by Natasha Wild
The light outside the windows faded and died, and still she talked. Eventually, her voice trailed off and he thought she was asleep. His hand strayed to her stomach, and her hand closed over his. “Are you afraid I will leave you, like Elinor left my father?”
“Nay,” he lied. “You are too stubborn for that.” He kissed her forehead. “You will stay just so you can vex me with your sharp little tongue.”
In truth, he was more frightened than he’d ever been in his life.
She yawned. “I will not go, Richard. I will not leave you.”
How could she promise that which she could not control?
“I know, my love.”
Even when she fell asleep, Richard didn’t move. He stared into the glowing embers of the fire and thought of the man who had killed his father. Where he’d once felt burning vengeance, he now felt nothing. Jesú, was he destined to always fail his father?
But what could he do that would be worse than the hell Llywelyn was now living? Aye, Richard recognized the pain on Llywelyn’s face, the same pain William de Claiborne had gone through when his beloved Catrin died.
Losing the woman he loved was punishment enough for whatever sins Llywelyn may have committed in the past. Though the prince may have taken Richard’s father, he had also given him Gwen.
Fear snaked through Richard, hard and cold. She promised not to leave him. She promised. How could he do any less for her?
Life was too short, too precious, to risk a moment of it. He would never live without her. He would never leave her.
He stood and carried her to the bed. She murmured something as he untied her laces. Carefully, he undressed her and tucked her beneath the covers. Her eyelids fluttered open and she entwined her arms around his neck, pulling him close.
He captured her lips in a soft kiss, his arms slipping beneath her to mold her body to his. “I cannot live without you, Gwen. I will take you across the sea, across mountains and deserts, through dust and heat and snow and ice, though you may hate me for it eventually.”
She smiled a sleepy, sad smile. “I knew you would not leave me.”
Richard lowered her to the mattress. Her arms slipped from his neck and her eyes drifted closed. He undressed and climbed in beside her, tucking her into the curve of his body.
No, he would not leave her. Now he prayed she would not leave him.
* * *
For the next few days, the Great Hall of the Prince of Wales was silent, mourning the death of one too young, too kind, too beautiful to die.
Gwen found her strength in Richard. Knowing he was there gave her the courage to deal with Elinor’s death, and with her father’s depression.
She directed the servants as Elinor would have wished, kept the hall running smoothly, and selected one of Elinor’s ladies to take over the task when she was gone.
She was busy going over the meal plan with the cook when Richard found her. He waited patiently until she sent the man on his way.
“What is it, Richard?” she asked, slipping into his embrace, uncaring they stood in the hall.
“We must return to Claiborne, sweet. ’Tis nearing time for the council.”
“Oh,” she said quietly, staring at his chest.
He raised her chin with a finger. “It cannot be helped, Gwen. I’ve waited as long as I could. Now that the funeral is over, we must leave.” He smiled softly. “Besides, I think Alys pines for Owain.”
Gwen swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat. “Aye, you are right. We must go home. ’Tis just that I worry about him…”
“I know, love. But he needs time alone, I think. There is nothing more you can do.”
Gwen nodded. “When?”
“In the morning,” he said, kissing her on the forehead.
He left her to finish the tasks she’d begun, but she sank onto a bench instead. She’d wanted to ask her father about Dafydd’s claim, but there would be no time now. It was too soon to think of such things.
She noticed a group of her father’s warriors staring at her. She didn’t realize Rhys was with them until he stood and made his way toward her. He clutched a silver goblet in his hand, and when he sank onto the bench beside her, some of the mead sloshed over the rim and ran down his arm.
“How could you do it, Gwen?”
“Do what?” she asked, meeting his blood-shot stare.
“Do you know what they say about you?” he demanded, gesturing toward the men, spilling more mead down the side of his cup. “They say you are an Englishman’s whore, Black Hawk’s whore.”
Gwen stiffened. “I am his wife.”
“Aye, but you enjoy lying with him. You enjoy letting him touch you. You lick his bootheels like a bitch in heat.”
