Knight of Desire

by Knight of Desire (lit)

  “In the meantime, we must discover where Catherine is being held,” William said. “Glyndwr may refuse to ransom her. I cannot rescue her if I do not know where she is.”

  Prince Harry made the astonishing suggestion that William talk with Abbess Talcott.

  “You never know,” Prince Harry said with a smile, “what news might come to the good abbess.”

  Like most Northerners, William was related to half the nobility—and knew the rest—on both sides of the Scots-English border. Hostage-taking was so common in that region that it was almost a sport. If his wife had been kidnapped there, he could have found out where she was being held in half a day.

  But he was at a loss as to how to find her in Wales. The language was different, the people hostile. Hostages taken deep into that country were not found until their ransoms were paid.

  He did not know how a nun in an isolated abbey could help him discover where Catherine was, but he had no other notion what to do. He and Stephen set off for the abbey as soon as the prince was out the gates.

  As they made the short ride, William could not help thinking of the last time he had ridden this path: the day he retrieved his bride from the abbey. Had he driven her to run from him again?

  “Please, God, keep her safe,” he prayed. “Whether she went willingly or not, bring her back.”

  This time, he entered the abbey grounds quietly and waited in the courtyard for one of the nuns to escort him and Stephen up to the abbess’s private rooms. When he reached the doorway to her parlor, he was too surprised to speak.

  It could not be! There, chatting amiably with the abbess, his long legs stretched out before him, sat Catherine’s troubadour.

  “Good afternoon, Lord FitzAlan,” the abbess greeted him.

  William stared at the troubadour as Abbess Talcott exchanged greetings with Stephen.

  Gesturing toward the troubadour, she said, “May I present Robert Fass?”

  “We have met,” William bit out.

  “After a fashion,” Robert said, an amused smile lifting the corners of his mouth. The man evidently was counting on William’s forbearance while on abbey grounds.

  Abbess Talcott invited them to sit and passed around a tray of honey cakes. To William, she said in a low voice, “I’ve assigned another sister the task of baking.”

  All the same, William waited until Stephen devoured two with no obvious ill effects before taking one himself.

  When the abbess made no move to send the troubadour away so they could speak privately, he stated his business. “My wife has been taken hostage by the rebels. She was captured while on her way to visit you here, at the abbey.”

  The abbess’s face showed deep concern but not surprise. “I only just heard the news from Robert.”

  “In God’s name, how did he know of it?”

  “Remember where you are,” the abbess reprimanded him. “It hardly matters how Robert learned of it.”

  “Do you know where she is?” William asked the troubadour. He was willing to overlook the man’s transgressions if only he would tell him where to find her.

  “Not yet,” the abbess answered for him. She patted the troubadour’s arm and said, “But my friend Robert is our best hope of finding out.”

  Holding back the oath that had been on his lips, William asked, “How would you learn of my wife’s whereabouts?”

  “Despite the rebellion, my troupe travels freely in both Wales and the Marches,” Robert said. “I can take my troupe into Wales and look for her without being suspected.”

  “And why would you go to such trouble for my wife?”

  Robert’s eyes danced with amusement. “We are great friends. Did she not tell you?”

  “Don’t be foolish,” the abbess chided. “Lord FitzAlan, tell us what you can about what happened.”

  Stephen and William told them all they knew. Robert asked a number of questions. He had the good sense, however, not to remark on the unusual nature of the ransom demand.

  “The possibilities are not good,” Robert said, shaking his head. “Let us hope Glyndwr doesn’t send her to the Continent with the French forces for safekeeping. It would be as bad, though, if he takes her to Aberystwyth or Harlech castles.”

  God help him if Glyndwr held her at either of those castles. They were on the west coast of Wales, far from English soil. Both castles were considered impregnable, or very nearly so.

  “I will follow Glyndwr’s trail until I hear news of her,” Robert said. “I will be discreet, of course.”

  Spying appeared to come easily to this itinerant bard. He hid a fine mind behind that handsome face and glib demeanor.

  William looked back and forth between Robert and the abbess and raised an eyebrow. “The two of you helped Catherine with her spying?”

  They smiled with the look of well-fed cats.

  “Rayburn did not have a chance,” William said.

  “That devil’s spawn did not deserve one,” Robert said, showing a flash of anger for the first time.

  William wondered who this singer of ballads truly was. The man was not raised by a peasant or tradesman, to be sure. He showed too much ease conversing with an abbess and a lord. Whoever he was, William was profoundly grateful for his help.

  “The part we occasionally play in the conflict must remain a secret,” the abbess advised William. “Robert can be of no help if his collaboration is suspected.”

  “We will tell no one,” William promised. He gave Stephen a severe look to be sure his brother understood.

  “Not even Edmund,” Stephen said.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Catherine felt very much alone traveling in the midst of a Welsh-French army of thousands. Even the Tudor brothers would have been a welcome sight to her now.

  She certainly would have felt safer under their protection.

  She braved a glance at Rhys Gethin, whose heavily muscled thigh was uncomfortably close to hers as he rode at her side. He’d taken Maredudd’s place as her primary keeper. “The Fierce One,” as she had come to think of him, had neither the fine looks nor the courtly manners of the Tudors.

