“Plot against him?” Isabella whispered. “But my William made him king. When Richard died and the crown could have gone to Geoffrey’s son—”
“Should have gone to Geoffrey’s son,” Lord Rhys interjected quietly.
“My lord husband swayed the barons’ vote in support of John over Arthur,” the countess concluded. “He has no reason to suspect William of treachery.”
“The king has a notoriously short memory,” Henry said dryly. “And a distinct distrust of men who hold more wealth, command more respect, wield more influence than he does. Lackland would plot to have the lord marshal discredited outright if not for fear of turning the entire barony of England against him in open rebellion.”
“The whole world could rise against him in open rebellion,” Ariel cried, flinging her arms wide in exasperation, “and it would be too late to save me from this wretched writ he has imposed upon me!”
She paced a quick, hot path to and fro the length of the hearth. Her skirt dragged the surface of the stone floor, collecting and discarding bits of rushes and dust as she walked, brushing Lord Rhys ap Iorwerth’s booted foot each time she passed. She had not taken the time nor trouble to braid her hair upon returning to Pembroke Castle and the firelight was playing havoc with the foaming red curls, shooting them with threads of gold and amber and bright russet.
Dark Welsh eyes followed her every movement, speculative eyes that roved with increasing interest over curves and angles, noting a firmness here, a softness there. He was growing rock hard himself, and it was a true test of mettle to look away and try to concentrate on what Henry de Clare was saying.
“We have a little time, at least. We have preceded the messenger by a day or two, for he comes by way of Kidwelly and Carmarthen, where he had other correspondence to deliver.”
“Good,” Ariel declared, swirling to a halt. “Then we have time aplenty to lay an ambush. The forest road, methinks. It should be an easy enough task to make it look like the work of outlaws.”
“Ambush the king’s messenger?” Isabella looked up aghast. “Surely you cannot be serious.”
“What would you have me do?” Ariel asked. “Greet him at the gates? Plan a fete in his honour and actually acknowledge the charter he carries?”
“We can acknowledge it without accepting it,” the countess pointed out primly. “And perhaps, if we send him back to the king with our felicitations and gratitude for the concern he is showing in your future welfare, we might win the time needed to send a dispatch to your uncle and apprise him of the situation.”
“Think you the king will not have taken measures to guard against just such a ploy? Supposing his writ includes instructions for me to hasten at once to Radnor to take my place beside my groom? Under threat of arms if necessary!”
“Oh, I do not think—”
“Henry—” Ariel interrupted her aunt’s protest and cast a narrowed glance at her brother. “Was this harbinger alone or did he travel with an escort?”
“An escort,” he conceded grimly, lanced on the other side by Isabella’s gaze. “Six or more men-at-arms made their beds in a nearby stable.”
“Six men-at-arms,” Ariel repeated in disgust. “And there is still doubt he means to carry me away, willing or not?”
“I doubt nothing at all,” Henry declared, lifting his arms in supplication.
“And?” she demanded.
“And …” He shrugged his big shoulders and offered a crooked grin. “I would gladly, for the sake of your virtue, set upon them in their beds and throttle the lot, if you asked it of me.”
Isabella sighed and glared at her nephew. Henry had proved to be an invaluable asset in helping to oversee the vast Pembroke holdings during her husband’s prolonged absence in Normandy. He had, in the beginning, resented being left behind, although she could not see where he could complain of having spent these past eleven months sitting lax and inactive. There were constant raids from the north to be dealt with and the guilty parties caught, the stolen properties returned or recompensed; constant peacekeeping missions to mediate between the two rival Welsh warlords, Gwynwynwyn of Powys and Llywellyn of Gwynedd.
Only this past fortnight, one of Llywellyn’s vassals had taken it in his head to lift a herd of some one hundred cattle from a demesne bordering Snowdonia. The two black-haired, black-eyed princes had accompanied Henry back from his investigation in order to convey Llywellyn’s personal apologies for the affront. Not that the culprit had been caught or the cattle returned. And not that it could not be proven absolutely that Lord Rhys himself had not been responsible for the original raid.
