A Lord for Haughmond (37 page)

     He caught his breath, suddenly realizing the enormity of the disaster. His sword hand began to shake.

     Rhys’s transgressions would plague him no more.

     A weight the size of Wales lifted from his shoulders. But tears burned in his eyes as he realized the pain this meant for Katherine.

     Falling to his knees, he offered up a desperate prayer of thanksgiving.

*  *  *

     Dafydd was astounded when Sir Geoffrey entered his tent that same evening. His father was late in joining the muster due to a shortage of mounts for his household knights. But a portion of his prayer had been answered—God be thanked, with his father here Katherine was safe for the time being.

     “How many died?” Sir Geoffrey asked, after the briefest of greetings. He heard about the accident on his way through the camp and seemed more intrigued than horrified.

     “I have not asked.” Dafydd shook his head. “Newly arrived Gascon soldiers did not know any better. They encouraged others to follow them.”

     “I heard ’twas close to three hundred. A terrible loss.”

     “What brings you to Anglesey, Sir Geoffrey?” He changed the subject, not willing to dwell on the tragedy. “You were able to find a suitable mount?”

     “Mayhap.” His father lounged against a wooden chest. “My stallion is young and not thoroughly trained.”

     “That could prove dangerous.”

     “Well I know it!” Sir Geoffrey stretched his legs out in front of him. “If I am unable to manage the steed I will return to Myton, rather than find a Welsh arrow in my arse! Paying the king’s fine is of little consequence by comparison.”

     The flap of the canvas tent moved. Simon stepped inside. “I was told you have a visitor— ” His voice ground to a halt at the sight of Sir Geoffrey.

     Lunging to his feet, Sir Geoffrey swept his sword from its scabbard. “What does this boy do here?” he rasped.

     Dafydd leaped forward, blocking the thrusting sword tip. “Hold, father! Simon is not your enemy. He is my squire.”

     “He is that knight’s squire.”

      “That he was,” Dafydd corrected, gently but steadily pushing the sword tip away. “Rhys of St. Quintin is dead.”

     “He drowned in the accident?”

     “Many drowned. He is dead.”

     Lowering his sword, Sir Geoffrey shoved it back into the scabbard with a bark of laughter. “’Tis fortuitous. A stroke of luck for us, would you not say? Now all that remains is for his bastard to be dispatched.”

     Dafydd turned to Simon with a swift, hard glare. “Fetch my father some wine.”

     With a glower the squire ducked out of the tent.

     “The birth will not be long, eh?”

     Dafydd gave a brief nod. “A matter of weeks.”

     “I could end your troubles, my boy.” Sir Geoffrey leaned close and continued in a low voice. “’Tis easy if one knows how to proceed.”

     Staring fixedly at his father’s scabbard, he dared ask, “You have a plan?”

     A smile touched Sir Geoffrey’s lips. “When the babe is born do not allow it to suckle. A few days without nourishment— ”

     “Nay!” Horror clenched Dafydd’s stomach. Once anon, he must seek to turn a heedless reaction to his advantage. ’Twas easier each time. “’Tis murder, Father. I do not fancy excommunication.”

     “But of course.” Sir Geoffrey’s tone became soothing. “’Twill not be necessary to imperil your soul. Leave everything to me.”

*  *  *

     Determined to put an end to the fighting, King Edward ordered more magnates to join the forces at Carmarthen. Recruitment of fresh infantry from the southwest swelled the royal forces. Attacks against Snowdonia harried the inhabitants, torched buildings, left naught to sustain the living against the coming winter.

     The sword was not needed where hunger abounded. Yet the Welsh took heart with their victory at the Menai Strait, attacking and retreating more fiercely.

     Dafydd’s troops were difficult to control after the brutal carnage at Angelsey. They had powerful reason to vanquish the enemy.

     On one of their frequent patrols, Dafydd and his mounted troops unexpectedly came across tracks of mounted riders. Much heartened, they gave chase. ’Twas not long when they overtook a small Welsh force.

     The insurgents tried to flee. But the mud was deep and the trees were thick. Dafydd ordered a detachment of his troops on ahead.

     Soon they had the Welsh surrounded. But the enemy would not give up.

     The English were as determined.

