by Natasha Wild
Richard took the document and split the royal seal with his dagger. He sank into the chair and spread the paper on top of the forgotten maps.
Jesú, after all this time, he’d never expected it to end so simply!
He raised his head and let his gaze wander through the camp. They’d not had a fight in weeks. The knights lounged on the grass, laughing and drinking. The destriers were tethered under a stand of trees, munching grass contentedly. Squires played mock games of battle, and the women who inevitably attached themselves to traveling knights were doing what they usually did: relieving the men of pent up sexual energy.
Richard thought of his flame-haired princess. God, how he wished he’d never kissed her. One touch of her lips, one brief taste of her honeyed sweetness, and he was drugged.
He dreamt of her.
Often.
He dreamt of her beneath him, sprawling and wild and hot. He dreamt of easing inside her body, dreamt of her clinging and moaning and writhing. He dreamt of her until he woke, hard and aching, and took whatever woman he’d bedded the night before.
Perhaps that was the reason he’d fought Llywelyn’s treachery. Perhaps he only wanted to taste her again. Perhaps he wanted it even more than he wanted to thwart her father.
He raked a hand through his hair. What the hell was wrong with him? He had never wanted to marry her in the first place, and now he could think of nothing else.
“Are we going to war, milord?” the knight asked.
“Nay, Edgar.” He stood and folded the parchment before tucking it inside his tunic. “Llywelyn yields.”
7
Gwen knew she would dream of Richard. It was inevitable, as it had been almost every night for the last three years. Leaving the bed hangings open, she settled into the mattress, reassured by the dim glow of the fire.
She would never admit to anyone that she was frightened of the dark. She had been ever since she was a little girl, ever since she began dreaming of things that came true.
Still, sleep claimed her easily enough, despite the fact she knew who awaited her…
A hand touched her arm and she opened her eyes. Richard lay beside her, his naked limbs entwined with hers beneath the covers.
“You are mine,” he said, reaching out to caress her breast.
Fire leapt within her at his touch. “Yes, Richard, I am yours.”
He kissed her and she gave herself up to the sweet sensations.
The dream changed.
“The honor will be yours, my love,” Richard said, holding his sword out. She took it, then turned to see her victim.
Her father knelt before her, his head cradled on a block.
“Prove that you love me,” Richard said.
Gwen raised the sword, then brought it down swiftly. The head dropped to the ground and rolled to her feet.
When she looked at Richard, King Edward stood beside him, holding a crimson leash.
The dream changed again.
Richard stood at the end of the bed where she lay. His armor gleamed in the flickering light of the night fire.
She opened her mouth to tell him to go away. “Lie with me, my lord.”
He smiled, unbuckling the sword. “If you help me out of this armor, I will be there sooner.”
She crawled to the end of the bed, the cool air raising goosebumps on her naked skin. He pulled at the golden chain attached to a collar around her neck and she found herself in his lap. He stroked her neck, her breasts, her belly, her mound of fiery curls. The roughness of his palm against her skin made her weak, and she laid her head on his broad shoulder.
“You were made for me, for this,” he said, his mouth claiming hers in a savage kiss as he pressed her onto the bed. Her breasts were crushed against the hardness of his chest and her mons ached with the desire to have him touch her, to ease the yearning he created.
“Please,” she begged.
“First you must tell me if you are virgin.”
“I am!”
“I do not believe you.”
He left her on the bed and stood once more, fully clothed, at the foot of it. She shivered as the air stirred over her.
He changed into a great hawk, and then she realized she was a hawk too. They were no longer in the bedroom, but soaring high over a green valley. The air was cold and exhilarating as her wings sliced through it.
Together they dove toward a lake, then checked their speed at the last minute to skirt along the top. His talons scooped into the water, lightening fast, and when they came out again, a fish wriggled in his grasp.
She heard his voice echoing in her mind. “You belong to me. Hawks mate for life.”
The air felt like ice as they climbed higher and higher. Her teeth chattered.
