My Fugitive Prince

by Miriam Walker

  I can tell no one, she thought dazedly, or they will think I am mad. Yet, in her heart, she knew her vision had been real, though she could not explain it.

  Reining in their horses at the timbered gate of the stronghold, the thanes waited impatiently for the heavy doors to swing open. Great torches, sputtering in the rain, lit up the night as shouts heralded their entrance into the main yard.

  Gwendolyn felt herself being taken into the waiting arms of another thane. Then she was carried across the yard into the great hall. Blinking from the brightness, she felt a twinge of guilt at the anxious faces of those gathered around her. Her eyes came to rest on the figure of her mother rushing toward her.

  “Quickly, we must get her warm at once,” Lady Bronwen ordered, taking immediate charge of the situation. She gestured for the thane to follow her, and a serving maid who also stood nearby. Holding a thick tallow candle in front of her, she led the way up a wooden staircase to Gwendolyn’s chamber.

  “Lay her down on the bed,” she said evenly, setting the candle in a large brass holder. The thane hastily obeyed, then stood aside, not knowing what to do next. His eyes widened as Lady Bronwen began unceremoniously to strip the drenched clothes from Gwendolyn’s shivering body. She looked up at him, a faint smile curving her lips. “You may go now.”

  “Aye, my lady.” He nodded, red-faced. Without a backward glance, the sheepish thane beat a hasty retreat down the stairs.

  “Go to the kitchen and fetch some meat broth and herbs,” Lady Bronwen said softly to the young serving maid. The girl bobbed her head and scurried out of the room, close on the heels of the departing thane. Lady Bronwen turned back to Gwendolyn and helped her into the bed, gently pulling the warm blankets up over her delicate shoulders. She looked kindly at her daughter, her gentle eyes speaking a message of concern, yet also a mild reproach.

  Overcome by her mother’s tenderness, Gwendolyn felt tears burn her cheeks. “Mother, I…” she began hesitantly, but the words stumbled on her tongue.

  “Hush, lamb, we can talk of this later,” soothed Lady Bronwen. She moved away from the bed and lit several small oil lamps about the chamber. The faint rustling of her linen tunic and mantle was the only sound in the room.

  “Here are the herbs and the broth, my lady!” the serving maid whispered breathlessly as she entered the bedchamber. She had run all the way to the kitchen and back, anxious to please her kind mistress.

  Lady Bronwen nodded her thanks, then took the bowls from the girl and set them on a small wooden table by the bed. “Go now and find Leah. I have need of her,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Aye, mistress,” the serving maid replied, hurrying out the door once again.

  Stirring the herbs into the steaming meat broth, Lady Bronwen offered one of the bowls to Gwendolyn. “Here, lamb, but drink it slowly.”

  Gwendolyn cupped the bowl in her hands, bringing it shakily to her lips. She took a sip, savoring the richness of the beef broth. After several more sips a gradual warmth began to spread through her, stilling at last the shivering spasms that wracked her slender body. Feeling her eyelids growing heavy, she handed the empty bowl to her mother. Lying back against the soft down pillow, she could no longer keep her eyes open. Gradually she felt herself drift into a comforting sleep.

  Tucking in the soft woolen blanket, Lady Bronwen gazed down at her sleeping daughter.

  How could such an angelic-looking young woman cause so much trouble? she wondered, shaking her head. Indeed, Gwendolyn’s fair features shone with almost unearthly beauty. Her brows arched delicately, her nose was straight and slender, her cheekbones high and graceful. Her lips, lush and rosy, were curved in the faintest of smiles, and her emerald green eyes, closed in sleep, were thickly fringed with dark lashes that fluttered ever so slightly against her creamy skin. The only feature that gave a hint of her true temperament was the stubborn set of her chin.

  Lady Bronwen sighed as she smoothed an unruly curl from Gwendolyn’s forehead, remembering the many times she had tried to convince her daughter to grow her hair long. Yet all her pleas had been for naught. Strong-minded like her father, Gwendolyn had insisted since childhood that long hair was a nuisance. Besides, she had not wanted to be an exact replica of her twin sister, Anora. A bright smile at her father had always ended the argument, and Gwendolyn once again managed to have her way.

  Lady Bronwen shook her head. She truly feared that perhaps Godric had spoiled this daughter overmuch. Her wild escapade tonight was proof of that!

