A Lord for Haughmond (20 page)

     Sir Geoffrey finally turned, his eyes slits of suspicion.

     With a serene smile, the nun bestowed her attention upon the field of honor, where the two knights dallied overlong. She took no further heed of the knight and his palpable discomfort.  

     A royal guest spoke to Sir Geoffrey. “How are you and Sir Dafydd related?”

     Sir Geoffrey cleared his throat. “I am uncertain. I have never laid eyes on the victor.”    

     The nun tilted her head with an artful expression and spoke sufficiently loud, that all could hear, “’Tis your son, in truth.”

     Dazed by the revelation, Katherine’s stomach turned. Sour bile pricked her tongue. Sister Mary Margaret’s pronouncement was too bald not to be soothfast. And being Sir Dafydd’s kinswoman, the nun was Sir Geoffrey’s, thereto.

     They were beset by de Bornes!

     Weak with horror, Katherine nigh collapsed onto the bench behind her. But Sister Mary Margaret’s quick hand steadied her, preventing the blunder. Wrapped in despair, she watched her beloved stumble from the field and scarcely heard Sir Geoffrey growled oath.    

     “Do not vex me into ill temper!” Edward thundered, his voice resonating through the pavilion. A frown marred his countenance, while an angry flush spread up his neck. Silence descended upon the royal guests. He pivoted on the ball of his boot and turned to the nun with a sharp glare. “How is it, sister, you have knowledge of this happenstance?”

     The nun dipped her head politely. “We are frequently privy to such matters, sire, when victims seek refuge from life’s woes.”

     “Your abbey gave succor to the mother?”

     Throwing Katherine a cautious glance, the nun nodded in reply.

     Edward cast a dark glower at Sir Geoffrey. “Sir knight, you needs make restitution to an innocent. I will not have my subjects forced to bear bastards. Thereto, you must needs seek contrition from the bishop. I expect to see it accomplished, forthwith.”

     Sir Geoffrey bowed stiffly. “As you command, sire.”

     Across the field the victor turned his horse and set spurs to it. The destrier broke into a gallop. 

     Katherine’s breath deserted her. Desolation poured over her. Geoffrey de Borne’s son was to be her future husband? The new lord of her castle?        

     On Saint Winifred’s bones, it must not be!

     The knight drew closer, his body in fluid motion with his great steed, the sight drawing renewed cheers from the spectators.

     She struggled to maintain her composure and lost the battle with each steady pace of the war-horse. Her hands shaking, she clasped them to her midsection.

     Then, with an abrupt stomping of hooves, Sir Dafydd was upon them. His horse’s heavy caparison swirled to silence while he sat tall and straight, his long and gnarled dark horns piercing the bright, blue sky.

     Viewing the knight through a narrow red haze, Katherine did not see the king beckon. Of a sudden, her hand was crushed within his steely fist and she found herself yanked forth to stand beside him.

     “Be not so dismayed, Lady Katherine, that you do mete out rudeness to our victor.” The king’s severe tone had not abated. “As the lady of the joust, you must needs be ever gracious.”

     Katherine blushed, as much from anger as embarrassment. She had not meant to give offense, yet could think of naught but Rhys’s appalling defeat. Mortified by the royal reprimand, she was saved further chiding by the herald’s ear-splitting trumpet blast.

     A cheer erupted from the crowd. Edward allowed it to swell before he finally raised his hand for silence. As the great war-horse pawed the muddy ground, the only sound was the soft whisper of the steed’s chain mail trapping.   

     With a stern frown, the king released her hand. He turned to the crowd. “The outcome of the joust is decided.” His ponderous voice drifted across the tourney field. “Sir Dafydd has won the match. Henceforth, he shall be known as Sir Dafydd de la Motte, Lord of Haughmond Castle. A week next he shall take Lady Katherine as his bride.” 

     Another cheer rushed into the air. A wedding was always an excuse for celebration.

     The knight’s chain mail armor glistened in the bright daylight, yet his dark, shaggy brows and drooping moustache obscured his face. Katherine shivered, finding naught savory about his appearance.

     Sir Dafydd bowed to his liege, then turned toward Katherine.

     She shuddered, yet she stared back unerringly, making certain her own expression manifested the loathing that flourished within her.

