Lord of Hearts

by Gillgannon, Mary

  Marared did not like the implications of that. She wished her father had discussed these things in more detail before he sent her on this mission. But of course, he had not, because she was merely his daughter, not his son. It was galling how men treated women, as if they had no brains in their heads and could not think things through for themselves.

  Although Malmsbury had never dismissed her opinions because she was a woman. Why was he different? Was it because he’d had to struggle so hard to find his own place in the world, and that struggle had taught him to judge everyone on their own merit? She glanced in Malmsbury’s direction. A sudden yearning to be near him sprang up. She squashed it down.

  They slowly made their way around the trackway leading up to the castle gate. As they rode single-file on the narrow pathway, the view of mist-shrouded river valley below was both thrilling and terrifying. Marared was used to steep, treacherous pathways, but she didn’t usually climb them while mounted and with a sheer drop on one side. She spoke soothingly to Gwenevere and avoided looking down.

  They finally reached the fortress entrance and rode in through the narrow gate. She was helped from her horse. A young servant girl with reddish brown hair and a wan, narrow face gestured for Marared to follow her. Marared glanced at Malmsbury, thinking he would come as well. But her husband appeared to be deep in conversation with one of the knights guarding the gate.

  The servant girl, who said her name was Melangel, led Marared to a small, but lavishly furnished chamber. Here, too, she could see the influence of the English. The high, round window, the carved bed, and elaborate tapestries on the wall weren’t luxuries usually found in Cymric holdings. It was obviously the best bedchamber in the castle. Prince Gwenwynwyn was treating them as honored guests. That was something.

  The servant helped her out of her traveling cloak, and Marared washed her face and hands in the basin of water on the carved wooden sideboard.

  “What of my clothing?” Marared asked as she dried her hands on the cloth the servant girl provided. “I would like to change before going to the evening meal.” Gwenwywyn would presumably hold a banquet in honor of their visit. He might even have a bard perform. She would enjoy that, as she had not experienced such entertainment in a long while.

  “Your clothing will be brought to you,” Melangel answered. “Is there anything else you require at the moment?”

  It might be awhile until the banquet and she was very hungry. “If it’s possible, I would like something to eat. Nothing elaborate. Cold food will do.”

  Melangel bowed, her face expressionless, and left the room.

  Marared stared after her, wanting to call her back. Why had there been no mention of when the meal would be served, or when Malmsbury would be joining her?

  Perhaps Malmsbury intended to sleep elsewhere. But the bed was clearly meant to accommodate two people. It seemed a waste if he did not sleep here. And disappointing. She had looked forward to being alone with him and being intimate.

  She sat down at the stool near the sideboard and undid her plaits. Until her baggage arrived, she had no brush. But she could at least rebraid her hair and try to tidy it with her fingers.

  It was a challenge to smooth her thick wavy tresses, which always became curlier and more unruly in misty weather. She was on the verge of giving up and seeking out someone to help her when there was a knock at the door. Exhaling in relief, she called out, “Come in.”

  She had expected Melangel, returning with the food. It was a shock when a well-dressed, dark-haired man entered the room. Marared got up from the stool so fast she knocked it over. “Milord? Prince Gwenwynwyn?”

  The man gave a slight bow. “Greetings, Marared ferch Caradoc. Welcome to Castell Ystwyth.”

  Gwenwynwyn’s deep blue eyes moved over her, taking in her unbound hair and moving down her body, clad in a simple traveling gown. The intensity and obvious interest of his regard unnerved her further. He was not behaving as a nobleman greeting a married woman. She wanted to grab her cloak and cover herself.

  “I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, Lord Gwenwynwyn. No one has brought my baggage, so I’ve not had a chance to change my clothing nor tidy myself.”

  Gwenwynwyn smiled, his expression wolfish. “I’m not concerned. What we need to discuss doesn’t require formality. In fact, perhaps it’s better this way.”

  He seemed pleased he’d caught her off her guard. Did he truly think she would be more amenable to whatever he said if he approached her like this?

