by Tamara Gill
Just as Rufus launched into an exciting tale of conquering a particularly bloodthirsty lot of Scots, his favorite serving wench stepped behind him, refilling his silver cup with wine—though many times in private Rufus had told Wolfe he preferred ale.
“Much thanks to thee,” Rufus said with a bold wink, cupping his hand to her ample behind.
Giggling, clutching the jug to the deep valley between her breasts she reddened, before curtsying out of the room.
Wolfe practiced his brother’s dashing wink but found that the manipulation of his cheeks made his eyes hurt.
“Ah, wee Wolfe,” Rufus eased back in his chair, stretching his long legs beneath the table. “She is a good girl. The best I have had in quite some time. Tis a good thing I have already been promised to Estrilda, for without that contract binding me, every wench I bed would be wanting to wed.”
“Like Father and Mother?” Wolfe asked.
“Aye.” Turning serious, Rufus said, “Do not ever forget, wee brother, that one of the most valuable weapons any man—or woman, for that matter—has, is choosing wisely when it comes to marriage. Your wife must be obedient, yet possess enough spirit to properly keep one’s castle. She must be faithful, for if she is not, one can never truly know if any babes she carries within her womb are yours or the woodward’s.”
Wolfe’s eyes grew huge.
“A bad marriage can be very bad. I have heard tales of Viking kings being slaughtered in their sleep by wives not akin to their way of thinking. Or even trying to capture their husband’s crown as their own. A good marriage, however—the kind that all kings and princes of Gwyneddor have had—gains more land and riches and respect than a hundred conquests. This is why gently courting the fairer sex is especially important.” After swigging more wine, Rufus said, “Take your mother, for instance. True, Father arranged his marriage to her and, in doing so, gained a fortune through her dowry. But, to keep her, Father has had to gently woo her. This goes beyond the giving of jewels and such. Just as one listens to one’s partners in battle, one must also listen to his wife. Many do not prescribe to this theory, for they feel it opens them to the potentially fatal wounds of forming emotional attachments. But I believe, as does our father, that emotional attachments make for the best of marriages, because a content woman makes for a content lot in life.”
Thoroughly confused, Wolfe asked, “Do I have to kiss a girl to make a good marriage?”
“Nay,” Rufus roared with laughter. “But it helps pass cold nights.”
“How? Would not a pile of furs and fire in the hearth work better at keeping a body warm?”
“You are a bright boy, but still you have much to learn on the ways of women. Come,” he said, pushing himself to his feet, then gulping the remainder of his wine. “I should have long since sent you to bed, then joined my wench for a roll in the grass.”
“To scratch your arse, like Honey, my hound?”
Rufus roared once more. “Bedding isn’t about satisfying an itchy arse, but an itchy—” Ruffling Wolfe’s hair, he said, “Ah, I am well into my cups and no doubt sharing more than a lad of your tender age need know. Come,” he held out his large, calloused hand. “I’ll see you to your bed, then tis off to the grasses for me.”
They’d just reached the castle’s upper level, when Rufus paused beside Wolfe’s mother’s chamber.
“What is that noise Mum is making?” Wolfe asked. “Is she terribly ill?”
“Shh!”
Wolfe clamped his lips tight. When Rufus took that tone, he meant whatever order he had commanded to be obeyed. Biting his lower lip, Wolfe prayed as his tutor had taught him that his mother would be all right—such was the frightening urgency behind her groans and the rhythmic thumping going on behind the door.
Wolfe glanced at his brother. A thunderous scowl forced Rufus’s eyebrows into the kind of glare he had only seen the likes of the time Father told him he could not ride with him into his latest battle.
“What is the matter with her?” Wolfe dared ask. Instead of ruffling the hair on his head, Rufus gave it a sharp tug. “When I order you to hush, I bloody well expect you to obey.”
Rufus had never spoken to him in such a manner. Fearing his mother must be gravely ill indeed, Wolfe cowered against the cold stone wall.
His brother tried the door, only to find it blocked. “Sabina! Unlatch this door at once.”
