Knight of Desire

by Knight of Desire (lit)

  They waited until after they had eaten and lay down on the blankets spread for them close to the fire.

  “The Welsh commanders fear their army is too strung out,” Stephen whispered. “Gethin and the Tudors backtracked from Worcester to make sure the king did not send part of his army behind them, to cut them off from their base.”

  Catherine was not surprised Stephen had managed to overhear so much.

  “They did not come for you,” Stephen continued. “But when they caught wind you would be outside the castle this morning, you were too great a prize to miss.”

  This made much more sense than that the Tudors and Rhys Gethin would leave Worcester to take a single captive for ransom.

  “Did you hear them say how they knew I would be outside the castle walls today?” She still could not understand this part.

  “Nay, but it must mean we have a traitor at the castle,” he whispered. “Who do you think it is?”

  Who, indeed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Catherine awoke with the prickling sensation that someone was watching her. She opened her eyes to find Maredudd standing over her.

  “Good morning,” he said, and nodded toward Stephen. “I see your gallant protector gave up the fight and took his rest.”

  Embarrassed to be talking with Maredudd while lying down, she sat up. Shivering, she pulled her blanket tightly around her shoulders. The early morning air held a chill.

  “We are near Worcester, a few minutes’ ride from where Glyndwr is encamped,” Maredudd told her. “I sent word last night that I would bring you to him as soon as we break our fast.”

  She had not expected to be taken to Glyndwr himself. Unconsciously, she reached up to touch her hair. With no maid—or even a comb—she did not know how she could make herself presentable to the man the Welsh called their prince.

  “Glyndwr understands rough travel. He’ll not think it amiss that you did not have a maid to dress your hair,” Maredudd said with a smile. “ ’Tis a sin that custom requires such lovely hair be hidden.”

  He squatted down and shook Stephen’s shoulder. “Come, lad. Prince Glyndwr has much on his mind, and I do not wish to keep him waiting.”

  Catherine picked up the ornate headdress she wore yesterday. Stephen had helped her remove it last night, but there was no hope of getting it back on today.

  She heaved a sigh. There was nothing for it but to make do as best she could. After painstakingly detaching the gold mesh and circlet from the headdress, she combed her hair with her fingers and plaited it into a single braid down her back. Then she put the mesh over her hair and fixed the circlet across her forehead to hold it in place. The makeshift covering left too much hair exposed, but that was that.

  She looked down at the dismal state of her gown. Working methodically, she began brushing the dirt from it, top to bottom. She was so absorbed in her task that she was startled when she looked up to find Stephen and all three Tudors staring at her, slack-jawed.

  She narrowed her eyes at them. “How long have you been watching me?”

  There was a general shrugging of shoulders.

  “Do you men have nothing better to do?” she asked, her irritation evident in her tone.

  Stephen had the grace to look away. The three Tudors, however, just shook their heads and smiled.

  The other men were breaking camp when Catherine and Stephen rode off with the Tudors. Praise God her captors brought her here, rather than into Wales. William was in Worcester. She could be ransomed and delivered to him this very day.

  “Can you see the old Celtic fort at the top of that hill?” Maredudd said, pointing ahead. “That is where we and the French are encamped.”

  Catherine dragged her thoughts from her reunion with William to prepare herself to meet the rebel leader. Quickly, she reviewed what she knew of Owain Glyndwr. He was a Welsh nobleman, close kinsman to the Tudors. Before the rebellion, his home was known as a center of Welsh culture, where troubadours and musicians were always welcome.

  A man who liked music, she told herself, could not be completely heartless. The common folk claimed he used magic to call up terrible storms. There were other stories she could not dismiss so easily. She had ridden out after rebel raids. She had seen the smoldering villages and heard the women weeping.

  Before she knew it, they were riding through the gates of the old fort. The bailey was teeming with soldiers. They rode through the chaos of men and horses and carts to the main building. After helping her from her horse, Maredudd led her up the steps with Stephen and the two brothers following on their heels.

