One step cracked. He careened sideways.
She screamed.
And he dropped off the edge.
21
“Lower th’ portcullis!”
The mercenaries shrieked their war cries as they tried to unhorse Griffith. The war steed squealed and reared, inflicting damage with his slashing hooves. The injured cried in agony as they rolled in the grass of Wenthaven’s bailey. But Griffith heard the call anyway.
“That’s it, ye dickweeds. Lower th’ damned portcullis!”
With a quick glance, Griffith located the source of the command. Standing on the stairs that led to the gatehouse, Cledwyn brayed commands to his men inside.
The iron-capped, pointed teeth of the timber grill jerked and descended rapidly, putting a barrier between Griffith and Henry’s charge to the rescue. No knight would risk the crushing, stabbing death of riding beneath the portcullis.
“Shut th’ doors. Shut th’ doors, ye dickweeds, afore th’ English comes an’ slices us int’ meat pies.” Clad in a suit of riding armor, Cledwyn yelled as a dozen mercenaries worked to close the pair of heavy wooden doors just inside the portcullis. A too large breastplate protected his chest. A too small helmet sheltered his head. Greaves covered his shins, and his sabbatons clanked when he stomped his foot. His gauntlets shone in the light as he gestured. “Hurry. Hurry!”
Soon, too soon, Griffith knew, they would have secured the iron straps that bound the doors closed, keeping him in, keeping Henry out.
He needed help, and he needed it now. Where was Billy? Where was the help promised him?
With a roar, Griffith shook off his attackers and rode to the middle of the bailey. “For England!” he shouted toward the keep. “King Henry demands entrance, and Welsh mercenaries deny it.”
The mercenaries froze, looking toward the keep. Would the English men-at-arms disobey their lord’s commands for the king?
“For Englishmen!”
Nothing happened, and the mercenaries began to jeer, to move around Griffith like a pack of hunting wolves. In desperation he shouted, “For your comrade Billy and your mistress, Marian!”
The lower doors of the keep opened, and English men-at-arms burst forth. Behind them ran English cooks and English maids, English laundry women and English serving boys.
In the lead, Billy yelled instructions like a true commander as the two sides joined with a mighty clash. The men-at-arms performed efficiently, as expected, but Griffith found himself impressed when serving boys used heavy silver platters as shields and maids wielded massive iron fire pokers. Laundry women beat Welsh heads with stirring paddles while cooks cleaved Welsh tenderloins with carving knives.
In the midst of the clamor, Sheldon let the dogs out of the kennel, and with unerring instinct they attacked the mercenaries.
Cledwyn slapped his visor open and reviled his men, already hard-pressed by the English tide. But before he could join the fray, the portcullis began a slow, ponderous rise, and Griffith laughed aloud at the mercenary leader and his fury. Even above the screams, curses, and barks, Cledwyn heard, and he grinned in ugly invitation. He scurried up the stone stair to the room that housed the portcullis mechanism, knowing Griffith must follow, and Griffith galloped after him. Then, after leaping free of his horse, Griffith ran, shield and sword in hand, to the foot of the stair.
So intent was he on his prey, he almost missed when Art yelled, “Griffith. Take a look, man!”
He looked up to the landing and was blinded by the flash of sunshine on Cledwyn and his armor. Grinning and taunting, Art and Dolan dangled him over the precipice as the mercenary flailed, trying futilely to regain his footing. Griffith got only one satisfying glimpse before he swung too far and the Welshmen released him. He landed with a clang of a blacksmith’s hammer against an anvil, and the bailey’s dust rose to coat the gleaming armor with defeat.
Cledwyn didn’t move, and Griffith looked up at his grinning comrades.
Art shrugged sheepishly. Dolan wiped his hands on his cloak and claimed, “He slipped.”
Aye, Griffith reflected, two Welshmen were all he needed.
“You’ve killed him. You killed your own father.” Cecily’s wail echoed up the tall emptiness and around the crowded floor of the tower. To the crowd gathered in shock around the body, Cecily cried, “She killed her father. Do something.”
