The Warlord’s Bride

by Margaret Moore

“Seeing to the stabling of his horses,” Lloyd replied. “He told me Trefor sent for a physician and midwife both after Roslynn swooned again and Lady Eloise told him she was with child. They were both sure she hasn’t lost the child and there’s every hope they’ll both be fine.”

  Madoc’s surprise that Trefor had sent for such help was quickly consumed by his growing rage. “It’s good he took such care, because if anything had happened to Roslynn while she was in Pontyrmwr, I’d attack with all the force I could muster and I’d kill him myself.

  “And he’ll still have to answer for abducting her,” he finished, meaning it. Trefor had gone way too far this time. Roslynn was more precious to him than his sheep, or even his own life.

  “Aye, I suppose you’re right,” Lloyd muttered, thoughtfully stroking his beard.

  “Suppose?” Madoc cried. “Suppose? What he did was criminal and I intend to make him pay.”

  “But she’s come back safe and sound, and no harm done. And Trefor’s still your brother.”

  “Now you’ll defend him?” Madoc demanded incredulously, his hands on his hips.

  “Well, it’s true he’s done a bad thing, Madoc. More than one,” he hastily added when he saw Madoc’s expression. “But he could have let her go without the expense of the physician and midwife.”

  Madoc didn’t give a damn about the cost to Trefor and said so.

  “But there’s more. Your brother and his men escorted them almost the whole way here, and he sent some of his men on ahead to make sure the road was clear and to fill any ruts. He didn’t have to do that, either, Madoc.”

  “He had no business taking her to Pontyrmwr in the first place,” Madoc retorted, not at all ready to ascribe any generous motives to his brother.

  If anything had happened to Roslynn because of Trefor’s vindictive act, he meant what he’d said—he would hunt Trefor down and kill him.

  “All right, never mind that. The physician said that while neither she nor the baby are in danger at present, a long journey is out of the question. The jostling of the wagon or on horseback would be too much. The physician said coming back to Llanpowell would be all right, but that must be the only traveling she does until the baby’s born.

  “Do you understand what I’m saying, you hot-tempered young fool?” his uncle gently chided. “She can’t leave now. She’ll have to stay in Llanpowell until after your child is born.”

  So he would have even more time to make things right between them. But what if the loss of their child was to be the price?

  MADOC WAS STILL PACING the dais, Uncle Lloyd had nodded off in his chair and Lord James was sipping an evil-smelling concoction that was supposed to help his cough when Lady Eloise came down to tell them Roslynn was sleeping peacefully and was not to be disturbed.

  Madoc nodded his acquiescence to her edict, and offered her and her husband the hospitality of his hall. Then he went to find Ivor.

  WHEN IVOR WASN’T in his workroom, Madoc guessed the armory would be the most likely place he would find his steward.

  As he crossed the yard toward it, Ivor came around the corner of the stable and immediately hurried to him as fast as his limp would allow.

  “By all the saints, Madoc, it’s true then?” he exclaimed, gesturing at the wagon that still stood by the gates, although Lord James’s horses had been unhitched and taken to the stable. “Your wife and her parents were taken by force to Pontyrmwr but Trefor let them go and they’ve come back because your wife’s unwell?”

  “Aye.”

  Ivor sucked in his breath. “God save us, Madoc, I’m sorry.”

  “I need to speak with you. In private.”

  Ivor nodded and together they went to his workroom, not saying a word as they passed through the kitchen. Hywel and the other servants paused in their labors and watched them curiously, until Ivor unlocked the workroom door.

  Then Hywel started as if he’d been awakened from his sleep. “What are you all doing?” he cried. “We’ve a meal to make and guests come back, too!”

  The servants immediately went back to work.

  Having opened the door, Ivor stood aside to let Madoc precede him, then followed him into the room, closing the door and bolting it. He hurried to strike a flint and light the thick candle on the table.

  “Do you think we’ve got a spy in Llanpowell?” Madoc asked without preamble as he stood in the middle of the room.

  “A spy?” Ivor repeated warily.

