The Magic
Page 30
Only half-listening, Rhys managed appropriate replies even while his attention strayed to Sasha. Sir Peter had engaged her in conversation, including Catrin at intervals. The knight was a practiced courtier who had spent much time at court, so was skilled in the art of conversation. It was an art he did not share with the young man. His expertise lay more in swordplay, a grim art most ladies did not fully appreciate.
It eased him when he heard Sasha respond to the knight’s artful questions with reserved replies that gave away nothing. She was also skilled in banter, but then, she had to be or would have run afoul of an overzealous suitor long ago. While Sir Peter was not so foolish as to attempt to dally with a woman obviously claimed by his overlord, flirtation was practiced in castles over all of England and Wales, but particularly in France, Normandy, and Italy. No doubt she was as practiced as Sir Peter in flirtation, yet she did not. Catrin, however, seemed giddy with wine and too flirtatious. Her fair face was flushed, eyes too bright and sparkling, her laughter a little too loud. While Sir Peter may be trusted not to be unwise, he was not at all certain Catrin knew when to be discreet. She had been sheltered, then married to Gareth and subjected to fear for her life, so this was unexpected freedom. He would not begrudge her some levity as long as it did not go too far.
By the time desserts were served—wafers, cheese, and candied fruits—Catrin was giddy with wine. He discreetly signaled the cup boy not to offer her hippocras, for the spiced wine may be too much. Leaning close to Sasha, he murmured, “It might be best if you escort Catrin to find old Gwyneth, who will know what to do.”
“I’ll take her to lie down, for I fear finding old Gwyneth with her along will be too great a task.” Removing her napkin from her left wrist, she beckoned to the sewer, who brought the ewer of water for her to wash her hands, and then rose to go to Catrin.
Laughing at something Sir Peter said, Catrin was first slow to notice, then frowned. “Nay, I am quite merry here,” she said too loudly, and Sasha bent to whisper in her ear. Catrin nodded acceptance, though she looked annoyed, and they quit the hall together.
Sir Peter gave him a rueful smile. “She is young yet. Grant pardon if I have erred.”
“It is as you say; she is young yet.”
When desserts were eaten, Rhys rose to his feet and washed his hands, signaling the end of the meal so all could rise. Servingmen scurried forward, taking the used trenchers for dogs and cats roaming the hall, the leftover food for the almoner to give out to the poor, and retrieving salt nefs and other valuables to be cleaned and stored for the next meal. As he passed through the hall he spied Biagio and his great Alaunt leaving through a rear door that led through the kitchens.
He had still not reconciled his doubts about the youth. While Brian railed about a spy in the castle, it could be one of a hundred people. Knights, men-at-arms, servants, tradesmen who brought supplies—any could be guilty. Yet there was something furtive in the way the boy stole away that arrested his attention, and he followed.
While the kitchens were at the rear of the great hall, new kitchens had been laid out in the back that would be larger, with fireplaces big enough to roast an entire ox. After the old lord’s death, masons and builders had been dismissed, but he had plans to call them back. Half-built stone walls cast long shadows in the dusky moonlight. Beyond the curtain wall, the land sloped to the Wye, the boundary between Wales and England. It was the highest point of the river when the Severn tide pushed water this far, so that crossing it would be impossible without boats. The sentries on the walls kept watch, under the guidance of Sir Robert. Brian trained the men-at-arms and knights in the bailey, all with one purpose: keeping Glynllew secure.
If Biagio meant mischief, he certainly didn’t attempt to be furtive. Instead, he whistled the dog up and over a low stone wall, heedless of discovery. He threw something, laughed when the dog chased after it and brought it back, tail wagging, eyes gleaming in the pale light, and then threw it again, watching as the white beast bounded after it. Rhys leaned against an unfinished wall and waited, and when the boy and dog started back toward the keep, they saw him. The dog first, great head lifting and sniffing the air, a low growl in his throat that brought Biagio up short.
