“You surely would not leave me here, at the mercy of the king’s spies, who you know peek from every crack and crevice in the castle walls! What is more, if I were with you and if we were in Normandy, then we truly could claim we knew nothing of any messenger from the king, naught of any betrothal charter, and certes that we were blissfully ignorant of any mishap befalling Lackland’s courier.”
Isabella made a choking sound and reached for her goblet of wine.
Sedrick stared.
Henry, accustomed over the years to hearing, even to participating in some of his sister’s more ludicrous schemes, pursed his lips and made a slow, careful study of each of his blunted, calloused fingertips.
“If,” he said at length. “And I say again … if I were to decide to go to Normandy in pursuit of this … this venture into futility … how far do you suppose I—or we—would actually get? This is not exactly the time or political climate for a caravan to be traipsing through the provinces.”
“I do not recall saying anything about a caravan.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Speed, dearest brother, would be of the essence, would it not? Who would pay heed to a knight and his squire carrying letters to the earl marshal from his beloved wife?”
The countess cradled her brow in one hand and refilled her wine goblet with the other. “I am not hearing this. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph … I am not hearing this.”
Lord Rhys folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall. He was truly beginning to enjoy himself. The wench had more nerve and more spirit than a hundred Englishmen thrown together. Disguise herself as a squire? Run halfway across the Continent to find her uncle? Christ, but she was magnificent! Far too magnificent for anyone but himself to possess, by whatever means or method.
“William,” Isabella continued, more to herself, but loudly enough for the others to take heed, “would be furious. No. No, he would be more than furious; he would be in a rage. And doubtless, he would blame me for contriving the whole affair.”
“Do you not think he would be more furious if we did nothing and allowed the king to proceed with this travesty?” Ariel asked. “Surely he would want to know how Lackland is seeking to manipulate and undermine him. He would want to know, dear Aunt … if only to safeguard his back and ready himself for the next assault.”
Isabella looked up. “The next assault?”
Ariel took shameless advantage of her aunt’s confused state and went down on her knees before her. “Are you forgetting you have children of your own in the nurseries above us? If the king succeeds in shackling me to this gaoler’s son, what is to stop him from binding sweet Matilda to a Flemish foot soldier, or Sibilla to a lust-mad fishmonger, or Eva, Joanna, and Isabella to—”
“Stop!” the countess gasped, her hand covering her mouth. “Oh, my poor dears—the king would not do such a thing … would he?”
Ariel’s response was a dramatic sigh, rife with pity and melancholy.
“Oh.” Isabella’s huge, swimming eyes looked to Henry for guidance. “What shall we do?”
The word applaud came wryly to mind as Henry assessed his sister’s performance, but it was Sedrick, quiet until now, who stepped forward and bowed solemnly before the countess.
“Forgive ma boldness, Lady Isabella, but as much as I am loathe to say it, there is some merit in what the Lady Ariel says. Lord William should be told what is happening in his absence. He should be told of the king’s connivings and he should be told without delay. I, in ma humblest capacity, would be more than willing to carry the news to Normandy … and to carry aught else ma lady deems necessary under the protection of ma sword.”
Ariel glanced up from beneath the thick sweep of her lashes, but Sedrick would not meet her eyes. He was the eighth son of a noble who had had very little to begin with, and nothing at all after deeding lands to his other seven sons. Sedrick had, if castle gossips were to be believed, at one time intended taking the cross and shaving his head in the tonsured style of a penitent. His plans went awry when several women in the village near the abbey where he was studying to take his vows gave birth to by-blows who bore a striking resemblance to the swarthy-skinned Celt.
Undaunted and secretly relieved to be off his knees, Sedrick of Grantham had quite happily taken up a cross of a more violent nature. He had answered the Lionheart’s call to join the Crusades, and, because of his size and ferocious appetite for battle, had soon joined the ranks of Richard’s personal guard.
