Adele, oblivious, unfurled the missive and read with avid interest, her small white teeth nibbling at the fullness of her ruddy bottom lip.
Was it possible that there was not a single silver hair in that ebony mane?
“Oh!” Adele said, and paled. She frowned and read the missive again, then tucked it hastily into her bodice.
“Bad tidings?” Nelwyna asked.
Adele granted her the barest glance. “It is not of import. What fine honey we have this day!”
In that moment Nelwyna decided she must read that missive. She would have wagered that there was news within it that she could use in her own favor.
Tidings she could use against this pretty fool.
That objective brought Nelwyna to Adele’s chamber, in the midst of a fine afternoon. Adele always retired to rest in the afternoon, a old habit adopted when Henry was alive. He had accompanied his courtesan to her chamber in those days, and the sounds of their lovemaking had been evident to any soul who pressed her ear against the door to listen.
Nelwyna, meanwhile, had been compelled to welcome Henry late at night, after he had drunk his fill of ale, after his prick had already been bathed in his whore’s sauces.
She did not miss the old cur. She would have been rid of the whore upon his death, but the choice had not been hers to make. By some folly of her father—or some glib tale of her spouse—she had been wed to the younger son of Dafydd, the man who would only inherit if his elder brother died before him.
Sadly, Dafydd ap Dafydd had been a vigorous old toad, and had only surrendered his grip upon all he owned the previous Yule. It had been a measure of Henry’s merit, in Nelwyna’s opinion, that he had never cared that he lived in his brother’s home, beneath his brother’s hand, taking his meals and his ale from his brother’s table. The man had not had a drop of jealousy in his veins, nor any measure of ambition. He had been content in Dafydd’s shadow, the old fool.
Worse, when Henry had finally died, Dafydd had professed to liking Adele too much to cast her out. Nelwyna had oft wondered if he had partaken of Adele’s feast in Henry’s absence.
She crept into Adele’s chamber, hating that it was so much finer than her own. It was warmer, it was larger, it had a better view and it was more richly appointed. Only an imbecile could have failed to discern the intensity of Henry’s affections.
It had been that son that had changed all. Nelwyna could never decide whether she loathed Adele or Rhys the most.
On the far side of the chamber, Adele slept, a small smile upon her face—perhaps one born of recollection—a sunbeam caressing her cheek. The letter was on the small table beside her bed. Nelwyna stealthily crossed the floor.
It had been here that Adele had borne her children. Sons, all of them, curse her! Nelwyna had borne four daughters by the time Adele had arrived, four daughters conceived with some difficulty and delivered with even more. Adele had ripened within the season with her first, perhaps because Henry had not been able to leave her be.
Nelwyna had been rid of the first son easily enough. She had aided at the birth, for none suspected the depth of her hatred for this whore, and had offered to check the progress of the babe. She would never forget plunging her hand into Adele’s heat, feeling the genitals of a boy, then impulsively easing the slick cord around the babe’s neck.
He had been born dead, no one the wiser.
Or so Nelwyna had thought. At the birth of the second, she had been kept from Adele’s side by the burly midwife with her suspicious eyes. At Henry’s insistence, Nelwyna had been given the infant boy to hold—“her new son” he said, ever gallant—and Nelwyna had seized a moment to hug him closely. She had pressed the swaddling against his tiny nose and mouth. Only when he wriggled no more had she loosed her hold, and cried out in dismay that something was amiss.
Nelwyna halted beside the bed, glaring down at her competitor with a hatred that was seldom undisguised. The third son had been born here, but Nelwyna had been barred from the chamber, accompanied by Henry to the great hall to wait. No protest had eased his resolve to keep her from joining the women that night, and miraculously, no ale crossed his lips.
When they put his screaming son into his arms, Henry had tickled the boy’s chin and the babe had fallen silent immediately. The small hand had closed around Henry’s finger, as if trusting his father to ensure his welfare. Nelwyna still could see Henry, see the awe in his gaze, could hear his voice.
