***
“In your best estimate, Gervais, where do you think they’ve been taken?” Ram asked impatiently as he and his commanders pored over the latest charts they had of the area, not knowing if they were accurate or not.
“They may have taken the route through Oswestry, and crossed the border at Rhydycroesau. After that, it’s more difficult to say. If Rhodri is behind this, we don’t know where his camp is. They may have gone north west to Llanarmon, or south west to Llansilin. Or he may have taken them to Powwydd Castle.”
Ram followed his Second’s finger as he traced the routes on the charts. “Rhodri is behind this. Of that I have no doubt. But what does he plan next?”
Phillippe de Giroux stepped forward. “Milord, if he planned to murder them, why have we found no bodies? Why take them into Wales? Perhaps he has ransom in mind?”.
Gervais spoke again, looking directly at Ram. “Milord, I’m as anxious as you are to rescue my Countess and your family, but you must see it’s futile to ride into Wales. We could search for sennights and not find them. You know yourself how difficult the terrain is, not to mention the weather that will soon turn against us, if it hasn’t already.”
Ram understood Gervais was right, but his heart was broken. He dismissed the other men with a curt, “Leave us.”
He slumped into a chair. “You’re correct, Gervais, but I can’t sit and do nothing.”
“You have no choice, milord. But it may not be long before they send a message. I think Giroux is right and they’ll demand ransom. However, they too know winter is setting in and won’t want to wait until spring.”
***
It was getting colder. They’d left Llanrhaeadr far behind at least an hour before, and were still climbing. The Normans had dressed for the warm autumn weather in Whittington and the children were shivering. The brigands had provided blankets at the cottage, but Mabelle’s fingers and toes were freezing, and she could tell Giselle and Rhonwen were suffering the same problem as they blew on their hands and rubbed them together, trying all the while to keep the ponies on the narrow track.
She became aware of the sound of rushing water. Judging by the roar, it must be a high waterfall. Suddenly they came upon a cascade which fell two hundred and fifty feet through a stunning arched rock formation. The raging torrent was thunderous. Some of the water had already started to form into ice crystals at the edges. The men called a halt as everyone gazed at this natural wonder. One of them took the opportunity to give each captive another hand woven brychan.
“Pistyll-Rhaeadr,” Rhonwen yelled to her fellow captives. “I’ve heard of it many times. It’s the most beautiful waterfall in all Wales.”
They headed into the woods. This path led into a wide valley. After a few hundred feet they were down in the valley floor, and then they turned onto a track going in the opposite direction up the hill on the other side.
They made their way up the opposite side, then onto a trail which wound up from the valley floor. Once the tortuous path reached the head of the valley, the men turned in their saddles to view the incredible scenery behind them. Mabelle followed their gaze and it took her breath away.
Even barbarians appreciate a beautiful view. I’m beginning to understand why the Welsh are passionate for their wild land.
The path then crossed and followed a stream, and soon they came across a sight which made the first stunning vista they’d seen pale in comparison. There was a lake far below them in a deep crater, backed by craggy mountains and ridges. Mabelle hoped the faraway vista wasn’t where they were going. She’d never seen a lake of the same colour as the one below them, as blue as the bleu de France favoured by the heralds of the French king.
The leader signalled another halt, and the captives were allowed to dismount. They sat together on rocks in a clearing. One of the men gave them bread and cheese to eat and ale to drink.
“Ask them where they’re taking us, Rhonwen,” Mabelle urged, though she was hesitant to put the girl in danger.
Rhonwen got only a grunt and a disdainful look in reply.
The climb for the next two hours was strenuous. They came to the top of a crag and had to hug the side of the mountain. It was the strong hind legs of the ponies that saw them through. The path was wet and slippery. If they fell, they would fall to their deaths.
