A Lord for Haughmond

by K. C. Helms

  She fidgeted in her chair. Mayhap she would seek out Gilbert and plague him with a new request. Never did he refuse her, but his eyes did show his reluctance. She had not forgot Rhys’s reservations about the steward. But Gilbert’s young lads had become invaluable to Old John. They spent as much time with him as the apprentice, Alwin. Last summer the cooper had taught the three boys the art of angling, and because of their skills, many a tasty trout had found its way to the castle kitchen.

  She concentrated on the happy memories, trying to keep the others at bay, but it was a constant struggle.

  Owing to the dull and quiet days that had become their routine, Katherine panicked when the trumpet sounded, heralding Sir Dafydd’s return. Her vision of a comfortable winter’s respite from the tribulations with her husband disappeared in a flash of anger.

  But more than tribulations arrived with Sir Dafydd. His party had been ambushed this side of Chester, while crossing the River Dee. He had taken an arrow in the thigh, which had wounded his destrier as well.

  Robbed of her anger, Katherine was not sure of her feelings when the cart bearing the wounded creaked to a halt before the keep. But when her husband’s new young squire raced to her, exclaiming, “I’ve no glad tidin’s, m’lady. Your husband’s sore wounded. I don’t think he’ll survive,” Katherine felt her world spinning out of control. Yet another death lay at her feet?

  God continued to punish her for her sins.

  Gingerly, Sir William swung his leg over the pommel of his saddle and dismounted, favoring his left leg. A bloody strip of woolen cloth encircled his right thigh. “Shut your maw, Milo. Do not distress our lady.”

  Craning her neck toward the cart, she spied her husband and two others sprawled amid dirty straw. His great helm rested in his lap, while his chain mail coif covered his head, wreathing his face. ’Twas the first good sight she had had of him. Though pale, he possessed a handsome visage—a straight nose set above a strong jaw. All else was difficult to tell, with his dark drooping moustache hiding most of his mouth and face.

  She shook herself to action. “Take him to our chamber.”

  Sir William limped toward her and slung his arm over her shoulders, forcing her to steady him. Together they shuffled toward the keep. “We will attend your wounds, thereto, Sir William.”

  “I doubt me ’tis a good idea that you physick your husband.” His sudden chuckle startled her. “Mayhap we should send for Lady Adela. She possesses much knowledge of herbs—and suchlike.”

  Aghast, Katherine stared up at him. He tried to shrug but grimaced in pain.

  “I would not wish it for him,” she said sharply.

  Concentrating on the steps of the keep, he gave her his profile. “’Twould ease your difficulties, lady, if she attended your husband. A few pieces of silver would rid you of your plight.”

  Beneath his weight, Katherine scowled, realizing his implication. “Do you think I wish to slay my husband? I, and no other, shall attend him.”

  “Dafydd isn’t like to thank you for it.” Sir William’s arm tightened about her shoulders. “Adela would do less harm than your cold regard.”

  She gasped at the unfair charge. But at that moment her husband, carried betwixt two burly men-at-arms on a litter, passed by. Blood flowed freely from his injury. She snapped her mouth shut. Ducking away, she ran into the hall, leaving the knight to his own devices.

  Sibyl and Joan came running. “Make haste,” she commanded. “See pallets are prepared by the hearth. Tear linen strips and set water aboiling. Have the fire stoked here and in our chamber.”

  “You treat me like a helpless invalid,” Sir Dafydd complained from the stairs.

  He did not sound like a dying man. But his voice wasn’t as deep as usual. A sudden concern came unbidden. She hurried up the stairs behind them.

  Settling him in the spacious bedstead within their chamber, the soldiers departed, leaving Katherine with her husband and Sir William. She moved toward the bed. But Sir William blocked her path. She halted in confusion.

  “We must needs discuss your remedy, lady.”

  Her mouth dropped. “You do not trust me?” She tried to look past him but could not. Anger filled her. But so did fear. “He bleeds. Do not delay me with fribbling discourse. He may require a balm. Or stitches. Let me pass.”

  The knight did not relent. He kept her at a standstill with his raised hand. “Rest easy, his wounds are not mortal.”