Serving thus, he had made the acquaintance of William the Marshal—not only met him but managed to save his life by thwarting the aim of an assassin’s sword meant for the earl. Sent back to Milford Haven to recuperate from his wounds, he and Henry had struck up a friendship which had remained solid to this day. Despite his years of service to Pembroke, he still felt like a shy, cumbersome creature when he was near the dainty Lady Isabella and seemed always to be balancing on a bed of eggshells in her presence. He had, however, proven his bravery and loyalty to the House of Pembroke too many times to have his opinions or his concerns waived lightly.
“You think we should send word to William?” Isabella asked.
“I think ye cannot take a chance on the king’s moods these days.”
“You may also count upon me to help in any way I can,” said Lord Rhys. “From waylaying a dozen couriers, to conveying my own sincere application for the Lady Ariel’s hand in marriage.”
“Henry and I will present your offer in the best terms possible,” Ariel assured him, barely glancing up.
“I have no doubt you would,” Rhys agreed affably, his teeth appearing in a white slash through the parting of his beard. “But since it would be an honour beyond my ken to have the lord marshal even consider me a candidate, I could not do him the disservice of approaching the matter with anything less than personal representation. My brother Dafydd will accompany you to Normandy, with my signed and sealed offer of good faith.”
Henry and Ariel both stared at the Welshman.
“Your brother?” they asked in unison.
“Being somewhat more scholarly inclined than myself”— meaning he could read and write, where Rhys could not— “Dafydd is far more capable with pen and ink negotiations than he is with bow and arrow … which is not to say he suffers any lack of skill or enthusiasm with either. In fact, it would further ease my mind to know there was another stout sword arm at your disposal.”
“It … is a generous offer, my lord,” Ariel stammered, “but—”
“You object to his company?” Iorwerth asked lightly.
Ariel looked askance at Henry, but for the moment he appeared content to let her stew in the juices of her own concocting. “N-no, of course not, but … surely you cannot expect to kidnap the king’s man and six of his guards on your own?”
The gleaming slash of teeth broadened. “Surely not,” he agreed. “There are a dozen of my men within sight of these castle walls even as we speak. For unlike your brother, my lady, I travel without the Pembroke lions on my shield to guarantee me safe passage through unfriendly lands.”
Henry, clearly startled to hear that Iorwerth’s men had been following them, exchanged a hard glance with Sedrick. Neither the glance nor the insult to their powers of observation went unnoticed by Lord Rhys.
“And now,” he stated evenly, “if there are no further objections, my brother and I have quite a few things to discuss before morning. Lady Pembroke, Lady Ariel … my lords …”
The two Welshmen offered a formal bow and excused themselves, striding out of the ring of firelight, then out of the room entirely, leaving utter silence in their wake.
Ariel, still on her knees by her aunt’s chair, frowned after them, wondering how such an inventively clever plan had flared so completely out of control. She had no intentions of marrying Rhys ap Iorwerth. She’d had no intentions of even putting him forward as a candidate in her uncle’s eyes—a conclusion the outlaw had obviously determined and countered with the offer of
his brother’s “company.” His brother’s watchful eye, more’s the like.
“Well.” Lady Isabella waited until her niece, nephew, and husband’s liegeman gave her their full attention. “It seems as though this Welsh renegade is familiar with the game of chess. If I am not mistaken, he has just placed us in check. William,” she added curtly, “will not be impressed.”
Ariel refused to be daunted. “He will recognize a desperate measure when he sees one.”
The countess sighed and rubbed her aching temples. “I suppose, if I were simply to forbid you from leaving Pembroke Castle, you would not heed me.”
“Sweet Aunt … I do not want to hurt you, or anger you, or ever disobey you,” Ariel insisted, “but this is my life. My future. My very destiny being decided. I would sooner perish on the road to Normandy than tolerate one moment of hellish exile in Radnor.”
“But the dangers—”
“I will have Henry and Sedrick to watch over me … and the Welsh pup, for what he is worth. I have made the crossing before, Aunt. I know the road to Rouen well.”
“Aye, and what if the road back leads to Wales?” Isabella asked gently.
