After her mother had gone, Roslynn picked up the little garment she’d been working on.
These days the bedchamber bore few signs that a man had ever shared it with her. Madoc’s chest had disappeared before she’d returned from Pontyrmwr, and she’d never ventured to ask where it had gone or where he slept. Since her father had gone back to Briston, she and her mother shared the large bed, made up with her mother’s sheets and blankets. The dressing table held some of her hair ribbons and pins, but also needles and thread, and bits of trim for the garments she was making for the baby.
There was a sharp knock before Madoc walked into the room. As always, he seemed to fill it with his presence, but, also as always since her return from Pontyrmwr, it was as if there was a stone wall separating them.
His expression unreadable, Madoc came toward her and picked up the little gown, examining it in the weak winter sunlight. “It’s very small.”
Roslynn folded her hands over her rounded belly. “I’m sure it will be large enough.”
He put down the gown and raised a brow in query. “Your mother says you wanted to speak with me.”
She took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be easy, even though she was sure she was right about Ivor and had the evidence to prove it. “Ivor’s cheating you, Madoc. He’s pretending to pay for more goods than you’re receiving and keeping the difference.”
She held out the list she and her mother had made over the past few months. “These are the occasions we can be sure about, when my mother or I were able to see the goods being unloaded and keep a count. Then I checked the number we counted against the number Ivor recorded and the amount he paid. As you can see, there are several discrepancies.”
Madoc took the list and ran his eyes down the columns of goods and figures.
“I know you think he’s your friend and you’ve trusted him, but he’s cheating you. By cheating you, that man steals from our child, too—from his future inheritance, or her dowry, if the baby is a girl.”
“Ivor wouldn’t steal from me,” Madoc said quietly, still staring at the list. “Not Ivor.”
“You have the proof in your hands. There are too many differences to be simple mistakes or errors. This is a pattern, repeated over months. He’s probably been doing it for years.”
Madoc raised his eyes and held out his hand. “I’ll deal with this at once. Since you accuse him, I think you should come with me.”
She hadn’t foreseen this; nevertheless, she wasn’t afraid to confront the steward, because she was right and she knew it.
She took Madoc’s hand and gripped it hard as she hoisted herself to her feet. It was the first time they had touched since he’d carried her to this chamber after she’d come back from Pontyrmwr, yet just as before, as always, the sensation of his flesh against hers warmed and thrilled her.
And now filled her with regret.
Going slowly for her sake, Madoc led her down the steps to the hall past her waiting mother. Madoc said nothing to Lady Eloise, and Roslynn shook her head slightly so her mother wouldn’t ask questions.
Lloyd, seated near the dais, straightened eagerly when he saw them. “Well, now, and holding hands,” he began excitedly, only to fall silent when Madoc shot him a censorious look.
Poor man, Roslynn thought, pitying him for his wasted hope. There could be no happy reunion for her and Madoc, now or ever, especially after she had showed him that a man he’d trusted like a brother had betrayed and robbed him. Although she wasn’t responsible, a portion of Madoc’s anger and distress would always attach to her because she’d been the one to tell him what Ivor had done.
They entered the kitchen where, not surprisingly, all the work ceased as the cook and the servants stopped to stare at them.
“Is Ivor in his chamber?” Madoc asked, his voice loud in the stillness.
“Aye, my lord,” Hywel answered.
With a nod, Madoc and Roslynn proceeded to the workroom, leaving speculative whispers in their wake and Hywel complaining about nobles always traipsing through his kitchen. The door was open and Ivor sat at his table, a bag of silver open at his elbow, one of many scrolls unrolled in front of him. A large beeswax candle, the wax running down its side and spluttering in the chilly draft, illuminated the chamber.
Ivor looked up and his lips widened in a smile. “Madoc!” he cried, shoving the scroll away from him as he got to his feet. “And my lady! To what do I owe the honor?”
“I need to see the record of payments you’ve made to merchants for the past six months,” Madoc said, tapping the rolled parchment Roslynn had given him on the top of the table, “and my wife should sit down.”
