A Warrior's Kiss

by Margaret Moore

“And the baron?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fitzroy, too?” Arthur continued with awe.

  It was no secret that Arthur, like most people, considered Fitzroy without peer when it came to the arts of war.

  “Yes.”

  “And the king?”

  Mair’s smile became genuine at that fervent question. “No, Arthur, the king is not.”

  The lad shook his head, obviously pitying the sovereign for the legality of his birth.

  Whatever Trystan had said, he had managed to take the sting out of Lady Rosamunde’s words, and for that, Mair was grateful.

  “Arthur, I have to talk to you about something important,” she said, coming to sit beside him on the bench.

  “I’ll apologize if I have to,” he replied with determined courage.

  “No, you don’t have to. This isn’t about Lady Rosamunde.”

  She took a deep breath. “I may be having a baby, and if I am, Sir Trystan is the father.”

  “Not that Ivor?”

  “No, not that Ivor.”

  Arthur grinned. “Good! I like him a lot better than Ivor.”

  Mair supposed she should be glad he wasn’t upset.

  Then Arthur grew pensive. “Is Trystan still going to marry that Lady Rosamunde, or you?”

  “Lady Rosamunde.”

  “The new baby will be a bastard, too!”

  It seemed Trystan had given her son rather too much comfort over his illegitimacy. “Yes, he will.”

  “He?”

  “Angharad thinks it is a boy.”

  Arthur laughed. “Trefor doesn’t have any brothers or sisters!” he cried triumphantly. “I never thought of that before!”

  “Arthur, don’t cast that up to him! That would be cruel, and have you not learned how that kind of cruelty can hurt?”

  Her son stopped grinning. “What if he says something mean to me?”

  Considering what she herself had just done, she could hardly tell him to keep silent. Instead, she rose and busied herself clearing the table.

  “What if he says something mean to me?” Arthur persisted.

  “He will not be here after next month, so I don’t think you need to worry about it.”

  “I wish Trystan wasn’t marrying that Norman,” Arthur said as he helped her. “She’s nasty.”

  “She’s very beautiful and her family are very important.”

  “Is that why he isn’t marrying you?”

  “No, Arthur. I wouldn’t marry him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that is my business, my son, and not yours. When you’re older, I’ll try to explain.”

  Arthur looked up at her. “I think you’re a lot prettier than she is, Mam.”

  Mair smiled tenderly. “Thank you, Arthur.” She reached out and ruffled his dark hair, then sighed. “How I’m going to miss you when you go to Fitzroy!”

  Suddenly Arthur embraced her fiercely. “I’ll miss you, too, Mam.” He raised his boyish eyes to look at her. “But when I come back, I’ll be a squire. And when I’m a knight, I’ll be the best knight in the land, and win lots of tournaments and battles and rewards and honors. I’ll get a big castle, and then you’ll come live with me, and we’ll never be apart ever any more. I’ll make you proud of me, Mam, I swear!”

  Mair held him all the tighter. “I am already proud of you, my son.”

  A fortnight later, Baron Emryss DeLanyea sat in the solar of Beaufort, Dylan’s castle. Dylan sat on his left, and the baron’s eldest son, grim, gray-eyed Griffydd, sat on his right. They were the only people there, for this was a family council.

  “Is there nothing we can do?” Dylan demanded, looking anxiously from his uncle to his cousin.

  “He is adamant that he will marry her,” the baron replied.

  “Perhaps he does care for her, then,” Griffydd noted.

  “If he does, he is a fool!” Dylan cried. “I never saw a woman more likely to make a husband miserable—and that was before we heard of her threats.”

  “Did you mention your concerns to Trystan?”

  “Good God, no. You can guess how he would have responded. He thought he was in love with her.”

  “And it could be he is in love with her,” Griffydd answered calmly.

  “He might have believed he was at one time,” the baron said to his son, “but you didn’t see him that night in his chamber. Although he insists upon marrying the woman, he doesn’t love her. Indeed, I don’t think he feels anything for her at all.”

