Cheers and echoes of approval rang out.
“—there’s yet something you lack.”
Rhodri gestured to a man Ronan recognized as the armorer, who strode forward weighed down by a long object bundled in cloth. He grunted with exertion as he mounted the step to the dais and laid the burden on the trestle. Rhodri left his place to stand in front of the table. He held out his hand to Ronan. “I bid you join me.”
Ronan’s heart was racing. Did the cloth conceal what he suspected it did? Impossible. He came around the table to stand beside his host.
With a flourish, Rhodri removed the covering and with both hands picked up the sword it had protected. He held it out at arm’s length to Ronan. “What is a warrior without a sword?”
Ronan glanced at the armorer standing off to the side, his face glowing with pride in the workmanship. It was merited. The sword Rhodri offered him was finely wrought and long, made for a man of Ronan’s stature. He shook his head. “I don’t know what to say, Prince Rhodri. Your gift leaves me speechless.”
“Take it. Master Daffyd made it especially for you.”
Ronan turned to the armorer. “I thank you, Master Daffyd.”
The little man bowed, his round face red.
Ronan accepted the sword and took hold of the hilt. He came down from the dais and hefted the weapon. It was perfectly balanced, made for his hand. He swiped the sword through the air two or three times. “Magnificent,” he declared.
Master Daffyd bustled forward with a leather scabbard. Ronan raised his elbows while the craftsman buckled it around his hips, then he sheathed the weapon with a flourish. Whistles and cheers broke out.
Ronan glanced at Rhoni. What he saw elated and dismayed him. Rhodri’s gift was a double edged sword. It made the path to vengeance smoother, which would separate him from Rhoni, yet he’d never basked in such adoration as he saw now on her face.
He swallowed hard and opened his mouth to speak, but Rhodri held up his hand. “Wait! Master Daffyd has made a dagger of the same design, and another for Conall. Now he can return the one he filched.”
Laughter rang out as Conall came forward sheepishly to return the purloined blade and accept the new one.
Ronan accepted his dagger. “Prince Rhodri, I’ll never forget you and your people. I will dub this sword Cairdis in honor of your friendship. I wish I had something to give in return.”
Rhodri accepted the handclasp Ronan offered. “It’s enough to know we’ve helped in some small way to defeat the usurpers who took much from you. We Welsh know a thing or two about injustice.”
The Bridge
Rhodri and his twin sons accompanied Ronan and Rhoni down the mountain. Rhydderch dismounted from his pony several times to lead Fortissima through the many tricky places along the route. Rhoni thought wryly that the Welsh boy showed more esteem for her horse than he did for her, but the way he handled her beloved mare was impressive. It was evident the animal trusted the redhead.
Rhun and Conall seemed to have become friends. The Irish lad carried a bow slung over his shoulder and a quiver at his back. Rhoni assumed these were gifts from Rhun.
There was little chance for conversation along the tortuous path. The going was more difficult descending from this side of Cadair Berwyn than the ascent from Powwydd. Rhodri smiled at Rhoni often, no doubt recalling the last time he’d made this journey with her, a babe nestled in a sling, held against his broad chest.
Strangely, she knew in her heart she had travelled this path before. She had long thought of Rhodri as a kind of godfather, and now she’d met him, the bond was stronger still. She loved the wild beauty of Wales. Now when she spoke of the land of her birth, it would be with genuine feeling and not some trite conversation piece.
Her gaze went often to Ronan riding ahead of her. No one would believe this was the same man they’d dragged half-dead from a waterlogged coracle mere sennights before. For the journey he’d donned a sheepskin jerkin and leather breeches. His new sword on his hip, he rode proudly, his back erect, his strong legs easily controlling his pony.
Her own life had changed dramatically. She’d fallen hopelessly in love with an Irishman intent on nothing but revenge, still grieving his dead wife. It didn’t make any sense, but there it was. He sometimes smiled and even laughed on occasion, but darkness still ruled him. Fate had brought them together and she would bring whatever light she could to his life. If that meant braving her father’s wrath, so be it.
