The Dark Knight's Captive Bride

by Natasha Wild

  He pulled a lock of molten hair from under Gwen’s hood and entwined it with the mare’s mane. “’Tis the same color,” he said, gazing at her before saying softly, “She and Sirocco will have beautiful babies.”

  “She must have cost a fortune,” Gwen murmured.

  “A small price to pay for your happiness.”

  Gwen bestowed a smile on him. “You are my happiness.”

  He held out his arms and she went into them. “And you are mine,” he said before setting her on the mare’s back.

  Gwen gathered the reins in her left hand, smoothing the mare’s neck with her right. “What is her name?” she asked as Richard swung onto Sirocco.

  He reined in the stallion. “She doesn’t have a name yet. ’Tis up to you to give her one.”

  Gwen stared at the flaming coat of the animal beneath her. “Saffrwn,” she said finally.

  “Saffron?”

  “Aye. She is the color of it and she is also rare and costly like it. ’Tis perfect.”

  “Sirocco and Saffron,” he said, smiling. “I like it.”

  London was even more amazing in person than it was from a window. They rode into town through Ludgate, first passing through the criminal neighborhood of the lower Fleet River. Gwen was appalled at the smell. Richard explained that people emptied their cesspits upriver and it was carried downsteam to empty into the Thames.

  Once inside the bustle of London proper, Gwen was awestruck at the sheer numbers of people. They came in all sizes and descriptions, some hurrying through the streets, others stopping to talk and pass the time away.

  The houses and shops were of wattle and daub, framed in timber, and instead of glass, had wooden shutters over the windows. Smoke rose from holes in the thatched roofs, clogging the air with the scent of burning wood.

  Richard first took her to the market at Cheapside. A variety of vendors hawked their wares—cloth, wine, linen, fish, candles, leather. There were also vendors serving meat pies and ale and Christmas cakes. Mummers paraded through the streets, and troops of jugglers and musicians entertained on every corner.

  It was afternoon by the time they finally reached London Bridge, and Gwen was weary. She could barely summon any excitement for the wondrous bridge with the tall houses.

  She covered her mouth in sudden horror. Over the gate, severed heads were displayed on pikes, some only skulls, others in different stages of rot and being picked at by ravens.

  “Are you ill?” Richard asked.

  “Nay,” Gwen said. She took a deep breath.

  He glanced up and swore. “Forgive me, Gwen. I forgot about those damned things. I should have warned you.”

  She swallowed the bile in her throat. “Why are they there?”

  “London doesn’t tolerate traitors. Their heads on pikes are reminders to all not to follow in their footsteps.”

  Gwen forced a smile. “Please tell me more about the bridge. What is that city on the other side? ’Tis not still London, is it?”

  “No, ’tis Southwark. This road leads to Canterbury and the Kent ports. Southwark is full of inns and… other things for the comfort of travelers.”

  “Other things?”

  “Aye.”

  “Such as?”

  “Jesú!” He actually looked uncomfortable for a minute, then he waved a hand casually. “Brothels, bathhouses.”

  “Oh,” Gwen replied, not really interested.

  “Are you sure you aren’t ill?”

  She turned to look at him. He was frowning, but she barely noticed. In the distance, the golden-lion banner snapped in the breeze over a white castle. “I am rather tired,” she admitted. “Could we go back now?”

  “Aye,” he said, turning to follow her gaze. “’Tis the Tower.”

  “Ah, the Tower. My grandfather died there, you know. I never knew him, but my father says he fell to his death trying to escape. Little chance a Welshman had in a place such as this.”

  Richard sighed. “You see why Wales must learn to adapt to England’s ways? This won’t go away, Gwen. Your father and his chieftains can make war indefinitely and England will remain. Wales must adapt or die.”

  Gwen bristled. “The Welsh have survived for centuries, my lord. We have outlasted the Romans and the Saxons! We can outlast England.”

  “Even with the whole of Wales at his back, which your father has never had, he could not defeat England. I don’t mean to hurt you, cariad, but ’tis the truth.”

