The Warlord’s Bride

by Margaret Moore

  “Your meeting with Ivor went well, I’m guessing,” Madoc said as he handed the brace of quail to a stable boy while a groom took charge of the prancing Cigfran.

  “It did, and we decided on everything for the feast and how much ale and wine we’ll need. Thank you for talking to him, Madoc. I feel so much better now.”

  “Thought you might,” he said with a pleased smile, his hand finding hers so that, as they crossed the yard, they looked more like courting sweethearts than a lord and his lady.

  HER EYES CLOSED and her body languid with sleepiness, Roslynn reached across the bed. The bedding was still warm where Madoc had lain, although his place was empty.

  She cracked open her eyelids, to see her husband moving about in the dim chamber, only the merest hint of dawn brightening the sky beyond. He had warned her he would be up and out very early to help gather the sheep for the washing, which had to be done before the sheep were sheared. Otherwise, too much grease would affect the weight of the fleece when it was sold.

  She had not asked him why he, the lord of Llanpowell, would help with such menial tasks. She had already learned he was the sort of overlord who valued camaraderie with his people. It was also, she had seen, as much a part of his leadership as his martial skills.

  “Go back to sleep, fy rhosyn,” he said softly. “No need for you to get up so early.”

  “I enjoy watching you dress,” she replied. “After all, you’re a very comely fellow.”

  “And you’re a beautiful woman—but don’t try to tempt me to stay, Delilah that you are. We hope to get the whole flock gathered and washed today.”

  She sat up and wrapped her hands around her knees, the sheet barely covering her breasts, and her dark hair loose about her shoulders. “I’m not trying to tempt you to stay. I just enjoy watching you get dressed.”

  He raised a brow as he buckled his belt. “Aye, with those big eyes of yours and naked under the sheets. What will you be doing today while I’m out earning my bread?”

  “Earning mine, too. We need more candles and I found another chest of linen to be washed. I may find still more in the back of the main storeroom. And I want to see how much yarn Bethyn was able to spin from the ram’s fleece. I should meet with Ivor again, as well. I’m worried we won’t have enough salmon. And no doubt your uncle will follow me and offer much advice.

  “Not that I’m complaining,” she hastened to assure him. “I need his help, since I don’t speak Welsh yet.”

  “Yet, is it? Delighted I am you’re willing to learn. But you’ll have to do without Uncle Lloyd today. We need him at the pens. We always find some sheep with earmarks we don’t know, and Lloyd is the expert. He remembers every earmark for fifty miles.”

  Madoc paused as he sat on the stool to pull on his boots. “Why don’t you come to the pens for a little while? Lloyd can demonstrate his expertise.”

  “I’d like that,” she replied, although she probably shouldn’t take the time.

  Like the shearing itself, gathering was a major undertaking, requiring all the shepherds, tenants and soldiers who could be spared, and they would all have to be fed. She wouldn’t be doing the cooking herself, of course, but it meant more tasks to supervise in addition to those preparations for the major feast when the shearing was finished.

  Madoc gave her a pleased smile as he stamped his booted feet on the floor before standing. “I’ll look forward to that when I’m hot and sweating.”

  “I will, too. I like you hot and sweaty.”

  His eyes widened even as he shook his head. “What did I tell you? Delilah for sure!” he exclaimed as he went to the door. “Fortunately, my will is strong, so I can tear myself away—if only just.” He paused with his hand on the latch. “Why don’t you go back to sleep for a little bit. It’s awhile before mass, and we won’t need Lloyd till the noon.”

  “I might just do that,” she said, yawning as he smiled a farewell and went out.

  Enjoying the warmth of the thick coverlet and soft feather bed, she snuggled back down, resting her hands on her stomach, hoping she was indeed already with child. Her courses were late and she’d been more tired than usual the past few days.

  However, it was early yet and she’d had no other signs, so she wouldn’t tell Madoc what she hoped, not when he was so busy with the gathering and shearing. She would wait until she was certain, then she would share the wonderful news.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  AFTER MASS WAS OVER, Roslynn hurried to Uncle Lloyd and took his arm to walk back to the hall to break the fast. “I’d like to see the flock when it’s been brought to the pens. Will you take me with you when you go? Madoc says you can identify all the earmarks within fifty miles.”