They came at last to Rhydycroesau. As in every village, Rhodri and his sons were recognized as the patriot warriors they were, and greeted warmly. The villagers looked at Ronan with curiosity. His dark hair and swarthy complexion bespoke the same Celtic blood that ran in their own veins, and he was probably the tallest man they’d ever seen.
Rhoni was either ignored by the Welsh, or treated with disdain. They recognized her as a Norman and it filled her with remorse. They’d suffered so much at the hands of her people that their hatred was palpable. For the first time in her life she felt shame for the oppression many Normans had wrought on the Welsh, and thanked God her father wasn’t among them.
Rhodri led them through the village to a humpback stone bridge, where he brought the cavalcade to a halt. He pointed to the river that rushed beneath the ancient arch. “Twenty years ago, your mother carried you across that bridge to freedom, my Rhonwen at her side. There was a heavy mist. I lost sight of the three of you. I was desolate because I feared Rhonwen had left me, never to return. The time has flown by like the blink of an eye.”
Rhoni had heard the tale many times from her mother, but being here, seeing the bridge, feeling her father’s anxiety as he waited on the other side to meet his daughter for the first time, her life suddenly made sense. “But you were convinced Rhonwen was your destiny, and you were right.”
Rhodri chuckled. “Yes, thanks be to God, your mother convinced her of that.”
Rhydderch brought up Fortissima. Rhodri dismounted and reached up to help Rhoni off the pony. Once she had her feet on the ground she embraced him. “Thank you, Lord Rhodri. This journey has meant much to me. It has changed my life.”
Rhodri put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “You too have a destiny, and, unless I’m wrong, that destiny is mounted on a pony behind me.”
Rhoni looked beyond Rhodri to where Ronan waited. “But he sees his destiny differently. I have no part in that vision.”
Rhodri clasped her hands in his. “Don’t give up hope. I trusted that Rhonwen would be mine, and it came to be. Farewell, Lady Hylda Rhonwen de Montbryce. It has been my privilege to meet you at last. Give my regards to your father.”
He winked and she laughed out loud. “I’ll be in enough trouble without doing that.”
He gave her a last reassuring hug, then helped her mount Fortissima. “Goodbye, little one.”
Ronan dismounted and handed the reins of his pony to Rhydderch. He strode over to Rhodri and Rhoni. Conall trailed after him. She’d consented to share her horse with Ronan until they reached her bodyguards on the other side of the border. The message sent with a bird from Cadair Berwyn to Ellesmere had asked for a spare horse to be brought. Ronan wouldn’t accept a pony from Rhodri, knowing the Welsh needed every animal they had.
Rhoni pressed her lips together, filled with emotion as the two giants clasped arms and embraced. They slapped each other on the back, but didn’t exchange a single word, both men apparently understanding the other’s feelings.
Her heart stopped when Ronan suddenly vaulted into her saddle, lifting her easily at the same time so she sat on his lap. Flustered, feeling her face redden, she tried not to lean against him, but it was impossible. He took the reins and nudged the horse up and over the bridge to England, Conall on foot behind them. As they reached the other side, they stopped and turned to look back. Rhodri and his retinue had already disappeared.
Rhoni tensed, chewing her lower lip, tears welling in her eyes.
Ronan seemed to sense h
er sadness. “Lean on me,” he whispered.
She relaxed back against him, reassured by his strength. They rode through a meadow carpeted with bluebells and Rhoni espied her bodyguards waiting for them in a thicket beyond. Suddenly, she sat up straight, feeling nervous. “My captain’s name is Gabriel Duquesne. He’ll be leery of you both, but I will explain.”
Almost Home
Ronan clenched his jaw. Holding Rhoni in his arms, albeit for a short while, had resulted in a thrusting arousal that she must feel pressed against her bottom. But he should be keeping his attention on the scowling Normans who awaited them, armed to the teeth. He supposed the devise on their surcoats was Ellesmere’s. “Stay back, Conall. We don’t want to alarm these men.”
Rhoni turned to look at him. “It will be alright. They can see I’m not harmed or in danger.”
Críost, if only she would stay still.
