He was cut off by the slam of a door. It was a loud crack, a brutal sound in the depths of the darkened hall, but no one seemed particularly startled by it. It was merely a familiar interruption, one that occurred several times a night. But they all paused, glancing towards a large wardrobe that had been a permanent part of the great hall for longer than any of them could remember. It had been part of a cache of booty from raids along the coast of Eire decades ago and had once contained great and expensive things. But that had been years ago. Now, it contained something different altogether. By the time Bhrodi glanced over his shoulder to look at the wardrobe, something thin and wrath-like burst forth from the cabinet.
A figure danced about in the shadows, shuffling and leaping. There was a good deal of grunting going on as the figure moved about, flickering through the streams of light that reached out from the hearth like fingers into the dim recesses of the room, recesses obscured by the darkness that cloaked the chamber like the dank depths of a polluted soul. They could all hear the hunting and grunting before the figure finally came closer, into the edge of the light, where they could see a little man dressed in filthy rags, with stringy white hair, waving his hand about in front of him as if extending an imaginary sword.
It was evident the man was doing battle with unseen forces, and it was a fierce battle indeed. He thrust, he parried, and he charged forward when he thought he had the advantage. He even shrieked when the invisible weapons aiming for him came too close. It was a macabre dance of a clear madman, though one who was determined to protect himself and the occupants of the room from unseen demons.
As Bhrodi and the others watched, the tiny man with the wild hair moved with leaps and bounds back towards his cabinet. Then, as quickly as the show began, it was summarily finished as he sheathed his imaginary sword and bowed swiftly to his ghostly opponent. And with that, he jumped back into his cabinet and closed the door.
It was over as quickly as it had begun, but no one commented on it. They’d seen it before, many times, and they returned to what they had been doing as if nothing was amiss. Ivor, who had been speaking when the little man had emerged, continued on as if nothing strange had just occurred. It was all quite normal in their world.
“Would you speak with the messenger, my lord?” he asked. “I have kept him in the gatehouse. If he is de Wolfe’s messenger, we do not want to show him any disrespect and have The Wolfe down around our ears. It would be wise for you to see him.”
Bhrodi inhaled slowly, thoughtfully, and stopped sharpening his sword. “Show him in,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I would like to know what the man has to say about a marriage contract I’ve not yet agreed to.”
Ivor didn’t want to debate it with him; any talk of marriage, or women in general, were not healthy subjects to broach with his liege and he was eager for it to be someone else’s problem. Swiftly, he turned on his heal and headed back the way he had come.
Ivor’s bootfalls faded as Bhrodi continued to sit, inactive, a pumice stone in one hand and his sword in the other, pondering the arrival of the Wolfe Pack. That was what everyone in military circles referred to them as; William de Wolfe and his stable of powerful and legendary fighting men were known as the Wolfe Pack. Bhrodi had been raised on stories of de Wolfe’s valor and wasn’t hard pressed to admit he admired the man greatly. Tales of de Wolfe’s exploits along the Scots border were almost mythical in proportion. Bhrodi wondered if de Wolfe himself would be accompanying his daughter; suspicion told him the man, no matter his advanced age, would come. This was too important a meeting to leave to lesser knights.
So he continued to sharpen his blade, contemplating, as the men around him whispered among themselves. Usually, he ignored it but tonight he wasn’t apt to. He spit on his pumice stone to wet it as he sharpened.
“Ianto,” he said to the man sitting off to his right. “You will make sure we have accommodations for de Wolfe and his men. The bulk of the men can sleep in the hall but de Wolfe will have his own chamber. See to it.”
Sir Ianto ap Huw, a big man from a fine and noble family, looked up from the cup of ale in his hand. “We can put him in the top of the keep,” he said. “There are two rooms there. It is big enough.”
“See to it.”
“Aye, fy arglwydd,” he said quietly. Aye, my lord. “But what of the woman he brings? This is no place for a woman.”
Bhrodi stopped sharpening and turned to look at the group. “So that is what all of you are hissing about?” he asked. “The fact that Rhydilian is no place for women? You forget there was a woman here, once, and there is a woman here now.”