Once they’d crested the crag, they headed along a wide ridge path. They reached a rocky knoll and Mabelle was astounded to see a wooden fortress loom out of the mist, built into the side of the mountain. Some of the roofs of the buildings seemed to be covered with turf, others with what looked like slate. Though she couldn’t see the rear of the fortification, she was sure it was perched on the edge of a deep ravine. Any army wanting to attack would have to send its soldiers in one at a time. It was impregnable. This was probably the reason for the evident lack of armed men on the high balustrades. They’d reached their destination and her heart plummeted. She surveyed the magnificent scenery of high mountains on every side.
It’s a beautiful place to die.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Darkness fell as the captives were led through the gates of the forbidding fortress. The towering palisades, made of stout trees lashed together, were as tall as two men. Once inside, they were led to a chamber. Andras quickly lit several candles, and Mabelle could gradually see the room was clean but spartan.
“We’re expected,” she whispered sarcastically to Giselle.
Five palettes piled high with sheepskins and furs had been installed at one side of the room, and a chamber pot placed discreetly behind a screen, along with a basin and ewer full of water and drying cloths. An empty wooden bathtub stood propped against the wall. A roughly hewn table and six stools completed the furnishings. The comparative warmth of the room led her to believe none of the walls was an outer one. They were completely within the fortress.
“My children are hungry, Andras,” she began, but he didn’t reply. She heard the heavy door being bolted after he left. She glanced at her children and then at Giselle and Rhonwen. The women understood—they would have to be careful what they said in front of the boys. It was a relief none of them had been raped. They had been treated relatively well by their captors. With the natural curiosity of children, her sons began exploring their new surroundings, and the women sat down to wait.
They didn’t have to wait long. Andras reappeared and ushered them to follow. He led them along a dimly lit corridor, outside across a rocky pathway, then into a great hall, full of light from scores of torches. Mabelle blinked rapidly. It was difficult to believe such a place could exist so high in these bleak mountains. It must have taken considerable skill and perseverance to build.
The high vaulted ceiling was supported by huge wooden crossbeams from which hung banners she didn’t recognize, wafting gently on the currents of air. The walls were decorated with a motley collection of shields, weapons, furs and antlers. The air was hazy with smoke and heavy with the aroma of roasted game. At least a hundred dark-haired, swarthy men, bristling with daggers, lined the walls, standing erect, dressed in sheepskin jerkins, leather breeches and boots. It was the devil’s army.
At the front, on a dais, sat the only furniture—two massive wooden chairs—one slightly smaller than the other. Andras urged the Normans forward, until they were standing directly in front of the chairs.
A large, muscular man lounged in the bigger chair, his long fingers caressing the intricately carved dragons on the arms of his chair. He wore breeches and boots but no shirt, and a sleeveless sheepskin jerkin open in the front. His face bore the trace of a smile. A blonde woman sat on the edge of the other chair, looking malevolently pleased.
A gasp escaped Giselle. “Morwenna,” she whispered to her mistress.
Mabelle couldn’t at first recognize the girl. Her once tightly braided hair now flowed in a wild tangle down to her waist, softened only by two braids on either side of her face. The end of each braid was adorned with brightly coloured beads, and she wo
re a narrow leather thong around her forehead. She too was clad in leather breeches and boots, and a sheepskin jerkin. The smile Mabelle had been used to seeing was now replaced by a look of malice and triumph. She made a move to rise and speak, but the big man stopped her with a barely perceptible movement of his hand.
Mabelle knew without being told this man was Rhodri ap Owain. He’d been a constant thorn in the side of the Marcher lords for a long time. Even before the Conquest, his frequent sorties into the border counties of England from his stronghold in the Welsh mountains, left a trail of fear and destruction in their wake. It was said he hated Saxon and Norman equally and burned with Celtic fervour for a Wales free of their domination.
She contemplated him nervously now—at more than six feet he was a towering figure, with curly black hair which hung down his back, flowing freely, except for two tight braids at either side of his face, each bound at the end with amber beads. He looked in need of a shave, but she suspected that was always the case.
He embodied primitive masculinity and vitality, with eyes like green jade and the tanned, weathered skin of a man who lived his life in the open air. Around each of his muscular biceps, a narrow band of Celtic knots had been etched into his skin.
