by Sandra Jones
“Five and ten.” He stared at the ground, seemingly lost in his memories.
“But how could that be any fault of yours? You were a youth yourself, and of all the king’s offspring, why would you be at fault?”
“Because I took William’s place on another vessel to be with my father. The court was in France. The captain offered the White Ship to my father for our return to England, but we had other arrangements. The prince was to travel with Father, but I, in my envy, wished to have Henry to myself. I encouraged William to sail on the White Ship.” He paused, scraping the toe of his boot in the hay. His jaw tightened, then he resumed his story. “The captain had bragged about its speed and assured us they would be able to keep up and even overtake the royal entourage. I’d said to William they would be able to drink, too, without the watchful eye of our father. Being young and rebellious like myself, the prince needed no other encouragement.”
“So you and the king sailed first.”
“Aye, leaving them to follow. They say after the White Ship went down, William climbed aboard a small vessel and would have lived had he not gone back to try to rescue our half-sister, who was also on board. The drunken, drowning crew swamped his boat, killing them all. I don’t know if that account is true or not, but Henry chose to think so. In his mind, William was a valiant hero.” He glanced up and twisted his lips into a poor semblance of a smile, though his eyes were dark and distant. “One I could never replace.”
His pain and self-loathing thickened the air around them.
She ached at his feelings of guilt. “It’s still not your fault, no matter what you might’ve felt. Even if you had wanted to take your brother’s place as heir, his drowning was an accident. You weren’t there. You didn’t plot to kill him, Warren.”
“Did I not?” he ground out, his voice suddenly full of heat. He held her gaze in a grip that reached straight into her chest and twisted her heart. “‘Vengeance is mine, thus saith the Lord?’ Well, my vindictiveness brought about William’s death. I would’ve done anything to steal Father from him. When there is something I want, I want it with all my being. I’m a very possessive man, Eleri. Once jealous or spurned, I do everything in my power to take back what I feel is mine.”
A chill ran through her, seeing this angry, dark side of him she’d never encountered before. Even though he seemed adamant, she could not believe him for a moment. He’d been a Templar knight, and she knew his heart was good. Knew it with every fiber of her being.
“Alas, all I managed to do was force my sire further from me forever. Not even my service in the Templars bridged the distance between us. He hated me.” He lifted a shoulder, affecting a nonchalance that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Being loyal to King Stephen won’t mend things with your father.” She touched his shoulder lightly, wishing with all her heart she could grant him the moment he’d mentioned before. A chance to speak with his sire one last time.
“For certes. But I cannot throw in with Empress Matilda either. ’Twould be suicide for what’s left of my family. So this sorry knight,” his tone softened as he combed his fingers tenderly through the side of her hair, “wishes to redeem himself by marrying a princess. But…I suppose now I’ve given you even more reason to decline my suit.”
Though his voice was lighthearted, the shoulder muscle beneath her hand tightened. His gaze bore into hers, and she longed to…
Oh, how could she! Could it be possible she wanted to agree?
Suddenly torn, she took a step back, but she also wished to move closer to him, to hold his face to hers, to kiss him and insist he was every bit the brave, caring man he hoped to be.
But she could not lie to him, nor mislead him to expect what could not happen.
Or could it?
If Gwrach no longer predicted Lew’s death…
She stood on her toes and impulsively put her mouth to his. When she drew back, he stared at her, blinking in surprise. “I will consider your offer, Warren. Just give me some time to think.”
His brows smoothed and a smile lit his face. “Of course.”
The monks were filing into the church for matins when Eleri slipped out of her cell that night. Swathed in her cloak and hood, moving with the stealth of a hunter, she dissolved into each shadow, passing unnoticed until she reached the gate. Finding it unguarded, she opened it and squeezed through, closing it behind her.
The nearest source of flowing water was the spring, which fed the lake a short hike away. Her footsteps were quick with restless hope and anticipation. She breached the distance in no time at all.
