Outrageous (30 page)

Hastily she put down the sword once more.

“Stand by the fire, Cecily, it’ll warm you.”

Cecily did as she instructed and watched Marian as she moved about the room, straightening it. Slyly she said, “The bed’s just as you left it.”

Marian stopped, remembering that night.

“I wager the sheets are the same. Don’t you want to lay down and pretend you’re in his arms again?”

When Marian wished, she could be as haughty as her father. “Cecily, you go too far.”

Cecily burst into tears again. “I know. I know. I beg your pardon.” She ran to Marian and flung her arms around her. “I’m just tired and frightened. All my dreams are dying, and I keep looking for a way to keep them alive. I think if I’m mean to other people, it’ll help, but it doesn’t.”

Touched by the first sincere statement she’d heard from Cecily since her return, Marian patted her on the back.

“Nothing helps,” Cecily muttered.

“I’m sorry, too.” Marian gave Cecily a gentle push. “Now dry your tears. I’ll make the bed, and you and Lionel can rest.”

“What will you do?” Cecily demanded.

“I’ll tend the fire.” She smiled. “It will be good to put my feet up. I need to think, but I’m too tired.”
And too worried and discouraged
, but she didn’t say that.

To her surprise, she found she had to coax Lionel to lie with Cecily. She had thought Cecily would be welcomed as an old friend, but it seemed he trusted no one any longer. But he couldn’t resist the lure of sleep for long, and soon Marian sat on a bench by the fire.

She had lied to Cecily. She no longer needed to think. She knew what had to be done and was prepared to do it.

But it hurt.

When Cecily complained that her dreams were dying, she’d struck a sympathetic chord in Marian. Marian’s dreams, too, lay in ruins around her feet. The temptations that Wenthaven brandished still had the power to move her, and she still had the power to follow them.

She could go to London. She could control Lionel and, through Lionel, the kingdom. She could have wealth and power above her greatest imaginings.

If she didn’t seize this chance, go with Wenthaven into battle and defeat Henry, she would never have a chance to be powerful—and she was, she had discovered, enough like her father to long for power.

Yet if Wenthaven rebelled against the king and failed, Henry would seek Lionel to the ends of the earth. She and her son would be in exile in a foreign land, seeking the kindness of a patron, begging, starving, always in fear for their lives.

But whether Griffith lived or died, she knew what he expected. She knew what was right, and she knew how to take the initiative away from Wenthaven and place it in her own hands.

So with one last glance at the bed, she lifted her skirt and untied the pouch that held the page from the marriage registry. After removing the parchment and smoothing it out, she read the words that could set the world on fire. She remembered the wedding so vividly—Richard, dark and domineering; Elizabeth, beautiful and frightened. The priest, hurrying through the rite as if it were something dirty. Lord Norfolk. And her, three years younger—only nineteen—and infinitely more naive.

The chapel had been lit by only one branch of candles. She had signed the registry with shaking fingers,
and when Elizabeth whispered of her pregnancy, those same shaking fingers had stolen the page from the book.

She had never been able to view that chapel again without seeing it as if through a smoky glass. And smoke is what the proof of marriage would be. It would be best—for Lionel and for Griffith.

Leaning forward, she placed the parchment near the flame.

“Don’t!”

The scream from Cecily made her jump and drop the registry page.

“Nay!” Cecily screamed again, and leaped toward the fire. With her bare hands she rescued the parchment as the edges turned brown and began to curl. “Sweet Jesú!” She dropped it on the floor and stamped out the impending flame, then blew on her fingers. “You’ve got it. You’ve got it! I always thought you did. I told Wenthaven you did. I searched the cottage, but I couldn’t find it.”

Astounded, Marian remembered the destruction of her home. “
You
searched the cottage?”

“Aye. I couldn’t find it easily, so I tore the cottage apart. I thought it clever, but Wenthaven was angry with me. Now here it is, and you”—Cecily’s eyes narrowed—“you were trying to burn it.”

Marian lunged for it, but Cecily snatched it up.

“Give it to me,” Marian coaxed. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Aye, I do. I’m getting Wenthaven what he seeks above all else. For this he will wed me.”

“Not while I live.” Marian leaped, and Cecily was no match for her. Clutching Cecily’s wrist in her strong hand, she squeezed until Cecily cried aloud and the parchment fluttered toward the floor.

Before it landed, a male hand caught it.

