“We shall talk later, chérie,” he said, and she met his gaze and nodded. As he left, Rhys took the men with him, but the dog remained, its eyes fixed on Biagio, watchful and waiting.
“You have a dog,” she said, teasing to lighten the intensity of his mood, and Biagio gave a curt nod.
“Aye. So it seems. He makes an excellent companion, preferring silence to chatter, but he has breath as foul as a demon’s.”
Amused, she studied the dog for a moment. It seemed to remember her, for the tail gave a slight wag. “A handsome fellow. How did you take up with him?”
“I thought him dead so went to move him from the hall, and he bit me.”
Sasha laughed aloud, and Biagio relaxed, grinning when she said between giggles, “An honest dog then, isn’t he.”
“So it seems. Yet we rub along well enough now. Eh?” The last was directed at the dog, and he took it as permission to enter the chamber, bounding over to nudge Biagio with his nose. “I call him il Bandito. He steals food shamelessly, eh?” The huge jaws opened in a wide, toothy grin.
“I marvel at his transformation. He near unmanned a guard when last I saw him.”
“Aye, ‘tis a unique talent. He will be most useful, I think.”
Sasha patted the side of the bed. “Sit. Tell me what has transpired while I slept.”
“First you must swear there are no ill effects. I saw you accompany the Norman when he died. It was like the time in Bavaria, when the Svevi guard was killed. You went with him into the afterlife.”
“No, not that far, but close. I didn’t realize then how it could take me too. I did not know I was so deeply involved in Vachel’s mind and tried to escape, but it swept me with him. Elfreda came for me. She pulled me back.”
“Your mother?” Biagio frowned. “It was a dream?”
“Perhaps. But it seemed very real.”
Fondling the dog’s ears, Biagio didn’t respond for a moment. Finally, he said, “There is so much I do not understand, bella. I am just grateful you are still in this world.”
“So am I. Now, tell me what has transpired.”
Biagio perched on the edge of the bed, weaving tales of captured knights and soldiers, some still sleeping off effects of the poppies, some found slumbering between a snoring maid’s thighs, most found at the table or against the walls where the wine overtook them. The soldiers who had not drank wine or ale put up a fight, but those loyal to the old lord swiftly switched sides and joined the new lord.
“It seems Gareth was not well-liked,” Biagio commented. “I thought him dull-witted and wondered how he had the wits to accomplish taking the castle. There are rumors.”
“Are there? Do I wish to hear these rumors?”
He grinned. “Some of them. Not all.”
“Then share the rumors that matter and stop being so coy.”
“It seems your champion is caught between two princes, both wanting Glynllew for two different reasons. ‘Twill be difficult for him to dance on that rope, even with Gareth in a cell. Sir Nicolas of Raglan is also said to yearn for possession of this castle.”
“So we are at war with all of Wales?”
“And England. One of the princes is John.”
Prince John. Sasha sighed. “Then we are out of the cook pot and into the flames.”
RHYS GAZED IN bemusement at the woman standing before him. “How is it I have never heard of you before now?”
The hall had fallen silent as all waited and watched the play before them. Blond, slender, the young woman stood with head held high, chin lifted defiantly. “You were not here when I was born, but we share the same father. Ask your steward. Owain will tell you ‘tis true.”
Glancing at Owain, Rhys caught the slight tilt of his head in acknowledgement. “She was claimed, my lord, and given in marriage to Gareth of Glamorgan to fortify alliances with his family. When his grandfather died, it seems Gareth turned to other sources to solidify his claim to Glynllew.”
Rhys looked back at the woman, who seemed more girl like the one he had found in his cousin’s bedchamber than grown. She met his gaze steadily, although he detected a slight quiver in her bottom lip.
“What are you named?” he asked quietly.
“Catrin verch Griffyn of Glamorgan.”
