A Lord for Haughmond (28 page)

     “’Tis a question you must needs keep in mind for the future, Gilbert, for I will not have my people abused. Nor will I be taken advantage of by my villains. Do you mark my words?” She eyed his squarely, until his gaze shifted.

     “Yea, mistress, what’s done yester day won’t be done this day. I promise, m’lady.”

     “’Tis good.” Katherine nodded abruptly. “As John has no son of his own, you will instruct him to apprentice Alwin in his shop. When the lad has progressed to fashioning goodly barrels, John is to be brought to the hall and work is to be found for him—naught too strenuous, mind you. But he has his pride and mustn’t be insulted.”

     “Yea, mistress,” Gilbert replied, nodding his head agreeably.

     “For the moment that is all, Gilbert.”

     “Yea, mistress.” The man backed away, bobbing his head as he retreated from the hall.

     From the nearby table where he sipped a noggin of ale, Rhys commented, “Can you find no other task for him?” 

     Katherine rubbed her neck, which ached from tension. She wanted naught more than a hot bath and a good night’s rest. But she turned and, placing the king’s edict on the table, sat down across from him, willing to hear him out. “You do not trust him?”

     “Nay,” he responded, setting down his mug on the table top with a loud thump. “I like not his shifting eyes. He is Geoffrey’s man. Think you he is honest?”

     Katherine shrugged with a grimace. “Mayhap. He will be given opportunity to prove himself.” She lifted the goblet of wine Sibyl had left for her. “Starving children tend to compel honesty from malefactors.”

     “What compels you, my lady? Why will you not relent? Naught would please me more but to hold you in my arms.”

     She lunged to her feet at the sudden change of topic with a blush warming her cheeks. “You have no right to speak so.”

     “I told you naught would keep me from you.” Slowly he came to his feet, ensnaring her with a steadfast gaze, much like a wolf on the hunt.

     Katherine returned his stare as though seeing the knight for the first time. ’Twas not like at Bereford, with her emotions churning inside her. Haughmond gave her strength and confidence. She could face Rhys and his demands. She could overcome his allure, for she knew her destiny.

     She tilted her head up to meet his gaze. “And I told you there is no future for us.”

     She was surprised at her cold, calm tone. It seemed to surprise Rhys as well. He had opened his mouth to speak but now closed it.

     She continued with a firm nod of her head, mocking the flutter in her heart. “This is my home. You shan’t insult me before my people. I will not lose their good opinion. I can offer our hospitality.” Her hand swept the air. “And give you what time you need to heal. ’Tis all I can do. But I am a married woman. If you press me elsewise, I’ll—I’ll have you thrown into the dungeon.”

     Rhys threw his head back and laughed. “Ah, you don’t mean that!”

     When she hesitated a moment too long, his smile grew brilliant and he took a step nearer.

     She stepped behind a stool by the tall stone fireplace, feeling foolish to think the small gesture would ward off his advance. But she clamped her mouth in a determined line.

     Rhys’s smile faded. She was sorry, for ’twas so endearing. No longer were his eyes lit with hope.

     “’Twas you who should have been the victor of the tourney. Our future was decided with your loss.” Katherine pressed her point, so affrighted was she that he would force her against her will.

     “Could we not negotiate a different future?”

     She bit her trembling lip at his wistful query. How she wished the same. But returning to Haughmond had made her see her duty. Young Alwin relied on her guidance. He had wept in relief. She must not disappoint her people. Rhys, garbed so splendidly in his armor, was any demoiselle’s fantasy come to life. It took her breath away. Yet he had never looked so forbidding, standing tall and rigid and demanding his own way with a scowl and hunched shoulders.  

     “Why must you press me so greatly?” she asked in the harshest tone she could muster. “Why were you not this determined when you yet had a choice in the matter?”

     His shoulders drooped. “I did not know there would be this longing.”

     Katherine could not meet his eyes. Unable to tolerate the pain, she looked away, but forced herself to continue. “I belong to Sir Dafydd. I must needs reconcile that fearsome thought within my heart.”

     “Then you will accept your husband?”

     Faith, but her wits must be sorely frayed. Did she imagine she heard hope in Rhys’s voice? She looked at him with suspicion.

