In the Shadow of Midnight (6 page)

His dark, gleaming eyes studied the lowered sweep of Ariel’s lashes a moment longer, not yet trusting his voice to conceal his excitement. While it was barely conceivable that William the Marshal would sanction a union between the House of Pembroke and the Dark Prince of Gwynedd, it was equally doubtful he would agree to bind his favorite niece to the loins of a common gaoler’s son. The proposed union was itself an outright slap in the face for the ld warrior—an insult to his integrity and popularity with the people. If he was presented with a viable alternative, however farfetched, but delivered with honour and sincerity—not to mention a promise of
extended peace along the Welsh Marches—by God … he might just take it.

He might just take it!

Rhys’s gaze slid past Ariel’s shoulder. Lord Henry de Clare’s handsome face was without expression save for the tension keeping the muscles in his jaw strained and jumping. It was plain to see he was fighting the urge to grab his sister by the shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled. Both Rhys and Dafydd had acquired a healthy respect for the tawny-haired Norman as well as for the hulking shadow of Lord Sedrick of Grantham. The pair had ridden boldly and without escort into the heart of Gwynedd, and had ridden out again, their skins intact, their dust cloying the throats of the two Welsh princelings forced to follow like humblies in their wake.

A debt was owing there too, Rhys determined. A debt that could be avenged with the greatest pleasure each time the sister’s bared thighs spread beneath him. In the meantime, the De Clare scion would require careful handling. A hook, perhaps. Something of distinct benefit to himself that might make him regard the proposed union as being more than a bad jest.

His humour restored at the thought, Lord Rhys smiled again. “I certainly have no qualms about extending an invitation to the king’s man to be our guest for as long as you wish it. But would it not be easier to simply run the harbinger through and leave him for the sheriff’s men to find at some future date?”

“Benedicite,”
Isabella groaned and covered her face with both hands.

“As my aunt has already made clear,” said Henry evenly, “we are not murderers, nor do we condone murderous acts.”

“We merely wish to have the delivery of the king’s writ delayed,” Ariel added.

“To what end?” Henry demanded, his patience with his sister’s madness drawing dangerously near an end. “The king will only send another and another. Suppose our uncle does
not
see any merit in this”—he wanted to say
crackbrained scheme
, but checked himself at the last instant—“this
proposed union
… and sees instead that he must obey or run the risk of
defending a charge of treason? How do you explain this waylaid messenger then?”

Ariel squared her shoulders. “The king is at war with France. He is in jeopardy of losing control over Normandy. In his absence, his child bride has been swivving every courtier and bull-hung mountebank who catches her fancy—”

“Ariel!”
Isabella gasped.

“—while the barons plot and scheme behind his corpulent buttocks at every opportunity, searching for ways to curb his powers and limit his authority. Think you he will notice the delay of a betrothal charter to an obscure province in Wales?”

The younger Welsh lord, Dafydd, gaped at the fiery-haired damosel in open astonishment. In his experience with the Norman savages, it was his understanding that women were generally regarded as being little more than receptacles for the breeding up of heirs. Unlike Welsh women, who contributed much to the planning and executing of raids and clan warfare—some even riding into battle alongside their men— the Englishry were not credited with possessing many abilities or desires away from the bedchambers and cook fires. The idea that one would concern herself, nay, understand matters of politics and warfare was uniquely intriguing and he could see why his brother’s interest (along with other things) had been roused.

Henry was equally intrigued, but more over the knowledge that his sister was aware of the queen’s sexual appetites. Royal whores aside, it was a preposterous notion to suggest his uncle would agree to a marriage between Ariel and Lord Rhys ap Iorwerth. He knew it, Ariel knew it, and, to judge by the cunning look in the Welshman’s dark eyes, Lord Rhys knew it too. If it was a gambit to buy time, it was a careless and reckless one to make, for it was indeed an altogether too common practice for these northern outlaws to simply steal a bride of their choosing—the nobler the better. And if the thought had not occurred to Rhys before, it was certainly spinning merry cartwheels through his brain now. An alliance with the House of Pembroke would double his prestige and power almost overnight, not to mention increase the wealth and holdings
that would come under his control the moment the marriage was consummated. His present domains were not nearly as extensive as his brother Llywellyn’s, but he would add considerably to his territories that stretched from Deheubarth to Cardigan.