He felt suddenly old. This girl of perhaps ten and five years had been born after he left Wales, and he had never known of her existence. It made sense for her to be wed to Gareth, for Welsh kindred often formed normally unassailable bonds. Gareth seemed to be an exception.
“Your mother is with you?”
Emotion flitted across her face before she said steadily, “Nay. She died two years ago.”
“When were you joined with Gareth?”
It was Owain who answered, “Two months before your father and brothers were killed. It was Lord Griffyn’s wish to see her wed.”
Had his father suspected trouble with Gareth and attempted to bind him closer, or had he been truly convinced it was a good option for his natural daughter? These were questions to be answered.
“What is it you request from me?” he asked the girl.
“Freedom to return to my home. Or am I held prisoner?”
“You are our guest. We shall certainly make your stay with us as pleasant as possible, but to return you to uncertain welcome would not be safe.” Under the circumstances it was the only reply he could give, and he saw she had expected it.
“I am assured I will be welcomed in Glamorgan.”
Rhys studied her face. Blue shadows ringed her eyes, and her cheeks were gaunt. He saw none of his father or brothers in her, but it had been so long since he’d seen them his memory may not be clear.
“You are welcomed here in your father’s keep, Mistress,” he said evenly. “As your husband is in my custody, you will allow me as your brother to grant you sanctuary. Owain, see she is safely escorted to a chamber. Is Mistress Gwyneth still able?”
Owain grinned. “Aye, my lord. I shall appoint her to serve Mistress Catrin’s needs.”
The girl stiffened. “I am Lady Catrin.”
Rhys did not correct her. Let her have her small vanities if it made the transition easier. He had enough to deal with at the moment. Gwyneth was a formidable beldame to cross, and she would know how to deal with Catrin.
As a man-at-arms escorted the girl from the hall, more complaints were presented. They were the usual kind after the taking of a castle: loss of cattle, dwellings, food and ale seized by soldiers, both conquered and conquerors, and as the new tenant organized, quarrels over property claimed by villeins arose. Fortunately, Owain was very familiar with the records and who owned each cottage and fiefdom.
It took the better part of the day to address each grievance but it was a necessary task. He had to be seen to take power, to be the lord of Glynllew who held the power of life in his hands. While he had not yet decided how to deal with his rebellious cousin, he had dispatched several of Gareth’s troops to cells; the rest were given a choice to swear fealty, and some who had been the old lord’s guard were questioned and re-sworn. Raglan’s men were another matter.
“They say they were only to assist in securing the castle until the Prince of Deheubarth or Prince John made their decision,” Owain reported. Rhys was wary of accepting that as truth until it could be confirmed. He would not launch an assault on Raglan, but neither would he trust him until he was certain of the intention.
“It would be like a Plantagenet to work at cross-purposes,” Owain said gloomily as they finally quit the hall. Servants rushed to set up tables and benches for the evening meal.
“Prince John is not to be trusted,” Rhys agreed. “Have the pitchers and barrels been well-cleansed?”
“Scrubbed free of any lingering herbs or burned,” Owain replied. “What of yon maid?”<
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“You never told me I had a sister,” Rhys said shortly.
“After your mother died, Lord Griffyn was distraught. He did not remarry nor want to remarry, but after a while, he had liaisons. Catrin’s mother was the widow of a soldier. But that was not the maid I meant. I speak of the girl of mystery, who can spin a lovely tale out of air and faerie dust.”
Sasha. He did not say her name aloud, but he did not have to, for Owain could only mean the fey creature in an upstairs chamber. She was never far from his mind now, his concern for her during her illness foremost in his mind when he should be worrying about more practical matters dealing with Glynllew. Brian was right. He was bewitched. Beguiled. Bedazzled. He did not know if it was magic or a more mundane need that kept her in his mind.
He just knew he wanted to be with her. But he did not know if he could trust her.