Honey added to the hysteria as she made her way downstairs, step by painful step, holding up her leg and barking in pain.
“He fed you, clothed you. Do something!” Cecily’s screeching exhibition of grief faded as the gentlemen and women stared wide-eyed. In desperate appeal she said, “Why don’t you do something?”
“I will.” One woman swept her skirts away from the shattered body of Wenthaven. “I’ll pack, and I think I’ll take the gold-trimmed washbasin in my room. I can sell it for a good price.”
“Aye, and I want the gold plate.” A gentleman tugged at his beard. “Is the table set in the dining room, do you think?”
Marian stood with Lionel clasped in her arms and watched as Wenthaven’s dependents rushed to strip the keep of its valuables.
Another shriek split the air as Cecily realized no one cared about Wenthaven—or about her.
“Mama?” Lionel asked.
Marian pressed his head into her shoulder and kept her good hand over his ear. She had to protect him from this. She wished someone would protect her, yet her grief was real, a wound in her soul, as deep and painful as the burn on her palm, and she was glad. Glad.
Wenthaven, the most selfish, ruthless man to exist on this earth, had been unable to kill her. She’d destroyed his dreams, destroyed his chance at greatness, yet when he’d held the sword to her throat, he could not complete the stroke, nor could he allow Cecily to execute her.
Because she was his daughter? Perhaps. Because she was her mother’s daughter? Probably.
Did love ever die?
She looked up at the great tower and knew it did not.
Her father’s love for her mother. Her mother’s love for her. It was all still there, a mortar that bonded the stones of the tower. A protection. A nourishment. A necessity.
Wenthaven’s rogue priest entered and with one glance summed up the situation. Kneeling beside the body, he began the prayers for the dead. Cecily’s shrieking rose to a crescendo, but the priest flattened her with one quick blow. “Have respect,” he commanded.
Cecily lifted her tearstained face and looked at him, then at all that remained of her lover. She sobbed again, but low and soft, holding her belly as if grief swelled it beyond bearing.
Honey reached the bottom and went to the body, sniffing it. Then she sat down and howled like a soul in agony.
“He died unshriven.” The words came to Marian’s lips unbidden.
The priest’s cynical gaze took in her stance, then softened. “He did not. He has received extreme unction every morning since your mother died.”
Shocked, Marian protested, “That’s against the dictates of Mother Church.”
“Wenthaven fed and clothed me when Mother Church rejected me. I obeyed him first.”
With a gasp, Marian fled the dark tower.
She wanted Griffith. From the window in the tower room, she’d seen him ride in and recognized him immediately. If love didn’t die, then his love for her had survived this ordeal, and she wanted to take refuge in that love. She wanted to be what he needed and atone for what she had done.
The windows she passed showed a battle almost finished. Mercenaries were running from the savage attacks of Wenthaven’s men-at-arms and surrendering to a strange troop of English knights.
Had Griffith raised them to support him? No doubt. Griffith could do anything, even bring himself back from the deadly ravine that had devoured him.
Blind to the turmoil around her, Marian struggled to reach the last place she had seen Griffith. She wanted to go outside, out into the bailey, and she knew nothing else. She was oblivious of the blond cocker spa
niel that scurried to catch her, then limped along behind her. She didn’t notice the bloodsuckers who were stripping the keep, or the injured mercenaries running, or the men-at-arms and servants chasing them. Nor did she notice the procession coming toward her, until strong fingers gripped her arm.
She looked up into the face of her monarch.
“Where do you go?” Henry demanded.
Stupefied by his appearance, she answered, “To Griffith.”
With his hand, he lifted Lionel’s face and examined it. “Do you think you can take that child anywhere you please?”
“Your Grace?”
He moved to block the curious stares of his knights. “Where can we go to be alone?”
She glanced around. “We’re close to…my father’s chamber. There we can…speak, if you like. My father will no longer”—she gulped, and her voice grew hoarse—“need a room within this castle.”
Examining her as keenly as he had examined Lionel, Henry raised his voice so all could hear. “I understand your father lost his life in the fight to remain loyal to me against his treacherous mercenaries.”
