The woman were struggling and screaming, three of the men having dismounted to try and wrestle them to the ground, intent on rape it seemed. The man still mounted seemed to be in charge and was urging the others on, but as he saw Morgan charging at him, drew his sword and rode to meet him. Morgan’s sword swooped down on him before he could do much more than begin to defend himself, slicing through the leather covering that he wore on his wrist as protection, penetrating through to the bone. He gave a scream of pain as his hand was severed and his weapon fell uselessly to the ground, then turned his horse and fled towards the forest.
Morgan did not bother to give chase to the craven coward, wheeling his horse about and attacking the first man on the ground to break off from his attempt to subdue the women and draw his sword. From his advantage, he dealt savage blows to the man’s head and shoulders, his sword slicing deep into the rogue’s neck so that a scream issued from his lips in a froth of crimson and he staggered and fell to the ground, his lifeblood draining from the savage wound. The other two rogues hesitated and then, as he whirled about, ready to charge, they suddenly fled towards the forest, their horses running madly before them as they vainly attempted to catch and mount them.
Satisfied that they would not return, Morgan steadied his mount and looked down at the women. Now that he had time to study them, he saw that one was a lady of high rank, the other two her serving women. The pages were dressed in blue and yellow livery, and looked to be no more than eleven years of age.
‘I thank you, sir, for your timely help,’ the woman said in a soft husky voice that told Morgan she was English. ‘Had it not been for your arrival I fear we were lost.’
‘Why are you abroad at this hour and unescorted?’ Morgan asked and glared down at her, incensed by such foolishness. ‘Where are your men?’
‘We have none with us,’ the lady said, frowning slightly. ‘For we thought it unnecessary so close to my husband’s castle. This side of the border we have always been safe – and indeed the rogues who sought to harm us were English brigands. When my husband learns of this outrage on his land he will seek out the perpetrators and have them hanged.’
‘Even so, you should not have been riding alone at this hour,’ Morgan said, eyes narrowed as he gazed down into a face more lovely than he had ever seen. ‘May I know your name, my lady?’
‘Rosamund de Grenville,’ she said. ‘We are but fifteen minutes ride from my husband’s castle, sir. Will you not accompany us there?’
‘Where are your horses?’ Morgan looked round and saw that five horses had wandered into the edge of the forest to graze, apparently unfazed by the altercation that had taken place. ‘Wait and I will bring them to you. Here, boy, hold my horse – and you come with me.’
He gave his reins to one page and the other followed obediently, helping him to recapture the horses and bring them back to the ladies.
‘I shall help you to mount, my lady,’ he said. Taking her about the waist, he lifted her effortlessly into the saddle of the most richly dressed horse. The pages had given their service to the other ladies to assist them, cupping both hands for a dainty foot before mounting their own ponies.
‘You have not given us your name, sir?’
Her eyes were a greenish blue, as clear as a mountain pool; the strands of her hair, which had escaped from beneath her wimple as she struggled against her attackers a bright red gold. Morgan knew a fierce sharp spur of desire in his belly and experienced a longing to know her intimately. Never before had he seen a woman that stirred him this deeply!
‘I shall be pleased to escort you, my lady,’ he told her. ‘For though I think those rogues will not return I do not like the idea of ladies riding alone so close to the forest. Have you not heard that the Welshmen of these mountains are wild barbarians?’
Her laughter echoed that lurking in his eyes. She gazed down from her horse’s back into his face, clearly amused by his mockery.
‘Are you not one of them, sir?’
‘I am Morgan Gruffudd at your service,’ he said with an elegant bow that would have surprised Maire. ‘A poet of somewhat dubious worth, ready to sing for my supper at the board of any who will pay me. Do not confuse my humble self with the fighting men of Wales.’
‘A poet and a singer of tales no doubt,’ she said, her eyebrows arching. ‘I have heard that your bards sing of sedition and treason, sir. My husband may be an English lord but he has lands across the border and I know more of the Welsh people than you may imagine.’
