The Dark Knight's Captive Bride

by Natasha Wild

  Couldn’t they see their time was up, their way of life obsolete? King Edward offered them better. He offered them law and order and a place in a larger society. Why couldn’t they just take it and end this bloody feuding for good?

  Richard already knew the answer, though he didn’t like it. The Welsh were proud, stubborn, independent. Their laws and customs had served them well for centuries and they weren’t going to change willingly.

  And he would continue to drag them, kicking and screaming and fighting, into the new realm. For their own good, and for England’s.

  He rode over to Andrew. “How many did we lose?”

  The captain wiped a bloody hand across his face. “Four, milord. But we killed ten of ‘em, and captured twelve.”

  Richard felt the exhaustion creeping over his body. “Let’s make camp here. ’Tis almost night and we’ll not get far, even if we leave now.”

  “Aye, milord,” Andrew replied.

  One of the Welshmen jerked away from the knight who was tying him and hurried toward Richard.

  With a quick nod, Richard assured his knight to let the man approach.

  The warrior spat on Richard’s boot, his face twisting into a sneer. “Gwalchddu!”

  Richard’s gaze trailed down his leg. “Wipe it off,” he said, his voice deceptively mild. His mood was already black and he was damn near ready to hang the lot of them.

  The man glared at him. Frost hung on the ends of his long beard. He bared yellow teeth in a grimace. “Na.”

  “You have a choice, my friend. Wipe it off and mayhap you will stand a chance in the king’s court of justice. Otherwise, I will hang you now.”

  The man threw his head back and laughed. “The king’s justice! Since when has there been justice for a Welshman in an English court? God rot King Edward and his justice!”

  Richard lashed out with his foot and cracked the man across the jaw. He fell back in the snow, then lifted himself up and rubbed his face.

  “Watch how you speak of your king!” Richard glanced at the knight who awaited his orders. “Bring him.”

  The man nodded and grabbed the Welshman, jerking him to his feet. The warrior yanked his arm away, then thrust out his hands to be tied.

  Too quick, he grabbed the dagger from the knight’s belt and hurled himself at Richard. Sirocco reared as the man latched on. The extra weight acted like an anchor, pulling Richard to earth.

  His breath left him in a whoosh as he landed on his back with the Welshman on top. He fumbled blindly for his dagger, even while he struggled to breathe.

  The Welshman snarled and brought the knife high. Blood dripped from the blade and Richard vaguely wondered where it had come from.

  “Prepare to die, Gwalchddu!”

  The knife descended, aiming at Richard’s unprotected face. He blocked the man’s arm, but the savage was too determined and Richard’s grip started to waver.

  And then the Welshman went limp, his eyes glazing. The knife dropped harmlessly beside Richard’s head, and he uttered a silent prayer of thanks.

  “Christ, milord, are ye all right?”

  Andrew. The dead man was yanked off him then, and Richard looked up at his captain’s worried face. “Aye,” he said. He tried to sit up. “I feel dizzy…”

  Andrew pushed him back down. “Don’t move, milord. The bastard must have held the knife between ye when ye fell. The impact drove it through yer hauberk. Ye’ve been hit.”

  “Jesú…”

  Richard closed his eyes. His last conscious thought was of Gwen and all the things he’d never had the chance to say.

  * * *

  “Pining for your lover?”

  Gwen turned from the window as Anne came in and took a seat beside the fire.

  Anne smiled sympathetically. “Poor, sweet thing. I knew a young girl like you would not be able to resist Richard. I did try to warn you, if you will remember.”

  “’Tis none of your business, Lady Ashford.”

  “Oh do call me Anne.” She waved a hand, smiling sweetly. “I fancied myself in love with him once, too. ’Twas a very long time ago, before I learned what he was truly like.”

  Gwen didn’t want to hear any more, but she had to. “What do you mean?”

  Anne’s look was bitter, unguarded. She gave a quick laugh, but it wasn’t humorous. “Do you think you are the only one to ever sit beside him in the hall and have him whisper naughty things in your ear? Aye, he used to be that attentive with me, feeding me, teasing me, and then taking me to bed and making love all night long. You are not the first, and neither was I!”

