The Dark Knight's Captive Bride

by Natasha Wild

  It was then he knew he would go after her. Gwen was his wife and he had no intentions of giving her up. He would lock her in her room if he had to. He would have her guarded every hour of the day. She would never leave him again.

  Her lack of faith hurt. Her willingness to leave him and take their child hurt. He would never trust her, and he would never let her go.

  They rode hard throughout the day, steadily climbing upwards. Wales was wild and beautiful, with its steep hills and plunging gullies, its mixture of green meadows and gray rocks, its oaks and conifers and standing stones.

  Richard signaled a halt when they came to a ravine with sheer walls rising thirty feet on either side. They’d encountered no trouble so far, but Dafydd was too close for carelessness.

  “Ye want to send a scout through first?” Andrew asked.

  “Aye.”

  Andrew nodded and motioned to one of the knights.

  Richard listened for any unusual sounds, but the only things he heard were birds and the wind in the treetops.

  When the knight reached the other end of the narrow valley, he signaled. Richard urged Sirocco in first and the rest of the knights followed.

  They were little more than halfway through when Welsh warcries shattered the air. Richard unsheathed his sword and charged. Men dropped into the ravine from overhead while others rushed in from both ends, closing the knights in and making escape impossible.

  The clashing of steel and the whining of arrows echoed through the air. Richard dropped two Welshmen instantly. Four more replaced them, coming at him faster than he could swing his sword.

  He heard the shouts of his men through the roaring in his ears. Screams of death came from both quarters. Sirocco reared and struck, but six men grabbed for his head and wrestled him down.

  Richard spurred the stallion. Sirocco leapt forward, dragging the Welshmen who still held him. They were almost clear when Richard was knocked to the ground.

  A man sat over him, grinning. Richard twisted beneath him, but the man didn’t move. It was then he realized his arms and legs were pinned down.

  The Welshman took out a knife and pressed it to Richard’s neck. “Gwalchddu, I presume? ’Twill be an honor to carve your heart from your chest.”

  Just as the man raised the knife, he went sprawling across the grass.

  Another man stood over him, his face mottled with fury.“Alive, you idiot! Dafydd wants Dunsmore alive!”

  38

  Dafydd’s army was encamped high in the mountains and the trip up took several hours. Richard sat on Sirocco, his hands tied behind his back. His body ached from the fighting and the hard fall to the ground.

  He eyed his sword, strapped to another man’s side, with longing. They’d stripped him of it, along with his dagger, and he watched the polished metal gleaming in the sunshine with impotent anger.

  Andrew rode beside him, silent and withdrawn. Behind them came the three other knights who had survived the ambush. All were nursing the aches and pains of the superior Welsh assault.

  When they rode into camp and halted, the Welshman who had saved Richard’s life jerked him off Sirocco and shoved him toward a large tent, speaking in broken French.

  Dafydd stood when they entered. He was dressed in the short tunic and leather jerkin of his people, his auburn hair grown long and curly, his green eyes glittering with unrestained glee.

  The man poked Richard in the ribs with a spear. “Kneel,” he said.

  Dafydd laughed. “’Tis no need for that, Steffan. And ’tis no need to strain your tongue by speaking French.”

  “But—”

  “Black Hawk de Claiborne speaks Welsh just fine, don’t you, Gwalchddu?”

  Richard did not care to deny it. He fixed Dafydd with a look of contempt. “Do you think to ransom me back to the king? Be advised he might not be willing to pay much. Earls are hardly worth going in debt over.”

  Dafydd tilted his head to the side and scratched his beard. “Ransom? Now that is a possibility I had not considered. Actually, I thought killing you might be more to my pleasure.”

  Richard met his stare evenly. “That attack was planned. Who told you where to find me?”

  A female voice, speaking in French, came from the entrance of the tent. “Dafydd, darling, do you have him?”

  Richard spun around. Anne ducked in and flipped her hood from her golden head. “Oh, you do!”

  She giggled, coming to him and smoothing her hands over his chest. Her touch made his flesh crawl. “Greetings, my love,” she whispered.

