It belonged to one of the dead mercenaries, stampeded in the fight, and lacked saddle and bridle, but he’d learned to ride the wild and ill-natured Welsh ponies as a child. If Saint Dewi had sent him a horse, then, by God, he would ride him.
And ride him he did, but only after some bone-crunching falls. Saint Dewi’s horse had spirit and his own opinion about his destination, but the struggle restored Griffith’s battered confidence. He soon found himself galloping along the road to Wenthaven, wrestling the unbridled stallion. He wrestled, too, with his dream of Marian, contemplating the ways to make it come true.
Once he had her imprisoned, he’d teach her to enjoy domesticity. He’d give her a kiss for every stitch she set, a caress for every healing skill she learned. She’d comprehend the pleasures of womanhood and forget excitement, swordplay, and adventure.
He must be delirious with pain.
Rising in his mind was a picture of Marian, dressed in her male garb, sewing a seam and chatting about fashion.
Aye, he was delirious.
So delirious he thought he heard Henry’s voice.
“Griffith. Griffith!”
Griffith stared. It even looked like Henry, coming up behind him at the head of a large, armed troop.
“I thought it was you. God rot it, Griffith, what have you done with yourself? You look like hell’s spawn.”
Sweeping the king with a comprehensive gaze, Griffith noted the light armor he wore. More than that, he noted the pleasant smile, the innocent expression, relaxed manner—all belied by Henry’s watchful gaze. Had Henry been following him? Didn’t Henry trust him? And why not? Giving no indication of his thoughts, Griffith waited until the horsemen reached him. “You look like my king, come to…rescue me?”
As Henry rode to Griffith’s side, he observed his bruised and dirty knight. “It appears you need rescuing.”
“Not rescuing, but mayhap assistance. I ride to Castle Wenthaven.”
“Ah. Our destination is Castle Wenthaven also. I’ve had word from one of Wenthaven’s men-at-arms that Wenthaven’s mercenaries are up to no good, and I fear for the boy.”
“The boy?” Griffith asked.
“Lady Marian’s child.”
Henry still couldn’t bring himself to use Lionel’s name. As much as Griffith wished for the backing of the royal troop, he also wished Henry would disappear. Marian’s confessions rested heavily on his conscience, and he feared Henry’s true motives. Warily he asked, “Who brought you this news?”
Twisting in his saddle, Henry pointed. “That man.”
Griffith twisted, too, and saw him. Billy, stolid and plain, Marian’s faithful guard. How had Billy come to this pass?
But he had no time to speak to him, for Henry demanded, “What has happened to the lad? Why are you here without him? And has the lady Marian been…been…”
“Killed, Your Grace? I trust not. She rescued Lionel from the mercenaries and is even now taking refuge with her father.”
“God rot her!” Henry’s destrier leaped beneath his hand. “We’ve got to stop her.”
“Why?” Griffith demanded, knowing the answer yet wanting to discover the extent of Henry’s knowledge.
“Because Wenthaven intends to use her son as the arrow to pierce the heart of my monarchy.”
“Your quick mind is ever a delight to me, but really, what did you expect? You lied to me about your son.” In the comfort of his chamber, Wenthaven poured wine, cut bread, and acted so urbanely innocent that Marian ground her teeth.
Sinking onto the chair he indicated, she shifted Lionel in her aching arms. “I did not lie to you.”
“You did not lie, nor did you tell me all the truth.” Wenthaven looked on Lionel as a miser looks on gold. “You left the truth for me to discover.”
“With your talent for spying, that should not have been difficult,” she snapped, still hurt from the realization of betrayal, still angry at herself for seeking sanctuary with her father.
“Ah, but first I had to realize you bore a secret. Once the lad grew enough to resemble his father, I began to wonder about Elizabeth’s ever-open purse. Then the secret was not difficult to ferret out.” He placed a platter and cup on the table at her side, then leaned close to her face and murmured, “You weren’t the only one present at the birth, daughter, and although the nobility have proved close-mouthed, one servant at last proved willing to speak.”
What a fool she’d been to expect anything more than this of him. This was all he could comprehend. Prestige, wealth, intrigue, and the obtaining of them were his life’s blood. “You have sunk too low, Wenthaven.”
