The Wolves of Brittany Collection: A Romance Bundle Books 1-3

by Victoria Vane

  “That is why your lordship keeps me, is it not?”

  The knight drank deep then sighed. “That’s God’s truth. Sinclair, write to the Prince of Angelsey. Find me a foolish Welshman to take the girl off my hands. I’ll even throw in a bit of her father’s lands for sweetener. I don’t want him crying off after he finds out she’s spoiled.”

  Sinclair smiled. “I think the girl will be able to hold whomever we choose, my lord.”

  Sir John looked at him sharply. “She had better not try to hold my son.”

  Roland and Mati did not sleep that night, but lay in each other’s arms, staring at the fire in her small brazier.

  “I’m going to Brittany tomorrow,” he said.

  Mati leaned up on one elbow and looked at him. “Why?”

  He smiled. “Will you miss me?”

  “You know I will. But why is he sending you away? Does he know about us?”

  Roland reached up and stroked her hair back from her forehead. “Sweeting, you worry too much. No one knows anything.”

  She did not remind him about her mother, nor did she mention that Arabella knew as well. She had the sinking feeling that their secret had leaked out through every nook and cranny in the castle, like wine from a broken jar.

  “The priest knows,” she said.

  Roland’s face darkened with annoyance, but he spoke evenly. She knew he did not want to fight with her before he left in the morning. “And what does the priest know but that we were at prayer in the middle of the afternoon?”

  She snorted, but he drew her to him, kissing her softly. “Let it go, Mati. You said you would not argue with me tonight.”

  She smiled, kissing him back, laying herself full length over his chest. “When did I say that?”

  “No more talk. There are only a few more hours before dawn.”

  Mati felt a stab of sorrow when he said that, and she shivered in spite of his heavy warmth beside her. In spite of her best efforts, she felt tears on her cheeks. Roland kissed her tears away.

  “Don’t cry, Mati. I’ll come back.”

  She buried her head in his chest, clutching him. A cold hand of fear clutched her heart, chilling her. So much might happen while he was gone. She kissed him gently, looking into his eyes, blinking her tears away. “I love you, Roland. Always remember that, whatever comes.”

  Roland opened his mouth to joke away the sadness in her voice, but found different words on his lips. “I know you love me, Mati. I love you. I will come back to you. I promise you that.”

  Against her better judgment, Mati stood in the bailey to watch Roland and Sinclair leave for the continent. He kissed the top of her head, not daring anything else, for his father was there as well, watching. She stood still as the hooves of the horses thundered away over the drawbridge. She did not move until Roland and his men at arms had disappeared into the rising light, only to find her stepfather staring at her.

  She did not mask her despair, and it hit Sir John with the force of a blow. He blinked, remembering for the first time in years a young, lithe girl he had known as a boy, whose laughter had haunted his dreams long after his first wife’s death. Something in the tilt of the Welsh girl’s head reminded him of that long dead girl, who he had never touched but to hold her hand. Sir John Ellsrod found himself blinking back a sudden wetness in his eyes, and swallowed hard.

  Mati looked into the face of her old enemy. He knew that she loved his son, and he did not fault her. She reached out for the first time in her life, and gently touched his hand.

  Sir John’s voice was gruff though his eyes were kind. “You’d best get out of this damp, Matilda. Your mother will not be pleased if I allow you to stand out here and catch your death.”

  Mati could not trust herself to speak, but nodded to him. Without a word, she strode into the house, her shoulders squared. She did not look back.

  Chapter Eight

  Mati was silent and pale for many days. For a month, there was no word from Roland in Brittany, and no word from the Prince of Powys in Wales. When her mother tried to question her at one evening meal, seeking to draw her out of her silence, Sir John intervened. “Oh, now, Margaret, sweetheart, your little girl is a woman grown and may keep her thoughts to herself.”

  Margaret turned pink at the endearment he rarely used. She smiled at her husband and took his hand when he smiled back. “You are right, husband. I thank you for reminding me.”