“But she is kept to her chamber, fy arglwydd, and does not wander,” a round man with a receding hairline responded softly. “Rhydilian is not a friendly place. The walls of this hall have not seen any woman in over two years.”
Bhrodi’s piercing green eyes fixed on him. “Two years, seven months, and eighteen days,” he said, his tone low and nearly threatening. “And so this hall will see a woman now, Gwyllim. Prepare the chamber next to mine for her.”
“That is a small chamber,” Sir Gwyllim ap Evan replied again with his soft but firm tone. He was a man of great reason and often tried to counsel Bhrodi when the man was open to such things. “The chamber on the top floor is much larger and would be more comfortable for her. It is a woman’s chamber, after all.”
Bhrodi shook his head brusquely, as they knew he would. No one spoke of the chamber on the top floor, a chamber that had been sealed up for two years, seven months, and eighteen days, ever since the day Bhrodi’s beloved Sian had died giving birth to a son. Since that day, no one had dared to venture into the room which was exactly how it was the moment Sian’s body had been removed. Bhrodi wouldn’t let anyone in to even clean it up. Stale, with still-bloodied linens and old ashes in the hearth, the chamber sat cold and dark and unloved. Gwyllim had taken his life in his hands by as much as suggesting they disturb what had become a shrine to grief.
“Nay,” Bhrodi barked, his mood turning from calm to annoyed in a split second. “Put the woman next to me and that will be the end of it.”
Gwyllim glanced at Ianto and another man seated around the fire, noting their various expressions of uncertainty; whereas Ianto tended to be the most outspoken of the group, the man next to him, Yestin ap Bran, would side with Bhrodi until the end. What Bhrodi said was good enough for him, no matter what it was.
Bhrodi had put an end to the discussion of the chamber next to the hall, as they all knew he would. There was no more discussing it and no one would try. As Gwyllim rose wearily to his feet to carry out Bhrodi’s command, the keep entry door swung open. They could hear it snap back on the old iron hinges. Gwyllim paused, as did everyone else, their attention turning to the hall entry as Ivor entered the chamber with a knight on his heels.
Immediately, the ambiance of the room changed. This was no ordinary knight; the stench of the Saesneg was upon them, an English knight of the highest and most professional order. The extremely tall man clad in expensive and well-used armor entered the hall, his mail jingling as he walked and his big boots thumping purposefully against the wooden floor. As he approached the fire pit where the men were gathered, Bhrodi’s men rose to their feet but Bhrodi did not. He was not apt to show any respect or curiosity to a mere English knight.
He did, however, eye the man carefully; he was a big man with big hands and a crown of reddish-gold hair. As the knight and Bhrodi stared each other down, Ivor spoke.
“You are in the presence of the King of Anglesey, Prince of Cefni, Lord of the Green Isle, and the Earl of Coventry,” he said in a formal tone. “You will show your respect to him, Saesneg.”
The knight didn’t hesitate; he folded his long body over, bowing respectfully. “My lord,” the knight said in a deep and charismatic voice. “Mae’n anrhydedd yn eich presenoldeb.” I am honored in your presence.
Bhrodi was studying the man intently, still seated upon a chair with a sword in his hand. I
t was a most disinterested stance, and meant to be that way. There was no shortage of arrogance in Bhrodi’s manner.
“You will speak English in my presence,” he finally said. “I will not have the Welsh language sullied upon your tongue.”
The knight nodded politely. “As you wish, my lord.”
“What is your name?”
“Sir Apollo de Norville, my lord,” he replied respectfully. “I serve Sir William de Wolfe.”
“Where is The Wolfe?”
“He is camped about six or seven miles to the east, my lord, on the other side of the lake which is at the base of your mountain,” he replied. “He thought it best to seek shelter and rest for the night and then present himself to you in the morning.”
Something changed in Bhrodi’s eyes at that moment; an ominous flicker in the deep green depths. In fact, his entire expression seemed to tighten and he rose to his feet.
