Outrageous

by Christina Dodd

  Art’s mouth curled in a crafty smile of satisfaction. “He was fine when I left him at Stoke.” He scarcely waited for her heartbeat to calm before he added, “Of course, that was before the battle.”

  “You left him before the battle? Art, how could you?”

  Art let Lionel slip to the ground and stepped forward to look straight in Marian’s face. “Are ye accusing me of abandoning him in his hour of need, m’lady?”

  “I…” Her gaze slipped away from his. “Nay, Art, of course not.”

  “Glad to hear it, I am. For it would be an inappropriate accusation coming from ye, would it not?”

  Art’s tone contained a bite she’d never heard before, and the guilt that had dogged her every step strengthened. “Have you heard any word on the battle?”

  “Word in the countryside is that Henry’s forces easily defeated the pretender, and Henry’s returned to Kenilworth to rest.”

  “But no word of Griffith?”

  “What word would there be about one man?”

  “Aye.” On edge with frustration and uncertainty, she wandered to the rough-skinned oak and hugged it as if it were her lover. “You…how did you know I had left Powel?”

  “Lord Rhys and Lady Angharad told me. They were much distressed at yer defection and very worried about yer safety.” Art glanced at Lionel as he ran in circles, exalting in his freedom. “About Lionel’s safety, too.”

  “You couldn’t have gone from Powel to Stoke, back to Powel, and then here in only nine days. ’Tis…” She wanted to say impossible, but as her gaze swept him she stopped. He might claim he had blended with the scenery because he was Welsh and canny about the woodland arts, but the dirt he wore lent him a natural camouflage, and he looked worn, thin, and years older. Even those few hairs that so jauntily decorated his bald pate hung wearily. Aye, he’d traveled the distance.

  “Where did ye think to go?” Art asked, as if he had the right. “Running away like a thief in the night.”

  His rebuke infuriated her, and she snapped, “You’re just like every other man. Questioning me about my destination and intent, just as if I weren’t the daughter of an earl and a friend of the queen.”

  “Oo, been a hard come-down fer ye, has it?” Dolan stood on the roadway, holding the reins of her piteous animal and glaring at them with evil intensity.

  She drew herself up and glared at the impudent old pirate. “I’ve done well by myself.”

  “O’ course ye have. That explains th’ blood smeared all over yer skirt, an’ th’ split on yer chin that looks like a second mouth.” He stepped back and studied her. “Only lower.”

  Art pushed up her chin with a firm grip. “How’d ye get this, lass?”

  “I fell.”

  Dolan snorted, and Art said, “Try again, Lady Marian, with the truth.”

  She didn’t like being treated like a child, but beneath Art’s gruff exterior existed a true concern, and after a brief defiance she gave in. “There were two thieves—”

  Even Dolan cried out.

  “Oh, it’s not as bad as it sounds. They tried to steal the horse.” Funny, she trembled like a pup in the cold. She hadn’t been nearly so impacted yesterday, when it had happened. “I had to…um…kill them.”

  Art stood, mouth hanging open, hands slack, and after a glance at him, Dolan demanded, “Ye killed two men?”

  “Well, not exactly.” Sweat trickled down her forehead and beaded on her upper lip, and she blotted it with her sleeve. “That horse killed one of them. Kicked him in the head. He’s a vicious beast.”

  “The thief?” Art croaked.

  “The horse.”

  Dolan tightened the reins. “An’ th’ other thief?”

  “Well, I had a knife, you know.” She had plunged it into his chest without remorse, for the thieves had taunted her with tales of screaming women and roasted children. They had described the fate of the last woman they’d laid hands on. They had eyed Lionel and speculated on the price he would bring in a market.

  She had no remorse, she really didn’t, but faintly she heard Dolan say, “She’s goin’ down,” and she found herself sitting beside the road, her head thrust forcibly between her knees.

  When they let her up, she gasped for air and said, “I’m not squeamish, but when I remember the way his muscles collapsed, that gray fog of death over his blue eyes, it just makes me—”

  “Ah, well, lass, we all get that way after our first bloodin’.” Dolan sounded almost kind. “An’ most o’ us after every other bloodin’, too. But there’s some that like it, an’ it seems ye found a couple.”