  Everything about the man was rough, from the well-worn tunic that reeked of sweat and horses to the long hair that fell to his shoulders in matted knots. He was built like an ox, with a broad chest and thick neck. Though he rarely spoke, the other Welshmen paid heed when he did.

  He turned and fixed his intense gaze on her. With eyes as black as his soul, he was the most frightening man she had ever met.

  “What is it, sir?” she asked sharply, though it was she who had stared at him first.

  He nodded ahead to where the path narrowed and grunted something she took to mean he wanted her to ride in front. She spurred her horse, grateful to put a little distance between them. A shiver crept up her spine. When she looked over her shoulder, his eyes were on her like hot burning coals.

  At least she was free of The Fierce One at night. Rhys Gethin camped out with the army, while Catherine was taken into Welsh homes as Glyndwr’s guest. The homes were humble, but at least she had a roof over her head.

  When they reached Milford Haven, the French soldiers and horses were loaded onto the ships waiting in the harbor. After the ships disembarked, Glyndwr disbursed most of his army. The fighting season was over. Only a core contingent of men rode north with them along the west coast.

  Catherine’s breath caught at the sight of Aberystwyth, a magnificent castle with concentric walls built in the shape of a diamond on the very edge of the roiling sea. It was one of the iron ring of fortresses Edward I built around the perimeter of Wales to demonstrate English power over the subjugated Welsh.

  After little more than a hundred years, Aberystwyth was crumbling under the assault of pounding sea, wind, and rain. Catherine looked around as they rode into the castle’s huge outer bailey. The main gate and drawbridge were falling down, but its rings of thick walls still made it formidable. Glyndwr had been able to take it only because King Henry diver
ted men to fight the Scots and left the castle inadequately defended.

  From the moment they turned north, Catherine had feared Glyndwr would bring her here—or worse, to Harlech Castle. Her chances of escape or rescue from either were dismal. Still, they were better here at crumbling Aberystwyth than at Harlech.

  When Rhys lifted her from her saddle, she held her breath against the smell of him. She tried not to show how much it distressed her to have him touch her.

  She slept that night in a chamber high in a tower overlooking the sea. The guards outside her door seemed an unnecessary precaution. Tense and uneasy, she barred her door and fell asleep to the sound of waves crashing on the shore.

  In the morning, a maid came to help her dress and to tell her she would ride with Prince Glyndwr today. Aberystwyth, then, was not their final destination.

  When Gethin helped her mount her horse, she noticed he did not smell quite so bad and that someone had made an attempt to brush his clothes. Silent as usual, he escorted her to where Glyndwr waited.

  “I was going to send you to France,” Glyndwr said as they rode out the gate heading north.

  Catherine nearly gasped aloud. England’s conflict with France was unending. If she was taken there, she might be held for years and years.

  “I want to go home,” she said, “but I prefer the wild beauty of Wales to France.”

  “Then you can thank Rhys Gethin, for he was adamant I keep you here. He mistrusts our French allies.”

  “So, where are you taking me?”

  “To Harlech Castle, where I live with my family.”

  Her heart plummeted.

  “Your King Edward—may he rot in hell—did not make the mistake he made at Aberystwyth by building Harlech too near the sea.” There was pride in his voice as he added, “There was never a castle better built for defense.”

  Prince Harry said the same of Harlech.

  “There will be gowns and the other things you need at Harlech. I am sorry I neglected to provide better for you, but I did not foresee I would have a lady traveling with my army.”

  Gowns were the least of her concerns.

  “You managed the rough travel well,” he said with an approving glance. “Gethin says you are made of tougher stock than your first husband. But then, he thought even less of Rayburn than he does of our French allies. He dislikes men who betray their own.”

  He signaled to the nearest men to ride farther back.

  “Rhys Gethin has made a request of me,” he said. “If King Henry refuses to release my son, he wants me to give you to him to be his wife.”

  Catherine could not have been more stunned.

  Of all the objections she could make, what she said was, “But the man dislikes me!”

  “Nay, he is captivated.” Glyndwr smiled with rare amusement. “He surprises us both.”

  “Does he not have a wife?”

  “She died many years ago,” Glyndwr said. “He did not seem to mind the lack of one until now.”

  No doubt he terrorizes the serving girls, Catherine thought to herself.

  “But, Your Grace, I am already married.”

  “If King Henry will not yield what I ask, I may relieve you of your husband.”

  Catherine looked at him in horror. “If you think to make me a widow, you underestimate my husband. He is a skilled fighter.”

  “You are right to praise FitzAlan’s skills,” Glyndwr said, unperturbed. “I was disappointed when Northumberland could not persuade him to join our cause. But I was not speaking of FitzAlan’s death—only of an annulment of your marriage.”

  “That is not possible,” she said, feeling herself color. “Our marriage was consummated.”

  Glyndwr dismissed this difficulty with a wave of his hand.

  They rode in silence for a time. Then, with seeming indifference, he asked, “Are you with child?”

  She sensed it was to ask this single question that Glyndwr chose to ride with her today. Without pausing a heartbeat to consider her response, she looked directly into his eyes and said, “Sadly, I am not.”