  She stood up straighter. “I would prefer to discuss things in a more formal atmosphere. I don’t keep secrets from my husband. As lord of Tangwyl, he needs to be aware of whatever we agree to.” If we agree to anything.

  Gwenwynwyn laughed. His eyes glinted as he drew near. “No secrets? You and I both know that’s not true. You have many secrets from your husband.”

  Marared went rigid. Someone must have told him of her arrangement with Rhys. “’Tis not as you think. At one time I was at odds with my husband and unhappy in the relationship. That’s no longer true. I might once have foolishly spoken to someone of some scheme to weaken Malmsbury’s hold on Tangwyl in order to cause him to disavow the marriage. I no longer think such a plan is in my best interests. Nor is it in the interests of the people who reside at Tangwyl. Malmsbury is a fair and honest lord, and I am content to have him as my husband.”

  “A pity.” Gwenwywyn spoke in a mournful tone, although his expression showed glee. “This would all be so much easier if you’d kept to your original plan to rid yourself and Tangwyl Castle of the foul English scum.”

  Marared gasped and took a step back. She’d feared coming here, worrying she would end up over her head in the treacherous waters of Cymric politics. Clearly, it was too late to worry about that. Right now she was drowning. She shot a look at the door. “What have you done with him?”

  “With whom?” Gwenwynwyn’s voice was maddeningly calm.

  “My husband?”

  “’Twould be very awkward for you to wed me if you were still wed to him.”

  He’s killed him. Anguish hit Marared like a blow to the belly. A moment later, reason returned. They’d barely arrived. Besides Gwenwynwyn was already worried about Llywelyn, who’d made an alliance with the king. He must know that murdering an English lord, no matter how minor, would bring down the wrath of King John. Gwenwynwyn must have some other scheme to be rid of Malmsbury besides killing him.

  Marared was astonished by the incredible relief she felt. But she could not think about that. She must focus on thwarting Gwenwynwyn. No matter what happened, she didn’t want to marry this man, sneaky, slimy snake that he was.

  But she dare not let Gwenwynwyn know how she felt. Not until she’d figured out a way to defeat him. She cocked her head and gave him a thoughtful look. “What’s the advantage to me in going along with your plan? What do I stand to gain? Tangwyl castle is a fine, comfortable keep. I’m pampered and cosseted and allowed to do whatever I wish. I don’t even have to order the household or serve as chatelaine.”

  She’d chafed at her life at Tangwyl, feeling useless and bored. But Gwenwynwyn wouldn’t know that.

  Gwenwynwyn made a dismissing gesture. “I wouldn’t expect you to reside here at Castell Ystwyth. I have other holdings where you could live.”

  “Not castles though.” She layered on the condescension.

  “Nay, not castles.” His expression was sour. “But I can offer you something Malmsbury cannot.”

  She regarded him dubiously. “And what is that?”

  “With you as my wife, all of the midlands would be under Cymric control. You would be a princess. A princess of our people.”

  “But what of Llywelyn? He won’t stand by and let you seize control of that much territory. And now he’s allied with King John.”

  Gwenwynwyn’s expression darkened. “I have a plan. I mean to see that traitorous bastard pay for allying himself with the enemy.”

  Luring her here and making her hi
s wife was obviously only a part of Gwenwynwyn’s scheme. He must be allied with someone in Gwynedd who resented Llywelyn and sought to undermine him. She must find out who that was and warn Llywelyn.

  But why would she do that? Who was the enemy here? A part of her believed any man who allied himself with the hated English was a traitor, even it was her own countryman. But that would make her father a traitor as well. Blessed Jesu! She couldn’t unravel her own thoughts, let alone deal with this man. She looked down at her hands, trying to buy time.

  Gwenwynwyn approached. She kept her gaze focused downward, fearing he would guess her thoughts. Every fiber of body was tense and alert.

