The Warlord’s Bride

by Margaret Moore

  Hugh plucked at Madoc’s sleeve. “Rhodri’s not a patient fellow,” he noted under his breath.

  Madoc nodded, understanding. If they were to attack first, they should do so at once.

  He looked down the line of his men, to see every eye upon him. He raised his sword, sprang to his feet and, uttering the battle cry of his family, made straight for Rhodri and Ivor.

  The attackers, crouching, swiveled toward the stream. Those who had arrows at the ready let fly. One of Madoc’s men went down, an arrow in his foot.

  Madoc didn’t stop, nor did any of his other men. Swords held aloft, they charged up the slope, paying no heed to the sharp points of holly and the arrows flying as they attacked.

  Madoc met Rhodri first. Rhodri was a good fighter, but Madoc was better. Rhodri swung his sword as a man cut grain, sweeping the blade before him as if it were a scythe. That kept some men at bay and Madoc, too, for a moment, but it also meant that Rhodri left his side exposed too long.

  Waiting for the best chance, Madoc hesitated, then moved in, swinging his blade up and into Rhodri’s side, the heavy weapon slicing through leather, cloth, skin and bone until, with a scream, Rhodri fell.

  Madoc didn’t wait to see him die; he was looking for Ivor while his well-trained men made short work of the rest of their enemies, easily running down any who tried to escape.

  Ivor couldn’t run, and because Madoc had known him from boyhood, he knew where to look for his hiding place. He strode to the nearest thicket of holly, reached in and grabbed a barely visible booted foot. The bush shook as Ivor cursed and kicked and struggled while Madoc pulled him out.

  Although Ivor had never learned how to wield a broadsword, he’d been taught to use a dagger, and he was very good. Madoc knew that, too, and so he was ready to parry the slashing movement of Ivor’s dagger with his sword. His action sent the dagger flying and before Ivor could turn or get away, Madoc had planted his foot on Ivor’s chest.

  He put the tip of his sword at his former steward’s throat and stared down at him with disgust. “I trusted you, Ivor, as I trusted no one else. I loved you like a brother, even more than my own. This is how you repay that love and loyalty and faith? It sickens me to realize how wrong I was to trust you and to think that if Roslynn hadn’t come to Llanpowell, I might never have learned the truth.”

  “Spare me your whining criticism,” Ivor snarled. “I’m sick to death of hearing about your troubles—you, who’s always had everything a man could want. Just kill me and be done.”

  Madoc grimly shook his head as he removed his foot and moved back, keeping his sword pointed at Ivor’s throat. “Without a trial? Without letting everyone, including Trefor, hear what you did—what you are? It was these men stealing sheep, wasn’t it? Under your orders, or Rhodri’s or both. And it was you told them where my patrols would be, wasn’t it, so they wouldn’t get caught?”

  “I fell in with them after you sent me from Llanpowell,” Ivor said as he sat up, bracing himself with his hands. “It was that, or starve.”

  “You expect me to believe Rhodri led them?” Madoc skeptically replied. “Or did he get conveniently, recently cast out of Pontyrmwr, too?”

  “Mercy, my lord!” one of the captured attackers cried as Hugh dragged him toward Madoc by the back of his tunic, then threw him on the ground.

  The thief, who was as skinny as a whip and pockmarked, raised his head. His desperate eyes darted about as he licked his cracked lips. “Mercy, my lord,” he pleaded. “Spare my life and I’ll tell you everything! The cripple’s our leader, my lord. Him and that other blackguard you killed.”

  “This man would sell his own mother for a ha’penny, Madoc,” Ivor sneered. “You can’t believe a word he says.”

  “Yet here you are with him,” Madoc noted, his rage rising now that the fighting was over. “Hugh, tie Ivor’s hands. And this man’s, too. I want to hear what he has to say.”

  Regarding Ivor as if he smelled like rotten fish, Hugh did as he was told while Madoc stood by with his sword at the ready. When he was finished, Hugh pushed both men down so they were sitting on the ground.

  Madoc sheathed his sword and sat on his haunches, eye to eye with them.

