by Ria Cantrell
That insipid bitch who had married the Ragnorsen son was going to be a problem, but Daria knew ways to avoid her, or for that matter to have her detained in the village with the sick, ill and injured. Surely, she would not be so high and mighty now after what had befallen her.
Daria had gladly written to her cousin, who was housed in the Winter Palace, to tell of the high handed harlot’s fall from grace when her babe had died in her womb. Her cousin had long been an informant and confidant to the doddering old king. Daria knew he could plant seeds of destruction in the old monarch’s mind. She never imagined that the king would declare the marriage to the heir of Ragnorsen null and void. It was almost too good to have believed.
Rhianna Du Montefort had made an enemy of her when she sided with Drew over that incident with the scullery girl. The brat had spilled her tea, splashing it all over her beautiful gown and she deserved worse than the cuffing she had received at Daria’s hand. Daria’s mistake had been to slap the maid just when Drew had rounded a corner. Why he would concern himself with the clumsy child, Daria could not understand. Daria’s punishment of the brat angered Drew so, that he immediately ended their liaison and had that black haired sorceress dismiss her from any welcome inside the keep. Oh, the old gossip mongers loved to talk about her disgrace, but she had the last laugh when she learned what the king had in store for the bitch. She imagined Rhianna to be put from the keep herself, after being disgraced and divorced, only those harpies said no. She was going to re-wed Erik in a day or so and that now Drew was betrothed to the Scot instead. Well, that was going to be stopped if it was the last thing she did.
Now she needed to get a look at the savage slut who Drew had brought here. Daria had slipped a dose of melted tallow into the porridge of one of the village brats and now the child had a very bad tummy ache. Poor brat, Daria laughed. She carefully hid behind one of the stone arches in the outer bailey to see when Rhianna would be called to tend the child. Daria positioned herself to view the entry into the main hall to assure herself of Rhianna’s leaving. Whenever there was a sick child, Rhianna always went without question. Sure enough, after a brief wait, the witch left with her bag of potions to aid the squalling brat. Daria quickly made her way into the keep, and none too soon, either. It was near to freezing outside and the cold only fueled her anger, which she needed to keep in check.
Where would the savage be housed? The horrible woman should be in the dungeons, but Daria supposed she was being treated like an honored guest. Daria had been in Drew’s apartments many times. She imagined the harlot would be there, taking her own rightful place, so Daria casually walked up the flight of stairs to the comfortable familiar rooms, which she knew from her own experience, that Drew had dwelled within.
She knew she had to take care, lest Drew be up there and surely he would see to it that she was not admitted in to the keep again. So far, Daria’s luck held. No one stopped her or questioned her as she slipped from the main hall to seek out Drew’s apartments. When Daria approached the chamber, she could not believe her luck. The girl was abed, and she looked quite unwell. And, she had been crying. Good, Daria thought. I hope she cries every day of her miserable life. Knocking on the door after having peeked in, Bronwyn called, “Aye?”
Daria let herself into the room she had once shared with Drew and she forced her seething jealousy down. Oh, she would get even, that was certain, but not yet. First she had to gain the trust of this Scottish whore. She approached Bronwyn and said, “Lady Rhianna sent me to see if you needed anything. She is detained in the village with a sick child.”
Bronwyn slowly shook her head, “no”. Even the tiniest of movements made her feel dizzy and ill.
“I am Da…Dana. I work in the kitchens, but I sometimes help the Mistress when she is called away. She did not tell me what ails you, but only asked me to see to your aid,” Daria lied. The lies came so easily to her lips; she congratulated herself for her imaginative rouse.
“I am Bronwyn.”
“Are you alright? It seems you have been crying?”
“I am just tired,” Bronwyn said, not wanting to talk about why she had been crying to this stranger. Her shame was her own and she could not share it. Daria poured Bronwyn a drink of water and helped her sit up. Bronwyn thanked her and sipped the drink, suddenly so very thirsty. Daria prodded again, “Have you been ill?”
