Outrageous

by Christina Dodd

  “Aye, she does. Go buy a cart.”

  “Ye’ll not shout at her?”

  “Nay, I’ll not shout at her,” Griffith replied with formidable patience. “And buy all the blankets in this godforsaken hamlet.”

  Art jiggled up and down, rocking Lionel into tranquillity, watching Griffith. “Ye’ve got a fierce temper.”

  “Do you not credit me with the strength to control it?”

  What he saw seemed to satisfy Art, for he only warned, “These villagers are going to squeeze me for every coin.”

  “Tell them”—Griffith bared his teeth—“that if they’re not reasonable, they’ll have a fierce knight to deal with.”

  “Better than that. I’ll tell them the lass has brought the fever to the village, and we’re taking her away.”

  Griffith almost smiled at Art’s back, but he found his mouth too stiff to bend into that simple curve of pleasure. Because of her. Because of his disappointment.

  Coming to his knees beside the bed, he leaned over Marian. “Look at me,” he demanded. “Look at me. See me.” He deliberately filled her vision with himself: with his shoulders, his chest, his arms, and the face Art disdained and she had found desirable.

  Her lower lip quivered and a few more tears welled in her eyes. But she pushed her face into the rough blanket to clear them and did as he instructed. Her gaze roamed the length and breadth of him like a wayfarer seeking shelter, and he waited until her explorations were through before he said, “I’m a warrior. A man bred to fight. If I wished, I could break Art’s neck with one blow and take Lionel from him.”

  She could only mouth the words. “Not Art.”

  “Nay, I wouldn’t hurt Art, and so you chose Lionel’s champion well. But who will protect you?”

  He could see her thinking. The process seemed to be a painful one and certainly was a long one. Then, with a questioning look, she indicated him.

  He tapped his chest with his fingers. “Aye, I will care for you.”

  Again she considered him.

  Why did she even have to consider? What did she imagine? That he would leave her here? That he would kill her on the trail? Or that he would neglect her illness until God took her and his conscience could be clear?

  Did she realize how she slashed him with the knife of her distrust? He thought she did, but she was too weak to hide her true emotions. Still, he didn’t know if he could ever forgive her.

  Then she nodded acceptance, and the rock of his frustration began to crumble. But he had one more question. “Do you trust me to take care of you?”

  Without hesitation she nodded and gave him a slight smile.

  He almost groaned. When she looked at him like that, he feared he could forgive her anything. Grudgingly, because he didn’t want her to know the extent of his softness, he said, “Well, that’s some progress, then.” He put the lie to his tough voice when he lifted her carefully and wrapped her shivering body close. “I’ll build up the fire, feed you some hot broth, and get some strength in you.” He rubbed his head against the mat of her hair and smiled at last. “Then I’ll take you to my mother.”

  She had no strength to object, and during the journey, misery rendered her mute.

  Dark and damp, fevered and frozen, awake and asleep. Wooden wheels hitting every hole in the road. Bones aching, head swollen, teeth chattering.

  The cart stopped rolling and Marian opened her eyes, but it made no difference. She couldn’t see. It was still dark and stuffy, and in some distant corner of her mind she wondered, had she died? Was she trapped in a coffin? Who would care for Lionel?

  She stirred in agitation, waking the pain in her joints, and remembered—Art would care for Lionel. Art had sworn to care for Lionel, despite Griffith’s displeasure, and Art would keep his vow.

  And she couldn’t be dead. She was too miserable to be dead.

  Around her, at a distance, then close, there were voices, shouting in that strange language. That strange Welsh. Then, beside the cart, she heard, “Mother, I’ve brought you something.”

  Griffith. Had they come to Griffith’s home? They must have, yet he was speaking English. She had no time to worry about it, for a lively, pert voice replied, “Your laundry can wait.”

  Bellows of laughter greeted that, but Griffith answered, “’Tis the gift you’ve been asking me for these last ten years. A grandchild.”

  A grandchild? Marian stirred restively. What plot was this? How dare he introduce Lionel as his own? No wonder he had spoken in English. He wanted her to hear and understand. The laughter around the cart died, and the silence that followed spoke volumes.

  Good. Griffith’s people were as indignant as she was. She could hear nothing until Lionel piped up, “Griffith.”

