Lord of Hearts

by Gillgannon, Mary

  The next moment there was a loud moo. Marared scrambled to her feet as a dozen cattle came down the hillside and splashed through the creek. A herdsman trailed after them. His skin was weathered to the hue of walnut juice, his hair and eyes black as raven’s feathers.

  Heart racing, Marared faced the herdsman. Despite her disheveled appearance, she hoped he could tell by her clothing and her horse that she was someone of consequence.

  She straightened, trying to appear regal. “Good day. I was riding and lost my way. Can you tell me where I am? And where the nearest fortress or settlement is located?”

  The man examined her and then her horse. His eyes widened, the whites of them stark against his dark complexion. She reached out her hand, hoping to soothe him. “I mean you no harm, sir. If you will help me, I will see that you are rewarded well.”

  The man took a step back, his eyes still wide with alarm. He shook his head, then turned and raced past her. He ran pell-mell toward the herd of cattle, waving his arms and shouting, seeking to drive them out of the stream and down the valley. They snorted and bellowed in fear as they bucked and ran.

  Marared stared after the man in puzzlement. Why was he so alarmed? She glanced down at herself. Her summer cloak of blue and red checked wool was muddy, and her braids had come undone during her frantic ride. Her hair billowed around her shoulders in mass of russet waves. Still, her unkempt appearance hardly explained the man’s extreme dread.

  She looked over at Gwenevere, the elegant pale gray mare, with her bridle and saddle of dark red leather, a wedding gift from one of her father’s allies. Gwenevere was a mount fit for a queen—a fairy queen. Marared gave a rueful laugh. When the herdsman came upon her—a young, well-dressed woman out in the middle of nowhere, riding a beautiful horse—he must have thought she was one of the Fair Folk, come to seduce him and steal him away to the dark enchanted realm of the fey, from which he might never escape. Or if he did, he would find a hundred or more years had passed and everyone he knew was long dead.

  Old tales like that still had power, especially in isolated places like this. Marared let out a sigh. Although it was flattering to be mistaken for a fairy queen, how was she to get help if everyone she encountered fled in fear?

  *

  Gerard clenched his jaw, his thoughts roiling with turmoil. Earlier in the day, a guard had come and called out for Madog. Gerard had tensed with dread, thinking Gwenwynwyn meant to execute them one-by-one, starting with his escort. But the brief exchange between Madog and the guard soon made it clear the Welshman was in on the scheme to imprison them.

  The other men were as appalled as he was. But that did little to ease the sting of knowing there’d been a spy in their midst. The betrayal had caused Gerard to doubt everything. Once again, he began to wonder if Caradoc was also involved. After all, the chieftain was the one who arranged this meeting with Gwenwynwyn. Perhaps Caradoc’s cheerful, hearty outlook was merely a mask to cover his deceit.

  And what of Marared? Had she also known? Nay, he would not think like that. If he lost faith in her, he would have nothing to cling to. He needed the memory of her to survive. When things were the worst, he allowed himself to remember the silky feel of her skin. Her warm, feminine scent, a mingling of the herbs she bathed with and her own unique sweetness. Her beautiful eyes, which could glow with magical light, or flash brilliant green with fury.

  Ifan coughed, and Gerard felt a stab of compassion for his companions. Guy had told him there was a woman at Caer Brynfawr he was growing fond of. But what of the other men? Did any of them have a sweetheart? Or some other pleasant memory to sustain them? He could not fathom how they must feel, if they had nothing to brighten the darkness of their prison.

  Perhaps anger would give them a purpose. They might rage against Madog, cursing their former companion’s falseness and deceit, and plotting how they might get revenge, once they were free of this place. Indeed anger had been what had motivated Gerard for most of his life. He’d been determined to prove he wasn’t worthless. Determined to show the world that even though he was a bastard, he was as courageous and skilled as any well-born knight.

  Although that was not much comfort in his current circumstances. If Gwenwynwyn had no luck getting de Cressy to pay the ransom, their captor might well quit feeding them and let them starve.

