Outrageous (29 page)

“I just came t’ tell ye, there’s a troop of soldiers outside th’ walls, back at th’ treeline. They’ve sent a messenger t’ th’ gate an’ demanded entrance. He says”—Cledwyn took a breath—“they’re from th’ king.”

Wenthaven’s lips could scarcely move. “From the king?”

“He was bearin’ th’ king’s standard.”

“Then it’s not from the king. It
is
the king.” Wenthaven thought hard. “How many in the troop?”

“Can’t tell fer sure because o’ th’ trees, but…I estimate twenty knights an’ their squires.”

“So small a force…you’d think Henry would have more wisdom. If I could capture the king…” Wenthaven’s hand closed into a fist, and he smiled, the kind of smile that made the hardened mercenary creep toward the exit. His finger shot out toward Cledwyn. “You!”

Cledwyn froze like a marked fox. “Aye, m’lord?”

“Talk to them. Stall them while I prepare. Do what you must to get your men ready.”

“M’lord?” Cledwyn’s eyes gleamed with avarice. “Can I wear armor fer this fight?”

Magnanimous in his anticipation, Wenthaven replied, “Aye, Cledwyn. Tell the English men-at-arms they are to outfit you in the finest armor in the store-room.”

“They won’t like it,” Cledwyn said.

“They’ll do as they’re told. When the conditions are proper…” Wenthaven gripped Cledwyn’s shoulder, and Cledwyn flinched as if he’d been branded. “We have all of England in our grasp. Let us not fail.”

Wheeling around, he left the mercenary gaping and returned to Marian. To his daughter, keeper of secrets. Of, perhaps, the ultimate secret? He smiled at her kindly and scarcely noticed when she cradled Lionel as if to protect him. In his most comforting tone he said, “Why don’t you go to your suite? Put the child to bed. Think about everything. You’re fatigued, emotional. When you’ve rested, you’ll thank me for my foresight.”

“Oh, Wenthaven,” she began.

But he ignored her. “Cecily! Come out from behind those drapes and make yourself useful.”

Confused, Marian looked at the draped wall he indicated.

“Come on, Cecily,” he snapped. “A woman the size of a cow can scarcely hide in one of my own spy holes without notice.”

The drapes rustled, then parted slowly, and Cecily stepped out.

Cecily was pregnant. Her face was puffy, her forehead splotchy. Her wrists and fingers were swollen like sausages. She moved with lumbering clumsiness.

Worse, she looked unhappy. A mouth made to pout and invite kisses now simply drooped. The languorous doe eyes showed signs of weeping. And she wadded a damp, tear-laden cloth between her fingers.

How she disgusted him.

“Cecily.” Marian half rose in greeting, then faltered and dropped back onto the chair. “I…”

“You told me so. Isn’t that what you wanted to say?” Cecily said petulantly. “I can almost hear you saying it. ‘I told you so. I told you so.’”

“Nay, Cecily—”

“God’s gloves, Cecily, stop yammering and tend to your duties.” Wenthaven stepped across the room, as far away from the bloated handmaiden as he could be. “Take Lady Marian and my grandson to their chambers”—he bent a frown on Marian—“not in the cottage, but in the manor. Tend to them as you did before. And get that lovesick look off your face. I’ve got no time for more of your whimpering.”

He could see the realization dawning on Marian’s face, as horror and amazement took their turns. He was the father of the child. Although he tried to conceal it, he met her gaze with rueful embarrassment. “She looks like your mother,” he said, sure that that excused everything. “But she proved to be like all the rest. Inferior.”

The king’s herald rode up to the mounted troop, and Henry and Griffith closed on him as he entered
the trees and spoke. “Wenthaven’s got the castle manned by Welshmen. The first one pretended to speak only Welsh and sent for a second, who spoke English—badly. After much shouting, the mercenary informed me he can’t let down the gate without Wenthaven’s express permission, and Wenthaven is between some woman’s legs. Supposedly a man has gone to fetch him.” The young knight removed his helmet and wiped his sweaty hair off his forehead. “I think they’re stalling, Your Grace.”

Griffith moved away from Henry’s noisy wrath and scanned the high, crenellated walls. He wanted to get in, and he wanted in now. He had no time to wait for Wenthaven’s pleasure, nor for Henry’s displeasure. The lives of Marian and Lionel counted as nothing, except to him. Therefore he would rescue them. “Billy,” he called. “Come here.”

