Rhuddlan (99 page)

“Me?” Her voice was thick with disbelief.

“You were a good wife once you’d decided to
be one. I thought I could at least try to be a good husband.”

“Charming…” she muttered.

“Now I’m asking
you
for another chance,”
he said. “This time, I want to be part of the agreement. All
right?”

“What about the earl?” she asked
cautiously.

“He’s my problem, Teleri. Nothing to do with
you.”

“Your men will say—”

“I don’t care what they’ll say,” he cut in
curtly. “He’s nothing to do with them, either.”

She studied him. He was no longer looking at
her; instead, his gaze was directed at the floor. He drank again
from the jar.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He glanced up quickly and because his face
was closer now to her lamp than before, she could quite plainly see
the surprise in his eyes, almost as if he couldn’t believe she had
guessed he was hiding something. She had to press her lips together
to keep from laughing, which would have been a reaction prompted as
much by pent-up emotion as his amazement that he was so easily
read.

“I don’t blame you for Chester not being
here,” he said in a low voice. “It’s my fault.”

“How so?” she demanded.

He looked away again. “Richard didn’t want to
come back here; he wanted to go straight to Llanlleyn. But two of
Chester’s men attacked me on the road and because he’d been
watching me ride off, he saw them and came to help me. And then,
figuring there was trouble here, I persuaded him to come with me to
find out what it was. We heard Haworth confronting Lene; we knew
Llanlleyn was under attack or about to be attacked by our own men
and again Richard wanted to go there and again, I persuaded him to
wait.” He paused. “I had this idea to foul Haworth’s plan to take
Rhuddlan and it worked. We got rid of the scaling ladders he’d
made, but when we crossing the river to escape his men, Richard was
shot.” He exhaled noisily. “I pulled him onto the riverbank but I
couldn’t help him. He died in my arms…”

Teleri felt her eyes burn in sympathy. Poor
Sir Richard! Small wonder Longsword felt guilty. “I’m sorry,
William,” she said softly. “But you can’t blame yourself.”

His head snapped up, his eyes intense. “Can’t
I? Well, I do, Teleri. But it’s even worse than that. You see, I
had another great plan when I was at Llanlleyn. I wanted Olwen to
help me escape so I could join fitz Maurice and attack Haworth, but
she thought it would be too difficult for me to get out of the
fortress undetected and too risky for her to help me. They didn’t
like her very much now that Rhirid was dead, apparently; they
distrusted her because of her relationship with a Norman. She said
she would go instead. She would get out while Guri and his men were
occupied with Haworth and warn fitz Maurice. I never saw her again,
Teleri! And neither did fitz Maurice!”

“You think Sir Roger or one of his men…?”

“Killed her? I can’t think of any other
possibility.”

She didn’t speak. It was plain to her that he
was tormented by the problem and she had to fight her old jealousy
of the attention paid to Olwen. Of course, she told herself, he was
concerned. He believed he’d caused Delamere’s death and now
Olwen’s. He felt guilty. She studied him; he was staring into the
murky depths of his jar of wine with such obvious anguish that, for
the first time since she’d known him, she was sorry for him. He was
like her now, bereft of confidant and no one to talk to but
servants or retainers.

“I can think of another possibility…” she
said softly.

He looked up immediately. “What?”

“Maybe she never left the fortress.”

“Do you mean she was lying to me? I don’t
believe that, Teleri! She was frantic for her children.”

“No. I mean perhaps she was prevented from
leaving.”

“By Guri? Do you think so?”

She shrugged.

He stared at her. There was a glint of hope
in his eyes. “I have to know…” he said in a quiet voice.

“Are you certain you want to know?” she asked
warningly. “It may be just as you think.”

“I’m certain.”

She paused a moment to think it through and
then she said, “Well, even if you could stand the journey, I don’t
suppose Guri will be happy to see you or your soldiers again for
quite a while. I suppose I can go. Explain what happened. Bring him
a few gifts to placate him and make him look like a strong leader
to his people. He’ll appreciate that.”

Longsword frowned. “Don’t overdo it, Teleri.
He killed one of my men. It would have been fitz Maurice if he
hadn’t stopped to speak with your messenger.”

