No. He was not hollow. She’d made him see this. He pulled her against him and rolled over, a bone deep contentment…and happiness…suffusing him.
She smiled languidly, her hand trailing across his stomach. And he became even happier when her temptress eyes shone brightly, and she moved slowly down his body and took him in hand. Licked his tip. He didn’t think he could be ready again so soon, but she proved him wrong.
Ah, God. And when her delectable mouth closed over him, he was in heaven.
Yes, this was right. Yes, this was his woman. He was whole.
Robert strode to the chamber in one of the castle’s towers where Staundon was headquartered. His steps were light, for still it seemed unbelievable Kaytee had accepted him, but he would question not his good fortune.
All too soon, he found Staundon deep in conversation with several knights at a scarred table, surrounded by several flagons of ale.
Robert waited until the others departed and approached. He bowed. “I’ve finally arrived. I apologize for the delay. It could not be helped.”
His commander regarded him with tired eyes, dark circles bruising the skin underneath. He scratched the head of his rangy greyhound. “Thought you’d met with the sharp edge of a Welsh blade. Care to explain your absence?”
Robert opened his mouth, but his commander held up a hand. “Hold on. Sir Reginald de Grey will wish to hear your report as well.” He motioned to a knight in deep conversation with another in a far corner.
The knight nodded, a stout man in his sixties, lord of Rhuthun Castle and the cantref of Dyffryn Clwyd. He could not be pleased with the taking of his castle by Madog.
While they waited, Robert sought to satisfy his curiosity. “What’s transpiring in these parts? Utter chaos reigns without.”
“Welsh rebels are active. We arrived at the same time as Grey’s forces and razed most of the town and enlisted the villagers to aid in preparing the castle. We expect the Welsh to besiege us any day now.”
“Speaking of, do you know where the Bere villagers were sent?” True, Kaytee no longer needed the information, but he sought to know, nonetheless.
“They stayed behind in Wrexham.”
So he’d guessed right in their initial destination. Grey arrived, and Robert was introduced. “Your report?”
Robert began detailing his activities upon leaving Bere, omitting only Kaytee’s true sex, casting her solely as his squire.
But when he reached the part of his tale concerning his capture, he hesitated. Why? He’d watched and listened for this very purpose. “When I was taken to their camp about a day’s ride east of Harlech, a sennight ago now, their party numbered fifty-four, forty being spear, and fourteen longbowmen. They were well-provisioned for food, but talked only of past exploits. They were careful in what they said, even in Welsh.”
He described the garrison at Rhuthun castle, and any tidbits he’d gleaned, which naturally interested Grey. He forebore relating de Buche’s activities, for that was unfortunately common behavior for warring knights.
But the abbey? He hesitated. “There’s something else, my lords. On my journey, I came across the smoking remains of Rhinog Abbey. Two monks were killed in cold blood, the sacristy looted, and the buildings put to the torch. They claim it was perpetrated by Lord Powys’s men.”
A shout came from the sidelines. “That is a lie.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Madawc the son of Maredudd possessed Powys within its boundaries, from Porfoed to Gwauan in the uplands of Arwystli. And at that time he had a brother, Iorwerth the son of Maredudd, in rank not equal to himself. And Iorwerth had great sorrow and heaviness because of the honour and power that his brother enjoyed, which he shared not.
The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance
Robert faced his accuser, a man ten years his junior if not more. Christ, he looked to be no more than seventeen. “And you are?”
Grey narrowed his eyes and waved his hand. “Sir Robert Beucol, meet Griffith de la Pole, the new Lord of Powys.”
“Why would monks lie?” Robert kept his voice flat.
The lords of Powys were one of the few Welsh families to emerge from the Welsh wars with their fortunes intact. Siding more often than not with the kings of England, they were rewarded with the lordship of Powys after their principality and those of the other Welsh princes, were abolished by the king.
The other spat. “Those are not real monks. They are Welsh!”
