Gwenllian looked at the Ruardean men, who were plainly unhappy with this announcement. Nearly all of them looked toward Gwenllian in confusion, waiting for her to affirm her mother’s words.
She stepped close to her mother and said low, “Your anger punishes these men. Let them take their rest here, and to the priory on the morrow if you will be so hot-headed.”
“We ride now. I will not stay here.”
A burst of annoyance at this childish declaration nearly caused her to begin shouting at her mother once more, in full view of men who would understand every word. Instead she looked to Madog.
“There is room enough in the knight’s quarters,” she told him. “Choose you well no less than eight strong fighters to escort my mother in safety to Ruardean tomorrow.”
Madog nodded, but Eluned bristled.
“We ride now,” repeated Eluned, her voice rising. “My entire party.”
The bustle of activity in the court had stopped. All eyes were on them. Even the Morency servants, who could not understand a word, sensed the tension and stared.
“I will not send my men to serve you in this folly,” Gwenllian bit out.
“They are not your men! They are sworn to Ruardean. And you…” Her mother gave her a look of bitterest disappointment. “You are sworn to Morency.”
Gwenllian stood rooted to the spot. It was true. All of these men she had commanded for years were not truly hers. They were vassals of Ruardean. They were fated to become part of her mother’s army in rebellion, and Gwenllian had no right to stop it.
“Pennaeth Du.” It was Madog. She looked at him, her face a careful blank – but she knew he could read her thoughts. Quietly, so that only she could hear, he said, “Their hearts are yours, and their swords. They go where you tell them, and fight the enemy you name.”
Gwenllian looked out at them, the faces she knew so well. All the long days of training and raiding, and long evenings in stories and laughter. Even now in this awkward moment, she could not think past how much she missed them as she looked at each face.
“They are not yours,” insisted her mother.
But they were hers, just as Madog had said, and even Eluned could see that. Gwenllian could tell them to stay, and they would stay. She could tell them not to take up arms against the king, and they would obey her.
Yet she had no right to command them.
She caught sight of Ranulf, keeping a careful distance from where she and her mother stood. His look was not arrogant anymore, but uncertain. All the words she had thrown at him about honor and duty, the virtues of a good knight, came back to her now. How simple it had been, when there was not war and treason and her own heart to complicate matters.
She looked back at Madog, and would weep.
“They are sworn to Ruardean,” she said, clamping down on the threatening waver in her voice. She knew what she must do now.
She turned and stepped a little away from her mother and Madog, so that she stood alone in front of them all.
“Hear me,” she said, her voice strong and clear. “You are men of Ruardean, and there you shall return with your mistress. No more am I your chief, nor do I command you or lay claim to your loyalty, for I am…”
Her words failed her. She looked toward Ranulf, who stood uncomprehending and unsure.
“For I am Gwenllian of Morency.”
In the silence following her declaration, she felt her life diverge from theirs, a great severing from everything she had known. They would go on. They would battle. She would not be with them.
A numbness gripped her, a coldness seeping to her very bones in spite of the warm day. As she watched, the momentary surprise in their faces dissolved, replaced with a variety of unreadable expressions.
She turned away from the staring faces, the growing murmurs, and walked back to where Madog stood with her mother.
“May God preserve you, Eluned, but I am not of Ruardean,” he was saying.
The arrested look on her mother’s face at this statement would have made Gwenllian smile, if she had been capable of such a thing. Madog and Davydd were cousins born of Eluned’s uncle, and owed no allegiance to Ruardean. Like her, they were not bound to dance to her mother’s tune.
“Davydd will stay here if it please him. Madog,” she said, looking at him steadily. “If Lady Eluned will have you, you will go wherever the men of Ruardean go.”
His face was inscrutable. He was their best fighter, her right arm. Her mother would put the might of Ruardean into the hands of Llewellyn, and these men were the might of Ruardean. Madog might keep them safe.
“They will follow you,” she fairly whispered. “You will lead them.”
He looked as if he might contradict her, or refuse it. But in the end he only nodded once and said, “Aye, Pennaeth Du.”
Beyond that, there was little else to say. It was not long before the party, so newly arrived, was ready to depart. She watched them saddle their horses as Hugh sent servants to them with full wineskins and more ale for their journey.
Ranulf had slipped silently to her side. He watched the preparations in silence with her for several minutes and made no move to ask what had passed. She heard him tell Madog that a Morency rider was sent to the priory with the message that Lady Eluned’s party would seek shelter, a courtesy so that none of this road-weary party must ride hard ahead of the rest. There was mocking in his tone, as ever, but for the first time she knew it was not real. She could see, now, that it was only his instinct to hide any true warmth of feeling in a flood of derision.
This small measure of thoughtfulness toward her men (not my men, she reminded herself, not anymore) might have broken her. Stone, she thought. I must be stone now, for this moment. She held herself very still and watched as one of the men approached. He stepped forward quickly and held something out to her.