Gwen jerked awake. The covers lay in a tangled heap at the foot of the bed and she yanked them up to cover her freezing body.
The closer the wedding got, the more intense the dreams became. They were ridiculous, really. She could never love Gwalchddu, never betray her father for him.
She went back to sleep, secure in the knowledge she had dreamed the impossible.
* * *
Dawn was a slash of seashell pink on the horizon. The color stretched up, fading to different hues of pink, then azure, then black. Stars still dotted the night sky high overhead. Soon, they would be gone, and the sun would command the sky in a blaze of light and color.
It was a perfect day for traveling.
Gwen stood on the walls of her father’s keep, huddling into her cloak as she watched sunrise break over Snowdon one last time.
In the courtyard below, men moved about, readying everything for departure. She looked over the trunks fondly. There were at least twenty of them in all. They contained her clothes, linens, silver, and such family heirlooms as her father had chosen to give her over the years—the dragon brooch he’d given her mother, Eurwen’s silver hairbrush, a jeweled goblet, and other lesser treasures.
Gwen also had her precious stores of scented soaps and oils, distilled from the mountain’s bounty by her own hand. She and Elinor had spent many delightful days making them.
She cast one last longing look around her, then turned in a flurry of silk and wool, and walked resolutely into the castle.
“Gwen!” Elinor cried, hurrying to her side. “I didn’t dare think you would try to sneak off without saying goodbye.”
Gwen’s smile trembled. “Nay, I would not leave without bidding you farewell, dearest Elinor.”
Elinor hugged and kissed her, fussing and imparting last words of advice. When Elinor stepped back, Gwen and her father eyed each other uneasily. She understood why he couldn’t go with her, but it hurt nonetheless. Elinor’s pregnancy was as precious as it was unexpected.
He cleared his throat and picked up her hand, pressing a parchment into it. “Give this to the king for me, lass,” he said, holding her hand longer than necessary.
“I will not fail you, Father,” she whispered.
“God keep you safe,” he said gruffly.
Gwen wiped her eyes, then hurried into the courtyard where a party of fierce warriors waited to escort her to Shrewsbury.
Before they’d ridden very far, a man pulled up beside her.
“Rhys! I thought you’d forgotten me,” she said, hurt and relieved all at once.
The morning sunlight shone on his golden locks like a halo. He smiled crookedly. It was a disarming look. “Not on your life, Your Highness.”
“Why didn’t you just say goodbye before I left?”
“Because I’m not saying goodbye yet.”
Gwen could only stare at him. “What?”
“I am accompanying you to Shrewsbury.”
Icy dread rose in her throat. “Nay, Rhys, you cannot! ’Tis not a sound idea. Richard is much too dangerous.”
Rhys’s eyes hardened. “Richard is it?”
Gwen retreated into the folds of her hood to hide her flush. “I am marrying him, Rhys. I imagine he’ll expect me to call him
by his name.”
“No doubt,” Rhys said dryly.
Gwen didn’t answer. ’Twas the second time she’d ever allowed her betrothed’s name to cross her lips. Richard. It rolled off her tongue so smoothly, like a silky caress. That was why she’d vowed not to say it, because it was too damn easy and it felt too damn good.
Regardless of what she told Rhys, she would not call her husband by his name. She would not do anything Richard de Claiborne expected her to do. That was something she had decided long ago. For years she’d tried and failed to please her father. She would not make an effort to please a man she didn’t like.
“Please go back, Rhys. ’Twill only complicate things if you are with me.”
“He doesn’t know who I am. I’m just another one of your men. I won’t let him hurt you, Gwen, you may rest assured on that.”
She didn’t tell him that she was more worried Richard would hurt him. Instead, she said coolly, “Won’t you miss Rhonwen?”
He expelled his breath forcefully. “I have needs, Gwen.”
“You said you loved me,” Gwen accused. And all that time, Rhys had been wenching with the rest of her father’s warriors. The knowledge shouldn’t hurt, but it did.
“You’re marrying another man! What did you expect me to do, stay celibate?”