  “Aye, my lady, with pleasure,” Lloyd replied, beaming, before doubt clouded his genial face. “It’ll be noisy and, frankly, my lady, so many sheep together will stink. Are you sure you want to come?”

  “Quite sure,” she said, suppressing the urge to tell him that since he’d tricked her into seeing Madoc naked, he shouldn’t be surprised if she wanted to see her husband bare-chested and sweat-slicked.

  Something about Lloyd’s subsequent expression, however, suggested he might not be quite so incapable of guessing her motives as she’d thought. “Well, then, who am I to deny you? It will be my pleasure.”

  “Thank you,” she said happily. “I’d better go to the kitchen and tell Ivor of my plans before I break the fast. Otherwise, he’ll likely be gone before I’m finished.”

  She hurried away to the kitchen. Because they’d be feeding all the men who’d helped gather the sheep, they need to have much more than the usual amount of food prepared. The meals would be simple, though—stew, roasted mutton and pork and beef, pottages of peas and leeks, thick slices of bread and cheese, and tarts to finish. Casks of ale were ready to be tapped. No wine after such work, Madoc had decreed. Ale was better.

  The servants were so engaged in their work, few noticed her enter except the spit boy, who looked as if he was half-roasted himself as he turned an enormous joint over the fire. He opened his mouth to announce her entrance, until she said, “I’ve come to see Ivor.”

  She swiftly continued toward Ivor’s workroom, to find the door ajar.

  Even more surprising, Ivor wasn’t there. Some parchments were still on the table, as well as a half-eaten piece of bread and a cup of mead. There were no bags of coins on the table, and the chest banded with iron was still locked. It appeared as if he’d been called away suddenly, although she’d heard nothing that would indicate such a necessity.

  She was about to turn back to the kitchen to ask Hywel what had happened when she spotted a parchment on the floor, over by the wall, as if it had rolled off the table.

  She picked it up, noting that it was relatively free of dust, so it must have fallen recently. She was about to put it on the table with the others when she saw the last line of writing on it.

  The name belonged to the wine merchant who had delivered several barrels the day before. She’d seen him arrive from the doorway of the storehouse where the apples were stored on open racks, for the wine merchant was hard to miss. He was large and loud, but also amusing, so although she had much to do, she’d lingered a moment to listen to his jovial banter with Lloyd. She’d noted the number of barrels, wanting to be sure they had enough wine in store, and counted twenty-five of them.

  But the number on the list was thirty and the sum beside it consistent with thirty barrels of wine at Davies’s price, not twenty-five.

  She was about to unroll the scroll farther when a shadow fell across the table and Ivor walked into the room, a quizzical expression on his face as his glance flicked to the parchment in her hand. “Is there something you need, my lady?”

  “I came to tell you that I’ll be going with Lloyd to see the sheep brought down from the hills,” she said, resisting the urge to shove the parchment up her sleeve. “You must have left in a great hurry, for I found this on the floor and you’re the least c
areless man I’ve ever met.”

  “There was a dispute among the grooms that needed to be sorted out before they came to blows, which they very nearly did,” Ivor replied as she put the parchment on the table. “Is there anything else, my lady?”

  “No,” she said, moving to the door. “I should be back well before the men are finished.”

  As she left the steward, Roslynn tried to convince herself that the discrepancy was merely a rare error. She should have simply drawn his attention to it so the entry could be corrected.

  Unfortunately, she couldn’t rid herself of a lingering suspicion. Ivor was a neat and meticulous sort of man, not the kind to make careless errors, or not find them if he did.

  How could she be certain if this was a genuine mistake, or if there was something more sinister afoot? She had only found this difference by chance, for she’d always left it to Ivor to oversee the unloading of goods. She must be more vigilant in the future and, whenever possible and without raising any suspicion on Ivor’s part, keep her own record of deliveries, so that later she could compare the numbers Ivor recorded against her own.

