She was amazed. She had thought Aidua had gone long ago, the night that he had been banished from Prince Madoc’s lands.
“Where did you see him?”
He told her, “On the slope of the big mountain, where there are some caves.”
Keeping her voice low to match her cousin’s, Gwyn said, “Did he see you?”
Cledog said, “Yes, he did. Gwyn, I saw him put a spell on our grandfather’s pony.”
“Why would he do that?” Gwyn said skeptically.
Cledog said with emphasis, “I knew you wouldn’t believe me. But I saw him do it, he made a gesture like this” — he demonstrated — “and the pony went lame, that instant. And we had to come home.”
“Why would he do that?”
Cledog shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, unless he is angry with grandfather, but still, he wasn’t hurt.”
When Caerleon returned that night from the hunt, with two deer draped over the packhorses, he was irritated. He told her, “The hunt didn’t turn out right.”
She said, “But you didn’t miss your game?” She gestured toward the venison, now coming into camp.
But Caerleon’s laugh was brittle. “Yes,” he said, “this time I missed.”
7
The summer wore on.
It was late August, and still Caerleon had no apparent intention of leaving. And, Gwyn thought, why should he? His men had the entire village for their playground. The southerners drank themselves into a stupor every night, on Prince Madoc’s liquor. But they were not too drunk to wreak havoc among the women of the village.
Caerleon’s men spent their days following the women out to the fields, watching them while they spun the wool, wove the cloth, and at every turn made indecent advancements. Port Madoc was becoming more and more a town under siege, and the besiegers were within the village itself.
Prince Madoc suggested, with unaccustomed diffidence, that Caerleon’s men, since they were reaping the benefits of the harvest, take part in some of the work. He was greeted by blank faces. Gwyn, choosing a time when she thought Caerleon’s mood was right, suggested that Caerleon’s men be restrained from chasing the women. Caerleon sneered, “They need a little new blood around here.”
They were alone in the hut. She let her voice rise as she cried out, “Blood of rapists and loafers? We need none of that!”
“Still brooding about our glorious wedding night?” he said, his lips turning up in that feline smile she hated. “You must admit that I have not bothered you greatly since then. You have even submitted at times quite willingly.”
“I know my duty,” she said in a low voice.
“Duty — such a harsh word,” he murmured. “But serviceable. Come here, my love. Duty commands you.”
“What do you want of me?” she asked him, willing her voice to remain steady.
“Perhaps I want more than duty. You are a pitiful drab of a wife,” he sneered. “How could I ever have been so unlucky?”
He turned and left, barely controlling his rage. She heard the door slam behind him, and was grateful that he had not forced her.
Gwyn at length sought out her grandfather. His thoughts were wrapped in gloom, and her heart sank. Once again she realized that her arrival here had not been a blessing, as her escape from the fortress at Winchester had not been a blessing to the Welsh. Would she always bring tragedy to those she loved?
But Prince Madoc did not blame her. Instead he accused the malign influence of the old priest, Aidua, and told Gwyn that Aidua’s shadow was lengthening over the village.
“For you must know that I, too, can see the future,” said Prince Madoc. “At least I can now, and Aidua is right. Worse things will come to us before the year is out.”
He gestured toward the mountain, behind him. “Aidua lurks up there on the mountain. He didn’t leave when I told him to. He lamed my horse, you know. Good thing Cledog didn’t see that.”
Gwyn did not enlighten him, for if Cledog had wanted his grandfather to know what he had seen, he would have told him.
“You think the priest put a spell on the village?”
“What else?” demanded Prince Madoc.
“Aidua is our friend.”
Madoc shook his head. “We have had nothing but misfortune since he came.”
Gwyn said, with a twist to her lips, “But our misfortune has really dated from the day Caerleon rode in.”
Madoc lifted an eyebrow. “You blame your husband?”
Gwyn said, “I wish he had not come.”
Madoc said, “Say the word, girl, and I will send him packing.”
But Gwyn, knowing Caerleon better than her grandfather did, started up in dismay. “No, do not do that. For I do not know how it will end.”
She did not have long to wait. She left her grandfather, promising to ask her husband again to help the villagers.
She had no success with Caerleon. He only laughed at her. “You are the prince’s granddaughter. As your husband, I do not do menial tasks. That is what we have the villagers for.”
Gwyn retorted angrily, “We have the villagers? They are not your villagers! Nor are they mine.”
Caerleon said with a short laugh, “But they will be, and I will be at your side to relieve you of all care.”
From that time on, every day had its minor disaster. She awoke each morning borne down by the heavy feeling that disaster was a certainty.
Jenkyn, Caerleon’s lieutenant, had set his sights on Efa. Ifan had from his first arrival in the village trusted Efa to be kind to him, looking to her for solace in his spells of lunacy. Gwyn had not understood Efa’s liking for poor, bereft Ifan, but she believed they were united in their dislike of her. She recalled the slashed kirtle, the muffled figure looming out of the fog and leaving her to the mercy of the sea — Efa and Ifan, she was sure.