“Nay,” she said quietly.
Rhys sighed, slumping a little in the saddle. “I’m sorry you found us, Gwen.”
Gwen colored. She’d gone looking for Rhys late one night when she’d had a bad dream. She didn’t like to disturb Elinor and her father, and Alys hadn’t been there when she woke.
And Rhys had been busy. She could still hear the woman’s husky voice, still see the frantic shaking of the covers. She’d fled, and Rhys had caught up to her before she reached her room. He was half-naked, sweaty, smelling of perfume and another scent she’d not been able to identify.
She’d been surprised to find she was more angry than jealous. She’d immediately thought of Richard and the kiss they’d shared. The thought of Richard kissing other women like that made her stomach turn to ice.
“It’s not important,” Gwen said, then wondered whether she was answering Rhys or convincing herself she didn’t care what Richard did.
* * *
Shrewsbury nestled on the banks of the Severn River where it looped into a horseshoe. Thatch-roofed houses crowded within its protective walls, and cattle grazed in the surrounding meadows, tended by young boys who napped beneath trees dressed in the last reds and golds of autumn.
The Welshmen joked about raiding the unsuspecting youths and spiriting the cattle away beneath the king of England’s nose.
The town gates were thrown wide, welcoming all who had come to attend the grand wedding. The Welshmen grew silent as the crowd parted to make way for them. They closed ranks around Gwen and glared menacingly at the curious onlookers, their hands falling to their spears. The low murmur of the crowd was barely discernable as people cupped hands to mouths and pointed urgently.
’Twas not the first time Gwen had seen a town, but as always, it struck her oddly. Her father and some of his lords had built castles like those of their English neighbors, but most of the Welsh people lived in concealed homes high above the valleys. Nomads, they had lived that way for centuries, tending their herds of sheep and cattle.
These English, on the other hand, built huts of wattle and daub that looked cold and dank. In bigger towns like Shrewsbury, many of the houses were more than one story and framed in timber.
The road twisted once inside the walls, passing between shops whose hanging signs proclaimed their trade. Shopkeepers leaned out windows, crying their goods to the jostling mass of people. The party rode past a tavern and Gwen heard music drifting from within before harsh laughter drowned out the harp’s lilting strains.
Shrewsbury Castle sat at the center of town. It was big, though nothing to compare to Windsor. A thirty-foot high curtain wall ringed the stone keep. Imposing towers glared at the town below, their surfaces pierced with arrow slots at varying heights.
Men walked along the battlements, the chinking of their armor carrying on the wind. A crimson banner with three golden lions snapped in the breeze over the turrets.
They rode beneath the archway and into the outer bailey. Knights practised in the lists as men and women hurried between the outbuildings. Dull pounding came from the armory and the smithy, and the mews rang with falcons’ cries.
Extra kitchens had been set up to accomodate the large feast, and an old woman tended the livestock waiting to be slaughtered.
Passing into the inner bailey, Gwen surveyed the scene. Although the castle had to be aware of her arrival, there was no welcoming party fit for a princess. It was just another insult in a long string of English outrages. The Welshmen came to a halt at Gwen’s signal.
“Highness,” a young girl greeted her, bobbing in a mock curtsy. “The king and queen regret they could not welcome you personally, as the queen is ill. I am to show you to your room.”
“Where is the chamberlain then?”
“He is occupied with other guests,” she replied, her eyes darting over the fierce-looking men encircling Gwen in stony silence.
Furious looks passed between the Welshmen, and Gwen raised a gloved hand to silence the protests before they could be uttered.
Lord, even the servants felt they were superior to the Welsh!
She had tried to forget the malice the English people displayed four years ago when she rode to Windsor. England had just been the victor in a bloody war with the Welsh, and mayhap tempers had still been high.
But four years of relative peace did not seem to have dampened the hostility.
“Did the king instruct him to ignore me so?”
“N-nay.”
“You may tell the chamberlain I shall speak to the king about this.”
