A Warrior's Kiss

by Margaret Moore

He was but a man, after all.

  “Forgive me for upsetting you, my lady,” Ivor said close behind her, “but thinking you ought to know, me.”

  She slowly faced him, looking up at his anxious eyes. His lips. “I thank you for your concern, Ivor. Please do not tell anyone else what you saw.”

  “As you wish, my lady.”

  He made no move to leave, and neither did she. Then suddenly he took her hand and pressed a kiss upon the back of it.

  His firm hold and gentle kiss excited her more than anything Trystan had ever done, and her limbs seemed to soften like warm butter.

  “I…I think you had better go, Ivor,” she whispered, pulling her hand away, albeit reluctantly.

  “Forgive me, Lady,” he said as, with a look of dismay in his dark eyes, he backed away.

  Then he turned and fled from the garden like a man pursued by hounds thirsting for his blood.

  While Rosamunde remained behind, panting as if she had run up every step of one of the watch towers.

  As she tasted the sip of ale, Mair glanced out the door of her brewery, noting the height of the sun in the sky. The day was fine and sunny, unlike the past several that had been cold and wet, the rain like heaven’s own tears. Traveling would be easy and even pleasant on a day like today, and for that, she was glad and grateful.

  The long fortnight of Arthur’s absence was over, and he would return with Dylan today.

  She had never known a longer fourteen days, and she couldn’t deny that the official announcement of Trystan’s betrothal to Lady Rosamunde had not made them pass any quicker.

  Since she had heard the news, she had busied herself with her own business and avoided going to the castle unless it was absolutely necessary. She didn’t want to see Trystan, or the lady.

  This ale was excellent, she concluded, good enough for a knight’s wedding feast. Good enough to be included in the order the baron had made for that very event, another month from now.

  Maybe she should add an emetic.

  Anwyl, she was getting peevish in her old age, she thought with a self-deprecating grin. She had wanted Trystan to love her one last time, and so he had. She had said she wanted nothing more but the memory of being in his arms, and she would have to abide by that. She could not go begging for his love now, or ever.

  The light from the door dimmed. Angharad stood on the threshold in all her haughty, raven-haired glory—Angharad of the striking features and regal bearing, who had had no man after giving the young baron a son.

  Angharad, who supposedly had the Sight.

  And who, for a shock, actually looked to be smiling pleasantly.

  “Good morning, Mair,” she said, sauntering in with that queenly grace that Mair had been jealous of forever.

  “Good morning, Angharad. What brings you here today?”

  “Arthur is returning today, is he not?”

  “Aye, with Dylan.”

  Angharad sat uninvited on an empty barrel. “Dylan is going to take Trefor back to Beaufort with him for a last visit before Trefor goes to Fitzroy for his training.”

  “I know,” Mair said, wondering what had really brought Angharad here.

  “So, Trystan is marrying Lady Rosamunde.”

  “Aye, you were wrong about that, I see.”

  “No, I see,” Angharad said with the superiority of manner Mair had always hated.

  Even bearing Dylan a son herself had not made her equal in Angharad’s eyes.

  But what, after all, did Angharad have to brag of, except bearing Dylan’s first child? She was still an unmarried woman who spun wool for her keep, of the same rank as Mair.

  “What do you ‘see’?” Mair demanded, not troubling to hide her skepticism.

  Angharad made an inscrutable little smile as she adjusted her woolen shawl. It was a thing of dark blue beauty, for there was no denying that Angharad’s wool was of the best quality. “Something that will please you.”

  “Oh, and I should trust to this latest vision? It will be more likely to occur than my alleged marriage to the baron’s youngest son?”

  “Trystan isn’t married to that Norman yet, you know.”

  “The agreement has been made, written and signed. Unless she changes her mind, or dies, he would never break it.”

  “She is a woman, and so like to change her mind.”

  “Why is it you are so good at telling everybody else their future, and never speak of your own?”

  Angharad’s eyes flashed. “You know why. I cannot see it.”