The man-at-arms moved to his side as if he’d been waiting for the summons. “M’lord.”

“How do we get in?”

Henry stormed up in time to hear the question and snapped, “There’s no way into Castle Wenthaven. We’ll have to send for an army and besiege it.”

“I’ll not give up so soon.” Griffith examined the walls assiduously. “We have here one of Wenthaven’s own men. He will know of a secret passage?”

Billy shook his head.

“Or a postern gate?”

Billy shook his head again.

“Or someone who’s in league with you who will let you in?” Griffith finished in exasperation.

Billy mulled it over and by slow degrees came to a plan. “Th’ good English men-at-arms have been supplanted by th’ evil Welsh mercenaries—beggin’ yer pardon, m’lord—an’ that’s bad. ’Cept th’ good Englishmen might be willin’ t’ knock some heads if they see me, just t’ let me in.”

Nodding, Griffith said, “We’ll ride as far around
the castle as we can without taking a dip in the lake, and stay in plain view while we do it.”

Henry eyed Griffith’s horse with misfavor. “You’ll be like sitting drakes. You don’t even have a saddle on that beast.”

“Then give me one.” Griffith dismounted. “This vicious steed understands me quite well now, and he’s been well trained in the ways of war.”

Henry hesitated, then signaled his squire and gave the order to strip the tack from the squire’s own horse. When the lad would have balked, Henry said irritably, “By my troth, we’re not going anywhere. Do as I tell you, and quickly!” He watched with a brooding gaze as the transfer was made, then instructed his squire to give up his weapons as well. “Lord Griffith is determined, and will need them, I suppose, although I’d prefer a siege. ’Twould keep the miscreant caged until such time as I humbled him.”

“I don’t have time for that, my liege.” Griffith accepted a lance and shield, a long sword and war hammer, and placed them as he had been trained. “My wife and my child are inside, and I fear for them. I imagine the queen would be most fearful for them, too.”

“Of course.” Henry ran his finger along the collar of his gorget. “Of course. But wait at least while my squire fetches armor. You should not be so exposed for this ride.”

Irritation at Henry made Griffith adjust and read-just the strap over his shoulder. It was only too obvious that Henry struggled between his conscience and expediency. If the child were killed, convenience would be served. If Henry appeared to be the executioner, hell itself could not shelter him from Elizabeth’s pain and fury. So he vacillated while Griffith took action. “I’ll make do with the leather armor and the shield. It will be sufficient”—he gripped the lance—“for my heart is pure.”

Henry heard both what Griffith said and what he meant. “You’ll take care,” he insisted, then lifted a hand before Griffith could speak. “I know you will, but your previous encounters have not been auspicious, and Griffith, I need my loyal men about me. Especially now. Especially you. Especially Lady Marian’s husband and the adopted father of the lad.”

Proudly Griffith realized that men had no need for the too obvious sentiment that so impressed women. He and Henry communicated very well, and he put aside the uneasiness Henry’s uncertainty had created in him. “My time has not yet come, my liege, nor will I open the door to death. I will take care.” With a grin that resembled a snarl, he said, “This will be as simple as kissing a maid on May-day. Just be prepared to ride when we get the gate down.”

Numb with amazement, Marian hoisted Lionel onto her hip and followed Cecily down the hall. The silence stretched until Cecily demanded, “Aren’t you going to say anything? Like tell me how stupid I’ve been?”

Words were inadequate to the occasion, but Marian tried. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, fine. Just fine. I’m fat and ugly and sick, and he doesn’t want me anymore and he won’t marry me, but I’m fine.”

Marian nodded cautiously. “I’m sorry.”

Stopping by the rooms where Marian had wintered, Cecily opened the door, then bowed to Marian. “After you. I mean, I’m just the servant here.”

“My thanks.” Marian stepped over the threshold. The rooms were dim and dusty and looked like a prison. Lionel dug his head into her shoulder and whimpered, and in an instant Marian realized what she wanted. “Nay,” she said decisively. “I’m staying in my mother’s rooms.”

“What?” Cecily cried. “You can’t do that. Lord Wenthaven said—”

“He said for me to stay in my chambers in the manor. So I will.” Marian nodded and took Cecily’s arm. “Come. We’ll be happy there.”

Cecily tugged free. “You’ll be happy. I’ll have to climb the stairs, up and down, up and down. There’s no railing, the countess’s room is at the top—the very top, Lady Marian!—and I can’t walk in comfort.”

