She stared at this man who she called husband, who had gone on his knees before her and laid bare his shame to her, whose look made her – even her – know what it was to feel beautiful. Now she saw what he saw: a great distance between them and she standing not at his side, but with another.
And then suddenly she was in motion, propelled toward him with a force and purpose that said her body knew how to act sooner than did her mind. In great strides, she came to him across the empty expanse of gray stone, heels ringing on the bare floor, the her armor echoing. She fixed her eyes on his face as she walked, willing him to look to her as her hands found her sword belt. She did not pause in her steps even as she saw his body tense, ready to react. She grasped the buckle and worked it loose, pulling the belt and the sword in its sheath forward in both hands as finally she came to where he stood.
He looked at it, at her outstretched arms offering it to him, never moving. They stood like statues, like figures on a tapestry. Happily would she stand thus for hours, for days – even unto the rest of her life – if only he would accept this part of her, given freely. She let her gaze move to the little scar that cut across his eyebrow, and felt a tremor of tenderness go through her. Gently, insistently, she thrust the sword at him, pushing it forward until it touched his chest. When his hands came up, she pressed them to it, curling his fingers around it and letting her own hands fall away.
Behind her, her mother was speaking. Shouting, even, but Gwenllian did not hear. The sound broke around her like crashing waves as she waited.
Finally, his eyes came up, locked on hers for an endless moment. His eyes searched hers as they had so long ago on their first meeting in that dark hut. Such a look he had given her then, as though she held every answer to any question he could ask. But she had no answers then, and her only answer now was this. Her weapon was put in his hands, and she stood with him.
And then he looked away, his dark lashes sweeping down over the deep blue. He looked beyond her, over her shoulder, a faint smile on his lips. Eluned would not be ignored.
“You will choose this?” she was saying, a hard and unforgiving edge in her voice. “Think well on it, Gwenllian, for it cannot be undone.”
Gwenllian turned and watched her mother come toward her. Eluned’s color was high and though her words were reasoned, there was no mistaking the emotion that swelled in her voice.
“Men will fight for you and die for you, to save all that you have loved. You were born to this–”
“You made me this.”
“Nay!” Eluned’s face contorted with a sudden and fierce emotion, her mouth twisting to hold back a sob. “Nay, you have made yourself!”
There was truth in this, she knew – or half truth. There was no way to say that her mother had not made her who she was, yet Gwenllian could not deny her own hand in it. But there was also the thing that she was made by Ranulf. And there was the child growing in her now, and what it might make of her as well.
She shook her head faintly at her mother. If she must choose between the life of a lady and the life she had always lived, still she could not say which was right. She only knew that, lady or no, she would be with him.
Her mother gasped at this sign of denial. “You forsake us all.” Her words were bitter, her eyes accusing. Her hand flung out and pointed at Ranulf as she stepped toward them where they stood, her face filled with loathing and contempt. “And why? For this… this!”
Gwenllian moved swiftly. It was only instinct that made her move the bare step to put herself between her mother and Ranulf. It was instinct, too, that put her hand on the grip of her sword, still in his hands.
Eluned stared, disbelief plain on her face. Gwenllian stared back, her whole body tensed in anger. She would not draw steel on her mother, but nor would she suffer insult to her husband.
“Do ye not end this soon, your priest will ne’er hear the end of confessions today,” came Ranulf’s wry voice behind her.
He made it seem absurd. And so it was, but still she did not take her hand from the sword, nor shift from her ready stance. It was Eluned who looked away first, her shoulders sagging slightly in defeat. She looked to Ranulf, considering him silently for a length of time. What she saw there, Gwenllian could not know. Eluned only looked down, seeming to lose her thoughts for a moment before speaking quietly.
“There is much to do,” she said to the floor, a sullen curve to her mouth. After drawing a deep breath, she raised her eyes again to Ranulf. “Many things must this priest be told, so that Anselm may carry a pleasing tale to your king.”
Eluned turned away from them, making her way out of the hall. Before she reached the door, she stopped and turned. “I’ll tell him de Clare?”
“Nay,” Ranulf answered. “I have made a pretty bed for Clifford to lie in.”
Her mother raised her brows at this briefly before giving a decisive nod and sweeping out, leaving Gwenllian to wonder at this remarkable exchange. She could not bring herself to care what bed Clifford would lie in, or why, or for what purpose. It only mattered to her that somehow they now conspired together, her husband and mother on the same side, hiding truth by spinning deceit. She did not know that it pleased her, to think he too had been forced to play in her mother’s deadly game.
She looked to Ranulf to inquire of it, but his face stopped her words. He stood very still, staring at her hand where it rested on the sword he held. In the air between them was an intensity that emanated from him, the unmistakable feel of a man’s rising anger held in check. She tried to think of anything to say that was not a plea for him to look at her again.
“How did you find us here?” she asked finally.
“Davydd.”
She moved her hand by inches down the sword until it met his. “Davydd,” she repeated, for something to say. The line of his mouth was rigid, his eyes unmoving. “He journeyed with you?”
“Aye,” came his terse reply.
