With a warm smile, Mair turned to the handsome warrior. She had always liked Dylan, who was bold and honest and passionate. He was truly a good-looking fellow. Even tonight, dressed in the same simple clothes he had worn since his arrival, he looked better than many a man in the finest garments money could buy. Of course, it was not only due to the excellence of his body; there was a natural, pleasant charm to Dylan that no amount of study could achieve, or coins purchase. “I think it must be my excellent cooking.”
Dylan laughed, the low, joyous rumble making all around them smile, too.
Indeed, if there was one fault with Dylan, it was that he too much enjoyed being the center of regard. “I think it must be in spite of that.”
The rest of the folk at the table made murmurs of protest, while exchanging amused glances as they waited for Mair to answer. “You never tasted my food,” she replied evenly.
Their tablemates chuckled.
“Tell me you are not raising my son on ale.”
“Everybody drinks ale,” Mair replied, “and mine’s the best, but he eats enough to feed a foot patrol, too.”
“I will warn my wife to make extra, then.”
Mair laughed softly, regarding her former lover amiably. “An excellent idea.”
As the maidservants arrived to clear the table, a minstrel struck up a tune. Just as quickly, the men, including Dylan, all rose to push the tables against the wall to clear the floor for dancing. Several people hurried out onto the central space, including the baron and his wife.
“Are you in a mood to dance?” Dylan asked as he joined her on a bench.
“No, not even with you. With all the company the baron’s been having, I’ve been busy in the brewery. I thought having Normans wouldn’t be so bad, but that Sir Edward likes my ale.”
“As well he should. What of your braggot? That’s nectar for the gods.”
Mair grinned. “Wanting the poor man to have a head in the morning, are you? Too strong for Normans, that. They think that because it tastes like spicy mead, it’s no more harmful than that. They forget it’s got ale to it, too.”
“Aye, and I know about the head the next day,” Dylan admitted ruefully. “An ache that makes torture sound like a blessed relief. Look you, I think he’s gone through a cask of ale already,” he continued, nodding at Sir Edward, who sat beside the baron with an expression of sodden, beatific calm.
Dylan looked at the couple beside Sir Edward at the high table. “So, when are they announcing the betrothal?”
“Who?” she asked, following his gaze.
“Why, Trystan and that Lady Rosamunde.”
Mair smiled to hear the echo of her son’s scorn for “that Ivor” in his father’s voice. “You don’t sound as if you approve. She’s very beautiful.”
“Anwyl, Mair, I got eyes.”
Mair gave him a knowing, sidelong glance. “Isn’t that enough?”
“No,” he replied with sudden seriousness. Then he grinned again, because Dylan was rarely serious for long. “She may be all right enough, but she looks as stiff as an icicle and about as warm. I’d like to think Trystan had more sense than to marry for beauty or wealth or power.”
“Truly, my lord?” Mair said with feigned innoncence. “Is that not what persuaded you to marry at last?”
He gave her a mildly sour look. “No, and you know it. Mind, I wouldn’t throw such things on a dung heap.”
“Neither would Trystan.”
She wished she had kept any trace of annoyance from her voice as Dylan looked at her quizzically. “As you said, a man shouldn’t throw such things on a dung heap,” she said lightly.
“For a moment, I thought you were jealous.”
“Of that woman?” Mair scoffed with a laugh. “To be sure, I like her clothes, but they’d hardly do for wearing in the brewery, would they? Or are you thinking I am jealous of your wife? Anwyl, Dylan, not for an instant,” she answered truthfully, the knowledge of just how much that was true suddenly striking her.
And she wasn’t going to be jealous of Trystan’s wife, either.
“Maybe I’ve had too much wine,” Dylan noted meditatively as he glanced down at his goblet.
Mair realized they were as alone as they were likely to get in the hall and took a deep breath. “I think I should warn you, Dylan, that Arthur may ask you why we don’t live with you, and why you didn’t marry me.”
“Ah!” Dylan sighed.
“What will you tell him?”
