Dryden's Bride

by Margo Maguire

  But the most dreadful thing was that she would have to put all thoughts of Hugh Dryden out of her mind. Siân wasn’t sure if that was going to be possible. The man had plagued her thoughts ever since shooting the boar out from under her in the forest. He had saved her life, and she wasn’t about to forget him…or the way her heart seemed to skitter when he was near.

  She shivered slightly when she recalled the way Hugh had efficiently unlaced her soaking gown that first night, then wrapped her in his own blanket. Siân had never experienced such remarkable sensations before. It was as if he had somehow reached inside her and kindled a mysterious fire within. Parts of her body became exquisitely sensitive, and he had barely even touched her.

  His hands were strong, but gentle. His words curt, but not unkind. At least, he’d been kind until she’d thoughtlessly spoken of losing a limb. Clearly, he did not need her to teach him about such loss. She deserved the harsh words he’d delivered to her last night during the storm.

  With a heartfelt sigh, Siân gathered the children around her and they sat together on a blanket of dry leaves under an ancient oak tree. She had to stop thinking of Hugh and truly resign herself to her fate at St. Ann’s.

  Owen’s decision was final. Siân had no choice in the matter.

  “In my country, there is a place called Llanfabon, where the faeries like to make mischief,” Siân said as one of the older girls sat down and began to plait her hair. Another child picked wildflowers and threaded them into Siân’s russet tresses. “And in Llanfabon, there once lived a widow woman and her small son, Pryderi.”

  By telling the old tale, Siân hoped to get her wayward thoughts under control. It was no use thinking of Hugh Dryden or his heroic rescue—not only of her, but of Clairmont itself. He was remote and aloof, always so serious, Siân thought. Surely he had not been afire the night he’d gotten her out of her wet clothes. Siân knew she was not likely to inspire any sort of longing in a man.

  Siân tamped down her irrational sense of defeat and continued her tale. “One day, while the widow was making her little son’s breakfast, she heard a commotion outside. The cattle were lowing down in the byre. Pryderi’s mother was afraid something was amiss.”

  “What could it be?” a little girl asked.

  “’Twas a wolf!” cried one of the boys.

  “No…” Siân said dramatically. “Remember, there were faeries in that part of the country…”

  Which started a flurry of questions about faeries and whether or not they could be seen nearby, and if ever they caused mischief among the cows and pigs at Clairmont. The children crowded around her and plied her with their queries, so preoccupied that none of them took note of the knight who’d walked up behind them.

  Hugh delayed his return to Clairmont to tell Siân to move in closer to the town with the children since there could still be danger lurking in the outlying forest. He’d intended to speak to her right away, but instead, kept his silence as he approached her and the children, unwilling to put a stop to the sound of her engaging voice and her pleasing Welsh accent.

  She continued her story as the children sat spellbound. “When the poor mother returned to their cottage, she was suspicious that something had changed. ‘Och, child,’ she cried, ‘you look like my sweet Pryderi, yet you are somehow different. I fear it is not really you I see before me.’

  “The child, who was different, awakened. He said, ‘Of course it is I, Mother. Who else would I be?”’

  One of the little girls interrupted the story. “Did the faeries take Pryderi from his mother?”

  “Did they give her a changeling?” another asked.

  “The poor old mother did not know for certain,” Siân replied. “But the only way she knew to find out, was to ask the wise man of the village…”

  Hugh leaned his back against a tree and watched as Siân wove her magical spell for the children. She was a gifted storyteller, he thought as she changed her voice and moved her delicate hands to emphasize parts of the story. His earlier impression of Lady Siân as a faerie sprite was not too far from reality, and he found himself falling under the spell of that voice, those hands.

  And as he stood there, enveloped in the enchantment of the moment, Hugh wondered how it would feel if she were to touch him. Not the competent touch of a healer to his wound, as she’d been last night, but the soft caress of a feisty red-haired woman who wept with abandon in private, and laughed without restraint in the company of children.

