by Karin Tabke
“Lady Tarian of Dunloc, my cousin Sir Ralph du Forney.” Tarian nodded her head but Ralph did not return the respect. Stefan grinned wider. “Lord Wulfson de Trevelyn’s bride.”
Ralph’s eyes narrowed, and this time he bowed from the waist. “My lady,” he said, his voice barely civil. There was no love lost between any of the Blood Swords and those who held themselves and their noble blood above them.
Stefan kept his gaze focused on his cousin. “What brings you so far south, Ralph?”
“We patrol the lands for armed Saxons.” Ralph sneered, then demanded, “Why did you run like a coward from us?”
Stefan reached down and patted Apollo’s slick neck, then looked up to the clearing sky. “You are not privy to my motives, dear cousin. Now stand back so that I may have a private word with Lady Tarian.”
“You dare speak with such airs!” Philip sneered, nudging his horse closer to Stefan. Twenty swords behind Stefan were drawn in unison, the lady lowering her short lance, brushing the noble’s mail. She jabbed him hard.
“A warning, sirs,” Tarian said levelly. “My husband is earl of this shire, and well you know he has the ear of William. Trespass against Stefan and you trespass the king!”
“Are you so craven to put a woman up to champion you, Stefan?” Ralph scoffed.
Stefan’s anger seethed, but he would not allow his cousin to bait him. “Bray like the ass you are, Ralph. I have most urgent news for William and my lady. None of which concerns you.”
Ralph bowed in his saddle. “My lady, as my bastard cousin has told you, I am Ralph du Forney, heir of the great house of de Lyon. My uncle, the great Comte d’Everaux, also has the ear of William, I can assure you.” He smiled like a snake before it swallowed its prey. “My men and I are battle-weary, and in dire need of food and pallet.”
Stefan stiffened even more in his saddle. His narrowed gaze swept the men who sat silent behind their leader. Some he remembered from his youth growing up in the shadow of a man who refused to acknowledge the obvious. His gaze briefly touched on Philip, who regarded him with open hostility.
Yet, despite the contempt he felt for his cousin and cohorts, the lot of them looked as exhausted as Stefan felt. It would be of utmost rudeness for the lady of the manor not to extend the hospitality of Draceadon to them.
“We have pallets aplenty in the stable, the hall is most spacious, and our stores are full. You and your men are welcome to share Draceadon’s hospitality for one night,” Lady Tarian invited. She looked to Stefan. “Sir knight, would you ride alongside me to the hall?”
“ ’Twould be my honor,” he replied softly. They turned their horses, and as they broke from the group, Apollo pulled up lame. Stefan cursed, and immediately dismounted to inspect the hoof. A sharp rock had embedded itself between the shoe and the sore spot he had tended. He pulled the seax from his belt and dislodged the stone. One of Tarian’s men dismounted and handed Stefan the reins to his own horse. “I will walk him to the stable.”
Stefan nodded and mounted, but said, “Be gentle with him, he has been ridden hard. Rub him down and do not feed or water him until after the noon meal.”
Once more ahorse, as Stefan and Tarian made their way up the steep hill, Stefan said softly, “Tread lightly, milady. Ralph is as cunning and as secretive as a fox, and that lout Philip will shift alliances twice a day should it prove a benefit to him.”
She nodded and looked ahead, her eyes focused on the great fortress. “I pray you have word of my husband,” she softly said.
A sudden knot in his throat prevented him from answering, so he nodded. She cast him a grave look, and he could see the glisten of tears in her eyes. She sat sword-straight in her saddle and his heart went out to her.
She swallowed hard, and just barely above a whisper she asked, “Does he live?”
Once again not trusting his voice, Stefan nodded. Lady Tarian made a noise half sob and half laugh, but when he looked at her, she sat regally composed upon the gray.
TWELVE
From the threshold, having refused to go into the hall with the Lady Brighid, who eyed her with open curiosity, Arian watched for Stefan’s return. Arian knew she looked a fright, standing in her bare feet, the sodden oversized threadbare tunic stuck to her, her hair plastered to her dirt-smeared face and arms. But she didn’t care. She wanted to know that Stefan was unharmed, and only then would her anxiety lessen.
