“Nay, not too. Not when he saw how angry Griffith was at himself.” With a hand on her arm, Art stopped her. “Look yon.”
There, in a stream that crossed the road, the big pirate and the little boy tumbled and splashed. Marian smiled to hear Lionel’s laughter once more, but her heart ached for Griffith, desolate at causing the loss of his home and his mother. In fact, her heart just ached, and she dared not examine the reason. “Griffith?” she prompted.
“We thought we had got through it safe. We thought Griffith had learned a lesson, and no harm done. But as time went on, it became clear Griffith didn’t ever want to feel anything ever again. He blamed his own emotions, and he wanted to become a stone man.” Art nodded. “’Twas an apt token ye sent him, lass, fer more than one reason.”
She wilted when she realized how cold her gift of the stone had seemed.
“He controlled himself at all times. Never laughed aloud, never cried again, never displayed anguish or pain…or love.”
“He loves his mother and his father.”
“’Tis a safe love. ’Tis not an uncontrollable desire. Aye, he kept to the milk-sop feelings, and left passion to the rest of us.”
“His wife?”
Art shrugged. “A lovely girl. Quiet, biddable—we scarcely noticed when she died.”
“Has he ever found anything to be passionate about?”
“Searching for a compliment, lady?”
Impatient, she said, “Besides me.”
“Wales.” He tilted his head and watched her as he added, “And Henry Tudor.”
“Aye, I know that, too. My greatest rival is the king of England.”
“Would ye want Griffith to be less than he is? Aye, he’s a frightened seven-year-old when it comes to loving ye without reserve, but he’s just and honorable, a fine knight, a good man, and that part of him wants justice for his homeland and peace for England. What right have ye to quarrel with that?”
What right? The right of a mother to want the best for her son, even if it meant a return to the everlasting wars of the past. “I’m taking Lionel to Wenthaven, and not as a supplicant this time. I have a gift for him.” She thought of the precious parchment she kept close to her body. “A great gift. He will be in my debt.”
Art thought hard, and his gaze shifted to the boy on the horse. “Ye’re giving him Lionel?”
“Aye, Lionel, but not Lionel as you know him.”
“Not as ye know him, either, if ye surrender the lad to yer father. I don’t pretend to understand the doings of royalty, and I know ye were knee deep in some scheme with Henry’s queen, but if ye continue with yer plans, who’ll be hurt?” He waved at Lionel. “Look at him. He just wants security. He just needs a father. And with Lionel a-tuggin’ at Griffith’s heartstrings one way and ye a-tuggin’ the other, surely ye’ll unravel the knot Griffith’s tied around himself.”
She was tempted. So tempted. Art made it sound like more than an impulsive decision. He made it sound logical. Of course, she would lose, too. She’d lose her chance to live at court, but she wasn’t doing this for herself. Not at all.
“Hey!” Art yelled. “Hey, hey, what are ye doing?”
Startled, she glanced at him, then followed his gaze.
At first she thought it was Dolan stooping over Lionel, and she didn’t understand Art’s concern. Then she realized it was a stranger.
“How dare ye—” Art started off at a run toward the place where Lionel played. “Get away from him.”
Where was Dolan? Marian ran after Art. Where—“Get away from him!” she screamed as the strange man picked Lionel up. “Get away!”
Art reached them, and she saw a sword arc through the air.
“Nay!” She bowled into the man and her child, knocking them into the dirt. Lionel shrieked with pain and fear, but the sword tumbled out of the stranger’s hand. She pummeled him, but her strongest blow went astray when he turned his face to her and she recognized him.
Harbottle.
In her shock, she lost the initiative. She lifted her hand again, but his fist slammed into the side of her head and she fell—not unconscious, but with a blackness before her eyes and a ringing in her ears. He grabbed for his sword as Art smashed into him, and the men went tumbling.
Marian gathered her scattered wits and crawled to Lionel, whispering, “Did he hurt you?” She brushed his hair back from his forehead, and his sobs quieted. Reassured, she staggered to her feet and took his hand. “Come on.”
Too late. Harbottle snatched him from her on the run.