  “How convenient.”

  “That is the truth. I have never had a vision about myself.”

  “Anwyl, Angharad, I am not going to marry Trystan, so if that’s all you care to talk about, I have things to do.”

  Angharad made no move to rise. Instead, her cryptic smile widened. “You are going to have more to do next summer.”

  “It doesn’t take the Sight to guess that, if business is good.”

  “It has nothing to do with business. How are you feeling these days, Mair? Tired? Tender in the breasts? A little sick to your stomach?”

  “I feel fine. No more tired than usual, no more tender about the breasts than I normally am at this phase of the moon, and my stomach doesn’t trouble me a bit,” she declared truthfully, fighting the surge of wild hope Angharad’s questions had engendered.

  “Well, then you may have an easy time of it this time.”

  “An easy time of what? Brewing?”

  Angharad laughed softly. “One could call it that.”

  “Oh, you and your riddles! Have you nothing else to do today but come by and annoy me?”

  “I thought you would be happy to know for certain.”

  “To know what for certain?”

  “That you are with child.”

  “Angharad, don’t!” Mair snapped as she flushed hotly. “Don’t be cruel.”

  “I thought you would be happy with what I’ve seen.”

  Mair drew in a deep, ragged breath. “If it were true, I might be.”

  Angharad stood and regarded Mair steadily, a truly warm smile on her face. “Mair, it is true. You are with child, and Trystan is the father. He will be a strong, healthy son, Mair, and when he is grown, he will be a credit to his parents.”

  Mair sat heavily. “That’s…that’s not true. It cannot be true.”

  But oh, her heart sang unbidden, what if it were? What if her desire to hold a baby in her arms again was going to be fulfilled?

  If she were pregnant, of course it was Trystan’s child. She had not been with Ivor since her last woman’s time.

  But how would Lady Rosamunde feel about that? She would not be happy, and would likely make Trystan’s life a misery.

  She might even break the betrothal, and all Trystan’s fine plans would be ruined. He would be humiliated.

  He was so proud, he would find that nearly unbearable.

  And because of that pride, he would likely hate her for destroying his ambitious hopes.

  “If I am with child, it could be another man’s,” she suggested.

  “No, it is not,” Angharad affirmed. “I have seen it.”

  “What, Trystan and me? You are mad.”

  “No more than you. I tell you, I have seen you with him.”

  “Oh, you have taken to sneaking about the village spying in windows, have you?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Yes, Mair knew. And she knew that if Angharad told people of her vision, everyone in and around Craig Fawr would believe it was true.

  They had all believed Angharad when she had predicted that Mair would marry Trystan, despite their apparent animosity. Indeed, they had been so certain of it, and that the truth would upset her, that they had kept it a secret from her for a long time.

  “Don’t tell anyone, Angharad,” Mair asked, as close to begging as she had ever been in her life. “Please. He is to be married to that Norman, not me, and no good can come of telling him.”

  “You will not
be able to keep it a secret, Mair.”

  “The name of the father I can, and I will.”

  “Ivor will think—”

  “Ivor will know it cannot be his.”

  “Ah!” Angharad said, nodding. Then her brow furrowed. “Yet who will you say—”

  “I will not say. I will smile and laugh and tell them to guess. If you keep silent, no one will suspect Trystan, of all men. Will they?”

  Angharad shook her head. “But he should know he has a son. Would you deny him that knowledge? And your son should have his birthright as a knight’s firstborn.”

  “I would spare his bride the knowledge. Have you seen her? Can you imagine the life she would lead him if she knew?”

  “She is not going to marry Trystan.”

  “Oh, Angharad, stop!” Mair cried, her hands balling into white-knuckled fists. “I don’t believe your prophecies! I am not such a gullible fool!”

  Angharad’s pale face crimsoned. “Then how can I be right so often?”

  “You make good guesses, that’s all. Look you, Trystan is betrothed to that Norman, and he’s going to marry her. I don’t know how you knew about Trystan and me. Maybe you saw him leave, or somebody else did. Or maybe you think you know, but you’re not as sure as you pretend to be.”