  “Yes. Is it possible somebody in Llanpowell is giving Trefor information? About who’s coming and going, or where my patrols will be?”

  Ivor quickly recovered. “No, I don’t,” he firmly replied. “Your garrison and servants are loyal to you, Madoc. I’d wager my life on it.”

  Madoc would have, too, until today. “You’re certain there’s no greedy servant, no disgruntled soldier or anyone else, who’d be willing to sell such information?”

  “Aye,” Ivor replied, although he appeared and sounded a little less confident. “Look you, Madoc, even if someone was tempted, he’d have to realize what you’d do if he were caught. How could Trefor afford the amount it would take to make a man run that risk? The income from Pontyrmwr’s barely enough to hire and feed his mercenaries, let alone pay for bribes.”

  That was true, and it was some comfort, although Madoc noticed Ivor still looked worried.

  “If there’s someone you suspect of such activity, even if you have no proof, tell me,” he said.

  “Of course I would,” Ivor replied. He hesitated a moment, then regarded Madoc with a pleading expression. “Don’t you think this business with Trefor and your wife is rather strange?”

  “I never expected him to do anything so bold, not when they had an escort of Norman soldiers.”

  “That, too,” Ivor agreed. “But it seems surprisingly generous of him to send for a physician and a midwife he could ill afford to pay.”

  “No doubt he feared the consequences if anything had happened to my wife—as well he should.”

  Ivor’s look became almost…pitying. “Perhaps he had another reason, and I don’t mean kindness. And perhaps there was a reason she went to Pontyrmwr.”

  Madoc’s brow furrowed with confusion. “What sort of reason? She was abducted, taken there by force against her will.”

  “Was she?”

  “Of course!” he retorted, aghast at Ivor’s implication. “You think Roslynn or her parents would lie to me about that? That she has some sinister motive for meeting with my brother, or her parents do? And if that were so—which I don’t believe for a moment—why, then, would they come back?”

  “Because she fell ill and couldn’t go farther and your home is more comfortable. Or because it serves John to have you two at odds, and this supposed abduction was planned to inflame your conflict. Maybe she was sent here simply to cause disruption, or maybe she had something to tell Trefor.

  “What do we really know of her, Madoc?” Ivor persisted. “Even now, how well do you truly know your wife?”

  Madoc crossed his arms. “I refuse to believe that Roslynn’s in league with my brother, or on some surreptitious mission for the king.”

  Not his Roslynn. Not the woman who had been so warm and loving, so passionate and so determined to be an exemplary chatelaine.

  Ivor’s expression softened with sympathy. “I’m not saying she’d gladly or even willingly betray your trust, Madoc, but who knows what she might have had to agree to do for the king if it meant she wasn’t accused and convicted of treason along with her husband? Or to show her gratitude.” His gaze faltered. “Although I’ve hesitated to say it, I’m not the only one in Llanpowell who wonders…Well, and not doubting your virility, Madoc, but she got with child quickly, didn’t she?”

  No. He would not believe that, either.

  “Gwendolyn got with child quickly, too,” he pointed out, his voice as hard as iron, his temper rising.

  “No one doubts you’re Owain’s father, but Gwendolyn wasn’t a Norman c
ome from John’s court, you see.”

  It was as if his heart had been turned to stone, until he remembered Roslynn’s fervent assertion that the child was his.

  No, he would not believe she was lying, that she had looked him in the eye and spoken so sincerely while all the while telling him a monstrous falsehood.

  “I will not accuse my wife of adultery,” he said firmly. “I believe the child she carries is mine, and so you should say to anyone who claims otherwise.”

  He thought of another proof of her innocence. “Nor do I think she’s guilty of any treachery with Trefor, although someone else may be. Trefor’s always seemed to know where my patrols would be before Roslynn ever came to Llanpowell.”

  “Very well, Madoc,” Ivor said as he leaned back against the table, “but as you don’t think she’s betrayed you, I don’t question the loyalty of any in this household or your garrison. It could be Trefor’s managed to steal your sheep when your patrols were elsewhere through luck, or because his men are keeping watch on the border of your estate.

  “But if you’re certain your wife didn’t go willingly with Trefor—”

  “I am.”