  “If ye hadn’t killed them, ye’d be dead, or wishing ye were dead by this morn, and this lad…” Art snatched Lionel off his feet and hugged him until the little boy kicked to be put down.

  “I know.” Marian propped her elbows on her raised knees and buried her head in her hands. As if the admission had been forced from her, she added, “Adventure isn’t as much fun as I’d hoped.” A silence followed, and she dared not look up. She didn’t want to see their complacency or hear them tout the proper way of life for a woman and how she’d be safer within castle walls, sewing a seam. That wasn’t what she meant at all, only she needed more money, more food, her suit of men’s clothes, and a sword in her hand to properly protect Lionel.

  And there had been a moment, yesterday, when she would have been glad of Griffith’s company. But Griffith was far away, fighting for the king she despised, and Lady Marian Wenthaven had never depended on any man for anything.

  ’Twas a sign of weakness. ’Twas a sign of Griffith’s bad influence on her and another reason to keep staunchly on her path.

  As aggressively as she knew how, she demanded, “What are you doing, chasing after me?”

  The odd mixture of compassion and affection on Dolan’s face curdled to aversion. “That’s what I’d like t’ know. She’s just an Englishwoman, an’ a stupid one at that.”

  Marian’s faintness vanished in a flash of fury. “I’m not stupid.”

  Dolan peered at her. “Where ye be goin’?”

  “To Wenthaven. To my father’s house. Do you have any objections to that?”

  “Not at all.” Dolan casually picked at his teeth with his fingernail. “But ye’re on th’ wrong road.”

  “I am not,” she answered automatically, but she glanced around.

  “Ye’re a good thirty miles due east o’ Wenthaven. Didn’t ye notice when ye passed Stafford?”

  “I’ve been avoiding the towns,” she mumbled.

  “We’d have found ye yesterday if ye had yer bearings.” Dolan snorted. “Just like a woman.”

  Marian looked at Art, and he nodded. “Sad, but true. Ye missed Wenthaven.” He swept Lionel up and placed him on the saddle once more. “But if ye want to go to Wenthaven, m’lady, then we’ll be a-going, too.” Art indicated the rutted road. “After ye.”

  She took a few steps. “But why are you here?”

  “I can ill perform my sworn duty if I’m not with ye.”

  Art was playing with her, prodding her reactions, and she was dancing to his tune. First she showed concern for Griffith when she should have shown indifference. Now she struggled against her curiosity and lost. “What sworn duty?”

  “To protect young Lionel, of course. Don’t ye remember making me take that vow?”

  She didn’t believe him. He hadn’t meant her to, for although his mouth smiled, his eyebrows turned down and his eyes were impatient. “You swore to protect Griffith, too,” she said sullenly.

  “Griffith is a man, and well able to protect himself.”

  “What if he’s hurt?” She hesitated. “He would need you.”

  “If he is hurt, ’tis not my ugly face he wishes to see,” Art replied.

  At a loss for words, she glared until Dolan asked, “Are we going to jaw all day, or are we going?”

  “Right away, my fine man,” she said sarcastically.

  Dolan only nodded. “Got th’ right woma
nly attitude there, ye have.”

  “Who are you to tell me the right womanly attitude? You betrayed me.”

  “Me?” Dolan pointed at himself, then shook his head. “Did ye think yer money had bought me loyalty?”

  “Nay, but I thought your spite would seal your mouth.”

  “Aye, an’ it would, but yer friends were distressed at yer flight—distressed enough t’ threaten me wi’ exile if I didn’t cooperate.” The horse struggled to escape, and Dolan slapped him across the nose with the reins. “I’ve had enough o’ wanderin’. I’ll not be thrown out o’ Powel again, certainly not over a wench like ye.”

  Voice shaking with rage, she said, “You are a wicked man.”

  He smiled, marring his dark beauty with malice. “Aye, I am. Did ye just now discover it?”

  With a toss of her head, Marian flounced away from Dolan. Art followed with Lionel, and Dolan followed with the horse, handling it with ease. He asked, “Where did ye get this fine horse?”

  “The horse’s name is Jack.”

