The Dark Knight's Captive Bride

by Natasha Wild

  Anne was a delightful bed partner. There was nothing she would not try. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure why Dunsmore gave her up. Certes, little Gwenllian could not be that interesting.

  But Anne’s need to have a man between her legs was her undoing. She was quite easy to manipulate as long as she thought she might achieve some measure of power.

  As long as she did what Dafydd asked, when he asked it, he cared not what he had to promise her. And right now he wanted her back inside Claiborne castle with a couple of his men in tow. If his guess was right, Richard de Claiborne was not at all what he seemed, and Dafydd needed details.

  He swung down off his destrier and tossed his reins to a waiting groom. A woman garbed in green ran to him and flung her arms around his neck. “I missed you so much, Dafydd!”

  Dafydd laughed, then kissed his wife soundly. “I missed you, too, Lisbeth. How are the little ones?”

  “Anxious to see their papa,” she said, stepping back. She still gripped his hand and Dafydd smiled. Lisbeth was slender and pretty and she loved him with devotion. She’d given him two sons and one daughter in the five years they’d been married. And he still had four other children by his Welsh mistresses.

  If there was one comfort he had, it was in knowing Llywelyn envied him for his ability to sire children. But even that wasn’t entirely true anymore, now that Llywelyn’s wife was expecting.

  Dafydd put his arm around his wife and they walked into the hall. He stopped, his arm dropping to his side, and stared.

  “Oh, Dafydd, I forgot to tell you he was waiting—”

  “’Tis all right, my dear,” he said.

  Hywel ap Madog stood. “Prince Dafydd.”

  Dafydd met the other man’s keen stare for some moments. Without turning, he said, “Lisbeth, send food and drink to the solar. Hywel and I will talk in there.”

  He heard Lisbeth swallow as she mumbled, “Aye, Dafydd,” and he knew she’d not missed the significance of the greeting any more than he had. Prince.

  The two men entered the solar. Dafydd gestured for the lord of northern Clwyd to take a seat. Hywel sank his squat bulk into a chair and Dafydd sat across from him, pulling off his gloves and tossing them on the table.

  “How did the meeting with the king go?” Hywel asked.

  Dafydd clenched his jaw. “As expected. He’ll not rein in his justiciars or police his bailiffs and sheriffs. In short, ’tis business as usual for England, and Wales had better get used to it. And Llywelyn?”

  Hywel leaned forward. “He’s ready to strike, but not until the king is gone.”

  “And the other chieftains?”

  “They are behind him.” Hywel’s eyes glittered suddenly. “But there are those of us who prefer not to wait. Edward may never leave, and each day sees the erosion of our lives and our culture. We cannot let him get away with it any longer.”

  “Cura’r haearn tra fo’n boeth, eh?” Dafydd said, arching an eyebrow. Strike the iron while it is hot.

  Hywel nodded. “Aye.”

  “Are you telling me they will stand behind me?”

  “Yes.” It was said without hesitation.

  Dafydd threw back his head and laughed. “Why should I risk it?” He swept his hand outward, encompassing the room. “Look around you, Hywel. His Majesty favors me. I have land and money and royal favors.”

  Hywel shot to his feet, surprisingly quick for a gnarled old warlord. He came around the table and glared down at Dafydd.

  “Nay, Dafydd, you are a Welshman through and through! What’s more, you are a prince of our people. You cannot sit idly by while Edward crushes Wales beneath his bootheels. ’Twas because you love Wales that you fell out with your brother. You do not agree with the way he did things, the way he defied traditions and claimed all!”

  Dafydd gritted his teeth. “Aye, and look where it has gotten me.”

  Hywel’s voice softened. “There are those who have always sympathized with you, Dafydd.” He put a battle-hardened hand on Dafydd’s shoulder. “Gorau Cymro, Cymro oddi cartref.”

  “The best Welshman is the exiled,” Dafydd whispered, gripping the edge of the table. God almighty! All he’d wanted in the early days was his rightful share and his equal place beside his brother. And now he had a chance to lead, another chance to lay claim to his birthright.