A hard tremor of fear ran through her limbs as she watched Stefan come through the gate beside the lady knight. She squinted. He sat upon a different horse. Her eyes widened when the Normans, mingled with the Saxon knights, filed through behind him. What was this? Stefan did not seem to care that they were behind him? But—? He appeared to be completely consumed in conversation with the knight who rode the great gray horse beside him.
“Why are the Normans permitted within the walls?” Arian, in Welsh, asked the young lady beside her.
“I do not understand, your tongue, my lady,” Brighid said in English, coming out despite the drizzle to stand beside her.
But Arian could not repeat the words, so captivated was she by the sight unfolding before her. The Normans turned toward the long stable at the far side of the bailey, followed by the lady’s men; only she and Stefan turned their horses toward Arian. A squire ran up to both horses and took the reins. Stefan dismounted and she watched him limp to the lady’s side.
“Dear Lord, what happened to him?” Brighid gasped beside Arian.
She cast the girl a scowl, then turned her attention back to the knights. Arian’s jaw dropped when the lady knight pulled her helm from her head. Long thick black hair tumbled about her shoulders. She tossed the helm to her squire and dismounted the high steed, with Stefan’s careful assistance. To Arian’s amazement, the dark-haired woman threw herself into Stefan’s arms. Despite his wounded state, he pulled her into his embrace and hugged her close, whispering soft words into her ear. When they broke apart, Stefan offered his arm, and thusly they came toward her. Arian felt suddenly faint.
Jealousy pricked her hard, its nails gouging into her belly. She shook her head at the absurd emotion. Stefan was nothing but a lowly knight, a knight with no land, no title, a knight with only his horse and sword. A bastard. Yet her belittling him in her mind did not quash the hurt feelings.
Frustrated and feeling out of place, Arian watched him guide the lady up a wide step to stop several paces from her. When he looked to face her, Arian caught a small gasp. His expression startled her, for she did not think the man capable of a joyous look, but there it was before her. While fatigue lined his face, and to be sure that face was torn and bloody, there was a calmness about him that transcended his pain.
“Sir Stefan!” Lady Brighid gasped. “What happened to your face?”
He smiled at the girl and yanked a braid. “ ’Tis nothing.”
She giggled nervously, then asked, “Sir Rhys? Does he come with you?”
Instantly Arian watched Stefan’s face flash to furious. “Nay he does not, but rest assured he is alive and will come to you as soon as he is able.”
The girl grasped his hands. “Is he wounded? Have you seen him? Did he ask about me?”
Gently he set her from him, “In truth I do not know his whereabouts, but in my gut I know he lives.”
Brighid broke away, and in a flood of tears ran into the hall. Arian let out a short breath she had been holding. She caught the brief, intimate exchange between Stefan and the lady and her anger rose.
“I am Arianrhod, daughter of Prince Hylcon of Dinefwr and Lady Branwen of Powys,” she said to the lady. “Your man holds me against my will. I demand to be released at once!”
The lady smiled, and when she did it was as if the moon rose. Arian could well understand any man’s smitten heart. She was breathtakingly regal. For one so petite, she walked as if she were the queen of the realm. As she approached Arian, eyeing her disheveled appearance cautiously, she said, in a commanding voice, “A princess? Really?”
Arian nodded, her chin high, her spine straight, ignoring those who lingered in the courtyard trying to catch a word. She may look a waif, but she knew by the lady’s tone and approving eye she was aware she spoke the truth.
Lady Tarian nodded. “I am the daughter of Sweyn Godwinson and the Abbess Edith.”
Arian caught a breath. “An abbess?”
Lady Tarian nodded, her dark eyes snapping. “Aye, an abbess.” She strode past Arian and said over her shoulder, “Your train was here two days past in search of you. Should I send a rider after them?”
The news stunned her and gave her hope. “I demand you allow me to go to them at once!” Arian commanded.
“All in good time, princess,” Stefan said, taking Arian’s arm and escorting her into the hall. “All in good time.”