     The king glanced from the victor to Katherine, and back again. “Would that your valiant efforts could compel a kind token from your lady, Sir Dafydd. Do you force her?”

     At the castigating tone, the knight’s brooding gaze darted from Katherine to Sister Mary Margaret.

     The nun gave a small shake of her head, bringing a troubled glint to Sir Dafydd’s eyes. His gaze shifted to the king. “Nay, my lord,” came his grim reply. “The morrow will be sufficiently soon.”      

     “Then sir, you have my leave.” The king’s tone was both frosty and abrupt. “With me, Eleanor!” He turned on his heel and stomped down the steps of the pavilion as a bright red flush worked its way up his neck and into his cheeks.

     The victorious knight swung away and galloped toward the end of the jousting field.

     Katherine’s gaze followed him the distance, her aversion pulsing with each thudding beat of her heart. Dutifully, she followed behind Queen Eleanor, but only after Sister Mary Margaret nudged her into motion.

*  *  *

     Sir Geoffrey watched the victor cross the field. That perfect image of a knight had sprung from his loins? ’Twas not often he did recall the women he bedded. Like the stars in the sky, they were many. ’Twas likely he had a score of progeny littering the countryside.

     But he would not claim them.

     ’Twas surprising, though, how vexed he was, that he could not put a face to the wench who had birthed this remarkable specimen. She would needs have been a singularly rare woman. His brows lifted in astonishment. He could not imagine why he did not recall her.

     Forsooth, with so public an accounting of his misdeeds, ’twas impossible to repudiate the whelp. Would the king demand he recognize Dafydd as his heir? Venting his spleen would not help. The young knight could have had no reason to trounce him so thoroughly, sight unseen. ’Twas merely an unfortunate coincidence they should find themselves thus together. He shrugged. Given the allure of the king’s court, ’twas to be expected. He should have reckoned he wound cross paths with—

     Turning, he studied the nun as she walked toward the castle gate beside Katherine. Her drab habit could not hide her unblemished beauty. Though he had found her tongue more than annoying, Sister Mary Margaret possessed the most mesmerizing eyes, an unusual color of green.

     Such a waste. Kindling her ardor and drowning in the depths of those deep, beautiful pools of emerald would have brought him great joy. It had been many weeks since he’d had a wench as comely. Perchance—

     How many indulgences would it take to pardon such a sin? Dare he chance God’s wrath? 

    He focused on the field. Sir Dafydd had dismounted and was walking toward his tent with a swagger, his shoulders swinging to and fro. Sir Geoffrey cocked a surprised brow. ’Twas a younger vision of himself.

     A newfound pride bloomed within him. A son of his—a worthy and deserving son—had won the joust, had gained powerful Haughmond. Yet a dose of humility marred his joy, for Dafydd would forever carry his enemy’s name.

     To be sure, revenge from the grave.

     He had stolen Robert’s unfaithful wife and enjoyed her castle these many years, but he did not savor this unwarranted humiliation. “Damnation to you, Robert de la Motte,” he snarled beneath his breath, then cast a hasty glance around. Air hissed through his clenched teeth. He stood alone in the pavilion and could say what he pleased. 

     “Dafydd de Borne.” He tasted the name on his tongue. ’Twas a worthy appellation. “My son needs own
my
name!” Sir Geoffrey clenched his teeth again as a different and unsavory name flowed through his thoughts. Dafydd de la Motte. Plainly, ’twas the price for not acknowledging this impressive bastard. Rage and bitterness boiled up within him. Inhaling raggedly, he wrestled with his churning emotions.

     But could humiliation not be useful? Cloaked in humility, mayhap his son would find him more approachable. Licking his lower lip, he gave consideration to the intriguing idea.

     Unexpectedly, he grew anxious to make his son’s acquaintance. Suddenly, the victory was personal. He felt boastful and proud. Spying an abandoned hanky on the wooden floor of the pavilion, he ground it beneath his heel with a satisfied chuckle. Leaping down the steps, he hurried to catch up with his son.

*  *  *

     “Wellaway, the seed is as twisted as the vine. Sir Dafydd much resembles his sire,” Katherine proclaimed, relieved to find the wardrobe empty. Her ire provoked beyond endurance, she had withdrawn from the prying eyes of the king’s court, taking Anne with her. “I shall never share vows with that knight.”