“His name is Rhys,” Henry had said with rare vigor, then had raised his knowing gaze to meet Nelwyna’s own. “In memory of the Welsh leader Rhys ap Tudur. Already this child has overcome such great adversity that I know he, too, will be long remembered.”
He had turned then to address the gathered household. “My wife will never be within three strides of this child, she will not hold him, she will never feed him, she will never be left alone with him. Does every soul understand me?”
That he would shame her so in front of their servants had nigh killed Nelwyna. Henry had no right to speak to her thus! He had no reason to make the household suspicious of her!
She had hated him from that day forward.
And she had had her vengeance by turning one of the pleasures he loved most against him. Slowly, Henry became accustomed to a slight taste in his beloved ale. That was the only hint of the presence of an herb that addled his wits and shriveled his intellect.
Nelwyna would have preferred to shrivel another part of Henry and eliminate an entirely different pleasure, but she did not know the potion for that. What she knew had had to suffice.
She laid a hand upon the missive, watching the rhythm of Adele’s breathing carefully, then fled the chamber on silent feet.
She would have to return it, but if Adele awakened, all would not be lost. Like many pretty women, like many souls burdened with the abundant blessings of good fortune, Adele was inclined to forget the locale of her treasures. Nelwyna would leave it in the hall, if compelled to do so, and Adele would believe she had left it there.
Nelwyna unfurled the missive impatiently, beside the sole window on the stairs, read in haste, then clenched it in her fist.
Rhys had wed!
Adele undoubtedly was wounded that her son had not told her of this news himself, but Nelwyna saw more in the tale. She saw the bride’s name and already understood how cunning and thorough Rhys was. Gone was the chance that she could present an imposter as Dafydd’s sole surviving daughter.
Nelwyna had waited long for the authority of Caerwyn to fall into her hands fully, she had already seen children dead for her ambition, and she was too aged to wait patiently any longer.
The solution was simple. Rhys FitzHenry would have to die. And if his new bride Madeline carried his child, she would have to die as well. Nelwyna returned the missive to Adele’s chamber, then retreated to her own chamber to compose a missive of her own.
It was good, in such times, to have neighbors one could rely upon. Robert Herbert held Harlech, just across the bay, and had made his lust for Caerwyn most clear. It was time, Nelwyna was certain, to secure an alliance with Robert that would grant both of them what they most desired.
Rhys supposed the tavern before them would serve well enough. It was late and Madeline was clearly tired, though still she rode valiantly without complaint. He would have continued onward, but he suspected they would fare no better.
They would only be more cold and more tired.
This tavern was not located on a main thoroughfare, and it was not one of the larger establishments in town. It was busy, but not too busy, and Rhys was glad to note that none expected to know him here. If they were accustomed to travelers, then they would take little notice of two more.
“I believe the babe is making you ill this night,” he said beneath his breath to Madeline, who had not ceased to tuck the bundle of cloth beneath her skirts each day.
“How ill?” she asked softly, with a wondrous lack of argument. That alone showed her exhaustion, to Rhys’ thinki
ng. He would do well to provide her with a bed and a warm meal this night, for she must be unaccustomed to such hardship as their journey had demanded.
“So ill that you will be compelled to take to your bed and bar the door.” Rhys gave her a stern look as he dismounted in the small courtyard of the tavern. The sound of men enjoying their ale carried from the common room and the creak of masts in the harbor could be heard in the nearby harbor. The wind was crisp off the sea.
“This must be Dumbarton,” Madeline said as he fitted his hands around her waist.
“So it is.” Rhys tossed a coin at the ostler, then held Madeline’s elbow with care. To his delight, she leaned on him and moaned softly, walking with apparent effort toward the portal. He had thought his ploy a thin one, but Madeline made it entirely plausible.
To Rhys’ further delight, she began to complain, as if they had been wed for years and were in the habit of bickering. And her accent changed, her words beginning to rollick and roll with the same vigor as those uttered by the people of the highlands.