In a flash, he held a dagger in his fist, moonlight glinting off steel. “Who goes there?”
“Should you not be in the kitchens?” Rhys asked mildly.
“Ah. ‘Tis you. I should have known.” The dagger disappeared, and the dog quieted. “I suppose you will think me lazy.”
“Aye. What do you out here when there is work to be done?”
“If I bring him out here there are fewer scuffles in the hall when scraps are being fed. He can hurt the smaller dogs.” Shrugging, Biagio added, “And I like being out here without having someone yelling at me. I could have stayed in Verona if I wanted that kind of life.”
“Yet here you are.” Moonlight and shadows made the boy look older, his eyes guarded. “How did you come to be with Sasha?”
Shrugging, he shook the rabbit pelt he’d been throwing for the dog, and the beast pounced on it, hieing off with it across the mud and grass, shaking it back and forth. Biagio looked back at Rhys. “She was performing in the villa where my master sent me on an errand. It was dangerous for her to be there alone, but before I could warn her, the signor trapped her in the guardroom. I provided a distraction and showed her how to escape. Since I was bored with my life, I decided she needed me as her protector.”
Rhys could well imagine the kind of distraction, so did not ask. “How long have you been with her?”
“Five years, mayhap a bit more. Time passes. We have traveled many places since then.”
“And how did you come to be in the Wytham wood?”
There was the briefest hesitation, but his answer was bold: “Looking for dragons.”
“Ah. Instead you found armed knights. That must have been disappointing.”
“Indeed. Dragons are much more interesting.”
“So I have heard, but I have yet to meet one.”
“We found dragon bones once, in a cave, but Sasha would not allow me to bring them with us. It was a huge beast, and she said we should leave it to its rest.”
“That was in Wytham wood?”
Biagio cocked his head to one side. “Do you think we lay in wait for you? I assure you, I was not happy to see you.”
His words held the ring of truth. Shoving away from the wall, Rhys looked down at the boy. “It is not a well-traveled road.”
“And yet you and your knights were on that same road.”
“Perhaps for the same reason as you. We did not wish to be noticed.” After a moment of tense silence, Rhys added, “It would interest me to know why you were there.”
“We had visited Godstow,” he said finally, “but the nuns could offer no shelter, and we went to Abingdon Abbey. It was safer there than to remain on the main road. Outlaws abound, as you must surely know.”
“Aye, it is well-known. Surely it did not take you all day to reach Wytham wood from the abbey? It is but a league from where we met.”
“We had to repair a cart wheel. Your interest in our travels is flattering, my lord, but I am needed in the kitchens, as you reminded me.”
Rhys stepped back and let him pass. The dog trotted at the boy’s side, and he watched as they returned to the keep. The night air was damp, clouds scudding across the moon so that light flickered. Rain again soon. Castle noises had already become familiar, the changing of guards, clank of armor, low laughter, and the sounds of penned animals blending but not disharmonious.
It was changed, yet so familiar, stone in place of oak, but the smells were the same, the river breeze, fresh earth, scent of animals, reminding him of his birthright. He’d never have known he missed it if he hadn’t returned, but Wales was in his blood despite years spent as an Englishman.
When he reached the solar, he didn’t know if she would be there. It was entirely possible she had gone to her own chamber, a luxury not provided many. Glynllew was a military castle more than a manor house. Private chambers were rare. Servants rolled up in pallets slept along the walls or near the hearth in the great hall, on benches, wherever space could be found.
So he wasn’t surprised to step into the solar and find a sleeping servant rolled up in a pallet near the hearth. He barely glanced that way, moving past the screens to the darkened area of his bedchamber. A single lamp shed light in a small pool, shadows filling all the corners.
A soft voice emerged from the bed, muted by pulled curtains. “My lord, what took you so long?”
