In the Shadow of Midnight

by Marsha Canham

  Lady Isabella fluttered a dainty white hand to her throat and looked hopefully toward Henry. “Perhaps … perhaps there has been some dreadful error in understanding the communication.”

  Henry had been eased of his armour but had not yet been allowed the time to bathe and refresh himself from his travels. His hair stood up in tarnished spikes, glinting gold in the firelight as he sighed wearily and shook his head.

  “There is no mistake. As I told you, we were delayed at Llandaff by heavy rains, and, as it happened, the king’s courier had sought refuge there as well. He readily accepted our offer to share a tankard of ale by the fire, and when we asked if he had any news from Normandy, his tongue began to flap like a codfish thrown aground. Soothly, since he was ignorant of our identity—we four addressing ourselves only as Lord Sedrick or Lord Rhys or Lord Whatnot—he thought it might prickle our humour and tip our flagon more generously to hear how the king had recently taken it upon himself to contract the hand of Pembroke’s niece. A few tankards more bought us the name of the happy groom.”

  “Happy?” Ariel grumbled. “He will be happy with the business end of a pike thrust up his arse.”

  Lady Isabella’s hand fluttered again. “Surely there might be some room for error. There are fully a score of De Braoses in the king’s service. Possibly more than one named Reginald, for they do tend to marry amongst themselves and name sons after fathers and brothers after uncles.”

  “Inbreeding and incest.” Ariel spat contemptuously. “An easy guess by the squinty look of them.”

  “This particular Reginald is certes the son of William de Braose,” Henry continued, ignoring his sister’s japing. “Who, until as recently as five months ago, presided as captain of the guard over the king’s citadel in Rouen.”

  “A prison guard!” Ariel exclaimed. “How charming. The king has pledged me to the son of a common gaoler!”

  “Not just any gaoler,” said Lord Rhys, venturing into the circle of firelight for the first time. Indeed, he showed a certain reckless courage by drawing close enough to Ariel that a stretch of his long arm could have touched her. “Forgive my intrusion, my lady, but I too am familiar with this particular brood of De Braoses. Some of the lands they lost to incompetence and poor defense border our own.”

  Ariel caught a strong drift of leather and lingering wood-scent as Lord Rhys leaned casually close to the fire. Despite the immeasurable fury fomenting within her over the king’s proposed attempt to intervene in her life, she could still spare a portion for the unctuous Welsh princeling.

  She had recognized their names when she had heard them in the forest. The lords Rhys and Dafydd had a third brother, older by some years, who had entered into a pact with King John, granting him recognition as Prince of Gwynedd and giving him power and title over the region of Wales known as Snowdonia. In exchange for this recognition, Llywellyn ap Iorwerth had halted his raids on the border Marches and had pledged fealty to the English king, a reprieve of hostilities which allowed Llywellyn to turn his full attention on the growing power of a distant kinsman, Gwynwynwyn of Powys.

  All titles and holdings were tenuous at the best of times in the wild, mountainous reaches of Wales. Dozens of self-proclaimed princes ruled dozens of self-proclaimed kingdoms, the possession of which changed constantly from one bloody uprising to the next. To contain and control the savagery of these barbaric clans, the English had erected a line of fortified castles along the border, in territory known as the Marches. The barons who ruled these Marches were often as cruel, bloody-minded, and ruthless as the men they sought to defend against, and few lived long enough to ensure the natural succession of their lands into future generations.

  Ariel’s father, Roger de Clare, had once held land along the Marches—land coveted by the ambitious Iorwerths of Gwynedd. A raid had cost Roger and his wife their lives, orphaning their two children into the wardship of the Earl of Pembroke. For this, and other deeds of outlawry over the years, it made anyone associated with the name Iorwerth … including Llywellyn and his brothers Rhys and Dafydd … nothing more than murderers and common thieves in her eyes.

  “You say not just any gaoler as if there were gaolers of high blood and gaolers of low blood.”

