The Warrior's Reward (4 page)

Ieuan broke the kiss. Coldness washed over her. He stepped back sharply and dropped his head. “Forgive me.”

Nay
, she wanted to say.
Kiss me again
, she longed to plead. It had been overwhelming, but she wanted more. What more was there to have? She hardly knew, but she didn’t want the kiss to end.

All she managed was a shaky smile while she straightened her skirts.

“Allow me to escort you back to the keep,” he said stiffly.

When he didn’t even offer her a hand or an arm, her heart sank into her toes. Her dream night, her dream kiss, was over.

Sweat dripped down his brow and Ieuan lifted his visor to swipe at it with the cloth Bryn offered. This was it. The final joust. The day was warm and dry, and his armour was becoming stiflingly hot and heavy.

He was up against Granville. If Granville unseated him, he’d be in trouble. All his victories would mean nothing. All he had to do was stay in his saddle and achieve two hits or shatter Granville’s lance. That would be enough to secure his victory.

And secure his wife.

Sitting in her usual spot on the grandstand, she shone like an angel under the afternoon sun. He wasn’t sure if being aware of her all the time would help or hinder him. It reminded him of what he fought for—which was far more than some foolish notion of chivalry. He fought for his country, his home and his people. Wales had been left to ruin after the rebellion. His people were desperately poor. While he might not be able to save all of Wales, he could at least bring prosperity back to his small plot of land.

Though he couldn’t see her gaze, he knew she watched him. Had she forgiven him for that kiss? She’d wanted it and he’d been powerless to do anything other than give it to her but he’d never meant to push it so far. The Treasure of Tynewell was a complete innocent, that much was clear. Mayhap she now realised all his talk of fighting for her honour was just that—mere talk. He believed in honour but not the sort of honour that was written about by troubadours or spouted by noblemen who would sell their honour to the highest bidder.

On the battlefield, he’d learned of honour. The honour of fighting with your countrymen, of staying by their side even as they were cut down around you. And now it drove him again to win this fight and restore his lands to the state they once were before the rebellion ravaged their country and the English soldiers laid waste to their castles and people.

His mount, Melfed, jostled impatiently beneath him. Ieuan gave him a reassuring pat. Even he seemed to know what was at stake. Bryn handed up his lance and he took a moment to enjoy the weight of it, the power it had. With one strike he could end this and claim his winnings.

The combatants were announced and Ieuan took his position, snapping down his visor. His first run would be his weakest. He faced the sun and it shone through his visor. His vision would be distorted. Granville had a fine aim but was not as strong as he. His best hope was to suffer a blow and stay mounted, then ready himself to unseat him on the next run when he was facing away from the sun. The third run would again put him at a disadvantage, but it was how the challenge had been set and he would not argue it and be cast as a coward.

He drew in several heavy breaths and focused his vision on his opponent atop his white steed. The ribbon Rosamunde gave him fluttered in the gentle breeze at the end of his lance. A wry grin cracked his face. He couldn’t help it. Mayhap some notion of chivalric honour still resided in him as not only did he not wish to fail his people, he didn’t wish to fail her.

“Fool,” he muttered to himself. He’d already failed her with that kiss.

Reins in hand, lance carefully balanced, he tensed his muscles and readied himself. The joust was called. He kicked Melfed’s flanks.  Nothing existed apart from the tip of his lance and Granville. The horses thundered toward each other. He heard his breaths rasp against the metal of his visor.

A crunch. Pain burst through his shoulder and he tightened his grip as it shifted him in the saddle. His lance missed its mark. Granville had struck him through. He concentrated on breathing and ignoring the agony burning through his shoulder. It wasn’t the worst hit he had received during the tournament and he’d survived harder hits before.

But now was his chance. He brought his mount around and they took their positions once more. Shatter Granville’s lance or knock him from his horse. These were the only options open to him. Losing was not one of them.