  Gwen bit her lip. Dear God, after seeing London, she feared Richard was right, but she couldn’t admit it. She turned away before she made a fool of herself and cried. “I want to go home,” she said.

  “Very well,” he replied softly.

  They turned their horses and rode back the way they’d come. Gwen’s spirit sank. She’d been so excited to see the city, the grand and glorious things these English had built, but now she knew how impossible it was for Wales to ever triumph against such a formidable foe. Forget prophecy, forget determination—England was the stronger, the more powerful. England would win in the end, just like Richard said.

  32

  Dafydd ap Gruffydd strolled confidently to his audience with the king. He’d waited two weeks for this meeting. He was irritated Edward had put him off for so long, but it was the Christmas season, and all of England had come to a grinding halt to enjoy the feasting and merrymaking.

  He entered the king’s solar and frowned. It was never a good sign when Black Hawk de Claiborne was around. Gilbert de Clare, Earl of Gloucester, and Henry de Lacy, Earl of Lincoln, were also in the room, as well as the king’s brother, Edmund of Lancaster.

  “Come, Dafydd, drink with us,” Edward called out.

  Dafydd accepted a goblet and took a seat beside Gloucester. He avoided the hawk-like gaze of the Earl of Dunsmore, and raised his cup in salute to the king. He would deal with Dunsmore soon enough.

  “What did you wish to speak to me about, Dafydd?”

  Dafydd darted his gaze around the room. “I was hoping to speak to you in private, Sire.”

  Edward swept his hand toward his earls. “We are in private, Dafydd. ’Tis only my closest advisors.”

  Dafydd gritted his teeth. He didn’t bother to point out that two of the men present were the most powerful of the Marcher earls. His complaint involved lands in the Marches. “Of course, Majesty,” he deferred, bowing his head. “I am certain Your Majesty could not know of these things, but the lands you so graciously have given me are being harassed.”

  Edward looked scandalized. He leaned forward in his chair. “How is that, Lord Dafydd?”

  Dafydd knew he had emphasized the English title deliberately. It did not bode well.

  “Your Justiciar of Chester, Reginald de Grey, has accused me of harboring outlaws. To that end my woods have been cut and I have been called to defend my possession of lands that are within Wales.”

  “Are you?”

  “What?”

  “Harboring outlaws?”

  Dafydd gripped the goblet. He darted a look at Dunsmore. This was Black Hawk’s doing, he was certain of it. Richard de Claiborne took perverse delight in thwarting his desires.

  “Nay, Majesty. I am a loyal vassal. Why would I endanger my holdings so?”

  “I believe you Dafydd, do not worry. I must ask these questions though, to satisfy the concerns of my advisors.”

  “Of course, Majesty,” Dafydd aquiesced. He toyed with his cup. “My castles have also been called into question.”

  “Did you obtain permission to build them?”

  “I applied for writs, if that is what you mean.”

  “Well there can be no problem then,” Edward said, leaning back in his chair.

  Dafydd ran a finger around the rim of his goblet. “But what of my woods and my Welsh lands?”

  “You have nothing to fear, Lord Dafydd. Just appear in court with the proof of possession and the justiciar will harass you no more.”

  Dafydd took a quick swallow of wine. The d
amn stuff was nowhere near as satisfying as a draught of Welsh mead. He checked his rising temper. The lands in question lay inside Wales. They were all he had left of the birthright denied him by his brother. He would not give them up or defend his claim in an arbitrary English court. “Majesty, by the Treaty of Aberconwy, that can only be determined by Welsh law.”

  “Yes, but I believe those lands connect to the ones I seized in the rebellion. Therefore, since they touch lands that are technically English, you may be called to appear in an English court.”

  Dafydd seethed. There was no way he was going to win this power play. “Aye, Majesty,” he said, bowing his head.

  Despite everything he’d done to help Edward achieve his victory, it still came down to one thing—Dafydd was not English and could never be, no matter how many titles or privileges Edward heaped upon him to hide it.

