by Natasha Wild
She smiled, but the corners of her mouth quivered. “I understand. You must keep the forces together.”
Llywelyn stood and took her hand. It was so small and delicate, just like her mother’s. He wondered, not for the first time, how a man with the reputation Richard de Claiborne had could manage to be so gentle with her. He would never have believed it if he hadn’t seen it for himself, though he’d not been too cognizant at the time.
“Einion will be here with you, lass. He is too old for campaigning, though you must not tell him I said that.”
She laughed. “Nay, I would not.”
Llywelyn touched her stomach. “’Tis the next Prince of Wales,” he said quietly.
“But you can still—”
“Nay, I cannot. I am too old to begin again. I’ll not sire a son of my own, I know that now.” He sighed, then banished it with a smile. “Hurry up and give me my grandson so I can teach him all he needs to know, the way my grandfather taught me.”
“He will be here when you return. I will make sure of it.”
Llywelyn kissed her on the forehead. “You have never disappointed me. Remember that always.”
He grabbed his jerkin and left her in the solar.
Gwen hugged herself as a shiver of apprehension slid down her spine. Each time he rode out, she thought of her dream, and prayed it was just that—a dream.
* * *
Richard sat with his knees drawn up and his head resting on his folded arms. Night sounds spilled across the camp—men talking and laughing, women giggling and shrieking, lovers mating. Behind it all, the chorus of crickets, nightowls, and wolves rose in natural splendor, cloaking him in melancholy.
“Dunsmore.”
Richard looked up. “Ah, Rhys,” he said. “Come to see the chained beast?”
Rhys stooped in front of him, glancing at the other men sleeping soundly. “You did not tell them?”
“Nay, why should I? They will know soon enough, I think.”
“Aye.”
“What do you want of me? A clear conscience, mayhap?” Richard snapped, his patience stretched beyond endurance. “Do you wish me to give you my blessing to make my wife yours?”
Rhys ignored him. “I will end it before ’tis gone too far.” He touched Richard’s chest. “Straight through the heart. ’Twill kill you instantly.”
“Don’t do me any favors!”
Rhys stood. “’Tis not for you I do it. ’Tis for Gwen.”
He was almost out of earshot when Richard called to him. “And will you tell her what you did for her? Will you tell her it was your arrow that so mercifully rid her of a husband, allowing you to finally have her?”
Rhys did not turn, though Richard knew he had to have heard. He sighed and leaned against the tree. Soon, it would no longer matter.
* * *
Rhys couldn’t sleep. His pallet seemed unmercifully hard and cold this night. Camp noises faded and died, and still he did not slip into the peace of slumber.
It was Gwen, of course. He did not like Richard de Claiborne, could care less what happened to the man. Certes, ’twould be a blessing to be rid of him, no matter how it was done.
But there would still be Gwen, looking at him with her seagreen eyes, those innocent eyes that had trusted him for as long as he could remember.
Rhys flipped over and jerked the blanket up. Why hadn’t Dafydd just killed the man before he’d arrived? Why was it thrust in his lap of a sudden?
Rhys lay a while longer, hoping if he remained still enough his relentless mind would leave him be. Finally, he threw back the cover and bolted upright.
It was no use.
There was only one thing he could do, only one way he could ever have peace. He slipped into his boots, then belted on his knife and crept from the tent.
The answer was simple: it had to end before it ever began.
39
Richard dozed fitfully, jerking awake when some sixth sense stirred within him. His eyes snapped open and he looked around the camp. All was quiet. The fires, like the human spirit, were at their lowest in the dark hours before dawn.
He’d not meant to sleep at all. If he was going to die anyway, what did it matter if he lost a night’s sleep beforehand?
He glanced at Owain, curled up and snoring soundly. The old man looked so frail though Richard knew appearances were deceiving. The youngest son of Madoc ap Maredudd was anything but weak.
Soon, Richard would wake his uncle. There were things he needed to tell him, things he hoped would make it back to Gwen somehow.
