He walked on.
Then a voice rang out. “I remember him. That’s the troubadour. Seize him!”
Huw ran, thinking fast. Behind the stable yard, the outer wall was lower than elsewhere, and a mounting block had been set beside the lowest portion. Beyond the wall, with a long jump, an escapee might just leap into the branches of the oak tree beyond and get away. Not that he had any intention of leaving Matilda, but if he could make it look like that’s what he’d done…
He sprinted for the yard, knowing he had a good head start on his pursuers, who had started from the gates. He scuffed the manure heap on the way into the yard and laid a noisome trail onto the mounting block and up onto the wall beyond. A swift glance along the wall showed him that no guards were in sight. He jumped down and dashed back across the yard, breathing a prayer of thanks no one was using it this morning. If Godric saw him, he wouldn’t give him away. A trough of water stood against the wall. From it, he was able to leap up and scrabble in the thatch, pulling himself up onto the stable roof. He climbed until he was almost at the apex. Anyone looking up would see him. He just prayed the guards would presume he had leapt from the wall and seek him outside without thinking of looking up at the roof.
Calming his breathing, he waited.
Chapter Sixteen
Huw clung on to the thatch, the straw cutting into his hands. He tried to shift around so he could look across the bailey, desperate for any sign of Matilda. However, before he could move, three men charged into the yard below him, followed by Fitzjohn.
“He came in here. I’m sure of it,” Fitzjohn said, breathing heavily.
The men spread out through the yard, searching every corner, tipping over feed barrels; one even ran his sword into the manure heap.
“He’s got to be here somewhere,” said Fitzjohn.
Huw inched one hand down to rest on the hilt of his knife. He could kill Fitzjohn here. It would rid Matilda—and Coed Bedwen—of his menace for good. His hand itched with the longing to pull out the knife and throw it at the spot between Fitzjohn’s shoulder blades. He would have done, had not the angle been too steep. The knife would most likely glance off Fitzjohn’s shoulder, causing no more than a graze. He would be discovered and so would Matilda.
He held his breath, his heart pounding in his ears. Though his fear was for Matilda, not himself. If he could get her safely away from Fitzjohn, nothing else mattered.
“Look at the manure heap,” said the man who was standing there, sword drawn. “The top’s all scuffed.”
The others moved toward him and spread out, eyes to the ground.
“Here!” said another. “The trail leads to the wall.”
The group looked out to the oak tree beyond, then Fitzjohn turned, his face purple.
“I want men out with hounds, searching the whole area,” he said.
The men dashed out of the yard. Huw breathed again.
If he had been alone, it would have been a simple matter to escape. He could have scrambled down from his perch and made a dash for the cellar and the tunnel while Fitzjohn’s attention was elsewhere. However, Matilda’s involvement was a complication. He wasn’t leaving without her. If she came to any harm, he would never forgive himself.
He couldn’t stay here. He thought fast. Matilda would be in the keep by now, and he couldn’t risk going inside to find her in case he was seen and led Fitzjohn to her.
Then he remembered Godric saying the blacksmith was part of the conspiracy. The blacksmith’s bothy was close to the keep. If he waited there, the blacksmith wouldn’t give him up, and he would be able to watch for Matilda without drawing attention to himself.
After a quick glance around to check no one was looking, he slid down from the roof and, heart hammering against his ribs, walked out across the bailey. He fought the urge to run. That would only draw attention to himself. If he looked like he had every business to be there, no one would give him a second glance. Or so he hoped. It didn’t stop him breaking out in a sweat, expecting at any moment to hear a shout that he’d been seen.
Only when he stepped into the shadows of the blacksmith’s bothy did he let out a shaky breath of relief.
“Don’t give me away,” he murmured to the smith, who was stoking his fire and had paused to look at him.
“Never fear,” the blacksmith replied. “Godric’s already told me about you.”
Relieved, Huw peered out from the shadows to watch for Matilda. He had only just reached cover in time. Fitzjohn was even now striding across the bailey, his face set in grim lines.