She bowed her head in acknowledgement. “There
is one other consideration, William…”

“What’s that?”

“Sir Richard’s sons. If the
worst
has
befallen
Olwen—”

“By all means, you must bring them back to
Rhuddlan, Teleri!” he cut in with sudden enthusiasm. She knew he
saw at once the chance to redeem himself, to expiate some small
portion of his guilt. “I will raise them as if they are my own. In
this, at least, I will not fail Richard.”

Part VI

Chapter 60

August, 1181

Avranches, Normandy

The page ran up the twisting steps, hardly
mindful of the steep ascent or even where he put his feet although
the way was dim and the grudging light from his tallow candle
fluttered dangerously with his movement and threatened to
extinguish itself with every footfall. The boy was young and knew
where he was going; the candle had been given to him not for his
benefit but to use to light the lamps in the chamber to which he
hurried. He was on an important errand, one which would make up for
being pulled rudely from his pallet, ordered to wash his face and
dress carefully and packed off up the steps to deliver his
message.

As he reached the landing, he paused to
collect his breath. He suddenly felt very nervous. He would be
closer to the viscount than he’d ever been and he worried that he
might stammer or drop something or present the wrong apparel…He
wished that he hadn’t been chosen for this honor. He glanced
longingly back at the steps, now almost hidden in darkness.

But there were others waiting on his
fulfillment of his task, not merely the viscount. He confronted the
closed wooden door before him and debated knocking or simply
entering, finally deciding upon the latter. After all, if the
viscount didn’t want his pages walking straight into his chamber,
then he would have barred the door before going to bed.
Tentatively, he lifted the latch; it went up very easily and he
knew the door wasn’t barred.

In contrast to his earlier energy, the boy
now crept deliberately across the floor so as not to make a sound.
The flame of the candle was steady. There was the bed and in it,
the shape of a man. The boy could hear his rhythmic breathing, soft
and low, and hesitated again. He’d never woken someone so important
before. How would the man react? Perhaps he was in the middle of a
good dream. Would he be angry? Annoyed? Would he shout at him,
perhaps cuff him? He was a powerful man, not merely a viscount of
Normandy but an earl, a premier magnate, of England—he could do
anything he wanted and who would deny him?

“Did you come here with some purpose, boy, or
just to ogle?”

The voice was gruff and sharp. The page’s
head shot around. Sitting in an alcove under the window was Roger
of Haworth. The unexpected sight so startled the young messenger
that he gasped and dropped his candle onto the floor, where it
quickly ignited one of the rushmats placed there to protect the
lord’s feet from chill.

Haworth cursed and jumped down from his seat.
He snatched a blanket from the bed and began beating at the flames.
In little time, the fire was out, leaving the room in darkness and
filled with choking, hazy smoke.

He coughed and was about to turn on the boy,
when Hugh’s voice came casually from the bed. “Is there a problem,
Roger?”

“No, my lord.” He hissed at the page, “Fetch
another light!” His eyes were adjusting again to the darkness and
he could see the cloud hanging in the air. He waved his arms in an
effort to dispel what he could, sending it in the direction of the
open window.

Hugh sat up, watching him. “You shouldn’t be
doing that, Roger. You’ll aggravate your side. Anyway, it’s not
accomplishing much.”

“That damned boy almost killed us!”

“You must have frightened him.”

“I told that bloody steward not to send
anyone up this morning!”

The boy came running back with a lamp.
Following a terse command from Haworth, he used a spill to light
the candles on the room’s two tripods, then bowed deeply to the
viscount and his captain and hastily retreated.

Hugh yawned. “He’s very busy, Roger. I’m sure
he didn’t forget simply to offend you.” He shoved the remaining
bedclothes back, swung his feet to the floor, stood up and
stretched. “I see you’re ready to go.”

