He stood up, took the bedside taper and lit every other candle he could find, finally dispelling most of the shadows. Shivering, Hugh picked up a cloth and wiped himself dry, then threw some wood on the fire, lighting it once again. After the fire caught, he sat down in the comfortable chair near the hearth, and tried to call up pleasing thoughts to dispel the terrible aura of the dream.
Siân Tudor came to mind first.
Bright, coppery hair. Dazzlingly sunny smile.
Hugh had thought her merely a whimsical child. Her words the previous afternoon, however, had shown that she was not. There was more to Siân Tudor than misty forests and faeries, though. In spite of her words about attacks on her village, and starving children, Hugh could not imagine any darkness resting within the untouched purity of Siân’s soul.
Chapter Five
At eventide the following day, Nicholas persuaded Hugh to join in the formal supper that had taken two days for the castle cooks to prepare, and would be attended by the queen and all her retinue.
“You cannot continue going about ignoring Lady Marguerite,” Nicholas had said with irritation. “You just proposed marriage. At least appear to be interested.”
“I am interested,” Hugh protested darkly. “I asked for her hand, did I not?”
Nicholas, seeming to Hugh to be unduly perturbed, turned and skulked angrily out of the room. Nick was giving far too much weight to this whole proposal, Hugh thought.
While a close allegiance with the new lord of Clairmont would be beneficial to Nicholas, and Wolf Colston, and several other neighboring lords, it was not essential. If Marguerite accepted another proposal, another husband, then so be it. The neighboring landowners could make an ally out of Marguerite’s new choice. And Hugh would then make the journey to Alldale—a trip he now realized he’d delayed too long already—and become lord of his own demesne.
Grumbling anew over his “command performance” in the great hall, Hugh dressed in clean doublet and chausses. He knew Marguerite could deal with the festivities very well on her own. She had no need of him, nor would she, he imagined, after they were wed.
Once he took Marguerite to wife, and Hugh had no doubt that the lady would be advised to choose him, Hugh would put an end to all this frivolous nonsense, as there was no need for it. The incessant parties at Clairmont would stop.
He would fulfill his husbandly duties, and his lady wife would be required to ask no more of him.
Siân loved a party.
All of the queen’s ladies were dressed in their finest gowns, and one of them lent Siân a beautiful violet kirtle. The gown was exquisitely detailed with fine, white bone buttons that fastened up the front, fitting it tightly to her torso and hips. Its long, flowing sleeves were lined in multicolored, contrasting stripes. Siân had never owned anything so fine or stylish, and she savored every moment wearing it, vowing to be careful not to spill anything, or to trip over the hems of her sleeves.
One of Queen Catherine’s maids arranged Siân’s hair in a simple but elegant coif, and placed small tufts of dried flowers in the shining, russet mass. The queen herself gave Siân a fine gold pendant to wear about her neck, and Owen grudgingly allowed her to wear their father’s ring which bore the Tudor crest on it. Owen had to admit that his sister was lovely, even if she was destined for the nunnery.
That was a fact that Siân intended to forget for the evening. It would be her last soirée before going to St. Ann’s, and Siân intended to enjoy every minute of it. She would feast on Clairmont’s superb cuisine, join in the card games and other amusements, and dance to her heart’s content. Afterward, she would go to her bed knowing she had savored all the small joys she was to be allowed in this lifetime.
Owen escorted her into the hall, which was brightly lit and festively decorated. Queen Catherine’s minstrels were already playing fiddle and lute, psaltery and harp. A couple of handsome young men sang in harmony to the musicians’ accompaniment as the lords and ladies began to gather for the victory feast.
Nicholas soon escorted the queen into the gathering, then Siân’s breath caught as Hugh Dryden appeared with Lady Marguerite in hand.
“What is it?” Owen asked.
“Ah… ’Tis nothing, Owen,” Siân replied evenly, averting her eyes from the noble pair. Hugh was so striking tonight, so dangerously appealing, her heart pounded just at the sight of him. Nothing could come of her attraction to that dark and solitary man and Siân did not intend to invite further censure by saying anything of it to Owen.