Cows and diplomatic platitudes were the furthest thing from Lady Isabella’s thoughts at the moment. She was relieved Henry was home, relieved there was someone with whom she could share the burden of responsibility in dealing with King John’s conniving. After all, he was Ariel’s brother, and he was Lord de Clare, with estates and responsibilities of his own. All the same, “throttle the lot” was not the kind of level-headed advice she was seeking.
“We could always hide you,” the countess suggested. “Steal you away in the middle of the night and keep you moving from castle to castle so the king’s man could not deliver his wretched charter. How quickly can a missive be sent to my lord husband?” she asked Henry, who considered his answer for a moment before replying.
“At last word, he was still in Rouen. If so, three days … four perhaps, if the tides are with us and the roads clear.”
“And if he is not in Rouen?” Ariel snapped. “Or if the tides are against us and the roads a quagmire of mud and offal? Or if we cannot keep the king’s man riding in circles for the required number of weeks it might take to return with advice from my uncle … what then? Will you all think kind thoughts of me as I am dragged away toward wedded bliss?”
“We cannot ambush the king’s messenger,” Isabella insisted calmly. “We are not murderers, nor do we wish to give the king any reason to challenge your uncle’s loyalty.”
Ariel stamped her foot and whirled to begin pacing again, but scattered only a few footfalls of dust before she found herself standing face to face with the indolent and watchful Lord Rhys ap lorwerth, Dark Prince of Gwynedd.
As much as she despised who he was and where he came from, there was no denying he was a man who would not stand on convention to get what he wanted. She could believe he had wanted one hundred of Pembroke’s prime cattle and had taken them without a care to the consequences. His princely brother had commanded him here to make humble amends for the deed, but it would be done, she suspected, with his tongue firmly thrust into his cheek.
It made her wonder what else he would do if the mood … or the incentive … suited him.
“How much have you come to offer my aunt in reparation for the cattle your tribesmen stole?” she asked bluntly.
Lord Rhys, standing with a shoulder leaned casually against the stone mantel, examined the splayed fingers of one hand with exaggerated interest.
“I know nothing of any stolen cattle, my lady,” he mused. “There was some question of a discrepancy in numbers, and in a gesture of good will, my brother has sent me to offer—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “Penitent words and a handful of copper coins, no doubt; neither of which would equal the value of one hearty bovine.”
“Ariel!” The countess gasped.
“You have some other suggestion to make?” Lord Rhys asked blithely. “Some other method of repairing any damage this sorry misunderstanding might have caused?”
Isabella started to protest again, but Ariel’s habit of voicing a thought the same time it sprang into her mind cut her aunt short.
“My lord,” Ariel said, her eyes leaf-green and sparkling with conspiracy as she addressed the tall Welsh prince. “You have seen this messenger and you know what he looks like? What road he is likely to travel?”
Lord Rhys nodded, vastly amused by the wench’s audacity. More than that, he was finding it increasin
gly difficult to concentrate on what she was saying when all he could think about was the way those sweetly shaped lips would feel beneath his. She was a magnificent beauty: high-spirited, hot-tempered, yet as supple and silken as fresh, warm cream. It was no great stretch to envision her naked on a bed of dark furs, or to imagine the heat of her body wrapped fiercely around his. So strong was the picture he formed, so real and so exciting, he felt fine beads of moisture forming across his upper lip.
“Would it not be child’s play,” she was asking, “for a man of your considerable … talents … to waylay this rogue and carry him north into your own lands, there to hold him as your, ah, guest … until such time as a suitable ransom could be squeezed from the king for his safe return? Is that not a common method employed by your kinsmen to prick the royal temperament? Common enough he would not suspect the deliberate selection of one courier over another?”
Lord Rhys returned her stare for a long moment, then slowly, slowly gave way to the smile that had been toying at the edges of his mouth. “Of more appeal is our fondness for stealing away heiresses the king has designated for his lackeys, and to marry them out from under the royal nose without a care for writs or charters.”
