Nay, he would not believe that. Caradoc knew her as well as anyone and he was certain she wanted no part of her cousin’s scheme. He would cling to that. He would—
Shouts echoed upwards. He couldn’t make out words and strained to figure out what was happening. Was that faint scuffling noise the sound of fighting?
Unable to bear it any longer, he began a slow, careful descent. Halfway down, a woman’s scream made his heart stop in his chest. He forced himself to take a deep breath and then another. When he had composed himself, he continued down the hillside, still moving with painful slowness. It was the most frustrating journey he’d ever made. But if he fell and was injured, he’d be no use to Marared.
At last, he reached level ground. It was even darker here in the valley. He could barely make out the shape of a tent ahead of him. Drawing his sword, he carefully circled around the tent. He could hear men speaking, but couldn’t make out what they were saying.
He tripped on a rock and almost went down. Patience. Yet every fiber of his body screamed for him to hurry. At last he could see a campfire that made a circle of light in the darkness. Beyond the fire, Rhys held Marared fast against his body. Gerard took a step closer and saw the glint of Rhys’s knife at her throat. He could not stop himself from moving nearer.
The Welshman saw him and called out, “Drop the sword or I’ll kill her.”
Gerard lowered his sword. “What about the gold? Don’t you want the ransom?”
Rhys laughed. “Gold? What would I do with gold? ’Tis Marared I want. And you dead.”
“Don’t be a fool.” Caradoc appeared from the shadows and moved toward Rhys. “Wedding Marared won’t bring you what you wish. You can’t stand against me.”
“If that’s true, then I might as well slit Marared’s throat right now.”
Nay! The panicked cry nearly escaped Gerard’s lips, but he managed to hold back. He must not reveal how desperate he was.
Rhys’s attention shifted back to Gerard. His eyes radiated hatred.
Gerard moved nearer. “’Tis me you want. What if I take Marared’s place? Give myself up and you let her go?” He dropped his sword to the ground and took another step, his hands held out.
“Nay!” Marared’s eyes met Gerard’s, her expression desperate. In clear Norman French, she said, “Come no closer. Rhys might spare my life, but you have no chance at all!”
Relief flooded him. At least Marared didn’t want him to be killed. Somehow, he had to keep them both alive so they could build from that. The knife concealed in his braies felt reassuringly heavy. He took a step toward Rhys. “Let her go and I’ll take her place.”
Rhys let out a cold, sneering laugh. “I don’t believe a word you say, Saeson scum.”
“What will convince you?”
“Come and stand in front of me and bare your throat for my knife. Then I will let Marared go.”
*
Marared could feel the blade of Rhys’s knife pressing into her neck. Warm blood trickled from where he’d already cut her. If she tried to twist away, he would push the knife deeper. If she stamped on his foot or knocked her head against his chin—defensive techniques she’d learned from her brothers—she feared it wouldn’t be enough to loosen his grip. But she wasn’t completely helpless. She had her knife.
Rhys had never thought to have her searched when he first took her captive, so he didn’t know about the small knife strapped to her calf. Even after his men had tied her hands behind her back, she’d been able to retrieve it. She’d been trying to use the weapon to cut the ropes binding her wrists when Rhys came for her. Now, she must use it to get him to release her.
But it was a puny knife, incapable of doing much damage. Her only chance was to hurt him where it counted. His leather jerkin didn’t cover his groin, so his woolen trousers were his only protection. But she would have to stab hard and true. Difficult to do when he was behind her and she could only guess at the position of his body. Not to mention if she didn’t hurt him badly enough, he might kill her. To succeed, she must wait until he was distracted.
Gerard moved nearer, his movements easy and unhurried, as if he was not facing an armed man who meant to kill him. In contrast, Rhys reeked of the sharp scent of fear. Marared needed him to relax and grow more confident, so he would be more likely to make a mistake. She let out a moan. “Rhys, please, you’re hurting me.”
He gripped her tighter. “You deserve it, bitch. You’ve cost me so much.”
Gerard moved closer, looking very tall and formidable. Rhys would have to reach up to slash his throat.