  “…and the boy’s mother sought the counsel of the old wise man once more,” Siân continued. “‘You must perform a difficult task,’ the old man told her. ‘Search out and find a hen as black as night, whose feathers reflect no light. Close up your cottage, block the doors and windows, but leave the chimney open. Make a fire, and cook the hen over it…”’

  The tale went on to its happy ending, and it wasn’t until Siân had reunited the hapless Pryderi with his mother that the children noticed Hugh in the shadows near the oak tree. They were instantly wary of the man with the black eye patch.

  “’Tis Lord Alldale,” Siân said, as startled by his arrival as the children. Recovering quickly, she arose from her seat beneath the spreading oak tree. “’Twas he who saved me from the fierce boar who would have gored me with his tusks…” she grabbed the smallest boy and twirled him around as he giggled with glee “…and eaten me all up!”

  Hugh warmed inexplicably as he watched Siân spin with the child, her face flushed, her skirts billowing out all around her. He cleared an odd thickness from his throat and approached the small group. “Lady Siân, it would be well for you to stay closer to the town.”

  “Why, my lord?” she asked, her innocent eyes full of questions.

  Hugh hesitated. He saw no reason to take the joy out of her day. “Only because…it looks as if it wants to storm again,” he finally said.

  Siân looked up at the sky.

  He was right. Rain was coming. She smiled warmly. It was considerate of him to come out and forewarn her.

  “Vraiment, I am flattered, Lord Alldale,” Marguerite said in response to Hugh’s proposal of marriage.

  And flustered, Hugh thought, although her excellent breeding was evident in her tact and poise. There was hardly any indication that she found his offer of marriage untoward. A mere flaring of nostrils, a twitch of the lips, a slight flush of color on those high cheeks…Hugh only noticed these subtle signs because he was more aware than most, after enduring so many politely averted gazes and disdainful glances.

  Hugh’s face had once been a pleasing one. In those earlier days, he’d been satisfied with his lot, quick to meet a challenge or to stand for his friends. His company had been sought in battle as well as in the public house.

  Though he’d never had the kind of looks that made women swoon, there had been no dearth of beauties to grace his bed in those days, he thought morosely. Not that he’d want any of the shallow and vain creatures near him now. He’d seen too many women pale and weaken at the sight of his scars and the leather eye patch. He knew their grimaces came with the mere thought of a touch from his mangled hand…and how he’d gotten it.

  Marguerite sat on a comfortable chair in her solar, while Hugh remained standing, free to wander the room as he chose. He refused to be discomfited by the situation, by her reserve. He was certainly aware that he was no longer pleasant to look upon, that a beautiful woman like Marguerite would have some difficulty with the notion of spending her future shackled to a man with his disfigurements.

  Hugh had adjusted. He would never again be the man he was two years ago, but he was a man, nonetheless. Strong again. Capable. Marguerite could do worse for a husband. He was no pauper, to go begging for favors of a wealthy widow! He had Alldale, a prosperous estate that belonged to him alone.

  The lady took a sip of wine from a delicate silver chalice, biding a few moment’s time. She cleared her throat before speaking again.

  “As you might know,” she said haltingly, “I have re
ceived two, um, additional offers of marriage.”

  “I’d heard.” And didn’t particularly care. Just choose, he thought, and we can get on with it one way or another.

  “My parents are dead,” Marguerite added. “I have no one close by to advise me.”

  “Her Majesty, the Queen?”

  “We are good friends, yes,” she replied, “but she has counseled me to write my uncle in Lyons for his advice and…perhaps his consent.”

  “I see.”

  “And, um, I must also request the permission of the council in London. They have certain requirements—”

  “Yes, I know all about the council’s requirements,” Hugh said, standing now with his back toward Marguerite. This was impossible! Why had he ever agreed to coming to Clairmont? He turned to face her, and managed to speak calmly. “I doubt you will find any objections from that quarter, but I grant you time to make your wishes known to them.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Marguerite said timidly. “You are most generous.”