“What did you say?”
“He hasn’t asked me yet.”
“Then what makes you think to warn me now, and so gravely, too?”
“Trystan was talking to him today, and I gather he asked Trystan.”
“Trystan?” Dylan asked, his eyes widening.
“I was as surprised as you to hear of it.”
“Trystan told you of Arthur’s question?”
“Yes.”
Dylan frowned and looked as displeased as it was possible for him to look. “What answer did he give?”
“That Arthur should ask us.”
“Thanks be to God for that!” Dylan said sincerely. “I can just imagine what other explanation Trystan might have given if he had been in one of his I-am-the-most-honorable-man-in-Britain moods. Too much of the Norman in my foster brother, I think.”
“What will you tell Arthur?” Mair persisted, turning the conversation away from her meeting with Trystan and back to the more important matter at hand.
“I will explain that you don’t live with me because you have always lived here and this is your home,” he said. “And we didn’t marry because…because….”
“Because you are a lord and I am an alewife?”
“Anwyl, Mair,” Dylan muttered, running a hand over his chin, “that sounds terrible.”
“It’s partly true. Or you could say I wouldn’t marry you because you are a lord, and I am not a lady.”
“That is not an improvement, and he might feel himself inferior if I say that, although he is my son.”
“He knows full well he is your younger son,” she said. “He sometimes thinks you prefer Trefor to him, and Trefor plays upon that fear.”
“I know,” Dylan replied gravely. “There’s good and bad in the DeLanyea tree, and sometimes I fear Trefor’s got some of that bad. I’ll do my best to weed it out, and to make certain Arthur knows I love my sons the same, as I would love other children, too, if I had them.”
“Has Genevieve…?” Mair asked, her heart filling with both sympathy and empathy for Dylan’s wife as he slowly shook his head.
“If Arthur didn’t question you, maybe he won’t question me,” Dylan said after a moment.
Mair had to smile. Dylan saw the sun behind every cloud. “You could tell him it’s because I wasn’t pretty enough.”
“Mair!”
“You could tell him you were the most fickle man in the castle and I would have laughed in your face if you’d been mad enough to ask me.”
“Now you’re wounding my tender feelings. I have been absolutely faithful to my wife and I have no intention of ever being unfaithful,” he replied firmly. He glanced at the dancers and grew serious again. “Unfortunately, I doubt the young lady dancing with our Trystan would share that sentiment.”
Mair followed his gaze toward Lady Rosamunde, who was moving as gracefully as a willow bending in the breeze.
“Oh, she’s subtle, that one,” Dylan said softly, “but as sure as I know women, she’ll never be happy in one man’s bed.”
Although Mair told herself she didn’t care about Trystan’s future wife and her faithfulness or lack thereof, Mair felt ill nonetheless. “You think she will take lovers?”
Dylan turned to her with a sardonic smile. “I would be willing to bet a considerable sum that I could get her into my bed tonight, if I were so inclined.”
Mair regarded him incredulously. “How can you be so sure?”
“Do you doubt my expertise?” he queried.
“I believe I would do better to speak to the baron. Trystan would only get angry and say that I am hardly in a position to be preaching about fidelity, given my history before my marriage.”
“But you never had more than one lover at a time, and you weren’t married. Nor was there ever talk of marriage, or even love, I don’t think,” Mair said. “I know he’s a prig, but surely he can’t compare the two.”
“You know Trystan,” Dylan replied wryly. “He can and he probably will.” He grinned his irrepressible grin. “Well, let us hope Trystan doesn’t ask for her. Now, speaking of marriage, how’s Ivor?”
Mair tried not to look annoyed at his assumption. “I have no marriage plans, and neither does Ivor. And I would not mention Ivor when you are with Arthur. Arthur doesn’t like him.”
“There’s a nick in the arrow tip, eh?”
Mair shrugged.
“Very well, I shall not mention Ivor,” Dylan said with a chuckle. “It will be enough that I may have to explain why I didn’t marry you.”