  But de Cressy would pay, wouldn’t he? He and Fawkes had been through so much together. The first few years, de Cressy’s hold on Valmar and Mordeaux was precarious. They’d endured great uncertainty while King Richard was held captive by the emperor, and then even more when Richard died and John became king. It could have all gone horribly awry. Fawkes was Richard’s man. John could have seized Lady de Cressy’s dower lands, snatching away all that Fawkes had fought so hard to win. Instead, he had rewarded Fawkes with more property and power, including the honor of Tangwyl Castle. Which Fawkes had then offered to Gerard. Having chosen him for such a fine position, it seemed unlikely that someone as loyal and principled as Fawkes would abandon him now.

  Gerard thought back to his first few weeks after learning he was to command Tangwyl. The sense of exhilaration and vindication he’d felt. The idea that he—bastard son of a minor knight—had risen so high. His elation had dimmed slightly when he learned he must wed Marared and realized she despised him. But he’d quickly discovered that beneath her prickly, challenging exterior, Marared was an intensely passionate woman. He’d done all he could to woo her, and it seemed as if she was warming to him. Now he’d lost her.

  He should have listened to his instincts. As soon as he saw Castell Ystwyth, he’d known the wisest course was to turn around. He’d been convinced it was a trap, and yet he’d ridden in willingly. Now, here he was, deep in Welsh territory and buried beneath a fortress that seemed as formidable and impregnable as the high ridge it was built upon.

  He must have let out an involuntary sigh because, because Owain spoke beside him. “There’s no reason to lose hope, milord. As Anselm said, at least they’re feeding us. We could fare far worse.”

  “Why keep us alive?” Ifan asked. “What is he planning?”

  “Maybe he intends to use as hostages,” Guy said. “Hold us for ransom. De Cressy would pay, I feel certain.”

  “Of course, he would.” Gerard sought to sound confident.

  “What good will gold do Gwenwynwyn?” Ifan’s tone was bitter. “Gold isn’t going to help him hold this fortress or expand his territory.”

  “’Tis not about ransom,” Owain said. “Marared is what he wants. We’re merely in the way.”

  Gerard tensed. More than once, his thoughts had gone down this same pathway, but he dreaded hearing these things spoken aloud.

  “Marared? What does he want with her?” Ifan asked. “He can’t wed her; she’s married to Lord Gerard. And he doesn’t seem like the type for rape.”

  Owain response was terse. “If he marries her, he has a hold over Caradoc and can claim his territories to the east.”

  No one spoke for a time. Finally, young Anselm broke the oppressive silence. “But if that’s what he’s planning, why is Lord Gerard still here with us?”

  “There’s more than one way to get rid of an unwanted husband,” Owain said. “A marriage can also be annulled or invalided. Kings do it all the time. John had the Pope annul his marriage to Isabel of Gloucester so he could marry lovely young Isabella.”

  Anselm sighed. “’Twill be weeks, if not months, before Gwenwynwyn gets a response from the Pope.”

  “Don’t be foolish,” Owain spoke impatiently. “He’s not going to petition the Pope. He’ll find some church official around here to end the marriage.”

  “But on what grounds?” Guy asked. “He can hardly say they are related.”

  “If Gwenwynwyn can get Marared to say her vows were coerced, that would be grounds,” Owain answered.

  “But why would she do that?” Anselm was still clearly puzzled.

  Gerard knew exactly why, but he certainly wasn’t going to speak
of it. No reason to let these men know how resentful and angry Marared had been with the marriage arrangement. Although he’d truly thought she’d gotten past that and begun to care for him.

  Rob spoke for the first time. “He might threaten to have us all killed if she doesn’t agree.”

  Now there was a thought. What if Marared was forced to choose between his life and remaining married to him? If she cared for him at all, she would have to go along. Not to mention, he couldn’t imagine anyone would want the deaths of five other men on their conscience.