“I will yet rise high.” Straightening, he waved a gracious hand. “Daughter dear, I’m fulfilling your every dream. I have hired the mercenaries. I have contacted every disgruntled noble in the land.”
“And told them what?” She held her breath.
“Nothing, but that I have the key to Henry’s downfall.”
“Think you Henry hasn’t had word of this muttering?”
“Does it matter?” Honey frisked around Wenthaven’s feet, adoring him with her big brown eyes and her lolling tongue, and he bent to rub her ears. “With Lionel at the head of an army, we are invincible. By the end of the year, we would be in London, placing the crown on his little head.”
Remembering Griffith’s deductions, she tested the truth of them. “And taking the head off of Henry.”
“An unfortunate necessity.”
“And Elizabeth.”
Expansive and generous, Wenthaven decided, “She is your friend. We will banish her to a nunnery instead.”
“And the infant prince Arthur.” She waited, breathless, for the denial, wanting it so much.
Caught in a spasm of discomfort, Wenthaven examined the dog’s paws and plucked from them some burrs. “Killing a child is…not acceptable. Richard of York proved that.”
“So we would simply neglect him until he died?” Wenthaven tried to speak, but she waved him to silence, so disappointed she could scarcely contain herself. “Or drop him on his head? Or place him in a monastery until all have forgotten his existence and he’s old enough to be murdered?”
“Very inventive,” Wenthaven commented.
“God rot you, Wenthaven, you’re as low as a snake’s belly.”
With a growl, Honey made clear her displeasure at Marian’s tone.
“I prefer the term ruthless.” With a frown, Wenthaven made clear his exasperation. “You’ve wanted to go back to court. Don’t tell me you haven’t. You’ve dreamed of being the foster mother to a king. Don’t tell me you haven’t. You’ve wanted to smear the title of ‘whore’ in the faces of your detractors. Don’t tell me you haven’t at least lusted for that.”
Of course she had. Marian couldn’t deny any of it. But the memory of her dreams now brought her shame. She’d wanted the monarchy for Lionel, aye. But she’d wanted it for herself, too, and that had influenced her judgment. It had taken Griffith’s clear vision to see her for what she was and to hold up the mirror for her to see.
“I did want those things,” she admitted. She cuddled Lionel in her lap and wished his large, watchful eyes would close in slumber at last. But despite his obvious weariness, despite her comforting presence, he still clung to wakefulness. “Look at him,” she whispered. “Sleep holds no security for him now. He fears the abrupt awakenings, the monster kidnappers, the absentminded cruelties of men burdened with a child. He fears…everything.” She rubbed his back in slow, firm circles. “If he were the vanguard of a movement to usurp Henry, he would know nothing but fear—and the nightmares of his childish mind are as dust compared to the nightmares of reality. Don’t tempt me with what I want. Think of what’s right for Lionel.”
Wenthaven condemned her in once succinct phrase. “You’re thinking like a woman.”
She almost laughed out loud, but she feared she wouldn’t stop. “My thanks, Father.” She hadn’t convinced Wenthaven. Why had she even tried? Staring at her own
hands, she wondered if they would be strong enough to do all that must done—alone. For there was no one left to help her, no one. Dolan, that creeping pirate of a Welshman, had disappeared as soon as they’d ridden in. Art was dead, and Rhys and Angharad were far away.
No one. “You killed Griffith,” she finally said.
He lifted one brow. “Is he dead? I had no idea.”
“You know he is.”
“How would I—”
“You ordered your mercenaries to kill him. You ordered that dreadful Cledwyn…” She faltered. Cledwyn had been grinning, openly triumphant when he swept across the drawbridge and accepted his reward. The life he’d taken meant nothing beside the money he’d won and his delight in killing.
“You’re so dramatic,” Wenthaven chided, pouring himself some wine. “But why should you care? Griffith was only a lesser Welsh knight. Did you have a tendre for him?”
“I was married to him.”
She had surprised him at last. He stalked toward her, cup in clenched hand. “You dared wed without my permission?”
“I dared not refuse. King Henry Tudor insisted on the union, gave me away, and presented us with a large estate not far from here.”