Suddenly, the burdens of the day dropped away. Heat flowed through his veins, kicked his heart into a rapid thud, and quickened his step. Sasha. Just her name sent a frisson of desire rushing through him. It may be a borrowed name, but it suited her. Mysterious maid, mistress of myth and magic, alluring and fascinating, and often frustrating—she ruled his thoughts of late. He must keep her safe, yet to keep her with him may mean her ruin.
But now, at this moment, with her siren call from the depths of the high bed and privacy curtains, his thoughts turned to sweet intimacy. He wanted to hold her against him, caress satiny skin, taste her luscious mouth, ease himself in her beautiful body. He wanted her soft sighs in his ear, the throaty moans that sent shivers through him when he knew he pleasured her, the velvety heat of her around him. He wanted her trust, her soft hands on his face, eyes looking up at him, lips smiling, her lovely face aglow.
A knee on the bed, mattress dipping with his weight, the fragrance of jasmine drifting out of the shadows, and a sense of peace enveloped him. It felt, oddly, as if this was his homecoming at last, the welcome he hadn’t known he wanted surrounding him.
“What do you in this cave, demoiselle?” he asked huskily, and her soft laugh warmed him to his bones.
“Waiting on you, my fine lord. Did you doubt?”
“Aye. You are ever astounding me.” He lay next to her, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. “It would not surprise me to learn you halfway to London by now.”
She turned to face him, teasing her finger over the front of his tunic, toying with the gilt embroidered on the material. “I have seen London,” she murmured. “There are more intriguing sights here.” Now her hand strayed downward over his chest, finding his belt, then below. Blood sang through his veins as she touched him, her fingers plying lightly over the layers of garments between them. “I find myself to be curious as to how long it will take you to undress, ameli.”
He smiled, reached for her hand, pressed his mouth against her fingers. “Much more swiftly if I have help, calon bach.”
As it turned out, Sasha was not so expert with a man’s attire as she was her own, for she struggled with the knots of his belt, threatening to use a dagger on them until Rhys, laughing, put her hand aside and freed the knots himself. “You are not a trained squire, sweet flower, but your persistence is gratifying. Here, let me do it, or we will be here half the night.”
“Your squire will be disappointed to find himself replaced, but I cannot help but be glad he is not here. I am unused to the constant presence of others around me, I admit.”
Cool air whispered over him as he shrugged out of his overtunic and cast aside his linen. Clad only in his braies and boots, he worked them off impatiently, then slipped under the furs and coverlet to lie naked next to her. Silken skin, sweet whispers, laughter, then kisses pressed from his mouth to his navel, her long hair drifting over him in a soft glide he found arousing. She tested his restraint with her mouth and hands, teasing him as she explored his body, and he stood it as long as he could.
“You undo me, chérie,” he said with a groan and turned, capturing her mouth with his, his hands cradling her face, then moving lower to caress her breasts, skim her ribs to her waist, then slide beneath her to cup her hips and mold her to him. Infinite beauty, peace, joy.
Touching her, finding the places that elicited the sounds he loved to hear, he breathed them in as he brought her to release, her hands grasping him as she arched toward him. It washed over her, and she let out a long sigh; he felt her rapid heartbeat slow beneath his caress.
“You are magic,” he breathed against her ear as he slipped inside her, damp heat closing around him, and he thought there had never been anyone like her in his life before. He could not let her go. If she would stay . . .
Chapter Seventeen
“YOUR GRANDFATHER was chieftain here,” said Collen ap Morgan. He sipped from his cup, watching Rhys over the rim. “I remember him well. I was a lad then, but he was a just man. You favor him in looks, but time will tell if you are wise and just.”
Rhys nodded. Collen had arrived late in the morn, bringing a small troop with him, come to present his fealty and no doubt, a few complaints. Gruff, with iron-gray hair that was long and wild, he surveyed the hall as if measuring the cost of the furnishings.
“My mother spoke often of him. I do not remember him, but I do recall the stories told round the fire of his wisdom,” he replied to the older man.
