A Lord for Haughmond (36 page)

     “’Twas but a spurious excuse to starve me apurpose.”

     “Will you have me apologize for the oversight with each new day? ’Twas not an intended slight.”

     “So you own. Yet I do not feel your kindness.” Katherine tugged the coverlet up around her shoulders and gingerly formed a hollow in the feather pillow with her fist and lay down again.

     “Alas, I thought ’twas plain. Or do you wish to exchange beds?”

     Forsooth, the feather mattress
was
soft and warm. Fancying to remain where she was only made the guilt grow stronger. She bit her lip in consternation, unwilling to entertain tender sentiments for this whelp of Sir Geoffrey’s. Not when this occasion reminded her of the last time wherein she shared a chamber with a knight. Her memories conjured up Rhys and a magical time at Warwick.

     If only—

Chapter Twenty-six

     Dafydd regretted smashing the crockery. His hand was bruised—his sword hand. And battle was looming.

     Troops mustered at Worcester in mid May but plans seemed unsettled. Another royal edict arrived at Haughmond Castle, with a new muster scheduled for the second of August at Rhuddlan.

     Dafydd was surprised at the change, but his father was not.

     “The magnates brought pressure on the king, I am sure of it,” Sir Geoffrey declared, sitting back in his saddle, returning the royal message across the space betwixt their horses. A royal messenger had interrupted practice in the tiltyard.

     Dafydd leaned down from his saddle to give the parchment to his squire. The lad raced to the hall to deposit it for safe keeping with the steward.”

     “Consider how many are rallying to the cause,” continued his father, settling his lance in the crook of his arm. “Recruitment is not a problem.”

     The squire came charging back to the tiltyard and swept up his sword and dented helmet, then planted his feet in his best fighting pose, ready to continue his practice with the other squires. 

     “Feudal service allows better opportunity for spoils.” Sir Geoffrey turned with a knowing look. “You can be sure a powerful baron has pressured the king.” 

     Later that day as he bade farewell, returning to Myton Castle to outfit himself and his knights, he quipped, “Let us hope England’s barons are capable of finding the battlefield.”

     Unsettled by the hearty clasp his father bestowed upon him, Dafydd added, “Yea, else they will miss the spoils they hold so dear.”

     “Ah, but we shall not miss the opportunity, shall we, my boy?” Sir Geoffrey laughed, climbing into his saddle. “We will garner much from the king’s bounty.”

*  *  *

     Relief flooded Dafydd with his father’s departure, but this he kept to himself, unlike Katherine. Her laughter peeled through the corridors of the upper floors where she supervised the spring-cleaning of the bedchambers.

     He had been summoned back to Chester. ’Twas yet another thorn in his side that his wife eagerly anticipated his impending departure. She had not liked sharing the bedchamber with him these past days, he knew. Yet since that first night, she endured his presence without complaint. He had hoped they would be able to forge a normal marriage, with lively banter and growing love. But it did seem a fanciful musing. Naught could move his wife to accept Geoffrey de Borne’s son.

     She remained in the chamber with him out of necessity, for he had insisted she help with his armor. ’Twas his squire’s customary duty and she was not amused with the task. The grim set of her mouth made her rancor obvious. He tried to shake off the guilt of being the cause for her present sour mood.

     Her mouth drew his eyes like a butterfly to nectar. What sweet lips! Was she aware how they puckered when she frowned? How soft and pliable they became? How inviting?

     Giving himself a mental shake, he tried to get a grip on his emotions. How could this one moment make a difference, when he had yet to break through his wife’s defenses? But arrayed in full armor and ready to leave, he yet lingered. On all the saints’ souls he yearned for a token, a touch—mayhap an encouraging word—anything he could take with him into battle.

     Katherine thrust his metal helm at him. Stepping away, her eyes remained downcast, shutting him out.  

     “You should be grateful, lady, for the reprieve.”

     Damnation! That wasn’t what he’d meant to say. He sounded like a sharp-tongued shrew.      

