

### RHUDDLAN

### By Nancy Gebel

Copyright 2011 Nancy Gebel

Cover Photograph of Eilean Donan Castle Copyright 2011 Anne-Marie Gebel

### Smashwords Edition

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PART I

Chapter 1

May, 1170

Westminster Palace, near London

The wine was surprisingly good. Hugh thought it must have come straight from the ship.

The flavorful taste of the wine was surprising because the king was not one to pay much attention to anything he wore, ate or drank with the result that his household tended to be just as careless, and a visitor to the court could well find himself choking down a cup of muddy, stale liquid which had been offered to him under the guise of wine. The king never seemed to notice—even when he was drinking it himself.

Perhaps it was due to the solemn occasion of the day that the tables in the great hall had been shrouded in fine linens and spread with a mouth-watering feast of roasted pig and venison, stuffed plover and pheasant, cheeses, imported figs and oranges, and above all, that pleasing wine. Servants hurried back and forth with platters and pitchers, making the rushlights in the sconces on the walls flicker wildly from the movement, attending to the lively, jovial crush of important guests. The king and his eldest son, who just that day had been crowned as his successor, sat at the raised dais with their counselors and other notable persons.

It was probably a combination of the large crowd inside the hall and the excellent condition of the wine which assured that much more of it was drunk than usual, that overheated many of the guests and caused the celebration to spill outside, down into the ward. And in the air of that fine spring evening, the loud and boastful conversations of the inebriated, mostly young men gathered in chatty clusters turned to tales of their exploits in war. One boast was challenged, and honor had to be defended. Swords were drawn. Half-drunk and half-serious, two opponents faced each other in a ring formed by their cohorts.

Watching from the top of the stair, idly swirling wine in his cup, Hugh had a clear view of the fighting men. One was a red-faced, red-haired giant of a man whom he had heard on previous occasions, bragging about this or that in a booming voice intended to impress. The other knight Hugh didn't know. He was shorter than his adversary by a full head and grossly outweighed. In fact, his slight build, almost girlish-looking as he crouched in a defensive posture with his sword clutched firmly in both hands, going up against this Goliath would have made a comical sight if the red-haired knight hadn't been glaring in such deadly earnest.

But the lithe knight soon proved himself more than equal to the fight. At first he kept moving, stepping lightly aside as the big man slashed his sword downwards and whirling away from his sideswipes. If he offered his own sword it was only to block a thrust or divert a stroke. After only a short time at this dance, the big knight began to tire. He was hot and had eaten and drunk too much at the feast. He was forced to turn round and round to find his opponent and jab out at him, and he was breathing hard. His friends shouted out encouragement and this seemed to rally him, but Hugh could tell the man wouldn't last much longer. Not long ago he'd been laughing and joking; he probably couldn't even remember what had prompted this battle and his heart wasn't in it anymore.

The other knight saw what Hugh saw. His fair head sparkled under the torchlights and Hugh caught the satisfied expression on his face. He'd only been waiting for the precise moment to strike. As the big man lunged gracelessly towards him, he jumped easily out of his path and raised his own sword in a threatening manner.

Just then Hugh felt himself jostled roughly aside and when he turned to protest, he saw it was the king who had pushed his way onto the stair, followed by an entourage of curious soldiers, and that the king was furious.

"Bolsover!" he thundered down into the ward.

The blond knight checked his would-be blow and dropped the point of his sword immediately. He looked up at the king with a bland face. "Your Grace?"

"What the hell do you think you're doing! Who's that other man?"

Bolsover's opponent panted out his name, not daring to meet the king's eyes.

"We were merely showing each other our technique, Your Grace," Bolsover said in an easy tone. "We apologize if we've disturbed you."

The king stared narrowly at him. "This is a celebratory feast, not a tournament, Robert!" he snapped. "There are ladies within who have no interest in seeing the color of your blood tonight. Do you understand me? Save your exhibitions for another time!"

Bolsover inclined his head without another word and the red-headed knight bowed hastily. The king turned, scattering his bodyguard and the onlookers who had crowded onto the stair behind him, and strode back into the hall.

Hugh made his way down to the ward. Bolsover was in the midst of a small group of soldiers, leisurely cleaning the dust from his sword by wiping it across the top of his leather boot, but the soldiers fell away when they recognized Hugh.

The young man glanced up. "My lord earl of Chester, isn't it?" he asked. "It's an honor to meet you."

"I saw the whole thing," Hugh said. "I admire your footwork."

Bolsover laughed. "Then you're the first one who ever has," he said, returning the sword to his belt. "The knights who trained me despaired of ever making me into a competent soldier. Too much dancing and not enough slashing, they'd say." He shrugged. "Anyway, it was only a bit of fun. The day was too somber, wasn't it?"

"Coronations are meant to be solemn occasions, I think," Hugh answered with a little smile. He added curiously, "You weren't planning to kill the man?"

"No! And the king knew it! He just didn't want anyone stealing the thunder from his precious son." But he spoke good-naturedly. His eyes held Hugh's, mischievous and daring. "Henry's a good man to serve," he said.

"Which Henry?" Hugh inquired. "The old one or the young one?"

Bolsover laughed again. "That's right! I have two masters now, haven't I? Well, I'm sure the old Henry will set the young one up in his own household somewhere in the depths of Normandy, and somehow I'll contrive not to be sent with him." He spotted a squire hovering nearby and called him over. "Alan! Fetch the earl a cup of wine, and bring me water."

There was something appealing about Sir Robert Bolsover, Hugh thought. He possessed a rare self-assurance for someone so young, for he couldn't have been much past twenty, but the impish glint in his eye also meant he didn't take himself too seriously. His figure was slender but not soft, and in all his movements he carried himself straight and resolutely. He was clean-shaven and wore his dark blond hair fashionably short and neat. But it was his face that Hugh's gaze kept returning to, almost against his will it seemed; Bolsover's intelligent blue-grey eyes and wry mouth. He had never before met a man who appeared to be thumbing his nose at the world.

Hugh himself wasn't old—twenty-six—but he was one of the wealthiest men in Henry II's empire, with estates stretching across the breadth of England from his earldom in Cheshire on the Welsh marches to Lincolnshire in the east, as well as property in Normandy, and hence, one of the most powerful. Such responsibilities had served to dampen whatever youthful enthusiasm he might have once had, while simultaneously imbuing him with an air of permanent impatience; the mild arrogance born of wealth and power. He was used to being around important men, as his father had died (some said he'd been poisoned) when he was young and he had spent the remaining years to his majority as a royal ward, and had learned to have scant regard for the mundane aspects of life. He was not ostentatious or loud, but neither was he content to melt into the background. It was merely that he understood his due and insisted upon receiving it.

So when he was confronted with the mocking smile of a man who obviously didn't share his demeanor, he felt himself attracted in the way that opposites attract. He wasn't certain of the reason. Perhaps, he thought, he wished he might be even just a little carefree as Robert Bolsover seemed to be carefree. To not be so constantly aware of his position. To have a joke at the king's son's expense...Or perhaps he simply found Bolsover's charismatic personality a pleasing contrast to his own.

The squire, whom Bolsover introduced as Alan d'Arques, a young kinsman of his from Normandy, returned with the wine and a skin of water. As he drank, Hugh watched his companion raise the spout of the skin to his lips and thirstily gulp down its contents. With a satisfied belch, Bolsover wiped away the water that had trickled down the sides of his mouth with the back of his hand and tossed the empty skin back to his squire.

"Tell me one thing," Hugh said. "You say you were only having a bit of fun. But that big knight with whom you were fighting looked very serious. Didn't you think it was a dangerous undertaking to incite someone like him to challenge you? Didn't you think you might actually be killed?"

Bolsover leaned towards Hugh and grinned broadly. "Not for one moment."

The celebration of the coronation of the king's son, young Henry, or the Young King as he would now be known, lasted a week. Although he found himself hoping for the opportunity of another private meeting with Robert Bolsover, Hugh only met him again while he was in the company of fellow knights or in attendance on the king. To his delight, Bolsover was unfailingly charming to him in his passing comments. Hugh observed the esteem in which the young knight's companions held him, and how even King Henry seemed to be amused by his antics. Bolsover was always noticeable, whether he was competing in the contests the king had devised to honor his son or heartily laughing at some bawdy joke someone had told him at the dinner table. Hugh's eyes were constantly seeking him out.

There was one person among the vast audience which had come to witness the coronation who was aware of this sudden infatuation and that was Sir Roger of Haworth, a member of the earl's personal bodyguard. Haworth was an intimidating figure, possessing a physique and temperament which were eminently suitable for his job. He wasn't much above average height, but his body was so solidly muscular that he seemed larger than most of his peers, and neither his mouth nor his eyes ever smiled. His origins were obscure, but Hugh had taken a liking to him several years before and had removed him from the ranks of the common men-at-arms and placed him in his own bodyguard. Although it wasn't normal practice to make knights of men who were not of noble birth, Hugh had flouted convention, giving Haworth a warhorse and bestowing the honor on him. No one was going to argue with the earl of Chester when he declared all his personal attendants were to be knights.

Haworth was a faithful servant. He was always at Hugh's back and waited only for the opportunity to draw his sword on his master's behalf. Hugh's appreciation for the man had grown as time had passed, and he often confided in Haworth. Because of his status, the earl wasn't a popular man and his quiet demeanor made him even less accessible. Roger of Haworth was probably the only intimate he had, and Hugh had never expressed an interest in finding another.

Until now. Haworth saw the way the earl's eyes followed Sir Robert Bolsover and how instead of displaying his usual polite disinterest at the tournament, the earl's face lit with animation whenever Bolsover took the field. Haworth didn't say anything; he retreated further into the background but was ready to come forward when Hugh beckoned him. Hugh's attitude towards him hadn't changed at all. Nonetheless, Haworth was jealous.

"Would you just look at that pompous ass!" William fitz Henry muttered to his friend, Sir Richard Delamere, as the two stood nearby a colorful blue and white tent crested with rippling pennants and prepared to join the day's tournament. Delamere shifted his helmet from one hand to the other and patted his back to satisfy himself that his dagger was stuck securely in his belt. He didn't bother to look up because he knew to whom William referred. It was an old and occasionally tiresome story. "You don't know how much it galled me to go on my knees and do homage to him," William continued darkly. "I knew without looking that he was laughing at me!"

"Oh, I don't think so," Delamere said, yawning. "I don't think he was paying much attention to the proceedings. After the first half dozen or so barons, his eyes seemed to glaze over."

"That proves my point! He has no idea what an honor my father has just bestowed on him! He's a vain, empty-headed, self-important fool and God help us all when it comes his turn to rule!"

"Yes, it's hard to believe that young Henry is the king's flesh and blood," Delamere agreed. "He's as lazy as the king is industrious. You're more your father's son than young Henry."

"But born of the wrong mother..."

Delamere rolled his shoulders and twisted his neck from side to side. He was tired. He'd spent the better part of the previous night drinking and joking with friends and would have preferred to be snoring away in some quiet corner in the palace instead of standing on windy ground, weighted down by his heavy hauberk, and waiting for the call for the mock battle to begin. And listening to William, who could drink the night through without any visible effect the next morning, go on and on about his half-brother. He yawned again and swore. "Damn! I wish they'd get this thing started so I can do my bit and leave."

"By the way," William said, turning towards his friend with a little smile, "where did you disappear to last night?"

"I don't remember exactly where," Delamere answered. "But it was very warm and soft...and pleasant."

"You have a lucky talent for attracting women."

"It's not a talent, Will, but a skill. If you would simply try not looking so displeased all the time and acting in a more friendly fashion, you'd find yourself rewarded handsomely."

His friend made an impatient gesture. "I haven't the time to go through all that."

"Who says you need much time?" Delamere laughed.

King Henry and his retainers rode up a hillock which overlooked the field, a signal that the tournament was to begin shortly. There had been two minor matches in the days before and one that had been a kind of practice contest involving the squires of the knights, but this final tournament was to be grand and just about every knight who had come to the coronation was entered. The king had divided the field into two groups: men from the west country against the men from the east. The groups were to line up on opposite ends of the field and at a blast of the trumpet charge each other as if engaging in genuine battle, with true weapons, although actual killing was discouraged. Instead, apart from the glory of one side defeating the other, the tournament was an opportunity for knights to make a bit of money. They were permitted to take prisoners, who would then buy their freedom with ransoms of coin, horses, armor and weapons. A wealthy knight was obviously a prime target for capture, and it behooved him to have a handsome bodyguard.

Squires brought up their horses and William checked the bridle and saddle on his roan before giving it an idle pat on the neck. The horse had been a gift from his father when he'd been knighted several years earlier. Henry had been as pleased as a child when he'd presented it as he'd taken great pains to find a mount which could comfortably accommodate his son. William's nickname was 'Longsword' because he was taller than average.

At twenty, he was the eldest of all Henry II's children, the product of an illicit liaison between the young duke of Normandy and the sister of one of his knights. He had been acknowledged by his father from his birth and schooled and trained in the household of one of Henry's advisors. The son bore little physical resemblance to the father. Besides a difference in height, his build was lanky rather than stocky. He had darker, browner hair and a narrower face. While Henry's expressions were easily read, William's were masked. He already had a reputation as an excellent soldier but was simultaneously considered ruthless and unforgiving, unlike his more politic father.

While the squire held his stirrup, he mounted the big horse and was handed up his helmet and shield. With a resigned sigh, Richard Delamere followed suit. He'd already decided to hang well in the rear of the fray and to swing his sword only if absolutely necessary. On any other day he would have been as eager as the next man to fight and possibly win some money, but today his head ached. Money, even glory, didn't seem attractive at the moment.

William Longsword wasn't interested in financial reward either, but glory was another matter. At tournaments, he always went straight after the most important or most proficient knight on the field, to test himself and to be recognized.

He nudged his mount close to Delamere's. "A pity my beloved half-brother isn't fighting today..."

"He'd be on our side anyway, Will. It wouldn't look right if you made a prisoner of one of ours, don't you think?"

Longsword shrugged. The heavy chain mail jingled dully. "I was thinking more of fatally injuring him."

Delamere grinned. "Careful, Will, that's a treasonous statement now! The king might punish it by putting you in the Young King's household." He squinted into the distance. "Who's that he's talking to? Bolsover?"

"Bolsover actually likes him."

"Bolsover is simply expedient," Delamere corrected.

They watched as Robert Bolsover bowed to the Young King, who rode off to join his father's party. The stage for the tournament was a large, fairly level meadow a few miles from Westminster Palace, bounded on one side by the Thames and disappearing into forest some distance in the south. There was a rise to the east and it was here that the king and his entourage, including the queen and her ladies, had settled to enjoy the mock battle. Knights comprising the two competing sides had already begun to leave their tents and ride out onto the field.

Suddenly Longsword whistled sharply. "Look, Richard—who's that? Opposite us?"

"I believe it's the earl of Chester," his friend said, staring at the colors which bedecked a distinctive coal-black destrier. "But what's he doing? He never enters tournaments."

"Then he'll be an easy opponent," said Longsword. "Is that not the finest animal you've ever seen? And huge!"

Delamere understood right away what he meant. "He'll be surrounded by retainers, Will," he warned.

Longsword clamped his helmet down firmly and took up his reins. "I need a challenge. My arm is getting weak."

"More than likely he's just in there for appearance! Perhaps there's a lady he's seeking to impress. The king wouldn't like to see one of his most important men injured just because you want his horse!"

"If he doesn't fight me, I won't harm him!" Longsword said impatiently.

Delamere tried once more to dissuade his friend. It wasn't that he thought William had no chance; rather, he knew if Longsword was determined to go after the earl, then he would be compelled to back him up. Visions of hovering on the outskirt of the field until he could gracefully withdraw from the battle were fast disappearing.

"Will, he's far out of reach! Be sensible—he's on the other side of the field; we'll never get through!"

But he was shouting words at Longsword's back. The lanky knight had already kicked his horse into a gallop and gone to join his fellow combatants. With an inward groan, Richard Delamere followed him.

It wasn't William Longsword who ended up with the earl of Chester's horse.

As the wealthiest man on the field, Hugh was assured the dubious distinction of being the prime target of the knights from the eastern lands, not all of whom deigned to step aside when they recognized the king's bastard at their shoulders. And the earl's impressive bodyguard had all but encircled him, rendering him immune to attack. But somehow, at some point during the wholehearted skirmish between attackers and defenders, and obscured by the shouts of excitement and the confusion kicked up by flailing arms and horses' hooves, Sir Robert Bolsover managed to slip quietly into the protective ring and, after a minor struggle, tip the sharp point of his sword into the exposed neck of Hugh fitz Ranulf. The gesture brought to an immediate end that particular contest. The other warriors rode off to find different prospects. Longsword, who had been fighting like a madman and had even succeeded in knocking two of the earl's men to the ground where they were nearly trampled to death by their horses, was an ungracious loser. He glared angrily at Bolsover as the latter flashed an arrogant smile of triumph back at him and was only prevented from attacking him by a hasty admonishment from Richard Delamere. He dug his heels into his mount's flanks and stormed off in a spray of turf, followed less flamboyantly by Delamere, who considered that he had done more than his share of fighting and was returning to his tent.

Bolsover and the four knights who had fought with him led the captured earl and his men to their own tent. Squires pulled helmets and hauberks from sweaty heads and tired bodies. They ran to fetch wine and damp, cool cloths so that prisoners and jailers alike could refresh themselves. When such comforts had been provided and the small talk had petered out, the negotiations for release were begun. The earl, who chose to direct all his remarks to Robert Bolsover, readily agreed to all terms.

"We should have demanded more," groused one of the victorious men when Hugh didn't blink an eye at the ransom he was being forced to pay.

Bolsover laughed. "Divide my share between the four of you. I want nothing but the earl's horse and his sword."

"That horse alone is worth half the ransom!"

"The earl's horse was not part of the bargain!" Roger of Haworth protested angrily. He had been standing apart from the negotiators, but now he took a few unconscious steps toward the table.

The arguing men ignored him. "As usual, it was I who did half the work," Bolsover drawled. "And I was the one to whom my lord earl surrendered."

The exhilarating exercise he'd just had and the wine had gone to other knight's head. He stood up so suddenly that his stool fell back with a thud onto the trampled grass which comprised the tent's floor, his face red. "Are you saying the rest of us may as well not have been there?"

Bolsover lifted his shoulders. "I'm saying that I want nothing but the horse and my lord earl's sword."

"There was no mention of the horse in the negotiations!" Haworth sputtered loudly. "That's an earl's steed—not meant for any mere knight such as you!"

Hugh had not taken his eyes from Robert Bolsover. The younger man sprawled calmly and without concern at the table. At Haworth's second outburst he had glanced up, but still said nothing to him. Instead, he turned his head towards Hugh. The blue-grey eyes sparkled and his mouth held just the semblance of a mischievous smile. All at once Hugh understood—Bolsover was playing a game, throwing his dice to see if he could up the ante, gambling to lose something he'd never had, anyway. Hugh was strangely excited. He was the one used to dictating terms and now this young rogue with his charming smile was changing the rules. Instead of being annoyed, the earl was flattered that Bolsover had chosen to play this game with him.

He cleared his throat. "No, Roger; you're mistaken. Sir Robert laid claim to Avranches when he took me prisoner. And if I am to give him up, I'm happy to give him to the knight who was best able to bring me down."

Haworth glared. "He'll take money—"

"Avranches—an interesting name for a horse," Bolsover interrupted smoothly.

"I named him for my hereditary lands in Normandy. I am the viscount of Avranches," Hugh said. "As you can tell, then, I put great value on the animal."

"Rest assured, so will I," Bolsover said, with a slight incline of his head. "Honored as I am by the man who once rode him."

"You didn't have to give him up!" a wrathful Roger of Haworth exclaimed to his master when they'd returned to Hugh's private quarters. "That smug bastard! He would have taken money instead—he's greedy enough!"

"Lower your voice, Roger; we're not on the tournament field any longer! Anyway, it's just a horse. I've got plenty others, haven't I?" He stretched one leg out so that Haworth could unlace his boot and laughed. "Probably even a few named Avranches."

Haworth knelt at Hugh's feet and gripped the heel of the boot. He looked up with a frown. "You're not at all displeased to have lost so much, are you?"

"A horse, a sword and money, Roger. All easily replaced."

"What about the humiliation?"

Hugh pulled his leg back and stuck out the other one. "Of losing? There's no humiliation in losing a fair battle."

"If it was fair," Haworth muttered.

"What do you mean?" Hugh said sharply.

Haworth sat back on his heels. He gave Hugh a measured look. "I mean, it was very easy for Bolsover to get to you. We had them; we were holding them, but suddenly he was past us."

"Are you saying you think I made it easy for him?"

"Did you?"

Hugh grinned. "What if I did? Come on, Roger! When was the last time I entered a tournament? Five years ago? Six? I'm the earl of Chester, for God's sake; I have nothing to gain by throwing myself into the midst of a frenzy of swords and risking my life! Why did you think I wanted to enter this one?"

Haworth stood up quickly, a dark red flush spreading across his face. "To meet that worm Bolsover? You wanted to lose to him? To be taken to his tent and forced to negotiate your release? And what about us? You humiliated us by giving yourself up!"

"You're my men, Roger!" Hugh said with a burst of anger. "You're mine to tell what to do and where to go!" Then, when Haworth didn't reply but stood a few paces apart, his face bowed towards the ground, Hugh relaxed and leaned back in his chair. "You're jealous," he said, amused.

"Not jealous," Haworth answered stiffly, "Just unhappy with your decision. But you're right, my lord; I'm your sworn man and must do what you tell me."

Hugh got up and crossed the floor, silent as a cat in his stockinged feet. He put a companionable hand on the other man's shoulder. "There's no reason for this, Roger," he said softly, cajolingly. "Bolsover's attraction lies in his differences from everyone else in this place, but they're almost certainly differences that would quickly grow tiresome if one were exposed to them too long. Don't worry! Once we leave Westminster tomorrow, we'll probably never see him again."

Chapter 2

early January, 1171

Argentan, Normandy

A cold wind whipped through the hills surrounding the little town of Argentan and rattled the bare branches of the dormant trees in the apple orchards. Inside their timbered walls, the villagers huddled for warmth around the raised hearths in the center of their houses, and drank cider and gossiped about the latest news to come down from the castle. Outside, the sky was cold and black. Even the stars seemed to stare down harshly upon the frozen earth.

The latest news was indeed worthy of gossip. The archbishop of Canterbury, the most powerful cleric in all of England, had been brutally murdered at his altar only days after Christmas. Couriers had arrived on New Year's Day to tell the grim tale to the king, who had been so shaken that he had locked himself away in his chambers and refused to see anyone or eat anything for three days. The festive atmosphere in the castle had been abruptly stifled. Villagers who had sundry business there came back with exciting stories about the pervasive, eerie silence throughout the stronghold, how the knights had removed their spurs while in its confines and walked their horses slowly in the ward so to make as little noise as possible...how the smith had been idle since the tragic news had been made known.

To the pious villagers of Argentan, the murder of Thomas Becket was more than a tragedy, it was a sin against the Church and so, against God Himself. The sensational story of the violent arguments between Henry and his chosen archbishop and Becket's subsequent flight into the court of the French king, Louis VII, was well known to them even if the politics involved were not. That knights of Henry's household would have taken it upon themselves to solve this crisis of church and state was reprehensible and only proved that the king's belligerent, high-handed ways had spread to his men.

The members of Henry's household, however, held a different view. Although they had been shocked by the report of murder, they couldn't help but feel relieved that the stubborn, histrionic archbishop was no longer around to cause their king needless aggravation. Becket had been a thorn in Henry's side since his elevation to the see of Canterbury and ultimately Henry had sought to have him deposed. In turn, Becket had taken refuge with Louis, who was Henry's worst enemy, continuing his verbal attacks on the king of England from France. But Henry wasn't a man to bear a grudge and Becket had once been one of his closest friends. He had wanted his son, Henry the Younger, to be crowned as tradition demanded: by the archbishop of Canterbury. Because of the estrangement, Henry the Younger had been crowned the previous May by the archbishop of York. In July, Henry attempted to remedy the situation by meeting with Becket and offering him a peaceful return to England. Becket had agreed, but once back in his own cathedral reverted to his former disregard for the king's authority over the Church in England. Henry, who had remained on the continent, was frustrated and annoyed when word of Becket's activities reached him. Unknown to him, four of his knights decided to persuade the archbishop to change his ways, and ended up killing him instead.

William Longsword and Richard Delamere walked the walls of Argentan castle in the cold night on watch duty. The harsh wind whipped up the ends of their cloaks and tore at their faces. They weren't particularly vigilant; they didn't suppose an armed force would deign to attack Argentan on such a disagreeable night; but concentrated instead on keeping themselves from freezing. Since the king had emerged from his chamber two days earlier, pale and drawn, everyone at the castle had taken to rushing around as industriously as he or she could without making a commotion. It was the general consensus that Henry needed to explode angrily at someone to make himself feel better, and no one wanted it to be him. Longsword and Delamere had volunteered for plenty of guard duty, wishing to be well out of the king's lung range. They hadn't counted on the wind...

"And all my beloved brother could say was, 'well, who's going to crown me now?'," Longsword was telling Delamere, mimicking the Young King's voice. They came to a flickering brazier set on a tripod and stopped to warm their hands.

"Did the king hear him?" Delamere asked.

"Unfortunately, no. Someone shut him up very quickly. And then my father had the effrontery to be snap at me because I wasn't exhibiting suitable grief for the damned cleric," he added indignantly. "I wasn't demonstrating any! In my opinion, that's suitable enough."

"You didn't say that to the king..."

"Of course not! There's only one idiot in the family, Richard."

Delamere pulled his cloak more closely around his shoulders and shifted his sword in his belt so that it stuck straight down and didn't lift the hem of the cloth and create a draft. He bitterly regretted the archbishop's death—but only because it had been announced at the most inopportune time. During the height of the New Year's feast, amid the chords of the lute and viele straining from the musician's gallery overhead, Delamere had just succeeded in convincing a pretty young woman to accompany him to a less crowded corner of the castle when the couriers had burst in and asked for an audience with the king. After that, there had been no more music and only astonished whispers among the guests.

"Will," he said hesitantly, "perhaps you ought to watch what you say about the Young King..."

Longsword snorted. "After five minutes with my brother, anyone can see the truth in whatever I say of him."

"Except the two people most important to your future," Delamere stated flatly. "The king and his successor. You might one day find yourself on the far side of the kingdom."

"What am I supposed to do, Richard? I'm not about to kiss his feet like Bolsover. He knows I don't like him. Any of them, for that matter."

Delamere sighed. It was no use trying to convince his friend to silence his tongue and smooth over the expression of contempt which invariably contorted his face when he was in the presence of the Young King. Longsword was by nature sullen and stubborn but he refused to even consider budging when up against his legitimate half-brothers. If he had been born last of them, he might have been more amenable, but to be the oldest and the most fiercely loyal to their common father and to see the lands and honors divvied among those who didn't deserve them was such a travesty of right that it had made him quite bitter and unreasonable on the subject.

Robert Bolsover didn't hold a high opinion of the Young King, either, but he was savvy enough to realize his future depended on ensuring his goodwill and that of his father, Henry II. Besides, it was his belief that an immature, lazy monarch was the perfect master for an ambitious, shrewd servant. And he was very ambitious.

He was the only son of a knight who had made his small fortune by choosing to side with Empress Maud during the civil war which had erupted after the death of her father, Henry I. His unwavering loyalty had come to the notice of the Empress' son, Henry of Anjou, who, upon his ascension to the throne, had rewarded him with a castle at Oakby in Leicestershire. Robert had been a child of four at the time. His father's subsequent preoccupation was to beget an army of sons which would carry on his name and perpetuate the Bolsovers of Oakby. He buried three wives in his attempt, but Robert was the only son he was destined to have.

Robert had been brought up and trained in the king's household. He was used to constant activity and important people coming and going. He was used to being near the hub of political decision-making and part of an army of men close to his own age. He found, on his rare visits to his father, Oakby too small and provincial. And quiet. Robert Bolsover planned for a great deal more excitement than Oakby could provide in his future.

He'd been as shocked as anyone when Thomas Becket's murder was revealed, but he'd never cared for the archbishop and could dredge up no morsel of pity for him. He wasn't alone; in fact, the only person at court who seemed to care at all was the king. Bolsover was surprised that Henry was making such a public display of his grief. He'd often seen the king violently angry, although he would quickly recover, but his refusal to eat or speak with anyone for three days had caused some of his counselors to fear for his sanity. Henry was almost thirty-eight, not an old man, but he had been at war for more than twenty of those years, first for his throne and ever since against the king of France. His was not a peaceful reign; perhaps, Bolsover mused, he was feeling the pressure.

On the third day of the king's self-imposed confinement, an impressive line of horsemen appeared on the winding road which followed the River Orne, flowing beneath the shadow of the fortress. Bolsover had been in the western guard tower and had recognized the pennants and colors of the earl of Chester. He'd gone down to greet Hugh and his entourage, and to explain the quiet, tense atmosphere in the castle.

Hugh had spent the Christmas feast in Avranches knowing the king had been unable to leave Normandy because of trouble King Louis was stirring up in a neighboring province. Avranches was several days' hard riding away from Argentan, especially in January, but Hugh had an important request to make of the king and New Year's seemed the most propitious time to ask. The murder in Canterbury Cathedral, however, had effectively shelved that business. Hugh would have been tempted to return to Avranches the next day if Robert Bolsover's welcome hadn't been so warm.

In retrospect, he was glad he'd stayed because when the king finally appeared and met once again with his counselors, he asked that Hugh be brought to him and then he thanked the earl for coming to tender his condolences. Hugh had merely accepted the king's gratitude. No one, not even Hugh's own men, knew the earl's business with Henry. Let the king believe in his goodwill, he thought; it could only count in his favor.

And he was glad he stayed because Robert Bolsover seemed to seek him out as if he greatly enjoyed Hugh's company. This was both flattering and satisfying. The young knight made himself so appealing that after only a few days of his arrival at Argentan, Hugh found himself confiding in him the true purpose of his visit.

It came about after breakfast when Bolsover insisted on bringing him to the stables, to prove that he was properly caring for the horse he'd won at Westminster. Without consciously realizing it, Hugh contrived to evade his bodyguard and meet with Bolsover alone.

The stables were crowded because of the size of the court, with the overflow accommodated in shelters down by the river. Grooms were cleaning tack or checking hooves, but no one was near the big black as he and Bolsover approached it.

"See?" Bolsover grinned, slapping the animal's haunch. "Wasn't I telling you the truth?"

Hugh nodded. "I never doubted you." He barely glanced at the horse. Instead, he watched the younger man as he stroked the massive neck.

"I can't tell you how many offers I've had for him. I live in fear that the king will take a fancy to him, or worse, the Young King. And there's William Longsword, of course. He wanted this one very badly." He turned to Hugh. "Do you remember him at the tournament?"

The earl shook his head. "The king's bastard, isn't he?"

"Yes; a vicious fighter. Never satisfied unless his opponent is trampled into the ground. But I understand he was like that from a child. Too much bitterness in the blood, I suppose."

"For all that, I hear he's loyal to the king to a fault."

Bolsover laughed. "Doesn't he have to be? He's a bastard! He has nothing other than that which Henry gives him."

Hugh smiled. Bolsover spoke whatever he thought. It was an innocent, and disarming, habit.

"My lord earl, I don't know on what business you came to see the king, but if I can be of use I would be honored to help you. I feel I am in your debt for this fine animal...I may not have the ear of the king himself, but I speak often with the Young King, and I know he would be interested in what you had to say."

"I've already seen the king..." Hugh said warily.

"Oh, I know! But not on your business. He only offered his gratitude for your expression of sympathy for that arrogant cleric. But you didn't know of Becket's death until you'd arrived here."

Hugh gazed intently at Bolsover. The younger man held his eyes. Finally he said, "It wasn't important. A small matter of land."

Bolsover stepped closer to him. "My lord, if it concerns the earl of Chester it must be important. I beg you to discuss it with the Young King. Henry is growing old. I've never seen him react as he did to this murder. The young king has fresh ideas—and the support of his father-in-law, the king of France."

"Young Henry is not even sixteen!" Hugh scoffed.

"Which is why he needs older, wiser heads behind him. My lord, already he chafes at the bit! Henry keeps him short of money and picks his household himself because he fears what his son will do once he breaks free!"

Hugh didn't reply. He had no quarrel with King Henry save this one nagging issue which the king seemed reluctant to resolve, and every year that passed compounded the earl's frustration and growing resentment. He considered the implications of Bolsover's words. Perhaps he was right; perhaps it was time for new blood.

"Very well," he said to the other man. "Arrange for me to meet with the Young King."

Hugh's father, Earl Ranulf, had also supported Henry during the civil war and in return for his not inconsiderable force, Henry had promised him the earldoms of Stafford and Lincoln once he had taken the crown. But Ranulf died in 1153, the year before Henry became king and the matter was dropped. Hugh was only six years old at the time and was promptly made a ward of the court, which meant Henry controlled the revenues from the vast estates the boy would inherit when he came of age. But Hugh's mother, the dowager countess Maud, didn't allow the matter of the lost earldoms to lie quietly. She continually harangued Hugh to convince Henry to bestow the titles and honors on the earl of Chester as had been promised to her husband.

A small matter of land indeed! Robert Bolsover could hardly believe his ears as he listened to Hugh tell his story to the Young King, who didn't appear very interested but shifted in his chair and occasionally gnawed on a fingernail. The interview had been very casual and Hugh had been careful not to reproach Henry for his oath-breaking.

"But I don't think he was listening, anyway," Hugh said afterwards. "He was more concerned with picking off the scab on his knuckle."

Bolsover slipped his arm around the earl's neck. "It doesn't matter. I was listening. And when the moment comes that he needs to know it, I'll remind him." He grinned at Hugh and playfully squeezed his neck in the crook of his arm. "Greedy, aren't you? Not satisfied with just being the earl of Chester, you want to be earl of Stafford and Lincoln as well."

"I have a lot of property in Staffordshire and Lincolnshire," Hugh said defensively. "Most of my property, as a matter of fact. My father staked his life for Henry to be king and got nothing for it. It's ludicrous to imagine these honors shouldn't pass to me simply because my father died before he could collect them. And Henry hasn't filled them. No one holds either title now."

Bolsover sighed and rolled over onto his back. "I should like to be an earl."

Hugh looked down at his smooth, lean chest and smiled. How they had ended up here, in the earl's chamber, after the meeting with the Young King, he didn't quite remember. But once it had happened, he realized it was exactly what he had hoped would happen from the moment he had first seen Bolsover dancing in circles around the red-haired brute in the ward at Westminster Palace. It was the reason he had permitted himself to be captured on the tournament field and why he had gone to the trouble of evading Roger of Haworth all day.

Thinking of Haworth suddenly troubled him. He swung his legs over the side of the plush mattress and walked across the chilly floor to the polished table near the flaming brazier. Light and heat reflected off his bare skin and tousled russet hair. His frame was solid and escaped a propensity towards carrying excess weight by almost constant activity on horseback. This had also strengthened his legs, which were finely shaped, thick and muscular. His arms were thin in comparison, although his right was somewhat larger because it was his sword arm. In an effort to build up these muscles, he practiced combat as often as he could, usually with Haworth.

He poured wine into a silver cup and sipped at it, making a face. Not nearly as good as what had been served at the coronation, but not as terrible as it might have been. Most wine was imported from Bordeaux, and Normandy was closer to Bordeaux than England so there was less chance for it to spoil. He took the cup back to the bed. Bolsover lay with eyes closed, entwined in the linen bedclothes, a fine sheen of sweat on his smooth skin. What a difference, Hugh thought, gazing upon him, between him and Roger. Although he enjoyed his time with his captain, Roger was as coarse and undemonstrative as Bolsover was lithe and passionate. But that wasn't to say Haworth wouldn't care about this little tryst; Hugh knew he would be deeply hurt, and the knowledge made him feel guilty.

Bolsover was a vision of beauty. His damp blond hair curled into little tendrils around his forehead. His chin was clean as if no beard had ever grown upon it. Just looking at him and realizing he had the prize he'd been lusting after for months was enough to drive away his feelings for Haworth and start Hugh's heart beating faster again.

Suddenly Bolsover's eyes flew open. A smile spread slowly across his face. "Did you bring that for me?" he asked. "I am thirsty."

Without a word Hugh passed him the cup of wine.

Bolsover drained the cup and, reaching over the side of the bed, placed it on the floor. "You must be cold, standing there on the bare floor," he said to Hugh.

"I'm not cold," Hugh said in a low voice. "I'm burning."

Bolsover laughed and rolled over to make room for him. "Come, then," he commanded.

Hugh lay down on his side next to him. He put a hand on the younger man's head and caressed his short hair. Bolsover's grey-blue eyes watched his face.

"Why haven't you married?" he asked the earl. "Is it because...of this?"

"No," Hugh answered. "I will marry, someday. I need an heir, of course." He lifted his free shoulder indifferently. "I'm sure the king will make some kind of arrangement..."

"A great political match? Perhaps he'll find you a nice, rich widow, gently used."

"It doesn't matter to me," Hugh said. His hand moved to stroke Bolsover's shoulder, lean but hard with muscle. "Anyway, I have the feeling Henry will only approve of a marriage which will actually bring me very little. The reason he won't give me Lincoln and Stafford is because he thinks I've got too much property already. And property means power." Bolsover's skin was warm to his touch, inviting. His hand traveled down further, to the solid mass of his hip.

