“Did you receive dispensation from the pope? Laws of consanguinity apply.”
“She is your half-sister.”
“And you are blood-kin to my mother, not to my father.” Rhys stood. “You have based your claim on unjustified facts.”
“Perhaps.” Gareth gave a sly smile. “But Prince John being in a similar situation has been very sympathetic to my cause.”
There it was. Gareth had Prince John’s favor; King Richard was in the Holy Land and not likely to return soon. It was a pretty plot, and he must find a way around it.
“Sympathy is not protection. It is said that John is fickle.”
“Kill me, and Prince John will have you in chains for the executioner before you can flee,” Gareth said with a smirk. “I have his protection and his sanction.”
“And I have King Richard’s.”
“Richard is in the Holy Land and has no thought of England or Wales, save how much money he can wring from the treasuries. Would he leave his Crusades to come to your aid?”
“Do you really think Richard’s arm is so short he cannot affect matters of state?” Rhys asked. “He has a long reach, cousin, even from Acre. And if he has proof John is set for betrayal, it will go badly with that prince, I can assure you. There’s little enough love between them as it is, with John’s quarrel with William the Marshal still so fresh in Richard’s mind. The Marshal was King Henry’s favorite, and Richard trusts him more than he does Prince John. I have Sir William’s sanction to recover and hold my father’s keep.”
It was all true, and he knew that Gareth recognized it; doors were shut and locked in his path to gaining Glynllew, no matter how he struggled against it. Yet, Prince John was wily and ruthless in his quest to best King Richard, so nothing was set in stone. John was the key to it, but Richard was king. It was a precarious situation.
Drawing in a deep breath, Gareth blew it out again slowly. “Then I am at your mercy. But do not think Prince John will swallow this bitter news without retaliation. I pity the man who incurs his enmity.”
“Between the two, I would choose John’s enmity over Richard’s. Even John quails before Richard, as he has proved over and over again by fleeing after yet another of his treacherous schemes fails. When Richard returns, John will be boxed in again.”
“Perhaps. But as I am wed to your sister,” Gareth said sharply, “I am rightful heir when Glynllew is left unprotected.”
Rhys said tightly, “It was not unprotected until you murdered the rightful lord. Be grateful Prince John stands between you and death at this moment. It will give you time to reflect on your sins until Richard returns. Then you will be hung on Glynllew’s walls as an example to any other man foolish enough to consider attacking.”
Gareth made an incoherent noise low in his throat. Rhys signaled the guards to take him away. A deathly quiet shrouded the great hall, broken only by the rattle of Gareth’s chains as he was removed. It wasn’t until the door closed behind the guard and Gareth that Rhys noticed his half-sister standing in the hall.
Apparently, she had witnessed their confrontation; her face was pale, her eyes wide and frightened. He had meant his promise to Gareth, but Catrin should not be concerned. She would come to no harm at his hand. He beckoned her forward.
Before he could speak, she asked, “As Prince John is not my protector, am I to be slain?”
“You do not need a protector,” he replied. “Your innocence is not in question.”
“Is it not? I am wed to Gareth of Glamorgan.”
“That does not make you guilty of treachery. Was marriage agreed to by both families?”
Catrin stared at him, her light blue eyes vaguely familiar. Not his father. But who? Even her expression reminded him of someone as she bit her lower lip and nodded.
“Yea, Lord Gryffyd and Gareth’s uncle agreed to it. So he said he would take me to wife in front of all and later, amobr was paid to Lord Gryffyd as my overlord. The next morning I was given the cowyll owed me.”
Welsh laws differed from the English canon law, but their marriage was legal. He didn’t think she wanted to remain married to Gareth, and Welsh law provided for that, too.
“Was agweddi decided?”
She said rather proudly, “Aye, Lord Gryffyd gave ten cows and ten sheep.”
“You will forfeit as the marriage did not last seven years,” he said, watching her face. She looked incredulous, then thoughtful as the implication was understood.
“Am I then free to go, my lord?”
“Glynllew palls on you already?”
“Nay, I have no wish to leave here. I meant only to inquire if I am still wed to Gareth.”
That took him off-guard. Then he recalled her youth. “It can be annulled.”
She seemed quite satisfied with that and much relieved. He beckoned to Owain, and as he was acting as scribe as well as steward, bid him make arrangements for annulment contracts. Then he had Brian escort Catrin from the hall and turned back to Owain.
“See that her marriage is annulled as quickly as possible. I need to find her a husband who will take her off my hands.”
“Yea, my lord.” Owain scrawled an entry on the parchment he held and looked up. “It will be done.”
There was a faint gleam of sympathy in the steward’s eyes that made Rhys hesitate. He met his gaze. “I gave the best judgments I could under the given circumstances, Owain.”
“Yea, my lord, I agree. They were fair judgments. All of them.”
It was the closest he could come to asking for approval, and Owain’s answer was enough. Rhys smiled slightly and nodded. Then he left the dais and moved to the curve of stairs that led up to the solar. The afternoon had been grim. He hoped for a better night, as Sasha awaited him.
