by Natasha Wild
“Nay, I will not fail you,” Richard echoed. “Now or ever.”
He turned toward Claiborne, imagining he could see it across the leagues. William would be Earl of Dunsmore one day. That would be enough. Gwen would understand eventually.
* * *
Dafydd held the English army at bay all through the winter months, despite his dwindling support. He was finally free of his brother, finally the prince of Wales, finally in control of his country and his destiny, and he intended to wrest it from England at whatever cost.
But his role as a double-traitor did not set well with his fellow countrymen now that Llywelyn was gone. Too many times, Dafydd had betrayed Welsh interests for English gold, and his countrymen began to wonder how soon it would be before he played them false again.
He retreated to Snowdon for the winter, only emerging when the spring thaw melted the frozen mountain passes. By then Edward had Gwynedd ringed with his forces, pressing Dafydd from all sides. Victory was imminent.
In late spring, two of the chieftains who had previously supported Dafydd came to parley with Edward.
“He is on the lower slopes of Cader Idris,” Edneyved ap Olfyr said before going on to detail the size and strength of Dafydd’s force.
Edward listened with feverish interest. When the two men were gone, he turned to Richard and the gathered Marchers. “Richard, you will lead the force that goes after Dafydd. I want him alive.”
Richard took fifty knights. They made their way southwest toward the Llyn Peninsula then cut to the east toward Cader Idris. He was anticipating a good fight with Dafydd. He wanted to kill him, but Edward forbade it.
Mayhap watching him suffer a traitor’s death at the hands of the executioner would be more satisfying anyway.
They camped within sight of the mountain, careful not to light any fires that would call attention to their presence. The night was beautifully clear and they were in the saddle before dawn, picking their way by starlight toward Dafydd’s hideout.
When they surprised the Welshmen shortly after dawn, Richard expected more of a fight. But knowing their time was up and lacking faith in their leader, they surrendered easily enough. Edneyved ap Olfyr marched Dafydd out of his tent at spearpoint.
“I give you this gift for your king, Black Hawk de Claiborne. Tell him to remember it well.”
Richard climbed off Sirocco. Dafydd spat at his feet. “We meet again, Prince Dafydd. Or would that be Lord Dafydd? I can never remember…”
“May you rot in hell, Dunsmore! I only wish I had succeeded in killing you, you half-Welsh whoreson!”
Two women ran toward them, both crying for Dafydd. Richard recognized Anne, but not the other one.
“Lisbeth,” Dafydd said, his voice cracking. She ran into his arms and he hugged her tight while she sobbed.
Anne came to an abrupt halt, her unbound hair swirling around her. “Dafydd?” she whimpered.
Dafydd didn’t look up. Richard felt almost sorry for Anne in that moment.
Her tear-filled eyes landed on Richard. “You,” she hissed, flying at him. Richard caught her, twisting her arms behind her. She screamed at him, blamed him for all the misfortune in her life. Then she started to sob. He freed her arms and she clung to him.
He stood rigidly. Unbidden, the image of a boy came to him.
For whatever reason, Tristan loved his mother. Certes, there must be something good about her even if Richard could not see it. Reluctantly, he put an arm around her. “Stop crying, Anne. ’Twill be all right.”
She sobbed all the harder. “I hate you,” she choked out.
“I know,” he said softly.
They set out for Rhuddlan castle later that day. Dafydd was accompanied by his wife and seven children and his mistresses, one of whom was Anne Ashford. Dafydd’s Welshmen marched to Rhuddlan as well. They would be required to swear fealty to their king, and then most of them would be released. A few of the chieftains would be tried for treason along with their prince.
Edward refused to see Dafydd, ordering him tossed into the tower instead. Lisbeth and her children were given quarters with Dafydd’s other children and their mothers.
Anne was granted an audience with Edward. Richard stepped back quickly when the door to the solar flew open and Anne ran out, shrieking so loud it echoed through the stone walls of the castle.