A second shock, as icy and hard as a sharp slap in the face caused Henry to turn and stare at Rhys ap Iorwerth. Not surprisingly, the Welshman’s eyes were waiting for him.

Cardigan Castle had once belonged to the De Clare family. It was, in fact, the place where Henry had been born and lived the first two years of his life before his father had been forced to abandon the castle and flee east to more protected territories along the Marches. The chance of returning the De Clare name to Cardigan was not something to be lightly dismissed, as loathsome as the method might first appear to be.

Lord Rhys smiled faintly. “Is it possible, my lord, you might also begin to see some benefit to this union?”

Henry released the breath he had been holding, mouthing it around a soundless curse. Was the bastard actually going to suggest he do nothing to discredit Ariel’s lunatic proposal … encourage it, even, in exchange for Cardigan?

“Henry, please—” Ariel’s voice tore her brother’s gaze away from Iorwerth’s penetrating stare. “Speak to me.”

“What would you have me say?”

“Say you will help me. One of Uncle’s ships—the
Etoile—
is anchored in the Wogan taking on provisions. She could be ready to sail on the morning tide and we could be in Normandy before week’s end.”

“We?”
Henry’s brows were startled upward, as were everyone else’s.

“You surely would not leave me here, at the mercy of the king’s spies, who you know peek from every crack and crevice in the castle walls! What is more, if I were with you and if we were in Normandy, then we truly could claim we knew nothing of any messenger from the king, naught of any betrothal charter, and certes that we were blissfully ignorant of any mishap befalling Lackland’s courier.”

Isabella made a choking sound and reached for her goblet of wine.

Sedrick stared.

Henry, accustomed over the years to hearing, even to participating in some of his sister’s more ludicrous schemes, pursed his lips and made a slow, careful study of each of his blunted, calloused fingertips.

“If,” he said at length. “And I say again … if I were to decide to go to Normandy in pursuit of this … this venture into futility … how far do you suppose I—or we—would actually get? This is not exactly the time or political climate for a caravan to be traipsing through the provinces.”

“I do not recall saying anything about a caravan.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Speed, dearest brother, would be of the essence, would it not? Who would pay heed to a knight and his squire carrying letters to the earl marshal from his beloved wife?”

The countess cradled her brow in one hand and refilled her wine goblet with the other. “I am not hearing this. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph … I am
not
hearing this.”

Lord Rhys folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall. He was truly beginning to enjoy himself. The wench had more nerve and more spirit than a hundred Englishmen thrown together. Disguise herself as a squire? Run halfway across the Continent to find her uncle? Christ, but she was magnificent! Far too magnificent for anyone but himself to possess, by whatever means or method.

“William,” Isabella continued, more to herself, but loudly enough for the others to take heed, “would be furious. No. No, he would be more than furious; he would be in a rage. And doubtless, he would blame me for contriving the whole affair.”

“Do you not think he would be more furious if we did nothing and allowed the king to proceed with this travesty?” Ariel asked. “Surely he would want to know how Lackland is seeking to manipulate and undermine him. He would want to know, dear Aunt … if
only to safeguard his back and ready himself for the next assault.”

Isabella looked up. “The next assault?”

Ariel took shameless advantage of her aunt’s confused state and went down on her knees before her. “Are you forgetting you have children of your own in the nurseries above us? If the king succeeds in shackling me to this gaoler’s son, what is to stop him from binding sweet Matilda to a Flemish foot soldier, or Sibilla to a lust-mad fishmonger, or Eva, Joanna, and Isabella to—”

“Stop!” the countess gasped, her hand covering her mouth. “Oh, my poor dears—the king would not do such a thing … would he?”

Ariel’s response was a dramatic sigh, rife with pity and melancholy.

“Oh.” Isabella’s huge, swimming eyes looked to Henry for guidance. “What shall we do?”

The word
applaud
came wryly to mind as Henry assessed his sister’s performance, but it was Sedrick, quiet until now, who stepped forward and bowed solemnly before the countess.

