A Lord for Haughmond (24 page)

     They’d fallen asleep after a second bout of lovemaking, her head on his shoulder, his arms securely about her. How was she to know losing her virginity would bind her so inexorably to Rhys?       

    
Vengeance is mine
.

     God wasn’t pleased with her vindictiveness. The very day she discovered the precious depth of love chanced to be the very same day she was to be bound to a husband.

     ’Twas no coincidence. ’Twas God’s will.           

     She tried to take strength in the memory of her last moments with Rhys. In the dark, they had slipped across the bailey unnoticed. With servants running thither and yon and squires and pages burdened beneath armloads of personal effects and frantically lading wagons and carts for the departing knights, no one had paid heed to them. At her chamber door, no one witnessed their parting kiss, nor their lingering touch, nor her falling tears as she watched him turn and move away down the corridor.

     A lifetime without Rhys?  She sighed. How was she to endure it?

     A dull ache settled in her chest. She drooped against the windowsill like a dying flower, her head supported by the side of the window casement. She had thought her plan so wise, a vengeance on Sir Dafydd.

     ’Twas more like the settling of a score, with her new husband the victor. Already she suffered a greater loss than he could ever feel.

     Horses were being readied, backed between the shafts of the burgeoning wagons and strapped into position. The wainwright, balancing above the fresh manure steaming beside him in the mud, hammered a brace to the broken supports of one listing vehicle.

     From within the kennels, the castle hounds joined the racket of the bailey. ’Twas near daybreak, the usual hour when hunting commenced, and their howling gave voice to their frustration at being left behind.

     Pages and squires worked feverishly to load up the packhorses, while knights, many already mounted, struggled to keep their spirited stallions under control. 

     The din grew louder when Edward emerged from the hall. Suited up in full armor, he mounted his charger. Troops fell into place as commanders shouted orders across the sea of fighting men. Kicking his destrier into action, the king led his retinue of knights and men-at-arms out through the castle gates.

     Along with a string of packhorses, the pages and squires mounted and rode out behind their masters, the whole procession moving at top speed amid the rattling of harnesses and armor. The archers, with their long bows, took up the rear of the procession. Finally, with a loud thud, Bereford’s heavy portcullis slid into place behind the last of the riders.

     ’Twas like her heart slamming shut. An omen, to be sure.

     Anne tugged on her arm.

     “’Tis time, sister. I would help you to prepare.”

    
Vengeance is mine
. A shiver passed down Katherine’s spine.

     “Mayhap God will be merciful,” Anne suggested with a hopeful look in her large, brown eyes.

     “A measure of mercy is not my fate this day,” snorted Katherine. She whirled about and strode across the short distance with an angry step.

     The other ladies, intent on their own packing, avoided her eye while they stuffed their possessions into leather satchels and departed the chamber.

     Anne had laid out a brocaded silk bliaud across the bed. ’Twas a kindness from Rhys, for Katherine had naught the coins for a wedding garment.

     She fingered the brilliant purple cloth and fought back rising tears. Rhys’s consideration was overwhelming. Beside it lay an embroidered girdle with long silken ties, just as lovely. ’Twas not bridal raiment. Nor would there be a wedding mass or a wedding feast. With most of Bereford’s guests in the midst of departure, only the queen lingered, to see the royal command satisfied and to direct the final packing of her precious tapestries.  

     “I wonder how the outcast do feel, if this be God’s mercy,” Katherine murmured, tracing her fingers across the soft fabric of the bliaud.   

     Anne blanched and crossed herself. “Pray for forgiveness.”

     “Better He ask for mine!” Katherine snatched up the garment and flung it over her head. She shuddered in despair. ’Twas like Rhys’s arms around her. The heartrending thought unsettled her, made her hands atremble. She fumbled clumsily with the shifting fabric.

     “Have a care, Katherine!” gasped her sister.

     “If He did not hear my prayers previously, why should He listen anon?” she complained through the cloth.

     “Do you wish for heaven’s wrath upon us?”

     She emerged from beneath the gown and rolled her eyes. “Hark!” She put her hand to her ear and canted her head. “Hear you, heaven is disposed to silence—no wrath upon us this day.” Dusting the long sleeves of her chemise down into place beneath the shorter ones of the bliaud, she added in a grumble, “Doubtless naught will transpire to save me. ’Tis a luckless day.”