     Sir Geoffrey, having taken to joining Dafydd in his daily forays, tried to engage a Welsh soldier, but his mount turned unruly in the heat of battle. Sawing on the reins and stabbing his horse’s ribs with his sharp spurs, he barely escaped the swing of a Welsh mace.

     One particular combatant drew Dafydd’s attention. The knight compelled respect, possessing the proud aura of a chieftain, wielding his sword as a true leader. Even his saddle was tooled a mite better than the average soldier. He fought his way toward the warrior. ’Twas plainly a man worth sparing for ransom.

     A sword suddenly smote the air at his left and came at him again. With raised sword he met the attack, deflecting the blows. Standing in his stirrups, hammering from one direction and then another, he pounded his attacker with relentless slashes. One last lightning-fast thrust of his sword ended the engagement.

     By the time he turned and could urge his destrier forward, Sir Geoffrey had control of his mount and was heading towards the proud warrior.

     Dafydd shouted through the din of the battle, but Sir Geoffrey did not stop. Leveling his sword like a jousting lance he charged the man from the side and ran him through. The Welshman slouched in his saddle, his sword falling from his glove.

     With a growl of anger, Dafydd urged his steed closer. In dismay, he watched his father swing his sword again. The sharp blade sliced into the man’s neck. In a splatter of blood, his head separated from his body, toppling to the ground. The body, caught within the high-backed saddle and spurting blood into the air, required a push from Sir Geoffrey’s boot before it tumbled into the mud.

     In moments, it seemed, the fighting ceased. The few Welsh that yet lived gave up the fight, laying down their weapons and holding up their hands in defeat.

     Dafydd halted beside the body on the muddy ground. Dismounting, sheathing his sword, he nudged the torso over with his boot. Raising his visor, he hunkered down to examine it, even lifting the bloody head that had lost its helmet, holding it by its dark mane of hair, turning it from side to side. Two of his knights came to peer over his shoulder.

     “What think you?” inquired Will. “Was this one worth a ransom?”

     He straightened to his full height and eyed his friend with a significant look. “I reckon ’tis Llywelyn himself.”

     Will bent to have a closer look and let out a long whistle. “The king would reward us had we captured him alive.”

     Dafydd made a sound of disgust. “We will needs fetch the body back to Edward. Let us hope ’tis not the Welsh prince my father has skewered else the king will deny the boon I ask of him.”

     With a grin, Will rose to his feet. “The cat jumps either way, my friend. Mayhap he will praise you for bringing the Welsh to their knees. With Llywelyn dead, who becomes the leader for his people to rally behind?” He backhanded a friendly blow to Dafydd’s arm. “A pence says this will make of you a hero.” He winked and rasped in a whisper, “Better you than Sir Geoffrey.”                 

*  *  *

     Dafydd had the right of it. They had slain Prince Llywelyn.

     But Will had the right of it, thereto, for Edward was jubilant and attached no blame for the unfortunate slaying. He sent the body back to Snowdonia, so all of Wales would know of his power. The prince’s head was carted off to London, to be displayed upon a well-placed pike. 

     Gracious in his victory, the king deigned to grant Dafydd’s leave.

     Never had he packed so hastily. Within the hour, their possessions tossed thither and yon into satchels, he and his two squires departed for Haughmond.

     Galloping across Wales as though the whole Welsh nation nipped at their heels, they made Rhuddlan Castle the first night. Though crowded with the king’s men-at-arms, space was found for their tent by the wall in the outer bailey.

     They had just left a gracious feast hosted by the queen, when the trumpet announced new arrivals. His breath caught in his throat at the sight of Sir Geoffrey and his knights riding into the castle.

     Sir Geoffrey spied him at once and turned his horse in their direction. “This steed is unfit,” he declared, dismounting from his dancing destrier. “I have paid the royal fine and am homeward bound. How fortuitous we caught up with you. We can journey together.”

     His hands itched to run Sir Geoffrey through with the nearest sword. He had left his father behind apurpose.

     A chill coursed down his spine. His palms broke into a sweat. “How very fortuitous,” he replied. The calm in his voice was reassuring, but his heart pounded as though he were in the midst of battle. “I thought you eager for war. Does the king not require you?”

