A Lord for Haughmond

by K. C. Helms

  “So ye’re torn,” Simon observed, his tone unsympathetic.

  Rhys nodded. The depth of his misery nigh choked him. “I find myself in love with Lady Katherine— ”

  “A reckonin’ ye didn’t calculate.”

  “A most grave miscalculation,” he agreed, his voice breaking. “’Tis impossible for me to claim that sweet lady’s hand.”

  “Ye wooed her, natheless, gave her false hope.”

  ’Twas a blow to Rhys’s midsection. He nodded, breathing heavily. “It does complicate our mission.”

  “Yer mission, Rhys, not mine,” Simon corrected sharply.

  “What maggot do you chew on?” He threw an exasperated scowl at the younger man.

  “If ye but realized how much ye lose with this vow for vengeance, ye’d reconsider yer wicked plan.”

  Taken aback by Simon’s condemnation, Rhys responded with his own anger. “Quit speaking in riddles, pup! You mean I will lose Haughmond?”

  “Nay, stupid man, ye’ll secure Haughmond.” Simon rolled his eyes in disgust. “But ye’ll lose the good will of Lady Katherine when the truth be known. Ye don’t understand her. I pity her. She’s plannin’ ta bestow her favor upon ye at the joust, did ye know, even though she’s betrothed to yer opponent? What becomes of her when she learns she’s been insulted apurpose?”

  Sweat dampened Rhys’s palms. ’Twas a question he’d asked himself and had found no answer.

  “Another miscalculation ye hadn’t considered?” Simon stared him down. “She’ll go ta Sir Dafydd 'cause she must. But she'll hate him. And when she discovers what ye’ve done ta her, her hate will grow. ’Twill be yer fault when she’s twisted into a bitter woman.”

  “Silence your maw!” Rhys clenched his jaw, his patience evaporating.

  “Plotting evil deeds.” Simon appeared unaffected by the castigation. His eyes narrowed. “How like Sir Geoffrey ye become.”

  “You dare to compare us? I am not as that cockatrice!” Rhys’s fist struck out before he reconsidered, smashing Simon squarely in the face. With a growl, he yanked his arm back. Bright red blood dripped from the squire’s nose “Begone with you. You don’t seek favor with such talk.”

  Simon swiped the back of his hand across his nose, smearing a streak of red up his cheek. With a dark glower, he stomped from the tent.

  “And speak proper English as you were instructed,” Rhys shouted after him. “Or I’ll fetch you back to the gutter where I found you!”

  * * *

  A caravan arrived from St. Werburgh in Chester, bearing a group of Benedictine nuns. ’Twas rumored the good sisters had come to put Sir Dafydd’s banner to rights, a kind gesture from an obliging kinswoman.

  At supper, Simon pointed out the knight from across the hall and Katherine had a fleeting view of a tall muscular man with a dark drooping moustache and goatee. Had she given him more consideration, she might have found him handsome. But her mind rebelled against such thoughts. The prospect of being wed to anyone but Rhys devastated her.

  Rhys must carry the day.

  * * *

  With their retinue of attending ladies, Queen Eleanor and Lady Joice were comfortably ensconced in the solar. The spacious room had become considerably crowded with the addition of the nuns. The queen, garbed in a simple gown of green wool, held her needle with precision.

  Katherine could not help but admire the royal lady. Aunt Matilda had never looked so elegant. Amidst the dull black habits of the nuns, Queen Eleanor fairly glowed with the newfangled decoration embellishing the brocade of her bodice. Buttons, they were called. The small round metal disks caught the sunlight drifting in through the windows and glittered with each stitch she laid down.

  Katherine had secured a bench in a far corner for herself and Anne. She wanted naught to do with the guests of the abhorrent knight. The awareness of his existence had induced days of tension and sleepless nights. How could Rhys, injured as he was, hope to compete against a knight reputed for his prowess with the sword?

  In her quieter moments, broad shoulders and a dark moustache unsettled her confidence, drew a furrow to her brow and sadness to her heart. Her fears overwhelmed her.

  In the meantime, the good sisters labored over Sir Dafydd’s banner, their needles quick and steady. In the course of the day the cloth, striking in its motif of white on black, came to life before their very eyes.

