by Natasha Wild
“No, I cannot leave him,” she said, shaking him off and rushing to her father.
Those words stabbed through Richard like nothing else ever could. She could leave him, despite her promise, but she couldn’t leave her father.
“I won’t let them do anything to him,” Rhys said. “Come.”
She stared at him uncertainly, then allowed him to lead her away. The sound of her soft crying faded as they ascended the steps to the upper chambers, but it was still like a dagger twisting in Richard’s heart.
He stood, staring down at Llywelyn in a daze. The man who had given him Gwen had also taken her away.
Edmund pulled out his sword. Richard grabbed his arm as he raised it high. “Nay. Not here. I cannot stop you from taking his head when you are elsewhere, but if you do it in this castle with his daughter—my wife—I will send your head with it.”
Edmund resheathed the weapon. “Very well, my lord earl. It can wait,” he said grudgingly.
Richard caught the speculative look Edmund shot him. He knew the man wondered how the very pregnant wife of the Earl of Dunsmore came to be in an enemy castle, but he did not care to explain. Edward was the only man he need answer to.
“I need to send a messenger to the king,” Richard said. Dafydd would have moved by now, but Richard could still detail his strength and tactics.
Edmund motioned for a scribe. Richard dictated the message, then slumped onto a bench and stared at Llywelyn’s still form.
“I hated you for so long, old man, but ’twas not even you who did it,” Richard murmured. “Mayhap she is right for suspecting me. If I’d had the opportunity, I’m not certain I wouldn’t have killed you had I not known the truth.”
40
“Dunsmore!”
Richard’s head snapped up. Rhys stood on the stairs, waving frantically. “The babe is coming!”
Richard was on his feet and up the stairs quicker than an arrow fired from a longbow. Rhys followed on his heels, stopping when they reached Gwen’s chamber. Richard flung open the door and entered, oblivious to Rhys’s shouting.
“Milord, you may not come in here,” the midwife said, rushing toward him with her hand outstretched.
“Like bloody hell,” he growled, shoving past her.
Gwen lay on the bed, her face pale and twisted in pain. She cried out suddenly, grasping handfuls of bedding in her fists.
Richard dropped beside her, clasping her hand and smoothing the hair from her face. “I am sorry,” he whispered belatedly.
Her glorious eyes were glazed. “Nay, ’tis I who am sorry. Rhys told me what happened, but I should have believed in you. I cannot blame you if you no longer want me—”
She screamed and he let her squeeze his hand until the pain passed, then kissed her moist brow. “Christ almighty, Gwen, you are my life. I will never let you go.”
The midwife, regaining her bravery, hovered over them, hands planted firmly on hips. “Milord, men are not allowed in the birthing chamber!”
“Do you wish me to go, love?” Richard asked, stroking the hair from Gwen’s damp forehead.
“Nay,” she whispered. “Do not leave me. I am frightened.”
He turned to the midwife. “Woman, if you wish to live beyond this day, you will tend my wife now. And if you wish me gone, then I invite you to remove me yourself.”
The woman blanched. “V-very well, but you must not interfere, milord,” she said in a near-whisper.
“Agreed.”
“’Tis not natural,” she muttered under her breath. The castle women hurried in and out of the room, fetching linens and hot water.
The midwife mixed something from her bag of herbals, then retrieved a pot and returned to Gwen’s side. Dipping her hand into the pot, she lifted Gwen’s chemise.
“What is that for?” Richard demanded.
The woman’s hand shook. “’Tis to rub on her belly to ease the pains. I-I thought you were not going to interfere, milord.”
“Aye,” he said curtly, clamping his teeth together.
As the hours wore on, Richard grew frantic. Gwen was soaked in sweat, her voice raw from her cries. She still gripped his hand, which was now quite numb, and he stroked her arm with slow, steady motions, trying to ease the pain in any way he could.
Her screams tore his heart in two. He begged God to spare her, certain she was going to die, certain God was going to punish him once more. He swore that if she survived, he would never make love to her again, never risk losing her just to gratify his own selfish urges.