     Sir Geoffrey gave him a quizzical frown. “I should think you more important to Edward, yet he releases you.”

     Dafydd shrugged. He did not dare do more for fear he would attack his father. While Sir Geoffrey had remained in Wales Katherine was safe.

     But that had changed in a split second.

*  *  *

     They rode hard. Hoping the others would lag behind, Dafydd did not spare the horses. To his chagrin, Sir Geoffrey matched his pace.

     They found lodging in Chester the second night, then headed south into Shropshire. By the time they approached Shrewsbury, the horses’ quivering flanks steamed in the cold December air. They paid their toll and crossed the bridge, then thundered across the flat land eastward, following the Severn River, a long dark ribbon cutting through the landscape. It set his heart aracing. Erelong, he would see Katherine.

     At last, perched atop the rocky limestone hill, Haughmond Castle came into view.

     It drew him like a homing pigeon. Village hounds set up an unending chorus as they cleared the empty fields and entered the small hamlet at the foot of the hill. Wood smoke rising from the openings in thatched roofs welcomed him like ethereal sprites, beckoning him closer.

    
Missed you.

     The wind blowing in his face murmured again,
Missed you,
and urged him homeward. Up the narrow street he flew, climbing closer, climbing to Katherine. A trumpet blast pierced the air above his head where soldiers gathered on the ramparts.

     He pulled rein. He was home. Home to Katherine! Joy burst within his breast.

     Beside him, Sir Geoffrey let loose an angry oath. Struggling to restrain his impatient destrier, wheeling the stallion in a tight circle, he called up to the guard, “Tell the lady her husband arrives.”

     Dafydd’s gladsome mood evaporated into dread as his father added in a shout, “Say thereto, her lover is dead!”

Chapter Twenty-seven

     On Saint Winifred’ s bones, she did not believe a word of it. Rhys was not dead. 

     Yet Katherine’s chest ached, felt as though it would explode, as she sat with bowed head at the high table. Had she lost him? Was the staggering tale soothfast and she could do naught to change it? Was this crippling agony to be with her evermore?

     The chef had amassed his underlings to create a grand feast for Sir Dafydd. Slabs of venison arrived at the high table and the carver placed the choicest slices on the silver plate her husband insisted they share.

     ’Twas of no consequence. Her stomach did protest the sight and smell of the offerings presented by Haughmond’s eager pages. Her spoon yet rested upon the white tablecloth beside her untouched napkin. 

     Platters of whole roasted swans decked out in their lush feathers and served with
chaudron
, the sharp sauce she usually adored, were paraded past. Stuffed piglets, raised pies of mutton, mashed turnips with onions, dried fruits and three puddings did follow—everything the lord of the castle would expect.

     She ate none of it. Even her goblet of sack went untouched. Sir Dafydd tried to tempt her with a
sotelte
in the shape of an eagle but she declined.

     Laughter erupted at the back of the hall. Katherine threw a scowling glare at the soldiers. Dirty and tired, they had wolfed down the hearty meal and were indulging Haughmond’s knights with tales of Welsh combat, tales that both unsettled and exhilarated the listeners.

     Sitting beside her husband, she ignored him and his comments, wrapped up completely in a world of her own making—of despairing hopelessness.

     She shifted awkwardly, seeking a comfortable position in her high-backed chair. Beneath her aching heart the babe in her womb stirred. ’Twas a common occurrence with the birth so near. She winced from a sudden harsh kick, yet she welcomed the pain. It distracted from her greater suffering.

     To be sure, ’twas a boy, with such strength.

     Rhys’s son.

     Sorrow swept over her. This child was all that remained of her beloved. She slid her arm beneath her swollen belly, drawing comfort from the energetic movements coming from within her womb, and held her babe.

     Rhys’s babe.

     A heavy hand descended upon her shoulder. She started as though scorched by a burning ember. It took a moment to realize her husband awaited her, his extended hand nigh beneath her nose. She stared at the work-worn hand a long moment. Then, with a stuttering breath, she placed her fingers—ever so slowly—within the large calloused palm. She hated that Sir Dafydd was here and Rhys was not. She hated her position as Sir Dafydd’s lady. She hated his strength, that he breathed and moved and—spoke.