Wenthaven’s hand.

The jeers of the mercenaries
never gave way to arrows as Griffith and Billy circled Castle Wenthaven, and their very lack of aggression made Griffith uneasy. Why the forbearance? What plan was Wenthaven putting into motion?

He prodded Billy. “Do you recognize anyone?”

Squinting at the colossal battlements, Billy said, “T’ tell ye th’ truth, me vision ain’t what it used t’ be. I can’t tell th’ Englishmen from th’ Welshmen, an’ I ain’t close enough t’ smell them. Damned Welsh traitors.”

Griffith stiffened. “What’s that, Billy?”

Resentful and angry, Billy asked, “Well, why can’t they support Henry? He’s Welsh—isn’t that good enough fer them?”

“Wales is a poor country, with not enough land and too many hungry mouths. Those men are feeding their children the only way they can.”

But Griffith’s explanation didn’t touch Billy. He only stared sullenly, and Griffith realized Art had been right. Until a man had his own wide-eyed,
hungry children, he didn’t understand the desperate measures to which a parent would resort. Griffith had a child now. He had Lionel, and he sat within range of an enemy’s arrows, attempting a scheme so desperate that it was unlikely to succeed in the best of circumstances. And Billy couldn’t see? “Billy, if I describe the men, would you know them?”

Billy was close enough to see Griffith’s face and realized he’d better make the attempt. “Aye…er…maybe. If ye describe them well, I suppose I might.”

“A black-haired man with a brown tunic on.”

“Welsh,” Billy said decidedly.

“A black-haired man with”—damn, the walls loomed over them, and even Griffith’s eagle vision had trouble discerning details—“two or three fingers missing.”

“Uh…lotta black-haired Englishmen, too, especially around these parts. Welsh, I suppose.”

Fast and hard, Griffith said, “A black-haired man with half a nose.”

“Welsh.”

“A bald man with one eye.”

“Welsh, I guess, although I haven’t seen him around th’—”

Giving a whoop, Griffith galloped toward the wall. “Art! Arthur, for the love of God—”

Art waved, grinning, and another black-haired man appeared beside him.

Splashing into the lake, wetting himself and his horse, Griffith exulted, “And Dolan. Oh, praise be to God, ’tis Dolan, too.”

He couldn’t remember when he’d experienced such joy. Art! Dear old Art, alive and as conniving as ever. And Dolan, that old pirate who lived in the village and gave his father fits with his sly and surly tricks. Never had a man such competent allies. Never had Griffith found himself so blatantly optimistic.

Had he ever been a controlled and cautious man?
Banish the thought! For he now knew himself to be in a state of grace. Nothing could touch him, and he would triumph.

His two conspirators leaned out and, without a word, pointed at the gate.

Griffith indicated his approval, and the men ducked back. Laughing, he shook his fist at the gray walls that excluded him and opened his arms to heaven. “I will prevail!” he shouted. “I will conquer! I will—”

A single bolt from a crossbow smacked the water beside him.

Far above, Cledwyn stood in the crenelation and shrieked, “Griffith ap Powel, ye lickspit, I’ll kill ye yet!”

As Griffith stared, Cledwyn reloaded, and Griffith tarried no longer. He might conquer, he realized, but only if he now retreated. Protecting his back with his shield, he returned to Billy, shouting, “Welsh! Saint Dewi has blessed us, those men are Welsh, and they’re going to open the gate.”

Scarcely waiting until Griffith drew abreast, Billy joined his headlong retreat. “But there’s only two!” he shouted back.

Griffith grinned with all his teeth. “They’re Welsh. Two are all it takes.”

Marian stood in front of the closed door, sword pointed at her father’s throat. “You cannot leave with that document. It’s mine. Give it to me.”

Unconcerned by her threat, by Honey’s scratching demand to be let in, or by Cecily’s simulated panic, Wenthaven rolled the parchment carefully. Bits of the charred edges fluttered to the floor as he said, “Don’t be foolish, dear daughter. You can’t kill your own father. Unlike me, you have some morals.”

“My morals are at war with themselves, dear
father. Should I betray the princess who has been a true and faithful friend? Should I destroy her life, and the life of both her child and mine? Or should I kill my father, the man who bred me, then treated me with less care than a cur in his kennel?” Two pairs of green eyes locked in battle. “Do the correct thing, Wenthaven. Save me from making the choice. Drop the parchment.”

