Bound to Her Blood Enemy

by Tora Williams

  Huw shrugged. “What can I say? I like to travel. Besides, there seems to be a tenuous truce holding at the moment. I haven’t met any resistance on the road.” That was probably because he travelled heavily armed and by stealth, but there was no way he would admit to that.

  Sir Reginald snorted. “Maybe things are quieter, but only because Stephen and Maude have bled this country dry between them. I’ve been forced to pour huge amounts of my income into funding Stephen’s war and for what? I’ve barely enough money to run Redcliff now. I would have had to abandon it if it weren’t for”—he shot a glance at Matilda—“certain revenues available to me through my ward.”

  Huw knew exactly what he was talking about: Coed Bedwen. That was why he couldn’t afford to give up his wardship of Matilda. He needed the revenues from Coed Bedwen. If Matilda married another, then her husband would receive her inheritance, leaving Fitzjohn with a large shortfall. He almost felt sorry for the man. Almost.

  He stayed to talk to Sir Reginald for as long as he could bear, but as the man had no information of interest to him, he excused himself at the earliest opportunity and picked up his crwth. The meal was ending, and any moment Fitzjohn would call for the dancing to start. That was Matilda’s signal to make her move. He needed to be ready.

  With every nerve and sinew as taut as the strings on his crwth, he struck up a new tune and prowled the length of the hall until he could see out of the door. Thank Heaven: the sun was setting at last. The last golden rays shone through the clump of oak trees lower down the escarpment, and long shadows crept across the bailey. It would be dark within the hour, giving him the cover he needed to carry out his plan. He made his way back up the hall and stood near Matilda.

  He caught her casting a wary glance his way. Her face was pale, and she was gripping her goblet so hard he was sure the gems must be cutting into her fingers. She better not be having second thoughts. One way or another, he would get her away from Redcliff tonight, but it would be so much easier if she came willingly.

  She looked lost. Alone. He couldn’t help empathizing. He had developed his reliance upon himself because as a spy, there was no one else for him to depend on. If he made a mistake, he was on his own. But as a woman, Matilda should have a whole host of people supporting her. Her parents, then her guardian, followed by a husband and children. But her parents had died, her guardian had failed her badly, and as a result the husband and children she should have had weren’t in her life.

  By all the saints—stop this now! If he allowed himself to feel pity for a Comyn, he would be lost. He thought of his grandfather and all the Welsh men, women and children who had died because of her devil-spawn grandfather. He would do all in his power to obey his king and bring Matilda safely to him, but once his mission was complete, he would be free to fulfil his vow.

  He finished his song and was about to start another when Fitzjohn clapped his hands. “Time for the dancing to begin.” The people cheered, and the minstrels who had been idle during Huw’s performance picked up their instruments. A merry blend of pipes and lyre, underlain by the insistent pulse of a drum, filled the hall.

  Huw, who hadn’t taken his eyes off Matilda, saw the color drain from her face, and she swayed slightly. Her attendant was looking at the minstrels and clearly hadn’t noticed Matilda’s sudden weakness.

  Snatching a wine cup from the table, he leaned across and gripped Matilda’s arm.

  “Some wine, my lady?” He pressed the cup into her hands. As their fingers brushed, he felt as though sparks had leapt from the fire and shot through his flesh. Judging from the sudden color that flooded her face, she had felt it too.

  It was just the tension and anticipation. Nothing more.

  Matilda snatched the cup from his hands and took a deep draught. “Thank you,” she said when she put it down. To his relief, she looked much stronger.

  But he couldn’t risk her faltering. Not now.

  Glancing to either side to make sure no one was looking, he leaned closer and took her arm in a firm grip. He hissed into her ear. “You must eat. A sparrow couldn’t survive on the amount you’ve had today, and we’ve a long way to go.”

  Indignation kindled in her eyes, but to his satisfaction, she picked up her knife, cut off a piece of venison, and popped it into her mouth. Belatedly he realized he was staring at her lips while she chewed. Full lips that would tempt even a saint. And he was no saint.