It was Aidan, who worked metal well enough to repair small things when they were far from a smithy. He handed her the spare buckle to her sword belt, given to him weeks ago when it had been damaged. She stared at it silently for a moment, at the lent-lilies etched into the metal, a symbol from the Ruardean coat of arms. He had taken care to preserve the design, had even etched the flowers more deeply. It had been polished it so that it looked new, ready to fasten at her hip.
“You do fine work, Aidan,” she finally said. “Very fine. I thank you.”
She held it in her hand, feeling the weight of it as she fixed her eyes on the veil covering Eluned’s dark hair. All the anger and resentment she had so recently felt was a distant thing, gone except in memory and replaced with a heavy sadness, as her mother prepared to ride away. The mounted party turned to the gate. Dirt rose up at the steady march of the horses hooves.
Gwenllian watched and waited and dared not breathe as they rode through the gate and slowly out of sight. But her mother did not look back.
She might have turned to stone in truth, standing there, had not Ranulf finally touched her arm. Without looking at him, she turned and walked swiftly to the keep, mounting the stairs and not stopping until she reached the solar. There she sat, dropping the buckle next to her, staring at it for a measureless time.
Then he was there, standing before her. The effort to stand, or even to look up to meet his eyes, was too great. Instead she trained her eyes on his belt, eye level to her, and did not wait for him to ask.
“No longer do I command men, and so they are gone home to Ruardean.”
She smoothed her skirt over her knees, wishing she had gone instead to the herb house. There she could make herself a tonic for deep sleep, strong enough so that she need not wake for hours and hours. How long would it take, for this ache to become more bearable?
“Your mother?” he asked. “Your… disagreement?”
There was the faintest urgency in him, a hint of worry. She tried to think if he could have heard them speak Llewellyn’s name, or Edward’s. Her mother imprisoned or dead and Ruardean ruined, if Edward was told. Ranulf’s head on a block,
if he knew of conspiracy and hid it from his king.
There was no strength left in her to know which was right, or what should be said, or done. Before she could stop herself, she found herself saying, “She plots with Welsh rebels. It is madness.”
He stepped closer to her, close enough to touch.
“You do not go with her.”
She shook her head once, quick and decisive. Panic for her mother, for her men, suddenly clutched at her. Hardly recognizing the voice that came from her, she turned her face up to him and entreated, “Do not tell Edward. You must not tell Edward. It is folly, it will come to nothing. I beseech you, husband, please–”
He interrupted her plea.
“Edward will learn of it, when she acts. I cannot protect her then.”
“She will not act. It is no more than a dream. In time she will see it cannot be done.” Saying it aloud eased her panic. “She thinks to make her move in spring, but Llewellyn is unwilling. By the time the snow melts, she will come to see reason.”
The corner of his mouth came up in a wry smile. It caused the small lines beside his eyes to appear.
“Is this all that is required to change a woman’s mind – for the snow to fall, and melt?”
His tone was light and bantering, but there was no answering lightness in her. All she could see was the deep blue of his eyes as he looked at her, the perfect angles of his face. He was so painfully handsome.
Then she heard her mother’s accusing voice, for this you say me no, and dropped her eyes again to her own lap.
It was not true. And yet, she knew that there was truth in it. She knew that she did not want to be where he was not.
“Will you tell the king?” she asked, her voice a brittle thing.
He answered without hesitation.
“Not now,” he said. “Not yet. But in spring, if she acts–”
“Madog will write me and say. We will have warning enough. If she acts.”
In a moment, she would break. She could only see her mother’s shocked face, the hurt there, and the betrayal. The tears that had gathered in her eyes.
“Then there is naught to tell the king,” he answered.
She nodded, still looking fixedly at her knees. His hand came toward her, moved to the veil she wore over her hair, and a harsh sound escaped her.
“Gwenllian,” he said, his voice full of a tenderness she had never heard in it.
She felt his touch on her face, but she could not look up at him. She reached to pull his hands a little away from her, holding them in hers, palms up. They were broad, calloused with years of swordplay, strong.
She lowered her face into his hands and wept like a child. For her mother, for her men. For the thing she had done, and because it could never be undone, she wept.
CHAPTER 15
From high above, he watched her. Though he could see only the top of her white veil, there was no mistaking the purposeful stride, the broad shoulders and long limbs that were so unlike the slight woman who walked next to her. She was as comfortable at Morency, it seemed, as he was uneasy.
In the weeks since Lady Eluned had left, Gwenllian had turned to her duties as Lady of Morency with a focus and ferocity more suited to her swordplay. Ever moving, ever planning and anticipating, relentless purpose. She had gathered a few attendants, wives and daughters of his knights whom she commanded as she had commanded men. With his own eyes, he could see there was none of the easiness that there had been between her and Suzanna. These were not trusted friends, nor well-loved companions as her men-at-arms had been. They were but women who served her as she commanded.
Perhaps she knew he watched her closely, and so was careful of her movements, circumspect in everything she did. Perhaps she truly was this absorbed in the workings of the kitchens and the chandlery and the napery. But he could not forget her face when she had been handed the keys to Morency, and thought it more likely she was afraid of a misstep.
Never in all the days that he had observed her every move, did she ever return his close regard. As much as he could not look away from her, she seemed to take little notice of him until they were alone in the night, when she became eager and hot.