  “Then surely the time has come to stop him.”

  “Aye,” Madoc grimly agreed. “The time has come.”

  “HAVE YOU GONE MAD?” Ioan protested after Madoc went to the barracks and told his men his plan. “You’ve got to take us with you. You can’t ride into Pontyrmwr by yourself. You’ll be killed.”

  Madoc’s grim expression didn’t change, nor did his mind. If Trefor hadn’t let Roslynn, her parents and their men go, if he hadn’t sent for a physician and midwife to tend her, if anything serious had happened to his wife or her family, Madoc would have gathered his men and attacked Pontyrmwr without mercy or remorse. He truly would have struck down his brother himself.

  However, because Trefor had sent them all back unharmed, he would give his brother one final warning, one last chance to make peace and end this conflict. “I’m going under a flag of truce.”

  He flicked the white cloth he’d snatched from the kitchen as he’d passed through after leaving Ivor. “I don’t think even Trefor’s so far from honor that he won’t respect it.”

  “What if you’re wrong?” Hugh the Beak demanded. “What then?”

  “Then I’m dead,” Madoc replied. “Still, I’ll not be so sure of his honor that I won’t take a dagger in my belt.”

  “But Madoc—” Ioan began.

  “I am the lord of Llanpowell,” he interrupted, “and I give the orders here. I go to Pontyrmwr alone, and no one is to follow. Do you understand?”

  Ioan and the others reluctantly nodded.

  “What do we tell your wife if you don’t come back?” Hugh asked quietly.

  “That I wish her well and trust that she’ll raise a fine child.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  THE SUN WAS LOW in the sky when Madoc approached the rough stone wall that surrounded his brother’s keep. Ten of Trefor’s men followed him, from the first who’d called a challenge to him as he’d ridden down the rocky, muddy road that led to Pontyrmwr, to the last who’d joined the band behind him only a few yards back.

  Whether it was the white flag, or his lack of obvious weapons, or because he was Trefor’s brother, Madoc wasn’t sure, but he’d not been attacked.

  Madoc didn’t recognize any of the men behind him and didn’t think they were even Welsh. Trefor obviously hired mercenaries without caring where they came from, although what he paid them with, Madoc had no idea. Pontyrmwr was not a large estate and wouldn’t yield much income, although Trefor could probably have made more of it if he’d spent less time stealing sheep and nursing his grievances.

  He passed but one cottage—little more than a hut, really—with a lone silent woman watching from the door. The few scraggly chickens in the yard barely made a sound as they scratched for food.

  Unlike Llanpowell, there were no woods to speak of, only sparse, gnarled trees, gorse, bracken and bog, and he had to fight the dread that scent of muddy, soft ground always roused.

  As for the fortress itself, it was barely enough to deserve the name.

  Madoc reached the gates in the single outer wall, and they swung open before he could announce his arrival. Through the opening he could see Trefor, his hands on his hips and a scowl on his face, standing in the center of a courtyard that was little bigger than the hall of Llanpowell.

  At nearly the same time, rain began to fall. Trefor didn’t so much as flinch, and neither did Madoc as he rode into his brother’s stronghold—not even when he dismounted and the gates swung shut behind him, meeting with an ominous thud.

  “What do you want?” Trefor demanded, drawing Madoc’s attention away from his survey of the dilapidated buildings. Besides the round and ancient stone keep, there were a few other buildings of decaying wood that looked cobbled together and haphazardly repaired.

  Madoc looked at his brother who had caused so much trouble and misery, and fought to control his rage, to do what he’d come to do and then get out, never to see his brother again. “I came to thank you for sending my wife and her parents back to me.”

  Trefor’s eyes narrowed. “She’s well then?”

  “Well enough.”

  The rain began to fall faster and Trefor swiped his hand over his face before he grudgingly muttered, as courtesy demanded, “You’re welcome to my hall.”

  If it hadn’t started to rain, Madoc would have stayed where he was and let all in Pontyrmwr hear what he had to say; under these conditions, and because his brother might think he was afraid if he refused, Madoc inclined his head and followed as his brother led the way into the dingy, smoky keep. The windows were mere arrow loops, and there was no chimney to let out the smoke from the braziers trying to warm the chilly structure.

