Dryden's Bride (6 page)

“We are good friends, yes,” she replied, “but she has counseled me to write my uncle in Lyons for his advice and…perhaps his consent.”

“I see.”

“And, um, I must also request the permission of the council in London. They have certain requirements—”

“Yes, I know all about the council’s requirements,” Hugh said, standing now with his back toward Marguerite.
This was impossible! Why had he ever agreed to coming to Clairmont?
He turned to face her, and managed to speak calmly. “I doubt you will find any objections from that quarter, but I grant you time to make your wishes known to them.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Marguerite said timidly. “You are most generous.”

“If you do not mind,” he said, “I will remain here at Clairmont until you have made your decision.”

“It is not entirely my decis—”

Hugh held up one hand. “Whatever the case may be,” he said, “if it is of no inconvenience, I will stay.”

“You are welcome to remain here, my lord,” Marguerite said, regaining her usual courtesy and aplomb. “Of course.”

Hugh was well aware that Marguerite considered his marriage proposal only because he’d proven himself in battle, not because of any desire to wed him. Though her etiquette had been impeccable, Hugh knew the lady had won herself some time by requesting his patience as she asked her uncle and any other counselors for
advice—time in which to prepare herself for a marriage that Hugh knew would be nothing but distasteful to her.

In spite of what Hugh sensed of Marguerite’s feelings toward him, he resolved to stay at Clairmont to await Marguerite’s decision, rather than returning to Windermere, or going to his own estate at Alldale. He and Nicholas would begin training with the Clairmont men, working with sword and lance, on horseback at the quintain, and with bow and arrow. They had already organized patrols to scour the countryside to ensure that all was secure, and had gone back to spend the rest of the day in town, helping the men with some of the heavy tasks that needed doing before rebuilding.

It was late afternoon by the time Hugh returned to Castle Clairmont, and he walked out to Marguerite’s garden to enjoy the last minutes of sunlight in peace. The open spaces, the unlimited sky above, were comforting to his soul, as always.

There was much to do in Clairmont and the activity invigorated Hugh. It was an unfamiliar sensation—working toward a purpose, pursuing definite objectives. He was bone-tired, and it felt surprisingly good.

Sitting down on a stone bench, Hugh enjoyed the whisper of a cool breeze on his face. The busy sounds of the castle and all the activity on the grounds were distant now, and Hugh relaxed, shutting out his past completely. He tried to imagine Clairmont as his home. He thought of walking these parapets, patrolling these borders for the rest of his life. Of living here with Marguerite.

“Maman! Regarde!”

Hugh looked up sharply and saw
petit Henri
running toward him, smiling happily.

The little fellow ran across the lawn ahead of a group
of adults, and climbed up onto Hugh’s lap, making the weary man sit up and brace himself against the little king’s sharp knees as they dug into his thighs.

“Lord Alldale,” the queen said, arriving with her entourage. “Do not rise,” she added, noting her son’s contentment on Hugh’s lap. “It is a beautiful afternoon for a stroll,
non?
”

Hugh agreed with Her Majesty. The sky had cleared after the earlier rain, and the breeze was comfortably cool. He was fatigued, but satisfied after a productive day. However, the peace of the afternoon was now gone with the crowd of courtiers upon him, including Owen Tudor and his sister.

Lady Siân wore the bright yellow gown she’d ripped in the woods on the day of her encounter with the boar. The bodice—where it had been torn—had been cleverly repaired, so as to be hardly noticeable at all. Except that Hugh could not forget the way it had appeared that morning, torn to expose an exquisite wealth of tempting but forbidden skin.

Calming his wayward thoughts, Hugh decided that the color suited her—it was bright and sunny, innocent and open. Just like the woman.

Her hair was tamed this afternoon, as well, though Hugh doubted there were any pins in the kingdom that could hold those riotous coppery tresses in place for long. He wondered, in passing, what had happened to the crown of flowers she’d been wearing in the copse that morning.

“There is much training to be done with Clairmont’s knights,
non?
” the queen asked as she sat down on the bench with Hugh.

“They’re in good shape, Your Majesty,” Hugh said, “but they lack leadership.”

Catherine’s appraisal of him was speculative. By now, Hugh figured she knew of his marriage proposal. She knew his history, his strengths. Marguerite Bradley was Catherine’s very good friend, and it was certain that the queen wanted to see the lady well married. Mayhap even happily married.