It would be enough just to spend the evening here, in the great hall with Hugh, perhaps to speak to him later. Siân knew that a person of her own lowly stature could not hope to gain more than the passing attention of the devilishly intriguing hero of Clairmont.
The evening progressed satisfactorily for Siân, with no serious mishaps at table and no awkward breeches of protocol. Siân’s tablemates were pleasant enough, though she felt the young men from London were still too forward with her. In the past, whenever she mentioned their behavior to Owen, he accused her of over-reacting, of making more out of their actions than was warranted. He’d questioned how she could fault them for wanting to be friendly.
And perhaps Owen was right. Mayhap she was being unreasonable, for she knew so little of courtly ways. Nor was she accustomed to much male attention—the families of Pwll had painfully learned the cost of friendship with a Tudor. Though they hadn’t completely shunned her, they’d certainly made sure no one became overly friendly. And Siân herself knew enough to keep herself apart after the tragic deaths of Idwal and Dafydd, not wanting to further endanger the towns-people who’d taken her in after her father’s death.
As a result, she didn’t really know what to make of these courtiers’ attentions. She’d taken pains to avoid them since coming to Clairmont, but that wasn’t possible tonight, since she was seated with Dwayne Morton, the worst roué of them all. Fully aware that it was up to her to avoid any trouble this night, and to overlook her companions’ boldness, Siân was determined to make the most of the evening.
After all, she had not much time until St. Ann’s claimed her.
The seating formalities at the main dais were complex, with Queen Catherine at the center of it all. Lady Marguerite was situated between Nick and Hugh. The other lords and ladies of Catherine’s party were then arranged according to rank, all the way down the table.
Hugh gave his attention to his meal, indifferent to the French chatter going on all around him, leaving Nicholas to tend to Marguerite’s needs since she was seated on his blind side and he couldn’t easily see her. Siân Tudor was seated right in his line of vision, along with two noblewomen and three of the useless dandies who’d traveled from London with the queen.
Hugh’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. Why had he never before noticed the elegant line of Siân’s neck, or the delicate hollow at her throat? Why did she look so graceful and refined now? Had her hair ever glinted fire the way it did just now, or did its intricate style make it glow that way? He frowned. Why did she not tame those undisciplined wisps of hair that sprung loose over her brow and before her ears?
He turned away, taking a long draught of ale, and tried to remember if she’d had those small dimples next to her mouth the other times he’d seen her.
He didn’t think so.
The meal went on interminably for Hugh, who cast quick, assessing glances Siân’s way. He didn’t particularly like the way the young dandy sitting opposite, leered at her. And the other two fellows were just as bad, their eyes wandering where no chivalrous knight’s should go.
Where, in the name of Christ, was the woman’s brother? Hugh looked around for Owen Tudor, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Shouldn’t he be keeping an eye on his sister? Shouldn’t he have sent her back to her chamber to change into a more demure gown? One that did not show so much bare, sculpted shoulder, so much…chest?
The angry red scrape Siân had gotten the day he’d killed the boar was now merely a m
ild red abrasion. It did nothing to detract from the beguiling expanse of lush skin exposed above the closely fitted bodice of the gown she wore.
Hugh shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His mouth went dry. If the lady moved any farther forward, he had no doubt she would fall out of her gown. How could her brother allow her to dress in a manner that was so…
Hugh swallowed his mouthful of ale and removed his attention from Siân Tudor. How she dressed, and what men attended her, were not his concern. He would do well to try to participate in the conversation at his own table. Glancing over at Marguerite, however, he realized belatedly that his own lady fair wore a gown with a bodice cut similarly to Siân’s. So did Queen Catherine. Yet the clothing of Marguerite and the queen did not seem nearly as revealing. The expanse of bared skin was not as provoking, not as…as disturbing…as Siân’s.