  Inside were more rough men who got to their feet as they entered, hands on the hilts of their swords, suspicion and hatred in their eyes, as well as a few slatternly women who scurried away, including one young woman who had hair the same color as Gwendolyn’s. Maybe Trefor had found some consolation for the loss of his intended bride.

  Trefor scowled as he threw himself onto a scarred bench near the largest brazier and sharply gestured for Madoc to sit on an equally battered bench opposite.

  He did not sit, and Trefor’s frown deepened. “Not so neat and tidy as your hall, no doubt, but I don’t have a pretty Norman wife to run my household. Don’t have a wife at all, thanks to you.”

  “That’s not my fault,” Madoc replied, “and I haven’t come to reminisce or listen to your whining. I’ve come to say that it’s a good thing no harm came to my wife because of your actions, or you’d be dead. Come onto my land one more time, Trefor, if you or any of your men set so much as a toe on my estate, we will fight you. It’s only because you sent for a physician and midwife that I’m giving you this warning instead of attacking Pontyrmwr now with all the men at my command.”

  Madoc ignored the muttering of the men around him and the sound of swords being unsheathed as he watched Trefor’s lip curl with disdain. “What, you come against me in open battle? I thought you more likely to run to the Norman king. You’re John’s lackey, after all.”

  It took every ounce of self-control Madoc possessed not to throw himself at his brother and knock him to the ground as he’d done before. “I am no man’s lackey. I am the lord of Llanpowell.”

  “You’re my little brother,” Trefor replied, the knuckles of his hands turning white as he gripped the edge of the bench as if about to launch himself at Madoc. “My jealous, envious little brother, Mumble-mouth, who repaid me for all the attention I paid him, all the lessons I taught, by stealing what was mine. You got Gwendolyn, you got Llanpowell, you even got a son with her, by God, and now a new wife to give you more, while I have nothing but this rotten pile of rubble and a few stinking sheep!”

  “I took nothing that was truly yours,” Madoc retorted. “You lost Gwendolyn by your own actions, and your e
state because of what you did. I had no hand in it.”

  Trefor rose abruptly. Madoc stood firm, so they were nose to nose.

  “I loved Gwen—you never did!” Trefor charged, his usual cold demeanor twisted with the heat of a fury to equal Madoc’s. “You only wanted her because she was mine!”

  Trefor raised his fist. Madoc tensed, feet planted, waiting for the blow, as he reached for his dagger.

  So Roslynn must have waited many times, fearing the fury of a man bigger and stronger and cruel. No wonder, then, she was afraid of him when he was angry. No wonder, then, that she wouldn’t ever love him.

  Trefor didn’t strike. He slowly lowered his fist and shook his head. “I’m not going to hit you, Mumble-mouth. Unlike you, I can control my temper. And I won’t make your pretty lady wife a widow for the second time, not when she’s with child. You should thank her for saving your life when you get back home. Now get out of my keep and off my land and never come back.”

  Madoc drew a deep, shuddering breath as he willed his ire to recede.

  “And you stay off mine,” he warned, “or that day will be your last.”

  There could never be any reconciliation between them—nor did he want one. Not now, and not ever.

  “Treat your wife well, Mumble-mouth, or maybe one day she’ll be coming to back to Pontyrmwr and the better man,” Trefor jeered as Madoc passed through the gathered men who made way for him.

  Madoc paused on the threshold. “While you have neither wife nor son to bear your name.”

  Then the lord of Llanpowell walked out, leaving his lonely, bitter brother in his dirty, drafty keep.

  “HE WENT TO Pontyrmwr alone?” Roslynn whispered, staring at her father with horror.

  To think she’d been so happy and relieved to be back at Llanpowell, knowing the bleeding had stopped, especially when Madoc had taken her in his arms, only to wake and discover what he’d done.

  “That’s what the man Ioan told me,” Lord James confirmed. “I gather your husband was most adamant and refused an escort.”