“You, Lord Alldale, could provide that leadership for Clairmont.”

Hugh acquiesced wordlessly.

“I have no doubt that your knightly skills are excellent,” Catherine said. “You were one of my husband’s premier lieutenants in France.
Henri
could never abide incompetence.”

“Siân!” the little king cried out when the lady came into his line of vision. The boy wriggled around on Hugh’s lap and raised his arms to be picked up by the young Welsh woman who suddenly caught his fancy.

Siân smiled and took the child from Hugh’s arms, using the Welsh pet name she’d given him.
“Parry!”
she said as she hugged him while the king giggled with glee. Hugh could not tear his sight from Siân as she kissed the little boy’s neck. His own neck heated unaccountably.

“You have healed from your ordeal at Windermere?” Catherine asked, drawing Hugh’s attention sharply away from the lively young woman and child.

Emotions warred within him. No one spoke of the atrocities committed at Windermere, at least not within his hearing. Nor was he interested in discussing them
now
. Not while Siân Tudor’s hands tickled, and her lips nuzzled the little boy in her arms.

Hugh finally gathered his composure, inclined his head slightly, and replied, “Yes, Your Majesty. Fully recovered.”

Petit Henri
chortled merrily and buried his face in Siân’s well-rounded bosom.

Blood pounded in Hugh’s ears. He stood abruptly. “My injuries were mostly superficial. As you can see, I have adjusted.”

“Of course, Alldale,” the queen said, frowning, looking up at Hugh. “I would never imply otherwise.”

“Your Majesty…I…apologize,” Hugh said uncomfortably, “for being brusque—”

“Nonsense,” Catherine interjected as she rose from the bench to stand next to Siân and her gleeful son. “You are quite obviously fit. I should never have questioned it. Tell me,” she said, changing the subject abruptly, “what is your assessment of Clairmont town?”

“They lost many men, Your Majesty,” Hugh said. “And—”

“Rebuilding will be difficult, Your Majesty,” Siân interjected as she moved closer to the queen and Hugh. “Robert Beak—the master carpenter—was killed in the battle.”

“Oh? Does Lady Marguerite know of this?”

“I don’t know,” Siân said. “But so many other men were killed that the fall plowing will be difficult. There is still a great deal of autumn work to be done to ensure enough food through the winter. Threshing is not an easy task. Nor are plowing and planting the winter wheat.”

“Siân, what do you know of this work?” the queen asked, furrowing her brow curiously.

Siân, embarrassed for speaking out, realized it was too late to stop now. Owen would surely take her to task for her forward manner, and for telling the queen of her humble background. “Everyone in my village
worked, Your Majesty,” she said. “Even the men from the manor house. When
we
were attacked…and men were killed…” There was a flash of something sharp and angry in her eyes. “…the people suffered a lack of food, for there was no one to work the fields, mill the grain.”

“And what then, Siân?”

No point in holding back now, Siân thought as she dove right in. Bluntly. “People starved to death, Your Majesty. Especially the little ones,” she said sadly as her hands unconsciously caressed Henry’s head.

The dream was never far away.

Hugh felt the chains around his wrists, the manacles that held his ankles to the cold, dank floor. It was dark and smelled of death in that place, that horrible place where pain and terror ruled.

Waiting.

Burning.

A light skittering across legs and feet. Tiny yellow eyes peering, razor teeth nipping, tearing.

Burning. Sharp pain. Exquisite pain!

A voice nearby…always the voice of the old woman…unintelligible gibberish. Moaning, crying. Reciting nonsensical verse.

Blood. It was everywhere. He could smell it, taste its metallic character. Feel its sticky sweetness as it flowed.

Fingers…smashed. Oh, Jesus, Mary and Joseph…his hand!

Eyes now…Please, no! Not the eyes!

Hugh gave a strangled cry and sat up in his bed, sweat pouring from his face, dripping off his chest. Swaying now, panting, working to catch his breath, he
pulled the bed curtains back and lit a candle, only to cause ominous shadows to be thrown about the room.

