The Warrior's Reward

by Samantha Holt

  Just as she placed down the goblet of ale, one of the men-at-arms burst into the hall, breathless and red-faced.

  “My lady...” he puffed.

  “Aye, what is it?”

  He dipped and came to stand in front of her. “Men approach. Several of them, all heavily armed and on horseback.”

  “They are a threat?”

  “They are strangers.”

  She considered this. From what she had learned of the tensions in Wales from the servants and villagers, strangers usually meant danger. The rebellion had thrown the country into turmoil and enemies were easily made when hunger and desperation ate into the souls of men.

  “Not Englishmen then?”

  “Nay, they wear no crest.”

  Motioning to Gwen, she drew up her shoulders and affected her most impervious look. Let it not be said she cowered away in the keep when men attacked them. “Fetch me my cloak,” she said to the lady’s maid. Gwen obliged and Rosamunde swung it over her shoulders, fastening it as she headed out of the hall doors and down the outer steps.

  “My lady,” the man—John, she recalled—pleaded. “If we are to prepare for battle you must stay inside. Shall we ready the men?”

  She paused and eyed him over her shoulder. “Aye, have the men ready, but I will not stay inside. I am mistress of this keep and I shall defend it. Let us see if we cannot negotiate with these strangers first.”

  As she climbed the steps to the curtain wall, her breaths grew ragged. Not from exertion but from apprehension. Her pulse seemed to gallop like wild horses. Who would have thought she would go from being cloistered away in a castle to defending one?

  A breeze whipped across the top of the wall, swirling her mantle around her. She couldn’t help but smile. She felt like a brave, bold warrior. This was what her brothers must have felt when they were training, what Ieuan felt when he jousted. To everyone around her, she likely appeared every part the delicate, fair maiden but already she felt stronger, more courageous. Let these men attack. She would prove her worth.

  She peered down the mound to see over a dozen men approaching. The number of them startled her as did the view. Swords, armour and shields declared their intention to survive any obstacles they might encounter. Rosamunde drew in a breath. They were an intimidating sight, to be sure, and likely intentionally. Who would be mad enough to attack such men? Their appearance must afford them safety on their journeys.

  However, a dozen or so men were not enough to attack a castle, she realised. The portcullis was down, their defences ready. They could withstand even siege machines. If the men even tried using ladders to scale their walls, they’d be vanquished easily enough. These were clearly intelligent men, so she had to conclude they had no intention of attacking.

  The riders approached in single file as the narrow path allowed for little else. In spite of its worn state, the position of the keep meant it was well-defended. She uncurled her fingers when her nails began biting into her palms, unaware her fists had even been bunched until then. Turning her palm upwards, she saw the little crescent-shaped marks and rubbed them with her fingers.

  No need to fear, she told herself. The men around the walls shuffled their feet and the scrape and clank of steel made her aware of their hands around the pommels of their swords. She glanced from side to side. A few men stroked their crossbows but none would make a move without her say so.

  The head rider approached the gate and John called down, “Who goes there?”

  “We come to speak with Sir Ieuan ap Rhys.”

  Rosamunde leaned over the wall and gripped the cool stone. “He is away from home, my lord. I am his lady wife, you may speak with me if you wish.”

  “Lady Rosamunde?”

  How did he know her name? Aye, the locals knew her well now but she doubted the news of her marriage to a Welshman was gossiped about and this man was clearly Welsh. He wouldn’t have heard anything from court.

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “I know your father well. We spent time together during the rebellion.” He removed his helm completely and understanding dawned.

  Rosamunde turned to John. “I believe these men to be friends but have caution. Disarm them immediately.” She wouldn’t be responsible for Ieuan’s castle falling.

  The soldier nodded and ordered the portcullis open before descending the stairs into the bailey. She followed at a slower pace, allowing time for the men to dismount and give up their arms. The man she believed to be Owain himself approached and bowed deeply.