  “For Jackass?” Dolan guessed with uncanny accuracy. “Got as tough a mouth as any ass I’ve met. He can scarcely carry his own fleas”—he slapped Jack’s rump—“but let’s see how fast we can get this ass a-movin’.”

  Lionel’s shout of encouragement drowned out Marian’s cry of, “Oh, nay!”

  Art put his hand on her arm. “Don’t worry. Dolan’ll watch over the lad.”

  “Dolan doesn’t like children,” she replied in exasperation.

  Art cackled. “Perhaps.”

  Watching wistfully as her son and his new companions raced ahead, Marian wished she could be like them. Happy, carefree, heart whole. “What did Griffith think of his token?”

  “His token?” Art acted confused, then seemed to remember. “Ah, his token! A rock and a hank of hair. Quite a token ye sent, lass.”

  “Did he understand…?” She took a breath. “Did he like them?”

  “Of course, I can’t speak for the man. Not with any assurance.” He waggled his heavy eyebrows. “But he’d been a surly bear until I slipped it into his bag. Aye, as surly as a bear newly awake from its winter’s sleep.”

  “I can’t believe I sent it to him. Such a stupid thing. Such a womanly thing.” She ground her fist into her palm. “But he looked almost hurt when he left me, and I couldn’t help but think he’d fight more efficiently if he had a bit of me close.”

  “When he saw that rock—representing him, I suppose—and yer hair—representing ye—he smiled so sweet, and marveled ye could send him so clear a message. He was happy to think ye’d be waiting for him when he returned.”

  “He didn’t think that.” She dragged her toes in the dirt. “Did he?”

  “’Twould have been kinder if ye’d sent nothing,” Art said sternly.

  “Well, he had no right to think he knows my mind just because he’s a wizard between the sheets.”

  “He ought to be. He practices when he’s alone, and he’s been alone a lot these last two years.”

  Scandalized, she protested, “Art! You shouldn’t say such things to me.”

  “I am a tired old man, and I will say what I like.” He sounded savage, at the end of his rope, and unwilling to humor her. “Ye forfeited my benevolence when ye scurried away from Griffith and the love he offered ye.”

  “I have my reasons”—although in the face of Art’s condemnation, she had trouble remembering them—“and they are more important than Griffith and me and all the petty emotions we’re feeling.”

  “Then ye tell Griffith straight to his face. Ye don’t bolt.”

  “I tried to tell Griffith, but he wouldn’t listen.”

  “Or ye didn’t try very hard. ’Tis damn hard to throw love away, isn’t it, m’lady? Especially when ye know ye love him back.”

  Stunned, she sucked in her breath. “I don’t.”

  “Ye got all the symptoms, lass.” Art counted on his fingers. “Been staying awake worrying about him, haven’t ye? Been wondering if ye’ve done the right thing, haven’t ye? Been wondering if he got ye with child, and half hoping he has, haven’t ye?”

  Art had been inside her head, and she didn’t like it. She didn’t like any of it, especially not the accusation of love. For if she loved Griffith…by all the saints, she did love Griffith, and the pain she had previously suffered would be nothing when compared to the pain of facing him across a battlefield.

  What would he do? Would he obey King Henry and try to kill her and her child? Would he stand aside, indifferent, when they were executed? Would he try to capture them when they were put to the horn?

  And if King Henry were defeated, would she have to watch him die?

  Fear clawed at her, and she clutched the material over her belly. “He didn’t get me with child.”

  “Good. I would hate to have Griffith tied to another woman who’s too weak to love him as he deserves. Who weds him because of her belly and then whines forever about the grand life she missed. Who gives him a child that’s half English and all irresolute.”

  She stopped in the middle of the road. “You dare? Say those things to me? Why, you’re nothing but a—”

  “Servant? Welshman?” He shook his crooked finger at her. “Aye, those things I am, but I’m worth twice of ye, my fair, frightened lady. Worth twice of any woman who turns aside from a man like Griffith.”

  Slapping his finger aside, she said, “A man like Griffith? Aye, an honorable man, upright, kind, noble, and as ashamed of his passion for me as any man stricken with a defect. You accuse me of weakness? I agree, I must be weak, for I could not have done as I promised if Griffith had offered me his whole self. That would have been irresistible temptation. But to perjure my soul for a man who wants to tuck me away into a corner where he can manage me and his ardor with firmness and discipline? Nay, I thank you.”