  Angharad’s gaze faltered.

  “Oh, God!” Mair moaned softly as she scrutinized Angharad’s downcast face. “That’s the truth, isn’t it? You really don’t know the future for certain.” Her voice trembled. “Maybe…maybe I’m not to be blessed with another child, after all.”

  Angharad rose and grasped Mair’s hands, her gaze frank and sincere. “Mair, I do believe what I see. But I don’t reveal everything because sometimes I cannot be absolutely sure what my dreams mean.

  “I will admit that I’m not certain who Trystan will marry. One day he said something nasty about Dylan, so I named the woman I thought would most upset him. I had my revenge when I saw how that enraged him, but I shouldn’t have been so flippant.

  “I confess I did not consider how you might feel about it.”

  “Angharad, I, of all people, know how Trystan can make you want to say something to get his goat.”

  “Mair, I do know Trystan will marry, and he will be happy with his wife. And I know he will have sons, and a daughter. I know that the child you bear is his,” she finished firmly.

  “After so long, Angharad, to have a baby,” Mair said wistfully before resolve appeared in her eyes. “Please, say nothing to anyone. Let me deal with this, in my own way.”

  “But you should not deny your child his birthright.”

  “I would not make trouble between Trystan and his Norman bride if I can help it.”

  “Since you bear his child, you already have,” Angharad pointed out as she walked to the door. She paused on the threshold and looked back. “I shall do as you ask, Mair, because our sons are brothers, and I’ve always liked you. Indeed, I am truly happy for you, because you have wanted another baby for so long.”

  Mair nodded as Angharad departed, then sat down on the empty barrel to stare unseeing as she thought of all that had been said.

  Another baby at last! Trystan’s baby. She would have a part of him to love and cherish forever.

  He had said he would acknowledge their child—but would he really? When it came to choosing between peace with his Norman wife or acknowledging his illegitimate child, what would he decide? Should she even force him to make that choice, or should she do it for him?

  And what of Arthur? He had been her only child for so many years. He might resent the baby even more than he resented Ivor.

  She would have to ensure that didn’t happen, and she would have to ensure that her second son did not feel as Trystan did, bitter and resentful and always second-best.

  That might not be easy, especially if she kept the identity of his father a secret from him. But to tell anyone…

  The whole village might find out, and then rumors would go from village to village, and eventually Lady Rosamunde would hear.

  It could be that by that time, though, Trystan and his wife would have a child of their own.

  Under Norman law, her child would be a bastard and entitled to nothing unless Trystan paid the cynnwys. Yet the child she bore to Trystan should have rights of inheritance, as well as the issue of his marriage with Lady Rosamunde. To keep the identity of her child’s father a secret would be to rob him of his birthright.

  Eventually, she would have to decide if she should spare Trystan and rob her own child of what was rightfully his, or tell the truth and let Trystan deal with the consequences.

  Perhaps there could be some arrangement made, a secret arrangement, so that Trystan could provide for his son without officially acknowledging him. It was not an honorable way, but it was better than nothing.

  “Mam!”

  Smiling, Mair rose and held out her welcoming arms as her son ran through the door, tossing his leather pouch onto the floor nearby. Behind him, at a more sedate pace, came Dylan.

  She hugged Arthur tightly to her. “Oh, I’ve missed you! Were you a good boy?”

  “I learned how to knock Da down!” Arthur exclaimed proudly as he disengaged himself from her maternal hold.

  “Aye, and too well, too. I am bruised from head to toe,” Dylan said ruefully, shaking his head with apparent regret.

  “You don’t look bruised,” Mair noted.

  “I feel bruised.”

  “You didn’t answer my question, Arthur,” she said as she retrieved his pouch, knowing that Genevieve would have sent him home with all his linen clean. “Were you a good boy? Did you mind your manners?”

  “He was as good as I expect my son to be,” Dylan replied.

  Mair laughed. “Anwyl, that could mean nearly anything!”

