Defiant Passion

by Anna Markland

  “Kidnapping?” Morwenna exclaimed. “We would need Rhodri’s help with such a plot.”

  Phillippe smiled inwardly. She would talk herself into the scheme. “Would it not benefit his cause to obtain a large amount of money?”

  She snorted with ridicule. “He doesn’t care for money. He’s a patriot.”

  Is she truly so dim?

  “But he will understand the importance of money to buy food and arms.”

  Understanding dawned on her face. “Ah! But would the Earl pay a ransom?”

  Now for the coup de grâce.

  “That’s the beauty of the plan. If he doesn’t, we’ll kill his family. If he does, he will fall out of favour with his precious King for giving money to rebels. And he won’t know we plan to kill them anyway.”

  His shaft surged with renewed interest. She grasped him, putting her mouth on his arousal. “I like the way you think, Phillippe. I’ll convince Rhodri. When is the Fayre?”

  ***

  Rhodri had been distracted while Morwenna explained the plan to kidnap the Earl’s family. She had not made any attempt to touch him. What was her relationship with her Norman accomplice? She was a woman who craved men.

  He forced his thoughts back to the plot she had suggested. It had merit. His people definitely needed coin. Food was in short supply, despite record harvests on the English side of the Marches after a glorious summer. The utter injustice of it rankled. Why not take the money from a Norman?

  He had the manpower. It could be done, and quickly. Time would be of the essence if they were to take the Montbryce family in October and have them ransomed before winter set in. They could sequester the hostages at Cadair Berwyn. The Earl would never venture so far into Wales in search of his family.

  He summoned his most trusted advisors, Aneurin ap Norweg and Andras ap Rhys. His father had relied on their good counsel. He would too. They listened intently.

  “They’ll have servants with them,” Aneurin advised.

  “We’ll kill them,” Morwenna replied.

  Rhodri held up his hand. “There will be no unnecessary killing. If the Earl believes we intend to kill his family anyway, he won’t pay.”

  Morwenna was indignant. “What of the men-at-arms who will escort them? Shall we spare them too?” she asked sarcastically.

  Rhodri nodded. “We will accomplish this with cunning, not brutality.”

  Aneurin and Andras nodded, both voicing their agreement. The decision was made. They would kidnap Mabelle de Montbryce and her two children from the Whittington Fayre.

  “What ransom should we demand?” Rhodri asked.

  Morwenna did not hesitate. “Two thousand pounds, preferably in Fleury pennies.”

  The men looked at her in shock. “Where would he put his hand on that kind of coin?” Aneurin asked, a hint of ridicule in his voice.

  Morwenna smirked. “It’s only one year’s income from all his properties.”

  Silence reigned in the room. Rhodri tried and failed to comprehend how so much wealth could exist. “How do you know this?”

  “The Norman told me.” She left abruptly with a gleam in her eye.

  Rhodri and his men set about making the final plans.

  CHAPTER SIX

  As soon as Rhonwen met Caryl Penarth she felt the woman embodied the meaning of her name, which she explained to her mistress was the Welsh for love. Caryl willingly shared her knowledge of the healing arts with the two women and agreed to consider coming to Ellesmere, at least for a few months, to help Rhonwen instruct the local women.

  When they weren’t with Caryl, they enjoyed the minstrels, theatre, jugglers, magicians, and human chess games. They laughed at the bright costumes of folk dressed as such varied characters as King Arthur, mermaids, and the fayre’s king and queen.

  It felt good for Rhonwen to laugh after the despair of her loneliness. Everyone enjoyed the fruits of the bountiful harvest, and the ale and wine flowed freely. The women and children were never without their armed escort, and all enjoyed themselves immensely. After three days they mounted their horses for the leisurely ride back to Ellesmere. Caryl promised to come to the castle in a sennight.

  Soon they entered a copse. Rhonwen commented on the beauty of the autumn leaves. The Countess smiled and nodded, but the smile left her face and she squealed with alarm when, without warning, masked men clad in sheepskins and leather breeches dropped like stones from the trees. The Norman soldiers were soon rendered harmless. The women could do nothing as the furtive attackers seized the reins of the horses and led them deeper into the copse.