He stood up, took the bedside taper and lit every other candle he could find, finally dispelling most of the shadows. Shivering, Hugh picked up a cloth and wiped himself dry, then threw some wood on the fire, lighting it once again. After the fire caught, he sat down in the comfortable chair near the hearth, and tried to call up pleasing thoughts to dispel the terrible aura of the dream.

Siân Tudor came to mind first.

Bright, coppery hair. Dazzlingly sunny smile.

Hugh had thought her merely a whimsical child. Her words the previous afternoon, however, had shown that she was not. There was more to Siân Tudor than misty forests and faeries, though. In spite of her words about attacks on her village, and starving children, Hugh could not imagine any darkness resting within the untouched purity of Siân’s soul.

A
t eventide the following day, Nicholas persuaded Hugh to join in the formal supper that had taken two days for the castle cooks to prepare, and would be attended by the queen and all her retinue.

“You cannot continue going about ignoring Lady Marguerite,” Nicholas had said with irritation. “You just proposed marriage. At least
appear
to be interested.”

“I
am
interested,” Hugh protested darkly. “I asked for her hand, did I not?”

Nicholas, seeming to Hugh to be unduly perturbed, turned and skulked angrily out of the room. Nick was giving far too much weight to this whole proposal, Hugh thought.

While a close allegiance with the new lord of Clairmont would be beneficial to Nicholas, and Wolf Colston, and several other neighboring lords, it was not essential. If Marguerite accepted another proposal, another husband, then so be it. The neighboring landowners could make an ally out of Marguerite’s new choice. And Hugh would then make the journey to
Alldale—a trip he now realized he’d delayed too long already—and become lord of his own demesne.

Grumbling anew over his “command performance” in the great hall, Hugh dressed in clean doublet and chausses. He knew Marguerite could deal with the festivities very well on her own. She had no need of him, nor would she, he imagined, after they were wed.

Once he took Marguerite to wife, and Hugh had no doubt that the lady would be advised to choose
him
, Hugh would put an end to all this frivolous nonsense, as there was no need for it. The incessant parties at Clairmont would stop.

He would fulfill his husbandly duties, and his lady wife would be required to ask no more of him.

Siân loved a party.

All of the queen’s ladies were dressed in their finest gowns, and one of them lent Siân a beautiful violet kirtle. The gown was exquisitely detailed with fine, white bone buttons that fastened up the front, fitting it tightly to her torso and hips. Its long, flowing sleeves were lined in multicolored, contrasting stripes. Siân had never owned anything so fine or stylish, and she savored every moment wearing it, vowing to be careful not to spill anything, or to trip over the hems of her sleeves.

One of Queen Catherine’s maids arranged Siân’s hair in a simple but elegant coif, and placed small tufts of dried flowers in the shining, russet mass. The queen herself gave Siân a fine gold pendant to wear about her neck, and Owen grudgingly allowed her to wear their father’s ring which bore the Tudor crest on it. Owen had to admit that his sister was lovely, even if she
was
destined for the nunnery.

That was a fact that Siân intended to forget for the evening. It would be her last soirée before going to St. Ann’s, and Siân intended to enjoy every minute of it. She would feast on Clairmont’s superb cuisine, join in the card games and other amusements, and dance to her heart’s content. Afterward, she would go to her bed knowing she had savored all the small joys she was to be allowed in this lifetime.

Owen escorted her into the hall, which was brightly lit and festively decorated. Queen Catherine’s minstrels were already playing fiddle and lute, psaltery and harp. A couple of handsome young men sang in harmony to the musicians’ accompaniment as the lords and ladies began to gather for the victory feast.

Nicholas soon escorted the queen into the gathering, then Siân’s breath caught as Hugh Dryden appeared with Lady Marguerite in hand.

“What is it?” Owen asked.

“Ah… ’Tis nothing, Owen,” Siân replied evenly, averting her eyes from the noble pair. Hugh was so striking tonight, so dangerously appealing, her heart pounded just at the sight of him. Nothing could come of her attraction to that dark and solitary man and Siân did not intend to invite further censure by saying anything of it to Owen.

It would be enough just to spend the evening here, in the great hall with Hugh, perhaps to speak to him later. Siân knew that a person of her own lowly stature could not hope to gain more than the passing attention of the devilishly intriguing hero of Clairmont.