Bolsover's face was only inches from his own. His eyes were glittering with the promise of reckless fervor. Hugh stared into them and felt his breath start to shorten.

"Then, you're in the enviable position of being able to marry for love, my lord..." the younger man whispered.

"It is a damnable position because I can't love a woman...I need a wife only to make me an heir."

"Then, my lord, any young maiden of good family will do?"

"I suppose..." Hugh moved forward to kiss Bolsover's parted lips.

"My lord," Robert Bolsover whispered just before Hugh's mouth met his, "I have a sister..."

Chapter 3

April, 1171

Elstow Abbey, Bedfordshire

Eleanor had endured a fitful rest. It was the fault of the nightmare she had had just after falling asleep, which had been so terrifying that she'd fought against closing her eyes again. As was usual with dreams, the details had ebbed quickly away. She had lain awake trying to convince herself that she couldn't possibly be afraid of something she couldn't even remember, to no avail. The apprehension had persisted and the remainder of the night had passed torturously.

The morning was cold and damp but the birds sounded cheerful and the air smelled of rich earth. By the time she emerged from the church in the company of the other novices, the sun was there to blind her, promising a bright spring day. She noticed that everybody's spirits seemed to be lighter, and her own tiredness was soon forgotten...as was her fear.

She had been a novice at the abbey for almost nine months, having arrived in the waning days of summer, escorted by two of her father's guards. Her father himself did not come, nor had Eleanor expected it of him. Sir Thomas Bolsover rarely ventured past the gate of his well-fortified manor a day's ride to the north. And Sir Thomas had little regard for his only daughter. Indeed, it was a wonderful miracle to Eleanor that, fifteen years after her birth, he had managed to remember her mother's deathbed request: that the newly born Eleanor should be promised to the church. Eleanor had been a quiet, obedient child and she had entered her adolescent years in increasing dread that Sir Thomas, who took so little notice of her, would forget that he had a daughter for whom he must make some sort of provision.

Gwalaes, her inseparable companion in her father's house, had encouraged her to speak up. There was no worse fate for a woman than to go unmarried and most girls of good family were betrothed long before their thirteenth birthday. Of course this date had come and gone without attracting the attention of Sir Thomas. That was when Gwalaes, who was as outspoken and stubborn as Eleanor was shy and dutiful, had started pressing her in earnest to confront her father or at least the steward who had his ear. Eleanor refused. Sir Thomas, remote and severe, terrified her and his steward wasn't much nicer. The prospect of an empty future was horrible but at least not yet so horrible as the thought of confronting her father.

And there was no other person at Oakby to do it. Eleanor's mother had died in the effort of giving birth to her and Gwalaes' mother, a pleasant Welshwoman who had raised the two girls together, had succumbed to a fever when they were twelve. After that tragedy, they were left to themselves.

"There's only one thing for it," Gwalaes had announced one day. "When Robert returns you must ask him to speak to your father."

Eleanor had considered the idea. Her brother was eight years older than she was, blindingly handsome and too busy to take any notice of her. Besides, she was almost in as much awe of him as she was their father. "Could you do it?" she said to Gwalaes. It was no secret that Gwalaes was madly in love with Robert Bolsover.

"All right," Gwalaes had sighed, as if resigning herself to some brutal task that nevertheless must be done. Of course, her little grin gave her true feelings away.

It happened that Gwalaes hadn't had to bother. Just before her fifteenth birthday, Eleanor was summoned to the hall and informed by Sir Thomas that she was to be sent to Elstow Abbey in a fortnight. No marriage for her; she was to be a nun. It was her mother's dying wish.

"She probably didn't want you to go through what she did," Gwalaes had theorized when Eleanor had shared the news. "Being married to a man as disagreeable as your father and then dying in childbirth. Do you think you'll miss it?"

Eleanor had shaken her head emphatically. "As long as I can be a nun, I wouldn't want to marry. I've never met a man who wasn't disagreeable, have you?"

"Robert," Gwalaes had answered promptly.

It was true; Robert Bolsover wasn't disagreeable. He was charming, humorous and gallant. Yet there was something about him which frightened Eleanor nonetheless and she knew she wouldn't want to marry someone like her brother either.

She hadn't realized how unhappy she would be to leave Gwalaes behind. But Gwalaes was a servant, supposedly Eleanor's personal attendant although they were more like sisters, and she was to remain at Oakby. She hadn't realized, either, how much she would miss Oakby. She had never before ventured out of its boundaries and even though Elstow was only a full day's ride away, it was like another world. For the first few months of her novitiate, she was incredibly homesick.

But gradually she came to love Elstow and then she embraced wholeheartedly the prospect of becoming a nun like the ones there she so admired. At Elstow, a Benedictine house, the nuns were Norman gentlewomen; they spoke with modulated voices, they conducted themselves with dignity, they treated the abbey servants with a benevolent condescension. They were a breed with whom Eleanor had had no previous experience. She imagined that this was what her mother must have been like. They were encouraging and kind to her; they did not ignore her as her father had but took great interest in everything she did. She wanted nothing more than to be like them. She longed for her novitiate to be over so that she could be received into the order as a full, adult member.

After supper on that fine April day, she was summoned to the abbess' quarters. She was nervous because she couldn't remember committing any transgression but the abbess came forward to greet her with outstretched hands and kissed her on either cheek. "I had visitors this evening," the abbess said. "Four men from your father's house. They've come to escort you back to Oakby."

Eleanor knew silence and obedience were highly prized virtues in women and in particular nuns, but the question was blurted out before she could stop herself. "Why, Mother Abbess?"

"I don't know. Removing a novice from an abbey is a serious undertaking. Of course I asked them but they professed not to know."

With a sudden rush of horror, Eleanor remembered the dream she'd had the night before. She knew something terrible awaited her at Oakby. "I don't want to go, Mother Abbess!" she said desperately. "Please, please tell them it's impossible!"

"Nonsense!" the abbess said brusquely. "It's highly irregular but not impossible. You will go and then you will come back."

But the icy fingers of the nightmare clutched at her heart. She felt that if she went, she would never return. "What if I refuse?"

The abbess stared at her with an astonishment which rapidly became anger. "You cannot," she answered in a cold voice. "This isn't a matter open to discussion. You must do what you're bid."

Another sleepless night and then a hard day of traveling. Eleanor wasn't used to riding and the last horse she'd been on was the one that had brought her to Elstow nine months earlier. Her muscles soon ached from the constant effort of having to cling to the belt of the groom in front of her and trying to keep her balance. She was too shy to complain, with the result that they did not stop often for rest. But the physical discomfort was nothing next to her mental anxiety. What on earth did her father want with her? She could not possibly imagine. If she had been Gwalaes, she thought self-critically, she would simply have questioned the guards or the groom despite the abbess having told her she'd already done so and received no answers. Perhaps they would tell her what they wouldn't tell the abbess. But she couldn't.

They reached Oakby shortly after dusk. Eleanor was exhausted and when she was helped to the ground, almost collapsed because her sore legs very nearly did not support her. Sir Thomas wasn't in the ward to meet her but his steward was; or rather, the man glanced in her direction to content himself that the correct girl had indeed been fetched back and then he disappeared into the hall.

She stood for a moment and looked around. Only half the torches supported by rusty iron sconces which lined the perimeter of the ward were lit and the stench of dung filled the air, leading her to believe the shadows were hiding what the careless stablehands had overlooked. It was quiet. The abbey was usually quiet as well, but not in this cheerless, cold way, as if the buildings were deserted. She shuddered. She wished she could steal a horse and fly straight back to Elstow.

"Eleanor?" She whirled around and there was Gwalaes. Even after all the months that had passed, Gwalaes looked exactly the same. She was an immensely comforting sight. Eleanor's lip started to tremble and tears came into her eyes.

"Gwalaes!" she exclaimed.

With a little laugh, Gwalaes ran down the steps and into Eleanor's arms. They hugged each other happily. "You looked so different, I didn't know if you had become another person," Gwalaes told her. "It seems ages since you went away. How was it? Did you like it? Have you missed me? Oh, I've missed you so much! You don't know how boring it is without you!"

Eleanor was pleased by Gwalaes' delight in seeing her again. She decided there was no reason to let the other girl know that once she'd fallen into the routines at Elstow, she had stopped thinking about anyone or anything at Oakby.

"I love the life at the abbey, Gwalaes," she said. "But I wish you could be there with me."

Gwalaes made a face. "Me a nun? Not in a million years! At least, not as long as your brother walks the earth."

"Still harping on that chord, are you?" Eleanor shook her head, smiling.

"I can't believe what I'm doing!" Gwalaes suddenly exclaimed. "You must be hungry—come inside! Go up to your chamber. I'll bring you water to wash and a meal. The seamstresses are coming tomorrow—two of them, can you believe it? And your father is actually spending money for musicians! Oh, Eleanor, it's going to be marvelous. I envy you!"

Eleanor felt cold. "What are you talking about, Gwalaes? What's going to be marvelous? And what do I need with seamstresses and musicians?"

"Your brother specifically requested musicians. I'm sure your father wouldn't have them otherwise but you know he can't refuse Robert the least thing. And—oh!—I forgot!" Gwalaes' expression turned dramatic and she took hold of the other girl's arm. "Eleanor, your cousin arrived three days ago. Alan d'Arques is his name. He's squire to Robert and almost as handsome! I promise as soon as you're settled, I'll bring him up to meet you. He's so much fun to talk to!"

"Gwalaes, stop! Please . Just tell me why my father summoned me back to Oakby."

Gwalaes stared at her in confusion. "You don't know?"

"Know what?"

"Alan brought word that Robert and a small party will arrive in a fortnight. Robert gave your father specific instructions about fixing up the manor, hiring musicians, cleaning out your chamber for his guest, having a wardrobe made for you...things like that." Eleanor's face was still blank and she added, "They're all preparations for you, Eleanor. For your marriage!"

There didn't seem to be anything she could do to prevent it. Neither Sir Thomas nor his steward came forward to make a formal announcement to Eleanor; it was left to the girls to glean what information they could from servants' gossip and Alan d'Arques' scant knowledge.

Her brother had arranged everything but it was her father with whom Eleanor was impotently angry. After all, Sir Thomas had assured her he would honor her mother's dying wish. She had always known that he doted to excess on Robert and hadn't even begrudged it because her brother was his heir but she had never expected it to infringe on her life. From the distance of the abbey, she'd come to realize that she had endured a childhood bereft of his attention and affection and although it hadn't bothered her at the time because Gwalaes' mother had been there, now she felt it. But when, at last, he'd made an effort on her behalf—the first and only one—he was taking her back. Now she felt betrayed.

"At least," Gwalaes said consolingly once they had glimpsed the man Eleanor was to marry, "he's not old and decrepit like your father."

From Eleanor's window, they watched a train of horsemen trot sedately into the small ward and surmised that Eleanor's betrothed was the knight riding next to her brother.

"My God!" Alan d'Arques exclaimed. "It's the earl of Chester!" He looked at Eleanor with new respect. "You couldn't make a better marriage alliance unless you married a son of the king himself!"

Eleanor wasn't at all impressed. "It probably isn't him. It's probably that dark, angry man behind him."

Gwalaes turned to the two of them, horrified. "No! Say that's not true, Alan!"

"I keep telling you I don't know anything! Sir Robert gave me a sealed letter and told me to make haste to Oakby—nothing more!"

"Hmph!" Gwalaes snorted. "You might have opened the letter. This is practically a matter of life or death!"

That started friendly bickering over the morality and legality of breaking seals. Eleanor was aware of something more than mere words flying between the two and felt uncomfortably in the way. She thought with dismay that Gwalaes spoke easily with Alan; indeed, now that she thought back, Gwalaes had always had the knack of chatting to young men. She herself hadn't. How, then, could she make a successful marriage? And to a man whom she'd never before seen? The very idea made her shiver. She told herself it was impossible; she could not marry. She would have to somehow convince her father to return her to the abbey.

But she never had a chance. Earl Hugh had much to recommend him as a potential husband; aside from his obvious attributes of wealth and position, Sir Thomas thought his finest one was his willingness to accept Eleanor sight unseen. Still, Elstow had been promised a good deal when it took Eleanor in as a novice and Sir Thomas had no doubt the abbess would make a determined attempt to collect or appeal to the king. So even though the match was overwhelmingly favorable to the Bolsovers, he wouldn't have agreed to it if Robert hadn't endorsed it.

Although what she was bringing to the union, the marriage portion given to Hugh by her father, was paltry, Eleanor Bolsover didn't come cheap. Her brother had negotiated a handsome cash price for her hand which Hugh was to pay to Sir Thomas at the time of the wedding ceremony and the earl also agreed to invest Robert with property worth two knights' fees. Sir Thomas was happy to see his son making his fortune in the world. A marital connection with one of the most powerful men in the kingdom could only augur good for Robert Bolsover.

After Mass the morning after his arrival, Sir Thomas summoned Eleanor to the hall to meet the earl. Despite the feverish work of the seamstresses, she was dressed in the same plain woolen gown in which she'd traveled from the abbey. He was annoyed. Robert would think that he hadn't followed the instructions in his letter.

She barely looked up when she entered and hung hesitantly near the rear stairwell so that he had to snap at her to move further towards the group of men. Robert presented her to the earl and she curtsied.

"For God's sake, Eleanor, raise your head!" Sir Thomas said sharply. "Perhaps Earl Hugh would like to see what he's getting!"

"Oh, women's faces don't matter to the earl, Father," Robert laughed, winking at Hugh. "Only their ability to churn out heirs."

"Of course, of course," Sir Thomas agreed instantly. "Well, Eleanor was just sixteen, my lord, and you can see for yourself she's in excellent health. Very strong."

"Aren't you going to say anything, Eleanor?" Robert asked. There was a hint of humor in his voice, as though there were some joke being played that only he knew about. "So high an honor...Earl Hugh could have had any woman he wanted but he chose you."

Eleanor's eyes crept up to the earl's face with a slight, puzzled frown. The men stared at her, obviously waiting for her to express her fervent thanks. She opened her mouth and stammered: "I'm—I'm most honored, my lord..." Then her gaze shifted to her father and she added, in a rush, "But I'm promised to the church. The abbey at Elstow. It was my mother's dying wish—" She broke off with a cry of pain. Sir Thomas had stepped quickly forward and slapped her face.

"How dare you shame my house like this!" he shouted at her, his own face blood red with fury. Eleanor's hand flew to her cheek in disbelief. Her father had never before hit her. "You haven't taken any vows! You're still mine to dispose of! Your brother has arranged a tremendous opportunity for you; you ought to be grateful. Do you think if your mother was alive she would hesitate one instant to seize it? Do you?" She shook her head mutely. "Pay your respects to Earl Hugh again and get out. You can remain in your chamber until the day you're called to Chester!"

Eleanor curtsied to Hugh and fled the hall. Sir Thomas turned to his guest. "I must apologize, my lord—"

"Don't worry, Father," Robert said cheerfully. "The earl likes pious women, don't you, my lord? They're less likely to get in his way and are easier than others to persuade to perform their procreative duties."

Gwalaes jumped up with excitement when Eleanor entered the room but her hopeful grin died away after one glance at her friend's pale face. "Is he older than he looked from afar?" she asked.

"No," Eleanor answered shortly.

Gwalaes didn't like her morose expression. "It is the earl, isn't it? It's not that angry man you pointed out yesterday is it?"

"It's really the earl."

Gwalaes peered at her. "Well...did he say something nasty to you?"

"No. He didn't say anything at all."

"Why not? Can't he talk?"

"I don't know."

"What's wrong with you, Eleanor? He's not old, he wasn't nasty to you, he's an earl and you're going to be countess of Chester. It's absolutely wonderful!"

"I'd rather be a nun than a countess!" she retorted bitterly. "It's what was promised me!"

Gwalaes took her firmly by the forearms. "Eleanor, your fate has changed. It's not going to go away unless something horrible happens to the earl on his way back to Chester so you might as well make the best of it. Maybe you only liked Elstow because it wasn't Oakby. Chester won't be at all like Oakby, either. Alan says it's a great place—"

"Has Alan ever been there?"

"Well, no, but the earl's right hand man, Sir Roger, told him much about it. It's huge and built of red sandstone and when the setting sun hits it, it glows as though it's on fire. Doesn't that sound pretty?"

Eleanor stared at her, mouth downturned, unconvinced. Gwalaes jiggled her arms. "All right, then, think of this: I couldn't go with you to Elstow, but I can go with you to Chester. We can be together! You must promise to take me, Eleanor. I've been absolutely miserable here on my own!"

A small smile bent the corners of the other girl's mouth. "You just want to go where Robert goes..."

Gwalaes dropped her arms and wrinkled her nose. "I've given up on Robert. He talks too much."

"Alan's quieter," Eleanor said innocently.

"Not as handsome but at least he speaks to me," Gwalaes grinned. "But, Eleanor, let me come to Chester so I can look after you. It's what my mother wanted, remember? She told me to take care of you. After all, I'm your elder by two months." She watched Eleanor's face intently, saw her expression soften at the suggestion that at least one mother's dying wish would be fulfilled and pressed her advantage in a casual voice. "Surely there must have been something pleasing about the earl..."

"There was," Eleanor agreed shyly. "He has the most beautiful blue eyes."

Hugh stepped outside, alone, for a breath of fresh air. The hall, crammed with trestle tables and benches to accommodate his extensive bodyguard as well as the dozen-odd residents of Oakby, had grown stifling hot and loud by the time supper had ended. The temperature took a decided drop on the other side of the massive door and the noise abated abruptly. Hugh breathed deeply. The chill of the damp April air cooled his face.

He glanced uninterestedly down into the little ward below. It was empty and unkempt; symptomatic, he thought, of the master of Oakby. Sir Thomas was a spare man, like his son, of medium height. His hair, which must have shimmered golden in his youth as Robert's, had thinned and dulled with age, as had the zeal and fire which had driven him to fight on the side of Empress Maud. It was almost as if having achieved the prize to which all knights aspired—land—he was content to sit back and permit the world to go on without him. He had paid the shield tax to the king instead of personally serving in the garrison until Robert had been old enough to perform this duty in his place. He rarely left Oakby, preferring to pass the time discussing the status of his estate or playing chess with his steward or reading in the alcove adjacent to his bedchamber, but all the while looking forward to the day his son might return for a visit.

Robert had told Hugh this enroute to Oakby, laughingly, as if it were a joke. Hugh did not have the feeling that Robert cared very much for his father; he simply exploited Sir Thomas' infatuation. It made, Hugh thought, the older man appear faintly ridiculous.

Hugh's estimation of Thomas Bolsover was reinforced at supper. Sir Thomas hung obviously on Robert's every word, encouraged his stories and laughed louder than anyone at his jokes. He poured Robert's wine himself and offered him the tastiest bits of meat from his own plate. Whenever Robert leaned over to speak to Hugh, Sir Thomas' lips pursed together in annoyance until he was able to gain his son's attention again. And when supper ended, Sir Thomas swept Robert away for a private discussion with barely a word of apology to his guest. Hugh had been angered by such rudeness but Robert's exaggerated wink as his father had dragged him away had mollified him tremendously.

That was when he had gone outside for a breath of air. He'd meant to stroll the perimeter of the grounds until Robert joined him, as he was certain would happen, but the ward was small and he suspected that the shadows along the wall were clumps of animal waste no one had bothered to rake up.

He heard loud, sudden footsteps behind him, recognized them immediately and didn't bother turning around. "My lord," a voice said at his ear. "Could I talk to you?"

"What is it, Roger?"

"How long do you mean for us to remain here, my lord?"

"I don't know."

"But surely, my lord, you can't mean to stay more than one or two nights," Haworth protested. "There's no room—"

"I have business here, Roger," Hugh interrupted. "If it takes one, two or ten nights, that's how long we will remain."

"Business with Robert Bolsover?" Haworth asked cuttingly.

Hugh whirled around. "Is that a problem?" he inquired.

Haworth's glare faltered. "No, my lord."

"Good. Because you know if you have problems with any of my decisions, you're free to leave my service. I don't own you, Roger. You're a free man." He spoke sharply because he was angry at Haworth's jealous interference. He almost wished he'd told his captain to ride ahead to Chester.

"You know I don't want to leave you," Haworth said. His dark eyes burned so intensely that Hugh felt his face grow hot. Suddenly he couldn't stand Haworth's anguish. He looked away.

"Sir Thomas and I have to set a date for the wedding," he said, relenting. "And his steward has persuaded him to get me to pay off the abbey since he was content to leave the girl there. I'll wrangle a bit over that but I'll probably pay it. I'm not particularly comfortable staying here, either."

"It will be good to get home again," Haworth said with feeling.

"Yes...Six months away from Chester is five and half months too long." He added casually, "I'm looking forward to showing it to Robert."

Haworth was stunned. "Bolsover is coming with us?"

"Of course," Hugh laughed. "It will suit him. It's simply amazing, isn't it, how a place like this and a father like his managed to produce so fine a man as Robert Bolsover."

Chapter 4

April, 1172

St. David's, Deheubarth, Wales

William Longsword dropped to his knees, crossed himself and muttered a short, earnest prayer of gratitude that he had once more made it safely to solid ground. It made no difference that the brief voyage had been smooth; he had, as his father had one time laughingly accused, an unnatural fear of the sea for a man of Norman blood. "It's actually reassuring to know that there is something you fear, Will," Richard Delamere had told him cheerfully. "A little weakness makes you seem human."

The king and his court had just returned from a six-month stay in Ireland. Several years earlier, a small band of Norman adventurers had invaded the island and in September 1171, Henry had heard rumors that their lord, Richard de Clare, was styling himself king of Leinster. Henry didn't object to his knights conquering new lands to the greater glory of his empire, as long as it was understood that he was the king and they no more than his vassals. He sailed for Ireland in October, confronted de Clare and demanded his submission which he received without a fight, with that of a few of the Irish kings voluntarily thrown in for good measure.

Longsword wasn't impressed with Ireland, but at least it had been terra firma. They had planned to leave for Britain soon after Christmas, but the winter winds had been contrary and had prevented departure. Longsword had been the only one relieved with the frustrating delay, even though he knew it just prolonged the inevitable. In February, a messenger had managed to get across to the king with the news that papal legates had arrived in Normandy to negotiate his absolution of the murder of Becket. It was important that Henry return to bargain with the legates and restore himself to the fold of the Church. Rome was a powerful force, and if it were to decide against him and give its full backing to his adversaries, such as King Louis VII, the empire he had so painstakingly created could very well fall down around him.

Longsword rose. The capricious wind, so gentle the last few days, was beginning to blow harder. The sky overhead was fast filling with ominous purple and black clouds. From behind him, a horse whinnied shrilly and he turned in its direction, back to the quay. The sight of the choppy water made him shudder. He shifted his eyes instead to the boatload of horses being unloaded with efficient skill. One animal, however, was impatient, perhaps aggrieved with the sudden rocking of the ship. It snorted and thrashed within the confines of its leather bonds and caused the boat to sway even more precariously. Someone shouted to cut its straps before the vessel was capsized, and a young man, a squire by his dress, jumped forward with a dagger in his hand. He grabbed the horse's bridle with one hand and slashed at the bonds with his other. By this time the animal was hysterical, and once it was free the boy, his footing unsteady on the swaying bottom of the boat, was unable to keep hold of the bridle. Unfettered, the animal somehow stumbled over the edge of the ship and into the shallow water, and up onto the beach, bounding away at a furious pace and scattering all in its path.

"That's Bolsover's, isn't it?" said Delamere, who was also watching. The big black disappeared up the beach. He corrected himself. "I mean, was Bolsover's?"

Longsword smirked. "Yes."

Bolsover's squire ran after Avranches with deadly urgency.

"He shouldn't bother," commented Delamere. "He'll never catch that one. Remember how impressed the Irish chiefs were when Bolsover showed them how fast his precious horse could fly?"

"Serves him right for being so smug," Longsword said. He craned his neck. "I'd love to see his face right now. Where is he?"

Delamere didn't know. "Perhaps we should help the boy. Bolsover isn't going to be too happy with him."

"If we help him, we might find the animal," Longsword retorted. "And I'd rather not, seeing as he stole it from me in the first place."

Delamere shrugged indifferently. He knew from long experience that his friend's sense of grievance, whether justified or not, was unshakeable.

Avranches did not reappear. Alan d'Arques had chased him as far as he could over unfamiliar land without getting lost, but he finally returned alone to the camp as the call to mount up was being passed along. Robert Bolsover lashed into him with angry words, even though Delamere came to the boy's defense, protesting that the horse had been crazed and that only an arrow might have managed to stop it. Bolsover would not go horseless despite the loss; the earl of Chester had given him three magnificent stallions on the occasion of his marriage to the knight's young sister last September. But Avranches had been a particular favorite of his, a reminder of the time he had set out to woo Hugh Fitz Ranulf.

Bolsover was well pleased with the fruits of his endeavors. He didn't love Hugh as Hugh loved him—he was oblivious to that emotion with regard to either sex—but he was willing to provide the earl with the comforts he needed as long as the earl continued to reciprocate with expensive gifts of land and horses. Arranging the marriage to his sister had ensured there would be perpetual contact between himself and the earl, and so, greater opportunity to obtain whatever he wanted. Robert genuinely liked Hugh; the earl was intelligent and good-looking, although quiet. His humor tended to the sardonic, and they had had many laughs together at the expense of the king's household. He didn't know his appeal to Hugh, but he suspected the earl had few, if any, intimates and that he enjoyed the company of someone who wasn't in awe of his power and wealth.

With the manors Hugh had granted him, Sir Robert was now a modestly wealthy man of property. There was no longer any reason for him to serve as a member of the king's assembly except when he was called for his annual guard duty, and even then he could simply hire a knight to go in his place or pay, as his father had done for many years, the shield tax. But despite Hugh's entreaties to remain with him at Chester through Christmas, Bolsover had instead decided to accompany Henry to Ireland. His reason, which he didn't share with the earl, was a vain one: he wanted to wear his new riches among the landless knights of the king's company, the group to which he had formerly belonged. Hugh, who had been born heir to enormous riches, wouldn't have understood Bolsover's flashy need to show off.

Unlike Longsword, Robert Bolsover had enjoyed Ireland. The Normans who had gone there at the request of a petty king in 1167 had carved out neat dominions for themselves. The native Irish were overwhelmed by the military tactics and arms of the Normans, and large numbers of them were easily defeated by relatively small bands of mounted knights. When Henry made a small circuit of the eastern coast, local chiefs came to him to voluntarily offer their submission. Such displays were not lost on Bolsover. He saw quite clearly the effects of wealth and power. If he had been the kind of man who thrived on violence and brute force, he might have been tempted to stay behind and try his own luck in winning himself a lordship. But he returned with the king's entourage because he knew there was a much easier—and less risky—way to make a fortune.

It was Henry's plan to get to Normandy as quickly as possible, which meant getting through Wales and into England without delay. Unfortunately, the prince of Deheubarth, Rhys, sent messengers to the king with an invitation to encamp at Cardigan, where he had just completed a fortress to replace the Norman one he'd demolished six years earlier. Since Rhys had been his implacable enemy until only a few years ago, it was politically impossible for Henry to refuse even though it meant a detour of some thirty miles in the wrong direction.

Longsword disliked Wales almost as much as he'd hated Ireland. "I've finally figured out your problem, you know," Delamere commented to him as they rode in their places in the long line wending its way north to Cardigan. "It's language. You just can't tolerate strange languages."

"And strange customs, strange clothing, strange manners, and the strange things the men do to their hair, not to mention their strange drinks," Longsword said. "Why do you consider that a problem?"

"Because your dismissive attitude is offensive. It's not these peoples' fault they weren't born Norman, Will."

"Nor mine that I was born a bastard, but it's still the cross I must bear," he retorted.

His friend's illegitimate birth was another subject which Delamere never sought to pursue. As far as he could tell, it only prevented Longsword, the firstborn, from succeeding his father to the throne. In all other affairs, he was treated with the proper respect accorded to any of the king's offspring. Delamere had no doubt that in due course Henry would find William a rich heiress to marry and invest him with an earldom. Despite such prospects, Longsword brooded continually and bitterly over what he considered his less than perfect birth.

"Ah, well," Delamere replied instead with an exaggerated sigh, "I, for one, found the language of Ireland fascinating."

"Probably because you had many willing teachers," Longsword said dryly. Delamere had made the most of the enforced layover in Dublin. Longsword had hardly seen him for three months. He gave his friend a sly look. "But did you actually learn anything?"

"Of course!" Delamere managed to seem offended. "Hello, good-bye, I love you, you look beautiful by the light of a candle...things like that. I'd like a similar opportunity to learn Welsh," he mused. "Sounds so lovely, doesn't it? The women don't speak, they sing. Of course, I don't think the king will stay more than one night. Then it's rough sleeping, non-stop riding and more sailing straight back to Normandy."

Longsword's lips twisted sourly at the thought of another imminent sea voyage. He firmly put it in the back of his mind. "Richard, if you can't get a woman to share your cloak within an hour of our arrival at Cardigan I'll lose all respect for you."

Delamere laughed. "Well, Will," he answered. "You know it's not in my nature to refuse a challenge."

Chapter 5

April, 1172

Chester Castle, Cheshire

After several days of violent rainstorms, the sun turned out for Sir Robert Bolsover's bedraggled entrance into Chester. He and his men had left the king's entourage at Chepstow, and while Henry continued eastward across England, Bolsover had turned north. He was finished with the king's service now; he proposed to stay with his brother-in-law for as long as it suited either one of them.

The journey had been wet and miserable, but Bolsover displayed no ill effects, jumping lightly from the saddle and giving Hugh a short bow before being caught up in a welcoming embrace.

Roger of Haworth witnessed the return of Robert Bolsover with apprehension. It was Hugh's transformation which bothered him most. For the past seven months the earl had seemed on edge, even testy at times, and Roger could count on one hand the number of times he'd been invited to share his bed. He had shrugged it off and put it down to Hugh's new marriage and his adjustment to it and had determined to patiently wait it out, confident Hugh would eventually fall again into their old routine. In the meantime, he hadn't attempted to seek companionship elsewhere; he was devoted to the earl and the idea of taking another lover would never have occurred to him.

So it was a bitter blow to see Hugh suddenly burst to life the moment Robert Bolsover rode through the gate, wind-whipped and rumpled but with his fair hair still shining brightly and his insolent manner still intact. And then to see Hugh embrace him like a brother and kiss his cheeks and stand there speaking with him as if they were the only two in the ward. And then, to add insult to injury, to see Bolsover sling a familiar arm around Hugh's neck and watch the pair of them walk right past him—with Hugh not even giving him a second glance—and up the steps and into the hall! He stood alone and stared dumbly after them...And then he realized that the earl's preoccupation hadn't been due to the presence of a wife but to the absence of her brother. Such ardent longing could mean only one thing.

Bolsover and Hugh were lovers.

It was a possibility that Haworth had never considered. Perhaps he'd merely been naive, or perhaps he'd not wanted to believe it. He had known since the coronation of the Young King two years ago that Hugh was interested in Bolsover, but he hadn't assumed the interest was so deep or physical. In all the years he and Hugh had been intimate, Haworth had never had even the faintest hint that Hugh might have been sleeping with another man. He felt for a moment as if his stomach had been ripped out of him. His heart pounded furiously. He dared not turn around; he thought everyone was staring at him, knowing he'd fallen out of favor, silently laughing at him. He had been betrayed by the one person he could never betray.

But, as so often happens in the tangles of love triangles, Haworth didn't blame Hugh. Bolsover was the culprit, the seducer. Bolsover was the one he blamed...and cursed.

From a window in a second storey apartment which overlooked the ward, Eleanor and Gwalaes were also watching the arrival of Robert Bolsover. "Are you jealous, Eleanor?" the other girl inquired. "Your husband just kissed your brother three times."

Her tone of voice was bland, leading Eleanor to believe she was being sarcastic. Although they had argued about Gwalaes' opinion of Hugh several times, Eleanor didn't want to bicker now. "Well, they're good friends and Robert's been away for half a year," she answered mildly. "Naturally they're happy to see each other."

"Oh, naturally," Gwalaes echoed, but with that same sarcastic drawl.

Gwalaes had changed. Once, aside from Robert, the most zealous proponent of marriage with the earl, she was now strangely monosyllabic whenever Eleanor brought him up. It had started almost as soon as they had passed through the gates of the castle, when they'd arrived for the wedding in September. And when she wasn't practicing reticence on the topic of the earl, she was complaining profusely about his castle; its population, its dangerous proximity to Wales, its sheer magnitude. It was a trial for Eleanor; she had finally reached the point at which she accepted, and was even starting to enjoy, her fate, and Gwalaes' moods and displeasures grated on her.

Before she could retort, Gwalaes said, "I don't see Alan, do you?"

Hugh and Robert had disappeared into the keep, but there were men and horses still milling about in the ward. The squire, however, was nowhere to be seen.

"No...Perhaps he's already gone to the stable. That black horse of Robert's is missing also."

Gwalaes sniffed. "Your brother was probably concerned that his precious animal caught a chill in the rain and sent Alan to rub him down and throw a warm blanket over his back."

"Should we go down, do you think?"

"Too crowded. Besides, they looked fine without you. God knows, you haven't seen your brother in half a year also, but he wouldn't greet you like he greeted Hugh."

"I'd like to hear about Ireland," said Eleanor.

"Don't worry! I'm certain that's all Robert will be talking about at dinner. He loves to have an audience."

Eleanor could not remember Hugh looking so happy in all the months of their marriage. The large hall was full of people, knights and ladies, men-at-arms and guests of the earl, and servants bearing trays of steaming food and jugs of wine. They sat at the high table, Hugh in his elaborately carved chair, Eleanor on his left and Robert in the place of honor on his right, along with Sir Miles de Gournay, Hugh's steward, and half a dozen other notables. As Gwalaes had predicted, Bolsover described his adventures in Ireland with humor and some slight embellishment, at which the knights who'd accompanied him smiled indulgently. It was obvious Bolsover had a respected reputation as a wild but competent soldier. If he lied a little, it was only to spice up the story, not to inflate his own role in it.

After the meal, the musicians came out. Bolsover took one's instrument and attempted to describe the way the Irish played and the strange language in which they sang, but only succeeded in provoking gales of laughter which had been his intent all along. With mock resignation, he handed the instrument back to the musician and called loudly for a good French song. Eleanor clapped with everyone else, flushed from the wine and proud that the two most important men in the castle belonged to her.

She slipped away a short while later to use the privy chamber and nearly bumped into Gwalaes afterwards on the stair leading back down to the hall. The black-haired girl reached for Eleanor's arm, her face concerned.

"Alan isn't here!" she said.

"What do you mean, isn't here?" asked Eleanor. "I'm sure I saw him—"

"You haven't seen anyone tonight but your precious husband!" snapped Gwalaes. "Alan didn't come with Robert—your brother was angry with him and left him with the king in Wales!"

Eleanor was so surprised that she didn't take offense to Gwalaes' snide comment about her husband. She stared, open-mouthed. "How do you know?"

"Because I asked! You were too busy to care, but I asked!" She related the story that another of Bolsover's squires had told her about the runaway horse and Alan d'Arques' misfortune. "He's kin to you! How could Robert leave him?"

"There must be a simple explanation, Gwalaes! Avranches was Robert's favorite horse—he won him from Hugh! When he leaves Chester, he'll more than likely send for Alan to join him again."

"If he ever leaves..." muttered Gwalaes.

"What are you talking about, Gwalaes?" said Eleanor sharply.

"Eleanor, open your eyes! Chester suits Robert very well! The earl dotes on him the way he should dote on you! Didn't you see it at Oakby? Couldn't you tell when we arrived here for the wedding and Robert, not Hugh, came out to greet us as if he owned all this? There isn't any reason for Robert to leave! I think that if Hugh could have married Robert instead of you, he would have preferred it!"

"You're being ridiculous! They're good friends just as we're good friends..."

The other girl opened her mouth as if to make a retort, but shut it just as quickly. Without another word, she turned and walked away, leaving Eleanor to stare after her in complete confusion.

Two weeks later, the earl and Bolsover left Chester, bound for Normandy with the intention of witnessing the passing of the papal court's verdict on the king. Eleanor and Gwalaes were awakened by the stamping and snorting of horses and loud male voices. Hardware clanked and jingled. Gwalaes unlatched the window and they leaned out as discreetly as they could. Scores of soldiers and horses milled below them in the ward, breathing out with vaporous puffs in the damp morning air. Then Hugh and Robert appeared. Roger of Haworth barked some command and the genial chaos quickly became order. Bolsover, laughing at something Hugh said, mounted a handsome, sleek roan which the earl had presented to him as a replacement for Avranches. Another command and the soldiers formed themselves into rough lines, led by Hugh and Bolsover. Then everyone moved towards the gate; knights followed by archers followed by men-at-arms followed by three baggage carts—nearly one hundred men in all. In a quarter of an hour the ward was empty, and silent once again. Gwalaes said nothing, but Eleanor felt humiliated. Hugh, whom she hadn't seen privately since her brother's arrival, hadn't informed her of his impending departure.

She had never been jealous of their father's complete and exclusive devotion to Robert but she discovered she resented her husband's excessive attention to him. While Robert was at Chester, Hugh ignored her completely. Never one for idle chatter, he didn't even have a spare word for her. Perhaps there was a point to Gwalaes' inexplicable hatred of the earl after all...but Eleanor couldn't bring herself to hate Hugh. It was her brother's fault, of course. Gwalaes, who had worshipped him growing up, was still too loyal to him to see the truth. Eleanor knew better; her eyes were unclouded by infatuation. She thought about Robert and the anger built up slowly inside her. He had manipulated all their father's attention and now he was doing the same with her husband. It was abominable, unbearable. She hated him with an intensity she once would have never believed she possessed.