  ‘Tis hard to believe so many years have passed…and so quickly, she thought, reflecting on her eighteen years of marriage to Earl Godric. Their union had produced twin daughters, just turned seventeen, and one son who had died at childbirth. A flicker of sorrow passed across Lady Bronwen’s lovely face. Her heart still ached at the thought of the lost child, a pain she had carried since his death.

  Yet it was her husband, deprived of his only son, who had thrilled at the early interest displayed by Gwendolyn in such masculine pursuits as riding, hunting, and archery. He had encouraged her, and before long she had become proficient at all of them. Her skill and accuracy with all manner of small weapons, especially the knife, were well known. She had even accompanied her father on his twice-yearly hunts for wild boar, and had taken great delight in the dangerous sport. Never once had she shown the least bit of fear.

  Ever the doting parent, Earl Godric had even allowed Gwendolyn to wear a boy’s clothing, specially made to fit her slender form. She had taken to them happily, relishing the ease of movement the woolen shirts and breeches afforded her. From then on, Lady Bronwen had always been hard pressed to get Gwendolyn to wear a proper lady’s tunic and mantle.

  “‘Tis no wonder Gwendolyn has such a rebellious nature,” Lady Bronwen murmured resignedly. Finding a husband for her tempestuous daughter would indeed be a task. He would have to be a strong man to tame her, yet wise enough not to break her courageous spirit. She wondered if there was such a man…

  A soft knock at the door broke into her thoughts. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Anora waiting expectantly. “Come in, love,” she whispered, beckoning to her.

  Anora walked quietly across the room, her eyes wide with apprehension. “Is she well?” she asked fearfully.

  “Aye,” Lady Bronwen answered, noting the anxious concern radiating from her daughter’s emerald eyes.

  Anora’s delicate shoulders slumped with relief. “Could I stay with her awhile, Mother?”

  “Nay, Anora, I think ‘tis best that Leah stay with her this night,” Lady Bronwen replied gently. “I have already sent for her.” Seeing the disappointment on her daughter’s face, she continued gently. “Tomorrow will be a long day for you, Anora, and you must rest well tonight. I am sure you would want to look your best for Wulfgar’s arrival.”

  Lady Bronwen smiled at the sudden blush in Anora’s cheeks. She had no doubt that her daughter would be the fairest woman at the betrothal feast—well, save for one, she amended quickly, gazing at Anora’s mirror image sleeping peacefully in her bed. Together her twin daughters made a radiant pair, neither surpassing the other in beauty, but equal in loveliness of face and form.

  “Aye, Mother, you are right,” Anora murmured. “Good night, then.” She bent and kissed Lady Bronwen’s cheek, then turned just as Leah walked into the candlelit room. “Good night, Leah,” she said softly. With one last look at her sister, Anora left as quietly as she had come.

  “‘Tis time you also rested, my lady,” Leah admonished gently, having overheard their conversation. She clucked her tongue disapprovingly as she walked to the bed. What kind of trouble had the lass gotten herself into this time?

  Lady Bronwen seemed to read her thoughts. “Now, Leah, let us not judge too harshly,” she murmured, trying, unsuccessfully, to suppress a smile. The faithful maid had been with the family for many years, and had no qualms about speaking her mind, especially when it came to Gwendolyn. “Would you sit with her this night? I would remai
n myself, but there is still so much to be done before the betrothal feast tomorrow.”

  “Go on with ye, my lady. I will see to the lass,” Leah reassured her. Aye, she had seen both Anora and Gwendolyn through many a fever, but from what she could tell so far, there was no illness this night. “And mind you, get some rest yourself, my lady,” she repeated, noting with concern the faint circles under her mistress’s eyes.

  Lady Bronwen nodded, then rose from her chair. She leaned over and lightly kissed Gwendolyn’s cool forehead. “She seems to be fine now, but if she should call out for me, or grow feverish—”

  “I will wake you if there is need, my lady,” Leah murmured.

  “Very well. Good night, Leah and my thanks.” Lady Bronwen looked gratefully at her maid, unspoken words of comfort passing between them.

  Turning toward the door, she was not surprised to see the shadowed figure of Earl Godric standing inside the threshold. She walked over to him and took his proffered arm, the look in her luminous eyes telling him all he needed to know. Relief surged through his body, and with a last backward glance at their sleeping daughter, they descended the stairs together.

  Buy Twin Passions