“I’m quite all right,” Roslynn said, hoping that Madoc’s brusque manner meant he was ready to believe her. “I can be on my feet for a little while.”
“I would rather you sit down.”
Ivor was obsequiousness itself as he moved his chair closer to her. Since she didn’t want to distract Madoc from the business at hand, she did as he wished, and without further protest.
Meanwhile, Ivor collected several scrolls and laid them on the table, glancing from time to time at the scroll Madoc already held.
“Is something amiss, Madoc?” he ventured when he was finished.
“I hope not,” Madoc said, his voice controlled, although there was tension beneath.
She could see the strain, too, in the corners of his mouth and the lines of his brow, as he began to compare the lists.
“What’s going on, Madoc?” Ivor asked as Madoc studied the records. “What is that other parchment?”
Madoc turned all the parchments so that Ivor could see and compare them himself. “This is my wife’s accounting of goods delivered. As you can see, her numbers and yours don’t match. You’ve apparently been paying for more goods than we received.”
He regarded Ivor with angry eyes. “Since this has happened several times, I find it hard to believe it’s only a mistake.”
Ivor flushed and glanced at Roslynn before addressing Madoc. “So she says—and I note she alone provides the alleged proof.
“This accusation has nothing to do with your goods and prices, or discrepancies in records, Madoc,” he charged. “She makes these allegations and created this false evidence because she’s never liked me and she’s wanted me gone from the day she arrived. Indeed, she hates me and she wants you to hate me, too.”
“I had no reason to mistrust you,” Roslynn countered, “until I saw a discrepancy that raised my suspicions that all was not right with the household accounts. If I accuse you of wrongdoing, it’s because I have good cause, as this evidence attests.”
“I have my lists, too, my lady,” he replied. “It’s your word and your document against mine. And if you thought I was such a criminal, why wait until now to say so? The first entry you note was months ago.”
“Because you were Madoc’s trusted friend, so I would not speak until I was certain and had several instances of your calumny. My mother also—”
“Your mother?” Ivor jeered. “Your Norman mother? Madoc is to take her word over mine, too?”
“Need I remind you that I’m Madoc’s wife and chatelaine of Llanpowell? It is my duty to keep track of expenses—a duty you’ve sought to make difficult from the beginning. Why, Ivor? If all your dealings were honest and true, why be an obstacle in my path?”
“Aye, that’s right—your path, as if we were all helpless babes before you came! Well, my fine Norman lady, we were not and we don’t need your interference here.”
“It was not interference. I only sought to fulfill a chatelaine’s duties.”
“Provided you’re the sort of chatelaine who betrays a husband,” Ivor charged.
Roslynn blushed, but wouldn’t let him silence her. “Wimarc de Werre was a vicious brute and a traitor to the king. I would betray him again if necessary. But I’d never betray Madoc, who is a finer, better man than Wimarc could ever be. Who is the very opposite, in that he sees only the good
in people and wants to trust them, where Wimarc saw only fools and dupes.
“Madoc would never strike a woman, and if he is sometimes angry, he doesn’t hide it until he lashes out in sudden, unforeseen violence. His rage is brief, of the moment, soon controlled. A woman need never fear him as she must many another man.”
Even as she spoke, Roslynn realized the absolute truth of her words, and how wrong she’d been to doubt her husband, who had been standing silently beside her all this time.
Now Ivor was forgotten as she turned to Madoc, whose chest rose and fell as if he found simply breathing difficult. And in his eyes, she saw not anger or dismay, but hope—a wild, tempestuous hope that filled her own heart with joy. She would have embraced him then, except that Ivor was there and she was not finished yet.
“You’re a fine one to speak of betrayal, Ivor,” she said, forcing her gaze away from Madoc. “How long have you been stealing from the man you call your friend? How many years? And why? To be rich? Because you’re jealous? For vengeance, perhaps, because his mother was a Norman and he helped God’s anointed Norman king?”