     She allowed Anne to comb her hair, but only briefly. Snatching up a length of white ribbon, she tied it around her head. ’Twas all the preparation she deemed necessary. Not wishing to be splendidly arrayed for Sir Dafydd, she eyed the embroidered girdle and nigh refused it. But thinking of Rhys and his hard-earned coins, she amended her decision and tied it in place. He should not be insulted.  

     They broke their fast in the great hall. A servant brought a trencher of bread, smoked herring and a pitcher of watered wine. Anne eagerly partook of the offerings, but Katherine ignored the fare. Clasping her hands to still their trembling, she swallowed deliberately, seeking to calm a roiling stomach. Without the king’s constant throng of vassals and the minions who hovered and served, the silent chamber felt desolate and forsaken. 

     “Ah, you are here.” One of Queen Eleanor’s ladies-in-waiting appeared. Her relief was obvious. “We thought we would needs fetch you. The queen commands you to the solar.”

     Amid her ladies, Queen Eleanor sat in a cushioned chair by the hearth and its fire, breaking her fast. Her dark brows lifted at their approach.

     “I am pleased you came so promptly, Lady Katherine.”

     Katherine made a swift curtsy. “I keep troth with the king, your grace.” She tried not to look pathetic like the Welsh prisoners stumbling toward the gibbet.

     “Do you have a change of heart?” asked Eleanor with a gentle smile.

     “Nay, my queen.” Katherine held herself rigid, girding herself against the memory of the Welshmen and their last struggle for breath. She heaved a heavy breath, understanding their grief and their terror, feeling their strangulation. “’Tis the most awful sentence visited upon a woman, to marry a man she does loathe.”

     “Ah,” sighed Eleanor, rising and meeting her gaze with a frank expression. “Love can be learned.” She touched Katherine’s cheek. “Sir Dafydd is a loyal and noble knight. ’Tis certain he will suit you, given time.”

     “He is Sir Geoffrey’s progeny, is he not? I am certain ’twill be otherwise,” she replied sharply, bestowing an unwavering glare upon the queen.

     Behind her, Anne gasped.

     ’Twould not be amiss should Queen Eleanor throw her into the dungeon.

     She would welcome it!

     The royal lady did not seem hoaxed by her desperate ploy, though a long-suffering stare from her dark eyes did settle upon her. Katherine did not flinch.

     When Eleanor deigned to speak, ’twas with the most regal of tones. “’Tis time for the wedding ceremony to commence."

     The journey behind the queen down the narrow corridor was all too brief, the small chapel all too cold.

     Katherine hesitated at the entry. On the alter table, two candles flanked the silver cross, their flames dancing like angry nymphs in the chill draft of the chamber. She shivered. The queen beckoned impatiently to her. Slowly she stepped into the chamber.

     By the altar, Rhys stood alongside the black-robed priest. He was suited in his armor, but a white surcoat with dagged edging covered the chain mail. Absent of his coif and steel helm, his blond hair shone bright in the candlelight. Clean-shaven for the first time in weeks, he looked resplendent, and with his schooled features, a most dignified and comme il faut knight. 

     ’Twas difficult to believe he was the same man who, as a lover, had exhibited such hearty emotions just a short while agone. His appraising eyes looked steadily into hers. Of a sudden, Katherine found herself looking into the same expression that had aroused her passion at daybreak. At the remembrance of that sweet intimacy, warmth spread through her limbs and into her belly.  

     It did not appease her soaring tension that Rhys communicated everything a cherished bride could desire—love radiated from his clear blue eyes, encouragement bolstered her with his broad smile, his bold admiration held her spell-bound, then stunned her, as he unabashedly and leisurely inspected her figure from head to foot, resting overlong on certain parts—parts that began to tingle. Heat rushed into her cheeks, warmed her breasts, awakened her inner core.

     This must not be, not in God’s house, not at the moment she was to be bound to Sir Dafydd!

     Resisting the tempest rising within her, Katherine pushed down the feverish flame licking at her insides. Her blood pulsed from the effort, yet she did not look away from Rhys. She dared not, for the priest stood too close, too menacing. Though he made her vulnerable, making her weak of flesh, Rhys was her salvation in this moment of darkness. He filled her vision, calmed her fears. His gentleness and his presence soothed and comforted her, gave her strength. Because of him, she knew she would not collapse from terror.