It was an odd coincidence to have met her twice, and if he believed her tale of lost lands and need of a champion, he was still wary of her reasons. A fantastical tale worthy of Brian, with mythical beasts and prophecies; believing it would require great faith, and he had learned not to give that too readily. Still, there was something about her that made it seem possible.
As if sensing his conflict, Owain said, “There are secrets in that one, but I believe her to be of good heart.”
“Do you?” Rhys paused near the staircase that led to the bedchambers. “I cannot decide if she is to be trusted, but your judgment is usually sound.”
Heaving a sigh, Owain said, “Save for my son, although in truth, I cannot say I would have done differently than Bowen. If he had not agreed to serve Gareth, he would have been in the cell with me. Or perished.”
“I bear him no ill will. It was a difficult decision.”
“Yon knight believes the maid to be an enchantress, a practitioner of the dark arts,” said the steward, indicating Brian, who approached with long strides. “I think her enchanting, but I do not think her malicious.”
“By enchanting, I’m assuming you mean delightful and not a witch,” Rhys said dryly, and Owain grinned.
“Aye, my lord, I do indeed. We must resolve the mystery, but I think it will be easier than we now suspect.”
“We still have not yet sorted out the confusion with the messages I received, so on the morrow we need to take time to sit down and see who has been meddling in our affairs.”
Owain hesitated, then said, “We shall, my lord.”
Rhys put a hand on the older man’s shoulder. “We have known one another too long to be formal, Owain. My name is more familiar on your lips.”
Brian reached them, and from the expression on his face, Rhys braced for bad news. “The witch is in the stables unsettling the horses,” he burst out, pale eyes burning with rage, his face a mottled red and white. “Did you give her leave to roam the castle unfettered?”
“It was not discussed. I did not direct her to remain in her chamber as I thought her too ill to leave her bed. Calm yourself. I will see to it. Is that all that has you undone?”
Brian sucked in a deep breath. “You will not think it a small matter when you get to the stables.”
“It may not be a small matter, but as long as mounted troops and siege engines aren’t at the gate, I will consider it less dire.”
Rhys heard the commotion before he reached the stables on the back wall of the bailey. It was still so new to him he had difficulty finding his way inside, but the outside area was similar to how it had been when he was a child; save for the addition of stone walls and an inner bailey, all was placed as before.
Shouting, horses snorting and banging against stalls, dogs barking, grooms and soldiers added to the chaos. He entered the stable, eyes adjusting to shadows, to find Sasha and Biagio in a stall with one of the horses. Biagio had his hand on the hilt of his dagger, the huge dog at his side with bristled fur. One of the grooms was backed against a wall, shouting at the dog.
“She claims it is her horse, my lord,” a groom said when he asked why there was turmoil. “It bit and kicked me when I tried to move it out with the other horses, then this Saracen wolf and his dog attacked me.”
“Italian, “Biagio snapped. “And you hit the horse with a stick. I should let her savage you and be done with it.”
“Enough,” Rhys said, his low tone imparting more authority than a shout would have done. Both quieted; the groom looked uneasy. He tugged on his forelock to show respect. The whelp glared angrily.
“Why are you in the stables?” he asked Biagio.
“I heard of abuse of the horse and donkey, and we came immediately to stop it.”
“Donkey?” He looked around, then spied the donkey near the mare; as if speaking up to mark its presence, the beast brayed loudly, ears twitching.
“Socrates is not always amenable,” Biagio said when the donkey bared its teeth at one of the grooms holding a shovel.
“Much like you, it seems.” Rhys turned his gaze toward Sasha. She stood in front of the agitated horse as if protecting it. “You are feeling much better, demoiselle.”
“No, I am angry. Beyosha has already been mistreated and should not be made worse by clumsy oafs. That one should not be around horses. He hates them.”
“Do you?” Rhys asked, turning to the man, whose face turned a dull red.
“Nay, my lord, I do not hate them. Betimes they act out, and I must be forceful, but that is all.”