     “You must needs resign yourself to it,” Anne said gently. “Mayhap—”

     With an irate sweep of her hand, Katherine turned away, refused to listen. Her sister meant well, but naught could fetter the outrage that had her pacing back and forth within the chamber. 

     “Look how he essayed to affright us with his dark presence,” she continued in a bluster, stepping around the pallets of straw scattered across the floor. “His helm decorated with horns? Like the devil? I shall never be his bride!”

     But ’twas far easier to make declarations than to live with reality. She quivered, fearing she
would
be forced against her will. She must needs find a way to prevent the king’s unreasonable edict.

     Could she flee? But to where? Unrest plagued the country. ’Twas impossible to know the difference betwixt friend and foe. Many Welsh renegades roved the forests this side of the Severn River. She could well find herself in a worse predicament. Had this venture not proven so?

     An idea came to her. Running out to the bailey, she gazed up at the high stone wallwalk, where men-at-arms ranged along the narrow ledge. ’Twas a mighty fall if one were to slip.

     Or to leap.

     Would death come swiftly? Would she feel pain? Fear prickled Katherine’s skin. She shuddered in revulsion.

     If Lady Adela were present, she could request an herb to end her misery. Dare she venture to Myton to seek out the herbalist?

     “Oh, Saint Winifred, help me, I beseech you!” she cried. She feared the pain, but a greater anguish held her fast. She would be damned for eternity. Her soul would never rest in peace if she took her own life.

     She went to the chapel. Crossing herself, she bowed her head and clasped her hands. In the cold chamber she bargained with Saint Winifred, offering up more coin and goods if she would intercede on her behalf.

     She prayed to the saints, to the Blessed Virgin, to anyone who would heed her entreaties. Hope and courage faltered as her desperate words filled the chamber.

     For hours she remained on her knees. Finally, she lifted her head. With an aching heart she stared at the cross on the stone alter. A narrow shaft of light drifted down from the leaded glass window high in the wall, striking the gold metal. Surrounded by an ethereal aura, the cross glowed brightly. Her eyes widened in astonishment. ’Twas divine tidings descending to offer her calm assurance.

     “Sweet Jesu,” she breathed. Saint Winifred’s message was clear. 

     With new energy, Katherine arose and departed the chapel. Another sacrifice, other than death, must be the means to her salvation.

*  *  *

     The late afternoon hush exploded with the blare of the castle trumpets. Riders approached Bereford, sending men-at-arms into a flurry of activity along the stone ramparts. The castle guard stood at the ready, with notched arrows strung to long bows.

     But the approaching horsemen presented no threat, merely royal soldiers bearing news. Natheless, they diverted everyone’s attention. Katherine and Anne sat with the queen and her ladies at the far end of the great hall and listened to the king’s angry response.

     “’Tis more a matter betwixt Welsh princes!” Edward stomped back and forth past the newly arrived messenger, shaking a missive in his huge fist. “We have more unrest along the Scottish border than in the west country. And mine eye is on Scotland, not Wales. I do not desire to be drawn into their wretched squabbles!” He crumpled the parchment and flung it away. “But how is warfare to be avoided when they persist in attacking our people?”

     “One prince, more than the rest, seeks retaliation for the execution of his countrymen, sire,” replied the messenger with a bow. 

     “As I feared. Is it Gruffydd ap Maredudd?” Edward ground out, pausing to look at the young soldier. “Tell me, tell me what you know.”

     “From all indications, ’tis Prince Llwelyn who spearheads the unrest. Many Welsh princes flock to his standard. They demand satisfaction under their Welsh law.”

     “A perfect excuse for aggression!” growled Edward. “Our laws conflict with theirs.”

     “Hawarden was attacked by an armed band. Many of Sir Roger’s companions were slain.”

     “And Clifford?” Edward asked sharply.

     The messenger shrugged. “’Tis uncertain what befell him. He was last seen being dragged from his bed.”

     “You say Oswestry was also attacked?”

     “Yea, sire, but the details are sketchy— ” The soldier seemed reluctant to continue.

     Katherine held her breath, certain the news could not be pleasant.

     “Let me have the truth without further ado,” demanded Edward, beckoning with an impatient hand.