     “Courage, my lady.”

     He took her hand. As one, they faced the priest. The good father made the sign of the cross. Rhys tugged at her to kneel by the altar. Prayers were intoned, words she did not follow. The priest’s words, rambling in her head, continued unabated, then came to a halt. She started at Rhys’s clear voice.

     “In the presence of God, I, Dafydd de la Motte, take thee Katherine to be my wedded wife, promising with divine assistance to be unto thee a loving and faithful husband as long as we both shall live.”

     A gold ring was blessed and slipped onto her finger.

     ’Twas her turn to give voice to the harrowing vows. Terror overpowered her voice. Rhys bent his head close to hers and whispered the words of the priest, encouraging her to follow. She stumbled along, trembling at the vows binding her to a dreaded existence.

     At last, no more words were necessary, all had been said that made her a married woman.

     Rhys gently pulled her to her feet.

     Eleanor bestowed a brief kiss upon her cheek and gave a satisfied nod. “You shall find happiness, my dear, if you but seek it. Remember, the king wishes you well.”

     As though in a trance, Katherine stared through the royal lady. 

     Eleanor turned to Rhys. “’Twas unwise for you to act as proxy. Lady Katherine is distressed.” Her mouth set in an angry line. She turned and swept from the chapel, her two ladies-in-waiting hurrying behind.

     Sister Mary Margaret startled Katherine when she and another nun took their leave, their hands folded primly within the sleeves of their dark robes. Forsooth, Sir Dafydd would crave witnesses for the bridal. She pierced their retreating backs with a dull and desolate stare.

     Motioning for Anne to follow the religious sisters, Rhys guided Katherine toward the doorway. But Sir Geoffrey stepped ahead of them, blocking their way.

     In alarm, she recoiled against Rhys.

     “’Tis well accomplished that Haughmond is properly conferred upon Sir Dafydd, else I would doubt my son’s right of possession. Your hands do show much familiarity with his bride.” Geoffrey eyed them sharply. “The day will come, Rhys of St. Quintin, when we will settle our differences. Never again will you touch my son’s chattel.” He gave Rhys a hard shove before he strode from the chapel.

     A moment later the priest hurried past, his shaved head bowed, his eyes averted.

     They stood alone in the chapel, with only the tendrils of candle smoke drifting around them.

     Rhys leaned toward her, his forehead pressing to hers. “You needs be ready to ride for Haughmond within the hour. Can you contrive it?” He straightened and stepped back, giving her an encouraging look. 

     Katherine stumbled as though she had been cast adrift. Yet when Rhys lunged for her, she flung up her hands.

     “I shall manage,” she breathed. “I needs learn to stand alone, do I not?”

     “Nevermore will you be alone, Katherine.” His resolute voice echoed against the stone walls of the chapel. “I will always be with you, for my heart is yours.”

     She shook her head. “I’m bound to Sir Dafydd. There is no place for you in my future life.”    

     She turned to leave the chapel, but Rhys’s hands caught her shoulders and swung her back toward him. “Where ever I go, you are with me.” His hands cupped her face, forcing her to meet his piercing gaze.

     Tears blinded her. His tender words unhinged her ability to control her emotions. “’Tis wrong to love you,” she cried, covering his hands. “But God forgive me, I can’t help myself.”

     Rhys’s head lowered and his lips captured hers. Without hesitation Katherine returned his ardor with such fierceness, it took her breath away. This final kiss must needs be a lasting keepsake. 

     Her lips parted and Rhys’s tongue danced with hers, tasting, stirring sensations so raw and voracious she grew dizzy from the heady rush. Her agony increased all the more when he cradled her buttocks against his unyielding armor. 

     Sweet Jesu, a mere kiss was not sufficient!

     “Oh, Sweetling,” Rhys murmured as his lips moved across her cheek and nuzzled her neck. “How do I leave you at Haughmond?”

     Katherine froze. “You are for Haughmond?” She choked on the words.

     Rhys lifted his head and settled a troubled look upon her. “I am to see you safely arrived before joining the king.”