“And,” Collen expanded, “Marshal has honor. It has stood him in good stead with de Braose and those of his class.”
William de Braose, a Marcher baron who in 1175 had invited three Welsh princes and other chieftains to his castle at Abergavenny for a Christmas feast under the guise of offering peace. He had then set his soldiers on them, massacring them all, going so far as to hunt down and kill the seven-year-old son of one of the chiefs. A dastardly act unworthy of any baron. It was said he curried favor with Prince John, another mark against him in Rhys’s opinion.
“It is said de Braose is now sheriff of Herefordshire,” Rhys commented, and Collen gave him a sideways glance before shrugging.
“Aye. So ‘tis said.”
Neither man voiced honest opinions. That could be dangerous in uncertain company.
After the meal ended, he sought out Owain to ask him about the tourneys. Owain looked stricken. “Sweet Mary, my lord, I had forgotten it. There has been so much other on my mind—pray, pardon me, my lord. I can send out notices it has been delayed.”
“Granted, but I have considered it and think it wise to hold the tourney, as it is tradition. Is there time enough to make ready?”
Owain looked at him and smiled. “If you grant me leave to make free use of your coffers as well as your servants, it can be done.”
It was, Rhys decided, the most expedient manner of confirming his vassals’ allegiances as well as meeting with his own overlord in a congenial setting. A summons to swear fealty may draw reluctance, but a tournament invited eager participation and an opportunity to win prizes.
This may well resolve several issues at once.
SASHA RETURNED TO the solar while Rhys met with the steward and found Catrin still rolled in her blankets asleep on the hearth. Foolish girl. She had slept near an entire day, so sotted with wine once Sasha got her from the hall to the solar that she was near incomprehensible, rambling on in Welsh and English until Sasha had gone to fetch some herbs from her chest to quiet her. It was blessed peace without her, but Gwyneth had come twice to wake her charge without success.
“Rise, foolish one,” Sasha said, and finally Catrin muttered something and opened one eye before closing it again. Sasha gazed at her in disgust.
“‘Tis the noon hour, and you have missed your dinner. Tell me what will ease your belly and I will bring it, but you must awake and make yourself presentable. Come along, wake, and I will share a confidence with you.”
That brought Catrin’s eyes open. She peered up at her, squinting in the light through the tall window. “What is it?”
“Oh no, get up and stir yourself before I waste a good rumor for you only to close your eyes again.”
Grumbling, Catrin did as she bade her, stretching, then rising to visit the garderobe, and returned to the solar in her rumpled garments with her hair still unkempt.
“Sit,” said Sasha and pointed to a stool. As the girl obeyed, she took up a comb to get the snarls from her hair, unplaiting and replaiting the lovely golden locks that reminded her of Rhys. “It seems there may be a tournament, with knights from neighboring castles coming to compete.”
Catrin brightened, half-turning to look up at her. “Truly? The tourney will still be held?”
“It is a yearly contest, I perceive, but it had been forgotten. Lord Rhys was reminded of it at dinner and plans to hold to his father’s tradition.”
Delighted, Catrin clapped her hands together. “I shall bestow my favors on the bravest of the knights, and he will win for my honor.”
“You are still wed to Gareth of Glamorgan,” Sasha reminded, but the girl brushed away the comment.
“It is being annulled, so I shall be free to choose another husband. Perhaps this time he will be honorable and handsome, a knight worthy of Lord Gryffyd’s only daughter.” She smiled dreamily, and when Sasha had finished plaiting her hair and presented her with a clean wimple, she made no protest but sat gazing out the window as it was affixed with a braided circlet.
“And if another husband shall be chosen for you?” Sasha asked, stepping away to inspect her efforts with a critical eye. “Will you marry willingly?”
Catrin’s eyes widened. “Surely my brother will not be so cruel!”
“Perhaps not.” She had gleaned enough from Owain’s thoughts to know that was exactly what Rhys intended. He meant it kindly, but she hoped he would show compassion.