Haworth’s anger dissolved instantly at the
sight of the body he loved so much. After all the years, after the
betrayals, he was still in thrall to this man. And his devotion
must finally be reciprocated, he thought, for hadn’t Hugh been
faithful to him since that final confrontation with the Bastard? He
had been lucky; the arrow had been stopped by a rib—shattering it,
of course; even now he couldn’t lie on his right side and damp
weather gave him pain every time he breathed but he would have been
killed except for that rib—and there had been the inevitable
illness afterwards which the Welsh healer had brought him through.
Those days at Llanlleyn and the services of the Welshman,
subsequently brought to Hawarden, had cost Hugh plenty in cattle,
horses and coin, Haworth knew, but Hugh never mentioned it. And
wasn’t he the reason the earl had abandoned Hawarden? With the near
fatal shooting, Hugh had had enough. Once Haworth had been well
enough to travel, Hugh had left a skeleton garrison at the castle,
paid off most of his mercenaries, taken his treasures and retreated
with Haworth and a moderate bodyguard to various of his English
properties. It was, Haworth thought, as if the knowledge that he’d
almost lost Haworth had finally made the earl realize how much he
loved him.

“Ready, yes, my lord.”

“You don’t sound very enthusiastic,
Roger.”

Haworth knew Hugh disliked unsolicited advice
but he was obviously expecting it or his voice wouldn’t have held
that familiar note of irritation. Haworth obliged him. “I don’t
like this, my lord,” he said earnestly. “What Lord Aymer proposes
is dangerous. How could he even think to involve you?”

“He remembers whose side I backed during the
Great War.”

“But surely the king is watching you…”

“We’ve been through this before, Roger!
Henry’s not a brooder. And the only thing he schemes at is marrying
his children to partners whose land will increase his empire. It’s
been three years! Either the Bastard never told him or it’s not
important enough for him to care about.”

“I hope you’re right…”

“I am.” He looked around. “You haven’t used
the pot, have you?”

“Of course not, my lord! I went to the
privy.” Haworth got to his knees and poked underneath the bed. He
emerged with a chamberpot which he placed on the floor in front of
Hugh.

Over the sudden noise, Hugh continued, “And
just in case I’m wrong, I don’t wish to offend my neighbors, do I?
I might be the one looking for allies. So I’ll entertain Aymer and
his brothers for a few days, pretend sympathy with their plight and
promise them nothing.” He finished relieving himself in silence and
then went over to a side table. “Anyway, I don’t think they’re
serious. The prince has been successfully asserting his physical
power in Aquitaine for a few years. They can’t fight him. Better
for them to try to obtain satisfaction through legal means. If they
appeal to the king, he would probably intervene.” He splashed water
over his face and held out a hand for the towel Haworth placed in
it. “Didn’t you sleep well, Roger?” he asked. “You woke me several
times with your tossing.”

Haworth picked up the frothing pot and put it
outside the chamber door. “I’m sorry, my lord. I was restless. My
side ached and it was hard to get comfortable. That usually means
bad weather.”

“Oh? The women won’t like rain.”

“Perhaps you might suggest they don’t join
us…”

Hugh threw the towel to him. “Roger, we spoke
of this last night. They want to come. What do you care? They won’t
have anything to do with you. You frighten them.”

“Women don’t belong on a hunt, my lord. They
ruin it. They don’t know when to keep quiet, they can’t control
their horses and they laugh too much. We probably won’t kill
anything.”

Hugh grinned. “Just keep your arrows away
from them, Roger! I don’t want any accidents…”

The hunting party departed the castle after
Mass, a long and noisy line of woodsmen, hunters, horses, dogs,
servants, carts and wives. There were only two in the last category
but to Haworth’s prejudiced ears, they were making the loudest
noise. Their high-pitched voices and squeals of laughter made him
gnash his teeth in annoyance.

He rode near the front of the line next to
Gilbert le Loop, the huntsman. Gilbert was only in his early
twenties, young to be the premier huntsman of a great estate, but
his father and predecessor had died of a fever the year before Hugh
and Haworth had arrived and the steward had simply appointed him in
his place. Gilbert had grown up at Avranches and had been his
father’s constant companion. He knew every deer and rabbit trail in
the forest at the northern limit of the demense and he described to
Haworth the quarry he had in mind to offer Hugh, a large and
well-proportioned stag which he called the Young King.