His amusement was almost palpable, yet she couldn’t help but wonder at him. He glittered with an almost frantic intensity. His armor, though light, was complete, and he wore the weapons of a warrior. It was as if he anticipated battle—a battle he could not lose.

“What would you do with the letter if I dropped it?” he asked.

“Burn it.” At his chuckle she went on, “It’s going to burn. Either I will burn it, or Henry will burn it when he burns your castle, your crops, and your vassals in their beds.”

“Don’t listen to her, Wenthaven!” Cecily cried. “Your own daughter doubts your power and betrays you in her faith.”

With one glance Marian summed up Cecily’s triumph. The stupid girl stood on a bench for a better view and baited them like a spectator at a bull and bear exhibition.

Not even Wenthaven’s curt, “Shut your mouth,” could dim Cecily’s glow. No wonder, for Wenthaven accused Marian, “You have such faith in Henry Tudor.”

“I have faith in the men who follow him.”

From outside the window, a shout briefly distracted Wenthaven, but he returned his attention to Marian. “Griffith ap Powel is dead.”

“There are others like him.”

“You?” he sneered. Pure reflexive anger almost pushed the point into his throat, and again his
teeth gleamed. “In sooth, you’ve become Henry’s champion.”

She realized it was true. If Lionel was not to be on the throne, then Henry was her choice. He was strong and stable. He had married Elizabeth, who would serve justice as best she could. He had begun a dynasty to rule a sore and aching England. Her fingers loosened on the grip, and she balanced it correctly again. “If I am Henry’s champion, then I will fight to the death for him.”

“A wager of battle? A trial by arms? How English. How plebeian.” With the faint scrape of steel, Wenthaven pulled his sword from its scabbard. “How right.”

She didn’t know why, but she was surprised. Horrified, even. Aye, perhaps Wenthaven had treated her with less attention than one of his curs, but he was her father. She had thought he wouldn’t pull steel on her in menace, but betrayal piled on betrayal.

“Have you changed your mind?” Wenthaven asked in a mocking tone.

But his attention was only half on her as one shout from outside the window multiplied into a dozen. Honey whined, demanding entrance.

“Nay, not so.” She wet her dry lips. “A challenge, Wenthaven. We fight to the death. We fight for the proof of marriage. If you die, I will burn the parchment. If I die, you will use it. So place it on the hearth, dear father, where the winner may easily seize it.”

“On the hearth?” The blades met, and his dimples flashed. “I taught you what you know, and in all our bouts you have never succeeded in disarming me. Have you learned so much? Have you such faith in your swordsmanship?”

“I do,” she said, gathering her skirt over her arm. “Don’t you?”

He seemed to consider, and Cecily burst out,
“Don’t do it, Wenthaven. It’s a trick! Don’t be a fool.”

Cecily was, without a doubt, the fool, and Marian blessed her for it.

“Cecily, you prove your own stupidity,” Wenthaven snarled. “My daughter may wish to trick me, but I am yet the master.” Sidling to the hearth, his sword still pointed at Marian, he placed the parchment on the stones. “Leave it,” he commanded when Cecily made a move toward it. “Leave it. Either I will pick it up and use it, or Marian will have it and burn it—and the other will no longer care.”

Marian had won the greatest of the concessions. Now she must utilize it, but she experienced no jubilation. No doubt heaven would be a better place, but until she witnessed Griffith’s lifeless body, she could not easily relinquish the earth. Justice sometimes required sacrifice, though, and sacrifice required blood.

That blood thrummed in her ears as her own death toll rang in the rhythm of her heart. She leaped toward Wenthaven, her sword as liquid and shining as quicksilver. He met her thrust, but barely, and an unrestrained oath slipped from his lips. He regained his balance, and his sword shot out, an extension of his arm, slashing her skirt and…her arm?

She lifted it, half expecting to see a bloody stub, but as close as he’d come, he’d not nicked her. Watching her from beneath heavy lids, Wenthaven commanded, “Tear it off completely.”

She stared, uncomprehending.

“Your skirt,” he said. “Tear it short so you don’t have to hold it. I would not have it said I won with an unfair advantage.”

Only Wenthaven would worry about such a thing. Only Wenthaven had the precision to complete that blow. Frightening, to think she might have lost before she began.

“Do it,” he commanded.

Nodding, she took the material and ripped along the weft until it reached just below her knees.