Silence, she prayed as she pushed through the tall sedge that bordered the spring. Please let Gwrach leave me in peace tonight.
If Lew was safe, she would marry Warren. The Deheubarth would be unhappy, but she was a princess. She could do as she wished, and right now, the only thing that could please her was Warren with his attentiveness, his thoughtful lovemaking and noble heart.
In marriage, her lover would be relieved to know he wouldn’t disappoint his king, but best of all, he’d be hers.
Climbing through the parted weeds, she spotted a form beside the moonlit water.
Expecting Gwrach, she sickened. But relief soon swept her as the form rose, turning to face her.
“Warren?”
His stance relaxed, recognizing her voice, but his reply was wary. “I knew you would come.”
She went to him but stopped shy of embracing him. His reception was cool. “What’s wrong? I thought we were meeting in my room later.”
“I wanted to see if it was true. The old woman has been here already. You just missed her. You were meeting her, weren’t you?” His voice was curious, not angry.
“You saw her? The cyhyraeth?” No one ever saw Gwrach. No one in her lifetime, at least.
“If you mean the old woman who’s been following us, aye.” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Who is she, Eleri? Why do you meet her in secret?” he demanded calmly.
He didn’t know. Tears welled in her eyes. To share the burden meant so much…to have someone who might understand…someone whom she could turn to when the awful portents came. But how was it possible? He wasn’t of her blood, not Welsh. So few had seen her. And if he didn’t know…
“We don’t meet. She just…goes wherever I go. What did she say?”
“Damned if I know. She won’t respond to me. Just keeps rambling the same words in your language. What’s going on, Eleri?” His hands cupped her face and his thumbs brushed her cheeks with aching tenderness.
“She’s been following me all my life. Please…what were the words she spoke?” She laid her hands on his chest, her pulse quickening.
“‘Fy ngŵr’ I think is how she said it.” His fingertips traced her face, and he bent to kiss her forehead. “What does it mean?”
Eleri put her arms around him and pressed her ear against his heart. “Nothing. She’s mad.”
Desperately she clung to him and closed her eyes against burning tears she couldn’t let him see. She burrowed into the solid, warm comfort of his embrace.
She’d changed Lew’s fate and saved his life. Now she would do the same for Warren.
If the old woman cried “my husband,” they must not wed.
Chapter Ten
Warren found the frater house at the south end of the cloister nearly empty at midnight. Sharing the past several nights with Eleri, he’d learned to avoid the routines of the monks and stable hands. He also knew exactly when Sayer would stumble into his cell with a stomach full of mead. Tonight however, he wanted to reach the man before such time.
He pulled the hood of the stolen layman’s cloak lower over his head, hoping no one here would recognize him. A few monks lingered on the far side of the room, but Sayer’s bearlike body sat alone at the end of a long table, bowing over his cup as if he would fight anyone who dared interrupt
his entertainment. Warren prayed he hadn’t waited too long, that Sayer wasn’t too far into his cups to listen and reason.
Yesterday, the abbot’s visit to the stables had spurred Warren into action, even though he was making progress wooing the princess. However, she hadn’t yet announced her intention to wed him, saying she needed time to think. Idleness would be their downfall if the Normans learned he was hiding within the abbey’s walls. Still, he hoped he wasn’t imagining the powerful connection he and the princess shared. She awaited him each evening, after all, welcoming him to her bed with fervor.
Such fervor indeed.
He couldn’t get enough of her.
For a woman who had little experience with men, she learned very quickly. They’d spent the last sennight in each other’s arms at nightfall, and every day he yearned to come back to her. His flesh craved her flesh—a hunger he could never seem to fill.
His pride told him he only wanted what he couldn’t have. That she was playing coy, and he must find some way to become her equal. In bed they were partners, then in the mornings, he was forced to return to the stables, becoming her servant, until night fell again.