     “Nay, I will not. Nor will I accept you as lover. You will not compromise my soul. You have your bounden duty to the king. I have mine to Haughmond.” Filled with heartbreak but also with determination, she clung to her desperate resolve. “You do me a dishonor to insist I become your paramour. By all that is holy, I will not.” Pointing with a shaking finger, she commanded, “Begone with you!”

     Rhys cast a dark glower at her. “As you wish, lady. The king is impatient for me. I will find a goodly welcome in Wales.”

     “But you aren’t yet healed,” she exclaimed, his implacable voice raising her fears. “You’re not ready for battle.”

     He stepped closer, drilling her with an icy-cold stare that froze her like a marble statue.

     “Nay, my lady. You cannot have it both ways. I will not abide here and not make love to you.”

     His precious words chilled her heart. “God and His holy Mother, I cannot send you into battle knowing you are not hearty. ’Twould be a death sentence,” she cried, the conflict within her raging out of control.

     “’Tis a death sentence for me to remain and not have you in my arms. God’s bones, Katherine, a man can tolerate only so much. I have tolerated aplenty.”

     “I never meant— ”

      “I guarded your secrets and aided you in your flight. I’ve even bled for you. What more do you want of me?”

     She blinked back hot tears. Yea, he had offered everything she desired, yet he offered naught she could freely embrace. Had he meant for her to feel so conflicted? She swallowed down the unhappy thought.

     “You romanced my heart and delighted my soul,” he whispered and offered her a tentative smile. “All I ask in return is your love.”

     “You ask too much.” Longing gripped her throat.

     Rhys dropped his hands and stepped back, made a swift bow. “Then I will not tarry. I give you good night.” With a growl, he swung toward the door.

     Nay, she wanted to shout. She yearned to call after him, to keep him beside her. His words of love yet whispered to her heart, sweet affections not easily laid aside. Her sweating hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into the yet tender scar in her palm. She fought a gale of emotion and the fear she had lost him forever. Trying to keep from being riven like a newly hewn sapling, she bit her tongue and commanded herself not to call him back.

*  *  *

    By the time Katherine found the strength to drag her weary body from the wooden tub and had dried herself, the bath water was cold. Thankfully, the tension in her neck and shoulders had disappeared. But her mind was not easy, not with Rhys ensconced under the same roof. She padded barefoot to the small hearth, where a bedrobe draped over a stool was warming. Shrugging into the woolen wrap, she picked up her silver comb and began to comb her wet hair, hoping she would escape her provocative musings.

     Unbidden, the vision of what this night would be, had he been her wedded husband, drifted through her imagination—his touch, gentle and demanding by turns as he explored the length of her body, his lips claiming urgent kisses, his probing tongue caressing so enchantingly, the feel of his naked flesh settling over hers in the dark, their legs entwined, her own fingertips in delightful exploration of his brawny physique.

     She had not forgotten the feel of him, nor his touch. Each recollection created a vivid picture in her thoughts. Yet each treasured memory undermined her resolve.

     Gooseflesh erupted on her skin and she scrubbed at her arms. A flush of arousal flickered to life. Her heart skipped a beat. The sudden hot moisture betwixt her legs had naught to do with bath water. Horrified and breathing heavily, she recognized what it meant. Faith, she must subdue this mounting lust.

     Even as her heart raced, yet did it ache at the loss and the emptiness. It ensnared her in despair. Dear Saint Winifred, if Rhys were to materialize at this sensitive moment, she could not prevent whatever he might attempt, not with this need festering within her, this longing for his touch and for the press of his body against hers.

     Soon, her husband would arrive and try to claim his rights. Defiantly, she clenched her fists. Mayhap she would not allow him access to the castle. Let him lay siege to Haughmond! Let him
try
to take his husbandly rights. He would find she was a strong woman, a worthy opponent. She would fight and would not give herself to a man she did loathe.

     Her maid, Agnes, bustled past with a bucket of hot rocks. At the moment the woman’s gray eyes were alight with happiness and the creases in her lined face were all the greater from her broad smile. The tirewoman lifted the thick coverlet Aunt Matilda had embroidered years agone and deposited the rocks in the center of the feather mattress.