Huw’s blood went cold when Fitzjohn mounted the steps to the keep. He didn’t go inside but stationed himself at the top, looking back across the bailey. If Huw left the bothy, he would be seen. However, that wasn’t what made his skin clammy with horror.
The moment Matilda left the keep, Fitzjohn would see her.
****
Matilda struggled to control her breathing as she paused beside the steps inside the keep. If only Huw had come with her, she wouldn’t be so frightened. But, of course, Huw had no business in the keep and would have raised suspicion. She checked the folded sheets on her arm for what felt like the thousandth time, to ensure they covered the large clay pot containing the salt.
Strange to think she wished Huw were with her, when only a few days ago she had feared to be alone with him. Now even the thought of Huw comforted her, calmed her breathing. It was as though she could hear him, talking her through it.
Fitzjohn is going out for a ride. You’ll be finished here and out of the castle long before he gets back. Just take a deep breath and start moving. Even if anyone sees you, they’ll ignore you. You’re just a servant to them, remember—you said so yourself.
Her breathing slowed, and warmth returned to her frozen limbs.
Upstairs or down? Downstairs, she decided. The storage barrels would be heavy. She was far more likely to find them down here.
The keep was a new building, therefore unfamiliar to her. Where she stood, three doors lined a narrow passageway. She had no idea where any of them led. There was no alternative but to try each in turn.
A quick glance around the first door revealed racks of spears and arrows, and a bench covered in feathers for fletching. No food stores in there. She was just leaving when the clatter of booted feet upon the stairs sent her scurrying inside the second room upon trembling legs. She huddled against the wall behind the door, clutching the sheets to her chest. On the other side of the door came the sound of footsteps and shouting. Then all was quiet.
She released a shuddering breath. Her admiration for Huw was rising by the moment. How he had survived for years doing this kind of work without dropping dead from fright, she would never know.
Only then did she take in her surroundings and her heart leapt. The room was bare save for several large barrels and pottery storage jars stacked against the wall. She prized the lid off a barrel. Water! A quick check of the others revealed more water barrels, grain, and what smelled like pickled herring. She snorted. When she was mistress of Coed Bedwen, she would keep far better supplies. But Fitzjohn’s negligence served them well. If she salted the water, no one would be able to survive on just the grain and herrings for long. With trembling hands, she poured out the salt into the water barrels. All she could do now was pray that no one tasted it before Huw and Owain started their attack.
Muttering a prayer of thankfulness that she’d completed her task, she dropped the sheets and hurried out of the door. Too late she noticed the man standing at the top of the steps. Fitzjohn.
She gasped and backed away, thinking to hide in the storeroom again. However, he heard her indrawn breath and turned, frowning.
“What are you doing here, girl?”
Terrified, she answered without thinking. “Taking fresh linen to your chamber, my lord.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew she’d made a fatal error. She had spoken in flawless Norman French, not the heavily accented French a Welsh woman w
ould have spoken.
Fitzjohn’s eyes opened wide. Then before she could react he charged at her and seized her arm. “By God’s blood—Matilda Comyn. You’ve led me a merry dance.” He pulled her roughly toward the keep. “No chance of that troubadour of yours getting you out this time. We’re scouring the castle for him. I’ll have his head decorating the gate before sundown.”
****
When Huw saw Fitzjohn seize Matilda, he thought his heart would stop. With a strangled cry, he braced himself to sprint up to the keep, with no thought other than to save Matilda. However, before he could take more than one step, he found himself grappled to a halt from behind.
“Don’t be a fool,” the blacksmith hissed in his ear. You’ll just get yourself caught along with her, and there’ll be no saving you.”
If it had been anyone else, he would have listened to reason. What could one man hope to do against Fitzjohn and all his men? But this wasn’t anyone. This was Matilda. He had promised she could trust him and he wasn’t about to let her down.
He wrenched himself free and ran out into the open. By this time Fitzjohn had nearly dragged Matilda into the keep. He had to stop them before Matilda was inside.