That pride might have a small part in his goal to pursue her hand, but a powerful need kept him in her bed. Worse, he feared his heart now controlled his reins. More than his liege’s orders, more than obligatory expectations of a man bedding a woman, more than anything…he wished she belonged to him and him alone. She’d all but said the words in their lovemaking.
He must convince her soon, so the abbot himself might perform the ceremony, putting everything right.
He touched Sayer’s shoulder, drawing his attention from his drink and earning a snarl as his gaze lifted to Warren’s face before recognition smoothed his features. “Templar? What brings you here?”
The big man lifted out of his seat, nostrils flaring with alarm before Warren lifted a calming hand. “The princess is fine,” he whispered. “Do not worry. I came to speak with you.”
Sayer’s expression shifted from worry back to displeasure. “If you’re here to ask me not to kill you for creeping into the princess’s room at night, save your breath. I trow what goes on betwixt you, and I like it not. But ’tis not my place to take offense. Her highness does as she pleases, same as any lord, and I serve her.
“But”—he scooted his cup aside and leaned forward, grabbing Warren’s arm—“if you harm her in any way, I swear I’ll finish what I started the day I found you.”
“Duly noted.” Warren slid back when Sayer released him, and rested an elbow on the table. “Nay, that isn’t why I came. I need to ask you a favor. I fear Abbot Gerald knows my identity, or at least that I’m Norman. If he sends word to de Braose that I am here, we’re all in danger.”
“I should think you would want to be found.” Sayer picked at the dirt beneath his thumbnail.
“To be discovered living in hiding with rebels?” He lifted his brows, surprised. Not that he disagreed with the valiant Welsh ideals, but he’d always been a loyal subject of England. “My fear is that they’ll hang us all for treason. Or at the very least, my liege will want Eleri to pay for her part in the deaths of his men.”
Sayer grunted. “Nest hasn’t returned. You think we should depart without her?”
“I think we should learn what the abbot knows. See if he’s alerting the baron.”
He nodded. “I’ll speak to the monks. I’ve found a few forthright men amongst them.”
Warren clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you, friend.” He warmed, pleased to consider them on such good terms, especially after all they’d been through on their journey so far.
Sayer’s mouth twisted in a half-smile, as well. Then he frowned. “What about your soldier and Gareth ap Huw? What do you expect your man to do?”
“I’ve no notion what either of them would gain for my death, but I’ve been thinking about who the traitor might be. Roger de Granville is the man I knew the least. Young, impetuous. He was the most capable archer among my charges, but no leader. I expect your Gareth would be giving orders.”
Sayer curled his hand into a fist. “Gareth has always been faithful to the royalty of Deheubarth. Mayhap he wants revenge for Prince Owain’s death. Unless Nest brings better news, I fear for Prince Lew.”
“Eleri does too.” He rubbed a palm across his weary face. Marriage might be able to save the princess from trouble with the king, but what could be done for her brother-in-law?
“She worries about the boy’s grief for his brother. It makes him rash, blind to the ambitions of others, but at least he respects the princess’s visions.”
“Verily? Do you also believe she communicates with the spirits?”
Sayer’s brows went up. “Of course I do. The cyhyraeth told her when my mother would pass. And Iolo…as well as many others.”
The cyhyraeth.
Eleri had uttered the word when he’d mentioned the hag following them. That was where her portents came from? Could they be one and the same?
The guard reached for another drink, continuing, “There’s powerful magic in the land, and the princess can hear it. She’d never travel far from these waters. Wouldn’t risk missing the premonitions. Not that she can change fate, but she tries. God bless her, she tries.”
Warren glanced away, soaking in the warrior’s words.
Spirits. Death portents. Magic.
There was much more for him to contend with than Eleri’s attachment to her husband’s people.
With no birthright, Warren possessed nothing more fantastical than the skills of a knight, some land and an inconsequential barony, but at least he knew how to please Eleri in one way. Together they conjured their own form of enchantment.