But she couldn’t let it come to that. Adjusting her grip on the knife, she drove it into back Rhys’s body. He screamed and dropped the knife but didn’t release her. She twisted and jerked, seeking to loosen his grip. Abruptly, he flung her away.
Then everything went black.
*
As soon as he saw Marared fall, Gerard rushed to her. He touched her face and called her name, but she lay unmoving. The wound on her neck wasn’t deep. Why didn’t she wake? He felt the back of her head and found a slight swelling, but nothing else. Panicked, he glanced around and saw two of Caradoc’s men restraining Rhys on the ground. The rest of Rhys’s companions seemed to have vanished.
He turned back to Marared. Caradoc came and knelt beside him. “She must have hit her head when she fell. Marared bach.” His voice was raw with anguish.
“We must get her back to the fortress. Find a healer.”
“Too dangerous to travel in the dark. We’ll move her into a tent for now.”
“I’ll carry her.”
Gerard picked Marared up and followed Caradoc to a tent. The chieftain moved aside so Gerard could duck into the leather shelter. He lay Marared on a pile of sheepskins. In the lamplight, her exquisite features seemed carved of pale stone. Anguish squeezed Gerard’s chest and made it hard to breathe. He’d never felt so terrified. So helpless.
He smoothed Marared’s hair away from her face and his fingers left a streak of blood. The dark smear intensified his horror. Did Marared have another wound? Frantically, he searched for another injury and discovered the back of her gown had blood on it. “Dear God, what is this? What has he done to her?”
Caradoc touched his shoulder. “Don’t worry. The blood is Rhys’s. Marared stabbed him. I’m sure she was aiming for his ceilliau, but she hit the big vein in the groin instead. That’s why he went down so easily. He’ll be dead soon, if he isn’t already. There’s no way to stop that kind of bleeding. Even if we desired to do so.”
Gerard felt a surge of bitterness. Rhys was going to die and escape judgment. If Marared didn’t recover, he’d have no target for his anger. “You’ve sent someone for a healer?”
“Aye. But there’s likely little they can do. She’ll either wake or she won’t.”
Someone brought a clean rag and a bowl of warm water. Gerard dabbed carefully at the dried blood on Marared’s neck. The wound had already stopped bleeding, but the sight of it made Gerard sick with fury. He turned his attention to the lump on the back of her head. That wound hadn’t even bled. Such a little thing and yet it might kill her.
Gerard closed his eyes and began to pray.
“The healer is here,” Caradoc called from the entrance of the tent. “There isn’t room in there for both of you. Come and sit by the fire.”
Reluctantly, Gerard got up. To his surprise, the healer was Hew, the stablemaster. He gave the man a questioning look.
Hew gripped his shoulder. “I promise I’ll do all I can. But head injuries are difficult to treat.”
Gerard nodded stiffly. If the chieftain thought Hew was the best hope for Marared, he must trust that he was.
Before joining Caradoc, Gerard went to look at Rhys’s body. He lay on his back, a dark stain spreading across his trousers. Marared had managed to wound him mortally, even as Rhys held a knife to her throat. His wife was an incredibly brave and resourceful woman. Tears pricked his eyes.
“Ge
rard. Come sit with us,” Caradoc called.
Gerard joined the chieftain and his men by the fire. He refused the food they offered but took a few swallows of mead. The potent liquid burned his throat, but he was glad for it.
“I’m trying to decide what to do with the men who joined Rhys’s warband,” Caradoc said.
Gerard struggled to order his thoughts. In the world he was from, traitors were dealt with ruthlessly. “They broke their oath to you. I don’t see that you have any choice but to hang them.”
Caradoc nodded. “I see your reasoning. But here is mine. If I hang them, their kin will bear a grudge against me. And without these men—sons, husbands, brothers—it will be difficult for their families to survive. Women and children will suffer. And they had no part in this.”
Gerard understood that killing able-bodied men would not help Caradoc’s people prosper. Still, because of what these men had done, Marared might die. He wasn’t certain he could forgive that.