Wenthaven’s eyes sparked with fury. “By God, you’re my daughter. You’ve got a brain in your head. Couldn’t you have stalled?”
“I was anxious to find Lionel—whom you had kidnapped from me. Henry refused to let us go until the deed was done, and I had no thought beyond the safety of my son. ’Tis your fault I’m wed.”
“Was wed,” he snapped.
She thought of the ravine, of the speed of the bolt, and of the way Griffith’s body convulsed as it went over the edge, and still she hoped. It was foolish to hope he lived. Yet even if he couldn’t reach her, even if he couldn’t help, still she hoped.
Wenthaven accused her of being his daughter, rife with deviousness and manipulation. So she struggled to formulate a plan, but she needed time. With that in mind, she stroked the black hair off Lionel’s forehead and said, “Lionel and I need to rest.”
But Wenthaven understood her only too well. “I don’t know if I should allow you to remain with your son. You might decide to do something foolish, like escape with the lad. I can take him from you.”
All thought of plan flew from her mind, and she clutched Lionel tighter. “As you already have, once, and look what your tender nursemaids did to him in only one day. He’s frightened half to death. He’s lost his faith in me. He’s a battle-scarred child, and you want him to be king of England. Are you mad? He’s just a baby!”
“He’s a prince.” Wenthaven’s indifferent gaze rested on Lionel. “And I’ll teach him to behave like one.”
“How will you teach him that, Wenthaven?” she asked. “You’re no prince. You’re scarcely even a man.”
Wenthaven’s hand rose, hovered in the air, then fell. The cold and scornful Wenthaven, the man always in control, seemed braced for once, as if her contempt for him and his plan could truly harm him.
“M’lord?” Cledwyn stood in the door, molting dirt like a bird molts feathers. “Got a bit o’ a crisis.”
Wenthaven exploded, directing his fire at the convenient target. “I told you never to come into the keep! What are you doing in the keep?”
With a jerk of his thumb, Cledwyn indicated the bailey beyond Wenthaven’s window. “Got a bit o’ a crisis,” he repeated, but slowly, as if Wenthaven were simple.
It was the final straw. First his daughter proved unreasonable and recalcitrant, then this ignorant, claw-toothed savage dared grin and taunt him. Wenthaven swelled again with fury, ready to rend flesh from bone, but Cledwyn hastily did what he could to divert the punishment.
“Ye want me t’ talk about it in front o’ yer daughter?” With unmistakable sarcasm, he added, “It might upset such a delicate lass.”
Cold sense took the place of hot fury, and Wenthaven went to Cledwyn. Gripping his arm with cruel fingers, he dragged the mercenary down the hall and flung him into one of his cubbyholes. “What is it?”
Cledwyn rubbed his arm. “Got a nasty way about ye, ye do.”
Wenthaven leaned closer. “You don’t know how nasty.”
Something about him—his voice, his expression, his stance—seemed to penetrate the mercenary’s cocky assurance, and Wenthaven experienced a deep and vicious satisfaction when Cledwyn stepped back until he smacked the wall.
“I just came t’ tell ye, there’s a troop of soldiers outside th’ walls, back at th’ treeline. They’ve sent a messenger t’ th’ gate an’ demanded entrance. He says”—Cledwyn took a breath—“they’re from th’ king.”
Wenthaven’s lips could scarcely move. “From the king?”
“He was bearin’ th’ king’s standard.”
“Then it’s not from the king. It is the king.” Wenthaven thought hard. “How many in the troop?”
“Can’t tell fer sure because o’ th’ trees, but…I estimate twenty knights an’ their squires.”
“So small a force…you’d think Henry would have more wisdom. If I could capture the king…” Wenthaven’s hand closed into a fist, and he smiled, the kind of smile that made the hardened mercenary creep toward the exit. His finger shot out toward Cledwyn. “You!”
Cledwyn froze like a marked fox. “Aye, m’lord?”
“Talk to them. Stall them while I prepare. Do what you must to get your men ready.”
“M’lord?” Cledwyn’s eyes gleamed with avarice. “Can I wear armor fer this fight?”