It was witless conversation. She knew it was, but did not know where to begin, how to say any of what was in her heart. He had not told Edward. He had schemed to keep her alive, and schemed still. He had journeyed here, had come to find her. She thought she might weep with the joy of it, the vast relief she felt to have him again by her side. In the hopes it might convey some of what she felt, she covered his hand with hers, squeezing his fingers.
At this he raised his eyes at last. The force of his anger hit her like a blow and she made an instinctive move to back away from him. But he would not let her. His hand came over hers, pulling it from the sword and flinging the weapon away. It clattered across the floor as his other hand came up to the neck of her mail shirt, gripping it in his fist and hauling her face closer to his. She braced herself against his coming fury, ready for him to shout or threaten or strike. But his fist only tightened, the mail digging into the flesh at the back of her neck. Their breaths mingled, and she waited.
And then he was kissing her, his mouth hard and unforgiving on hers. His hand did not relax its grip and his touch did not soften. Nothing in him was gentle, not even after she yielded, sighing and leaning into him, returning the kiss with equal hunger. His hands twisted in her hair until her eyes watered. He forced her face to his, her lips pressed hard against her teeth. She tasted blood, but did not know or care if it was hers or his.
Just as suddenly as it had begun, it ended. He pulled his mouth from hers and moved his eyes over her face, scorching her with a look of disgust before thrusting her away from him. She heard his ragged breaths, and her own. She saw the smear of blood at the corner of his lips and tasted it on her tongue. Then she reached for him.
Her strength was a match for his, her anger suddenly as hot, her lust as frenzied and fierce. He came on, forcing her backward across the floor, retreating and retreating until she stumbled against the dais. He did not stop, his mouth never losing its hard contact with hers, until her back was against the wall, his body pressing her into the stone. She shifted her feet, pivoted and forced him wit
h her, along the wall until they reached the room that was just there behind the dais. Her shoulder hit the edge of the doorframe, a jarring contact that robbed her of her balance for the barest second. It was an advantage he did not miss, taking control of their motion, pulling her inside the room.
Then they were on the floor, her hands reaching down to pull up his tunic as his mouth opened greedily across her throat. She gasped and arched beneath him, lifting his hips with hers, desperate for the layers of metal and fabric between them to be gone. She felt his teeth press into her flesh and a wild strength rose up in her, answering his savagery with her own, rolling him over so her body covered his, her hands fumbling to release him.
Barely had she done so before he pulled her face to his again, claiming her mouth while his arm pinned her body to his and he moved. Her back was on the floor again, his body crushing hers. She gloried in it, wrapping her legs around him and urging him to move faster. He pulled away, his eyes dark as he raked them over her. He yanked her shirt of mail up just enough, the padded tunic bunching around her hips as he entered her, a forceful thrust that was pain and pleasure. He plunged deep and hard, over and over again, each time driving them a little farther along the floor. She put her arms up, braced her hands against the wall as she panted, frantic in her arousal. His eyes were a dark mystery that fixed on her face as his body pounded into hers, his teeth clenched as he uttered a guttural groaning that woke the most carnal part of her.
This, she thought wildly. Her flesh was made for this, for him – to yield to him, to withstand his force, to meet it and equal it. She wished it to go on forever, but even as she thought it, the pleasure began to burst inside her. A sound erupted from her mouth, her arms straight, hands pushing against the cold stone as her pleasure reached its peak. He shoved more deeply inside her, filling her utterly as his hoarse cry rang out.
They lay heaving for breath in the aftermath. She felt bruised and battered. Her mail pressed into her bare hip, her mouth throbbed with pain. She brought her arms around him and tightened her legs on his hips. She wanted him to stay inside her, to never leave. She pressed her lips to the damp curl of hair at his temple and prayed for the first time since she was a girl, that he would stay as one with her.
CHAPTER 20
When her breath came more easily and the cold of the stone beneath her began to creep into her consciousness, she felt him pull away. He resisted the gentle insistence of her arms, slowly but steadily moving off her body. Without his heat covering her, the cool air of the room seemed intolerably cold where it touched the bared flesh of her legs.
The room was fitted up for her mother’s convenience, a private place to speak with visitors away from prying eyes. There was a wide bench in the corner, with soft cushions, and she thought she would like to curl up there. With him. But she could only find strength to lift herself to her elbows, drawing up her knees and feeling the tangle of hose that had gathered around one foot drag on the floor. She watched him stand and with a few quick adjustments of his clothes, he looked the same as he had when he stood in the hall. Only his face, slightly damp and flushed from exertion, showed evidence that anything had transpired between them.
He frowned at the cold hearth, then turned to pull the heavy tapestry over the door opening, sparing a glance toward her legs. “Dress yourself. We stay here the night but are gone with tomorrow’s first light.”
She sat up, pulling her knees to her chest. “Only now was I wishing to hide myself here with you,” she said, nodding toward the cushioned bench. They could call for a servant, have blankets and refreshment brought, and never leave. “I would be where the world may not reach us.” She almost smiled, so rare was it for her to have such wistful thoughts.
