And her.
Chapter Six
As Bron slipped into the crowded hall, it seemed she was the only person in Pontyrmwr who had no desire to see Trefor’s bride. Half the garrison and every servant was there, waiting with eager anticipation.
“Bron!” Owain called out, excited and perhaps a little fearful, as he ran up to her and clutched her hand. “Did you see the wagons, Bron? They’ve got pictures on them!”
“Yes, I saw the wagons,” she replied. “Now I’ve got to get to the—”
Too late.
The hall door opened and Trefor entered with a young woman whose head came barely to his shoulder. She wore a cloak of soft blue wool, the hood edged with fox fur.
Isabelle was beautiful, fair, and with eyes nearly as blue as Trefor’s. Her delicate eyebrows arched over a fine nose above full, heart-shaped lips.
She was even lovelier and more graceful than Gwendolyn had been.
Yet for all her beauty, Isabelle carried herself demurely, her eyes lowered, her expression revealing nothing.
How could Trefor not fall in love with such a woman, unless she was a shrew? God forgive her, surely it was wrong to pray that Isabelle was a harridan!
Behind them came a man who must be Isabelle’s father, a well-dressed, narrow-faced, hawk-nosed fellow who looked about him as if gauging the worth of the hall, the furnishings and everything else, including the servants. When his sharp brown eyes encountered Bron, she shrank back, for the man’s calculating gaze chilled her to the bone.
Trefor led the bride and her father to the dais and gestured for his guests to sit in the new, richly carved oak chairs with silk cushions. Then he spotted Bron and Owain.
Bron wished she could vanish like some sort of fairy. She could not, of course. Not then, and not when his bride and her father followed Trefor’s gaze.
“I’d like you to meet my son,” Trefor said. “Owain, come and greet our guests.”
The lad didn’t move.
“Go on and greet them properly,” Bron prompted, pushing him gently forward as she sidled toward the kitchen.
Owain grabbed her hand. “I don’t like that man!”
Neither did she, but there was nothing else to be done. “Your father has called you, Owain. Go and greet his guests as you’ve been taught.”
“No!” he cried. “I won’t!”
Never had the boy’s stubbornness been more unwelcome. “Please, Owain,” she urged as Trefor’s face reddened, the bride’s father frowned, and the bride…She didn’t know what the bride was doing, because she didn’t look. “Owain, you’re disgracing your father, as well as yourself!”
The little boy’s defiance fled, replaced by dread as his lower lip trembled.
“Do you want me to go with you?” she offered, her own dismay less important than easing his fear.
He nodded, and together they walked to the dais, although Bron felt as if she was walking to a pillory.
“This is my son, Owain ap Trefor ap Gruffydd,” Trefor said when they reached the dais.
Gripping Bron’s hand so hard, it hurt, Owain managed a bow.
“Owain, this is Isabelle and her father, Sessylt ap Balawn.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Owain,” Isabelle said, her voice soft and sweet. “You are as handsome as your father.”
Not a harridan, it seemed—not yet, anyway.
“Can I go now, Da?” Owain asked.
“Aye, you can go, and Bron, too.”
Trefor sounded cold and distant, as if they’d never met. Bron told herself that was necessary so that his bride wouldn’t immediately realize what Bron was to him. Nevertheless, it seemed her heart was breaking anew as she led his son away.
Two days later Bron sat alone in the lower level of her house. It had two rooms, one the kitchen, the other for everything else. The second level was a single chamber, with a comfortable bed, washstand and a wooden chest for her clothes.
Trefor had not been here since Isabelle had arrived.
Bron wondered if he was ashamed of taking her to his bed, or if seeing Isabelle again had awakened a desire for his bride, a desire that was free of guilt and shame.
Maybe he was simply too busy with the wedding arrangements to come to her.