Chapter 6

June, 1172

Avranches, Normandy

Hugh observed the negotiations between the king and the papal legates with a curious sense of detachment. Of course Henry was his king and he and all his property were sworn to him, but if the Church refused to find him innocent...well, then, that would virtually mean the disintegration of his empire, wouldn't it? It would mean all oaths made to him were null. And it could mean that his son, the Young King, would be the successor to whom the barons looked for leadership. In return for his support, Hugh might finally be able to get the earldoms which Henry continued to deny to him. He conceded it was a long shot, but life had certainly brightened for him since his acquaintanceship with Robert Bolsover, and who could tell what other surprises might lay in store?

But at the end of May, King Henry II was formally absolved of complicity in the murder of Archbishop Thomas Becket by the papal legates. And fewer than three weeks later, Bolsover was dead.

The sun had been strong in their eyes. Everyone involved agreed afterward that had been a large contributor to the accident. They'd been racing like madmen after a phantom stag. And they had spent the afternoon drinking—really, it was a miracle no one else had been killed.

Without war, there was little for a knight to do. He wasn't an administrator; he had stewards to take care of the day to day maintenance of his property, and he wasn't a businessman—that was a role for lowly burgesses and trades people. He could sit on his court and listen to the petty disputes among the men of his holdings, but there was no excitement in it. From a young age, the knight had been trained for only one purpose: to serve his master with arms. Perhaps when a man grew older and had a wife and children and his own bit of land, he began to look distastefully on rushing off to besiege one or another of the king's recalcitrant vassals, but Hugh, Bolsover, Haworth and all the men with them were young and still a little careless of their mortality. If there was no war, then they spent every waking hour practicing for one. Or they went hunting.

At Avranches, someone suggested a hunt to break the monotony of a hot afternoon, and after dinner a small party consisting of the earl, Sir Robert, Sir Roger and half a dozen other knights and their squires set out on horseback into the forest. It wasn't a serious-minded group, however; there were no huntsmen along to sight the game and no dogs to flush it out, and starting in the middle of the day after a heavy meal meant the pursuit of anything over a long distance was out of the question. It was merely an easy diversion, not to mention a comfortable one—in the shadowy forest, the temperature was pleasantly cool.

Several men had brought skins of wine along and these were immoderately enjoyed. The wine loosened their tongues. Lewd stories were related. Obscene jokes exchanged. Soon the woods reverberated with the sound of hearty laughter which effectively chased away even the stupidest prey. When the sun began its descent, the men turned back, empty-handed, towards the castle, which lay west of them.

No one could remember exactly what happened next. They had drunk too much and each man was trying to outdo the others in displaying his prowess on horseback. One moment they were galloping their mounts at breakneck speed through the tangled forest in an insane race against each other and the next someone had called out that he'd caught sight of a massive stag, and suddenly they were in pursuit. They became separated, they shouted to one another, the sinking sun glared into their eyes, there was a flash of brown, bows were drawn, arrows flew...and Robert Bolsover tumbled from his horse and crashed to the ground, dead.

It was a bizarre accident. Fortunately, all of them had used clean arrows, unnotched or otherwise marked to denote ownership, and therefore they were all equally guilty and equally innocent. There was no way of knowing precisely who had shot the fatal missile, which had struck Bolsover directly in the chest.

Chapter 7

July, 1172

Chester Castle, Cheshire

At the end of July, the earl finally returned to Chester. With Roger of Haworth, he rode at the head of a somber line of horsemen underneath a cloudless blue sky which seemed to mock his mourning. Sir Miles de Gournay met him in the ward. As was their habit, Eleanor and Gwalaes observed the proceedings from their window.

Grooms hurried forward to hold the horses as men dismounted and lead them away to the stables. Hugh had pulled off his heavy leather gloves and stood holding them tightly in one hand and slapping them absently into the other while Sir Miles spoke to him in low tones which didn't reach to the young women. Eleanor looked at her husband's pale, expressionless face and was startled. He had never been an emotional person but the last time she'd seen him he'd been relaxed, even laughing. Gwalaes touched her arm.

"Every time riders come through that gate lately, someone's missing. First it was Alan. Now, your brother."

Ah, that was the reason Hugh had lost his good humor. Eleanor turned away from the window, once more feeling the anger rise inside.

He summoned her to his private chambers just before the evening meal. On the spur of the moment, she decided to change her gown, and Gwalaes brushed out her hair and re-braided it before hiding it under her linen wimple. She couldn't have said why she was taking such care with her appearance; Hugh had certainly never commented, favorably or otherwise, on it.

A man-at-arms gave her a short, respectful bow and pushed open the door for her and Gwalaes, and she entered her husband's outer chamber with a little hesitancy. She was nervous; the summons was unusual. She supposed she was a little frightened of Hugh. They hadn't been married very long and she still knew next to nothing about him, and anything she did know she had learned from Sir Miles and not from Hugh himself. He was much older than she, more worldly and so formidable with his unsmiling countenance. She wondered suddenly if he and Robert had had a falling out and he had called for her because he was going to inform her that she was being sent back to her father. Back to Oakby. She cursed Robert under her breath; he was constantly interfering in her life. How would she be able to stand the humiliation of being returned to Sir Thomas?

The antechamber was windowless. At the two far corners were doors; one led to Hugh's bedchamber, which she had never seen. The antechamber was small and the flames from six fat beeswax candles stuck onto two iron tripods against the whitewashed walls were enough to sufficiently illuminate it. Hugh, standing near a high-backed chair, looked up as the two girls came in. He had bathed and exchanged his riding apparel for more comfortable robes, Eleanor noted, but his face was far from relaxed. His eyes betrayed no emotion and his mouth bore the marks of tension.

She dropped mechanically into a curtsey but before she could rise, heard him snap, "Roger, escort the countess' servant back to her room. I want to speak to my wife alone."

Eleanor straightened up and glanced around, startled. Haworth was leaning against the wall half-hidden by the open door. The feeling of apprehension grew stronger, fueled by Hugh's cold tone and Haworth's body language. She knew the knight was Hugh's right-hand man, but she was shocked by his casual arrogance of slouching against the wall in the presence of his master. So was Gwalaes. They stared wide-eyed at each other. And Hugh's command...Gwalaes accompanied her everywhere but Eleanor was too awed by her husband to appeal to him now.

She watched Gwalaes leave with Haworth. The guard on the other side of the door pulled it closed with a thud.

"Sit down, Eleanor," Hugh said impatiently.

There was an uncushioned bench seat along the right wall and she sat on it obediently. Her hands twisted around each other in her lap and she dared not look up.

She heard the sound of wine being sloshed into a cup followed by a hasty gulp. The noises were so unnatural to her normally fastidious husband that if she hadn't seen Haworth leave, she would have thought they were coming from him. She raised her eyes slightly. Hugh was staring into the candle flame on one of the tripods and absently swirling the remainder of his wine around in the cup. He felt her glance and straightened up.

His voice was tense. "I'm afraid I have bad news for you about your brother. There was an accident. We—Roger, Robert, a few others and I—were hunting near Avranches and unfortunately, your brother...Well, as I say, it was an accident. An unlucky shot. He died instantly."

At first Eleanor couldn't understand what Hugh was trying to say, but then her mind seized on the word 'died'. Robert was dead! She was shocked; it was almost too perfect, as if she had wished for something impossible and actually gotten it. She wondered briefly if Hugh could see the sudden jolt of guilt which rushed through her. And out. She didn't realize she was staring blindly at him as the wheels turned in her head. She could only benefit from this misfortune.

"Would you like a cup of wine?" Hugh asked carefully, even gently, apparently misinterpreting her silence for horror. "I'm not very good at putting things prettily, I'm afraid," he continued when she shook her head dumbly. "I've obviously startled you and I'm sorry. It was a terrible shock to me, too. The last few weeks have been hell. I wanted to do everything properly. I took Robert back to Oakby."

"Oh—my father!" Eleanor breathed, putting a hand over her mouth.

"Yes, to say he was upset would be an understatement," Hugh said. "In fact, he was almost irrational." He looked away with some embarrassment, into the flickering flames of the candles. "You should know that he accused me of murdering Robert. He practically threw me out of Oakby in his rage."

"He loved Robert," Eleanor said matter-of-factly. "Robert was his whole life."

"I know...But I loved him, too, not only as a brother by marriage but as a dear friend, and to be so accused..." Hugh shook his head angrily. He appealed suddenly to his wife with a pained expression. He had shed his cloak of aloofness and was inviting her to console him, believing that she had cared for her brother as he did, for he was genuinely grieved and once Sir Thomas had driven him out of Oakby there was no one at all to whom he could speak about Robert. He turned to Eleanor in despair and if she had been more mature or more astute, she might have recognized his appeal and from then on their marriage might have been, at least, a congenial success.

But Eleanor had ceased to look at him. She was wildly happy but struggling, out of politeness to his friendship with Robert, not to show it. A hunting accident, ha! she thought. More like her avenging angel had finally come to her rescue. Gwalaes would be saddened, of course, but she preferred Alan d'Arques now, anyway; she'd get over it in no time. Sir Thomas had been punished for ignoring her for all her life and reneging on his promise to give her to the abbey. Now she was his only heir—what a laugh: the girl he had never wanted. As for her husband, no longer would he mope around waiting for Robert Bolsover to arrive. Now he had no excuse not to be a husband to her...She couldn't help it—a tiny, triumphant smile creased her lips.

Hugh, who had been watching her hopefully, saw it. He frowned briefly in confusion but then he realized his judgment had been wrong. His eyes became cold and expressionless and he put his cup down on the table very deliberately. It was as though all his vulnerability shriveled up inside him. It was replaced by rage. He knew in a few moments he would start lashing out. He turned his back on Eleanor and in a clipped, abrupt voice dismissed her from his rooms.

Chester was his pride and his joy, and whenever he was in residence he felt at his most comfortable and usually let slip his austere demeanor. But not this time. There wasn't any familiar corner into which he could glance and not see the lingering ghost of Robert Bolsover. They had lived and loved here together from the time they'd left Oakby after making the arrangements for Hugh to marry Eleanor until the actual wedding five months later. Afterwards, Robert had gone to join the king in Ireland, but when he finally left the king's service he'd returned not to Oakby or to one of his own manors, but to Chester. To Hugh. Only a few months...The brief space of time the earl had had with Robert Bolsover made him feel his loss even more keenly.

Days passed, but brought Hugh no relief. He was either morose or violently angry. After a week and a half, Sir Miles ceased consulting him on matters of formality. The servants dared not look him in the face—he'd practically thrown one poor fellow halfway across the hall when the man had had the wretched luck to be laughing at some joke as Hugh had walked by him. Roger of Haworth was the only person who would voluntarily intrude on the earl's grief and even he came away looking abnormally pale and humble. Mealtimes had become dismal affairs. Hugh would suffer no music or loud conversation. Most of the knights' wives went home.

He drank and considered his bad luck. Robert's death had prompted a self-examination of his life. For all his wealth and power Hugh felt he had little personal consequence. As a peer of the realm he ought to have been one of the king's right-hand people, yet Henry preferred the advice of his own chosen few, some of whom weren't even knights! Obviously, although he'd never done anything contrary to the law of the land, Henry didn't trust him. And what of the disputed earldoms? Henry refused to hear his plea. It made Hugh livid. He probably paid more in taxes and knight service than any other baron in England, yet the king refused to hear him!

His mother, Maud, a formidable woman of some fifty years who was, like the king, a grandchild of Henry I, badgered him regularly about the status of the earldoms. Every year one of her messengers appeared at his gate with a letter accusing him of laziness and spinelessness in having not yet obtained what his father had been promised. He knew all the words by heart now; the damned letters were all the same.

Robert had been the one bright light in his life, so of course fate had snatched him away just so Hugh would be denied even the least amount of happiness. Can't have the great earl of Chester enjoying anything! Hugh gripped his wine cup so tightly that it bent slightly under the pressure. He raised his arm and hurled the cup at the wall. A red splash of wine trickled down the whitewash.

The worst of it was there wasn't anyone else around him who cared that Bolsover was dead. Even Roger...He knew he'd treated loyal Roger shamefully when Robert had been alive. He'd felt guilty at times but then he'd catch Bolsover's smile or sly wink and any thought of Roger had evaporated like smoke into air. Roger was trying hard to be sympathetic about the death, but Hugh knew it was just an act. Still, he was grateful for the attempt. No one else was doing as much.

That included his wife. Hadn't she cared for her own brother? They hadn't spoken since the day he'd told her about Robert's death. He knew she sensed his anger and was frightened of sparking it into violent display, but the knowledge, instead of shaming him, incensed him further. He had never particularly liked her. The few times he'd been able to bring himself to her bed, she'd been clumsy and unimaginative. Even before the tragedy she'd tiptoed around him. Such behavior annoyed him.

After a while, all Hugh's anguish and despair and feelings of worthlessness concentrated themselves into a hard ball of fury which sat like lead in his stomach and threatened to erupt at the slightest provocation. It was easier to be angry than it was to be morose. People understood anger better whereas they never knew how to deal with grief. He got drunk, went down to the practice field and galloped a horse at the quintain or took his sword and slashed and hacked at an unlucky opponent until he had to fall back from exhaustion. His arms and legs ached and he collected a number of impressive bruises, but at least he was able to sleep at night.

There came a week when heavy rain forced him to remain indoors for several days. By suppertime of the third day, he was pacing his antechamber like a caged wildcat and snarling at anyone who looked at him the wrong way. At the table, Eleanor avoided his eye. Suddenly, he felt all the impotent anger of the past three days well up in him—against her. As he cut meat for himself, he saw her hand reach for the salt and imagined his knife marring her pale, unblemished skin. He pictured her in his mind, reaching for her throat with his rough hands, squeezing her neck...Why hadn't it been she who had died? Of what use was she to him? She couldn't give him what her brother had, and she had yet to realize her only possible value: making him heirs. It was another mockery of his life, wasn't it, that he was stuck for eternity with the wrong side of the triangle?

She knew he was thinking about her. He could tell because she had suddenly lost her appetite. He must have been staring at her out of the corner of his eye. At that moment he truly hated her.

He thought again about her childlessness. If he had to suffer her presence, the least she could do in grateful return was get herself pregnant! How many times was he going to have to endure sleeping with her? God, every time Miles de Gournay visited his wife at their manor she seemed to have a child nine months later!

He retired to his chambers after supper. He knew he was dangerously drunk and he didn't want his men to see him in such a state. He wondered briefly where Haworth was but almost immediately his mind returned to Eleanor. The chit! Prancing around like the queen of the castle when she ought to be ashamed that she wasn't with child. The ugly thoughts of violence returned and this time he couldn't control them. He swung out of his room and went down one flight of stairs to her chambers. The door was closed but not latched and he heard voices behind it. Without knocking, he pushed it in with such force that it banged into the wall and shuddered.

The rain had made the summer air chilly and Eleanor sat on a stool before a glowing brazier. Gwalaes was standing behind her, combing out her long brown hair. They both looked up and froze when they saw Hugh on the threshold, his body swaying just a little but his eyes focused and glaring.

Eleanor rose quickly to her feet. "My lord," she started but Hugh angrily interrupted her.

"Get rid of her!" he snapped. Eleanor and Gwalaes exchanged a surprised glance. "Yes, her!" Neither girl moved and he took a step in their direction. "Have you lost your ears!" he shouted. "I told you to get rid of her!"

Eleanor turned to her friend. "Gwalaes, please leave," she said calmly.

"Eleanor, no!"

But Hugh wasn't waiting any longer. With an oath, he grabbed Gwalaes by her arm, pulled her forward and shoved her through the door, which he slammed closed on her face and latched. Then he swung around on his wife.

Eleanor was confused by Hugh's unaccustomed behavior but she had no reason to fear him and she stood by the brazier with her face composed and her arms down by her sides. The lack of reaction bothered Hugh. Bolsover was dead but she was alive and she dared to stand before him as if everything were all right. He loathed her. He regarded her as the physical symbol of all his mourning and suffering, of the tension of the past few months, of his self-doubt, of his need to lash out and ease his own pain by inflicting it on someone else, of all that was wrong in his life...She stood there so innocent of his simmering transgressions while he—he waited for the spark to come and set him off.

She began to wilt under his relentless stare. "Is something wrong, my lord?" she asked tentatively.

He laughed harshly, not quite drunk enough to be blind to the irony in the question. Everything was wrong! "How long have we been married, my dear wife?" he said.

She considered. "A bit longer than ten months, my lord."

"So long, eh? And why haven't you yet conceived?"

The words were growled and Eleanor's face suddenly transformed from placid to nervous. She stammered, "I—I don't know, my lord."

Hugh took a few steps in her direction, which seemed to further unnerve her. She moved slightly backwards. "You don't know!" he snapped. "Is there something wrong—with you? Are you barren? Did I get a bad bargain?"

"No, my lord!" she protested. He was still advancing on her, in a slow and almost menacing manner, and she retreated until she felt the wall at her back. "Perhaps we haven't been trying often enough!" she said desperately.

There was finally fear in her eyes. For the first time since Bolsover's death, he felt as if he were in control of the situation. "Are you telling me it's my fault?" he demanded. "Any one of the sluts in the kitchens can conceive on one shot! Why are you any different?"

"I don't know! I'm sure it's not your fault!"

"Then it's yours! I'm an important man! I must have heirs!"

"I know, my lord—"

"If you can't give them to me, I'll put you aside and find someone who will!"

"But you can't do that!" she objected, momentarily forgetting his rage.

"I can do whatever I please!" he shouted.

"But we're married! You can't put me aside—"

He backhanded her across the face and she screamed, as much from surprise as pain. Outside, Gwalaes pounded on the door and anxiously called out her name.

They were close now; Eleanor with her back to the wall and Hugh only inches from her face. Tears welled in her eyes as she stared accusingly at him, still uncertain of his motives and not quite believing he had hit her. He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her hard into the wall. She cried out involuntarily.

"I can do whatever I please," he repeated harshly. "Perhaps a little accident...a fall down the stairs...or a sudden illness...Perhaps it needn't even look like an accident. Who's to know? I'm an earl, a respected man. Who will challenge me?"

She realized he was in deadly earnest. He was gripping her shoulders so tightly she thought he would break her bones—and he was threatening to do much worse. She could see the contempt in his blue eyes and wondered fleetingly why it was there. Amazing how the mind could be so detached while every nerve in the body was bracing itself for an assault. Since she was tall, they were almost equal in height, but she felt as helpless under his glaring scrutiny as a mouse between the paws of a cat.

"Please," she said.

Gwalaes continued to bang on the door, shouting out Eleanor's name over and over. The noise bounced around Hugh's head, angering him to such an extent that he suddenly wrenched Eleanor from the wall and shoved her across the room with all his might. She stumbled and fell onto the floor in a heap.

"Tell her to shut up!" he demanded. "Tell her to shut up or I swear to God I'll kill her! Tell her!"

His face was red with exertion and rage. Eleanor scrambled to the door on her knees and tearfully begged Gwalaes to leave. She could hear the other girl crying as well, pleading to be let in to help her. Eleanor looked back to see Hugh bearing furiously down on her and she screamed at Gwalaes to go away. "The noise is inciting him!" she cried. "Go, Gwalaes! Go away, please!"

Hugh grabbed a fistful of Eleanor's long hair and hauled her to her feet by it. "It's you who are inciting me! I can't stand to look at you! You've been nothing but bad luck since you came here! Why Robert? Why not you? You're not the one I want! You can't even give me children!"

"Please, let me try—"

"Try? I don't want attempts, I want heirs!" He pushed her up against the wall again and regarded her weeping face with distaste. "You're nothing much to look at, are you? Robert was so beautiful. And clever. I only married you because he wanted it. I would have done anything for him..." He trailed off, seemingly lost in thought. Suddenly he frowned at her. "You didn't like him at all, did you? He was a good man, your brother, and you hated him. Isn't that right? You're glad he's dead!" He shook her violently. "Can't you answer? Or is what I'm saying the truth?" She tried to protest but he overrode her. "Your father's as graceless as you but at least he had the decency to feel the tragedy of Robert's death. Now he's left with the one he never wanted!" He banged her shoulder into the wall and she cried out again. "And so am I!"

Without warning he released her and stepped away. She collapsed onto the floor, sobbing with confusion and pain, and he stared at her unseeingly while he collected his breath. He felt strangely exhilarated. It was a relief to finally speak his feelings about Robert out loud and tell her what he thought of her. All the insecurity and the belief in his unimportance that had plagued him for some time had suddenly vanished. He was finally in control; at last he was the master...Eleanor recaptured his attention; she had stopped sobbing and the silence tore him away from his musings. He looked at her and hated her. It wasn't right, he thought, that he should be the only one to suffer because of Robert Bolsover's death. He bent down, roughly seized her forearm and dragged her to her bed. She shrieked but he barely heard her. He pushed her face down into the mattress and fumbled with his robes. She screamed again when his body hit hers but her fear and pain only spurred him on. His last coherent thought before the rage and sensation obliterated everything else was that he wanted her to hurt as much as he hurt.

Gwalaes was waiting in the shadows when Hugh finally emerged from his wife's chamber but he didn't see her. He went up the stairs to his own rooms. Haworth was there; he'd been lounging on the bench in the antechamber but jumped to his feet when Hugh came in. Hugh, who couldn't remember calling him, gave him a puzzled nod.

"Your wife's chit fetched me, my lord," Haworth explained. "Hysterical she was, screaming that you were killing the lady. She assumed I would break down the door and drag you away. I decided to wait here, if you needed anything."

Hugh crossed the room to the side table and served himself from the decanter. "I'm glad you did," he said. He swallowed his wine in three long gulps and poured another cup. "I feel strangely omnipotent tonight, Roger. I feel I've put everything straight."

"So you did kill her, then?"

Hugh laughed and Haworth smiled, happy to see the earl in an easier mood. The tension of the last few weeks seemed to have left him. "Sit down," Hugh said, and Haworth obediently returned to the bench and stretched his thick legs out before him, crossed at the ankles. Hugh brought him a cup and filled it from the decanter. "I haven't killed her; I've decided to give her another chance."

"That's very generous of you..."

"Is it? I think I just can't be bothered finding another one. What's the saying? 'Better the devil you know...'?" He swallowed more wine and said abruptly, "I'm afraid I haven't been very generous with you lately, Roger. You've been my only comfort. I know I've behaved badly towards you." He put his hand on Haworth's shoulder.

Haworth wasn't used to emotional compliments. He stared at the floor. "You never have," he muttered with embarrassment, but he was pleased and covered Hugh's hand with his own.

Now that it was in the open, Hugh wanted to explain what he could. "This thing with Bolsover—I never meant for it to come between us," he said. "I can't properly describe the effect he had on me. I just wanted to be with him. All the time. I don't quite understand it now."

"He only wanted money from you!" Haworth burst out, indignant on Hugh's behalf and unable to contain himself any longer. "Manors and mercenaries! Wealth and status!"

Hugh was silent. Then, in a calm voice, he said, "I knew it."

Haworth looked up with astonishment. "You did?"

"Of course." Hugh shrugged. "I'm not an imbecile, Roger. I suppose I was so besotted, I was willing to pay his price."

"That's not love, my lord!"

Hugh sighed. He moved away from Haworth's side and fell into his great chair, suddenly tired. "The thought had occurred to me that the relationship couldn't have gone on much longer. It was exhausting, Roger. I was so eager to please him, I tried to stay a step ahead of him, anticipating what he might want so that I could give it to him without hearing him ask me for it and knowing, knowing, Roger, what our relationship was truly based on."

"I'm sorry, my lord," Haworth said softly.

Hugh looked at him. "I know you are. Because you care about me. Bolsover never did...I'll tell you something—it's almost a relief he's gone. Even though I would have been too stupid to realize it at the time, it would have killed me if you had gotten fed up and left me because of this association with Bolsover."

Haworth was visibly moved by the admission. He crossed the room to Hugh and fell on his knees before him. "Never, my lord, never!" he swore fervently. "You know I would sooner die than betray you!"

"Thank you, Roger." He looked down on Haworth's bent head. So unlike Bolsover's, even in such a little matter as hair. Haworth's was dark and coarse while Bolsover's had been fair and soft. But, he thought, it was also hair that couldn't be easily blown awry or tousled; it was tough and true, like the heart beating beneath it. He owed this man everything. Haworth was the only person in the world upon whom he could rely absolutely and without a second's hesitation. It was Haworth who had been at his side from the very beginning—how could he have dared to risk losing him over someone as shallow as Robert Bolsover? "Roger..." he said softly. Haworth looked up into his eyes. "I hope to God it will never happen again but if it does...well, you must bring me to my senses straight away. Please. Don't let me make a fool of myself again. Swear it."

Haworth was filled with immense happiness. "I swear it, my lord. I will always do what's right by you."

Chapter 8

October, 1172

Chester Castle, Cheshire

Gwalaes entered the semi-dark chamber, crossed the floor to a window and pulled back the shutters. Sunlight flooded in. She scanned the crisp autumn sky, and turned towards the rumpled bed. "Eleanor," she said, "I saw Sir Miles as I came out of Mass and he asked about you. He wanted to know if you were all right." The shape under the blankets didn't move and she went on. "I told him no, the earl had beaten you so badly that you couldn't get out of bed."

Eleanor sprang up. "You didn't!" she protested, horrified. The other girl gazed blandly back at her. "Gwalaes, tell me you didn't!"

"I didn't," Gwalaes reluctantly conceded. "But I wanted to! Eleanor, he was really concerned about you. Otherwise, why ask me? Why not simply ask the earl; the two of them stood together in the chapel."

Eleanor sank back down into the mattress. "What did you say?"

"Only that you felt ill...He wondered if you might be pregnant, since you seem to be ill so often."

Eleanor didn't answer. Gwalaes threw off her mantle and busied herself at the brazier until she had coaxed sufficient heat to ward off the chill coming in through the window. She cast a critical eye over the chamber. Hugh had knocked over a stool; she picked it up. He had spilled wine on the table; she cleaned it with a cloth. He had thrown Eleanor's needlework against the far wall; she bent down to retrieve it and noticed a wine stain spoiling a large portion of it. She smoothed the piece out and wondered if it were too late to save it. She knew Eleanor had been putting most of her time into this work and for Hugh to be so careless of it was just another indication of the small regard he had for his wife.

Gwalaes hated the earl. She had found him distasteful when she deduced that he was sleeping with Eleanor's brother, but ever since he'd taken to beating Eleanor, she despised him with a heated passion. She couldn't understand Eleanor's own, insipid reaction; she knew that legally and morally a man was entitled to strike his wife, but for disobedience. Eleanor had always done what her husband commanded; therefore, how could she possibly be disobedient? Gwalaes suspected the earl merely enjoyed displaying his physical superiority.

And Eleanor still refused to hear a word against him! That was the most frustrating element in the drama. Occasionally Gwalaes felt a little put out; she had always been a true friend to Eleanor and considered now that her friendship was undervalued. It was another reason to hate the earl. He was a wedge between herself and Eleanor, and he was driving them further apart.

There were times when she no longer returned to the chamber after Hugh left it. To see Eleanor's tear-stained face and torn clothing, or the way she held an arm gingerly because he had twisted it or rubbed her head because he had pulled her hair and to not be permitted to speak one word of condemnation was more than she could bear. She suspected Eleanor didn't mind too much if she didn't come back afterwards. The poor girl was embarrassed.

She surveyed the spoiled tapestry again and sighed. Perhaps a gentle scrubbing with cold water and salt would remove the stain. But as she reached for the door, Eleanor asked her where she was going and why.

"Don't bother," she said when she heard Gwalaes' answer. "The earl didn't like it."

"But you've been sewing on this for weeks! Let me try—"

"I don't want it, Gwalaes! Didn't you hear me?"

Gwalaes hesitated a moment and then turned back into the chamber. She had used her time at Mass this morning to pray for a lot of patience. She took a deep breath and tried to sound pleasant.

"Will you come down for breakfast?" she asked.

"No," came the tired reply.

"Eleanor, it's beautiful outside. You need fresh air. You've hardly left this room in three months." She stood over the bed, but there was no response. Eleanor had buried herself in the blankets, curled up into a small ellipse. She bit her lip. "Eleanor..." she said in a pleading whisper. "Eleanor, he's killing you...can't you see that? You can't let him do it. We can leave here, Eleanor. We can go back to Oakby. Now that your brother's gone, your father has to take you in. Or maybe we could go to the king. We can find the king and beg him to help us, Eleanor! I've heard it said his relations with the earl are none too friendly...Or Wales. We could go to Wales, Eleanor! We speak—" She broke off when she saw that the shape under the blankets had started shaking. Gently she pulled back the covers. Eleanor was weeping silently, but shook her head.

"No," she said.

"But Eleanor, why not? Just tell me why not. He's insane! He takes pleasure in hurting you! He won't stop until he kills you!"

Eleanor sat up quickly. She sniffled and tears shone on her cheeks but her face was suddenly full of fury. "Don't say such things, Gwalaes! It's not true! It's not true!"

"Yes, it is, Eleanor! But we can leave him!"

"Get out of here, Gwalaes! I don't want to hear any more!"

Gwalaes opened her mouth to protest once more, but the malevolent look on Eleanor's face stopped her. She glared back, and then swung around and left the room, slamming the door shut behind her. Eleanor stared after her dully. Fresh tears rolled down her face.

"You've gotten better," Haworth said approvingly.

Hugh was breathing hard. "Don't you think I've had enough practice these past months?" he wheezed.

"Yes, but it's more than that. You're more confident. You attack where once you would have been content to defend."

Hugh stuck his sword into his belt and bent over, hands on the fronts of his thighs, to catch his breath. "I'm certainly paying the price for it!" he complained. "Perhaps I was smarter to let my foes come to me!"

A squire ran up with a skin of water, and as he drank he decided that Haworth had put it exactly right: he was more confident. The last three months had witnessed his transformation from self-doubter to man in charge of his own destiny. He felt more sure of himself now than at any other time in his life.

He slung the skin back at the boy and brushed some dust off his sleeve. During the swordplay he had been knocked to the ground, but instead of rolling over to avoid his adversary's downward thrust, he had quickly and without conscious thought heaved his heavy sword up and backwards with all his might, catching the other man's weapon in mid-descent and harmlessly sweeping it away. His opponent had been thrown off balance by this blow, giving Hugh the opportunity to spring to his feet and finish him off with a knee in his chest. Now two new combatants had entered the ring. Hugh watched them with a critical eye, his wind recovered. At one point he glanced over a few yards away and noted with satisfaction that his former adversary was still panting from exertion.

"Have you any idea where Young Henry's two messengers are?" he asked Haworth.

The other man shook his head. "I saw them last in the hall at breakfast."

"They were told to have my reply within three days...Makes you wonder, doesn't it? Obviously they're on some kind of schedule. Does that mean there's something already planned?"

"If we were in Avranches, we'd know more," Haworth said without thinking.

Hugh looked sharply at him. "I'm not going back to Avranches until I can't possibly avoid it!" he snapped. "Anyway, the king's still in Normandy. Unless Young Henry has a dozen or so powerful allies behind him, I don't think he's got the nerve to start anything now."

Two nights earlier, a pair of riders had arrived at the gatehouse, demanding entrance in the name of the Young King and brandishing a carefully wrapped, folded parchment with an impressive seal. Sir Miles had read out the letter to a private assembly of Hugh, Haworth and half a dozen other knights, some of them vassals of the earl, whom Hugh was used to calling when seeking advice. The message from the Young King, while not couched in overt language, was nonetheless clear: if it came to war between him and his father, could he rely on the support of the disgruntled earl of Chester?

Hugh supposed this invitation to rebellion had been issued not only to him. There were quite a few disgruntled barons around who felt their hereditary powers were being unfairly and effectively curtailed by the heavy hand of Henry II and his administrators. Even the Church had been threatened; wasn't that the reason Thomas Becket had fled to the king of France? Six years earlier the king had called for written notification from all his vassals of all those men who held knight's fees from them in the time of Henry I's reign and now. The passage of thirty years and the confusion of the civil war inspired by King Stephen's reign had created a disparity in the two figures. The number of the enfeoffed had increased dramatically. Since all fief-holders owed their allegiance first to the king and second to their lords, the results of the survey promised Henry a new, untapped source of revenue. Previously, such revenues from unlisted knight's fees had merely been pocketed by the barons.

Hugh had more reason than most to view Henry's activities with apprehension. The king's writ did not run in Cheshire. Hugh was the maker and arbiter of the law in this part of the Welsh march. All revenues of the shire came to him and were not passed along to the king. This practice of private government along the borders had been born of necessity back in the days when England was newly taken and strong arms were needed to fight off the Scots and the Welsh. In return for their policing, the marcher lords were given more freedom and over the years their border earldoms had grown almost into autonomous states. But now it was an outdated situation and a strong king such as Henry was constantly looking for some way to chip away at it.

In the almost twenty years of his reign, Henry II had proven that he was an efficient, shrewd monarch with his own best interests at heart. He had brought back a degree of law and order to England that had been missing for some time. While it was a relief to most to live under a strong king, there was that faction of men who saw in the stability of government a decline of their own power, and in the swift execution of justice a hindrance of their own law.

"I'd say the Young King has backing that he hasn't even got to look for," Haworth said. "Obviously, there's his father-in-law, the king of France. But there's also the king of Scotland, the earl of Leicester, the earl of Norfolk, almost all the barons in Aquitaine and Brittany, and perhaps even the princes of Wales." He paused, frowning slightly as he mulled over his words. With an air of sudden realization, he added, "In fact, Henry would be hard put to win a war against his son because he'd be facing rebellion from every direction."

Hugh snorted. "Henry pére has the devil's own luck. That would only even out the odds."

A cheer went up from the ring; another match had ended. Two men staggered to the sideline, one trying to stanch with his hand the oozing of blood from a gash on his thigh and the other sporting a rapidly blackening eye.

"Then you'll answer 'no' to the letter?"

"I didn't say that," Hugh said. "But I need more than three days to think it over. I need to determine who among my tenants will stand with me and allegiance to the king be damned, and who will not. I think my answer will reflect polite interest but no commitment—for the time being. Right now," he said, his voice hardening as something in the distance caught his eye, "I have trouble of a different sort."

Haworth followed his gaze and saw the countess and her companion walking across the ward towards the chapel. "I thought all was well between you and your wife."

"It's a mystery to me why she isn't yet pregnant, Roger. Just one or two heirs and then I can be rid of her."

"You try often enough," Haworth said as if sheer probability was sufficient for ensuring conception.

Hugh gave him a sly look. "Not jealous, are you?"

"Of a woman?" Haworth's sudden laugh sounded like a harsh cough.

"She's in that damned church for hours every day. I asked her once what the hell she was doing in there for so long and she told me she was praying to have a child to please me. I told her obviously she was lying since she continued to fail to conceive. I said she was probably praying not to have a child but that I would get one out of her one way or another."

"I don't see what's so difficult about it," Haworth commented. "Women do it all the time."

"She was probably a bad bargain. I might ask my mother to start inquiring about an annulment. Get rid of her—and that sour-faced bitch she brought with her. She's never liked me and I've never liked her lack of respect for me." He remembered Bolsover advising him to leave Gwalaes at Oakby. 'She's Eleanor's crutch,' Bolsover had said. 'She protects Eleanor as if Eleanor were a child. I think it's time Eleanor's been weaned, don't you?' The memory made Hugh smile bitterly. The Bolsovers had certainly wreaked havoc in his life for the past year and a half. He thought he was tired of it. Perhaps this overture from the Young King heralded a fresh beginning.

The evening was clear and unusually mild for October. Gwalaes loosened her cloak and stared up at the sky. The moon was rising; in another hour it would be stark as daylight in the ward. Now it was still dusky and the twinkling stars were brightly visible against the black backdrop above. But she saw none of the beauty.

Gwalaes wished heartily to be gone from Chester. She and Eleanor did nothing but argue, mostly over Hugh but also over Eleanor's reluctance to appeal to her father for help. Gwalaes was certain that Sir Thomas would demand his daughter's return if Eleanor desired it since he already believed Hugh was responsible for the death of his beloved son. Eleanor, however, flatly refused to entertain the idea.

After storming out of their chamber in the morning, Gwalaes had calmed herself down enough to bring a tray of breakfast to Eleanor soon afterward. But after visiting the chapel, they'd argued again over Eleanor's increasing withdrawal; she hadn't been seen in the hall in weeks. But there was no reasoning with her. She left her apartment now only to pray in the chapel. Prayer, she told an injured Gwalaes, was her sole comfort.

Gwalaes looked up at the stars and saw only incredible space. She wished she could dive straight into the blackness and never again have to struggle with the problems of earth.

"But I'm stuck here forever," she whispered out loud.

Hers was a particularly untenable situation because she didn't fit neatly into life at Chester. She was considered the countess' personal servant but having grown up with Eleanor she didn't feel like a servant. And when she quarreled with Eleanor, there was no place for her to go but to wander around the different parts of the castle. People might nod to her but no one spoke much with her. She had nothing at Chester except Eleanor's dwindling companionship.

She'd never felt more lonely.

An involuntary chill ran down her back and she pulled her cloak close around her shoulders again. She wished someone would come and save her from a future which seemed endlessly grim. It wasn't fair, she thought bitterly; she was willing to aid Eleanor in whatever action Eleanor chose to take against her plight but there was no one to help her.

"Are you—?"