“You have had too much mead, Rhys,” Gwen said coolly, rising.
Rhys grabbed her wrist and pulled her back down. Gwen tried to twist free, but his grip only tightened. “You love the bloody bastard, don’t you?
Gwen glared at him. “Yes.”
Rhys’s grip loosened and she snatched her hand away. “Jesú, Gwen. How could you? You said you hated him. What happened?”
Gwen rubbed her wrist and sighed. “He is not what you think, Rhys. I did not plan to love him, but I do.”
Rhys laughed. “He isn’t what I think, eh? Do you plan to tell me he doesn’t kill Welshmen? That he has never gone to war against us? That he does not enforce the king’s laws—laws designed to punish us for being Welsh?”
“Nay,” she said quietly, her eyes downcast.
“And you still love him, despite all that?”
“Aye.”
Rhys shoved himself to his feet. “Then you are a traitor, just like everyone says.”
35
The last of the snow melted away, leaving meadows of rippling green-gold silk. Thrushes chittered in the trees, too busy to notice the bright clusters of fragrant lilies blooming all around.
The journey to Devizes castle in Wessex was not unpleasant. Once in a while, Richard let Sirocco have his head and the stallion raced with the joy of a colt. Springtime was not just pleasurable to humans.
Richard had put off leaving Claiborne as long as possible, giving himself less than a week to make the one-hundred-and-fifty mile trip.
He worried about Gwen, though she swore she was fine. She was four months pregnant now, and he was more in love with her every day. She was often melancholy since they’d returned from Snowdon. He didn’t ask her about it, though it hurt him to see her sad. She hadn’t spoken of Elinor since the day she’d sat in his lap and told him everything about her friend. He didn’t think she even realized some of the things she’d told him.
She’d shared everything with Elinor: the dreams she’d had of him, the first time he’d kissed her, the fear of being his wife. It brought a smile to his lips to know she’d thought of him as much as he’d thought of her.
His party arrived at Devizes on the Friday before Palm Sunday. He wasn’t pleased to learn they still had to await the arrival of a handful of barons. By the time the middle of the following week rolled around, his anger was full-blown.
He and Edward took wine in a bright, spacious solar with the shutters thrown wide to let in the spring air.
Edward sat in the window seat and gazed outside. The breeze ruffled his hair, fluttering the golden strands between sunlight and shadow. He leaned back against the stone. The breeze whipped higher, just for a moment, as though protesting the temporary loss of Christendom’s greatest warrior-king.
He turned to Richard, who sat in full sunlight with his booted feet propped on the table, brooding.
“Gloucester says the Welsh in the south have been unusually quiet all winter long. What of the north?”
Richard stirred. The warm sunshine could put a man to sleep in no time. He lifted his goblet and took a swallow of sweet wine. He stared at the crimson liquid, thinking of a woman garbed in exactly that color.
“Richard?”
“Nay, nothing in the north.
Not since the raid before I left for London.”
“What think you it means?”
Richard shrugged. “Mayhap they are finally accepting the new order. Or mayhap they mourn their prince’s loss.”
Edward sighed. “Aye. My poor little cousin. Her life was not what it should have been.”
Richard studied the swirl of liquid in his goblet. “I was there, Ned. Llywelyn was devastated.”
“You were there when she died? Jesú, how?”
“Gwen. She had a feeling something would happen. She insisted I take her.”
Edward chuckled. “Black Hawk de Claiborne is not catering to a woman’s whims, is he?”
Richard laughed. “Aye, I’ve gone soft.”
“Yes, well, being in love will do that to a man. How does she fare with the pregnancy?”
“She is well.” Richard closed his eyes, reveling in the warmth of the sun’s golden rays. He’d not told Edward he was in love. Was it that obvious? “Mayhap a bit spoiled. You would not believe the things she has me do.”
Edward laughed. “Oh yes I would, my friend. The king of England is like any other man when it comes to a pregnant wife. She has no respect for my royal dignity, I can assure you.”