  Hopefully she was wrong to worry, and this was merely an error, for even the most careful of men must surely make mistakes.

  But if she was right, she must be very sure that a crime had been committed and have the evidence to prove it before she accused Madoc’s trusted friend.

  WHEN ROSLYNN AND LLOYD arrived at the sheep pens later that day, the first half of the flock had already been brought down from the mountain to the river, although it hadn’t yet been fully separated into ewes and lambs.

  The busy men answered Lloyd’s greeting, then went back to work. They’d formed a line from the large pen holding all the sheep to a smaller one for the lambs. Madoc himself, half-naked and sweating as she’d expected, was in the pen with the sheep, and she watched with both amazement and admiration as he bent down, grabbed a skittish lamb by its fleece and deftly tossed it over the fence to the man just outside it. That man caught the lamb, then threw it to the next in line. The lamb proceeded in that manner all the way to the pen containing several frightened, bleating lambs, until the last man put it over the fence and inside with the others. Meanwhile, Madoc had already picked up another and sent it after the first.

  “What if they drop a lamb?” Roslynn asked Lloyd in amazement. “Won’t it be hurt? Or break a leg?”

  “Lambs’ bones are like butter,” he assured her as he hoisted himself onto the top of the wooden fence of the larger, temporarily erected pen. “Just needs a splint and it should heal fine. Emlyn could do it in his sleep.”

  “Which man is—?”

  “Ah, Lloyd, here you are and about time, too,” one of the shepherds called out, pointing at a sheep’s ear as he held the animal in place by its fleece. “Where’s this one from?”

  “Pencwmb,” Lloyd replied without hesitation. “That’s to the south, Sir Ector’s land,” he added for her benefit. “Come a long way, that sheep has. It’s got to be ten miles or more.”

  She wondered what they would do if they found one of Trefor’s sheep among those of Llanpowell, but thought it best not to ask. “With no fences, I’m surprised the sheep don’t wander all over Wales.”

  “Bred to a place, they are,” Lloyd explained. “Ewes graze where their mothers did, and their mothers before them. Sometimes they move, if they smell a fox or wolf, and some are wanderers, but that’s not usual for a sheep.”

  “Roslynn!”

  Wiping the beads of perspiration from his forehead with his forearm, Madoc waded toward them through the flock of sheep and lambs like it was a living river. When he reached the wooden barrier, he put his hands on the top and, with the agility of a mountain goat, vaulted over it to join them. “Here you are then,” he said, his hands on his hips and a smile on his face.

  “Here we are,” she replied, speaking loudly to be heard over the animals.

  “Lloyd-y-Brawd!” another man in the sheep pen shouted, pointing to another sheep.

  “Cwm Myrmydden,” Lloyd replied.

  “God love you, it’s been years since we’ve had one from there,” he said to Roslynn, who was trying not to have too many lustful thoughts about her husband. Judging by the look in his eyes, he was having a few about her, too.

  A commotion broke out in the line of men passing the lambs to the pen. A lamb with a black nose and crooked leg had managed to wiggle free of his handler. Despite its impediment, the little beast dashed toward the pen of ewes, heading straight for Roslynn. It had almost reached her when it was surrounded by some of the dogs. Confused and frightened, the poor little creature halted, bleating as if desperately calling for its mother.

  Ignoring the dogs, Roslynn hurried to scoop the trembling, terrified lamb in her arms. Cradling it, she stroked its back to calm it.

  “Poor thing’s frightened nearly to death,” she said as she turned back toward her husband.

  Instead of looking sympathetic, Madoc grimly lifted it from her arms and deposited it in the pen with the other lambs. “I’d best get back to work,” he muttered, jumping back over the fence and walking as quickly away from them as he could through the crowd of sheep.

  “What did I do wrong?” a baffled Roslynn asked Lloyd over the sound of the bleating, milling animals. “Should I not have picked it up?”

  “I think you caught him off guard, that’s all.”