But there was no answering tenderness in his voice. “You surprise me,” he said, and the coldness in his words raised gooseflesh on her bare thighs. “So eagerly did you ride to Wales. You pull the world to you, with both hands.”
She felt breathless with the unexpected truth of this. Not knowing how to respond, she looked down at her feet, at the tangle of cloth there. A shoe had been lost somewhere in their lustful struggle. He was right when he’d said she should dress, for warmth’s sake if nothing else. Reluctantly, she began to pull the hose up her legs, slowly, stopping when she’d covered herself to the knees.
“What will my mother tell this priest?” she asked.
“Her mind is quick enough and bold, to find the words that will save her.”
“And if she does not wish to save herself?”
“She does,” he said to the empty fireplace. “In every move she makes does she leave room to doubt it is her hand behind it all. She is ever careful to have likely reasons to meet with these men, that have nothing to do with rebellion, and so keeps the stench of it far enough from her. Nor has she written even a word that would betray that she is anything but a timid and powerless lady, mindful of her station. She well knows how to use the advantages of being a woman, though she taught little of such art to you.”
He did not say it as a rebuke, which made it all the more painful. She turned her face down to her half-covered legs, saw the muscles of her thighs clearly defined beneath the gooseflesh, and thought of the child inside her. Of all the ways it would change her body, how it would make her fully and irrevocably a woman.
“All the way from Ruardean, the Welsh talk of you.” His eyes touched on her exposed length of thigh, then the shirt of mail she wore. “Or so says Davydd.”
At last he looked at her directly as she had wanted, and she found she must look away. Awkwardly, feeling his eyes on her all the while, she covered her nakedness fully. She should stand and face him, but she could not find the strength to rise from the floor.
“What do they say?”
“Oh, I think you know well enough.” He leaned his shoulders against the mantel, an easy posture that went well with his mocking tone. “Like Gwenllian of old. She’ll beat back the Normans this time, I hear. Nor could I understand a word they said, yet did I hear my wife’s name come from the mouth of every man, woman, and child along our journey through this godforsaken land.”
“I told you I was named for her,” she said to her knees.
“You did not tell me you were to become her. Tell me, Gwenllian the Great, did you conceive the idea and so took up the sword in pursuit of it? Or was it that you first discovered your talent for battle, and then decide to fashion yourself into a legend?”
There was laughter in his voice, and more. She looked up and saw the sardonic curl of his lip, the polite but seething distance that hid so much behind scornful eyes. He was again the arrogant lord she had dragged to Edward, and not the man she had come to know. It should harden her against him, but it only made her feel wretched.
“Had I my sword, and my balance, I would challenge you again,” she declared softly. “This time you would best me. And I would be glad of it.” She watched him lift his brows, full of skepticism and a faint disdain that made her despair. “Do you doubt it?”
“That I would best you?”
“Nay, that I would be glad of defeat. I would.”
She thought he would say something flippant, that the best swordsmen would say a defeat at the hands of the famed Ranulf of Morency could be called a great honor. Or something more cutting, capable as he was of such clever insults. But he did not. He was silent for a long time, looking down at where she huddled on the floor.
“You left,” he said at last. The mocking was gone from his face. She thought perhaps, under the impassive mask he wore in its stead, that he might be as wretched as she. “Knowing the ruin it would bring to me, still did you come here. You would have Edward think me a traitor, would have my life and lands made forfeit. Such a hate has lived in your breast, all the while I lay my head there. You have you no need of a sword, my lady. Already am I defeated.”
She shook her head in denial, her breath coming short as she absorbed his words. She wanted to tell him that he was to have ridden
to Edward, that even now he should be standing before his king to declare his wife and her mother conspirators against the crown. But instead he had come here, and told lies to keep her from Edward’s suspicion, and stood before her to say she had hated him.
“You were to save yourself,” was all she managed to say.
“Was I? Such intelligence as you left on the matter failed to reach me.”
“Nor is there hate in my heart for you.” She rose to her feet, compelled by force of feeling.
“Then it was love that made you ride away from Morency.”
“Love for my mother, yes!”
If there truly was a God to strike her down for falsehood born of pride, she thought in the ensuing silence, surely now would be the moment. Her mother was but the tiniest reason she had run from Morency, from him. She opened her mouth to tell him about the child, but the words would not come. In truth, it was not the child. Not really.
“I fear what you make me.” She stared at his hands as she said it, where they rested against the dark gray of his tunic. It was safer to look there. “With your kisses. When you touch me. You make me… soft. Weak.”
He did not move, did not seem even to breathe as they stood in the echo of her words. She would rather cross swords with him and a thousand other men, than to suffer this. She became acutely aware of her missing shoe, how laughable she must look as she stood before him and spoke of kisses and weakness and fear.
“In heaven or on earth, Gwenllian, I swear to you, there is no man who could make you weak.”
She gathered her courage to look at him, and found him watching her as though in a trance. The stark and flawless beauty of him, eyes blue as the sky when night is first born – all of it fixed on her unlovely face and awkward body. Her hands ran idly over the cold rings of her mail shirt, but it did not make her feel any less exposed. What a raw and tender thing, in the end, this heart of hers. Not even with a hundred swords could she protect it.
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