Conquering Passion (29 page)

Gervais had expected this conversation. “But he pushes himself equally hard.”

“It’s true. He does, and we know he’s grieving. We all want the safe return of our beloved
Comtesse
.”

“It’s difficult for him. He blames himself. He cannot seem to break free of a deeper and deeper melancholia. He’s lost interest in the affairs of the manors in Sussex. I have to admit, I’m at a loss.”

They stood in uncomfortable silence. Gervais was on the point of dismissing the man when they were disturbed by another soldier, who knocked on the open door and entered.

“Forgive the interruption,
mon capitaine
, but you need to know. There are four Welshman at the gates. They say they have a message about our
Comtesse
.”

Gervais ran to the hall, where Ram sat slouched in a chair by the hearth, gazing into the charcoal embers.

“
Milord
, there are messengers from the barbarian Rhodri.”

Roused from his constant berating of himself for not adequately protecting his family and household, Ram leapt to his feet and instructed his commander to lead him to the Welshmen.

“They’re in the cells. Preparations are being made for their torture.”

“Take me to them.”

Ram could see the four prisoners had undergone a difficult journey. They were dirty, and battered, their beards unkempt. Yet there was dignity in their bearing. He could sense when a man was afraid, and these men showed no sign of fear as he strode into their dank cell. He wondered how long they’d been on the road to his castle with the message.

Their leader didn’t wait to be spoken to. “Earl of Ellesmere,
Comte
de Montbryce?”

His enemy was an educated man, a warrior. “I am he. Who are you and what is your message?”

“I’m Aneurin ap Norweg,” he replied, withdrawing a small metal tube from inside his sheepskin jerkin. He handed it to Ram. “I have a message for you from Lord Rhodri ap Owain, Prince of Powwydd.”

Ram snatched the tube, willing his hands not to shake in front of these enemies. He pulled out the parchment coiled tightly inside. It was damp, but the message still legible.

To Rambaud de Montbryce, Earl of Ellesmere

Herein my requirements for the release of your wife, children and household servants.

Two thousand pounds in Fleury pennies to be brought back to Wales by the messengers.

If they are killed, and no ransom paid, you will not see your family again. I guarantee the safe return of the captives upon payment.

Rhodri ap Owain, Prince of Powwydd.

Ram’s gut tightened. It was impossible. He shook his head. “I can’t comply with these demands. This sum is the equivalent of a year’s income from all my properties. For all I know they’re already dead.”

He could barely speak the words, and yet, in the depths of his despair, he’d never sensed his beloved wife and children were dead. He thrust the document back at the Welshman.

Aneurin refused to take it. “My Lord Rhodri is a man of honour. He has sworn an oath that none in your family or household will be harmed, if the ransom is paid.”

Ram smirked. “Your Lord must have a different code of honour from ours if he thinks kidnapping women and children is honourable.”

He spat out the words, though he knew some Norman knights thought such misdeeds acceptable in time of war. Aneurin remained silent. This
was
war and they were both warriors.

Ram stood looking at the Welshmen for long minutes. “We’re both aware of the atrocities men are capable of. However, I will not send you off with a chest full of coin. You wouldn’t make it back before winter. I assume you’ve taken them deep into the mountains. My family wouldn’t be able to travel out in the winter. Why have you come so late?”

Aneurin reluctantly agreed, explaining the delay of the blizzard. “We’ll take whatever message you send back to the foothills, and wait until the spring to return to the mountains.”

Ram wanted to shout that his cherished wife was pregnant, that he feared for her life if she gave birth in the wilds of the Welsh mountains, but his fear made him swallow the words.

“But Rhodri will believe you’ve been killed,” Gervais interjected.

“He may think that, but won’t act upon his suspicions until our deaths are confirmed.”

These men held their leader in high regard. “I could order you be tortured until you reveal where Rhodri is holding my family.” It was an empty threat. Such toughened men wouldn’t succumb to torture.

“I’ll save you the trouble and tell you they are in the fortress of Cadair Berwyn. If you could find it and arrive there alive, it would profit you nothing.”

A flicker of hope blossomed in Ram’s heart. Aneurin spoke as though he truly believed they were alive and safe in Cadair Berwyn. He paced in the dark cell, trying to ignore the bile rising at the back of his throat, brought on by the stench in this squalid place and his own fear.

He gave a curt order. “Gervais, escort these men to a chamber in the North Tower. Provide them with pallets and a bath, and food. Bolt the door.”

He left the cells before Gervais could protest.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“Aneurin has not returned, Rhodri. It’s been a month since they left. The Earl has murdered him and his men. We must kill the hostages.”

Morwenna and Rhodri were eating the evening meal in the great hall. The Earl of Ellesmere’s family and servants had been given leave to eat their meals in the hall, and Mabelle had been grateful. “Thank you, Lord Rhodri. It will give the boys a chance to mix with the other children in the fortress, and ease their boredom. It’s amazing that children can ignore the circumstances that have brought them together, and treat each other with friendliness.”

She and the other two women ate at a separate table from the others, however, and as her pregnancy became more evident, she seemed to appreciate this bit of decorum and privacy.

Morwenna had badgered Rhodri with her demand for their deaths every day for a sennight. He too worried about the messengers, but why did the woman have such a blood lust? It wasn’t clear to him how he’d become involved with her. How had their betrothal come about? He supposed when her father had proposed the union, he’d been smitten with her beauty, but now he saw how hatred distorted her lovely face. Even her ample breasts did nothing to rouse his lust. She sickened him. He also suspected, if they married, she wouldn’t come virgin to his bed.

And now I’m smitten with another.