He stood now on the wall-walk, where he could see miles in every direction. There was privacy here, and more: the open vista, clear to the sea. It unburdened him. Too often, Ranulf spent his days pacing within the curtain wall as though it were a cage, vague apprehension lodged just beneath his breastbone until night fell. Then she came to him, or he went to her, and the knot inside his chest unraveled. In the dark, with her, there were no ghosts to whisper to him from the empty corners of the room. There was only the sound of her even breath as he fell into the deepest sleep.
But the nights did not last, and the days were a familiar torture. And so he told himself that he must come up here, to observe the progress in the fields as far as he could see. To inspect the wall-walk itself, as though they were in danger of attack. Any reason he could find to climb up here, where he did not feel so suffocated, would suffice.
Today the marshal stood next to him and enumerated the virtues of various garrison men, as Ranulf tried not stare too obviously at his wife.
“There be many men of the garrison ready to prove themselves for knighthood, my lord.”
Ranulf had asked the marshal to give this exact opinion only moments ago, before his mind had wandered. Yet still, the man looked embarrassed to speak so bold.
They were still nervous around him, every inhabitant of the castle save Gwenllian and that ever-present little dog – but they were beginning to look at him as almost human. With some of them, he thought he might even have been demoted from fully satanic to merely half-demon.
“Tell me which among them you think worthy. And mind you speak to me of the worth I cannot discover by watching them spar.” He looked down to see her hang a bundle of some plant to dry under the eaves of the herb-house, and remembered her hand holding out a dagger to him in the forest. “There is more to knighthood than skill with a sword.”
For all Hugh Wisbech’s good work, there were still expanses of land that had lain fallow too long. It must be given to capable vassals to be managed. Two knights more did he owe to Edward’s service. The best fighting men could be made knights at Christmas and the empty land given to them as knight’s fee.
“Of those with proper training, only four are of good character and stout of heart,” the marshal said finally.
Ranulf could have laughed at that. Men of good character and stout heart, who would be commanded to follow a lord who had run from Edward’s summons and was himself a popular example of deplorable morals. But they would follow, he knew. Not as he had seen Gwenllian’s men follow her, no – his men followed him because they must.
How to win their hearts? He wanted to ask her. To even think of it, to realize how much he wanted it, felt dangerous. Like it was the edge of a great precipice, he quickly moved away from the thought. He looked away from where she worked, turning his eyes to the fields where workers toiled to bring in the harvest.
“I must see these four good men in combat.”
The marshal brightened at this.
“A contest, my lord?” There was no mistaking the hopefulness in his voice.
It had been Hugh Wisbech’s proposal, that he had obviously shared with others, to arrange a small tournament. All the fighting men of the Morency estate and all those who wished to prove themselves, gathered to celebrate a successful harvest and the homecoming of their lord and lady. And to watch him fight, he knew. That was to be the prime attraction. As it ever was.
“It will be no grand affair,” he clarified, his voice firm. He had rejected Hugh’s idea. He did not want so many eyes on him when he picked up the sword. “The men you name, and a few seasoned others, to spar in the yard.”
The marshal’s face fell.
Ranulf turned and walked, bidding the man to follow him down the tower, off the wall.
“I will inquire if there be s
quires to my knights who are of age, though I think there are none. In a week’s time, sooner if it can be done,” he instructed over his shoulder as he came down the stairs, giving the names of those battle-tried knights who would take part in the sparring.
At the bottom of the tower he lingered, considering Davydd. He did not know the boy’s ability, but it was possible he was ready to test himself against the garrison men. It was Gwenllian who would know, and at that moment she crossed the yard before him.
Instead of calling her name, he walked behind her a few steps, admiring her graceful stride. Of late there was something new in how she moved, a sway in her hips that mesmerized him. Beneath the gown she wore, her body was as strong as ever it was, but every night he felt it grow softer, more lush. All her hard angles were fading away, leaving rounded edges and smooth curves.
Sensing him behind her, she turned. She cradled a stone flask against her chest, a distracted look on her face.
“My lord?” Her eyes met his, and he saw shadows there.
“Walk with me, lady.” He took her arm and steered her toward the kitchen garden. It was quiet there, and empty, with an overgrown shrub that might hide them from curious eyes.
As they walked, she spoke idly of her medicine garden. She listed the names of plants she had found growing and those she wished to cultivate. He understood none of it, but nodded attentively and warmed to hear her speak with such a proprietary air. Though she attended to all her duties equally, he knew this was the only one that brought her joy. Nothing else so animated her, or brought the light of enthusiasm to her face. Except the sword, he thought, and felt the knot in his chest tighten.
They had reached the garden. He kept walking until they were in a secluded corner. She looked at him, long heavy lashes framing faintly curious gray eyes. He would have liked nothing more than to look at her face in full light like this, until night fell, to study the stern and unlovely features married to the sweep of lashes, the full curve of her mouth. It was contradictory and confusing, but no longer uncomely. All day would he stand here, if he could, and drink in the sight of her.
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