The evening progressed satisfactorily for Siân, with no serious mishaps at table and no awkward breeches of protocol. Siân’s tablemates were pleasant enough, though she felt the young men from London were still
too forward with her. In the past, whenever she mentioned their behavior to Owen, he accused her of over-reacting, of making more out of their actions than was warranted. He’d questioned how she could fault them for wanting to be friendly.

And perhaps Owen was right. Mayhap she was being unreasonable, for she knew so little of courtly ways. Nor was she accustomed to much male attention—the families of Pwll had painfully learned the cost of friendship with a Tudor. Though they hadn’t completely shunned her, they’d certainly made sure no one became overly friendly. And Siân herself knew enough to keep herself apart after the tragic deaths of Idwal and Dafydd, not wanting to further endanger the towns-people who’d taken her in after her father’s death.

As a result, she didn’t really know what to make of these courtiers’ attentions. She’d taken pains to avoid them since coming to Clairmont, but that wasn’t possible tonight, since she was seated with Dwayne Morton, the worst roué of them all. Fully aware that it was up to her to avoid any trouble this night, and to overlook her companions’ boldness, Siân was determined to make the most of the evening.

After all, she had not much time until St. Ann’s claimed her.

The seating formalities at the main dais were complex, with Queen Catherine at the center of it all. Lady Marguerite was situated between Nick and Hugh. The other lords and ladies of Catherine’s party were then arranged according to rank, all the way down the table.

Hugh gave his attention to his meal, indifferent to the French chatter going on all around him, leaving Nicholas to tend to Marguerite’s needs since she was
seated on his blind side and he couldn’t easily see her. Siân Tudor was seated right in his line of vision, along with two noblewomen and three of the useless dandies who’d traveled from London with the queen.

Hugh’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. Why had he never before noticed the elegant line of Siân’s neck, or the delicate hollow at her throat? Why did she look so graceful and refined now? Had her hair ever glinted fire the way it did just now, or did its intricate style make it glow that way? He frowned. Why did she not tame those undisciplined wisps of hair that sprung loose over her brow and before her ears?

He turned away, taking a long draught of ale, and tried to remember if she’d had those small dimples next to her mouth the other times he’d seen her.

He didn’t think so.

The meal went on interminably for Hugh, who cast quick, assessing glances Siân’s way. He didn’t particularly like the way the young dandy sitting opposite, leered at her. And the other two fellows were just as bad, their eyes wandering where no chivalrous knight’s should go.

Where, in the name of Christ, was the woman’s brother? Hugh looked around for Owen Tudor, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Shouldn’t he be keeping an eye on his sister? Shouldn’t he have sent her back to her chamber to change into a more demure gown? One that did not show so much bare, sculpted shoulder, so much…chest?

The angry red scrape Siân had gotten the day he’d killed the boar was now merely a mild red abrasion. It did nothing to detract from the beguiling expanse of lush skin exposed above the closely fitted bodice of the gown she wore.

Hugh shifted uncomfortably in his chair. His mouth went dry. If the lady moved any farther forward, he had no doubt she would fall out of her gown. How could her brother allow her to dress in a manner that was so…

Hugh swallowed his mouthful of ale and removed his attention from Siân Tudor. How she dressed, and what men attended her, were not his concern. He would do well to try to participate in the conversation at his own table. Glancing over at Marguerite, however, he realized belatedly that his own lady fair wore a gown with a bodice cut similarly to Siân’s. So did Queen Catherine. Yet the clothing of Marguerite and the queen did not seem nearly as revealing. The expanse of bared skin was not as provoking, not as…as disturbing…as Siân’s.

Siân’s eyes sparkled happily, naively, flashing deep blue. Hugh simmered unreasonably each time one of the courtiers at her table cut meat and offered it to her from his knife.
She had her own utensil, did she not?
he wondered with inordinate irritation as he watched her take the morsel between her full, moistened lips.

Hugh used one finger to pull the collar of his doublet away from his overheated neck and wished for an end to this interminable meal. He could see no reason for the footmen to continue stoking the fire, as it was plenty warm in the hall already.

The overdressed peacock sitting next to Siân grinned flirtatiously at her, then touched her chin and slid an arm around her waist as the toasting began, finally pushing Hugh’s patience to the limit. He stood abruptly to leave the dais and protest the untoward familiarity of Siân’s companion just as the applause and cheering started.