“I am bringing her with me, Ned,” Richard said softly.
“Aye, well Eleanor will enjoy her company,” he replied.
They sat for a while longer, each lost in his own thoughts. Richard put the empty cup on the table and leaned his head back. He must have dozed because the sound of approaching hoofbeats didn’t register until he heard voices raised in alarm.
He was on his feet instantly, as was Edward. Richard started for the door, but Edward motioned him back.
“Nay, Richard. The king does not go to the news, the news comes to the king.”
He smiled wryly, and Richard thought of the impatient prince he used to know. Too many years had passed since the prince became a king; a king who understood the necessity of allowing men their moments of glory.
They didn’t have long to wait. The earls of Gloucester and Pembroke, along with Roger de Mortimer, the lord of Wigmore, burst into the room with a mud-caked man in front of them.
“Majesty,” the man gulped, sinking to his knees. “The Welsh are in rebellion.”
Gloucester, Pembroke, and de Mortimer began talking at once. Edward cut them off with a glare. His blue eyes glittered. “What?” he said, his voice dangerously low.
The man took a deep breath. “They’ve taken Hawarden castle. They’ve torched the town and put several of Your Majesty’s men to death, including the justiciar.”
Apprehension tingled down Richard’s spine. Hawarden was on the northern coast, near Chester, not twenty miles from Claiborne.
Edward was on the edge of a Plantagenet tantrum. His face was mottled, his jaw working furiously. “Christ almighty! When did it happen?”
“Three days past, Majesty.”
“Llywelyn has lost his mind,” Richard said, half to himself.
The messenger’s gaze flew to him. “Nay, milord. ’Twas not Llywelyn.”
“Who?” Edward demanded.
The man swallowed. “Dafydd ap Gruffydd.”
Edward exploded. “Goddamn fucking whoreson! I gave that bastard everything, everything!”
“Dafydd?” Richard asked. “You are sure?”
The man nodded. “Aye, milord. ’Tis Dafydd and he has the backing of a sizable army.”
“What word of Llywelyn?”
“None, milord. He’s not been seen with Dafydd.”
Edward paced back and forth, lightning quick. “Goddamn Welsh bastards! I’m through with them, through!” He whirled to face Richard. “I want them stopped, Richard. I want Dafydd’s head on a pike, and I want those bloody Welsh put in their place once and for all.”
Richard let the cold reality of duty wash over him, cleansing his soul. God would forgive him, though Gwen might not. “The first thing we should do is demand Llywelyn honor his vow of fealty. He must come to the field on the side of England and his liege lord.”
Edward nodded. “Aye, ’twill split Wales in twain.” He turned to Roger de Mortimer. “Get me a scribe and a messenger.”
“What of the crusade, Majesty?” de Mortimer asked.
“To hell with the bloody crusade,” Edward snapped. “’Tis war with Wales, man!”
* * *
Gwen plucked a rose, careful to avoid the sharp thorns. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled the sweet scent of springtime. She picked up her skirts and kept walking along the water’s edge.
The day was bright and beautiful. She hadn’t been able to stay within the walls of Claiborne for one more minute. Richard had been gone for almost a month and she missed him terribly. Mayhap a walk in the open would take her mind off him for a while.
Her escort sat at the top of the hill, talking. Gwen didn’t have to guess what they discussed.
The whole castle was alive with talk of the Welsh uprising. She was sick of hearing about it. Dafydd was a rebel, nothing more. The Welsh followed her father. Dafydd’s attempt at glory would fail because he wouldn’t have the support to keep going for very long.
The sun was high overhead, bathing the verdant meadow in life-giving warmth. The river roared past, swollen with the melting snows from the mountains beyond. The air chorused with birdsong.
Vaguely, she heard hoofbeats. She spared a glance for her escort and saw they waved at the riders. She couldn’t see who approached, nor did she care. Messengers were always coming and going these days.