Now Efa found the wicked, sensual glances of Jenkyn more to her liking. The two rode out into the hills together, quite openly, for all to see. But one day they forgot to watch the trail behind them.
“I’ve found a quiet little place,” said Jenkyn, as soon as they began their climb, “right beside a waterfall. No one can hear us there.”
“I have no secrets,” said Efa coquettishly. “At least, not yet.”
“Nor can we be seen,” he said. “I’ve scouted the place thoroughly. There are ferns and there’s a grotto —”
“I know the place,” said Efa incautiously.
But Jenkyn was not disturbed. “I was sure you did,” he said dryly.
They arrived at the place, smelling sweetly of running water and fresh earth. The grotto behind the ferns was dry, and Efa was more than willing to rouse the devil in Jenkyn. Neither one, intent upon their own delights, saw the ferns part and a pair of smoldering eyes watch them, nor did they know when Ifan turned and ran back down the mountain.
But his jealousy took an unexpected turn. He did not seek to do away with Jenkyn, nor even Efa. Instead, his twisted mind turned back upon the first cause of his misery.
He lay in wait for Gwyn — she who had caused his beloved’s death — as she left her house that evening in the twilight. Gwyn had reached the back of the building where the shadows lay deepest, and suddenly Ifan was upon her. He held a knife in his upraised hand, ready to plunge into her heart. With the edge of his other hand he struck a blow to her shoulder, and she fell with the force of it to her knees. “Ifan!” she screamed — but the sound was only a whisper.
“You killed her — you killed Morwyth —”
“She was sick …”
She believed he had forgotten Morwyth in his devotion to Efa. The thought passed through her mind and on, leaving no trace. She could not escape, for his hand was like an iron clamp on her, and the knife quivered in the air above her. He shifted his feet, to get a better stance, and suddenly, miraculously, he was not there!
Caerleon stood over her, helping her to her feet. He looked at Ifan, stretched out on the ground. She stood shakily and leaned against
Caerleon. She hid her surprise that he had come to her rescue so promptly.
When he got her back into the light, he looked tenderly at her. “A child of yours will inherit this village, and this land. I do not choose to have anything happen to you until after my son is born.”
She looked up at him in dismay. “Is that all I’m worth to you?”
His laugh was short and cruel. “What else?”
That night he returned with her to their hut after dinner. The long twilight turned the bay to silver, but he barred the door against the view, plunging the ill-lighted room into deep shadow.
“Let me light the candle,” said Gwyn. “I do not like the darkness.”
“Nor do I,” he said.
He waited until she touched the candle into flame. “That’s better,” he said. He came to her and loosened her braids. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders like a veil. He smoothed it back from her temples, behind her ears, and put a finger beneath her chin and lifted her face to his. He shook his head in a semblance of mournfulness. “Too bad. I should have known when the bids were so low at Winchester that there was a flaw in the lovely lady.”
“Bids! Nobody bid because of the shame of it!”
“Shame? Perhaps you are right. I had not thought of it that way.” He slid his hands from her throat over her breasts and stopped at her waist. He undid her girdle and flung it to the far side of the room. His hands were busy, and when she stood naked before him, unprotesting lest he know her fear, he lifted her and set her on her feet on the chest. He stood back and surveyed her. “Don’t shrink from me,” he warned her. “I’m not one of the Norman barons.”
“I wish I had died then!”
“And given up all the delights of love? But you were virgin then. I did not suspect you might be barren.”
He turned his back on her, and she jumped to the floor. She reached for her chemise, but he whisked it out of her grasp. He jerked his head toward the pallet. She obeyed him, afraid to make him angry. His mood was one she had not seen before, and she was wary. She slipped under the coverlet.
He pulled off a boot, sitting on the edge of the pallet. Alarmed, she quivered. He pulled off his other boot and flung it against the chest. Then he took off the rest of his clothes and stood looking down at her. He said, “It seems to me that your young cousin Cledog looks sickly. I doubt if he will live to be a man. We must prepare an heir for your grandfather. So?”
She was shocked. She pulled the blanket up around her shoulders, even though the air was sultry with a coming storm. “How mistaken I was about you!”
Caerleon answered in a lazy drawl, “And I was mistaken about you, too, for I thought you would already be well on the way to providing an heir for your grandfather. Perhaps, though, it is my fault. I have not been as attentive as I should have been.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded. “You called me barren.”
“I have not proved that yet,” he told her, suddenly snatching the blanket from her, leaving her lying white against the dark pallet.
He flung the blanket to the far corner of the hut. “Your duty is to provide an heir. And I will make sure that you do. You may rest assured of my cooperation until you tell me that you are indeed with child. I care not how long it takes, but for your own good, I trust it will be soon.”
He covered her body with his, and found her mouth. She would have screamed, but she had no breath. The candle still threw shadows against the ceiling, and she watched them fearfully, until his feral face blotted out her vision. In minutes it was over, and he rolled to one side. A long time later he roused enough to leave the pallet and blow out the candle. The darkness was profound.
“I wonder —” he said, and then answered his own question. “I have heard that the proper time of the night is a factor. Early, just after sunset? I can’t remember. But we need not worry. We shall try all hours, until we find the right one.”