Robert gripped the hilt of his sword. “I swear on the surety of my soul, I report the words of the abbot. These were defenseless men of God.”
The other man’s hand flew to his sword as well.
His commander said, “Some doubt they are true followers of Christ.”
“I have no doubts,” Robert bit out.
“Enough. Other matters demand our attention,” said Lord Grey. “Once we’ve routed the Welsh, if you feel it necessary you can engage in a trial by combat. Let God settle it.” He drained the remains of his flagon and held it out to Lord Powys. “Fetch me more ale.”
Lord Powys took the flagon roughly from his hands and stomped away.
Grey turned his attention back to Robert. “King Edward still gathers his men and supplies in Chester. We expect them not for another month or so. Meanwhile, our lands are suffering from the deprivations caused by Welsh raids. On the morrow, lead a party Wrexham way, and recruit locals able to wield a spear or bow. Promise two pence a day and exemption from service in Gascony. Report to me first thing in the morning, and I’ll have men and supplies assembled.”
“Very good, my lord. I’ll not disappoint you. How many recruits can you afford?”
Grey laughed. “If you manage as much as one hundred, I’ll be surprised, but pleased.”
Robert bowed. “A hundred it is.”
“On the morrow, then, after first light. Meanwhile, take your squire and join the others in aiding and protecting the villagers.” He beckoned to someone behind Robert, ending their discussion.
Robert spun about and marched away, lest he say anything more revealing. Outside, he gazed up at the patchy clouds, squinting at the sun. A squeal to his right had his hand on his hilt, but it was naught but a laughing lad chasing a mongrel dog down the lane, the dog looking just as excited.
He inhaled a deep breath, the autumn air still tinged with the scent of burning wood. To his duties, then.
Robert and Katy had been tasked with helping the villagers create temporary shelters in the outer bailey. Robert and the rest of the knights and squires took turns patrolling the walls surrounding them.
But a more gruesome sight for a refugee camp she’d never seen. A gallows loomed against the wall near the gate to town, with two unfortunates suspended, barely moving in the still air, crows and flies swooping and swarming, attesting that the victims were very much dead.
Bile rose up her throat, and she swallowed hard, grimacing. She stretched out a leg, adjusting her position on the ground as she held an armful of straw while a village woman secured it into a bundle to use as thatching. The stuff itched and made her sneeze, but she gamely continued on. It kept her occupied, in the moment, instead of dwelling on the aspects of her new life still outside of her control. Aspects like how soon this rebellion would be over so she and Robert could start their new life.
A boy on horseback galloped through the main gate into the bailey and reined in sharply before Robert. The layout of the castle was unusual—it could only be reached by first going through the palisaded town and through a gate across a drawbridge stretched over a ditch and through another gate into the outer bailey where she now worked.
The boy handed something over to Robert, wheeled around, and trotted toward the castle.
When the woman she was helping had tied off the bundle, Katy excused herself and hustled over to Robert, enjoying the stretching of her muscles. She was a little sore from their lovemaking last night, but she also savored the new strength she could feel from the past week and
a half’s near constant exercise. Robert had removed his helm, and judging by the scowl on his face, the news wasn’t good.
Without a word, he handed her the note and whistled for Perceval. The non-standard spelling of their French was difficult to quickly decipher. “What does it say?”
“Fetch your mount. We leave at once. I should have known I would hear more from de Buche. He mocks me for my weakness yesterday and declares he will enjoy teaching my sister a lesson.”
“Your sister?” They crossed the lane to where her mare grazed.
“Aye. She is nearby with her Welsh husband and family. We must ride there at once.”
“Should we get others?”
He helped her mount, handing her his shield. “No. This is between us. He is drawing me out—no doubt he wishes for a personal trial by combat. His strength against mine. The chaos of this rebellion, especially in these parts, makes him bold.”
“You there,” he shouted to a crossbowman. “Inform Staundon we leave to investigate reports of a disturbance outside of town.”