“Nay, there was an…accident. I dashed my head on a stone. I have only to move and it sets the room spinnin’.”
Daria hid her distaste as she heard the thick burr of the savage’s speech. She masked her expression with an overly sweet visage and she forced a smile. She prided herself on being such a good actress.
“Well, Lady Rhianna will set things to right, no doubt. She is well trained in healing. You are obviously not from England. Scotland, is my guess?” As if anyone civilized would speak with such an annoying dialect!
“Aye. I am a long ways from my home. The Highlands seem a world away,” Bronwyn said sadly.
“I don’t mean to pry, but why are you so far from your home?”
“I have been given in marriage to an English Knight…only…” Bronwyn could not speak the words. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks again and an errant sob left her.
“There, now, it will not be so bad. I am sure your husband to be will be kind to you. No doubt, he will probably hardly ever beat you.”
Bronwyn’s eyes flew to the face of this woman. Did she think Drew would beat her? That was the furthest thing from Bronwyn’s mind. In truth she could not see him beating anyone unless it was in the throes of battle.
“He doesna’ want to marry me and I canna’ say I blame him.” Why was she telling this woman that? Bronwyn tried to pull herself together. She did not want to appear as pathetic as she felt.
Daria brightened at this revelation. Trying to not seem so excited at this news, Daria said, “Oh nay and why would that be?”
Bronwyn sighed and said, “Because he thinks I dunna’ love him.”
Love! What? Surely, this stupid chit did not believe Drew was in love with her. Daria had to compose herself.
“So you have met him, then?”
“Oh, aye. This is not to be a marriage of strangers. We have met and we… I think Drew is a fine man,” Bronwyn added hastily, not wanting to divulge the nature of their courtship and relationship to this stranger. Daria’s eyes narrowed and she said, “Drew? Sir Andrew Brandham? Is he your intended?”
“Aye. Do ye’ know him?”
“Oh, not really,” she lied. “I was acquainted with his former betrothed. Sweeting, I am not surprised he does not want to wed. I am sure it is not your fault. You see, she and Sir Andrew were not quite finished with their love affair. If he is being forced to…I mean, if he has been betrothed to you, I am sure he will abide by the arrangement. Only…no never mind. I have distressed you. I should let you rest.”
“He was betrothed already? He never said…” Bronwyn stopped before saying more. She now realized she truly did not know all she needed to know about Drew. Their love affair was still new and now she feared it was ended before it could really begin. She said, “I did not know he was betrothed before.”
“Oh, nay? Well I suppose he would not want to worry you about it. If he was set to marry you, it would not be well to add to your misery of being in a strange land far from your home, and joining with a stranger.”
Bronwyn usually was not so easily upset, but with the injury and Drew leaving, she felt all broken and vulnerable. She should have seen through the guise of this dubious woman, but instead she felt like she needed a friend. She swiped at the new tears that fell and she said, “I dunna’ think Drew will marry me. He believes me to have betrayed him…”
“What, with another man,” Daria prodded, all too hopeful that this whore had betrayed Drew. If she had, he would disown her and mayhap even give in to one of those beatings Daria had inferred he would give.
“Nay. He knows I wouldna’ do that. He just does not think
I love him. And I do.”
That profession made Daria sick to her stomach. Love! Indeed! What do savages know about it? As if Drew would care if this she-dog loved him! Spite bubbled up inside her and she wanted to hurt this foolish chit. It would have to wait, of course. She needed time to form a plan to wreak the most damage. She would plant seeds of doubt in Bronwyn and then she would see the simpering little slut was sent back to her heathen land; that was if she lived to tell the tale. Hmm, mayhap she should not tell the tale. She had said she had some sort of accident. Well, mayhap another one would befall her, as well. Daria felt excitement course through her at the prospect. First, though, she would see to it that misery would fill this bitch’s heart. That, at least, she was certain. Schooling her excitement at the prospect of creating malice, she asked gently, “Well where is Sir Andrew now?”
“I know not.”
“He left you, knowing you were ill?”
