The Hidden Heart

by Sharon Schulze

  He focused his eyes on her, his gaze measuring. She felt as though he were looking at her for the first time, seeing her in a way he hadn’t before. “Join us,” he said at last, his voice abrupt. Giving her a brief bow, he hurried off toward the laundry.

  Huw reined in his stallion and waited for the others—the few who had escaped with him—to catch up before they traveled on to their camp. They’d lost more men than he could afford this time, playing Lord Steffan’s foolish game of cat and mouse. The man did enjoy taunting his opponent, although in this version of the game, Huw couldn’t say for certain whether his master saw Lady Gillian as the enemy or the prize.

  Whatever she was, he wished Lord Steffan would act, do something real. An attack with form and substance, not these niggling little jabs at Lady Gillian and her Norman warden.

  But the addition of the Normans into the game— once Lord Steffan recovered from his rage—had evidently lent new spice to the challenge.

  Mayhap he needed to remind Lord Steffan that I’Eau Clair was the prize. The longer the Normans had to become entrenched there, the harder it would be to shake them loose from the place. They’d have been better served to strike the castle itself when Talbot first arrived and his party likely still in disarray—and before Lady Gillian had a chance to grow used to her guardian, become loyal to him.

  But how long Lord Steffan planned to drag this out, Huw couldn’t begin to guess. Hopefully they’d act soon—’twas damned uncomfortable making camp near Lord Steffan’s mountaintop cottage, not to mention a hardship on the men and horses to traverse the narrow, winding trail that led to it.

  And the longer they remained there, the greater the chance the Normans would find their hideaway.

  ’Twas by the grace of God alone that they’d lost their pursuers this time. He watched the others as they rode up—the best of his men, and now naught but the bare backbone of a decent troop—the horses foam-flecked and blown, the men battle-weary. “Take a moment to rest,” he told them. “We’ll be safe enough here.”

  “’Twere a close one today,” Cai remarked. He dismounted and accepted the flask of ale Huw held out to him with a nod of thanks. “Didn’t think we’d get out this time.”

  “Left too many behind,” Pedr added, taking his turn with the ale before passing it along to Gwilym, who nodded his agreement before draining the last of the brew.

  “His lordship’ll be right peeved.” Pedr snatched a clump of grass from the edge of the trail and wiped down his horse before turning to Huw. “Do ye think we should go back?”

  “Where else would we go?” Huw said by way of answer. “You know he’ll stomp and rage, then send us off to do his bidding yet again.”

  He hoped. Though Huw would never admit it to them, Lord Steffan’s rages had been growing worse by the day—another reason he’d rather attack I’Eau Clair and be done with it. Or forget about gaining possession of the place and return to Bryn Du, Lord Steffan’s manor.

  The allure of taunting Lady Gillian had begun to pall, another truth he’d no intention of revealing to anyone.

  Especially to his master.

  By Christ, he grew maudlin standing here! Time to go, to seek food, rest and the courage he seemed to have misplaced somewhere along their headlong trek through the forest. A swift glance at his men showed that they and their mounts had recovered enough to start the final stage of the journey—the path up the mountainside.

  “Come on,” he growled. “Lord Steffan’ll be wondering what’s become of us.”

  “So long as you’re the one to tell him what happened, Huw,” Pedr said. Huw had to look away from the fear in his face. “You don’t think he’ll blame us, do ye?”

  “Of course he will,” Cai said mournfully as they led their mounts up the steep trail. “Don’t he always?”

  Night was closing in by the time they reached the summit and the end of the path, and they’d scarce have known where to go if it hadn’t been for the thin bands of light glowing through the shuttered windows of Lord Steffan’s cottage and the paltry fires where the meager remnants of their company gathered to fight off the darkness.

  The guard at the top greeted them, his grim voice no doubt a herald of the reception awaiting them once their master deigned to appear.

  Huw handed over the reins to the boy who cared for the horses and, girding himself as if for battle, approached the cottage and knocked on the door.