  Rhonwen’s heart raced. She couldn’t breathe. Fear flooded through her. She heard Robert call for his mother, who answered him. “I am safe, mon fils, don’t worry. I’m here. Look to your brother.” Rhonwen admired her lady’s calm courage—she sounded braver than she looked.

  None of the men threatened them, which Rhonwen considered a good sign. It did not seem they would be murdered immediately at least. Other brigands were concealed in the copse, with horses at the ready. The attackers mounted. One took Robert on his lap, another took Baudoin. Stealthily, the caravan made its way deeper into the woods. Rhonwen was terrified. The men spoke to each other in Welsh. The Countess would not understand what they were saying, but Rhonwen was afraid to explain, lest the men silence her.

  Neither Montbryce boy had cried since they were taken, but their mother constantly called words of reassurance to them. “Don’t be afraid, mes enfants, I’m here, as are Giselle and Rhonwen. We’ll be safe. Don’t worry.” Her words were meant to calm the children, but Rhonwen took heart from her mistress’s courage.

  They rode at a steady pace for an hour or more. Rhonwen was relieved they had not travelled at a gallop. Perhaps the child her mistress carried might survive this ordeal—if any of them did. She had a sense they were travelling west, probably into Wales. A glimpse of the village of Oswestry in the distance to her left confirmed her suspicions. Trying to occupy her mind and divert it from the sheer terror threatening to engulf her, she wondered how the bandits had known the Montbryce family would be at Whittington. This had not been a random act. They had been targeted. There was a traitor within. Had Morwenna played a role? Rhonwen had never lost her thirst for vengeance.

  Other than comforting words spoken to the children, the three women said nothing, exchanging only glances whenever the roadway caused their horses to be close to each other. A bandit led each horse and they had no chance to control their own mounts. Escape was impossible.

  Though there was no marker, Rhonwen could tell an hour later they had crossed into Wales when they reached the village of Rhydycroesau. The tension left the shoulders of their captors. The scowling faces of the villagers told them hope was lost. No one had pursued them. There would be no rescue. The Earl would never see his family again.

  After another hour in the saddle, the Countess asked several times if they might be allowed to dismount for a few moments for the sake of the children, but was ignored. Did the men speak her language? They came to a village and on the western edge reined in the horses at a cottage.

  “You’ll sleep here tonight,” one of the swarthy men said gruffly in Norman French, holding out his burly arms to help the Countess dismount.

  Rhonwen could see her lady did not want to accept his aid, but would probably have fallen flat on her face if she didn’t. She could barely stand when her feet hit the ground and had to lean on the horse. The man did not take his hand from her elbow. Should Rhonwen tell him? Would her mistress be angry?

  When he grew impatient, Rhonwen could not remain silent and told him in Welsh her mistress was pregnant. He seemed surprised and allowed her more time to regain her equilibrium.

  Once they were inside, the man bolted the door of the cottage, imprisoning his captives. Robert and Baudoin ran quickly to their mother. Neither boy had cried throughout the ordeal and she told them how proud she was of their courage.

  Baudoin struggled to control his fear. “Wi
ll Papa come to rescue us, Maman?”

  “I’m sure Papa will do everything he can to rescue us, mon petit.”

  Rhonwen did not share her optimism, and from the look on her face, neither did Giselle.

  Bread and cheese and ale had been provided for them. The cottage was cramped but clean. It afforded them a chance to sleep indoors and take care of their personal needs. Giselle did her best, with the limited means at her disposal, to tend her lady. Rhonwen massaged her lady’s back and applied to her feet a salve Caryl had given her, which she had packed in her saddle bags. The Countess had not started to bleed and the women prayed together for the unborn child.

  The Countess slept on a pallet and her sons cuddled into her. Giselle and Rhonwen clung to each other on the second pallet. They were gratefully surprised the linens were clean.