  “Then stop the marriage.”

  The baron regarded Dylan patiently. “I gave him the opportunity to refuse to proceed, and he said he wanted to marry her. How can I go against his wishes now without humiliating him? I dare not, lest I make things worse.”

  “Surely you don’t fear Sir Edward and his cronies?” Dylan asked incredulously.

  “No,” the baron replied sternly. “I fear losing my son.”

  “What does my mother say?”

  The baron gave his eldest son a wry look. “Not surprisingly, she counsels patience.”

  “She is wise. If we all try to make Trystan change his mind, though it be for his own good, he will not take it kindly.”

  “But—”

  Griffydd fastened his shrewd gaze onto his cousin. “You wouldn’t listen to any of us under similar circumstances, or have you already forgotten?”

  “That was different. I loved Genevieve. I just didn’t know it.”

  “And it could be we are wrong about Trystan’s feelings. I don’t want to believe my brother would be so stubbornly stupid.”

  “We DeLanyeas are all stubborn,” the baron observed. “It’s in the blood.” He rose and started to pace, limping.

  “What about Mair?” Dylan demanded. “Is he going to abandon her?”

  “You are a fine one to talk about abandoning Mair,” Griffydd remarked.

  “She didn’t love me, and I didn’t love her.”

  “Trystan implied that he doesn’t love her,” the baron said.

  “Then he is a fool! God’s wounds, I saw the way he looked at her. It was like the way he looked at Genevieve when he claimed to love her, only worse.”

  “He looked worse?”

  “Don’t be dim, Griffydd. You know what I mean. More in love. More passionate. I noticed the difference when I came for Arthur. They must have already made love by then.”

  “That doesn’t mean he loves her enough to marry her. You should know all about that,” Griffydd replied.

  “That was different. Oh, for the sake of all the saints, it was different between Mair and me. I know it, she knows it, and unless he’s blind as a bat, Trystan knows it, too. Mair never looked at me the way she does him, try as she might to hide it. If only the boy didn’t have so much ambition!”

  “You think he would marry for ambition?”

  “What else, if he weds that Norman?”

  “Because he made a promise and now, for honor’s sake, will not break it,” the baron growled. “God’s wounds, I fear I talked too much of honor when you were all growing up. You would all of you sacrifice honor to happiness, I think.”

  “Not I,” Dylan hastened to say.

  The baron paused. “That isn’t what I thought when you insisted upon marrying your wife.”

  Dylan colored. “I told you, I loved her.”

  “We are here because of Trystan’s marriage,” Griffydd reminded them. He looked at the baron. “Do you honestly believe he does not love this woman, and that she will not be a fit wife for him?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Then what would you have us do? Try to talk him out of it? As you say, we DeLanyeas are stubborn. I do not think that would work.”

  The baron shook his head. “I wish you were not always so accurate in your reasoning, my son. Still, you get it from your mother, and she thinks such a course of action would be futile, too.”

  “So what does Lady Roanna say we should do?” Dylan demanded impatiently.r />
  “Come to his wedding and smile when you stand by his side.” The baron’s expression grew cold and grim. “If he must wed this woman, the least we can do is show her family and friends—”

  “That if there is any trouble to come, he will not be alone,” Griffydd finished, rising and meeting his father’s gaze.

  “Aye,” the baron said firmly. “And to let Trystan know it, too.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two days before the wedding of Sir Trystan DeLanyea and Lady Rosamunde D’Heureux, Mair drove her wagon full of barrels of ale, mead and braggot into the courtyard of Craig Fawr. That was not an easy thing to do, for it was already crowded with wedding guests and their entourages.

  Mair waved at Arthur and Trefor, who had come early that morning and now stood on the wall walk waiting to see their father and his party arrive. They waved back briefly, then returned to scrutinizing the arrivals.

  Mair maneuvered her cart as close to the kitchen as she could, pulled her horse to a halt and looked around for a familiar servant to help her unload the barrels.