He understood passion. He was as passionate as anyone for his beloved country but had no personal hatred for the Earl of Ellesmere, whom he recognized as an able administrator, a fair man who strove to better the lives of the people who lived in his lands. He could have killed the Earl years ago, at Ruyton, if he’d wished, if he was the sort of man who killed adversaries who’d been knocked into oblivion by a blow to the head. He wanted none of the Norman usurper’s earls ruling his own country, and would fight to keep them out, but saw no reason to slaughter the Earl’s wife and children. He’d given his oath they would remain safe, and he reminded Morwenna of that again.

She rose to her feet abruptly and angrily stormed out of the hall. Though the hostages were too far away from the dais to know what had been said, he suspected they sensed the woman thirsted for their deaths.

My constant staring probably makes them nervous too. They likely think I’m musing on how best to kill them. They would be surprised to learn who it is that draws my gaze. They must know the messengers haven’t returned and that it will be spring before they’re able to. The Countess will have to soon accept her child will be born in these mountains.

***

That same night, the Prince of Powwydd had a powerful dream. He sat amid his children. There were five of them, and two had flaming red hair. A hazy vision of his grandfather, Gwilym, drifted across the dream, his titian hair ablaze in the sun. It was a happy dream, different from the ones he usually had when he returned from raids. He didn’t enjoy killing, and death often stalked his nightmares.

Like his Celtic ancestors, his belief in the power of dreams ran deep in his blood, and in this dream, Arianrhod, the virgin white goddess of birth, was revealed to him. It was a dream of hope and promise for the future. The goddess conjured an image of the mother of his children. She was a diminutive woman with long black hair, high cheekbones and eyes like grey pools, the woman he’d been unable to stop thinking about since setting eyes on her.

When he woke, he spoke her name, “Rhonwen.” He gave thanks for the honour the gods had bestowed on him. She wasn’t high born. Her mother was Welsh, but her father? She’d never lived in Wales, only in the Marches, and he sensed she burned with a desire to kill his betrothed, to avenge her mother’s murder.

He only hoped he would be worthy of her and could win her heart. Then the dream could be fulfilled.

***

The Normans had been escorted back to their chamber after the meal, and Giselle soon had the yawning boys tucked up in their pallets. In consideration of her condition, Rhodri had provided a bed for Mabelle, but the lads liked their pallets.

“What brave little soldiers you are,” Mabelle whispered, gazing at their tousled heads.

A tapping at the door made them instantly wary. They were usually left alone at night. Rhonwen opened the door a crack, and Mabelle heard a voice speaking Welsh.

Rhonwen’s shoulders tensed and she turned to her mistress. “Rhodri has sent for me, my lady,” she whispered, her big grey eyes wide with apprehension.

“For you?”

Before Mabelle could reach her and refuse to let her go, the healer was gone and the door barred once more. Mabelle and her maid exchanged desperate glances. Being called to Rhodri at this time of night could mean only one thing for the girl. They wept for the loss of her innocence, and for the failure of the barbarian Rhodri to keep his word none of them would be harmed.

***

Phillippe didn’t knock, knowing Morwenna would be alone in her chamber, waiting impatiently. They exchanged no greeting. By the time he reached her, she’d torn off her shift and was naked. He devoured the site of her thrusting breasts and the heated promise in her eyes. Their kisses became ravenous. Their mouths remained locked together as they both worked frenziedly to remove his clothing. She sucked his tongue into her mouth. He bit her lip, then her earlobe. His hands squeezed her breasts roughly and she arched her mons to meet his erection. His tongue darted in and out of her mouth and she groaned huskily. “Phillippe, Phillippe. Fill me now. I need my Norman stallion.”

Throwing her onto the bed, Giroux leapt on top of her and rammed his phallus into her throbbing sheath, already weeping for him. She sank her teeth into his neck. She liked him to be rough and that suited him too.

“We’re a perfect match,” he rasped.

After their passion had taken them both to the edge and over it, they lay physically spent but still full of anger and plotting.

Morwenna pouted. “The weak willed Rhodri refuses to kill them.”

“He’ll come to his senses. I’ll make sure of that,” Phillippe replied casually. “Mabelle de Valtesse will pay dearly for her father’s crimes against my family.”

“And, my lusty Norman knight, you’ll repay me for my help by taking me as your bride to Normandie, and I’ll be the
Comtesse
de Giroux.”

He reached for his clothing. “I must return to my own chamber. We don’t want anyone becoming suspicious.”

He kissed her carelessly, opened the door carefully to make sure no one was in the hallway, and stepped silently from the room.

A perfect match. I wouldn’t trust the Welsh bitch as far as I could throw her.

Phillippe snickered. He would have to be careful not to let his disdain show. He mustn’t give away that he had no intention of taking this barbaric woman as his wife.

To Normandie? My family and friends would think I’m as mad as my father. When she’s served her purpose, I’ll be rid of her, or perhaps leave her to make Rhodri’s life wretched.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

When Rhonwen stepped into Rhodri’s chamber she was trembling. The escort remained outside. She was afraid of what this Welsh warrior might do to her but had been drawn by his magnetism each time she’d set eyes on his Celtic beauty. She was afraid he
wouldn’t
do the wild things she’d imagined him doing to her. She too had Celtic blood in her veins.

He sat in a massive wooden chair by the hearth in the centre of the room. He wore a long sleeve linen shirt dyed pale red, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. A string of beads, reflecting the firelight, drew her gaze to his neck, and she licked her lips, suddenly aware she was perspiring. His long curly hair was tied back at his nape with a brown leather thong. The tight braids were gone, making him less intimidating. Leather breeches clung to his muscular thighs. His feet were bare, and she noticed fleetingly how long his toes were.