A Lord for Haughmond

by K. C. Helms

  From betwixt Anne’s fingers covering her mouth, a broken sob filled the chamber. Her fearsome trembling—like a tree on Haughmond Hill in March—shook Katherine as well. Would that she could calm her dear sister. Would that she could calm herself.

  Natheless, she took heart. Let them argue. It offered precious time, time in which she might flee or someone might hear the arguing and intercede.

  “For shame, Adela. You must not speak thus of my son’s wife.” Though Sir Geoffrey scolded vigorously, his blue eyes glowed with eager anticipation.

  Katherine’s stomach heaved at the despicable thought. Her mouth dry, she could barely swallow down the bitter taste in the back of her throat. Her gaze darted frantically from Lady Adela to Sir Geoffrey to the closed door.

  Lady Adela glared her anger and spoke through set lips. “Can I not persuade you to forbear this wicked plan? Will naught prevent you from debauching her?”

  “’Tis not wicked,” said Sir Geoffrey, throwing a sly smile at Katherine. “’Tis most clever.”

  A wolf cornering a hare could not be more threatening. Katherine leaned against her sister.

  His smile broadening, he sneered, “’Tis the most fitting revenge against a family who has been my bitter gall for many years. The favored ones of the Marches are short of luck this day.”

  “Have I not planned judiciously all these years?” Lady Adela’s beseeching voice grew into a screech. Her dark eyes showed her desperation. “Though you would kill your lady wife with each babe she could not bring forth, I kept Constance alive so the world would think our children were hers—so you could retain Haughmond, so you could retain your power. She didn’t die until I took matters into my own hands. I suffered greatly, yearning to be your lady in her stead. ’Tis my time to be the lady of Myton. Fetch a priest, I say. Keep troth, sir. Or you will rue the day you opposed me.”

  Lifting her head, Katherine held her breath. For the first time in her life, she prayed Lady Adela would win the day.

  A questing brow was all that broke Sir Geoffrey’s deadly stillness. “You dare to thwart me?” he asked, his voice low and determined.

  “We had a plan.” Lady Adela’s voice rose to a shout. “You don’t cross me, not when I rid you of your enemies and keep you powerful.”

  Sir Geoffrey raised his arm. “Silence, woman!”

  With a frightened cry, Lady Adela pushed behind Katherine and Anne. “He slew your father, did you know.” Her grip on Katherine’s arm became painful while she rasped into her ear with hot, labored breaths. “He poisoned your precious aunt with my belladonna. All to keep Haughmond.”

  Sir Geoffrey stepped forward, his dagger flashing. Horrified and sick at heart, Katherine twisted sideways, using her shoulder as a shield, trying desperately to keep the knight and his dagger away from Robert.

  “I’ll slice your deceitful throat if you utter one more word, whore,” he growled.

  Katherine tried to push towards the door. But Anne clung to her, and Lady Adela was as desperate.

  “You must not allow him to take you,” Lady Adela murmured again into her ear. “He will fill your belly with his bastards.”

  The door opened, slamming against the wall behind it. Dafydd and his drawn sword surged into the chamber. Behind him, Simon brandished his own sword, while Gilbert hefted a spiked club in his raised fist.

  Dafydd thrust his blade at Lady Adela’s face. “Unhand my wife!”

  With a startled yelp, Lady Adela released Katherine and darted away.

  Katherine lurched back from Sir Geoffrey’s threat. “Watch, Rhys, he has a knife!”

  Too late she realized her mistake. Panic glazed her husband’s face. New terror swept through her. How easily she had relinquished his secret, as he had claimed she would.

  Though armed with a mere dagger, Sir Geoffrey did not appear intimidated by the threatening sword. He rocked back on his heels. “So you are both men, are you?” He glared at Dafydd. “You do plot against me, Dafydd. Or is it Rhys? Young Katherine should mind her nimble tongue.”

  Wrenching off his shaggy moustache, Dafydd knew the time of reckoning had come. But it terrified him. His careful planning had come to naught. And his worst fear—what he had sought to prevent—had come to pass, thereto. Sir Geoffrey stood betwixt himself and everything precious. He could not engage the knight with Katherine and his son within his father’s vengeful reach. And those eyes—so like his own—bore into him without compassion.