     Clearing his throat, he tried again. “I am away, my lady wife. Mayhap you will be grateful for my absence.” He paused, hoping against hope for a response.

     Katherine did not acknowledge him. Her expression remained as hard as stone. She stood silent, her eyes roving everywhere, save in his direction.

     “Would you bequeath me a parting token? ’Twould be gratifying to see a smile upon your winsome face, my lady.”

     “Am I to be locked away each day?” Her gaze remained steadfastly upon the floor.

     His heart leapt with hope. “Nay, dear Katherine.” He attempted a smile. “The castle is yours.”

     “Do you leave your knight to guard me?”

     It took all of his efforts not to take her in his arms and plant a lengthy kiss upon those sweet, red lips. “Nay, my lady wife. You are free from restraints.”

     Still she refused to meet his eyes, but a brilliant smile split her face. “Then I allow ’tis a blessed day.”

     Pain smote him in the chest. Bereft of hope, Dafydd turned on his heel and strode from the chamber.

*  *  *

      In June the English forces were ambushed in the south of Wales and roundly defeated. Angered, anxious to engage the hill people and bestow the might of his wrath upon them, King Edward gathered his troops. Reinforced with a long line of supply wagons, they advanced into Wales with all speed.      

     Assigned to Edward’s main force, Dafydd, along with the rest of Reginald de Grey’s men, pushed to Flint then on to Rhuddlan, fanning out to harry the Welsh and ensure the safety of the army’s flank.

     Hope Castle fell, followed by the castle at Ewloe. Anglesey became Edward’s next objective. He planned to link the island with the mainland by a bridge of boats, and establish an invasion route into Prince Llywelyn’s stronghold of Snowdonia.   

     Boats had been ordered but were too large for the ships to transport them. Edward was furious.

     Dafydd found himself strapped with the responsibility to remedy the complicated operation. It did not please him one whit, for it took him from the fighting and necessitated retracing his journey to Chester, where he must needs purchase stouter vessels and hire more carpenters. His frustration grew all the more, being so nigh to Haughmond, yet held by his duties to the old Roman city. A warrior did not undertake the role of chandler without some burthen.

     Chafing at the enforced inactivity, his thoughts strayed oft to Katherine. Was she safe? Was she well? What did she do with her time? Her daily routine was unknown to him, for she never responded to his daily missives sent by private courier.

     At last they sailed for Anglesey with the refitted ships. But it had cost Edward dearly. ’Twas well past summer when they reached their destination and commenced work on the floating bridge.

     In the mean time, raids from both sides had taken their toll. But little had been accomplished, only that while Dafydd languished in Chester, Queen Eleanor had delivered a daughter at Rhuddlan Castle.

     By the time he landed at Anglesey, the king was anxious to review battle plans. He was just as happy to share his joy at the birth of a healthy child. Edward’s humility at the safe deliverance of his beloved queen showed in his voice. And with his usual vigor the king was already planning alliances. He drew Dafydd into a lively discussion of possible husbands for this newest babe, Elizabeth.

     ’Twas a painful experience, a reminder that Katherine would erelong birth her own babe. Would she be delivered safely? Would the child be healthy? 

     Would it be a boy?

     Shaken to his soul, Dafydd knew ’twould be an ordeal for them both, the day Katherine’s babe came into this world.

     Edward’s command swelled as more foot soldiers and cavalry joined his ranks. In the south of Wales, William de Valence conducted a successful raid. Another skirmish brought Ruthin to its knees, while the garrison of Cardigan landed a large booty when they surprised Gruffydd ap Maredudd ap Owain. ’Twas claimed a great many cattle were taken, along with some grateful English captives.

     Dafydd shook his head at the figure. Three thousand horses? Clearly an exaggeration.

     Never had he felt the limits of his frustration so thoroughly than at Anglesey. Not only was he missing the excitement of combat, but also confined by mundane duties that allowed his concern for Katherine to hinder his thoughts and judgment. Did her condition allow for a hearty appetite? With the responsibility of the castle and its people on her shoulders, did she manage proper rest?