  “Pray, allow me to examine your handwork.” Eleanor rose. Her linen wimple held in place with a ribboned circlet, fluttered about her face as she bent close. “Ah, such delicate stitches,” she complimented with a smile.

  “Thank you kindly, your royal grace,” replied Sir Dafydd’s kinswoman, her brilliant green eyes sparkling her pleasure. The other religious sisters bobbed their heads and valiantly tried not to look pleased.

  Locked within her unhappiness, Katherine refused to give credence to the banner, as well as the nun who spent much of the time contemplating her. A gentle smile played upon the sister’s lips and warmed her eyes whenever she glanced in Katherine’s direction. Katherine turned her back on the proceedings and tried to banish the convivial chatter and carefree laughter from her mind.

  * * *

  “I find the circumstances under which you joust most intriguing,” the king said, sweeping into Rhys’s tent the following day. “I intended to visit both combatants, yet I cannot locate Sir Dafydd. Have you seen him?”

  Startled by the king’s sarcasm, Rhys wondered at its cause and glanced away from Edward’s stern look. “Nay, sire, he quite eludes me as well.”

  “I interrupted his squire preparing his armor, but I cannot locate the knight.” With an impatient flick of his hand, Edward rejected the seat Simon offered and remained standing, his head nigh brushing the canvas roof. With royal fists clenched at his hips, he bestowed his displeasure upon Rhys.

  Rhys remained silent, sure all the wrath of the Plantagenet king was about to descend upon him.

  “Leave us!” Edward motioned toward Simon. When they were alone, he asked abruptly, “How fare you, sir knight?”

  Rhys bowed stiffly, his muscles rebelling against the movement. “I’m heartier, sire, much thanks.”

  Edward swept him from head to toe. “Sufficiently so?” he inquired with a narrowing gaze.

  He kept his gaze on the matted ground. “Alas, no, my lord. ’Tis unlikely I’ll remain seated for more than one pass.” He shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

  “Already you proclaim yourself the loser?” Edward asked suspiciously. “Incorrigible! I expect an exhibition befitting an English knight, not a mockery on the field of honor.”

  Rhys shifted his weight once more. An ax blade to his leg would be less painful than the king’s rancor. He dipped his head and sought a differential expression. “Yea, sire.”

  “I have given much thought to this joust of yours.” The king cleared his throat. “Had I not been taken in by your plight, I would not have given my blessing.”

  So that was what stuck in the king’s craw. Edward felt manipulated.

  Rhys bowed again. “Sire, I nigh died for the sake of England. ’Tis as worthy an inducement as any loyal knight could beget.”

  “You dare much!”

  Rhys stood silent, his eyes downcast. He would not fuel the king’s vacillating moods.

  “A fine distraction, this entertainment of yours.” Edward snorted. “I wonder what Lady Katherine will say?” He leaned toward Rhys as though confiding a secret. “I pray you, get her to Haughmond before she discovers whom she’s wed. And if she wishes to see you gelded, my good and foolish knight, I will gift her with my best blade.” He slapped Rhys on the back.

  Rhys clenched his jaw, refusing to grimace at the unwarranted pain.

  With a grunt of displeasure, the king pulled aside the tent flap and departed with a pair of his soldiers following in his wake.

  Outside the tent Simon kicked around a barrel filled with sand and chain mail, rolling the container back and fort
h beneath his boot, sloshing the contents inside, the sand scraping clean any rust that had accumulated.

  “Would I could clout my master so smartly,” he complained beneath his breath, unaware he was overheard.

  Rhys dropped the tent flap back into place and returned to his exercises. Flexing his arm, observing his shoulder as he lifted and lowered his sword in a steady rhythm, he tried not to think. But his desperate fears and dwindling hopes surged through him like a barrage of well-aimed arrows. Would he could clout himself for the shambles he had created. He yearned for Katherine, yet a future with her was not possible. Yet how could he relinquish her? She held his heart in the palm of her sweet and gentle hand. She held him imprisoned and gladly did he yearn for the fetters of her love. A cold shudder coursed down his spine.