“Well—” Ariel bit the soft pulp of her lip and gave the possibility—however remote it might be—a moment of thought before she offered a quick, too-bright smile. “At least the rogue has no pocks and smells reasonably clean.”
Lady Isabella sighed and stroked a hand down the shiny red ripple of Ariel’s hair. “Nor is he a man to trifle with. You have offered him something of great value which he will not lightly dismiss.”
“Offering and actually giving are two very different things, Aunt.”
“Sometimes a woman has no choice. Sometimes … a man can do things that render a woman senseless and without a will of her own.”
Ariel sat back and frowned in bemusement. “I should like to meet the man who could render me without a will of my own.”
“I recall saying much the same thing before I met William,” Isabella murmured despairingly. “And all it took was one glance. One moment in his presence … and I was lost.”
“Well, I have glanced at this rogue and I have been in his presence, and I can promise you I am still in full possession of my senses.” She saw her aunt give rise to another spasm of anxiety and sought to comfort her by adding, “I will also promise, if it will ease your mind to know, that I will accept Uncle Will’s judgement in this, whatever it might be.”
“And God’s,” the countess whispered. “That He should not forsake you now.”
“Have you forsaken all your senses?” Lord Dafydd asked his brother, well out of earshot of those in the great hall. “Sending me to Normandy? Proposing a marriage between you and Ariel de Clare?”
“Do you doubt you can put an eloquent enough pledge in the marshal’s ear?”
“I could put it to the pope himself, for all the good it would do.”
Rhys grinned and pulled on his gloves, tamping each finger snug to the joint. “You do not think the old lion will see any benefit to allying himself with Gwynedd? God’s blood, man, he will see the proposal with a warrior’s eye, if nothing else. Access to Snowdonia gives him access to Ireland as well as half of northern Wales. And did you see the brother’s eyes glisten when he thought of Cardigan? I could bed the wench tonight and the brother would cheer us on.”
Dafydd reached out a hand and hooked Iorwerth’s arm, halting the echo of their heavy bootsteps in the stone corridor.
“You are not thinking of—”
“Lying in wait for the fair demoiselle and ravishing her to seal our pact?” Rhys laughed and started walking again. “In truth, the thought occurred to me. I’m hard enough to ride a brace of maids, top and bottom, and still have leavings for a slut or two. But no. You may rest easy on that count, little brother. Your tender morals are as safe as I will expect you to keep hers on the way to Normandy and back. It is important to make no mistakes, to present our intentions in the best, most honourable light. I want her to come to me willingly and pure. I want no taint of corruption or coercion to shadow this marriage.”
“In this quest for purity … are you forgetting you already have a wife?”
Rhys stopped suddenly enough and angrily enough to send Dafydd’s brows arching upward.
“I am not forgetting. How could I forget a spindle-legged, gap-toothed weanling who weeps ceaselessly whenever I am lucky enough—or sodden enough—to succeed in prying her knees apart?”
“Nevertheless—”
“Nevertheless,” Rhys interrupted with a scowl, “I have tried a thousand times over the past seven years of our wedded ordeal to plant the seeds of an heir in her womb … to no avail. The bitch is barren. It will take no great effort to be rid of her, which is why I am returning to Deheubarth and you are travelling to Normandy. You will seal this alliance with the old lion, promising him anything if need be, so long as you return with his sealed contract before Llywellyn sniffs anything in the wind.”
“What about the king’s men?”
“What about them?”
“How can you kidnap them, hold them to ransom, then send them back to John without Llywellyn catching the scent?”
“It takes a grievous long time for the odour of corpses to rise up through the earth,” Rhys said matter-of-factly. “By then, my new bride will be queen of Gwynedd.”
He glared his declaration into Dafydd’s eyes a moment longer then turned and ducked through an arched doorway, leaving the younger man staring after him, his expression carefully guarded against the disdain he was feeling.
It was typical of Rhys to expect the world to bend to his designs. Typical of him to think the marshal would welcome him eagerly to the House of Pembroke. Typical to think a woman like Ariel de Glare would be as easily crushed under his thumb as the other cows he normally took to his bed.