The girl swallowed and nodded.
“Lord de Claiborne might not be so understanding either,” she added as she slid from her palfrey’s back. She doubted Richard would care one way or the other, given his opinion of her, but she knew his name would cause a stir.
As expected, the girl paled slightly.
Gwen turned to her men. “Do not allow yourselves to be provoked by these English dogs,” she said in Welsh. “Send for me if you have trouble.”
“I will accompany you, Highness,” Rhys said, swinging a leg across his horse’s back to dismount.
“Nay! You will go with the others, Rhys ap Gawain. I will summon you if I have need of you.”
He stopped with his leg in mid-air, and she returned his look with a frosty glare.
“As you command, Highness,” he said curtly, settling himself on his horse.
Gwen swept up her cloak and turned to follow the girl. Alys hobbled quietly behind.
When Gwen entered the room behind the servant, her breath caught. There was no insult apparent here.
“’Tis to be the nuptial chamber,” the girl said.
Tapestries blanketed the walls, some woven, some painted sendal-silk. The floor was strewn with sweet rushes, scented with cowslip and marjoram and cotsmary. A fire blazed in the hearth, throwing shadows over the canopied bed.
The bed. Gwen swallowed. It was huge and hung with royal blue velvet trimmed with gold tassels. And she was going to share it…
She turned away. Two chairs, carved and also cushioned with velvet, sat next to a polished oak table. A narrow window pierced the wall in the center, lined with thick glass rather than shutters. A seat was cut in the stone beneath the window, piled high with plump pillows.
“That will be all,” Gwen said, dismissing the servant without looking at her.
“Your Highness,” she mumbled, sinking to the floor this time, before she rose and hastened from the room.
“’Tis an outrage!” Alys burst out. “To treat a royal princess so—that chamberlain should have his insolent neck stretched!”
Gwen sighed. “’Tis no use getting upse
t, Alys. No doubt he feels that the lowliest knight outranks a Welsh princess. I am much more concerned about the men staying out of trouble.”
“Oh, I think they will manage,” Alys said, her red face twisted in a scowl. “I had better see to the unloading of your trunk. No telling what these curs might do with it. Can I get you anything first?”
“Nay. Thank you, Alys,” Gwen replied, sinking into one of the soft chairs. Alys rubbed a hand across her backside, mumbling to herself as she walked out the door. Gwen smiled and shook her head. She removed her gloves, then pulled the cord from her hair, shaking the mass free of the confining braid.
Sweet Mary, she’d not been here half an hour and this place was already working on her frayed nerves. Damn English bastards! She would not let them beat her down. She was a princess. She was Llywelyn ap Gruffydd’s daughter!
“Gwenllian?”
She vaulted to her feet. “Majesty,” she said, sinking low.
Edward hurried over and reached out a lean hand to raise her. “Nay, no need to bother with the formalities in private,” he said, flashing his teeth in a boyish grin.
“Thank you, Majesty,” Gwen replied, lowering her lashes at the intensity of his blue stare. She didn’t flinch when his hand brushed her cheek.
“I brought you something,” he said softly. He held out a small basket. “’Tis from Eleanor. The journey from Windsor has made her ill in her condition, I’m afraid, and she regrets she could not give these to you herself.”
“’Tis very kind, Majesty,” Gwen said, peering at the two orange spheres. “Forgive me—I do not know what they are.”
“Nay, ’tis you who must forgive me. I am so used to having oranges around that I did not think you wouldn’t know of them.”
“Oranges?”
“Aye. They come from Castile, Eleanor’s home. She was but a child when she came to be my bride and she missed Spain so much. ’Tis expensive to import them, but it makes her happy.”
Gwen stared at them. “How do you—?”
“I will show you,” Edward said, smiling. He led her to the windowseat and urged her to sit next to him. With his dagger, he scored the skin of the orange. Slowly, he pulled the dimpled covering back to reveal the smooth columns of fruit. A spicy smell wafted to Gwen’s nostrils and she realized her mouth was watering.