     “Ye could do with a warm caudle ye could, m’lady, ere ye retire. I’ll fetch it right quick for yourself,” she said, hurrying back across the chamber, the empty bucket banging against her skirts.

     “Nay, Agnes, you are weary.”

     The servant gave a firm shake of her head and beamed at Katherine. “’Tis what ye should be havin’, m’lady, after such a hard journey. I’ll not be but a moment.” She tugged open the door and disappeared into the corridor.

     Anne rushed in. “How could you send Rhys away with such grievous injuries?” she cried. “He will not be able to defend himself in battle. Alas, he shall be killed. ’Twill be your fault!”

     “Rhys has departed?” Fear constricted Katherine’s throat. She raced to the window and flung open the shutter. The bailey was empty but she heard horses’ hooves thudding over the drawbridge.

     He had not bid her adieu. Tears welled up in her eyes and a lump filled her throat. She had not given him Godspeed. Clenching her fists, she turned back to the room.

     “If he dies, ’twill be your fault.”

     Katherine nigh lost her breath at her sister’s cutting accusation. Why must Anne heap more guilt upon her shoulders? Was her own not sufficient?

     “Mercy.” Her voice came out in a whisper. “You are out of humor.” Only belatedly did she see the tears glistening Anne’s eyes.

     “You deserve every harsh reproach that’s hurled at you,” Anne retorted.

     Katherine paused in consternation. What had caused this outburst? “It does seem strange to me that at this late hour you should display so prodigious a concern for Rhys’s health.” 

     “What becomes of Simon should his master perish on the battlefield?” Anne lamented, wringing her hands.

     Ah, the true measure of her sister’s concern was finally known. Katherine sighed, realizing Anne’s love drove her fears. She tried to be patient. “Take heart, God will safeguard him.”

     “And who will succor us if He does not?”

     “You must have faith.” She put emphasis into her voice and bestowed a disapproving look on Anne, tried to believe her own advice. “Your tongue does need to learn discretion.”

     “’Tis as your own, sister! Do you practice discretion?”

     The marrow of her soul had already been picked clean by Rhys’s unexpected departure. Anne’s savage rebuke was too stunning to tolerate. Backing away from her sister, unshed tears burning the back of her eyes, she turned and ran down the stairs, seeking refuge in the chapel.

     Dropping to her knees at her mother’s tomb, she let the tears fall. “I have not the strength to fight him, Mother mine, yet I fear he will not return from Wales. I cannot have him, but I cannot live without him.” With hands clasped tightly together, she prayed with all the force of her despair.

     Why could Rhys not have been her husband?

     A pox on the king! To secure Haughmond, she had dutifully married—and lost her soul. To her dying day, she would love Rhys of St. Quintin. What could Edward do or say that would be worse? 

     What did it matter, a mere king’s edict?

Chapter Twenty

     Rhys swept off his helm and ducked inside the tent behind the king’s aide-de-camp, not waiting to be announced. His spurs jangled with each determined step. Edward was not going to send him away, sight unseen, not after he and Simon had ridden at breakneck speed to intercept the army before it decamped for Worchester. In the wake of the set down bestowed on him at Bereford, the royal ire must not be allowed to fester. 

     “I came as quickly as I was able, your majesty.” Tucking his helm beneath his arm, he made a swift bow.

     King Edward, seated at a folding table in the midst of the campaign tent, never glanced up from the stack of parchments that absorbed his attention. Like Rhys, he wore full armor. His helm rested within easy reach, as did his steel sword, ready against attack. The remains of a half-eaten meal languished on a gold plate beside him. Sweeping up a matching cup of gold, he took a generous gulp of wine and continued to examine his letters.

     Rhys clenched his jaw. Plainly, he was to await the king’s pleasure. His hopes for a cordial audience dashed, he swallowed down his trepidation at the deliberate insult from a yet angry sovereign.

     A chaplain was keeping vigil in the near corner, his eyes closed, his hands clasped, his lips forming silent words of intercession. Likely the queen had requested his services. Beside him, a tall lad with the long, sturdy legs of a royal messenger, awaited letters for the box slung across his chest.