“But I doubt they expected to see you in the arms of a tall, dark stranger.”
She giggled, proof that she too was nervous. If she was this wary of introducing him to the captain of her guard, how would she fare with her father?
Duquesne urged his magnificent black stallion forward, dismounting quickly and tossing the reins to a soldier. He took hold of Fortissima’s bridle and stroked the white blaze on the horse’s face. Clearly the mare recognized and trusted him. Disquietude was written plainly on his handsome features as his eyes darted from Rhoni to the unknown one-eyed rider on whose lap she sat.
He bowed respectfully. “Milady, welcome home.”
Ronan suspected there was more to his greeting than concern. A hint of possession flashed in the young man’s eyes. Duquesne cared for his mistress. Jealousy gnawed Ronan’s gut.
What was he thinking? He had no right to envy any man who lusted after Rhoni de Montbryce. He cringed at the hopelessness of the young man’s situation. The Earl of Ellesmere would quickly squelch any intentions a mere guard captain might harbor for his daughter.
Montbryce would hardly favor a dispossessed Irish nobleman with one eye either. That sobered him—why he didn’t know. Rhoni had somehow got into his blood, but he must put an end to his preoccupation with her.
He handed the reins back to Rhoni and dismounted to face the Norman. Other men were intimidated by his height, but Duquesne stood his ground and Ronan had to admire him for that. Of course, the captain had a troop of soldiers to back him up, but Ronan was reassured that this young man would indeed defend his mistress to the death. “I am Lord Ronan MacLachlainn,” he declared.
Now Duquesne took a step back, glancing nervously at his mistress for confirmation. She nodded and the soldier gave him a perfunctory bow. “Milord,” he acknowledged.
Rhoni patted Fortissima’s neck. “She’s happy to see you, Gabriel. Did you bring a horse for Lord Ronan?”
Again jealousy surged through Ronan. She addressed this servant by his given name, indicating a relationship of familiarity. It irked him.
Duquesne beckoned another soldier forward. “Bring the spare mount, vite!”
Judging by the clipped command, Duquesne was irritated by his presence. Had he sensed Ronan’s jealousy? It was imperative he not show his emotions if he harbored any hope of enlisting Montbryce’s help.
Rhoni tried not to let her disappointment show when the horse was brought forward. Despite being a fine animal, it was much too small for a man of Ronan’s stature. She didn’t like the idea of his riding into Ellesmere looking anything but impressive.
It irritated her too that Gabriel, once more atop his own huge horse, barely hid a derisive smirk as Ronan mounted, drawing Conall up to ride behind him, after the lad had adjusted the stirrups for his master. Perhaps she had been too friendly with her captain, but she liked Duquesne and had disliked the formality of using his family name. Her parents had told her often she was too familiar with servants, but she’d known the captain since childhood.
“I’m anxious to get home, Gabriel,” she said haughtily. “Are your men ready?”
He frowned. “Of course, milady. We’ll soon have you back where you belong. There has been no trouble from the Welsh barbarians. Saxon bandits have been reported to the south, near Warwick, but they need not cause us concern. They’ve probably been caught and executed by now.”
Rhoni cringed at the way he referred to the Welsh people and she noted Ronan’s disgust. He seemed to have sensed what had been said, though he’d learned but a few words of Norman French. It suddenly occurred to her that many Saxons had probably been driven into banditry by the oppression of their Norman conquerors, as Rhodri had been. She’d never put herself in their place before. “Lead on then. I’ll ride with Lord Ronan.”
Gabriel looked displeased at the idea, but quickly formed his men into two parties, one to ride at the head of their group, the other in the rear behind Ronan and Rhoni. He led the way east to Ellesmere Castle.
En route, Rhoni taught Ronan and Conall some basic greetings in Norman French. It wouldn’t hurt to address Ram de Montbryce in his own language.
She smiled at his attempts to repeat the phrases. “Am I not saying it correctly?’ he asked.
“On the contrary, milord, you’re doing well. You have a good ear, as do you, Conall.”
The lad blushed at the praise.