“Untrue,” Sasha said sharply. “You fear them so you hurt them. You would rather work in the fields than with horses.”
“Is that so?” Rhys watched the man, who obviously hovered between embarrassment and anger. “Would you rather work in the fields?”
“It was my task before,” he said reluctantly. “I like planting and tending crops in the sun and rain, where it’s easier to breathe than in closed stables.”
“Easily remedied. How did you come to be in the stables instead of the fields?”
They had been speaking English, so he wasn’t surprised to hear that the groom had been taken captive on a raid and brought to Wales. His home was in Gloucestershire. He finally sent the man to talk to the steward, then cleared the stables until only Sasha and Biagio were left. He leaned against a thick wooden timber and crossed his arms over his chest to gaze at them.
“You have recovered enough to sow discord among the serfs, it seems. Is the horse yours, demoiselle?”
“It is. I bought her in Edwardstowe.”
“Then perhaps you should seek a more suitable place to keep her. The warhorses are not gelded, and a mare’s presence is disruptive.”
“That’s not why the horses are restless.”
Amused, Rhys considered her for a moment. She looked as if she had dressed hurriedly. Her kirtle was clean but laces left untied and loose; plain shoes covered feet with no hosen. A cape hung from her shoulders with no pin to fasten it at the neck. Hollows in her cheeks made her dark eyes look even larger and more mysterious; dark brows arched up at him as he gazed at her, and he realized he stared. He lifted his shoulders in a questioning gesture.
“You believe there is another reason, demoiselle?”
“I know there is another reason. The horses are restless, unused to leisure, and need to be out to pasture or exercised. They do not like some of those who treat them roughly.”
“It would intrigue me to learn how you know their thoughts so well, demoiselle.”
“I spent time with the Bedouin and learned their ways. They prize the desert horses and taught me the language.”
Indicating the mare with a nod of his head, he said, “She’s no desert horse.”
“No, but she’s descended from them. Note her head, the wide eyes and deep nostrils, her broad chest. She may not be asil, but she has the blood of her noble ancestors and a great heart.”
“Asil?” The Arabic word sounded strange on his tongue, and she smiled.
“Pure. Stallions are prized in your culture, but the Bedouins prefer riding mares. I call her Beyosha because she has mysterious origins, as do I. We may need to play a part one day, so it is good in my world to be flexible. You know that Malik is not Arabian even though you bought him from an Arab, I presume.”
“An Arabian horse is too small for my use. I bought him because he is fierce and skilled in war, which is what I need. I prize Malik above all others.”
“Then you are capable of great love,” she said lightly, and he nodded.
“For horses, it is true.”
“Only for horses, my lord? I thought you more dauntless than that. But a man who loves his horse must also form softer attachments.”
“Not necessarily.”
Her brow lifted, and another smile curved her mouth. When she smiled like that his heart quivered, and he recalled another smile, warmth, golden bare skin, and flashing dark eyes, the heat of her against him arousing, and the fragrance of jasmine surrounding him. It was both potent and breath-stealing. If Biagio wasn’t standing there watching him with narrowed, suspicious eyes, he would lure Sasha to the nearest pile of hay.
But as lord of Glynllew now, he had not only power, but obligetions. He could not act on desires without taking responsibility. His actions set the tone for the castle; he recalled his father saying a young man’s whims became an older man’s burdens if not dealt with wisely. Lust fell in that range. He resisted, yet if the Italian whelp were elsewhere, he might act upon the need that drove him. Lamentable. He knew better. He was no greenling but a proven knight and now lord of the manor. It was ridiculous that he stood yearning after illusory rewards when there was still much to do to strengthen his inheritance.
As if summoned by the direction of his thoughts, distraction appeared.
Brian arrived, his broad frame casting a long shadow. Sunny May days lingered in dusky twilight; it made for short nights, but the three-hour vigils sentries held appreciated the longer light. By St. John’s Eve, it would be light until near midnight.
The Magic Page 23