He entered, shaking his head. The musky scent of sex permeated the air, jolting Richard with the memory of how long it had been since he’d made love to Gwen.
Edward downed a goblet of ale. “Nothing like a good tumble in the middle of the day.”
“I do not believe she shared your sentiment, Ned,” Richard said dryly.
Edward’s laughter rang through the room. “Jesú, she just told me that was the best fuck she’d ever had. Of course that was before I told her her punishment for committing treason.”
“Which was?”
“I took your advice to go easy on her. I should think a life spent in a convent would be preferable to sharing the hangman’s noose with Dafydd.”
“Aye,” Richard said. It was less than she deserved perhaps, but more than she would be able to stand. Anne was lusty and sticking her in a convent was like depriving a starving man a crust of bread.
“I am going to convene a special parliament in Shrewsbury to try Dafydd. Hanging him outright would not send the message I want to Wales. I want them to see his humiliation, his condemnation.”
“When?”
“Immediately.” Edward smiled then. “I think you have time to go to Claiborne first.”
Richard stood. “If you do not object, I would like to go now.”
“Go then,” Edward said.
Richard bowed to his king before leaving the room. He ached to see Gwen and his son again. It had been months since he’d left her enroute to Claiborne. The memory of that kiss had sustained him through all the long months of the campaign. He vowed that when he saw her again, he was going to do a hell of a lot more than kiss her.
* * *
Dafydd paced the round tower room like a caged beast. Where had he gone wrong? When had he lost control? He’d had it all, and he’d let it slip from his grasp.
Questions with no answers. Once he’d been a prince, a lord, and a knight. Now he was nothing, nothing.
He raked both his hands through his hair, then sank onto the pallet against the wall and hugged his knees to his chest. It was all over now. His life was forfeit.
Edward refused even to see him, despite the fact he’d told the messenger he had information the king might be interested in. But Edward would relent eventually, once his notorious Plantagenet temper cooled.
Dafydd curled on his side and dozed, only waking when he thought he heard a key clang in the lock. The door swung open and he was on his feet instantly.
Gilbert de Clare entered, followed by Edmund de Mortimer. Gilbert spoke first. “We hear you have information about Dunsmore. What is it?”
Dafydd’s gaze went from one man to the other. Red Gilbert was not a man to mince words. Edmund’s countenance was stony, as if he were irritated at the Earl of Gloucester’s forthrightness.
Dafydd sat at the small table in the center of the room and crossed his legs. A lazy smile cracked across his face. “Well,” he drawled. “I cannot just tell you without some sort of payment, now can I?”
Gloucester looked taken aback. His face turned red and a vein stood out in his forehead. “You are not in a position to demand payment of any kind, you Welsh rubbish!”
Dafydd refused to be cowed. What more did he have to lose? “Nevertheless, I have something you want. You will pay for it.”
Gloucester took a step forward, his fists clenching. Edmund put a hand on his arm and said something too low for Dafydd to hear.
Gloucester nodded. Edmund joined Dafydd at the table. “You are a traitor to the Crown, Dafydd. If you expect us to work a miracle with the king, you are asking too much. He will not release you.”
Dafydd st
udied his knee. “Very well,” he said at last, lifting his chin proudly, defiantly. “I wish to see my wife and children again. I also wish them kept safe from Edward’s wrath. ’Tis my burden, not theirs. I want him to know they are not to blame.”
Edmund turned to Gloucester. A look passed between them and Red Gilbert nodded curtly.
“You have our word, Dafydd,” Edmund said. “We will plead your wife’s case to the king.”
Dafydd sighed heavily. May God grant him this one last boon. “Then I will tell you what I know about the Earl of Dunsmore.”
41
The first days of June were splendid. The sun commanded the sky, standing bright and pure in a sea of blue. Woolly clouds sailed across the horizon, their shapes fantastical and ordinary at the same time.
The castle gardens were ablaze with color: roses, violets, herbs, pears, apples, and a variety of vegetables grew in profusion. Along one wall, grapevines twisted and trailed, stretching emerald-hued leaves to the sun.