  Edward would never change. His laws would choke the very life from Wales if something weren’t done soon. Even though he’d promised to respect the Welsh and their customs, every passing day proved he did not.

  Llywelyn would wait until there was nothing left to salvage. In his younger days, he’d dared to claim Wales as his own, dared to challenge feckless King Henry III, dared to contract to marry the daughter of a traitor.

  Now, he wanted to sit back, wait, and play things safe. Age was creeping up on Llywelyn and making him lazy. This could be the chance Dafydd had been waiting for.

  “Very well, Hywel. We shall call a meeting. I want to see who is offering me support before I decide.”

  Hywel ap Madog smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Aye, Prince Dafydd.”

  * * *

  “No!”

  Richard bolted upright, wakened out of a dead sleep. His first thought was to reach for his sword, but as he became more coherent, he realized Gwen was beside him and they were alone.

  “What is it, Gwen?”

  “No,” she said, softer, crying. He reached for her, enfolded her in his arms as he sank back against the pillows. She curled into his chest, shaking.

  “Tell me, cariad. Let me help.” Her soft crying continued and he stroked her back rhythmically. He very much feared she’d been dreaming about him leaving, and he didn’t really know how to help her.

  He’d demanded too much of her, made love to her until their bodies were drained of all emotion. It had been difficult on them both: the outpouring of feelings too strong to be governed, the entwining of souls too intense to be drawn out.

  “Richard… I have to go home,” she whispered.

  “We are home,” he said carefully.

  “No,” she said, her voice turning desperate. “Snowdon. I must go to Snowdon.”

  A chill washed down Richard’s spine. “Snowdon? Why?”

  She pushed away from him. “I have to go! Elinor… ’tis Elinor.” Her voice broke on a sob. Richard pulled her against him, at a loss for what to say to calm her.

  “What about Elinor, sweet?”

  “I saw… I saw her dying.”

  Richard sighed. “’Tis only a bad dream. I will send a messenger if you like. We’ll make sure she is all right.”

  She grasped his shoulders suddenly, her fingers digging into his flesh. “Richard, I beg you, you must let me go!”

  “’Tis only a dream, Gwen. All will be well,” he said, bewildered by her vehemence.

  “You do not understand,” she whispered. “They come true sometimes.”

  “It means nothing, sweet,” he soothed.

  “Yes, yes it does! You do not understand!”

  Her voice rose hysterically. Richard was seized by a fear she’d hurt herself and the child she carried. Her father’s court was more than twenty leagues away, through the mountains. It would be madness to try and go there in winter.

  She clung to him, shaking, her tears bathing the flesh over his heart. He rested his chin on top of her head, his fingers dancing up and down her spine. Her anguish twisted inside him as though it were his own. Right now he would give her anything ’twas in his power to give.

  “Hush, cariad. I will take you to your father’s court, I promise.”

  Aye, he would take her to Llywelyn’s court, straight into the wolf’s lair…

  34

  The last days of February blustered their way through the mountain passes. The raw wind ate through fur-lined cloaks and woolen garments. Richard glanced at Gwen huddling on Saffron. For the thousandth time, he regretted promising to bring her here.

  It was folly and he was a fool.
>
  He had truly not considered the magnitude of the undertaking when he’d held her close—small and shaking and certain only he could make the world right again—and blindly agreed to do whatever she wanted.

  Even worse than the journey, what sort of a welcome awaited Black Hawk de Claiborne in the hall of the Prince of Wales? The knights he had with him wouldn’t be enough if Llywelyn decided to break the treaty of friendship.

  They were awaiting the return of the messenger Richard had sent ahead for permission to proceed. He might have lost his wits where Gwen was concerned, but he’d be damned if he would surprise Llywelyn by showing up unannounced.

  Christ, he should have refused! But she was so certain, and so adamant, that he knew if they hadn’t come and something happened to Elinor, she would never forgive him.

  Sirocco snorted and tossed his head. Snow and ice crunched beneath the stallion’s hooves as Richard rode forward to meet the approaching messenger.

  “Milord, they said to come at once. Princess Elinor is in childbed.” He lowered his voice, though Gwen was too far away to hear. “She’s having a difficult time, milord.”