He swung onto Perceval, who’d dutifully appeared. To her, he said, “We will stop at the inn to retrieve my lance and your mace and be off.” He donned his helm and urged his horse into a canter through the gate.
She had no choice but to follow—he knew his own culture and would know how to proceed.
The confrontation with de Buche had been inevitable, Robert supposed, since their estrangement as lads. But bringing his innocent sister and her family into the mix scoured his insides. He worked on suppressing the rage and guilt roiling within as they cantered several miles west to the small farm his sister called home. If de Buche had done aught to cause harm, he would pay.
They dashed around a bend in the road, and the dark plume of smoke they’d seen in the distance now had a source—it curled up from the remains of his sister’s home. He dug his spurs into Perceval’s sides and charged forward, his gaze focused on the milling shapes, heart in throat as it became only too apparent that several forms were laid out upon the ground. And unmoving.
He recognized de Buche’s stance and armor, horse nearby, and changed the angle of his approach. Robert spared a glance behind, gratified to see Kaytee keeping pace. He signaled for her to halt. Christ on a cross, but he didn’t need to embroil her. What had he been thinking bringing her along?
Robert’s instincts screamed to run de Buche through now, explanations be damned, but he resisted. Now that his future with Kaytee was set, he ought to be more circumspect. He hoped still to win some kind of honor from the king to make her life with him more comfortable.
Robert reined in near de Buche, careful to do so at a nearby puddle and splashing it onto the bastard. He sprang from his mount and crowded de Buche’s space, refusing to look rightward, where lay the bodies. If they were… No. He refused to believe de Buche would kill them.
De Buche held his ground. “Good of you to come, my friend. I thought you should bear witness to what transpires, being so interested in my affairs yesterday.”
“If you’ve harmed my sister or her family, you will pay.”
“Let go of me,” a feminine voice shrieked from his left.
A knight pushed a young woman forward, her simple gown’s bodice torn. A cold, mighty fist squeezed Robert’s heart, and his vision swam red, for despite her height and womanly curves, the slope of her nose and the spark and shape of her eyes told him true—this was Marged.
“Ah,” de Buche sneered, “your sister deigns to join us.”
She pulled up short and locked gazes with him. “Robert?” she whispered, and the blood drained from her face.
Robert yanked his sword free. “Leave her be. Your fight is with me, de Buche.” Robert stepped back to give himself more room and swept his gaze behind. Kaytee’s horse stood off to the side--she mounted still. Closing in from the opposite side were two more knights on foot, and he recognized the colors of Lord Powys. He returned his attention to the knight holding his sister.
“Let us settle this with a trial by combat. This is what you wish, is it not? Let us see whom God favors in this contest.” Robert swirled his sword in front of him in a practiced move. How he’d longed to face de Buche thusly.
De Buche sauntered over to Marged and squeezed a breast. She spat in his face and struggled against the knight’s hold. Face twisted, de Buche looked over his shoulder at Robert. “No. I’d rather make you watch as I fuck her and make her scream my name.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
And the knight thrust at him, but he was not thereby moved from where he stood. And Peredur spurred his horse, and ran at him wrathfully, furiously, fiercely, desperately, and with mighty rage, and he gave him a thrust, deadly-wounding, severe, furious, adroit and strong, under his jaw, and raised him out of his saddle, and cast him a long way from him.
The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance
Robert ground his teeth, his control naught but parchment armor against a blazing need to wreak vengeance. “I said, your fight is with me,” he bit out. “Step away from my sister and face me. We settle this now.”
“I think not.” De Buche leaned closer to Marged. “I think I’ll find more amusement beneath her skirts.” At that, the whoreson yanked on the fragile cloth of her bliaut, the shredding tear loud in the tense atmosphere. “Hold him,” he said to his knights. “Hold him, and make him watch.” He reached under his surcoat and shoved Marged to the ground.