  * * *

  The Twelve days of Christmas were a time of merriment and cheer, a time when common men and nobles alike celebrated from sunup to sunup. The Palace of Westminster was no exception, hosting the grandest celebrations of all.

  Great banquets were set up daily and kept plenished until the last revelers fell into a drunken sleep. Ale and wine flowed freely, along with mead and spiced hippocras. People danced and sang and played games until the early morning when they staggered home to rest for a few hours before starting all over again.

  Tonight was Twelfth Night, the last night of the celebrations. Soon, the earl of Dunsmore’s household would return to the March.

  Alys laid out the cream-velvet dress that was her favorite creation. Gwen fingered the silver and gold embroidery, the white ermine trim, the string of pearls sewn into the neckline.

  “Sweet Mary, ’tis beautiful!”

  “There’s a matching mantle and slippers, too, my lady,” Alys said proudly.

  “Whatever would I do without you, Alys?”

  The old woman blushed and began helping Gwen into the gown. She finished lacing it, then fitted a gold and silver girdle around Gwen’s waist.

  Gwen smoothed the soft cloth over her belly. “I don’t remember this being so tight when you fitted me.”

  Alys touched Gwen’s cheek. “Have you thought how long ’tis been since you last had your flux?”

  Gwen’s hand splayed over her abdomen. “Since before…” Dear God, since before her wedding two months ago! “I am with child,” she whispered.

  Alys beamed, her eyes shining. “Aye, I thought you might be.”

  Gwen stood immobile for a long time. “Where is Richard?”

  “I believe he is with Sir Charles and Owain. Shall I get him for you?”

  Excitement bubbled in Gwen’s soul. She wanted to tell him right away, but it was almost time to leave for the palace. “Nay.”

  She would wait until they returned home tonight. They would make love as usual, and when they were curled up together afterwards, she would tell the man she loved that she carried his child. It would be perfect.

  When she joined Richard in the courtyard, his appreciative stare sent ribbons of heat spiraling through her. She slipped her gloved hand into his, and he drew her close.

  “You look just like a fairy princess I saw once,” he murmured.

  “Where did you see this fairy, my lord?” she asked with a coy smile.

  “In a cave of lights. ’Twas in a Welsh mountain, where sights such as that are not uncommon. A sight to behold, she was. All fire and beauty, so much that I was instantly taken with her.”

  “And what did you do with this fairy, my lord?”

  “I impaled her on my sword,” he said very seriously.

  Gwen laughed. “You are so wicked! Did she like it, pray tell?”

  He grinned. “She didn’t complain, as I recall.”

  Gwen sidled up to him. “Mayhap you will demonstrate for me later,” she said, her voice a husky whisper.

  “Jesú, but you are a tease, wench.”

  She slanted him a look. “Am I exciting you?”

  “Unbearably.”

  “Then let us skip the festivities and create our own,” she said.

  He swung her into his arms and set her on Saffron. “Edward is expecting us, love. The sooner we leave, the sooner we can return.”

  Gwen sighed her disappointment and resigned herself to a long evening. Keeping her secret turned out to be more difficult than she’d imagined. The ride to the palace wasn’t long, but she found herself staring at her husband’s handsome profile, aching to tell him her news.

  Fortunately, King Edward separated them as soon as they arrived, waving Richard over to where he stood with the earls of Lincoln, Warwick, Oxford, Gloucester, and Pembroke.

  Gwen joined Queen Eleanor’s group of ladies on the dais. Catherine de Lacy patted the seat beside her, and Gwen sat down.

  “Marriage agrees with you, Gwenllian,” Eleanor said.

  “Thank you, Majesty.” The news was bursting inside her, but she couldn’t tell these ladies before she told Richard.

  “You positively glow. Doesn’t she glow, Margaret?”

  “Indeed she does!” Margaret de Valence exclaimed. The other ladies nodded vigorously. Gwen murmured her thanks demurely.

  Of course she glowed! She was in love with the most handsome man in all the world, and the proof of that love grew within her even now.

  How she ached for an end to this evening so she could have Richard to herself!