  The thief licked his chapped lips and spoke without waiting for Madoc’s questions. “He promised us a fortune, my lord, the cripple did. And Rhodri, too. They said if we joined up with them, we’d be rich—but we never saw hardly a coin. They kept it all for themselves, and if any of us complained or talked of leaving and going our own way, the cripple said he’d send you or your brother after us and we’d hang. Or they’d kill us. We was trapped by those slimy bastards and no mistake. It was all their doing, the sheep and the ram, too.”

  “You might as well save your breath, Guto,” Ivor growled. “Nothing you say’s going to make any difference. We’re as good as dead already.”

  Ignoring him, the thief got to his knees to plead with Madoc. “It’s true, my lord. I wanted to leave off and run away, but I couldn’t.”

  “You will be tried according to the law,” the lord of Llanpowell answered.

  “Norman law,” Ivor muttered.

  “Either way, you are going to hang,” Madoc said to Ivor as he rose, struggling to control his burning rage.

  “While you spend your nights with that Norman trollop King John gave you for services rendered.”

  The thief began to whimper, while Ivor blanched, for Madoc’s expression would have struck fear into any man.

  “Never speak of my wife again,” he commanded. “You aren’t worthy enough to kiss the hem of her gown.”

  Ivor struggled to stand. “Any Welshman’s worth ten Normans! And as for her…” He spit onto the ground at Madoc’s feet. “That’s for her.”

  Madoc gripped the hilt of his sword. Never had he been more outraged, so keen to kill a man, but even in his anger, he sensed that losing his temper was exactly what Ivor wanted.

  “You want me to attack you, don’t you, Ivor?” he said as the truth dawned. “A quick death, is that it?”

  Although his hand itched to give him what he wanted, Madoc shook his head. “That would be too easy.”

  “You lust-crazed oaf!” Ivor cried. “You pawn of the Normans! Do you think I’ll let you make a public spectacle out of me? That I’ll let people mock and tease me on the way to my death? I had enough mockery when we were children and I was better than any of you!”

  In the face of Ivor’s bitter fury, Madoc grew calm, yet no less determined to bring his former friend to justice. “I was teased, too, Ivor.”

  “Oh, yes, the son of the lord—teased a little because he was so quiet and mumbled when he talked,” Ivor retorted. “That was nothing compared to what they called me.”

  “You were given a position of trust and responsibility.”

  “I was your bloody clerk!” Ivor screamed, spittle flying from his lips. “That’s all I was or ever would be, thanks to the Normans! Yet you expect me to be grateful! To lick your boots and kiss your feet and praise you for the crumbs you gave me, until you gave some Norman whore power over me.

  “I’ll never let you display me for ridicule. Not before a court, or anywhere else!”

  Then Ivor ran. He ran like one possessed, his head down, his hands tied—straight into the trunk of a massive oak. There was a sickening, terrible crack as he hit it and he tumbled sideways, to lie twitching on the ground.

  “Ivor!”

  Madoc ran to his side and rolled him onto his back.

  Ivor’s head lolled like a broken doll’s, and his eyes stared up, unseeing. There was a trickle of blood from his nose, and more from a gash in his forehead.

  “Oh, Ivor,” Madoc whispered as he embraced his friend and held him close. Because once he had trusted Ivor, and they had been like brothers.

  MADOC WAS STILL HOLDING Ivor’s body when Hugh appeared with the horses, Rhodri’s body slung over one of them. “Madoc?”

  “Ivor killed himself,” he muttered, still too shocked
to quite believe it. “He ran…”

  Then he remembered he was the lord of Llanpowell, took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Ivor killed himself,” he repeated, his voice stronger as he lay Ivor on the ground.

  Aghast, Hugh crossed himself. So did the four other men of Llanpowell behind him.

  “Put his body on a horse,” Madoc said, “and take him back to Llanpowell with Ioan. The rest of the men will come with me.”

  For he had not yet completed his journey and he still had amends to make.

  THE SUN WAS SETTING as Trefor of Pontyrmwr stood in the courtyard of his fortress and again watched Madoc ride through the gates.

  But this time there was a boy seated in the saddle in front of Madoc, a dark-haired boy about five years old, with features like Madoc, who looked this way and that like a curious little bird.