Much to his frustration, no one was looking his way. He needed to create a stir. His eyes fell on a trestle table set up in the next bothy. Upon it was stacked an array of clay pots. With no time to think of anything else, he charged into it, knocking the pots to the ground with a clatter that drew the gaze of everyone in the castle.
Fitzjohn stopped dead and pointed at him with his free hand. “That’s him! Seize that man!”
Two men-at-arms drew their swords and converged upon him. He made a show of trying to run away, but allowed them to catch him at the foot of the keep. They hustled him up the steps until he was face to face with Fitzjohn.
Matilda was still struggling in his grip, her eyes wide with terror. “No, Huw. Please run.”
Fitzjohn turned a malevolent gaze from Matilda to Huw. “It’s Huw now, is it? I seem to remember you going by a different name at Redcliff.”
Huw pulled himself free from the men’s clutches and gave him an insolent bow. His whole aim now was to enrage Fitzjohn. He had to give Matilda a chance to escape. “Huw ap Goronwy at your service,” he said.
“What do you think you’re doing here?” Fitzjohn hissed.
“I could ask you the same question,” Huw replied. “After all, Coed Bedwen belongs to me now.” Behind him he was aware of Fitzjohn’s men taking positions nearby, ready to move if he should try to escape. Well, he had no intention of doing that until Matilda was safe.
“What? Don’t be ridiculous. I hold it as Matilda Comyn’s guardian. And as soon as she becomes my wife, it will be mine.”
“That’s not possible, I’m afraid.”
“Why not?” Fitzjohn pulled Matilda closer when she made another bid to free herself. He wrapped an arm around her waist.
It made Huw’s blood seethe to see how his fingers dug cruelly into her side. When the time came, he would take great pleasure in killing him.
“Because she’s my wife. Take your filthy hands off her this instant, cur.”
“What?” Fitzjohn’s face contorted with rage. Huw thought fast. There had to be a way to make Fitzjohn lose control and forget to watch Matilda. But it wasn’t just Fitzjohn he was aiming his words at now. He had to make Matilda take her first chance to flee. If she was worried about Huw, she might try to help him. Huw couldn’t risk that.
He had to make Matilda hate him.
“You heard,” he said. “She’s my wife. I watched you in Redcliff, saw you were planning to marry her to get Coed Bedwen. But I wanted Coed Bedwen for myself, so I persuaded her to come with me. It wasn’t difficult. After all, why would she want to marry a goat’s arse like you?”
“You—” Fitzjohn’s face turned purple. He drew his sword and took a wild swing at Huw.
Huw sidestepped with ease and drew his knife. “Such an honorable man,” he mocked. “Attacking me when I’m as good as unarmed. There again, I should have expected such behavior from a coward like you.”
“Insult me at your peril, whoreson. Remember I have your wife at my mercy.”
Huw licked dry lips, careful not to look at Matilda. If he did, his heart would break, and he would be unable to force out the words he knew he had to say. The only way he could persuade her to run.
He shrugged. “Do with her as you please. Coed Bedwen is mine now. That’s all I wanted from her. It’s the only reason I’d marry a Norman whore like her. That, and to get close enough to fulfil my blood oath against her family.”
Matilda’s shocked gasp pierced his heart. It took all his strength not to look her in the eye and beg her forgiveness.
“Of course,” he continued, keeping his voice even, “you should know all about whores. By all accounts, your mother was one.”
With an incoherent bellow of rage, Fitzjohn shoved Matilda aside and flung himself at Huw. From the corner of his eye he saw Matilda stumble down the steps and hurl herself through the cellar door. No one was watching her; all eyes were upon him.
There was no way he could escape now. He had known that from the start. The only thing that mattered to him was that Matilda was free. They could kill him now. He didn’t care.
He doubted Matilda would ever look at him again after his cruel words.
He had saved her but destroyed the trust that he had worked so hard to earn. Destroyed their marriage.
Fitzjohn’s men grabbed him, prized his knife from his fingers, and wrenched his arms behind his back.
“Lock him up,” Fitzjohn said. “I want to question him further before I kill him.”
