A Lord for Haughmond

by K. C. Helms

  “Courage, my lady.”

  He took her hand. As one, they faced the priest. The good father made the sign of the cross. Rhys tugged at her to kneel by the altar. Prayers were intoned, words she did not follow. The priest’s words, rambling in her head, continued unabated, then came to a halt. She started at Rhys’s clear voice.

  “In the presence of God, I, Dafydd de la Motte, take thee Katherine to be my wedded wife, promising with divine assistance to be unto thee a loving and faithful husband as long as we both shall live.”

  A gold ring was blessed and slipped onto her finger.

  ’Twas her turn to give voice to the harrowing vows. Terror overpowered her voice. Rhys bent his head close to hers and whispered the words of the priest, encouraging her to follow. She stumbled along, trembling at the vows binding her to a dreaded existence.

  At last, no more words were necessary, all had been said that made her a married woman.

  Rhys gently pulled her to her feet.

  Eleanor bestowed a brief kiss upon her cheek and gave a satisfied nod. “You shall find happiness, my dear, if you but seek it. Remember, the king wishes you well.”

  As though in a trance, Katherine stared through the royal lady.

  Eleanor turned to Rhys. “’Twas unwise for you to act as proxy. Lady Katherine is distressed.” Her mouth set in an angry line. She turned and swept from the chapel, her two ladies-in-waiting hurrying behind.

  Sister Mary Margaret startled Katherine when she and another nun took their leave, their hands folded primly within the sleeves of their dark robes. Forsooth, Sir Dafydd would crave witnesses for the bridal. She pierced their retreating backs with a dull and desolate stare.

  Motioning for Anne to follow the religious sisters, Rhys guided Katherine toward the doorway. But Sir Geoffrey stepped ahead of them, blocking their way.

  In alarm, she recoiled against Rhys.

  “’Tis well accomplished that Haughmond is properly conferred upon Sir Dafydd, else I would doubt my son’s right of possession. Your hands do show much familiarity with his bride.” Geoffrey eyed them sharply. “The day will come, Rhys of St. Quintin, when we will settle our differences. Never again will you touch my son’s chattel.” He gave Rhys a hard shove before he strode from the chapel.

  A moment later the priest hurried past, his shaved head bowed, his eyes averted.

  They stood alone in the chapel, with only the tendrils of candle smoke drifting around them.

  Rhys leaned toward her, his forehead pressing to hers. “You needs be ready to ride for Haughmond within the hour. Can you contrive it?” He straightened and stepped back, giving her an encouraging look.

  Katherine stumbled as though she had been cast adrift. Yet when Rhys lunged for her, she flung up her hands.

  “I shall manage,” she breathed. “I needs learn to stand alone, do I not?”

  “Nevermore will you be alone, Katherine.” His resolute voice echoed against the stone walls of the chapel. “I will always be with you, for my heart is yours.”

  She shook her head. “I’m bound to Sir Dafydd. There is no place for you in my future life.”

  She turned to leave the chapel, but Rhys’s hands caught her shoulders and swung her back toward him. “Where ever I go, you are with me.” His hands cupped her face, forcing her to meet his piercing gaze.

  Tears blinded her. His tender words unhinged her ability to control her emotions. “’Tis wrong to love you,” she cried, covering his hands. “But God forgive me, I can’t help myself.”

  Rhys’s head lowered and his lips captured hers. Without hesitation Katherine returned his ardor with such fierceness, it took her breath away. This final kiss must needs be a lasting keepsake.

  Her lips parted and Rhys’s tongue danced with hers, tasting, stirring sensations so raw and voracious she grew dizzy from the heady rush. Her agony increased all the more when he cradled her buttocks against his unyielding armor.

  Sweet Jesu, a mere kiss was not sufficient!

  “Oh, Sweetling,” Rhys murmured as his lips moved across her cheek and nuzzled her neck. “How do I leave you at Haughmond?”

  Katherine froze. “You are for Haughmond?” She choked on the words.

  Rhys lifted his head and settled a troubled look upon her. “I am to see you safely arrived before joining the king.”