  Striding toward them, Trefor held up his hand. “Far enough, brother. What do you want? I’ve not set so much as a toe on your land since the shearing feast, memorable occasion that it was.”

  “I know. That’s not what’s brought me here.”

  “Come to gloat, have you, now that you’ve got another son? I heard all about it. News travels fast in these parts.”

  “Who told you? Rhodri?”

  “Could be. And you brought your other son, too. Wise of you, brother, for I’ll not harm you with Gwendolyn’s child here. Otherwise, I’d drag you off that horse and run you through right now.”

  “You could try. But I haven’t come to fight you, or to gloat,” Madoc said as he dismounted.

  He reached up and lifted Owain from the saddle. With the boy standing wide-eyed and wondering beside him, Madoc went down on one knee and bowed his head. “I’ve come to beg your forgiveness, Trefor. I’ve done you a great wrong.”

  His eyes narrowing as if expecting a trick or feint, Trefor took a step back and reached for his sword.

  “I’ve done Owain a great wrong, too,” Madoc admitted, ignoring his brother’s action.

  He brought the little boy eye to eye with him. “Owain, I’ve done a despicable, terrible thing. Out of spite and anger and resentment, I sent you away from Llanpowell and I lied to you. I’m not your true father. I’ve kept you from him.”

  Madoc got to his feet and turned the boy so that he faced Trefor. “Look closely, Trefor, and you’ll see the truth, and the reason I sent your son from Llanpowell.”

  Trefor’s mouth gaped as he stared at them both, but especially at the boy, who looked back at him with equal confusion out of bright blue irises rimmed with black.

  “Trefor, Owain is your son, not mine,” Madoc said. “Gwendolyn was already with child when we married. I never made love with her, not once. It was only you she loved. Always, you.”

  Trefor stumbled backward as if Madoc had struck a mortal blow.

  Seeing his brother’s shock, it was as if five years’ worth of guilt and remorse and shame swept over Madoc all at once, and he had never been more sorry—except when he also looked at little Owain.

  What would this revelation mean for him? Madoc had wondered all the way here. Yet whatever the future held, whether Owain or Trefor ever forgave him or not, he had no doubt he was doing the right thing—the thing he should have done years ago, just as he’d promised Gwendolyn he would.

  “I’m so sorry. I beg forgiveness of you both,” he said humbly, contritely, with no pride at all as he remained on bended knee.

  Still staring at him with stunned disbelief, Trefor shook his head. “She never told me. If what you say is true, why didn’t she tell me?”

  “She wasn’t sure herself until after we were married. I never touched her, Trefor, on my honor. She was so upset, I didn’t even try, not that night or ever, because it was you she loved, not me.

  “Roslynn told me what you said about seeing Gwendolyn and me kissing. We didn’t. It was Haldis I was with that night, Trefor. Remember Haldis, Gwendolyn’s cousin, who looked so much like her? I would never have kissed Gwendolyn knowing she was to be your wife. Never. I thought I loved Gwendolyn, but you are my brother and I would never betray you.”

  “Haldis?” Trefor whispered incredulously. “That was Haldis you were kissing? Oh, sweet Jesu!”

  His hands spread wide, Madoc rose and took a step toward his brother. “Gwendolyn was sorry she agreed to marry me from the moment the vows were spoken. She spent our wedding night weeping for you, and every night thereafter. She was never happy except once in all that time.”

  He glanced back at Owain, standing so silent and still despite what he’d been told. “That was the day she bore your son—the same day she made me promise I would tell you the truth about Owain. She died with your name on her lips, Trefor, still loving you.”

  Trefor tore his gaze from Madoc to look at his son. “You broke your promise and claimed Owain as your own when he was not? You kept my son from me?”

  “Aye, I did, to my shame and regret,” Madoc confessed. “I told myself it was to spare her shame, and you, and our family. But it was really to hurt you because you’d hurt her and she’d hurt me by loving you. It was cruel vengeance, Trefor, and I deserve your hate.”

  Trefor ignored him as he came closer and went down on one knee to study the wary little face, the big searching eyes of the boy before him. “My son. My son. Gwendolyn’s and mine.”

  And then he gathered the boy into his embrace and held him tight. “Oh, my son!”