Ivor stared at her, panic beneath the scorn, and true fear in his voice when he spoke. “There is nothing Madoc has or wants that I would steal. He is my friend, my almost brother.”
He drew himself up as he faced her still-silent husband. “Tell her, Madoc—or do you believe her and not me? Do you have so little faith in me? Does all my hard work and friendship count for nothing?”
“Where do you go, Ivor?” Madoc asked quietly. “Where do you go for such long stretches of time when no one can find you? I always thought it was to see a woman. I doubt that now.”
He took a step toward the steward, who began to tremble. “Perhaps you venture close to Pontyrmwr. Maybe you even meet my brother and tell him of my plans.”
“You’d accuse me of that, too?” Ivor cried, backing away. He pointed at Roslynn, who had not considered that Ivor’s treachery might be more far-reaching. “If there’s a spy in Llanpowell, it’s her!”
“Spy? I am no spy!” Roslynn protested, aghast. “If I was a spy, surely I would have eagerly sought Madoc’s bed and marriage, not fought against it despite the inclination of my body and my heart. Madoc, you must not believe I had such a motive when I came here.”
“No, I don’t, for as you say, you were far from encouraging.”
“That was her way to inflame your desire!” Ivor exclaimed. “How great a fool are you, not to see it? How do you even know this child she carries is yours?”
“Because I know her,” Madoc declared. “I know that she’s an honorable, honest woman, and that she is no spy for John, or anyone else. But you, Ivor…Who else knew so well where my patrols would be and of how many men?
“How long have you been a canker in my household? From the first, or only after I married Gwendolyn? I saw your face as I said my vows that day, but I dismissed your shock as a natural reaction to what Trefor had done, and the marriage to repair it. But now I believe it was something else I saw—dismay and anguish and despair—because you loved Gwendolyn as much as Trefor did.
“Who was it who told Trefor where I was that night when I was with Haldis? We weren’t out in the open, after all. Who else watches the comings and goings in the hall as carefully as you? Was it by your design that Trefor came upon us?
“Did you lie to him, too, and tell him it was Gwendolyn I was with? By God, I can believe you did.
“And then you tried to make trouble between Roslynn and me—and you succeeded. Why? Do you still hate me that much for taking Gwendolyn from you? What else have I ever done to wrong you?”
Ivor, pale and quaking as Madoc walked toward him, opened his mouth as if he would speak, but no sound came out.
“Thank God Roslynn found out the truth,” Madoc said, “and had the greatness of heart to tell me, in spite of what you’d done to ruin our happiness. She is no petty, jealous woman to make a false accusation—not like you.”
His expression hardened into firm resolve. “For our old friendship’s sake, for we were friends once, I give you your life and liberty—but you will leave Llanpowell, Ivor, today, and with nothing save the clothes on your back. If you ever come back, I’ll have you arrested and charged with theft.”
“You mean that,” Ivor murmured incredulously, flushing as red as blood. “You will take her word over mine? Believe this flimsy, false evidence?”
“I can and I do,” Madoc said. “Now go, or face the king’s justice—and mine.”
Ivor stumbled past him toward the door. “Mark my words, Madoc. You’ll rue this day and the day you married that Norman witch.”
WHEN HE WAS GONE, Madoc splayed his hands upon the table and bowed his head.
“God save me,” he whispered, sick at heart even though he didn’t doubt that he’d done the right thing.
As Roslynn had presented the list and told him what she’d suspected, when he’d looked upon it for himself and all the various, nebulous fears and suspicions, memories and half-forgotten impressions had coalesced in his mind and pointed to Ivor, the truth had come upon him like a thunderbolt.
Madoc raised his head to look at his clever, generous, honest Roslynn—to see her grasping the arms of the chair as if she feared she would fall out of it, her face white, her skirts soaking wet and a puddle at her feet.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A SHORT WHILE LATER, Roslynn lay on a pallet of straw in her hastily prepared bedchamber and clutched her mother’s hand. “It’s too soon!” she cried in anguish. “The baby can’t be coming now!”