  “Mon Dieu!” She launched herself from the loving embrace. “Such misery to be with you and yet belong to another. How do I bear it?”

  Rhys stepped after her, but she flung herself into the corridor and whirled to face him. “Don’t touch me, I beseech you. I cannot bear it.”

  She backed away, grazing her knuckles across the cold stones of the wall behind her. “Escort me, if the king commands it, but promise me you’ll never touch me anon.”

  Rhys’s startled confusion bore into her. “You cannot mean— ”

  “You will keep your distance. I’ll not have my soul in peril.”

  Tears spilled down her cheeks. ’Twas a sin to covet a man other than her husband. Yet the molten heat flooding through her bore testament to her uncontrollable hunger. In a moment she would be unable to deny the fire Rhys stoked within her.

  In desperation she cried, “Promise you’ll leave me in peace!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “’Tis a promise I will never render.”

  Katherine sank against the wall behind her, using it for strength as she gaped at Rhys, startled by his restrained but resolute declaration.

  “I’ve witnessed the manner in which you behold Sir Dafydd. I’ve heard your harsh condemnation of him.” His voice filling the narrow corridor outside the chapel, he bestowed an appraising look upon her. “Do you intend to be his wife? Will you allow his touch?” He arched a questing brow. “Will you nurture his children in your womb?”

  Katherine gasped and looked away. He knew her so well, better than she knew herself. She scarce had another thought. Sir Dafydd would not be allowed near her. She would not bear any child of his.

  “Your inclinations are plainly evident on your face.”

  Surprised at his sudden sharp tone, she focused on the tip of his boot. “You must allow, ’twas a dark day when that knight did enter this world.”

  “Aye, a dark day, indeed.” Rhys’s tone grew forbidding.

  She darted a perplexed glance in his direction.

  “Tell me, what is it that provokes you?” A muscle twitched in his jaw. He stepped closer. “Is it the sire of Sir Dafydd that does beset you? Or do you mislike that you are the spoils of combat?”

  The question posed no hardship. Gladly would she have been the spoils, had Rhys been the victor. But she dared not admit it. ’Twould encourage him and she must not. ’Twas safer to hide behind anger.

  She took a deep breath. “I despise the man.” Her voice rose, echoing against the stones of the corridor. “Yea, I do begrudge the air he does breathe. I mislike that knight’s very existence.”

  “Clearly,” Rhys replied in a tight voice.

  “I will not mingle my blood with Sir Geoffrey’s get.” Katherine laid emphasis to her claim by punctuating the air with her forefinger. “No child of his can give me comfort.”

  She watched tight-lipped as Rhys expelled a breath. “And what of me? Would my child bring you comfort—or pain?”

  His fervent and strained expression stabbed at her heart and had her insides churning. Her words tumbled out in a rush. “By rights you mustn’t ask me this.”

  “Do not begrudge me the query, Katherine. Most sure, I needs know if you would scorn me likewise.” Rhys took hold of her hand and clasped it to his chest.

  She forced herself to silence. ’Twas on the tip of her tongue to tell him how much she yearned for his child. In the long years ahead, a child of his would be a great comfort. But she must say naught. The future did not belong to them.

  She tried to pull away, but she could not loosen his hold. Frustrated at his determination, concentrating on her anger rather than the delight
of his touch, she made her voice sharp. “A plague on the de Borne line. I care naught if they all do rot in hell.”

  “You repudiate your husband?” asked Rhys in a measured voice.

  She nodded.

  “Pray, how will you accomplish such a feat?” He lifted a calculating brow. “How do you intend to keep your husband from giving you children?”

  ’Twas a plaguing question that offered no answer. “Do not press me,” she replied in irritation, her glance sliding away. “An inspiration will come if I pray to Saint Winifred. She has never forsaken me.”

  “Ah, foolish lady, ’tis as worthy as any of your schemes, I reckon,” Rhys commented, drawing her fingers to his lips.

  To her consternation, he bestowed a gentle kiss upon her hand and she did naught to prevent it. Verily, she basked in the joy of his warm touch, even as a tremor of unease coursed through her.