Bronwyn did not answer. Indeed he had, but she had forced him to it. Bronwyn knew she deserved his abandonment.
“Mayhap he went to tell his former betrothed that he was being required to marry another.”
Daria knew that was a spiteful thing to say, but she just could not help herself. She watched as that statement hit home with the worthless little piece of trash lying in Drew’s bed. Yes, perfect. The seeds would easily take root with this slow witted girl. Hurt and anguish etched on Bronwyn’s face. Not wanting to be too obvious of her hatred of the Scottish whelp, Daria said, “Well, I should leave you to rest. I will try to check in to see if you need anything later”, and as quickly as she had entered, she left, leaving Bronwyn with the destructive seeds she had planted.
After the door was shut behind Daria, Bronwyn let the thoughts and worries take root. She had not known Drew was betrothed before meeting her. He had said he had not been in love, but that could have just been a nicety that he had offered her. She realized there was still so much to know about Drew.
Perhaps Rhianna could help her. She and Drew had seemed to be quite good friends. Bronwyn tried to remember all she and Rhianna had discussed on their journey that afternoon before she had left Drew in the middle of the night. It was hard to recall it all at the moment because even thinking caused a pounding to build at the base of her skull. As she drifted off to a fitful sleep, something told Bronwyn not to trust Dana, but the warning was lost as she began to dream.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Drew had been brooding around the manor for several days. Lady Elizabeth watched her son and decided it was high time to put an end to it. She would begin to coax her son to embrace his destiny and acknowledge that he could not live without the mysterious Scottish woman who had won his heart. Sometimes a mother needed to meddle in her son’s affairs when that son was being stubborn and foolish.
The next afternoon, Drew was sitting in the great hall polishing his sword when he heard the strains of harp music reaching his ears. His heart hammered in his chest thinking of the last time he heard that music. It had come from his beautiful Bronwyn, in the garden that cold night. His Bronwyn!
He needed to not think of the girl in that way. She was not his anymore; she had made that clear. She would never be his. She would never trust him as an Englishman. He would never be able to change that aspect of his life; therefore, he would always represent the enemies of Bronwyn’s clan. Still, he had to find where the music was coming from. He knew in his heart it could not be Bronwyn, as he had left her when she was quite ill. That thought chipped away at his conscience. You should not have left her until you were certain she was going to be alright…
Even if he denied it, in hearing the beautiful strains, part of Drew wished to round the corner and find Bronwyn playing her beloved instrument. He entered the ante chamber off of the great hall and stopped in his tracks. It was not Bronwyn at all, but old Llerwyn, the Welsh Harper, who had lived as a bard in the local village. How odd that Llerwyn was at the manor this day. Drew approached the old man and inquired how he had come to be in residence today.
“Yer’ ma’, boy. She thought to have me play tonight at the evening meal. Said she wished to chase the gloom of winter away, she did.”
Drew tried to remember if he had told his mother that Bronwyn played the harp because he had rambled on and on that night he had stumbled home in near and complete drunkenness. Thinking about that made Drew feel like a fool. Imagine purging his sickened heart like that. Of course, he must have mentioned it, but thought that maybe it was not uncommon for Llerwyn to entertain. After all, Drew had been away from home a long time.
The old harper began singing a song in his native tongue, seeming to get lost in his song; Drew was momentarily forgotten. Welsh! They spoke a version of Gaelic, Drew suddenly recalled. From the moment he had left Bronwyn, he replayed the words she had spoken over and over in his head. He tripped the words silently over his own lips time and time again, just trying to remember them exactly as she had said them.
Drew opened his mouth to speak, but then seeing the old man had been consumed in his playing, Drew thought to approach him later and ask him to translate the words that seemed to hold an important key. Drew knew, deep down, that perhaps, he did not need the old harper to fix the translation. He knew he only needed to feel the words in his heart to know their true meaning, but he did not want to think on that now. Drew turned from the room, not wanting to hear any more of the lilting music which wafted from the strings of the old harper’s instrument.