Maybe the bride had heard about his mistress and raised such an uproar he had decided to stay away. He might always find it easier to stay away, and perhaps his ardor would cool and his love would die and a knock would sound on the door, heralding the arrival of the bailiff or a soldier or servant telling her she had to leave the house and even the village…
A brisk rap on the door startled her out of her anxious reverie.
Trying to regain her calm and set aside her worst imaginings, Bron went to open it.
After all, she told herself, it might only be the serving girl Trefor had sent earlier, although Bron had told her to go back to the castle. Her house was not so large or her days so busy that she needed—or wanted—a servant.
It wasn’t the bailiff or a soldier or a serving wench. Trefor himself stood on the threshold, Owain beside him.
Relief poured through her. Trefor might come himself to send her away, but he surely wouldn’t bring Owain if that was his purpose.
“Come in, my lord,” she said, opening the door wider.
As he did, she noticed the dark circles under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept any better than she. Meanwhile Owain ran past her, then stood looking about him with satisfaction, as if he’d been the one to give her the house. “You have all this to yourself, Bron!”
“Yes,” she said with a smile, although she was far from happy.
“You have no fire,” Trefor noted. “Do you need wood?”
“I have plenty, thanks to you,” she replied. “I felt no need of one. May I ask what brings you and your son here today, my lord?”
“I wanted to see your house, Bron,” Owain replied for him.
“I think he feared you were living in a hovel,” Trefor said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Well, Owain, as you can see, I’m quite comfortable.”
“Can I go up the stairs? Da says you can see his solar from your window.”
“You may,” she answered.
With a joyful whoop, Owain ran to the stairs and climbed out of sight, while Bron turned toward his father.
In less than the time it took to draw breath, he gathered her in his arms and captured her lips with his.
“Oh, Bron, it’s seemed forever!” he murmured as he rained more kisses upon her upturned face.
“For me, too,” she whispered as she held him tightly. “I’ve missed you!”
“You were right, Da!” Owain exclaimed.
They jumped apart as the boy came clattering down the steps.
“Da says I can visit you whenever I like,” he announced when he reached the ground floor, as delighted as if he’d just discovered gold.
“As long as that’s all right with Bron,” his father added.
“I’ll be delighted to see you whenever you can visit,” she assured Owain, and his father, too.
“Good!” Owain cried happily. Then his brow furrowed. “What’s a whore, Da? That’s what Isabelle’s father called Bron.”
Hot shame rushed through Bron. To think that Owain had to hear…
“When?” Trefor demanded.
Owain’s face filled with confusion. “Yesterday, when you were in the stables. Isabelle was crying and her father told her not to, that Bron was just a whore and she was going to be a lady.” He gave Bron a hopeful grin. “Whatever it is, I’m sure you’re the best in Pontyrmwr, Bron.”
Afraid he might see that his words upset her, she turned away.
“To call Bron a whore is not a compliment, my son,” Trefor said sternly. “Never call her that again.”
Her emotions once more under control, Bron faced the blushing lad again. “It’s all right, Owain,” she assured him, and his father, too. After all, she was going to have to get used
to that, and more, in the days to come.
As she’d hoped, her comforting words erased the boy’s embarrassment.
“I think Da should marry you,” he declared. “He’s been a lot happier since you came to Pontyrmwr. She doesn’t make him happy. He hasn’t smiled once since she came and you went away. Isabelle doesn’t want to marry him, either, or why would she be crying?”
Why, indeed? Bron wondered. Her hope struggled to escape the cage she kept it in, but if Isabelle didn’t want to marry Trefor, he should marry another rich heiress or noblewoman.
“I think we’ve stayed long enough,” Trefor announced. “Say goodbye to Bron, then wait for me outside, Owain.”
“But I don’t want—”
The lad fell silent when his father raised a brow, then bid Bron a subdued farewell.
She tried to raise his spirits, and her own, by smiling. “Visit again soon, Owain. I’ll always be happy to see you.”
Owain nodded, then marched to the door and went outside without another word of complaint.