  “My lady, ‘tis a pleasure. You are more beautiful than your father said.”

  “Sire.” She took her skirts in hand and dropped as deeply as the muddy ground allowed.

  When she rose, she saw a look of admiration in his eyes. They were the same colour as Ieuan’s, she noted, and they shared the same nose—though his was not crooked. Would others realise as much, however? Ieuan’s father had put them all in grave danger.

  “You are clever as well as beautiful it seems, but, pray, you must address me as Rhodri. You understand my need for secrecy.”

  “I do, my lord, but I understand not why you have come here.”

  “’Twas necessary. Pray I have no wish to place you in danger but I must speak with Ieuan. Have you knowledge of when he might return?”

  “Nay, though he has been gone several days. I hope for his return very soon.”

  “With your permission, my lady, I would request that my men and I partake in your hospitality until his return. We have travelled far and been on the road for many sennights.”

  “The lands are dangerous,” she acknowledged. “Englishmen have visited with us this past sennight.”

  He nodded, absorbing her warning. She couldn’t help wonder what was so important that he would risk being caught by coming here. Not only that, but he was putting his son’s life in danger. Illegitimate or not, Ieuan was one of his few surviving children and his father must have some regard for him to have given him this land and sent him to take her as his wife.

  “We shall be gone as soon as we can be. In the meantime, you shall have our protection.”

  Unease sat low in her belly, before rising up and making her chest burn. She rubbed at the spot and nodded. What else could she do? Turn him away? “Come then, you must be hungry.”

  She led Owain and his men into the Great Hall and sent a servant down to the kitchens to ask the cook to prepare some food. Ieuan wouldn’t be impressed but it could not be helped. The men painting the walls had to be sent away as did the stone mason. Their plans for the day must cease.

  Playing the hostess, she sat with the man who she supposed was now her father-in-law. He was genial, outrageous and charming. She understood why his country had followed him and she also comprehended why the king saw him as such a threat still.

  “You must tell me, how is it that you have remained hidden for so long?” she asked later in the evening as they feasted on pork and pheasant.

  “Rumours of my death are easy enough to circulate and the mountains to the north are not easily traversed, particularly by those who are not used to such harsh land. Alas, I do not have as many friends as I would wish, but I have enough to ensure I can remain hidden.” Owain took a large gulp of his wine and swiped the back of a hand across his mouth. “Does my son treat you well? Do you like Wales?”

  “The country is not so different to Herefordshire. Just a few more hills. And, aye, your son treats me well.”

  “Good. Your father was concerned for you. ‘Twas why we struck such a deal. His release for your hand, you see. He did not wish to leave you alone in the world.”

  The stab of betrayal whenever she thought of her father had ebbed significantly this past sennight. He had done this so he could return home to her alive. She wished he had explained this plan, but she supposed he thought Owain dead and therefore he would never have to give her up. Mayhap she would send a missive to her father soon and assure him she was happy. For she was, was she not?


  Chapter Eighteen

  Travelling after dark was never a fine idea, even with several strong men at your side. Ieuan offered up a prayer of thanks when the torches of Dolwyddelan Castle came into view, glinting on the hillside like fireflies. The castle might be draughty but he couldn’t help imagining a warm welcome from Rosamunde.

  He squeezed the reins and tried not to fidget in his saddle. His mount was weary also and wouldn’t take well to a restless rider. But, damnation, he had missed her. Aye, he had ached for her sweet body and sensual kisses, but he had missed her. Her laugh, her smile, the way she scolded him. How was it possible to feel such affection for the woman so soon?

  They made their way cautiously up the side of the mound and waited for the portcullis to open. The rattling gate sent a rumble through the earth and his agitation increased. All he wanted was to hold his wife. After days of travelling and sleeping in the forests and on floors, nothing held more appeal than being in a warm, soft bed with Rosamunde’s limbs wrapped around him.