Chapter Sixteen
THE COTTE WAS wrinkled. Sasha smoothed the material; she wore only her undertunic. She had slept after he left, as weary as if she had walked all day. Now, alone in the bedchamber of the solar, she visited the garderobe, tidied up her garments, found a comb and worked it through her hair, then pulled the cotte over her head and tied the laces. It was quiet in the solar, much quieter than she had expected. The honeyed fruit and bread platter sat on a table, evidence he had eaten before leaving. She vaguely recalled him getting up, telling her to sleep, and then sounds of him dressing before he left.
Seeing him again would be awkward, but going to her chamber and facing Elspeth or Biagio would be even more uncomfortable. She felt completely different now than she had just hours ago, as if her entire life had altered irrevocably. Would it show on her face? In her walk, or speech, or greetings? No, the difference was deep inside, an unfamiliar emotion that she wasn’t certain had a place. She didn’t know quite what to do with the emotion.
A noise at the door interrupted her musings as she gazed out the window at the dusky sky, and she turned, expecting to see Rhys.
Biagio’s dark head popped around the edge of the open door. “It is true. I thought ‘twas a vicious lie, but here you are.”
She sighed. It was not unexpected, as Owain had not been alone, but she had hoped to be the one to tell them instead of Biagio hearing it from a servant.
“Yea,” she said. “Here I am.”
Stepping into the solar, Biagio shut the door and leaned against it, his thoughts in turmoil as he gazed at her. It will ruin everything . . . why, bella? He is not the man for you . . . what of the prophecy?
“He is the one, Biagio,” she murmured and stepped to the fireplace; logs had burned to coals, emanating scant heat. A chill shivered down her spine, and she wondered how she meant that. Was Rhys the man of the prophecy or the man she hoped to love? Did she love? What was love, if not this rush of emotion that filled her, made her yearn to be near him when he was gone, and created such a need to touch him when he was close? It was all so
confusing.
Biagio cleared his throat.
“Your champion is in the hall discussing heads on pikes and hangings, if it interests you.”
“Whose head?”
“Gareth of Glamorgan.” Biagio pushed away from the door and crossed to the fire. He knelt and poked at the logs with the iron, igniting a small blaze. Heat spread outward. “Gareth’s wife demanded to know her fate, but I left before he decided.”
Sasha frowned. “He has already decreed her safe, as she is his half-sister.”
“And Prince John searches for men to assassinate his brother.” Slanting her an upward glance, Biagio shrugged. “Blood kinship does not guarantee love and loyalty.”
“Neither does familiarity,” she retorted, and he grinned.
“But you love me, bella. You know you do.”
“Aye, you rogue. I do love you, but I also love Socrates, another stubborn donkey.”
Unabashed, Biagio rose and went to the nearby table, plucking a honeyed cherry from the bowl on the wooden platter. Popping it into his mouth, he chose another, dripping honey as he waved a hand in the air. “It is boring here, and Elspeth and I are ready to leave. Of course, she wishes to molder in her village, while I prefer the more enticing entertainments of a town such as London. Or perhaps Winchester.”
“London is dangerous, as you must know.”
“Only when the prince is in residence. But I will be content with Winchester.”
“No doubt. I do not intend to leave here just yet, however.”
“And why is that? I suppose you fancy yourself in love now?” When she did not reply, he threw his hands into the air in disgust. “Bah! Why must females reduce a perfectly enjoyable act to one of profit or ridiculous emotion?”
“Why must males always be in rut?”
“It is our nature.”
“It is the nature of females to expect more. And what do you mean—profit?”
“Do you not expect him to be your champion?”
“That is not profit. That is a request and has nothing to do with—with the other.” A flush heated her cheeks, but she glared at him, narrowing her eyes as she delved his thoughts.
Bella, bella . . . you have been tricked and cannot see . . . we must flee ere you lose all you hope to gain . . . John will find you here, can you not see? Danger all around us, and you yet cling to a fantasy. . . .
“No,” she said, but it was true. Prince John. An unholy prince, devious and cruel, acting on whims, yet with grim resolve driving him. “John’s main goal is to defeat King Richard in whatever means he can. It has already cost him lands and sent him hieing off to France to escape the king’s vengeance.”
“Too bad he didn’t stay in France. He broke his oath to stay out of England while Richard was on Crusade. Now he bedevils the English and all else within his reach. It is dangerous to attract his notice.”
Biagio abandoned the honeyed fruit and came to put an arm around her shoulders, resting his chin atop her head. He’d grown so much taller in the last months, like a river reed, straight and strong. She leaned against him.
The letter, bella. What of the prince’s letter to de Braose?
“It is safe,” she said simply.
He sighed. “The prince will not give up, you know. He knows by now we have it.”
“I pray he still blames the messenger. That is our saving grace, although a slim one. I dissemble fairly well when terrified.”
“It was an amazing performance. I thought we were doomed when the prince came upon us.”
“So did I. If only that cursed man hadn’t decided to accost me, it wouldn’t have happened. But John will believe his messenger and remember our faces.”
“Ah, bella. I should not have yielded to temptation, but I thought the pouch carried coin or jewels, not treason.”
“It cannot be helped now.”
