A Lord for Haughmond (18 page)

     Katherine cleared her throat and tried to get a grip on her emotions. Yet she found herself frowning at Eleanor. Seated beside the king, the royal lady conversed with the Earl of Bereford and his lady at their linen covered table on the raised dais.

     “I presumed the queen to be wise. For the nonce, I shall recast her in a different mode.” When her words came out sharper than she intended, she bit her lip.

     “Tsk, Eleanor wields much power with the king.” Rhys popped fried rissoles into his mouth and spoke around them. “Keep her in your camp, my lady, and you will gain far more than a momentary loss of confidence.”

     Her frown deepened as the queen laughed at the acrobats and jugglers performing in the center of the room. “She should know what it's like to be compelled to wed a stranger,” she muttered in exasperation.

     “’Twas her fate, if you do remember.”

     Katherine grimaced at Rhys’s gentle reminder. Using her spoon to lift cooked mackerel from the wooden trencher she shared with Anne, she bit into the salty fish and grimaced again. ’Twas Easter day and the end of the most over-long Lenten season in her memory. Forsooth, she was heartily tired of fish.

     Rhys took a pull on his horn of ale and grinned. “Fret not, my lady. On the morrow I may yet best Sir Dafydd and win your hand.” He threw her a lively wink.

     “With all my heart, I pray ’tis so.” Her eyes burned with unshed tears. “You must be my husband, and no other.” 

     Rhys expelled a loud sigh. He shifted in his seat, wincing in pain, then rested his elbows upon the table. He settled his chin in his hand and gazed in the opposite direction.

     Katherine silently chastised herself, recognizing his misease. ’Twas impossible to rein in her high emotions. How was she to forget Rhys as the queen demanded? Just as disturbing, how was he to win the joust in his present condition, when one small movement did cause him pain?

     Biting her lip, she tried not to disturb his solitude, tried to allow him his peace. He appeared to be wholly absorbed in the young pages scurrying about their tasks, his gaze following the flow of food and drink—back and forth—to the numerous tables set along the walls. As though he were a starving man.

     Or trying to distract himself from his pain.

     Crushed beneath scurrying feet, the lavender and thyme in the reeds scented the air with sweet fragrance. Smoke drifted out from the hearth in spurts, whenever a new log was added to the conflagration. The savory scent of freshly cooked food mingled with the fusion. Though mouth-watering, it did naught to mollify the gall ripping at her. She could not blame Rhys for his restiveness. But her burgeoning fears would not allow her to remain silent.

     “Rhys, what if— ”

     “What is that in the queen’s hand?” Rhys swiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve and pointed toward the high table. With avid interest he eyed the metal instrument the queen lifted to her mouth.

    She swung an impatient glance toward the high table. “’Tis called a fork. It pierces the food better than a knife.”

     “God’s bones, ’tis a marvelous invention! I must speak to her silversmith— ”

     “Rhys!” Katherine’s impatience broke. She grabbed hold of his arm. “Could you not implore the king to delay the joust, to give your wounds more time to heal?”

     He shook his head. “He will not heed my plea.” Gently he removed her fingers from his sleeve and patted the back of her hand. “Come now, let us not debate this, let the matter rest.”

     He shifted in his seat once more and gazed across the hall. Presently, he began to drum his fingers upon the tabletop, keeping beat with the musicians’ lively dulcimer and loud timbrels. Tilting his head, he studied the musicians where they entertained from the minstrel’s gallery overhead.

     Katherine could not contain her roiling frustration. “If you would— ”

     “Ah, there is Sir Osbert. I needs speak with him.” Rhys vaulted out of his seat and made a quick bow to her before reaching across the table and taking her hand in his large, warm grasp. “My dearest lady, I must depart your good company. Say a prayer for me, that on the morrow I may find success on the tourney field.”

     She gave a startled cry and came halfway out of her seat, holding him fast, unwilling to relinquish him to so abrupt a parting.

     He placed a lingering kiss into the palm of her hand, then met her gaze as he straightened. “Good eventide, Sweetling.”

     “Rhys! Oh—yea, my love, I shall pray for your safety and a sure victory.” Katherine relished his warmth and strength, clinging to his hand longer than was proper. She did not care. Mayhap Sir Dafydd would take heed and retract his claim. Rhys withdrew his hand and, regaining her seat in frustration and mounting fear, she watched her beloved make his way from the hall.