He had inflicted no tangible damage, but the sword thrust had been a blow to her ego—he hoped. He hoped it would be sufficient to make her discontinue this futile action. He hoped that if she were not convinced physically, she could be convinced verbally.

Not that he cared about Marian, disobedient, disrespectful offspring that she was. Nay, ’twas simply that he dreaded the prospect of taking her child—indeed, any child—under his wing. Especially a child who wailed for a dead mother.

He’d proved himself inadequate to that task once before.

The shouting in the bailey grew into a roar. Damn Cledwyn—couldn’t he keep his men under control until Wenthaven had finished his business here? A pox on them all—he’d deal with them later. “Do we begin again?” he asked Marian.

“I’m ready,” she answered.

Her steady, bleak stare disturbed him. It reminded him of one of his spaniels when she had been mauled by a wolf—facing death with the satisfaction of knowing she had done what was required of her. Wanting to smash that inclination, wanting to give Marian every chance, he launched a brilliant attack—brilliant even in his own eyes.

He maneuvered her across the room to the door and held her captive against the wood with a series of thrusts so quick that they created a cage around her. He would have held her there longer, but the sounds of their swordwork drove Honey to a frenzy of barking, and he feared the dog would leap off the unrailed landing in her excitement. So he allowed Marian to disable him temporarily with an unexceptional parry.

An unexceptional parry that drew blood, he noted
with disgust. “I’m slipping,” he said as crimson trickled from his wrist up his arm and dripped in tiny splashes from his elbow.

“I’m good,” she answered.

“Conceit.”

“Truth.”

Pride was the beginning of her downfall. Wenthaven noted it and gloated. Thrusting, thrusting, he worked her until she had to do more than parry—she had to fight, and fight to win.

Her chest began the work of a bellows. Sweat trickled in her eyes, and a determined smile curved her lips. It required all of her concentration to retain her sword and her life. He observed her as he maneuvered her over to the bed, where Lionel slept the sleep of the innocent. The proximity to the lad distracted her, he noted with satisfaction. She watched her footing with exceptional care and fought in silence so as not to disturb the lad.

Wenthaven understood the feeling. Honey roused just such an emotion in him, and he ached for the dog now clawing at the wooden flooring, trying to dig her way beneath the door. To his surprise, he also ached for Marian, fighting a losing battle for her honor.

Surely if he defeated her now, he wouldn’t have to kill her. Surely the humiliation would be enough to turn her, for now the duel pumped excitement through her veins, and the pleasure of combat chipped away at her stoic resignation.

He’d won the greatest part of the conflict—Marian struggled to live again.

Now he had to persuade her to do his bidding. Persuasion would work with her, he assured himself. She was his daughter. She could be swayed with persuasion.

Employing the voice he used so successfully when taming a skittish bitch-dog, he said, “You don’t yet understand your position. I have the proof
of marriage. With that proof in hand, I can—and will—topple Henry from his throne.”

He maneuvered her to the open window, hoping to awaken her good sense. But the breeze carried the screech of metal and wood as the drawbridge was lowered. What were those mercenary morons doing? he wondered.

“Not easily,” she said, panting.

“Aye, easily.”

“You lie…to yourself. You spend too much time here.” She stabbed the air beside his head as she stumbled on a silver ball. A bell tinkled as it rolled, and she righted herself. “Has it never occurred to you…your spies are telling you what you wish to hear?”

He didn’t like that and slashed harder. “What do you mean?”

“The countryside—settled. The townfolk—satisfied. You’ll not easily…raise an army. The great nobles grow wealthy…under Henry.” She struggled to keep up with his intensified attack, but she used precious breath to gasp, “Go out into…the land, Wenthaven, and you’ll see…I’m right.”

She was tricky. Trickier than he’d realized. Would she undermine his confidence with her babblings?

She would not. But she required close observation, as did the idiots outside who were even now yelling words he couldn’t quite hear. Anxious to overcome her, he said, “I’ll ignore your foolishness, if you’ll come with me as a convenience for the care of the child.”

Her smile, so much like his own, flashed dimples at him. “If I’m…a convenience…why are we fighting?”

The forgotten Cecily demanded, “Aye, why?”

Annoyed beyond good sense, Wenthaven snapped, “Cecily! Get out of here.” He saw her from the corner of his eye, standing on a bench by the door, avid elation gleaming in her eyes. “Out,” he said. “Out, out, out!”