Magnanimous in his anticipation, Wenthaven replied, “Aye, Cledwyn. Tell the English men-at-arms they are to outfit you in the finest armor in the store-room.”
“They won’t like it,” Cledwyn said.
“They’ll do as they’re told. When the conditions are proper…” Wenthaven gripped Cledwyn’s shoulder, and Cledwyn flinched as if he’d been branded. “We have all of England in our grasp. Let us not fail.”
Wheeling around, he left the mercenary gaping and returned to Marian. To his daughter, keeper of secrets. Of, perhaps, the ultimate secret? He smiled at her kindly and scarcely noticed when she cradled Lionel as if to protect him. In his most comforting tone he said, “Why don’t you go to your suite? Put the child to bed. Think about everything. You’re fatigued, emotional. When you’ve rested, you’ll thank me for my foresight.”
“Oh, Wenthaven,” she began.
But he ignored her. “Cecily! Come out from behind those drapes and make yourself useful.”
Confused, Marian looked at the draped wall he indicated.
“Come on, Cecily,” he snapped. “A woman the size of a cow can scarcely hide in one of my own spy holes without notice.”
The drapes rustled, then parted slowly, and Cecily stepped out.
Cecily was pregnant. Her face was puffy, her forehead splotchy. Her wrists and fingers were swollen like sausages. She moved with lumbering clumsiness.
Worse, she looked unhappy. A mouth made to pout and invite kisses now simply drooped. The languorous doe eyes showed signs of weeping. And she wadded a damp, tear-laden cloth between her fingers.
How she disgusted him.
“Cecily.” Marian half rose in greeting, then faltered and dropped back onto the chair. “I…”
“You told me so. Isn’t that what you wanted to say?” Cecily said petulantly. “I can almost hear you saying it. ‘I told you so. I told you so.’”
“Nay, Cecily—”
“God’s gloves, Cecily, stop yammering and tend to your duties.” Wenthaven stepped across the room, as far away from the bloated handmaiden as he could be. “Take Lady Marian and my grandson to their chambers”—he bent a frown on Marian—“not in the cottage, but in the manor. Tend to them as you did before. And get that lovesick look off your face. I’ve got no time for more of your whimpering.”
He could see the realization dawning on Marian’s face, as horror and amazement took their turns. He was the father of the child. Although he tried to
conceal it, he met her gaze with rueful embarrassment. “She looks like your mother,” he said, sure that that excused everything. “But she proved to be like all the rest. Inferior.”
The king’s herald rode up to the mounted troop, and Henry and Griffith closed on him as he entered the trees and spoke. “Wenthaven’s got the castle manned by Welshmen. The first one pretended to speak only Welsh and sent for a second, who spoke English—badly. After much shouting, the mercenary informed me he can’t let down the gate without Wenthaven’s express permission, and Wenthaven is between some woman’s legs. Supposedly a man has gone to fetch him.” The young knight removed his helmet and wiped his sweaty hair off his forehead. “I think they’re stalling, Your Grace.”
Griffith moved away from Henry’s noisy wrath and scanned the high, crenellated walls. He wanted to get in, and he wanted in now. He had no time to wait for Wenthaven’s pleasure, nor for Henry’s displeasure. The lives of Marian and Lionel counted as nothing, except to him. Therefore he would rescue them. “Billy,” he called. “Come here.”
The man-at-arms moved to his side as if he’d been waiting for the summons. “M’lord.”
“How do we get in?”
Henry stormed up in time to hear the question and snapped, “There’s no way into Castle Wenthaven. We’ll have to send for an army and besiege it.”
“I’ll not give up so soon.” Griffith examined the walls assiduously. “We have here one of Wenthaven’s own men. He will know of a secret passage?”
Billy shook his head.
“Or a postern gate?”
Billy shook his head again.
“Or someone who’s in league with you who will let you in?” Griffith finished in exasperation.
Billy mulled it over and by slow degrees came to a plan. “Th’ good English men-at-arms have been supplanted by th’ evil Welsh mercenaries—beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord—an’ that’s bad. ’Cept th’ good Englishmen might be willin’ t’ knock some heads if they see me, just t’ let me in.”
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