  “I was good, and chewed with my mouth shut and remembered to use my napkin and I said please and thank you and I only took third helpings six times.”

  Mair cocked her head studiously. “Ah, only six?”

  “Come now, Mair, Genevieve practically force-fed the lad. He did very well.”

  She smiled warmly and ruffled her son’s dark hair. “I am glad to hear it. Now take your things to the house, Arthur.”

  Her boy hurried to obey. As he left the brewery, Mair sighed happily, glad to have him home again.

  “You’re looking well,” Dylan remarked.

  “Not too tired?”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “Should you look tired?”

  “No.”

  “You look very happy.”

  “I am—to have my son home again. I miss him when he’s gone.”

  Dylan continued to scrutinize her in a way she found disturbing. “What are you staring at?” she demanded. “Is my dress torn? My hair more of a mess than usual? Did a tooth fall out without me knowing it?”

  “You’re…glowing.”

  “Oh, so now I am an oil lamp? Maybe I’ve been eating too much fish.”

  “It’s a nice glow.”

  “I’ve been tasting the ale, perhaps a trifle too much.”

  Dylan chuckled. “You had best take care, Mair, or you’ll wind up drinking all your money away.”

  “Not me,” she declared.

  “Good,” he replied with a grin. “Now, if you will excuse me, I had better go see Angharad and Trefor, or Trefor will be accusing me of playing favorites.” With a wry expression, he shook his head. “I fear I am doomed to that accusation for the rest of my life.”

  “It seems to be a common enough thing among brothers.”

  “How would you know? You never had any.”

  “As I seem to recall you saying, I got eyes. I’ve seen enough brothers to have an opinion.”

  “Well, I shall bow to your wisdom.” He sauntered toward the door, his easy stride reminding her of Trystan. “Arthur said he wants to come, too, if that’s all right with you.” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “I suspect he wants to try knocking Trefor down.”<
br />
  Then he grinned. “And good for him, too. The boy needs taking down a peg or two, even if he is my eldest son.”

  “I won’t disagree.”

  “Will I see you in the hall tonight?”

  “No, not tonight. I want to have Arthur all to myself after he’s been away.”

  Dylan grinned and nodded, then left her alone.

  Later that night, after the ladies and most of the household had retired for the night, Dylan and Trystan lingered by the glowing embers of the hearth, a mug of Mair’s fine ale in their hands.

  “Well, and best wishes, is it?” Dylan said.

  “I thought you were intending to ignore my betrothal.”

  “No, not at all. I gave my best wishes to the lady earlier, when you were with your father giving Ivor the watchword for tonight.”

  “You did?”

  “Aye,” Dylan replied lightly. “She seems a modest creature, I must say.”

  Trystan frowned. “I hope you weren’t rude.”

  “Me?” Dylan asked innocently. Then he continued truthfully. “Not at all. I said I hoped you would both be happy. She smiled and nodded. That was it.”

  “Good.”

  “Easily upset, is she?”

  “She is a proper lady,” Trystan replied stiffly.

  “Ah, well, and a beauty, no doubt of it. How much was the amobr?”

  “This is no place to discuss such things.”

  Dylan glanced at the few men on the other side of the hall bedding down for the evening. “Anwyl, boy, I’m sure she’ll be worth it.”

  Trystan gave him a sour look. “Must you be so crude? And stop calling me ‘boy’!”

  “God’s wounds, Trys! Still as prickly as a bear with a thorn in his paw, you. I thought you’d be dancing on air with happiness since you’ve got your prize.”

  “I am happy. I just don’t see the need for discussing the bride price or the dowry with—here!”

  “With me, you mean?” Dylan said.

  “Very well. With you.”

  Dylan shrugged. “If you think so.” He took a gulp of the ale, then wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “Then tell me this. Who is Mair sleeping with these days?”

  “God’s wounds, Dylan, I’m not some ancient crone to be gossiping about people,” Trystan growled, staring down at the frothy beverage.