His mother’s moans, as did the thumping, stopped.
“Now!” Rufus thundered.
Seconds later, the door slowly creaked open and Wolfe sneaked a peak at his mother who indeed appeared most ill. Her cheeks were flushed and normally smooth blond hair hung wild. Clutching her dark robe beneath her chin, she asked, “What do you want? As you can plainly see, I am not feeling my normal self.”
“Do you think me daft?” He swept her aside to march into the chamber.
“Mother?” Wolfe clasped her right hand. “Shall I fetch Cook to make you one of her potions?”
Worrying her lower lip, she shook her head. Free hand cupping his cheek, she said, “Be a dear boy and run along to bed. Your brother knows better than to keep you up so late.”
Rufus had paused before the massive oak-timbered bed, eyeing the crumpled linens with a deadly stare. Gaze narrowed, he sniffed the muggy air. “It smells of rutting in here. Where is he?”
Her gaze darted wildly. “I-I know not what you mean.”
“Lying whore!”
Rufus’s harsh tone made Wolfe and his mother jump. Why was he being so cruel? Could he not see she felt unwell?
“I will ask once more. Where...is...he?”
Wolfe’s mother shook her head. “Stop this. Not in front of the boy.”
“Why ever not in front of the boy? You seemed to have no compulsions about committing acts treasonous to his father under the nose of your so-called boy. Pray tell if it is time Wolfe learned the kind of unfaithful bitch you apparently are?” Dagger in hand, Rufus knelt to peer under the bed. “He is not here,” he said, once again to his feet. “Oh, but in so many subtle ways, Father assured me he would be.”
“He knew?”
“Of course, he knew. Why else would he not send me into battle when his rightful place should have been dealing with matters of Gwyneddor? How else could he have learned the truth of your depravity?”
“I-I am not depraved. I have needs. Needs your father could not answer.”
“Whore!” Rufus yet again spat, flinging aside a bed curtain with the tip of his dagger’s blade.
He next turned toward tall window tapestries—the only other hiding spot in the room. Wolfe had hidden there himself while playing on rainy days.
“I know your location,” Rufus said. “Tis only a matter of time before I feel the beat of your traitorous heart against my palm.” Rufus took another step closer, and another.
Wolfe looked from him to his wide-eyed mother.
When Rufus stood but a mere foot away, then jerked the curtain open, things happened too fast.
His mother screamed, “Leofwan! Watch out!”
Leofwan? Before Wolfe could comprehend the meaning of a man hiding in his mother’s room, a tall, naked blond man roared out from the curtain’s shield, wielding a mean dagger of his own, which he plunged into Rufus’s heart, but not before Rufus plunged his knife as well.
In less than an eye’s blink, both men fell in a wordless tangle to the floor, each gripping the other’s weapon.
Covering her gaping mouth with her hand, Wolfe’s mother began to tremble, then screamed, “Nooooo! Nooooo!”
While Wolfe stood transfixed, barely registering the footfalls of a dozen or more servants scurrying up the stairs, he wondered why his mother was not seeing to Rufus. He was their family, he was the one they all loved.
The back of Wolfe’s throat tightened and though he was mightily afraid, he took one brave step, then another toward his brother, knowing if Rufus was to be saved, tonight—nay, this instant—he would have to quit being a boy and st
art being a man. Now running, heedless to the hot tears streaming from his eyes, he cried, “I shall save you, Rufus!”
“Hush!” His mother gripped his shoulders, giving him a violent shake. “You cannot save him because he is dead. Do you hear me? Dead!” Turning once more to the blond man, she wept over him, trailing strands of her own long blond hair into the fount of red, red blood bubbling from the man’s wound.
“What in the—” Cook stopped at the solar’s door, making the sign of the cross on her chest.
Rufus’s favorite serving wench screamed.
And then came his father’s men, Hamon, Godwin and Peter, all standing in the open door, mouths agape, watching Wolfe’s mother weep over the body of a stranger.
