“I have been on the roof, seeking air, and I have been talking to the Bastard, FitzRandwulf.”
“FitzRandwulf? What has he said to twist your nose into such a knot?”
“He said”—she plumped her hands on her hips and glared down at him like an avenging angel—“you have charged him with the task of delivering me back to England, back into the arms of my betrothed.”
William took another mouthful of wine. “And so I have. He looks a capable enough fellow. Together with your brother, they should manage not to lose you.”
“Lose me? Lose me?”
William winced. “Must you shout, Niece? My head aches enough as it is.”
Ariel whirled, paced to the far wall, then paced back. “Aye, it appears I must shout if I am to make myself heard. Uncle! How can you send me back knowing what waits in store?”
“What waits in store if I do not? Setting aside the fact that the king does not take kindly to blatant acts of rebellion, you are eighteen years old—almost nineteen! You should have been wed half a dozen years ago. Would have been, by Christ, had I only listened to your aunt. You have rejected too many offers to recount, for too many reasons too flimsy to support the weight of a feather. No, you are long overdue for a husband, whether he be of your choosing, the king’s, or mine.”
“You support this match?” she asked in disbelief.
“It may not be one I would have actively sought had I the luxury of your time and fastidiousness, but it is a good one. The man has lands and wealth and ambition enough to support you in a comfortable fashion. Nor will he suffer for his brother being in the king’s favour. Lord Rhys will make you a fine husband and breed on you fine, handsome children. Now, be a good niece and fetch more wine.”
Ariel moved by reflex and was almost to the opposite side of the room before the name of the prospective groom cut through the barrage of arguments fomenting on her tongue.
She stopped cold and stared at her uncle. “Did you say … Lord Rhys?”
“Rhys ap Iorwerth. Is he not the scoundrel with whom you made your devil’s pact?”
“Well … yes … but …”
“Is he not, as a prince in the house of Gwynedd, a suitable enough match for your noble tastes and temperaments?” “Yes, but—”
William sighed. “And did you yourself not promise the man consideration in exchange for his assistance in waylaying the king’s messenger? Did you not, in fact, suggest it?” “I … offered to lay the matter before you, but—” “But what, Niece?” William’s blue eyes reflected the flames burning in the hearth. “Are you in the habit of making willy-nilly offers to powerful men in exchange for treasonous favours? Or can it be you have changed your mind again and would prefer to warm the bed of this … Reginald de Braose?”
“No! No, I have not changed my mind. It is just that I thought … I mean, when FitzRandwulf told me you were sending me back to England …”
“Yes?”
Ariel curled her lip between her teeth and bit down hard. The wine was making her head swim. The sudden, close heat in the chamber was causing her cloak to steam and taint the air with the smell of damp wool.
“He neglected to mention the name of the intended groom,” she said in a quietly ominous voice.
“Did he now,” William grunted. “Perhaps it slipped his mind.”
Ariel flushed and continued to the bedside table. Reaching for the ewer, her grip tightened around the pewter neck until her knuckles glowed white. Oh, the arrogance and treachery of the man! The smug, insufferable gall of the lout to enjoy such a grandiose jest at her expense! Slipped his mind? Not for a moment. And not for a moment would she believe it was not another deliberate attempt to humiliate her!
She muttered an oath of contempt and raised her hand, scrubbing the back of it across her mouth as if she could wipe away the memory of his lips. He had probably been laughing all the while he was kissing her. All the while he was kissing her and laying his lecherous hands on her body!
“What else did FitzRandwulf tell you?” William asked mildly.
“What?”
The earl was taken aback by her sharpness. “FitzRandwulf … was that all he told you of our discussions tonight? That he and your brother were escorting you back to Wales?”
“What else was he supposed to tell me?” she demanded irritably. “That he would be acting as groomsman to Lord Rhys? Or as a witness in our bridal chamber? Or perhaps that he has a bride of his own waiting for him in Wales—more’s the pity to her, poor thing.”