Alys came from farther down the bank, her basket brimming over with flowers and herbs. Gwen smiled. Alys was happier than she’d ever seen her. She and Owain still tried to pretend there was nothing between them, but Gwen knew better. How could she not recognize the signs? She knew what it meant to love a man so much it hurt.
At least Alys loved a Welshman.
Gwen was accustomed to the small stab of pain in her heart by now. Rhys’s accusation still hurt, but no doubt it was the truth. Maybe one day he would understand.
Gwen sank into a fragrant patch of clover. Alys sat beside her. “’Tis a lovely day, my lady. It makes the heart light to be alive on such a day.”
“Aye,” Gwen said, lying back against the hill and closing her eyes. “I wish it were always like this.”
“Mmm, well I think I will walk a bit further down,” Alys said, rising.
“Very well, Alys. I’m feeling too lazy to move right now,” Gwen said. She heard Alys shuffle off, singing, and she stretched her arms above her head, arching her back against the soft clover.
She started to yawn, shock stilling her but a moment as a male mouth captured hers. Her eyes flew open at the same instant her knee drove into his groin and her fist connected with his jaw.
“Richard!”
He sat back and rubbed the side of his face. “Thank God for chainmail,” he said. “You might never know marital bliss again otherwise.”
Gwen threw her arms around his neck and tumbled him backwards on the hillside. “Oh Richard, I am sorry,” she said, planting quick kisses on his jaw. “You should not have frightened me like that.”
He rolled her onto her back. “Kiss me, Princess,” he whispered huskily.
Gwen pulled his head down, fusing her mouth to his. Her tongue slipped between his lips, engaging him in a love play that left them both breathless.
“I have missed you, Richard.”
“Mmm, you seek to make me forget I am angry with you, my angel.”
“Angry? But I would not have hit you if you hadn’t snuck up on me.”
“’Tis not what I am talking about. You should not be out here. ’Tis too dangerous with Dafydd so close by.”
Gwen laughed. “Dafydd is harmless. He will not last for long. The Welsh will not follow a traitor.”
His face clouded for an instant, then he reached above her head and picked up the forgotten rose. He smelled it, then trailed the soft petals from her temple to her li
ps.
“I should like to make love to you on a bed of rose petals,” Richard said. “I would rub the petals over your soft skin and then—”
“Sweet heaven, if you do not take me home now, I will scream!”
Richard laughed. “You have a way of making a man feel very much like a man, my love.” He stood and pulled her up with him. “I believe being pregnant has made you lustier.”
Gwen stamped her foot. “Oh you are an insensitive beast, Richard de Claiborne! You provoke my desire apurpose, then tease me with your prattling.”
“Prattling?” Richard exclaimed with mock indignance. Gwen started marching toward her horse, but he grabbed her and swung her high. She braced her hands on his shoulders, giggling down in his face as her hair fell forward to curtain them. “I will show you prattling, wench,” he growled.
Richard buried his face in the hollow between her breasts, pressing hot kisses through the silk fabric. She threw her head back and laughed. He slid her down his body, kissing her throat, her chin, her lips, the tip of her nose, her forehead.
God how he wanted to take her right here beneath the brilliant turquoise sky!
They rode back to the castle, and she slipped away to their chamber while he saw to his men and the readying of the garrison. The royal host, some twelve-thousand men strong, was gathering in Worcester. Soon, they would march to Chester.
And tomorrow Richard rode north to take command of the men amassing at Rhuddlan.
But this day was for other things.
When he finally managed to get away, Gwen awaited him, dressed only in her chemise. She came to him and began to remove his armor. He helped her, unwilling to allow her to strain herself.
His arousal bulged against the cloth of his undergarments and she shot him a smug smile. “Who is the lusty one now, my lord?” she teased softly.
“You are a wicked wench.”
She only laughed. When he was naked, he tried to pull her in his arms, but she evaded him. “Nay, I must bathe you first.”
“’Tis some new Welsh torture device, is it not?” he grumbled as he sank into the steaming water.
