“We’ll wait and watch for a good time to kill them, my lover,” she purred as she pressed her body to his and kissed him. “I suddenly like the idea of bedding you in the afternoon.”
Giroux unexpectedly began appearing for meals in the hall and scowled at the hostages, his hatred and lust for vengeance plain to see.
Rhodri thought it curious but didn’t reprimand him. He did notice, however, the occasional exchange of heated glances between Giroux and Morwenna. They had conspired together in England to trap the countess, and he had serious questions about their relationship now.
No Future
Rhodri sent for Rhonwen every evening. At first they sat in the chairs talking as before. Sometimes he ran his fingers through her hair, inhaling its fragrance, feeling the texture of it, remarking on its beauty. He gazed at her for several minutes at a time. He sensed she had resolved to keep a tight rein on her emotions.
She’s drawn to me but can see no future for us.
As she became more at ease with him, he encouraged her to sit on his lap. The soft pressure of her small body against him was pleasant torture. He loved the feel of her slender form in his arms, and as long as they stayed in the chair, he was confident he could control his male urges. His steadfast belief that this woman was his soul mate strengthened him, and he didn’t want to hurt her or drive her away. They talked of many things. Rhonwen told him of her love for healing and the things her mother had taught her. Rhodri shared tales of growing up in the castle at Powwydd.
One night, after she had sat upon his lap every evening for a sennight, they were laughing over a story he had told her of a prank he and his brothers had played. Her smile gladdened his heart. He put his fingers on her chin, drew her face to his and kissed her on the lips. The kiss deepened and she responded to him, parting her lips as he coaxed with his tongue. She slid her arms around his neck.
She’s not afraid.
They kissed for long minutes, exploring each other’s mouths, necks, throats and ears. Rhodri was intoxicated by the innocence of her responses and her eagerness to please and explore him. He loved the feel of her small hands on his face.
“Rhodri,” she whispered as he nuzzled her ear and bent his head to kiss her again, “what of Morwenna? She’s your betrothed. Surely what we’re doing is wrong?”
He tensed. “I’ll send her back to her father in the spring.”
She sat up. “But she risked a great deal for you. She murdered my mother, and helped deliver my mistress to you.”
Rhodri sifted his fingers through her hair. “Morwenna didn’t do what she did for me, or for Wales. Murdering your mother was not part of my plans.”
She relaxed back into his arms. After a few moments, she took a deep breath and asked, “Do you think she’s still a maid? I didn’t believe her to be one when we shared a chamber at Ellesmere, and I have stronger suspicions now.”
He smirked. “The Norman, you mean?”
She sat bolt upright and he felt her fear. “I saw him coming from her chamber. He knows I saw him. He wishes me dead, and my mistress and her family.”
He stroked her hair, hoping to soothe her. “Why would he want you dead? There’s no gain for anyone in that.”
Rhonwen shivered. “He doesn’t care about gain. It’s revenge he seeks.”
“Revenge for what?”
Rhonwen told him who Mabelle suspected he was, and why he was driven with a thirst for her blood as the daughter of the man who had blinded and mutilated his father. Rhodri didn’t confirm her suspicions about the man’s name, but resolved to double the watch on the Norman and on his betrothed.
They sat in silence for several minutes, listening to the beating of each other’s heart. He wanted to reassure her. He squeezed her knee and turned her face to his. “I’ve given my sworn oath nothing will happen to any of you. I’ll defend you with my life if necessary.”
Rhonwen ached with the pain of knowing there was no future for her with Rhodri. She still could scarcely believe his interest in her. But when he touched her hair, all she wanted to do was curl her body into his, rest her head on his chest and bask in the warmth and comfort she experienced in his arms. She loved the soft tickle of his silky black chest hair against her nose. He never wore his braids when they were together, and she longed for the courage to untie the leather thong that kept his hair bound at his nape.
His kiss had rocked her to the core. For the first time in her life, she felt like a desirable woman. There was desire in Rhodri’s kisses, and in his eyes, and in the delicate touch of his big calloused hands.