‘Indeed, my lady?’ Morgan’s expression did not waver. ‘Pray tell me then why you were riding so close to the forest at this hour without your men? Since you must be aware that there are those but a short distance away who would seize any person of nobility or wealth and hold them to ransom?’
Her cheeks flushed at that and he knew he had scored a hit, for she raised her head looking at him proudly. ‘I do not think it is for you to question me, sir. Believe only that I thought myself safe from attack here. Nothing more concerns you. Come, I wish to return to the castle.’
She spurred her horse forward at speed, leaving Morgan to mount and catch up to her, which he did with ease. She glanced at him but gave no sign of acknowledgement, riding in silence as they continued towards the castle, which was already visible.
As they came nearer, Morgan saw that it was typical of the moated keeps that had been built all along the borders with Wales by the Normans some two hundred years earlier, but over the centuries changes had been made and in this last fifty years or so a larger building had been added to bring some comfort to what was now more of a moated manor house than a castle, though the towers remained to guard against attack from across the borders.
‘Welcome to the Castle of Bundesley,’ Rosamund said as he dismounted and came to assist her down before a servant could reach her. His hands lingered momentarily on her waist, bringing a flush to her cheeks. ‘This is one of three my husband keeps for the King, sir.’
‘And your husband’s name?’
‘Sir Philip de Grenville,’ she replied, lowering her eyes swiftly as if she found his intent gaze disturbing. ‘My husband is from home at the moment; he has been inspecting a castle over the border. I am expecting him today or perhaps tomorrow – and my ride was merely for pleasure.’
Now why had she told him that? Morgan wondered that she had bothered, for he had told her that he was merely an insignificant bard and she had seemed to believe him.
‘Perhaps you were impatient for your husband’s return?’
‘Yes, perhaps…’ For a moment he caught a flicker of unhappiness in her eyes and he knew that she had not ridden to meet her husband – but perhaps a lover? Yes, it might well have been a secret tryst at that hour! ‘My husband would want me to offer you board and more for the service you have rendered me,’ she continued. ‘Will you break your journey here for a day or so, Morgan Gruffudd?’
‘I thank you, my lady,’ Morgan said. It had been his intention to ride on, but fortune had perhaps put a valuable contact in his way. Philip de Grenville was clearly a man valued by the King, and as such might be of use to him in his search for information concerning the mood of the country. Would the English people rise for Richard or support the usurper? ‘It is kind of you to offer. If you are sure Sir Philip would not object?’
A touch of bitterness was in her voice as she answered, ‘My husband is not a jealous man, sir. He values me as a possession and as such will be grateful that I am safely returned to him. Had I been snatched I would no doubt have been held to ransom as you suggested. Therefore I am sure that he will be pleased to welcome you to his board, and may offer you service with him. We are to travel to Chester on his return. It may be that he would take you with us to while away the tedious hours of our journey.’
Morgan could not believe his luck. He had hoped to find service with an Englishman of some standing in Shrewsbury and perhaps progress in his company to Chester, which was King Richard’s most favoured city in t
he region. If he could attach himself to Sir Philip de Grenville’s household it would save time and bring him closer to his quarry more swiftly than he had imagined possible.
‘I am honoured to accept, lady.’
‘My steward will give you food and lodging,’ she said, indicating an older man with a wave of her hand. Without more ado, she swept on ahead of him into the castle.
Morgan stared after her, his brow creased in a frown. Several men had clustered about the women, taking away their horses and listening to their excited chatter. The glances and general interest in him told Morgan that his exploits were being described enthusiastically, and after a moment the steward came up to him, offering his hand.
‘I have been told of your service to my lady,’ he said. ‘In the name of Sir Philip I bid you welcome here and thank you for what you have done this day.’
‘I should have been a scurvy knave had I stood aside while those rogues attacked her,’ Morgan replied. ‘I did only what any man would have in my place.’