“There was a time, not so long ago, when he never would have gone so obediently,” Trefor said as he reached for her again. “I’m indebted to you for that.”
She nestled against him, glad he was grateful, but thinking of the morrow. Soon, he would belong to another. If she was strong, if she was good and unselfish, she would not come between him and his bride.
“I’ll return tonight,” he promised.
Once before he had spent the eve of his wedding with a woman not his betrothed, and the result had been disaster.
What kind of marriage, what chance for happiness, could he hope to have if she was forever between him and his bride?
“No, not tonight,” she said, drawing back a little. “You should rest, for there will be much celebrating and many guests tomorrow. You’ll be worn-out just trying to keep your uncle Lloyd from drinking too much.”
Trefor ran a fingertip along her cheek. “I thought you missed me,” he said with a frown as he followed the fingertip with the lightest brush of his lips.
“I did…I do.” She sighed, fighting not to give in to the need and desire his touch inspired. To be strong and do what she must, for his sake and his bride’s. “But you’ll be tired and distracted tonight. I’m selfish enough to want to wait until your guests have gone and we can have more time.”
Even as she spoke, she realized her resolve might not hold if he kissed her.
“Perhaps you’re right,” he said with a sigh. “Perhaps it would be best if I waited until things were…calmer.”
“Yes, exactly,” she agreed, moving away from him before she begged him to stay and make love to her.
“I’ll be here waiting,” she lied.
Chapter Seven
As dawn broke over the rugged hills to the east, Bron waited by the upper window of the house. As soon as the villagers had gone to the castle to join in the celebration of Trefor’s wedding, she would take the leather pouch that contained her clothes and some food and leave.
No one would expect her to be at the castle for the marriage ceremony or the celebration afterward, not even Lady Roslynn or Lord Madoc. Given the speed with which gossip traveled, they had probably already heard that she had become Trefor’s lover.
That also meant nobody would expect her back at Llanpowell, either. By the time anybody realized she had left Pontyrmwr for some unknown destination, she would be many miles away. Later, she would send word to her brothers that she was alive and well—provided she was alive and well.
The sound of running feet interrupted her restless reverie then the door below crashed open as if a boulder had smashed into it.
“Bron!” Trefor shouted. “Bron!”
What was he doing here, and on his wedding day?
Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, Bron rushed to the stairs.
“Is Owain here?” he demanded the moment he saw her, his expression more frantic than she would ever have thought possible.
He was clean-shaven and dressed in his wedding finery—dark woolen tunic, black breeches and best boots, the belt around his waist a soft, supple leather studded with bronze.
But his eyes were like those of a man being tortured.
“I’ve not seen him since you—”
“He’s gone and his bed not slept in,” Trefor said as he ran an anxious hand through his disheveled hair. “Everybody assumed he’d just gone to bed and I…I was too lost in my own thoughts to bid him good-night.
“Oh, Bron, where would he go? And at such a time? Why didn’t I speak to him last night? I knew he was upset about the marriage, but again I was too selfish, too full of self-pity.”
This was no time for recriminations, either for him or for her. “Perhaps he found the hall too noisy and went to sleep somewhere else?” she suggested.
“I’ve had the whole castle searched from top to bottom—every storeroom, every cupboard, every shelf. I even—God help me—ordered my men to drag the well. And then I wondered if he had come here.”
“I wish he had,” she fervently replied, her fear growing as she thought of Owain wandering alone across the countryside. There were bogs nearby, as well as the mill pond, and the moon had been hidden by clouds most of the night, as she well knew.
“Maybe he thought to go to Llanpowell?” she offered.
“I thought of that, too, and sent a patrol as we searched the castle. They’ve just returned. They found no sign of him. I sent them back out to look again and search the verges and the wood, too, in case Owain hid from them. I’ve sent word to the miller to search the mill and…and I was thinking we should…Oh, God, Bron,” he groaned, “drag the mill pond, too.”
