Lord of Secrets

by Gillgannon, Mary

  By now, more of his men on foot had appeared. William ordered Guymond, Rob and Jocelyn to take positions around the herd. The rest of the men on horses dismounted, hobbled their animals and joined the other knights assembled. Everyone was accounted for except Crispin. “I haven’t seen him since we arrived in the valley,” Rob said.

  “Do you think he was injured?” William asked.

  “Maybe they’re holding him for ransom,” Alan suggested.

  William grimaced. He and his men had reclaimed the herd. But at what cost? Another man’s life?

  They took turns resting while the others stood watch. When it was his time to relax, William was certain he wouldn’t sleep. But he did, only to be awoken what seemed like seconds later by shouting. “Attack! The Welsh!”

  He barely had time to grab his swordbelt and draw his weapon before the enemy was on him. The man had a short sword. No match for his blade. William swung his weapon and the man leapt out of his way.

  The Welshman expected him to keep doing this until he tired and let down his guard. Instead of attacking, William planted his feet and waited. The man finally approached, then whirled and sought to hit William’s back side. William pivoted and met the man’s weapon with his own. Metal crashed against metal and the force reverberated down William’s arm. He thrust upwards with the blade and knocked the Welshman’s weapon away.

  The man turned to flee. William dropped his sword and tackled him. The air whooshed out of the man’s body as William slammed down on him.

  William scrambled up and grabbed his sword. Crouching over the Welshman, he held the blade tip against the man’s throat. “Yield.”

  The man’s head moved against the ground in a nod.

  William was trying to think of a way to tie up the man when he sensed movement behind him. He sprang up and knocked his attacker’s blade away. But there was another man on the other side. A third man appeared. But this was not one of the Welsh. Moonlight glinted on his formidable sword and silhouetted the man’s mailed hauberk.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The man’s build and stance looked very familiar. “Rollo, is that you? Jesu! What are you doing?”

  “Ridding the world of you, cousin.” The tone was a sneer, so full of hatred that William’s blood went chill.

  “To what purpose? My being dead won’t gain you Higham. John will simply give it to another man. And you can’t think you’ll gain any power here. The Welsh aren’t going to support an Englishman, especially one who doesn’t offer them any important political connections.”

  “I don’t care about power. I just want to make you pay.”

  “Why? What have I done to you? Most men would have banished anyone who behaved as disloyally as you did when I was away from Higham. I brought you here with me. I gave you another chance to prove yourself.”

  “You poisoned everyone against me. The men all think I’m responsible for Adam’s death. They’ll scarce speak to me. They treat me like a leper!”

  Rollo’s tone had gone from fury to pathetic. He sounded like a small boy, crying because other children were saying hurtful things about him. But that was Rollo. He had never lived up to the responsibilities that came with being a man.

  “If you vow to me that you had no part in the timing of the raid, that your intent was not to get Adam killed, I will tell the men that.”

  “You don’t understand, you wretched bastard. No matter what you say, they’ll always wonder. They’ll never trust me.”

  “Then go back to my father’s keep. Start over there.”

  “And let you go on with your happy life, with your castle and your army and your little Welsh bitch? Nay. I will not allow that, and neither will these men.” Rollo motioned to the Welsh. William took a step back, preparing to do battle.

  The two Welshman sought to flank him. Knowing he didn’t dare let that happen, William took another two steps back. He’d often fought two men at a time in training and in battle, but seldom three. He’d have to deal with them one at a time. The Welshmen were the most vulnerable because they didn’t wear armor. He moved as if he would attack the man to Rollo’s right, then pivoted and swung his sword at the Welshman on the left. The blade caught the man’s arm, slicing deep. Whirling again, William swept his sword in an arc. Rollo and the other man leapt back to avoid it.

  William drove forward, swinging his blade to keep Rollo and the other Welshman on the retreat even as he watched for movement by the wounded man. It came. William pivoted again and lashed out with his sword, slicing across the man’s chest. Another wound, but not enough to disable him.