  A wave of heat washed over him and pooled in his groin. Hellfire! This was a danger he hadn’t reckoned on when he had agreed to come here—the distraction a beautiful woman could provide. And he couldn’t afford to be distracted. Not when it could cost him his life.

  Drawing a deep breath, he looked around the room. Most of the revelers were gathered at the far end of the hall, following the intricate steps of a circle dance. No one was watching him or Matilda.

  Good. His moment of inattention hadn’t cost him anything, and he would make sure it didn’t happen again.

  From the corner of his eye, he noticed Matilda pick up a wine jug and turn to her guardian.

  “I ought to attend to your wife,” she said. “See if she needs anything.”

  Fitzjohn gave a curt nod and waved her away.

  Huw watched her disappear through a doorway behind the dais. His heart sped up as it always did when the action was about to start.

  He packed his crwth into its bag and slung it over his shoulder. He was ready. All he could do now was pray Matilda didn’t falter.

  Chapter Three

  Matilda clutched the jug to her chest the moment she was through the door. This was it: the moment to determine which path to take. Should she bide her time in Redcliff, waiting for an opportunity to escape alone, or should she risk going along with Huw’s plans? Her heart yearned to make a bid for escape tonight, but her mind shied from putting herself at the mercy of yet another man. A spy. A man who lied for a living.

  Her head buzzed with chaotic, conflicting thoughts. She’d hoped the peace of the sickroom would help her think, but the potential consequences of each decision loomed large, and Huw’s voice clamored above it all, urging her to hurry. Holy Mother, help her! If only she could calm her mind enough to think.

  She wasn’t helped by the nagging feeling something was amiss. It was some time before realization dawned. The chamber was silent. Deathly silent. In the past days, it had echoed with the rasping breaths of the sick woman.

  On quaking legs, Matilda approached the bed. The shutters were closed, but a scattering of candles cast a golden glow on the still form huddled in the blankets. There was not the slightest movement. Not even a whisper of breath.

  Fitzjohn’s wife was dead.

  And if Fitzjohn had his way, before the poor woman was cold in her tomb, Matilda would take her place.

  Numb with shock, she placed the wine jug on the table and reached down to close the sightless eyes.

  “God grant you peace,” she murmured. The peace she could never have known in her marriage.

  Then she sank down upon the stool beside the bed and buried her head in her hands. She was faced with a stark choice between two men: one she knew and one she didn’t. Both dangerous. She could either escape tonight with Huw or accept her fate as Fitzjohn’s wife. If she didn’t leave tonight, she wouldn’t get another chance.

  And she could bid farewell to Coed Bedwen. The only place she’d known happiness.

  In the end it was no choice at all. If there was any chance of regaining Coed Bedwen on her own terms, she had to take it. As much as she dreaded putting herself in the power of Huw ap Goronwy, it was better to risk death at his hands than the certainty of misery with Fitzjohn.

  She looked at the corpse, her eyes brimming with tears. “Forgive me.” She pressed a hand to the lifeless chest and murmured a brief blessing. “I know I should wash you, anoint you, summon a priest. But I think this is the sign I prayed for. I have to leave—now—before Sir Reginald learns of your death.”

  She crossed
herself, then rose, all doubt gone. “When I am mistress of Coed Bedwen, I will have masses said for your soul.”

  There was no time to linger. She pulled the phial of poppy syrup from her bodice and poured the contents into the wine jug. Just before the last few drops drained out, she jerked her hand back as a thought struck her. She looked at the amount left in the tiny glass container. Even if there wasn’t enough left to put a man to sleep, it would certainly disorient him for a while.

  She replaced the stopper and tucked the phial back into her bodice. She picked up the jug and strode from the chamber, her nerves singing. Maybe she had more options than she’d thought.

  Sir Reginald looked up when she approached the high table. “How is my wife?”

  “Resting peacefully.”

  Sir Reginald’s cup was empty, so she filled it to the brim, praying her shaking hands wouldn’t give her away. Even though she had held back the last drops of the drug, there should still be enough to send him to sleep for some hours. Enough time to ensure she and Huw could put several miles between them and Redcliff before the chase started.

