” She raised her head and looked him straight in the eye.
Huw shivered.
Her face wore no more expression than a stone effigy. “When she dies, he’ll take me as his wife.”
Understanding dawned. “To keep your inheritance.”
She nodded. “When I found out, I made plans to escape. But I made the mistake of confiding in my maid. She told Sir Reginald, and I’ve been confined here ever since.”
Now her look of desperation as she’d approached the hunting party was explained. “That’s why you tried to speak to that huntsman earlier,” he said. “You wanted to enlist his help.” With her golden-blonde beauty, there would scarcely be a man breathing who could resist her. God knows he would have been hard pressed himself, if it hadn’t been for the taint of her Comyn blood. “But would you really have married one of them? I doubt you’d have been any better off.”
Her lip curled. “Never. Once free, I was going to slip some poppy syrup into his drink and make good my escape.”
Interesting. He would have to watch her carefully. She wasn’t nearly as fragile or helpless as she appeared.
“Where would you have gone?”
“To appeal to King Stephen and ask him to choose me a husband who wasn’t Fitzjohn.”
“You would have far more freedom with a Welsh man.” No. What was he thinking? The last thing the Welsh needed was to pollute their bloodlines with Comyn blood.
Remember why you’re here, he told himself. This was the same as any other task for the king. He must see it through and not be beguiled by a beautiful face. Above all, remember she wasn’t to be pitied.
Matilda rose and cleared the table. “I don’t know much about Wales, I’m afraid. I remember some of the tales my mother used to tell me, though, about mountains and waterfalls. I’d love to go there one day.”
Now Huw saw his way to completing his mission. And it would be so much simpler if she believed the idea was hers. “You still have family in Wales.”
“I do? I don’t know much about my mother’s family. I know she had a brother, but if she told me anything else, I was too young to remember.”
“You didn’t know your mother was cousin to the king of Powys?”
Matilda froze in the act of returning the flask and jar to the shelf. After no more than a couple of heartbeats, she placed the goods down with deliberate movements and turned to face him, her eyes shining. “Do you think the king of Powys would help me regain my inheritance—Coed Bedwen?”
Coed Bedwen. The merest mention made his heart contract. “I couldn’t say,” he replied.
“But it used to be part of Wales, didn’t it?”
“Part of Gwynedd, yes.” It was only his years of playing a role that enabled him to keep the emotion from his voice.
Or maybe his skill failed him, because Matilda gave him a searching look. “Have you been there?”
“Never.” Although he’d seen it. Many times. His father had made sure of that.
“But you’re going back to Wales, aren’t you? You could take me with you. To my family.”
And there was his victory. “In fact, King Owain instructed me to invite you to his court. He would be able to contact your family for you.” It hadn’t been an invitation, more an instruction to bring her at any cost, but Matilda didn’t need to know that.
She gave him a long look. “I can’t imagine what he can want with me.”
He shrugged. “Once I’ve freed you from Redcliff, you can ask him yourself.”
Because even if Huw knew, he wouldn’t tell her. And she’d better not think he was going to help her regain Coed Bedwen, either. Because Coed Bedwen was his.
Chapter Two
Matilda climbed the steps from the stillroom, the glass phial in her bodice digging into her breast with every movement. The moment she left the shadowy stairwell, she glanced about her, fearing her guilty secret would be plain for all to see, but she needn’t have worried. All around the bailey, men and women were strolling to the great hall for the Easter feast. Two days ago, the smells of roasting venison that wafted from the outdoor roasting pits would have set Matilda’s stomach rumbling, but now it was cramping with dread.
She slipped around the back of the stables. This being Easter Sunday, the stable yard was deserted. The only sounds to be heard were the occasional snorts and whickers from the horses inside.
She blew out a breath and leaned against the wall, pressing her fingers against the rough wood. She didn’t think she’d been seen. As long as Sir Reginald hadn’t noticed her slip away early, there shouldn’t be a problem. Huw might do this sort of thing every day, but she prayed this would be her last time. And she hadn’t even got to the difficult bit yet.
A light step jolted her upright. She pressed a hand to her breast.
“Did you get it?” The deep, lilting voice was Huw’s, but the tall, hooded man who strode into view surely couldn’t be him. He was dressed in a knee-length tunic and close-fitting hose. The color was drab brown, but the wool was finely woven and the leather belt that cinched the tunic at the waist was clasped with a silver buckle that no ordinary man would wear. There was a kidskin bag slung over one shoulder.
Then she lifted her eyes to his face and saw Huw’s angular face, a frown scored deep between his brows. Below his eye was the bluish bruise and scabbed over cut she had treated yesterday. Her fingertips tingled at the memory of smoothing salve along that finely sculpted cheekbone.
Her heart pounded an erratic beat against her ribs.
“Did you get it?” he repeated.