  Steffan lounged back on the massive bed that took up much of the one-room cottage—little more than a hovel, by his estimation, but comfortable enough despite the lack of space. “Enter,” he shouted before bringing his goblet of wine to his lips.

  Huw came in and shut the door, but hung back in the shadows rather than striding forward as he was wont to do. “My lord,” he said, sketching a bow just short of insulting in its brevity.

  Steffan took the time to enjoy the rich red wine, allowing its warmth to flow through him as he savored the thought of Gillian sharing this bed with him. Ah, but that would be pure bliss. He chuckled. Nay, there would be little of purity once he brought his cousin here, save for her initial innocence, of course.

  What a pleasure it would be to relieve her of that impediment!

  Then she’d be his well and true, bound to him by blood and holy wedlock—a piquant combination he intended to enjoy to the fullest.

  The fact that she would bring him a Marcher castle and ties to one of the most powerful men in England as dower made the situation sheer perfection, in his eyes.

  “How went your day, Huw?” he asked. “The raid on the farm proved a success, I trust?” He drained the goblet and reached for the pitcher to refill it.

  “I fear it was not, milord,” Huw replied evenly.

  “Was it not? How is it that you’re here, then?” He finished pouring the wine and turned his attention to Huw. The other man still lingered near the door, too far away to see well in the uncertain light. “Come closer, so I might see you while you tell me what went wrong.” He ground out the last words as a host of possibilities, none of them acceptable, raced round in his brain.

  His step sure, unhurried, Huw moved to stand by the foot of the bed, well lit from the tall rack of candles beside it. Soot dulled the gleam of his armor, and blood—someone else’s, no doubt, since Huw appeared unharmed—stained his plain tabard in several places. He wore his usual intractable expression, a look that taunted Steffan every time he saw it—a look he’d never been able to decipher.

  “You appear quite well for a man come to admit failure,” Steffan said, proud of his even tone, of the fact that he’d not hurled the goblet across the narrow room.

  Yet.

  “I didn’t say that we’d failed, milord.” Huw relaxed his stance, folded his arms across his chest and leaned against one of the bedposts. “I said the attack wasn’t a success.” He leaned forward. “Talbot must have guards posted that we didn’t know about. We’d scarce begun to fire the buildings before the Normans came out of the forest and stopped us. They came in force. ’Twas only by sheer luck alone that four of us managed to escape, and even then, they hounded us through the woods for the better part of the afternoon before we lost them.”

  “You should have been more careful!” Steffan said, his voice shaking with rage. “Incompetent fools.”

  “I’d like to see you do better,” Huw shot back. “’Tis no surprise to me that they’re catching up with us—they’re not about to let us keep after them forever without finding some way to fight us off. The rough terrain, and the Normans’ ignorance of it, could only help us for a short time, milord. They’re warriors, more experienced than Lady Gillian’s men by far. I knew that soon they’d be on our tails.”

  Drawing a deep breath, Steffan sought to calm his thundering heart, the thoughts that threatened to overwhelm him. “What have you heard from your spy inside the keep?”

  “I’ve had no chance to speak with her recently, but I’ll find a way to do so soon. She’s joined forces with one of the Norm
an servants, swears he’s keeping her supplied with information, as well as what she’s discovered herself.” He snorted. “Keeps her supplied with something, I have no doubt,” he added with a crude gesture.

  “The success of my venture rests in the hands of some slut?” He fought back the sense of failure looming over him.

  “Whores hear everything,” Huw pointed out. “She’ll find us a way. Perhaps we’ll be able to attack I’Eau Clair, take Lady Gillian out, once I hear what she has to report.”

  “‘Take her out’? I wish to remain there with her once I’ve taken control of the castle.”

  Huw’s shout of laughter whipped Steffan’s ire to new heights. “Milord, you cannot believe we’ll ever take I’Eau Clair in fair battle? I haven’t enough men.”

  “I care not whether the battle be fair or craven,” Steffan growled. “Just ensure we win it! Send to Bryn Du for more men, or scour the alehouses of Chester to find them. I refuse to cry defeat after waiting this long for victory.”