  Richard ground his teeth, his fury raging within him like a tempest. “You are nothing more than a whore, Anne. You have always sold your body for favors. What did Dafydd offer you? What was the price for becoming a traitor?”

  Anne’s face reddened. Her hand cracked across his jaw. She whirled away, laughing gaily as she went to Dafydd’s side. “God, I’ve always wanted to do that! You are an arrogant whoreson, Richard de Claiborne. You would not make me a countess, but Dafydd is going to make me a princess.”

  Richard couldn’t help but laugh. “A princess? I wonder what his wife will have to say about that.”

  Anne glared daggers at him. “When he is prince of Wales, he can do whatever he wants, including setting his wife aside.”

  Dafydd gave Anne a quick kiss. “That is enough of that talk, I think.”

  Richard switched back into Welsh. “Planning another double-cross, Dafydd?”

  “Nay, but my brother is certain to make me his heir now that his wife is dead. He has no more chances, no more time.” He smiled. “And neither do you, I might add.”

  “If you wanted me dead, why didn’t you just let your men kill me in the ambush? ’Twould have been much easier, would it not? And we both know ’tis the Welsh way. It certainly worked for Llywelyn when he wanted my father dead.”

  Dafydd frowned, then smiled just as suddenly. “Ah, the previous earl of Dunsmore! I had almost forgotten.” His grin broadened. “You are making this too much fun for me, Dunsmore, but it will still get you no mercy. Llywelyn didn’t kill your father. I did.”

  Richard’s body went rigid. The tent walls closed in around him, and he filled his lungs with stale air, letting it out again in a rush. “You ambushed my father?”

  “Aye. I had nothing against him, but you on the other hand… you I mean to see suffer.”

  “Why did you kill him?”

  “’Twas ten years ago,” Dafydd said, his brows drawing together. “Still, it cannot hurt to tell you now. I was trying to draw Llywelyn out. He never would strike against the English when the timing was right, you understand. King Henry was ill and Edward was in the Holy Land. ’Twould have been perfect.

  “I led some raids in Llywelyn’s name, hoping to involve him enough that he could not back out. William de Claiborne was one of the better known Marchers, and one I felt fairly certain would rouse the clans and embroil Llywelyn in the uprising.” He shrugged. “It didn’t work, and by that time the prince of Powys wanted to remove Llywelyn from the throne, so I got involved in that instead.”

  “You bloody bastard,” Richard hissed, jerking against his bindings.

  Dafydd came to stand in front of him, tilting his head back to look up at him. “You are an interesting man, Dunsmore. For instance, I wonder if your king knows you are a Welshman?”

  Richard flexed his wrists until the rope cut into his flesh. “I should have killed you long ago,” he growled. “I would have, had Edward not stayed me.”

  Dafydd smiled, his finger tracing the outline of the hawk on Richard’s surcoat. “What would Edward say if he knew his most prized warlord was the grandson of Madoc ap Maredudd, a prince of Gwent? Old Madoc was fairly rebellious against Henry in his day.”

  The spear in Richard’s ribs prevented him from lunging at Dafydd, from fighting with whatever he had available. His voice was measured, low and deadly. “I do not know how you learned these things, but it will hardly do you any good since you plan on kill
ing me. Edward will not care when I’m dead.”

  Dafydd jerked his head toward the opening of the tent. A man entered, shoving another man before him. Richard sucked in his breath. “Jesú… Owain.”

  The old Welshman’s face was bloodied. His eyes were blackened and one side of his face was beginning to swell. He smiled weakly, wincing at the split in his lip. “I am sorry, Nai. I failed you again.”

  Richard turned back to his captor. “Let him go, Dafydd. Your quarrel is with me.”

  “Mayhap I will. I have not decided yet, nor have I decided the best way to dispatch with you. Steffan, put them with the other prisoners,” Dafydd commanded. “We will talk again, Dunsmore.”

  “I look forward to it,” Richard answered. The spear jabbed into his ribs. He ignored it, finally obeying when the tip poked through his mail shirt.

  * * *

  “I brought you something, Gwen.”