  It seemed there was no way out, Gerard realized. He would not get to keep his life and his wife. He would be happy to have his life, but it would not be the same without Marared. At one time, he would have been relieved to be free of this marriage. Now he felt the very opposite. He loved Marared and would fight to get her back. That is, if he ever got out of here.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It had begun to rain. At first it was a fine mist, but it rapidly turned into a real downpour. Marared had stopped and retrieved her oiled leather cape from her saddlebags as soon as it started. But now she could ride no further. She could barely see.

  She guided the mare to the first stand of vegetation she saw, a copse of gorse bushes. Dismounting, she pulled the cape farther over her head and crouched down beneath the branches, trying to avoid the thorns. Bright yellow blossoms glistened among the green leaves. She shivered as a gust of wind drove rain under the cape. At least she had plenty of water. All she had to do was stand up and hold her face to the sky, and she would be able to drink her fill. But without food or shelter, how long would she last?

  She had tried to do the reasonable thing and not act impulsively. But what had seemed perfectly logical at the time now seemed witless. She’d escaped Gwenwynwyn, only to face an unknown fate, alone in unfamiliar territory. If she did encounter someone, how was she to convince them to help her? Like the herdsman, they might flee at the sight of her. Although no one could imagine she looked like a fairy queen now. More like a drowned rat.

  She shivered again, trying to warm herself. Nay, she would not give up. ’Twas only a rainstorm. Although she needed to find real shelter.

  When the rain started to ease, she mounted Gwenevere and rode on. Several ravens flew by, making her wonder if perhaps a sheep had died and the birds were drawn to its carcass. If there were sheep, there must be a lambing shed or farmstead nearby. She guided the horse in the direction the birds had flown. A short while later, she spotted an opening among the rocks on the side of the hill.

  She rode near, dismounted and left the reins trailing. As she approached the opening, she tensed. The Fair Folk were said to live under the hills. Maybe this was the entrance to one of their abodes.

  Nonsense. She could not let childhood fears control her. The light was fading. She needed to find shelter quickly and this cave looked promising.

  The entrance was small, about half her height. Bending down, she peered inside, but it was too dark to see much of anything. Half holding her breath, she inched in. The cave might be the lair of a wild animal; she needed to be cautious.

  All she found was dried leaves and pinecones, probably cached there by a squirrel or marten. The cave smelled musty and acrid, but it would do for a shelter. Crawling out, she tied Gwenevere’s reins to the saddle so the mare could graze freely, then returned to the cave and spread out her raincape. Wrapping her cloak around her, she lay down.

  It began to rain hard again. The steady sound of the downpour outside the cave reminded her how alone she was and how far from home. The burning hunger in her stomach added to her bleak mood.

  At Tangwyl, her life had been so easy and comfortable. She’d always been warm and well-fed, and spoiled by having servants to wait upon her. Once she’d scorned that life, but now it sounded very pleasant. She’d been so caught in her anger and resentment that she hadn’t appreciated how fortunate she was.

  The same was true of Gerard. She’d been so intent on seeing him as the enemy that she’d ignored his true nature. She shunned his consideration and kindness, thought him foolish for being so patient, and seen his tolerance as a sigh of weakness.

  Ah, his patience. It was a miraculous thing. The way he endured her rudeness and insults. Her anger and hostility. If she were a man, she’d never have put up with being wed to such a shrew. Gerard had not only tolerated her, but also sought to please her. He’d indulged all her requests, including her ill-fated scheme to meet with Aoife so she would carry the traitorous message to Rhys.

  Bitter tears pricked her eyelids. What a fool she’d been. If not for her meddling, it was likely she would not be here, lost, alone, and facing an uncertain future. And Gerard would not be where he was, imprisoned in a dark, cold cell at Castell Ystwyth.

  At least she hoped he was still imprisoned. What if Gwenwynwyn had killed him? The thought aroused a crushing grief. He deserved so much better, including a wife who honored and cherished him. She would be that wife, if she were given the opportunity. Resolve filled her, sweeping away her cold, gloomy thoughts and helping warm her.

