She approached. “I am Ka-Kay, how may I help?” she asked in the French dialect she’d learned with Robert, hoping they understood. She made sure to lower her voice and keep her hood up.
They bowed. “I am Brother Owain,” spoke the leaner of the two, a scar marring an otherwise soft-featured face, “and this is Brother Cadfael. Follow us please.”
Whew, they spoke Robert’s French. They hustled along, their soft steps pattering against the stone walkways of the burning complex. Smoke clogged the air, which thickened with the aggressive heat of the spreading fire to the right, where precious glass tinkled to the ground from a bursting window. Sharp, static orders punctuated the roar and whoosh of the fire as Robert and the monks shouted instructions and concentrated their energy on containing its spread and dousing what they could. Flecks of ash jerked and spun through the air, settling in her hair and clothes. She covered her nose and mouth with her mantle and steeled herself for what she might see. She tried not to gape at seeing an honest-to-God-real medieval monastery. On fire.
In the damage-free great hall, fires blazed in every fireplace and brazier, making the interior stifling in its heat.
She stopped. Two body-shaped sheets stained with blood lay on the stone floor. “Oh.”
Brother Cadfael’s face was unreadable. “The raiders began stealing the gold and silverplate, and these two brothers confronted the unholy bastards. Brother Morgan fought the one who took our only relic, the knuckle of John the Baptist. The whoreson of a Marcher ran him through with his sword. He was dead before he hit the ground.”
“Good God!” She gripped her stomach, horror washing her in chills and a sick churning in her gut. The monks stared, confusion clear on their exhausted faces. Oops, she’d spoken English.
She swallowed. “What can I do?”
“If you could make the injured drink our healing brew, that would be one less burden. We patched them the best we could. Only one suffers from a grievous injury, the rest are minor.”
“Of course. Show me.”
Brother Cadfael introduced her to a stoop-shouldered monk by one of the hearth fires. They ladled their concoction into a wooden bowl, steam curling into the air, redolent of grassy and fragrant herbs. As soon as the brew cooled, she knelt by the first monk, whose face was sickly pale in the flickering firelight. A blood-soaked bandage was tied around his arm, his face and neck smeared with blood and soot. Sweat plastered his black hair to his forehead.
She put a supporting arm behind his back and helped him rise. “Here, drink as much as you can.”
He took several gulps and turned his head away on a gasp. She eased him down and moved to the next. In all, there were six, and when she finished and returned to the hearth, the first patient was dozing—something must have been in the drink to put them to sleep.
“May I make…” and here she struggled with how to express the word sterile. Brother Cadfael seemed curious once she explained her purpose of making sterile bandages, not at all reacting in a fearful or dismissive manner. Instead, as she boiled water and gathered the cloth she’d need, he asked smart, probing questions and pitched in.
Huh. Not how she expected a medieval monk to react to a woman’s knowledge. Except…she wasn’t a woman in their eyes—they’d accepted her as Robert’s squire.
But it might not have mattered. They were Welsh, and during her stay in Caernarfon with her friends, she’d learned that historically, the Welsh hadn’t had the same prejudices against women as their Norman counterparts. And the Normans believed the Welsh were uncivilized and needed to be brought into the light and refinement of Norman law and customs?
Another glaring difference—these monks swore like sailors stubbing their toes, even in French.
While their new bandages dried, she prepared two bowls--one with soapy water, another plain--grabbed a clean cloth, and sat cross-legged by the first injured monk. She dipped the cloth in the soapy water, wrung out the excess, and bathed his face and neck. It didn’t help the wound, but she hoped her ministrations comforted him. She washed his arms and hands too, and moved to the next monk.
She was on the second to last monk, when footsteps scraped at the door. Robert strode in, the afternoon light behind throwing his features into shadow until he penetrated deeper into the hall.
Soot streaked the hard planes of his face, and his mouth was set in hard lines. His gaze was flat. Emotionless. Like the old Robert.
She shivered, stood, and intercepted him. “Did you put out the fires?”
“Yes, though we failed to save the library and records. All sodden ashes now. What about here?”
God, what a waste. She related how the monks were injured and killed and studied his face for his reaction.
His eyes remained flat. Flat like when they’d first met, with none of the fledgling depths she’d witnessed in the last couple of days. Anger boiled within her, surprising her. When she’d initially heard the horrors, she’d been too overwhelmed to react. Out of necessity, she’d shoved down her emotions and pitched in with what needed to be done. But reciting it now, with no reaction from him, irrationally flipped something inside.
“What? Nothing to say?”
“What is there to say?”
“Doesn’t this upset you?”
He shrugged. Shrugged. “Death and violence are part of life.”
She opened her mouth, but his jaw tightened a fraction, betraying his studied complacency. And really, she was in a time and place where such violence existed. She didn’t have to like it—God, she couldn’t get back to her own time fast enough. Sure, her time had death and violence, but it wasn’t like this. At least in her sheltered part of the world.
But wasn’t she only kidding herself about the realities of her world, a result of her privilege? Brutality existed in war-torn areas, as well as life and death struggles in poor neighborhoods. She wasn’t wholly immune there either.