She screamed, startled. A young man was standing only a foot away from her shoulder. She hadn't noticed his approach.

He grinned and tried again. "Sorry. Are you Gwalaes?"

It was one of the Young King's messengers, she realized. Her heart was still pounding from shock but she tried to breathe normally because she had noticed him a few days ago and had thought him cute. She didn't want to embarrass herself in front of a good-looking man, even though she could feel her face turning red.

"Yes," she answered but her voice sounded scratchy. She cleared her throat. "Yes, I'm Gwalaes."

She warned her imagination not to go wild speculating that he had accosted her because he found her devastatingly attractive. The explanation was probably as simple as passing on a message. After all, he was a messenger.

"What's so funny?" he asked, smiling.

"Nothing!" she said hastily. "Is something wrong?"

"I don't think so," he answered cheerfully. "I was told to inform you that someone named Alan d'Arques has just come through the gate and is right now settling his horse in the stable and would like to see you."

Alan was here! She had barely stammered out her thanks before her feet were moving her towards the shadowed stables. It was unbelievable—uncanny—how she had just a moment ago been wishing for someone to come and rescue her. And now here he was! The coincidence was too staggering to believe. Perhaps Eleanor was right after all about ardent prayer.

She hesitated only when she came to the entrance to the stables and saw no sign of activity. The wide gate was almost shut-to. She wondered if she should knock on it or just push it in. The dilemma was solved when it was pulled roughly back and a laughing man appeared in the doorway. She recognized him as the Young King's other messenger. He caught sight of her and held the door open, and waited as she started through. She looked up to thank him but his quick, conspiratorial wink forestalled her and she turned her head in embarrassment. That was nerve, she thought angrily; what did he think was going to happen?

She walked inside and glanced around, seeing nothing but unidentifiable shapes in the dusky light. She could hear the peaceful sounds of the horses; a sudden stomping hoof...a gentle snort...the rustle of straw..."Alan?" she called in a low, hesitant voice.

The stable gate shut with a jarring thud. She whirled around in surprise and saw Roger of Haworth.

Although it was disconcerting to discover that Haworth had materialized before her, she wasn't frightened. She didn't much like him because he had failed to rescue Eleanor when she had begged him to and it was true she had never seen him smile—in fact, he looked perpetually angry—but she had heard only positive things spoken about him. His devotion to the earl was well known and approved of, and even Alan had commented favorably on his willingness to demonstrate his martial skills to all the squires and young knights in the earl's entourage at a moment's notice. "He'll batter you around pretty well in a mock fight but you'll learn more in those five minutes than you will in a week with someone else," Alan had once told her enthusiastically.

"He isn't here," Haworth said.

Gwalaes was confused. "Alan d'Arques? I was brought a message that he'd arrived..."

"The message was false."

"I don't understand..."

Haworth started forward. "You were directed here to get you out of the way," he said. He spoke in a normal voice with just the slightest edge of impatience to it.

Gwalaes drew her breath in angrily. "Why?" she demanded. "What's he doing to her now?"

Haworth hesitated, momentarily puzzled. Then he understood what she meant. His lips twisted scornfully. "Is she all you think about? You're a very loyal servant."

Gwalaes' chin went up. "I'm hardly her servant," she sniffed. "That's the point the earl doesn't realize."

"But you're wrong—he knows it too well," he said in a low voice, taking another step towards her. "And he doesn't approve."

It dawned on Gwalaes that it was she, and not Eleanor, who might be in danger and suddenly her heart was pounding faster. She looked behind Haworth and saw that he had dropped the bar across the door. What was his intent? She thought furiously. If the door could be barred from the inside then there must be another way out, probably through the stable master's rooms. She tried to recall the layout of this particular corner of the ward without luck.

Haworth watched the girl's expression change from haughty disdain to fear. His own remained bland but his cold eyes never moved from her face. Then she looked back at him, suddenly wary, waiting for him to make his move like a caged bear waiting for the dogs to come out and harass it. He snorted contemptuously. "You needn't fear I intend to ravish you. I wouldn't waste my time."

"Then, what will you do?" she asked in a shaking voice.

In reply, he reached behind his back and drew forth a long dagger from his belt. The metal gleamed in the torchlight and reflected briefly in her eyes.

Several of the horses in the common stall behind her began to stamp and snort, perhaps disturbed by the glinting light. The noise spooked her into action. There were only two directions in which she could run: a short passageway to her left which led, it seemed in the murky half-darkness, to the tack room, and a longer corridor to her right which ran past the stalls and disappeared into black in the distance. She saw that Haworth stood closer to the shorter passage, and her mind was decided. Without warning, she turned and ran down the longer aisle.

At first Haworth merely followed her at a walk. He knew the way she'd chosen was a dead end; the joke wasn't lost on him. But she was a woman and apt to scream so he quickened his pace. In the wall high above the passageway were narrow windows through which the bright moon shone. The last few feet were in darkness, but his eyes adjusted quickly as he came to a halt only inches away from the stone wall which marked the end of the building. Gwalaes was nowhere to be seen.

He cursed audibly and looked around. He heard nothing but the noisy breaths of the horses on his right. She must be in the stall with them, he thought; she couldn't have vanished into thin air. He squinted down at the ground. There were four horses in the stall. Sixteen long and knobby legs...and two more which did not end with hooves. With a grunt, he climbed over the wooden barrier into the stall and pushed his way between the animals.

In the milling confusion with uncooperative horses, Gwalaes suddenly jumped out of the stall with a little cry and ran back the way she'd come. Haworth's reflexes were sharp. He was just as quickly out of the stall and chasing after her. It had all gone so well but now he wasn't as certain. He should have done it immediately, the moment she had walked like a sheep to the slaughter into the stables, and not indulged in conversation with her. But he needn't have worried. He caught up with her as she ran into the entranceway, panting so hard from fear that she was unable to scream; he threw the crook of his left elbow around her slight neck, pulled her chin up and back towards his chest and drew the dagger swiftly and deeply across her throat. She strained against him and gurgled once or twice...and then he released her and she fell gracelessly to the floor in a heap.

He was still for a moment, listening, but no sound came from the stable master's quarters just beyond the tack room. Well, with the amount of wine he'd seen the man put away at supper he supposed there was little that would wake him up besides time and strong sunlight through an unshuttered window. Still, he'd had a scare when the girl had run away from him and he didn't want to take any more chances. He had to work quickly. He used his bloody dagger to cut off a length of fabric from the hem of her cloak. If he had been an imaginative man he might have wondered briefly at all the blood that had rushed out of a single wound. Instead, he dealt with it as efficiently and thoughtlessly as a butcher. He used the cut cloth to mop up the mess on the ground, then coiled it tightly around the gaping throat. He saddled one of his horses and balanced the body between the high pommel and the animal's neck. He went to the door, unbarred it and peered out. All was silent. No one was about. He went back inside, took down the torch and extinguished it on the dirt ground where the body had fallen and finally led the burdened horse out. After he had carefully closed the door, he mounted his horse and shifted Gwalaes until she was nestled in his arms and her lolling head was lying peacefully against his chest.

The moonlight was a godsend, he thought, although it would prove a bit awkward at the postern gate. It was too much to hope that the solitary guard would be delinquent and he would be able to pass by unnoticed.

The guard was indeed there, a young man with an earnest appearance who was, unlike Gwalaes, terrified to see the earl's captain stopped before him. He was too awed to speak.

Haworth had positioned Gwalaes so that her back was towards the guard. He greeted the younger man in a friendly, hushed voice and asked him to open the gate. "As you can see, I've got my hands full," he whispered conspiratorially, grinning. "Pardon her for not wishing you a good evening, but she's shy. We thought we'd see what the river looks like in the moonlight. It's a gentle enough evening for October."

The castle lay at the southern tip of the old Roman town and looked down upon the River Dee. To its west, separated by the river and only a short stretch of tangled woodland, was Wales. The postern gate faced in this direction and Haworth proceeded along the path which would take him down to the river.

He had no intention, however, of merely tipping the body into the water; he thought the risk of discovery was too great. Instead, he had decided to cross the river at a point several miles south where it could be easily forded, travel a short distance west and dump the corpse in the woods. The smell of new blood would soon attract nocturnal scavengers. With the moon to guide him and the bare October trees to obscure him—and the trickiest bit behind him—he felt fairly confident of complete success but cautioned himself against letting down his guard. He was one soldier out alone in the dark and too close for comfort to hostile territory. The Welsh were expert at raiding in small groups, and they didn't care that he was the captain of the earl of Chester's personal bodyguard.

He decided not to rely solely on luck for the rest of his venture, even though luck had got him this far. He lifted his right hand to his forehead, crossed himself and prayed to God for protection.

Eleanor was awakened the next morning by the sound of scraping. Gwalaes was making up the fire, she thought groggily. Gwalaes always made too much noise in the morning because she didn't approve of Eleanor's newly acquired habit of sleeping late.

She was about to pull the sheet over her head and roll over when she suddenly remembered that Gwalaes hadn't stayed with her last night. Instead of pretending sleep, she bolted upright with a blistering accusation on her tongue.

Her mouth slammed quickly shut. It wasn't Gwalaes but another girl who was tending to the brazier and returning her mistress' shocked stare with an apprehensive one of her own.

"Where's Gwalaes?" Eleanor demanded.

"I—I don't know, my lady," the girl stammered. "I was told to come up here and see to you."

"Who told you?"

"Sir Miles, my lady."

"Have you seen Gwalaes?"

"No, my lady. Only Sir Miles." She looked nervously at Eleanor. "He said the earl has arranged for some of the ladies to help you dress this morning."

"Gwalaes is the only help I need!" Eleanor said angrily. "Where is she?" But it was apparent she could get no other answer from the girl and she gestured for her to continue making the fire. With obvious relief, the servant turned away.

Not long afterward there was a quick knock on the door and two finely dressed women entered the room without waiting for a response. Eleanor recognized them as the wives of two of Hugh's retainers. They informed her that they had come to help her with her toilet and stood over her bed, staring down at her impassively and, she thought, a bit contemptuously. If she had had Gwalaes' nerve, she would have ordered them to go; instead, she wilted under the unblinking scrutiny and got out of the bed.

"The earl wishes to see you at Mass this morning, my lady," one of them said after Eleanor had been dressed and her hair brushed and veiled.

But the idea of leaving her apartment without Gwalaes to help her made her shiver. "Please tell the earl I don't feel well," she answered. "Perhaps this afternoon I will visit the chapel."

The two women glanced at each other. The second one said, "The earl specifically mentioned it, my lady. We're to escort you."

Sudden annoyance flashed through Eleanor. She had always been patient and cautious and generally unaffected by waves of strong emotion but this morning she was worried about Gwalaes and resented the unwelcome intrusion. "I have a headache," she said. Her voice sounded firm and she was encouraged enough to add, "I will stay here and wait for Gwalaes to come."

"But your chit won't come!" the first one said, frowning. "The earl will be very angry, my lady!"

She decided she didn't care. What could he do to her that he hadn't already done?

They were both staring at her again but this time their expressions ranged from shock to disbelief. She felt some measure of power in denying her husband's orders, especially when she read in their faces that they would never dare the same. She sat down on the cushioned bench below the window and gazed up at them, seemingly unperturbed. "You had better go, or you'll miss Mass."

They looked at each other again but short of physically dragging her away, there wasn't anything they could do. After they had gone, the serving girl, who had finished making up the fire and tidying the bedchamber, crept towards the door. "You!" Eleanor called sharply and the girl froze. "Find Gwalaes and send her to me immediately!"

But it wasn't Gwalaes who came; it was Hugh. He didn't even bother to knock—he just swept the door back with enough force to send it thudding off the wall and walked in. She had been leaning on the windowsill, waiting for Gwalaes, wondering what was keeping her, imagining that she was still angry and she jumped at the sudden noise. She turned around, saw her husband's thunderous face and quailed. Her earlier bravado fled. Before she could react he had crossed the floor, grabbed her forearm and backhanded her across her cheek. She cried out once involuntarily but otherwise made no noise, just fell to the floor under the impact when he released his grip. Her hand flew up to her face. She didn't get up, having learned that any action or word on her part only served to inflame him further while if she remained quiet and inert his anger ebbed away much more quickly.

"When I give an order, I expect it obeyed," he said, his voice low and taut. "Do you understand that?"

She nodded, not looking at him. "Yes, my lord."

"You will no longer take meals in this room. I want you seated next to me at breakfast in quarter of an hour."

She didn't reply. She heard him turn on his heel and cross the floor as quickly as he'd come in. She stole a glance in his direction and was mortified when she saw his captain, Roger of Haworth, standing in the doorway and just behind him the two women who had dressed her. No one had ever witnessed his brutality before, not even Gwalaes.

Gwalaes! Her humiliation was forgotten. "My lord, please!" she said urgently, scrambling to her feet. "Can you tell me why Gwalaes is being denied to me?"

He stopped just short of the door and turned around deliberately. "Denied to you?" he repeated. He shook his head. "She isn't."

Eleanor was bewildered. "But she hasn't come yet..."

Hugh had been furious only a moment before but now she thought she saw a grim little smile on his face. "Nor will she," he said.

"I don't understand..." The smile frightened her more than his knuckles across her cheek had. Obviously he knew horrible news concerning Gwalaes.

Instead of answering, he deferred to Haworth. "Roger?"

Haworth's voice was devoid of emotion. "According to the guards on the main gate, the girl left at dawn with the Young King's messengers, Countess."

There was a moment's shocked silence. Then she burst out, "No! It's impossible!" and her stunned eyes darted from one man to the other and back again.

Hugh snorted, his smile growing tighter and grimmer. "I didn't expect you to believe me, of course. Ask who you want, look where you'd like. She's gone." His tone turned impatient. "She never liked Chester, Eleanor! And frankly, Chester is better off without her."

Eleanor could only stare in disbelief at him. "It isn't so! She would never leave me!"

"Obviously you're wrong," he replied. His eyes were cold, unfeeling. Eleanor wondered how she had ever thought them beautiful. Now she hated blue eyes...

She turned away from them. She heard his terse voice remind her of her appointment for breakfast, she heard a jumble of noise as everyone moved out of the doorway and started down the stair, she heard Haworth make a comment of some kind; she heard Hugh laugh heartily in response. It was enough to twist her stomach until she felt sick...Gwalaes...Had their last argument really been so horrible? All their arguments? She didn't doubt the truth of the story Haworth had told her; it was in Gwalaes' impetuous nature to grab the first opportunity that came her way.

Eleanor felt betrayed. She turned to face the window and looked blindly out onto the ward, the main gate in the near distance. Gwalaes had often spoken about somehow escaping Chester but such schemes had always included her. Of course Eleanor would never have gone; how could Gwalaes have thought otherwise? At Chester she was a countess. All she had to do was produce an heir for Hugh and she was certain his aggression towards her would diminish and their relationship would revert to the polite disinterestedness it had once been...

But in the meantime she needed Gwalaes. She hadn't a friend at Chester besides Gwalaes and the other girl knew that. Eleanor became more angry than upset. It wasn't right that Gwalaes should simply leave her; it wasn't the act of a true friend.

Five weeks later, Hugh, Haworth and fifty men left for Avranches.

It was hardly an easy time to travel; winter had started early and already, in mid-November, a thin shroud of wet snow lay over the countryside. The earl had an advantage in that he could cross the breadth of England and stay in one of his own properties practically every night but Eleanor hoped anyway that he might freeze to death on his horse. Or failing that, fall overboard and drown when he sailed to Normandy.

He was the reason Gwalaes had fled Chester; the girl had never made a secret of the fact that she didn't like him and as the days passed, Eleanor became more convinced that this dislike was what had caused Gwalaes to leave. His harsh treatment of her since her brother's death had made Eleanor frightened of him. But his driving away of Gwalaes, her only friend and companion, caused her to despise him with a ferocity which Gwalaes herself would have admired. She became withdrawn but not subdued; she sat by his side at all meals but never spoke, she suffered his physical abuse but wouldn't cry and tolerated his intimacy as if she were a statue, with the result that he soon stopped coming to her door. She spent most of her time in the solar, absently embroidering or sewing and listening with half an ear to the gossiping of her ladies but said not a word herself. Sir Miles avoided her. She had once been the queen of Chester and everyone had greeted her respectfully, but the fickle crowd took its cue from its lord and master and when Hugh was observed to be treating his wife disdainfully, those who once listened to what she had to say no longer bothered. After Gwalaes disappeared and Eleanor withdrew into herself, they ignored her almost totally. There was a rumor afoot that when the earl returned from whatever business had taken him to Normandy, he would seek to have his marriage annulled on any grounds his counselors could devise; more likely than not, the fact that they had been married for longer than a year and the countess was not yet pregnant.

But Eleanor was pregnant.

She had suspected since September, after missing her bleeding for the second time, but she hadn't told Gwalaes because her monthly fluxes were never very regular and she'd wanted to wait another month. After all, she was barely seventeen; she wasn't certain if the changes to her body were merely further signs of maturation or something more dire. Then, also, she'd wanted to keep the secret—if, indeed, she were pregnant—to herself for a while. With Hugh controlling so much of her life and Gwalaes haranguing her from the other side, this was one thing that was hers alone, and there was something satisfying and even joy-inspiring about hiding such important knowledge in herself. She had little else to make her happy at Chester.

By the time she was certain she was carrying a child, Gwalaes was gone. Now the knowledge became slightly terrifying. She had no close acquaintances among the ladies in the castle and certainly none whom she could trust. It was suddenly frightening to be solely responsible for this life inside her; it seemed so fragile, so tenuous that she found herself taking care to conduct her movements with the utmost vigilance. She might have blurted out the news to Hugh if he'd continued to raise his fists to her, but since Gwalaes' departure, he had bothered her less and less.

Hugh would have to know some time she supposed. This was what he had been waiting so impatiently to happen. This was the whole reason for her existence at Chester. She thought darkly to herself that once he had his son from her, she would become superfluous. Perhaps he would send her to one of his lesser castles to live out the remainder of her days. She would never see her child again...

Not long after the earl and his party had gone, Eleanor was awakened one gloomy morning by the girl who came to her chamber every day to open the shutters, pour fresh water for the countess' toilet and build up the fire. Eleanor seldom paid her any attention nor conversed with her but this morning some piece of the girl's attire as she leaned forward to light the oil lamp caught her attention, and she called sharply for her to come near the bed.

"Where did you find that pin?" she demanded. Unconsciously, the girl put her hand to the round metal ornament which decorated her otherwise plain brown gown. "Take it off and let me see it!"

Hastily, the girl pulled it up and handed it to Eleanor. "It was a gift, my lady! I didn't find it, it was given to me!"

Eleanor stared at the item in her hand. It was a small pin of no great workmanship; a fusion of twisted wires representing something only its maker could name, but Alan d'Arques was, after all, a soldier and not a craftsman. Still, Gwalaes had treasured it and worn it always...

"Who gave it to you?" she asked, and was nervously told a name which meant nothing to her. "Where did he get it?"

"I don't know, my lady." The girl looked at her, suddenly appalled. "I'm sure he didn't steal it!"

"I want to see him," Eleanor said. "Fetch him here now. Quickly, before those two old crones come to dress me."

She heaved the covers back and got out of the bed. Her heart was pounding and her breathing was labored; her whole body was tight with anticipation. She cautioned herself to remain calm. The explanation was most likely very simple. Gwalaes probably just dropped the thing...or maybe she'd used it as a bribe to get herself out of Chester and whoever she'd given it to had dropped it...maybe, even, she had given it to this young man herself for some reason and he in turn had given it to the girl he was wooing...But she couldn't shake her feeling of apprehension. The pin had been one of Gwalaes' most prized possessions; surely there had been other items she might have used to barter.

Finally they came. It wasn't proper for Eleanor to have a strange man in her chamber, especially when she was wearing only her mantle over her shift and her hair was loose, but she didn't care what sort of impression she was making. She sat on the stool next to the brazier and tucked her bare feet underneath the hem of the cloak for warmth.

She showed the young man, one of the castle's garrison soldiers, the pin and repeated the question she'd asked her servant. He answered immediately that he had found it on the ground.

"Where? In the ward? In the hall?"

"Neither place, my lady," he said. "I found it at the postern."

"Recently?"

"No, my lady. I've held it for some time, in case its owner came by to claim it. I would have given it up at once! But she didn't come and I truly believed it had meant nothing to her and that I might give it to another with an easy mind." He glanced at the girl standing just behind his shoulder and added, "I know I should have handed it over to the captain, my lady, but I thought whoever had lost it would retrace her steps—"

"I don't care about that," Eleanor interrupted him. "I only care about who lost it."

"That I don't know, my lady."

He said it too readily. Eleanor stared at him, her eyebrows knit together, until he flushed and looked away. She believed him when he said he didn't know—he didn't want to know! Obviously, she thought, he had found this object of some small value and had wanted to keep it for himself. He'd made no effort to find its owner; just waited until he considered sufficient time had passed and he could assume no one was coming for it.

Something else he'd said suddenly struck her. "You found the pin by the postern gate?" she asked, frowning.

"Yes, my lady. A month or so ago."

"But surely the messengers from the Young King left by the main gate?"

Genuine confusion spread across his face. "My lady?"

"I know to whom this pin belongs," Eleanor told him. "And I know she never went beyond the gates of this castle unless I was with her...until she left with the Young King's messengers."

"No, that's impossible," the guard said, shaking his head.

"What do you mean?"

"No one left with the messengers, my lady. I watched them go. I'd just come off duty, you see, when their horses were brought out from the stable. I spoke with one of the grooms as I walked with him across the ward to the gate where the men were waiting. The porter came out, unlocked the gate and they mounted the beasts and left. There wasn't anyone with them."

Eleanor's heart started racing again, loud thumps that almost deafened her. "Perhaps she went out the postern and met the messengers in the town."

Again the young man shook his head. "No, my lady. I found the pin before the messengers left. I would have been the one to open the gate for her and that night I opened it for only one person."

Her mouth was dry. "Who?" When he hesitated, she demanded again in an angry voice. "Who was it?"

"Sir Roger," he answered quickly. "Of the earl's bodyguard."

"Sir Roger?"

The guard was suddenly flustered. "I could have given the pin to him," he said in a rush. "But I didn't think it was very important. It's not an expensive piece, after all, and no one claimed it. I wasn't stealing it, my lady! I would have given it up if it had been asked for. Please believe me—"

"Why would you have given the pin to Sir Roger?"

"Because, my lady, Sir Roger knew who the pin belonged to."

That might be true, she thought; if Haworth were a particularly observant person he would have seen the pin on Gwalaes almost every day. But how would the guard know that? She looked at him questioningly, not daring to speak.

He shifted uneasily. "She was with him, wasn't she, my lady. On the one horse. Going down to the river, he told me."

Eleanor was stunned. "What? She was with him? How? Why?"

"She was, um, sitting on his lap," the guard said with some embarrassment. "As for the why..." He lifted his eyebrows in an expression which implied the answer was apparent.

Eleanor ignored the gesture. "Could you see her at all? Did she say anything? Was she old or young? What did she look like?"

He realized the countess wasn't interested in his ill-advised guardianship of the pin, only in the person to whom it had belonged. He had feared she would tell the earl that one of his men was a thief but it seemed thievery was least of her concerns. He became immediately helpful.

"I didn't see her face, my lady. She was sitting on Sir Roger's lap with her back to me and her legs on the other side of the saddle. She didn't say anything. Sir Roger said she was shy. He said they were going to the river and he winked at me." He shrugged. "I opened the gate for them and they went through. Then I saw the pin on the ground. It must have fallen from the woman's gown because it wasn't there before."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, my lady. I would have seen it. The moon was up. I'd been walking around a bit; I can't stand still all night. It was almost as bright as day that night. I would have seen it before. I picked it up and was about to call after them but they'd disappeared into the shadows already. I didn't want to embarrass the woman; she never once looked at me and I figured she didn't want to be seen. I thought I'd just give the pin to Sir Roger when they came back. But they never did come back and well, I just kept it."

Eleanor sat silently for a moment, digesting the story. What was Gwalaes doing with Sir Roger? Certainly not what the guard was implying! Had Sir Roger taken her outside the castle and arranged for the messengers to pick her up along the road? But why? Why not simply leave from the ward, through the main gate? Hugh was all too eager to be rid of her; he'd hated Gwalaes as much as Gwalaes had hated him and Eleanor knew it. He wouldn't care that she'd gone.

If Gwalaes hadn't joined the two messengers, then only one explanation remained. Eleanor's feet felt suddenly icy; she shivered in small tremors.

She didn't want to believe the worst, but why not? These were violent men, trained all their lives for one purpose: killing. Would they shirk to commit murder against one lowly, troublesome servant whom no one but the out of favor countess held in any regard?

The servant and the guard exchanged puzzled glances. Eleanor was staring at them, her face white and frozen. "My lady," said the girl timidly, coming up to stand before her, "you must believe we didn't think we were stealing the pin—only keeping that which had been lost. But if you know who the pin belongs to, we'll gladly give it back with apologies for keeping it so long."

Eleanor's eyes focused. "It doesn't matter," she said. "It doesn't matter." She shook herself. Above all, she thought, no one must suspect she knew. She crossed the chamber to the little casket of her personal effects which stood on the table against the far wall. She opened it, rummaged and took out a red hair ribbon, its ends decoratively wrapped in crisscrossed silver wire. She held it out to the servant. "I would like to keep the pin. Will you take this in exchange?" As the girl reached for it, her face pleased, Eleanor's voice turned cold. "This conversation goes no further than these walls, understand? I don't want to hear even the smallest whisper."

When they'd gone, Eleanor stood in front of the window and looked out. Mass had ended, she noted by the sudden appearance of the pious multitude in the ward. The November sky was dark and forbidding but she was strangely glad of it. It suited her mood. She felt angry and a little guilty. Angry that they had dared to commit such a heinous act. Guilty because if she and Gwalaes hadn't argued, then Hugh and Haworth wouldn't have had the opportunity to separate them.

If they hadn't argued, if she could have seen Gwalaes one last time, if the guard had never found the pin... If Hugh could kill Gwalaes, he could kill her, if the child were stillborn, he would blame her, if the child were a girl, he would demonstrate his displeasure with his fists...

And despite the pain of having learned the horrible truth about Gwalaes' disappearance, Eleanor felt incredibly relieved that she hadn't been betrayed after all, although she hated Hugh with renewed vigor for trying to make her think she had. She'd been selfish for thinking only of herself while Gwalaes was being murdered. She could no longer afford to be so selfish; she was pregnant and now she had to put the child first. And she was damned if she would let Hugh have any control over the life of their child. It was time, she told herself grimly, to stop languishing and start thinking.

She leaned on the sill and stared through the window to the west. The plain of Chester, bounded by a loop of the river, looked neat and civilized compared with the hazy, haphazard hills in the distance. But appearances, she knew, were deceiving. Wales was over there. She didn't know much about Wales, but of one thing she was certain: Hugh would need an army to get her out.

Chapter 9

November, 1172

Chester Castle, England

One morning, Eleanor left her chamber accompanied by two of her ladies who, she was now convinced, had been charged by the earl to keep a sharp eye on her. Did they know what had been done to Gwalaes, she wondered. Did everyone at Chester know and she had been the only one in the dark?

She felt simultaneously composed and nervous. She was at ease with her decision but the successful execution of it was a variable over which she had only partial control. While she could swear her intention was written clearly on her face for everyone to read, she knew in reality that it was the least likely action anyone could suppose she would take.

Sir Miles was alone in the council room. She left the two women at the door, telling them she wished a private meeting with the steward and they acquiesced without a murmur; there was nothing suspicious about it. She glanced curiously around as she walked into the chamber; she had never before been in it. It was decidedly masculine—a minimum of furniture, undecorated walls, poor lighting, cold in temperature and untidy. At one end was a long table scattered with papers and pens and pots of ink; Sir Miles had told her once that in his spare time he was writing a history of the earls of Chester. A bitter smile twisted her lips as she wondered if he would include the less than noble habits of the current earl. That he was well aware of these habits was obvious. She could tell by the way he couldn't look her in the face.

And he was too friendly and too obsequious, begging her to sit down in his own chair and asking if he should have wine brought in. She despised him for that, even though it meant his embarrassment and sympathy for what she endured under Hugh were genuine. She supposed he could have been patronizing or high-handed...She knew from personal experience in her father's house that that was the way people with no status were treated.

She didn't want to arouse the slightest suspicion, so she spoke in a quiet, humble voice and hardly dared to lift her head further than his kindly gaze. Once he understood that she hadn't come to beg help from him or to make some kind of scene, he was like a benevolent uncle; he desired to know what service he might do for her.

"Sir Miles," she said, staring down at her tightly clutched hands, "I'm sure you know of my husband's fervent wish for an heir. It's a deep disappointment to me that so far I've not been able to perform my duty to him as his wife and produce at least one. I've taken it in my mind to go to the church of St. John the Baptist and beseech God's pity."

He beamed. "I think that's a fine idea, Countess! It will help to relieve your anxiety. And how could God refuse the entreaties of such a lovely petitioner as yourself? But are you quite certain you want to travel across the city in this cold? Won't the chapel suffice? God will hear you just as well in there."

She hadn't expected opposition. Had Hugh left orders that she was not to leave the castle? But the steward's tone was concerned, not mistrustful. "Of course, I'll do what you think is best, Sir Miles," she said immediately. "But the weather doesn't bother me and I have a special reason for wanting to visit St. John's...it was, after all, where the earl and I were married."

"I see...No, no, I don't object. If you want to go there, you shall go there," he pronounced. "I'll have an escort readied for you whenever you want it."

"Thank you, Sir Miles," she said and gave him a small smile. On the other side of the door, it died instantly. Her cheeks ached from the effort. How contemptible she found him! It was quite plain he was relieved she had apparently decided not to fight against her troubled circumstances. She hoped that when she was discovered missing, Hugh would blame him for it.

When she left Chester Castle, she took only the clothes on her back, a leather bag containing leftover bread and Gwalaes' pin. She passed under the gate on horseback, preceded and followed by a pair of guards and she didn't look back.

PART II

Chapter 10

August, 1173

near Verneuil, Normandy

The afternoon was hot and dry, and Alan d'Arques found them cooling off in the shallow waters of a nearby stream overhung with willows and chattering sparrows. He wheeled his horse about and called out excitedly, "The king is marching! Hurry!"

After a moment's surprised hesitation, William Longsword and Richard Delamere scrambled up and onto the bank grabbing hose, tunics and boots along the way and forcing wet limbs into them as Alan, who'd dismounted, held out their mail and swordbelts. A jay screamed shrilly and flapped off, its peaceful afternoon marred by the sudden activity. The men thrust their heavy swords into the belts and then they were racing away, leaving puffs of dust in their wake.

Longsword was soon galloping far ahead of his two companions, his eagerness aided by a swifter horse. Delamere and Alan rode abreast. With the wind rushing by their ears and the thundering of the horses' hooves, Delamere had to shout to be heard when he asked Alan what had suddenly spurred the king's action. The march had been halted less than an hour before, for a quick meal and to spare the men and horses the worst of the midday sun.

"The scouts returned with the news that Verneuil has asked for a truce," Alan shouted back. "The king is worried that the town doesn't know his forces are so close and may capitulate unnecessarily."

The town of Verneuil lay precariously near to the French border and was currently under siege by Young Henry and the king of France as part of their scheme to take Rouen, the most important Norman city on the Seine River some fifty miles to the north and in whose castle King Henry was currently keeping court. The plan called for Louis and the Young King to secure all the Norman castles along the border below Rouen while their ally, the count of Flanders, moved on the city from the north. To seize Rouen, a major arsenal, would invigorate the rebels and demoralize King Henry, and would put an effective stranglehold on the heartland of Normandy.

Unfortunately for the rebels, the brother of the count of Flanders had been killed by one of Henry's snipers and, overcome with grief, the count had retreated to his own land. The threat to Rouen from the north was gone, if only for the moment.

It was dire that Henry not permit Louis to gain the slightest foothold in Normandy; the war had been declared three months ago but there were still barons and knights whose allegiance was so far undetermined. Henry had trampled on so many of the traditional rights of his vassals that a significant number needed only the slimmest excuse to desert him and take an oath to his son, the Young King, and his allies. The empire he had painstakingly built was in danger of crashing down about him.

Truces were customarily called when the besieged realized their supplies wouldn't hold out much longer and according to the rules of warfare lasted three days. This gave the two sides time to come to terms. It was also an indication that the besieged had concluded no rescue was imminent and that they had better make peace and salvage what they could. That Verneuil had asked for a truce, then, was a bad sign; Henry could not afford to let even this one relatively insignificant town fall to his enemies.

When Delamere and d'Arques caught up with the royal force, they saw Longsword with the king. Henry, mailed but bareheaded, sat on his warhorse and berated his son for almost being left behind. At least, that's what Delamere supposed. As was his habit when angry or irritated, the king was gesticulating wildly and had grown quite red in the face. A stranger might have found Longsword's calm and humble expression as the tirade swept over him curious, but Delamere knew better. He knew nothing, not even Henry's harsh words, could mar his friend's perfect happiness with the present state of political affairs in Normandy.

Although Henry had been warned repeatedly that the Young King was disgruntled enough with his lack of power to enter into a conspiracy with his father-in-law, he had been too blinded by affection to seriously believe it. But in May, the Young King and the French King, having collected allies from Normandy and England during the past six months, had launched an attack on one of Henry's continental possessions and begun the war which everyone except Henry had anticipated.

Longsword couldn't have been happier. Always disdainful of his half-brother's character and envious of his status, Longsword was certain the rebellion would serve to harden Henry's heart against his heir. He was maliciously looking forward to watching the Young King's fall from grace in the weeks ahead.

The king's force was soon marching in battle order along the road to Verneuil. Longsword had been placed over a contingent of Norman mercenaries, all mounted, which only increased his good mood. Although taciturn by nature, when Longsword was happy there was little chance of shutting him up. Delamere let him chatter on about the rebels' chances and the superb job his mercenaries would perform at Verneuil and gave nothing more than a grunt or two in response whenever his friend paused to draw breath.

Soldiers on foot were capable of covering twenty miles a day when pressed; cavalry almost twice that distance. But Henry and his force were fewer than ten miles from their destination and the truce still held. There was plenty of time. The Norman force had merely to make an appearance before darkness fell to reassure the town by its presence not to surrender. The next move would be up to Louis. If he were foolish enough to seek a pitched battle, it would be fought the next morning. More likely than not, Henry's counselors agreed, Louis would take one look at the array of arms against him and turn and retreat across the border. He well knew Henry was a formidable opponent.

But if Henry had scouts to report to him the latest movements of his enemies, so did the French king. The Norman vanguard, as it crested a hill overlooking the walled town, was greeted by the sight of black smoke pluming towards the sky and the stench of burning timber. Louis had broken the truce.

The French army was nowhere to be seen. The Norman horsemen rushed towards Verneuil at a suddenly frantic gallop and passed through the gaping hole where the gate had been, unmolested. The city was a frenzy of activity as its inhabitants raced to extinguish the flames which seemed to shoot from every house and shop. A helmetless knight on horseback, his mail and face begrimed by flying ash, sweat and the tension of the last few days, approached the king and bowed his head respectfully. He was the commander of Verneuil's royal garrison. The castle, he reported, was still intact; its walls had not been breached by the French. But under the peace of the truce, the town had opened its gates to Louis and his soldiers, only to be repaid with treachery once the French king learned that Henry was threateningly close. They had even tried a last desperate assault on the castle, but to no avail, and the crossbowmen on the walls had made them pay dearly for the attempt.

Henry, his horse stepping fitfully beneath him, unnerved by the choking smoke, listened to the account without expression. His sober grey eyes took in the burning houses and the fleeing people. He asked quietly if his son had been with Louis.

"Yes, Your Grace," the knight answered immediately. Then, as if it struck him how bitter he'd sounded, he added, "But you can be sure the treachery was Louis' alone, Your Grace. The Young King wasn't responsible."

Delamere, coming up with Longsword in time to hear this last exchange, thought the man's remark ironic considering it was because of the Young King's rebellion that Louis dared to attack Verneuil at all. Longsword snorted derisively and very loudly, whereupon his father swung around glaring and in an angry voice ordered him to take his mercenaries and follow the road as far as the French border to make certain there weren't any rebels still in Normandy.

Longsword didn't have to be told twice. Grinning at Delamere, he pulled his mount's head hard to the left, kicked its flanks and galloped out of the city. By the time Delamere had caught up with him, he'd already drawn his sword from his belt, swung his shield down from his shoulder and onto his forearm and taken off at top speed in the direction of the border, followed closely by his men. He was after blood and was prepared to venture into France itself in order to get it.

The hills around Verneuil seemed empty enough, Delamere thought, and quiet. The road on which they raced was obviously well-traveled, judging from the deep ruts carved out by cart wheels. Louis would have come—and gone—this way; it was the easiest route to take. Delamere cast a wary eye on the blurring countryside, but there was no forest in which the French king might have hidden a few crossbowmen, no sudden bends in the road where cavalry might be lying in wait for them. But something slightly off to the right did catch his eye and he shouted out to Longsword. "Will! Over there! Smoke, where there wasn't any a moment ago!"

Longsword hesitated only an instant, and with a wave of his sword gestured for the column to veer off the road and onto the field. The grass was long and the horses had to slow their pace and shorten their strides to prevent stumbling. Now they all saw the smoke, eerily reminiscent of the ravage they'd left behind. Beyond a slight rise in the land was its source: a low, timbered farmhouse. And around it, slaughtering the livestock and ready to fire the outer buildings, was the cause: the rearguard of the French force. Obviously they hadn't thought to be followed, supposing that gaining control of the burning city would keep the Normans occupied for some time. One last act of destruction, they figured, before they rejoined the army across the border.