He was intimidating to behold, and Ram had told her the mere mention of his name struck fear into the hearts of those living on the English side of the Welsh border. To them he was a feral force. To his own people he was a folk hero of mythical proportions. Though few had ever met him, all knew of his deeds, and the Marcher lords could get no information from the Welsh villagers to help them find him.
Rhodri stood. “Lady Countess of Ellesmere, I bid you welcome, and I apologise for your difficult journey. I wasn’t aware you’re with child. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Rhodri ap Owain ap Dafydd ap Gwilym, Prince of Powwydd.”
He bowed slightly.
Whatever Mabelle had expected from a Welsh rebel chieftain, this man, this wasn’t it. He spoke courteously, despite his primitive garb. A memory of her father rattling off his long list of lands and properties flitted into her head, but she’d learned enough about Welsh naming traditions to recognize this man’s pride was in his ancestry, not his lands. She was also well aware this was the man her husband thirsted to kill after their encounter at Ruyton.
“Lord Rhodri—” she stammered, trying not to let her fear enter her voice. She returned the bow, but not too deeply. Courtliness aside, this man held their lives in his hands.
“My lord, my children and my serving women are in need of food and clean clothing. And—I am in need—of an explanation—as to why we have been—?”
He silenced her with the same slight movement he’d used with Morwenna. “Forgive me, Countess, I haven’t yet finished my introductions. I believe you’re acquainted with my betrothed, Morwenna verch Morgan ap Talfryn?”
Mabelle looked straight at the girl and felt Rhonwen tense beside her. “Yes. Morwenna, murderess of my unborn child and of Myfanwy Dda.”
Morwenna protested. “It wasn’t I who murdered that foolish old woman—”
Again Rhodri silenced her with a look, and she sank back into her chair, scowling.
Mabelle now knew for certain there was a traitor in Ellesmere Castle.
“As to why you’re here, Countess, it must be obvious by now we intend to ransom you to your husband. He and I have met before, you know.”
Mabelle’s knees went weak with relief. But was he referring only to her when he spoke of ransom? Seeking protection for her children and her companions she asked, “Do I have your assurances then, Lord Rhodri, that my children and my serving women won’t be harmed while we’re here? Your men have already killed my escort at Whittington.”
Rhodri strode quickly from the dais and reached the captives in a trice, his hand on the hilt of the large dagger tucked in his belt. Before the exhausted Mabelle could react, Rhonwen moved to protect the boys, and stood defiantly between them and the aggressor. Rhodri seemed to be taken aback for a moment as he glared at the girl, apparently noticing her for the first time. It was a few moments before he turned back to Mabelle.
“Not a single one of the soldiers in your escort was killed when you were taken. I give you my word, as Commander of Cadair Berwyn and Prince of Powwydd, that no harm shall come to any of you as long as you’re in my care. Unless, of course, you try to escape.”
He laughed and winked at Mabelle.
Suddenly he turned back to Rhonwen, and speaking to her in Welsh, asked her name. She replied in Welsh, “I am Rhonwen, a healer, daughter of Myfanwy Dda.”
Had Rhonwen uttered Myfanwy’s name? Mabelle wasn’t sure, since Welsh was an unintelligible language to her. She assumed Rhonwen had told of being a protégé of Myfanwy’s. Rhodri looked at Rhonwen with surprise for a few seconds, but the healer didn’t turn away from his insistent gaze.
***
Fear chilled Rhonwen’s spine but strangely, it wasn’t him she feared. This man’s aura of primitive power drew her and brought on conflicting feelings. As a healer, she recognised and admired a strong, healthy body when she saw one. The mystical side of her, passed down through generations of Dda’s, drew her to him. She sensed an affinity that transcended the physical and it alarmed her.
She wanted to reach up and touch his dark face, fondle his braids, run her hands over his tattooed biceps, feel the controlled strength that radiated from him. His deep, sonorous voice evoked the memory of the rich, melodious Welsh folksongs they’d enjoyed at the fayre in Whittington.