After a moment of silence, Biagio said quietly, “You should tell Elspeth it is my fault.”
“It will not matter which of us is at fault, as I did not stop you. What, did you think I did not know your intentions?” She laughed softly. “Even without my Gift, I knew you could not resist tweaking that arrogant man’s vanity by relieving him of a purse. It was our bad luck Prince John happened upon us to send his messenger scurrying on his way.”
“And the fool thought you protected him by pretending to the prince he had questioned us as to our presence, instead of admitting he thought you easy prey for a tumble in the alcove.”
“He has no doubt regretted his folly by now.”
“And told Prince John we must have the pouch.” Biagio sighed. “If we could have found him, I would have returned it the same way I got it, with him none the wiser.”
“And now here we are in Wales, far from the prince’s notice, yet still at the mercy of his whims should he decide to attack Glynllew.”
A voice from the doorway snared their instant attention: “Should who decide to attack Glynllew, chérie?”
Rhys stood in the open doorway. How had he entered so silently, or were they too lost in their own discussion and thoughts to notice his arrival? And then—how much had he heard?
Sasha said quickly, “Biagio heard the judgments in the hall, my lord. Is it true that the prince may attack Castle Cymllew?”
“Glynllew,” he corrected, shutting the door before crossing the chamber. While his face bore no evidence he had overheard too much, Sasha did not trust that. Nor his lingering gaze as he looked from her to Biagio. “To distinguish from the village. ‘Tis a serious discussion to share before supper. Did the judgments disturb you, dynan?”
“Why should they? And my name is Biagio.”
Ignoring that, Rhys looked back at Sasha. Was that suspicion darkening his gray eyes? Or perhaps just that the light through the windows faded, casting shadows? Her heart quickened; it sounded too loud in her ears, so that she seized on the first distraction that came to mind.
“You have not said if the prince intends to attack the castle, my lord.”
“Princes have whims. Some more than others. It depends upon the prince in question.”
“Prince John.”
“Ah.” His gaze sharpened. “You have reason to believe he will attack?”
“That is the rumor.”
“There are no secrets in a castle these days.” He moved past them to the table, poured wine into a cup, and sipped from it, perusing them over the rim. “Do not believe all you hear.”
“That is a great relief, my lord.” She shot Biagio a glance; he frowned, looking down at his feet, studying his worn boots as if they held great interest. But she heard his thoughts as clear as if spoken aloud:
You cannot trust him, bella. He asks questions but never gives answers. Bed him if you must, but do not share our secrets, for that will endanger us all.
“It is my understanding the kitchens are missing a pot boy,” Rhys said mildly, and neither missed his meaning. “Your dog awaits you at the door.”
Biagio inclined his head. When he left, closing the door with a firm thump of oak on oak, silence blanketed the solar. To keep questions at bay and busy her hands and mind so her tongue did not clatter, Sasha set about lighting candles and lamps. Dusk crept into corners, cast shadows, and banished light from alcoves.
It was not until she had all candles and lamps lit that she turned again to face Rhys. He leaned against the table, arms crossed over his chest, watching her with a bemused expression. It did not escape her notice that he was impossibly handsome in his red and gold surcoat, blue tunic, and laced boots. The belt that cinched his surcoat held a gold buckle in the shape of a gryffin.
“It was told to me that Glynllew means valley of the lion, not a gryffin, my lord,” she said for lack of a more innocuous topic.
“Very rough tr
anslation, but I suppose close enough. My grandfather was Llywelyn ap Rhys.”
“Your grandfather built the castle, then.”
“It did not look the same when he built it. Instead of stone, it was oak and iron atop a hill. In later years, he built some stone walls, but my father rebuilt it all of stone after I left. It would have grieved my mother.”
“Your mother? She preferred the timber?”
He shrugged. “She would have understood the necessity, but still grieve the timber halls she knew as a child. Llywelyn was her father.”
That surprised her, and it must have shown. A faint smile tucked the corners of his mouth as he watched her. She moved closer, fingers trailing over the smooth oak of the table. “Then the castle belonged to your mother? I did not think women inherited in England.”
“Women in England may inherit under certain circumstances, but in Wales, most do not. There are exceptions, as with many laws. My mother was the only living heir. When she wed, ownership of the manor then belonged to her husband. It is Cyfraith Hywel, or Welsh law.”
“It is complicated, as are most laws of inheritance.” She thought of her own parents and wondered if it had been the same. It was possible. She remembered only her mother and father, an idyllic childhood playing with pets and sheltered from unpleasant events, until it had all come screaming in the night to shatter her world. That similarity had drawn her to Catrin, and though her life had been different, the abrupt end of all she’d known had been much the same.
“Do you wish to change your garments before supper?” he asked her, and she realized he meant for her to join him for the evening meal in the hall.
“May we not take our meal here, in the solar?”
“We could, but after today I think it best I present myself in the hall.”
She drew in a deep breath. “Is it wise to provoke those who wish me harm? I am not an honored guest here, but came as a captive, a suspected spy, and must therefore be viewed with suspicion by others like Sir Brian.”
“Possibly. But unless you have a confession to make, you are not a spy, and I wish you at my side.”
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