  He could not keep doing this. Whirling and pivoting while they remain just out of the way. The thought decided him and he charged the wounded man, knocking him to the ground before he had a chance use his weapon and stunning him with the force of his body. Managing to keep his grip on his sword, he rose up and used the pommel to strike the man on the side of the head, hoping that would be enough to keep him down.

  Rollo and the other man loomed over him. William rolled onto his back and held his weapon out.

  “Get away!” Rollo shouted to the Welshman. “He’s mine.” Rollo reversed his grip on his sword, holding it as if he would plunge it into William’s chest.

  William rolled again as the killing thrust came. Rollo’s sword struck the ground and stuck there. Rollo quickly pulled it out, but by then William had scrambled to his feet. The Welshman who hadn’t been wounded stayed back as Rollo and William circled each other. William could almost feel the waves of hatred wafting off his cousin. His animosity clearly went back years. A sense of resignation came over William. Nothing would satisfy Rollo except killing him. William didn’t want to kill Rollo, but he feared that was the only way.

  They circled each other, and William recalled the dozens of times Rollo and he had done this in practice. First with wooden swords as boys, then blunted ones as youthful squires. But never before in full armor with real weapons. Still, he knew Rollo’s strengths and weaknesses and Rollo knew his. Chief among Rollo’s disadvantages was his impatience. Years of yearning for this moment would have honed that. William held back, knowing Rollo would be driven to attack first.

  It was almost morning. The sky was lightening. A pale glow in the east, not quite banishing the gray veil of night, but making it so he could see Rollo much more clearly than only a short while before. The loathing and desperation on his cousin’s face were obvious. As was his eagerness to engage. William watched him, biding his time.

  “Fitzhugh! I’ve got you.”

  “William!”

  Two knights appeared behind William. Rollo’s knife’s edge control snapped and he charged. William swung his sword to meet Rollo’s and the sheer force knocked the weapon from his cousin’s hand. Rollo grabbed for the dagger on his belt. William knocked that away as well. With his sword tip at Rollo’s throat, William said, “Yield.”

  “Nay. Never. You’ll have to kill me.” The words were almost a sob.

  He could not thrust his sword into his cousin’s throat, as if he were skewering a rat. He could not. Rollo seemed to sense his hesitation. He turned and ran. William hesitated, but Guymond and Robert took off after him. Guymond reached Rollo first. He tackled him, pinning him to the ground while Robert grabbed his legs. Rollo fought them, thrashing and twisting. As William reached them the two men appeared to have Rollo subdued. There was a cry of pain. Seconds later, Guymond smacked Rollo a powerful blow to the head with his fist and the thrashing man grew still.

  “The puling bastard bit me!” Guymond held up his hand.

  “I don’t know what to do with him,” William said wearily. “He’s so stubborn.”

  “You should hang him,” Robert said. “A fitting end for a murderer.”

  “There is no certainty he is responsible for Adam’s death. He didn’t wield the blade that felled him. And Rollo insists he didn’t intend for it to happen.”

  “But he defied you. Turned on you. He’s a traitor!” Stil
l sitting beside the unconscious Rollo, Guymond met William’s gaze, his blue eyes flashing with outrage. “He should hang.”

  William nodded, although inside he felt sick. He grieved for the men under his command who had died. Felt guilt that he had not been able to save them. But that was different from coldly ordering one of his own put to death, especially when the man was kin.

  “We can’t do anything until we get back to Higham. In the meantime, tie him up. Truss him well. We’ll put him on one of the pack animals. Now, we need to get these cattle up the hill.”

  *

  Rhosyn’s mother had always said that a large part of being a good healer was being patient. You did what you could and then waited to see how things turned out. If the wound healed. The fever turned. The bleeding eased. The woman’s body opened and the babe was born.

  This was not like that sort of waiting.