  Art agreed, “Aye, lad, and this is Griffith’s mama.”

  If only she could speak. She braced herself for his mother’s rejection—and almost fainted when Griffith’s mother betrayed nothing but approbation. “He’s a beautiful lad, and heavy, too. How old is he?”

  Griffith answered, pride in his tone, “He’s not yet two years, but bright and active.”

  A male voice spoke, sounding much like Griffith. “Do you have something you need to confess, Griffith Rhys Vaughn Ednyfed Powel?”

  “I’ll tell you all, Da, but first…”

  Marian braced herself, but nothing could prepare her for the impact of light when Griffith pulled back the rug. She flung her arm over her eyes, trying to block out the blinding rays.

  She scarcely heard his mother’s cry. “Saint Winifred’s head, is she alive? Take the babe, Rhys.” The cart dipped, then a hand smoothed Marian’s cheek. The sweet voice scolded, “Griffith, you have no sense. This girl is ill, have you not eyes to see? You can’t drag her across half of Wales as if she were your laundry. Dear girl—”

  “Lady Marian,” Griffith supplied.

  “Lady Marian,” his mother repeated, “I am Angharad, mother of Griffith, wife of Rhys, daughter of the line of that most ancient physician, Rhiwallon. We are noted healers, and I will help you.”

  As she spoke, Marian slowly lowered her arm. The cart was inside a high, beamed stable rich with the scents of hay and livestock and rich with the sounds of falcons at their roosts. The light was dim, not bright, as she thought before, but still she squinted. A ring of servants and stable hands surrounded the cart, and a clump of men—Griffith, Art, and another man as tall as Griffith—stood close by her shoulder. The tall stranger held Lionel, so he was Rhys. But it was Angharad who captured Marian’s attention.

  An old-fashioned white wimple wrapped the woman’s head all around, showing only her pink-and-white face. Her round cheeks dimpled when she smiled, and her creased face gave evidence that she smiled often. Her eyes were a most unusual color—light, golden, like Griffith’s, but without the stern control that straitened his soul. “Poor little thing,” Angharad cooed, pressing Marian to her ample bosom.

  Maybe it was the smell of fresh-baked bread that clung to her, maybe it was this unexpected acceptance, but Marian began to weep. Silent tears racked her body and tore at her throat.

  “Poor little thing,” Angharad said again. “Griffith, pick her up and take her into the keep at once.”

  Griffith leaned into the cart and lifted Marian out. “Come,” he commanded, as if she had a choice. The agony of movement brought a new gush of tears, and her head fell back against his shoulder. He sounded, for the first time since Marian had met him, unsure. “Mama?”

  “I’ll take care of her,” Angharad said. “Art, throw that wrap over her so she won’t get wet. Rhys, bring the baby.”

  A light woven blanket settled over Marian’s head, but she clawed it away. She didn’t want her sight blocked or her breathing muffled. She wanted to see, to inhale fresh air. She caught a glimpse of Art’s distressed face as he said, “It’s the fever that makes her act so.”

  “Don’t distress yourself, Art. She’ll be well soon.” Angharad tucked the blanket around Marian’s ne
ck. “Is that better?”

  Griffith said, “I’ll put her in my bedchamber.”

  “Are you wed?” Rhys asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “Then there will be no shared bed in our house.”

  “As you say, Da.”

  “She’s a widow?”

  Rhys asked as if he had every right to interrogate Griffith, an attitude that shocked Marian. She had known Griffith only as a dictatorial knight, yet here was a man who demanded Griffith’s respect—and received it.

  “Nay, Da, she’s not a widow.”

  Rhys shifted Lionel in his arms as if he’d suddenly found him too hot to hold. “She’s not still married?”

  “Not at all, Da,” Griffith said solemnly. “She’s as yet unwed.”

  In a display of either tact or insensitivity, Rhys nodded approvingly. “Good. I was wondering if we could expect to be besieged by some outraged husband.”

  “You can question Griffith later,” Angharad said, making Marian wonder if Rhys’s authority was indeed absolute. “Now we need to care for Lady Marian. Griffith, take her to your sleeping chamber.”

  “Wife…”

  Rhys’s voice sounded ominous, but Angharad seemed unaffected by it. “Griffith can sleep in the great hall with the servants.”