Gwen and Alys lounged on a blanket thrown across a shady patch of grass. A light repast of cold meat and fruit sat to one side, and a flagon of wine cooled in a bucket of water.
William crawled between the women, giggling and gurgling. Gwen thought her baby resembled his father more and more each day. He had downy-soft skin, wide green eyes fringed with thick lashes, and a head of unruly black ringlets.
Already big for his eight and a half months, he promised to be tall and broad, just like Richard. He was a happy baby, though mayhap a bit spoiled. He was always ready with a saucy smile, only crying when he didn’t get his way.
Gwen sighed. Unfortunately, he was rarely denied. She just couldn’t bring herself to refuse him when he turned those wide eyes and that smile that was so much like his father’s on her. And she wasn’t the only one.
Owain strode down the path toward them, clutching a ball Alys had made by sewing stout wool together and stuffing it with straw.
“I found it,” he said, dropping onto the blanket beside Alys. He gave her a quick peck. “William, lookee what Uncle Owain has.”
William held out his chubby little hand and said as imperiously as possible for a baby, “Geem.”
Owain rolled the ball, shaking his head when William latched onto it and wouldn’t let go. “Just like his father, he is. Demanding, even before he understands the meaning of the word.”
Gwen laughed, though inside she ached. She’d thought it would grow duller as time passed, but it had not.
Seven months ago, Richard had kissed her and left her on the road to Claiborne. She’d had occasional messages from him, and she’d sent him dozens, but they were a poor substitute for being with him.
A mist of tears clouded her vision as she watched her son play with Owain. Richard had missed so much, so much.
The first few weeks without him had been hard. She’d kept expecting him to return at any time, but as the days wore on she’d given up.
Rhys was gone too. Shortly after their arrival, he’d gone to Lydford manor to be Richard’s castellan. He visited occasionally, but the last time was over a month ago. He seemed happy enough, though sometimes he was wistful when they talked of her father.
Alys popped a piece of cold venison in her mouth and Gwen smiled to herself. The woman had been so thin when they’d returned. She’d worn herself down with worry, and it had taken a long time for her to regain her appetite. Fortunately, she had her plump figure back.
Owain was devoted to her, and she to him. Since Owain’s return, the love they shared was out in the open. Owain wanted to marry Alys, but they had decided to wait for Richard. They felt it only fair he share in the happiness as well.
William crawled into Alys’s lap. She hugged him, though he protested when it lasted too long. Owain picked him up and held him high above his head. William screamed with delight.
A bee buzzed past Gwen’s ear. She swatted at it absently, her gaze drifting across the garden. She caught a flash of crimson and silver through the trees, but she dismissed it as fancy. She wanted Richard home so much that she was imagining armored men walking through the garden.
It could not be him, however, because they’d had no message he was returning. But then she saw him. He stopped at the end of the path and watched the little group on the blanket. Her heart began to pound until she felt too weak to move.
“Richard…” she whispered. He strode toward them, larger than life, more magnificent than ever.
Owain’s face split in a grin. Alys’s eyes widened as she took William from him. “You knew, you sly devil!”
Owain stood. “Aye, sweetling, I knew he was here. He wouldn’t let me tell you.”
“You have done well, uncle,” Richard said, his eyes on Gwen. She found the strength to stand, though she could not move her feet once she’d done so.
He was handsomer than she remembered. Taller too. His broad shoulders and chest were covered in chainmail, but his coif was pushed back to reveal midnight hair. It was longer than she recalled, curling at his nape, and she ached to run her fingers through its silkiness.
He stopped in front of Alys, who had stood and was holding William. His jaw slackened as he stared at his son, and Gwen knew he was thinking what she had thought only moments ago.
The baby’s eyes were wide, his head tilting back at an uncomfortable-looking angle as he stared up at his father. After studying the metal-clad giant for a long moment, he stretched out his arm and said, “Geem.”