“’Tis,” the midwife said. The middle-aged, thin, stern woman had been urgently sent for and now stood by the table, stirring something in a cup that was supposed to lessen the pain. “Can’t be stopped, so best lie still and try to rest while you can, my lady.”
Roslynn’s grip tightened as she regarded her mother, desperation in her eyes. “The baby…will it be all right if it comes so early?”
“It might very well be fine,” her mother assured her, although the lines of worry around her mouth belied her tone. “You were a fortnight early, and sound of wind and limb.”
Another cramping pain seized Roslynn’s abdomen, and she let out a low groan as it had its way with her.
“No blood, my lady?” the midwife asked Lady Eloise as she came forward with the brew made of willow bark.
“No.” The women exchanged looks.
“What? What is it?” Roslynn demanded, breathless from the pain.
“That’s good,” her mother said, brushing her cool hand over her daughter’s brow.
Another pain came, and Roslynn bucked and twisted, knocking the cup from the midwife’s hand.
“Now, now, deary, you must lie still,” the woman ordered a little less brusquely. “It could be a long time yet.” The midwife addressed Lady Eloise. “We may need some help to hold her.”
“I’ll be still!” Roslynn cried. She didn’t want the servants to see her struggling, or hear her cries of pain. She imagined the looks they would exchange and knew she couldn’t bear to see them. They could count enough to realize it hadn’t yet been nine months.
And Madoc…what must he be—
She groaned again and bit her lip, fighting not to cry out, to endure the pain, to suffer in silence. Had she not survived Wimarc’s fists and kicks and learned how not to cry and hide how much he hurt her?
What if Wimarc had done something to her when he hit her? What if she was suffering and the babe coming too soon because of something he’d done to her?
What if she was dying?
She must tell Madoc she was sorry for many things, but most of all for hurting him. For not being braver and stronger, and for not trusting that he could control himself in his rage. That he had undeservedly paid the price for another man’s actions—and so had she. She must tell him she regretted leaving Llanpowell and wanted to stay.
Because she loved him and needed him.
“Mother, fetch Mado
c,” she pleaded as, like a fist clenching in her stomach, another pain took hold of her. “Please, bring Madoc!”
“I don’t let husbands in,” the midwife snapped. “They only get in the way. Or swoon, no matter how tough they look. Why, I’ve seen big strong ones wilt like a—”
“Mother, please!”
“Of course. Whatever you want, Roslynn,” Lady Eloise said, getting to her feet. “At once.”
The midwife was about to protest, until she got a look at Lady Eloise’s face and wisely shut her mouth.
“YOUR FATHER never liked Ivor, you know,” Lloyd mused aloud after taking another swig of ale while Madoc paced the dais. “Too clever by half, he used to say. But you liked him and he knew no harm of the boy, so he let it be, although it was no secret the lad had no love for the Normans.”
Straining to hear any sound from the chamber above, Madoc took a gulp of wine. Ivor hated the Normans because he blamed them for his early birth and crippled leg. What if his child was crippled because it came too soon? March, the midwife had said. The babe should be born in March, and it was still February.
“Look you,” Lloyd went on, gesturing with his mug, “there was Ioan’s brother come a good month before his time and he was a fine, big fellow. His sainted mother always said he would have been the death of her if he’d come when he was supposed to. Like giving birth to an ox.” Lloyd chortled before he took another swig. “Ah, bless me, but she had a way with her, did Ioan’s mother.”
“The child is mine,” Madoc said, loud enough that everyone in the hall—the soldiers, the servants, Bron bringing more wine, Uncle Lloyd—wouldn’t doubt that Madoc had faith in his wife’s honor and would claim this child as his own.
“What, nobody saying otherwise, are they?” Lloyd demanded as if truly surprised anyone would doubt it. “Got her with child on your wedding night, I’m sure, bull that you are. So Trefor was conceived. I had that from your father himself, and you’re as like Gruffydd as a son can be.”
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