Eager to do just that, he stood to leave. The day had been long without her.
Sayer remained in the frater for another drink as Warren exited.
He ruminated on their conversation. There must be some way to use Sayer’s information to his advantage. Some way to convince Eleri she was better off marrying him.
Until then, he would kiss her, hold her, worship her and hopefully become the man she could not bear to part with.
With the stain of bracken water still clinging to the hem of her clothes, Eleri made her way from the stream’s edge to the abbey late that evening. Her body was stiff and tired, her spirit weary. Her prayers had gone unanswered.
Warren was right. Gwrach had visited with another ominous call for the life of some poor woman’s husband. If Eleri tried hard enough, she could almost convince herself the victim wasn’t Warren. She’d never agreed to marry him, after all. Yet the portent persisted. Could the call be for another man entirely? Or had she not done enough to prevent a future union with him?
All too soon she wouldn’t be burdened by this dilemma. The abbot would tire of them and rescind his hospitality. Warren would then be her father’s concern, not hers.
Nay, that was a lie. Abandoning Warren to a life of bondage, one he’d sworn to abhor, would be as difficult as ripping the heart from her own breast.
Even now, her steps hastened as she reached her door, anticipating the moment she’d find him waiting inside. Entering the chamber with renewed vigor, she noted the clean scent of the steamy water the monks had left in her washbowl on the bed, along with a dim fire in the iron brazier, its flames nearly extinguished, but no Warren.
Sighing, she crossed toward the bowl as her cold fingers fumbled with untying the lacing in the side of her bliaut. Despite her discomfort, a smile tugged at her lips. Mayhap she could save enough bathwater for her clandestine visitor.
Leaning over the bowl as she let her outer layer of clothing fall to her feet, she felt a pair of warm masculine hands cover hers at her hips.
She jerked upright with shock, then relaxed. Warren.
Her breath rushed out with relief, and she allowed herself
to sag against him. “You’re here.” Just being in his embrace made everything right. Heat quickened inside her. “I thought you were late, my lord.”
He moved their locked hands over her stomach, pulling her against his hard form, and she breathed in his scent. But it was different tonight somehow. Horses and leather.
She wrinkled her nose. “You’ve been in the stables too long. I’ll ask the monks to draw a bath for you.” Where was the sweet smell of mint and trees from the poultice that had adorned him for the past weeks?
His breath rushed out against her ear. It smelled hot and sour. Familiar yet hated.
He laughed softly. “Expecting someone else, Dywysoges?”
She froze, bile rising in her throat. “Vaughn!”
She twisted in his grip, but his fingers tightened like iron cuffs. She bucked, kicking his shin with her boot, but he held fast. With a hard shove against her back, he doubled her over the bed, and horror filled the pit of her stomach. Her chemise provided little barrier to him, and her weapons were out of reach. Finding her alone without one of her protectors, he could take what he’d always wanted from her.
Instead of raking up her garment however, Vaughn grabbed her head and forced her face into the washbowl. Hot water filled her nose and ears, muffling the sound of his harsh laughter. She fought his hold despite the piercing pain, and wrenched her arm until she thought it might break from its socket.
He would kill her first, then Warren, who would arrive at any moment. She had to break free. Had to…
He yanked her out of the water by her braid.
She gasped, pulling in air through her mouth. Her nasal passages burned. Finding her hands free, she wiped the rivulets of water from her face and twisted around to confront him, her heart still beating a fierce rhythm inside her chest.
“I don’t want to fight you, Eleri.” His voice was light and mocking. “I knew you’d come to the abbey eventually. I came back for you.”
Some women found Lord Vaughn attractive with his dark, deep-set eyes and thick shoulders, but his heart repulsed Eleri, tainting him as the ugliest man of her acquaintance. Even now, his so-called handsome smile and lascivious stare at her breasts nauseated her.
