The King's Man

by Elizabeth Kingston

  CHAPTER 12

  “Davydd rides beside me and you at the rear.” Of long habit, she spoke in Welsh. She slipped the throwing knife that Madog had given her into her boot. The long dagger was secured on her saddle, hidden from sight. “The party is large enough to keep evil from us, but I would have us alert. Hail Davydd if you see aught I should know of.”

  Madog nodded. He did not like this, she knew. He would rather they waited for the other men to return from Ruardean before they left court. But so eager was she to be away from the watchful eye of the king and the whisperings of his court that she would gladly travel with men whose loyalty she could not claim. When her own men returned and found them gone, they would be met with a message to carry on to Morency. They could now be no more than eight days behind.

  “Lord Morency has said the journey is but four days, do we push hard and meet no trouble.” She could only hope the roads were clear enough to allow such an easy passage.

  “My sword is ready if there be need,” he said. “Yours too, Pennaeth Du.”

  He called her by her old title, affection and respect and a thousand memories bound up in the words, and she thought she might suffocate from the weight of it pressing on her heart. She was not a chief, not anymore. It would be calamity indeed if she reached for her sword.

  “You will ride next to the lady, Madog? I would have you in the rear.”

  Morency had appeared as though from nowhere, and though his words were easy enough, there was an undercurrent of disapproval that was unmistakable.

  She stiffened. “My cousin will be pleased to ride behind.”

  Madog nodded, expressionless, and walked away. Morency stepped close and appeared to check the girth on her courser. Instead, his hand came to rest lightly on the boot that concealed her knife. “Is better if you do not speak Welsh, Pennaeth Du.”

  The shock of hearing those words in his mouth jolted her. He did not look at her. He had not looked at her all morning. But he murmured her Welsh title and touched his hand to her ankle, and all her thoughts surged toward him.

  “What harm in it?” she asked.

  His hand lingered, laying claim to her body with a touch, and her breathing became scarce. Just so, he had touched her through the long hours of the night, and again in the early hours before dawn. She had woken with the sun to find him gone, and her body unfamiliar to herself. To dress felt different, to walk, to sit a horse.

  Only the place where she had slipped the knife had felt familiar, and safe, and hers again. And then he touched her there and even that was lost to the heat of him.

  “I would know how you command your men.” There was a note of warning in his voice that sparked an anger in her breast.

  “I command them as I will, for they are mine,” she answered in a tightly controlled voice. Seated on her horse, preparing to take to the road again, it was impossible not to recall their journey here and all his arrogance in the days they had travelled. Infuriating man.

  His hand tightened on her boot and he turned his face up to her, eyes narrowed. The sudden anger in her rose up and crashed into this newfound lust, the awareness of his body so near to hers. It muddled her mind and robbed her of her balance, to look into the midnight blue of his eyes. She stiffened as he opened his mouth to speak, ready for an argument, but they were interrupted.

  “Lady Morency!” It was the sound of Suzanna’s voice that caught her attention, and not the sound of her new name. It would take some getting used to. She must remember not to flinch when she heard herself addressed thus.

  He turned away to greet Suzanna, and Gwenllian let herself down from the saddle with the same intent. The moment her boots touched the earth, Davydd was beside her. He caught her hand as though helping her to dismount, alerting her to yet another tiny task that she must learn to do differently. She whispered her thanks to him, defiantly in Welsh, and hoped she had not looked too awkward and uncouth clambering down unaided.

  “I see your traveling dress does very well,” said Suzanna, her eyes crinkling with amusement. “You see now why we made certain the cut was full. Oh, and the boots, they are well fitted?”

  Morency drifted away as Suzanna chattered merrily. Gwenllian smoothed the brown fustian skirt and allowed herself a small smile. “Aye, all is the finest I could imagine and there is even more than I asked you. Is a wondrous talent you possess.”