Was it a mistake to trust him? He could have taken her against her will, but he had not. His patient wooing warmed her heart. The bond she had sensed through forces beyond her understanding was becoming stronger and stronger. She wished each day away, longing for the sun to go down, anticipating his summons.
The parting would be unbearable.
Rhodri stood unmoved as Morwenna’s fists beat against his chest.
“I defy you to send me back to my father. I defy you to break our betrothal.”
“I’ll not marry you, Morwenna.”
She sprang away from him and spat in his face. “My father will kill you. You have no right.”
He wiped the spittle from his cheek. “I have every right. A bridegroom expects his bride to come to his bed chaste. What will your father have to say about your rutting with a Norman soldier, a spy at that?”
She seemed taken aback for a moment, and then sneered, “And what of your precious Rhonwen, will she come to your bed chaste? I think not.”
Rhodri grasped her wrists. “Nothing about Rhonwen should concern you,” he said softly. “She is light where you are darkness, joy where you are hatred, innocence where you are corruption. Beware what you say and do while you remain here.”
He released her hands, hoping she understood the quiet menace in his voice. “Go to your chamber.”
Morwenna went as she was ordered, but glared at him defiantly, intense hatred in her eyes.
She’ll seek revenge for my turning to Rhonwen.
“She must be watched at all times,” he told Andras. “And the Norman.”
“It will be done, my lord.”
That evening, Rhodri told Rhonwen, as she sat on his broad lap, that he had banished Morwenna from his life and that the evil woman would be leaving as soon as the weather broke.
“It’s still many sennights away,” she murmured, returning his gentle kisses.
“I’m having both her and the Norman watched.”
Rhonwen imparted this news to the other hostages when she returned to their chamber but didn’t tell them how Rhodri had lovingly caressed her breasts, or how he had made her nipples harden with the strokes of his calloused fingers. She mentioned nothing of the wanton feelings these actions had produced in her, but did admit that Rhodri had again proclaimed his love for her.
Mabelle sensed the healer was deeply in love with the rebel chieftain. She felt sorrow for the hopelessness of the situation, and thought longingly of her husband, whom she had not seen for months. She was consumed with mixed feelings about Rhodri’s declaration of love for Rhonwen. Her husband Ram had never told her he loved her, though she believed in her heart that he did. But she had been slow to recognize she loved him. Now was probably too late. If they ever saw each other again, he would never believe she had not been raped while a captive. He would no longer want her, even if she declared her love for him.
“The Norman sleeps in Morwenna’s chamber every night,” Andras reported.
Rhodri grimaced. “I don’t care, my friend. So long as the two of them stay away from the hostages, they can rut to their hearts’ content.”
He wished he could go to Rhonwen’s chamber, but the other hostages were there. She would never accept a chamber of her own when her noble mistress had to sleep with her maid.
“Bring the healer to my chamber.”
Andras nodded and left.
Rhonwen ente
red a while later. Would his body always react as strongly to her presence? This time he didn’t wait for her to come to him at the chair but strode to her side, lifted her into his arms and returned to the hearth. She smiled and put her arms around his neck.
His lovemaking began with gentle kisses and progressed slowly to stroking and then suckling her breasts. He knew she could feel his erection against her bottom, and that she wanted to touch him, but he held her firmly, and slowly caressed the inside of her thigh beneath the woolen tunic. He had never cared much in the past about a woman’s pleasure, but now he derived great satisfaction out of Rhonwen’s delight in the new found awareness of her body.
“I want to bring you pleasure, my love. Let me touch you.”
“Your touch brings me more pleasure than I’ve ever known,” she whispered, but he could tell she didn’t know what he intended to do.
Throaty murmurs escaped her as he stroked further and further up her thighs, until his fingers found the tight black curls of her mons. Still suckling her breast, he opened her legs and grazed his thumb over the swelling bud. Her eyes flew open and she almost fell off his lap, but he held her firmly and continued to stroke.