He wanted her to know he loved her, despite her final betrayal. That he had probably loved her from the first moment he’d held her in his arms. Certes, something had happened then because he’d never been able to forget her for a moment afterward.
The last few months of his life, the months spent with her, were the best he’d ever had. For the first time ever he’d known more than the cold existence of duty, drinking, and wenching. He’d had a taste of what life could be like with a woman he loved, a woman he wanted to have children with. Jesú, he would give his soul to see their babe just once before he died.
“Do not say anything,” a voice whispered from behind as a knife pressed against his throat.
Richard remained completely still, hardly daring even to breathe. Eventually, the pressure eased and the knife disappeared.
“Come to finish me off so soon, Rhys?” Richard hissed. “My, you are merciful.”
“Shut up, Dunsmore. We’ve no time for talking,” Rhys said as he moved in front of Richard.
The dagger flashed dully in the dim light of the campfires. Richard glared at Rhys, refusing to flinch. If the Welshman were going to kill him, then he would do it without the satisfaction of hearing Richard beg for mercy.
Their gazes held while the knife hovered between them. Rhys swore softly. The blade swept down to the ropes binding Richard’s wrists. The rope snapped and Richard flexed his arms to loosen the kinks. “I’ll not leave them,” he said, nodding toward his uncle and his men.
“Aye, well I thought you might say that,” Rhys replied, handing him a dagger. They woke the other men carefully, then sawed through their bindings.
“This way,” Rhys said, leading them into the trees. They slunk through the shadows, careful not to make any loud noises that would rouse the camp. Dafydd, ever confident of his army’s inaccessibility in these mountains, only posted a few sentries, all of whom were either asleep or drunk.
Richard and his men followed Rhys down a hillside. At the bottom, seven horses waited. Sirocco nickered softly when Richard went to him. Richard patted him, speaking in soothing tones as he gathered the reins and swung onto the stallion.
Rhys rode up beside him. “Catch,” he said, tossing Richard a sword. “I would suggest you stay with me if you want to get out of here alive.”
“How do we know we can trust you?”
Rhys smiled then. “You do not, but I don’t think you have much choice in the matter.”
Strangely, Richard felt more at ease. As long as Rhys’s dislike was out in the open, Richard knew he could trust him.
They picked their way down the mountain, stopping on occasion to listen for signs of pursuit. Thankfully, there were none. Dawn’s first light was just peeking over the hilltops when they entered a long valley and broke into a gallop.
It was nearing midday when they pulled up by a stream to water the horses and rest. Richard dismounted and grabbed Rhys’s tunic, yanking him off his horse and thrusting his back against a tree.
“Where the bloody hell are you taking us?” he demanded.
Rhys shoved him away. They glared at each other while the men looked on in shock. “St. Dafydd’s teeth, I cannot understand why Gwen loves you! If she did not, you would look like a lady’s pin cushion by now!”
Richard pushed a hand through his hair. His temper was frayed by the last few weeks of uncertainty. Like it or not, he owed Rhys his life. “Forgive me,” he said si
mply. Then, softer, “She said that?”
Rhys stood his ground for a long moment before his posture relaxed. “Aye, she said it. Many times.” His jaw hardened. “I am taking you to Llanfair-ym-Muallt. ’Tis where Gwen is. Unless you would rather rejoin your king, of course.”
“Builth Wells?” Richard said increduously. “Jesú, I did not think she would be so far south.” He walked a few steps away and leaned against Sirocco while the stallion quenched his thirst in the cool stream. “You have not mentioned my child yet.”
Rhys looked away. “’Twas not here when I left.”
“How long ago?” Richard asked, straightening.
“Little more than a sennight.”
“God’s blood, ’tis overdue.” Fear washed over him in waves. “You are certain she is well?” he demanded.
Rhys’s blue eyes flashed angrily. “I would not have left her otherwise.”
Richard tensed, his hand straying to his sword hilt. He and Rhys were like two wolves, constantly circling, testing for weakness, each aching to strike the other down.