“Where, exactly, did he camp?” he asked, an odd sense of urgency in his tone.
Apollo tried to be more specific. “There is a clearing to the south, near a copse of trees,” he said. “A brook runs next to it and there are some rock formations to the north, although it was difficult to make them out, exactly.”
“There is a smaller lake and a marsh next to this clearing.”
“Aye, my lord.”
Bhrodi’s gaze lingered on the knight for a moment before passing a glance at Ivor. “That is not a safe place,” he told him. “Get a party together. We must ride for them.”
Apollo was confused. “I do not understand, my lord,” he said. “Are we not on your lands? Did we mistakenly venture into enemy territory?”
Bhrodi could only shake his head as his men ran past him, calling for soldiers and mounts. Men began shouting and they could hear the calls out in the bailey. Apollo was genuinely puzzled as Bhrodi collected the sheath for his sword and moved past the knight.
“Come along, Saesneg,” he said. “Let us see if we can save The Wolfe from the demon that lurks in the night.”
Apollo followed, growing increasingly concerned. “Demon, my lord?” he repeated. “What demon?”
Bhrodi cast the man a long glance as they headed out of the hall and into the full moon in the bailey beyond.
“Let us hope you do not find out.”
“She is standing watch,” Jordan’s voice was soft. “She is tending tae her duties as always. Did ye think this journey would be any different than the others?”
William sighed faintly. Bundled up against the cold night, he faced his wife in the well-appointed tent the family shared when they traveled. He had come looking for his daughter but found his wife alone before the brazier. Wrapped in furs, she was small and pale against the glowing embers, but her expression upon him was serious and all-knowing.
“Nay,” he replied honestly. “I would expect her to behave as she always has.”
“She will not shirk her duties.”
William simply nodded, reflecting on his daughter and their journey from England. It had been almost three long weeks of travel, of contemplating Penelope’s future. There had been a lot of time to think. He sighed again.
“I would not expect her to, as she is very dutiful,” he replied. “In fact, she has settled down remarkably since that scene back at Questing when she locked us all in the solar and attempted to challenge my decision. I have watched her for almost three weeks now and she has not said another word about her impending future. Has she said anything to you?”
Jordan shrugged faintly. “Not in so many words,” she said softly. “She has mentioned how she will miss England but nothing more than that. But her expression at times… ye can see she has great longing. And great fear. Yet, she is a daughter of de Wolfe. She has accepted her duty.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I do.”
“She will not try to escape this marriage before it can be completed?”
“I dunna believe so. Tae do that would bring ye shame, and Penny wouldna knowingly bring ye shame.”
William accepted that. His daughter was honorable above all else. But she was also stubborn and disobedient, as the current situation displayed.
“She should be here, with you,” he said, some displeasure in his tone. “I told her to retire early because tomorrow we meet her future husband.”
Jordan was aware of the directive. “English,” she said, somewhat admonishingly, “ye have raised her with yer own sense of duty. She is a young and beautiful woman, that is true, but inside that lovely façade beats her father’s heart. She is the daughter of The Wolfe and ye canna deny her what comes naturally. I told ye she wouldna shirk her duties; therefore, she has taken the night watch. If ye want her tae come tae bed, then ye must go out and bring her in.”
William knew that but it did not nothing to ease his mounting frustration. With a growl, he raked his fingers through his graying dark hair, a gesture of aggravation.
“Why is it that all of the women in my family seem intent to disobey me?” he asked. “Nothing on this journey is going as I had planned. I did not want you to come, yet you are here. Because Kieran and his sons came, Jemma had to come. Now I have womenfolk tagging along where there should be none.”
Jordan’s voice was soft. “Jemma is here tae ease Kevin.”
William frowned. “Kevin is a grown man,” he said. “He must come to accept that the woman he wants is meant for another and nothing his mother can do will change it. You know I have nothing but respect for Kevin and his abilities as both man and knight, but Penelope is not meant for him. He will have to find a wife elsewhere.”
