In Debt to the Enemy Lord

by Nicole Locke

Teague scrutinised the room. Since he’d brought her to his bed four nights ago, the sole change to the room was Ffion’s mortar and pestle and some herbs littered on a table. Yet it felt foreign to him.

  Gently placing her hand on the bed, he walked to the windows and opened the thick shutters to look into the courtyard below. The lit torches dotted across the dark stone walls and the full moon made it easy for him to watch his soldiers on patrol. He tried to put a name to the feeling of longing in him as he watched them.

  Envy. His soldiers understood their tasks. They had a purpose in the night. He felt envy, too, that they had companionship as they went about their tasks. For him, although he was busy during the days, he was alone during the nights. His brother was here now, but Rhain had too many female admirers to be much company. His solitary nature had never bothered him before...but now he felt a longing that couldn’t be fulfilled.

  With the threats on his life, companionship was a luxury he could ill afford. Still it did not stop the conflict between his wanting and denying.

  He turned from the courtyard and leaned against the window frame. There was no reason in any of this madness. It must be tiredness making him ache. Without sparing a glance at the sleeping woman, Teague left the room.

  Chapter Three

  Anwen woke to puffs of air brushing across her cheek. Two cloudy grey eyes, surrounded by folds of papery wrinkles and topped with hair the colour of snow, were mere centimetres from her face.

  The old woman gave a delighted giggle. ‘Ooooh, you’re awake. My name is Edith. Are you feeling a mite better? We knew you would wake today. You tried so hard yesterday though the blackies would get you again and of course you got awful sick. Almost undid all my hard work!’

  Anwen blinked. She tried to make sense of Edith’s words, but it was like listening to wind through trees and she felt, rather than understood, the words.

  ‘Today, I said that little child would live.’ Edith grabbed a wet cloth and gently wiped Anwen’s face with cool water. ‘You still have a mite of fever, I feel. Nothing like you had, though. You nigh had us scared witless when he carried you in five days ago silent as a kitchen rat.’

  Anwen turned her head with some effort. ‘Five days?’ she asked. ‘Where am I?’

  The bright light pouring through the many narrow tall windows hurt her eyes, yet she could still make out the dark, intricately carved bed she lay in and its cream-coloured coverlet bordered with rich red which was repeated in the linens covering two walls to give warmth. The rest of the room was decorated with deerskin rugs, carved tables and chairs, and a chest with locked brass fastenings.

  The room belonged to someone of great wealth and she didn’t recognise a thing.

  ‘Ooh, you can talk. Oh, yes, m’lady. Well, maybe a wee bit more than five days.’ Edith grabbed some pillows and carefully stuffed them behind Anwen’s back. ‘You’re probably starving, you poor thing.’

  With confusion setting in, Anwen shouldn’t be tempted by food, but the small bread loaf and flagon smelling of wine on the table next to her resembled a feast.

  ‘Nothing but broth for days.’ Edith tore off pieces of bread and fed them to Anwen. ‘How does it taste? Good? Too much?’

  She couldn’t answer around the bread in her mouth.

  ‘Now what was I saying? Oh! Though you’ve been asleep, you’ve had the house in an uproar, what with him always asking how you fared, and if the answer wasn’t satisfactory, he’d check on you. Never saw anything like it.’

  Edith kept stuffing bread in her mouth, but Anwen wanted to ask questions. Such as where she was and who Edith kept talking about, and who, for that matter, was Edith?

  ‘Him?’ she finally managed to say.

  ‘Did you say “him”? Don’t you remember anything at all?’ Edith shook her head. ‘That’s one question answered for us. We had a bet, you see—not exactly we and not exactly a bet, because I don’t do those sort of things—but there are some in the kitchens who have been wondering, heavily, whether you went into the sleep because of your head wound or because of him. But you see, since you didn’t know about him, then that answers the question for us.’

  With a flash of a practically toothless grin, Edith turned around and faced the door. ‘I need the towels by the bucket, Greta. She doesn’t know about him.’

