by Shari Anton
Of Hywel she knew not a crumb.
Nicole crossed her arms over her midriff to calm a heart beginning to beat too rapidly.
She was about to cross into a foreign land—a land most people in England considered a wilderness and its people savage—of which she truly knew of only a small piece. Glenvair.
And she knew near to nothing of the princes’ edlings, those brothers, sons, or nephews who’d been designated the heir.
Even while she’d always been aware she might one day be called upon to marry into one Welsh dynasty or another, she’d always thought of the nobles in a hazy sort of way. Far away. As part of her future, not her present. Now they were becoming real, with names, flesh and blood and bone, and frightening.
With one of those men she would one day share a marriage bed.
’Twas well known the bards were required to be able to recite the lineage of the Welsh dynastic families and were often called upon to share that knowledge to settle disputes over the rights of inheritance.
Rhodri would know all the names. He was also likely familiar with the songs attached to each reigning prince and would know something of the edlings.
It irked her that she considered asking the man who held her heart to help her choose the man she might marry! While still a bit angry over his lie, she had to admit that but for the one lapse, he’d been trustworthy.
And, by the saints, if Rhodri didn’t want her, then she may as well set her mind to choosing a man who might cherish her even if she might never love him.
During the three days Rhodri had said it would take them to arrive at Glenvair, she would have time aplenty to question Rhodri on the Welsh dynastic families. Then when the time came for her to make her dreaded decision, at the least the decision would be an informed one.
For all he’d disrupted her life, Rhodri owed her a few enlightening answers.
Chapter Sixteen
Wales. Home.
In less than an hour they would reach Glenvair, and while Rhodri wished he could urge the horse to greater speed, he didn’t dare. ’Twasn’t wise to gallop through the deeply rolling hills with Nicole mounted behind him.
She clutched his tunic at the waist, still trying to hold away from him, as she’d done since leaving Tintern Abbey. He might prefer to have her snug against him, her breasts pressed against his back, but so far he’d managed to convince himself that the less they touched, the better.
Hellfire, how he wanted to touch her! Wrap Nicole in his arms, lower her down into the long, sweet grass, and once more claim her as his own.
Unwise, surely. Foolish, absolutely. Yet his desire refused to abate, especially after all the questions he’d answered about unmarried male Welsh nobles.
He’d tried to be honest, but God’s truth, when considering the princes and edlings from whom Nicole would choose her husband, many of whom he truly admired, he couldn’t help finding some flaw with each one.
Too stout, too frail. Too tall, too short. Too given to bouts of rage, too much a quiet recluse.
Not a one of them was worthy of Lady Nicole de Leon.
“Will you be able to arrive in Arwystli in time to compete in the contest?” she asked, spinning his thoughts back to the competition, a most welcome change from the questions she’d asked earlier.
“Depends on how bad things are at Glenvair. If the only damage is to the grain barn, then there is naught to detain me. If more severe, then I will have to judge.”
Rhodri was dearly hoping he wouldn’t be obliged to stay, and not only because he yearned to take part in the contest.
Glenvair had been his home for many a year, and he would hate to see Connor or his people suffer overmuch. Too, the shorter time he must spend with Nicole, the better chance he stood of breaking away from her and getting on with the life he’d planned.
Before he left Glenvair, he’d have Connor’s oath to heed Alberic’s wishes with regard to Nicole’s marriage. Connor would keep his word, if only because Rhodri intended to make clear that if the oath were broken, he’d write a song damning Connor’s perfidy and sing it in every hall and at every campfire across Wales.
“Will Connor retaliate for the raid?” she wanted to know.
“He might if he is sure from where the raiders hail, and if the reason for the raid is known.”
“Do you say Connor gave someone reason to raid Glenvair?”
He almost laughed at her tone of disbelief that Connor could do such a thing but refrained. “Connor has both allies and enemies. Any perceived slight or injury could have brought on a raid.”