Ignoring her, Marian strode briskly to the tower, and Cecily trailed behind, ever the martyr.

“Don’t let that worry you,” she went on. “I can see that it won’t. After all, you are the legitimate heir to Wenthaven. I’m just carrying his only son.”

In the doorway of the tower, Marian whirled on her. “By my troth, Cecily…”

Pleased to have provoked a reaction, Cecily smirked. “How do I know it’s a son, you ask? I consulted the witch in the village, and she told me I would prove Wenthaven’s downfall. He would tumble for me, and give me a child, and after a struggle and a period of suffering, all would be well.”

Marian’s exasperation got the better of her. “I hope you didn’t pay her.”

Cecily’s chin wobbled.

“Cecily, I wish you’d told me what you were doing. Did you imagine Wenthaven, with his lofty aspirations and his lust for power, would wed one of his wife’s illegitimate cousins?”

Tears trickled down Cecily’s cheeks, and she sobbed softly.

“I don’t mean to hurt you, but
I
am Wenthaven’s heir. The estate of Wenthaven came from my mother, and is entailed to her lineal descendants. It is not just my inheritance—it is already mine, although my father maintains control as my guardian. Regardless of Wenthaven’s remarriage and begetting of future heirs, it will never be his.” Marian put her arm
around Cecily’s shaking shoulders. “Wenthaven is enamored of mastery. He could have wed many times over, and increased his wealth and power through the marriage settlement. He has not—because of my mother, I suspect.”

Cecily’s weeping reached a crescendo.

“Let’s go up to the countess’s room. I’ll care for Lionel. You lie down and put your feet up, and we’ll think of what to do for you.”

Cecily leaped back. “I won’t be married off. I want Wenthaven to see this child. When he sees his son, he won’t be able to resist.”

“Wenthaven resists childish charms with remarkable ease.” Marian got behind Cecily and urged her up the stone stairs that spiraled up into the darkness. “He resisted both mine and Lionel’s very well.”

“You remind him of the countess. And Lionel isn’t really his grandson.”

Marian stopped.

“What did you say?”

Reaching the final landing, Cecily smiled a terrible smile. “Did you think I didn’t know? You’ve never had a child. That boy is not your son, he’s Elizabeth’s.”

Marian bounded up the remaining steps and grabbed Cecily. “Did Wenthaven tell you that?”

Cecily wriggled like a guilty child. “I told him my suspicions, and we compared the facts. Together we—”

“Forget everything you know or think you know. Forget it! You’ve got a child to think of now, and if you get involved in this mess of Wenthaven’s, there’ll be more than you who will suffer.”

“
You
don’t think Wenthaven will be successful, do you?” Cecily asked.

Remembering Henry, remembering the devoted entourage around him, remembering the loyalty he inspired in Griffith, Marian shook her head.

“But I’m different. I believe in Wenthaven. I understand his ambitions.” Cecily straightened her shoulders, and some of her old glow shone through. “I’d be a helpmeet for him.”

“Perhaps you would.” Giving up for the moment, Marian pushed open the door and stepped into the countess’s room.

Home. It smelled, looked, and felt like home. Despite everything, she relaxed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this way. It had to have been…in Wales. She jumped guiltily. In Wales, with gruff Rhys and gentle Angharad. With Art and Griffith, still alive, still well.

Tears overflowed, tears she hadn’t even known she was holding back. Lionel reached up and patted her cheeks. Cecily looked at her curiously. And the comfort of the room closed over Marian like a blanket.

Lionel seemed to feel it, too, for he struggled to be put down. Marian rubbed her aching arms as she watched him explore the room, recognizing it in the touch of his little hands and the occasional smile. At last he came and stood before her. “Griffith?” he asked.

It was the first word she’d heard him speak since the rescue.

“Griffith?” he asked again.

“No Griffith,” Marian answered. “Not now.”

“Huh! Not ever,” Cecily said.

Marian glared a warning, and Cecily shivered as she glanced around the room. “I hate this chamber. It stinks, and it feels cold.”

“I’ll open a window,” Marian said, suiting action to word. “I don’t think anyone has been up here since I left. It’s dusty. The firebox is full of ash.” She swept it out and laid the fire, lighting it with flint and feeding it with chips until it burned well enough to accept logs. A glint caught her eye; leaning against the stone of the fireplace was her sword, clean, erect,
and waiting for her hand. She picked it up and felt the heft and balance of the blade.

It recalled earlier days, better days, the day when she’d met Griffith.