  A large woman with big beefy hands carried linens into the room. She didn’t say anything, but her face was open and her brown eyes danced as she gave a wide friendly grin.

  ‘Who is he?’ Anwen could feel a headache beginning because of the kind of commotion no ancient old woman the size of a rinse bucket should make.

  ‘Why, he is the lord, of course, m’lady.’ Edith rolled down the covers. ‘Dear me, that head wound must make you suffer some. I’ll need to cool you with water while you lie still.’

  Edith pushed Anwen’s chemise up to bare her legs. ‘You must be weak as a fawn.’

  Anwen inspected her chemise. The weave was too fine and too white. It was not hers. ‘What happened? Where am I?’

  Edith sighed. ‘Oh, very well. I’ll not be saying much that you couldn’t find out by looking out of a window. Just outside the walls is Dameg Forest. You have heard of Dameg Forest?’

  ‘Yes, I live near Dameg Forest, but where am I now?’

  ‘Well,’ Edith started, ‘we’re by the forest, too.’

  Anwen looked to Greta for a clearer answer, but the other woman simply wrung a cloth in her hands. The worry on their faces turned her confusion to panic.

  Flashes of memory. Brynmor. Gwalchdu. Gully flying into the forest.

  Anwen’s heart lurched as she remembered the sickening crunch of the breaking branch. There was a man under the tree. She was angry. No, that didn’t make sense. Why would she be angry if he was there to catch her? She was safe. The man made her feel safe. But who was he?

  She contemplated the fine furnishings of the room, the thick stone walls, the rich wall coverings and an awful thought filled her head.

  ‘Who is the lord of this place?’ she asked.

  Edith was suddenly all of a flutter. ‘Don’t you mind me none. Got no manners and don’t know my place. I know that, by goodness I do. Going on like I did and you hurt and all. Why I could be causing you more harm than good.’ Edith bent to wring the water from the cloth.

  And that’s when the answer to her question entered her room. Framed by the doorway, he was dressed in partial chainmail as if for a joust. But this was not the type of man to do mock battle. His black eyes were too harsh, his face too hardened and, despite the daylight, shadows emanated from him. This was not a man to play at things, but to take and take by force.

  ‘Are you well?’ he asked, his voice deep and resonating around the room.

  Vaguely aware of Edith and Greta, both of whom were now standing at the far end of the room, she stared at the man walking towards her.

  ‘Did you eat? Can you hear me?’ he repeated.

  He was the dark man to the golden man’s light. He was anger to any kindness. He was the man who had watched her for days and at night had held her hand. He was the man beneath the tree and the man who had saved her life. In one incredulous moment, she knew who he was.

  He was Teague, Devil of Gwalchdu and the Traitor. He was a legend with the sword, a Marcher Lord of King Edward and her sworn enemy. And here she was lying in his bed. But she was no coward.

  ‘Yes, I hear you,’ she answered.

  He nodded, before his eyes skimmed down to her legs.

  Her bare legs.

  Before she could cover herself, Teague closed the distance between them and tossed the covers roughly over her. When he did not step back from the bed, she was forced to look up.

  ‘You should not move,’ he ordered. ‘Are you well?’

  Teague of Gwalchdu stood before
her. Why hadn’t she recognised it immediately when Edith was the only one in the room, when there might have been a chance to escape? How could she have been such a fool? But how could she have imagined she’d ever be brought to hell?

  Without turning, he addressed Edith and Greta. ‘Leave us.’

  Frustration swamping her, she watched as Edith and Greta closed the door behind them. She was alone with the man who had torn her family apart and had brought the ruination of Brynmor. She had dreamed of meeting him face to face, but not when she was so weak she could barely sit up.

  He narrowed his eyes, assessing her. ‘No, you’re not. You’re far too pale and that bruise is likely to continue spreading before you are healed. Does it hurt?’

  ‘Do you care?’

  He ignored her. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Is it important?’

  He lowered his arms to his sides. It was clear he wanted an answer.