  Mati spent the long evenings by herself, walking on the battlements. The men at arms did not speak to her, but left her to her thoughts. They knew that the young lord was fond of the Welsh savage, and that even Sir John had begun to favor her recently, so they treated her with the respect due her rank for the first time in her life. And though she did not sway in her walk as before or laugh in the hall at mealtimes, she was still beautiful. If they did not know better, they would not have been able to tell that she was savage born. Her French had no accent anymore, except perhaps for a trace of the Anjou that Arabella had taught her without knowing it.

  Mati did not realize that the house servants and her stepfather’s men had softened toward her as the Norman ladies had, but she did know that Arabella was always at her elbow. Arabella spoke of light gossip she had gleaned from Sinclair’s travels, for he wrote to her often. She told Mati of doings at court and of who was taking which lover across the Channel in Brittany behind their husbands’ backs. Mati was not fond of Norman gossip, but she let Arabella talk on uninterrupted. Arabella’s sweet voice soothed her, and her little jokes made Mati laugh. Mati started to feel better as the warmth of spring came with May.

  There was a fair in the village on the first of May, and after much persuasion, Mati agreed to go.

  “We’ll buy ribbons and some cloth for a new dress, my lady,” Arabella said.

  “Yes. I ruined the beautiful blue silk that Mama gave me rolling in the hay.”

  “Oh, you didn’t ruin it. It just needed a good brushing.” Arabella smiled at the frank look of amusement in Mati’s eyes. “Well, all right, my lady. I wouldn’t wear your blue silk to a court function,” Arabella admitted and was rewarded by Mati’s smile. “A new dress is always something to lift your spirits.”

  Mati started to laugh.

  “And if the new dress won’t cheer you, looking at the horses will.”

  Mati stopped laughing. “What horses?”

  “Well, my lady, at the May Day fair, the best horses from Wales are brought into Shropshire for the Normans to look over and buy.”

  “Welsh horses?” Mati looked intrigued. “Ara, I doubt the Welsh bring their best, but I’ll bet even their worst horses are a damn sight better than the Normans’ finest.”

  Arabella looked shocked at Mati’s use of foul language, and Mati laughed again, making the men on duty turn to look at her appreciatively. “I can’t believe I’ve shocked the indomitable Arabella d’Anjou, the woman of greatest sexual prowess this side of the Levant.”

  Arabella blushed gorgeously and Mati laughed harder. “I have never seen you blush, Ara!”

  “And you never will again, my lady.” Arabella hid her cheeks behind her palms, and Mati threw her arms around her.

  “Ara, I love you. You’ve managed to cheer me up when I would have said it was not possible.”

  “Who are we to decide what is possible, my lady?” Arabella smiled at her slyly, straightening her already perfect hair.

  The first of May was a day with a light wind and a nearly cloudless sky. Mati felt her spirits rise at the sight of the blue expanse spread over the trees of the forest. She let her horse do a little sideways dance as they rode down the lane towards the village. Arabella clung to her sedate pony with both hands in the horse’s mane, and Mati laughed at her. “Ara, if you can conquer Sinclair, you have nothing to fear from Buttercup.”

  Arabella’s smile was strained, and she answered through clenched teeth. “My lady, this horse does not respond to me the way Sinclair does.”

  Mati laughed loudly at
that and sent her horse in a canter around her beleaguered teacher. “And thank your saints she doesn’t, Ara! What would Sir John say?”

  Arabella laughed, forgetting for a moment to clutch her horse convulsively. Buttercup’s ears pricked up as her lady’s hands loosened on her reins. The little pony’s steps became lighter, and she almost started to prance.

  “See? Just be sweet to your little horse, and she’ll be sweet to you.”

  Arabella relaxed a little on her horse’s back. “Perhaps she is more like Sinclair than we first imagined, my lady.”

  Mati was still laughing as they rode into the village. The commons was full of juggling minstrels, and was lined with booths selling cloth and food and leather goods. Mati craned her neck and saw a temporary corral set up at the far end of the commons.