  He reached out and cupped her chin in his hand. She jerked back. “Milord! This is unseemly. I’m married to another man. ’Tis not right!” She widened her eyes at him and shuddered, praying he would think it was from shock and fear rather than revulsion. He watched her steadily. “Please, milord. Don’t shame me like this. ’Twill put a stain upon all that passes between us after this.” She exhaled slowly, thinking about the small knife she always wore strapped to her leg. How could she distract him so she could retrieve it? She feared he meant to rape her.

  He watched her for long, still moments, while her heart beat wildly and she took frantic breaths. All at once, she observed Gwenwynwyn’s desperation. The sagging pouches beneath his vivid blue eyes spoke of a man pushed to the limit. This was his last chance. If he failed in this bid for power, his importance as a prince and his say in Cymric politics would dwindle to nothing. She must stand up to him, but also give him a way out.

  She exhaled slowly. “If you can get the Church to disavow the marriage, I will agree to wed you. But that…” she raised her chin defiantly, “is the only way I will agree.”

  His eyes narrowed. Then he nodded. “We don’t currently have a priest here at Castell Ystwyth. But I will send for one.”

  “A lay priest will not do. The marriage must be voided by an abbot or bishop. Only someone who is recognized by the Church as having real authority can make such a decision. I think it unlikely you can get someone like that to travel here. We will have to go to them. The only places nearby where we would find an abbot or bishop are St. Dogmael or Strata Florida.”

  She saw his brows go up as she mentioned St. Dogmael. The priory was to the south, and far too close too to the lands of the Deheubarth chieftains for him to want to travel there. That was fine with her. She much preferred they go to Strata Florida, which was to the east and nearer to her father’s territory and some hope of help.

  He frowned as he considered the matter. Although his hair was reddish, his stocky build and blue eyes were typical of a Cymro. This man was exactly who she once would have wanted to wed. But now she much preferred Gerard, with his skin tanned the warm hue of oak leaves, his thick, wavy brown hair and his enigmatic hazel eyes. The thought shocked her, but only a little. Her once-strong preference for her countrymen had vanished.

  Gwenwynwyn seemed to decide. He faced her as if confronting an enemy. “Very well. I’ll make arrangements to go to Strata Florida.”

  He started to turn away. Marared took a step toward him. “Although I would understand if you don’t take Malmsbury’s knights, my father’s men must go with us. My father would not want me to travel without his warriors protecting me.”

  Gwenwynwyn took time to consider this. Perhaps he was trying to decide how his own warriors would fare if confronted by her father’s men.

  “Their loyalty is to my father,” Marared said. “Their only duty is to protect me.” Her words implied that her father’s men bore no fealty to Malmsbury. She doubted that was true. She believed even the Cymric men in her escort would take Malmsbury’s side against this man. Once that would have incensed her. Now she was glad.

  Gwenwynwyn nodded. “Perhaps one or two of them can come. The rest of your escort will stay here.”

  Stay here, but where? Anxiety for Malmsbury made her ask, “What are you going to do with my…my current husband?”

  Gwenwynwyn glared at her, his patience clearly at an end. Then he turned and walked out of the room. She could hear the latch click closed behind him. Long seconds passed. She went to the door. It was locked from the outside. She was trapped here, with no way to get help. If Gwenwynwyn chose to, he could leave her here to starve. Or go mad.

  She rushed to the window. Panic made her throat grow tight and her heart race. She climbed onto the cushioned seat and pressed her face against the small round window. The river was directly below. Even if she could find a way to break the thick glass in the window and crawl out, she would fall to certain death.

  The dread building inside her made her almost consider that choice. Might not death be preferable to being trapped like this? At the mercy of a man who saw her only as a means to an end? Her freedom was gone, and with it, any hope of a happy, contented life. Might it not be better to end things now, flying from the window like a goshawk and enjoying a few moments of joyful release before the brutal end?

  She took a deep breath, and then another, fighting the fear clawing at her insides. Somehow she must slow her racing thoughts and reason this out. She wasn’t a goshawk or gyrfalcon. If she jumped from the window, she wouldn’t fly free, soaring over the river valley, but fall to a gruesome death. And she already had a plan. Unless Gwenwynwyn changed his mind, by tomorrow she would be out of this place and in a much better position to escape. But how was she to endure in the meantime?