  “Well, well, well, what have we here?” a lanquid, male Norman voice asked slyly.

  She glanced over her shoulder to see a group of young men lounging by the stable entrance. One of them, well-dressed and coiffed in the Norman fashion, and obviously the leader, pushed himself from the wall and sauntered toward her wagon, his similarly attired fellows following along behind.

  Mair heaved a sigh as she jumped nimbly to the ground. No doubt they would like to believe they resembled a lean and hungry pack of fierce wolves, and that she should be impressed with them, if not afraid.

  The Norman fools. To her, they were more like ducklings waddling after their mother.

  “See how this Welsh wench hurries down to meet me?” the stranger said with a laugh. “For the first time since I came to the borderlands I regret I cannot speak Welsh.”

  With a mocking smile on her face, Mair continued to watch them approach.

  “See how she smiles? And did you see what lovely legs she has?” he said, addressing his companions as if she were not even there. “A man would pay well to get between them.”

  “A man would have to be a man to get between them, not an overdressed popinjay,” Mair observed in their tongue.

  As his friends exchanged amused glances, the leader colored slightly. “Watch your tongue, wench, or I’ll—”

  “Or you’ll what?” Trystan demanded as he appeared at the door of the stable and made his way toward them.

  Mair had not seen him since the confrontation with Rosamunde and her heart ached at the sight of him.

  It was not just her own hopeless longing that filled her with anguish, but the change that had come over him. It was as if he had aged ten years. His eyes were as hard as slate and cold as iron. His face had grown thinner, as if he had been seriously ill and unable to eat, yet she had heard no word of an illness.

  “Who are you?” the Norman demanded haughtily.

  “The bridegroom.”

  The man glanced at his companions, then bowed with a flourish. “I am Lady Rosamunde’s cousin, Sir Cecil D’Heureux and honored to make your acquaintance, Sir Trystan. I am sorry if I have caused offense.”

  “Welcome to Craig Fawr, and you should be asking Mair’s pardon, not mine, for your rudeness.”

  Mair had never heard him sound so much like his father, when his father was angry.

  “But she is nothing more than—”

  “Do you have difficulty hearing, Sir Cecil?”

  Sir Cecil ran a cursory glance over the wagon before looking again at Mair. Then understanding dawned in his eyes. “Ah, this is the alewife of whom I have heard.”

  “What have you heard?” Mair demanded.

  “Why, that your…ale…is the best to be had in all of Wales.”

  Sir Cecil’s companions exchanged amused and insolent glances.

  Mair crossed her arms over her chest as Sir Cecil smiled sardonically and made a very small bow in her direction. “I beg your pardon. I shall look forward to tasting your wares.”

  Trystan’s hand went to his sword.

  Mair felt a hint of panic. There was no need for drawn swords. She had been dealing with impertinent, insolent rogues for years, and Trystan should know that. She didn’t need him to be her gallant protector, especially when his potential opponent was his betrothed’s relation.

  She would find another way to end this.

  Mair started to laugh, a deep, throaty gurgling noise.

  Trystan watched grimly as she all but danced toward the arrogant Norman, her hands on her slender hips, her eyes merry.

  He anxiously searched for any sign that she might be with child. Unfortunately, her everyday gown was as loosely belted and bloused as always, so she could be months gone and he could still not be sure.

  “Oh, Sir Cecil, how flattered I am to think you could care!” she cried in the teasing tone she used to use with him. “To think that I may have your good opinion! Oh, how shall I survive the delight!”

  Sir Cecil stared at her incredulously while around the courtyard, the inhabitants of Craig Fawr who had been surreptitiously watching them started to laugh.

  When the Norman realized they were laughing at him, he scowled darkly. “I think that woman’s possessed.”

  “Oh, aye, I am,” she retorted gaily, clasping her hands together like a lovesick maiden. “By a hopeless passion for attractive, well-dressed Normans, even ones who make rude remarks.”

  Sir Cecil stopped scowling. Then, to Trystan’s surprise and inward dismay, he began to smile with amused approval.