“Hush, my sweet Rhonwen. I won’t hurt you.”
She soon gasped his name, lost in the ecstasy of her first release. For long moments he cradled her, rocking gently, his heart full.
She recovered from her euphoria and became embarrassed when she saw she was sprawled on his lap with her tunic up around her hips, her legs open.
“Nothing we do here is wrong my love. You’re my woman, and I want only to give you pleasure. When you’re mine completely, I’ll show you ways to paradise that will make tonight pale in comparison.”
He felt her body heat at his words. He brought her to release after release that night, slowly sliding his fingers inside her. She cried out with intoxication and surrendered completely to the passion he was patiently teaching her to enjoy.
Yuletide
At the Winter Solstice, Rhodri’s people held a ceremony. He explained to Robert and Baudoin this was to encourage the sun to come back someday. Considering the remoteness of the fortress, it was well supplied. It had its own large communal kitchens made of stone which were separate from the wooden structure. There were two huge fireplaces for cooking. Most of the meals were surprisingly good and food was never wasted, but at Yuletide they enjoyed a special banquet, which began with mulled cider, followed by venison and fenberry pie. When Giselle asked where they had found fenberries, she was told they grew readily in the bogs of Wales.
Both Mabelle and Giselle almost fell off their bench when a roasted boar’s head was carried in. “At least this one isn’t green and yellow,” they exclaimed together.
Giselle reddened. “Everyone is looking at us strangely, wondering what we’re laughing at. It reminds us of feasts at Montbryce…long ago,” she said wistfully.
An oak log was burned for twelve hours using the remnants of the previous year’s log to light it. Rhonwen explained that, once it had been burned, the people would keep the remnants for next year, but the ashes would be spread on the fields in the valleys below at the time of planting. This would encourage a good harvest.
The doors were decorated with holly. The Welsh believed the evergreen with its blood red berries was a sign of fertility, and its spikes would capture evil spirits before they entered.
That night Rhonwen had a dream. She and Rhodri were making love. It was so vivid, she was afraid she had cried out her passion. She awoke to find her fingers in an intimate place. But she felt no shame. Rhodri had taught her things about her own body she had never known and unleashed passions she had been unaware of.
If only it could be.
Mabelle heard Rhonwen cry out and recognised the sounds of anguish and longing. She had lain awake many nights, aching with need for her husband, remembering the touch of his hands on her breasts and the fulfillment of his hard manhood deep within her. Had she cried out in her sleep, as Rhonwen did now?
Birth
Robert and Baudoin were growing boys who often became restless. With Mabelle’s permission, Rhonwen was teaching them Welsh, and they were proving to be good at it. Mabelle and Giselle learned a few words as they listened to the lessons. They passed the time sewing and weaving with the Welsh women in the camp, or spinning wool with a drop spindle.
Increasingly, Mabelle blamed herself for the kidnapping. She had been the one to insist they go to Whittington despite Ram’s misgivings. Her carelessness might yet cost them their lives. Her husband would likely never forgive her.
Another worry nagged. If Ram had pursued her captors and been killed or injured in Wales, perhaps his beautiful body lay at the bottom of some deep crevice.
The weather was mostly foul and they were unable to spend much time outdoors. Rhodri and his men seemed impervious to the bitter cold, and spent hours honing their fighting skills in the frigid mountain meadow, keeping in good physical condition. The Norman women were amazed by the cleanliness and grooming of the Welshmen when they came to the hall, despite the fact they spent many hours in physical activity. The hostages were provided with hot water whenever they asked for it.
The young Welsh boys were included in the training and were equipped with small wooden swords, daggers and shields with which to learn the rudiments of self-defense and attack. One day, Rhodri asked Mabelle’s permission to include Robert and Baudoin in the boys’ training sessions. He brought with him a sword, dagger and shield for each of them. She noted he had waited until the boys were with her. Their eyes lit up when they caught sight of the miniature wooden weapons.