  Richard let out a slow breath, then turned and rode back to Gwen. It must have shown on his face because all she said was, “Tell me.”

  “She is alive, Gwen.”

  Her eyes grew distant, as though she were seeing something, then focused on him once more. “She is not well.”

  Richard shook his head. “Nay.”

  She kicked Saffron forward, and Richard signaled his men to follow.

  Once they reached the castle, the greeting they received was subdued. Gwen was off Saffron before Richard could help her. Without waiting for him, she raced up the steps and into her father’s stronghold.

  Alys scrambled after her, huffing and muttering.

  Richard’s gaze wandered the structure with the trained eye of a warrior. Andrew rode up beside him. “Ye see the way they’re looking at us, milord?”

  Richard nodded briefly. There was no mistaking the open hostility with which the Welshmen eyed Black Hawk and his men. “I’m sure Llywelyn is prepared for anything. Pray God he doesn’t decide to exact a bit of retribution while we are here.”

  “What do ye want us to do?”

  “We cannot sit on our horses and wait for a fight. Let us avail ourselves of the hospitality of the Prince of Wales. Tell the men to keep their weapons sheathed and their tongues silent. I’ll listen for any signs of trouble. I doubt these men realize the enemy speaks Welsh,” he said, grinning wryly.

  Andrew returned the grin. “Aye, milord, I’d wager ye are correct about that.”

  Richard dismounted, thankful he’d worn chainmail, and allowed a bowing servant to lead him into the hall.

  * * *

  “Gwen,” Elinor rasped, “how did you get here?”

  Gwen stared in horror at the pale woman, so tiny, in the big bed before her. She sank down and took Elinor’s hand.

  “Elinor, you knew I’d not stay away,” she said, choking back the lump in her throat. Elinor’s hand burned with fever.

  “’Twas a girl this time, Gwen.” She turned her head to look at her husband. “The next one will be a son.”

  Llywelyn wiped her brow with a moist cloth. “Aye, dearest, the next one will be a boy.” His hand shook as he pulled the cloth away.

  “Where is your husband?” Elinor asked.

  “He is with me,” Gwen replied, her throat closing with unshed tears. A girl. Neither by word or deed did her father show a shred of disappointment though she knew he must hurt inside, so desperately did he want a son.

  “Ah. I’ve thought of you often. Is he good to you?” Elinor’s eyes clouded over slightly, her face creasing in a frown.

  “Yes, he is good to me,” Gwen said, glancing at her father. “I love him very much. And he loves me.”

  Elinor smiled. “I told you ’twould work out.”

  “Yes, you were right as usual, dearest Elinor.” Elinor squeezed her hand. Gwen’s heart sank at the weakness of the grip. “Oh Elinor, when you are better, I will come visit you more often, and you must come visit me. Our children can play together, and we will make soap and perfume like we used to do.”

  “Aye, I would like that.” She pulled Gwen’s hand to her cheek. “You are pregnant?”

  “Yes. ’Tis due the end of August,” she said, refusing even to think of whether Richard would still be with her. She glanced at her father, found him watching her for once, his expression intense.

  “Oh, ’tis so lovely! I will come and stay with you, Gwen.” She turned to Llywelyn. “May I go, my darling?”

  “Of course you may,” he whispered, smiling. “Of course.”

  They sat in silence until Elinor was asleep. Gwen’s heart was heavy as she slipped into the adjoining solar.

  “Gwen!”

  “Rhys!” All her pent up emotion bubbled forth when she saw the beloved face of her friend. She ran to him, flinging herself into his arms. He sank onto a bench recessed in the wall and cradled her against his chest, rocking back and forth.

  “I saw it, Rhys. I saw it,” she said, tears spilling free at last as she clutched his tunic. “She is going to die.”

  “Shh, Gwen. Don’t cry,” Rhys said.

  But Gwen only cried harder, all the wretchedness of the world seeming to hang on her shoulders. Soon, Elinor would be lost to her, along with Richard and her father. Rhys held her tight and let her cry, murmuring to her softly.