  She took her seat, her muscles rigid with tension. Where was Huw? Her heart lurched when she saw him standing near the door, his eyes fixed on her. His brows rose in a silent question. She gave a single nod. He slipped through the doorway and disappeared from view.

  A snore next to her drew her attention back to the high table. Sir Reginald’s head was nodding, his eyes closed. The blood pounded in her ears, and her chest felt tight. It was time.

  She picked up the jug and rose from her seat. She half expected Sir Reginald to tell her to sit down, but he didn’t stir. She strode down the hall, picking up two pottery cups from one of the lower tables as she passed. She made no attempt to conceal them, and no one challenged her. It was as Huw had said when they had discussed their plan in the stillroom: act with confidence and no one will stop you.

  She didn’t look back, but the point between her shoulder blades itched. Any moment now, surely she would hear Fitzjohn’s shout. But no one stopped her. She entered the bailey and drew a gasping breath of cold air.

  Twilight had fallen, and the first pale stars glimmered above her. A few people milled about in the bailey, but if Huw fulfilled his part of the plan, they shouldn’t be a problem. She strained her eyes in the dim light, searching for him by the storeroom where he should be, but she couldn’t pierce the shadows. If she wanted to escape, she would have to trust him. Just as he would have to trust her.

  She made her way to the gates. Even though it was a feast day, Sir Reginald had left two guards here. The only way out of Redcliff and to freedom was past them.

  They were seated on a bench beside the gate, playing knucklebones by the light of a pair of torches set in sconces on either side of the gates. As soon as they saw her, they stood.

  She did her best to smile brightly as she approached, despite her pounding heart. Act with authority, Huw had told her when they had planned this. You’ll be most convincing if you yourself believe that Fitzjohn has ordered you to bring wine to the guards. Play out the scene in your head. Hear his voice. Smell the wine on his breath. Convince yourself it’s the truth. Then you’ll believe you have the authority to give the wine to the guards, and they will sense that conviction and accept your words without question.

  She took a deep breath and did as he suggested. She saw herself back in the hall, heard the music and laughter, breathed in the scent of roasted meat, felt the acrid burn of woodsmoke in the back of her throat. And to her great surprise, she heard Sir Reginald snap out his order.

  She raised her chin and marched up to the guards. “Sir Reginald told me to bring you this.” She placed the cups on the bench. As she poured wine into the first cup, she opened her mouth to explain further, but then shut it, remembering what else Huw had said.

  Don’t give too much detail. That’s the way inexperienced liars get caught. If they ask you’ll have to elaborate, but I wager they’ll be too grateful for the wine to question you.

  She handed the first cup to one guard, who accepted it with a grin.

  “Good health to you and Sir Reginald.” He put the cup to his lips.

  She could hardly believe it had worked. Trembling with relief, she poured wine for the second guard, to find that there was only enough for half a cup. It was too late to mix more; pray God it was enough.

  Both men drained their cups. Matilda collected them with a smile and walked away, but only until she was out of sight. She stood in the shadows and waited, listening to the men’s chatter, fighting to steady her breathing. Their speech was getting slurred. Or was it her imagination? Dear God, how did Huw cope with this tension, day after day?

  Worse than the tension, though, was the lying. His advice rang in her ears: Convince yourself it’s the truth. Was that how he lived his whole life? Acting a part so convincingly he almost believed himself to be that person?

  Was he playing a role with her now?

  She shivered. A man like that could make her believe he had her best interests at heart, when all the while he was leading her into danger. Her only comfort was the phial concealed in her bodice.

  When the opportunity arose, she would use it and continue her escape alone.

  A soft grunt drew her attention back to the guards. Straining her eyes for the slightest indication they were still alert, she crept out of the shadows until they were in view. Both were slumped across the bench. As she watched, one of them broke into rumbling snores.

  There was no time to lose. She backed away and gave a low whistle—her pre-arranged signal to Huw—and pressed herself into a corner, out of sight from anyone in the bailey, but able to see out. Five painful heartbeats later, a figure broke away from the shadows surrounding the storeroom and ran toward her. Although it was by now too dark to make out his features, she could tell from his height and figure that it was Huw.