  Her voice dripped with icy sarcasm and Lord Rhys smiled. “More like prisoners of high or low blood, I trow. For unless I am mistaken—a rare occurrence, I assure you—the citadel at Rouen was where King John held the young Angevin prince, Arthur of Brittany.”

  “Guarding a prince of royal blood does not turn one’s own blood any richer a hue,” she countered sardonically.

  “No. But if you consider a gaoler has access to a prisoner at any time, day or night, and is perforce the only witness to any … accident … that may or may not have befallen that same prisoner …” Lord Rhys paused and let his eyes rove downward to where the firelight was gilding the outline of firm, round breasts. “Would it not give meaning to the king’s sudden gesture of magnanimity? Surely he could have realized far greater profits by selling your hand to the highest bidder.”

  In the pensive hush that followed, Ariel felt herself drawn into the Welshman’s eyes—eyes that were not black, as she had first supposed, but so deep and dark a brown as to be easily mistaken. They were dangerous eyes, gleaming with secrets that did not offer too close a scrutiny. The nose dividing them was a straight slash of authority that had somehow escaped the usual damage and breakage of the long years of a misspent youth. The mouth beneath was full and generous, confident of its own sensuality and given to frequent smirks of insolence. His age? Ariel guessed him to be nearing the end of his third decade, although, if he were to scrape away the lush black growth of elflock curls on his jaw, he could scrape away as many as four or five years from that guess … or add as many again by virtue of exposure.

  His brother, on the other hand, was not much older than herself—twenty, perhaps—with large, expressive eyes that gave him the look of an earnest-faced puppy. No doubt he had cultivated his beard in an attempt to add substance to otherwise tender features, although to Ariel’s mind, it only made him look like a wilder puppy.

  “Are you implying, sirrah,” she asked slowly, taking careful measure of the closed expression on Lord Rhys’s face, “that De Braose was in some way responsible for Prince Arthur’s death?”

  “His death has not yet been confirmed,” Rhys replied, treading with equal care into the lure of the emerald green eyes. “His disappearance, however, would seem to match the gaoler’s unexpected turn of good fortune at having his lands around Radnor returned to him.”

  Ariel felt the skin begin to constrict in waves along her spine. He was right. The coincidence was too obvious to dismiss out of hand.

  “Oh, the poor, poor prince,” Lady Isabella said, sinking weakly onto a chair, “if such was indeed his fate. And it is no secret the king rewards his assassins with great prizes.”

  “It is even less of a secret,” Henry said bluntly, “that our valiant king demands hostages from those he suspects of plotting against him. Hostages in the form of brides and grooms wed into households of his choosing.”

  “Plot against him?” Isabella whispered. “But my William made him king. When Richard died and the crown could have gone to Geoffrey’s son—”

  “Should have gone to Geoffrey’s son,” Lord Rhys interjected quietly.

  “My lord husband swayed the barons’ vote in support of John over Arthur,” the countess concluded. “He has no reason to suspect William of treachery.”

  “The king has a notoriously short memory,” Henry said dryly. “And a distinct distrust of men who hold more wealth, command more respect, wield more influence than he does. Lackland would plot to have the lord marshal discredited outright if not for fear of turning the entire barony of England against him in open rebellion.”

  “The whole world could rise against him in open rebellion,” Ariel cried, flinging her arms wide in exasperation, “and it would be too late to save me from this wretched writ he ha
s imposed upon me!”

  She paced a quick, hot path to and fro the length of the hearth. Her skirt dragged the surface of the stone floor, collecting and discarding bits of rushes and dust as she walked, brushing Lord Rhys ap Iorwerth’s booted foot each time she passed. She had not taken the time nor trouble to braid her hair upon returning to Pembroke Castle and the firelight was playing havoc with the foaming red curls, shooting them with threads of gold and amber and bright russet.

  Dark Welsh eyes followed her every movement, speculative eyes that roved with increasing interest over curves and angles, noting a firmness here, a softness there. He was growing rock hard himself, and it was a true test of mettle to look away and try to concentrate on what Henry de Clare was saying.