  Looking in equal parts amazed and relieved, Art muttered, “Ah, that’s it, is it?” Staring at the sky, he scratched his scraggly chin and thought so long that she squirmed in embarrassment. He came to some conclusion at last and started down the road. “I think ye’d be better with an explanation, m’lady, about the numbskull who’s wooing ye. And poorly, too, it seems. Did ye know how I lost my eye?”

  She not only didn’t know, she didn’t care, but she guessed, “In battle?”

  “Of a sort,” Art acknowledged. “Step lively, m’lady, seems Dolan and the lad have gotten ahead of us. Nay, I lost my eye when Griffith did as ye have. He ran away.”

  Art had captured her whole attention, although she hated to have him know it. “Ran away? Why would such a strong knight run away?”

  “He wasn’t a knight then. Wasn’t even a squire. He was just a boy, a squirming, ever-moving, loud boy who worshiped his da.”

  Remembering the affection between father and son, Marian said, “He still does.”

  “Aye, although Lord Rhys has explained, many a time, that his mistakes are by far the greater. But Griffith won’t listen. Not now, and didn’t then.”

  “Then? When?”

  “We were having a siege, ye see. Trevor, as wicked a Welsh marauder as the devil ever made, decided he liked the view from Castle Powel. Decided he liked the furnishings, too.” Art peered at Marian from beneath his shaggy brows. “Liked Lady Angharad in a most unneighborly way, if ye understand me.”

  She nodded, not at all surprised that another man had seen Angharad’s kind face and wanted her for his own.

  Settling into his role as storyteller, Art said, “Griffith was bored with the siege that had gone on for months. Lord Rhys was irritable and yelled at young Griffith, and next thing I knew, young Griffith had gone through the tunnel and was outside the castle.”

  “A tunnel?”

  “Built as a bolt hole for the family back in Edward’s reign. ’Twas common enough. It had been secured against the enemy coming in, but there were no provisions for a young fool going out. Griffith was my responsibility, so I followed and tried tactfully to coax
him back.” Art shook his head. “I was younger then myself, and not smart enough to save my tact until we returned to the safety of the keep. So they captured us, and that scabrous monster put out my eye.”

  She gasped, and he clearly relished having her undivided attention.

  “Oh, aye. He wanted Griffith to go to the castle walls and cry for his da to surrender. Young Griffith refused—trying to be a hero, ye ken—and Trevor put out my eye and would have killed me, but I saved myself with my famous fake fall into the steep ravine.”

  “Famous fake…?” She relaxed and grinned. “You tease me.”

  Offended, he said, “Not at all. When ye’re trapped and ye think there’s no way out, ye look about ye smartly, fer there surely is a way. Might hurt ye a bit, but there’s a way fer those who seek it. And there was a way fer me, although not until they’d scooped out my eye with—”

  She winced, and he cleared his throat.

  “No matter. But Trevor wanted both my eyes, and he wanted Griffith to see my suffering. So he ordered me released so I could stumble about, groaning and clutching my face, and I ran quick to the ravine and flung myself down just as they shot the arrow to stop me.”

  “To kill you?”

  “Trevor wasn’t a kind man, and I doubt he’d had his entertainment from me yet. But they peered down the ravine, and I lay as still as I could, and they thought I lay dead, and didn’t shoot another arrow just to be sure, praise be to God. So Griffith did as they bade and convinced his father to surrender the castle.” Meditatively he said, “’Twas actually a good way to end the siege.”

  “Why?”

  “Lord Rhys took a goodly number of soldiers and marched out of the castle without Lady Angharad, as Trevor made certain sure. But once he got inside, he couldn’t find her, for she and the rest of the garrison were holed up nice and tight in the tunnel. When Trevor and his men had finished celebrating—broke up the keep bad, they did, and drank all the ale—Lady Angharad brought forth her men and trounced them.” He chuckled. “She was supposed to open the gate to Lord Rhys, but she was never one to follow orders well.”

  “Rhys was angry with her?”

  “Furious.”

  “And angry at Griffith?”