He also refrained from voicing the disturbing suspicion that had pricked at him since hearing of the attack on Glenvair.
While no word of Nicole’s leaving Bledloe Abbey had reached Kian at Tintern Abbey, that didn’t mean the news hadn’t reached other, possibly princely, ears. ’Twas also possible someone had heard of his journey into England, guessed the two events were linked, and sent a raiding party to Glenvair to kidnap Nicole.
He’d been taken to task once for keeping secrets from her, and he was tempted to warn her of the possible danger. But damnation, he didn’t wish to worry her over a mere suspicion! Best to wait until after he spoke with Connor and learned more of the who and why of the attack.
Within half a league of Glenvair, Nicole asked, “Is not the stream where I played nearby?”
Though anxious to see Connor, Rhodri saw no harm in a slight diversion. He nudged the horse off the road and down a slope, his memory filled with a bright summer day and a barefooted little minx of a girl. At the stream he swung a leg over the horse’s head to dismount, then extended his arms to catch Nicole as she slid off.
’Twas nothing they hadn’t done before. Her hands on his shoulders; his hands around her slim waist. But he could see in her eyes that she, too, knew this might be the last time he would perform this small service in private.
When his hands lingered overlong, she didn’t protest. ’Struth, she didn’t move at all, just peered up at him with those wide, doe-brown eyes that enchanted him beyond reason.
His beautiful Pendragon princess, who would shortly no longer be his. The day would come when he would have no occasion to span her waist with his hands. Or lose his senses in the depths of her eyes. Or breathe in the scent of roses that always seemed to be with her.
“No butterflies,” she whispered, as if he should have arranged for them to flutter in the grass to greet her.
He wished he could have, just for her, to brighten her day.
“The butterflies refused to stay when they felt the chill in the air. The best I could do was order the trees to turn gold in honor of your return to Glenvair.”
She smiled, warming his heart. “Then the trees obeyed with splendid grace. They are beautiful.”
“You are beautiful. And brave and stalwart. I am honored to have served as your escort and companion, my lady.”
Her smile waned. “There were moments when I thought you ready to send me back to Oxford.”
“No more than the times you wished me to the devil. The journey was harder than I thought it would be, yet you persevered like a soldier on the march. Not many women could have endured all the hardships with so little complaint.”
“You are being kind. I remember some rather pointed and loud complaints. Aye, there were times I wished you to the devil, but there were also times I was overjoyed for your company.”
He didn’t doubt which time was the most joyous. In a small shelter fashioned of tree branches and wide ferns, they’d spent the night naked in each other’s arms and enjoyed several bouts of mind-bending bliss.
His hands tightened on her waist; her hands clutched his shoulders.
He hadn’t planned to kiss Nicole, but no force on earth could have stopped him from bending down for a last taste of her sweet lips, so lush and warm and willing.
Lust flooded through him, like a stream overflowing its banks, unstoppable. And it hurt. His loins were on fire. Worse, his heart ach
ed so much he wondered if cutting it out and placing it in Nicole’s keeping wouldn’t hurt less.
But then, he realized, his heart was already in Nicole’s keeping. He’d given it to her days ago.
He deepened the kiss and cursed Connor for sending him to England to fetch Nicole. He railed at the earl’s patrols for allowing him to evade them. He even damned Alberic and Darian for not seizing Nicole when they’d had the chance.
But mostly he upbraided himself for being so thoroughly seduced by Nicole de Leon that he hadn’t been aware of the danger until becoming ensnared.
He’d fallen in love with Nicole. Deeply. Futilely.
Her arms slid around his neck, her breath ragged, her mouth melding firm and perfect against his. She returned his kiss with all the passion of a woman in the arms of a cherished lover, sparking unwarranted hope.
Was his love for her truly hopeless? He might not be in line for a throne, but he was of good birth. He might be no more worthy of Nicole than any of the princes or their edlings, but at least he could assure her that he would love her until the end of their days.