  “If you do not mind,” he said, “I will remain here at Clairmont until you have made your decision.”

  “It is not entirely my decis—”

  Hugh held up one hand. “Whatever the case may be,” he said, “if it is of no inconvenience, I will stay.”

  “You are welcome to remain here, my lord,” Marguerite said, regaining her usual courtesy and aplomb. “Of course.”

  Hugh was well aware that Marguerite considered his marriage proposal only because he’d proven himself in battle, not because of any desire to wed him. Though her etiquette had been impeccable, Hugh knew the lady had won herself some time by requesting his patience as she asked her uncle and any other counselors for advice—time in which to prepare herself for a marriage that Hugh knew would be nothing but distasteful to her.

  In spite of what Hugh sensed of Marguerite’s feelings toward him, he resolved to stay at Clairmont to await Marguerite’s decision, rather than returning to Windermere, or going to his own estate at Alldale. He and Nicholas would begin training with the Clairmont men, working with sword and lance, on horseback at the quintain, and with bow and arrow. They had already organized patrols to scour the countryside to ensure that all was secure, and had gone back to spend the rest of the day in town, helping the men with some of the heavy tasks that needed doing before rebuilding.

  It was late afternoon by the time Hugh returned to Castle Clairmont, and he walked out to Marguerite’s garden to enjoy the last minutes of sunlight in peace. The open spaces, the unlimited sky above, were comforting to his soul, as always.

  There was much to do in Clairmont and the activity invigorated Hugh. It was an unfamiliar sensation—working toward a purpose, pursuing definite objectives. He was bone-tired, and it felt surprisingly good.

  Sitting down on a stone bench, Hugh enjoyed the whisper of a cool breeze on his face. The busy sounds of the castle and all the activity on the grounds were distant now, and Hugh relaxed, shutting out his past completely. He tried to imagine Clairmont as his home. He thought of walking these parapets, patrolling these borders for the rest of his life. Of living here with Marguerite.

  “Maman! Regarde!”

  Hugh looked up sharply and saw petit Henri running toward him, smiling happily.

  The little fellow ran across the lawn ahead of a group of adults, and climbed up onto Hugh’s lap, making the weary man sit up and brace himself against the little king’s sharp knees as they dug into his thighs.

  “Lord Alldale,” the queen said, arriving with her entourage. “Do not rise,” she added, noting her son’s contentment on Hugh’s lap. “It is a beautiful afternoon for a stroll, non?”

  Hugh agreed with Her Majesty. The sky had cleared after the earlier rain, and the breeze was comfortably cool. He was fatigued, but satisfied after a productive day. However, the peace of the afternoon was now gone with the crowd of courtiers upon him, including Owen Tudor and his sister.

  Lady Siân wore the bright yellow gown she’d ripped in the woods on the day of her encounter with the boar. The bodice—where it had been torn—had been cleverly repaired, so as to be hardly noticeable at all. Except that Hugh could not forget the way it had appeared that morning, torn to expose an exquisite wealth of tempting but forbidden skin.

  Calming his wayward thoughts, Hugh decided that the color suited her—it was bright and sunny, innocent and open. Just like the woman.

  Her hair was tamed this afternoon, as well, though Hugh doubted there were any pins in the kingdom that could hold those riotous coppery tresses in place for long. He wondered, in passing, what had happened to the crown of flowers she’d been wearing in the copse that morning.

  “There is much training to be done with Clairmont’s knights, non?” the queen asked as she sat down on the bench with Hugh.

  “They’re in good shape, Your Majesty,” Hugh said, “but they lack leadership.”

  Catherine’s appraisal of him was speculative. By now, Hugh figured she knew of his marriage proposal. She knew his history, his strengths. Marguerite Bradley was Catherine’s very good friend, and it was certain that the queen wanted to see the lady well married. Mayhap even happily married.

  “You, Lord Alldale, could provide that leadership for Clairmont.”