  Gwen lumbered to her feet as Rhys came into her room. She took one look at the rosy red apple and started to cry.

  Rhys set the fruit on the table and hugged her. “Shh, sweet. What is the matter? You do not like apples any longer?”

  Gwen wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Nay, ’tis not that,” she whispered.

  Mayhap ’twas the trip south. It had taken four days to ride to Llanfair-ym-Muallt. Being pregnant had made it more tiring, though it was over a month since they’d arrived. Her father had been ambivalent about bringing her, but she’d insisted on accompanying him.

  Staying on Snowdon alone would have given her too much time to think of Richard, though God only knew how it would have been possible to think of him more than she already did.

  Rhys directed her to the window seat and sat beside her. “Jesú, Gwen, all you do is cry. What will that babe of yours think of such a weepy mother?” he teased, brushing her hair from her face.

  Gwen laughed through the veil of tears. “I am sorry, Rhys. I do not know what has gotten into me lately.”

  Rhys stroked her hand. “Gwen, listen to me. I love you.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “Nay, let me finish. I love you. I have never stopped. I can make you happy. I will take care of you and your baby, I swear it. Just let me try.”

  “Oh Rhys,” she said softly. “You deserve better. I could not do that to you.” She pressed her cheek to the back of his hand. “I love you, too, but not like that.”

  Rhys’s blue eyes clouded. “You would forget him in time.”

  She shook her head, staring at her lap. “Nay, I never, never will.”

  Rhys stood and raked a hand through his golden hair. “Do you think he will forgive you for this, Gwen? Do you think when ’tis all over, he will welcome you back with open arms?”

  “No,” she whispered, choking back more tears. No, Richard would not forgive her for leaving. She knew that now. She’d been a fool to think otherwise.

  It had been almost three months, and he’d not even tried to contact her. Certes, he knew she was gone by now. Sometimes late at night, she pretended he didn’t know. Then she would imagine him coming for her, or writing and begging her to return to him. Things she knew a proud man like the earl of Dunsmore would never do.

  She caressed her abdomen. She wanted this child desperately. It was already overdue by a sennight, though she tried not to worry too much. She could not lose this babe. It was all she had left of Richard, all she had left of the love of a lifetime.

  She sniffled. It would be a son with black hair and celadon eyes. A son to remind her of the man she would always love.

  Damn this Godforsaken war!

  Rhys knelt in front of her and took both her hands in his. “I have to go north for a few days. Please think about it while I am gone.”

  His face was so earnest that Gwen could not tell him no. Her answer would never change so long as she loved Richard, but she nodded anyway.

  Rhys kissed both her palms. “I will return soon, Gwen. And I will make you happier than you have ever dreamed. You will see, I promise.”

  Gwen kept the false smile pasted on her face until she was certain he was well out of earshot. Then she buried her face in her hands and gave way to the gut-wrenching sobs deep inside her.

  * * *

  The war was at a draw. Neither side gave much ground or gained much either. It was fast approaching the middle of September and though Edward didn’t want to campaign in Wales in winter, the likelihood increased with each passing day.

  The Welsh were a hardy people, capable of sustaining harsh winters in the mountains on little more than goat’s milk and mutton.

  But the English army was huge, unable to forage off the land and in need of a steady convoy of supplies. That was their greatest disadvantage, and one the Welsh intended to exploit.

  Dafydd’s army moved swiftly, striking and retreating before the English could engage them. Richard, Andrew, and Owain, and the three other knights, were kept heavily guarded.

  Dafydd had finally decided to send to the king for ransom, though he assured Richard he was going to kill him anyway.

  The prisoners were bound hand and foot, linked to each other by a length of rope. They sat beneath an ancient oak, silent, each man caught up in his own thoughts as the shadows of late day cast phantom images across the camp.

  “I am sorry, Richard,” Owain mumbled.

  Richard sighed. Every day Owain apologized. Richard tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but the old man insisted on taking the blame for everything that had happened.

  “’Tis not your fault, uncle,” he said wearily.