  Rhys looked up at her through his lashes. “That being the case, I choose to continue to act on Sir Dafydd’s behest. My offspring shall be the heirs of Haughmond.”

  “You must be mad!” Aghast at the staggering suggestion, Katherine tugged frantically against his hold. “What of Sir Dafydd? He will not allow you to trespass on his bounty. He will not allow you to cheat him out of his heirs.”

  “Ho, Katherine.” Rhys chuckled without mirth. “I doubt me that happens, but ’tis precisely what you plan to do to him, is it not?”

  Once more she had no answer and doubted she could argue her point to advantage.

  “War makes of men many things. It does, thereto, make widows.” Rhys spoke with a quiet self-assuredness. “Accidents come to pass,” he murmured in a suggestive tone. “And arrows do go astray.”

  Incredulous, Katherine’s jaw dropped. “Oh, Rhys, you mustn’t seek out my husband for such an intent. Murder is a sin!”

  Rhys gave a skeptical look. “Do not chastise me. You wish Dafydd to return in splendor and partake of his husbandly duties?”

  She shook her head.

  “You do not spurn us both, dear heart. I do not allow it.”

  She went cold inside, sure she heard him aright, desperately hoping she had not. “’Tis not your charge, Rhys,” she admonished.

  “You were meant to be a wife and mother.”

  “Cease! Leave me in peace, I beg you,” she cried, yanking against her imprisoned arm.

  But his hold merely tightened and he gave her a fierce look. “Will you find joy in your marriage? Will you love your husband’s children?”

  “I beg you, don’t do this!” Her hand, crushed within his, grew cold and numb. Staring into his implacable regard, she knew he would not release her. Feeling cornered and utterly vulnerable, she gasped out the raw truth, “God forbid I want no child of his!”

  Rhys grabbed her shoulders. “Then bear mine,” he demanded, all the hope from his soul shining on his face.

  “Sweet Jesu, you have lost all reasoning.”

  “Yea, but even outside God’s sacred chapel I yearn for you,” he groaned. “Feel me!” He seized her hand and pressed it to the front hem of his dagged tunic.

  With a strangled gasp, Katherine snatched back her hand, clutching it to her breast. The growing flame within her threatened her sanity. “On Saint Winifred’s bones, I beseech you to leave me my dignity.”

  “I cannot,” he murmured into her ear. Pinning her betwixt the cold wall and his lean frame, he pulled her into his arms. “I will not allow you to consign yourself to a life of solitude, like a hermit—like a nun! Nay, there is more that you do deserve.” Rhys’s explosion dropped to a whisper. “I will touch you, dear heart. I will hold you.” His lips brushed lightly, then slanted desperately against hers, shattering her waning resolve.

  She strained to keep her face away.

  He grew angry once more. “Katherine, yield to me!” came his command against her lips.

  “Ah, what good fortune I found you, Rhys of St. Quintin.”

  Rhys’s eyes flew open at the female voice dripping with contempt. He whirled with his hand to the hilt of his sword. Sister Mary Margaret stood before them wearing a severe frown.

  The blood rushed from Katherine’s face. Without a doubt Sir Dafydd would hear of this indiscretion from his kinswoman.

  “You are overlong in attending the queen, sir. She does express her displeasure most patently. If it pleases you, you are to go to her at once.” The woman’s reproach was obvious in her glower. “When you say your prayers, sir knight, thank God and all the saints ’twas myself and not one of Eleanor’s ladies-in-waiting who found you thus ensnared.”

  Finally free, Katherine ducked past Rhys and fled down the corridor.

  * * *

  A contingency of Bereford’s household knights enlarged Katherine’s entourage on the two-day journey into Shropshire. Deployed to Chester, they would provide protection as far as Shrewsbury. As they rode north on the Worcester road, where stands of trees cast dark shadows across the rutted roadway, she was glad for the additional soldiers, for they traveled near to the border of Wales.

  Yet their presence did naught to appease the conflict raging within her. Nor did the day’s long and weary ride quell her conflicting emotions, nor lessen her roiling thoughts. No wedding mass had been spoken and no wedding feast had been celebrated. Though she was grateful for not having to endure the customary disrobing by the female guests, or the bedding ceremony, her lifetime dreams of her wedding day did not cease in an instant. This day lacked all the joy and delight she had anticipated as a girl.