Ariel’s heart skipped a beat, but she stood her ground and submitted to the boldness of his gaze moving speculatively down the length of her body. She could sense movement beside her and knew that Henry was not reacting quite so calmly to the Welshman’s impertinence, but she managed to catch his eye and discourage him from displaying any errant gestures of protectiveness. She could handle this brigand herself.
“I do not believe my uncle would take too kindly to that particular solution to the problem. It could, in fact, lead to an unpleasant urge to retaliate.”
“The beauty of a deed that has been done is that it cannot be undone.”
Ariel’s skin began to burn, as if she was standing too close to the fire, but she suspected it was the heat of his eyes searing her, his lust blazing as bright and hot as any flame.
“By the same token, my lord … would you not prefer my uncle’s gratitude instead of his enmity?”
Rhys waited, curious despite himself, guessing what was about to come from between the vixen’s luscious lips, but never in his wildest imaginings believing he would hear it.
The objects of his focus required a liberal moistening before she could dare voice the absurdity herself, but she did it, keeping her face straight and her voice steady all the while.
“An alliance between our two families would not be entirely without advantages.”
“An alliance, my lady?”
“Yes. A … a matrimonial alliance. Assuming the proper candidate could be found, of course.”
“Of course. Would I do?”
Ariel blinked. “You?”
“Assuming I was interested, of course.”
“Of course,” she murmured. “Well—” Her composure suffered a small stumble and she lowered her lashes in an attempt to appear modestly embarrassed. “Naturally, my uncle would have to sanction any proposed union, but … if he could be convinced it was not entirely to my disliking …”
Lord Rhys’s pulse beat visibly in his temples. He was no fool and knew it was only a ploy to buy time, but by God’s teeth, the idea was not without enough appeal to send a shiver of awe down his spine. He had raged at Llywellyn a full week before grudgingly bowing to the command to present himself at Pembroke Castle, there to grovel in mock vassalage while the self-declared Prince of Gwynedd feasted on the roasted spoils of his labour. Returning to the forests of Deheubarth with the lion’s niece bound to his loins, willingly or not, would more than make up for the humiliation. He would not only be able to thumb his nose at his lordly brother—who had been trying for years to win the marshal’s favour—but quite possibly be in a stronger position to challenge Llywellyn for control of all of Snowdonia.
His dark, gleaming eyes studied the lowered sweep of Ariel’s lashes a moment longer, not yet trusting his voice to conceal his excitement. While it was barely conceivable that William the Marshal would sanction a union between the House of Pembroke and the Dark Prince of Gwynedd, it was equally doubtful he would agree to bind his favorite niece to the loins of a common gaoler’s son. The proposed union was itself an outright slap in the face for the ld warrior—an insult to his integrity and popularity with the people. If he was presented with a viable alternative, however farfetched, but delivered with honour and sincerity—not to mention a promise of extended peace along the Welsh Marches—by God … he might just take it.
He might just take it!
Rhys’s gaze slid past Ariel’s shoulder. Lord Henry de Clare’s handsome face was without expression save for the tension keeping the muscles in his jaw strained and jumping. It was plain to see he was fighting the urge to grab his sister by the shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled. Both Rhys and Dafydd had acquired a healthy respect for the tawny-haired Norman as well as for the hulking shadow of Lord Sedrick of Grantham. The pair had ridden boldly and without escort into the heart of Gwynedd, and had ridden out again, their skins intact, their dust cloying the throats of the two Welsh princelings forced to follow like humblies in their wake.
A debt was owing there too, Rhys determined. A debt that could be avenged with the greatest pleasure each time the sister’s bared thighs spread beneath him. In the meantime, the De Clare scion would require careful handling. A hook, perhaps. Something of distinct benefit to himself that might make him regard the proposed union as being more than a bad jest.