Bewildered, Marian stammered, “I—I don’t know what—”
“Come.” Henry urged her with his hand on her back.
She resisted his direction. “But, Griffith—”
“Go and find Lord Griffith.” Henry addressed the order to his knights without turning or allowing a glimpse of Lionel to slip past him. “Send him to us.”
As Marian entered Wenthaven’s chamber, memories struck her, sending her staggering. Only two hours ago Wenthaven had been alive, triumphant, reveling in victory as yet unachieved. Now he lay shattered, and his darkest enemy spread a cloak of protection over her and her possessions. With the falsehood Henry had purveyed, she would be more than simply tolerated. She would be elevated to the position of a hero’s daughter.
She should thank him, and she tried. “Your grace…” But she faltered in the face of his concentration on Lionel.
Allowing only the dog to enter, Henry shut the door against the inquiring knights. “He looks like his father.” His tone was unemotional, constrained, and he watched Lionel as if the child were at fault.
Lionel returned the regard, his heritage plain in the regal tilt of his chin, the straight back, the puckered lips that seemed to find fault in Henry without speaking a word.
“There’s not a bit of his mother in him,” Henry continued. “I had hoped I could see a bit…but it’s no use, is it? He can’t go into English society. He can’t be seen lest someone recognize—”
“Your Grace, he’s my son,” she said quickly. “His father was nobody of interest to…” But she couldn’t say it.
“You see? Not even you can lie about it. But I have a solution to this quandary.” Henry advanced on her. “Give me the child.”
Marian moved back a step and shifted Lionel on her hip. “Your Grace? You wish to hold Lionel?”
“I wish to keep Lionel.”
He sounded smooth, kind, considerate. He sounded like her father when he performed his foulest tricks, and she looked into his eyes, seeking the truth. They glowed with a chill fire, like hot metal in the cold earth. He steamed like cold water on hot iron. The man before her couldn’t be trusted, and she backed away.
He followed, his voice low and coaxing, but with a vicious intent that couldn’t be disguised. “I could put the child in safe place, where he wouldn’t be bothered with the demands of his heritage. He could keep company with his betters.”
“Like the earl of Warwick?”
“In the Tower?” He chuckled, deep and low. “The Tower has a bad reputation, and it’s really undeserved. ’Tis no disgrace to be—”
“Confined there?” After so much pain, so much effort, Marian could scarcely believe she would find herself in such a situation. She had done everything to preserve Lionel—breaking her vow to Elizabeth, burning the proof of Lionel’s legitimacy, destroying Griffith’s admiration for her. She had even accepted the overtures of the man before her, wanting to believe he wouldn’t harm a child.
But now, stacked against the evidence of his kindness, was this proof of his perfidy.
He wanted to take Lionel away from her, take him to some fate reserved for unwanted royal children.
He moved toward her slowly, like a hunter stalking an unwary doe. “The Tower is not only a prison, but also a royal residence.”
She backed from him just as slowly and thought wistfully of her knife. Yet what good would it do her? She couldn’t stab the king of England. Even if she succeeded, she would have signed her death sentence, and Lionel’s, too. Taking care not to irritate Henry with a sudden move, she said, “Aye. My lady Elizabeth’s brothers lived there.” Before their deaths, she meant to add, but she dared not say it.
The door opened behind them, but Marian did not take her gaze from Henry, who simply snapped, “Get out,” never doubting his order would be obeyed. The latch clicked, and Henry watched Lionel. “He’s very like the previous king. Is he arrogant?”
She pushed Lionel’s face into her shoulder to hide his countenance and answered, “Not at all.”
Lionel jerked his head away from her grasp and said, “Nay!”
Henry’s smile dropped from his face, erased by Lionel’s disdain for her authority. “I suppose he’s aggressive, too?”
Lionel struggled to get down. She struggled to hold him and try to explain, but to her disgust it sounded like a plea. “He’s a little boy. He’s just a little boy.”
“Not just a little boy.” Henry had backed her to the wall, and he reached out for Lionel with greedy hands. “Richard’s son.”