  She didn’t feel like giving him one. He didn’t know who she was, or more specifically where she came from. It was no secret Brynmor and Gwalchdu were enemies. If she could keep her identity from him for long enough, perhaps she could escape.

  ‘If you don’t provide me with a name, I will give you one of my own.’

  ‘Anwen,’ she bit out.

  ‘Anwen?’ he asked and his tone implied he expected more.

  ‘Yes, Anwen,’ she said, repeating her name slowly as if he didn’t understand her.

  ‘Have I missed anything?’

  It was this man’s brother, the golden one, who opened the door. He looked so different to Teague. His reputation was different, too. This man had been too young to fight in the Welsh wars. To him she would be civil.

  ‘Rhain?’ Anwen said.

  ‘Yes!’ Rhain grabbed a stool and a chair and set both by her bedside.

  ‘Do you remember anything else?’ Rhain asked, sitting on the stool.

  She shook her head once. It was safer to pretend.

  ‘No one has told you of this place?’ Teague did not take his eyes from hers.

  ‘No,’ she answered.

  ‘You would want to know who we are and where you are, I imagine.’ Teague’s voice had grown silky, his mouth shaped into a mock of a smile. ‘How rude of me not to introduce myself, especially since you have supplied so much information to me.’

  He sat on the chair Rhain had placed near the bed. He was now so close she could see the growth of his beard, the deep furrows around his mouth. His lips held an odd curve, making them full, soft, yet harshly masculine at the same time. Without releasing her gaze, he answered, ‘I am Teague, Lord of Gwalchdu.’

  She could say nothing as her worst suspicion was confirmed. She lay in the bed of Gwalchdu’s lord. ‘Gwalchdu’ meant ‘black hawk’ and there was no more evil a bird in all of Welsh myth. The name fit this place and the traitor who now sat before her.

  ‘So you have heard,’ he said, gauging her reaction.

  ‘I have heard, but have seen nothing.’ She tried to keep her eyes unreadable. She had hated this man all her life. She would not back down now, despite the pounding in her head.

  He gave a curt nod. ‘You are wise to be blind. But it seems you watch now.’

  This was no word game he played with her. This was no pastime of a bored nobleman and there was no false smile on his face.

  Anwen tensed and immediately regretted it as her body protested. It would take all her resources to escape. But she had herself. That had proven enough in the past and it would prove enough now.

  ‘I don’t watch so much.’ Anwen tried to get her thoughts together as pain slashed across her left temple. ‘I’ll watch even less once you let me go.’

  Rhain stood. ‘We should go. It is clear you are unwell and have need of rest.’

  Rhain glanced at Teague, but the lord’s gaze locked with Anwen’s. For a moment she didn’t think he would answer.

  ‘She needs time, Teague,’ Rhain argued.

  ‘Call for Ffion.’ Teague’s voice was low, but not soft.

  * * *

  Anwen did not breathe again until the two men closed the door. She was trapped. Trapped by a huge giant of a man with eyes as dark as obsidian. Eyes she knew matched his soul. She knew his name, as a person knows the name of evil. At Brynmor, the people did not even whisper his name aloud without crossing themselves and he had sat so close to her she’d noticed the slight shadows under his eyes.

  Why would she notice he was tired? He was the Traitor. Dear God, she was beholden to the Traitor of Gwalchdu! It was clear he had saved her life by bringing her here. But now she recognised him, she wondered at his motive. She doubted it was kindness or gentleness. She’d seen his eyes caressing her bare legs; his motive could not be kindness.

  The pain was increasing, but she must fight it. She put a hand to her head, the thick dressing holding its shape; if only the dizziness didn’t increase, as well. The Traitor wanted something from her and she had no intention of staying to find out what. Anwen pushed until she was able to sit up. For a moment she thought she would make it, then the room spun, and blackness overcame her.

  * * *

  ‘Well, at least we know she is innocent of any treachery,’ Rhain whispered before they reached the bottom stair.

  ‘Do we?’ Teague walked through the entrance into the rare winter sunlight. He headed towards the gardens. It was wash day and the shrubbery was covered in linens.