“Forgive ma boldness, Lady Isabella, but as much as I am loathe to say it, there is some merit in what the Lady Ariel says. Lord William should be told what is happening in his absence. He should be told of the king’s connivings and he should be told without delay. I, in ma humblest capacity, would be more than willing to carry the news to Normandy … and to carry aught else ma lady deems necessary under the protection of ma sword.”

Ariel glanced up from beneath the thick sweep of her lashes, but Sedrick would not meet her eyes. He was the eighth son of a noble who had had very little to begin with, and nothing at all after deeding lands to his other seven sons. Sedrick had, if castle gossips were to be believed, at one time intended taking the cross and shaving his head in the tonsured style of a penitent. His plans went awry when several women in the village near the abbey where he was studying to take his vows gave birth to by-blows who bore a striking resemblance to the swarthy-skinned Celt.

Undaunted and secretly relieved to be off his knees, Sedrick of Grantham had quite happily taken up a cross of a more violent nature. He had answered the Lionheart’s call to
join the Crusades, and, because of his size and ferocious appetite for battle, had soon joined the ranks of Richard’s personal guard.

Serving thus, he had made the acquaintance of William the Marshal—not only met him but managed to save his life by thwarting the aim of an assassin’s sword meant for the earl. Sent back to Milford Haven to recuperate from his wounds, he and Henry had struck up a friendship which had remained solid to this day. Despite his years of service to Pembroke, he still felt like a shy, cumbersome creature when he was near the dainty Lady Isabella and seemed always to be balancing on a bed of eggshells in her presence. He had, however, proven his bravery and loyalty to the House of Pembroke too many times to have his opinions or his concerns waived lightly.

“You think we should send word to William?” Isabella asked.

“I think ye cannot take a chance on the king’s moods these days.”

“You may also count upon me to help in any way I can,” said Lord Rhys. “From waylaying a dozen couriers, to conveying my own sincere application for the Lady Ariel’s hand in marriage.”

“Henry and I will present your offer in the best terms possible,” Ariel assured him, barely glancing up.

“I have no doubt you would,” Rhys agreed affably, his teeth appearing in a white slash through the parting of his beard. “But since it would be an honour beyond my ken to have the lord marshal even consider me a candidate, I could not do him the disservice of approaching the matter with anything less than personal representation. My brother Dafydd will accompany you to Normandy, with my signed and sealed offer of good faith.”

Henry and Ariel both stared at the Welshman.

“Your brother?” they asked in unison.

“Being somewhat more scholarly inclined than myself”— meaning he could read and write, where Rhys could not— “Dafydd is far more capable with pen and ink negotiations than he is with bow and arrow … which is not to say he
suffers any lack of skill or enthusiasm with either. In fact, it would further ease my mind to know there was another stout sword arm at your disposal.”

“It … is a generous offer, my lord,” Ariel stammered, “but—”

“You object to his company?” Iorwerth asked lightly.

Ariel looked askance at Henry, but for the moment he appeared content to let her stew in the juices of her own concocting. “N-no, of course not, but … surely you cannot expect to kidnap the king’s man and six of his guards on your own?”

The gleaming slash of teeth broadened. “Surely not,” he agreed. “There are a dozen of my men within sight of these castle walls even as we speak. For unlike your brother, my lady, I travel without the Pembroke lions on my shield to guarantee me safe passage through unfriendly lands.”

Henry, clearly startled to hear that Iorwerth’s men had been following them, exchanged a hard glance with Sedrick. Neither the glance nor the insult to their powers of observation went unnoticed by Lord Rhys.

“And now,” he stated evenly, “if there are no further objections, my brother and I have quite a few things to discuss before morning. Lady Pembroke, Lady Ariel … my lords …”

The two Welshmen offered a formal bow and excused themselves, striding out of the ring of firelight, then out of the room entirely, leaving utter silence in their wake.

Ariel, still on her knees by her aunt’s chair, frowned after them, wondering how such an inventively clever plan had flared so completely out of control. She had no intentions of marrying Rhys ap Iorwerth. She’d had no intentions of even putting him forward as a candidate in her uncle’s eyes—a conclusion the outlaw had obviously determined and countered with the offer of his brother’s “company.” His brother’s watchful eye, more’s the like.