  “We have a little time, at least. We have preceded the messenger by a day or two, for he comes by way of Kidwelly and Carmarthen, where he had other correspondence to deliver.”

  “Good,” Ariel declared, swirling to a halt. “Then we have time aplenty to lay an ambush. The forest road, methinks. It should be an easy enough task to make it look like the work of outlaws.”

  “Ambush the king’s messenger?” Isabella looked up aghast. “Surely you cannot be serious.”

  “What would you have me do?” Ariel asked. “Greet him at the gates? Plan a fete in his honour and actually acknowledge the charter he carries?”

  “We can acknowledge it without accepting it,” the countess pointed out primly. “And perhaps, if we send him back to the king with our felicitations and gratitude for the concern he is showing in your future welfare, we might win the time needed to send a dispatch to your uncle and apprise him of the situation.”

  “Think you the king will not have taken measures to guard against just such a ploy? Supposing his writ includes instructions for me to hasten at once to Radnor to take my place beside my groom? Under threat of arms if necessary!”

  “Oh, I do not think—”

  “Henry—” Ariel interrupted her aunt’s protest and cast a narrowed glance at her brother. “Was this harbinger alone or did he travel with an escort?”

  “An escort,” he conceded grimly, lanced on the other side by Isabella’s gaze. “Six or more men-at-arms made their beds in a nearby stable.”

  “Six men-at-arms,” Ariel repeated in disgust. “And there is still doubt he means to carry me away, willing or not?”

  “I doubt nothing at all,” Henry declared, lifting his arms in supplication.

  “And?” she demanded.

  “And …” He shrugged his big shoulders and offered a crooked grin. “I would gladly, for the sake of your virtue, set upon them in their beds and throttle the lot, if you asked it of me.”

  Isabella sighed and glared at her nephew. Henry had proved to be an invaluable asset in helping to oversee the vast Pembroke holdings during her husband’s prolonged absence in Normandy. He had, in the beginning, resented being left behind, although she could not see where he could complain of having spent these past eleven months sitting lax and inactive. There were constant raids from the north to be dealt with and the guilty parties caught, the stolen properties returned or recompensed; constant peacekeeping missions to mediate between the two rival Welsh warlords, Gwynwynwyn of Powys and Llywellyn of Gwynedd.

  Only this past fortnight, one of Llywellyn’s vassals had taken it in his head to lift a herd of some one hundred cattle from a demesne bordering Snowdonia. The two black-haired, black-eyed princes had accompanied Henry back from his investigation in order to convey Llywellyn’s personal apologies for the affront. Not that the culprit had been caught or the cattle returned. And not that it could not be proven absolutely that Lord Rhys himself had not been responsible for the original raid.

  Cows and diplomatic platitudes were the furthest thing from Lady Isabella’s thoughts at the moment. She was relieved Henry was home, relieved there was someone with whom she could share the burden of responsibility in dealing with King John’s connivings. After all, he was Ariel’s brother, and he was Lord de Clare, with estates and responsibilities of his own. All the same, “throttle the lot” was not the kind of levelheaded advice she was seeking.

  “We could always hide you,” the countess suggested. “Steal you away in the middle of the night and keep you moving from castle to castle so the king’s man could not deliver his wretched charter. How quickly can a missive be sent to my lord husband?” she asked Henry, who considered his answer for a moment before replying.

  “At last word, he was still in Rouen. If so, three days … four perhaps, if the tides are with us and the roads clear.”

  “And if he is not in Rouen?” Ariel snapped. “Or if the tides are against us and the roads a quagmire of mud and offal? Or if we cannot keep the king’s man riding in circles for the required number of weeks it might take to return with advice from my uncle … what then? Will you all think kind thoughts of me as I am dragged away toward wedded bliss?”

  “We cannot ambush the king’s messenger,” Isabella insisted calmly. “We are not murderers, nor do we wish to give the king any reason to challenge your uncle’s loyalty.”

