Castle of Dreams (26 page)

There before her spread the castle and its
grounds. She looked across the inner bailey, with its temporary
wooden buildings, to the inner wall and gate, just being closed and
barred for the night, over the outer enclosure where the town was
growing, to the high, wide outer wall, where the gate was already
securely fastened, and to the fields and the thick forest beyond.
Deep in that forest, Rhys and Branwen were sitting by the
ever-burning fire, eating their evening meal and perhaps talking of
her. She felt a pang in her heart, a longing to be with them, and
lonely tears rose.

“No, I won’t cry,” she muttered. She whirled
around so her back was to the forest, and in this direction she
could see below her the shallow spot in the river where the ford
was, and then downriver until the trees closed in and the river
turned out of sight among them. Above her the evening sky arched,
pink and gold in the west, blending to a deep blue overhead, a blue
that grew even darker as she watched, until a single brilliant star
appeared in the western sky.

She knew the platform on which she stood
would become the wooden floor of Lord Guy’s personal chamber, the
highest, most private room in all the castle. She could see the
workmen had begun construction of the alcoves in the stone walls
where the windows would one day be, a recess at each side of the
room. The lord of Afoncaer would have the view she had just seen,
the view she could no longer see because suddenly it was night. She
had lingered too long and now she must get down the narrow stairs
in the dark.

She gathered her skirt into her right hand
and with her left hand felt for the newel stone, while her feet
searched out the first step.

She went down slowly, feeling her way. It
would be hard for attacking soldiers to fight their way up these
stairs, she realized, and that was the purpose of their plan, but
just now she was unsteady and a bit fearful that she would fall.
She heard a noise coming from the basement, the ground floor just
below her.

“Who’s there?” she cried out. She took two
more steps down, around the spiral and into flickering
torchlight.

The floor of the basement was the solid rock
upon which the castle was built. A man knelt on the floor, checking
the masonry. He held a torch in one hand, moving it along the wall
as he ran his other hand over the smooth stones. The light was so
bad she did not recognize Guy until his inspection brought him
around to face her. He nodded, apparently not at all surprised to
see her.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, wondering in
her ignorance of such matters if the masons’ work had been faulty
and the entire keep would collapse.

“Not at all. One of the first rules of
survival in battle is always to supervise closely the preparations
others have made for you, even if you trust them completely. The
final details were finished in here today. Can’t you smell the
fresh mortar?” He stuck the torch into a sconce and looked at her.
“Do you like the lord’s chamber? I saw you looking over the
wall.”

“It will be worthy of a Norman baron. High,
and separate from the common folk.”

“There are times when privacy is pleasant.
And times when it is essential.”

Meredith could feel herself blushing under
his steady gaze, but she did not move when he stepped nearer. “Are
you happy here, Meredith? Isabel is not unkind to you?”

“The Lady Isabel is different from anyone I
have ever met before.”

“I’m certain she is.”

The torch flickered, then flared brightly as
a draft blew through the room. In the changing light Guy’s handsome
face was thrown into sharp relief. Meredith fought the urge that
nearly overcame her each time she saw him, the need to touch him,
to run her fingers over those chiseled features, to assure herself
he was real and not a dream. He must have felt the same urge, for
the back of his hand lightly brushed her cheek.

“You grown more beautiful with every day,” he
said. He pushed gently at the kerchief covering her hair and it
came off. He let it fall to the stone floor.

“Don’t, please.” Her hands fluttered up to
cover the offending redness of her hair. He caught her wrists, and
with a motion that was rough and at the same time oddly gentle,
drew her arms slowly around her waist, pulling her forward until
she was embracing him. She felt his hands move across her back,
holding her. She felt his lips on her forehead, at her temple,
sliding down to pause at her ear and then settle where neck met
shoulder.

She should make him stop. She should not let
him go on, and yet how indescribably sweet was his embrace, how
tender the slow caress of his lips across her throat. She clung to
him, unable to break away, as his mouth finally reached hers and he
gathered her even more closely against his chest. He was strong and
warm, and the rich masculine scent of him filled her senses. When
his tongue brushed across her lips she instinctively opened her
mouth, accepting him in innocent sensuality. She did not think
coherently for a long, long time, not until she felt him pulling
loose her tightly wrapped braids.

