by Rue Allyn
“’Tis not a matter of hospitality. That black-haired fellow is the castle builder.”
Gennie studied the engineer, who unabashedly studied her right back. “I am confused, Soames. Everyone knows that Edward’s master builder is James St. George d’Esperanche. This man is Welsh. And did you not just say that the king did not want the Welsh anywhere near Two Hills Keep?”
“Aye, I said all that. But seems the master builder was needed elsewhere, so he sent this fellow Arthur Pwyll in his place.”
Upon hearing his name, Pwyll spoke in careful English. “I studied with Master St. George for ten years. Your king has many castles he wants to build. Too many for one engineer. My master has permitted me to supervise construction on some of the smaller keeps. I have letters to confirm what I say.” He reached into a sack at his side and offered a rolled and sealed parchment.
“Well then, Soames, that sounds well enough. If Pwyll has letters authorizing his work here, all we need do is read them and comply.”
She looked from Soames to Owain and back, then took the parchment from Pwyll. “I will read the letters. Soames if you are finished, I will hear from Owain.”
“Aye, I am done.”
“Milady,” Owain began, “we must have the Welsh to aid us.”
“I do not see how that will be possible if the king expressly forbids it,” she countered.
“And what of your promise to Gwyneth?”
“Oh, my. I cannot unsay that promise.”
“No milady, you cannot.”
“You should never have made such a promise in the first place,” Soames interjected.
“Did no one tell you that I made the promise because Gwyneth claimed she could save Sir Haven’s life? She did as she claimed. I would make the same promise and more if I had it to do again.”
Soames’s face flushed. “No one spoke of this to me.”
“Now you understand. It is not only Gwyneth but also others of the local Welsh who have made it possible for us all to survive. I will hear no more about removing them from the keep unless my husband decides it must be so.” Which he never will do, if I can prevent it, she thought.
“What else, Owain?”
“Soames does not agree with me as to which task to undertake first.”
“What say you, Pwyll?” Gennie asked.
“I disagree with both of them.”
“Soames, can we not divide our men and the Welsh workers into three groups, and thus make progress on all tasks?”
“Aye, milady, that might work.”
“An excellent idea, Lady Genvieve.” Pwyll’s bow accompanied the statement.
“Thank you, Pwyll.”
“You are most welcome, milady. If you will permit, my assistant and I will begin our examination of the keep and grounds.”
“By all means do so.” The Welshmen left, and Gennie turned her attention to Soames and Owain. “If all is settled, I must return to my husband.”
“Stay a moment, Lady Genvieve. There remains one small matter.”
“’Tis foolishness to bother her ladyship with such a small disagreement,” Soames said.
Gennie sighed. “What disagreement is this?”
“Your son, milady…” Owain hesitated.
She had seen her son but briefly in the past week. Guilt and concern choked her. In an impulse to still the worried beat of her pulse, Gennie’s hand went to her throat. “What of Thomas? Is he well?”
“He is fine, milady,” Soames assured her.
“It’s just that the dog…”
She cut Owain off. “Dog, what dog? Please tell me he’s not been bitten by a mad dog?”
“The boy is fine.” Owain muttered from behind clenched teeth. “But he has found a dog and has grown attached to the beast.”
Relief nearly stopped her heart. She could not have borne to lose Thomas. “Is that all?”
“It is a most inappropriate creature, milady,” said Soames. “The boy even named the cur Caesar.”
“It is a puppy, and ’twill do the lad good to have a playmate,” Owain argued.
“Sir Haven will be most displeased,” countered Soames.
Gennie laughed. “I would hardly worry about Sir Haven’s displeasure over a hound that I allow my son to have, when we will no doubt suffer more than frowns over the issue of the Welsh workers.”
Soames and Owain both nodded, as if she had uttered some sage wisdom.
“Good; now I must go. If you see Rene, would you ask him to send some sops for my husband with my food?”
“We’ll see to it, milady.”
Gennie turned and mounted the stairs to the gatehouse room. She could not help but smile as the two warriors’ voices rose in discord behind her.
Gennie licked his ear. It felt good, very wet, but good. Still he had rather she licked his…
“Bad dog. Get out.”
Bad dog? Get out? Haven felt tension form between his eyebrows. He opened his eyes, but the dim light made his head ache mere. He hurt all over, yet even with his eyes closed, he struggled to rise. He had no idea where he was, nor to whom that voice belonged. Nonetheless, he would not stay where he was unwelcome.
“Nay, Sir Haven.” The strangely accented voice cackled, and a hand met his chest, restraining him.
Haven fell backward, surprised to discover just how weak he was.
More words crackled from the odd voice, but the sounds made no sense. He heard shuffling footsteps.
He had a vague vision of a battle with the Welsh. The three warriors, Rebecca, falling in the mud, Watley’s horse…
Haven braved the increased headache and opened his eyes. Stone walls, a few tapestries, a braiser and a heap of furs met his glance. Where am I?
More footsteps sounded, lighter and faster this time.
“Haven? Haven.” Gennie burst into the room, a smile beaming on her lips. “Merci le Ban Dieu. Gwyneth said you had awakened, but I needed to see for myself.”