  Verily, one of them would slay the other this day.

  His mother must have realized it. She clasped his arm. “Set aside your vengeance, Dafydd,” she implored. “Do not soil your hands with his blood. Do not imperil your soul.”

  Sir Geoffrey’s gaze narrowed. “Vengeance? Of what do you speak?”

  Dafydd gripped his sword tighter. “I came to Shropshire to slay you, to vindicate my mother’s honor.”

  Fear twisted his mother’s face. “Let it be!”

  Sir Geoffrey’s lips curled in a sneer. “How noble, a son’s revenge to right past wrongs. I should have aimed more carefully that day at the river.”

  Katherine gasped. Her eyes widened with shock. “Aimed? You attacked my husband? ’Twas not the Welsh? But he is your own son.”

  “One who plies treachery,” Sir Geoffrey snarled. “By God, a weak hatchling have I sired!”

  Anne, in a trembling voice, cried out, “Rhys, he means to take Katherine to Myton.”

  A growl filled the chamber. Vaguely aware ’twas his own, Dafydd hefted his sword and stepped closer to Sir Geoffrey. “I doubt me he will do that.”

  Sir Geoffrey lunged. Not at himself, protected by armor and sword, but at Katherine. In an instant she was yanked up against his armor, his knife blade pointing at her throat. A droplet of blood trickled down her neck.

  Dafydd’s heart wrenched at her cry of pain.

  “I’ll take your wife and son with me as surety for safe passage. You seek a blood bath. But I won’t allow it. You won’t cleave me in twain.”

  Gritting his teeth at his helplessness, Dafydd stood panting, his breath loud and labored.

  Before anyone moved, Sister Mary Margaret rushed forward and seized Robert from Katherine’s shaking arms. She ducked past Dafydd and Simon and fled to the corridor.

  Katherine’s relief was obvious. Her knees buckled. She would have slid to the floor had not Sir Geoffrey hauled her back up. His dagger pricked her neck once more.

  “You shan’t harm my sister!” Anne’s fervent exclamation, sounding like a battle cry, startled them all. She grabbed Sir Geoffrey’s arm and pulled with all her might.

  A fleeting vision of loyal sisters bent on protecting each other from an attacking hound flashed across Dafydd’s memory.

  Katherine’s elbow slammed into Sir Geoffrey’s ribs, bringing a sudden “woof.” She ducked beneath his arm and was free.

  Helpless fury glittered in Sir Geoffrey’s eyes. His arm, already poised in midair, swept in a downward arc.

  “Nay,” cried Katherine, raising a protective hand.

  “Nay,” bellowed Simon, thrusting with his sword. His long blade drove into Sir Geoffrey’s ribs.

  The knight grunted and stumbled back. But his blade had found a mark. Blood cascaded from the side of Anne’s neck.

  With a yell of rage, Simon whirled toward her, exposing his back to the reddened dagger yet within Sir Geoffrey’s fist.

  Dafydd, knowing from battlefield experience Anne had suffered a grievous blow, lunged, fueled by rising grief. His sword plunged past the metal links of Sir Geoffrey’s armor, through the worn leather hauberk, through to bone. Twisting the blade, it slid deeper. He yanked the weapon free and waited, poised for another attack.

  But ’twas unnecessary. His father fell back against the stone wall. While Katherine’s heartbreaking scream pierced the air, the knight’s knees gave way and he slid to the floor.

  Dafydd swung back, grabbed for Katherine. But she was already foundering beneath Anne’s limp weig
ht. The sisters collapsed in a heap of black cloaks and flowing blood.

  Bloody spittle trickled from Anne’s parted lips. Her jaw worked in a soundless struggle for air. ’Twas horribly obvious the effort was in vain. Death shown in her panic-filled eyes.

  On her knees, Katherine pressed frantically against the gaping wound. “Help us, Saint Winifred, help us!”

  But even as she sought to staunch the blood, even as it spurted unerringly from betwixt her fingers, Anne’s eyes lost their luster, lost their panic. Her head fell back against her sister’s arm. She no longer struggled for breath.

  “Anne! Anne!”