William uttered a word of thanks as she refilled his goblet, but made no immediate move to lift it to his lips. Instead, he cosseted the vessel in his hands and stared down at the reflective surface of the blood red wine, his thoughts tumbling faster than a jongleur at a fair.
Why not? Why not leave Ariel in ignorance of their true purpose until and unless it became absolutely necessary to enlighten her? He had supposed he would have to tell her if only to convince her to return peaceably to England. But if she was accepting this Welsh prince readily enough—and it appeared she was—there was no pressing need to tell her anything about the princess or the danger or the risks to them all if a word should slip by accident into the wrong ear.
There was no question in his mind but that she would keep a secret unto the death if it was asked of her—especially one of this magnitude—but if she was blissfully unaware of any secrets that needed keeping … would she not act more normal on the journey? There would be enough spice to satisfy her quest for adventure if she believed she was outmaneuvering the king by having Snowdonia as her final destination and not Radnor.
“Uncle …?”
He looked up and realized he must have been staring at his wine for some time without hearing what she was saying. Before he could bring his thoughts back in proper focus again, they took another unsettling leap—to Pembroke this time. To the face of another whose safety was being placed in jeopardy without her knowledge or consent.
Sweet Isabella. Ariel had inherited her aunt’s delicate features and lithe, coltish body. If not for the flame red hair and dragon green eyes of a De Clare throwback, it might have been his dear wife dropping to her knees in front of him. Verily, it might have been Isabella moistening her lips and gazing up at him with a wistful smile that said, give me but a moment to explain the foolishness of the world and you will see that my way is the only way.
William held his own smile in check but braced himself anyway.
“Uncle … I know I have been a great deal of trouble to you over the years.” She halted in anticipation of a denial, and when one was not forthcoming, she frowned and continued as if it had. “You must also know that none of it was due to a need to be truly willful or troublesome. If I have not picked a husband before now, it is because none of them have measured by half the fine example you have set before me. You call it being contrary and fastidious; I call it unfair that I should have to settle for someone not as strong, as bold, as kind, as loving, as honourable as my own Uncle Will.”
He could feel himself starting to curl around her little finger and took refuge in another draught of wine.
“Indeed,” she continued, “you have always treated Henry and me as if we had sprung from your own seed.”
“I am glad to hear it. I would not want to think I had been so mean and overbearing as to rouse feelings of vindictiveness in either of you.”
“We would do nothing … nothing to hurt you or Lady Isabella!” Ariel cried sincerely. “Surely you know this?”
William’s eyes narrowed. “Just as you must know I would not force you to do anything your heart was set against. If you harbour strong objections to this Welsh prince—if his nose is too large, or his legs too spindly—then by all means, voice them now and I will place myself and my sword between you and the king’s choler, regardless of the consequences.”
Ariel gazed steadily up into the penetrating blue eyes and knew, despite the wry twist behind his words, he was making both their
positions quite clear. She was the one who had chosen to defy the king’s orders; she did not have a choice now and neither did he.
“Lord Rhys has a fine nose,” she said softly. “And his legs are as straight as pillars.”
“Your aunt did mention, now that I recall, he was a handsome rogue.”
Ariel lowered her head and rested her cheek on William’s knee. She tried hard to conjure an image of Rhys ap Iorwerth in her mind, but the best she could manage was a picture of a man who was dark and bearded, powerful in stature … with a slain fawn slung over the crupper of his saddle.
“Will you be happier with him than with the gaoler’s son?” William asked quietly, smoothing a gnarled hand over the shiny crown of her head.
“I will be content,” she said.
“Have no fear—he will know, by the terms of the agreement and by the dower estates I contract into his keeping, that I place an extremely high value on your safety and continuing happiness.”
She tilted her chin up and smiled. “Mayhap it will temper his need to lift so many of your cattle.” “Aye. We can always hope.”
They shared a few moments of comfortable silence before Ariel ventured to speak again.