Gwyneth returned to the solar, and Catrin went with her willingly enough, her mood much improved by the thoughts of a tourney and knights running through her head. She saw herself as an honored lady bestowing favors upon eager young nobles, when in all practicality, the knights would be either landless or grizzled old men who hoped to relive their glory days.
The tourneys she had attended in England had been as the entertainment, she and Biagio earning a few coins by performing whatever feats seemed most likely to please their audience. It had served them well. She wondered if he would attempt to do so again and went in search of him to warn him off. This was not the venue to perform; they had no need to bring notice upon their presence.
Biagio was not in the kitchens, but a servingman pointed her toward the staircase that led below. “He should be tallying the barrels in the cellars, if he be doing what he was told.”
So she took the narrow, winding stairs that went down into the vaulted cellars below the hall, where wine and ale were kept in huge barrels. It reminded her of the dark cell where she had been kept, the steps descending into chilly corridors where footsteps echoed. Usually people would be about, but it was eerily quiet and empty. Tempted to call for him, she refrained.
At a juncture of the stairs, she could turn left or right, and paused, irritated that she had no idea which way led to the wine cellars. She should have asked, and considered returning to the kitchen. Voices drifted to her, funneled by the strange system of steps and corridor, and she started forward before she caught a familiar name:
“Prince John will know who is friend and who is foe, so I advise you, be wary of what you say.”
Sasha’s heartbeat quickened. She pressed against the cold stone, sensing that something was afoot other than common complaint. The man speaking had a faint burr to his words, rough English bearing traces of the north.
“Yea,” came the protest, this man’s voice sounding vaguely familiar, “but I bear no ill toward the prince.”
“Then you will do as I tell you? She bears watching, for she has something precious to the prince.”
Sasha’s blood went cold. He spoke of her. She knew it, knew that the prince had sent men after her, and she had been found. But she would recognize the courier who had accosted her at Windsor, and she had not seen him. Nor did this man sound like him, for the messenger John sent with the damning letter had spoken Norman French. What could she do? She must go to find Biagio quickly, for he may blunder into disaster.
Holding her breath, she concentrated on the men, tried to discern their thoughts, but they were too far from her, unseen, blocked by her fear as much as anything else. She tried to calm her thoughts, but all she could think of was flight, the instinct almost overpowering to put as much distance between her and this dangerous man who had found her.
Backing up a few steps, she felt her way blindly along the walls, heart hammering in her chest so loudly she could not have heard the men if they stood right in front of her. Mortal peril awaited, in the guise of a man welcome in Glynllew. Did Rhys know him? Was he an invited guest? Or had he come with Collen, the man who had regarded her with curiosity at dinner? She had not understood his thoughts as they were in Welsh, but the images in his mind revealed his suspicion that she may be an obstacle of some sort.
When she found her way back up to the buttery outside the kitchens, Biagio stood there flirting with a kitchen maid. The Alaunt looked up at her, wagged his tail, cocke
d his head and woofed softly. Biagio turned at that, saw her, and knew instantly there was something amiss.
He abandoned the kitchen maid and came to her where she leaned against the wall. “Do you need wine or ale?” he asked as a way to cover her distress, and she followed him into the buttery where butts and pitchers crowded walls and tables. “What is it?” he asked softly while he grabbed a pitcher and began to fill it, glancing up at her. “You look pale.”
“Pale as an Englishwoman? That would be a novelty. John’s man is here, and he comes for me. I do not know his plan, but I heard enough to know that he has enlisted the aid of another to watch me.”
“Do you know them?”
Shaking her head, she said quietly, “No. I did not see them, but I heard them. I went to search for you in the wine cellars below.”
“Alone? Unwise, bella. There are those here who may think you available for sport.”
She lifted a brow, and he shrugged, shook his head, his thoughts making it clear: Gossip names you the lord’s mistress, bella. Sir Brian does not speak well of you, although he dares not be too open about it. Be careful.
After a moment she said softly, “I dare not bring disaster here.”