With a roar, that parchment barrier holding back his rage burst, and Robert sprang forward. The two knights were behind him, but de Buche was closer. Robert would run the bastard through before the others could interfere.
An arrow thunked into the ground before him. He leaped to the side and spun. An archer crouched in the darkened space under the eaves of the stables. Reassessing the odds, Robert squared off with the approaching knights and deflected a forceful swing from the closest, their blades ringing with the impact. He planted his foot against his opponent’s chest and shoved, then countered the second knight’s attack with his shield. Both blows gained him precious time, and he bolted for his sister who was being held down by a knight as de Buche fumbled with his chausses and her skirts. She kicked, spat, and landed a powerful blow with her knee into the bastard’s cods. De Buche howled and backhanded her across the jaw, knocking her cold.
Rage seared through Robert, his breaths harsh as his pounding steps closed the distance, shield protecting him from the archer, sword at the ready.
“Take that, motherfucker,” a feminine voice behind him yelled.
No. He glanced behind, and ice slushed through his veins—Kaytee was swinging his lance at the head of one of the knights. The sound of tempered wood hitting metal reverberated, and the knight crumpled at her feet, his lance breaking in half. The other knight stopped his chase and faced this new threat.
Pauper’s piss, what possessed her to interfere? The rage searing through him urged him to rescue and avenge his sister, whilst the chilling horror witnessing Kaytee’s actions urged him to come to her aid. The rage and horror swirled and settled into cold clarity. Kaytee was on her horse, she still had her mace, and she could flee. His sister could not. But God, it killed him.
He plowed forward and shouldered de Buche to the ground, the latter’s attention distracted still because of the blow to his jewels. Robert planted his feet on either side of his nemesis’ shoulders and burrowed his sword tip under the flap of mail protecting de Buche’s neck.
“I’d submit if I were you,” squeaked a nearby voice.
Robert spared a glance to his left. Lord Powys had pinned his sister by her shoulders with his knees and held his own sword at her neck. Her face drained of color.
“I’ll run him through if you so much as draw her blood,” Robert growled.
“And I’ll slit her throat if you touch him.”
A hard body slammed into Robert from the side. He threw out a foot to regain his balance, spun around, and blocked a thrust from the attacking knigh
t with his sword. He followed it with a stunning blow to the head with the flat of his shield. The knight staggered back and fell to his knees, his upper body swaying. Pain lanced Robert’s forearm, and he spun about, shield raised, as de Buche danced backward, triumph at drawing first blood clear in his eyes. Robert advanced, and de Buche retreated until he reached Lord Powys. Blows from both men came fast, and with labored breaths heating the inside of his helm, Robert fought back both of their determined attacks.
As he moved, his muscles humming with determination and purpose, he was gratified to see his sister scoot away and rouse her family, who’d only been knocked out—not dead—thank the heavens. They slipped into the woods.
The recently stunned knight gained his feet and marched toward him.
Two, Robert could safely battle against. He knew de Buche’s strengths and weaknesses, and he was learning Lord Powys’s with each parry and thrust. But three. Three would be tricky. And too much was at stake. He needed to end this. Quickly.
Katy, her heart a big, pumping lump in her throat, watched as Robert battled three—three!—friggin’ knights. No way could she let him face this alone. Her thwack to the one knight had knocked him to the ground, but it drew the attention of another, who now advanced on her.
Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit. She had no time to reach for her mace.
The knight swung for her horse’s reins, but Katy dug in her heels and her horse thankfully reared, knocking the knight backward. When her mare’s hooves smacked back into the ground, Katy rode by the attacking knight, like she was one of those fancy English toffs playing polo, and whacked him across the head with the thickest part of her broken lance.
She glanced back, and her first knight was starting to stand. She raced toward him and knocked him flat the same way. Both were unconscious, but she had no clue how long that would last. Or why the archers stationed around didn’t join in. The rules of this encounter were inscrutable, but one thing was clear—Robert needed her help.
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