     “Do you bid farewell to your doughty knight?” Katherine froze at the sound of Sir Geoffrey’s dreadful voice murmuring into her ear. “Know you he cannot win, for the other is reputed to be invincible.” The knight squeezed himself down on the crowded bench beside her, his thigh brushing against her knee. She jerked away.

     “I pray you, beware of danger at Haughmond,” he rasped into her ear.

     “Do you threaten me?” Katherine’s palms grew clammy in spite of her resolve not be feel intimidated.

     “Nay, young Katherine.” Sir Geoffrey’s hands spread in supplication as he leaned treacherously close. “But accidents do befall those who are careless. Out of loving concern, daughter, I seek to warn you. Managing so large a domicile as Haughmond shall be daunting for one so young. ’Twill require much of your time and coin.”

     Katherine surged from her seat, levering herself with a clumsy hand upon Anne’s shoulder.

     Turning in surprise, Anne’s gentle expression transformed to horror when she spied Sir Geoffrey. She leapt out of her seat.

     Sir Geoffrey came to his feet with a smile that didn’t reach his brittle blue eyes.

     “Your advice is most needless, Sir Geoffrey,” Katherine murmured, stepping back a pace and looping her arm protectively through Anne’s. “Let me counsel you to journey to Shropshire, and by the king’s command, to remove your belongings to Myton Castle with all due speed.”

     Geoffrey’s eyes narrowed. Though his mouth still lifted in a smile, his expression chilled Katherine to the bone. “Let hope ever abound with you, young Katherine.”

     His sharp, cutting comment prompted Anne to tug violently on her sleeve. From the panic on her face, she knew her sister was desperate to quit the hall. But the time had come that Sir Geoffrey should know her mettle, else he’d put to flight any valor she might yet own. She would not spend the rest of her days fleeing from this wicked cockatrice. He must be made to understand her strength of purpose.

     She took a cleansing breath. Her arm tightened around Anne’s waist. Straightening her spine, she met his squinting gaze. “Yea, hope does abound for a happier future. So too does faith. ’Tis our strength and our salvation against all who would do us harm.” Though her pulse hammered mightily, her guarded tone grew stronger. She managed to toss her head, laying emphasis to her confidence. “But like a cat who has squandered its nine lives, you have abused your share of charity. Begone from Haughmond, and right quickly.”

     Sir Geoffrey’s frown and clenched fists evinced his fury. Katherine was not surprised, for she provoked him deliberately, making sure her voice carried. Heads turned and interested gazes focused on them. Sir Geoffrey must have realized the same, for he looked around uneasily.

     His displeasure shifted back to Katherine, but she refused to look away, staring him down with her own severe expression.

     With his lips compressed, Sir Geoffrey turned on his heel and stalked away.

*  *  *

     The day of the joust broke sunny and clear. Sick with disappointment and roiling fear, Katherine buried her face in the feather pillow. Alas, the Blessed Mother had not heard her prayer for a late winter storm. Compounding her dread tenfold was an exhaustion that had settled into her chest and all but suffocated her, brought on by a night of sleeplessness. Disturbing inventions of her mind had her tossing and turning throughout the dark hours and weighed heavier on her than any daytime drudgery she had ever undertaken. It took all of Anne’s frantic urging to drag her from their bed and to face the unwelcome day.

     When at last she departed their bedchamber, ’twas doubly difficult, for there existed the atmosphere of a carnival throughout the castle community. Easter week, with its stringent laws, was finished and merriment had commenced. The inhabitants of Bereford donned their best clothing, glad for the additional holiday the joust brought. They converged on the wine shops or gathered around the cockfights, cheering on their favorites while munching on meat pies. Only later, after much merrymaking, did they flock to the tourney field, by then well into their cups.  

     Before she must join the king, Katherine escaped to Rhys’s tent, intent upon tying her blue-hued scarf about his arm.

     Garbed in only his linen shirt and drawers, and half-hosed, he was drawing up the other woolen stocking when she burst in on him.

     “For you, Rhys, for good luck!” she exclaimed, sidestepping the armor on the ground to drape the scarf about his neck. When he straightened in alarm, she threw her arms around his near naked frame and planted a warm kiss upon his lips.