  “Mair, that’s enough,” Trystan snapped. “If you would care to join me in the hall, Sir Cecil, I will have refreshments brought.”

  “By her?” he asked, nodding at Mair.

  “Alas, Sir Cecil, I am not a serving wench.”

  Instead of looking annoyed at her bold retort, his approving smile grew.

  “If you fine gentlemen will excuse me, I have ale to deliver.”

  “By all means do not let me keep such a delightful creature from her duty,” Sir Cecil replied, oblivious to the black look Trystan was giving him.

  A look that had disappeared by the time Sir Cecil had stopped watching Mair as she went into the kitchen, then faced his host’s son.

  “Although I would never upset the bride, I can well understand how a man would be tempted to have that wench for a mistress,” Sir Cecil remarked in the tone of one man of the world to another.

  “She is not my mistress,” Trystan growled before he turned on his heel and led the way toward the hall, loathing Sir Cecil and his ilk to the marrow of his bones.

  It did not help that he was going to have to associate with his bride’s relatives in the years to come.

  Nor could he take any comfort from coming to Mair’s aid, for he knew full well she could have managed without him. Indeed, he rather wished he had not interfered, for then he would not have had to look at Mair.

  The sight of her and the longing she inspired was almost too much to bear.

  And yet that agony had not been enough to keep him away from her the moment he had heard her voice.

  Some time later, her ale safely delivered to the baron’s storehouse, Mair sat in the large, comfortable and bustling kitchen of the castle, partaking of a little refreshment. Dylan had arrived and she lingered while Arthur and Trefor visited with their father. Later they would ride home with her in her cart.

  “So I thought the cask might start leaking. What would I do if I did?” Mair asked rhetorically as the servants paid no heed to their tasks to listen to her.

  She brandished her bread philosophically. “And then the answer came to me! I would mark it for Sir Edward! It would be empty before anybody noticed the leak!”

  As the servants chortled, they suddenly realized Trystan was standing in the door leading to the hall. They fell silent and quickly went back to work.

  “Ah, Sir Trystan,” Mair sai
d evenly.

  She smiled genially as she rose, set down the remains of the bread and brushed the crumbs from her bodice. That simple action nearly drove him mad with a desire that he could hardly suppress.

  But that he must.

  “Where are your charming Norman friends?” she inquired.

  “Will you come with me to my mother’s garden?”

  “Whatever will your bride say to that?”

  Trystan tried to ignore the servants’ curious, if surreptitious, glances. “If you would rather speak in the midst of so many people, so be it.”

  “I can’t think of a single thing you could have to say to me that could not be shouted from the wall walk.”

  He flushed. “I have no desire to do anything on the wall walk.”

  “Neither have I.”

  “I would rather speak to you alone,” he persisted, looking at her intently.

  Her gaze faltered for a moment.

  “Well, we have been alone before, so why not again?” she declared as if he were nothing at all to her, and never had been. “Off to the garden, then.”

  With an airy wave to the servants, she sauntered out of the room while Trystan followed behind like some kind of lap dog.

  “So, here we are, alone in the garden,” Mair announced as she turned to face him after going through the gate. “And what a nice bit of gossip you’ve given your father’s servants.”

  “Are they going to have more to gossip about soon? Are you with child?”

  Looking around at the dead roses, she shrugged her slender shoulders in a gesture that was frustratingly noncommittal.

  “This is not a game to me, Mair.”

  “I should hope not. What would you call it? Standing in a garden? Not a lot of fun, that.”

  “Mair!” he cried, and the hint of anguished tension in his voice was enough to make her look at him with genuine concern. “Mair, I have to know. Are you with child?”

  Her mask of flippant indifference slipped. “Yes.”

  “For certain?”

  “As certain as it is possible to be.”

  His shoulders slumped. “Oh, God’s wounds, I’m sorry, Mair.”

  She approached him slowly, warily, as if he were a wild animal who might make a sudden, unexpected move. “Sorry?”