He stroked her breasts with the tips of his fingers. In spite of herself, she felt a gathering flood inside her. How could this man whom she loathed yet tease her body to respond to his, to cry out for the release that he might give her?
This time she thought only of the tide of her passion, and let her body arch to his, to rejoice in the melting together of man and woman, to sob with aching relief.
It was better, she thought, toward dawn, after the third time, not to think at all.
Caerleon was as good as his word. He was intent upon an heir. During the next few days she decided that hell would have no surprises for her. She protested, and he laughed. She suggested that he find another woman, one of several that he had mentioned as attractive, and he laughed.
“I will have no bastard older than my own son, your son, so — the sooner the better for you.”
The month had turned to September, and still Gwyn was without child. Mechel had offered her a secret tonic of herbs to assure she would not become pregnant, but she refused it. For her own good, he had said, the sooner the better, and now she longed for a child as strongly as he did.
But still she loathed him, and only her body was in his thrall.
This day, then, Caerleon sought her company in the daylight. “A bit of bread and cheese,” he said, “would taste good for our noon meal. See to it.”
Mystified, she obeyed and packed a small kerchief containing their lunch. They mounted their ponies and struck out along the north shore of the bay. As they left the village behind, the ground grew rocky under their ponies, and the pine trees surrounded them. Within the forest it was silent, as though no one lived in the world but the two people and their mounts.
She broke the silence once. “Why are we doing this? Where are we going?”
He smiled briefly. “A change of scenery will do us both good.”
And even then, she did not understand.
They traveled for what seemed a long time. The sound of the surf came to them, then, and they left the faint track and plunged in among the needle-covered floor of the woods. They arrived at a promontory overlooking the bay. Far to their left, a tiny dot marked the village of Port Madoc. They had indeed traveled far.
She eyed her husband cautiously. She had learned that he did nothing without a purpose. Was he going to kill her? To leave her body to be cast up at her grandfather’s feet by waves and tide? She knew he was capable of it.
“Are you going to arrange my death?” she said, feigning a light tone as he helped her down.
“Not until after my child is born.”
“I had not realized that you were such a family man,” she said, chattering only to keep the awesome silence at bay.
“I have my reasons.” He tied the ponies and returned to her. “There is a ledge here. Come along.”
The ledge was wide and safe. It was an outcropping of rock, and the downward slope was gentle and forested. He sat down and pulled her to sit beside him.
The strong scent of pine came to her as the sun warmed the woods, and she leaned back against the rock of the hillside. The ledge was strewn with small pebbles and brown pine needles, and she brushed them idly away.
It was peaceful, and the faraway sound of the sea lulled her. If only it could have been Rhys at her side now …
Caerleon stretched his length flat beside her. For once, she thought, his hands were not at her, his greedy eyes did not devour her. Almost as she thought, he said lazily, “You hate me, don’t you?”
She answered without thinking, “Yes.”
“I’m hungry. Did you bring the lunch?”
“It’s back where we tied the ponies. I’ll get it.”
She scrambled to her feet and went back to the ponies. The kerchief was where she had dropped it. She picked it up and hesitated. She could run now. He could not chase her if she took both ponies. She reached toward the bridle …
But Caerleon’s men still ruled the village, and her people would pay dearly. She turned back and returned to the ledge.
Caerleon was asleep, still stretched out on his b
ack. Quietly she came to sit beside him and unwrapped the bread. The sun was hot on her back, and she took off her loose pelisson. She broke off a piece of bread and ate it.
She glanced at him and saw that he was awake. “Give me some bread,” he said coaxingly. Startled, she broke off another piece and handed it to him. “In my mouth,” he said dreamily. “I’m too contented to lift a hand.”
She fed him reluctantly, all the time knowing his half-open eyes were watching her. Then, it happened. By some mischance the last piece of cheese fell from her hand — bumped by a sudden movement of his chin, she thought — and it fell beyond him toward the edge. Without thinking, she reached across his chest to retrieve it. And suddenly she was fairly caught. He pulled her off balance and she fell on his chest. His legs — so indolent a moment ago — came up between her thighs, and with one hand he rucked up her kirtle and set her astride him. His other hand held her wrists pinioned painfully behind her back, and he shoved her face into his shoulder. Legs in the air, she could not even kick against him.
She sobbed into his shoulder, as she felt the long, dull ache beginning in her, and against her will she moved against him, as though her body sought blindly for its own release. He fumbled with his hose, and then there was nothing between them. His body arched toward hers like a longbow, and she melted into it, without loathing, without thought, only feeling the familiar invasion of her body.
Later he let her roll away from him. She lay exhausted, her eyes closed. “You will not look at me?” he said silkily.
“You are a madman,” she said, so softly he had to bend to hear her. “You live for — for this.” She gestured.
“I live to beget a child that will rule this village when your grandsire dies and the sickly Cledog is no more. And I shall rule the child.”
“And I will be dead,” she commented sourly.
“I shall take the greatest care of you,” he promised her sardonically, “until you conceive and are delivered of a son.”
Crown of Passion Page 33