  “By picking up a lamb? I may be a lady, but—”

  “Not that,” Lloyd replied, shaking his head. “I don’t know exactly what was going through my nephew’s head, but to see you with that lamb in your arms…well, it looked like you were holding a babe. I thought so, and maybe so did he.”

  “Madoc said he wants more children.”

  “No doubt he does. It was probably just the surprise caught him off guard and made him think of Gwendolyn, you see, and how she died. God save us, my lady, I’ve never seen him so upset. He’s a strong man, is Madoc, but not that day.”

  “How did his first wife die?” Roslynn asked as quietly as she could and still be heard. “No one’s ever told me.”

  “In childbirth. They couldn’t stop the bleeding after Owain was born.”

  Roslynn moved her hands instinctively to her stomach, stopping before she rested them there, lest she betray her hopes. It was no secret women died in childbirth and it was already affecting the happiness she felt at the possibility of giving Madoc a child. Even so, to learn that he had lost one wife already in such a way…It made the dread that much more palpable, even if many women bore children safely and lived.

  She realized this might also explain why Madoc’s son was not at Llanpowell, where he would be a living reminder of the mother he’d lost, and how. Madoc wouldn’t be the first father to find the sight of such a child difficult to bear.

  “So I wouldn’t put too much store in the change that came over Madoc just now,” his uncle concluded. “Bad memories, I’m sure, and nothing more.” His gaze grew significantly speculative. “A babe would help vanquish those bad memories.”

  She was still determined not to tell anyone she might be with child until she could be certain, and Madoc should know first. “Then let us hope I bear a child soon.”

  MADOC ROLLED his shoulders, then arched his back to ease the ache as the last of the washed sheep scrambled up the bank of the makeshift pool. It had been a long day, as such days always were, and he was glad to see the end of it.

  Most of the men who’d helped with the gathering and washing had already gone to the castle to be fed, including Lloyd. He had remained to the end in part because he felt it was his duty, but also because he wanted to have a little peace and quiet as he made his way home, the better to think about what he’d say to Roslynn.

  He’d seen her shock and dismay at his reaction to the sight of the lamb in her arms, and more especially the tender, motherly look on her face before that. He had immediately envisioned a babe, not a lamb, in her slender arms—a babe with dark hair and blu
e eyes likes hers. Or Owain.

  Yet after the shock of that vision, after he had so brusquely spoken and left her, had come a longing so powerful, it had hit him like a boulder rolling down a mountain.

  Then came guilt, and fear, the memory of Gwendolyn as she lay dying, and the promise he had not kept.

  Ivor, who never helped with the gathering because of his leg, appeared, limping quickly toward him.

  “What is it?” Madoc asked, hurrying forward, fearing some major domestic catastrophe had brought that grim expression to his steward’s face.

  “Has Lady Roslynn spoken to you about the cost of the meal today and the feast to come?”

  “No, not yet,” Madoc replied.

  “It’s a huge sum of money, Madoc—far more than we’ve ever spent before,” Ivor said as he came to a halt in front of him.

  That was a bit unsettling. “How much more?”

  “Two hundred marks—and that might not be the end of it.”

  Madoc stared at him, aghast. “Why so much? Have prices risen?”

  “It’s not the prices, it’s the food Lady Roslynn wants, as well as the quantity. Eels and salmon and other fish by the baskets. Enough flour—and the best kind—to last a month or more. And the wine…Madoc, the cost of the wine alone will stagger you.”

  He was already staggered. “Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?”

  “Because you told me your wife was to have her way in this, and I didn’t want to make trouble between you. But when I saw the final tally this morning, I thought I ought to make certain you knew. To be honest, Madoc, I doubted you did, or you would have set a limit.”

  Aye, so he would have. That was far too much for food and drink when there were weapons to buy and repair, and a fortress and garrison to maintain.

  “You did right to tell me,” Madoc said, starting toward the castle. Despite his agitation, he set a slower pace so that Ivor could keep up with him. “She was wrong to spend so much without consulting me. I’ll see that she understands we aren’t as wealthy as she seems to think.”