****
Matilda’s hands shook so violently she could hardly press the latch on the cellar door. It didn’t help that the world shimmered through a haze of tears, but as fast as she swiped them away, more appeared. Her throat ached from the effort of choking back the sobs that threatened to draw attention to her escape. So far everyone’s eyes were fixed on Huw’s struggle against his would-be captors, but she paid the commotion little heed. Just one thought hammered at her head as she finally managed to release the lock: Huw despised her.
She slipped into the cellar and slammed the door shut behind her. Gasping, she snatched the lantern from its niche and stumbled down the steps. If she could force her trembling legs to carry her to the Boar’s Head, Alys could provide her with an escort to Owain and safety.
A sob forced its way up her throat at the thought of what she would have to report; another followed when her eyes fell on the wool bales in the corner. Where Huw had made love to her with a tender passion that must have been as false as his black heart.
No. She mustn’t think of that, or she wouldn’t have the strength to carry on. She shoved aside the barrels to reveal the board that concealed the tunnel mouth. Her resolve carried her into the tunnel and down the steps until she reached the first bend. Then her legs finally folded beneath her, and she hunched down upon the cold, damp stone, her arms hugging her knees. She couldn’t hold back the sobs any longer. They echoed off the rough walls, mocking her.
The words he had spoken about her resonated through her mind. Norman whore…fulfill my blood oath.
How could she have been such a fool? Men weren’t to be trusted. Hadn’t she already learnt that the hard way? They only had their own interests at heart and didn’t care who they hurt to get what they wanted. Huw had lied to her all along. He hadn’t told her about his claim to Coed Bedwen until Owain had revealed it. Then he’d toyed with her, winding her in his web of lies until he had no more use for her. And then what? She shivered. Fulfill my blood oath… Had he been planning to kill her?
Bitter bile flooded her mouth.
To think she had come to depend on him, had taken comfort in him…
Had fallen in love with him.
She pressed the heels of her hands to her temples, as though she could erase that thought. It couldn’t be.
She had fallen prey to a master manipulator. Any feelings she had developed had been for a man who had never existed. She had experienced the callous truth of Huw’s nature today, and it had cured her of those mistaken feelings for good.
Gradually the shock coursing through Matilda’s body faded as it was replaced by cold anger. She would do everything in her power to make sure he suffered for what he had done.
It crossed her mind to ask her uncle to take her in and refuse to assist Owain in retaking Coed Bedwen, but then she remembered all the people depending on her to deliver them from Fitzjohn’s rule. Whatever else happened, she wouldn’t let them down.
She bunched her hands into fists. She would do what Owain had sent her to do. But when it was all over and Coed Bedwen was in Welsh hands, she would make sure she was left in sole control. And her uncle and the king of Powys would know that Huw ap Goronwy was a treacherous whoreson. He could rot in Hell for all she cared.
Her renewed purpose gave her strength, and she scrambled to her feet. Although she hadn’t heard any sounds of pursuit, she couldn’t be sure Fitzjohn or his men weren’t coming after her. The thought of Fitzjohn catching her in this dark tunnel sent her flying down the uneven steps. She wouldn’t feel safe until she was with Alys in the Boar’s Head.
By the time she arrived at the tavern, she was cold and weary. Her arms and legs were scratched and bleeding from brambles in the thicket, and her feet were soaked from trudging along the muddy river bank.
She found Alys setting a pot of water to boil over the fire.
“Oh, my poor lamb!” Alys cried when she stumbled through the door. “What happened to you?”
Bundled in a blanket and sat by the fire, hunched over a steaming infusion of chamomile flowers, she poured out her tale.
Alys clutched a hand to her chest when Matilda, fighting to keep her tone matter-of-fact, repeated Huw’s words. “Huw said that? I can hardly believe it.”
“Do you think I’m making it up?”
“No, of course not, dear. But I’ve always prided myself on being a good judge of character. You must be in my business. It never crossed my mind that Huw was harboring such loathing toward you. Did he give you any hint of it before?”
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