Then we will leave. I will make arrangements.
“I cannot. Not . . . not yet.”
Then find the prince’s man, and I shall kill him. Then we will leave before John sends another to take his place.
“You cannot slay half of England,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Give me time to think, but be’ware of the danger. If he knows me, he will know you as well.”
A voice from the doorway demanded, “Have you counted the barrels yet, cursed brat? Do not spend time dallying—oh, I beg yer pardon, mistress. I did not know ‘twas you.”
“I came for more wine.” She took the pitcher Biagio held out to her, gave him a lingering look meant to warn him, and left as he began to quarrel with the butler.
By the time she reached the solar, she had decided Biagio was right. They would have to leave. She could not bring Prince John’s wrath down on Rhys, as might very well happen if she stayed. But how to leave? Dread filled her, and anguish that the brief happiness she had known was ended so soon.
“WHAT AILS THEE?” Elspeth asked for the second time as Sasha searched through her large wooden chest. “I know ‘tis something.”
Pausing, she drew in a deep breath. Elspeth was ignorant of the extent of their peril, as she had not wanted to fret her too greatly, and Biagio agreed. They had told her only that she had been accosted by the prince’s messenger and offended John by accidentally taking his ring. Still kneeling by the open chest, she looked up, noting Elspeth’s worn face, her frail figure still straight but seeming more frail with each passing day. How much longer would she be able to travel by cart or footpath? Yet to free her from daily tasks would cause her more anxiety, for Sasha had tried to find her a place at Godstow nunnery, but Elspeth had refused to stay. Yet she could not go on burdening her with panicked flights into the night or the constant danger. How did she tell her that?
“There is to be a tournament held on St. John’s Eve,” she replied. “It is said to be a yearly tradition. I have nothing suitable to wear.”
“Then you will be glad to see the bolts of cloth brought up to us earlier. A gift from the lord of Glynllew, I was told.”
Sasha murmured appropriate appreciation of the bolts of cloth, but it made her imminent departure all the more painful. Rhys . . . she closed her eyes, seeing him lying next to her in the bed, his soft endearments and teasing inspiring her to give him her heart. Yea, she had done so. It was not a thing easily acknowledged or confessed, for the risks were great, but she knew it now. To admit it to herself helped ease the pain, but she could never tell him, for he would not accept her leaving if she did.
Elspeth brought bolts of cloth to lay across the bed, spooling material down to show her the fine threads, the lovely pattern, the rose-colored brocade shot through with silk threads of gold, admiring it. “I think a cotte over a tunic of embroidered linen will be fine enough for court, if ever you should go. ‘Tis certainly fine enough for a baron’s bride.”
Sasha’s hands stilled in the Saracen silks at the bottom of her trunk. “What say you?” she asked, startled.
Flapping a hand, Elspeth said, “I cannot be the only one to notice how he looks at you. Or you at him, for that matter.”
“You read too much into it,” she said faintly.
“Do I? I think not.”
“Wanting the comforts of bed and wanting to be wed are two different matters,” she said sharply, acutely aware of her position. “There have been no words spoken.”
“There will be.” Elspeth’s placid tone would have reassured her on any other subject, but she knew that soon it would not matter. To save herself, she must flee. To save Rhys, she must make him an enemy.
Rising from the chest, she shut the lid. She reached out and lifted the end of the cloth, let it slide through her fingers, smooth and cool and beautiful. “It will make a lovely cotte.”
“So I thought,” said Elspeth, lifting it with satisfaction. “A gold belt, gilt embroidery at the neck and cuffs of your undertunic, and perhaps gold laces at the sides. You’ll need new shoes as well, but the steward assured me there is an excellent cobbler in Cymllew. He comes up to the castle when needed.”
The cheerful chatter washed over Sasha in a soothing balm, easing her tangled thoughts. It would soon be time to leave, but she could cherish memories she made before then. That may be all she would have to take with her into the night.
“I could not find my silver purse,” she said when Elspeth rolled the bolt of cloth back up to put away. “Have you seen it?”