  “But milord, I doubt—”

  Steffan closed his eyes, the image of Gillian, strong and beautiful, heartening him. The power they’d have!

  And the challenge of making her his... He sucked in a breath as the thought alone sent fire surging through his body.

  Soon, he promised himself. Very soon. “I don’t care how you manage it, but I will have Gillian as my bride. See to it!”

  Chapter Twenty

  After pausing in the corridor to speak with Ella, Gillian followed Rannulf into the room where her father had kept his private papers. ’Twas much like her solar, though not as bright and spacious, with much of the space taken up by the long, narrow table that dominated the center of the chamber. Late-afternoon light streamed through the single window, lending a brief, warm glow in its wake.

  Her father had spent a great deal of time here in the last few months of his life—getting his affairs in order, she’d believed, although, given the events since his death, she doubted he’d done much in that regard after all.

  But the room belonged to Lord Nicholas now, to do with as he wished during his tenure here. He’d changed little about the place from what she could see, merely scattering a few of his possessions around the room. But seated as he was in the heavily carved chair that had been her father’s pride, studying the parchment spread out before him on the table, he appeared comfortable here, as if he’d made this chamber his by his presence alone.

  As she took a seat at the opposite end of the table, she realized she’d never discussed with her guardian how long his guardianship might last.

  With that thought came the awareness that she’d never taken the time to discuss much of anything with Lord Nicholas, including his opinion on the subject of her marriage.

  Surely he didn’t believe she’d remain unwed forever! He’d the right to forbid her marriage, however—and it certainly would be profitable for him to do so, for the reins of I’Eau Clair were firmly in his hands. Whether he needed those resources, she couldn’t say, any more than she knew his circumstances. Was he wed?

  Or might he think to ensure I’Eau Clair would remain in his control by marrying her himself?

  ’Twas past time to learn more about her guardian. She bit back a groan. The only man she was interested in learning more about was Rannulf FitzClifford.

  Sir Henry thrust the door open wide and entered the room. “My apologies, milord. I got caught up in questioning Will and the others to see if they noticed anything about the attackers that we might find useful.”

  Lord Nicholas glanced up from the parchment, his gaze sharp. “And did they?”

  “Nay, milord, not a thing.” Sir Henry pulled up a bench and settled onto it with a sigh. “’Tis enough to drive a man mad, this uncertainty! We’ve had our problems with raiders and the like over the years, especially when Lord Simon first came out here and started building the keep. But the Welsh have pretty much left us alone since Lord Simon wed your mother, milady, not wishing to run the risk of angering the prince.”

  “The prince?” Lord Nicholas asked. “What prince might that be?”

  “Prince Llywelyn of Wales,” Gillian told him. It didn’t matter if he knew—she was surprised he hadn’t known, since ’twas no secret.

  “Are you kin to him, too?”

  She nodded. “’Tis how I’m related to Ian and Catrin. We’re all cousins of some sort, not closely related. I’ve never met Llywelyn. Ian and Catrin are my only Welsh relatives I know.”

  “Saying it won’t make it true, milady,” Sir Henry said tartly.

  She caught his meaning and frowned. “Steffan hardly counts.”

  “But Lord Steffan is related to you, as he’s so fond of reminding you.” Sir Henry chuckled, tempting her to reach over the table to poke him.

  She resisted the impulse, contenting herself instead by picking up one of the small, wrinkled apples from the basket in the center of the table and hefting it in her hand, her smile a promise of retribution. “I’d just as soon you didn’t remind me he even exists, the posturing fool.”

  “Another cousin? I assume I’ll not be called upon to welcome him to I’Eau Clair?” her guardian asked.

  She shook her head. “Not while I’ve any choice in the matter. Besides, he’s already come to express his condolences.” She took a bite of the apple and chewed before adding, “I refused to let him in—told him we’d vile sickness here and I wanted to protect him.”

  “I doubt he believed you,” Sir Henry pointed out.

  “What does it matter, so long as it sent him away?” she protested.