Collen stroked his beard, heaved a sigh, and set his cup down on the table. It had not been set for the meal, but servants bustled about, setting up trestle tables and dragging benches from where they had been pushed against the walls, arranging them below the dais.
“Talk at the last council was of Glynllew. Your father and brothers were ambushed, and it was a terrible thing. ‘Tis said you have Gareth of Glamorgan held prisoner.”
“I do.”
“It is Gareth who killed them? There was talk of a quarrel with the prince, and I thought it must have been—but I am an old man, so do not always hear as I should, eh?”
That surprised Rhys. He had not thought the Prince of Deheubarth and his father at odds. But a lot had changed while he was away. He would question Owain.
He listened while the garrulous vassal talked of people Rhys vaguely remembered, events he had missed, and then something in the stream of idle conversation caught his attention.
“. . . she is of age, and would make you a good wife, my lord. It would bind our interests together well.”
“I will take it under consideration,” he said for lack of a proper response. “As you know, I am newly returned and not yet settled.”
“You have another in mind?” Collen asked, his eyes suddenly shrewd. “My daughter is a modest and comely girl.”
Rhys reassured him he would remain an ally with all due considerations and did not commit to Collen’s offer. His inclinations were in another direction, although he had not yet considered marriage. It was easy enough in Wales to be wed; one announced the commitment, and it was done. No churching necessary, just the seal of the bedchamber to sanction it. Any child born of the union was legitimate, and children born of unions outside of marriage had only to be claimed by the father to be legitimated.
He knew what he wanted. He just had to be sure it was best for her and best for Glynllew. While Brian had the most resistance to her, introducing a stranger into the castle as its mistress may come with unique problems. He was not unaware of that, nor had he even discussed any kind of arrangement with Sasha. She had said she would leave when it no longer suited her to be in Wales, but she did not seem discontented.
At dinner, as an honored guest at the high table, Collen sat at his right. Sir Robert sat next to him, then Brian. On his left, Sasha occupied her usual place on the bench, with Sir Peter at her side. It left an odd balance in sharing trenchers, so each had their own trencher atop a plate, a spoon, and a cup. If Collen had any questions about Sasha, he kept them to himself, although Rhys caught him glancing at her from time to time. No doub
t, he wondered if Rhys already wed without letting it be known, or if there was a family connection.
Time would pass swiftly, so he must decide her place in Glynllew or if she should be freed to move on from Wales. It may be safer for her in a small village, where she could live her life untrammeled with the danger inherent in his existence. Welsh barons must always fight to retain their lands in uncertain times. He wearied of the constant struggle, but it had been his life.
During the meal, he conversed pleasantly with Collen, touching on mostly neutral topics of interest: the yields of last year’s harvest, hunting, the rumors of William Marshal’s joining the king on Crusade, then the excitement of a tourney, in which the Marshal had excelled.
“In his last years, your father held a tournament on the feast of St. John, and knights came from Striguil as well as Castell Pemfro and Castell Coity,” Collen said, gesturing with his eating knife at the hall. “I commend you for keeping the tradition. ‘Tis well to keep in the good graces of the Marshal and de Clare alliance.”
“I agree,” he said, a noncommittal answer to cover his surprise. No one had thought to mention it, and St. John’s Eve was three weeks away. Then his first surprise altered to a growing appreciation for the idea.
“While I don’t think William Marshal will fight in the tourney now that he is wed to the heiress Isobel de Clare and has no need of prize money,” Collen said, spearing a chunk of roast boar with the tip of his eating knife, “he is a powerful man who has the ear of the king, and the prince as well. As he is your overlord, that is always useful.”
“Aye,” Rhys agreed. Marshal had Castle Striguil as well as Pembroke in his thrall; the castles were only leagues away from Glynllew. But the Marshal was also known for his wisdom and fair sense of justice. It would be beneficial to form an alliance with him.