She spun and fell again, then rose and ran after them, stumbling into the forest, calling Lionel’s name and hearing his shrieks recede into the distance. She spurted into the clearing in time to see Harbottle riding away on a good horse, a young, healthy, fast horse.
Screaming at them, she heard Harbottle’s triumphant laugh as he rode away and forced herself to one last, futile burst of speed.
But she couldn’t go on. Her body rebelled, and she fell to the earth, defeated by pain and exhaustion.
Slowly she dragged herself up. Slowly she traced her steps back to the road, to find the bloody body of Art stretched out, half in the stream, half out.
16
The horse found Marian as she stood over Art like a mourner and nudged her in the back so hard that she splashed into the stream. She turned with a curse, but Art’s moan stopped her, and she dropped to her knees beside him. “Art.” She touched his hand, and the still-warm fingers curled around hers. “Sweet Saint Mary! Art, you’re alive.”
He opened his eyes and stared at her as if he didn’t know her face, then he struggled up on his elbows. Clutching his shoulders, she urged him back down, but he fought her and scooted backward. “Let me get out of this stream.”
She assisted him all she could, and when he was free of the embrace of the water, she instructed, “Lie quiet while I determine where you are hurt.”
“’Tis only a head wound, m’lady. They bleed dreadfully, but—”
She explored the slash that laid open his skull from ear to spine, and pressed her skirt to it firmly. “It’s dire. Oh, Art, please don’t die.”
“Nay, m’lady, I—”
With her head on his shoulder, she gave over to her grief and worry, while Art lay very, very still. When she drew back, she could see he had been thinking—about his own death, probably—for he closed his eyes against her tearful gaze and moaned loudly as if he were giving up his last breath.
Realizing the need for action, she leaped back. “I need bandages and—”
The horse nudged her again, and she grabbed its reins in a flash. “You’re not running away from me again,” she said. “I’ve a use for you now.” With desperate zest, she dragged the gelding to a tree and tethered it. She returned to Art with her bags and draped him with a rug, then found bandage material in one of Lionel’s little shirts. Holding it aloft, she stared at it in numb despair until Art moaned again. Then with her teeth she ripped it into strips and wrapped Art’s head.
“Did he take Lionel?” he whispered.
“Aye.” Her voice was steady, she was proud to note.
“Where’s Dolan?”
“He took the advantage and ran away, I suppose.”
Art muttered a Welsh word that needed no translation.
With unthinking conviction, Marian said, “I must go to Griffith. He’ll find Lionel. He’ll save him.”
“Griffith? Ye want Griffith to rescue yer son?” Art’s sardonic gaze reminded her, suddenly, of the doubts and the fears that had plagued her and sabotaged her feelings for Griffith. But they were gone, swept away like dust before a great storm.
She trusted Griffith, trusted him as she had never trusted anyone.
Then Art dangled one of the shackles that imprisoned her in suspicion. “Ye’ll have to go to Kenilworth. Ye’ll have to see the king, for Griffith will be with him.”
She hunched her shoulders and tried to think, but in her mind there was no room fo
r logic or intelligence, only for emotions deep and raw. She wanted to leap up and run after Harbottle. She wanted to rescue Lionel. She wanted to kill Harbottle with her bare hands. She knew she couldn’t, that she must go for help, but Kenilworth? Kenilworth was a royal stronghold.
“I’ve known two kings, and both were treacherous. Henry has great reasons to do harm to Lionel.” Lurching to her feet, she said, “I’ll go after him myself.”
Flinging his arm out, Art tripped her, and when she foundered to her knees, he caught her ankle in a firm and bony grip. “Lass, ye can’t do it by yerself. Ye need Griffith. If ye trust Griffith as ye say ye do, then ye must trust him to protect Lionel, even from the king.” Art laid his arm across his eyes, as if he needed to shield the light as the life faded from him. “The angel of death is even now spreading her wings over my poor body. I’ll be gone soon, and I don’t want to die with a sin on my soul.”
Quick, hot tears sprang to her eyes at the thought of Art being taken from the earth, and in the blur they created she could almost see the hovering angel. “What sin?”