  Rhosyn walked around the yard of the farm, the family’s black and white dog, Tessa, keeping close. Gervaise seemed to be mending. Ralf was doing well and had taken to helping Gwellian, the farmer’s oldest daughter, with chores. They already appeared to be smitten with each other. Rhosyn wondered whether there was any way the two young lovers could have a future together. Or if they were doomed to having their hearts broken.

  Her grim thoughts stemmed from fear for her own heart. It had been over a sennight since William and his men left and they’d had no word. But it would be pointless to send a message. If he could come, William would. To see to his wounded men. And perhaps he would come for her. She dared to hope. She thought of making love with him. The deep connection they had shared. The other times, when they spoke of everyday things and did not touch at all and yet the bond between them was there, warm and comforting, like a hearth fire.

  But even if he came back, the future loomed, uncertain and frightening. Although she had yearned to visit Cardiff, to see the life she’d left behind, now she longed to go back to Higham. She missed her cottage with all the herbs, plants and roots carefully organized. Her tidy stillroom. There was a sense of order and peace there.

  But if she wed William, or merely became his leman, would he wish her to live at the castle? To take on the duties of an English lady? To stop being a healer and spend her days pleasing him?

  She could not do it. That was not the life she’d been trained for since childhood. Would he understand that? Or would he be like most men and think nothing mattered but what he wanted?

  But William had never been like that. He had always been considerate of her feelings. Yet, how well did she know him? And he was a Saeson, that ruthless race that had oppressed hers for generations.

  But that was not fair, to judge every Englishman by the actions of a few. ’Twould be like saying all Cymry were quarrelsome, savage and crude. Some were, ’twas true, but not all.

  She went over to a pen full of young rams and older ewes. These were the ones that would be butchered over the winter to provide meat for the household. She wished it was spring and the pen was filled with newly born lambs and their mothers. It would brighten her spirits to see the lambs frolic and twitch their little tails. To watch them butt the ewes to encourage the milk to flow.

  Autumn was not as cheerful and as full of promise as springtime. Flowers and plants were dying back, the herds were being culled. The weather was turning colder. The mornings were chill with mist or slashing wet with wind and rain. At least here. She wondered what the winter would be like at Higham. How her garden was faring without her to tend it. Again she felt longing for a place she’d only lived for a short while.

  But it was nothing compared to the bone-deep yearning she felt whenever she thought of William.

  *

  “Not much farther,” the knight next to William muttered.

  William glanced at him. Big, solid Rob, with his broad face, mellow brown eyes and thoughtful manner. If nothing else, being lord of Higham had taught William to truly pay attention to the men around them, their strengths and weaknesses. In his fight with Rollo, Rob and Guymond had saved him. If they had not distracted Rollo, and caused Rollo’s Welsh companions to abandon him, Rollo might have killed him.

  He knew many of his men thought he should have forced Rollo to travel like a piece of baggage, bound and tied to a packhorse, but he could not quite bring himself to have Rollo endure such humiliating and miserable circumstances all the way to Higham. He’d had Rollo’s legs left free so he could ride upright in the saddle, although his hands remained tied. Guymond had muttered something about hoping he fell off and died. Which had prompted William to have Rollo secured to the saddle. For all his flaws, Rollo deserved a better death than that.

  Still, he worried Rollo would somehow escape, especially since he was traveling with the men herding the cattle back to Higham. He wished he had not been forced to split up his force, with half of them taking the cattle back to Higham and the other half traveling with him. But he did not want to delay retrieving Gervaise and Ralf…and Rhosyn.

  He scanned the landscape for threats and saw nothing except the sheep that seemed to graze on every green hillside, sometimes a shepherd with them. Perhaps he should be more worried about getting lost. Every rise and valley had started to look the same.

  Thankfully they had Crispin with them, a man who seemed to have a born instinct for navigating.