The challenge was called again and he spurred the horse into action. He kept his gaze pinned to the end of his lance, his arm strong and firm around it, ensuring it did not miss its mark. Granville’s chest came into view. Ieuan’s lance struck, wood splintered. He had no time to see the effect but he came away unscathed. He turned his horse and came to a stop. Flipping up his visor, he allowed himself a grin. He’d unseated Granville.

The crowd cheered. Bryn did an awful type of jig that made him want to clip the boy around the ear. He handed down his shattered lance to the boy and slipped from his saddle. Removing his gauntlets, he dumped them on Bryn too before flinging his gloves his way and removing his helmet.

Ieuan ran a hand through his damp hair and waved to the crowd, but he could not help letting his gaze fall on Rosamunde who had also come to her feet for the first time during the tournament. He let a satisfied grin work across his face. He’d achieved his victory and soon he would have his rich wife.

***

Sitting next to Rosamunde at the feast proved to be more of a challenge than defeating Granville. The ending ceremony had taken place and he had been rewarded with much coin. However, the paltry winnings were not enough and from her father’s stiff disposition, he knew that. He understood Ieuan had come to claim his daughter as per the agreement he had with his own father—whatever that was. All he knew was that Owain wanted their marriage and Ieuan would benefit greatly from her vast wealth. He knew few other women with vast dowries who would actually want an almost penniless bastard so the arrangement suited him perfectly.

But while the idea had seemed perfect, the reality nearly made him break out into a sweat. Her arm brushed his and he forced himself to play the attentive nobleman by pouring her drink and helping her with her food as they shared a platter.

Hell fire, it was not like he was some inexperienced welp. Far from it. Aye, she was a beauty. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen, if he was honest. Her pale hair hung loose about her shoulders instead of tied back like the previous day, pulled back by only two simple braids, and it was so long it brushed the top of her rear. He knew that as he had watched her avidly as she had taken her seat at the table. Who knew it would be so long when he had thrust his hands into it the previous night while he kissed her?

Minstrels played in the corner. Three tables were set out in the Great Hall. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling and the ornate woodwork and tiled floor spoke of wealth and grandeur. A fine setting for a beautiful woman—for The Treasure—and a far cry from his own keep with its crumbling walls and damp, dark interior. He wasn’t at all certain she would take well to living in Dolwyddelan Castle. Not that she’d have much choice.

Ieuan stole a glance at her when she took a sip of wine. Those pink lips pursed around the goblet and he watched her throat work. She’d been quiet since he had sat next to her, merely offering her congratulations on his victory. How would she react to him when she found out he had bargained for her hand?

Before he could try to initiate conversation with her, her father excused himself from the table. Now was his opportunity. If he didn’t force the matter, he knew this marriage would never happen. He waited until the earl had left the hall and offered his excuses to Rosamunde before slipping out from behind the table and passing between the stone pillars toward the garderobes.

He didn’t need to relieve himself but he could catch the earl at a disadvantage and if there was anything Ieuan understood from his years of fighting, it was how to make the most of weak moments in his enemies. Rosamunde’s father might not be his enemy in battle but he knew the man would fight him on this arrangement.

Slipping past the servants who scurried by with platters of sliced meat and almond pastries—one of which he snatched off the plate and stuffed into his mouth—he took the spiral steps up to the next level and rested against the wall, his arms folded, his gaze on the garderobe doors.

Several minutes passed and by the time Tynewell had emerged, Ieuan found himself near boiling with impatience. He’d travelled far across the country, had to go through this farce of a tournament to get near him and his daughter, and now he was waiting for the man to take a piss.

The man stopped and his eyes darkened. They both knew what was coming.

“Sir Ieuan, there was no need to wait for me if you needed to relieve yourself.”

“I was waiting for you, but not to relieve myself, my lord. I wish to speak with you.”

“Then speak.”

“’Tis about your daughter.”

“God’s blood,” the man grumbled. “I never thought your father really intended to follow through on our agreement. She can be of no use to you.”

“She is rich.”

“Surely there are rich Welsh women? Why marry your enemy?”