  The guards inside the entry nodded to the Tudors and opened the second set of heavy doors. Once her eyes adjusted, Catherine saw they were in a dark, cavernous hall. There was a huge hearth against one of the long walls and trestle tables set up along the other. A number of men were in the room, talking in groups or cleaning weapons.

  Only one man drew her attention, however. He was watching her from the far end of the hall.

  With his hand firmly on her arm, Maredudd walked her across the room to him. Catherine dropped into the low curtsy reserved for monarchs and kept her head down until a deep voice told her to rise.

  When she did, she got her first good look at the famous rebel whose name had been on everyone’s lips for the past five years. Owain Glyndwr looked to be in his late forties. His sternly handsome face was lined, and the dark hair that fell to his shoulders was streaked iron gray. Catherine had the impression of long limbs and a powerful body beneath his robes. The riveting black eyes held hers.

  “Lady FitzAlan, you have done great harm to me and my people.” Glyndwr’s words carried through the hall and reverberated off the walls.

  Taken aback, Catherine could make no reply. What did he think she had done?

  “I wondered for a long time who passed the information that led to my son and his men being caught unawares at Pwll Melyn,” Glyndwr said. “In the end, I decided it could only be you.”

  How had he known? King Henry did not believe she was the one, even when the prince had told him.

  “I am sorry, Your Grace,” she stammered. “It was my duty.”

  “Prince Harry took three hundred Welshmen prisoner at Pwll Melyn,” he said. “He executed them all, save one.”

  Involuntarily, she put her hand to her mouth. She had heard something of this before but had not believed it.

  “At least young Harry does not kill for sport or revenge. He kills ruthlessly in pursuit of his aims, as a great commander must.” Glyndwr’s face looked suddenly weary as he turned to gaze into the hearth fire. “The difference, however, matters not to the widows and orphans.

  “He executed them all, save for my son Gruffydd, who was taken to London in chains.” Glyndwr paused and pressed his lips together. “He is tortured, I am told. After he was caught attempting to escape, the king had his eyes put out.”

  Catherine felt the sting of tears at the back of her eyes. The truth of Glyndwr’s words was etched in the pain on his face. She did not want to believe her king capable of such barbarism. Yet, in her heart, she knew he was. For the first time, she wondered if what she had done was right. Should she have told Harry he could catch the Welsh unprepared that day? Would she have, if she could have foreseen the consequences?

  “I hear you have a son, Lady FitzAlan,” Glyndwr said, jolting her attention back to the present. “So you will understand that I will do what I can to get my son out of my enemy’s hands.”

  Catherine held her breath, waiting for Glyndwr to reveal his purpose in telling her this.

  “You shall be my son’s deliverance. His life is the ransom I will claim for your return.”

  Dismay and confusion warred within her. “I fear you mistake my importance, Your Grace,” she said, clutching her hands together. “The king would never trade your son for me. He is not… a sentimental man.”

  She gave up trying to find a diplomatic way to explain it and said, “The king would sacrifice me w
ithout a second thought.”

  She felt disloyal for her frankness, but she saw what looked like appreciation in Glyndwr’s eyes.

  “Rayburn was a fool not to realize he had such a perceptive wife. You are right, of course. Henry would not, on his own, make a sacrifice for you.”

  “My husband will not be able to persuade him otherwise,” she said. “I believe Lord FitzAlan would, however, be willing to pay a handsome ransom for me.” She no longer cared how much William had to pay, just that he pay it quickly.

  “I will not make my demand to FitzAlan,” Glyndwr said, “but to the king’s son.”

  Catherine was stunned. “To Harry?”

  “I have heard troubadours sing of your beauty, Lady FitzAlan.” Glyndwr smiled at her for the first time. “ ’Tis no wonder you have a prince besotted with you.”

  Catherine opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

  “I will send a message informing Prince Harry I will take no payment but my son in exchange for his lover.”

  “But I am not the prince’s lover!” Catherine said, finally finding her voice.