  “But Milo said— ”

  Sir William snorted. “He is but a stripling. He sees a little blood and thinks the worst. See her loyalty, Dafydd?” He threw the query over his shoulder while he continued to stare at her—as though he did not trust her, as though he must needs protect Dafydd from her.

  Caught betwixt concern and confusion, Katherine glared at the knight in dismay.

  “She refuses to be the maker of her own widowhood, Dafydd. She may despise you, but she will not harm you. Would that you possessed as much goodness. A wager says she will not have you. But that I will not allow.”

  “Will, what do you?” Sir Dafydd’s query held a cadence of fear.

  Sir William stepped closer to the bed. Blocking Katherine’s view, keeping her in his sights as though she hefted a strung longbow, he spoke over his shoulder to the other knight. “Lady Katherine has tendered her grief patiently, has she not, Dafydd? And for what?”

  Trembling with rage at the insult, she opened her mouth to call the castle guard. But Sir William stayed her with a sudden shattered look in his blue eyes and a forlorn shake of his head and the most confusing choice of words. “Lady, I would beg your forgiveness but ’tis not meet for you to bestow it. I do not deserve your forgiveness. Nor does your husband.” He turned toward the bed. “By God, Dafydd, I’ve had my fill of your dastardly deeds. Your lady deserves better treatment.”

  “Will, do not!” The ropes beneath the mattress complained as Sir Dafydd attempted to sit up.

  “Mayhap ’tis folly and you will have my head, half-wit, but this farce is at an end.”

  The invalid’s panic boomed across the chamber. “I’ll run you through, Will.”

  “Not so in haste.” Sir William’s chuckled rebuke filled the room. “I’m the last knight standing, my addlepated friend.” With a hard shove, he thrust Sir Dafydd back to the mattress.

  From where she stood, it appeared the knights were fighting.’Twas impossible to know what was happening, what the wrestling was all about. But her husband’s anguished cry—“God’s mercy, Will!”—filled Katherine’s heart with dread. Wondering if she should intercede, she was spared the uncertainty when Sir William suddenly straightened. Turning around, he stalked toward her.

  His dark glower made her wish for escape. Valiantly, she stood her ground.

  “I leave this in your care,” he said, coming to stand before her. “You alone, lady, possess the ability to save your husband. But ’twill take a miracle.” He grabbed hold of her wrist. Forcing open her hand, he deposited a clump of dark hair into her palm.

  Baffled, Katherine scowled at the strands then looked to Sir William in confusion.

  He made a flourish with his hand and stepped back, so she had a clear view of the bed. “I present your husband, my lady.”

  She looked at the bed, at the man raised up on his elbow and wearing an angry scowl.

  “Mon Dieu!” The gladsome cry spilled from her throat.

  Her legs went weak, yet she stumbled forward. Her heart pounded, yet she scrambled onto the coverlet. Her husband’s long drooping moustache and bushy brows had disappeared, while damp blond hair lay plastered to his scalp. Blue eyes, wide with terror, stared back at her. Lips that had spoken words of love and had bestowed passionate kisses formed a grim expression. She climbed onto her knees and moved forward. Through blinding tears she took her beloved’s face into her hands.

  “Rhys, oh, Rhys!”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Call me Dafydd.

  In exasperation, Katherine stood beside the
bedstead, staring at her husband’s slumbering face, remembering his sharp admonition of moments agone. Though the bedchamber was quiet for the nonce, her emotions roiled inside her like a blustering winter tempest. The arrow tip had been removed from his thigh, the wound cleaned and stitched. He’d lost blood, but naught sufficient to cause alarm.

  Time would see him mended far quicker than her turbulent spirits.

  “Who is this knight who lies in my bed?” She pointed an accusing finger toward Rhys—or whoever he was.

  Sir William, feeding the brazier with more coals, lifted his gaze to hers. “The king dubbed him Dafydd Rhys of St. Quintin the day he was knighted.”

  Katherine trembled with rage and helplessness.

  He lifted an inquiring brow. “Is he yet your beloved?”

  She shot a severe look at his barb.