She balked, yanking her arm from his grasp, halting their stride. “Nay! Now! I have spent these last days chained to a bed, tied to you half-naked, my person bruised and scarred by your hand, and nearly starved, and you tell me all in good time? Nay. My time is now!”
Lady Tarian turned from the doorway, sweeping Arian’s disheveled person with a nonchalant gaze. “Your clothes are not fit for a field churl, most unbecoming a princess.”
“Indeed, Lady Tarian, your man would not allow me to clothe myself!”
The lady looked up at Stefan, her eyes twinkling at some hidden secret. “Chivalrous knight, do you forget your lessons so soon?”
Stefan grinned and bowed. “There were extenuating circumstances, my lady.”
The lady glanced back at Arian, and said, “I cannot wait to hear the tale. But first your wounds must be tended and the lady bathed and clothed.”
When they entered the hall, Arian gasped in surprise. Compared to the forebidding exterior, it was beautiful. Large, intricate wrought-iron sconces lined both sides of the long stone walls, and in between them large colorful tapestries adorned the walls. Suspended from thick oak ceiling beams in the middle of the hall, a huge round black iron candelabrum with intricate scrollwork hung, adorned with scores of blazing candles. There was a large fireplace built into the front end of the hall—it was cold—and at the far end another fireplace, easily twice the size of the forward one. Above it hung an ornate standard, a golden dragon on a sapphire field, and beside it hung another standard, one of a gruesome white skull with a sword plunging through it, on a black field, crimson drops of blood dripping from it, but in between both was the standard of two golden lions on a scarlet field.
Arian stiffened and halted. She looked to Lady Tarian and Stefan who walked with them.
“ ’Tis the lion of Normandy. Why does it fly here?”
“My husband, Lord Wulfson, is William’s trusted vassal. Why should it not?”
Arian’s jaw dropped. So she was not Stefan’s lady? Then her eyes narrowed as a startling realization stung her. She looked hard at Stefan, who stood tall and all too arrogant before her. Why did she not see it? All Normans were killers with more arrogance than any other men on earth! “You are not Saxon!” she accused.
“I never said I was.”
“But you—you led me to believe it was so!”
He shook his head. “ ’Tis what you wanted to believe, so I allowed you.”
She looked to the lady. “How could you marry a Norman?”
Lady Tarian smiled tolerantly. “My mother is Welsh and my sire Saxon. I married my Norman husband because I could not survive another day without him.”
“Why did you flee from the Norman knights?” Arian asked Stefan.
He eased against the hearth. Deep pain lines etched his face. “Ralph du Forney would have snatched you for his own pleasure, and you, dear princess, would not command the high ransom I demand if you were no longer a virgin.”
Arian strode to where he stood and struck him with her open, palm upon on his good cheek. Lady Tarian gasped, as did the servants who bustled by. Stefan grabbed her by the wrists and yanked her hard to his chest. “Does the truth bother you?” he ground out.
“You are heartless, Sir Stefan, and I would expect nothing less from a Norman.” She spat to the floor.
“If I were heartless, you would have been raped at the hands of your guard. Do not talk to me of what I cannot do. You are in no position to order.”
Arian yanked her hands from his grasp. “Do not touch my person again.”
His eyes had darkened to the color of a moonless sky. His nostrils flared, and she could see the muscles work in his jaw. “So, as a Norman I am completely beneath you?”
“As a common bastard you are beneath me. As a Norman you are not fit to breathe the same air I breathe!” Arian whirled and faced the lady of the manor. “What of your husband? Does he play the same despicable games as his brethren?”
Lady Tarian smiled tolerantly.
“Do not ask questions that do not concern you, princess,” Stefan bit off. He turned to Lady Tarian and said, “Milady, once I have bathed and Edith has seen to this face of mine, we will talk more.”
“I never should have allowed Wulfson to insist I stay here to defend Draceadon! I should have been by his side!” Lady Tarian burst out. Her fingers played with the hilt of the broadsword that hung from her leather belt.