  God’s bones, what became of him?

  Then a new and staggering fear smote him, brought his sword slamming to the ground.

  What became of Katherine?

  * * *

  According to Eleanor, when two knights fought over a lady, ’twas best the lady remain out of reach until the matter was settled.

  Sitting in the solar in the midst of her ladies-in-waiting and the ever-present nuns, she took her ease garbed in a plain woolen bliaud of purple. Many of her attending ladies were more elegantly attired, with ribbons or gold nets covering coiled braids while they played at chess and backgammon. To one side, the castle seamstress fitted a gown to Lady Joice, who stood with her arms extended, as though she were taking off like a bird. Beyond her, one lady used a distaff to draw out woolen thread and another read aloud to a companion from a small book of Latin verses.

  Ordered to the queen’s side, Katherine chafed beneath the enforced confinement. She spent the weary morning hours reworking her embroidery, trying desperately to maintain her aplomb in the company of the royal lady. Finally, in defeat, she threw down the linen cloth and leapt to her feet with a groan.

  “I can bear it no more!” she exclaimed.

  “The queen’s needle never faltered on the altar cloth she sewed for her host’s chapel. “Courage, child. ’Tis your time of testing. God seeks your worth. You mustn’t disappoint Him.”

  Her quiet dignity was meant to calm. It did not come close.

  “How can I concentrate when the man I love cannot win the tourney?” Katherine’s voice shook with the same passion that she was sure contorted her expression.

  From the far side of the spacious room where she sat in a window seat, Sister Mary Margaret paused in her sewing.

  The queen showed sudden worry. Her brows rose above her gentle dark eyes. “You prefer this knight, this man who possesses no lands?”

  Katherine lowered her gaze. “Yea, my lady,” she breathed. “With all my heart.”

  “I pray you, think of Haughmond,” Eleanor admonished. “’Tis a remarkable holding. It must needs be secured, to provide protection at the border.”

  Struggling with her misery, Katherine squared her shoulders.

  The queen set down her sewing and cast a sympathetic look at her. “You are young, Cherie. You will learn to love your husband. Your children will comfort you."

  Katherine cast a cross look at the queen. “They will be fostered, like yours, and raised by another. Be that a comfort?”

  A startled intake of breath from one of the attending ladies brought Katherine to her senses. A nun crossed herself and fetched up her rosary beads from her lap.

  Though she had not intended an affront to the queen, Katherine knew she had erred. Yet royal punishment would be a blessed relief from this madness besetting her.

  “Disappointment is a bitter herb,” the queen commented. “I can ignore your rudeness, for I understand what prompts it. I was young once.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Katherine whispered. She tried for a semblance of composure, dropping a swift curtsy. The queen returned to her sewing and the nuns resumed their activities. All but one, whose regard continued to disconcert Katherine.

  Doubtless, none of these women had loved as she loved. But flaunting her anxiety would serve naught. With the raw taste of frustration in her mouth, she turned and commenced a slow foray across the room. The sweet, grass-like scent of crushed thyme wafting up from the rushes on the floor did not soothe. Nor did the silent nuns, whom she passed at the far corner, who toiled over the final details of Sir Dafydd’s banner. She turned away, spurning its beauty.

  She drew near again to the queen and Eleanor smiled gently. “Come hither, child. Sit with me. I would talk to you as a mother.” She motioned away one of the ladies-in-waiting and Katherine reluctantly took the vacated seat.

  “Your marriage needs be, of necessity, a political advantage for England. You are sufficiently old to understand these matters. My own marriage was political. It has been satisfying and most fruitful. My dear Edward is intelligent and kind. Those were the same qualities he plied when choosing your husband. The king’s decision must needs be for the good of England.” She gave Katherine a steady look. “But he does temper that choice with his affection for your father’s memory. Know you he thought much of Sir Robert.”

  “Yea, my lady.” Her throat tight, Katherine responded dutifully but in a whisper. Barely making eye contact with the queen, she concentrated on a wisp of soot from the fire that had landed on the skirt of her gown.