  But he merely shrugged. “’Tis a question you alone can answer, my lady.”

  “Verily!” She heaved a cleansing breath. “Is he Sir Geoffrey’s progeny?”

  The knight straightened and held up his callused palms as though in surrender. “Speak to your husband when he wakens. I have no wish to be caught in the midst of this storm.”

  Staring at Dafydd’s ashen face, she snorted in disgust. “Your response is answer aplenty.” Was this man, indeed, her husband? Frustrated and weary by the circumstances, she closed her eyes and sought to quiet her anxious fears.

  From the bed came a weak query. “Do you pray that I die?”

  Her eyes flew open at the dismal query. “Rhys!”

  “Call me Dafydd. Or husband—if it should suit you.”

  Her heart lurching at his distraught expression, she laid a hand on his forehead. Praise be to St. Winifred, ’twas cool to the touch.

  He shifted his gaze to the other knight. “See how easily my secret is relinquished?”

  Sir William countered the sharp accusation with one of his own. “Think you she will admit it?”

  “’Tis your doing, Will. You seek my death.”

  Sir William’s countenance took on a wounded expression far too rapidly for it to be sincere. “No doubt, you do not relish being at my mercy.”

  Katherine dropped down on the edge of the mattress, shaking her head. “Cease your bickering. ’Tis a sufficiently trying day without you at each other’s throats.”

  “Well it should be.” Her husband’s bitter remark showed his torment before he shuttered his gaze. “Much vexation would be resolved if the Welsh bowmen had been more precise.”

  “Nay, Rhys— ” She clamped a hand over her mouth, alarmed at how easily she misspoke. Her words set her teeth on edge.

  Dafydd threw her an accusing look. “You imperil my life when you speak that name.”

  Sir William stepped close. “You should have considered that when first you embarked upon this falsehood.”

  “You should have considered that when you broke my trust,” he shot back defiantly. “As a result of your heedless interference, she will have none of me, you can be sure.”

  Sir William rolled his eyes. “Mayhap you’ll pay the piper for your misdeeds. Mayhap you do not merit her loving care. But in truth, she does sit beside you and thus far has not clobbered you.”

  Katherine had no more patience with their male posturing. “I would speak with my husband, if it pleases you.” She gave Sir William a pointed look. “Some victuals will sustain you against your hunger.” When the knight took her hint and rose to depart, she added, “Have Sibyl fetch hot broth for—”

  “Dafydd,” her husband supplied with a weary sigh.

  Sir William limped to the door. “Mayhap your lady wife will bestow some pity while you are laid low.” He chuckled. “Puts a different complexion on things, does it not?”

  Dafydd threw him a scowl. “You have erred greatly.”

  Sir William gave a slow but determined shake of his head. “I think not, my friend. Would that I possessed so lovely a lady wife, I would not have treated her thus.”

  “I could not be assured of her secrecy.”

  Katherine gasped at the affront and opened her mouth to argue.

  “’Tis not a statement of condemnation, but of fact, my lady.” Her husband’s brow creased in a frown. “Your face does reveal your sentiments. Depending on your mood, your eyes do sparkle or throw darts. When you look on one knight, you display unwavering enmity. When you look on the other, you glow with love. Sir Geoffrey must not know I that masqueraded as Rhys.”

  She frowned at his severe tone. “He would harm you?”

  Dafydd grimaced. “My life would be forfeit.”

  “I do not understand.” She shook her head. “He is your sire.”

  “But he is not Rhys’s sire. See you the difference? My mission has naught to do with you, Katherine. It was set in motion before we met. You must allow me to it.” His voice was weak and though his determination did not seem to waver, he lapsed into silence.

  Anger, fear and frustration were all wrapped up within her and chasing her conscience. Was it possible her husband’s accusation could be true, that she might jeopardize his safety?

  Sir William seemed to sense her turmoil, for his expression softened and a half-smile touched his lips. “I will go and see what the rest of the world is about. Lady Katherine, you do not possess a feebleness of character, but even when you decry your sentiments, they show in your face. I pray in the future you ponder carefully before you set an expression to your countenance.” He gave her an encouraging nod and departed.