She sat by him and fussed with his covers. She seemed determined to touch him everywhere. Weak as he was, he could not prevent his body’s natural reaction.
“I only stepped out for a moment, to tell Thomas he must keep that dog out of this room. Getting you well has been a trial, and I don’t want that mongrel bringing pestilence in here.”
Mongrel? Thomas? Why would Gennie call her son a dog? And where in Hades were they? He grabbed his wife’s wandering hands and grimaced. Even that small movement hurt.
“What is it? Are you in pain? Where does it hurt?” Her words rushed, panic-driven, over his face.
“Everywhere,” he gritted out. “Now be still. It will lessen the pain.”
“But husband…”
“Nay. Please, where are we?”
Gennie blinked at him. “Why, at Two Hills Keep. Where else would we be?”
“I know not. The last thing I remember is falling in the mud and Watley’s horse leaping over me.”
“Oh, my poor dear Haven.” Gennie removed one hand from his. Her soft finger moved over his face, pushing back the hair that fell across his brow. “You remember nothing of the two days that followed that battle?”
“Nay.”
Gennie caressed his cheek.
Haven shuddered.
“You refused to allow me to treat your injuries, but insisted on pushing forward. You would complete the task your king had set you or die trying.”
He lost focus as she spoke. He narrowed his field of vision, clinging to the sight of those plush lips, moving a hand’s breadth from his. She had called him her dear Haven. Had he somehow managed to capture a small portion of her affection? More like she simply felt sorry for anyone in pain.
“We at last arrived at Two Hills Keep, and you collapsed. I was certain that you had no strength left, but it might have been from the shock of seeing the keep destroyed and the knowledge that Daffydd had been here and gone before us.”
Instantly his gaze shifted back to her eyes. “What do you mean? If the keep i
s destroyed, where are we, exactly?”
“We are in the gatehouse. It was the only shelter left standing.”
“How do we know it was Daffydd who did this?”
“I am not certain. I suppose Owain might know, or Soames.”
“Soames? Soames has arrived?”
“Oui, and the castle-builder with him.”
“Good. I must speak with them and Owain immediately.”
“Nay, husband. First you will eat. Then you will rest. And after that, if you are strong enough, you may have a short visit with your men.”
“But…”
“Non. You are in no condition to gainsay me. Food first.”
He glared at her.
Gennie smiled,
A moment later, a crone entered the chamber carrying a tray.
“Good, our meal is here.” Gennie took the tray and set it on the floor near Haven’s bed. The beldam honored Haven with a nod and a long look, then jabbered at Gennie in a mixture of Welsh and English.
Gennie shook her head. “Non. I can manage alone.” She turned to Haven. “Husband, this is Gwyneth. You owe her your life, for when you lay sick and I could do nothing to help you, she offered her herbs and her skill, and asked only a place by your fire in return. I promised it to her, of course. ’Twas a small price for my husband’s life.”
Edward’s order to keep the Welsh from Two Hills Keep sprang to Haven’s mind. Gennie’s statement bothered him so much that he didn’t even protest over the sops that she fed him. When he was done, he lay back and closed his eyes. He was tired. Soames and Owain would have to wait. He blinked against pain and frustration. How could he tell Gennie she must put Gwyneth out in the cold?
Chapter Twenty
Gennie lowered the tapestry and left her husband asleep.
Gwyneth would return in a moment and watch over him. With swift strides she descended the gatehouse stair and crossed to where Thomas watched Owain and Arthur supervise work on the last of the holes in the curtain wall. Her son circled a wide stick around the inner edge of a large vat.
“Look, Mama, I am helping to build the wall.”
“You look very busy, Thom. What is it you do?”
“I am stirring the mortar. It makes the stones stick together.”
“That sounds like a very important job.”
“It is.” He nodded seriously. “Arthur says if the mortar isn’t stirred well, it won’t work right, and the stones will all fall down.”
“Then I am very proud that he chose you to do the job.”
“Aye, milady. The lad has been a great help.” Owain spoke, approaching with Arthur on his heels.
“I thank you for your care of him, Owain. I’ve been so busy…”
“There is no need, Lady Genvieve. We all know where your attention has been and would not have it otherwise. Would we, Thomas?” The sergeant-at-arms bent, bringing Thomas into the conversation.
“I had rather Sir Haven weren’t sick at all.”
Gennie knelt beside her son. “Well, I’ve good news, then. He is much better. Today he sat up and ate all his food.”
“I eat all my food.”
“Yes, you do, sweetling. And you are a good boy.”
“Arthur, my arms are tired. May I stop stirring now? I want to play with Caesar.”
Arthur looked to Owain, who answered. “Aye, young Thomas, but leave the stick in the vat and ask Bergen to take your place before you go.”
“Thank you.” He let go of the stick and flew across the bailey to where Bergen sat outside the wrecked stables.
Gennie surveyed the yard. Much had been accomplished, but much more remained to be done. The curtain wall neared completion, but they still had no real shelter other than the gatehouse.
Arthur reached for her elbow. “Excuse us please, Owain. I would consult with Lady Genvieve on the repairs to the keep itself.”