  “Aye, sent him away angry.” Sir Henry leaned toward her. “I doubt he’s so easily dismissed, when he decides he wants something. And you know what he wants as well as I do. I’ve told you before, milady, he’s not to be trusted.” He turned to Lord Nicholas. “And he’s the devil’s own temper, milord.”

  “He never came back,” her guardian said. “Perhaps he finally realized Gillian didn’t want him here.”

  Sir Henry gave an inelegant snort. “He’s too afraid to come back now that you’re here, milord, ’tis all. Hell, he probably saw you on the road and nigh fell off that showy beast he likes to prance around on. He came the same day you arrived.”

  “How do you know he didn’t return?” Rannulf asked.

  “You’d have known it if he’d been here,” Sir Henry said. “You’d be hard-pressed to ignore him. He dresses finer than any other Welshman I’ve ever seen—no offense meant, milady.”

  “None taken. Besides, you’re right, he’s very difficult to ignore.”

  “Besides that, he’s arrogant, and mouthy with it.”

  Lord Nicholas frowned. “Then we shall hope he decides to stay away,” he said. He put aside the parchment. “We’ve food and wine aplenty if you want some. Help yourselves.” He indicated the platter set out on the table before reaching for the pitcher of mead.

  Gillian hid a smile of pleasure at the thought that he didn’t expect her to serve them. Perhaps he’d begun to see her as more than a simpering woman.

  Or perhaps he thought it inappropriate to ask a noble lady to do so.

  Let it alone, she ordered herself. What does the reason matter, as long as the result is satisfactory?

  Once they’d served themselves, Lord Nicholas sat for a moment sipping his drink, then slouched back in his chair, the cup clasped loosely in his hands. “Rannulf, you told me earlier you’d some thoughts about this situation.”

  Rannulf finished slicing cheese from the wedge and, to Gillian’s surprise, laid it on her trencher. “Aye, milord, I do.”

  “After all we’ve been through of late, you ought to call me Nicholas—you two as well,” he said with a smile toward her and Sir Henry.

  “As you wish, Nicholas,” Rannulf murmured. Gillian couldn’t decipher the expression in his eyes, but she thought he seemed pleased.

  She gave her guardian—Nicholas—a nod of agreement. Perhaps his kind look was a sign he’d begun to grow
comfortable with them. It was the perfect opportunity to know him better, she reminded herself.

  Sir Henry looked uncomfortable. “I’d rather not, if you don’t mind, milord. It’s not my way.”

  He’d always called her father “Lord Simon,” she recalled.

  “That’s fine,” Nicholas told him. Straightening, he drained the cup, put it aside and leaned his elbows on the table, gazing hopefully at Rannulf.

  “Even with the addition of your men and the ones I brought here to Gillian’s troops, we haven’t enough to guard such extensive lands and maintain an effective force within the keep as well. We’re too spread out, and the raiders have continued to take advantage of that fact, hitting us where we’re not prepared to defend.” Rannulf popped a morsel of bread into his mouth and chewed. “Though today turned out well, I thought.”

  “’Tis true we haven’t troops enough to safeguard the entire demesne, but we cannot conjure up more from nothing,” Nicholas pointed out. “And I refuse to strip the castle bare of fighters, for I’ve no doubt that is the prize the raiders seek.”

  “The keep and Lady Gillian,” Sir Henry said.

  She shook her head. “I can see the sense in what you’re saying, but it still seems beyond my ken—here—” she motioned to her stomach “—in my gut, for want of a better word, that anyone should see me as a valuable pawn.”

  Nicholas laughed. “Gillian, they’d want you for that reason alone, sight unseen, even if you were a haggard crone or little more than a babe in arms—simply for what you would bring them.”

  “Depending upon their inclination, they might actually prefer a woman very young or old,” Rannulf pointed out with a wry smile. “’Twould be that much easier to be rid of you—having first gained all your worldly goods, of course—before moving on to the next victim.”

  Nicholas laughed again. “Do you truly believe that once a man has seen her, he’d wish to be rid of her?” He shook his head. “Nay, he’s more apt to believe himself twice blessed.”