Her thoughts made her blush. How childish to expect a Celtic prince to welcome the attentions of a lowly woman such as her. She determined to quell her feelings, knowing with dire certainty she would avenge her mother’s death by killing Morwenna, his betrothed. It was a harsh knowledge for a woman who’d dedicated her life to healing, to saving others.
***
Rhodri returned to his chair. Morwenna glared at Rhonwen. She hadn’t failed to notice the brief exchange that had taken place between Rhodri and the healer. She smiled at him, but her thoughts were black.
You look at her while you’re betrothed to me. A curse on you! I have another who’ll give me much more than this windblown fortress.
“I want to kill the healer,” she told Rhodri after the captives had been escorted back to their chamber, and food ordered for them.
He looked directly into her eyes, his voice cold. “You’ll not kill any of them, Morwenna. I’ve sworn an oath they’ll be protected here. They’re worth nothing to us dead. We need the coin their ransom will bring. It will allow us to buy the things we desperately need to continue our struggle. Our people have to be fed, clothed and armed. Many in the villages will starve without this ransom money.”
He turned to Andras. “We don’t have much time. I’ll write the ransom. Prepare four men to ride to Ellesmere. We must act before the weather turns against us. The Countess is expecting a child, which I wasn’t aware of. We don’t want the babe born here, then he’d be a Welshman! When is our loyal friend from Ellesmere expected to arrive?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm.
“On the morrow, Lord Rhodri.”
Morwenna’s blue eyes lit up.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Phillippe de Giroux arrived at the isolated fortress of Cadair Berwyn exhausted and frustrated. He’d lost his way twice. Despite his peasant garb, he’d been unable to ask for help because he didn’t speak Welsh, and was afraid his manner of speech would jeopardise him. Once he found the right trail, his pony almost lost its footing on the high path.
“Curse this wild country, and curse these ignorant Welshmen with their fanatical obsession of defeating the Normans,” he muttered as he stabled the pony and went in search of Rhodri. “They’ll find out to their regret we can’t be defeated, but till then, I’ll use them to my purposes.”
He found Rhodri in the great hall, now filled with tables and benches. People were gathered for a meal. The air was redolent with the aroma of venison. He helped
himself to a chunk of it from the large trestle table at the side of the room, hacked off a large piece of coarse black bread and poured a goblet of ale.
Rhodri came down from the dais where he and Morwenna were sitting, and joined the treacherous Norman who’d helped him secure the prize. Rhodri detested spies who betrayed their own countrymen but tried not to show his contempt.
Giroux glanced in Morwenna’s direction and asked, “All went well?”
“Ydi, yes. Very well. I thank you for your help.”
“Has the ransom been sent?”
“Ddoe,” Rhodri automatically replied in Welsh. He saw how irritated Giroux was he’d spoken to him in Welsh. “Yesterday, hier,” he added. Giroux had betrayed Montbryce for his own reasons, not for the freedom of Wales, and he wondered what had caused the anger that drove a man to seek revenge at such a high risk.
“I didn’t see your men on the trail,” Giroux began, and then quickly changed the subject. Rhodri would know he’d become lost if he continued. “The weather is already bad in the passes. I hope they get through.”
“They’re Welsh, they’ll get through.”
***
Rhodri was mistaken. The blinding snowstorm howled out of the frigid peaks and caught the messengers unawares. Though autumn blizzards weren’t unheard of in these mountains, the sudden ferocity of this one forced them to seek shelter in a shepherd’s hut.
The snow stopped after two days, but they had to wait another sennight before the weak autumn sun melted it sufficiently to make the track safe enough for travel. They’d used up their supplies. If they got to Ellesmere, it was unlikely there would be time to return to Cadair Berwyn with the reply to the ransom demand they carried. If they were able to leave Ellesmere alive, they would have to winter in the foothills, and return to the mountains in the spring.
Conquering Passion Page 20