  Rhys groaned. “Little tyrant.”

  Angharad dimpled and curtsied to him, then clasped her hands in her apron. “Saint Winifred’s head, I must start the maids to work on the chamber, and the cook to preparing a proper dinner!” She ran off, as light-footed as a true angel with wings.

  Griffith watched after her with a smile that brought a lump to Marian’s throat, then he looked down at her. “You lost your mother,” he pledged, “so I give you mine.” Clasping Marian more tightly, he started out the door.

  A gentle rain sprinkled Marian’s face, mingling with the tears that dappled her cheeks, but she blinked it all away and looked about her at Castle Powel. The massive outer walls dwarfed the guards who stood on them, and the four towers dwarfed the walls. The keep, sturdy and gray, stood on a knoll within the bailey, and Griffith climbed toward it. It seemed to grow taller as they approached—intimidating, strong, unyielding—reminding her of something.

  Griffith.

  She wanted to huddle into his arms, and at the same time she wanted to run away. This place had cradled and formed Griffith into its likeness. Like Griffith, it dealt harshly with its enemies yet protected those who sheltered in its shadow. If she chose to yield to Griffith, she would be sheltered, too. Yet if she did not, she would be battering herself against the stone of his determination—uselessly, she suspected.

  They stood before the great oak door and as it swung open to swallow her, she struggled in blind panic.

  “Marian.”

  Griffith called her name, and she glanced up at him wildly.

  He knew what she feared. “In Wales, some practice the tradition of carrying the bride over the threshold. ’Tis a remembrance of those days when the bride was stolen from her family. Is there a similar tradition in England?”

  She wanted to shout. She could scarcely whisper, “Cur. Louse.”

  He stopped her mouth with a swift kiss and passed into the keep. Climbing the stairs to the great hall, he paused to let her absorb the sight. “Your English King Edward built castles to subdue the wild Welsh rebels, and we built Castle Powel to fight him. We lost, of course. Castle Powel stayed in English hands until my lick-dog ancestor groveled before his new master.”

  Right behind him, Angharad gave him a push. “Upstairs to your room, Griffith. Lady Marian can hear the glorious Powel history when she’s well. ’Tis a musty old keep, and nothing to brag about.”

  Marian understood Angharad’s complaint. The keep showed its age in the lack of built-in comfort, but this had been compensated for with cushions, tapestries, and continuously burning fires. The chimneys scarcely smoked, the windows captured all the outdoor light to be had, and the servants performed their duties with a smile.

  Art stepped up and pulled the now damp blanket off her. “Ye’ll be good for Lady Angharad, won’t ye?”

  Marian hesitated, and his hands began to tremble.

  “No matter what foul-tasting medicines she gives ye, ye’ll swallow them, won’t ye?”

  She set her chin, and his one eye filled with tears.

  “I never told ye, but ye remind me of my own eldest daughter. I couldn’t bear to lose another such dear girl.”

  “Blackmail,” she whispered, but she knew she’d lost. “I promise.”

  Art grinned, his tears dried as if by magic. “Ye do as Lady Angharad says and get well, and I—” he glanced uneasily at Griffith, but went on anyway as he took Lionel from Rhys—“I will take care of yer lad, just as I promised. Don’t fret yerself about him.”

  “Nay.” But she faltered, for how could she not fret about Lionel? “I’ll not worry.”

  The room to which Griffith took her bustled with the activity of many maids. They warmed the sheets, fanned the new-laid fire, sprinkled savory herbs among the clean reeds on the floor. A kettle of water bubbled on the hearth, and Angharad said, “Good. You brought my medicines.”

  The maids bobbed and smiled as Griffith laid Marian on the sheets. Leaning over, he placed a fist on either side of her head. “Croeso i Cymru. Welcome to Wales.”

  Had she been relieved to see him in that hut in the mountains? If so, she didn’t remember why. He was a pushy, obnoxious man who thought too highly of his lovemaking and the rights it gave him.

  Agitated, she tried to push him away. Angharad did it for her. “Leave her to me,” the older woman said.

  “Let me stay and help,” Griffith said. “I’ve cared for her all the way to Powel—surely I can be of help here.”