“Uncle … I will be more than content with Lord Rhys for a husband, but … must I endure the company of the Bastard d’Amboise for an escort? Henry and Sedrick managed well enough on their own to find their way here; surely you trust them well enough to follow their noses home again.”
“It is not a question of trust, child, it is a matter of necessity. In the short time you have been in Normandy, armies have moved, towns and cities have been besieged—most by men who either know FitzRandwulf on sight or by reputation. For all that he rubs your fur the wrong way, little kitten, he is also known as a friend to their cause and would not attract the same hostilities as our own Pembroke lion might.”
“A friend to their cause? He would see Normandy split from England? He would throw his lot with King Philip of France?”
“It is not so much a case of throwing his lot with Philip, as it is a case of not throwing his lot with King John.”
“In other words, he cannot make up his mind? He has not the courage of his convictions to make one clear choice over another? You would trust a man like this with our defense?”
“FitzRandwulf’s courage has never been questioned. He has fought long and hard with his conscience, as have we all. He supported Arthur’s claim to the throne, yet for honour’s sake, not only had to help bring the young prince to his knees at Mirebeau, but he then had to stand aside and watch the duke be led away to his doom. To have done otherwise would have broken faith with his father—another man of immeasurably tormented loyalties, bounden by blood oath unto the dowager, yet more than eager to see John crushed by his own corrupted powers.”
“The dowager is very old, is she not?”
“She has seen eight decades pass by.”
In a time when most people rarely lived to see half that many years, Ariel could not begin to comprehend Eleanor of Aquitaine’s longevity. “Surely she will have to die some day. What will happen then?”
“The heavy chains that hold both the Wolf and his Cub will snap and methinks our good and brave King John will feel the reverberations from whatever hole he finds to crawl into.”
“La Seyne Sur Mer has this much power?”
“He has the power to strike fear into men’s hearts, aye, and such power cannot be taken lightly, even though he does so himself.”
“You have just as much power, do you not?”
William saw where her questions were leading and he sighed, feeling suddenly far too old and weary to deal with the pride he saw in his niece’s eyes.
“’Tis true, I wield enough to give the odd man cause to squeeze a clod of dung into his braies now and then. ’Tis also true I could give Henry and Sedrick writs of safe passage across Normandy and across the Channel into England. It is not true, sadly, that I could guarantee these writs would be honoured by the lords who seek to sharpen the blade that rests across John’s neck. I am still the king’s man in their eyes. Taking my niece and nephew hostage could put quite a feather in the caps of those who would use such leverage against me.”
“They would not dare!” she gasped.
“If they would dare open rebellion against their king, they would indeed dare to use an impulsive pair of truants against the king’s marshal. Especially if those truants were themselves defying the king’s orders.”
The seriousness of her uncle’s words sent her heart plummeting into her belly like a rock thrown into a pond. “I did not know,” she whispered in horror. “I did not even think! Supposing someone does capture us? Supposing someone does recognize us …?”
“Precautions will be taken to guard against that happening. When you leave here, you must travel in absolute anonymity, keeping to the crooked, less frequented roads, and in as nondescript a manner as possible. Henry has suggested, since you made such a fine squire on the way to Normandy, you might make an equally good one on the way back. Above all, you must obey FitzRandwulf’s orders to the letter, for if anyone can see you safely through, he can.”
Ariel chewed her lip until she drew blood. “We were foolish for coming here, were we not?”
William laid his hand on her cheek. “Would that I could tell you otherwise, but you followed your heart and who can say that it is always such a foolish thing to do?”
“It was not my heart so much as my pride.”
“Ah, well. There you have the downfall of us all. But take cheer, all is not lost yet. Nor will it be, praise God, if FitzRandwulf can see his mission safely through.”
Ariel studied the crags and creases of her uncle’s face, noticing for the first time the deeply etched lines of fatigue and worry. He was staring into the fire and his hand was trembling as it moved against her cheek, and she had the strangest feeling, all of a sudden, that he was not talking about her impending journey to Wales.
