Outrageous

by Christina Dodd

  Griffith’s hands were full, so he aimed his kick to Cledwyn’s groin and let Cledwyn’s forward momentum drive the blow home. Cledwyn’s arms flew out, and he paused like a man dangling from a sky noose. Then he crumpled while his fellow mercenaries cheered.

  Griffith took no notice of their approval, knowing well they’d have cheered just as vigorously had he suffered the defeat. To the groaning Cledwyn, he said, “I did warn you about your clappers.”

  “Mama!” Lionel pointed in the direction of his old home. “Mama!”

  Jolted, Griffith stared at the lad. “You can speak!”

  “Damn clear, too,” said one of the mercenaries.

  “Been practicin’ on his own,” another commented.

  As proud as if he were Lionel’s father, Griffith grinned. “His first word, and he said it to me.”

  “Mama!” Lionel insisted.

  Griffith glanced around, but Marian had disappeared. “Where did she go?”

  Apparently deciding he’d said enough, Lionel again pointed. With the child in his arms, Griffith set off at a trot through the orchard, searching for Marian. He found her just as she slipped through the gate of the cottage fence. He wanted to call her name, but she skulked along so furtively, he stopped himself. Lionel, too, seemed to have detected the need for secrecy, and withheld his astonishing cry.

  Marian avoided the cottage and crept around toward the curtain wall. She was headed for the copse and, to Griffith’s disgust, disappeared among the trees. He shifted his position but she still remained out of sight. No matter how he moved, he couldn’t see her, and he knew now why she’d chosen that place to conceal her secrets.

  When she emerged, he stepped back, hiding himself.

  He didn’t like doing it. It was not the act of an open and honorable knight, but when dealing with wild creatures, with kings, and with women, Griffith had sometimes found cunning to be essential.

  With Lionel safe in his arms, Griffith slipped around to the walls of the castle that so closely overshadowed the copse. He used the rough stone as a protection against spies from above and depended on the unremarkable black of his mantle to hide him from any other gaze.

  The copse looked the same as it had only a few hours ago, but the sun no longer touched it, and it seemed less a haven and more a place of enigma and shadows. Same trees, same hammock, but something niggled at Griffith. Something was different.…

  Lionel pointed. “Mama.”

  Griffith stared at the deepest shadow beneath the trees but saw nothing.

  Taking Griffith’s chin between both his palms, Lionel turned it toward his own face, looked into Griffith eyes, and slowly enunciated, “Mama’s.”

  Griffith grinned at the lad. “You’re my ally in this, aren’t you?” Walking into the trees, he saw what Lionel insisted he see. A fresh mound of dirt, hastily dug, hastily tamped over. Placing Lionel in the hammock, he dug, too, and found a black waxed box.

  It was empty.

  “Why do you wear such ugly clothes?”

  Marian’s question broke a silence as profound as a monk’s meditation, but no one in the tower room seemed affected. Cecily didn’t move, preferring to sit close against the fire, her arms wrapped around her belly. Lionel lay on a blanket by her, sucking his thumb and looking smug as only a secure two-year-old can. Art and Griffith straddled a bench, playing chess, drinking ale, and muttering in a language quite incomprehensible to Marian.

  She wondered if she’d only dreamed she’d spoken and said more loudly, “Griffith ap Powel. Why do you wear such ugly clothes?”

  Griffith lifted his head. “Are you talking to me?”

  “Is your name not Griffith ap Powel?” Marian asked, exasperated. “And are you not the only person in this room wearing ugly clothes?”

  Griffith looked at everybody in turn, his gaze lingering on Marian. She smoothed the tight bodice of one of the gowns her father had sent up to her, wished the skirt were long enough to cover her ankles, and wished she wore a wimple to shield her expression.

  Instead she tucked the loose strands of hair back into the braid and stared boldly at the dismal brown surcoat Griffith wore over his linen tunic. “No one’s worn a surcoat of that mode for fifty years, and it looks as if you’ve been rolling in the mud.”

  Only mildly interested, he looked down at himself. “’Tis an admirable color for stalking prey, and what does it matter if it’s old-fashioned? I’m not a peacock spreading fine feathers for a mate.”

  Dismissing the subject—and her, it seemed—he returned to his play.