  Suzanna laughed outright. “A wondrous talent for emptying another’s purse to buy the finest goods to be found, yes. You see now why my father was careful to marry me to a rich man.”

  “I hope he may be worthy of you.” It was not just courtesy that made her say it. She looked now, as Suzanna did, at the party gathered for the journey. The only women there were traveling to other destinations along the road, and were not bound for Morency. Gwenllian had no ladies to attend her in her new home. She would be alone there.

  Suzanna held out a small box. “I know you must leave soon, and I came only to bid you farewell and offer a gift for the bride.” Inside was a neat stack of very fine parchment. “Is a selfish thing, for you may only use it to write to me.”

  Gwenllian promised she would, and handed the box to Davydd to stow in the baggage. She stood awkwardly, not knowing how to say goodbye until it looked like Suzanna would make a courtesy. That would not do, nor would the firm clasp she was used to giving her men, so she did as her mother was wont to do whenever Gwenllian took her leave. Taking one of Suzanna’s hands in hers, she placed her other palm full on the side of the girl’s soft, freckled face, then kissed her cheek. “Be well,” she said, their cheeks pressed together. “Go safely.” With a sudden burst of feeling, she said, “I never thought to make a friend here.”

  Their cheeks still pressed together, Suzanna answered softly. “Never did I think to find courage enough to speak to you, so fierce is your aspect, but I am full glad that I did. God watch you on your journey.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Use the mounting block!”

  Gwenllian did give a brief laugh at that, but she dutifully guided her horse over to the block and mounted with some attempt at elegance. She waved a final farewell to her young friend, but did not look back at the castle. How different this was than what she had imagined. Never had she thought she would leave the king and still travel with Ranulf of Morency, that she would ride even farther away from her home, that her life would be so fundamentally changed with a single court visit.

  The road was a fine one and they made good time. Two minstrels would travel with them as far as the abbey tonight, and were merry company. The shoemaker and his wife, who would stay with them as far as Colchester, bickered endlessly. They were joined along the way by a man from a nearby village, who would come to Morency as farrier. She rode with Davydd silent by her side, and of long habit kept her eyes on the trees and fields and the men who carried arms. They were alert and watchful, these men who served Morency.

  Her husband rode at the head of the party. He did not ride beside her, or speak to her or look at her, even when at last they arrived at the abbey. They were fed a fine supper, and the minstrels sang, and all the while they sat like strangers to one another.

  But later, in the dark of the room that had been prepared for them, he reached for her again like a starving man. She wound herself around him, her hands touching every part of him she could reach. She thought it must be a new kind of fever, or maybe a beast that lived within that could only be given free reign when the sun went down. She felt his mouth devouring hers, felt her whole body turn soft under his hands, and wished for the sun never to come up. That night she learned where to touch him to make him gasp, how to slide her body atop his and take her pleasure. They did not speak.

  The next day, he was even more distant, though she had not thought that possible. Even to his own men, he barely spoke as they rode on. But the second night of their journey, in the dark, he came to her as hot as before. In the long night, she learned him with her mouth and took a lascivious joy in it. Sleep did not come to e
ither of them, no matter how tiring the journey or how little rest they had enjoyed in these many long days. Instead of slumber, her body learned his. The taste of his skin, the warmth of his breath on her back, the feel of his nakedness pressed against the length of her. All in silence.

  On the third day, the sun beat down on their little party and he was more remote than ever she had seen him. It was as if the air had shifted, and his men knew not to speak to him in this mood. With every mile that passed he seemed to withdraw further into himself. She would have tried to speak to him but she did not know how. However much they might know each other in the dark, they were entirely strangers when the sun shone.

  She watched as he grew more aloof throughout the day. He was not foul-tempered, only drawn so deep inside himself that he was more like a ghost than a man. At nightfall when they reached the inn, he ate silently and quickly, then left the common room immediately. She wondered if he was ill, if she should bring a posset to the room for him, and had Davydd fetch her wallet of herbs in case it should be needed.