Owain nodded and returned to his work. Gennie and Arthur moved toward the keep’s tower. Wooden structures had been added to prevent the broken walls from toppling further, but the huge space still gaped.
“You have done so much in such a short time, Pwyll.”
“Aye, but I cannot proceed until I know what Sir Haven wants. I also seek your opinions on some matters of comfort.”
“I will be most happy to assist in any way that I can.”
“The basic plan here is good. The kitchens and stables are far enough from the tower for safety, but close enough for convenience and easy defense. With your permission, I will rebuild the out buildings on their original foundations.”
“With the exception of the stables and the kitchens, I approve.”
“What changes do you suggest?”
“I wish the main kitchen where it is, but I would like you to add a small keeping room on the lowest level of the tower. I would have a place to warm foods before they are brought to table.”
The castle builder’s eyes lit. “That sounds ideal, milady.
“’Twill give me a chance to try building a chimney instead of a central fire pit.”
“Is that not dangerous?”
“Nay, milady. The fire pit is actually more dangerous.”
“Then why have them?”
“Until recently we did not know how to build the chimneys needed to vent a fire placed against a wall.”
“It sounds cold and drafty to me. The fire will heat one side of the hall and the other will lack heat.”
Arthur rubbed his chin. “We could put in a second chimney on the opposite side.”
“That, Pwyll, is a perfect idea. How long will it take to construct the chimneys and make the other repairs?”
“With the current number of laborers, I doubt we’ll finish before this time next year.”
“That long?”
“It could be longer, if the winter is early and harsh.”
“Is there any way to close off enough of the keep that the men and workers could have a dry place to sleep?”
“That could be done in a matter of weeks. It is the chimneys and the new walls that will take time.”
“And if you had more workers, you could do it faster?”
“With two hundred workers and ten skilled artisans, I could finish before winter this year.”
“Then I will find you more workers. Can you write me a list of the skilled men you will need?”
“Certainly. But where will you find enough men?”
“I do not know yet. But find them I will. Is there aught else you wish of me or need?”
“I want to know if you would like a solar or other private chambers.”
“A real solar?”
“Aye I know of no other type.” Arthur chuckled.
“Silly; I haven’t seen a solar since I left France. My…my first husband’s family was very old-fashioned, believing that privacy was vanity.”
“Do you agree?”
“Non, in France we had three private chambers. One for my parents, one for me and one for guests.”
“I could rebuild this keep with three private rooms, but four would be best and easier to do.”
Gennie smiled and hugged him. “Pwyll, you are a treasure.”
The young man’s face colored. “Yo-you mentioned the stables.”
“I must insist you consult with my husband before beginning work on the stables. He should be able to speak with you in a few days. And it might be best if you came prepared with some drawings. He has not seen the castle, nor the extent of the damages.”
“I understand completely, Lady Genvieve. Thank you for giving your advice on these matters.” The Welshman kissed her hand.
“You are most welcome, Pwyll. Now I have a few errands to run before I return to my husband’s bedside.”
He watched her go and shook his head. He had been unable to resist placing that small formal kiss upon her hand. You are a fool, Arthur Pwyll, he told himself. The woman is not only married but clearly in love with her husband. Respect her, but do not touch her, he reminded
himself.
She was determined to torture him. Haven watched Gennie snuggle into the furs that made her bed on the opposite side of his sickroom. While Gennie touched him constantly, it was only to help him move or arrange his blankets. Neither her gestures nor her expressions hinted at passion. And Gwyneth still occupied the corner by the braiser. He wanted Gennie in his bed and the old woman gone.
The distance he felt growing between himself and his wife surprised him. He had not recognized what they shared as closeness. How had he come to admire her determination and the strength with which she faced the worst that life could hand her? When had he come to rely on her, to expect her sunny smiles and gentle touch? What had happened to the laughing temptress Gennie had revealed herself to be during their stay at Twynn? Had she recalled the barrier Roger’s death raised between them?
He had told no one of that terrifying voice from his delirium. The remembered whisper still haunted him. “Yes you do…you do love Gennie.” That thought frightened him more than the idea of lying sick in a keep still vulnerable to attack. Even worse, he could not say why. The nightmares had left with his fever, but the memory of Roger’s face on the scaffold had not. His words, “I cannot trust my wife,” as he begged Haven’s vow, those remained painfully fresh. Haven needed to talk with Gennie. But how could he, when she came near only to tend his wounds?
He sighed and shifted. The headaches had faded, and his pain had become a dull but constant twinge. Now his greatest hurt was one of the heart. He doubted whether he could heal it.
“Husband, are you well?” Gennie’s disembodied voice floated out of the dark.
“No,” he grumbled and shifted again. “I am not well at all.”
His wife emerged from the gloom and laid a hand on his brow. “You are not fevered. What troubles you?”
“My bed is empty. That troubles me mightily.”
Gennie looked at him and the bed. Confusion wrinkled her brow. “But you are in the bed, sir.”
His patience at an end, Haven grasped her wrist and tested his strength with a short tug on her arm.
She fell into his lap with a satisfactory gasp of surprise.
“Now, wife, my bed is no longer empty.”