Longsword raised his sword high over his head and let out a long roar. The French looked up with evident shock and scrambled for their horses as the two Normans and the band of mercenaries flew across the grass and fell upon them. The sun was waning now and the fray had an almost surreal quality to it in the resulting twilight. The family to whom the farm belonged huddled together near the burning building, open-mouthed. The Normans had the advantages of surprise and of being mounted, as most of the French were unable to hoist themselves into their saddles before being cut down. Longsword's voice was the most audible amid the screams and shouts; he bellowed out a stream of colorful profanity as he swung his heavy sword at an enemy's neck or bore down on another and trampled him beneath his horse's crushing hooves. Delamere, undemonstrative but just as capable, smashed his metal-rimmed shield into a French face and drove the tip of his sword, with the full force of his mount behind it, directly into the chest of his next victim, breaking through his mail.

The skirmish ended quickly. Of the thirty-odd soldiers in the French rearguard, fifteen were dead or near death, ten had managed to escape into the gathering darkness pursued by some of the mercenaries and the remainder had surrendered. There was no great name among the prisoners who needed to be treated with honor because he could bring in a large ransom and Longsword ordered them all to strip down to hose and shirts and then permitted the mercenaries to take what plunder they desired from among the assortment of French mail, swords, knives and horses. He himself took nothing; the victory was enough of a prize and he had no need to garner wealth when his father could provide him with it. Delamere came away with several hauberks and four fine swords which he hoped to sell.

By the time they arrived back at Verneuil, darkness was complete. The city's main gate, hastily fashioned and erected to replace the one Louis had destroyed, was barred against them, but after a few minutes of insistent pounding, it was opened by a pair of Henry's soldiers who'd recognized the impatient curses of the king's son. The king himself, Longsword was informed, was having supper at the castle.

Most of the fires had been extinguished although the pall of smoke still clogged the sky, obscuring the stars on the clear summer night, and the throat-burning stench remained heavy in the air. Longsword and Delamere walked their horses along the road leading up to the castle as the mercenaries followed, poking and prodding the bound prisoners to move faster.

"Lord, but I'm starving," Longsword complained. "Look, Richard, we alone of the king's men did the most work today and I'll wager there won't be anything left for us to eat. First the siege, then Louis' army and now my father's. We should have had those peasants at the farm make a meal for us. After all, we did save their lives and the damned French had already obligingly butchered the meat."

Delamere smiled wearily. He wasn't quite sure that they hadn't had the easier job of chasing away a few rebels, while the bulk of the army had stripped off their battle gear and fought to bring the raging fires under control. "I think I'd rather just fall onto a pallet somewhere," he said.

"And with someone?" Longsword looked at him slyly. "I hear the garrison commander has a very lovely daughter."

Delamere brightened, feeling more awake. "Has he?"

"Anyway, my father ought to be well pleased with our work," his friend said, twisting around in his saddle to glare at his prisoners. "Too bad my beloved brother isn't among them."

"I doubt the king would be well pleased to see his heir paraded half-naked through the streets of Verneuil," Delamere said drily.

"My God, Richard! You can't possibly imagine my father will allow Young Henry to remain as his heir! Not after this! And conspiring with our worst enemy, too! No, once my father's got Young Henry back in his grasp, he'll probably make him earl or a duke of something or other and keep him under close watch. But to permit him to ascend to the throne of England and to be duke of Normandy after what he's done—never!"

Longsword spoke passionately, but with a confidence Delamere didn't share. Poor Will, he thought; he'll never give up hope. He half-envied Longsword his fervent dreams, his desperate ambitions. He himself had neither. He rarely thought about his future or what he would like out of life. Instead, he tagged along with Longsword and took each day as it came and hoped he wouldn't be dead at the end of it. But now he stole a glance at his friend's uptilted profile and the smile of satisfaction which curved his lips and wondered what it felt like to want something so badly—and to never once imagine not getting it.

The royal army spent only one night in Verneuil. His soldiers had put out the fires and shored up the damage to the city's defenses and the king was loath to remain too long out of Rouen. He was indeed pleased with Longsword's accomplishment; the prisoners were handed over to the garrison commander to await the outcome of the war. And Delamere managed to make a neat profit on his confiscated goods before he left the castle.

A messenger met them on the road back to Rouen the next day. The people of Avranches, on the western edge of Normandy, begged for royal assistance. For the past month their viscount, Earl Hugh of Chester, and another rebel, Ralph de Fougères, had been harrying the province which remained loyal to the king. De Fougères was a well-known malcontent from Brittany, one of the more troublesome duchies in Henry's empire. Chester's treason, however, had come as something of a surprise to the king; not because he didn't doubt the earl believed he had sufficient reason to rebel but because he hadn't thought Hugh possessed the backbone for it. He'd known Hugh all the younger man's life and had always dismissed him as a rather colorless personality.

Longsword and his mercenaries were dispatched to the rescue of Avranches while the king continued to Rouen and inspected the security of his eastern border along the way.

One of the traits Longsword shared with his father was the ability to move fast. Henry, never one to remain still for too long in any case, was capable of shifting armies at a pace seldom matched by more cautious leaders. That the theater of operations in this instance was Normandy, the king's home base, only facilitated movement. The progress of the army wasn't hindered by the need to lumber heavily laden supply carts with it or to go at an easy walk to spare the horses. Longsword also used the long summer days to his advantage. So eager to be off that he could barely sit still as the king gave him explicit instructions (which Delamere doubted he was listening to, anyway), he declared to his men that they would be traveling hard all day, stopping long enough only to exchange mounts at royal castles along the way and to sleep when darkness made safe passage impossible.

By mid-morning of the third day, sweaty, stinking and hungry because Longsword had insisted on leaving their previous night's accommodation at first light, they were in Pontorson. The fortress was a stone's throw from the Breton border but had thus far been spared the devastation which Chester and de Fougères seemed intent on wreaking in the area. As they ate a hasty meal, the garrison commander, Walter fitz Hamo, told them that he had sent out small bands of soldiers during the past two weeks to confront the rebels, only to discover that they had vanished. In addition, the rebels had yet to launch an attack on any of the royal castles in the vicinity. It was evident that Chester and de Fougères were more interested in ravaging the countryside and plundering the little towns and churches than in taking castles. "If they took Avranches, they could conceivably control the western coastline and no doubt all of Brittany would be solidly behind them," he said. "That they haven't tried it tells me they haven't got the manpower for a siege. But merchants fear to travel because they've been attacked, robbed and killed and commerce has been slowing to point where there's few supplies going into the towns now."

"No need to besiege a mere castle if you've got the whole countryside in a stranglehold," Delamere commented. He looked unfavorably into his wine cup. Obviously the rebels had managed to intercept the latest shipment from Bordeaux.

"Not enough men!" Longsword scoffed. He dropped his cutting knife to the table with a loud thud and picked up a chunk of cold meat with his fingers. He gestured with it as he spoke. "Chester's got to have a hundred knights and with his money he's probably bought twice as many mercenaries. De Fougères, with all the damned Bretons queuing to commit treason against my father, must surely be able to match those figures."

Sir Walter shrugged. "Then they don't want to take a castle, though God alone knows why."

"I know why," Longsword said flatly, wiping his hands on a linen napkin and extricating himself from the bench on which he'd been sitting. Immediately, his men followed suit, hastily stuffing the rest of their breakfasts down their throats and draining their cups. "Because they know the royal castles in and around Avranches are well-defended and they could sit outside one for weeks with no progress and in a countryside which will not provision them. It would give my father time to secure the east and then leisurely make his way here to crush them and relieve the besieged. On the other hand, if they continue to harass this area and avoid open battle, they weaken the populace and disrupt trade so much so that the king has no choice but to leave Rouen and rush here to a pitched battle. They've got enough men for that and besides, Louis could follow from the east and then the royal troops would be trapped between two armies."

They walked out into the glaring sunlight. Servants and soldiers of the garrison collected to gape at the king's men, so disheveled and travel-worn that they must be on a serious errand. Being the center of attention made Longsword feel important. So this is how it felt to command men, he thought; to have your least order instantly obeyed. He liked the power. "I'll show him," he said to himself.

"What? Speak up; I can't hear you," Delamere said.

Longsword turned to his friend eagerly. "Richard, I'll show him that I can do it!"

"Show who you can do what?"

"My father, of course! I'm going to crush the rebels. It's perfect; his pride and joy couldn't take one miserable town even with the French king's help but I'll defeat de Fougères and Chester on my own!"

Delamere put up a hand to block the sun as he squinted uncertainly at Longsword. "The king told you only to organize the available armed resources and contain the rebels..."

"Do you imagine," Longsword scoffed, "he'll be upset if we crush them instead?"

Delamere supposed not and upon reflection thought his friend's scheme was natural enough. After all, it was no secret to him that Longsword felt he had something to prove to his father. Avranches was as good a proving ground as any. The only problem was that the rebels had gone inexplicably quiet. Pontorson's scouts came back just before dusk with nothing to report. Longsword couldn't believe the puny threat of forty mercenaries was enough to compel the rebels into hiding and thought that they were gathering strength for some murderous assault. He spent the idle hours planning his response to a variety of possible confrontations.

He came up to Delamere as the latter sat on a bench in the hall holding a young woman's hand between his own and speaking in low tones to her as she gazed rapturously into his green eyes, and tossed a large object at his feet. It landed with a disturbing clunk.

Delamere looked up with some annoyance. Friend or no, he hated being interrupted just as he was finalizing plans for the night. "What's this?"

Longsword grinned and nudged it with the toe of his boot. "What's it look like?"

"I can see it's a shield, Will," Delamere answered patiently, "but why have you put it there?"

"Turn it over."

With a sigh, Delamere reluctantly dropped the young woman's hand and bent to pick up the shield. His eyebrows shot up with surprise. "Who did this for you?"

"The armorer. Nice, isn't it? The man's got a talent."

Longsword had discovered that the armorer in Pontorson was something of an artist who had decorated many of the garrison knights' shields with various devices of their choosing. He had paid the man to paint his own with the traditional emblem of the house of Anjou: three golden lions standing on their hind legs.

"I know my father prefers a red background but I had the man put the lions on blue because that's the color my grandfather used on his shields," he explained.

The true explanation probably had more to do with the fact that Longsword's legitimate half-brothers also preferred red than with any purist tendency, Delamere thought but was kind enough not to point out. He held the shield up and Longsword took it and, putting his arm through the brases, struck a warlike pose.

"Wait until those damned Bretons catch sight of this gleaming in the sun," he chortled. "They'll know it's blood of the royal house that's confronting them and they'll turn and run. I guarantee it, Richard. My first real command. I feel damned near invincible!"

The wait was ended on the fourth day when two of Pontorson's knights galloped through the hastily thrown back gates and presented themselves with great urgency to their commander and to Longsword. They had, they breathlessly explained, been patrolling to the east of the castle when they'd run into a barefoot, dirty-faced boy who claimed to have seen a convoy of wagons a mile or two away which had just pulled off the main road to take a lesser used cart track. He had told them that he was on his way to Pontorson to inform the garrison of this phenomenon and when the knights had laughed and asked him why, he'd answered quite seriously that he doubted the convoy was on honest business because there was not one merchant among its company.

If this convoy was only a short distance away, then it couldn't hurt to investigate the knights reasoned. The boy was prevailed upon to guide them and they set off through the forest along the main road which wound from the harbor at Avranches, to directly underneath the watchful eyes in Pontorson's towers and then into Brittany. Surely any tradesmen on 'honest business' would keep to this route; it was wide, maintained and well-traveled. But the boy's hunch proved shrewd. The trio stood in the relative protection of the trees and could plainly see teams of plodding oxen dragging a dozen wagons in a neat, slow-moving line through the fallow fields which skirted the forest. Surrounding the wagons on all sides and forward and back were soldiers; mounted knights and crossbowmen on foot.

"How many?" demanded Longsword, his expression composed but his eyes glittering, thought Delamere, with excitement.

"Sixty knights...a few more bowmen."

"For twelve wagons? There must be quite a treasure in them! Coming from Avranches, you say?"

One of the scouts nodded. "My lord, we didn't actually see them on the road from Avranches but the boy said he did."

"Either they sacked the castle or the earl has had supplies and more men shipped in," said Sir Walter.

"Or gold with which to pay his Flemish mercenaries," Longsword grinned. "Tell me, did you see any colors? Banners?"

"No, my lord," replied the other man. "But we've no doubt the convoy was on its way to Brittany. With all the raiding that's been going on the boy was suspicious of strangers and hid in a tree when they passed him just before they turned off the road and he said he couldn't understand the strange tongue they used when they spoke."

Longsword spat onto the floor. "Bretons! That's what comes of putting a duchy into the hands of a child," he said over his shoulder to Delamere. Henry had made his third legitimate son, Geoffrey, now fifteen years old, the duke of Brittany. He turned back to the knights. "This cart track they're on—how far from the castle is it? And can it be seen from the towers?"

"It lies three or four miles away, my lord," answered Sir Walter. "And if it could be seen from castle," he added drily, "there wouldn't be any use for it."

Longsword digested this information. "Once they slip over the border they're lost to us. Obviously they're heading for Dol and there'll be more men to meet them. We've got to intercept them before they reach Pontorson, then."

"Oxen don't travel fast," said Delamere. "We've got a few hours to work with."

"How many men can you spare us?" Longsword asked Sir Walter.

It was a tricky question. Although it was tempting to throw almost every one of his soldiers into the ambush, Sir Walter had to consider the possibility that none might come back. The strength of the castle couldn't suffer for this conflict. "About two dozen," he said, regretfully. "But I would like to offer myself as one of them, my lord."

Delamere did a quick sum in his head. "That makes us sixty-odd to their 130," he said.

"Fine," said Longsword with a grim smile. "Our success will look even better."

It had been cooler in the forest. The faint track they followed now baked under the bright sun, which had thankfully begun its slow descent. Sweat trickled from beneath the knights' coifs and the heavy mail encompassing torsos all but turned them into human ovens. Even the bowmen, wrapped in thick leather shells, trudged rather than walked beside the lumbering oxen. There was another complaint: the road had been better in the forest, as well. This one was obviously used primarily by foot traffic; it was narrow and uneven, following the bumpy contours of the land, and the carts became harder to move. Their pace had slowed to less than two miles an hour. It would be like this almost the rest of the way to Dol, some twenty miles from where they now plodded. They wouldn't reach the fortress until the next evening.

They had been warned to divert from the main road just before Pontorson. King Henry, to check the ambitions of the fractious counts of Brittany, had built the fortress smack in the middle of the road instead of throwing up, like any sane man, an artificial mound a mile or two away and creating an imposing vantage point from which the impressive symbol of his might could glare down at the comings and goings of potential malefactors...and give them a decent chance of escape. With their manpower, they had no reason to fear an outright assault by the skeleton garrison but their pace was so slow that they were easy arrow fodder for even a handful of archers in the castle towers. So they had diverted as instructed and now had to contend with nothing more serious than heatstroke and pitted track. They were relaxed and even a little bored with this job; their number was intimidating and they'd been assured that the king was currently pinned down in eastern Normandy, trapped between the count of Flanders and the king of France. They didn't even bother to send forward scouts.

Not that it would have saved them because when the attack came, it was from their right flank, not from the front. Suddenly, where there had been only silent field before, there were archers and crossbowmen aiming their deadly weapons straight at them. Squinting against the sun, the Bretons realized that the attackers had literally been lying in wait for them, obscured by the tall grass. Now they stood in a long line which stretched almost the length of the convoy. After one split second when the whole world seemed to stand still, someone shouted and then the air was full of flying arrows.

The line of bowmen was sparse but the Bretons were unprepared and suffered heavily from the barrage. The Normans aimed mainly for the horses, the largest targets, and the foot soldiers, who were protected only by leather.

The Breton knights spurred their horses and grabbed hastily for swords and shields. The crossbowmen in the company took up defensive positions behind the wagons. They attempted to shoot back but the sun was in their eyes and thwarted their aim. The Normans restrung their bows, waited coolly for another command and unleashed a second barrage. Meanwhile, the Bretons were readying themselves for an assault on the archers but as they maneuvered their mounts, a roar sounded from behind them and to a man they turned in confusion. And horror. From nowhere there appeared a line of Norman cavalry in the east, racing across the field with deadly intent.

Delamere urged his mount to greater speed with a harsh dig of his spurs. The long grass was more difficult to wade through than had been considered when Longsword had sketched his plan for them but it was imperative that the factor of surprise was not lost. They were so outnumbered that if they didn't reach the Breton contingent before the knights had the chance to organize and initiate a counter-attack, the ambush would quickly become a rout—against them.

His eyes never left the object of his charge. The bowmen had done their job well. Longsword had instructed them to shoot the horses first. It was more tricky to hit a man protected from the top of his head to his ankles with metal in a vulnerable spot than it was to kill his horse. And the knights who tumbled heavily to the ground as their horses collapsed beneath them were no match for the double threat of a fifteen-hundred pound animal with four powerful legs bearing down on them and the force of all that massive impetus behind the swipes of the Norman swords raised to cut off their lives.

The lazy afternoon was no longer peaceful. By virtue of his swift horse, a fierce, unfriendly creature which Delamere often suspected of being as eager to murder and maim as its owner, Longsword reached the Bretons before anyone else. He bellowed wildly with pure exhilaration, seeming to offer a challenge to every man who stood before him. He'd already sent the tip of his blade through the throat of one Breton and knocked another, senseless, to the dirt with a vicious kick to the head by the time the rest of the Normans reached the fray. The crossbowmen trapped by the wagons were the easier targets for the knights. Some crawled beneath the wagons, only to find them a precarious shelter when the oxen, snorting with fright, stepped this way and that in an attempt to shake off their burdens and escape.

Meanwhile, the Norman foot soldiers moved toward the convoy with crossbows cocked and bows strung. At close range, the arrow from a crossbow could penetrate the hauberks worn by the knights. The Bretons found themselves assailed from either side and even though there were more of them than Normans, they had been overwhelmed by surprise and were already tired out by a day spent traveling under a hot sun. Then, too, they had recognized the colors and creatures painted on the Norman leader's shield as the emblem of the house of Anjou, which meant Henry, contrary to what they'd been told, knew exactly what they were doing. Most of them offered only a feeble resistance, expecting to be taken prisoner and later ransomed. But Longsword had ordered all the enemy slaughtered and those who put up the butts of their swords were merely cut down more easily than those who put up a fight.

The whole fracas lasted less than a quarter of an hour. The corpses of Breton soldiers lay in muddled heaps on the ground. Wounded horses whinnied and snorted. The first few teams of oxen had lumbered out of sight; the remainder bellowed anxiously. Longsword slipped down from his saddle and walked among the bodies, kicking at legs and heads for signs of life.

Sir Walter, a happy smile on his face, rode up to him. "My lord, good work! But some men managed to escape. Will you give me permission to chase them down before they cross the border?"

"No," Longsword answered. He stuck his stained sword into his belt, pulled his helmet off and pushed back his coif. His hair was plastered with sweat to his scalp and he ran his fingers through it several times. "I want Chester and de Fougères to know what happened."

"But they'll know when their convoy doesn't show up," Delamere pointed out. "Why lose the advantage of one or two days' surprise? There are things we could do with that time to prepare for their attack."

"We don't need time!" Longsword retorted. "We don't need to prepare for anything!" The body of a Breton bowman lay at his feet; he glanced and spat at it. "We've just proven we can demolish an army twice our size. I'm not going to sit back and wait for de Fougères to make his little plan and attack Pontorson, Richard. I am going to attack him."

Chapter 11

August, 1173

Dol, Brittany

"Don't look so glum!" boomed a hearty voice into Hugh's ear. An arm landed heavily around his neck. "An inconvenience, that's all! Unexpected, but we'll take our revenge."

Hugh continued to stare over the wall in the direction of the Normandy border. It was late evening; the sun was slowly sinking into a haze in the west and the lack of a breeze promised a night as damp and hot as the day.

"I'm not worried about that," he answered, wishing the man would remove his arm. He shifted on his feet, but his companion didn't take the hint.

"Oh—upset about your money and armor, then. Well, don't be—" the arm jiggled, "—we'll soon have it back for you."

But it wasn't the money. What had been lost was only a mere fraction of Hugh's revenues and besides, he had known from the start that he risked everything—lands, titles, money; even his life—in this venture. No, it wasn't anything material which gave him pause. It was the strong feeling that his brief period of freedom was coming quickly to an end.

Strangely enough, he felt calm as he looked back at the past and considered the future. A grievance against Henry and the desire to extricate himself from the insidious grip of Robert Bolsover's ghost had compelled him to throw in his lot with the Young King. For months he and de Fougères had run amuck throughout Avranches and it had actually given him satisfaction to ravage his hereditary lands, the lands where his ancestors, all loyal servants of the dukes of Normandy, had been born. It was a revolt against his past as much as against the king.

It seemed to him that all his life the important decisions had been made for him. He was the earl of Chester by birth. His family history obligated his adherence to Henry II. Robert Bolsover had wooed him. Even his damned wife had been chosen for him. When he'd made up his mind to join with the Young King, an immediate thrill had pulsed through his veins. He'd felt free.

But all that was to change now. He was certain of it in a calm, fatalistic way. Riders had hurtled into the fortress only a few hours before with the news that Hugh's convoy of weapons, gold and perishables had been set upon by knights from Pontorson who were led by the king's bastard son, William Longsword. The escort, with the exception of a swift handful, had been massacred and the wagons confiscated. It had been completely unexpected and judging from the reactions of de Fougères and his men was as great a shock to the rebels at Dol as it had been for the guard of the convoy.

De Fougères looked almost pleased by news of the ambush. He'd boasted loudly and interminably at the supper board that he was glad someone had at last made the decision to meet the rebels' challenge in the west. He was tired of Louis and Flanders getting all the attention. He didn't know much about this William Longsword except that the Bastard was barely past youth and couldn't match the battle experience of the men at Dol. He couldn't know the wily strengths of Ralph de Fougères. Still, this taunt by Longsword would not go uncontested. If the king's bastard thought his mere presence would send the rebels scurrying into submission he was dead wrong. De Fougères had burst out laughing at his little joke. 'Dead wrong'. The Bastard and his puny band would all soon be dead.

Hugh had remained quiet as usual. He hadn't eaten much and had drunk even less. Neither did he, he thought, have as much battle experience as the Bretons. He wasn't afraid of testing himself in a real skirmish, however; he was confident he could swing a sword as well as the long-haired, long-nosed, middle-aged, pot-bellied man sitting next to him and ripping apart meat and bone as though he might never eat again. Did the fool truly believe they could hope to beat Henry? In retrospect, Hugh supposed that once he, too, must have believed it possible but then it had been secret messages and clandestine plots. Now reality was staring them in the face and Henry seemed invincible as ever.

De Fougères' arm jiggled around his neck again and roused Hugh from his thoughts. He didn't care much for his partner in rebellion, considering him crude and loud, but the Breton obviously liked him well enough. Haworth had said it was because Hugh, although the much more important magnate, permitted him to do all the talking. As long as de Fougères treated him with respect, Hugh was satisfied with the arrangement. But that damned arm was maddening.

"...sundown tomorrow, we'll have the castle surrounded!" de Fougères was saying, his voice excited.

"A siege?" questioned Hugh slowly. "I thought you were of the opinion that a siege is a waste of our resources."

"It is! If we just wait them out, it is. But I have a feeling we won't have to wait. The Bastard wants to make his mark and meeting our challenge is how he'll do it."

"Surely he wouldn't be stupid enough to leave the security of the fortress to take on an army three or four times his size!"

The arm squeezed Hugh's neck. "Exactly! This is the beauty of my plan, Chester—the army the Bastard will see from Pontorson's towers will only be a fraction of the whole. We'll put forty or fifty men in the field, draw the loyalists out of their sanctuary and the rest of us will swoop down on them from our hiding place in the forest and slaughter the lot of them!"

Hugh shrugged noncommittally. It all sounded too simple to him. What if the Bastard didn't rise to their bait and stayed put behind the walls? But he didn't make any objection. After all, it didn't matter what they planned; Henry would make short work of them.

"Are you married, Chester?" asked de Fougères so abruptly that Hugh turned his head sharply to look at him, uncertain if he'd heard correctly. The movement had the effect, at last, of causing the Breton's arm to slide off his neck.

"Married? No, not now. I was, but just before last Christmas, my wife lost her wits and wandered into the hills beyond the castle. She never returned."

De Fougères sucked in his breath. "What a tragedy!" he murmured, sounding too concerned for genuine sentiment.

"Yes; a tragedy," said Hugh drily. The Bolsovers had an unlucky talent for dying young. "Her cloak was found by my men after a lengthy search, ripped and torn as though a pack of wild animals had got to her."

"Wolves," nodded de Fougères knowingly.

"Yes; wolves," said Hugh. He stared blandly at the other man. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, it's just that we're getting along together so well that I thought I might bring my daughter up to meet you. Sixteen years old, ripe for marriage." De Fougères gave a little laugh. "What an honor it would be for her to meet such a powerful and respected man as yourself! But perhaps the death of your wife is still fresh in your mind."

De Fougères had two sons with him at Dol, one just on either side of twenty, whom Hugh was more interested in meeting than another colorless daughter of another poor knight. But while he didn't respond to de Fougères' probing last comment, he didn't wish to alienate his ally.

"It would be my honor to meet her, I'm sure," he said. "Perhaps when the situation in Normandy has been resolved in the Young King's favor you might bring her here."

The Breton beamed. "Yes, yes—when we have finally crushed that witch's son, Henry, and demolished his empire! When Brittany is finally released from its servitude!"

Hugh breathed an inward sigh of relief. Good, he thought; he wouldn't be subjected to the girl any time soon.

Hugh met with his knights to inform them of de Fougères' plan without detailing his own misgivings. Back at Chester, he'd been somewhat surprised when, to a man, his vassals had chosen to support him rather than remain loyal to the king. He knew he was not a charismatic leader like Henry (despite Haworth's fervent assertion), but he also knew he wasn't as demanding an overlord as the king. Apparently, just as he did, his tenants preferred to keep things the way they were.

Over the course of several months in early spring, nearly three score of the knights who owed him service made their way to Dol. Others were sent to Chester, because the rebels' plan was to create as much violent turmoil as possible, not only in Normandy but in England as well. With his money, he had purchased the services of mercenary knights, most of whom had come from Flanders and Brittany. It was difficult to find Norman mercenaries; these men were fiercely loyal to Henry.

With Hugh's force and de Fougères' men, the rebels in eastern Normandy presented a formidable army and if all went according to the Breton's plan, they'd have no problem wiping out the garrison at Pontorson along with William Longsword and his tiny band of would-be saviors. "The only trouble is," said Hugh with a wry smile to Haworth after the meeting, "part of de Fougères' scheme depends on there being an overwhelming amount of stupidity in the Pontorson camp. He's the fool, Roger! Does he truly imagine that the Bastard, who is well aware of our numbers, will be tricked into rushing out of the fortress when he sees only forty men cavorting on the road? No! He'll just have his bowmen make mincemeat of them!"

"In that case, we'd better make sure our men are the ones among the trees," Haworth answered seriously and Hugh laughed. Robert Bolsover would have said the same thing but meant it as a joke. But there was something comfortable and familiar in Haworth's humorless personality.

He eased himself up from his chair and moved to the side table for a cup of wine. He was twenty-nine now and beginning to feel the creaks of his bones and the soreness in his muscles the day after hard exercise. At least he had so far escaped serious illness. It seemed to him that sooner or later everyone caught some dreadful scourge from which he might not recover. The king himself had been so afflicted three years ago, to the point where he'd made his Will and confirmed the Young King as duke of Normandy and king of England. If only he'd died then, Hugh thought, they would have been spared making this rebellion. He'd be home at Chester planning the next day's hunt rather than sitting in some drafty chamber discussing the shortcomings of Ralph de Fougères' scheme to take a royal castle.

And Eleanor would still be alive. He had felt only relief when the messenger had come from Chester. Poor Miles de Gournay had sent a letter devoid of his usual pretentious phrases and intricate sentences which ran on so long that Hugh had to read through them two or three times before he was able to understand what the hell his steward was trying to tell him. This letter had been plain and nearly hysterical in tone. He begged the earl to believe that he had done everything possible to find her and it wasn't fear of what Hugh might do or say to him which prompted his wrenching sentiment; the steward had been genuinely fond of his mistress and keenly felt the guilt of his silent condonation of her treatment by Hugh. For days every available man in the castle had scoured the countryside and even the townspeople had been alerted and pressed into service until, the letter read, "...On the fifth day, my lord, we came upon her cloak, known to us by its color and the dyed fox fur border, which we discovered to be horribly mangled as if it had been pulled this way and that by a pack of savage animals. It was found in the woods, a few miles from the church of St. John the Baptist where she had gone to pray. My lord, I bitterly regret allowing her to go but she had beseeched me very humbly; she wished to ask Our Lord in the house in which you and she were married to send her a child so that she might be a good wife and fulfill her duty to you. How could I refuse? She went with an armed escort which, as it was a cold day, she induced to visit an alehouse while she prayed. When they returned, they waited outside the church until it started to grow dark. When one of them went inside to fetch her, he found the place deserted but for the priest's servant, who was lighting candles on the altar. The man had not seen anyone.

"My lord, you cannot imagine the anguish from which I have suffered these past weeks. I accept full responsibility for the Countess' disappearance and her untimely demise. I knew she had not been herself since the summer. Obviously, her mind was so unhinged that she simply wandered away from the church and the escort, unaware of what she was doing. I still cannot sleep from thinking of the horror which befell her in the forest..."

Hugh had looked up from the letter, which he'd been reading aloud to Haworth, and grinned. "De Gournay sounds as though he won't rest easy unless I have him dragged face down through the mud from the back of a horse." He scanned the remainder of the missive. "He humbly awaits my judgment on his crime. Well, what do you think, Roger? More land? Another estate?"

"She was never the same after we got rid of that troublesome slut of hers," Haworth had answered.

"Another job well done." Hugh had clapped him on the shoulder and laughed. "I wonder if it was the same pack of wolves that got the both of them."

Yes, if the rebellion hadn't come to pass, he'd still be at Chester and Eleanor would still be alive. At least some good, then, had come out of this otherwise fruitless endeavor.

As he stood there musing, idly swirling the wine around in his cup, Haworth came up very close behind him. "We are to march at dawn, my lord?" he said softly into Hugh's ear.

Hugh turned his head slightly and looked at him. "That's the plan. Do you approve?" he asked with an amused smile.

"It isn't for me to approve or disapprove, my lord." Haworth's breath tickled Hugh's ear and a delicious shiver ran down his spine. "I only thought that we should have an early night."

"Do you mean to say you don't want to sit and drink yourself into a stupor in the hall while de Fougères embarks on another one of his never-ending stories?"

"No, my lord."

That was as far as Haworth would go: an unspoken invitation. Occasionally Hugh wished he'd be more forward physically but knew Haworth would be appalled at the idea of a servant seducing his master. "Hm!" he said. "Neither do I." He tilted his head and kissed Haworth's yielding mouth. "Amazing that such a soft thing can be surrounded by so much prickly beard," he murmured. "Aren't you worried that we'll exhaust ourselves for the march tomorrow?"

"No, my lord," Haworth whispered, his dark eyes burning as he stared at Hugh. "It will strengthen us." He reached a hand to touch the side of Hugh's face.

Hugh put down his wine cup.

But they needn't have worried about the long march to Pontorson because when the men of Dol woke up the next morning and looked out of guard towers and stretched and yawned before unshuttered windows, they saw arrayed before them on the open field the army of William Longsword.

Chapter 12

August, 1173

outside Dol, Brittany

It was mid-morning and already Delamere could feel the sweat trickling down the sides of his face. He squinted up into the sky. No clouds, only that damned blinding orb. He would have thought, being so close to the sea, the air would feel cooler and there might even be a nice breeze or two, but no luck. The day was beginning as relentlessly hot as the one before and here he was standing unprotected in the middle of an open field, outfitted in his battle gear.

He squinted over towards the sound of Longsword's voice, his vision temporarily obscured by light spots. It was impossible to ignore Longsword; his voice was growing louder with each little victory and right now, having succeeded in astounding the rebels with his quick night march to Dol, it positively boomed.

Longsword was speaking with Sir Walter. Delamere went to join them, dabbing at his face with the back of his hand. Longsword grinned at him. "Hot? Just wait till a few hours from now."

"Very funny," Delamere said, unamused. "I'm sweating so much, my coif is beginning to rust. The rebels don't have to fight us; they can watch us melt."

"Richard, you said—"

Delamere held up a hand. "Yes, I know what I said. Don't worry; I'm not going to start complaining about your plan again, not when I have the weather."

He and Longsword had argued the previous day after their successful ambush. Longsword had immediately proposed their army chase the rebels all the way to Dol and Delamere had thought that spreading their thin number across the plain would be tantamount to issuing de Fougères and Chester an invitation to massacre them.

"How many gates has the fortress got?" Longsword had asked Sir Walter, who hadn't been certain but ventured only two: the main and the postern. "So, we put half the men on either one, Richard. They can't come out more than two or three at a time, right? We'll cut them down!"

"Good. So they don't come out. They stay in there for months while we sit outside in the heat and the rain and then the snow."

"At least it prevents them destroying Avranches!" Longsword had snapped. "And that's what my father wanted. Listen, Richard—either we pin them down at Dol or they pin us down at Pontorson. As long as I have an advantage, I want to press it! And you can come with me or be the one to ride to the king and let him know what we're doing!"

Delamere wasn't about to leave his friend's side no matter how foolish he considered the scheme. In the end, Alan d'Arques had been sent off to the king with the news that Longsword and the men of Pontorson were in the process of besieging the fortress at Dol and awaited further instructions. Delamere had suggested before he left that he be knighted. After all, the young man was a good servant and had fought next to them in two skirmishes. "Besides," Delamere had added, "it would be an insult to the king to receive a mere squire as a messenger." So Alan d'Arques became Sir Alan d'Arques and departed with strict instructions not to pause for sleep or food but only to change horses in order to get to Rouen as quickly as possible.

Longsword's mercenaries and Sir Walter's knights had taken the well-kept road to Dol, their way made easier by the ghostly light of a half moon. They'd reached the fortress in the early morning and bivouacked about half a mile away from it, in a field alive with the cacophonous melodies of what seemed to be every mating cricket in the whole of Europe. No reason to believe even the sharpest guard on duty in the fortress could hear them or their horses over the racket, and they had removed their hauberks and helmets and slung them, hidden by their cloaks, across their mounts' rumps, so that the moonlight wouldn't reflect the metal and give them away. Right before dawn, they'd donned their battle gear and moved into positions about 500 yards from the fortress, just out of crossbow range. Their arrival had been a total surprise.

The rest of Pontorson's available soldiers—the archers and pikemen—had followed on foot and had joined the knights in time for a rough breakfast. But Longsword's biggest surprise had not yet arrived and wouldn't until noon.

Delamere dabbed at his face again and considered the fortress. The rebel defenders lining the walls stared back. "I wonder why they haven't decided to come against us," he said.

"Because they know they don't stand a chance," Longsword said without hesitation.

"Then perhaps we should seek rapprochement," suggested Sir Walter.

"We'll seek nothing! They're the ones who provoked this war, remember? If they want to negotiate, let them come out. But," he added less stridently and with a little smile, "I hope to God they don't. It would ruin my next surprise."

The mood inside Dol was tense. De Fougères and his men spoke with each other in a rapid dialect which Hugh couldn't follow. Not that he cared what they were discussing or, for all he knew, planning. As far as he was concerned, it was over.

The rebels couldn't believe the royalists had turned around and used their own plan against them. Although Longsword couldn't have known it, the fact that he had shown up outside Dol with such a skimpy force was the cause of great concern inside the fortress. The Bretons thought the Bastard must be a madman to come against them with a quarter of their number—or maybe, they thought, that wasn't his full army. Maybe he had twice as many more soldiers hiding beyond eyesight on the road, waiting to swoop down on them if they opened the gate, just as they had planned to do. And that he had turned up so quickly caused further consternation, because it was exactly the sort of thing for which his father was famous. They had believed they were dealing with a neophyte but after the well-executed ambush and this surprise confrontation, they realized that the education provided his son by Henry more than made up for his lack of practical experience.

The rebels, therefore, did nothing for the moment. De Fougères decided their best hope lay in waiting out the siege. Longsword was in enemy territory and although it was true he had a direct supply line, via the road, straight back to Pontorson, it was also true supply lines could be cut. De Fougères gave him two weeks; by then there would be a new moon, and if the royalists hadn't yet given up and departed, he would send men out to circle around them.

He was optimistic Longsword would just get bored by the inactivity and leave to join his father in the east where the fighting was plenty. Hugh wasn't so sure. He'd heard that this bastard son was a stubborn, unforgiving man with nothing of the diplomacy of his father, and he had the suspicion that Longsword would want to finish—preferably to the death—anything he started. But he didn't venture this opinion; the Bretons, who had been white-faced upon waking to the sight of the Bastard's vengeance, had regained much of their former bravado and Hugh thought he'd be laughed out of the castle, earl or no.

After dinner, he stood up and prepared to leave the high table. The noise level in Dol's somewhat small hall was inevitably deafening with the crush of so many men and he had discovered the peace of walking the walls on his own while everyone else sat around and got progressively drunker. It would be even worse today, because there was nowhere else for the men to go now that they were confined to the fortress.