  When the innkeeper brought her to the room, only a dim rushlight shone within. Thinking it must be a headache, she dismissed the innkeeper in a whisper and entered, closing the door quietly. He must have been waiting in the dark, for barely had she closed the door when he was there, pressing her against the rough boards. Her preoccupied worry was gone in an instant, forgotten in the heat of him. It inflamed her, his greedy mouth and reckless hands that pulled up her gown even as she stood there against the door. He could not wait and she did not want to.

  She clutched at his shoulders for balance as he buried his face in her neck and thrust into her, hard, again and again until she was gasping, desperate. Then, when she was mindless with want, mad with need, he stopped his movement and whispered to her: “Say my name.”

  She gulped air. Her body strained toward his to pull him deeper, but his full length was already buried inside her, his fingers pressing hard into her hips and buttocks as he held himself still. Her head dropped back on the door as she took in air and tried to make sense of what he said.

  She could just see his face in the dimness. His eyes met hers, holding her there with an intensity that broke through the haze of lust and commanded her attention. His fingers spread across her cheek, thumb caressing her lower lip. “Say it.”

  With her eyes locked on his, she breathed his breath. By Christ, the way he looked at her – as though there was nothing outside of this suspended moment, nothing but her and what she would say.

  Her lips began to form around the word Morency. But no. That was not what he wanted. He pressed himself harder against her, closed his eyes briefly. “Gwenllian.” His voice was a harsh rasp. “Please.” His eyes met hers again, with the same desperate plea she remembered from long ago, when he had asked her for mercy.

  It was easy then. Ranulf, she said. Her mouth tasted his. Ranulf. He moved inside her. Ranulf, please. And, Don’t stop, Ranulf, please, more, more, more.

  He did not stop. He gave her more and more, his name on her lips, until they both cried out.

  They found the bed and fell into an exhausted sleep. She woke with his head lying on her breast, the first sunlight illuminating the angles of his achingly handsome face. Black lashes against white skin, the pulse in his throat just visible.

  In the dawn of the fourth day, she watched him as he slept and felt her heart fill. It was a dangerous wonder, a terrible tender thing, to wake up in Ranulf of Morency’s arms.

  Soon they would come to the wall that surrounded the park, and after that would come the smell of the sea. Each time he came home, the sheep were more plentiful and their wool whiter, evidence of his steward’s growing competence. He remembered the first time he had come here, the sparse clusters of brown sheep they had passed as his barely-remembered father impressed upon him what an honor it was to be fostered with so great a lord as Aymer of Morency. He knew that with the first lungful of sea air, he would feel the same wild hope as he had as a boy. And then, just as predictably, the thick walls of the castle would surround him and hope would be only a memory.

  Sometimes he thought it a cruel joke, that the place he held to so fiercely and took such pride in, gave him no joy except when he was far from it. In the cold fields of France, under night skies crowded with stars in the Holy Land, through the wild green of Wales, he would think Morency, and it gave him heart. But always he thought of the word. Never of the place.

  He had not been here for more than a year, and then only for the briefest of stays. The castle itself, he knew, would look much the same as it always had. For years he had spoken of the need to build and expand, allow for more comfort and more company. One day, he would vow. Then he would ride off and not return for months.

  But now the castle had a lady again, a fact he had conveyed to the household in a short message sent two weeks ago. She would live here. He would stay much longer than a day this time. The sea air hit his lungs and his spirits rose. It could be a lively place, the hall filled with people talking freely, even laughing, and music. Visitors and travelers would come and be glad there among a bustling household.

  Almost, he could see it in his mind’s eye. Almost, he believed in it. But then they came in sight of the place, and his heart sank like a stone.