  He eased the horse through the gate, handed it to Bryn and drew off his helm. One of the men approached and though the torchlight didn’t reveal much, he noted the man’s grim expression. Horror scrabbled at his insides.

  “Rosamunde?” he asked, the word harsh and frantic.

  “She is well, sir. We have visitors. A Sir Rhodri and his men-at-arms.”

  All anticipation left him then. He felt as though his entire body had lost all its strength. Bryn knew well enough who Rhodri was. His father. Damn the man for putting them all in danger. He handed his helm to Bryn who had seen his horse to the stable and was back at his side, then tore off his gloves with his teeth, stacking them in one hand and clenching the leather tight. Damn him.

  Rhodri. He smirked. He knew that name. The legend of King Rhodri of Gwyned was one his father much admired. The king had united a then separate Wales.

  He stomped up the steps, pushed open the hall doors and paused in the doorway. There sat his wife, radiant and as exquisite as ever. Golden light from the candles and fireplace shone off the half-painted walls and stones were stacked near the hole in the wall. His wife had been busy.

  As had his father. Owain leaned in to whisper to Rosamunde and her giggle reached down inside of him and made his gut burn. He should be the one making her laugh. Had he ever made her laugh?

  Owain rose from the table, as did Rosamunde when they spotted him. Neither showed shame or embarrassment at their having been caught in the midst of flirtation. Lord, it was a fine job he returned when he had or else, knowing his father, he’d have had her in bed before long. The man had fewer principles than he when it came to women.

  Rosamunde approached, her expression eager and open. He noted she moved quickly before seeming to remember herself. When he did nothing more than bow his head to her, her expression shuttered and she merely inclined her head.

  “I’m glad to see you returned, husband. We have guests, as you can see. Sir Rhodri has a wish to speak with you. May I suggest you speak with him in the solar?”

  Ieuan let his brows dip and he opened his mouth to speak then closed it again. Since when did Rosamunde order him about?

  Finally, he came to his senses. “Aye, I shall do that.” Remembering his station, he added, “Will you not have some food sent up? I have eaten little these past days. And when Sir Rhodri returns to the hall, I should like a bath.”

  “Certainly.”

  Iciness wound its cold fingers around his heart. Not only had he angered his wife but now he had his father to deal with. With no word of who might have turned traitor, his trip had been a failure. Time wasted and now this. What did the man want?

  “Sir Rhodri.” He motioned to his father. “Shall we discuss business upstairs?”

  Owain acknowledged the command with a nod of his head and followed Ieuan up to the solar. A single candle was lit on the desk and he used it to light the rest of the candles before leaning against the wall and folding his arms. He could sit—his weary body longed for him to do so—but he would not give his father any advantage.

  “How goes it, Owain?” He refused to call him sire or father. The man had done little in his opinion to earn either title.

  “Poor indeed.” His father cracked a grin. “But things go well for you, do they not? A rich, beautiful wife. I was wise in my order to fetch fair Rosamunde, was I not?”

  “Aye,” he said wearily. Now that the jealousy was leaving his body in waves, he could hardly deny that. He straightened, aware he’d revealed a weakness to his father. Rosamunde. “What is the meaning of your visit? You not only put me in danger but my tenants and Rosamunde.”

  “I call for your support.”

  “Support for what?”

  “Some of the English will back another uprising. Those on the border are sympathetic to our cause and have no liking for the king. They do not wish to see him run rampant with power.”

  Ieuan ran a hand through his beard and tried to process the words. “You wish to fight again? After all that has happened?”

  “We stand a good chance of success.”

  He shook his head. “Nay, we do not. The people are weary of fighting. They are hungry and tired. Freedom is not freedom when your belly is empty and your homes are burned to the ground. You want freedom but at what cost? Your family lies dead around you and you are an old man. Hell’s teeth, I knew you were selfish but...” He turned away before he said anything else or did something worse, like lay a fist into his father’s face.