As he nodded to his host, de Fougères suddenly grabbed his arm. It grated on Hugh that the man felt free to touch him, but he gritted his teeth and said nothing. De Fougères' face was flushed from wine and the heavy meal. "Are you on your way to the chapel to beg God for deliverance from the Bastard?" he asked. "There's no need; pray instead to keep the sun high. The Bastard and his men will cook to death and save us the bother of killing them!" He laughed uproariously at his joke and those around him whistled and jeered. Hugh smiled thinly and left.

It was hot outside. He shielded his eyes and glanced upward at the cloudless sky and the blazing sun. The air was still and eerily quiet, as if it were too hot for even birds and crickets to stir themselves. He climbed the steps to the top floor in the gatehouse and exchanged brief pleasantries with the men on duty. The Bastard's army, he was informed, hadn't changed position. One of the guards moved away so that he could have a look through the arrow slit.

Longsword's army was stretched out across the field. Most of the men were sitting on the ground in little groups and almost all of them had removed their heavy battle gear, which lay in heaps here and there. The horses had similarly been divested of their saddles and hardware, and had been hobbled and put out to graze to the rear of the men. Hugh squinted hard.

"Which one is the Bastard?" he asked.

A guard stepped close to him and pointed out Longsword. Hugh stared and chuckled. Of course that would be the king's son—one of the few still dressed neck to foot in gleaming metal, his only concession to the heat the lack of helmet and gloves. He was standing with two other men, distinguished by his height, and was apparently doing all the talking, as it was his head which bobbed and his hands which gestured.

As Hugh and the guards continued to watch the lolling soldiers in the field before them, a hazy blur appeared on the road from the direction of Pontorson. Longsword's men saw it, or heard it, too, because one by one they rose to their feet. The Bastard himself was seen to clap his hands together as if with great satisfaction and then turn in the direction of the road. Hugh waited curiously. What could it be? More troops?

He was too far away to hear the pounding of the oxen hooves or the rumbling of the heavy wheels, but after a few moments, the cause of the royalists' excitement became clear. Half a dozen wagons turned slowly off the road and proceeded towards Longsword's encampment. Not more soldiers, Hugh realized, but supplies: food, wine, water, tents, pots, bedding and the like. He smiled to himself. If de Fougères believed the Bastard was just going to walk away from this siege, he was in for his second shock of the day.

"Send for Sir Ralph," he said to one of the guards when the men in the field started to unload the wagons. Longsword was striding from one to the other, reaching in an arm and poking around, obviously looking for something. He found it in the last two carts. With a shout that carried all the way to Hugh, he ordered these unloaded immediately.

It was difficult to see across the distance precisely what was being extracted from the last two wagons. To Hugh it looked like planks of wood of different sizes and that was all. But evidently it was something marvelous to the Bastard, for he had planted himself by the working men and was watching their every move.

Hugh heard the clump of steps from behind but didn't bother to turn around. He wasn't surprised when the arm landed around his neck with a little squeeze or when he heard de Fougères' booming voice too close to his ear. He grimaced.

"Those must be your wagons, Chester!" the older knight said cheerfully. His face was almost pressed against Hugh's cheek as he had a good look through the narrow opening. "And your oxen as well!"

Hugh pulled away and allowed his ally the full view. "I suppose so. But what is it the Bastard is so interested in those last wagons?"

De Fougères squinted. After a moment he swung his head around and, unsmiling now, demanded silence. The guard tower was crowded with knights who had followed the Breton from the hall and had been joking with each other about the possible contents of the wagons, but they sobered immediately at his tone. It was suddenly so quiet in the tower that they could all quite clearly hear the sound of hammering and loudly shouted orders from across the field. De Fougères stepped back, his face troubled.

"They mean business," he said.

The knights who were closest to the arrow slit pushed forward to fill the place vacated by de Fougères. Hugh heard murmurs of agreement and felt at a loss. Obviously the planks of wood were more than merely that but he hadn't the practical experience of the others in the tower and, from pride, was hesitant to put his question to the Bretons a second time.

But de Fougères was explaining for those who could not get to the window. "They've brought in a siege machine," he said. "A mangonel. There must have been one at Pontorson and the Bastard's carted it here in pieces. They're putting it together now."

Hugh had seen a mangonel once, at the royal castle at Gloucester. It was a device used to fling stones with great force against the walls of a fortress in an effort to collapse them. Power was derived from the torque of tightly twisted rope, into which a stout pole was inserted so that it stuck straight up into the air. A length of rope was fixed to the pole about three-quarters of the way up and its free end was wound around another pole which lay parallel to the torsion. This horizontal pole was turned by means of a handle until the rope pulled the torqued pole backwards to a fifteen degree, or smaller, angle. When the handle was released, the torqued pole, at the far end of which was a leather sling containing the stones, snapped forward with stunning velocity until it was stopped by a padded crossbar. But the missiles were unimpeded and flew loose of the sling towards their target. It wasn't a terribly accurate machine, he knew, but destructive nevertheless.

"It isn't much of a threat," scoffed one man. "To use it with any effectiveness, they have to bring it much closer to the castle. And then we simply pick them off with our bowmen."

But de Fougères was shaking his head. "This—boy," he spat, "knows exactly what he's doing. Look what he's got out there! Tents and cooking pots. Our oxen and our wagons for transport. He's got the earl's gold and weapons and armor to use to purchase enough mercenaries to swell his ranks to match ours. Yesterday he killed over one hundred of my soldiers. All this and now he's gone through the trouble of dragging that mangonel twenty miles and you think he hasn't considered such a simple thing as being within our arrow range when he uses it?" His voice had grown so loud and angry that the unfortunate knight who'd so confidently ventured his opinion, recoiled in shame.

"Well, then," Hugh said mildly, "what do you suggest we do?"

De Fougères stared hard at him. "We have no choice. We have to wait. We have to see what the Bastard does first, and then we can plan."

The only thing de Fougères needed to plan, Hugh thought as he watched the Breton stomp out of the tower, was what words to use when he begged the king's mercy.

"How are you going to get close enough to the castle to use this thing?" Delamere asked, kicking a foot at the mangonel. He wiped the sleeve of his tunic across his forehead. "Without getting us killed, that is."

"It'll work out of their arrow range," Longsword said absently. He carefully examined the re-constructed machine and pressed his thumb down upon the torqued rope with a satisfied expression.

"Yes, but will it hit anything?" Delamere persisted. The heat was making everyone impatient and irritable.

Longsword glanced up, annoyed. "Of course! Do you think I would have brought it all this way if I couldn't use it to some purpose?"

"I'm not exactly sure what you're up to, Will," Delamere said with exasperation. "Since we started this venture, you've been like another person."

"What are you talking about? My father gave me a job to do and I'm doing it! Perhaps I'm only taking it a bit more seriously than you!"

Delamere's eyes narrowed. "Is that a criticism of my efforts?"

"No!"

"Hmph!" Delamere snorted and began to walk away.

His friend's approval meant everything to Longsword. He hurried after Delamere. "Listen, Richard," he said earnestly, "the mangonel will work, not as effectively, but it will still work at a greater distance. It's a trick I heard of once. We just load the sling with smaller missiles and fewer of them. So it's lighter. The force of the release is the same but the sling will shoot farther because there isn't much weight in it."

Delamere thought about it and slowly nodded. "All right, but what kind of damage can you hope to do with smaller missiles?"

Longsword grinned. "With rocks and stones—very little, unless we get lucky. But we won't be using rocks and stones, Richard. Not as such, that is. My plan is to tie strips of cloth smeared with fat around them, light them and shoot them over the walls. Fireballs!" he exclaimed. "We can't break the walls so we'll fire the buildings inside. What do you think of that?"

Delamere had to admit it was a good plan. He glanced at the mangonel and then squinted up at the bright sky. "There's one good point to this infernal weather," he added. "You don't have to waste any time lighting your missiles; just leave them out in the sun and they'll probably burst into flame on their own."

For the next three days, Longsword employed the mangonel with an increasing measure of success. It took some time to work out the most effective combination of distance and weight and some more time to make up the strips of cloth slathered in animal fat brought in from Pontorson which were tied around rocks and set ablaze. The soldiers in the fortress appeared as curious about the ability of the machine as did Longsword's men. They lined the walls and crowded into the guard towers to watch the progress of the experiment directed against them. When the missiles fell harmlessly short, they jeered and whistled...but when the missiles began to soar past their heads, the catcalls abruptly broke off as they scrambled to battle the flames.

Inside Dol, Hugh found the ordeal tedious. He was enough of a knight to admire his foe's ingenuity but not enough to relish the tension of the stand-off. He considered de Fougères' lack of reaction the rebels' downfall. The Breton, he now believed, was like a bully. While he was ransacking a defenseless countryside he was bluff, confident and cruel but when face to face with an army he lost his nerve. As far as Hugh could tell, what was spread out before Dol was the extent of Longsword's force, which could probably easily be overcome. He couldn't understand why de Fougères continued to do nothing but he didn't bother to ask.

The lack of response from the castle annoyed Longsword as well. Here and there a crossbowman would take careful aim and shoot at one of the soldiers manning the mangonel, always with no result, but that was all. Delamere asked rhetorically why the garrison should risk life and waste supplies with a sortie when it could hold out for months but Longsword was impatient for a resolution. The heat wave had not broken and his men complained their tents were small protection against the merciless sun. The horses were suffering even more and were periodically removed to the shelter of the forest, although such a solution made Longsword's force extremely vulnerable. Despite the threat from the mangonel, the siege seemed to be going in the rebels' favor. Longsword desperately wanted to finish them off before the king recalled him. Alan d'Arques had been gone four days; he had surely reached Rouen by now and given Henry the news of the attack on the convoy and the blockade of the rebels in their castle. He could well be on his way back with fresh instructions and Longsword couldn't be certain that these wouldn't summon him to return to the east. His frustration grew to the point where he barely slept at night. Instead, he paced around the little camp, wracking his brains for some way to entice the Bretons into leaving the security of Dol.

The morning of the fourth day of the siege dawned as relentlessly hot as the past few but with one difference: a heavy, leaden sky overhead. Longsword's mood turned even worse; if it rained, he wouldn't be able to shoot fireballs from the mangonel and a whole day's work would be lost. But he was the only one of the men who viewed the coming storm with dismay. The others, including even the genial and accommodating Sir Walter, were happy to have relief from the heat.

"Perhaps nature will do the job for us," Delamere said, as the wind picked up and the first rumblings of thunder were heard in the distance. "Lightning will strike the wooden roof of the keep and set it ablaze."

Longsword's face was grim. "It had better not," he said. "This is my fight."

Delamere was about to laugh but a glance at his friend's set expression forestalled him.

The storm didn't hit all at once. There was thunder and lightning and a torrential downpour during which the royalists huddled in their leaky tents and prayed they wouldn't be struck dead and hoped that the spooked, hobbled horses wouldn't scatter too far. Then there was a brief respite when the sun and patches of blue actually appeared in the sky. Longsword took advantage of it by putting the mangonel to use but was only able to take four or five ineffectual shots before the clouds rapidly piled up again and broke open. The men ran back to the relative shelter of the tents so quickly that the supply of prepared missiles was forgotten and left behind and when the storm finally moved on and Longsword went out to the mangonel, he discovered that the pounding rain had rinsed most of the fat from the cloths, making them impossible to light.

"At least the temperature's cooled off," Delamere offered sympathetically as Longsword surveyed the useless missiles with dismay. "The men won't be so apt to complain now."

Longsword glared at him. "If I find the idiots who were responsible for taking these back, I'll make them so miserable they'll wish they were in hell! And then let them complain to the devil about the goddamned heat!"

When Alan d'Arques rode into the camp a short time later, he was told he could find Longsword and Delamere among the clump of men surrounding the mangonel. The afternoon had turned stunning, bright and sunny but comfortable and had cajoled Longsword into a better humor. While some of his men sat nearby and prepared fresh fireballs for use the next day, the remainder had decided to clean up their ever-increasing midden by projecting everything in it—mostly the inedible leftovers of their previous meals as well as bits of broken metal and one good cooking pot into which someone had contributed his personal waste—over the walls of Dol. They had even dismantled one of the wagons and sent the pieces flying into the guard towers. Longsword cheered as mightily as the others when the soldiers in the towers were seen to duck in fear as they realized the projectiles were headed directly at them.

D'Arques slid off his horse with a grin. "My lords, haven't you yet taken this castle?"

Longsword whipped around, a sharp retort on his tongue which died when he saw who had spoken. He relaxed. "We're almost there. They were saved this morning by an opportune thunderstorm."

Delamere gave the younger man a welcoming embrace. "You must have made quick work in Rouen," he remarked. "Were you at least invited to spend the night?"

"Not even!" D'Arques made a face. "I feel as though I haven't slept since the ambush on Chester's convoy five days ago."

Delamere laughed. "Listen to him, Will! When he was a mere squire he never dared to complain! Believe it or not, you actually had the easier task," he told Alan. "We spent the last few days broiling under the sun and vying to come up with the most creative object to hurl over those walls." There were more cheers from around the mangonel as someone's soiled undergarment was wrapped around a discarded helmet and shot clear of the guard tower.

"What do you mean you didn't even stay the night in Rouen?" Longsword asked abruptly.

"The king wouldn't allow it, my lord. We marched out only a few hours after I'd arrived."

"'We'?"

"Yes, my lord. All of us." D'Arques pointed to the edge of the forest in the distance, where an emerging line of mounted soldiers was only just becoming visible. "The king has brought the main part of his army to end the siege."

Henry had performed a monumental feat in moving both his knights and his foot soldiers almost two hundred miles in less than two days. He arrived at Dol on August 23rd and promptly relieved Longsword of his command. After a brief conference with his son, the mangonel was ordered pulled back and Sir Walter was dispatched to the fortress to offer terms.

Delamere expected Longsword to emerge angry and bitter from his meeting with the king but to his surprise his friend was subdued. "He said I should have sent Sir Walter to talk to de Fougères and Chester immediately, to let them know my intentions and give them the opportunity to surrender instead of trying to force them into it," Longsword told him glumly. "He said I wasted four days and put my men at needless risk."

Delamere was stunned. "But how were we to know the garrison wouldn't just kill fitz Hamo and overwhelm us, seeing how outnumbered we were?"

"He said that if the garrison knew how few we were, it would have attacked us four days ago."

"And that was that?" Delamere demanded. "So neat and simple? What about everything you've done? What about the ambush? Did he say anything about that? It was a great slaughter—"

"Sir Walter began to tell him of it," Longsword interrupted, "but he held up his hand and said Alan had already given him the story. That was all."

"I don't believe it—"

Longsword held up his hand in a fair imitation of the king. "He's right, Richard," he said wearily. "Everything he said was right. I was so eager to crush the rebels that I didn't think of the uncomplicated solution."

Delamere watched his friend walk off dejectedly, back to the tent Henry had apportioned for his own. It would have been useless to argue further with him, to try and buoy his sagging spirit. Longsword lived and breathed on his father's say-so and Delamere suspected that, to him, his failure to force the capitulation of the rebels was due to more than insufficient time or bad weather; it was divine confirmation of the king's hard words.

At the same time, Hugh and Ralph de Fougères watched Sir Walter and his escort ride out of Dol. They had not been permitted to plead their case or ask for special privileges. Henry's terms left no room for negotiation. They were to surrender immediately to a comfortable, honorable imprisonment for the duration of the war. If they refused this offer and chose to continue their futile rebellion, the king would show no mercy. They were given three days to think about it.

Hugh's mind had been decided long before Henry had appeared and de Fougères' nerve had been faltering since Longsword had brought up the mangonel. The latter knew also, from past experience, how hard Henry could be when he was angry and it was obviously anger which had propelled the king on his monumental march to the other side of Normandy. No one at Dol could even remember the last time Henry hadn't won a siege; he was the master at it.

On August 26th, the earl of Chester, Ralph de Fougères, over one hundred knights and three times as many mercenaries filed through the front gate of Dol and put their weapons at the king's feet.

Chapter 13

August, 1174

Barfleur, Normandy

The Young King's rebellion struggled on for another year.

Realizing Henry had effectively secured his borders in Normandy with the defeat of the alliance in Brittany, the rebels turned their attention to England, where they intended to create so much havoc that the king would be forced to come to its aid. King William of Scotland, another of Henry's inveterate enemies, ravaged the north country and succeeded in capturing Nottingham in the spring of 1174. The loyalists defending the country (who included Geoffrey Plantagenet, Henry's second bastard son), were able to hold their own in most of the midlands but when the count of Flanders made public his plan to personally invade England in retaliation for his brother's death, they sent messengers to the king, begging him to return.

Henry landed at Southampton on July 7th. He went straight to Canterbury and at the cathedral did public penance for his part in the murder of Thomas Becket. There were those who had said that the rebellion of the king's sons and the ensuing war were the result of that heinous crime, even though the papal court had seen fit to absolve him of any guilt. With his penance, Henry sought to quiet such rumblings and it seemed to work admirably. King William was captured in Yorkshire on July 13th and within a few days the whole of England was secure in Henry's hands.

It became obvious that the count of Flanders' declaration to invade England had been nothing more than a ruse to get Henry out of Normandy. On July 22nd, he and King Louis attacked Rouen, which had been their main preoccupation since the start of the rebellion.

On August 8th, Henry returned to the continent, putting down at Barfleur. William Longsword disembarked on shaky legs, splashed to the beach and dropped to his knees on the rocky ground. Of all crossings, he hated night ones the most. It was bad enough to be on a rolling ship but to not even be able to see past his hand at the same time was hell. He hadn't slept a wink.

He muttered his fervent prayer of gratitude and got up, pausing for a moment while the rest of Henry's army strode around him, carrying weapons and mail high to keep them from getting wet and pulling on the leads of the skittish, blindfolded horses. The memory of the trip behind him and his ritual completed, he was now free to glare at his father, who was watching with unconcealed impatience as his mount was led up to the shore, followed by a line of men, each of whom bore some accoutrement of his war gear: saddle, hauberk, helmet, dry boots and gloves, extra sword.

"Don't tell me you're still angry," said Richard Delamere, splashing up behind him.

"No—I'm outraged!" Longsword snapped. He gestured with a sweep of his arm. "Out of all the men here why am I the one he picks to stay behind until all the damned ships have been unloaded?"

Delamere grinned. "I'm not certain but perhaps it has something to do with the tactless remark you made about skewering the Young King on the point of your sword when you meet up with him in Rouen."

"It was a joke!"

"Will, in all the years I've known you, you've never made a joke," Delamere told him. "You're totally without humor."

Longsword fixed his outraged glare on his friend, who burst out laughing. After another moment, he relented and smiled wanly. "Well, I do feel like skewering him. It galls me how my father can still look upon him so benignly after everything he's done. Can you imagine Young Henry behaving likewise if he'd had the upper hand all this time?"

"As long as the king lives, that could never happen," Delamere said seriously. "No one can defeat him."

Longsword didn't reply. He turned his gaze again to his father, attended now by his knights, and Delamere saw a mingling of devotion and admiration suffuse his face. He felt sudden anger with the king. Longsword deserved more recognition than he was given, more honors. While Henry inspired a fierce loyalty among many, he had no better champion than this bastard son. Yet he was seemingly oblivious of Longsword's earnest endeavors on his behalf while simultaneously excusing the treachery of the Young King. Delamere could only hope that when the rebellion was finally put down, Henry would reward Longsword in a manner which would prove to his son how much his unswerving fidelity and hard work were valued.

Rouen had been under siege for more than a fortnight by the time Henry returned to Normandy. Although the city was defended by a sizable garrison, it could not hope to hold out for any great length of time against the combined forces of the king of France and the count of Flanders. Already its walls were suffering from the constant bombardment of siege machines such as the one Longsword had employed at Dol. It was also more difficult to defend an entire city instead of a single fortress; there was a large and unpredictable civilian population to be taken into account and a greater preponderance of timbered buildings that only increased the chances of widespread destruction from fireballs hurled by the attackers. And due largely to its strategic placement on the Seine, Rouen was an important commercial center. It couldn't afford to lie dormant for too long.

Longsword had proposed taking two or three hundred mounted men and racing to the city ahead of his father's army to engage Louis' forces and divert his attention from the siege but Henry had refused the offer. Contrary to the prevailing opinion of most loyalists, he had no wish to deal the rebels a humiliating, crushing defeat which might very well provide them with an excuse to rebel again at some later time. He had no wish, as well, to alienate his heir. He rode instead at the head of his forces in a quick but showy procession designed to give Louis' spies warning of his advance and the opportunity to withdraw to France as the rebels had done at Verneuil.

August 10th was St. Laurence's Day and in Rouen a general truce was declared for a celebration. The citizens made merry in the streets and on the banks of the river there was a tournament for the knights of the garrison. But, just as he had done at Verneuil, Louis broke the truce in a desperate attempt to take the city before Henry arrived. Only the sharp observance of two clerks taking in the view from a high tower saved Rouen. They noticed the martial activity in the French camp and sounded an alarm which brought the garrison running back to its posts in time to prevent the rebels from scaling the city walls. Henry arrived the next day. There was some fighting but the true break came when carts carrying supplies to the French were seized by his mercenaries. Without supplies Louis realized he wouldn't be able to survive for long in hostile territory and he fled across the border. Henry marched triumphantly into Rouen. England had been secured and now Normandy. Excepting the count of Flanders, the king of France and Young Henry, the major figures of the rebellion had all been captured. The fight was over. In September, Louis sued for peace.

Henry was generous in victory. After the treaty which formally ended the war was set, the majority of his prisoners were released after giving security and their lands were restored to them. He chose to ignore Louis' large part in directing and inciting the rebellion, preferring for diplomatic reasons to consider it the result of the Young King's sense of grievance. To this end, Henry gave his son more responsibilities and a greater allowance. The king of Scotland was released after signing a treaty in which he acknowledged Henry as his overlord. The earl of Chester, the earl of Leicester and Ralph de Fougères were the only ones whom the king kept his prisoners, lodged in comfortable but secure confinement in the royal castle at Falaise.

Richard Delamere watched his friend become gradually more uncommunicative as the days passed. Longsword wasn't coping well with the realization that Henry's purpose was to put everything back to the way it was before the rebellion and that included keeping the Young King his heir. They had both been amazed when the Young King was received back into Henry's paternal benevolence without a murmur. If Henry had had harsh words for his son, he'd delivered them in privacy so strict that no other person had heard them.

Longsword was at first stunned and then angry. Although Delamere warned him to just swallow it, the bitterness welled up so high inside him that he finally confronted his father. Any legitimate argument he might have had were lost in his frustrated shouts and scathing accusations and his timing was bad because the king was in the midst of an informal council meeting and the chamber was full of men. Henry didn't like being shouted at, particularly before witnesses, and he answered the challenge with his own booming voice and forced Longsword into a glaring silence. When Longsword would have replied, Henry told him to get out and not to dare enter his sight until he was summoned. The younger man strode angrily from the chamber, slamming the door behind him, and went straight to the stables, where he threw the saddle over his horse and disappeared alone into the countryside for two days.

Delamere knew Longsword had a temper and after the first night wondered if his friend was going to do something stupid like ride to France and offer his services to Louis. The next day Henry sent for his son, only to be told that his whereabouts were unknown. Concerned, the king ordered a search organized but this proved unnecessary. In the morning, Longsword trotted into the castle, his anger finally subdued but something like mistrust in his eyes when he beheld his father waiting for him on the steps leading to the hall.

Delamere sat a discreet distance from the closed door idly nursing a cup of weak ale. His mind was too distracted to even pay much attention to the flirtatious glances of the castellan's pretty young daughter. He expected at any moment to hear the wild burst of Longsword's fury and the equally strident response of the king but no sound came to his ears. He didn't know if that meant he could relax or if something far worse than a mere argument between father and son was taking place.

Finally, the door opened and Longsword emerged. His face had been sunburned by a long summer of fighting the king's war but to Delamere it looked unnaturally pale—and emotionless. Longsword appeared not to have seen him; he walked almost silently through the hall and outside. Delamere followed.

"Will!" he called when Longsword showed no sign of pausing. He ran a little. "Will!"

Longsword stopped and turned around.

"Where are you going?"

For a moment Longsword made no answer, as if he were confused by the question. Then he said, "I don't know."

Delamere came up to him. "Let's go up on the wall," he said quietly.

They climbed the narrow steps to the wallwalk in silence and in silence stared blindly out at the view of neatly cut golden fields, recently harvested. Longsword was an uncomplicated man; Delamere had always known exactly what he was thinking just from the expressions which flitted across his open face. But now his friend's face was shuttered and Delamere didn't know how to proceed, whether to speak or to wait.

Longsword solved the problem. "The king thinks it would be a good idea if I leave his household," he said abruptly, in a flat, tight voice.

Delamere jerked his head around to stare at him, open-mouthed. He was too stunned to speak; then he sputtered, "I don't believe it! Why? What reason could he possibly give you?"

"The king said I have no understanding of his situation. He said that my unfortunate hatred of my half-brother is irritating to the point where it interferes with his efforts at diplomacy. He said it would be better for him, the Young King and especially for me if I were sent out of Normandy."

There was something chilling about Longsword's voice. It was unnatural for him to be so calm—he ought to have been ranting, striding up and down the wallwalk, waving his arms and loudly cursing his fate. Delamere thought it strange, too, that he kept referring to Henry as 'the king'; he'd never heard Longsword call him anything other than 'my father'.

"And that's it?" he said finally. "He's turning you out?"

Longsword continued to stare stonily out across the sun-warmed field. "Not quite. The king's being very generous to me. He's giving me a place to go. More than adequate compensation for my support during the war, he said. He sounded very satisfied about it."

He himself didn't sound as pleased. "Where is it?" Delamere asked apprehensively.

"Wales."

"Wales? Wales as in the other side of the kingdom?"

Longsword nodded. "Yes, that Wales." He turned to face Delamere, his expression still bland. "It seems, doesn't it, that the king not only wishes me to get out of Normandy but out of England as well?"

"He must have a reason, Will! Perhaps it's your strong arm. The petty Welsh rulers are none too secure and the peace Henry's made with them is tenuous at best, especially in the south."

"You must read the king's mind better than that, Richard, because I'm being sent to the north. To Gwynedd. The principality where the king has strengthened his peace with Prince Dafydd by giving him his half-sister in marriage. The place whose ruler loves the king so much that in return he surrendered the Norman castle his father captured seven years ago and sent him a contingent of archers to fight for him in the rebellion. By the way, that's the castle I'm getting. Rhuddlan. God alone knows what kind of state it's in after being in the hands of the Welsh. Custodian of Rhuddlan. Probably the most boring appointment in the whole of the empire."

Despite his friend's lackluster portrayal, Delamere was excited for him. "But your own castle, Will!"

"He made his other bastard, Geoffrey, the damned bishop of Lincoln!" Longsword finally exploded. "He could have made me an earl at least! I am the eldest, after all! But no—a mere custodian is sufficient enough for William the Bastard!"

Delamere knew—and he was sure Longsword knew it too, but in his hurt and anger was choosing to ignore it—that King Henry had, since the start of his reign, been reducing the number of earls in England by not creating new earldoms as rewards and not filling old ones when their previous holders died without heirs. An earl's wealth was bound up in his land and the more land he had, the more knight service he owed to the king. The situation could be potentially threatening to the monarch, as Henry had learned during the civil war when some of the barons who had sworn to his grandfather to support his claim to the throne switched their allegiance to his uncle and spawned over a decade of devastating conflict. It was rumored even now that the king's punishment of the earls of Chester and Leicester, his only remaining prisoners and two of the most powerful men in England, would be severe enough to ensure that their influence would become drastically curtailed.

Delamere was annoyed on his friend's behalf. It would have been fitting to make Will an earl, he thought; he deserved it for his loyalty and would have been so pleased and proud by the elevation in rank that he would have done anything for the king in return, including getting down on his knees and kissing the Young King's boots. Being the keeper of a royal castle wasn't the shabby appointment Longsword was making it out to be, but it certainly didn't have the prestige and attendant power of being an earl.

"Maybe he's waiting for a vacancy in an existing earldom," Delamere suggested feebly.

"Yes, I'm sure it's something like that," Longsword agreed sarcastically.

Delamere lapsed into an uneasy silence, unused to Longsword's unfilial attitude.

"There's more," Longsword said after a minute. He did not sound enthusiastic. "There's a prize that goes with Rhuddlan. To further bind their friendship, Prince Dafydd has offered up his niece in sacrifice to the mighty king of England. And I'm the lucky one who gets to marry her."

PART III

Chapter 14

September, 1176

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

It was unusually warm for a mid-September morning, that much William fitz Henry had learned in his two years as lord of Rhuddlan Castle. And although he knew that soon enough the weather would turn bone-chillingly frigid, he still cursed the heat which caused the sweat to drip into his eyes and between his shoulder blades as he practiced his swordsmanship against one of his garrison knights. The two of them were bareheaded and shirtless and dearly would Longsword have loved to stop but he refused to give up before his competitor.

The sentry in the tower shouted and put a fortunate end to the contest. There was a rider approaching, he called down; a solitary man. A moment later he turned back with the welcome news that the horseman was Sir Richard Delamere.

"Pull open the gate!" Longsword ordered. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and spat onto the ground. One of his men brought a bucket of freshly drawn water to him and he rinsed the dust from his mouth and then drank deeply. He nodded to the young man with whom he'd been practicing and passed him the ladle. "A good bout," he said. "You almost had me."

"No, my lord," the other man protested, grinning. "I was barely holding on to my sword towards the end."

"As for me," Longsword said with the barest hint of amusement, "what kept me going was pretending you were my wife."

The men standing around him burst into laughter and were still chuckling when Delamere rode into the ward and slid effortlessly from his saddle.

"Seems when I left you were all hanging about doing nothing," he said with a broad smile. He bowed to Longsword. "My lord."

"Where the hell have you been, Richard?" Longsword demanded irritably. "It's been nearly a month!"

Delamere looked surprised. "But you know where I was. Why? Was there trouble while I was gone?"

"Trouble would have been welcome!" Longsword snorted and strode off towards the keep.

"He's been in a foul temper since the day you left," one of the knights told Delamere. "Couldn't keep still. Every day we were out hunting."

"There can't be anything left in the countryside to kill," added someone else.

"He wanted to visit you once. Took four of us. We got halfway to there and then he changed his mind."

"Snaps at everyone. Last night he had one of the servants in tears when she didn't fill his cup fast enough."

Delamere sighed. It was becoming obvious that Longsword relied on his company to divert his mind from his hatred of living in Wales.

He found Longsword in his chamber, changing his clothes with sharp, angry movements. He leaned casually against the wall of the open doorway and crossed his arms over his chest. "Miss me, did you?"

"You said you'd only be away a week or so!" Longsword retorted, combing his damp hair with his fingers.

"I'm sorry, Will," Delamere said calmly. "I forgot the time."

"You forget your service to me!"

Delamere gritted his teeth but refused to be drawn into an argument. Strictly speaking, he owed Longsword only forty days of service a year. "I'm sorry, Will," he repeated.

For a few moments there was silence as Longsword sat on the edge of his bed and pulled his dusty boots back onto his feet. Then, as he criss-crossed the laces, he grudgingly asked Delamere if he had enjoyed his stay at the manor.

"Very much," he answered, careful not to sound too enthusiastic. "The little one's a terror. He can't be bothered with walking; he half-runs, half-stumbles everywhere, always in a rush."

"And your wife?"

"Olwen is well. But she isn't my wife, Will."

Longsword stood up and reached for his belt. "She might as well be. You've no fancy for anyone else, have you? And what of your children? I know too well the taint of illegitimacy."

Delamere shifted uneasily. "I'm happy the way things are," he said, shrugging. "And the only thing Olwen's fretting over now is the baby that's coming in a couple of months. Anyway, in Wales a child isn't illegitimate if his father acknowledges him."

"God in heaven," Longsword shivered. "The way you speak, it sounds as if we'll be here forever."

Rhuddlan was a moderate fortress on a spit of land between the sea and the River Clywd. It had long been an important location, although not necessarily for strategic reasons. To the Romans, who had an auxiliary fort there, it was a stop along their road which continued west to Caernarfon. Later, to the native rulers of Gwynedd it was the site of a llys, the home and court of the chief and one of the first urban areas in Wales by virtue of its proximity to the waterways which facilitated trade and its abundant iron ore deposits. To the Normans who invaded after 1071, it was a springboard to further incursions into Gwynedd, ambition which had been stifled with the emergence of strong Welsh leaders, principally Owain, who captured the royal stronghold there and razed it in 1167.

It remained a ruin until Owain's son Dafydd returned it to Henry six years later. The king sent in masons and builders to refashion it, building in stone in a rectangular shape softened by rounded towers at every corner. The main gate, bounded by a pair of close-set towers, faced the river only several hundred yards away, while the rear of the fortress looked out upon the demesne, the castle's own fields, worked upon by taoegion, unfree laborers. Passing through the gate, one emerged onto the ward. Straight ahead was the keep, containing the ample hall and lord's quarters; to the left were the barracks which housed the royal garrison. The ground floor of one tower served as a chapel. The kitchens, bake-house, brew-house, laundry rooms and latrines were in the rear, as were the stables and the armory. There was a covered well just past the entrance to the hall. The ward was a large expanse of packed earth. Rhuddlan was strong, superbly designed to withstand a lengthy siege. Its storerooms on the windowless ground floor of the keep were vast and Longsword kept them well-stocked.

Not only was he prepared for a siege, he longed for one. Any bit of trouble. Any diversion, no matter how harsh, from the mind numbing inactivity of the past two years.

In the old days, in the time of his great grandfather Henry I, there had been plenty of strife with the Welsh, particularly along the marches, the borderlands separating the principalities of Wales from England. Plenty of opportunity to hone battle skills and take plunder. Even the early years of his father's reign had been marked by friction but most of this had since been resolved.

The prospect of spending the rest of his life lost and forgotten in the placid hills of northern Wales did not excite William fitz Henry in the least.

He left his chamber. Delamere pushed himself away from the wall and followed him down the circular stairwell which led to the hall below.

"William, what would you think if I were to move Olwen here?" he said. "Perhaps she could wait again on Lady Teleri—"

"No!" Longsword answered curtly.

"Why not? You complain I'm away too often. If Olwen were here, then I would never need to leave."

The hall was empty but for a pair of serving girls sitting on a bench near the unfired hearth. Longsword recognized one of them and gestured to her to bring him a pitcher. After two years he still hadn't learned any Welsh and couldn't seem to remember even the few words for his basic needs, such as wine, that Delamere had taught him. But he had noted that this particular servant was quick to understand his simple gestures and that she had a less likely chance of messing up his orders than any of the other ones.

He turned to Delamere. "Olwen wouldn't be too happy. She never got on with Teleri."

"She'd come if I told her she had to."

Longsword smirked. "Maybe she would...if you swore to marry her first."

"Will, I'm serious."

Longsword waved his hand irritably. "There isn't any need to bring your family here, Richard! I apologize for my anger."

The girl returned with a pitcher of wine and Delamere dropped the subject. His pleasant relationship with Olwen was becoming a sore point with Longsword, who was confined to his castle and to a wife for whom he had no affection. Much as Delamere loved his friend, he couldn't but help feel a warm and intense pride in his burgeoning family and it seemed now that every day he spent at his manor flew by so quickly that he was easily persuaded to stay longer.

At the same time, he felt guilty about leaving Longsword alone. The two had been close friends since childhood. Out of respect for their long association, Longsword had generously enfoeffed Delamere with a small area of good land. It had been the Norman habit when invading Wales to simply replace the traditional Welsh administrative divisions with the nearest Norman counterpart. The basic Welsh political unit was the commote, ruled over by a chief. Bound to the land and not free to leave it were the taeogion, who provided the chief, his war band and his family with the fruits of their agricultural labor. Also belonging to the commote, but legally free, were the bonheddwyr, pastoralists who moved their stock from winter shelters in the lower lands to summer pastures in the hills. A victorious Norman lord merely needed to put up a castle on the site of the former chief's fort in order to collect the revenues of the commote. The exchange wasn't as easy or favorable to the Welsh; in addition to losing their native rulers, they were now subject to Norman law.

Longsword's gift had dramatically altered Delamere's position from hired sword to feudal vassal, a man of independent means. In truth, the grant had been more of a gesture than a source of income. There was land enough only to feed his family and his laborers. Olwen's household consisted of two female servants and six men who tended to the fields. But it was land, that most coveted of all Norman possessions, and it meant that he only needed to report to Longsword for castle guard for a month and a week and the rest of the year, barring war, was his.

However, Delamere was no husbandman and he was young enough, at twenty-six, to often miss the camaraderie of the barracks and the company of his friends, which was why he spent more time at the fortress than was required of him. And being part of a small group of foreigners living in a formerly hostile country made him feel all the more keenly his obligation to them. When he had first met Olwen, he hadn't been able to speak a word of Welsh nor she a word of Norman French but somehow they had communicated and now, two years later, they were able to converse well enough in each other's language. But it was like stepping into a comfortable pair of boots to ride up to the castle gate and be hailed in familiar speech and to speak and joke with someone without stumbling over strange words or groping for unaccustomed phrases.

He had met Olwen when she'd arrived at Rhuddlan as part of Lady Teleri's entourage. Teleri was the niece of Prince Dafydd and Longsword's intended bride. She was fifteen, haughty and hated the foreigners. She had been rumored to be a beauty, with thick reddish-brown hair, large, dark eyes and flawless white skin, but from the moment she entered Rhuddlan she was a disappointment in that regard. She walked about with a sour expression, her nose crinkled with distaste as if everywhere she went she smelled something awful and her obvious loathing for everyone and everything connected with the Norman fortress made her seem unattractive.