  ’Twas not her only regret.

  The bed linens—the ones that would have displayed no virgin’s blood—would not be paraded through the hall. Her vengeance against Sir Dafydd had been for naught. That knight had been spared his disgrace.

  Of all the bridal traditions cast aside, she had natheless, received a wedding kiss. True, it had been forced upon her in the dark corridor outside the chapel. The taste of Rhys remained so vivid, as did the soapy scent of his skin. Her nostrils flared as she inhaled in remembrance, her heart thumping erratically within her breast.

  But his kiss was not a kiss of peace. Watching Rhys and his proud bearing, where he rode at the vanguard of the procession, Katherine grew breathless with desire. His shoulders were too broad for her peace of mind. His movements, lithe and assured as he kept a lookout for danger, mesmerized her and reminded her of the warmth and security when his arms encircled her and held her close. The tilt of his head when he turned in the saddle to apprise himself of the travelers’ welfare, especially when he cast frequent gazes upon her, did naught to diminish her agitation. She remembered that same angle of his face as he bestowed his kisses.

  She was as doomed this day as yester day, with her longings of the flesh. Another sin to heap upon those hitherto accumulating. One more cause for torment. One more reason for prayer.

  Thereto, a new reason to argue with her sister.

  Anne had remarked on Katherine’s delay in returning to their chamber following the brief ceremony, pressing her for the reason.

  “What were you thinking to allow Rhys such liberties?” Anne cried in horror when the truth reluctantly came out.

  “Sir Rhys,” corrected Katherine automatically as she slipped out of the sumptuous silk bliaud and folded it carefully within the leather satchel Simon had lent them. “’Twas naught of my doing.” She snatched up her serviceable woolen gown and donned it. “’Tis not possible to prevent a knight from having his way, sister, should he be determined. ’Tis a lesson worthy of our attention.”

  That truth plagued Katherine the whole of the morning, kept her on edge. How easily Rhys had forced his kiss upon her. Pray, how was she to thwart Sir Dafydd’s demands, when she was his chattel? The law allowed him full liberty. It allowed her naught. She gripped her cloak with an iron fist, angry at the disquieting thought.

  A cold gust of wind sent her skirts billowing above the tops of her muddy boots. Shivering, she hastily shoved the cloak more securely betwixt herself and
the saddle and wished, not for the first time, that she could again dress the part of serf. The sidesaddle was uncomfortable and ’twas a lengthy journey.

  The wind whipped again, blowing her wimple across her face. In irritation she shoved it away. Anne had insisted she wear the headrail—the horrid badge of matrimony! Katherine’s hands had trembled when she tied the chinstrap in place and had secured the delicate cloth upon her head.

  In the wake of their angry words, Anne had refused to ride beside her, choosing to stay nearer to Simon and his baggage mule at the rear of the retinue. With no distraction to break her nettled thoughts, she began a stream of plots against her husband and his rights. But each idea to thwart Sir Dafydd was met with failure. She felt more and more hopeless.

  A pox on the king and his edicts!

  They arrived at Worcester and paid toll to cross the bridge. ’Twas a crowded stretch of the city, with boats tied up at the quays on either side of the crossing, their stacks of goods awaiting the carter’s attention. Beyond stood a small tavern where Rhys chose to break their journey.

  ’Twas of short duration. Her fingers had only just thawed when they were once again on the road, following the Severn River, carefully avoiding the more westerly Ludlow Road and its dangerous proximity to Wales. At dusk, they chanced upon a small Augustinian priory, well endowed from the looks of its prosperity, with many farm buildings and land. The guest-master graciously received them and provided against their needs.

  Though their coins would add to the priory’s coffers, Katherine doubted she was the warmer for it. The old stone walls, built in another era, exuded a cold dampness as great as the outdoors. Wind howled betwixt the slats of the shutters and into the small sparse chamber allotted to Anne and herself. Throughout the night they huddled together on the narrow lumpy mattress and tried to keep warm beneath the thin blanket.