Rhys was impressed. He struggled to do as admirable a job of disguising himself as she.
“I fear we rode too quickly this afternoon, my lord,” Madeline complained, her tone shrewish. “It was just as I warned you, but did you heed my counsel? Nay, of course not. What need had you of the advice of a mere woman? You and your cursed haste! What rush was there, what need for such a pace?”
“I wanted you out of the rain, lest you be chilled,” Rhys answered as if sorely tried by his wife. He exchanged a glance with the ostler, who looked most sympathetic before he ducked away, leading the horses to the stables. The innkeeper came to the portal, taking care to remain out of the rain, while Rhys urged Madeline closer to warmth and a hearty meal.
“So, I am chilled and prepared to retch, thanks to your thoughtlessness.” Madeline snapped. “It is a foul combination, sir, and one I would have readily forgone.”
Rhys pretended to take umbrage at this. “Then you should not have insisted that we had to visit your mother immediately!” He flung out one hand. “You might have been home in your own bed this night but for your own demand. You cannot be warm at home and warm at your mother’s abode on the same night!”
The innkeeper bit back a smile at this exchange, and gestured grandly to his humble inn. They stepped through the door and were immediately perused by the dozen or so men gathered there to drink. The smoke stung Rhys’ eyes and it was dark, but he did not think he knew anyone in that chamber.
Though it was impossible to be certain that no one knew him. The men glanced up and Rhys was afraid.
Madeline began to behave like a spoiled child. “How could I remain in that unholy place you insist upon calling my home? My mother will aid me with this child you have put in my belly, my mother will show me kindness as no one in your cursed household will do!”
“But, my dear...” Rhys did not know what to do, much less what a doting husband should do. He glanced to the innkeeper, then to the other men gathered there, all of whom took a sudden and considerable interest in their cups of ale.
Indeed, they turned their backs upon the feuding couple and ignored them.
Madeline burst into tears, so adept at pretending to be a distraught woman that Rhys was discomfited. “All I asked was to visit my mother!” she wailed. “All I asked was to have a good husband! What sin have I committed in my days to deserve this unkind fate?” She pushed him aside and swatted his arm. “You liked me well enough before your own seed made me fat!”
The innkeeper cleared his throat. “Perhaps the good sir would prefer a chamber, that the lady might slumber in privacy?”
“That would be most fitting,” Rhys said.
“And a bath!” Madeline cried. “I would sell my soul, sir, for a hot bath.” She leaned closer to confide in this innkeeper. “We have only one servant in his abode, and she is the most lazy creature I have ever seen with my own eyes. She is fortunate that I did not insist upon her accompanying us, for my mother would take a switch to her!”
“I have no doubt that a bath can be had for a slightly more reasonable price,” Rhys interrupted, feeling some irritation that he was being cast in such unfavorable light. He nodded to the innkeeper. “A cup of ale, a bowl of hearty stew and a piece of bread will go far in restoring my lady’s mood, to be sure.”
“Of course, sir. I have a chamber at the top of the stairs, which overlooks the street. If you will be so kind as to follow me?”
“One piece of bread?” Madeline snarled as they followed the innkeeper up the narrow staircase. “I could eat six! This child has made me ravenous and you, you would save a penny rather than see me granted a decent meal. With such cruelty, I shall end up bearing you a dark child, so shriveled that even the fairies will not have any desire of stealing it.”
Rhys barely kept himself from giving her a shake. “I thought you were too ill to eat much.”
The lock upon the door seemed to require every mote of the innkeeper’s attention.
Madeline straightened like a queen on the threshold of the chamber and glared at Rhys. “I shall do what I must to ensure the vigor of our child,” she said haughtily. “Though you will not thank me for it, to be sure.”
Then she turned one of those smiles that left Rhys so dazzled upon the innkeeper, leaving that man blinking as well. “This chamber is lovely,” she said warmly. “I thank you for the offering of it and look forward to both bath and meal.”