  Katherine’s wail and his own grief brought Dafydd to his knee. The cry seemed to come from afar, drowned out by drums, loud and ponderous, thrumming in his head. Destruction was part of warfare. Women mustn’t be subjected to it. On the stone floor Anne’s outstretched leg jerked once, twice. Beneath his armor, beneath his jerkin, his stomach roiled at the death spasms. He wrapped his arms about his wife’s shaking body, allowed her anguish to flow through him, pressed himself to her back while she sobbed into Anne’s tangled hair, and while the sweet innocent damsel’s hot blood flowed over his hand.

  Victory was never without cost. He had vowed to protect these sisters and he had failed. Such misplaced arrogance to think he could defeat Sir Geoffrey. How was Katherine to bear this loss? This would not have happened to Anne but for his need of vengeance. He was not blameless, nor should he be. He had saved his mother. He had saved Katherine. He had even saved his own future and happiness.

  What a wretched knight to have saved himself.

  He looked down at Anne. Her jaw hung limp. Her chest no longer heaved. Within his wife’s trembling arms she lay still with half-closed eyes, like so many fallen warriors after battle. Was she yet aware that they grieved, that Simon continued to try to staunch the bleeding at her neck, his face twisted with all his desperation?

  Did she yet hear her sister’s cries? Or had she already passed into the arms of the angels? He did not doubt it would be so. Of anyone, sweet Anne would be deserving of heavenly joy.

  Katherine’s shudders of grief reverberated through his chest. He held her close, close to his heart. Had his father succeeded in destroying them? Because he had hated more than they had loved?

  Nay! Anger flowed through him. He clasped Katherine tighter as she sobbed over her sister’s lifeless body. He would prove Sir Geoffrey wrong. He would be a better man, a better husband, a better father. He would prove that love was more powerful than vengeance.

  With a wrenching cry that sent stabbing pain through Dafydd’s heart, Simon leaped to his feet. Wild-eyed and drenched in Anne’s blood, in one bound he crossed the small chamber to where Sir Geoffrey sat propped against the wall.

  With horror, Dafydd realized his father yet lived and watched them from across the chamber. In the candle’s light his eyes moved warily from one of them to the other. Frothy blood bubbled from his mouth. His breath came in a wheeze. He would not last long in such a condition.

  With a shout from the wellspring of his soul, Simon swiped the dirk from his belt.

  Sir Geoffrey offered no resistance. He did not move, except to lift his gaze toward the grieving knight just as the sharp blade speared his left eye and plunged into his skull.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Tall and majestic and framed by the brilliant western sky, the castle laid claim to a conquered nation—Caernarvon, grim reminder of the king’s power. Dwarfed beneath the hills of Snowdonia and overlooking the treacherous Menai Strait, Edward’s mighty fortress came into view before Katherine and her train approached the new eastern gate.

  She had missed the birth of the queen’s latest child. Dutiful in providing the king sufficient heirs, the queen had, a month agone, given birth in the raw and dismal castle. Christened Edward, the babe was second in line to the throne behind his elder brother, Alfonso.

  It had been a long year, this year of mourning. Katherine had grown quieter and less impulsive. She had become more thoughtful in her actions and decisions. Aunt Matilda would say she had taken on the cares of the world.

  But she knew better.

  She had set aside her girlish notions and embraced her responsibilities as mother and wife and lady of the castle. She had spent her time caring for her family. Her young children were Haughmond’s legacy. She delighted in the joy of them.

  Held by his duties to the crown, Dafydd had been absent from Haughmond for months at a time. The king’s trust in her husband frustrated her, for she was lonely without Anne and yearned for her husband’s strong and steady influence. But Sister Mary Margaret remained in Shropshire and she took comfort from the friendship they had been able to forge.

  Wales may have been subdued, but the provincial administration yet required protection. The king’s sheriffs, loyal Englishmen all, were responsible for administering royal law and treated the locals as unruly children. To keep the Welsh at heel, the king had enthusiastically embarked on the construction of a ring of defensive castles. Beneath his lion standard, carpenters and masons and other skilled craftsmen had commenced building the fortified cities of Conwy, Caernarvon and Harlech.

  Held to Wales, Dafydd reinstated the services of a private courier. Missives filled with love and daily doings, traveled apace betwixt Caernarvon and Haughmond.

  But not this day. This day, Katherine herself would deliver the news, for her husband had summoned her to Wales.