“I…yes.” She pulled out the phial of poppy syrup to show him before tucking it back into its hiding place. She drew several deep breaths. What had been so straightforward when they had discussed it yesterday now seemed fraught with danger.
He must have seen her fear, for his gaze hardened. “Are you sure you can do this? If I must make alternative plans, I need to know now.”
His doubt pricked her ire. She lifted her chin. “I can do it, Huw. Trust me.”
“Don’t use my name; I’m not Huw tonight.” Before her eyes, the lines on his face softened. It was as though the stern, harsh Huw had disappeared and in his place stood a man with a teasing glint in his eyes.
Matilda edged away from him, her pulse racing. Blessed saints, who was this man?
She opened her mouth to say—what? She had no idea. But before she could make a sound, Huw spoke again. Even his voice was different—higher and with a slightly affected French accent. “Tonight, I am Aimeric the troubadour, who has played for King Stephen himself. And the Empress Maude. Music takes no sides.”
He pulled back his hood, revealing the shock of chestnut hair that until now had been hidden. He swept into a low bow, although he kept his eyes fixed upon hers.
“I…why didn’t you come as the beggar again?” Not the most intelligent of questions, but her wits had scattered to the f
our winds.
“It wouldn’t do for the beggar to be seen again around here. I attracted too much attention yesterday. Besides, a beggar would have no business talking to a lady such as yourself.”
Huw drew a breath, as though to say more, but then he stiffened, his eyes widening. Matilda was about to ask him what the matter was when she heard it—footsteps approaching. Whoever it was would round the corner of the stable before they had time to hide. Her stomach twisted in sick dread.
Huw grasped her shoulders and pressed her back against the wall. Her shock at the liberty he was taking snatched away her cry of shock before it could leave her throat.
“Put your arms around me,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. “Now!”
The command jolted her from her daze, and she pressed her hands against his back. Her heart beat erratically, although whether from fear of discovery or the unfamiliar feel of a man’s hard body pressed against hers, she couldn’t tell.
“Now smile. Pretend you haven’t a care in the world.” Huw’s warm breath caressed her cheek.
Understanding dawned, and she tilted her head to gaze into his eyes and forced her frozen features into a smile. She darted a quick glance over his shoulder and saw one of the stable lads stroll into view. She sagged in relief; such a lowly servant wouldn’t feel it his place to report her to anyone.
However, as one fear faded, another grew. She became aware of Huw’s closeness. His power. His maleness. One of his hands was curved around the nape of her neck—large hands, with a steely strength in his fingers. No doubt he could snap her neck with ease.
Her mind screamed at her. What was she thinking, putting herself in this man’s power? Hadn’t everything that was wrong in her life been caused by men? He had said he would take her to King Owain, but men had made promises to her before they hadn’t kept. Fitzjohn had promised to take care of her when King Stephen had granted him her wardship, and her father…
She swallowed back bitter bile, and her mind veered away from that thought, clutching at anything to keep her from remembering the words that had haunted her for years.
I’ll always be there for you.
No! Think about something else. Anything else.
Unfortunately, it was hard to marshal her thoughts into any kind of order with Huw pressed so close to her. His face filled her vision. Her fingers itched to trace his angular jawline and dip into the dimple in the center of his chin. The heat of his hand against the small of her back spread through her body and pooled in the pit of her belly. Her chest felt so tight it was a struggle to draw breath.
She had to put some distance between them. Now, before her mind lost all rational thought.
Another glance over Huw’s shoulder showed the stable lad disappearing through a doorway.
“He’s gone,” she said.
Huw stepped back. It was a good thing she had the wall at her back, or her trembling legs might not have held her up.
“Did he notice us?” Huw asked.
“I don’t think so.” Matilda studied his face. All the softness had vanished, replaced by the now familiar frown. And just for an instant she thought she saw a flicker of something more. Anger? Distaste? It was gone—or concealed—before she could be sure of what she had seen.
A trickle of unease ran down her spine. She knew nothing about this man. Every instinct warned her that escaping into the wilds of Wales with him was foolishness in the extreme.
Every instinct bar the one that had thrilled at the feel of his body against hers.
She pressed her fingers to her temples. She needed space to think. “It’s time to go to the feast,” she said. “I can’t be late. Sir Reginald would want to know where I’ve been.”
Huw nodded. “We mustn’t be seen together; you go first. Remember not to talk to me or give any sign that you know me. Make your move when the dancing starts. Wait for me by the gates. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I’ll be there… I’ll always be there for you.
Feeling sick, she hurried across the bailey to the great hall. It wasn’t too late to back out of this plan. She could report Huw to Fitzjohn. That might earn her enough trust to give her another chance to make a break for freedom alone. Without the need to depend on a man.
An idea struck her, and she slipped down the steps to the stillroom. If Sir Reginald had missed her, she wanted him to think she had been there. As luck would have it, the first person she saw as she emerged a second time from the stairway was her guardian. He was dressed in his finest clothes, obviously on his way to the great hall.