“Why did you do it, Rhys?” he asked, startling himself with the question that had bothered him through all the leagues of their flight. “Why, when you could have walked away? I would be dead and she would have never had to know how it happened.”
Rhys slapped the ends of his reins against his palm and stared into the trees beyond the brook. He laughed ruefully. “Do not think it didn’t cross my mind.”
In the silence that followed, the stream gurgled happily and larks chirped overhead. Nature was oblivious to the pain inherent in humankind.
Finally, Rhys sighed. “She talks to the babe when she thinks no one is listening. She insists ’tis a son, by the way. All she ever tells him is how strong and handsome his father is, how brave and noble. And she cries so often…” His brow furrowed, his eyes glittering with an unnamed sorrow. “’Tis not the Gwen I grew up with. Somehow, I do not think this Gwen would ever be happy again without you.”
“I owe you my life.” Richard’s throat constricted. He had never wanted to cause Gwen a moment of grief and yet he knew he had, many, many times.
“No.” Rhys drew in a deep breath. “No, ’tis to Gwen you owe it. Remember that when you see her again. Do not judge her too harshly.”
Richard turned away. He did not need to be reminded of Gwen’s betrayal. It still hurt no matter what Rhys said, and he would deal with it in his own way.
“Dafydd will know it was you who helped me escape.”
Rhys snorted derisively. “I am sworn to Prince Llywelyn. I care naught for his traitorous brother.”
“Nid o fradwr y ceir gwladwr,” Richard said.
“Aye. A traitor will never become a patriot,” Rhys echoed.
When the horses were hobbled and munching tender shoots of grass, the men took the opportunity to shed their clothes and slip into the bracing mountain stream.
The water was cool and invigorating, washing away the bitter sting of captivity. Eventually, they straggled onto the bank and dozed in the midday sunshine streaming through the canopy overhead.
Richard was too restless for sleep, despite the precious little he’d had the night before. He lay with his arms crossed behind his head, staring up at the swaying treetops.
“Somehow, I do not think Gwen knows you are half-Welsh,” Rhys said, stretching out next to Richard and propping himself on an elbow.
Richard turned his head to meet Rhys’s probing stare. “Do you think you are now entitled to discuss my life with me?”
For once, Rhys did not rise to the bait. He shrugged. “It matters not to me, though ’tis surprising to find out Black Hawk de Claiborne carries the blood of those he scorns.”
Richard returned to studying the treetops. “I am an Englishman, Rhys. By birth, by choice. I do not scorn the Welsh. I but do what my king commands.”
“King Edward will know the truth now. Dafydd will make certain of it.”
Richard let his breath out forcefully. All the years he’d guarded his heritage in fear someone would brand him incapable of doing his duty were at an end. He had proved himself loyal and capable over the last ten years. Edward would not forget that, though being half-Welsh would certainly be a drawback in the king’s eyes.
Time and again, Wales defied the English crown.
And Prince Madoc had been very rebellious in his day. It would only be natural for Edward to wonder if it was just a matter of time.
Richard pushed himself to his feet. “I will deal with it when it happens. Now, let us tarry no longer. I wish to get on with this journey.”
* * *
“Holy Christ, Dunsmore, what are you doing here?” asked Edmund de Mortimer, the new lord of Wigmore since his father had been killed in battle earlier in the year. “We thought you were in the north with the king.”
Richard dismounted and joined Edmund. The bailey of Builth castle swarmed with Englishmen, though according to Rhys, Llywelyn held this castle.
He glanced at Rhys. The young Welshman’s expression was strained, and Richard shook off a feeling of foreboding.
“He sent me south,” Richard replied smoothly. “When did you wrest this castle from Llywelyn?”
Edmund laughed. “We did not. The bastard’s dead. We surprised their forces at Orewin Bridge yesterday. Never even knew we’d got Llywelyn until the bodies were being searched.”
Richard stood in numb disbelief. Llywelyn dead?
Rhys leapt from his horse. “Where is he? What have you done with him?”