  At dawn the following day, a loud banging on the door of the cottage signalled departure. Andras, the leader, opened the door and brought in bread and honey to break their fast.

  The Countess whispered, “Rhonwen, do you know where we are?”

  “My lady, I think this village is Llansilin. I believe they’re taking us to the mountains.”

  Their suspicions were confirmed when they left the cottage. Their horses had been replaced by sure-footed Welsh mountain ponies. They couldn’t help but smile when Robert seemed to forget the terrible trouble they were in and exclaimed with excitement, “Look, Maman. Ponies!”

  ***

  At least mounted on the ponies the women were able to hold the reins themselves. However, the track had become a narrow twisting path. They rode single file, with some of the men in the lead and the others behind. Flight was impossible.

  Robert and Baudoin were now on a first name basis with the ponies they shared with their captors, and Rhonwen was relieved they were distracted from their fear.

  The path rose steadily for the next three hours. The scenery became wilder, the terrain more rugged. When they entered a remote village and the men called out to each other, confirming the direction to take, the Countess looked to Rhonwen.

  “We’re in Llanrhaeadr-ym-Mochnant,” she whispered in reply to the unspoken question.

  The Countess shrugged. “I don’t know why I ask. I’ll never remember these tortuous names, and what does it matter anyway? Who can I tell?”

  ***

  It was getting colder. They had left Llanrhaeadr far behind at least an hour before, and were still climbing. They had dressed for the warm autumn weather in Whittington and the children were shivering. The brigands had provided blankets at the cottage, but Rhonwen’s fingers and toes were freezing. Giselle and the Countess were suffering the same problem. They blew on their hands and rubbed them together, trying all the while to keep the ponies on the narrow track.

  Rhonwen became aware of the sound of rushing water. Judging by the roar, it must be a high waterfall. Suddenly they came upon a cascade which fell two hundred and fifty feet through a stunning arched rock formation. The raging torrent was thunderous. Some of the water had already started to form into ice crystals at the edges. She recognized at once where they were, though she had never been there. The men called a halt as everyone gazed at this natural wonder. One of them took the opportunity to give each captive another woven brychan.

  “Pistyll-Rhaeadr,” Rhonwen yelled to her fellow captives. “I’ve heard of it many times. It’s the most beautiful waterfall in all Wales.” Her mistress nodded and smiled weakly.

  They headed into the woods. This path led into a wide valley. After a few hundred feet they were down in the valley floor and then they turned onto a track going in the opposite direction up the hill on the other side.

  They made their way to the top, then onto a trail which wound up from the valley floor. Once the tortuous path reached the head of the valley, the men turned in their saddles to view the scenery behind them. The women followed their gaze and it took everyone’s breath away. Despite their situation, Rhonwen felt a surge of pride in the beauty of the land of her birth.

  The path then followed a stream, and soon they came across a sight which made the first stunning vista pale in comparison. There was a lake far below them in a deep crater. Rhonwen had never seen a lake of the same deep blue. Beyond lay craggy mountains and ridges. She hoped that was not where they were going. The leader signalled another halt, and the captives were allowed to dismount. They huddled together on rocks in a clearing. One of the men provided bread and cheese to eat and ale to drink.

  “I don’t want to put you in danger, Rhonwen, but ask them where they’re taking us,” the Countess urged.

  Rhonwen did as her lady asked, but got only a grunt and a disdainful look in reply.

  The climb for the next two hours was strenuous. They came to the top of a crag and had to hug the side of the mountain. It was the strong hind legs of the ponies that carried them through. The path was wet and slippery. If they fell, they would fall to their deaths.