  “We are Welshmen, Ieuan. I am the Prince of Wales. Without freedom, I have nothing.”

  “You had plenty,” he said to the wall. “Now you have nothing and ‘tis naught but your own fault.”

  He ground his teeth together, wary of striking out at his own father. Owain had only ever thought of himself. The Welsh deserved their independence but not at the expense of their livelihoods. With England, they were stronger. The time for independence wasn’t now and his father refused to acknowledge that.

  “So you will not aid me? My own son goes against me.”

  Ieuan rounded on his father, teeth bared, breath hissing through them in annoyance. “You have seldom aided me, Father. What do I owe you? You bedded my mother and left her. You cared not when she died of fever. You were too busy creating more bastard children and pandering to your legitimate ones.”

  The older man curled a fist and drew up his shoulders, reminding Ieuan that although Owain was not the warrior he used to be, he still had strength enough. “I gave you training and now you have this keep and a rich bride. ‘Tis more than my other children had. Now most lie in a grave or their heads are rotting on spikes.”

  The slight catch in Owain’s voice surprised him. Ambition drove his father so hard that he didn’t think he’d given his slain children a second thought.

  Ieuan sniffed dismissively. His father would get no sympathy from him. They were practically strangers and now he wanted him to risk his life and Rosamunde’s for this foolish escapade. Well, he would not do it. The life of a bastard might not be worth much but hers was.

  “You’ll get no help from me save from rest and food. Once you have eaten and slept, I wish not to see you again.”

  His father nodded slowly and folded his arms. Was it his imagination or did admiration creep into his eyes?

  “I can see you’ll not be persuaded. You might not wish it so but you are your father’s son.”

  With that, he left. Ieuan slumped down on the chair and tapped a finger to the oak table. He eyed one of the ledgers that he hadn’t finished completing and pushed a hand through his hair. Times were hard enough, why could his father not see that? And why did he feel so damnably awful being on bad terms with his father?

  A serving girl bringing in food forced him to cease his thoughts. He picked at the cheese and shoved a slice of pork in his mouth but he had little appetite. He watched absently as a bath was filled with buckets of hot water. The twisting sensation in his gut told him he’d wronged
Rosamunde too. He should have taken her in his arms and kissed her until she was breathless, not treated her with anger. No wonder she had been so cold toward him. Jealousy was a cruel mistress.

  When the maids had left, he rose from the chair. His muscles ached in protest. He gritted his teeth and undressed hurriedly. The curls of steam beckoned to him like siren’s fingers promising warmth and comfort. He stepped into the wooden tub and released a long, low breath. Sinking down, the aches began to disperse.

  The warm water, however, would not disperse the very real ache in his gut. Nay, only an apology to Rosamunde for being a fool would do that. Rosamunde had no interest in his father, he knew that. She was merely doing her duty. Likely she had been trying to please him. He really didn’t deserve the woman.

  He closed his eyes and rested his head back against the folded cloth laid at the end of the tub for him. The next thing he was aware of was fingers touching his scalp. He jerked his eyes open and blinked in the dim light of the room.

  “Hush,” someone soothed.

  “Rosamunde?”

  “Aye.” She pressed her fingers back through his damp hair and he groaned.

  “Why are you here?”

  “’Tis growing late. Supper is over and most are asleep or tending to their duties.”

  “You should get some rest. It has likely been a busy day for you. I shall join you in but a moment.”

  She didn’t respond, simply continued pressing her fingers over his scalp. His body felt like liquid at her touch. He thought he might simply slip away and become part of the bath water. Her touch was so good. So damn good. He groaned again.

  However, when the tension had left him, it allowed arousal to slip in underneath. Before long, he was imagining her fingers elsewhere. Smoothing across his chest and sneaking down to grasp his arousal. He pictured her stroking him with a teasing touch before working him vigorously to a climax. Hell fire, he was aroused and there was no hiding it in this bath.