“Maman,” Robert pleaded, “please say we can go.”
They would benefit from the outdoor exercise, not to mention the awesome skills they would learn, but Mabelle thought it incongruous Rhodri should want to train the sons of his enemy, and she told him as much.
He seemed surprised. “There’s no glory and no honor in defeating an unworthy enemy. The earl is a worthy opponent, as his sons will be.”
She consented, and her children became Rhodri’s pupils in the arts of raiding warfare. They loved it and were full of tales of their prowess when they returned.
She worried about her unborn child. Giroux’s presence in the fortress frayed her nerves, and yet the babe seemed to thrive and grow. Morwenna and the Norman were seen rarely.
Mabelle had entered her ninth month when she experienced sudden hard labor in the hall. She collapsed to the floor with a strident shriek as the pain hit. This hadn’t happened with her other deliveries and she panicked. Giselle and Rhonwen rushed to help, but it was Rhodri who reached her first. He lifted her effortlessly despite her bulk and carried her to his own chamber.
“Fetch the midwife,” he yelled to no one in particular.
“You’ll have privacy here, Countess,” he rasped, laying her on his own bed.
She croaked her thanks that her children would not have to witness her labors, then the pain hit again. It was so severe, she vomited.
“I’ll send clean linens. Warrior I may be, but I’ve no intention of involving myself in this battle for life.”
The hours crawled by as the countess’s screams echoed around the fortress. She called her husband’s name over and over, not in recrimination, as Rhodri had heard people say women did in the midst of childbirth, but with longing and regret. He shut out the image of his beloved Rhonwen undergoing the same agony for him, but knew in his heart she would call his name with love when the time came.
His heart plummeted when silence suddenly reigned. He would be truly sorry if the courageous Norman noblewoman had died in childbirth. The Earl of Ellesmere must care deeply for this remarkable woman and would seek revenge. Then a thin wail pierced the still night air, and Rhodri smiled at the immense relief he felt that at least the child lived.
An hour later, he was sipping a tankard of ale with Andras in the hall when Rhonwen appeared, carrying a bundle. She opened the coverings t
o reveal a tiny baby girl, wrapped in swaddling and a brychan. “She can only stay a few minutes. She’s come into the world early, and needs to be with her mother, but I knew you’d want to see her.”
He stood and took the bundle, awed at the love on Rhonwen’s face for this child that wasn’t hers. “The babe is fair, like her mother. The lady lives then? She has survived her ordeal?”
“Yes, she’s strong. I’m confident she and the child will flourish.”
“She had a good healer to assist her,” he said lovingly.
“No, the skill of the midwife saved them both,” Rhonwen replied modestly. “And her own stubborn determination.”
Death
A sennight later, Mabelle had recovered sufficiently to join the others in the hall for a meal. She brought the newborn for everyone to see. Rhonwen was honored to carry the babe around as people commented on the fairness of the blonde child who was already thriving. Most were aware the monk had baptised the babe Hylda, after the countess’s mother.
After a while, people drifted away, off to their beds. Only Rhodri and the captives remained.
When Morwenna suddenly burst into the hall, brandishing a dagger, Rhonwen clutched the babe to her breast, frantically seeking a means of escape.
“You’re mad,” Morwenna shrieked at Rhodri, her distorted face reddened with rage. “This is the spawn of a Norman invader, a man you hate.”
Heart beating wildly, Rhonwen bolted out of her way when the madwoman lunged at her.
Rhodri jumped to his feet and ran to disarm Morwenna, twisting her wrist. The dagger clattered to the floor. She sprawled at his feet sobbing and screeching, pounding the planking with her fists.
In the noise and confusion, Rhonwen didn’t immediately notice Phillippe de Giroux enter the hall. The countess screamed when she saw him creeping stealthily in the shadows, sword drawn. “Mes fils! Robert, Baudoin!”
Conquest (The Montbryce Legacy Anniversary Edition Book 1) Page 25