Stefan placed a hand upon her shoulder. “ ’Twas a slaughter, Tarian, you would be buzzard food. ’Twas the right choice to make. Those craven Welsh and that crazed Edric have been scourging all of Herefordshire. You are safer here, and ’tis what Wulf would want above all else.”
Lady Tarian choked back a sob, and turned from them to what looked to be the lord’s chair by the great hearth, leaving Stefan and Arian alone. He cast a glance down at her and scowled. Arian scowled back. “I do not appreciate being lied to, Sir Stefan. Is there anything else you wish to tell me?”
“Nay,” he said, and strode from her to Tarian, where they shared a few words before he moved past her and through an archway, then disappeared.
Lady Tarian rose slowly from the chair, her eyes misty and far off. Arian knew that look; she had seen it a hundred times on her father’s face. ’Twas the haunted look of one who had lost their beloved. Trancelike she turned to Arian, and softly said, “Forgive me my manners. I worry for my husband and his brothers.” She motioned toward the wide stone stairway. “Come, allow me to show you to the lady’s solar, where you may bathe and rest. I will send fresh clothes and a tray for you.”
Stubbornly, Arian hesitated not wanting to accept this woman’s hospitality. She was a hostage. Was she expected to walk behind her like a leashed lamb? Happy for a morsel? Arian cast a furtive glance over her shoulder to the far door to the hall. It swung open wide, and Norman and Saxon knights filled the great hall like locusts on the wheat fields.
Arian spun around. A hot bath, fresh food, and clean clothes did not seem such a bad thing after all. The chamber was open and airy, and the bed large. “Here is Annis; she will tend you until your own maid arrives,” Lady Tarian said as a girl of no more than fourteen entered the chamber.
When the lady turned to leave, Arian called out to her, “A word, please.”
Slowly she turned.
“I would know the true character of Sir Stefan.”
Fine dark brows knitted in confusion. “ ’Tis above reproach.”
“I would not know it by his actions.”
“Nor have you walked in his boots. He has seen horrors we could never imagine.”
“He is a liar and a knave!”
Lady Tarian shook her head. “You will come to understand Stefan in time, should he allow you to. There are few men such as he. You are fortunate he was close by.”
Arian nodded, and for the moment, her fears were allayed. But she would be wary of this beautiful half-Welsh lady married to a vicious Norman lord, and all whom she called friend.
“Did Cadoc say which direction they traveled?” Arian asked, stepping closer to the lady. “I implore you, send word to him on my behalf. I will reward you with gold! My sire and my betrothed wi
ll also reward you.”
Lady Tarian shook her head and moved toward the door. “Your fate is not in my hands.” And soundly she closed it behind her.
THIRTEEN
“What have you done, Stefan?” Tarian demanded, barging into the small chamber down the hall from her own. He winced as Edith bit off the last stitch she had resewn. He did not know what balms she concocted, but the right side of his face had gone completely numb before she began her repair. A much-welcomed respite from the last week of pain.
He looked tiredly up at Wulfson’s lady. “What have I done?”
“Aye, what have you done indeed? She is a princess, for God’s sake! A royal Dinefwr!”
He scowled.
“Ah! Do not look at me so, I did not mean you are not worthy of her, but she is betrothed!”
Stefan laughed, and dragged his fingers through his hair. “I asked Wulfson the same thing about you.”
Her face crumbled at the mention of his name. She grabbed his hands and sat down beside him on the short bench. “Tell me of my husband. Tell me all.”
Edith moved from them, giving them privacy. Stefan took a long, deep breath, then exhaled. “We were outnumbered. The battle was lost before it began.”
“Why then did you engage?”
Stefan’s head snapped back and looked hard at her. “Normans do not turn tail!”
“Aye, God forbid your pride should suffer!”
“ ’Twas not like that, Tarian. We had the cavalry, we had the castle, we had the archers. Once we had engaged, we had to send more men onto the field, or it would have been a complete slaughter.”
“Where are the Blood Swords?”
“All but myself and Rhys, whom I have not yet found, reside in the dungeons of your dear ex-uncle Rhiwallon.”