  Turning back to the bed, Katherine’s throat constricted at her husband’s pained manifestation. Yet she must ask the question burning in her heart. “Are you Geoffrey de Borne’s progeny?”

  Squinting up into her face, clearly reluctant to answer, Dafydd slowly nodded.

  Covering her face with her hands, she groaned out a ragged breath. Turmoil churned within her once again. Would that such a terrible circumstance was not soothfast.

  “Do you repudiate me?” Hopelessness trembled in his voice.

  While unshed tears pricked her eyes, she realized the power she held, realized how deeply she could hurt this man. Their future—their happiness—hung on her reply. She lowered her hands.

  “I cannot help but love you.” She stepped closer and grasped his hand, held it betwixt both her own while she stared steadily into his eyes. “You were kind and patient and ever chivalrous when first we met.”

  “Thence, in your sight, am I sufficiently dissimilar from Sir Geoffrey?”

  A new light glowed within his blue eyes. Was it hope? Their gazes held a long moment. She tried to smile. “Someone told me a child could not be blamed for its sire. I bear you no malice on that account. But there are other matters that make acceptance complicated.”

  Dafydd heaved a stuttering sigh, as though all his pent-up fears were unleashed. “This gives my life a different prospect. I despaired of ever tasting your mercy or your grace, knowing how you despised my sire.”

  Tears blurred her sight at his woeful tone and tormented expression.

  “’Tis well and good he did not raise you, else you would be a lesser man. For all that, your mother did a fine job. Do you favor her?” she asked.

  “’Tis difficult for me to determine. I knew neither parent. I was fostered at St. Quintin. Servants raised me before I became a page. Then the tiltyard became my home and my family—the knights with their quintains and swords, who plied their skills on my hapless frame. I learned right quickly to deflect their blows, and to give as good as I got.” Regret spilled from his depths.

  Her heart ached for the forsaken child he had been, without family connections or guidance. She had been fortunate to have Aunt Matilda’s counsel and wisdom. Even her mother had had influence in her early years.

  How did Dafydd learn without suchlike? Every child required a nurturing family. ’Twas the reason for this terrible and entangled affair?

  Her heart ached for the grown child. She squeezed his hand. “As Rhys, you breached my
heart before I could prevent it.”

  His eyes met hers. “But you despised Dafydd. Even at this moment I feel your reluctance in saying my name.”

  “My loyalty and love were bestowed upon the one, not the other. Certes not upon Geoffrey de Borne’s son.”

  Dafydd winced. “Your reluctance for me exercised a vast influence on my deeds. Know you how desperately I struggled to secure your love?”

  She relinquished his hand and wove her fingers together when conflicting emotions attacked her once more. “And know you I could not give up Rhys on a moment’s notice? I am not easily swayed. In great despair, I watched the man I love stripped of honor, defeated in combat— ” She interrupted herself, needing confirmation on a sudden point. “Pray explain how you contrived the joust.”

  “Simon played the role of Rhys. When I approached the king’s pavilion, I represented myself.”

  “The king was versed in this preposterous scheme?”

  Dafydd nodded in acknowledgement. “At the onset he seemed intrigued, but clearly my deeds came to provoke him. ’Twas the reason you were ridiculed. I yielded myself to atonement for that terrible sin.”

  Dismayed at the astounding revelation, Katherine’s lower lip trembled. “You shattered my pride.”

  He rose up on an elbow. “You were not to love Rhys of St. Quintin. He never existed.”

  “Tell that to my heart,” she cried, tears once again blurring her sight. “You were what any maiden would desire. I was caught in the depths of despair at the loss of you. And you allowed it!” Her voice broke. She swiped at falling tears.

  “I did not know how to save us. I am a knight trained for combat, not a troubadour or poet. I know not matters of the heart. I seem to say and do the wrong thing. My actions produce pain when I seek otherwise.”

  Exasperated once more, she sprang to her feet and stalked to the far side of the chamber. Turning, she demanded, “How did this farce come alive? Let me understand the whole of it, I pray, for you have forced me to endure much.”