Siân’s eyes sparkled happily, naively, flashing deep blue. Hugh simmered unreasonably each time one of the courtiers at her table cut meat and offered it to her from his knife. She had her own utensil, did she not? he wondered with inordinate irritation as he watched her take the morsel between her full, moistened lips.
Hugh used one finger to pull the collar of his doublet away from his overheated neck and wished for an end to this interminable meal. He could see no reason for the footmen to continue stoking the fire, as it was plenty warm in the hall already.
The overdressed peacock sitting next to Siân grinned flirtatiously at her, then touched her chin and slid an arm around her waist as the toasting began, finally pushing Hugh’s patience to the limit. He stood abruptly to leave the dais and protest the untoward familiarity of Siân’s companion just as the applause and cheering started.
He looked at the faces around him and realized with dismay that he was being lauded as a hero. Looking back in Siân’s direction, he saw that she was now standing with the rest of the assemblage—well out of the reach of the lecher next to her—and was holding up her goblet to him and smiling openly with utter delight.
To satisfy the crowd, Hugh took up his own drink and swallowed, disquieted by the homage of the un-pretentious young woman who stood before him.
Several more toasts followed the first, and soon afterward, people followed the queen’s lead, arising from their seats to mill around the hall. Finally, when Hugh was about to make his escape, he was waylaid by Sir George, who plied him with detailed questions regarding the battle.
Tables were cleared away and the musicians began to play a carole, spurring the guests to arrange themselves in a circle for the dance while Hugh spoke at length with Sir George, outlining plans for the future defense of Clairmont.
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Lady Marguerite said as she interrupted Hugh’s discussion with the steward.
Hugh turned to give his full attention to the lady. He knew he’d been remiss at supper, but did not believe Marguerite minded his inattention. After all, there had been plenty of others at their table who could engage in the kind of lively conversation upon which courtly ladies thrived.
Hugh was not one of them, nor would he pretend to be.
“Please excuse me, my lord,” she continued, quite uncharacteristically ill at ease. Her eyes did not rise to meet his, and she picked at a nonexistent flaw in the sleeve of her gown. “The hour grows old…Her Majesty and I would retire to our chambers now.”
“I will escor—”
“S’il vous plait,” she begged hurriedly, as though reluctant to spend more time in his company than necessary. Hugh cautioned himself not to jump to that conclusion. “Please. The queen’s guards accompany us. It is not necessary for you to shorten your talk with Sir George.”
As Marguerite made her retreat, Hugh clasped his hands behind his back and resumed his discussion with the steward, not unaware of the undercurrent of discomfiture between himself and his intended bride. The lady would have to come to terms with the idea of marriage to him, he thought, as he would to her. The notion was no more appealing to Hugh at that moment than it was to Marguerite, nor did Hugh believe it would ever be.
But his proposal was given, and he was committed. There would be no withdrawal of his offer.
The music and revelry continued about him. Many of the castle guests retired to smaller rooms and alcoves to play at cards or to gamble over the throw of the dice. Servers refilled his goblet with mulled wine.
In the glittering light of hundreds of candles, dancers arranged themselves in two long, graceful lines with partners across from each other, making intricate steps apace with the music, meeting in the center, then moving down the row.
The bright, lively music brought Siân to mind again. Hugh glanced about for her, but could not locate her among the throng. He did not see her brother, though it occurred to Hugh that Owen may have escorted Siân to her chamber. It was late and she was likely weary. Just because she so openly enjoyed the celebration didn’t mean she wouldn’t use good sense and hie herself off to bed.
Did it?
“Please let me by, Dwayne,” Siân said to the young nobleman who had become more of a pest this night than he had in all the time she’d spent in London or during their journey to Clairmont. He’d hovered over her all evening, touching her improperly, and ignoring her protests. She knew with a certainty now, that Owen had been mistaken about him. His was no mere overture of friendship. Though Siân sidestepped him every time, it was becoming more and more difficult to be civil as the evening progressed and he refused to leave her alone.