  He heard a gasp, an excited but unintelligible exclamation behind him. It was the boy, Davydd, who was now gaping at the sight. Ranulf slowed his horse and the others followed suit. It was beautiful from here, with the evening sun slanting low behind them and sparking off the lake, bathing the stone in the soft golden light. The castle was a simple but unusual design. Six square towers, connected by flintwork walls of dark gray and white, stood in a ring atop the raised earthwork. It was not impossibly large as so many of Edward’s castles, or as imposing as the keep of Ruardean. But it was beautiful, a stark and graceful sight reflected fully in the still waters of the lake.

  He watched her face as she gazed at it, but she betrayed no emotion. Davydd showed no such restraint, his lilting voice proclaiming it a prettier place than he had thought possible, wondering if there were fish in the lake and how large was the deer park and how queerly flat the land was in every direction.

  From the gatehouse far ahead, an animal came darting out and began to run toward them. It was a small dog, dirty white and wiry fur. It kicked up dust as it ran and, just before it come to the horses, it detoured into the long grass that grew between the path and the lake. When they rode past the patch where it had disappeared, it trotted calmly out and fell in step with Ranulf’s horse all the way to the gate, looking up at him from time to time.

  He could have wished for a better welcome than just a mongrel at his heels. At least the place looked well. There was nothing to criticize in the buildings or the grounds that he could see, empty as they seemed to be.

  And then, just as they reached the outer curtain wall, he began to hear the noise of a great many people within the walls. They must have gathered to greet the new Lady of Morency. He had bid the steward to assure a fit welcome. This had apparently been interpreted to mean more than merely chasing the dust from the lady’s bower. Nothing could have prepared him for what lay within the walls.

  A burst of color greeted them when they passed through the gate into the inner court. So accustomed was he to a silent and even sullen homecoming, that he could not understand what he saw at first. The air was filled with flutterings of white, red, yellow, pink that fell to the ground, carpeting the ground in color. They were petals, he realized with faint surprise, flung from countless hands from atop the nearest towers and the keep.

  Amidst a trumpeting fanfare barely heard above the cheering of the crowd – more people here than he had seen since he was a boy – he saw the steward approaching with a broad, satisfied smile. No doubt the man had arranged that every able-bodied person spend the day tearing petals from stems to create this spectacle. He could only hope as much energy had been expended in preparing a meal for the weary travelers.

/>   Ranulf dismounted. Before the servant could, he reached his arms up to Gwenllian to help her from her horse. She only looked at him for the space of a breath, startled and confused, before she leaned toward him and let herself be handed down.

  She straightened her dress awkwardly, with unpracticed movements, and lifted her chin. She did not look at him. He could not reconcile this stiff woman beside him with the eager softness that greeted him in bed. The ripe mouth that had kissed him and gave sweet, feminine gasps in the black of night was the same mouth she set now in a firm and serious line. Delicate flower petals drifted to her strong wide shoulders. Long, silky lashes framed eyes that roamed over the curtain wall to assess the keep’s defenses.

  Hard steel and soft heat. The lady of this keep, of these people.

  He lost himself in that thought, staring at her face, her hands, the boisterous crowd. Finally, he shook himself out of the reverie. Ceremony. It would require some ceremony. He caught her hand and held it aloft until the noise died down.

  “My lady wife, you may see the great joy it gives that you are come at last to Morency. I say you this, and on my lifeblood swear it be true: this is your home, all within it is yours to command. These people are sworn to you as to me, and they shall cherish and esteem you all their days.”

  Perhaps he should have given more thought to it and said a prettier speech, but it was enough. A great cheer went up, and the steward stepped forward, sinking into a low bow.

  “Lady Morency, God save you and bless you. The honor of this house is made yet greater by your presence. I am Hugh Wisbech, steward of this keep and ever humbly your servant. We give you welcome without end.” With this, he offered her the great ring of keys with ceremonial gravity.

  She hesitated, wide-eyed, and Ranulf witnessed a thing he had not thought possible. She was daunted. She who did not recoil from gaping wounds, or shy from crossing swords with a battle-seasoned man, nor flinch in the face of the king – she blanched when presented with the keys to Morency.