“No!” This time she caught his hands and
managed to push him away.

“Meredith, I only want to see your lovely
hair. Why do you hide it so completely?”

“Because some people think red hair is the
sign of a witch. Aunt Branwen has always made me keep it covered
lest people connect our healing work with witchcraft. And now Lady
Isabel tells me the only correct color for a woman’s hair is
blonde, like hers, or perhaps black, but nothing else.” As she
spoke, Meredith was smoothing down her hair, tucking the
disarranged braids back into place.

“Isabel.” Guy’s voice was scornful. “Isabel
thinks of nothing but herself.”

He pulled her into his arms again. She tried
to avoid the embrace, but he was stronger than she and she soon
found herself pressed against his chest.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of your hair. You
should be proud of it. It’s beautiful. Pay no attention to my
sister-in-law.”

“I can hardly ignore her. She is my
mistress.” She raised her head to meet his eyes and he kissed her
again with a flaring passion that made her blood pound and her head
spin. He drew back suddenly.

“This must stop,” he said. “I promised Rhys
no one would harm you while you live at Afoncaer and I will not
break my word.”

“You have not hurt me,” she said.

“But I would, very soon, if I continue to
hold you this way.” Blue eyes looked deep into silver-grey ones for
a long moment before he let her go.

Stooping, she retrieved her linen kerchief
from the floor and with shaking hands pulled it over her braids and
tied it.

“That only dims the fire a little.” When he
smiled at her she knew the fire had been dimmed not at all. “You
had better go, Meredith.”

She ran all the way across the inner bailey
to the women’s quarters.

Walter fitz Alan and Brian of Collen were due
to arrive at Afoncaer in mid-autumn, but with unusually bad weather
delaying them, it was December before they actually came. Except
for Lady Isabel, who seemed increasingly nervous and irritable, a
growing excitement about the expected visitors was shared by nearly
everyone at the castle. There was little enough entertainment once
the harvest was over. The winter nights were long, cold, and dull.
Any diversion was welcome, most especially one that would bring
fresh faces to Afoncaer and also inspire extended feasting and
drinking.

“I care not if they are late,” Guy said after
receiving the weary messenger Walter had sent ahead, “so long as
they come safely. At least they will be in time for the Christmas
feasting.”

“I wish,” Lady Isabel said pointedly, “That
they were coming directly from court so they could escort my new
maid here. I grow tired of waiting for her, Guy.”

“You have Meredith to attend you. Be
patient,” Guy advised.

“Meredith is not a well-trained maid, and she
is entirely too proud and independent to make a good servant,”
Isabel snapped crossly.

Meredith felt her color rising. She was
finding it increasingly difficult to keep her temper when Lady
Isabel criticized her. She would have made a sharp response to her
mistress’s remarks, but Guy was smiling at her as if to take the
sting out of Isabel’s harsh words, and so Meredith kept still.

When the day finally came, Meredith stood
beside Isabel in the inner bailey, watching Guy’s friends being
formally welcomed. It was cold, the mid-afternoon sun shining with
little warmth, the wind whipping Meredith’s cloak around her body.
She was tired and in a bad mood after being required to dress
Isabel in three different outfits before one was at last found to
be satisfactory. The women’s quarters were strewn with cast-off
shifts, stockings, gowns, and shoes, all of which would have to be
picked up and put away.

“Leave this,” Joan had whispered as Isabel
went out the door into the great hall. Joan took a pair of shoes
out of Meredith’s hands and tossed them on the floor. “We’ll
straighten this later. I want to see the guests arrive, and you do,
too.”

“Why is she so nervous?” Meredith asked.

“You’ll see soon enough,” Joan promised,
pushing Meredith before her through the door.

And so, shivering and trying to catch the
blowing edges of her cloak and hold the garment more snugly to her,
Meredith watched the newly arrived guests.