Mair regarded him steadily. “Just tell Arthur the truth, Dylan. Tell him you didn’t love me enough to ask, and I didn’t love you enough that I would have accepted you if you had.”
Chapter Six
Lady Rosamunde danced perfectly, too. Trystan enjoyed watching her graceful, expert motions as they circled the floor in a round dance, and wondered how he could have forgotten that during his brief absence. Even now, he could tell he was the envy of several of the men in the hall, and this was only a dance.
Indeed, what young man could keep his gaze from such womanly perfection?
Oddly enough, it seemed Dylan—who had found women an object of fascination nearly from birth—was well able to, for he hardly glanced at Lady Rosamunde. Perhaps whatever he was discussing so earnestly with Mair was more important. They were probably talking about Arthur.
Not that it mattered to Trystan what they were talking about. Mair had said she would not reveal their…indiscretion…and he didn’t doubt that she was a woman of her word.
Nor did he doubt that Dylan was being anything more than a friend to his former lover. Dylan truly loved his wife, and would continue to be faithful to her.
The dance ended and Trystan escorted Lady Rosamunde back to her cushioned chair on the dais. As he did so, he signaled for Gwen to bring them some wine.
Gwen didn’t look pleased to do so, but at least she did it, and Trystan commanded himself to pay attention to Lady Rosamunde rather than a disgruntled servant.
Fanning herself gracefully with her slender hand, Lady Rosamunde surveyed the gathering in the hall. “Who is that old fellow your father is listening to with such interest? A merchant? If so, I fear his business must not be good, for he is very poorly dressed.”
Following her gaze, Trystan said, “That is Aneirin, the most senior and respected of my father’s shepherds.”
Lady Rosamunde’s rosy lips frowned. “He is a shepherd?” she asked incredulously.
“Aneirin has forgotten more about sheep than most men ever know,” Trystan explained with a smile. “My father relies on his advice a great deal.”
“Oh.” Lady Rosamunde took a delicate sip of her wine and again her blue-eyed gaze perused the hall. “Who is that speaking with your cousin?”
“Her name is Mair,” Trystan replied nonchalantly. “She makes the ale your father likes so much.”
Trystan was surprised to see Lady Rosamunde’s nose wrinkle with distaste, then recalled that Normans generally favored wine. Ale was something for the Saxons and other peasants to drink. “It is very good ale,” he offered. “It is a pity he had to retire before the dancing.”
“Yes, but he has experienced this malady before, and I assure you, it is nothing serious.”
Trystan nodded, thankful that Sir Edward’s illness must be minor. Otherwise, his daughter would be more concerned.
He remembered the time Arthur and Trefor had eaten too many green apples. Mair had been beside herself until she discovered the cause of their pains. To be sure, she had not completely relaxed until their stomachaches had ceased and it was evident they were completely recovered, but surely he couldn’t judge every woman by Mair. Mair loved her son dearly.
Well, surely Lady Rosamunde loved her father just as well.
“Why would your cousin, a baron, speak with such a wench?” Lady Rosamunde asked, interrupting his reverie. “Why is she allowed in this hall, as if she were…” She hesitated, a tiny wrinkle marring her brow. “As if she were important.”
“She is the mother of Dylan’s younger son.”
“Ah, she is the one. She looks so…common.”
Trystan’s jaw tightened. “You know about Dylan’s children?”
Lady Rosamunde flushed and smiled bashfully. “I have made it my business to find out about your family. I…I hope you are not offended.”
“Offended? No,” he said, his momentary flash of anger appeased by her embarrassment, “but I am curious to know why.”
And curious to know if she had heard of his desire for his cousin’s wife, a desire that had lasted until Genevieve had shown him the futility of his youthful infatuation.
He was free of that boyish passion now, so only his persistent lust for Mair gave him any concern. And the way he felt in her arms after they had coupled, the perfect peace as if he had arrived where he truly belonged, must be his mind’s attempts to ease a guilty conscience.
Lady Rosamunde’s blush deepened. She glanced at him, then away. “You should not ask a lady why she does a thing,” she said softly.