  The lad twisted and looked back at Madoc. “Da?”

  “No, I’m your uncle,” Madoc gently corrected. “This is your da. I am your uncle and this is your da, who loves you.”

  “You needn’t be afraid. I’ll send for your foster parents to come live with us here,” Trefor said, evincing a wisdom Madoc hadn’t expected, but that took another enormous weight from him. He’d been worried the unfamiliar surroundings and people would distress the boy if he came to live at Pontyrmwr.

  He’d known he need not worry that Trefor would treat him well.

  Trefor rose and, as he faced Madoc again, that familiar hard look came to his face. Madoc waited for the denunciations, the anger, the scorn and disgust. For Trefor to strike him with his fist, or draw his sword.

  Yet neither the rage nor blow came. Instead, the rancor dissipated, replaced by sorrow and a remorse that matched his own. “I should hate you for what you’ve done, and once I would have, but you’ve given me something I never hoped to have—a son with the woman I loved and lost because I was a proud, headstrong fool. I’ve cursed myself a thousand times since that terrible day I lost her. I cursed you, too, Madoc, but in my heart, I knew I had reacted rashly, foolishly and with dishonor.

  “We both made terrible mistakes, Madoc. I should have trusted her—and you. I never should have believed Ivor that night when he said that you were with Gwendolyn and sent me looking for you.”

  Ivor. Madoc had guessed it was so, but it still hurt to hear it. How deep Ivor’s hatred and jealousy and bitterness must have run, even then. “Ivor was our enemy, Trefor—yours and mine.”

  He glanced at Owain, who was gravely studying Trefor. “Perhaps we could go to your hall? It’s too late for us to return to Llanpowell and I have much to tell you.”

  “Aye, of course, and gladly,” Trefor replied. He smiled at his son and the years of bitterness fell from his face, making him look years younger. “You’re in luck, Owain. My cook makes the best honey cakes in Wales and I know for a fact she was making some today. Let’s go and have some, eh?”

  Owain’s eyes lit up like candles as he reached for his father’s hand.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ROSLYNN SMILED at her mother as Lady Eloise bent over the cradle where her grandson rested and cooed a familiar lullaby.

  “He’s perfect, isn’t he?” Roslynn said, quite certain that he was.

  “I’m not sure if I would call little Mascen perfect,” her mother replied, her voice grave but her cheeks dimpling with a smile. “He is the loudest infant I think I’ve ever heard.
I believe he might shout the rafters down before he’s done and you’ll have cause to wish he was a little quieter.”

  “No, he’s perfect, and Madoc thinks so, too,” Roslynn replied, remembering the joy and wonderment in Madoc’s eyes when he held his son.

  All the pain and fear that she’d endured had been as nothing when the midwife put their son into Madoc’s waiting arms.

  Lady Eloise reached down and lifted the baby from the cradle. “Unless I’m very wrong, he’s about to start crying again. He may also turn out to be the most ravenous baby I’ve ever encountered, too.”

  “So he’ll grow up big and strong like his father,” Roslynn said as she prepared to nurse. “Where is Madoc? Still sleeping in the hall after celebrating all night? They seemed very subdued. I expected the singing to last until dawn, at least.”

  “I think we need more linen,” Lady Eloise replied as she laid the babe in her daughter’s arms and backed away. “Can you manage while I fetch it?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I won’t be a moment,” her mother said, before she hurried from the room.

  Why such haste? Roslynn wondered, and where was Madoc? He had been so happy and so proud, surely he should have come to see her and the baby before now.

  She glanced out the window as her son began to suck. It was well past dawn. Madoc must know, after she’d insisted that he stay with her and he’d held their child, and especially when she’d looked at him with all the love she felt, that she would never leave him again. The dread she’d felt about what he might do in the heat of his temper had not been his fault, but the aftermath of her own past. It was her emotions that needed to be conquered more than his, for even when he lost his temper, he was never mean or cruel. He would never hurt her. She need never be afraid of Madoc, no matter how angry he became.

  Perhaps something had happened to detain him, she told herself. Perhaps he’d had too much wine or braggot and was still sleeping somewhere.

  Perhaps Trefor had heard of the birth of another son for his brother and done something terrible.