But if he thought Llywellyn would simply stand by and do nothing while he raised the Pembroke lions over the battlements of Deheubarth …
Dafydd almost chuckled to himself. Indeed, it would be his pleasure to escort Lady Ariel to Normandy and plead his brother’s case to the Marshal of England. It would be equally pleasurable to bring back an echo of the lion’s laughter, or, should the heavens split open and gold florins fall from the sky, to bring him back his new bride and stand aside while Rhys and Llywellyn fought each other over possession of Gwynedd.
For with any luck at all, they would kill each other and he would be free of them both.
Château D’Amboise, Touraine
CHAPTER THREE
It was the blade of sunlight that disturbed him. A single bright beam of light had found a narrow chink between the wooden shutters and had crept slowly across the width of the bed, stroking a path of lazy warmth across the faces of the two recuperating occupants.
The first had tiny beads of dampness glistening on her brow and throat. She looked and, indeed, was utterly drained and depleted by the activities of the hour preceding her collapse. The raw potency of the energies she had expended softened the lines of her face and showed in the swollen redness of her lips. The mottled pinkness across her breasts and belly kept her warm and scorned the need for any covering or blanket.
She dozed with her head cradled on a muscular shoulder, her body curved against another of immensely powerful proportions. A soft white arm was flung limply across a chest thickened and plated by years of wielding heavy swords and lances; a pale limb was hooked over a thigh that might have been carved from marble. The hand of her companion was broad and callused, and rested in the tangled, damp nest of her hair; another cupped the plump white flesh of her rump and periodically moved through a stretch or a vague restlessness to pull her softness against him.
The blade of sunlight spilled its liquid gold over the man’s strong, square jaw, lighting a mouth that had, until a sennight ago, been issuing battle orders and shouting words of encouragement to fellow knights as they fought a bloody melee with King Philip’s army at Blois. The rout had been a
complete success, but the knight had been wounded slightly in the crush of steel and armour, and the ragged cut on his arm still glowed an angry red between the barber’s row of knotted threads.
It was only a trifling wound and the memory of earning it had probably already been lost amongst the scores of other scars, some big, some small, that marked the powerful musculature of his body. One of the cruellest scars he bore disfigured his left cheek. It was not so hideous as to make a maid faint outright from the sight, but it was shocking enough to draw stares and sighs of pity, for without the flaw, he would have been handsome enough to leave women swooning and gawking for very different reasons.
It was just as well, though, for he had little time or interest to spare on women. He liked them well enough and used them often enough to bolster his reputation for being more than just a champion in the lists. For the most part, however, he preferred to release his tensions on the battlefield or the practice yards, leaving the wenching and whoring to those who thrived on it.
At twenty-six, he was in his prime as a fighting man and to his credit had amassed a respectable personal fortune on the tournament circuit, winning prizes of armour and horseflesh from his defeated opponents, then ransoming them back for double their original worth. He had never suffered the ignominy of a loss himself. He could, in fact, boast of being split from a saddle by only one man—coincidentally the only man who could have won a rueful smile as a result of the ungallant tumbling. That man was his father, Randwulf de la Seyne Sur Mer, Baron d’Amboise, Scourge of Mirebeau, champion to the dowager queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine.
The sunlight continued to pour its golden heat across the thick crescents of chestnut lashes and Eduard FitzRandwulf d’Amboise was forced to open them. He squinted up into the brilliant shaft and the smoky gray of his eyes was seared almost colourless. His annoyance brought a muffled curse to his lips and he turned, pressing a kiss into the crown of the woman’s head. A yawn and a phantom itch gave him an excuse to untangle his arms and limbs and start the process of extricating himself from the bed, but the wench knew his tricks and, in a move so subtle it impressed the breath from his lungs, she parted her thighs and shifted herself sideways, drawing him slowly up and into her sleek warmth.
The Robin Hood Trilogy Page 50