He studied her, eyes dark and penetrating. “But,” he said, the word drawn out as realization dawned, “it is not part of yours, is it?”
She took a deep breath, fighting back tears. “No.” She spun away. “In fact, I…” Whoa. She’d almost said ‘I work to find diplomatic solutions.’ “I don’t believe in violence,” she finished lamely.
“A strange land you come from to afford such a luxury.”
She gaped. It was a luxury, and she’d never thought of it that way. Her anger shifted to the rightful target—the perpetrators. She took his arm, steered him to a bench, and pushed him down. She fetched the bowls and washed his face too, the action taking her mind off what she’d seen and heard.
“Thank you,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble in the space between them.
When she finished, she settled beside him, grateful for his strong, familiar presence in the midst of this chaos. “Why did Lord Powys’s men do this?”
“Drunk, Brother Gruffudd said, but animosity has long lingered between them.”
“Being drunk is no excuse.”
“No, it is not.” He raked a hand through his hair. “It only allowed them to act out their true nature.”
“Does this happen a lot?”
“Not that I am aware of. I have heard tales from earlier Welsh wars, but never knew which were true or mere stories.” A minute or two passed in silence. “Enough of this,” he growled. He shot to his feet and strode to the nearest monks, speaking to them in a low voice. She followed, and he faced her. “My assistance is needed with their cleanup efforts. They wish the chapel serviceable by vespers.”
“Uh, when is that?”
Confusion marred his forehead. “You are unfamiliar with the term? I’m not sure how to say it in your tongue. But it’s the bell that’s rung at sunset.”
She nodded, breath held. She probably should’ve known that as a medieval-y person. Thank God for the language barrier excuse.
“I will seek you out ere then. The brothers invited us to break our journey here for the evening.”
“See
you then.” She retrieved her bowls and washed the last two patients. By then it was time to change the bandages, and she assisted the monks in cleaning and dressing the wounds.
Would things ever slow down for her enough to catch her breath and make sense of things? Always, she felt like a barely concealed impostor.
“Have we any more maslin bread?” Robert’s deep gravelly voice asked by her ear, his breath lightly brushing her neck.
Could she please reach a point where that voice didn’t spread warmth through her whole body? Earlier that morning, they’d left the abbey behind, the grateful monks stocking them with plenty of food and watered wine. She’d even received a fresh change of both men and women’s clothes. They were musty, left behind in a trunk by a visiting lord and his lady, but no way would she complain.
Katy stopped relating yet another story as they wended their way along the mountain trail. By the sun, which—so weird—was their only means of knowing both direction and time, they headed steadily west through the Cwm Nantcol valley. To practice her Norman French, she’d worked through much of the Brothers Grimm, unwilling to share stories of her own past in case she slipped and revealed too much. She fished in the cloth pouch hanging by her side and held up a hunk of bread.
He leaned forward in the saddle, his warm, solid chest brushing her back, his hand outstretched. He tensed, and his strong hand gripped hers, the bread crushing in their clasped hands.
“Quickly. Dismount!”
He’d get no argument from her. She slipped off, and he landed beside her. He eased his sword whisper-quiet from its sheath and guided their horses through a screen of bushes upslope, his hand a solid weight against the small of her back. She heard it now too—voices and the clatter of hooves. But she didn’t dare rush faster than he urged, afraid of making too much noise. They broke through the scrub and maneuvered the horses onto the ground. They’d just coaxed the packhorse to settle when the first colorful shape came around the bend below, from the opposite direction. She quickly ducked out of sight alongside Robert.
Katy held still, fear stealing her breath. Welsh, most likely, or Robert would not still be gripping his sword, watching intently.
Two more joined the first, all barelegged and sporting short, bright red tunics. One gripped a spear across his saddle and held a bright blue, round shield. The other two had bows strapped to their backs. Their voices were lilting, dipping and curling along the mountain trail, one teasing another and tossing a wine skin to the third, who caught it deftly from his saddle.
To her amazement, they passed out of sight. She pulled in a deep breath and was horrified to discover her whole body shook. She gripped her arms and looked to Robert. He shook his head. Minutes passed and finally he rumbled, “Good, lass.”
“We’re safe?”
“Yes, we can resume our journey. These parts are seldom traversed, so it is unlikely we will run across another party today.”
“So they weren’t Norman?”
“No. Welsh.” He rose to his feet and helped her stand. Once back on the trail, he reattached the packhorse, and they remounted Perceval. As Robert urged his horse along the path, Katy eased backward until she settled against his broad chest. She inhaled his now-familiar masculine scent. Not because she was a wilting female and needed some hunk of a man’s comfort. Okay, well, a tiny bit. But mainly because they’d shared a tense moment. A moment that pulled her to connect with him physically. Even if it was in such a small way.
He stiffened, and her stomach dipped—would he reject her? Finally, he relaxed, wrapped an arm around her waist, and cinched her tighter against him. Warmth and security flooded her. God, it was nice to be able to reach out…and not explain what she needed.
After a while, she broached a topic she’d wondered about. “Why haven’t we come across any towns or villages? Besides the abbey and those Welsh, we’ve seen not a soul.”