He broke the kiss but didn’t let go, wrapping Nicole into a protective, possessive embrace, delighting in the sweet scent of her hair.
What would Connor say if approached with a marriage bargain? What could he offer for Nicole to compensate for his lack of land and wealth? He would have neither until he became a pencerdd, which made competing for the position in Arwystli all the more urgent.
What of Nicole? She was to have her wholehearted choice of husbands. Would she accept him if he offered for her? She’d eagerly given her body to him with nary a qualm. She certainly wasn’t struggling to get away from him now.
Whose consent did he need first, Connor’s or Nicole’s?
Connor’s, he decided. A matter of honor.
“Ready?” he asked.
She nodded, a soft caress against his chest, then she slipped away.
The horse’s reins in one hand, Nicole’s hand tucked firmly in the other, Rhodri followed the path that led up the hill toward the manor.
The closer to the manor, the more distinct the stench of smoke. They crested the hill to look upon what remained of Glenvair.
The grain barn—gone. Several of the tenants’ cottages—gone, many others blackened. The manor house had suffered the ravages of fire, too, the north end of it burned off. His shock at the destruction was so great he could barely voice his dismay.
“Ye gods. I had so hoped for better. The raiders did a damn thorough job of it.”
Nary a soul was in sight, the place eerily devoid of movement or sound. Not even a goose waddled among the ruins or a chicken pecked in the dirt. Where had everyone gone? Why was no one dragging away the burned timbers and beginning to rebuild?
Nicole squeezed his hand and halted. “Abandoned?” she asked, her confusion mirroring his own.
He struggled to make sense of it. “With winter coming on, perhaps Connor thought it wise to take everyone to—somewhere.”
“Oh, Rhodri, look at the graveyard.”
Her distress turned his head toward the small church used only when a wandering priest happened by. The number of fresh graves clenched his jaw in rage.
This was no ordinary raid. The villains had been after a greater prize than a few cattle, bolstering his suspicion the raiders had come for Nicole. Not finding her, the raiders had spent their rage on innocents.
Nicole slipped her hand from his and placed her palms against her temples, as if to keep her head from splintering apart. Her eyes squeezed closed, her lips pressed tightly together.
Attack! Except this time he suspected the spirit who tormented Nicole wasn’t her brother, William.
“They suffered so!” she said, tears beginning to stream down her cheeks.
“Shut them away, Nicole.” He again engulfed her in his embrace, never feeling more helpless in his life. “Shut them away. Heed them not.”
“They are too many, too angry. And the child, she screams and screams for her mother. I need to reach the child, but her elders—play your harp, Rhodri. Pray, a soothing song.”
He didn’t question her request. If she wanted music, she would have it. He untied the sack from the back of the horse, pulled out his harp, and strummed a melody warranted to put a babe to sleep.
Her face melted into its normal softness, her hands came away from her head, and Rhodri marveled when she opened her eyes and gave him one of her enchanting smiles.
“It worked. I swear, Rhodri, you have the power of the wizards of old.”
He could barely believe it. “You no longer hear them?”
“Oh, they are there, but I am better able to control them. In the inn, when I went up to try to sleep, you played your harp in the taproom the entire time, did you not? Nay, do not stop playing! Just tell me.”
He obeyed. “I did.”
“I thought so. Your music was the reason I was able to sleep. William battered at me until you started to play and did not try to rant at me again until you stopped. There is magic in your harp, Rhodri, and I thank you for it.”
He could silence spirits? Lord have mercy! Was the talent his alone, or could any bard do it, too? He didn’t have time to contemplate the amazing revelation.
Nicole grabbed hold of the horse’s reins and headed down the hill. He hurried to follow. ’Twasn’t easy to play a harp while walking down a hill, but he managed.
“Nicole, where are you going?” he asked, though he feared he knew.