The lord of Pontyrmwr, warrior and descendant of warriors, sank to his knees and buried his head in his hands. “Oh, God, Bron, I don’t know what else to do!”
She knelt in front of the man she loved and took his face gently between her palms. “He’s just gone off somewhere to think or sulk, or both.” She managed a tremulous smile. “Didn’t you used to do the same when you were upset?”
“Did I?” he whispered, his expression confused, as if he couldn’t think clearly, and perhaps, at that moment, he couldn’t.
“Aye, you did. Go back to the castle, Trefor, and organize more search parties. I’ll look for him, too.”
It might hurt Trefor, but she would say it nonetheless. “If he’s upset about the marriage, he might answer my calls, if not yours or those of your men.”
Trefor nodded and got to his feet. “Aye,” he said, once more the commander, although the anguish of the worried father remained in his eyes.
“Go you, then, Trefor, and so will I, and I’ll pray we find him soon.”
“Aye,” he whispered before he turned on his heel and left her.
After he was gone, Bron closed her eyes, the better to put herself in Owain’s place and consider where he might go that no one else had thought to look. If he was upset, distraught and dismayed by Trefor’s marriage, who might he seek, if not her?
Madoc, the man he’d believed was his father until less than a year ago? If so, Trefor’s men would have found him already.
Where else? A church for sanctuary? Not Owain. He’d once confessed he found priests a frightening lot, “like crows just waiting for me to do something wrong,” he’d said.
If only Elidan and Idwal were here! They might know. His foster parents were due back any day. What if he had gone to meet them? Had Trefor considered that possibility?
The Caerpowys road led in the opposite direction from Llanpowell and skirted a treacherous bog where Madoc had nearly drowned when he was a boy.
If that was the way he’d gone, there was no time to lose!
Bron ran out of her house and immediately spotted one of Trefor’s men on horseback.
“Gwilliam!” she called. “Stop!”
The pockmarked soldier reined in, regarding her with anxious annoyance. “Tell Trefor I think Owain may have gone toward Caerpowys t
o meet Elidan and Idwal.”
Gwilliam’s eyes widened with sudden hope. “Aye, that’s true, he might. He was saying the other day that he wanted to tell them about…” Gwilliam flushed and looked away. “Things.”
“Tell Trefor at once. I’ll head that way now.”
With a nod, Gwilliam punched his heels into his horse’s sides. As he galloped toward the castle, Bron wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and hurried toward the Caerpowys road.
And the bog beside it.
“Owain!”
Cupping her mouth, her voice hoarse from shouting, her feet wet, Bron called again. She had come as far from Pontyrmwr as a little boy’s legs might take him, but she had seen no sign of Trefor’s son, and her hope that this had been his choice was fading.
“Owain!” she tried again, wondering if she should turn back, or stop and wait for men from the castle to take up the search.
“Bron!”
The voice was faint and weary, so weak she almost doubted that she’d heard it. Nevertheless, hope revived within her and she shouted Owain’s name again, then strained to listen as she stood motionless on the narrow path.
“Here, Bron!”
It was Owain!
“Oh, thank God, thank God!” Bron murmured, tears of relief falling down her cheeks as she scanned the bumpy, rocky terrain. A few dead and straggly trees broke the monotony and reminded her that this ground was unhealthy and dangerous. “Shout again, Owain!”
“Bron, I’m stuck!”
At last she saw something moving, a stick waving feebly behind a rock some twenty yards away and ten from the path. He must have wandered off the path in the dark. “I’m coming, Owain!”
She went as close as she could on the path, then gingerly, carefully, began to pick her way closer to the boulder.
“I’m so c-cold, Bron!”
“I’ll have you warm soon,” she promised, fighting the urge to hurry, for that could be fatal. She could get stuck herself, and sucked under the muck and water if she put her foot wrong.
“I’m hungry, too.”
The Welsh Lord's Mistress Page 4