  Gwen felt a stabbing pain in her heart. “He did?”

  Anne snorted. “Of course he did! ’Tis what I am trying to tell you, little innocent. He does not care for you. He only plays with you until he tires of you, then he will seek another to take your place.”

  Gwen desperately wanted to deny it but she could not. She’d told him she loved him and he’d said nothing. What if he didn’t love her? What if she spent her life adoring a man who felt nothing for her?

  It wouldn’t be the first time she loved without being loved in return. Guilt swept over her then. She’d failed her father and let herself fall in love with the enemy.

  She pressed her thumbs against her eyelids. How on earth could she love them both?

  “Why are you telling me this?” she asked quietly. “You do not like me, nor I you.”

  Anne shrugged. “Nay, I do not like you. But I like Richard even less. He would have married me if not for you. But he was just greedy enough to want to marry a princess, and quite willing to toss me aside to do it.”

  Gwen shivered. Aye, he wanted a princess to give him access to a throne. She shot to her feet.

  Once inside the passage, her steps quickened until she was running, though she knew not where. She ran until her lungs hurt, then kept on running until she flung open a door and emerged on the battlements.

  An icy wind greeted her, roaring over the stone, isolating her from the sounds of the rest of the world. She raced to the edge and peered into the valley, hoping beyond hope she would see horses and riders cresting over a hill or emerging from the woods.

  All she saw was a sea of white, as empty and bleak as she felt inside at this moment.

  To the west, Snowdon’s peak rose above the other mountains, taunting her. It seemed to stare down at her, stern, disapproving. It said: you are Welsh, he is English; you are young and naive, he is hard and jaded; you seek love, he seeks vengeance.

  God, what a fool she was! How could she have fallen in love with a man who wanted nothing more than to see her father dead?

  * * *

  When Richard’s eyes opened, he recoiled from the sight that greeted him. “Andrew!” he yelled.

  “Here, milord.”

  Richard focused on his captain. Thank God! If Andrew was truly here then he wasn’t dead yet. He peered at the thing that had startled him and realized it was an old woman.

  Hundreds of deep-set wrinkles creased a brown, weather worn face. A beaked nose dominated that visage, though it was the eyes that drew the most attention. Watery-blue from age, they still crackled with a sharpness that belied the many winters they had witnessed.

  “Such a handsome boy,” the old crone said, pinching his cheek with more familiarity than he liked. “Don’t worry yerself, yer gonna live. Didn’t hit nothing vital. Just the shock of the impact and loss of blood made ye pass out.”

  “Who is she?” Richard demanded.

  The woman cackled. She stood and ambled away, mumbling about men and impatience. Grinning, Andrew knelt beside him.

  “’Tis the village healer. We brought you to yer tent and stripped off yer hauberk and she looked at yer wound. She bandaged it fer ye, though she says she don’t have her herbs and can’t give ye anything for pain. If ye lays quiet, it should stop bleeding.”

  Richard tried to shift, and winced. “Jesú, how deep is it?”

  “Half a blade.”

  �
��No wonder it hurts like bloody hell.” He laughed, though that hurt too. “Now why couldn’t the woman have the decency to carry her herbs when her village was attacked?”

  Andrew’s eyes sparkled. “Mayhap she will next time.”

  “Have you taken care of everything?”

  “Aye.”

  Richard yawned. Jesú, he was damn tired. “I’m going to sleep then. And whatever you do, keep that woman away from me. She about scared the piss out of me when I woke.”

  Andrew’s grin broadened as he leaned down. “I think she likes ye, milord. Mayhap she’d make a nice bedwarmer. I could ask her fer ye…”

  Richard scowled. “I’ll stick your head on a pike if you do.”

  Andrew straightened, laughing. “Come on, good mistress,” he called. “The earl no longer needs ye.”

  Richard heard the rustling of the tent flap, then Andrew started whistling. The sound faded before he fell asleep.