“To the graveyard. You continue to play—”
“Better we leave and go far enough away so the spirits cannot reach you.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “The spirits suffer and will continue to suffer unless someone convinces them to move on to the afterlife.”
Nicole was intent in her purpose, and he didn’t dare cease playing long enough to give good argument or the spirits would batter her again. But he saw a flaw in her plan.
“You cannot hear a spirit if I continue to play.” And he still thought it an amazing feat. “If you cannot hear them, how do you intend to give aid?”
She tied the horse to a post in front of the church. “I am not sure if my plan will work, but if it does, I shall hear them one at a time.”
By some as yet untried method, she was resolved to do whatever good she could do, and ’twas hard to find fault with her for embarking on a noble, merciful quest. He glanced over the dozen or so graves, aware that each marked the resting place of someone he knew and would mourn.
They all, every one of them, deserved mercy.
“Will you know the names of all you speak with?”
“They all want me to know who they are, how they died, and what can be done to give them peace.”
As in Oxford, when Thomas had informed Nicole he required forgiveness from the cobbler’s family. As William forcefully demanded that Nicole murder Alberic. Spirits were a selfish lot. Some unmercifully so. And the only human who could help them move on to the afterlife was running toward the smallest of the fresh graves.
Nicole placed her hand on the mound of fleshly turned dirt. Tears welled in her eyes. She swallowed hard, then bent her head, no doubt striving to calm a child’s terrified screams.
Rhodri’s gut clenched with agony, both for Nicole’s distress and for the dead child.
“Mererid, Beven and Winnifred’s youngest,” Nicole announced, stabbing Rhodri in the heart. “The raiders did not mean to kill her, I think. The last thing she remembers is being in the path of a horse when the raiders entered the yard and screaming for her mother. Mererid has gone on now. She recognized the tune you play and asked me to thank you.”
He almost choked on the lump that swelled in his throat, so he merely nodded and continued to play.
Nicole rose from Mererid’s grave and came toward him. “She did not know who the men were or why they were here. I would be willing to wager one of the men might know.”
“I saw your anguish when yo
u spoke to the girl. I hesitate to allow you to go through that again.”
Her smile was a blessing. “I have never spoken to a child’s spirit before. I admit it distressed me, but I was able to talk her into passing on, and for that I am glad.”
“The others might not be so easily convinced.”
“Likely not. But I have discovered that as long as you play your harp, I can call to each spirit, one at a time. There are four more, all men. Their deaths were recent, violent, and they are not yet willing to let go of their anger. I am hoping to convince them that they do the living no good by remaining in the earthly realm. Perhaps while I urge them to move on to their reward, I can also learn what happened here, and where Connor is.”
She made sense, and still he was reluctant. But he also admired her courage, respected her determination to see this grisly task through. And, heaven help him, he did want to know more about the attack and of Connor’s whereabouts.
Still, he should be doing more. “So I am supposed to stand here and play the harp while you do the difficult work.”
“’Tis because you play the harp I am able to deal with the spirits one at a time. Without your music, they would overwhelm me and I would be forced to leave them to their misery. That would be cruel.”
And these were all men who’d died defending Glenvair. To leave them in misery would be inhuman.
“All right, then, but perhaps I can be of greater help. Should any man refuse to move on, tell him Rhodri ap Dafydd, bardd teulu of Glenvair, commands him to go to his rest.”
With a smile of approval, Nicole moved on to kneel beside a grave and place her hand on the dirt.
“Cyan ap Llewellyn,” she said.
Again Rhodri grieved, this time for Glenvair’s blacksmith. With his bulk and brawn, Cyan would have been a hard man to bring down. He would have died fighting to his last breath.
Nicole spoke to Cyan for but a short time before she rose. “He believes the men were of Gwynedd but knows not why they raided. Since he died without issue, his greatest fear is that his name will be forgotten, his life lived without his putting a mark on this earth. I promised him that one day, a lovely marker will stand at his head.”