  She was getting better at lying all the time.

  “Good, then an annulment is possible,” he said, but Catherine did not think he was pleased by her answer.

  Harlech Castle served as both Glyndwr’s court and his base of military operations. With the fighting season over and the autumn rains setting in, the castle was crawling with soldiers with little to do. Catherine was not left unguarded for a moment.

  Guarding her must be a singularly tedious assignment. She spent most of her time alone in her chamber or praying in the chapel. Since she could not bear to feel The Fierce One’s eyes on her while she ate, she rarely took her meals in the great hall. Besides, observing Glyndwr’s happy family life only served to make her feel more despondent.

  She had been at Harlech a week when she was summoned to the great hall for an audience with Glyndwr. Here in his court, Glyndwr maintained the outward trappings of his princely status. She bowed low before a severe-looking Glyndwr dressed in ermine-trimmed robes and sitting on a gilded throne.

  “Lady FitzAlan, I have received Prince Harry’s reply to my ransom demand,” he announced. “He advises me that the king will not release my son in exchange for your safe return.”

  Since Glyndwr’s son was blind and could not fight, Catherine thought the king was only keeping him for spite.

  “It is as I expected, Your Grace,” she said in a low voice. “I am sorry he will not return your son.”

  “I believe you are,” Glyndwr said, his eyes softening.

  He came down from the dais and led her to sit with him before the roaring fire in the hearth.

  “I served with King Henry in Scotland twenty years ago,” Glyndwr remarked. “He was just ‘Bolingbroke’ then.”

  “I believe he has changed a good deal since then—since he gained the throne,” she said, throwing caution to the wind.

  Glyndwr raised an eyebrow and nodded for her to continue.

  “These rebellions have made our king mistrustful.” She ventured a sideways glance at him. “And unforgiving. He will not show mercy, even when it costs him nothing.”

  Was it wise to speak of her king like this to Glyndwr? Was it treason? She did not know, but she wanted to give Glyndwr the truth with regard to his son, if nothing else.

  “If you wish to have your son back, you must give the king something he holds very dear.” She gave him the only suggestion she had. “He would exchange Gruffydd for Harlech.”

  Glyndwr shook his head. “You know I cannot put my son above the interests of my people.”

  “Then your best hope is to arrange for Gruffydd to escape,” she said. “It has been done before. Perhaps you could bribe a guard?”

  “My son was blinded for his first attempt to escape,” Glyndwr said. “I would not have him risk so much again.”

  Catherine looked away from the pain she saw on the great man’s face.

  “When Harry takes his father’s place,” she said in a quiet voice, “I am certain he will pardon your son and release him.” It was a paltry offering.

  “I fear Gruffydd will not survive long in the Tower.”

  They sat in silence, staring at the fire.

  After a few moments, he said, “Prince Harry enclosed a letter from your husband with his message.”

  She sat up straight. “A letter from William? What does he say?”

  Glyndwr leaned forward and tapped his forefingers against his pursed lips before answering. “FitzAlan offers a large monetary ransom.”

  Catherine closed her eyes. God be praised! After the utter bleakness she had felt since arriving at Harlech, she was afraid of the hope that sprang inside her.

  Her voice quavered as she put the question to Glyndwr. “Will you take the ransom my husband offers?”

  Glyndwr’s expression was hard now. He was no longer father, but prince.

  “I will send another message, reiterating my price,” he said, his voice
stern. “If Prince Harry still does not comply, I have a commander who would benefit from having a wife with the political skills he lacks.”

  Glyndwr was no fool, so she wondered how he believed he could have her marriage annulled.

  “I am considering recognizing the French pope in Avignon.”

  His words struck her like a thunderbolt. God chose Saint Peter’s successor on Earth. A ruler who supported the alternative pope risked damnation not only for himself, but also for all his people. Even in her shock, Catherine was awed by Glyndwr’s boldness.

  “I will demand concessions in return, of course,” he said, more to himself than to her. “Independence for the Welsh church. A guarantee that only men who speak Welsh will be appointed bishops and priests. The end of payments to English monasteries and colleges.

  “It would be a small matter to add a request for the annulment of one marriage.” He turned and focused his eyes on her again. “Particularly when that marriage was made without proper banns and on the very day of the first husband’s murder.”

  Cold fear gripped her heart. As a last resort, she could reveal her pregnancy. Surely even the French pope would not grant an annulment if he knew she was with child.

  Catherine paced her chamber, as she often did since her conversation with Glyndwr. If she could only have something to give her hope!

  She jumped at the knock on her door. Opening the door a crack, she saw that one of her guards wanted to speak to her.

  “Prince Glyndwr requests your presence in the hall this evening,” the young man said. “He wants you to enjoy the music of the traveling musicians who’ve just arrived.”

  “Thank you, I will come.” She closed the door and leaned against it. God, please, let it be Robert.

  That evening, she sat at the table, every muscle taut, waiting for the musicians. Even having Rhys Gethin sit beside her—and, God help her, share a trencher with her—could not divert her. When the musicians finally came into the hall, she nearly burst into tears.