“Uncle?”
His eyes lingered on the flames a moment and he was careful to arrange a smile on his face before he looked down at her. “Niece?”
“I do love you, you know. With all my heart.”
“And I you, little kitten. I take comfort in knowing Cardigan is but a day’s ride north of Pembroke. You will not be entirely out of my grasp.”
She returned his smile—not quite so cheerfully—and rested her cheek on his knee again.
“In the meantime, however, you will try to stay out of trouble, will you not? You will try not to give FitzRandwulf and Henry cause to tear their hair out by the roots?”
Ariel sighed. “I always try to stay out of trouble, Uncle. Sometimes, though, it just manages to find me.”
Chapter 9
William the Marshal departed Amboise the following day and Ariel was tempted, even to the last moment be-fore his guard vanished along the forest road, to change her mind and go with him. She was filled with a sudden, inexplicable sense of foreboding that had no reason or cause other than her own uncertainty as to whether she had agreed too quickly to the union with the Welsh prince; if she had been too hasty, too proud, too stubborn … too weak in accepting her uncle’s ultimatum, despite the fact that it had been of her own devising.
What other choice did she have, however? Her uncle had displayed remarkable tolerance and patience where another would simply have had her whipped and sent to De Braose gyved hand and foot in heavy chains. If she had balked, or refused Iorwerth after all the trouble she had caused and all of the trouble this planned foiling of the king’s command would cause …? How could she have refused? How could she have done anything less than agree to put herself into FitzRandwulf’s hands, however abhorrent the thought might be?
And so, well before the grim, ash-colored light of a second dawn rose above Amboise’s battlements, an equally grim, cold group of travellers assembled in the inner court of the bailey. Horses stamped and snorted white funnels of mist into air already laden with f
rosted crystals; the groomsmen who held the reins shivered through chattering teeth and checked cinches and buckles continuously, if only to keep moving and keep warm. The occasional swirl of wind rippled saddlecloths and caused the scarlet leaves of the ivy that climbed partway up the walls of the keep to shift in blood-red waves. Those with the poorest grip on the vines were torn free and slapped wetly on the cobbles. Others merely shook and spattered dew on the heads of the men who gathered outside the covered entry.
The four knights—FitzRandwulf, Lord Henry, Sedrick of Grantham, and Daffyd ap lorwerth moved to and fro like large gray moths in the uncertain light. At a casual glance, they might be mistaken for pilgrims returning from the Holy Land, for they carried no pennants or shields emblazoned with armorial bearings. Over soft linen shirts and woolen tunics they wore sturdy leather gambesons—sleeved vests made of two thicknesses of cowhide stuffed with fleece and quilted in broad squares. Atop this they wore full suits of chain mail. Their hauberks were sleeved to the wrist and hooded for added protection, their chausses covered their legs from thigh to booted foot. Gypons were dull gray and shaped like a tube, belted at the waist, slitted front and back for riding, and here was the only splash of colour each wore: the red Crusader’s cross was stitched boldly on the gypon, front and back.
Ariel, in her guise as a squire, wore an abbreviated mail byrnie, not much longer than a slitted shirt, over a coarse undertunic padded more for bulk than protection, and certainly not for comfort. Her shirt and hose were of the roughest weave, scratchy and cumbersome. Her shoes were neither leather nor felt, but made of hard wooden soles and cloth cross-straps that had to be wound, like bandages, almost to the knees. A slouched felt hat sat like a flattened pillow on her head, covering and containing all but a few shiny red threads of hair that balked at such an ignoble confinement.
She had her suspicions FitzRandwulf had deliberately ordered the drabbest, bulkiest garments that could be found. She looked and felt the part of a red-nosed dullard, and there were areas of her body that already itched so abominably she dared not let herself wonder from whose lice-infested wardrobe he had commandeered the rags.
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