  Rhain followed. ‘She called herself Anwen. Since we know Brynmor is missing someone by that name, we know she belongs to them. Now it will be simply a matter of letting her rest until we can return her.’

  Teague sat on a bench and stretched his legs. He admired the newly tilled and almost bare garden, knowing his winter larder was full. ‘But she didn’t say she was from Brynmor.’

  ‘She didn’t?’ Rhain thought for a moment, then shrugged. ‘So?’

  ‘So, she could have been given that information.’

  ‘What significance can it have? All manors have sworn allegiance to Edward.’ Rhain sat, and adjusted the dagger at his waist.

  ‘All manors have, but not all the people.’

  ‘You think that woman is a threat?’

  ‘Yes. When she practises deception and tells us nothing.’

  Rhain shrugged. ‘Does it matter since we know her identity and her home?’

  ‘It matters that she deliberately hides facts. What else is she hiding?’

  Rhain fingered his dagger’s hilt. ‘She suffered a severe head wound and could have mistaken your questioning.’

  ‘No, I saw her eyes on me when I entered the room. She knew who I was. She is hiding something.’

  Rhain pursed his lips before answering. ‘She has been deeply hurt, Teague. Let her go. She can have no knowledge of what plagues us here.’

  Teague scuffed his foot through the rough dark dirt. Many razed stalks were bare, but protected by compost. Come spring, he was sure the herbs would be flavouring his meals. Yet he wasn’t sure of the woman in his bed. He couldn’t take a chance on her innocence. ‘Like hell I will.’

  * * *

  It was the time of night that was almost day, but despite the hour, she could feel he was there. She was too tired to fight and didn’t open her eyes. ‘Why are you here?’

  Teague watched Anwen fall asleep, watched as her breathing slowed, and her eyelids ceased their fluttering. ‘I don’t know,’ he said, even though she could not hear him.

  He shouldn’t be here. Now that she was conscious, it was time to stay away from her. He might know her identity, but he still did not know her motivations and those would take time and distance to discover. But still he lingered idly by her side like some besotted troubadour.

  No, this wasn’t an idle feeling, but a deep churning in his blood.


  When he entered his chamber, the sight of her had been like the flat of a sword to his gut. She had lain in his bed, propped up with his pillows, her legs bared as if waiting for him. As if she belonged. He was ill-prepared for the lust which had assailed him.

  When he tried to find some semblance of control, she refused to answer his questions. Weak as she was, she defied him. She might have been truthful in giving her name, but she withheld something. He could feel it. She had known he wondered where she lived, but had avoided answering him. She’d asked where she was, even though she already knew.

  Teague averted his gaze from her sleeping face. It was wrong for him to be here, but she was wrong in hiding something. She could not be allowed secrets. He had an enemy threatening his home. He would discover what she hid from him. He had to. For all their sakes.

  Chapter Four

  ‘You have overexerted yourself, I see.’ With long strides, an older woman, wearing voluminous black robes, approached the foot of Anwen’s bed. ‘Take care, girl. I am Sister Ffion and I don’t have time to cater to you and do my duties here.’

  Biting her lip to keep from snapping at a woman of God, Anwen watched Ffion pull herbs from her satchel and place them in the mortar on the nearby table.

  ‘You took a blow to your head.’ Ffion lifted and swirled the matching pitcher before pouring the dark liquid on top of the herbs and mashing them more. ‘I’ll do the best I can, but it is in God’s hands.’

  As Ffion ground the concoction, the air turned foul. Anwen’s eyes watered.

  ‘I’ll have none of your complaints.’ Ffion set the pitcher down and came to her side. ‘You about undid all of my healing. For days this poultice has been placed on your head to help heal your wound.’

  Anwen tried to breathe through her mouth, as she lifted her head and concentrated on Ffion’s cold hand supporting her neck. ‘You have been here?’

  ‘From the beginning.’ Ffion unbound the wrappings. ‘Dear Rhain notified me immediately of your arrival. He knew of my healing abilities. Why, if it wasn’t for him, you would have died.’