  “No!” Marian croaked.

  Angharad glanced toward the door. “Rhys?”

  Rhys stepped forward. “We have matters to discuss. If you would excuse us, Lady Marian. Lady Marian…?”

  Responding to the implicit question, Griffith said, “Lady Marian Wenthaven.”

  “Wenthaven?” Rhys said sharply. “From Shropshire?”

  Alarmed, Marian lifted her head.

  “Aye, from Shropshire,” Griffith replied. “But why…?”

  Rhys placed a hand on Griffith’s arm. “We must talk now.”

  With a glance at the bed, Griffith followed his father, shutting the door behind him.

  He was pleased with this day’s work. He’d been half-frantic every time he’d looked at Marian’s cheeks, which were ruddy yet drawn with a wasting fever, and at her dull, anxious eyes. But it seemed as if his home had already begun working its magic on her.

  Yet trouble had followed them, he guessed, and he turned to his father to ask, “Why do you know the name of Wenthaven?”

  “An elderly beggar came to the gate only two nights ago, wrapped to his chin in rugs and cloaks and hobbling quite convincingly. We practice Christian charity, of course, and we brought him to the hearth to feed him.” With a sideways glance at Griffith, Rhys added, “I was quite interested in this Englishman beggar.”

  “He was an Englishman?” Griffith straightened his shoulders. “Here?”

  “Quite a long stretch out of the way for your normal beggar, I thought.”

  “Aye. Did he have an explanation for his direction?”

  “Not at first. Not until he’d imbibed a large portion of a cask of wine. Then he complained of warmth, and threw off his wraps.” Rhys smiled grimly. “Then he complained of a need, and tried to entice the maids. If he’d been sober, he’d have been good at it, I suspect.”

  “Handsome face? One hand?” With sinking heart, Griffith identified him. “Harbottle.”

  “Ah, you do know him. Recently of the household of Wenthaven in Shropshire, and recently the lover of the daughter of the house.”

  Griffith roared, “That miserable lying son of a decayed maggot! Where is he?”

  “Follow me.” As they walked to a cham
ber not far from Marian’s, Rhys told him, “He’s locked in here. He’s served three meals a day and as much ale as he can drink. Your mother popped his shoulder back into place, and bound it. She nursed his wine ache, and the last I heard, two of the maids were visiting him of a night and nursing his stone ache. ’Tis as I suspected the first evening—he is a handsome brute.”

  “I’ll cure him of that,” Griffith vowed.

  “Your gentle mother wouldn’t approve of such violence to a prisoner,” his father said. “She can no more resist a child or an invalid than she can resist your own smile, and you know she’ll make Lady Marian well. By the same token, she made Harbottle well.” He fitted a massive key into the hefty iron lock and pushed the oak door. It creaked open to reveal a fire, a cot, a bench, a table, and a tray of morsels to tempt a capricious appetite. With a weary gesture, Rhys indicated Sir Adrian Harbottle, bound by his roped ankle to the bed. “Her compassion knows no politics.”

  Harbottle’s glance absorbed his hosts’ menace, and he snarled like a wolf at bay. “Griffith ap Powel.”

  With a bow that mimicked the sweeping gesture of a courtier, Griffith said, “As soon as I heard we had a guest, I came to greet you. ’Tis such an honor to welcome the best swordsman in England.” He stepped across the threshold of the tiny chamber. “Or is it the second best?”

  Clutching his bound arm with his other hand, Harbottle proved his defense was less teeth and muscle than soft underbelly. “If you touch me, your mother will be angry.”

  “My mother is taking care of Lady Marian Wenthaven and is far beyond reach of your screams.”

  Marian’s name brought a subtle change to Harbottle. “Lady Marian?” He seemed to savor the name. “She has arrived?”

  Griffith’s hands rose and clenched as if they were wrapped around Harbottle’s corded neck.

  Harbottle straightened. “Or are your words as false as your hospitality? Was she here all along?”

  Rhys caught Griffith’s arm and murmured, “Steady, lad.” Shutting the door behind him, he told Harbottle, “We came to share a civilized conversation with you, nothing more.”

  “You wanted to put me in the dungeon!” Harbottle accused. “You would have, too, but your lady wife wouldn’t let you so treat an injured guest.”