‘Any true man,’ the steward agreed, eyes narrowed as they swept over Morgan. ‘They tell me you are Welsh – a singer of songs? You will forgive me if I say that you do not look like such a man?’
‘I have been cast out by my family,’ Morgan said harshly, his face creasing in a scowl of bitterness. ‘What else must I do to earn my living? I can sing a little and by this means hope to enter the service of a generous man.’
‘Lady Rosamund is generous,’ the steward replied. ‘I have known and served her all my life. ‘Her husband is not so generous – but she usually gets her way in most things. It is by her favour that Sir Philip holds these castles of the king, for she is an heiress of some note. Those rogues did not guess how lucky their chance meeting with my lady might have been had you not happened by.’
‘She is favoured by the King?’
Morgan’s question was not to be answered for the clattering of horses’ hooves across the drawbridge announced the arrival of a large party of men. From the look in the steward’s face as he left Morgan and hurried to meet them, he guessed that the lord had returned home.
It was a simple task to pick out Sir Philip, for he was dressed richly in gold and blue, his armour burnished to a bright silver and clanking heavily as his retainers helped him to dismount. As he removed his helmet, Morgan saw that his hair was silvered through what had once been black, his face lined with the years. He must be at least twice his wife’s age! Tall and lean, with a hooked nose and stern features, his grey eyes surveyed the scene around him, seemingly searching for fault until they came to rest on Morgan and then he frowned, barking something at his steward. He listened to what the man told him, frowned once more and then came towards Morgan, his eyes assessing him.
‘I believe I am indebted to you, sir. Will you stay and give me a chance to repay the service you have rendered me this day?’
‘Gladly, Sir Philip. I am looking for service, be it of a few hours or a few months – and will thank you for my board and lodging.’
‘You will stay with us as we journey to Chester,’ Sir Philip said decisively. ‘My wife dislikes travelling and grows weary. Mayhap your songs will lighten her mood.’ He nodded briskly. ‘You shall entertain us at supper. My servants will look after you.’
Morgan watched as he strode away to be disrobed of his heavy armour. It was clear that Sir Philip was aware of the danger, brought closer by the general unrest of the time, even if his wife was not.
‘Will you not come with me, sir?’
A gentle hand was tugging at his sleeve, and he turned to look down into the face of one of the women he had saved from the rogues attacking her and her mistress earlier.
‘My name is Morgan,’ he said and smiled at her. She was comely enough, though not as beautiful as her mistress. ‘I trust no harm came to you earlier, mistress?’
‘I am well enough,’ she replied. ‘My name is Alicia and I am a distant cousin of Lady Rosamund. She asked me to see that you were given all that you might need.’
Morgan gave into the pressure of her hand, allowing her to lead him into a part of the house that was clearly a small hall attached to the kitchens, and used by the servants of the household. The smell of slowly roasting meat over the spit permeated the air of the small antechamber, making Morgan’s belly rumble in anticipation.
‘How long have you been with your mistress, Alicia?’
‘Since I was a child, sir. I was her playmate then and now I serve her as companion and friend. My lady does not trust many, but in me she knows she has a true friend.’
‘True friends are hard to come by,’ Morgan said, thinking briefly of the one he had left behind at Glyndyfrwdy.
‘That is true, sir,’ Alicia replied and smiled. ‘My lady said that if her lord refused you board here I was to give you money. If you would prefer…’
‘No. I thank your lady, but it is service I look for not coin.’
Alicia nodded, looking at him curiously. ‘Are you truly Welsh, sir? I had thought they were all wild barbarians.’
Morgan grinned at her. ‘Am I not a barbarian then?’
‘I do not think so, sir,’ she replied a smile on her lips. ‘This is the first time I have accompanied my lady to this part of England. Until she married we lived in Winchester with her father. My lady did not take me with her when she was first wed, though she sent for me when she learned that we were to come here.’
‘I thought your lady was familiar with Wales and its inhabitants?’