Perhaps in the hands of someone cheerful and patient she might have been worn down at length into a grudging acceptance of the fate her uncle had imposed on her but William fitz Henry was not that person. He hadn't wanted the marriage and as his wife didn't seem disposed towards encouraging him, he saw no reason why he should make any effort either. He had slept in her bed only twice; she had accepted his touch with her eyes squeezed tightly shut and her limbs tensed and unresponsive. After a while, he had been so disgusted that he'd given up.

Olwen was different. From the moment Delamere had caught sight of the slight figure running soundlessly across the ward, her long black hair unbound and streaming, her cloak billowing behind her, he had been mesmerized. The hour had been late and there hadn't been anyone else around except the sentries in the distant guard tower. He had just come out of the latrines. The moon was high and full, showering down a ghostly white glow and illuminating the great ward and as he stood idly enjoying the peace of the night, the shape of a young woman suddenly manifested from the shadows near the stables and flew to the stairway below the hall. Unconsciously he walked a few steps forward, staring after what he thought must surely be an apparition, so silent and graceful was it. The figure ran up the steps and paused at the top, turning around and looking down into the ward. He fancied it looked at him, although with the distance and the unnatural light of the moon he couldn't be certain. And then it whirled around with a flourish of hair and cloak and disappeared into the hall.

For two weeks at that time the castle had been full of people who had gathered to celebrate William fitz Henry's marriage to Lady Teleri. The two great leaders and their retinues were there, as well as Longsword's men and all the additional servants, cooks and entertainers necessary to cater to the crowd. The mood was especially festive because the wedding was to take place on Christmas Day. Delamere had used every free moment to search for the woman whose nocturnal flight had so impressed him, but without luck. He didn't know if she was a noblewoman, a mere servant or someone's mistress. He didn't know if she was a guest of the king or of the prince. He didn't even know why he needed so desperately to find her.

It was difficult to get away from Longsword who, upon introduction, had taken an immediate dislike to his intended bride and who stuck to him in increasing despair as the appointed day drew near. In the end Delamere had given up his quest and had stayed late at the table with Longsword and his men, drinking and making crude jokes about all the guests and falling into bed clothed and exceedingly drunk.

The day of the wedding had dawned bright and clear, snapping with winter crispness. An auspicious day but for the aching heads and queasy stomachs with which the young men of Rhuddlan awakened. Delamere felt particularly awful and hung well in the rear of the throng which gathered in the chapel to hear the betrothed couple exchange vows. After only a short while, he slipped outside, throat parched, in search of cold water. Servants were hurrying back and forth across the ward and into the hall to prepare for the feast. Garlands of pine branches and cones had been strung along the walls. Near the kitchens, smoke rose in a steady stream from the roasting meat in the cooking pits. The perfume of the pine and the smell of the burning meat reacted violently in Delamere's stomach and he stumbled dizzily in the direction of the well.

Someone was there, waiting for him with a bucket resting on the stone lined opening to the hole in the ground which was the well. He recognized her at once. She bent down and submerged the wooden cup she was holding into the bucket, drew it out and offered it to him with a smile. He took it automatically, not even looking at it but staring all the time into her amused black eyes and arched eyebrows, and drained it.

She laughed then, and said something to him in Welsh which he didn't understand but which sounded so beautiful in his ears that he wished she would go on talking forever. She seemed to know what he was thinking because she continued to speak in a low, conversational voice while taking the empty cup from him and refilling it. He studied her more closely. She was real enough. She wore a crimson surcoat with detail work of gold thread about the neckline. Her shining dark hair was braided and half-covered by a linen wimple. But it was her eyes that his kept returning to; he could not look away.

She laughed at him again, touched a hand to her chest and said her name was Olwen.

Longsword didn't believe in love at first sight, although Delamere pointed out that he obviously found it possible to hate at first sight since he'd had nothing worthy to say of his wife since the moment he'd met her. Longsword insisted what his friend felt for this Olwen was nothing but lust, pure and simple. And lucky for him—but then Delamere had always been lucky, probably owing in large part to his lean body, easy manner and dark, curling hair which he kept fashionably close-cropped—the girl lusted for him right back.

Olwen was an illegitimate daughter of Prince Dafydd's priest and had attended Lady Teleri for the past four years. She was two years older than her mistress and of a much happier demeanor. Teleri had never liked her but now that she was trapped in a foreigner's fortress with a foreign husband, she needed whatever familiar support was offered. But when, only two months after their arrival, it became apparent that Olwen was pregnant, Teleri demanded that her husband send the woman back in shame to the prince's household. The request had coincided with Longsword's self-removal from his wife's chamber and he was feeling none too pleased with her. He refused and pretended he didn't understand the vicious, broken phrases of sputtered Norman French with which she abused him. He had actually been shocked to discover that the girl had a temper after all; he'd started to wonder if she were even truly alive.

Although it meant that he was no longer able to see her every day, Delamere brought Olwen to the small house he'd built on his property and set her up with her own household. Teleri was livid but there was nothing she could do about it. And Longsword had been in a better mood for weeks afterward; it wasn't the kind of excitement he'd hoped for, but it had been a battle of sorts and he felt that he had won it.

Chapter 15

January, 1177

Falaise, Normandy

There had been rumors for the last few weeks that his release was imminent. At first Hugh allowed himself to feel the thrill of excitement but as the days passed and he heard nothing firm, his hope faded. He became convinced that the king meant this confinement to last indefinitely and he knew that if he was forced to spend much longer with Ralph de Fougères, one of them was going to end up dead.

There were three of them who were royal prisoners still, two years after the end of the war, awaiting the verdict of the king. Robert, earl of Leicester, was a decade older than Hugh, a greying, slender man who kept mostly to his own suite of comfortable rooms in the fortress and conferred primarily with the half dozen knights he'd been permitted to retain as his personal servants. Hugh knew from Haworth, who mingled frequently with Leicester's men, that the earl was very anxious about what Henry would ultimately decide to do with him. He had been inarguably the king's most strident opponent. After the surrender of Brittany, Henry had attempted to end the war by offering terms to the Young King. It was a direct result of Earl Robert's adamant intervention and his refusal to accept anything which Henry offered that the peace talks broke off and the war continued for another year.

As for Ralph de Fougères—well, the man would not let him be. The Breton had no friends at Falaise, nor his own attendants, and being a garrulous man consequently sought Hugh's company, imagining there was still some bond between them because of their previous alliance. Although the other man didn't speak of it, preferring to rehash their escapades in Avranches before William Longsword had made his appearance, Hugh knew that de Fougères was even more apprehensive about Henry's intentions than Leicester. The Breton had been a constant thorn in the king's side since the latter had come to the throne. If Brittany had the reputation of instability, it was largely due to de Fougères' warmongering.

Hugh wasn't so worried. It was true he had much to answer for but the countryside he had ravaged had been his own traditional lands; he still held the title of viscount of Avranches. He had surrendered immediately when challenged by the king and the royal forces in England had never been confronted by the men he'd left behind to defend Chester. He believed that if Henry had intended to execute the three of them for treason he would have done it already and made an example of them, but he didn't know how the king could have justified such an action without similarly punishing the primary instigator of the rebellion: his own son.

Still, he hadn't expected their imprisonment to last this long. Every other rebel had already been released and he could find no reason why the king should have decided to hold onto them. Falaise was one of Henry's favorite castles; it was large and comfortable and Hugh had been accorded several chambers for his personal use and treated with due deference by the king's servants and retainers. He was not prevented from meeting with Leicester or de Fougères and for exercise was permitted to hunt whenever he desired. Yet, he sometimes wondered if it were not easier on the mind to be shut up like a common criminal in some sterile enclosure. His imprisonment had the semblance of normal life but Falaise wasn't Chester. He missed his castle and he missed England.

He thanked God Roger was with him—he would have gone mad if Haworth had opted to return to Chester. Hugh, always generous to his knights, hadn't required any of them to share his confinement when the king released them upon the end of the war. But Haworth had insisted over Hugh's admittedly lukewarm protestations on remaining. The earl often suspected that he was the burly knight's only passion in life, an idea which was highly flattering but occasionally constricting. Haworth would sulk but otherwise turn a blind eye to Hugh's sporadic flirtations with other men; it had only been Hugh's lengthy affair with Robert Bolsover that had stretched his capacity for jealousy almost to its limit.

Not that there was anyone at Falaise in whom Hugh had the slightest interest anyway. It was just as well that Haworth had stayed.

He was a great source of information. Everyone seemed to like the silent, solid man and no one minded if he was present when political matters were being discussed. His simple allegiance to the earl was admired by most of Henry's garrison at Falaise, even if it was considered misplaced. He was asked to join in sword practice sessions because his style was heavy and blunt and provided a good challenge. When he sat in the hall alone with a cup of wine, he was invariably joined by a group of younger men who wanted advice on how to swing a sword to its greatest advantage. And Leicester's men accepted him as a comrade in arms. With all his contacts, it was easy enough for him to discover what was going on inside and outside Falaise. That was how, in December, Hugh had learned about the rumor of his imminent release.

But it wasn't until the middle of January, when his hope had already died, that it proved true after all. King Henry had arrived at the castle in time for the Christmas festivities and afterwards closeted himself with his counselors for several days. Hugh saw the Young King arrive as well but whether out of a desire to prove to his father that he had nothing anymore to do with the rebels or whether he was simply ashamed of what had happened, he didn't seek out any of the three prisoners. Haworth reported that there weren't many of the king's men who liked the Young King; he said that although they understood the king's parental weakness for his son, they didn't think that this foolish, complaining wastrel was fit material for the throne and they shuddered to imagine what would have happened to Henry's carefully constructed empire if he had won the war. Hugh had been as surprised as anyone when it had become clear that the Young King was to remain his father's heir. From the point of view of both the allies and the rebels, then, the war had changed nothing. Hundreds had died and countless properties destroyed, the king of Scotland humiliated and Hugh himself imprisoned for almost four years so far—all for nothing. Perhaps that was the most crushing defeat.

Hugh, Leicester and de Fougères were informed by the king of his verdict on January 16th. Hugh left Falaise the very next day with Haworth but he was too numbed by shock to even feel the slightest elation that he was leaving Ralph de Fougères as well.

Chapter 16

February, 1177

Stroud Manor, Oxfordshire

Haworth found Hugh standing motionless in front of the unshuttered window. The temperature of the chamber was freezing; the heat thrown off by the modest fire in the brazier couldn't compete against the raw wind pouring in opposite it. The earl was wearing only linen drawers. Haworth was shocked to see how much weight he'd lost in the month since the king had released him.

Hugh remained still as if he hadn't heard the quiet knock and the door swing open, staring through the open window at the frost-tipped fields of Stroud's demesne, arms crossed over his bare chest. He was not a tall man and once he'd reached his mid-twenties had found it more and more difficult to keep his weight down. The mostly inactive years at Falaise had not helped matters. But now Haworth could plainly see the outline of his shoulder blades and the absence of the roll of fat that used to encircle his waist. He had been watching the earl very closely after hearing the king's verdict and knew he was drinking more and eating next to nothing. Although he ached inwardly with every fiber of his being, he hadn't the slightest idea what to do or say to Hugh to help him through this time. It was worse, much worse than when that damned Bolsover had died. Haworth feared for his sanity.

And now the man was standing almost naked before winter's icy breath! What were they doing at Stroud, anyway? Hugh hadn't seen his mother since he'd been formally invested as earl of Chester on his eighteenth birthday. As far as Haworth knew, he hated her. Why, then, had he insisted on making this stop?

The earl had traveled the entire distance to Stroud in almost total silence. Haworth, never a fancy conversationalist, hadn't known how to cajole him into speech. Because of unfavorable weather they weren't able to cross to England as soon as they'd galloped into Barfleur and were forced to seek rooms at a small, common inn close to the port. It would have been less expensive and more comfortable if they'd taken refuge at the royal castle nearby but Hugh had dismissed the idea in a short, clipped tone which Haworth had dared not challenge. He'd similarly refused his captain's hesitant offer to hire half a dozen men for a proper bodyguard. Instead they'd spent the weeks waiting for the tide to turn and the winds to die anonymously and on their own.

"My lord—" Haworth began, but his voice was strangely low and Hugh seemed not to have heard it. He cleared his throat and spoke louder. "My lord!"

Finally Hugh turned around. There were black circles under his eyes from having little sleep since leaving Falaise and a month's growth of reddish-brown beard on his chin. That and the clear morning light gave the earl a haggard appearance which Haworth found unbearable to behold and he had to fight an urge to fall at Hugh's feet and beg to know the words or actions that might miraculously banish his anguish.

Instead he averted his eyes, staring at the ground. "My lord, I was informed that the countess awaits you in the hall."

"I'm sure she wishes she were still countess, Roger," Hugh said with a thin, humorless smile. "But she isn't, thank God."

"I'm sorry, my lord; that was how her steward referred to her."

"Doesn't matter. Why don't you tell the both of them I'll join them when I've dressed?" In no apparent hurry, Hugh turned his back on Haworth and returned his attention to the window.

After a pause, Haworth quietly closed the door and took a few steps forward until he was in the middle of the chamber. It was a small room and almost as austere as a monk's cell, he thought with distaste as he looked around; a bed, a brazier, a table holding a wash basin and a splintering wooden chest were the only furnishings. The dowager countess was quite a wealthy woman and Haworth couldn't believe that she was unable to provide something a bit more lavish than this for an important guest, even if he did happen to be her son.

Hugh hadn't moved. Haworth came up next to him, reached out to grasp the wooden shutters and pulled them to securely.

"Why did you do that?" Hugh asked him, frowning.

"Because it's colder than a tomb in here and you're wearing next to nothing," Haworth said calmly.

"I don't care."

"Can I help you dress, my lord?"

Hugh's frown deepened. "What's wrong with you? We're alone, Roger! Stop calling me 'my lord'!" He went to the unmade bed and sat on it. "Anyway, I don't want any breakfast."

"But you haven't eaten since mid-morning yesterday, my lord," Haworth protested.

Hugh shrugged indifferently.

There was a heap of clothing on the floor, dumped where Hugh had stripped off before collapsing into bed half-drunk the night before. Haworth muttered to himself. The chit who'd come in to light the brazier only a few hours ago should have picked it all up and arranged it neatly on the table or the chest. He bent down to do the job himself, shaking each piece out and draping it over his arm. He looked at Hugh and held out a long-sleeved linen tunic.

The earl hesitated and then took the garment reluctantly. "I've been trying to decide which is worse, Roger," he said, pulling the tunic over his head. "What the king did or having to tell her." He took the proffered surcoat, sleeveless and of finely woven wool and put that on as well, and stood so that Haworth could kneel before him and adjust the clothing until it fell to mid-calf. He sat again and put on thick woolen stockings and finally his boots, which he deftly laced, the crisscrosses of leather reaching almost to his knees.

"Without a doubt the first one, my lord!" Haworth said fervently.

The earl snorted. "I'm not so sure. Do you know, the story goes that after my father's death she paid Henry handsomely for the right not to remarry even though she was still a young woman and wealthy? It was always my belief, however, that her reputation for a vicious tongue made it impossible for Henry to find someone to take her on."

"Then why have we come here? You're in no fit condition for this..."

A brief smile flickered across Hugh's mouth. "She's probably wondering the same thing, Roger. But I had to come. The king's judgment is something she must know and I'd rather she heard it straight from me and not twisted up by one of her spies," he said. He rose and lifted his arms. Haworth wrapped a long leather belt around his waist and threaded the loose end into a kind of knot so it wouldn't slip free. "I suppose I'd better take the sword, Roger," he said with a grim expression. "Who knows what she'll do when I tell her..."

By the time Hugh descended the stairs to the hall breakfast was over, which suited him fine. He had no desire for a public meeting with his mother. Her steward was waiting for him and directed him to the solar but not before looking askance at his bearded face. Haworth had offered to shave him but he'd thought the procedure too bothersome. He'd gotten used to the beard and if it served the purpose of annoying his mother then all the better.

He couldn't have predicted his reaction upon seeing her. For the past month he'd felt so completely numb inside that it seemed no emotion would ever penetrate his mind again. But the closer he and Haworth had drawn to Stroud, the tighter the knot of apprehension and fear in his stomach had become until it had overwhelmed even the deadness. He hated her and knew she despised him but he needed allies now and with her familial connections, she was a strong one.

For some reason, perhaps because he'd always half-suspected there was something unnatural about her, he was surprised at the changes twelve years had wrought. Fifty-one she was, he calculated rapidly; the hair not hidden by her veil was mostly grey and her face had lost the smooth skin of youth and gained wrinkles in its place. She sat stiffly upright on a cushioned bench seat beneath a large, oil-clothed covered window which permitted a dim yellow light to enter the room. One thing had not changed. Her bitter, unsmiling countenance.

A thousand memories flashed through his head when he saw her. Mostly she reminded him of the brief time he'd had with his father. Hugh had greatly loved and admired Earl Ranulf, a charming, wild man who'd always lavished attention on Hugh when he wasn't out fighting for his personal interests during the devastating war between Henry and his uncle Stephen. By contrast, Maud was argumentative and insufferably superior. She had resented her husband's indifference to the political situation and never passed up the opportunity to tell him so in the most disparaging terms. She was the daughter of the earl of Gloucester and believed that Ranulf should have supported her father's, and hence Henry's, faction in the war. But Chester had cared less for politics than for building up his own power and increasing his lands. He'd switched his considerable allegiance from one side to the other depending on who offered him the better deal and seemed able to back it up, and had occasionally taken advantage of the confusion wrought by the war to launch some private battle. He'd finally been persuaded to take Henry's side in earnest when he was promised the earldoms he had coveted for so long, those of Stafford and Lincoln.

Unfortunately, he hadn't lived long enough to see his dream fulfilled, dying the year before Henry had come to the throne. And then, although Maud had petitioned on behalf of her six-year-old son, the king never seemed to get around to making a formal investure. Instead, Hugh was placed in wardship and sent off to a royal castle to learn arms and Maud herself retired to her dower land in Gloucestershire. But the dowager countess had refused to let the matter of the earldoms die a quiet death. She wrote to Henry with annoying regularity and when Hugh came of age she made it clear what she expected of him.

And she had also made it clear, over the past twelve years, that she was disappointed with his failure. She was staring intently at him now and he just knew that was what was going through her mind. God, he hated her! There had never been anything remotely maternal about her. She had despised her husband because he was a mere earl and her grandfather had been Henry I. She despised her son because she considered him incompetent. Ranulf had been the only one who'd ever been able to handle her but that had been because he'd never taken her seriously. He'd laughed at her or ignored her as suited him. Hugh wasn't capable of such detachment—and suffered for it.

Maud didn't bother to tilt her cheek for a prefunctory kiss of greeting and Hugh didn't even pretend he'd thought about giving her one. He closed the heavy door to the solar and stood with his back almost against it, steeled himself and waited for her to speak first.

After looking him up and down, she said critically, "You haven't aged well."

"I did just spend the last three and a half years as an unwilling guest of the king, my lady," Hugh answered levelly.

His mother frowned at the title. She preferred 'Countess' but Hugh had never indulged her. "Yes...the war. What were you thinking?"

"You know what I was thinking. Getting my earldoms. The Young King promised them to me."

Maud sniffed. "And you believed him!"

Her tone was so scornful that Hugh felt the anger surge up in him. His decision to rebel against Henry had not been made lightly, but she was making it sound as though he had been persuaded by nothing more than glittering promises that any fool ought to have known were hopeless. "Well, Henry never showed the slightest interest in even discussing the matter!" he retorted.

"And now he certainly never will!" she snapped back. "I'm surprised you came to see me after such a humiliating episode! What do you want? Did you think a few feminine words would soften the king's heart? Would sway him? There's only one person in the world who can sway him now that his precious Becket is dead and that's his son. So don't waste your breath on me! Not that I would help you even if I could. I can't understand how you could have done something so idiotic!" She paused abruptly as though a sudden thought had struck her outraged mind. "Just why have you come? Why did the king release you? And with no retinue..." Her sharp eyes narrowed. "You haven't done the dishonorable thing and escaped, have you?"

"No, my lady. Do you mean to tell me that I arrived before your spies?"

His mother ignored the question. "Then you were released. I'd heard Henry was magnanimous in his victory. You're lucky. I had expected death or perhaps exile for you."

"And I'm sure you would have considered either one just punishment and not been too upset."

"Certainly I would have been upset. You have yet to beget an heir, Hugh. Do you think I want to see the one earldom you have got pass to the Crown?" She sighed and with her thin hands smoothed down the skirt of her gown and plucked at an out of place thread on the fabric. "Well, now you're back you'll have to marry again and soon. Get yourself an heir or two before the Young King decides to revolt again and dangles a carrot before your eyes."

Obviously she knew all about Eleanor's untimely demise. He'd often suspected a correspondence between his mother and his steward at Chester; she would like to keep up on his affairs just so she could berate him if she felt he was doing something wrong. He wondered sourly what vestige of honor had prevented de Gournay from telling her about her son's incipient betrayal of the king in 1173.

"I will find you a suitable wife," she was saying. "Look what happened when it was left up to you."

"That marriage was approved by the king—"

"A no one! The daughter of a penniless knight! The earl of Chester needs a mate of similar standing."

He smiled brittlely and shifted position against the door. "I now have the reputation of a rebel."

"No matter; you're a wealthy man, you're an earl and you've got a patrimony which goes back to the Conquest." She waved her hand dismissively. "You'd be surprised how quickly past indiscretions are forgotten when there's so much to be gained."

"Yes, the king gave me back my lands," Hugh said. "He gave me back all the honors that come to me from my estates. But what he didn't give back was my castle. Chester. He's keeping the castle for himself."

He'd tried to say it calmly, as if to imply it wasn't the most devastating punishment the king could have devised, but when he spoke the words came out tight and hoarse as though they'd been stuck in his heart and had had to be forced through his mouth. All castles were property of the king, Henry had pronounced at the meeting of the council—and that's how it had always been. Castles couldn't be raised without permission of the king. The king had the right to destroy any castle as he saw fit. Under the lawless rule of Stephen, earls and knights had built castles to defend themselves against or take advantage of the chaos of the time. But unless sanctioned by the king such fortresses were illegal. A man, a handful of knights and a secure castle to run to could bode ill for a stable government. Leicester's two castles, one in England and the other in Normandy, and Chester's castle were, and had always been, royal property. Now the two earls were no longer permitted to live in them and castellans were to be appointed by the king to oversee them and protect the king's interests in the regions around them.

Hugh had been stunned by the declaration. The castle at Chester was his one oasis of happiness and now it was taken away from him with a mere pronouncement.

Color suffused Maud's face. She half rose in her seat before sinking down again with an unladylike plop. Hugh didn't like the way she was staring at him. For an instant he wondered why he'd felt he should give her this news in person; yes, it would have been cowardly to have merely sent her a letter but infinitely less uncomfortable.

"No," she said in a low voice, as if talking to herself. "No, he can't do that. Chester is not his castle; it never was! The king has no power in the Cheshire march! Henry has no right to that castle!" Her eyes suddenly focused on Hugh, angry and accusing. "This is your fault! Your stupid, ill-conceived decision to rebel against the king caused this! How could you do it? One foolhardy turn and you've lost everything! Small wonder your wife was deranged! It's just as well you've no children—what do you have to give to them now except a legacy of disgrace? That castle has belonged to the earls of Chester since the Conquest but you've changed that now, haven't you? Haven't you? I can't believe you're my son! Would that I had had a daughter instead—she would have been of more use to me than you! With her wealth, I might have married her off to a king and brought some honor back to this pitiful family!"

The tirade continued for several more minutes until Maud was forced to stop so that she might take a breath. She ordered Hugh to leave and send her steward in to her. When he opened the door he discovered the man was already there on the other side and had obviously heard everything.

Haworth was still in his chamber when Hugh, tight-lipped and whitefaced, entered it. But the burly knight noticed immediately that there was a purpose in his master's manner which had been missing for the past month.

"Is it all right, my lord?" he asked tentatively.

Hugh had gone to the table where Haworth had a cup of weak wine ready for him. He took it up but didn't drink, swirling the wine around instead. He glanced at his captain with a wry smile. "You mean you don't know? God, I thought everyone within ten miles heard the bitch."

"What did she say to you?" Haworth demanded in an angry voice.

"A lot. I can't remember all of it. But I do recall that she implied my wife lost her wits and wandered into the forest and to her death because she couldn't endure the humiliation brought on her by my support of the Young King. However, she will do the decent thing and find me another one." Hugh gave a short, humorless laugh. He looked down into cup and then set it again, contents untouched, on the table. "Then she told me to get out of Stroud and never come back."

Haworth nodded. "Fine. I'm ready now."

"And so am I," Hugh said. "I'm ready now to go to Cheshire." He rubbed his chin. "Perhaps I should have a shave first."

Chapter 17

February, 1177

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

"My lord husband, I want to speak to you."

William Longsword turned around in surprise. Lady Teleri stood in the open doorway to his council chamber, flanked on either side by an attendant. Her tone was imperious, her expression severe. If he hadn't been so shocked that she had sought him out, the first time in over two years of marriage, his guard would have gone up.

"Am I permitted to come in?" she asked sharply when he made no reply.

He recovered his composure and gestured with an arm. "Of course. Come in. There's a chair..."

She swept into the room followed by her women and they all seemed to be glaring at him. "I don't want to sit." She glanced around the small chamber. "And I prefer a private conversation."

There were half a dozen men with him. They hadn't been discussing anything important; they'd all just wandered in after dinner. The day outside was bitterly cold and dark as if a blustery snowstorm was imminent and no one had wanted to be out in it. But one look at the disagreeable visages of the trio standing before them and they decided a quick jog across the frigid ward and into the barracks wouldn't be as bad as they'd thought.

"Well, my lady?"

He couldn't take his eyes off her. He'd never seen so much animation on her face and he was fascinated by the change. She stared back at him steadily, unsmiling, her whole body straight and stiff with suppressed emotion. The effect was strangely appealing, where he had never found her remotely appealing before.

"I've come about your slut," she said flatly.

"My what?"

"The whore whom you take into your bed! Gladys! Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about!"

Her appeal was beginning to fade. He frowned. "What about her?"

"Is that all you have to say? I won't stand for it! I want you to send her away! I want her gone from Rhuddlan!"

It seemed to Longsword that the two women standing behind Teleri sniffed and nodded. He was suddenly annoyed with his wife's interruption of his impromtu gathering and the consequent departure of his men. And for what? Because she felt herself slighted by his attentions to another woman! "I thought you wanted to speak privately," he said, not bothering to hide the irritation in his voice.

"Don't think you can change the subject and I'll forget why I've come!" she snapped.

What the hell was going on, he wondered. How had she even found out about the girl—what did she say her name was? Gladys? He hadn't known her name. It wasn't as if he was with her every night and he had really tried to be discreet; he was a believer in protocol even if he didn't care for his wife—

"Are you listening to me?" Teleri demanded.

"Yes!" He had never seen her so livid, even when she had wanted him to send Olwen back to her uncle. He didn't know much about women and their moods, not as much anyway as Delamere, and he wasn't sure how he was supposed to react to her insulting anger. He knew exactly what he'd do if it were a man who was speaking to him in such a manner.

"Then I can assume you'll do as I said?"

"Do what?" he asked stupidly.

Her fine dark eyes widened in outrage. "Your whore!" she shouted. "Gladys! I don't want her under this roof one more night!"

"Keep your voice down, my lady!" he said sharply. "What's this all about?"

"You haven't been listening to anything I've said, have you?"

"Stop shouting!"

"I will not! You parade your pregnant slut in front of me and you expect me to suffer it in silence? I won't! I refuse to be humiliated in my home and by my husband! If you don't get rid of her I'll write to my uncle—"

"What did you say?" Longsword, taking a few steps in her direction, interrupted. "This girl—Gladys, is it—she's pregnant?"

"You didn't know?" Teleri laughed mockingly at him and gave him a withering look. "Did you think she was just eating too much?"

"If she's slept with me, she's probably slept with others. What makes you think it's my child she's got?" For some reason, although he spoke calmly enough, his heart was thudding in his chest.

"She claims she hasn't been with any of your men. I believe her; your Norman manners are so revolting that why would she want to sleep with the lot of you? The child is yours. And now I want the both of them out of my sight."

Longsword's mouth was dry and his head was spinning. He needed wine, or even ale, desperately. My God! he thought shakily; I'm going to be a father!

"My lord husband—" Teleri started.

"Just where do you propose I send a young, pregnant woman, my lady?" he said.

"That isn't my concern. I don't care what you do with her. Just get her out of Rhuddlan!"

He had to sit. He went to the chair that he'd offered earlier to Teleri and collapsed into it heavily. He couldn't believe the news she'd just given him. "I'm not sending Gladys away," he said.

Teleri's brown eyes flashed. "Yes, you will—"

"If, my lady, you were doing what a good wife is supposed to do you wouldn't be standing here now making a fool of yourself. You're jealous, you know that? Jealous someone else has what you want—"

"Don't flatter yourself—"

"Well, you're just going to have to swallow it. She stays here."

"Then I demand to be sent back to my uncle! I won't be subjected to this kind of treatment from my husband!"

"You're only a woman, Teleri; you haven't got the right to make demands."

"Welsh law—"

He cut in sharply, "Under this roof you're subject to Norman law! And there's nothing in it that says I have to do anything you want me to do!"

She stared malevolently at him for several seconds. "You'll regret this, my lord," she said finally, in a calm voice that sounded jarring after all the loud arguing that had preceded it. Without another word, she turned on her heel and swept through the doorway.

Longsword sagged in the chair. He felt as if he'd just finished a solid hour of nonstop sword practice against a man of twice his build and proficiency. He was glad the argument had ended when it had because while he possessed a quick sword arm, his mind was not as agile and Teleri would have soon reduced him to ranting idiocy.

But it was impossible to dwell too long on Teleri. He was going to be a father! Every time he said it to himself, the same thrill ran from his stomach to the ends of his toes and fingers, leaving him so excited that he couldn't stay seated. Damn Richard for being away, he thought; perhaps he ought to send a man to the farm to fetch him back. Better yet, he would go himself! At first light the next morning. The manor was less than a day's ride away and he could be celebrating with Delamere before supper. He had yet to see the newest addition to his family, another boy, born last November. It would be wonderful to share the news with someone who could understand exactly what he felt.

But the storm that had been threatening all day broke overnight, and when Longsword awoke the grey sky was still swirling and the road leading out from Rhuddlan's main gate was invisible, buried under half a foot of snow like the surrounding countryside. Although he was fairly confident of the way, it made no sense to struggle to Delamere's manor while snow continued to fall. He returned to his bed, slipped an arm around Gladys' waist and went back to sleep.

The sudden storm had disrupted several of his men's plans as well. The trio had left Rhuddlan early the previous day with the intention of pursuing whatever winter game they could scare up. There was no pressing need to fill the castle stores but boredom was a constant problem at Rhuddlan, one with which Longsword commiserated and he invariably permitted his men the freedom of the demense.

The sky had been grey when the men had left but they had paid it scant attention because grey seemed to be the usual color of the Welsh winter sky. It wasn't until one of them pointed out that the wind had picked up and the air temperature had fallen that they'd decided to turn their mounts' heads towards home. When the first flakes of snow began to scatter down, they realized they were further from Rhuddlan than they'd figured. Daylight faded quickly and soon the snow was falling fast and hard, blinding them, obscuring their path and confusing the horses. When they chanced upon a hendref, a Welsh winter homestead, consisting of a long house and a smaller building attached to one side, they dismounted and led their horses to the rough wooden door. One of them stepped forward and pounded on the door.

It was opened by a bearded, middle-aged Welshman who, despite his surprise at seeing a group of armed foreigners inches from his face, immediately invited them in.

The Welshman, who was passing the winter in this low-lying area until the spring rains came and he could move his livestock to higher pastures, spoke no French or English and the soldiers spoke no Welsh, but at first this proved no impediment to mutual goodwill. The strangers were set by the hearth, which burned in the center of the room, smoke escaping through a hole in the roof, and brought ale and warm food by the Welshman's wife and daughter.

It happened that the soldiers, who were forced by necessity to speak only among themselves, fell to discussing the physical merits of the daughter. She was a pretty child, about fifteen years old, with long, dark hair and green eyes with which she unabashedly scrutinized them until her mother called her to bed on the opposite side of the hearth and protectively cocooned between the wall and her parents. The men agreed that she was the loveliest creature they had thus far seen in Wales and then in drunken and lewd whispers, they began dissecting her further until one by one they dropped into sleep.

That might have been the end of the matter had the girl not been restless during the night, listening to the screaming of the wind and the slashing of the snow against her wall. As was her habit on the occasions she couldn't sleep, she crept over her parents and tiptoed across the earthen floor to find the wooden bowl containing the last of the day's milk. But this time there were others in the house and one in particular who opened bleary eyes and barely made out a lithe figure with flowing hair standing almost over him. Without thinking, he sat up and reached for the apparition and found it real and warm and soft. He pulled it down to lay beside him and to him it seemed just a dream and in the dream she was compliant and sensuous, writhing exotically beneath him and calling out to spur him on and he responded ardently until sudden, hard hands grabbed him from behind, spun him around and hauled him roughly to his feet. He protested and felt a fist land on his cheek. Then he was fully awake. The shrieking of the storm outside was so loud that it disoriented him until he realized the noise wasn't made by the wind but by the Welshman's daughter, who was lying on his cloak, curled into a little ball and screaming hysterically. For a split instant, everything else in the room was silent and unmoving. His companions were up on their elbows, staring at him blankly. The girl's father was red-faced, his hands made into fists. The mother was standing in the shadows beyond the hearthlight, her palm covering her mouth.

Just that one instant when he thought he and the screaming girl were the only two alive and the rest all statues...and while he stood on, staring dumbly, the Welshman rushed at him with his fists flailing, beating him over and over until he came to his senses and shoved the man backwards. Then the soldier was angry with himself because he knew the man could have killed him if he'd bothered to retrieve a dagger before attacking. He bent down to get his sword, but the girl thought he was coming after her again and shrieked even more loudly. He pushed her aside and she kicked out at him. He could see the hilt of the sword peeking out from beneath his cloak, against the hearth wall, and stretched out a hand, but then one of his companions shouted his name and he whirled around to see the girl's father bearing down on him once more. He put up his hands to protect himself but the attack never came. Instead, he watched as the expression on the other man's face changed from anger and hatred to shock and pain. The Welshman sank to the hard floor and collapsed near his daughter's shaking body, a dark stain spreading out from his back. When the soldier looked up, he saw one of his companions standing before him with a bloody sword in his hand.

When Richard Delamere saw William Longsword standing in the gatehouse and staring directly at him as he rode up to Rhuddlan, he felt a flash of annoyance. If, he thought, Longsword was going to begrudge him every small moment with Olwen, then he might as well move to the manor permanently and see his friend's angry face only when the time came each year for him to give his service. Because he was unhappy with his wife, Longsword seemed to expect that no one should find satisfaction with a woman.

To Delamere's surprise, however, as he neared the fortress, Longword raised a hand in welcome and shouted down a friendly greeting, and by the time he had ridden through the gate, Longsword was down in the ward, waiting impatiently for him.

A groom ran up to take his horse. When he turned around, Longsword caught him by surprise in a rough embrace, kissed both his cheeks and clapped him on the shoulders. "Welcome back, Richard!" he said heartily. "I hope the snow didn't slow you down too much? At least the sun is finally out. A fine day to travel!"

"Yes..." Delamere answered cautiously, confused by this strange attitude. Since when had Longsword ever noticed the weather except to complain about it?

"How is Olwen? And the boys? The little one thrives, I hope? You haven't lost any beasts to the cold?"

"No, they're all—everything is—I mean, everyone is fine. What's—"

"Come inside!" Longsword interrupted. "I'm freezing! I've been waiting in that drafty gatehouse for you. No wonder the men have been griping about watch duty. It wasn't built right. My father just threw up this castle, for God's sake. I've been thinking about ripping it down and putting up a new one. The gatehouse, that is. Have to wait until the spring, of course and probably by then no one will remember how miserable it was up there, anyway." He laughed. "It might be easier to just give them all an extra cloak to put on."

They climbed the steps to the hall, Longsword taking them two at a time. Delamere, a little stiff from riding half the day in the cold, was slower but though he lagged behind, he could hear his friend chattering away as if he were still at his shoulder. He was astonished. He had never heard Longsword speak so much at one time; even after hours of drinking he remained taciturn and since his marriage he'd been positively morose. The only time he ever ran on was when something happened to put him in a good mood, but the last two years in Wales had made him nothing but blatantly miserable.

Longsword paused at the head of the stairway and looked down at him. "You've got to be hungry after that ride, right? I've had dinner saved for you." He clicked his tongue impatiently. "Come on, will you?"

He'd saved dinner? Delamere had to stop and take a good look around to assure himself that he was indeed in Rhuddlan. Surely there was some kind of magic being worked on him. Perhaps he was only dreaming and he'd soon awaken to find Olwen's warm body next to him.