“I swore to ye I would protect Lionel, and I failed miserably. Set my mind at ease before I go. Swear ye’ll go to Kenilworth for Griffith.”
She could do it. She had to do it.
For Lionel.
“I do believe in Griffith. I’ll go to Kenilworth.”
“Swear.”
She dabbed at her nose with her sleeve. “I swear.”
“Good lass.” Briskly he instructed, “Follow this road to Lichfield, and there ye can ask fer directions to Kenilworth. Ye’ll be there in less than a day.”
“Shouldn’t I stay until—” She choked on her tears.
He began to cough as if his lungs would burst, rolling over in agony and hiding his face in the cool grass. She rubbed his back with shaking hands, and when he could speak, he refused her. “Nay. My wicked soul won’t rest until I know Lionel has been rescued. Go, m’lady. Go at once, and Godspeed.”
Rising on trembling legs, she walked to Jack and untied his reins.
“Ye’ll have to ride him,” Art called. “Get up in the saddle quick-like, before he can react.”
She nodded, put her foot into the stirrup, and leaped into the saddle.
“That’s m’lady,” Art said approvingly. “Just keep a tight rein and ye’ll be fine.”
With one last, longing glance, she memorized Art’s face, then she put her heels into Jack’s side and rode away.
Art watched until she was well out of sight, then sat up slowly. His head ached, and he was dizzy, but he washed his face in the cool stream, taking care not to wet the bandage. Then, inch by inch, he rose until he stood on his feet and, with a grim smile, started into the forest on the trail of Harbottle.
Art had underestimated Marian’s determination and stamina, and Kenilworth Castle was secured but not yet abed when she faced the king’s guard and swore at him. But the guard only looked her over in the light of the torches and shook his head. “Ye talk wi’ th’ accent o’ a lady, but no lady would come t’ th’ king’s palace in th’ middle o’ th’ night, soaked t’ th’ skin an’ lookin’ like a draggle-tail, without her maid or her own man t’ pertect her. Go on wi’ ye now, afore I have t’ fling ye out.”
Shaking her finger in his face, she said, “I was set upon by a thief, you fool, and the king himself will want to hear that story.”
“Th’ king?” The guard laughed long and hard. “Do ye think th’ king worries about every robbery that occurs on his roads? Nay, ye’re goin’ t’ have t’ do better than that.”
“I was not robbed.” Knowing she shouldn’t discuss Lionel with this ignorant soldier, she tried to explain, “Something very dear to me was taken.”
He pushed her toward the door of his tiny chamber on the outer wall of the gatehouse. “Sounds like a robbery t’ me.”
She put her hands on either side of the door frame and clung. “I tell you, the king will want to know about it.” Had she ridden through the daylight and the starlight to reach Griffith, only to be turned away by an officious commoner? Had she urged, cajoled, and fought with that tough-mouthed horse to be stopped just short of her goal? Desperate now, she tried a falsehood. “I know the king. He’ll want to see me tonight.”
The guard laughed again, more coarsely.
“What’s your name?” she demanded.
He looked truculent, but he answered, “Ward.”
“Ward, I am a friend to Elizabeth. I was her dearest lady-in-waiting.”
“How th’ great have fallen,” he mocked her, but he stopped pushing, too entertained to throw her out now. “An’ why aren’t ye her dearest lady-in-waitin’ now?”
She answered carefully. “I had to retire to my country estates.”
“Because ye’re a slut,” he said in triumph, his hand in her back.
“I am Lady Marian Wenthaven, the betrothed of Griffith ap Powel, and he will break your neck for denying me entrance.”
Jerking his hand away, he stared at her with narrowed eyes. “Are ye, now? Griffith ap Powel, ye say?” His gaze swept over her. “God help ye. Come this way, an’ we’ll talk t’ me commander.”
Ever more eager, she ran ahead of him.
She had lived at Kenilworth before, when she’d been an honored part of the court. She knew the arrangement of the castle and the grounds. Once inside the gatehouse that loomed before them, she would have traversed the last insurmountable obstacle between her and Griffith.