  Edward Plantagenet—King of England, Lord of Ireland, Duke of Gascony, Earl of Chester and King of Wales—planned to celebrate his successful conquest with a pageantry of tournaments and an Arthurian Round Table court. A triumphant assertion of power, the event would be well attended by the lords and ladies of the realm.

  Impatient at the sight of the castle tower, needing to see her husband and be assured he enjoyed good health, Katherine kicked her horse into a gallop. Dafydd Rhys de la Motte remained the center of her life and she was loath to have so much as a hair on his head harmed. Gilbert’s younger son whooped his delight and kicked his mount likewise, coming abreast to her and grinning with youthful exuberance. She grinned back and urged her horse faster, wrapping the reins carefully around her left hand.

  No one could claim she possessed a withered hand. But with the last two fingers of her right hand nearly useless, she had learned to live with Sir Geoffrey’s mark upon her. The wound from his knife had healed, but his grievous brand would be upon her for the rest of her days. Had he not all but destroyed her family?

  Once upon a time she had been victim to his unholy villainy. But by her husband’s noble deeds she had risen above the pain and loss. Praise be to God, she had come to discover the most virtuous and loving of helpmates.

  If the weary travelers were aware of Caernarvon, the castle was duly aware of their approach. The trumpet blast from the tower sent a ripple of relief down her spine. Gilbert bore Haughmond’s banner at their vanguard, but with half of her garrison as escort, she feared the king would think himself under siege.

  A moment later, Dafydd and Sir William came tearing toward her, their mounts churning up a cloud of dust in their wake. Her heart pounded with joy. Yet, fearing a collision, she pulled rein. An instant later Dafydd’s destrier came to a halt at her side. Leaning from his saddle, so far he looked as though he would topple to the ground, her husband bestowed a lengthy kiss upon her laughing lips. She returned it with all her ardor and did not care that she nigh lost her balance, so secure was she with his sturdy arm about her waist.

  Gilbert’s two sons, healthy but stripling lads, were not far from the days when the same pleasure would be their greatest desire. But for the nonce, they grimaced in distaste and averted their eyes. Behind them, Haughmond’s horde of men-at-arms came to a halt.

  Sir William, feeling no similar compunction, winked at Katherine and grinned wickedly. She pulled away with a blithesome laugh. Unexpectedly, the knight sobered and attempted to arrange a chastened expression upon his fac
e, for Sister Mary Margaret drew rein beside him, wearing a disapproving frown. But suddenly, a chuckle did spring from her lips. Her shoulders shook with mirth. She and the knight shared a look of mutual understanding.

  Katherine tried not to blush, knowing the direction of their thoughts.

  Sir William’s eyes sparked in merriment once again. Turning his mount, he motioned Gilbert toward Caernarvon. With his sharp command, Haughmond’s troops moved out.

  Katherine and Dafydd were left alone.

  As though they possessed all the time in the world, they rode leisurely, their gazes locked on each other. Katherine’s throat constricted at the love emanating from her husband’s bright blue eyes. He had never looked so handsome in his armor. Clean-shaven these days, he was the knight she had fallen in love with. She marveled anew at her good fortune, that he was in truth her husband—beloved, respected and cherished. Tears of happiness filled her eyes.

  Oh, that Anne and Simon could have had a life such as hers.

  Dafydd’s delighted grin vanished. “What is amiss?” he asked in alarm.

  “I was thinking of Simon. I would speak to him.”

  “I doubt me ’twould be wise. He does not anticipate your arrival with pleasure.”

  She threw him a questioning glance.

  “He fears he shall burst into tears at the sight of you. We must needs indulge him this once.”

  A tear fell upon her cheek at the sad thought of Simon, so wounded by his grief he would set himself apart. Yet she nodded in understanding. With time, he would heal, as she herself had. Raw memories would diminish beneath the business of daily living. Mayhap one day hence, he would find another maiden and new joy.

  “Tell me of our children.” Dafydd spoke hurriedly, apparently seeking a change of topic. “They are well?”

  Wiping at her eyes, she smiled. “Both were in good health the day of my departure, though Robert was fretting over a new tooth.”

  Dafydd nodded with a delighted smile. “And tell me, what is happening with our little miss?”