Sir Reginald scowled at her. “Where have you been?”
She pointed down to the stillroom. “I wanted to check I had the ingredients for a remedy I thought would help ease your wife’s pains.” It wasn’t entirely untrue—she had done that before going to meet Huw. Along with fetching the poppy syrup.
He gave a curt nod. “Well, see that she gets it later. She’s sleeping now, and you must take her place at the high table in her absence.”
Matilda let out a shaky breath. Thank Heaven she hadn’t raised Fitzjohn’s suspicions. That still left the way open to her escape tonight if she decided to go through with it. She bowed her head in a show of meekness and allowed Sir Reginald to lead her into the hall.
The great hall was already crowded with people jostling for space at the lower tables. Everyone stood and bowed in respectful silence while Sir Reginald walked down the length of the hall toward the high table upon the dais. The hall was decked for the Easter festivities. Dazzling white linen cloths covered the tables, set with gleaming silver goblets, jugs, and platters. Bunches of daffodils competed with the blazing candles upon the high table. The huntsmen and women in the wall paintings danced in the flickering firelight.
The riot of light and color was in complete contrast to Matilda’s mood. She took her seat at the high table and clenched her hands in an agony of indecision. What should she do? Stay with Fitzjohn, safe for as long as his wife lived, or take her chances with Huw?
Servants came into the hall bearing trays heaped with roasted venison, goose, and boar, sending a murmur of appreciation around the tables. The air of anticipation, as the priest stood to bless the meal, was almost overwhelming. Before he had even finished the “amen,” Sir Reginald seized the closest dish to him, and a ripple of chatter started up again.
A hauntingly beautiful melody rang out. Matilda looked to see where it was coming from. She couldn’t suppress a gasp when she saw Huw standing to the side of the high table, his head bent over an instrument cradled against his shoulder. It looked like a lyre, only it was played with a bow. She watched, a thrill trickling down her spine, as his long fingers coaxed a tune out of the strings that had even Sir Reginald transfixed.
Who was he, really? If she hadn’t met him before, she would never have believed he was anything other than a minstrel. And a gifted one at that. Was the Huw she had met just another disguise? Could she, knowing how men used deceit and trickery to achieve their own ends, put her life in his hands? She sent a silent prayer up to the heavens.
Holy mother Mary, I beg you, show me a sign, set my feet on the right path.
****
Huw let his gaze wander around the hall as he played. The feast had hardly begun, yet most of the revelers, Fitzjohn included, were drinking heavily. Good. He’d be less likely to notice when Matilda drugged his wine.
Matilda. He did his best not to look at her, remember how it had felt to hold her close. How was it that this daughter of a family touched by the devil should be so beautiful?
He struck a wrong note, sending a jarring discord up into the soot-blackened rafters. He recovered himself quickly; a glance around showed him that everyone was too busy with their food to notice his music.
Everyone except Matilda. She was looking at him, frowning. A surge of irritation coursed through his veins. She was a Comyn. To his mind, that was the same as saying she was a monster. How dare she sit there, picking at the foo
d servants had toiled for days to prepare? If it hadn’t been for her family, he would be lord of Coed Bedwen and hosting his own Easter feast today. The temptation to fling down his crwth and leave the castle there and then, abandoning her to Fitzjohn, nearly overcame him.
But he couldn’t disobey his king. He remembered Owain’s words when he had sent Huw to Redcliff: “The anarchy in England won’t last forever. And when it ends, the victor, whoever that may be, will look to Wales. If you can bring me Matilda Comyn, we have a chance to strengthen Gwynedd against whatever storms may come.”
A voice whispered in the back of his mind. Once out of Redcliff, you will have her at your mercy. You could fulfil your oath.
He silenced it. Owain Gwynedd might have many faults, but his love for Gwynedd and its people was what had kept Huw loyal to him all these years. If Matilda Comyn was so important to the king, he would do his utmost to bring her to him. He had waited this long; he could wait a little longer before taking his revenge.
And maybe in that time he could find a way to ignore the fire that flooded his veins every time he looked at her.
When the final notes of his song died away, even Sir Reginald applauded. “Come and sit beside me and have a drink,” he invited. “A reward for your music.”
Careful to stay in the persona of Aimeric, Huw accepted the drink he was offered and sat on a low stool beside Sir Reginald’s chair, doing his best to keep his face in the shadows. He felt the first twinges of unease. He hadn’t expected Fitzjohn to pay him much attention. On the one hand, talking to Fitzjohn could provide him with vital information, but against that, it would make life difficult if he ever needed to spy out a place where Fitzjohn was again. He might be recognized.
“You’ve picked a strange time to visit England.” Sir Reginald twisted his silver goblet this way and that so the gems studding its base flashed in the candlelight. “I would have thought you’d prefer the peace of your own land.”
Bound to Her Blood Enemy Page 2