  “Ara.”

  “My lady?”

  “Look at those horses.” Mati’s voice was almost reverent.

  Arabella smiled, pleased to see real interest light her mistress’ eyes. “Perhaps you should go and look at them while Robert helps me off this beast.” Arabella nodded to the young groom at her side who had jumped off his own horse and stood by Arabella’s stirrup.

  “I won’t be gone long,” Mati murmured.

  She touched her horse lightly on the flank with the toe of her boot, and he shot forward. She circled the village and rode up on the far side of the corral. She sat looking at the horses for a long moment before she saw a Welshman standing by the fence, smiling at her.

  “Good morning,” he said, his French better than she would have expected from a horse trader. His hair was dark brown, and his eyes were warm with simple friendliness. Mati was not one to speak to strangers, much less strange men, but something about him put her at ease almost at once. She smiled back at him, not caring that he was just a stable hand. “Do you have the care of these horses?”

  “Not by myself alone, my lady, but I care for them from time to time.”

  “They are beautiful.”

  She unhooked her boot from the stirrup and was beginning to slide down from her saddle when his hands went around her waist. He helped her down and stood looking at her.

  His eyes were green with flecks of brown and blue, and his face was lightly lined around the eyes and mouth from years of smiling. She felt no lust in his hands and she saw no tell-tale light in his eyes. He simply stood looking at her, and then he smiled.

  “What is your name, my lady?”

  “Mathilla.” She gave him her Welsh name without thinking, and he blinked.

  “You are Welsh then?” He spoke her native tongue with the accent of Angelsey. She swallowed hard, tears rising in her eyes at the sound of her language on the tongue of a man. She had forgotten how much she missed her father until that moment.

  She spoke softly, also in Welsh. “I am.”

  “Whose daughter are you?” he asked, his eyes never leaving her face.

  “I am the daughter of Gareth of North Powys.”

  “I am Gareth of Angelsey.”

  Mati was not sure why she spoke of her father’s death, a forbidden subject since she had come to live among the Normans, but she trusted this man without knowing why. Perhaps it was because he was Welsh. Or perhaps it was simply the warm kindness of his eyes. “My father is dead these ten years in battle with the Normans.”

  “And now you live among them.” His gaze held compassion, but no pity.

  “Yes.”

  Mati realized suddenly that his hands were still on her waist, and she took a step back. He smiled apologetically, letting her go. He spoke to her in French. “Forgive me, my lady. I do not mean to presume anything by the fact that you are Welsh.”

  She spoke to him in Welsh, still smiling. “No offense was meant and none was taken, sir. Is your name really Gareth?”

  “It is. I knew your father. He was a good man to have at your back.” His eyes were bright. She had never before seen a man look on her with interest that did not also hold desire. This man did.

  “I would like to hear about my father, if you have the time.”

  He smiled and gestured to the Normans gathering on the other side of the paddock. “I’m afraid they’ve come from as far as Lincolnshire to look at my horses.”

  Mati blinked. “Of course. I’m sorry. I know you’re here to work.” She started to back away, her hand tightening on her stallion’s bridle.

  Gareth stopped her. She felt no desire behind the light touch, only friendship. “My lady, I would speak with you again.”

  Mati smiled at the thought of a free Welshman gaining access to her stepfather’s stronghold. The walls of the great keep were built against the likes of this man.

  “I am pleased to have met you.” Mati smiled and withdrew her hand. She turned and mounted her horse before he could offer to help her, and she sat for a moment looking down at the wiry man who held her horse’s bridle. His hair was as dark as her own, but flecks of grey feathered away from his temples. Perhaps he had met her father more than once. Perhaps he had even seen him die. She wanted to ask him, but she was sure that she would never see him again.

  He held up one hand to her, and she waved back before wheeling her horse around and away from the village. She had almost started back up the road to the keep when she remembered Arabella, who was standing beside a stall full of silks, bargaining to make Mati a new dress.