  The terror over being trapped in the small bedchamber continued to gnaw at her. It ate away her resolve, threatening to throw her back into a panic. She tried breathing slowly and evenly. She reminded herself she wasn’t in some small, underground cell—as Gerard probably was. Gwenwynwyn had likely put him in the dungeon, or whatever foul accommodations a fortress like this possessed. She imagined Gerard trapped in a cold, dark, filthy chamber with nothing more than some filthy straw to warm him. An arrow of pain lodged in her breast.

  She realized suddenly she had thought of him by his Christian name. He was no longer Malmsbury, the name of the town where he grew up. He was Gerard. Her husband. Her lover. Tears sprang to her eyes at the thought of him, alone and suffering. Although Gwenwynwyn had probably also imprisoned the English knights in their escort. Gerard would likely have them for company. But one of those knights was Guy, the man who had won Aoife’s affections. If anything happened to him, her dear cousin’s heart would be broken, the same as Marared’s if she lost Gerard.

  She struggled to force away her suffocating dread and consider what Gerard would do in her situation. His controlled, careful nature, which she’d once scorned, now seemed like a very fine way of dealing with life, at least when facing a crisis like this.

  Gerard would eat the food Gwenwynwyn had brought to keep up his strength, so he would be ready when he had a chance to escape. Then he would carefully think things through, weighing all the options.

  Her instinct was to flee. But she must accept that even if she could get out of the fortress, it would not be easy to get away. Gwenwynwyn would probably take a large escort. Not only to guard his prisoners, but also because he risked encountering Gryffyth ap Rhys, the other man who was fighting for control of this region.

  Her country was like a nest of vipers and she and Malmsbury were caught in the middle. For the dozenth time, she thought what fools most Cymric chieftain and princes were, always fighting their own countrymen for more power for themselves, even as their homeland was being whittled away by the English.

  Stupid men. If women ran things, they would behave more shrewdly. Or would they? Only a short time ago, she had blindly hated the English, making no distinctions between those who were noble and good and those who were corrupt and power-mad. It had taken intimate contact with one of them to make her see the difference. And she had no doubt Gerard was an exception among English nobleman. He was certainly the exception among men. No other man in her life had ever treated her as he did. He behaved as if what she felt and thought
mattered. As if her ideas were meaningful and useful. No other man had ever her treated as his equal. Not even her father, and certainly not her brothers. Nor her cousin, Rhys.

  She grimaced as she thought of the foolish plan she’d concocted. What had possessed her to think her cousin could be trusted? He was exactly like most of the other Cymric warlords and chieftains, concerned with amassing as much power as possible. That was probably at least as important to him as defeating the English.

  She felt a stab of disgust she had been so blind to her cousin’s character. But there was nothing she could do about that. She could only move forward and take the next logical step. Which means she must eat so she would be strong for the next challenges she faced.

  She’d barely started on the cheese and chewy maislin bread when there was a sound at the door. Seconds later young Melangel entered. “I brought you some wine.” She nodded to the silver ewer she carried. “Lord Gwenwynwyn wanted me to make certain you had everything you needed.”

  Gwenwynwyn must think she’d gotten used to such luxuries and wanted her to know he could offer her those things. Despite his earlier attempts to intimidate her, he was now treating her with respect and courtesy. Perhaps if she went along with the pretense, he would let down his guard. She must convince him that her objection to marrying him had to do with her moral qualms, rather than her distaste for him or her feelings for Gerard.

  She took a sip of the wine, hoping it would fortify her. Desperate schemes were already racing through her head. She imagined subduing the serving girl and imprisoning her, binding her mouth with a cloth so she could not shout out for help. But even if she could escape the bedchamber, she still had to make her way through the tortuous maze of the castle, find her horse and get out the gate. She might succeed at some of those things, but not all of them. And even if she did manage to get out of the fortress, pursuit would be rapid. Gwenwynwyn knew this area and she did not.