Gwen, Alys, and Owain laughed. Richard looked at Gwen, his brows drawn together, his beautiful mouth curved in a half-smile. He seemed confused and, if she dared say it, a little frightened. “What does he want?”
Gwen picked up the forgotten ball and held it out. “Give him this,” she said softly.
Richard took it, his fingers brushing hers. Tendrils of fire blazed to life within her. Already, she burned for him. Oh God, how she burned for him!
He gave the ball to his son, who clutched it happily. Richard’s finger caressed William’s tiny cheek while the baby tried to chew his prize. He promptly dropped the ball and clamped onto the large hand in front of him.
Richard looked surprised at first. A broad smile spread across his features as William started chewing his finger. “He is perfect,” he murmured.
William promptly tired of his father’s finger and grabbed Alys’s tunic instead. Richard touched the black curls of his son’s hair, his eyes straying back to Gwen.
She heard Owain clear his throat, heard Alys mumble something about taking William in for his nap. When they were gone, she just stood, staring at her husband.
“I have missed you,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears of happiness and relief.
“Show me,” he replied, his voice husky as he held out his hand. Gwen took it. Such a light contact, yet it burned through her, scorched her to the depths of her soul. With a little cry, she threw herself into his embrace, winding her arms around his neck, meeting the fierce hunger of his mouth.
He broke the kiss with a groan. “Jesú, Gwen, ‘tis been so long, so long…” His hand strayed to her headcovering. He tugged gently, loosing her hair from its confinement. “’Tis plaited,” he said in disbelief.
She laughed. “Aye, ’tis impossible to wear it loose with a baby around. He likes to pull it.” Her fingers tangled in his nape. “Yours is longer than it used to be.”
“Yes,” he said, his mouth dipping to hers once again.
Gwen sighed. Dear God, it was like suddenly finding the way home again after being lost for untold ages. She was powerless to stop the tears slipping down her cheeks.
He lowered her to the blanket, then propped himself on an elbow, his finger tracing her kiss-swollen lips. “Why do you cry, Gwen?”
She wound her arms around his neck and pushed him back until she was lying full length on top of him. “Because I missed you, you wool-headed lout!” She framed his face between her hands and kissed him hungrily.
When they’d caught
their breath, he said, “Careful, love. Such flattery might swell my head, make me insufferable.”
“You are already that,” Gwen teased.
Richard laughed. “Jesú, wench, can you not humor me a bit? Tell me how wonderful I am, how you have craved my company these months past?”
Gwen stroked his jaw, her eyes filling with fresh tears. “You cannot know how much I craved you, what I would have given to be with you again.”
Richard rolled her onto her back and cupped the soft swell of a breast. “Can I not?” he asked softly.
Gwen’s breath caught as his fingers brushed her nipple through the fabric.
“Are you hot for me?” he whispered, his hand sliding under her skirts. “Do you need me as much as I need you?”
Gwen whimpered when his fingers found the wet evidence of her need for him. She met his smoldering gaze, gasping as he stroked her. “Richard . . .”
“Sweet heaven, you are lucky I am armored,” he said fervently. “I have never been so long without a woman in my life.”
His fingers slid over her, then in and out of her body so quickly she couldn’t think, much less speak. She clutched him, crying out as the tension built and shattered. He kissed her brow, her cheeks, her lips.
“I will die if I do not see you,” he said, untying the laces of her gown.
She grabbed his hand. “Nay! We are outside! Anyone could come out here and see us.”
“Think you there is a soul in that castle who knows not what the lord and lady do in the garden? None will disturb us, I assure you.”
“You are outrageous,” Gwen said, loosening her grip.
He smiled. “Keep flattering me, my love.”
She wasn’t really afraid anyone would see them. She was afraid he would not like what he saw. She’d regained her slender figure almost immediately, but the small scars across her midsection had not disappeared. They weren’t very noticeable usually, but in this light they would be unmistakable.