  There was dancing in the hall that night, and a bonfire for the servants out beyond the castle walls to celebrate the first of May. Mati wore a dark blue overdress with gold trim and her mother’s fillet in her hair. She sat next to Margaret that night and found herself across the table from the Welsh horse dealer she had met that morning. She laughed to see him there, but dared not ask how he had managed to sit at the lord’s table during the evening meal. She ate off her mother’s trencher and was silent. When the candied fruits were brought out for dessert, he caught her eye and winked.

  Sir John’s castellan, Rupert, leaned back with a sigh after the meal and called down the table to Gareth. “By God, man, you Welsh keep the best damned horses in Christendom.”

  “We do,” Gareth answered simply. Mati took a sip from her mug of ale, hiding her smile.

  “I would buy a Welsh horse even over an Arabian,” Rupert continued, gesturing to a servant for more mead. “Damn the Saracens anyway.”

  “I believe they are already damned, sir.”

  Gareth did not even blink as he said this, and Mati almost choked on the ale in her mouth as she bent to hide her laughter. Her mother leaned over and slapped her back. When Mati caught her breath and looked up, Gareth met her eyes and smiled.

  The dancing was not as lively as it had been for Roland’s homecoming. Mati was content to watch as she sat by her mother.

  Gareth of Angelsey came up and stood beside them. With a slight bow, he spoke to Margaret respectfully. “My lady, I had the honor of serving with your first husband. His loss was a sore one. Many of us still feel it.”

  Margaret sat stunned, listening to the man’s Welsh. Mati took her hand took her hand to comfort her. Margaret spoke softly in French. “I thank you, sir.”

  Gareth looked to Mati for a moment, and she smiled at him. “My mother speaks only French now, to honor her husband.”

  Margaret squeezed her daughter’s hand, but then spoke in Welsh. “But do not think, sir, that I have forgotten Gareth. I have not and I never will.”

  “I would never think such a thing, my lady.” Gareth took Margaret’s hand and bowed over it, kissing it the way he would a queen’s. “My lady,” he said in French, standing straight again, “may I have the honor of a dance with your daughter?”

  Margaret smiled at his courtly language, and a little of the old light came back into her eyes. “My daughter is free to speak for herself in this matter, sir.”

  Mati stood and offered Gareth her hand. He smiled at her boldness and took it, nodding to Margaret as he led her daughter into the circle of dancers.

  They moved slo
wly through the sedate paces of the dance, hands touching as they turned. “Your mother has not gotten over his death,” he said.

  Mati’s smile did not reach her eyes. “No. It was a great loss to her that he died without giving her a son.”

  “But she has you.”

  Mati almost laughed but choked it back. “Even a horse trader knows that a girl with no one to hold her lands cannot inherit, even in Wales.”

  His eyebrows rose, and she thought for a moment that he had taken offense. “You think I am a horse trader?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Gareth laughed then, and several people turned to look at them. “No, my lady. I thank God and the Prince of Angelsey that I have lands of my own and need not sell other men’s horses to make my living.”

  Mati felt her cheeks flush, and she froze in the middle of her dance step, speechless. Gareth smiled and drew her out of the circling dancers to sit on a bench by the far wall. No one gathered there in the shadows, and they sat alone. He did not let go of her hand.

  “Training and selling horses would be a life I would love,” Gareth continued. “But I do not think I could ever give up the pleasures of war, even to spend all my days in a stable or under the sky.”

  Mati finally found her tongue. “You find war a pleasure then?”

  His face lost its smile. “It is pleasure to know that I can defend my lands and the people that live on them. War is a necessity in these troubled times.” He dropped his voice and spoke in Welsh. “With Norman troops thick on the borders, and spilling over the borders, often.”

  She looked down at their clasped hands. She was not certain how to draw away without giving offense. “My lord, why do you speak with a girl you hardly know at a dance you would surely be glad to leave?”

  He held her hand tighter, running his fingertips over the back of her hand as he thought of his answer. “My lady, the girl is the reason I am here at all.”

  Mati laughed. “You’re not here for the horses then?”