He looked at the faces around him and realized with dismay that
he
was being lauded as a hero. Looking back in Siân’s direction, he saw that she was now standing with the rest of the assemblage—well out of the reach of the lecher next to her—and was holding up her goblet to him and smiling openly with utter delight.

To satisfy the crowd, Hugh took up his own drink and swallowed, disquieted by the homage of the un-pretentious young woman who stood before him.

Several more toasts followed the first, and soon afterward, people followed the queen’s lead, arising from their seats to mill around the hall. Finally, when Hugh was about to make his escape, he was waylaid by Sir George, who plied him with detailed questions regarding the battle.

Tables were cleared away and the musicians began to play a carole, spurring the guests to arrange themselves in a circle for the dance while Hugh spoke at length with Sir George, outlining plans for the future defense of Clairmont.

“I beg your pardon, my lord,” Lady Marguerite said as she interrupted Hugh’s discussion with the steward.

Hugh turned to give his full attention to the lady. He knew he’d been remiss at supper, but did not believe Marguerite minded his inattention. After all, there had been plenty of others at their table who could engage in the kind of lively conversation upon which courtly ladies thrived.

Hugh was not one of them, nor would he pretend to be.

“Please excuse me, my lord,” she continued, quite uncharacteristically ill at ease. Her eyes did not rise to meet his, and she picked at a nonexistent flaw in the
sleeve of her gown. “The hour grows old…Her Majesty and I would retire to our chambers now.”

“I will escor—”

“S’il vous plait,”
she begged hurriedly, as though reluctant to spend more time in his company than necessary. Hugh cautioned himself not to jump to that conclusion. “Please. The queen’s guards accompany us. It is not necessary for you to shorten your talk with Sir George.”

As Marguerite made her retreat, Hugh clasped his hands behind his back and resumed his discussion with the steward, not unaware of the undercurrent of discomfiture between himself and his intended bride. The lady would have to come to terms with the idea of marriage to him, he thought, as he would to her. The notion was no more appealing to Hugh at that moment than it was to Marguerite, nor did Hugh believe it would ever be.

But his proposal was given, and he was committed. There would be no withdrawal of his offer.

The music and revelry continued about him. Many of the castle guests retired to smaller rooms and alcoves to play at cards or to gamble over the throw of the dice. Servers refilled his goblet with mulled wine.

In the glittering light of hundreds of candles, dancers arranged themselves in two long, graceful lines with partners across from each other, making intricate steps apace with the music, meeting in the center, then moving down the row.

The bright, lively music brought Siân to mind again. Hugh glanced about for her, but could not locate her among the throng. He did not see her brother, though it occurred to Hugh that Owen may have escorted Siân to her chamber. It was late and she was likely weary.
Just because she so openly enjoyed the celebration didn’t mean she wouldn’t use good sense and hie herself off to bed.

Did it?

“Please let me by, Dwayne,” Siân said to the young nobleman who had become more of a pest this night than he had in all the time she’d spent in London or during their journey to Clairmont. He’d hovered over her all evening, touching her improperly, and ignoring her protests. She knew with a certainty now, that Owen had been mistaken about him. His was no mere overture of friendship. Though Siân sidestepped him every time, it was becoming more and more difficult to be civil as the evening progressed and he refused to leave her alone.

Escaping Dwayne yet again, Siân tried to locate Owen among the crowd, but he was not in sight—nowhere near to help her. She did not want to leave the gathering so early, but this persistent young man was making it impossible for her to stay.

Downcast and resigned, she took a last sip of wine before turning to leave, only to find Dwayne in front of her yet again.

“Come outside to the courtyard with me,” Dwayne said, taking her arm.

“No, Dwayne,” she protested, resisting his pulling. “I will not leave with you.”

“You wound me, Siân,” he said over the music and laughter in the hall. “Tease me all night, then say nay. I—”

“No, Dwayne,” Siân said, knowing full well she’d only been polite—to him and everyone else. “Unhand me, please, and let me by,” Siân persisted.

He gave her what she supposed he thought was a seductive grin and tugged at her more firmly than before. “You’re a saucy little minx,” Dwayne mumbled as he pulled her out of the hall and dragged her into a darkened gallery. “Ever since you came to London, I’ve thought that you and I—”

“No! Leave me be!” Siân demanded as she dug in her heels.