  Hugh acquiesced wordlessly.

  “I have no doubt that your knightly skills are excellent,” Catherine said. “You were one of my husband’s premier lieutenants in France. Henri could never abide incompetence.”

  “Siân!” the little king cried out when the lady came into his line of vision. The boy wriggled around on Hugh’s lap and raised his arms to be picked up by the young Welsh woman who suddenly caught his fancy.

  Siân smiled and took the child from Hugh’s arms, using the Welsh pet name she’d given him. “Parry!” she said as she hugged him while the king giggled with glee. Hugh could not tear his sight from Siân as she kissed the little boy’s neck. His own neck heated unaccountably.

  “You have healed from your ordeal at Windermere?” Catherine asked, drawing Hugh’s attention sharply away from the lively young woman and child.

  Emotions warred within him. No one spoke of the atrocities committed at Windermere, at least not within his hearing. Nor was he interested in discussing them now. Not while Siân Tudor’s hands tickled, and her lips nuzzled the little boy in her arms.

  Hugh finally gathered his composure, inclined his head slightly, and replied, “Yes, Your Majesty. Fully recovered.”

  Petit Henri chortled merrily and buried his face in Siân’s well-rounded bosom.

  Blood pounded in Hugh’s ears. He stood abruptly. “My injuries were mostly superficial. As you can see, I have adjusted.”

  “Of course, Alldale,” the queen said, frowning, looking up at Hugh. “I would never imply otherwise.”

  “Your Majesty…I…apologize,” Hugh said uncomfortably, “for being brusque—”

  “Nonsense,” Catherine interjected as she rose from the bench to stand next to Siân and her gleeful son. “You are quite obviously fit. I should never have questioned it. Tell me,” she said, changing the subject abruptly, “what is your assessment of Clairmont town?”

  “They lost many men, Your Majesty,” Hugh said. “And—”

  “Rebuilding will be difficult, Your Majesty,” Siân interjected as she moved closer to the queen and Hugh. “Robert Beak—the master carpenter—was killed in the battle.”

  “Oh? Does Lady Marguerite know of this?”

  “I don’t know,” Siân said. “But so many other men were killed that the fall plowing will be difficult. There is still a great deal of autumn work to be done to ensure enough food through the winter. Threshing is not an easy task. Nor are plowing and planting the winter wheat.”

  “Siân, what do you know of this work?” the queen asked, furrowing her brow curiously.

  Siân, embarrassed for speaking out, realized it was too late to stop now. Owen would surely take her to task for her forward manner, and fo
r telling the queen of her humble background. “Everyone in my village worked, Your Majesty,” she said. “Even the men from the manor house. When we were attacked…and men were killed…” There was a flash of something sharp and angry in her eyes. “…the people suffered a lack of food, for there was no one to work the fields, mill the grain.”

  “And what then, Siân?”

  No point in holding back now, Siân thought as she dove right in. Bluntly. “People starved to death, Your Majesty. Especially the little ones,” she said sadly as her hands unconsciously caressed Henry’s head.

  The dream was never far away.

  Hugh felt the chains around his wrists, the manacles that held his ankles to the cold, dank floor. It was dark and smelled of death in that place, that horrible place where pain and terror ruled.

  Waiting.

  Burning.

  A light skittering across legs and feet. Tiny yellow eyes peering, razor teeth nipping, tearing.

  Burning. Sharp pain. Exquisite pain!

  A voice nearby…always the voice of the old woman…unintelligible gibberish. Moaning, crying. Reciting nonsensical verse.

  Blood. It was everywhere. He could smell it, taste its metallic character. Feel its sticky sweetness as it flowed.

  Fingers…smashed. Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph…his hand!

  Eyes now…Please, no! Not the eyes!

  Hugh gave a strangled cry and sat up in his bed, sweat pouring from his face, dripping off his chest. Swaying now, panting, working to catch his breath, he pulled the bed curtains back and lit a candle, only to cause ominous shadows to be thrown about the room.