  * * *

  Richard rose from the trestle table and motioned for a page. The black hawk of Dunsmore rippled on his surcoat, and he threw his mantle back to reveal his sword, lest any forget he carried it.

  The boy came to him nervously. Andrew and the other men sat in silence, drinking mead and grimacing over the sweet taste. English ale was a damn sight better.

  The entire hall fell silent while Richard inquired as to the whereabouts of his wife. He spoke in French, unwilling to let them know he understood Welsh. The boy, schooled in languages as a royal page should be, understood perfectly and motioned Richard to follow.

  Richard heard the murmurs as he walked through the hall. As long as the hostility was only verbal he could deal with it, but at the first sign of treachery, he and his men were ready to fight.

  They climbed a flight of stairs and the boy pointed him toward a door. It wasn’t completely closed and Richard pushed it open. Time froze. He stood, silent, unmoving, his heart a dead weight in his chest.

  Gwen was in the arms of Rhys ap Gawain. Richard’s hand strayed to his sword. His very first thoughts were black, hateful. It was all he could do not to unsheath the vicious weapon.

  They were oblivious to his presence and he turned to walk away, afraid he might lose his sanity.

  “Richard!”

  He halted, her musical voice like a dagger to his heart. She disentangled herself from Rhys’s arms and ran to him. Tears streamed down her face and she wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight.

  Rhys watched, his eyes locking with Richard’s, his face anguished.

  “She is dying,” Gwen whispered.

  Richard held Rhys’s gaze, his arms slowly closing around his wife. She was his. How could he ever imagine it otherwise? After a moment, he lowered his head and buried his face in the fragrant cloud of her hair.

  “I’m so sorry, Gwen,” he said. Driven by a need he didn’t understand, he pressed kisses against her throat, her jaw, her cheek. He tasted the warm salt of her tears, ached to make them his own. “I’m so sorry, my angel.”

  “Hold me, Richard. Do not let go. Please do not let go.”

  Richard slipped one arm behind her knees and lifted her. She hugged him tight and he bent to press his cheek to hers.

  Rhys stood rigid, his face carefully devoid of emotion. He brushed past them. Without turning, he said, “I’ll show you where to take her.”

  * * *

  Elinor, Princess of Wales, cousin to King Edward I, slipped into a de
ep sleep and did not awaken. She died three days later of childbed fever.

  When the physician delivered the news to the group gathered in the solar, Llywelyn pushed to his feet, then shoved his way into his wife’s sickroom, calling her name. Richard caught Gwen when she tried to follow.

  “Let me go,” she hissed, struggling.

  Richard wrapped his arms around her and held her tight. She slumped against him and started to cry. Alys dabbed at her own eyes with a scrap of silk, and Rhys stood and walked to the window to stare into the bleakness beyond.

  Llywelyn emerged sometime later, the only evidence of his grief in the red rimming his eyes. Richard let Gwen go. She went to her father and hugged him.

  He hugged her back, then pushed her away and wiped a tear from her cheek. “Don’t cry, Gwen. Elinor would not have wanted you to cry,” he said, his voice raw. “Have you seen your sister? She’s beautiful, like her mother.”

  “Father— ”

  Llywelyn laid his finger against her lips. “Nay, lass.” He looked up then, acknowledged Richard for the first time since they’d arrived. “Dunsmore.”

  “Prince Llywelyn.” Strangely, face to face with his enemy, Richard could only summon pity. Where was the vengeance, the hatred, that had burned in his breast for so long?

  Llywelyn rubbed Gwen’s arm. “Did I tell you your sister’s name, lass?”

  Gwen shook her head. “Nay, Father.”

  His answering smile was sad, infinitely far away.

  “Gwenllian. Elinor insisted on naming her Gwenllian.” He squeezed her shoulder, then strode from the room.

  She turned, caught Richard’s gaze. His heart clenched at the way she looked at him, like he was her sole source of strength in the entire world. He swept her into his arms and carried her to their chamber.

  With his foot, he dragged a chair over to the fire, and sank down on it. Gwen curled in his lap, clutching his surcoat in her fists.

  She began to talk, telling him of Elinor and their friendship. He laid his cheek against her hair and listened, knowing she needed him to say nothing.