  When next he awoke, he was alone. His side throbbed. Grunting, he crawled to the opening and peered out. The sky was lightening to the east, indicating that dawn was not far off.

  Men already stirred from their beds, making ready for the journey home. Richard pushed to his feet and staggered from the tent.

  It was colder than he remembered. He still clutched his blanket and he wrapped it tighter around him, then started off through the camp.

  “How soon do we leave, Andrew?”

  The captain spun around from where he was saddling Sirocco. “Jesú, milord! Ye nearly scared me to death. What are ye doin’ up? Yer gonna start bleedin’ again if ye ain’t careful.”

  Richard clenched his teeth and forced his spine to remain straight. “Nay, it feels much better,” he lied.

  Andrew eyed him doubtfully. “Half an hour, no more. Can ye ride?”

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Nay, I suppose not.”

  The knights broke camp quickly, gathering the cattle and taking the women up with them. The prisoners were bound and forced to walk behind the destriers.

  It was several hours later when they rode into Chedwell. The village men greeted the return of wives, sisters, mothers, and daughters with great enthusiasm. The cattle received slightly less attention.

  Outside the village, lumps of fresh earth blemished the snow with the graves of the dead, a gruesome reminder of the perils of the Marches. Richard couldn’t tear his gaze from the ugly gashes.

  “Milord?”

  With great effort, he met Andrew’s eyes. “Aye?”

  “I think we should go straight to Claiborne. Ye doesn’t look like ye should ride all the way to Shrewsbury.”

  Richard was suddenly very conscious of the throbbing in his side. Every step Sirocco took jarred him even more. The sooner he was off the horse, the better.

  He nodded. “Aye, whatever you say, Andrew.”

  The captain frowned before relaying the order to the company.

  Richard stripped his gauntlet and pressed his hand against his side. It was tender, and much warmer than the rest of him.

  For a long time, he held his hand there, warming it. When he finally drew it away, he raised it to a level with his eyes.

  Drops of pure crimson dripped from his fingers to fall onto Sirocco’s neck.

  28

  Gwen stood in the frigid bailey, waiting for the knights to ride through the gates. It was three days since Richard had ridden out after the Welshmen. Three agonizing days.

  Now that he was returning, she was both relieved and terrified. Over and over she replayed those moments when she’d bared her soul to him, and his reaction afterward.

  Had he only been playing games with her like Anne said?

  What about the cave, and his swearing he’d had no other women since marrying her? Were those lies, calculations to win her heart, another step on his path to revenge?

  Oh God, just when she thought she knew him, this happened and she was no longer certain!

  Her heart hammered as the knights rode through the inner gates. Her gaze fastened on Richard, and a wave of relief swept over her, so strong it left her weak-kneed.

  He slumped a little in the saddle, but that was to be expected after the long hours he’d spent riding through the unforgiving March.

  Four horses were riderless, nothing but limp bundles lying across their saddles. Men on foot brought up the rear of the procession.

  Gwen offered a silent prayer for the dead mens’ souls. She knew Richard didn’t take the deaths of his men lightly and she yearned to soothe him.

  It was then her mind finally registered what her eyes had sought to deny. Black Hawk de Claiborne had captives. Welsh captives.

  A sick feeling began in the pit of her stomach and spread outward. They were tethered to the destriers like dogs, their faces bruised and swollen, their clothes torn and bloodied.

  Gwen bit her lip so hard she could feel the blood welling. Her inner voice began to chant: Richard was a warrior, he did what his king ordered, he was not cruel, he was not the evil Gwalchddu of legend…

  God help her, she was no longer certain! When he’d caught the men who had attacked them at Llanwell cave, he’d taken them to Shrewsbury because they were English. But he brought the Welshmen here. Why, if not to do the things he was reputed for?

  She walked toward Richard in a daze. He drew rein when he saw her. “Gwen,” he said, so softly she barely heard.

  “My lord,” she replied, fighting her tears. She did not want to believe such terrible things about him!

  He drew off his gauntlet and wiped his hand across his brow. Turning in the saddle, he said, “Put the prisoners in the west tower, Andrew.”