  Even as he had the thought, when they rode over the next rise, they saw the farmstead nestled in the valley below, a sprawl of stone buildings with a hedgerow of hawthorn and bramble making a stout barrier around it. They started down the hill and there was a flash of black and white as a barking dog raced towards them, followed by a woman in a faded checked cloak. Rhosyn. She must have heard them coming. Or maybe she was out gathering herbs. He could see she had her basket under her arm. As Rhosyn approached, William decided she needed a heavier cloak for winter. He longed to get her one made of thick wool dyed some rich hue, crimson or deep green, and lined with coney or sable fur.

  But perhaps that would not please her. He should not try to dress her up as a fine English lady. She might not desire that. And what did it matter what she wore? It was the woman herself who held his heart. In fact, he preferred her naked, with her unbound hair falling in a cascade of glimmering dark brown around her slender form.

  Her expression, as usual, was impassive and guarded, full of secrets. Pointed chin, wide-set mysterious eyes. Her mouth, the soft mauve of a wild rose. How should he greet her, with all his men around him, watching? He wanted to slide from his horse and pull her into a passionate embrace. But if he did that, she might be embarrassed.

  She halted a few feet away.

  “Healer Rhosyn.” He inclined his head. “How fare you? How fare the wounded?”

  She replied with the precision of a healer. Explaining how Gervaise could now get up and walk a short distance. That he had gained a bit of weight and his color was better. That Ralf was able to use his arm and was nearly back to normal. She did not answer for herself, as if he could see she was well.

  Her gaze assessed him and then the men behind him, as if noticing the size of this escort. “I had to send part of my force back with the cattle.” Her brows rose in question. “A long tale. I’d as soon be inside and at a hearthfire before I tell it.”

  She nodded and turned to head back to the farmstead.

  “Rhosyn. Would you like to ride?”

  A slight smile curved her lips and he knew a thrill at pleasing her. She approached his horse and he reached down and helped her up, thinking how light she was. She settled herself in front of him and he wished he wasn’t wearing his hauberk so he could better feel her slender form against his chest. But he could smell the herbs that always seemed to surround her and the warm fragrance that was hers alone.

  He wanted to ride away with her. Forget everything and find some sheltered place where they could recline among summer-browned grasses and late wildflowers and he could enjoy her beauty at his leisure. Loving her in a dreamy realm where clouds did not dar
ken the sky nor the air turn chill. And time did not pass, nor the seasons turn.

  A foolish fancy. There were so many reasons they could not do that. So many responsibilities and worries tugging at them. She said Gervaise was mending, but would he be strong enough to ride? And it was a long way back to Higham. Treachery could await them anywhere along the way.

  He pushed away the thought. Having survived the dangers they already had, he would not allow doubt and worry to overwhelm him. He still had eight knights with him, and they were worth two dozen Welshmen.

  When they reached the farmstead, they were greeted coolly by Merion and one of his sons. ’Twas clear the farmer and his household would be glad to see the back of them. He would have to ask Rhosyn how to they could repay Merion and his household for this disruption of their lives. They would have little use for coin, but that’s all he had to offer. Perhaps he could send men back with sacks of grain later. He could see they grew oats here, but likely not wheat.

  As everyone dismounted and their horses were taken to the stables to be looked after, William suddenly thought about all the fodder the animals would eat, even in one night. He should probably send some hay, along with the grain, to it make up to Merion.

  And now there was the issue of feeding all the men. William left that matter up to Merion’s wife and daughters. Like Merion, Nest and her offspring were raven-haired and blue-eyed. And like him, they said very little as they went about preparing food. William wondered if that was a Welsh trait. Rhosyn had always been very quiet.

  Before the meal he had a chance to speak with Ralf. He’d already spoken with Gervaise, sitting up on a pallet in the main room of the farmhouse. William was well pleased with the men’s progress but he still had his doubts whether Gervaise would be up to riding all the way to Higham. He puzzled on what to do, until he finally came upon a solution. He went to Merion and asked if he would be willing to loan out a wagon to transport Gervaise back to Higham, as long as William returned it full of hay and grain. Merion agreed, although his expression was dour and wary as always.