Jordan sighed faintly, lowering her gaze and looking at the smoldering fire. She felt very sorry for her cousin’s son; Jemma was her closest kin, more of a sister to her than a cousin. They had grown up together and had married Englishmen who had served together. Therefore, she was particularly sympathetic to Jemma’s son’s sorrow.
“He has been in love with her since she was a bairn,” she murmured. “Ye canna change how the man feels.”
William’s frown deepened. “And you do not approve of my offering Penny in marriage to another?” he asked, his jaw ticking. “Is that why you have truly come? To make sure I know of your disapproval with this match?”
Jordan’s eyes moved to him again. “There is no disapproval to be had,” she said. “I support whatever decision ye make and well ye know it. But Jemma is here tae comfort Kevin, who also happens to be riding escort intae Wales tae deliver the woman he loves tae another man, and I am here tae make sure Penelope behaves herself. Do ye disagree with my logic?”
He calmed somewhat, though it was reluctant. “Nay,” he grumbled, turning away. “You are the only one who has any chance of controlling her. I never could.”
“That is because ye spoiled her, English,” Jordan said softly. “Ye love her too much. I know this marriage was a difficult decision for ye. I know ye dunna want tae let her go.”
He was less agitated now, now leaning towards depression. “She is my baby,” he murmured. “Of course I do not want to let her go yet I know I must. This marital contract… she is worthy of it. I would not have pledged her had I not thought so.”
Jordan rose from her stool and went to him, putting her arms around her big, strong husband who, with the years, had seen his emotions run rampant with his children. He was such a good father, doting and wise and kind, but he was deep and irrevocably emotionally invested in all of his children. The mighty Wolf of the Border had one weakness and one weakness only; his outlook on life was directly related to his children, and mostly to his wife. He couldn’t do without any of them, yet it was inevitable that he had to. Children grew up, and parents grew old. He hated that fact of life.
“I know,” Jordan said softly. “Now, go out and find her and bring her back. She must sleep for a time. She will meet her future husband tomorrow and must look her best.”
“She will hate you for saying so.”
Jordan grinn
ed, giving him a hug before letting him go. “Find her, English. Be swift about it.”
“Why?”
“Because there is every chance that Kevin is with her, trying to talk her into running off with him.”
William rolled his eyes as he dutifully quit the tent. He knew his wife wasn’t far wrong with what she had said and he couldn’t help the sense of urgency that suddenly gripped him.
Kevin Hage was much like his wise and powerful father; if he wanted something, he would not give up.
“The moonlight is so bright that it is nearly day.”
Penelope was gazing up at the moon, listening to the knight beside her speak of it. It was white and brilliant against the dark expanse of sky, and she nodded at his assessment.
“It nearly hurts my eyes to look at it,” she said. Then, she looked at the landscape surrounding them, the silver-cast fields and distant trees. “It makes everything ghostly and glowing. This whole land seems very surreal. Can you feel it?”
Sir Kevin Hage wasn’t looking at the landscape; he was looking at Penelope. She was all he ever looked at, and had since he had been a youth and had spent hours upon hours with Penelope as she had trained alongside the young men of Castle Questing.
Even at a young age she had been smart, determined, and tough, and as William and Kieran and Paris’ sons had fostered together, Penelope, the youngest of William’s nine children, had been allowed to tag along. Kevin, only eight years older than she was, found himself taking her under his wing. He and Penelope had been through a lot together, suffering both hardship and triumph, and over the years Kevin’s sense of brotherly protectiveness turned into something else.
Now, he couldn’t remember when he hadn’t loved her and this journey into Wales was difficult for him. He tried not to think about what lay at the end of the voyage but now, as it would end tomorrow when Penelope was presented to the Welsh prince known as The Serpent, he realized this would be his last night alone with her. It tore at him like nothing he had ever known and he wanted to make this a night they would both remember forever; he simply wasn’t sure how to do it without crossing lines and violating trust. There were things he wanted to say and things he wanted to do, now eight years in the making. Trouble was, he didn’t want to get slugged for either effort, so he struggled to focus on a benign and meaningless conversation instead.
Lords of Ireland II Page 39