“We have don’t to decide immediately,” Caradoc said. “The main thing is that Rhys is dead. Killed by a woman. A fitting end for a coward.”
From the shadows, Ifan spoke. “I wonder how she got the knife.”
“She had it strapped to her leg,” Caradoc said. “I always insisted she do that when she went out walking or riding alone. I didn’t want her to be entirely defenseless.”
“Did you also teach her how to use it?” Gerard asked.
Maelgwn, seated next to his father, responded. “That was me. Along with Padrig and Dewi.” Maelgwn’s voice was choked. He looked genuinely shaken.
Gerard sat there a while longer, feeling numb. His thoughts seemed to run in circles. If only he’d been closer when Marared fell, he could have caught her. If only he’d listened to his instincts and they hadn’t gone to Ystwyth in the first place. If only…
“Gerard, Hew says you can rejoin your wife.”
He returned to the tent and met Hew outside. “The wound is on the back of the head, and up high, which is good,” Hew said. “But I can’t say when she will wake, or if she will be affected in some way.”
Gerard nodded his thanks and ducked into the tent. Marared lay as pale and still as ever. Except for her hair, which gleamed brilliant red in the lamplight. It was a mass of tangles, but that didn’t alter its beauty. Bright as fire, yet cool and soft to the touch. He knelt beside her and smoothed her hair away from her face, using his fingers to try to work out the tangles. If only he had a comb. Unsnarling her hair would give him something to do.
He took Marared’s hand. Her nails were torn and ragged. She’d been through so much already. “Marared, Come back to me. Please.”
There was no movement. No response. The lump in his throat thickened and tears threatened. Nay, he would not weep. Not while there was hope.
Still holding her hand, he lay down beside her. He’d already sent a dozen prayers to heaven. Who else could he call on for aid? The spirits of this land? The Fair Folk, as Marared called them?
But everything he knew about the fey suggested they were cold and capricious, and cared little for humans. Unless they fell in love with one of them and stole them away. He imagined a troupe of the Fair Folk appearing in the doorway of the tent. Their hair and clothing, bright and dazzling. Their movements making a sound like the tinkle of bells. He could hear them whispering. Pointing at Marared. Admiring her beauty. They wanted her for their own. To carry her away to their kingdom beneath the hills.
He jerked upright. “Nay! You can’t have her!”
There was no one there but him and Marared. He could see the first hints of light seeping through the opening of the lean-to and hear the call of a lapwing. But a sense of dread clung to him. It must have been a dream. But what if it was not? What if the Fair Folk had come and stolen her spirit already?
He touched Marared’s face. Her skin felt cool and dry. Was she slipping away from him? He put his head to her chest. Her breathing was even and regular, as if she was asleep. And yet, she didn’t rouse. She was caught in the place between life and death.
He reminded himself he didn’t believe in enchantments or fairies. Marared had an injury inside her head. It would either heal or she would die from it. All these fanciful and terrifying thoughts were caused by his fatigue.
He lay back down again, but was afraid to close his eyes. He didn’t want to dream about the Fair Folk. And it seemed important to remain vigilant. If he watched over Marared, not even magical beings could come and take her away.
Despite his resolve, he must have dosed.
Something alerted him and he bolted upright.
Marared stirred beside him. “My head hurts.”
No words had ever sounded so wonderful.
*
Her head ached and she was dizzy and nauseated. Yet it was all right. Gerard was there. She squeezed his hand.
“What can I get you? Water?”
“Nothing.” She didn’t want him to leave her.
Gerard let out a deep sigh. He sat up, then lifted her and held her against his chest. The movement made the dizziness worse. Her stomach lurched. She held very still, willing the sickness away. “I need to lie back,” she mumbled.
“Of course. I’m sorry.” He helped her recline and smoothed her hair away from her face. “I had a dream the Fair Folk came for you.”
She gave a weak laugh. “They would have no use for me. Especially now. I must look and smell disgusting.”
“Never. You are always beautiful.”