She didn’t have time to go through the many self-important authorities until she reached him—it would be hours before she reached her goal, and by then Lionel could be gone forever.
More than that, she had a need to be with Griffith, to hear his voice, to have his arms around her. She wanted comfort. She wanted Griffith. She wanted love.
Art was right, it seemed. She did love Griffith—and that love would bring her grief.
She smiled grimly when the use of his name convinced the other guards to raise the portcullis of the gatehouse and let them pass. Noting her position, she climbed the stairs to the walk on the curtain wall. To the outside, the narrow walk was bound by a stone wall of alternating high and low segments, giving the exterior of the castle its characteristic snaggle-toothed appearance.
But to the inside, all the way around the bailey, it was a sheer plunge from the wall walk to the ground. With a rough kind of courtesy, Ward kept between her and the drop. She was almost impressed until he called to his commander, “We’ve got a woman thinks she’s a friend o’ th’ king an’ Sir Griffith’s betrothed. What think ye?” And he lifted his torch so it shone on her filthy clothes and bedraggled hair.
The commander guffawed but Marian fixed him with her haughtiest gaze until he stopped and shuffled uneasily. “My horse is outside on the drawbridge, and he’s too fine an animal to leave in the rain. Bring him in at once and take him to the stable to be fed and groomed.”
When Ward looked indecisive, the commander called for her to enter, and she hovered on the threshold. Glaring at the hapless guard, she suggested, “If I were you, I’d wonder what Sir Griffith ap Powel is going to say about the way you have treated his betrothed.”
The threat proved enough. With a stiff bow, Ward strode toward the stairs. Watching his back, she waited until he began his descent, then raced away into the darkness.
The commander shouted. Ward, still suspicious, shouted also. Voices in the dark joined the clamor, and she ran full into one leather-clad soldier. He grabbed for her, but she kicked him in the kneecap and knocked him in the chest, and when he staggered back, she raced on, trying to be cautious of her footing yet trying to stay ahead of the surer-footed guards.
Her goal was the corner above the castle blacksmith’s. If she could just reach it, she could jump onto the thatched roof and descend on the poles. Then, with luck, she could run across the bailey to the keep known as Caesar’s Tower.
She knew she could, because she’d done it with the princess Eliza
beth.
Of course, she’d been a lot smaller then.
Upon reaching the corner, she hesitated, her toes cramped over the edge, her soles firmly on the walk. The night torches that lit the bailey didn’t reach her; she could see nothing below. If she jumped…when she jumped, it would be without knowing where she landed. To put so much faith in a childhood memory, to trust that nothing had been changed in ten years—that was brave. Or foolhardy. But she had no time to debate, for the shouts were coming closer. The guards were closing on her.
She jumped.
“Does it hurt you?”
Griffith jerked his hand from the stitches in his cheek. “It aches a bit,” he allowed.
“If you’d left your helmet on as I instructed, you’d bear no new scars, and you wouldn’t have that tapestry on your face.” King Henry watched Griffith intently. “’Tis your arm which caused us concern. You’re lucky you didn’t get the putrefaction, as hard as that Irish whoreson swung that sword.”
“Stop stalling and play. I almost have you where I want you. Then I can go to bed.” Privately Griffith damned Henry’s desire to play the fashionable new game of chess so late at night, and in the royal bedchamber in the tower.
“You dream of victory,” Henry accused, and moved a knight.
“You’d best be satisfied with your victory at Stoke, for you’ll not have one this night.” Griffith answered with a move of his bishop that captured the knight.
“You can’t do that!” Henry protested.
“I beg to dissent, my liege, but I most certainly can.”
“Let me see the book.” Henry held out his hand, and in it Griffith placed an almost new copy of The Game and Play of Chess, printed by the first English printing press and presented to His Grace by the printer himself.
As Henry leafed though Caxton’s gift, Griffith asked idly, “What did you do with the pretender? The young boy who claimed to be the earl of Warwick?”
Henry grunted and tossed the book aside. It skidded across the reeds, riding close to the fire that warmed them on the damp spring night.
“You can’t burn it,” Griffith advised. “I still remember the rules.”
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