Edmund stabbed his thumb at Rhys. “Who is this, Dunsmore? He’s Welsh, is he not?”
Richard glared at Rhys. “Aye, he is Welsh. He is one of my men.”
Rhys’s gaze snapped to him. Richard murmured in Welsh, “’Tis not for you I do it.”
Finally, Rhys nodded imperceptibly. Richard turned back to Edmund. “Where is Llywelyn?”
“We just laid him out in the hall. I was planning on sending his head to the king.”
A chill ran down Richard’s spine. Good God, if Gwen was inside she must not see her father like that.
Rhys must have had the same thought because the two of them broke into a run. They clattered up the steps and into the hall, nearly tripping over each other in their haste.
But they were too late. Llywelyn’s prone form was stretched on a table and his daughter bent over him, weeping. Several men stood nearby. One grabbed her arm and tried to pull her away, but she jerked out of his grasp and held on to her father. “Get away from him, you English whoreson bastards!” she screamed.
Richard grabbed two fistfuls of the man’s surcoat and threw him against the wall. “Touch her again, and I will kill you,” he grated from between clenched teeth.
The man’s eyes went wide. He swallowed convulsively, his head jerking as he nodded. Richard shoved him away. He fell to the floor, then scrambled to his feet and hurried from the hall.
When Richard turned, Rhys was already at Gwen’s side.
“Rhys,” Gwen wailed. “Oh Rhys, look what they have done.” Blood stained her hands as she clutched her father’s lifeless body.
Rhys’s eyes gleamed with unshed tears. “I am sorry, Gwen. I should have been here. I should have stopped them.” His hand shook as he touched Llywelyn’s jaw then slipped down to cover Gwen’s hand where it clung to her father’s chest.
Gwen turned to bury her face against Rhys’s shoulder. “R-Richard?”
He went to her and gently pulled her up. Dear God, she was still pregnant. If he again saw the man who had handled her so roughly, he would kill him. “Yes, my love, I am here.”
She clung to him. He couldn’t stop himself from pressing kisses to her face, from tasting her tears, from learning again the texture of her hair.
She closed her eyes and buried her face against his chest. “You are safe, you are safe, you are safe…”
He stroked her hair. “Aye, I am safe.” Jesú, he’d come so close to never holding her again.
<
br /> Her body shook with her sobs. She pushed away and his heart turned over at the pain written on her lovely features.
“H-he is dead, Richard. They killed him, k-killed my father—”
“Well, Dunsmore,” Edmund interrupted, stopping beside Richard and gesturing toward Llywelyn’s body. “We have gotten us a prize fit for a king, have we not?”
Richard could have killed him as Gwen’s gaze darted between them. She seized her lip between her teeth. “I do not understand,” she whispered.
He silently willed her not to even consider what he knew she must.
She took in his torn and dirty surcoat, his chain mail, his sword, and a look of dawning horror crossed her face. She shook her head vigorously. “Oh nay,” she moaned, “nay, tell me you did not lead them!”
Her fists tightened in his surcoat. “Tell me ’twas not you who did this, tell me ’twas not for revenge!”
He stiffened as if she’d slapped him. He knew he should answer immediately, reassure her, deny any involvement. But he couldn’t force the words out. How could she believe he would do this to her?
The answer came to him, twisting his heart with familiar bitterness. Because he was Gwalchddu. Run though he might, he would always be Black Hawk de Claiborne.
She stepped back, bumping into Rhys, her eyes never leaving his. “Oh my God, you got your revenge!”
Speak, goddamn you! his inner voice screamed.
“You said you would, and you did!”
Rhys gripped her arm. “Nay, Gwen—”
“No, Rhys,” Richard said, surprising himself with how calm he sounded when his heart was a dead weight inside him. “’Tis not necessary to explain. My wife always thinks the worst of me.”
Tears flowed unchecked down her cheeks, and she clutched her belly protectively. “I will never forgive you, never!”
Rhys wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Let me take you to your room, Gwen. You need to rest.”