His humour restored at the thought, Lord Rhys smiled again. “I certainly have no qualms about extending an invitation to the king’s man to be our guest for as long as you wish it. But would it not be easier to simply run the harbinger through and leave him for the sheriff’s men to find at some future date?”
“Benedicite,” Isabella groaned and covered her face with both hands.
“As my aunt has already made clear,” said Henry evenly, “we are not murderers, nor do we condone murderous acts.”
“We merely wish to have the delivery of the king’s writ delayed,” Ariel added.
“To what end?” Henry demanded, his patience with his sister’s madness drawing dangerously near an end. “The king will only send another and another. Suppose our uncle does not see any merit in this”—he wanted to say crackbrained scheme, but checked himself at the last instant—“this proposed union … and sees instead that he must obey or run the risk of defending a charge of treason? How do you explain this waylaid messenger then?”
Ariel squared her shoulders. “The king is at war with France. He is in jeopardy of losing control over Normandy. In his absence, his child bride has been swivving every courtier and bull-hung mountebank who catches her fancy—”
“Ariel!” Isabella gasped.
“—while the barons plot and scheme behind his corpulent buttocks at every opportunity, searching for ways to curb his powers and limit his authority. Think you he will notice the delay of a betrothal charter to an obscure province in Wales?”
The younger Welsh lord, Dafydd, gaped at the fiery-haired damosel in open astonishment. In his experience with the Norman savages, it was his understanding that women were generally regarded as being little more than receptacles for the breeding up of heirs. Unlike Welsh women, who contributed much to the planning and executing of raids and clan warfare—some even riding into battle alongside their men— the Englishry were not credited with possessing many abilities or desires away from the bedchambers and cook fires. The idea that one would concern herself, nay, understand matters of politics and warfare was uniquely intriguing and he could see why his brother’s interest (along with other things) had been roused.
Henry was equally intrigued, but more over the knowledge that his sister was aware of the queen’s sexual appetites. Royal whores aside, it was a preposterous notion to suggest his uncle would agree to a marriage between Ariel and Lord Rhys ap Iorwerth. He knew it, Ariel knew it, and, to
judge by the cunning look in the Welshman’s dark eyes, Lord Rhys knew it too. If it was a gambit to buy time, it was a careless and reckless one to make, for it was indeed an altogether too common practice for these northern outlaws to simply steal a bride of their choosing—the nobler the better. And if the thought had not occurred to Rhys before, it was certainly spinning merry cartwheels through his brain now. An alliance with the House of Pembroke would double his prestige and power almost overnight, not to mention increase the wealth and holdings that would come under his control the moment the marriage was consummated. His present domains were not nearly as extensive as his brother Llywellyn’s, but he would add considerably to his territories that stretched from Deheubarth to Cardigan.
A second shock, as icy and hard as a sharp slap in the face caused Henry to turn and stare at Rhys ap Iorwerth. Not surprisingly, the Welshman’s eyes were waiting for him.
Cardigan Castle had once belonged to the De Clare family. It was, in fact, the place where Henry had been born and lived the first two years of his life before his father had been forced to abandon the castle and flee east to more protected territories along the Marches. The chance of returning the De Clare name to Cardigan was not something to be lightly dismissed, as loathsome as the method might first appear to be.
Lord Rhys smiled faintly. “Is it possible, my lord, you might also begin to see some benefit to this union?”
Henry released the breath he had been holding, mouthing it around a soundless curse. Was the bastard actually going to suggest he do nothing to discredit Ariel’s lunatic proposal … encourage it, even, in exchange for Cardigan?
“Henry, please—” Ariel’s voice tore her brother’s gaze away from Iorwerth’s penetrating stare. “Speak to me.”
“What would you have me say?”
“Say you will help me. One of Uncle’s ships—the Etoile— is anchored in the Wogan taking on provisions. She could be ready to sail on the morning tide and we could be in Normandy before week’s end.”
“We?” Henry’s brows were startled upward, as were everyone else’s.
The Robin Hood Trilogy Page 49