  Ariel stamped her foot and whirled to begin pacing again, but scattered only a few footfalls of dust before she found herself standing face to face with the indolent and watchful Lord Rhys ap lorwerth, Dark Prince of Gwynedd.

  As much as she despised who he was and where he came from, there was no denying he was a man who would not stand on convention to get what he wanted. She could believe he had wanted one hundred of Pembroke’s prime cattle and had taken them without a care to the consequences. His princely brother had commanded him here to make humble amends for the deed, but it would be done, she suspected, with his tongue firmly thrust into his cheek.

  It made her wonder what else he would do if the mood … or the incentive … suited him.

  “How much have you come to offer my aunt in reparation for the cattle your tribesmen stole?” she asked bluntly.

  Lord Rhys, standing with a shoulder leaned casually against the stone mantel, examined the splayed fingers of one hand with exaggerated interest.

  “I know nothing of any stolen cattle, my lady,” he mused. “There was some question of a discrepancy in numbers, and in a gesture of good will, my brother has sent me to offer—”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “Penitent words and a handful of copper coins, no doubt; neither of which would equal the value of one hearty bovine.”

  “Ariel!” The countess gasped.

  “You have some other suggestion to make?” Lord Rhys asked blithely. “Some other method of repairing any damage this sorry misunderstanding might have caused?”

  Isabella started to protest again, but Ariel’s habit of voicing a thought the same time it sprang into her mind cut her aunt short.

  “My lord,” Ariel said, her eyes leaf-green and sparkling with conspiracy as she addressed the tall Welsh prince. “You have seen this messenger and you know what he looks like? What road he is likely to travel?”

  Lord Rhys nodded, vastly amused by the wench’s audacity. More than that, he was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on what she was saying when all he could think about was the way those sweetly shaped lips would feel beneath his. She was a magnificent beauty: high-spirited, hot-tempered, yet as supple and silken as fresh, warm cream. It was no great stretch to envision her naked on a bed of dark furs, or to imagine the heat of her body wrapped fiercely around his. So strong was the picture he formed, so real and so exciting, he felt fine beads of moisture forming across his upper lip.

  “Would it not be child’s play,” she was asking, “for a man of your considerable … talents … to waylay this rogue and carry him north into your own lands, there to hold him as your, ah, guest … until such time as a suitable ransom could be squeezed from the king for his safe return? Is that not a common method employed by your kinsmen to prick the royal temperament? Common enough he would not suspect the deliberate selection of one courier over another?” />
  Lord Rhys returned her stare for a long moment, then slowly, slowly gave way to the smile that had been toying at the edges of his mouth. “Of more appeal is our fondness for stealing away heiresses the king has designated for his lackeys, and to marry them out from under the royal nose without a care for writs or charters.”

  Ariel’s heart skipped a beat, but she stood her ground and submitted to the boldness of his gaze moving speculatively down the length of her body. She could sense movement beside her and knew that Henry was not reacting quite so calmly to the Welshman’s impertinence, but she managed to catch his eye and discourage him from displaying any errant gestures of protectiveness. She could handle this brigand herself.

  “I do not believe my uncle would take too kindly to that particular solution to the problem. It could, in fact, lead to an unpleasant urge to retaliate.”

  “The beauty of a deed that has been done is that it cannot be undone.”

  Ariel’s skin began to burn, as if she was standing too close to the fire, but she suspected it was the heat of his eyes searing her, his lust blazing as bright and hot as any flame.

  “By the same token, my lord … would you not prefer my uncle’s gratitude instead of his enmity?”

  Rhys waited, curious despite himself, guessing what was about to come from between the vixen’s luscious lips, but never in his wildest imaginings believing he would hear it.

  The objects of his focus required a liberal moistening before she could dare voice the absurdity herself, but she did it, keeping her face straight and her voice steady all the while.

  “An alliance between our two families would not be entirely without advantages.” “An alliance, my lady?”

  “Yes. A … a matrimonial alliance. Assuming the proper candidate could be found, of course.”