  It had been a very odd evening.

  When Marian had returned to the tower room—as instructed—there had been no one there except a wide-eyed, terrified Cecily, who jumped every time the ceiling creaked and babbled about Countess Wenthaven’s malevolent spirit. But it seemed she was more afraid of Art, so she had stayed.

  Marian had taken the garments sent by Wenthaven up the stairs to the tiny room, and there she had changed and hidden the treasure she’d retrieved from the grove behind her cottage. When Griffith returned with Lionel, she had been kneeling before the hearth to start the fire.

  She had wanted to say something snappy about her own obedience to Griffith’s commands, but the sight of Lionel held so tenderly by the giant knight stopped her words. Then she was glad she’d held her peace, for obviously Griffith was in no mood for repartee. In fact, he had been so grimly, thoughtfully silent, she’d jumped with pleasure when Art arrived.

  But even the exuberant Art seemed tired and tightlipped.

  She’d imagined an evening rife with the gripping tension that existed between Griffith and her. Instead he’d ignored her, and she’d had a chance to let down the hem on the other two gowns Wenthaven had scrounged for her.

  She couldn’t even pick a fight with Griffith, and it embarrassed her that she wanted to. Was she a child seeking attention?

  But Lionel rested quietly, content with his thoughts, and the comparison did not flatter her. “Come, Lionel,” she said, rising off the bench. “You’ve had a big day. Let’s put you to bed.”

  As always at bedtime, Lionel’s lip stuck out, but this time he surprised her. He said, “Nay!”

  Marian froze.

  Cecily choked, then asked, “Did you speak?”

  Amenably Lionel repeated, “Nay.”

  “You little darling!” Marian flew to his side and knelt on the blanket. “Say it again.”

  “Nay. Nay, nay, nay.”

  “Did you hear that?” In her pride, Marian included every occupant in the room. “He said his first word. Nay.” Her tongue lingered on it as if it were the best syllable ever created. “Nay.”

  Cecily wet her lips. “He…is that really his first word? Probably ‘nay’ is all he’ll say for a long time.”

  “Actually—” Griffith began.

  Delighted with the attention, Lionel interrupted him. “Mama.”

  Marian’s heart swelled. She could scarcely breathe with emotion. “Mama?” she whispered.

  “Mama.” He crawled into her arms, all grins and wet kisses. “Mama.”

  Dropping her head on his shoulder, Marian shed a few tears. Embarrassing tears, tender tears, tears too precious to contain. Her baby, her perfect baby, had just said his first words.

  “Can he say anything else?” Cecily asked, and her voice trembled.

  Philosophical as any experienced father, Art answered, “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Sweet Jesú,” Cecily whispered.

  Blindly Marian put out a hand to Cecily, and Cecily grasped it tightly between her palms. Lifting her wet face, Marian smiled at Cecily through the blur of tears. “Dearest cousin, you’ve been my rod and staff these last years. How wonderful to share this moment.”

  “Aye,” Cecily agreed. “I never expected to be so flustered by one tiny word.”

  Still hugging Lionel, Marian gathered his blanket and stood. The flames behind her cast themselves through the thin material of her make
shift skirt, outlining the length of her legs, and if Griffith could have moved, he would have covered Art’s eyes. Instead he sat, frozen and stupid, while she wrapped up her son. Halting before the stairs, she said, “Lionel, wish Griffith and Art a fair night.”

  Still too overwhelmed by Lionel’s miracle to believe in it, she didn’t wait for a response.

  But Lionel said, “Griffith.”

  Pride and horror took alternate possession of Marian’s features, and she staggered as if Lionel suddenly weighed too much for her.

  For the first time in years, Griffith found the blood rushing to his cheeks, and he cleared his throat before replying gruffly, “Sleep well, young Lionel.”

  “Guess this answers the question about him saying anything else,” Art said, as close to crowing as Griffith had ever seen him.

  Cecily held out her arms to Lionel. “Let me take him, my lady.”

  Reluctantly Marian gave him up, then turned her dewy face to Griffith and Art. “His first word was ‘nay.’ Does that mean he’ll be a warrior?” She gurgled with laughter and followed Cecily upstairs.