  “The man chosen for you, Katherine, needs be a tested knight, worthy of the king’s respect, worthy of keeping Haughmond secure. England requires a strong alliance in the Marches.” Eleanor took a breath, as though fortifying herself for an argument. “But, know you, the king does not seek your unhappiness.”

  Eyes downcast, Katherine refused to meet the queen’s gaze.

  “Your demeanor, child, does not deceive me. I know you are contrite only out of duty.” Eleanor paused before continuing in a patient tone. “Have you heard the tale of how your father’s life was saved during the crusade?”

  Katherine shook her head and daubed at the sooty ash, leaving a smear on the wool fabric.

  “Know you I was there with the king and his knights. The Holy Land is a dry land with a hot sun, and with deadly scimitars everywhere.” She sighed, clearly absorbed in her memories. “I heard the details of the attack from the king himself. Sir Dafydd received his spurs for the deed.”

  Katherine’s head snapped up. She stared at the queen in surprise.

  Eleanor’s smile warmed her gentle brown eyes. “I thought you mightn’t have known. Your father thought much of Sir Dafydd, to be sure. He never told you the tale?”

  “My father’s homecoming was cut short,” Katherine murmured.

  “Yea, I’d forgot you were quite young when that tragedy occurred.” The queen reached out to gently press her hand. “Then you did not know Sir Dafydd saved your father from a beheading by a Saracen’s scimitar?” She paused for an answer. When Katherine shook her head once more, she continued.

  “Though injured himself, with his forearm gravely slashed, Sir Dafydd’s quick action allowed Sir Robert time to slay the attacker, whose ultimate quarry was my husband. From that day forward, your father and Dafydd were fast friends. Thenceforth, the king held them both in high regard.”

  Impressed by the tale, Katherine tried to feel some emotion, any emotion, for the brave knight who had saved her father and the king. ’Twas impossible to conjure up tenderness. She felt only anger, dismay and dread.

  “I bid your sorrow should cease, Katherine. For the memory of your father, for the sake of Haughmond.” Eleanor leaned closer. “For England.”

  When Katherine remained silent, the queen sighed. “Odd, is it not, how life comes full circle? What good fortune you can return a favor to Sir Dafydd. At all costs, you must protect your holdings.” She raised a purposeful brow. “Give up this folly, this Rhys of St. Quintin.”

  “How can I?” Katherine’s eyes brimmed with tears. “A flame kindled does not cease on its own.”

  “Be not foolish, child.” The queen’s tone grew implacable,
as did her expression. “’Tis your bounden duty to obey the king. For Haughmond’s sake you must needs pretend this knight—this Rhys—does not exist.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I am to pretend you do not exist!”

  The words burst from Katherine before she had time to think. Her voice, startling in its depth of agony, brought the conversation at the trestle table to an abrupt halt. ’Twas the evening feast and the many tables beneath an array of colorful banners filled Bereford’s great hall. Across from her, Rhys lifted a surprised brow, while Anne stopped chewing her food to stare at her. A nearby lady and knight both paused with curious looks.

  Katherine cleared her throat and tried to get a grip on her emotions. Yet she found herself frowning at Eleanor. Seated beside the king, the royal lady conversed with the Earl of Bereford and his lady at their linen covered table on the raised dais.

  “I presumed the queen to be wise. For the nonce, I shall recast her in a different mode.” When her words came out sharper than she intended, she bit her lip.

  “Tsk, Eleanor wields much power with the king.” Rhys popped fried rissoles into his mouth and spoke around them. “Keep her in your camp, my lady, and you will gain far more than a momentary loss of confidence.”

  Her frown deepened as the queen laughed at the acrobats and jugglers performing in the center of the room. “She should know what it's like to be compelled to wed a stranger,” she muttered in exasperation.

  “’Twas her fate, if you do remember.”

  Katherine grimaced at Rhys’s gentle reminder. Using her spoon to lift cooked mackerel from the wooden trencher she shared with Anne, she bit into the salty fish and grimaced again. ’Twas Easter day and the end of the most over-long Lenten season in her memory. Forsooth, she was heartily tired of fish.

  Rhys took a pull on his horn of ale and grinned. “Fret not, my lady. On the morrow I may yet best Sir Dafydd and win your hand.” He threw her a lively wink.