  She slept fitfully, waking a half-dozen times. When at last she roused, morning light was filtering into the cave and the faint trills of birdsong could be heard in the distance. Her limbs were cold and stiff. Hearing the low of a cow, she was suddenly impatient to face the world. She scrambled out of the cave and discovered a heavy mist had settled over the area. The cow let out another bellow, but because of the fog, she couldn’t tell the direction the sound came from.

  She called for Gwenevere, and the horse nickered back. Still disoriented, she gathered up her things in the cave and again called out for her horse. The mare whinnied in response. She moved toward the sound, stumbling on a rock and then running into a bush. Finally, she made out the shape of the horse in fog.

  She hurried to Gwenevere and rested her head against the mare’s side, taking comfort from the animal’s warmth and bulk. Her clothes clung to her skin, clammy with dampness and making her shiver. She normally loved the wild hills of her homeland, but today they seemed harsh and forbidding.

  After what seemed like a long while, the mist finally faded and she mounted Gwenevere. She soon encountered a flock of sheep and relief flooded her. No farmer would let his flock stray too far untended. There must be herdsman nearby. She spotted the shepherd. His tattered sheepskin tunic and rough brown wool trousers hung on his thin frame, and he wore no shoes. Like the other man she’d encountered, his hair was dark and his skin dusky and weathered.

  He watched her approach, his gaze steady. As she neared, she realized he was older than she thought. Whiskers darkened his narrow jaw. Wanting to take no chance that he would think she was one of the fey, she called out a greeting and introduced herself. She explained her circumstances and asked directions to the nearest farmstead. The man turned and pointed.

  Marared thanked him and rode on. Perhaps someday she could return and bring him some shoes. Her father and Gerard always made certain the people who worked for them had proper attire for being out in the weather.

  A short while later she crested a hill and spied the farmstead. An enclosure of hawthorn bushes and ancient stonework surrounded a barn and other outbuildings with animal pens around them. In the center was a large dwelling, also of stone.

  As she approached, two very short-legged tan-colored dogs greeted her. She’d seen this kind of dog before. They were called corgwn and used for herding cattle, although her father’s herdsmen did not use them. A man soon appeared, dressed much like the shepherd. He did have shoes, although they were nothing more than pieces of leather wrapped around his feet and tied at his ankles.

  The man appeared more curious than wary. She explained who she was, and he helped her down from her horse. He took the animal, and in a roughly-accented voice said he would was see the mare was looked after. Marared approached the dwelling. She hesitated a moment, then stepped inside the open doorway. Near the hearth, several women were busy at looms. In the dim
interior, it took her a moment to make out the rough but simple furnishings. There were several benches and a large table pushed out of the way, a tall coffer and a chest in the corner.

  One of the women—with strands of reddish hair sticking out from under her cap—left her loom and approached Marared. She gave a slight bow and introduced herself as Bronwen.

  Marared explained who she was and where she was headed. She also gave a vague story of being separated from her traveling party and how she was trying to find her way back to her father’s fortress. She mentioned nothing of Gwenwynwyn nor her traveling companions being imprisoned in Castell Ystwyth.

  Bronwen said her husband, Talhern, was hunting and should be home soon. She asked one of the women to fetch water for Marared to wash her hands. Another brought Marared buttermilk and oakcakes, along with a bowl of mutton stew from the cauldron hanging over the fire.

  Marared sat on a rough-hewn bench at the table and began spooning the hearty stew into her mouth. As she started on the oatcakes, she observed the household. All four women wore plain woolen gowns, but Bronwen’s was brown and cream checked and of a finer weave, marking her as the mistress. Her reddish hair and light skin also set her apart.

  Marared was surprised there were no children in the dwelling. Perhaps Bronwen’s children were grown, the girls married off already and the boys with their father. But the women were all clearly of childbearing age. Had all the younger children died?

  Marared felt a pang of melancholy. Children were so vulnerable. Even if they reached adolescence, tragedy could still befall them. They might succumb to injuries from tending livestock or using an axe or other implements. Young men of noble blood also faced the dangers of being a warrior or knight. She’d never before considered such things. It had saddened her to lose her brothers, and she had grieved deeply when her mother died. But neither experience compared to the pain a woman would feel at losing a child.