This was how a woman should behave, with modesty and humility and shyness.
“You should not judge the DeLanyeas by Dylan’s behavior,” he said.
Lady Rosamunde’s eyes widened. “Oh, I understand it is men’s natures to…to do such things.”
“Some men’s natures,” Trystan corrected.
Lady Rosamunde’s smile was glorious to behold. “And I hear he has been faithful to his wife ever since they married.” She glanced at Dylan and Mair. “At least as far as anyone knows.”
Her sly tone took him aback. “I assure you, he has been faithful. He loves his wife very much, and she loves him.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Lady Rosamunde replied. “But of course, if a vintner samples other wine, that is to be expected, too, and a wise woman accepts it.”
Trystan’s brow furrowed. Was she saying that she would overlook a husband’s infidelity? Did she think that would please him?
Did she want to please him so much, she would say even that? How much more evidence did he require of her willingness to accept him? Surely he need not hesitate to ask for her hand.
“Lady Rosamunde D’Heureux, truly words cannot do justice to your beauty,” Dylan declared from somewhere close by.
Trystan tried not to scowl as his boisterous cousin sauntered toward them.
Dylan put a mournful frown on his darkly handsome face, yet the expression in his eyes remained unabashedly merry. “I have been waiting to speak with you at some moment when Trystan was not monopolizing your company, but I am beginning to fear that will not happen tonight. Since I must leave on the morrow, I hope you will forgive me for interrupting.”
Trystan was not willing to forgive Dylan for anything, and certainly not for smiling at Lady Rosamunde as if she were…any woman.
“I cannot mind when you interrupt to pay me a compliment, Baron DeLanyea,” Lady Rosamunde murmured.
Trystan knew she didn’t mean to point out the difference in rank between them. Dylan’s father had been a baron, and Dylan inherited the title, even though he was illegitimate. Trystan’s father had paid to ensure that under a system established to accommodate Norman law and Welsh tradition—and incidentally add to the Norman king’s coffers.
Without waiti
ng for any further invitation, Dylan sat, insinuating himself between Trystan and Lady Rosamunde. “I am sorry I was unable to converse with your father. I trust his illness is not serious?”
“Oh, no, a small malady of the stomach. He has suffered from it before.”
“I am glad it is minor. How are you finding Wales?”
“Delightful, and your uncle is a wonderful host.”
As his charming, courteous cousin continued to engage Lady Rosamunde in conversation, Trystan stopped trying to hide his scowl. Just when he was about to ask Lady Rosamunde for her hand, Dylan had to interrupt.
Maybe he should have guessed Dylan would do that sooner rather than later. Even happily married, Dylan could no more prevent himself from speaking to a beautiful woman than he could cease to breathe.
At the sound of Lady Rosamunde’s delicate laugh, Trystan glanced at her. She was flushed and smiling, and obviously finding Dylan’s conversation most pleasant.
Damn his cousin. Couldn’t he be content with winning the love of his wife? Couldn’t he be happy having captured the affection of so many women—aye, and retaining that affection, too, even after he had broken off with them? Wasn’t it enough that he could still talk amiably to Mair and genially discuss their child, and smile at her and have her smile back in that frank, approving way that started in the depths of her brown eyes and spread over her vivacious face?
Trystan rose abruptly. “If you will both excuse me, I think I need some fresher air.”
He marched from the hall, paying no heed to anyone’s curious glances. Nor did he pause and look back. He strode across the courtyard and up to the wall walk. Once there, he took great, deep breaths of the cool, clear air as he surveyed the countryside and nearby hills.
“Anwyl, running a race, are we?”
He spun around and saw Dylan grinning in the moonlight. “What are you doing here?”
“Wanting to talk with you, boy, is all. No need to look like you’d like to toss me over the edge.”
“I am not a boy.”
“No, no, you’re not. Lady Rosamunde doesn’t look to think so, either. Are you planning to wed her?”
“It is no business of yours if I am.”
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