“I… am… sorry… Richard,” she panted.
“Shh, my love.”
She screamed, clamping his hand so hard it hurt.
“Yes, Gwen, hold onto me. I will share it with you.” God, how he wished he could take the pain away! He had done this to her, and it was only fair he feel it with her, but Nature had contrived to make the burden solely hers.
“’Tis coming now,” the midwife said at last.
The scent of blood made Richard’s stomach churn. He was accustomed to the sight and smell of blood, but not when it belonged to Gwen. It was everything he could do to remain upright.
With a final hoarse cry from Gwen, the babe slid forth into the midwife’s waiting hands. Gwen collapsed, so small and pale in the huge bed.
Richard bent to kiss her sweat-soaked brow. He whispered endearments to her, stroked her face with a trembling hand. Her grip on him loosened and she gazed up at him, her lashes spiky with tears.
“’Tis a son. I know ’tis a son.”
A lump formed in his throat. “It matters not, sweet. ’Tis ours.”
The midwife returned with the babe. “You have a son, milord,” she said. As was customary, she’d washed the infant, rubbed his body with salt, his palate and gums with honey, and bound him in clean linen. And now she was holding him out to his father.
Richard didn’t want to touch the small bundle. He knew nothing about babes, except that they were incredibly delicate.
He’d never been comfortable around children, and he looked at this one with a mixture of awe and trepidation. He glanced at the midwife. She smiled and nodded, urging him to take his son.
He held his arms out hesitantly and she placed the tiny bundle in them. The baby’s face was pinched, his eyes screwed together tightly. His little mouth worked, mimicking suckling motions.
“He has black hair,” was all Richard could manage. ’Twas miraculous, this child he and Gwen had created! The red face didn’t resemble either one of them that he could see, but it didn’t matter. He’d thought the love he felt for Gwen was all he was capable of, but he recognized the familiar feeling stirring in his heart.
Gwen laughed weakly. “He has your hair, but he will have my eyes. Let me hold him,” she finished softly.
She held out her arms and Richard gave her their son. She cradled him to her, talking to him like they were old friends. Finally she looked up. “I have already thought of a name for him, if you agree.”
“What?”
She looked down at the babe, then back up at him. “William,” she said simply.
Richard’s heart swelled. He knew he loved her more in that moment than he ever had before. He touched a large finger to his son’s tiny cheek. “Aye, William ’tis.”
* * *
Gwen recovered in a few days time. She was up and around, though she remained in her chamber and out of the way of the Englishmen who now occupied Builth castle. Their presence was a bitter reminder of her father’s defeat.
She watched from the window as they made huge piles of the weapons they had seized. Her only comfort in her father’s death was knowing he was with Elinor. That alone made it bearable.
The wet nurse came to take William and she gave him up reluctantly. Noblewomen did not suckle their children.
Rhys came to see her frequently, as did Owain, and she delighted in their company. This day, however, she felt strangely alone. The empty chamber seemed to crush her beneath its solemn weigh
t, its deafening silence.
She’d tried not to think of her father’s death too often, but now she could think of nothing else. They’d already taken his body north to the king and there they would cut off his head and send it to the Tower of London.
She sank onto the bed and cried. She’d not seen Richard very often since their son was born. And when she did, he was quiet, distant. How could she blame him?
Though she’d wronged him by leaving, she would do it again if faced with the same opportunity to make things right with her father.
She knew now it was her own guilt that made her doubt Richard. She was guilty for loving him, guilty for wanting him above all else. When she doubted his motives, it was really her own she was calling into question.
She heard the door open but she couldn’t stop crying. Then she was drawn into strong arms and she buried her face against his surcoat, sobbing all the harder now that he was here.