His voice was so tender, so full of longing and love. She felt the same way about him. She’d been terrified when she thought Rhys would kill him. She stiffened and clutched Gerard’s hand. “What happened? How did I get away from Rhys?”
“You don’t remember?”
She didn’t. It was all a blur, like a smashed pot where there was no way to tell how the pieces fit together.
“He’s dead. You killed him.”
Marared thought of her knife. It hardly seemed possible such a puny weapon could kill a man. “You’re certain?”
“Aye. When you stabbed him in the groin, you hit the main vein in his leg. He bled to death very quickly.”
She’d never intended to kill Rhys. But she wasn’t displeased. By killing him, she’d kept him from hurting Gerard.
She stared up at her husband, thinking how dear he was. She would have given her life for him. He’d turned out to be everything she wanted in a man: loyal and courageous. Compassionate and fair. And handsome. She feasted her eyes on his sculpted features. His muscular neck and broad shoulders. His hair had grown out and dark whiskers emphasized the strong shape of his jaw. But even though he was dressed in the garb of a Cymro, he still didn’t look like one. It didn’t matter; he was the handsomest man in the world to her.
She smiled at him. “You are the one the Fair Folk would want.” His eyebrows shot up. “Aye, it’s true. I can easily see some fairy queen deciding to beguile you and carry you away her palace under the hills.”
“If you think that, your injury has surely affected your wits.” He grinned at her and she grinned back. Then he leaned down and kissed her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Although Gerard offered more than once to carry her, Marared’s father’s men used a litter to take her back to where the rescue party had left their horses. There Caradoc finally agreed to let her ride the rest of the way with her husband.
But it was not an easy journey back to Caer Brynfawr for Marared. Even cradled in Gerard’s arms, every movement of the horse made her head throb and her stomach pitch and heave. She had to close her eyes and try to think of other things to keep from retching or losing consciousness.
She was trussed on a horse, being taken to the kingdom of the fey. They were stealing her away because it was the only way they could entice Gerard to their realm. He was the one they wanted.
She raised her head and saw him riding ahead of her, dressed in the bright, sumptuous garments favored by the Fair Folk. Sat
in and velvet in hues of green, his brow encircled with a gold crown glistening with emeralds and diamonds. She imagined how his hazel eyes would reflect the dazzling green of his attire. He rode like a sleepwalker, his body gently swaying with the movements of his horse. His chestnut gelding, Hearthfire, was also decked in splendor, the horse’s green bridle and saddle were hung with tiny, golden bells. Their delicate tinkle sounded eerily like mocking feminine laughter.
The terrible foreboding increased. Gerard was deeply ensorceled, trapped in the spell of the fairy queen riding ahead of him. The queen turned back to look at her prize, and a scream of horror rose in Marared’s throat. She expected a glamorous visage of beauty to match the woman’s long golden curls. Instead the queen’s face was a skull, with empty eye sockets and the fleshless grin of a corpse picked clean by ravens.
Marared let out a horrified cry, frantic to get Gerard and wake him before it was too late. Before he disappeared beneath the hills and was never seen again. But as hard as she struggled to go to him, she could not. She was tied down by ropes. Nay, not ropes, but fabric. The more she struggled, the tighter the layers of cloth bound her. She cried out again, tears of frustration seeping from her eyes.
“Hush, my love. ’Tis merely a dream. You are safe.”
The world swam back into view. Gerard’s dear face filled her vision as he leaned over her, his beautiful eyes moist with tears and stark with tenderness. She was in a bed. At home in Caer Brynfawr. Nay, not home. Her home was with Gerard. Wherever he went, she would follow. She took several deep breaths. There was no fairy queen, no mocking half-corpse trying to steal Gerard. He was safe, and so was she.
“How did I…?”
“You swooned. It worried us, but Hew reassured us that since you’d woken once, you were likely out of danger of being trapped in an unconscious state.” He sighed softly. “But you were so pale and wan. So unlike yourself. I was almost relieved when you began to thrash and cry out. It meant you still had the strength to fight your way back to me.”
Lord of Hearts Page 22