  Once they had crested the crag, they headed along a wide ridge path. They reached a rocky knoll and were astounded to see a wooden fortress loom out of the mist, built into the side of the mountain. Some of the rooftops seemed to be covered with turf, others with what looked like slate. Though the rear of the fortification was not visible, Rhonwen was sure it was perched on the edge of a deep ravine. An attacking army would have to send its soldiers in one at a time. It was impregnable. This was probably the reason for the evident lack of armed men on the high balustrades. They had reached their destination and her heart plummeted. She took a deep breath as she surveyed the magnificent scenery of high mountains on every side. A glance at the Countess revealed her lady’s stoic despair.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Darkness fell as the captives rode through the gates of the forbidding fortress. The towering palisades, made of stout trees lashed together, were as tall as two men. Once inside, they were led to a chamber. Andras quickly lit several candles. The room was clean but spartan.

  “We’re expected,” the Countess whispered sarcastically to Giselle.

  On one side of the room there were five palettes piled high with linens and furs. A chamber pot sat behind a discrete screen, along with a basin and ewer full of water, and drying cloths. An empty wooden bathtub stood propped against the wall. A roughly hewn table and six stools completed the furnishings. The comparative warmth led them to believe none of the walls was an outer one. They were completely within the fortress.

  “My children are hungry, Andras,” the Countess complained, but he did not reply. The heavy door was bolted after he left. The women exchanged worried glances—they would have to be careful what they said in front of the boys. It was a relief none of them had been raped. They had been treated relatively well by their captors. With the natural curiosity of children, Robert and Baudoin explored their new surroundings, and the women sat down to wait.

  They did not have to wait long. Andras reappeared and ushered them to follow. He led them along a dimly lit corridor, outside across a rocky pathway, then into a great hall, full of light from scores of torches. It was difficult to believe such a place could exist so high in these bleak mountains. It must have taken considerable skill and perseverance to build.

  The high vaulted ceiling was supported by huge wooden crossbeams from which hung banners Rhonwen did not recognize, wafting on the currents of air. The walls were decorated with a motley collection of shields, weapons, furs and antlers. The air was hazy with smoke and heavy with the aroma of roasted game. At least a hundred dark-haired, swarthy men, bristling with daggers, lined the walls, standing erect, dressed in sheepskin jerkins, leather breeches and boots. It was the devil’s army, every man with his eyes on the hostages.

  At the front, on a dais, sat the only furniture—two massive wooden chairs, one slightly smaller than the other. Andras urged the hostages forward to stand directly in front of the chairs, Rhonwen and Giselle behind their mistress and her children.

  A large man lounged in the bigger chair, his long f
ingers caressing the intricately carved dragons on the arms. He wore breeches and boots but no shirt, only a sleeveless leather jerkin which came down to his hips. The open front revealed a well-muscled chest and a necklace of beads around his neck. His face bore the trace of a smile. The sight of him took her breath away. Prickly heat flooded her body and she was relieved no one was paying attention to her.

  A blonde woman sat on the edge of the other chair, looking malevolently pleased. A gasp escaped Giselle. “Morwenna,” she whispered to her mistress. Rhonwen’s eyes flew to the woman and her heart thudded in her ears. Here was her mother’s murderer.

  The Countess frowned. Her tired face betrayed her embarrassment at the man’s clothing, and Rhonwen could tell her mistress did not immediately recognize the girl with hair flowing in a wild tangle down to her waist. Two tight braids framed her face. The end of each braid was adorned with brightly coloured beads, and she wore a narrow leather thong around her forehead. She too was clad in leather breeches and boots, and a sheepskin jerkin. A malicious look of triumph had replaced the smile.

  My lady doesn’t recognize her, but I do.

  Morwenna made a move to rise and speak, but the big man stopped her with a barely perceptible movement of his hand.

  Rhonwen knew without being told this giant was Rhodri ap Owain, and she suspected her lady knew it too. He had been a constant thorn in the side of the Marcher lords for a long time. His sorties into the border counties of England from his stronghold in the Welsh mountains left a trail of fear and destruction in their wake. It was said he hated Saxon and Norman equally and burned with Celtic fervour for a Wales free of their domination.

  Rhonwen contemplated him nervously now—at more than six feet he was a towering figure, with curly black hair hanging down his back, flowing freely, except for two tight braids at either side of his face, each bound at the end with amber beads. He looked in need of a shave, but she suspected that was always the case.