  “Nay, ’tis. I should have gone after your lady myself, should have never let that whore Anne in the castle.”

  “Forget about it,” Richard said more harshly than he intended. Owain fell silent. Richard laid his head against the tree and closed his eyes, cursing silently.

  He did not want to talk about Gwen. God, all he did was think of her. She should have had the babe by now. His heart twisted every time he thought of her going though it without him.

  He drove himself crazy wondering if she’d survived it. Somehow, deep down, he knew she must have. Wouldn’t he know if aught had befallen her? Wouldn’t part of him have died with her?

  He heard someone approaching, then opened his eyes when the footsteps halted. Steffan untied him. “Dafydd wants you, Black Hawk. Mayhap he will kill you this time.”

  Richard didn’t bother answering. Dafydd sent for him almost daily and Steffan always taunted him that maybe this was the day he would die.

  Richard ducked inside the tent. It took some moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Two men sat at the table, drinking mead.

  “Ah, here is my honored guest,” Dafydd jested, saluting Richard with his cup. “You must tell my brother of the prize I have caught,” he told the other man.

  Richard didn’t wait for the man to reply. “What do you want, Dafydd? Have you finally decided to kill me? Or do you just wish to amuse your guest?”

  Dafydd laughed. “You see that? Even as a prisoner the man is arrogant beyond belief.”

  The other man stood and walked toward Richard. Richard’s chest tightened as the man stopped in front of him. “Rhys ap Gawain.”

  Rhys held Richard’s gaze. Over his shoulder, he asked, “What are you going to do with him?”

  “Kill him,” Dafydd said simply.

  Their gazes remained locked. Rhys didn’t speak. It was on the tip of Richard’s tongue to ask about Gwen, about his child. He clenched his jaw. He would not give Rhys the satisfaction of denying him an answer.

  “She is well,” Rhys murmured.

  Richard nodded briefly, his only lapse of control in the deep breath he drew. He wanted to ask more and he silently willed Rhys to tell him what he wanted to know.

  But Rhys merely watched, offering nothing. Finally, he turned and went back to his seat.

  Dafydd spoke. “I thought you might like to know Edward has suffered a major defeat. Luke de Tany and his men tried to surprise our forces a
t Bangor, but they were too hasty and did not count on the rising waters of the Strait. They were overwhelmed and the blockade destroyed.” Dafydd dangled his empty cup over one finger, his face cracking in a grin. “So you see, we will have our harvest this winter.”

  Richard stood very still, very silent. If Dafydd wanted a reaction, he wasn’t getting one. Goddamn that impatient De Tany! He’d tried to warn Edward, but it was too late now.

  It would take much too long to get more ships into the Strait. If Edward didn’t get the Welsh into the open soon, the English army would find themselves entangled in a winter campaign.

  “Jesú, Dunsmore, you are no fun,” Dafydd said. “’Tis just as well, for I think I’ve decided what to do with you. Edward is willing to pay ransom, but I am not willing to accept.”

  His eyes gleamed as he leaned forward. “Being a Welshman yourself, you no doubt know the piercing strength of our longbow. Since I am in need of practice, I should like to use you as a target. I am a fairly good shot, but it might take me awhile to actually hit anything vital,” he said, smiling apologetically. “Mayhap if you scream loud enough, I will let Rhys end it for you. He is an excellent shot.”

  “’Twould be a pleasure,” Rhys said evenly.

  “Very good. Tomorrow morning then, Dunsmore? If you are available, of course.”

  “Certes. I can think of nothing I would rather do,” Richard replied coolly as his guard came forward.

  Steffan grinned, humming a lively tune the entire way back to the other prisoners.

  * * *

  Llywelyn looked up as his daughter entered the room. His eyes strayed to her middle. She did not look well lately and she was more than a fortnight overdue. His insides clenched when he thought of his Elinor, beautiful and glowing, then suddenly dead.

  “Einion said you are leaving again, Father.”

  He nodded. “Aye. Some of the local chieftains are caving in to Marcher pressure. I must re-engage them. We cannot afford to let up now that we have Edward on the run. I will return in a few days.”