  Griffith stared after her. From the hole in the ceiling, he could hear sounds of bedtime preparation. Lionel squawked but settled easily, worn from his stimulating day. The murmur of women’s voices floated down. In the silence that followed, Griffith unshrouded his own long neglected imagination.

  Was Marian in bed? Did she still wear that wisp of a too small dress, or had she bared herself to the chill of the sheets? And if she had—

  Art masked his meddlesome stare when Griffith turned to him urgently to say, “Lionel said ‘Mama’ first. He said it this afternoon. Should I tell her?”

  “Not if he said it to ye,” Art answered, scandalized. “Better she should think his first word is ‘nay,’ and that he said it to her.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Griffith rubbed his aching head. “I’m glad I did one thing right this day.”

  “Did ye talk to the mercenaries?” Art asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Then ye did two things right.”

  “There’s treachery afoot.” Griffith again glanced at the hole in the ceiling. “And I know not from where it comes.”

  “Not from Marian lass,” Art protested, indignant at the unspoken suggestion.

  “Not from her, but about her, I trow.” Griffith touched Art’s shoulder. “Let’s build up the fire and sit beneath the canopy on the bed. ’Twould be warmer and less noisome to the occupants above.”

  Art squatted in front of the fireplace. “Ye carry the wood. I’ve tired myself in yer service today.”

  Surprised, Griffith complied with the unusual request, stacking the logs where Art could reach them and squatting beside him. “I’ve not heard that complaint before.”

  “I never thought I’d see the day where I’d make it.” Art poked vigorously at the fire, and sparks flew. “Did ye know the widow Jane has buried five husbands?”

  “Ah”—Griffith scratched his chin as he tried to understand—“nay, I did not know that. Five, eh?”

  “Five.” Art pointed at the bed of coals. “Put the log there. Five husbands, and I trow why they died.”

  “Poison? Witchcraft?”

  “Exhaustion. She worked the poor squids to death, and she damn near wore me out, too.”

  Confused by Art’s indignation, Griffith asked, “Doing laundry?”

  “Doing her! That woman—”

  Griffith started to laugh.

  “—can dance the buttock jig more times than any woman I’ve ever had”—Art glared at the convulsed Griffith—“and I’ve had quite a few.”

  “That I should live to see the day,” Griffith gasped when he could speak.

  “She coulda killed me.”

  “At least you’d have died happy.”

  “But then ye’d not have had the information for which I sacrificed the Roaring Jack,” Art snarled.”

  Griffith promptly sobered. “Which is?”

  “The winter has brought a slow buildup of mercenaries here, mostly foreigners and mostly savages.” Art blinked his one eye against the smoke as he set the bellows to the fire. “Wenthaven’s cottagers kept an anxious eye on it, fearing a battle nearby what could wipe them out, but ’tis worse than that. Rough bunch, these mercenaries are, and impatient to start looting. Crooked the elbow too many times one night and visited the village down the road. Raped the women too many times, roasted a baby on a spike, set fire to half the huts.”

  Remembering Cledwyn’s scarred face and his promise to visit Marian, Griffith leaned into the fire. “Sweet Saint Dewi.”

  “Four families burned out in the cold. Wenthaven paid for it all, and the mercenaries haven’t been loose since, but—”

  Griffith slipped out of his shoes and set them to the side of the hearth. “Does your widow know why they’re here?”

  “Nay, but I bet I do.” Art stared into the flames as if God’s truth were written there. “To join forces with those Irish rebels ye were telling me about.”

  “With the impostor earl of Warwick? Perhaps. But Lady Marian has secrets, and I suspect ’tis her secrets which Henry fears.”

  “Ye believe her secrets are the reason for Wenthaven’s private army?”

  “I know nothing. I only know what I saw.” Rising, Griffith gestured to Art, and they met on the canopied bed. Pulling Art into a huddle, Griffith murmured, “What if Lionel has a royal father?”

  Griffith could see he had jolted the sharp mind camouflaged by Art’s aging facade. “Not one of the princes who disappeared in the tower, for they were too young. How about King Edward, their father? He was a right rotten lecher.”

  “Even if Edward had died while conceiving Lionel, Lionel would still have to be at least three years old.”