“This is a sparsely populated area, and what villages and towns exist are Norman, built next to our new castles. The Welsh typically live in scattered farms, having lost their own castles to Edward.”
They continued through the rest of the morning, neither desiring to talk. By noon, after having edged along the western slopes of yet another mountain range and crossing a large river, Robert had them dismount. They trudged upslope a ways more, and he hobbled his horses at the summit of the rise.
“Harlech is near. Before we ride up to its gates, I think it wise we scout the approach, given the circumstances.” He patted Perceval’s flank. “And given the presence and ease of those Welsh earlier.”
“What are you wanting to check?”
“If the Welsh would besiege as obscure a royal outpost as Castell y Bere, they could very well do likewise for such a strategic royal stronghold as Harlech.”
Katy’s stomach curdled. All of her focus had been on reaching Harlech, so she could find that case and be done with it. Done with friggin’ medieval Wales. And now her goal—her carefully organized mental timeline of how this would play out—could be screwed up?
No. The castle had to be fine, and the villagers had to be there.
At the top of the incline, Robert stuck to the thickly packed trees. Below, the forest spread in rolling dips and bumps until it bled into a cleared green swath surrounding a rocky promontory. Atop, squatted a roughly square gray-stone castle with rounded towers at each corner. Tiny wisps of color flickered all around the top—pennants, she’d guess. A murky green sea painted the backdrop.
“We approached from the southeast to maintain height and cover for as long as possible, instead of taking the shore route.” He crouched behind an alder. “And well we did. They are here.” He pointed down to the castle’s battlements.
She knelt beside him, steadied herself with a hand to the tree, and squinted. She could make out darker shapes, some stationary, some in motion. “The Welsh?”
“Aye. They are besieging Harlech. By the looks of it, they have for some time. Probably at the same time as Bere. This is not a random uprising. This is well-planned.”
The tour guide at the church said in 1294… “Madog,” she whispered, her hand slipping down the rough bark, biting her palm.
His head whipped around. “How do you know of this?” His dark eyes narrowed.
She swallowed in a suddenly dry throat. Shit. “I heard that name mentioned at the castle. Alfred told me,” she lied.
“Hmph.” He rubbed a hand over his trim beard. “Madog ap Llywelyn it is.” Something flickered across his features.
He knows him.
“Mayhap I do,” he grunted.
She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud. His jaw tightened. “We cannot proceed to Harlech in any case.” He pushed against the tree and stood.
Panic threatened to sizzle through her blood, but she forced it down, instead willing a sense of calm over herself, helping her detach. But damn, it was proving harder and harder to maintain control. She got to her feet. She’d find a solution if she remained calm; things only got worse when she got emotional. “But what about the others? Weren’t they headed here?”
“That was the intention. But if this siege indeed began at the same time as ours, our men would not have proceeded. Their party, with more villagers than men-at-arms, would have been too small to lift the siege. Too risky.”
She ruthlessly suppressed her panic again. “Are you certain?”
“Aye.”
“Robert. It is extremely important to me that you are.”
“Why?”
“Because I must reunite with those villagers.”
Robert removed his helmet and let it hang from its belt chain. “Why?”
She thumped back against the tree trunk. “It has to do with why I’m here.”
He stepped forward so abruptly, she bonked her head against the rough bark. His mailed hand closed around her neck, pinning her to the tree. “Are you a spy?”
Shock coursed through her at his abrupt change in behavior. And then his question registe
red, and her knees nearly gave way.
Chapter Fifteen
Then began Manawyddan and Rhiannon to sit and to talk together, and from their discourse his mind and his thoughts became warmed towards her, and he thought in his heart he had never beheld any lady more fulfilled of grace and beauty than she.
The Mabinogion, an ancient Welsh romance
Robert stared into Kaytee’s richly textured eyes, a field of green flecked with rich brown, like the exotic spice cinnamon. She was exotic too, a spice. A rare spice. He pinned her to the tree with only the cage of his hand. He did not squeeze—he had no wish to mar such a beautiful throat. But he did need to scare her. A little. She was too calm.
His question—are you a spy?—echoed in accusation around the forest.
Her eyes widened. Good.
Jolting her out of her complacency could help him get at the truth. Her truth. Had she truly heard Madog’s name from Alfred?
“No,” she whispered.
He tilted his head and studied her features, the openness of her eyes, the set of those shapely lips. Dealing with men-at-arms under his command and unruly villeins made him sufficiently competent in detecting falsehood. None existed in that statement.
Very well. But she was hiding something—the sure knowledge an itch under his skin. But if her secret wasn’t a danger to him, or to his king, he could afford the time to coax it out of her, cultivate her trust. For he would know her secrets. Secrets were valuable. Especially if such secrets benefited the English crown, and thus himself.
Then an itch of a different sort tightened his skin and made his blood pound. She was breathing heavily through her nose, obviously struggling to regain her calm, but her chest rose and fell in the small space between. If he stepped forward, just an inch, those lovely breasts would be pressing against him.
He stepped forward.
And…Christ, yes.
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