‘She has been to Wales before as a child,’ Alicia replied. ‘It was her father who brought her then I believe. My lady’s mother was Welsh, though she does not like to speak of it for it does not please Sir Philip to have the connection. My lady holds lands in Wales that came to her from her mother – though I suppose they belong to her husband now. That is the custom, is it not?’
‘That is the custom,’ Morgan agreed, warming to the talkative girl.
‘It is perhaps unfair but such is the way of things.’
‘Yes, it is the way of things,’ Alicia agreed and sighed. ‘A woman must trust the man she marries, for he may do as he will with her afterwards – unless she has friends. At least Lady Rosamund has a friend in the King.
‘I am glad to hear that,’ Morgan said. ‘I believe Richard is expected back from Ireland soon?’
‘As to that, I would not know, sir.’ Alicia frowned as if realising that perhaps she had said too much. ‘Sit here by the fire, sir, and I shall bring you food and drink. Tonight we shall feast in the hall but I dare say you would like to break your fast now?’
‘Yes, that would be kind,’ Morgan said, watching as she walked away. He had learned much from the girl in a few seconds, and he believed she would be an invaluable source of information in the future.
THREE
Rosamund glanced at her reflection in her handmirror of burnished silver and dark glass, seeing herself only as a blurred image. She knew that she was considered beautiful, for she had been told so many times in those happy days when she had been favoured at King Richard’s court. She sighed and laid down her mirror, feeling the mantle of sadness descend on her once more. That time of excitement and pleasure when she had ridden often at the King’s side seemed so long ago now, though it was no more than a year since she had been wed to Sir Philip de Grenville.
How often she had wished that her father, Sir Harald Clare of Winchester had chosen otherwise in the matter of her marriage, but she knew that he had been ailing and had sought to protect her. Sir Philip had seemed a man of culture and learning, as indeed he was, and Rosamund’s father had believed him kind. Rosamund herself had been deceived by his gentle manner towards her then, making no protest when told of her father’s decision. That deception had lasted no longer than her wedding night, when her husband had taken her with a cold detachment that made her weep bitter tears into her bed cushions long after he had left her. She knew then that he had married her only for the fortune she was to inherit
on her father’s death, which had followed her wedding all too soon. Since then Philip had visited her no more than half a dozen times, and that in the hope of getting his heir on her. He seemed to take no pleasure in the act, leaving her without a word as soon as he was done.
Rosamund’s nurse had told her that she should be grateful his treatment of her was no worse. ‘If he lusted after you he might come to you night after night, giving you no peace,’ Margaret told her when she found her weeping after his last visit. ‘Some men enjoy inflicting pain on their wives. At least Sir Philip has not beaten you.’
Rosamund had not answered her. She thought that perhaps the behaviour Margaret had described might be easier to bear than her husband’s coldness.
‘I have left the Welshman breaking his fast in the servant’s hall,’ a voice said and Rosamund was brought from her reverie, turning to see Alicia enter the room. ‘I offered him the money but Sir Philip had already pledged him to ride with us to Chester and he preferred service to coin.’
Rosamund looked at her thoughtfully. ‘What is your opinion of our brave rescuer, Alicia? Do you think him what he claims to be – merely a singer of songs?’
‘He hath a stout sword arm for a poet,’ Alicia replied. ‘But he did you good service, my lady. Had his arrival not been so opportune we might have suffered a fate worse than death. Indeed, some of us might be dead, for only you would have been worth the ransom they would demand.’
‘I should have refused to be ransomed without you,’ Rosamund said but a shudder gripped her and she felt coldness at the base of her spine. ‘My life here without you…’ She shook her head as Alicia put out a hand to comfort her. ‘Nay, I do not mean to waste tears on something that cannot be mended. They say that King Richard is on his way from Ireland and will try to raise the men of Wales to fight for him. Think you they will rise for him, Alicia?’
Morgan the Rogue Page 4