     Was she content?

     He sighed wearily. ’Twas not comforting, the niggling suspicion she may have, indeed, found peace in his absence.      

     With colder days, the insurgents retreated into the fast Welsh mountains. Luke De Tany, commander of the troops at Anglesey, had done his best to prevent supplies from reaching them. But his spies were certain the chieftains were successful in setting aside winter provisions.

     Trying to end the stalemate and the battle of wills, Edward offered Prince Llywelyn an English earldom if he would hand over Snowdonia. But English destruction of Welsh churches and the slaughter of its people, suckling babes included, put an abrupt end to the discussions. In an angry letter Llywelyn refused to fetter his people with servitude.

     The tales abounding through the ranks of the army sickened Dafydd. Innocents were not part of the fight. A warrior set on battle expected attack. Women and children did not. And dear Katherine, she was as vulnerable, if Sir Geoffrey had his way.

     Daily he struggled to keep his mind on the tasks at hand. The bridge building was progressing to his satisfaction, though. Surveying the construction, he inhaled the cold November air. Yea, the structure did look sturdy, floating as it was intended on the waters of the Menai Strait. They would be done in a few more days and this grueling duty would be finished, God be thanked. Overseeing engineers and laborers had not made these months more bearable, even with Edward’s exalted praise.

     A sigh escaped his lips. Katherine’s time of confinement approached. Watching the water of the strait, gray and dark, reflecting the dreary cold day, Dafydd hoped the king would release him. He must needs be at Haughmond. With the birth of his own babe so fresh within his memory, the king must be merciful and grant him leave.

     A shout of laughter punctuated the air and a mounted soldier trotted onto the floating bridge. Beckoning with exuberance, he encouraged others to join him.

     Concerned for the safety of the men on the unfinished structure, Dafydd hastened down to the beach. A festive air had taken hold of the work camp these past days. But this was no way to celebrate. The bridge sagged beneath the weight of additional soldiers and horses.

     “Hold!” he called. The wind threw his voice back at him. He waved his arms and motioned for the enthusiastic soldiers to return. They merely laughed and gestured for him to join them and continued further across the bridge.

     The cold rushing water soaked through the stitching of his boots. Suddenly aware of the danger, leaping back from the rising surf, he shouted and flailed his arms frantically.

     ’Twas too late. The incoming tide swelled and covered the bridge. 

     The swift tidal current swept the soldiers into the icy black water. Floundering, horses whinnied, trying to keep their heads above the churning surf. But they were weighed down with heavy armor. Laughter turned to desperate shouts. The tide rolled in. Bobbing heads disappeared beneath the water’s surface.

     Figures appeared on the far shore of Snowdonia. Welsh long bows sent a barrage of arrows toward the water. The hapless soldiers struggling to stay afloat were cut down, butchered to a man.

     ’Twas over in a moment. The Welsh retreated back into the forest as quickly as they had come. The far shore was empty again.

     Dafydd stood in numbed shock.

     Blinking, unable to believe his eyes, there was naught to see, except the churning surf, eddying and crashing across the strait. The silence—deafening, sickening—was broken by frantic shouts from the stunned soldiers behind him, who raced along the shore in a futile search for survivors. With his stomach resembling that churning tide, he forced down the bitter taste in the back of his mouth and willed himself not to be sick in front of his men.

*  *  *

     Two days later they were yet plucking corpses from the surf.

     Bodies continued to wash up with each new tide, the air pungent with the stench of the dead. Armor, salvaged from the bloated corpses, was set aside. The remains were buried two and three to a grave. But many soldiers were never recovered, their bodies washed out to sea.

     Dafydd stood on the beach with his heart in his throat. The cursed water was calm at the moment, unlike the daily tides that roared in from the sea. Such a waste of English bravado. God humbled mankind in the most startling manner.