With that, Madeline swept regally into the small chamber, which in truth was barely big enough to accommodate the pallet upon the floor. Rhys did not doubt that a few fleas could be found in the linens.
“A feisty one,” that man muttered beneath his breath. “But fair to look upon, if I may say so, sir.”
“It is the babe that vexes her,” Rhys agreed in an undertone. “I am certain that her sweet nature will return with the babe’s arrival.”
“That has not been my experience, sir, but I wish you better fortune than mine.” The innkeeper leaned closer. “And if you would have a decent night’s rest yourself, I would note that among my own wife’s skills is that of making a good potion.”
“What manner of potion do you offer?”
“One that will ensure your wife sleeps deeply this night.”
He named a price that seemed quite reasonable to Rhys. Indeed, it would suit Rhys well to know that Madeline slept soundly—remained out of trouble and asked no questions—while he made the necessary arrangements for the continuation of their journey to Caerwyn. His friend’s ship would sail south on night after the new moon, and Rhys intended that they should both be upon it.
“It will not injure the babe?” he asked, knowing that he should do so to maintain their disguise.
The innkeeper shook his head. “Nay, my wife learned it from a midwife.”
“I think it a sound notion. Exhaustion does little to aid one’s mood, and my lady never sleeps well when we are away from our abode. I thank you for the suggestion.”
“Grant me a few moments, sir, and I will return with all.” The innkeeper then raised his voice to shout for a brazier for the chamber.
Rhys crossed the threshold and closed the door behind himself with relief. He was utterly unprepared for Madeline to launch herself into his arms, her eyes sparkling with delight.
“Were they not fooled?” she whispered, clearly pleased with her ploy. “There is not a soul who will be able to identify us on the morrow. Did they not look away from us, each and every one of them?”
Rhys smiled at her, unable to resist her delight in her feat.
“They did indeed, anwylaf,” he acknowledged with admiration. He cupped her jaw in his hand and slipped his other arm around her waist. She leaned against him, a heat kindling in her gaze that made him smile. “And it was all due to your quick thinking.” He claimed her lips with his own then, for truly, he could do nothing else.
Chapter Thirteen
In another, much more busy, tavern in Dum
barton, Elizabeth was glad to be out of the saddle. The destrier was too large a mount for her, she had known as much as soon as she was lifted into the saddle, though she had not dared to complain for fear she would be left behind. Her knees ached nigh as much as her buttocks, for she had had to clench the steed tightly to ensure that she was not cast into the dirt.
They had ridden for more days than she could count. Elizabeth could not recall having ridden for more than half a day before this seemingly endless journey. She wondered whether she would ever walk with ease again.
She also wondered why Madeline had ever possessed any fondness for James. Elizabeth was certain that she had never met a man so tedious in all her days. She could not imagine that James had any great affection for Madeline, for the man saved all of his admiration for himself.
Elizabeth had the definite sense that James had only arrived to wed Madeline because his father had thought the match a fitting one, though she knew that was an uncharitable thought.
James plucked at his lute as they sat at the board, more concerned with some tune he had composed this day than Madeline’s safety or even the common courtesy of table manners. He had been most vexed earlier this day that Rosamunde had refused to halt their search so that he could ensure he did not forget the tune by playing it a dozen times. He had sulked the remainder of the day, only conjuring a smile now that he had his lute in his hands once again.
Elizabeth would have liked to have destroyed the lute, so sick was she of James’ tuneless plucking. The man imagined himself to be far more gifted than he was, in her opinion.
But then, her buttocks ached and she was tired. Perhaps she would have looked more kindly upon him in better circumstance.
Perhaps not.
The spriggan had not been easy company, either. The mischievous fairy had pulled the horses’ tails, spooked them in the night, and tied knots in their manes. A skittish destrier was no small challenge, especially for a rider of Elizabeth’s size, but the spriggan seemed to care nothing for her convenience.
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