But then she did an even queerer thing when she jerked Rufus’s dagger from his chest, then slowly, regally, stood, facing all who had assembled.
“Ye shall be burnt for this.” Cook crossed herself once more.
“Nay, the king’ll have her head.”
“Aye, her head.”
Wolfe’s mother shook her pale hair, untying the belt at her robe’s waist. She opened it and the crowd gasped. Holding her chin high, she slipped the robe over her shoulders, standing before them naked and proud. “Nay, your king will never have my life again,” she spat. “He has stolen me once, but never again.”
Cook dashed across the room to take Wolfe into her ample arms, covering his eyes with her hands.
But he saw. Oh, he saw his mother stab the dagger into her own heart, then crumble atop the blond stranger.
Cook turned him away from the gruesome scene, pressing his face into her soft belly. “There, there,” she stroked the back of his head. “We will send Peter for your father and everything will be okay.”
But Wolfe already knew what had happened here in this chamber was far from okay. It would never be okay. For his very best friend and mother were never coming back. Till the day he died, he would sorely miss both.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Lucy forced back tears. “I-I don’t know what to say.”
“There is nothing to say. You asked of Gwyneddor, and I told you of one day in tens upon thousands that stands above all others.” The look he cast her, far from being that of the wounded little boy from his tale, was that of a hardened warrior with neither the time nor energy to worry himself over matters of the heart. But if that were truly the case, then why had he chosen to share that story, when if even a fraction of what he’d said about the curse was true, he must have witnessed countless more historically significant events that would have been far less painful to recall?
“Just supposing what you said about that curse is true—and I’m just supposing here—then tell me who your father lost his crown to?”
“Rhodri Mawr—a good man, but never the equal of my father.”
“Wait here,” Lucy said, off to dig for her favorite book on medieval Wales. Back, book in hand and finding his answer correct, she asked, “Who ruled after him? No, wait that’s too easy. Who came two rulers later?”
He rolled his eyes. “Hywel Dda.”
“What do you think of Empress Matilda?”
“Not that I personally knew her, but I heard from the wenches bathing in the pond that the woman had a fearsome temper. Only ruled but a year, did she not?” Lucy nodded. This was too much.
He could’ve easily learned every bit of this the same way she had—through books. The notion of his actually having been there was too fabulous to even comprehend.
Plus, he’d gotten his castle construction dates all wrong.
“What’s sapping?”
“Dredging under a castle wall in the hopes of weakening it enough to force it to topple.”
“What kinds of fish did you commonly eat?”
“From our pond we took trout and pike.”
“Did you use a fork?”
“Nay.”
Frowning, she flipped a few pages back. “What’s an anghenfil?”
“It is a terrific beast—and you are saying it wrong. Like this...” The word became exotic and foreign-sounding when rolled off his practiced tongue.
“What did—”
“Enough!” the prince roared, pushing himself up from the bed to pace. “Believe me or believe me not, but you will not question me like I am some half-wit child shipped off to the nearest monastery.”
“I-I’m sorry,” she said, taken aback by his flash of anger.
“As well you should be. I have been through quite an ordeal, yet all you dwell upon is your attempt to prove me a hurtyn.”
Now it was Lucy’s turn to stare blankly at him.
“What?” His angry expression came as a challenge. “Have I stumbled upon a word not on your pages?”
She returned his hateful glare, then consulted her book, only to find that the word was there. And it meant idiot. Raising her chin, she said, “For all I know, you could very well be just that.”
“Then you tell me,” he said, “how I know which afternoons you are most likely to be at the pond and what times I am most likely to happen upon your carriage on the lane?”
Refusing to be intimidated by either his size or the intensity of his stare, she said, “All of that’s easily enough explained. You’ve obviously been stalking me.”
“Stalking?” He scratched his head. “Another of your damnedable new words.”
“Oh, come on! Like you’ve never heard of stalking prey?” Clutching her robe around her neck she stood too, only she didn’t just pace, but left the room.
“Where are you going?” he demanded, following her.