“My dear friend!” Walter fitz Alan, white
teeth parted in a wide smile, leapt off his horse to embrace Guy.
He pounded Guy enthusiastically on the back. “I never dreamed you
had been exiled to such a place. What a wilderness! I thought we’d
wander forever and die of the cold before we found you.”

Meredith disliked Walter at once. She did not
know why. She watched his face freeze for an instant as he turned
from Guy and saw Isabel. At the same moment Meredith heard Isabel
draw in her breath sharply. Then Walter’s smile deepened, and his
voice rang out again.

“By my faith, a rose, blooming in this
desolate land. Lady Isabel, I dared not hope you were here.”

Walter was holding Isabel’s hand, looking
into her eyes. Meredith noticed how Isabel’s slender form leaned
forward, toward the tall, dark man who was pressing his lips to her
fingers.

“Sir Walter. You look well.” Isabel’s voice
quavered, and Meredith understood why her mistress had earlier been
so distraught about her costume for that day.

“Had you forgotten me after all these years?”
Walter asked, still holding her hand.

“No. Never.” Isabel’s cheeks were stained
bright red. She snatched her hand away from Walter’s and looked
around as though seeking some distraction. “Guy, I have not met
your other friend.”

“This is Brian,” Guy told Isabel. “We were
Walter’s squires together and were knighted on the same day.”

The greeting between Guy and this second man
had been quieter than his meeting with Sir Waiter, but Meredith
thought there was more real warmth between these two. Brian of
Collen was short, dark, and wiry, with pale skin. He was a few
years older than Guy, and his plain face bore several scars,
evidence of a life spent in warfare.

“I am happy to meet you at last, Lady Isabel.
I was never so fortunate at court. A poor squire was far below your
notice,” Brian said, carrying her hand to his lips. Unlike Walter,
he let her hand go at once and turned his dark, liquid eyes on
Meredith. “Lady,” he said, bowing, though he must have seen by her
clothes that she was nothing of the sort.

“This is a servant,” Isabel responded
tartly.

“A lovely one,” Brian told her.

“Yes, indeed,” Walter agreed, his dark eyes
on Meredith. “Wales has its delights, I see.”

“Shall we go in?” Guy suggested. “The feast
will be ready soon, and I’m sure you will want to bathe first. You
must be weary of riding after so long a journey.”

Meredith had been told she must assist the
knightly guests with their baths, but now Lady Isabel suddenly
changed her mind.

“You will remain with me, Meredith. I will
need help directing the serving of the feast. Joan will see to the
men’s baths. Take Thomas with you, Joan.”

It was with considerable relief that Meredith
saw Joan march off to the wooden shed that served as a bathhouse.
She had not relished the thought of helping two strangers with
their baths, though she knew it was the custom. From her brief
encounter with him, she rather liked Brian, but Walter fitz Alan
filled her with a strange, cold dread. There was something about
him, something in the way he looked at Lady Isabel, that frightened
Meredith, and, she thought, frightened her mistress, too.

A holiday had been proclaimed in honor of the
guests, and everyone at Afoncaer had been invited to the welcoming
feast. There was scarcely room to move in the great hall as Lord
Guy’s men-at-arms, masons, carpenters, townspeople, the armed
guards who had come with the guests to protect them on their way,
and even, at the lower end of the hall, simple farmers and
stableboys, all jostled each other. Trestle tables had been set up
in a U-shape around the firepit. The lord of Afoncaer sat at the
center of the head table, together with his sister-in-law and his
two friends, now freshly bathed and wearing clean garments. As
hostess and the only woman of rank, Isabel sat at Guy’s right hand,
presiding over the feast. Walter sat on Isabel’s right hand, Brian
on Guy’s left. The other diners were arranged on either side of
them in descending order of importance.

Thomas, as page, was required to help with
the serving before he could eat, and Meredith, too, was pressed
into service to help carry in platters of venison and game birds,
fish freshly taken from the river, rabbit, and boiled pork. There
were several fancy pastries, stuffed with chopped meats, leeks, and
expensive spices Guy had brought back from the East. The carver,
stationed before the head table, was kept busy slicing roast meats
into neat pieces and arranging them on silver platters. Thomas
solemnly carried the first platter to Guy and his special
guests.