“I put it in the small trunk, as I needed to mend it. There was a tear in the side.”
“You mended it?”
“Not yet. I shall soon, but there have been more pressing matters. Your cloak needed to be cleaned and mended, and your poor green cotte—it was ripped beyond repair, I fear. Not even magic could mend it.”
“It suffered greatly in that cell. The other green cotte with crimson sleeves will do. While I am not so talented with a needle as you, we can sit together and talk while we mend.”
Elspeth was pleased, for it was not often they had time for domestic tasks. It was usually done as needed, by firelight in some cave or wood, or inside the cramped cart if it rained and no inn or peasant’s hut offered refuge.
“It is good to be comfortable again,” Elspeth said with a satisfied smile as she threaded a needle. “We have been too long on the road, and I had thought to reach Salfordshire by now. I do not mislike it here, but once you have chosen your path, I wish to return to my village.”
A pang of guilt struck her, but Sasha nodded. “It will be as you wish, jida.”
“You have not called me that in a long time.”
“Grandmother is not a name that really suits you.”
“Perhaps not. But you are like my grandchild.”
“I did not mean it that way. You are more like my mother, for you have cared for me as tenderly all these years, teaching me, scolding me when need be, loving me always. As I love you.”
Elspeth’s needle stilled in the fabric, and she drew in a shaky breath. “Child, child, you are more precious to me than you will ever know. I hope I have not failed you.”
“Failed me?” Sasha moved from the stool where she sat before the fire to kneel in front of Elspeth. “Never, for you have rescued me from disaster countless times, taught me to read and write, to stand strong in the face of danger—I could never have learned those things if not for you.”
“There are times I despaired, as my knowledge is so small, but your mother wanted you to learn all those things, so you would survive in a world that is often cruel. I think she knew that
one day you would need to speak many languages, so she wanted to prepare you. She was a very wise woman.”
Scooting closer, Sasha laid her head against Elspeth’s knees as she had done as a small child, the request a familiar one. “Tell me about her, jida. She was very beautiful, was she?”
“Oh yes, hair as pale as moonbeams, eyes as blue as a summer sky, and all the men fell in love with her but she wanted none of them.”
“Except my father,” said Sasha dreamily, smiling at the favorite memories, eyes closing as she relaxed.
Elspeth stroked her hair. “Except for your father, yes.”
As memories unspooled, most familiar, a few new tales of her mother’s childhood, Sasha drifted toward slumber. Just before she slipped into the welcoming world of dreams, it came to her, and she knew what she must do.
“IS HE ONE OF OURS?” Rhys asked, gazing down at the dead man lying in the mud of the outer bailey. Sir Brian shook his head.
“Nay, I do not know him. An ugly fellow. Probably English.”
Amused by the certainty in his voice, Rhys nodded. “It appears to be a knife wound. One of his companions may have taken exception to something he said. Ask to see who knows him. He wears no livery that is familiar. His tunic is torn and bloody below the waist.”
“His purse is gone. ‘Tis possible he was robbed, then killed when he fought.”
“If we have a thief in Glynllew who robs and kills, he will need to be found and executed for his crimes. I tolerate no felons.”
Nodding, Brian said, “Aye, my lord.”
Rhys looked across the bailey; a soft rain fell, glistening on grass, adding to the mud of well-traveled paths, mixing with the scent of horse ordure, chickens, pigs, and troops of soldiers living in the quarters along the walls. Smoke rose from the farrier’s fire, drifting on the wind currents. Just beyond the bailey lay the River Wye, a dock accessible by a guarded postern door. Boats came upriver from Tintern Abbey and beyond, bringing supplies and occasional guests. It was possible the man belonged to a nearby castle, but his clothes were of fine material and style. If he had slipped in unnoticed, he might well be a spy of some kind, come to seek the strengths and weaknesses of Glynllew. There were guards that would be disciplined were that the case, for all must be questioned by the bailiff or constable before allowed inside the walls.
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