“I-I had to come, Richard,” she heard herself say. And then she was spilling the details of her dream, Dafydd’s claim, her entire life spent trying to win her father’s approval. She told him all of her disappointments, all of her childish efforts, all the hurt she’d never shared with anyone. His arms tightened around her. She tumbled on, telling him about her reconciliation with her father, their final moments together, the treasured words he’d said: You have never disappointed me. Remember that always.
Richard stroked her back. When she finally looked up, one tear slid down his face, and she reached up to capture it. Her open palm shaped his cheek and he rubbed against her hand, his eyes closing.
“He did not kill my father,” he said softly.
Gwen felt an enormous relief flood her. She didn’t know why it was so important he believe it, but it was. “I knew he could not.”
“’Twas Dafydd who did it.”
She hugged him tight. “I am so sorry, Richard.”
“I have not been truthful with you, Gwen.”
Her heart fell to her feet. Oh God, he was going to tell her he’d never really loved her, or he was married to someone else, or—oh God, she couldn’t think of the possibilities.
“Owain is my uncle.”
“What? But he is Welsh.”
“Aye, he is. And so was his sister, my mother.”
“Catrin,” she said, suddenly understanding.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I heard him say her name, though I knew not who she was. He promised her to look after you.”
A slight smile curved his mouth. “Aye. He is always reminding me of that.”
When he’d told her everything, she gaped at him. “Prince Madoc?” she said. He nodded. “Sweet Mary,” she breathed. “Did my father know?”
“Nay, I do not think so.”
Gwen laid her head against his chest and twisted the cloth of his sleeve in her fingers. “Gwilym ap Rhisiart,” she said, saying her son’s name in Welsh. “He will be prince of Wales.”
Richard shook his head. “Nay, Gwen. Edward will never allow it. He is finished with Wales. He means to conquer her for good.”
“You cannot let him take it away. ’Tis our son’s birthright. You are Welsh!”
“No! I am English, Gwen. I am not a Welshman.”
Gwen pushed away from him, suddenly angry he would be so vehement in his denials. “What is wrong, my lord? Are we not good enough for you? Is it truly so shameful to be Welsh?”
“Gwen—”
“No! My father spent his entire life guarding Welsh territory, Welsh heritage! You cannot allow it to slip away, not when it rightfully belongs to our son. Not when my father wanted it to be so.”
Richard quit the bed. “I am Richard de Claiborne, Earl of Dunsmore,” he said in French, smacking his chest. “I am an English Marcher lord. King Edward is my liege lord and what he commands, I do. Do not ever expect me to break my solemn oaths to my king.”
Gwen bit her quivering lip. “Will we never understand one another, Richard?” she whispered. “Must we always allow King Edward to come between us?”
Without a word, he spun on his heel and stalked from the chamber.
* * *
Within a few weeks, they set out for Claiborne castle. The gentle rocking of Saffron’s gait put William to sleep in Gwen’s arms. His chubby little cheeks quivered every now and then as his jaw worked.
She smiled. He was surely the most beautiful baby that ever lived and she loved him with all her heart. She raised her eyes to his father’s back.
Until two days ago, he’d been gone, commanding Marcher forces in the south. He’d not sought her out since returning. She’d lain awake at night, wanting him to come to her, wanting him to need her like she needed him, but he had not.
How could it ever be right between them again when the lines were so firmly drawn?
He would deny his own son his birthright and Gwen refused to understand how he could do it. She looked down at the sleeping babe in her arms. God how she wished her father had lived to see his grandson!
He would have made sure William inherited all that belonged to him.
Rhys’s laughter drifted to her from where he and Owain rode a few paces back. Now that her father was dead, Rhys refused to fight with Dafydd and Richard had allowed him and his men to come with them.
Gwen was surprised, but pleased. She did not know all that had passed between them, but whatever it was, they seemed to have formed a grudging truce.
Claiborne was only a few leagues away when a party of knights appeared. Gwen knew they were Richard’s from the hawk banner they carried and the colors they wore. Her chest tightened as Richard rode forth to meet them.
Andrew and five of the other men who had ridden from Builth Wells joined the waiting knights. Richard turned and rode back to her.