Lady Elizabeth watched her son storm out of the main hall, and a smile quirked at the edges of her lips. Yes, her little plan would keep the memory of the Scottish girl prickling at him, like a thorny rose…a thorny Scottish rose.
Drew hopped on his horse, and blindly rode out into the cold day. He tried to blot out the sounds of the harp music that stayed in his ears. He did not want to think of that girl. He had to put her out of his mind. This was ridiculous. He barely knew her, really.
Why should he think he loved her in the first place? It was enough that he took that beating for her. It was enough that he bedded her. So, what? He had bedded beautiful women before. He knew he had said he loved her, but that was of no matter. It was a mistake. Only, his heart kept telling him it was not a mistake. The mistake was this separation from her. It had become apparent, even when he first could not take his mind off of her. Drew had thought it was because he was stuck in the Winter Palace with a bad situation at hand and Bronwyn had been a welcomed distraction but as much as he tried to talk himself into believing that, he knew that it had always been more… from the day he had first laid eyes on her.
Distracted, Drew rode across the rolling hills, not paying mind to the warnings of his horse. Twice the horse seemed to be skittish, but Drew pressed him on. The cold stinging air numbed his thoughts for the moment. The fast pace of his war trained animal beneath him blotted out tormented memories. The breathless run left both animal and man panting; horse lathered, and the man bathed in a sheen of sweat, despite the cold crisp air.
Once the horse had reached the end of a meadow, Drew dismounted and bowed down, bracing his hands on his legs as he fought to catch his breath. He drew in deep cleansing breaths and felt the air frost into his lungs. He did not see the brush rustling as the intake of cold air forced a fit of coughs from him. Drew’s horse reared and screamed a warning that was taken too late as a wild boar charged Drew, pawing the earth beneath his cloven feet. As mud flew beneath the charging beast, Drew saw the danger only seconds too late. The feral boar slammed into Drew with his full weight, knocking Drew several feet to the ground. One of the fetid curling tusks grazed Drew’s upper thigh, but did not gore him fully. Only, the beast circled back and began a full charge on the man who lay dazed and winded on the ground. Drew could see the wild look in the animal’s eyes and knew he had little chance to fight against him.
Drew’s warrior instincts kicked in and he removed a dagger from his boot as the beast flew at him with fierce determination. As the wild beast sn
arled and charged, Drew rolled to the side, avoiding the deadly tusks that would have surely finished him. He felt a searing pain in his ribs, as the beast trampled him. The boar was ready to gore him when Drew raised his hand holding the dagger and stabbed the beast between its breast bone. It fell off of Drew and twitched in a death throe. Drew dragged himself out from under the heavy weight of the fallen boar and he grabbed it by one tusk. Drawing his dagger out from the breast of the beast, he cut the animal’s throat to assure that it was not just stunned. The blood from the animal’s jugular spewed out and covered Drew from head to toe with the gore.
Falling to his knees, Drew fought his way through the pain. He was pretty certain one of his ribs was cracked and the wound in his leg was on fire. He knew he had to get the hog back to the manor and to get the blood off of him quickly; else he would be the target of wolves shortly. The late afternoon sun had already reached its zenith and would sink quickly. Drew whistled for his horse, which had run off in panicked terror. The horse tentatively approached his master covered in the blood of the wild boar. With an extremely labored effort, Drew slung the dead boar on to the back of the horse and knew he would have to walk back to the manor. He could not leave the boar for carrion, when it could feed his entire household, but his rib caused sharp jolts of pain to rip into him with each breath he took.
Slowly, he began the painstaking trek back to his home, taking shallow breaths as he went. Drew picked his way across the hilly terrain, but was grateful that there was much grazing land between him and home. It made for easier walking, if one could think that walking with a broken rib and gored thigh was easy. The stink of the drying blood on him caused the gorge to rise in his throat and he fought it vehemently. He was afraid, if he vomited, his rib could puncture into his lung. Only, the pain and the stench of blood were hard to fight. He was sickened and continued to push the nausea down.