“To the kitchen. I have to stress-eat.”
“What’s that?”
“When a person eats and eats and eats because they don’t know what else to do.”
Powerful hands gripping her shoulders, he stopped her at the top of the stairs, spinning her to face him. “In other words, you wish to medicate your spirit?”
“That about sums it up.” Wrenching free of his hold, she stormed down the stairs. The sound of his barreling footsteps told her he was still hot on her trail—like she’d thought for a second he’d leave her to eat in peace?
“Damnation!” he bellowed.
“What?” She paused on the bottom step, watching him rub his forehead. Must’ve clipped it on the low beam.
Too bad it hadn’t knocked him out!
In the kitchen, she found little in the way of comfort food and wound up settling for peanut butter and jelly—not too bad considering peanut butter was one of those forbidden foods she normally tried steering clear of. But obviously everything about this situation was about as far from normal as life could get, which meant calories didn’t count!
“Want a PB & J?” She’d turned to ask only to come face to face with the prince’s rock-hard chest. Maybe by feeding him, he’d remain calm until help arrived? Mouth dry, strangely out of breath, she added, “They’re, um, really good.”
“I know not of which you speak, but to ensure you have no wish to poison me, I will only dine from the same plate as you.”
“O-okay.”
Under the prince’s heavy stare, Lucy made a triple decker, figuring since she was having to share, that really voided the calorie count!
“Milk?” she asked, standing at the open fridge.
He blanched. “I am accustomed to either wine or ale at mealtime.”
“Tough. Round here, you get what you get and don’t pitch a fit.”
Setting the carton on the table, she reached to a nearby open shelf for two glasses, but the prince circled the wrist of her right hand. “One mug will suffice. Again, if your goal is to off me, at least we shall both go together.”
Plate and glass in hand on her way to the dining room, she asked, “At the asylum from where you escaped, has your therapist worked with you on paranoia issues?”
“Para-noy-ya? I know not that word.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Seated on opposite sides of her sma
ll dining room table, Lucy thought she was safe, then she stretched out her bare feet and legs, only to collide with Wolfe’s. Wolfe. His name even fit his story. Just as her cold left foot fit perfectly into the warm arch of his right foot.
Swallowing hard, tucking both of her feet beneath her on the chair’s support brace, she said, “One benefit of you not trusting me is that I get the first bite.”
“Aye.” His gaze followed her every move from the time she pressed her fingertips into the soft white bread to her sinking her teeth into the crust, then allowing the ooey, gooey peanutty goodness and sweet tang of strawberry jelly to merge on her tongue.
Wolfe eyed the wench. While chewing, she held her eyes half-closed, as if the sensation of flavors were akin to—he snatched the creation she had called a pee, bee and jay from her hands, taking a bite.
“Hey!” she complained. “That’s mine. This half is yours.” She pointed to the as yet untouched portion of the meal still sitting on the round white trencher.
“Ah hah! So you are trying to poison me. Why else would you be insistent upon my eating that portion?”
Rolling her eyes, she reached for the remaining half and took a big bite. “There,” she said after she’d chewed and swallowed. “Satisfied?”
“This is quite glorious,” he held the creation back for a better look. “What do you call it?”
“PB & J, which is short for peanut butter and jelly—or, if you’re British, jam. It’s popular in America—the country I’m from.”
After taking three more ravenous bites, he nodded. “At my pond, I have heard villagers who are fishing speak of your kind. They say you are a brutish, garish lot. Loud, and always with a need to be in control. If, as you say, you are one of these thoroughly disagreeable people, then I am not surprised by your lack of integrity in following through on your vow.”
“What vow?” She slammed down the milk. “And Americans are cool—especially me!”
“While I admire your kinship with your people, tis your vow to love me for all eternity with which I am most concerned. For it is that alone which will break my curse.” Taking the clear, handleless mug from her hand, he drank after her, closing his eyes in appreciation of the flavor of this most un-milk-like chilled drink. “Quite good. Are you sure this is milk?” He held the clear mug to the light.