  Gwen gasped. The tower. Every man, woman, and child in Wales knew that few Welshmen lived to tell of the horrors of Claiborne castle.

  Those who did never spoke about the tower.

  But the bards told tales. Black Hawk and his men tortured prisoners—ripped off their fingernails, stabbed them in places that did not kill immediately, crushed their bones—until only raw shells of men went to the gallows if they made it that far.

  ’Twas only a tale! How could the hands that touched her so tenderly, hands that evoked such a sweet response in her body, be capable of such cruel acts?

  She fixed her gaze on those hands and shivered. One was naked and beautiful, the other mailclad and anonymous. That one, the one encased in metal, she did not know. That one could do anything and she would believe it possible.

  “Is something the matter?”

  Gwen’s eyes locked with his. The silver depths were different somehow. Sort of glazed, far away. The look he gave her was oddly frightening.

  “N-nay,” she said.

  He dismounted, rather clumsily she thought, and handed his reins to a groom.

  He took her by the arm and headed for the forebuilding. Once they were in the stairwell, he pulled her into his arms. She ducked away before he could kiss her, afraid she would lose herself in his embrace.

  “I missed you,” he said softly, enticingly.

  Gwen drew in a shuddering breath. All she could think of was the pleasure his words gave her, not the fact he had prisoners nor what he might do to them. He reached for her again and this time she did not protest.

  She was the worst kind of traitor. All she wanted was this man’s touch, even at the expense of her own soul. Her breath broke on a sob and she buried her face against his chest.

  “What is it, cariad?”

  The Welsh endearment on his lips was her undoing. She pushed away, still fisting his surcoat. “Please,” she whispered, “please do not torture them.”

  He stared at her for a long moment. “Torture?” Disbelief lit his features briefly, then his jaw hardened and he wrenched her hands free. “My God, you don’t even know those men! You have no idea what they did, and yet all you can worry about is whether I will torture them.”

  Gwen bowed her head. The tears slipped silently down her cheeks. She grasped a girdle chain and toyed with it
, not really seeing it, but needing something to occupy her hands. “You are Gwalchddu,” she said quietly in way of defense. She’d not meant it as an accusation, but it was too late to recall it when he took it as such.

  “Aye, there is that, is there not? Black Hawk, evil lord of legend, cruel, inhuman.” He laughed bitterly, his hand clutching the railing so hard his knuckle was white. His eyes were bright, glittering. “Why did I ever think you were different? Why—?”

  Gwen watched in numb horror as he sank heavily onto the stairs. He shook his head, his body swaying before he pitched forward at her feet.

  Gwen screamed.

  * * *

  Richard was stretched out on the big bed in the master chamber, his torso bared to reveal a raw, ugly wound. His eyes remained closed and his skin glistened with sweat. Gwen touched him with a shaky hand. Incredible heat scorched her, and her vision shimmered.

  She scrubbed her eyes and peered at the wound. Beneath the caked blood his skin was an angry red. She’d seen battle wounds before and she knew it was infected, but her mind couldn’t seem to think of a course of action.

  It had taken four knights to carry him up to the lord’s chamber. He was a big man at any time, but when armored he was much heavier than usual.

  “Alys,” she whispered. “What can we do, Alys?”

  She barely felt the hand on her shoulder. “It needs to be cleaned and stitched. If the fever does not break soon, he will have to be bled.”

  Gwen nodded.

  “He should be bled now.”

  She looked at the man who stood on the other side of Owain. She’d not even realized the castle surgeon was here.

  “Nay!” she hissed. The thought of anyone slicing into Richard was too much to bear. “We will wait!”

  The surgeon frowned. “Milady, ’tis not sound. Bloodletting is always the prescribed treatment for fever. The humors are out of balance and we must right them again.”

  Gwen drew herself up with all the haughtiness of a princess. Once, Rhys had described a boar hunt to her. He’d told her how the boar was pierced, but managed to escape. The hunters pursued the animal, following the trail of blood it left. When they caught up, it had been lying in a pool of its own blood, too weak to fight any longer.