     He pulled back from her, yet in a moment his reserve seemed to melt and his mouth began to quirk with amusement. “’Tis more than good fortune when a winsome lass bestows her favor thus delightfully,” he laughed and swept her into his arms, returning her kiss with a passion she had not anticipated, nor ever experienced. His lips, warm and demanding, and tasting faintly of ale, slanted against hers, captivating her with unexpected pleasure. His blond whiskers brushed across her cheek, kindled her skin, aroused her senses. Her arms slid along the smooth texture of his linen shirt, across the knotted ties hanging loose at his neck. Through the soft cloth she delighted in the ruggedness of his neck, the brawn of his shoulders, the rough flesh of his healing wound. Rippling muscles bunched beneath her fingers sent a thrill coursing through her, simmering and throbbing as though alive, vibrating every inch of her flesh.

     Her hands grew bolder, slid across the puckered scars, touching, pressing, caressing. She suddenly became aware of his state of undress and his naked flesh beneath his shirt. She really should desist. Yet her inquisitive hands did not check the delectable search, but found their way up his neck and into his newly cropped hair, brushing the golden strands into place—even as she was gathered up against him.

     Hard and lean, the muscles rippled over his sturdy frame. His body enchanted her. Pressed tightly to him, his strength penetrated the woolen cloth of her gown and blazed into her own frame. The potency of him as he imprisoned her, tingled her flesh, shook the very foundation of her world, overpowered her will.

     Locked within Rhys’s arms, straining to catch the fullness of his ardor against her own flesh, Katherine trembled, knowing how this would end. She would yield to him, to the man she loved. She yearned for his lovemaking. ’Twas her last chance for happiness, and she would have him this day. Pressing herself closer, scarcely able to breathe, she kissed him all the harder.

     “Hah, while the cat’s away the mice will play.” Simon’s sarcasm filled the tent.

     With a gasp, Katherine reeled away in embarrassment.

     The squire brushed past her, to crouch by a large wooden chest that stood in the far corner of the tent. He flung open the lid.

     She sidled a glance toward Rhys, then gaped, heat rising in her cheeks. Standing amid the accouterments of his trade, his chest heaving with panting breaths, he displayed a loincloth nigh bursting with his aroused ardor. Her eyes widened. ’Twas a fascinating sight, for she had only her imaginings to stoke an unfettered curiosity and the remembrances of Haughmond’s rutting bull in the field.

     Simon must have thought elsewise. “Put it away, Rhys, you’ve a joust to win.” The squire’s disgust was obvious in his crude growl.

     Mortified that the squire had witnessed her ardor, Katherine whirled and stumbled from the tent.

*  *  *

     ’Twas a short time later that Katherine found herself in the king’s pavilion at the center of the tourney field. While Edward and his queen took their seats amid exuberant cheering from the spectators, someone—the nun?—directed her to a bench. She deliberately ignored the dark figure seated beside her, preferring to relive those precious moments in Rhys’s arms.

     He would have made love to her. She could have taken that small token of happiness into a loveless marriage. With all her heart, she wished it had come to pass. She wanted him as she had never wanted anything in her life, save Haughmond. Therein lay her frustration. A pox on the king! Why couldn’t she have them both? She balled her fists, crushing the linen hanky within her hand. “Blessed Mary, he must be the victor, he must be the victor!” She prayed in silent desperation, her sight fixed upon the tents on the yon side of the field, her imagination conjuring up her beloved’s face.

     A blaring fanfare of trumpets sounded and a herald, in his scarlet tabard, stepped forward to proclaim the opening of the joust. Anne’s hand nudged hers and Katherine clutched her sister’s cold fingers. She met Anne’s worried gaze and suddenly realized how crowded the purple-draped pavilion had become. ’Twas natural the king and queen were seated at the middle of the platform, with the lords and ladies of the court surrounding them. But Sir Geoffrey’s presence was wholly unsettling. When he turned and caught her aghast stare, Katherine was quick to look elsewhere.

     Nearby, the Bishop of Bereford sat in a silent fit of pique, his folded hands showing white knuckles. Though she remembered him condemning the entertainment as a frivolous display of vanity, the king had ignored his ecclesiastical threats. When his entreaties proved fruitless, the bishop had lapsed into prayer.