Ronan hoped he would remember the words she was teaching him when he came face to face with her father. Much was riding on enlisting his help in some way. He liked the sound of Rhoni’s language. It rolled off her tongue like honey from the dipper. A patient teacher, she’d be a good mother. What would she look like swollen with child—his child?
The idea was too appealing. The horse wasn’t comfortable anyway. Blood rushing to his shaft made it worse. He tried to ease his discomfort without her noticing, but her eyes suddenly caught him with his hand at his groin. She reddened.
He said the first thing that came into his head. “This horse is too small for a man my size.”
Conall snickered and Ronan immediately regretted his words as Rhoni hastily looked away, her face reddening further. She was even more stunningly beautiful when she blushed. He wondered if the flush covered her breasts.
So much for getting rid of this urge.
They passed through the village of Oswestry where they stopped to water the horses. They bought meat pies from a market vendor. Duquesne fussed about not wasting time. He wanted to arrive at Ellesmere before nightfall.
They’d travelled a few miles further when an outcry at the head of the column caught their attention. For some reason, Duquesne was no longer atop his horse. The stallion reared up, its hooves striking the air frantically. Conall slid off Ronan’s horse, nocked an arrow to his bow and ran ahead.
Before Ronan could dismount, a man dropped from the trees and landed on his back, a dagger in his grip. The stench of a long unwashed body made his belly clench. He grasped the assailant’s filthy wrist before the weapon could be drawn across his throat.
What had happened to the rear guard?
Rhoni cried out in fear.
A soldier came galloping from the head of the column. “Saxon brigands,” he yelled. “Mon capitaine a tombé.”
The sudden thwack of an arrow struck the soldier in the back. He grunted as his eyes rolled up into his head and he fell from the horse.
Struggling to wrench his foul smelling attacker from around his neck, Ronan looked to Rhoni. “Gabriel has fallen,” she cried.
The terror on her face intensified his anger. He twisted the assailant’s wrist, hearing the bone crack. The bandit screamed and fell to the ground, but his blade sliced across the neck of Ronan’s horse. The animal panicked, throwing Ronan off. He landed hard, but came to his feet quickly. He reached down with one hand to grab the man by the throat and unsheathed his new dagger.
The wretch’s eyes bulged when he saw Ronan’s face. “Mercy,” he pleaded.
Ronan didn’t understand the language, but recognized the plea in the man’s frantic eyes. He would show the same mercy
they’d shown Duquesne and his soldiers.
Brigands swarmed like bees. Several fought with the men of the rear guard, all of whom had been dragged from their mounts.
Three swarthy bandits surrounded Rhoni, trying to pull her from her horse. She held Fortissima’s reins tightly, kicking at her attackers. Ronan’s heart pounded in his chest. He had to reach her. He swiped his dagger across his attacker’s throat, then turned to help Rhoni.
“Ronan,” she screamed. It was the last thing he heard before something struck him hard on the back of the head. Pain exploded. For a moment he was back in the cells beneath Túr MacLachlainn. He dropped to his knees and surrendered to oblivion.
Cat And Mouse
Rhoni’s heart stopped when Ronan staggered under the blow from his assailant’s club. She hadn’t warned him in time. She kicked hard at the filthy men surrounding her, urging the terrified Fortissima to flee, but couldn’t hold them off. They dragged her to the ground, face down. Her horse galloped away.
One of the men pressed his knee into her back, stroking his hand over her derrière. Fear and outrage surged through her. Dirt clogged her nostrils. She was going to be sick. “Not so high and mighty now, Norman bitch, in your fancy leather riding breeches.”
She recognized the harsh tones of the old West Saxon dialect. These were desperate men who may have lived outside the law for thirty years. They were in unfamiliar territory, evidently fleeing north into her father’s earldom.
Her tormentor hauled her up, his grip digging into the flesh of her arm. His bulbous nose was inches from hers. The reek of decay emanating from his almost toothless mouth brought more bile surging up her throat. She gagged against his ragged tunic, swooning as the fever of terror took hold. He held her up with one hand, the other wiping off the front of his wretched clothes.
Vengeance (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 4) Page 11