“You are leaving,” she said. She should be used to it by now, but she was not.
“Aye. I must return to the king.”
“How long will you be gone this time, my lord?”
He pulled his mail gauntlet off and ran his finger down her cheek, then slipped to William’s, caressing him as well. “I know not. Days, weeks…”
“Months,” Gwen said dully.
“Until Dafydd is stopped,” he replied. He smiled then, the first she’d seen in weeks. “What is wrong, wench? Miss me already?”
Gwen nodded and a lone tear spilled down her cheek. “Aye. I do not want you to go.”
His expression sobered. He sidled Sirocco closer. “Kiss me, then. Show me how much.”
He bent to her and she met him, losing herself in the heat and scent of him. It was she who insisted on deepening the kiss, she who slipped her tongue into his mouth and forced him to join her. His mouth turned ravenous as his hand came up to grip the back of her head. And then he broke away, pressed his lips to her cheek, her throat, William’s forehead.
“I love you,” he said. “Both of you.” He whirled Sirocco around to join the others, never looking back.
The knights broke into a gallop, the thundering of horses’ hooves and the chinking of metal still hanging in the air long after she’d lost sight of them.
Once again, King Edward had taken him from her.
* * *
The king was lodged at Rhuddlan castle when Richard returned to him. Since Llywelyn’s death, the spirit of the Welsh uprising was sinking faster than a ship full of holes and Edward was in good spirits.
“Dafydd calls himself Prince of Wales now, but the chieftains are deserting him quicker than a whore’s tongue. If we can get the slippery bastard out of the mountains, ’twill be over before the new year.”
It was late in the day and the two men stood on the battlements, gazing toward the Welsh mountains. The tang of salt and keening cries of gulls drifted to them from the sea at their backs.
The army sprawled across the valley below. The sounds of men and animals mingled with those of clanking metal and chopping wood as the evening tasks were carried out.
The bitter Nov
ember wind ruffled Richard’s hair as he turned to look at the king. “There is something I must tell you, Ned.”
“Aye?”
Richard took a deep breath. “Madoc ap Maredudd was my grandfather. My mother was Welsh.”
When Edward didn’t say anything, Richard continued. He told Edward everything, how his mother and father met, how they defied Prince Madoc and King Henry, how eventually no one even remembered William de Claiborne’s dead wife had been a Welshwoman.
“Jesú,” Edward breathed. “’Tis why you speak it so well. And the beard. I always thought you kept it because it drove the ladies crazy.”
Richard laughed, rubbing his face. “Nay, ’tis because it suits me. And it reminds me of what I cannot escape.”
Edward ran his fingers through his blond curls, scratching his head. “Edmund de Mortimer thinks your wife guilty of treason.”
Richard sucked in his breath. “The bastard,” he hissed.
“Do you deny she was with Llywelyn?”
“Nay.” His jaw hardened. “I accept her reasons for doing so, though I did not approve. She is back at Claiborne now and will not leave again, I assure you.”
Edward braced his arms on the wall, leaning on them and gazing at the bailey below. “We will keep this to ourselves, Richard. The fewer people who know of your parentage, the better. Welsh ancestry is not uncommon in the Marchers, but none of them are married to a princess of Wales nor do they carry the blood of a Welsh prince.”
“If you think it best.”
“Aye, I do. I am the king of England, but even kings have limited power. The other barons might not take it so well. I would not have another revolt on my hands if it can be helped.”
They stood silent for a while longer. The setting sun turned the sky bloodred before disappearing, leaving an angry welt in its wake.
Richard voiced the question he had always dreaded. “Do you doubt my ability to serve you?”
Edward straightened, astonishment crossing his face. “Nay, Richard. God’s blood, I have not doubted that since the instant you pulled the Saracen off me. This changes nothing, though I wish you had entrusted me long ago.” He smiled sadly. “There are few men a king can call friend. My father made the mistake of never knowing whom to trust. I trust very few. I know you will not fail me, now or ever.”