“We are enemies no longer,” Ieuan reminded him. “We are fellow countrymen now.”

“Not for much longer if your father has anything to do with it,” Lord Tynewell murmured.

Ieuan frowned but refused to let himself be distracted by the earl’s words. The rebellion had been well and truly crushed. There was no chance that Wales could achieve independence and few Welsh wanted to fight any longer. Whatever Tynewell believed was wrong.

“I wish to claim your daughter, as per your agreement with my father.”

“And if I do not wish to give her up to you?” The older man folded his arms and puffed out his chest. Tynewell was in good health. Strong, tall and rumoured to be a fine warrior. But he was past his prime and no match for Ieuan.

“Let us discuss this elsewhere. I think you will not want anyone overhearing our conversation.”

Tynewell dropped his arms and rubbed a hand across his grey beard. “Aye, as you will. Come with me.”

Ieuan followed him to the solar. The room took up one side of the castle. Candles released their smoky glow from their positions on top of tables and a fire had been lit in the hearth, warming the room. Behind a red curtain, an impressive mahogany bed was visible and a table large enough for six men occupied the rest of the chamber. Tynewell motioned to a chair but Ieuan chose to remain standing. The chances were the earl would stay standing too and he refused to be at a disadvantage in these negotiations.

“I have come to claim your daughter,” Ieuan announced boldly again. “I wish to take her from here two day’s hence as my wife.”

Tynewell curled a fist. “Damn you, you can’t just take her from me.”

“Will you go back on your agreement? Shall you have it known that you were only released from captivity by my father, the Prince of Wales, because you agreed to give your rich daughter to one of his sons when he needed the financial aid?”

“I was coerced, damnation. I never believed for one moment he really intended for any of you to marry a rich Englishwoman.”

Ieuan rested his knuckles on the table and leaned forward, locking gazes with the man. “What do you suppose will happen to her when it is discovered her father is a traitor to his country?”

“The only reason I agreed to any of this folly was for her. She needs me. She cannot survive without me. You’ll ruin her. You Welsh and your barbaric ways will destroy Rosamunde.”

Ieuan smirked. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called barbaric, and he doubted it would be the last. And in a way, it was true. The Welsh, like the Scots, spent much time fighting amongst themselves until his father, the Prince of Wales had united them as one to gain their independence from the English. However, after twelve years of war, nothing had come of it but the ruination of Wales. And now the country was more barbaric than ever. Desperate times created desperate people.

“What other choice do you have?”

“None, I suppose.” Tynewell crossed his arms again and tightened his jaw. “If any harm comes to her, your father will not be able to protect you.”

Ieuan snorted to himself. His father hardly cared. He was only interested in him now that all his legitimate children had been hung or imprisoned after the uprising.

“I can let it be known who you really are, Ieuan ab Owain Glyndŵr.”

The utterance of his real name held threat. If it was known he was the son—albeit illegitimate son—of the leader of the Welsh rebellion, the man who had claimed to be the King of Wales, he’d be lucky to leave England with his head still on his shoulders.

But still, he doubted Tynewell would risk it. He couldn’t let it be known he had made deals with the Welsh.

“I will protect her as you have always done,” Ieuan promised.

Aye, that much he could do. Keep her locked away, out of sight. He hardly had time to be pampering a delicate lady like Rosamunde anyway. He had enjoyed kissing her until he’d seen her fear. If she was frightened of a mere kiss, he’d have to keep her locked away for her own good.

“I suppose that is all I can ask.”

Ieuan suppressed a grin of triumph. “Then you agree to give her to me.”

The earl let out a weary sigh and scrubbed a hand across his face. “Aye.”

“We shall be married in two days and travel directly on to Wales. I’ll give you the morrow to have the marriage contract drawn up. This night, you shall announce our betrothal.”

“This night?” the man spluttered.

“Aye. This night. At the feast. In a short moment.”

Ieuan refused to give Tynewell the opportunity to back out of their arrangement. The sooner it was announced Rosamunde de Lacy was his and he was out of enemy territory, the better.