  But time had a funny way of dragging when you wanted it to go the fastest. The conversation on the dais was varied, ranging from babies to servants to sewing to cosmetics to war. The wives of Edward’s most powerful barons were not empty-headed. Oft times, the responsibilty of running the castle fell on their shoulders when their husbands were gone, and they were well versed in a variety of endeavors.

  Queen Eleanor waved a hand toward where her husband clustered with his barons. “Edward is going to drive me mad with all this talk of a crusade,” she said, picking at the golden lions on her surcoat. “I do not wish to make another journey to the Holy Land.”

  “You could always stay here with the rest of us, Majesty,” Margaret offered.

  Eleanor laughed, the sound like that of a small bird chirping. “Nay, I could not live without my Edward for so long. The last crusade took four years and I was with him every step of the way. When he goes, I go.”

  Gwen felt a sharp prickle begin at the back of her neck. It crept down her spine, growing and spreading in time with her suspicions. Richard had gone on the last crusade with King Edward. She remembered him telling her of a place called the Sahara, a place with fiery desert sands and a wind named Sirocco.

  Almost frantically, her eyes sought him out. He wasn’t hard to find. His dark head towered over the other barons, but even had that not been the case, he would have been unmistakable. How could any man ever compare to the splendor of Richard de Claiborne?

  She watched him, unable to tear her gaze away for fear he would disappear if she couldn’t see him. She knew—dear God, she knew!

  Richard was leaving. She didn’t have to ask him. The same fierce loyalty that drove him to risk his life in the borders would send him halfway across the world to fight and mayhap die for his king.

  Unconsciously, Gwen clutched her stomach. What of their child, their son? Aye, she knew it was a son. She did not know how, but she knew it nonetheless. Would he grow up without a father, take his father’s place long before he should?

  Gwen drew in a shaky breath. It was a fact of life that men went to war. Her father had. Rhys had. But the thought of Richard in such danger terrified her to the depths of her soul.

  She’d been so frantic for him when he’d left to stop the raid. If she admitted it, she’d been frantic the day she’d seen him leap onto Sirocco and charge the attackers at the cave. How would she live, fearing for him with every breath, missing him with every fiber of her being?

  The smoke was choking her. Her blood pounded in her temples as the music and laughter swelled in her
ears. She had to get out of the hall, had to be alone for a little while. Quietly, she rose and slipped away from the queen and her ladies.

  * * *

  Gwen wandered the passages and rooms of Westminster Palace. She knew not where she was or where she was going. All she wanted was to forget.

  She opened a door and stumbled out into a quiet courtyard. Though the air was cold she never noticed. Angrily, she swiped at the tears trickling down her cheeks. Never had she cried so much until she married Richard!

  She giggled almost hysterically. Mayhap she would not cry so much when he was gone. She sank down on a stone bench. Nay, mayhap she would never stop until he returned.

  Gwen thought she understood what Richard’s aversion to falling in love had been. Well she could imagine his father’s grief at losing his wife. Richard had said he never wanted to care that much for a woman. Did that mean he didn’t love her as much as he might? Was that why he could manage to leave her when she could not bear the thought of living without him?

  She didn’t know how long she sat before she felt the hand on her shoulder. She jumped, half expecting to see Richard. “Dafydd!”

  He smiled. “One and the same,” he replied, sitting down beside her. “What are you doing out here, Gwenllian?”

  “Nothing. The hall just seemed stifling so I decided to go for a walk. What brings you out here, Lord Dafydd?”

  He sighed. “Will you not call me ewythr?”

  “Uncle?” Gwen said increduously. “I think not!”

  Dafydd shrugged. “I’m not as bad as all that, Gwenllian. My brother and I just happen to disagree on the best way to run Wales.”

  “Is that why you tried to murder him?” Gwen couldn’t keep the contempt from her voice.

  “’Twas a mistake. I’d give anything to change it. And it was not just I. The prince of Powys wanted his death much more than I did.”

  “Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn,” she spat. “He would have placed you on the throne merely to serve his own ends.”