  When Glyndwr looked at her skeptically, she attempted to explain. “We were childhood friends. We are friends yet. Besides, I am a married woman.” Her face flushing hot with embarrassment, she said, “He would never… he would not…”

  “Surely you do not believe your wedded state would stop a man from wanting you,” Glyndwr said, raising an eyebrow. “And an English prince would never think such rules applied to him.”

  Glyndwr looked past her and nodded. Maredudd, whose presence she had forgotten, came to her side.

  “Let us hope you are as precious to the prince as I’ve heard,” Glyndwr said, dismissing her. “For you will not see your home again unless he persuades the king to release my son.”

  Maredudd touched her elbow and whispered, “Make your curtsy.”

  She did so numbly and let him lead her out to where Stephen and the other Tudors waited.

  When the doors to the hall shut behind them, she broke down into sobs. “I fear I shall never see my son or my home again!”

  “You shall,” Maredudd said, putting his hands on her shoulders. “All will be well in the end, you will see.”

  “Your prince misunderstands everything!” She clenched her fists and cried out in frustration, “This ransom demand to Prince Harry will make my husband believe I have been unfaithful.”

  “Nay, he will not,” Maredudd said, squeezing her shoulders. “He will just be happy to have you back.”

  She shook her head. “You know nothing of my husband.”

  Maredudd escorted her up crumbling stairs to a room crowded with chests—probably pillaged from the town. Through the open window, she saw soldiers gathering in the yard below.

  “Will the battle be today?” she asked anxiously.

  “I don’t know,” Maredudd said as he came to stand beside her at the window. “We’ve been at a standstill for a week. I cannot see it lasting much longer.”

  “What do you think will happen?”

  “We have a slight advantage in numbers, though both armies are large,” he said matter-of-factly. “And the English are tired, coming from weeks of hard fighting in the North. Still, anything can happen. All I can say for certain is that there will be a great many deaths on both sides.”

  He excused himself to join the men below.

  She watched the soldiers ride out the gate, looking magnificent in their full armor. As she watched, she thought of the three hundred Welshmen whose capture and execution Glyndwr blamed on her, and she wept for them.

  And what of the fate of the English soldiers today? Of William? And Harry?

  “Please, God, protect them,” she prayed over and over.

  For hours, she paced between the trunks of the cramped room. At long last, the gates were thrown open and the men rode back in, looking none the worse. There was no blood on their armor, no wounded comrades slung over their saddles.

  She collapsed onto one of the trunks and put her head in her hands. There was still time. Before long, she heard a knock and Maredudd poked his head through the door.

  She waved him in, impatient for news. “There was no battle today?”

  He shook his head and sank wearily onto a trunk by the window. “God’s beard, this waiting is tedious.”

  “Maredudd, you must ask for an audience with Prince Glyndwr for me,” she said. “There is something I must tell him.”

  “God in heaven, what can it be? He is busy consulting with his commanders.”

  Seeing her recalcitrant look, he sighed. “Perhaps I can tell him whatever it is you want him to know.”

  “I must speak with him myself.”

  Stifling another oath, Maredudd put his hands on his knees and hoisted himself up. “Your servant,” he said, sweeping her a low bow.

  An hour later, a woman came to her room carrying a basin of water and a cloth.

  “One of the Tudor men sent me. He says to tell you Prince Glyndwr will see you in an hour.”

  The woman was no ladies’ maid. From her rouged lips and revealing bodice, Catherine suspected her usual duties involved providing service of quite a different sort.

  The woman put her hands on her hips and looked Catherine up and down. “You’re a bit worse for wear, you are. Perhaps we can find you a clean gown in one of these trunks.”

  Catherine glanced down at her bedraggled gown.

  “Aye, let us take a look.”

  The two women opened trunks and pawed through tunics, leggings, and shirts until they were both hot and red-faced. Near the bottom of one, they found an elegant silk gown of robin’ s-egg blue with delicate silver trim.