Escaping Dwayne yet again, Siân tried to locate Owen among the crowd, but he was not in sight—nowhere near to help her. She did not want to leave the gathering so early, but this persistent young man was making it impossible for her to stay.
Downcast and resigned, she took a last sip of wine before turning to leave, only to find Dwayne in front of her yet again.
“Come outside to the courtyard with me,” Dwayne said, taking her arm.
“No, Dwayne,” she protested, resisting his pulling. “I will not leave with you.”
“You wound me, Siân,” he said over the music and laughter in the hall. “Tease me all night, then say nay. I—”
“No, Dwayne,” Siân said, knowing full well she’d only been polite—to him and everyone else. “Unhand me, please, and let me by,” Siân persisted.
He gave her what she supposed he thought was a seductive grin and tugged at her more firmly than before. “You’re a saucy little minx,” Dwayne mumbled as he pulled her out of the hall and dragged her into a darkened gallery. “Ever since you came to London, I’ve thought that you and I—”
“No! Leave me be!” Siân demanded as she dug in her heels.
Hugh felt he’d spent hours walking the parapets, inspecting the gatehouse and barracks, and looking over the armory with Sir George and a few of the Clairmont knights. He made suggestions for improvements and talked about new drills for the knights at the lists, and the men were anxious to implement his changes.
All the while, the lively music continued in the hall, making his skin prickle and all the hair on his body stand on end.
Hugh didn’t know what had come over him. It wasn’t like him to be so distracted, but he was having some difficulty keeping his attention on armaments and ramparts. He imagined the dancers in the hall, and visualized Siân Tudor dancing merrily with some courtly partner.
“If you wouldn’t mind, my lord,” George said, “I would ask that you speak to the men on the morrow. Explain the changes you recommend.”
Hugh nodded once. That was a task he could handle with ease. Unlike putting Siân out of his thoughts.
“Until morning then, my lord,” Sir George said as he walked toward his own quarters, leaving Hugh to climb the steps alone.
Hugh entered the hall and slipped through the crowd, hoping to climb the stairs and reach his chamber before being stopped and diverted again.
But as he climbed the steps at one end of the hall, a disturbing sight met his eye. Lady Siân was being pulled alo
ng toward a far doorway, by the dandified peacock who had been at her table earlier. And Siân did not appear to be going with him willingly.
Hugh didn’t give it a moment’s thought, but acted instantly. Taking the steps with quick agility, he reached the landing and moved toward the arch where he’d last seen Siân. The music and dancing went on, and no one spoke to him as he made his way through the crowd.
With one hand on the hilt of his sword, Hugh exited the hall and stepped into the dim corridor. Five more steps brought him to the place where Siân stood fuming. Her companion suddenly lunged for her and Siân, just as quickly, threw the contents of her drink at the fellow.
“Jésu bloody Christi, Siân!” he bellowed. Then he took a swing at her.
Siân ducked, missing the blow, and started to make a run straight toward Hugh, who braced himself for their collision.
“Ogh!” she gasped as she crashed into him. Looking up at him, she quickly whispered, “Mae’n chwith gen i,” then darted behind him, holding on to his doublet and using him for a shield, muttering to herself all the while. Though none of Siân’s thoughts seemed pieced together intelligibly, Hugh was able to hear a few disjointed words, a mix of English and Welsh.
There were tears in her voice, and anger, too. Hugh might even have found some humor in Siân’s talent for trouble, but for the steaming young buck standing before him, the young scoundrel who’d have knocked Siân flat with his fist had she not reacted so quickly.
Siân pressed herself up against Hugh’s back, wrapped her trembling arms around him from behind, and said in a quiet, meek voice, “Don’t leave me,” she whispered, the desperate plea penetrating Hugh’s tough shell. “Os gwelwch yn dda! Don’t leave me.”
Hugh was immobilized for an instant by the impression of Siân’s soft, womanly form pressing against his back, her arms grasping his belly and chest. His breath caught at once and he reined in a savage need to throw her over one shoulder and carry her away.
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