  Licking his lips, Art reluctantly offered the name they were both thinking. “Richard?”

  Griffith didn’t agree, he only watched as Art looked alternately contemplative and distressed.

  At last he burst out, “But if Richard, why? Why would she do it?”

  “Power? Wealth?” Griffith suggested. “The chance to be queen when Richard’s wife died?”

  Art reared up, fist clenched. “I’d like to smack ye sometimes. What kind of noddy-pate would think such a thing of Lady Marian? She’s as sweet a lass as any I’ve met.”

  Griffith hooted. “Sweet?”

  Art hushed him.

  Griffith lowered his voice. “Sweet? That’s the last word I’d use about Marian, but in sooth, I share your doubts. When she broke my nose, she said something. The pain may have previously driven it from my mind, or I may have been too noddy-pated to think it important.”

  “That’s better.” Art subsided.

  “She claimed the lady Elizabeth had sacrificed everything to save her brothers from Richard’s lethal embrace.” Griffith pulled off his surcoat over his head and tossed it to the foot of the bed.

  “She’s right, ye know,” Art said, his gaze on the brown material. “’Tis ugly.”

  “I’ll dress like a peacock on the morrow,” Griffith retorted. His tunic followed the surcoat, and then his hose. Naked and shivering, he drew a rug over his shoulders and thrust his feet beneath the covers. “Mayhap we’ve discovered the explanation for Elizabeth’s behavior at Richard’s court.”

  This time Art hooted. “Ye were so convinced Elizabeth was a right horrible villainess.”

  “I admit it.” Griffith valued the chill of the sheets, for it kept his mind alert, and he needed to be alert. He was a warrior, simple and rough. He often failed to find his way through the maze of intrigue in the court, and he feared this intrigue would end in death—his own, Art’s, Marian’s, Lionel’s—if he trod unwarily. The responsibility weighed him down, yet at the same time it challenged him. “But Henry took Elizabeth to his bosom with affection and seems to value her above all others. Henry’s no fool, so—”

  “So ye believe Lady Marian sacrificed everything for the young princes,
also?”

  Griffith gave her her due ungrudgingly. “She’s loyal.”

  “Aye, and valiant beyond all sense. Are ye suggesting King Richard Arsewedge the Third killed the princes, then used their sister to get respectability and encouraged her chief lady-in-waiting to think the princes could be helped by the forfeit of her virginity in his bed?”

  Art had a way with description Griffith usually appreciated it, but not tonight. Not about Marian. The thought of Richard blackmailing her, raping her, infuriated him. “’Tis a possibility we must consider.”

  “While his own wife lay dying.” Art rubbed his stomach. “Makes me want to puke.”

  “’Twould explain why Henry sent us to Lady Marian and her son.”

  Art slid from the bed and brought the pitcher and two mugs, and together they sipped the ale. “Do ye think Henry means to kill the lad?”

  “Richard had other bastards, and Henry hasn’t killed them.” Art stared at Griffith, and Griffith admitted, “He hasn’t treated them well, either.”

  “Damn, I don’t like this, Griffith. It fits too well. Lady Marian has a child by Richard, Wenthaven discovers it and sees his chance to be regent to the king”—Art drained the rest of his mug—“if only he can get Lionel on the throne.”

  “So Wenthaven hires mercenaries and plots with the Irish to depose Henry.” Griffith again sipped, then handed over his mug with a grimace. “Or maybe he just plans to use that insurrection to cover the stink of his own activities.”

  “Meanwhile, Henry discovers the boy’s paternity, catches wind of Wenthaven’s plans, and sends us to care for Lady Marian and Lionel, knowing full well he might have to order us to kill the lad.”

  “I couldn’t kill a child, and Henry knows it. That’s the inconsistency.” Griffith pounded his fist in his hand. “Why didn’t Henry tell me what he feared? What part of this scheme have we missed?”

  Suddenly they heard a soft footfall. They spun around, knives drawn and ready.

  Marian stood between them and the stairs. “Put the knives away. I’ll not hurt you.”

  Her voice sounded firm, but her tall figure swayed like a willow in the breeze. She still wore her dress, but her fingers clutched a woolen wrap around her shoulders, and the ruffles on her cap fluttered as she trembled.