  The woman helped Catherine into it. Though it was a bit tight through the bodice, it fit well enough. The woman stuck her head back in the trunk and popped back out, proudly holding up a matching headdress and slippers.

  When Catherine was dressed and ready, her helper beamed at her, proud as a peacock. She gave Catherine a broad wink and said, “You look like a princess.”

  Regal might be just what she needed for this performance, Catherine thought grimly as she started down the stairs. Maredudd was waiting for her at the bottom, just outside the entrance to the hall. When he caught sight of her, he ran his eyes over her from head to toe.

  “I see conquering one prince is not enough,” he said in a low voice as she took his arm, “but you must set your sights on ensnaring a second.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she snapped.

  “I warn you, our prince is no boy to do your bidding like young Harry,” he said, his tone serious. “Do not attempt to play games with him. Glyndwr will know if you tell him lies.”

  The guards opened the doors, and she saw that the men inside were gathered around a large map rolled out on a trestle table. They turned to stare at her as she entered.

  Glyndwr moved away from the others and motioned for her and Maredudd to join him by the hearth.

  “What is it you wish to tell me, Lady FitzAlan?” Glyndwr asked at once. He was not a man with time to waste on pleasantries.

  It seemed best to start with the truth.

  “I have thought hard on what you said about the three hundred men who died because of what I did.” Her hands were sweating, but she kept them still. “I regret their deaths.”

  Glyndwr waited, his gaze unrelenting.

  “I fear many more men will die in this battle,” she said. “So I prayed to God, asking if it would be a sin to tell you what I know when it might prevent more bloodshed.”

  “And God answered you?” Glyndwr did not sound as though he thought it likely.

  “Not clearly, no.” The distress in her voice was genuine.

  “So you decided to tell me without the benefit of divine guidance. What is it, Lady FitzAlan? My time is short.”

  Now for her lie.

  “Part of the English army waits near Monmouth Castle.” She looked straight into his eyes and ma
de herself believe it as she said it. “They plan to attack you from behind and cut your army off from Wales.”

  After a pause, Glyndwr asked, “Who leads these men?”

  “Prince Harry.” She knew from what he said in their first meeting that he respected Harry’s military skills.

  “But the prince is here at Worcester,” Glyndwr said with a smile. “He is easy to pick out on the field.”

  “Remember Shrewsbury?” she said, her tone challenging.

  Anger flashed in his eyes. There were rumors Glyndwr arrived late at Shrewsbury and watched from the woods as the Northern rebel army folded.

  “At Shrewsbury, the king employed decoys—knights dressed in the king’s armor and mounted on horses like his own,” she said. “Hotspur killed two of them before he was cut down.”

  Catherine kept her eyes steady on Glyndwr as she told her next lie. “The prince uses the same device to fool you now. It was a false prince you saw today. The true one waits to cut off your retreat and attack you from behind.”

  “Why should I believe you?” he said, his black eyes searching for the truth in her soul. “Why would you come to the rebel cause now, after what you did before?”

  “I do not take the rebel side,” she said, on the firm ground of truth again. “But I do not want to have more blood on my hands, English or Welsh.”

  “So you regret betraying your husband to his death?”

  “No!” She blurted her answer without stopping to think.

  He nodded, and she saw that the frankness of her response lent credibility to her story.

  For a reason she could not explain, she wanted to give Glyndwr the truth about Rayburn, at least.

  “Rayburn gave you no true allegiance, Prince Glyndwr,” she said in a quiet voice. “He would have sold you to the devil to save himself.”

  “You tell me nothing I did not know.” With a bittersweet smile, he added, “In sooth, his lady wife would have been the better ally.”

  He stepped closer to her. The penetrating look he gave her sent a shiver through her, but she could not look away from the intense dark eyes. There was a magnetism about this man. She understood Maredudd’s warning now. A woman might risk a great deal to be near a man who emanated such power, in the hope he might direct some of that dark passion toward her. She would have to be a brave woman, though.