Before his fingers could touch, a short, silver blade slid between them, drawing a line past which he could not reach.
“Your Grace,” Griffith said, “Lionel is my son.”
Marian couldn’t move, frozen with a mixture of relief and terror and a deep-seated knowledge that Griffith would protect them despite the displeasure of the Tudor king.
Henry didn’t move. He didn’t turn his head to look at Griffith. His only acknowledgment was a terse, “Step aside, Lord Griffith.”
By no measure did Henry indicate a concern about the sword blade or the man who held it. He knew without a doubt that Griffith was his man. He knew the vows that Griffith had made were graven in the Welsh stone of which Griffith was formed.
Griffith knew it, too. The vows of a liege to his lord were holy. He had vowed to uphold Henry in his honorable rule of England, and nothing could make him break that vow—just as nothing could make him break his vows to Marian.
“I will step aside, my liege, as soon you step back.”
“This is none of your concern, Lord Griffith. Step aside.”
Henry’s voice was a whiplash, but Griffith didn’t flinch. “You made it my concern, Your Grace, when you wed me to the lady Marian. The child is hers, and therefore mine, and I will not allow you to take Lionel from us.”
Surprise made Henry react sluggishly, and he faced Griffith with a deliberateness that in itself was frightening. Jealousy, fury, and desperation combined in his eyes—a dangerous brew, especially in a king.
“Let us speak frankly, Sir Griffith.” Henry’s demotion was rapid and succinct. “The child is not Lady Marian’s, nor is it yours. It is the fruit of incest and rape. It is the son of Richard, that blot on the face of mankind. It should be confined for fear of the horrors its heritage will bring.”
“Lionel’s heritage is the same as your queen’s,” Griffith answered steadily, and with more truth than Henry would admit aloud. “Richard was her uncle, yet Elizabeth is a gracious woman, kind and charitable to all, and one of the bulwarks of your kingship.”
Petulantly Henry answered, “She’s not my queen. I haven’t had her crowned, yet.”
“Is that your way of having her confined, too?” Marian cried. “Is that her reward for sacrificing herself for the good of England?”
Griffith almost groaned at her interf
erence, although it was no more than he expected. His lady had proved her courage many times over, just as she had proved her indiscretion many times over. God grant her diplomacy now.
“I’ll be king on my own merit, not on her merit or the merit of her family. Her family.” Henry spat on the ground. “Look at them. Her father was a drunk and a lecher. Her mother has already betrayed me. Her uncle…”
“A fine marriage,” Marian said. “You judge her on her patrimony.”
God had ignored Griffith’s plea, but Marian was saying something Henry deserved to hear, something that might sway him from his course of vengeance. Griffith held himself still. He watched Marian, impassioned and angry, and Henry, cruel and contemptuous.
“It is a fine marriage,” Henry said. “Elizabeth doesn’t know—”
Marian laughed in contempt. “Doesn’t she? Oh, doesn’t she, Your Grace? I grew up with Elizabeth, and I assure you, although Elizabeth was never the highest scholar, she comprehends the minds and emotions of those around her more clearly than they understand themselves. She has had to. Her survival has depended upon it.”
Henry drew himself up, sweeping his cape around him. “I’m the king. I’ve kept my feelings hidden.”
“You’re a man, and her husband. She knows what you think, and she understands why you’ve failed to have her crowned, and every day you postpone that coronation you cut her to the core. She gave you an heir, she loves him to the exclusion of…of all others.” Marian’s voice broke, and she cradled Lionel proudly. “She forgets all her former loyalty. She forgets the oath she made me swear. She forgets her own flesh and firstborn.”
“Woman!” Griffith boomed. “Be silent.”
She turned on him, but he wrapped his free hand around her chin and spaced the words of his command so she could read his lips, if not hear his speech. “Be…silent.”
She quivered with indignation, defiance in every line, but his threat had penetrated the armor of her fury. Reason began to reassert itself and she subsided in tiny increments. When he released her, she bowed her head like some lesser creature and said, “I beg your pardon, my lord husband. I will do as you say, of course.”
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