  He joined her in her corner, pressed against her side to stay in the shadows. He murmured into her ear, “The fire’s set. It’ll flare up in no time. As soon as the alarm’s raised, make for the gate.” Just as she had waited for the guards to fall asleep, she waited in strained silence. It was hard to concentrate with Huw pressed so close she could feel the hard contours of his muscles through the wool of his tunic. Her heart was beating so hard, he must be able to feel it pounding against him. It was the tension that made her heart race so. Nothing to do with Huw’s nearness. It was unthinkable for her to desire a man she couldn’t trust.

  She caught her breath as a flicker of red light lit up the storeroom window. Any moment now…

  With a start she realized she was gripping Huw’s arm. The instant she let him go, there was a shout from someone in the bailey: “Fire! The storeroom!” Everyone turned to look.

  Huw hissed in her ear. “Now!”

  They scrambled to the entrance. Huw unbolted the wicket, set into one of the large, oaken gates. As he did so, Matilda watched the people in the bailey, praying under her breath. If anyone looked their way, they would be clearly lit by the torches. The next few moments were vital. If they were seen, all would be lost.

  She sobbed with relief when the creaking of the hinges alerted her to the opening of the gate.

  “You first.” Huw stabbed a finger toward the narrow opening.

  She sprang toward the gap, only to freeze when one of the guards groaned and sat up. He rubbed his eyes and blinked at the escaping pair.

  “Troubadour,” he mumbled. “Come to sing us a song?” Then he slumped back across the bench.

  “Move!” said Huw, then when she couldn’t seem to get her legs to obey her, he shoved her through and followed her out onto the causeway. As soon as he’d pulled the gate shut behind them, he grasped her arm and steered her down the steep, winding track at a run. By this time the moon had risen—a silver disc, visible through the latticework of the oaks’ upper branches. It was only three days before full, so provided enough light to guide them.

  “He rec
ognized you,” Matilda gasped. “When he wakes, he’ll tell Sir Reginald.”

  “Only if he remembers. And even if he does, Sir Reginald won’t know where to look for you. He only knows me as Aimeric the troubadour, remember.”

  Even so, Matilda shuddered at the thought of Fitzjohn hunting her down. She was out of the castle, but not free of him yet.

  “Where are we going? I mean, I know you’re taking me to King Owain, but we won’t get there tonight, will we?” It struck her how little she knew of Wales, even though she had lived all her life on its borders. Huw had told her that King Owain was at Aberffraw, but she had no idea how far it was or how long it would take to get there.

  “I have a camp hidden in the woods only a mile or two from here. My horse is there.” There was a pause. “You do know how to ride a horse, don’t you?”

  “Of course.” Although how she would manage in her best gown was a problem that hadn’t occurred to her before. The skirts weren’t full enough for her to ride astride. Not without hitching them up and revealing her legs to mid-thigh. The heat of a blush climbed from throat to face as she contemplated revealing that much flesh to Huw.

  Clearly unaware of her embarrassment, Huw continued, “We’ll ford the Severn north of Shrewsbury and cross into Powys. Even if Fitzjohn discovers you missing tonight, he won’t be able to follow you into Wales. I know of a deserted farmhouse where we can spend the night.”

  That brought her to a sharp halt. “Alone?”

  Huw tugged her arm, urging her to keep walking. “You have my word I won’t touch you.”

  She had no answer for that, but allowed Huw to lead her to the foot of the escarpment without another word. She had walked into this with her eyes open. Had as good as begged Huw to take her with him. But at no point had it occurred to her that it would mean spending the night alone with him.

  Once they reached level ground, Huw steered them north, skirting the edge of the settlement that had grown up in the shadow of the castle. Bypassing the village’s ploughed strip fields, they entered dense woodland. An owl hooted, its mournful sound echoing Matilda’s feelings. All her hopes had been fixed on making a good marriage, of reclaiming Coed Bedwen through her husband, and being lady of the place where she had spent her only happy years. But if she were known to have spent the night alone with Huw, who would want her?