But as soon as he walked into the hall, he knew he was at Rhuddlan and not dreaming. In his dream, the stone walls of the hall would be freshly whitewashed and unstained by soot marks from the rushlights in the sconces lining them. The trestle tables and benches would have been neatly put away after the last meal instead of littering the floor as they now did, or at least cleared of debris. The floor itself would have been swept clean of the old, crumbled and crumb-filled rushes and strewn with fresh ones and sweet-smelling herbs. And most certainly, in his dream, a handful of young serving women would not be sitting with the dozen or so soldiers who had nothing better to do than to while away the afternoon drinking, playing dice and telling each other tall tales. For some time, Delamere had been after Longsword to get a steward to keep the household in order; he hated returning from the calm organization of Olwen's house to the chaos of Rhuddlan's hall but apparently Longsword had no interest in making the fortress remotely comfortable.

"...And what do you think about that?" his friend was saying.

Delamere frowned. "About what?"

"Oh, never mind," Longsword grinned. He grabbed the other man's arm and pulled him along to the dais where a place lay waiting for him at the table. "Come on! There'd better be wine in that pitcher. I tried to make them understand I wanted wine." Longsword picked up the pitcher and sniffed at it. "Good!" he pronounced and poured himself and Delamere a cupful. He raised his and gestured to Delamere to do the same.

"All right, Will," Delamere said in exasperation. "Can you just tell me what the hell is going on? Because I can't really take anymore of your cheerfulness. I'm not used to it and it's tiring me out to keep up with you."

Longsword's expression sobered. "Congratulate me. I'm going to become a father," he answered solemnly, and then broke into another uncontrollable grin. He banged his cup down on the table so hard that wine splashed over the rim, grabbed his friend by the shoulders and shook him joyfully. "I'm going to be a father! Do you hear me?"

"How can I not, with you shouting?" Delamere was even more puzzled than before. "Forgive me if I'm speechless; I can't believe this news."

Longsword retrieved his cup and drank down its contents in one long gulp. "Why can't you believe it?" he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Do you think you're the only one who can get children on these Welshwomen?"

"Of course not! It's only that...well, to tell you the truth, I didn't know things were like that between you and Lady Teleri."

"Teleri! Ha!" Longsword exploded into laughter. "I've not as much experience in these matters as you, Richard, but I did think that in order for something to come out from between a woman's legs, something else must first go in."

Delamere stared at him. "Then it's not your wife who's pregnant?"

"Not unless it's God's own! No, Richard, not Teleri. Remember the chit I said always seemed smarter than the others? Always helpful? That's her. Gladys, Teleri said her name is. Some name, huh? Took me a day to learn how to say it properly. I don't know why she can't have a decent Norman name. Gladys! It's worse than something English."

Delamere's head was spinning. "Will! Can you shut up a minute? You're giving me a headache!"

Some of the joy left Longsword's face. "I thought you'd be happy for me."

"I am! I truly am! But I want to know a few things. First, does Lady Teleri know about this?"

"Of course! She's the one who told me."

Delamere was astonished. How long had he been gone this time, anyway? Almost two months? Damn! What was going on when he wasn't around? He lifted his cup automatically and drank down the wine. He shoved the empty vessel towards Longsword. "More."

"Teleri came to see me a few days ago," Longsword explained, tipping the pitcher. "She was all in a huff, demanding I get rid of the girl or I'll be sorry. She thought I knew already." He handed Delamere the full cup. "How would I know? Gladys never said anything. Even if she had I wouldn't have understood."

"So how did your wife find out?"

Longsword shrugged. "Who knows? Perhaps she guessed. Or perhaps Gladys told her. She isn't very happy. When I saw Gladys later that day, one of her cheeks was red from Teleri's hand. So I confronted Teleri and warned her against abusing Gladys again. I told her that if anything happened to my baby, she'll be the one who pays."

"You can't hit your wife, Will. It's against Welsh law."

"It's not against Norman law."

They stared at each other. Longsword's expression was utterly composed. With a resigned sigh, Delamere dropped heavily into one of the chairs at the dais table and surveyed the platter of cold roasted meat, thickly sliced barley-bread and oblongs of cheese placed before him. There was a shallow bowl of water nearby and he dipped his fingers into it and dried them on the linen napkin underneath it. He took a piece of bread and chewed on it thoughtfully.

"I'll tell you one thing," Longsword said, sitting next to him in the high-backed, carved chair set directly at the center of the table. "I'm a new man, Richard. When I was talking to Teleri I made a comment about her being jealous of what someone had that ought, by right, to be hers. After she'd stomped off, I thought about that remark. Do you know that's precisely the way I felt about my half-brother? I was jealous of him!"

Delamere was so surprised to hear this admission that he started choking on the bread he'd just swallowed. "Were you?" he managed to croak out.

Longsword slapped his back. "Yes. Anyway, I've decided not to allow petty jealousies of my brother or meaningless arguments with my wife drag me down anymore. Becoming a father puts everything into perspective, doesn't it?"

"Oh, yes...Pass the wine over here, will you?"

"I tell you, I can't wait, Richard!" Longsword said excitedly, sliding the jug across the table. "Who do you think I should send him to for training? I could do it myself but I'd rather my son not grow up in Wales. It's too boring and the king would never get to see him."

Delamere poured himself a cup of wine and drank it down in one long draught. "You've been thinking about this a lot, haven't you?" he asked, pressing a napkin to his lips.

"Of course! Who wouldn't?"

"What if it's a girl?"

Longsword looked puzzled. "What?"

"The baby. What if it's a girl and not a boy?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Richard!" his friend scoffed. "It's practically a tradition for the first child in this family to be a boy! My father has more sons than he has land for!" But then his expression became disconcerted. He hadn't considered the possibility that Gladys might have a girl. "A girl. A daughter...Well, I'm sure that could be very nice," he said uncertainly.

"Don't worry! Daughters have their uses, too!" Delamere laughed.

"Hmph!" Longsword's tone was disapproving. "I'm not sure I'd want to expose any daughter of mine to young men who approve of your sorts of uses for women."

Chapter 18

February, 1177

Hawarden Castle, Gwynedd

After leaving Stroud, Hugh and Roger of Haworth had traveled to the march of Cheshire and ended up in the earl's castle at Hawarden. In actuality, Hawarden was in Wales, at the extreme eastern edge of Gwynedd and the most northerly point of Powys. It was also to the west of the River Dee, which meant it was decidedly severed from England. Hugh didn't know upon whom he had an unconscious desire to turn his back: his king or his mother.

Hawarden had been in the possession of the earls of Chester since Hugh's great-grandfather's wars against the Welsh one hundred years earlier. Its most recent tenant had died during the Rebellion, killed in the Bastard's surprise attack on Hugh's convoy into Brittany. He had left no heir and Hugh had always liked the area. The castle had been meant as a symbol of the Norman presence, a martial structure, calculated to inspire fear in the native population. It wasn't a castle in the same sense as Chester; it wasn't a sprawling, thick-walled monster incorporating a whole town. It was rather a simple motte and bailey fortress; small and defensible. The motte was built on the flattened top of a natural mound, a foothill of the Berwyns, and consisted of a three-storey stone structure surrounded by a stout timbered palisade and a steep ditch while the bailey below it, similarly encircled, contained various servile endeavors including a forge, barracks, stables and kitchens.

Roger of Haworth looked askance at it. This was his first time at Hawarden and he wasn't pleased with what he saw. "My lord, you can't live here!" he protested.

Hugh smiled at him. "Why not?"

"Well—just look at it! It's not large enough to suit an earl. And half the people don't know a word of French or English."

"You're right, of course," Hugh said. "But it doesn't matter. Those are temporary conditions."

It was his plan to dramatically enlarge Hawarden, perhaps even to a size which would rival Chester. The king had made it clear at the council meeting which had precipitated Hugh's release that his barons were not to build castles without his express permission. But Hugh didn't think Henry would object to Hawarden—it was already built and it was in Wales, not England.

But the best thing about Hawarden was that it was only ten miles from Chester. Henry might have put down this rebellion but everyone knew that the king's sons were notoriously unfaithful and Hugh was gambling on the very real possibility of another uprising. There were disaffected barons still—Hugh was wryly certain Ralph de Fougères would jump at yet another chance to go against Henry—and if such an opportunity presented itself the first thing Hugh would do would be to march on Chester and reclaim it from the royal garrison.

Miles de Gournay remained in Chester at Hugh's behest. While the castle itself was in the king's hands, its revenues still belonged to the earl and Hugh preferred that the steward oversee their collection, partly because he didn't trust Henry's officials but mostly because he didn't want de Gournay with him. Ever since the interview with his mother, Hugh found it difficult to think of de Gournay without irritation. He didn't doubt the man's loyalty but he felt his disapproval, which was worse because it was personal. Disapproval of Hugh's choice of sides in the war, disapproval of his relationship with Haworth but especially disapproval of the way he'd treated Eleanor. He knew the steward blamed him for his wife's death for all the man's constant protestations that he himself had failed to keep an eye on her.

Although the season wasn't generally favorable to outdoor work, the earl knew from long experience that doling out liberal amounts of money tended to persuade men to look past their own comfort and that included toiling in disagreeable weather. Since the local population was hardly plentiful, Hugh recruited artisans and laborers from the area around Chester, paying even for their families to join them. Haworth's complaint that only half the people in residence knew a word of French or English was soon resolved.

Haworth still wasn't convinced that Hawarden was the best place for the earl but he was mollified. Hugh was in a better mood. A kind of melancholy had come over him after the king had passed judgment on him at Falaise. It had been partially relieved after his meeting with his mother; Haworth had felt the difference. But it was without a doubt the reconstruction of Hawarden that was giving Hugh a reason to get up in the morning. The earl was continually consulting with the master builder. He could spend the day just watching the workers.

Roger of Haworth didn't realize it but he himself was a large part of the reason for Hugh's recovery. It wasn't until they'd arrived at Stroud that Hugh realized how much he'd come to rely on the stolid man. Since Bolsover's death, Haworth had been at his side. He'd shared Hugh's confinement and he'd seen to Hugh's well-being during that hellish period between Henry's announcement regarding Chester and the meeting with the dowager countess Maud. Although it was never acknowledged, it was no secret to anyone at Hawarden that he and Hugh quite often slept in the same bed. Hugh trusted him absolutely. He knew whereas Bolsover had pursued him for the money, favors and recognition the patronage of a rich and influential man could give him, Haworth did it all from sheer love.

Such devotion, however, was at times stifling because Hugh was not in love with Roger of Haworth. He had an affection for him and felt a loyalty to him but these were emotions born more out of gratitude for Haworth's unconditional love than out of any deep feeling for the man himself. Haworth was not of his background; he had been raised up into the knightly class, even against prevailing sentiment, at Hugh's instigation. He wasn't clever or witty or particularly handsome, qualities Hugh found attractive, and he had no desire to be Hugh's equivalent in anything. He existed only to serve the earl, an unequal relationship that flattered the ego but frustrated the soul. But Hugh had the sense of honor and fairness typical of most of his peers and pounded into him from the first day he could remember and he realized that he owed Haworth a great debt. So he was careful to always ask his captain's opinion and to show proper appreciation for any service he was given and if he looked at other men, he did it surreptitiously. Perhaps, he sometimes thought, it was just as well that Bolsover was no longer around to dazzle and befuddle his reason. He knew now he could live without Bolsover but he was not so sure he could live without Haworth.

Chapter 19

February, 1177

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

Longsword was impatient. Richard Delamere watched him, amazed. It was as if his friend was the only person to ever await the arrival of a baby.

Much to Teleri's indignation, Gladys had been given her own chamber in the rambling keep and a girl to do her bidding. Longsword visited her every day. Delamere wondered what they could possibly be doing up there, alone, especially after Longsword had confided to him with some embarrassment that he was afraid to approach Gladys with lustful intent because he thought it might harm the baby. Delamere's arguments to the contrary couldn't change his opinion. Still, he always found the time to visit her. Delamere was mystified. Neither one could speak the other's language; he had a vision of them simply sitting and staring at the walls until the candles burned down.

Then a delegation of five Welshmen appeared at the gate, seeking justice for the murder of the herdsman and the assault on his daughter. They were from a commote to the northeast of Rhuddlan called Llanlleyn. Four of them, older men with greying beards and lined countenances, were advisers to the chief of the commote, Maelgwn ap Madog, and the fifth was his son, Rhirid.

Longsword listened expressionlessly to the most senior of the delegates as the latter detailed the circumstances of the crimes and then demanded that the three soldiers who had so viciously abused the hospitality offered them pay the galanas, or fine, as the law stipulated.

He was curious about this fine, about the idea that paying a bit of money was sufficient punishment for murder and wondered what the amount was, but he didn't ask. He was more affronted at the presumptuous tone the man was using. He demanded? Rather abruptly, Longsword told the delegation that he would handle the miscreants himself.

"But the galanas," protested one of the men angrily, "The law—"

"The law to which you refer," Longsword coldly interrupted, "is Welsh law and it means nothing here. On this land, we uphold Norman law."

"Yet the crimes were committed in Llanlleyn," said the chief's son in a low, taut voice. "Which is Welsh land."

Longsword shifted his attention to Rhirid ap Maelgwn. He was young, near Longsword's own age, black-haired and smooth-faced. His intelligent grey eyes never seemed to blink as he stared right back at the Norman. He stood slightly apart from the other Welshmen as though to imply he considered this interview a waste of time, and not once had his hand moved from its resting place on the butt of his sword.

"Nevertheless," Longsword answered after a moment, "the men whom you accuse aren't Welsh. They're under my jurisdiction and aren't subject to your laws. Naturally I must make my own inquiry. I can't punish anyone without hearing his side of the story."

Rhirid glanced at his companions with a thin smile. Hadn't he told them the Normans wouldn't care? That their reaction would be to launch a phantom investigation which would resolve nothing? He turned back to Longsword. "What will happen when you make your inquiries and find our accusation is true? What's the punishment for a Norman who kills a Welshman? Do you give him a new sword?"

The senior man snapped something in Welsh at Rhirid and he inclined his head in deference. He had made his point. He wanted the Normans to know that he didn't trust them, didn't believe a word they said and wouldn't hesitate to meet them with his own sword. He was satisfied, for now, with the suddenly purple face of the tall Norman.

"My lord," the spokesman began, but Longsword cut him off.

"Don't waste your breath! If such an attack occurred, I will find it out. And if there was a murder, I'll punish it—in Norman fashion! Your involvement is no longer necessary."

"But the family! The galanas!" the man said insistently.

Longsword turned his back on them. Rhirid ap Maelgwn hissed through his teeth at the blatant insult and spun on his heel and left the council chamber. The remaining delegates looked at each other in dismay but there was nothing they could do.

"Do you think that was wise, Will?" Delamere asked, when the Welshmen had ridden out of Rhuddlan. "To be so unyielding?"

Longsword frowned. "I didn't like the way they came charging into my castle, accusing my men of murder and demanding I make recompense for it!"

"Well, it is true."

"Yes, but it's also true that it was justified. Shouldn't they take that into account? But that's not the point. The Welsh have no law over my knights. I'll deal with my people; I'm the law here, not this Maelgwn ap whatever."

Delamere shrugged.

"Sometimes it seems you're on their side and not ours, Richard," Longsword said in a voice tinged with resentment.

"Don't be a fool, William!" Delamere snapped angrily. "Of course I'm with you! If you doubt my friendship, you still have my oath as your vassal."

"I don't doubt your friendship, Richard," Longsword answered quickly. "I apologize..." His friend didn't respond but looked mollified. He felt a great relief and tried to lighten the mood. "A damned Welsh shepherd, for God's sake! They didn't even care about him—just wanted the money."

"You're wrong; there was one person who cares very much..."

"Oh yes. Rhirid ap Maelgwn." Longsword pronounced carefully. "He cares, but for a different reason. I think he'll be back," he added, and to Delamere he sounded almost pleased. "We haven't seen the last of him."

Longsword's anger at the Llanlleyn delegation gave him something to brood over other than his impending fatherhood but it was only a matter of time before he came to the conclusion that his two obsessions might somehow be married.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking," he said to Delamere. "I realize that I'm never going to be king. The law won't allow it and the barons won't accept it. But now that I'm going to have an heir it's especially important that I have something of my own to give him and I've just figured out how to get it."

Delamere glanced at him apprehensively. "What are you planning, Will?"

"There's plenty of land here," he continued; "good land, too, just beyond Rhuddlan's demense."

"That land belongs to the prince of Gwynedd..."

"Hmph!" Longsword snorted contemptuously. "Land belongs to those who can keep it. Anyway, I won't begrudge the Welsh the privilege of living on it as long as they understand it belongs to me and I'm their master. Richard, between here and Cheshire are miles of fine land. We start at Rhuddlan and work our way east to Chester. That secures our back. Then we push west and south. The possibilities are limited only by the sea and the borders of England." The pitch of his voice increased with his growing excitement. "I tell you, Richard, I've been thinking the last few days and I've decided this must be why my father sent me here. He's got too much else to deal with between Scotland, France and Flanders...He would actually prefer a strong Norman arm to hold this border for him in his name."

It was Delamere's understanding that Henry had sent his son to Wales to keep him from stirring up trouble but he didn't say so. Instead, he found himself intrigued by his friend's idea. Why not? They were all tired of sitting around doing nothing. The king was satisfied to permit Norman adventurers to carve out their own lands in Ireland as long as they acknowledged his suzerainty. Why should he mind, then, if the same were done in Wales?

"What about Prince Dafydd?" he asked finally.

"He must know what Teleri is like," Longsword said with a grimace. "He's probably wondering why it's taken so long for me to revolt."

"Be serious, Will!"

"Seriously, Richard, the prince is far from secure on his throne. His brothers are a continuous nuisance and he hasn't got half the power my father thinks he has. I'm not worried about him."

"All right. What about the earl of Chester? This land used to belong to his family."

"What can he do, Richard? He's been disgraced; he's a traitor. My father's got his castle. He can't come against me with force. The best he can do is make a formal protest to my father." Longsword slapped his hands together almost gleefully. "There's no reason not to do it! And I want to start by riding Llanlleyn into the ground."

But if Longsword believed the Welsh were content to wait for his attack, he was mistaken.

Rhirid ap Maelgwn had also spent the week after his visit to Rhuddlan in deep consideration of the situation between the Normans and the Welsh. The tall one, the English king's son, hadn't impressed him. He'd been rude and insulting, two unforgivable sins for a host. All the way back to Llanlleyn Maelgwn's counselors had talked about it. Rhirid had kept a contemptuous silence. What else had they expected? The old men seemed more concerned with the breach of etiquette than with the Norman's quick dismissal of their suit. And then they'd had the nerve to berate him for arguing with the foreigner. Incredible!

Rhirid had known all along it was a waste of effort talking to the Normans but had asked to accompany his father's men so he could see his enemy face to face and take his measure. Of course, he hadn't told his father that. Maelgwn feared the foreigners, feared they would seize his land. He thought if he was conciliatory enough, they would leave his little kingdom in peace. He had actually believed that this Sir William fitz Henry would listen to them, apologize and pay the galanas without a murmur because he was the son of the king of the English and lord of Rhuddlan by the gift of Prince Dafydd. A representative of his father's harmonious relationship with the Welsh, so to speak. In Maelgwn's opinion, Sir William couldn't afford not to make peace. Peace! Rhirid snorted. His father always said the words 'Norman' and 'peace' in the same sentence as if they weren't mutually exclusive.

Not only did Rhirid believe peace with the Normans was unachievable, he believed war was inevitable. And that was fine with him. He knew the more land the Normans had, the more their fingers itched to swing their swords and conquer. It was only a matter of time before Longsword turned his eye on Llanlleyn and Rhirid was anxious to meet him and prove the Welsh were formidable opponents.

So while his father strived for good relations, Rhirid plotted. He'd been brought up on the heart-stirring songs of heroic Welsh warriors and their valiant battles. The prince of Gwynedd for most of his youth had been Owain, who had never accepted the Norman presence, who had tolerated it only when there was no alternative and who was quick to battle against it the instant the opportunity presented itself. Rhirid could vividly recall the day ten years earlier when Owain had marched against the Normans at Rhuddlan and taken the castle after an unprecedented three months' siege. Maelgwn had been tense for weeks, expecting King Henry to sweep down upon Gwynedd in a fury but Rhuddlan had remained in Welsh hands until Owain's son, Dafydd, had presented it on a platter to the king of England.

Prince Dafydd! There was another one; another Norman-placator. Rhirid didn't think much of this prince of Gwynedd. Fortunately, there weren't many who did. No one could figure out how the son of one of the most vehement enemies of the foreigners could end up in bed with them—literally, as he'd married Henry's half-sister. The rumor went that Dafydd, who lacked the forceful personality of Owain, was cleverly using his connections with the Normans to keep his position as prince. The threat of Norman retaliation was a better curb to hotheaded ambition than Dafydd's weak arm.

But Rhirid ap Maelgwn wasn't impressed by his prince's marital union with King Henry. Furthermore, the murder of the herdsman and the savage attack on his daughter had served to confirm his belief that the Normans at Rhuddlan had no interest in respecting their neighbors' customs. Rhirid was determined to change that attitude.

His chance came almost immediately.

South and east of Rhuddlan, once out of the marshy river plain, the land grew increasingly hilly and even though it was winter and the trees were bare and could afford a grown man only poor cover, the twists forced by the irregular swells and undulations in the terrain provided enough. And it had long been the frustration of the Norman armies sent to conquer them that the Welsh preferred to strike and melt back into the forests than to fight pitched battles like the rest of the civilized world.

Rhirid and his cohorts had spent the days since his ill-fated visit to William Longsword stalking the hills above the river and waiting for unsuspecting Normans to cross their path. Despite his father's appeal for a better relationship with the foreigners, Rhirid swore that William Longsword would pay the galanas if not in property or coin, then in blood.

On a cold, drizzling day, he almost succeeded in forcing payment.

Unmindful of the weather, the Normans had gone out to hunt and were returning home after a fruitful day, a few hours before darkness was to fall. Judging from their raucous banter, they didn't expect to run into a group of disgruntled Welshmen.

But when they rounded a curve in the track, a hail of arrows flew forward to greet them, accompanied by the hooting and hollering of what seemed to be a hundred Welshmen. For a moment the Normans were paralyzed. One arrow struck a horse, which reared up on its hind legs sending its rider tumbling backwards, but the others landed harmlessly. Then they began calling to each other, speaking too fast for Rhirid to understand; one man's voice louder and more penetrating than the rest. At the time, Rhirid had no idea that this voice belonged to William Longsword.

Meanwhile, the Welsh continued to shoot. The constant barrage disoriented the Normans, who had drawn their swords and were wheeling their mounts from this side to that with vicious tugs on the reins. They could not yet see their attackers through the grey trees and the drizzle. The Welsh screamed with impassioned, wild curses. One of them had climbed into a tree and, teetering acrobatically, harassed the Normans from above.

Two of the arrows hit their marks; one bounced harmlessly off the helmet of one soldier but the second—a one in a million shot—struck another in the joint between the neck and the shoulder.

By this time, the Normans were shouting as loudly as the Welsh. As soon as the moment of surprise passed, Rhirid knew the knights would organize themselves and come after him. He had only half a dozen men with him on this day while the Normans were twice as many. His tiny force would be overwhelmed and annihilated. He whistled sharply, his compatriot in the tree leaped gracefully to the ground and the five of them ran quickly to where the sixth waited with their horses. Within seconds they had mounted and flown, away from the track and into the hills.

Only when it became obvious that no one was following them and they slowed their pace and grinned and congratulated each other did Rhirid recall another voice, screaming the tall Norman's name over and over.

"Go after them!" Longsword kept saying, the command sounding weaker with each repetition. He had clamped a hand to the side of his neck, around the shaft of the embedded arrow, but Delamere could see how much blood was already soaking his glove. He was breathing hard, in painful, ragged gulps. "Go after them!"

Everyone ignored him, mesmerized by his bloody wound and the grotesque sight of the slender rod projecting from his flesh. Delamere had dismounted and was at his side, pushing initially resistant but then suddenly compliant boots out of the stirrups. Frantically, he reached for Longsword's torso and grabbing a piece of his hauberk, tugged on it until he felt his friend's body start to tip towards him. He caught Longsword in his arms and gently brought him down to the ground.

"Forget about me—go after them!" Longsword gasped hoarsely.

"Shut up, Will!" Delamere snapped. He looked at the wound and felt his stomach heave. He forced himself to swallow.

"Should we chase them, Sir Richard?" someone asked hesitantly. "I counted only several men."

He glanced up, his pleasant features twisted with anger, hatred and fierce concern. "Yes! Six of you go—but not too far. Be wary! This may have been only a ruse to draw us further on into a larger ambush." He returned his attention to Longsword and tried to think. Apart from the rapid rise and fall of his friend's chest and the fluttering of his eyelids as he struggled to keep them open, there was no other movement in his body. The drizzle had suddenly become a hard rain. "He needs a physician," he said to the other men. "Will! Can you hear me?"

Longsword made a noise in his throat. "This thing...heavy, Richard...off."

He wanted his hauberk removed but Delamere didn't know how to do that without knocking into the arrow shaft. He was frustrated by his own inaction. Blood continued to run down Longsword's neck and chest and was beginning to stain the ground. It was imperative that he decide something quickly...Rhuddlan was hours away at a fast clip and there wasn't anyone there who was a healer, anyway. He cursed audibly, and despite the cold, rainy day felt sweat trickle down the sides of his face. In all their grandiose plans, they had failed to consider what would happen if the Welsh proved equal.

"Sir Richard, there's the abbey," a knight called Guy Lene, ashen-faced, suggested hopefully. "They're bound to have an infirmary."

Optimism flooded into him. He looked up at the man. "Get us there."

He jumped onto his horse and helped pull Longsword up by his armpits while two men on the ground pushed the unresisting body towards him. The rough movement seemed to increase the flow of blood and Delamere called impatiently to the others to hurry and mount up. Longsword was a heavy weight in his arms and the rain poured mercilessly down but he hardly noticed. He muttered every prayer he could think of and in between admonished his unresponsive friend not to die.

The abbey of Saint Mary was a Benedictine house for women founded some forty years earlier when the earl of Chester controlled Rhuddlan. It was a small chapter, consisting of only eighteen nuns, one abbess and three dozen or so lay people, and was housed in a modest collection of timbered buildings half a mile from the sea and almost a day's ride from Rhuddlan. Although the Welsh were as devout a people as any other, the abbey had found it impossible to recruit new sisters from among them. This was because the Welsh were suspicious of the Norman-introduced Benedictine order which they viewed as part of an insidious plan to reform their Church. The result was that the abbey, except for its lay people, was made up entirely of aged Anglo-Norman women, all of whom had come out to Rhuddlan in the idyllic days of Norman rule and who had been left behind when Owain Gwynedd had seized the castle and evicted the foreigners.

Delamere didn't pay heed to their direction or to the possibility that there might be more Welsh warriors lurking behind the next hill. He was conscious only of how slow their progress seemed to be, despite the fact that now, after every prayer and admonishment, he urged the men to travel faster. But at last the land ironed out and trees were scarcer, and he saw the fuzzy grey outline of the little settlement on the green, misty plain. And Longsword was still breathing.

One of the knights had raced ahead so that by the time Delamere and the rest of the party had gained the first building, a tiny stone church, there was a crowd of people, huddled together against the rain, half of them garbed head to toe in somber brown, to meet them and to gape at the injured man. He gripped Longsword more tightly.

One woman stepped up to him and introduced herself as the abbess. "We've sent for someone to tend to your man's wounds," she told him. "In the meantime, I'll show you where you can set him down in preparation. It will take the priest several days to get here if I send a groom now—"

"He doesn't need a damned priest!" Delamere interrupted tersely. "Only a physician. And this isn't my 'man', Mother Abbess; this is the son of King Henry and the lord of Rhuddlan Castle!"

The abbess was taken aback. The knight who had flown into the midst of the sisters' quiet reflection in the church had shouted out nothing more than that a badly injured man was on his way who needed immediate aid. She looked with undisguised shock at the inert figure, the blood-soaked hauberk and the arrow shaft which protruded sickeningly from just above the collarbone, and unconsciously crossed herself.

Delamere gazed anxiously upon Longsword's pale face. He was alive, but barely. Already his breath grew shallower and his hand colder. There was no formal infirmary at the abbey because its tenants were so few and Delamere and three others had carried Longsword to the abbess' own room in the dormitory and laid him carefully on the clean, neat bed, which was immediately fouled by his muddy boots and wet and bloodied clothing.

The abbess had closed the only window in the chamber and had had a brazier brought in and a fire made in it to dispel the chill. Delamere complained about the paucity of light and she left briefly, returning with a man who bore two tripods holding new candles. But these comforts did nothing to alleviate Delamere's anxiety and every second which passed served only to infuriate him further.

"Where is she? What can she be doing?" he demanded. "He will die soon if the bleeding doesn't stop! Perhaps you ought to have sent for the priest, after all; he'd probably get here before she does!"

"Please, Sir Richard, I am certain she will—" the abbess started to reply but broke off when she saw the knights weren't looking at her any longer but at the door to the chamber. She followed their gaze and breathed in relief. "Here she is. This is Gwalaes."

A woman stood calmly in the doorway, dressed plainly in homespun, undyed wool, a shawl over her head and a basket on an arm. The shadows by the door made her features indistinct but to Delamere one thing was clear enough and he whirled around on the abbess.

"Tell me this isn't your Sister Infirmarer! This is a child!" He sputtered. "Perhaps I haven't made it clear to you, but that man there is—"

"Sir Richard!" the abbess interrupted so sharply that Delamere fell immediately silent. "We have no Sister Infirmarer. She passed away almost two years ago. Gwalaes was her lay assistant. She's a clever girl and knows as much as Sister was able to teach her before her death. She is the only one at St. Mary who might be able to help Lord William."

Delamere opened his mouth to protest again.

"Each minute you spend arguing is a waste of valuable time. I can see from here that your master is in a precarious state."

It was the young woman who had spoken, in Welsh, not loudly or hurriedly, but with enough quiet force to stifle his complaints. Her voice was low and calm and his shaking emotions were abruptly stilled. He took a deep breath and released it slowly, in measures. He took several steps in the young woman's direction until he could see her eyes. She held his gaze, her head almost on a level with his. She was young but there was nothing immature in her expression. He clenched his jaw and nodded.

"You must wait outside," she said to him. "I've found that the sight of bloody wounds often turns a man's stomach and I don't want the interruption."

"No. I'm staying."

She paused, then inclined her head. "Very well. But the others must go and you'll sit in the corner and keep out of my way."

He wasn't used to being ordered about by women, especially one of her station. The other men muttered, understanding the tone and not the language. When she started to walk past him, into the room, he grabbed her arm and pulled her to face him again.

"I'll pardon the way you're speaking to me now because the plight of my lord is more important. But you'd better heal him. If he dies—"

"What?" she hissed furiously. "If he dies what? Take your hand away! If he dies now it will be because all his blood has seeped away while you catered to your injured dignity! Now, will you tell them to go? The stench of horse in this room is overpowering."

Stunned, Delamere released her arm. The woman ignored his outraged face and made her way to the bed. She set her basket on the floor and bent over William Longsword's motionless body.

When the men had gone, the abbess appeared at his elbow. "I apologize for Gwalaes' sharp tongue, Sir Richard," she said to him in a low voice.

"She has a high opinion of herself to speak like that to me," he said angrily. The abbess smiled in agreement but didn't answer. He gave up the argument, feeling suddenly tired, and sighed. He glanced at the bed. The girl had a hand on Longsword's chin and was carefully turning his head slightly so that she could get a better look at the injured area. "Do you really think she's so capable?" he asked the abbess.

"Sister Eleanor—that was the name of our Sister Infirmarer—said she has a gift, Sir Richard. Since she's been with us she's brought people through fevers and midwifed births. And every week it seems there's another accident; an animal bite or a knife cut in the kitchen, or something more serious when the men do heavy work."

"But an arrow wound..." His voice was desperate. People did not often survive such a wound; if the loss of blood didn't kill them, the subsequent infection did. He was pleading for a miracle and hoping the abbess would tell him this Gwalaes would give it to him.

She put a hand on his arm. "As I said before, Sir Richard, if anyone can help Lord William, it's Gwalaes."

PART IV

Chapter 20

February, 1177

Saint Mary's Abbey, Gwynedd

The wound wasn't as bad as it looked at first glance; if it was, the poor man would have been dead already. The rain had kept it somewhat clean and the man's companions hadn't stuffed it with leaves or horsehair or bits of their filthy tunics to stop the bleeding. She'd seen people pack wounds with some very imaginative materials, mostly to little effect. And anyway, now that the knight was lying horizontally and was still and out of the wet, the bleeding had stopped on its own.

But how to dislodge the arrow...She frowned at the protuberance at the base of the Norman's neck. She knew what an arrowhead looked like, of course; even the peasants' little boys went hunting for small game with rude versions of the weapon. She also knew that pulling it out without causing much more damage to the area would be her second hardest task. The first would be to prevent her patient from sickening with fever once the arrow was removed.

She heard the other knight, Sir Richard, shift impatiently on his stool by the door. He was waiting for her to do something instead of just staring.

She looked over to him. "Perhaps you can help me," she said.

"How?" He came to stand at her side.

"Well, I need to know how wide the base of the arrow point is," she said. "Is there any way you can tell?"

He peered at the shaft and then stretched out an arm to touch it gingerly. He slid his fingers along the smooth surface. "Judging from the length of this and the tail, I'd say probably so wide." He held up his thumb and forefinger spread about three-quarters of an inch apart. "And I think it's in rather deep. I think there's almost an inch of shaft missing."

"Mmm." She was thoughtful.

"The bleeding's stopped."

"Yes." She pointed to the spot on Longsword's neck just above the arrow shaft. "He's lucky. He wasn't struck here. Have you ever seen a pig slaughtered? Or sheep? The butcher draws a knife across the neck right in that spot because it's one of the life centers of the body. It's the same with people. If the arrow had gone in here, your lord would be dead now."

Sir Richard exhaled noisily and Gwalaes studied him curiously. Even though he was almost as bedraggled as the injured knight, she could see he was a handsome man. His short, dark hair had already dried and curled in a pleasing manner and his eyes, lit by the softly flickering candles, were the color of spring leaves. His jaw was firm and lightly flecked with a day's growth of beard, which he rubbed every now and then as if it irritated him. His nose was long and straight. But she wasn't impressed by mere beauty; her brother had been just as good-looking and she had known him to be cold and calculating and often times cruel.

She reached into her basket and pulled out a roll of white cloth. "Do you think you could ask someone to fetch me a jar of water?" she said to him.

He wavered, obviously loath to leave, but then nodded. "Very well."

He had to go out of the dormitory, she knew. She also knew the darkening sky meant the sisters would be in the church for Vespers and that the men who had been with him were probably lounging around the kitchens waiting for supper and getting in the way of the cooks. Unless he happened to snag a passing child there was little chance of him returning right away, which was fine with her because she didn't want him to witness her next maneuver.

She unwound the roll of cloth to expose a short, sharp knife, polished clean and sparkling. For good measure she wiped the cloth across the blade several times and then she used it to gently pat at the crusting blood near the wound, to clear away what she could without starting it to bleed again. She put the cloth down on the bed and picked up the knife. Although she wasn't nervous or unsure of her actions, she closed her eyes and murmured a brief prayer.

She had actually performed this operation once before, on one of the mutts at the abbey. Some boys had been playing, shooting arrows into trees and at birds flying high in the sky, and then they had turned on the puppy that had been following them around and shot at it. The dog had run away but not before being struck in a flank. Her daughter, who had been watching this vile game, had found the animal cowering under a wagon, gnawing at the arrow shaft, picked it up and carried it unprotesting on teetering three and a half-year-old legs to her to fix. She'd tipped a little wine onto her hand and let the dog lick it off her fingers. The puppy had grown drowsy, its senses dulled. With a razor, she had scraped away the animal's fur from the wound and then had gently rocked the arrow shaft, pulling slowly up on it at the same time until the arrowhead had popped out. She'd bathed the wounded area with infusion of dried goldenrod and afterwards, with not a little trepidation because she had never done so before, took a thin sewing needle and thread and stitched the mouth of the wound shut. To her daughter's delight, the puppy was kept in the storehouse for a week and watched whenever possible to see that it didn't tear at the stitches. She had been mildly surprised that the procedure proved successful; its only ill effect was that by the end of the week the dog had adopted Bronwen and she couldn't get rid of it.

The arrow point in the Norman was larger than the one that had been stuck in the dog, now named Kigva in honor of the cheerful, matronly woman who presided over the abbey's kitchens and filled Bronwen with immense admiration for her culinary talents, and she decided to slip the tip of her knife down into the wound and alongside it to help ease it upwards. She worked very slowly and carefully; blood began to spurt again, filling the gap, but she ignored it because she could feel the point shifting and coming loose of whatever muscle had seized it. She took the knife out and wiggled the arrow shaft tentatively; she felt it give and she pulled.

The handsome knight returned just when she had finished packing the puncture with dried moss and winding a long strip of linen around the injured man's neck to keep it in place and put pressure on the wound so it would stop bleeding. There were others with him. She didn't turn around; she heard the door slam and then their spurs clink urgently as they hurried to the bed.

"What's going on? What the hell have you done?" Sir Richard demanded angrily. He looked down upon the wounded man. "My God, he's soaked in blood!" He whirled on her and she, despite her previous bravado, now took a few steps backwards, wary of his fury. "What did you do to him? Answer me!"

"I removed the arrow as you wanted, Sir Richard," she said, trying to keep her voice calm. She pointed towards the foot of the bed. "There it is. You can see the entire head came out, unbroken."

Delamere snatched up the arrow and gestured threateningly with it. "You weren't to do anything unless I was present! Look at all this blood! How do I know you haven't caused him to bleed to death?"

"He isn't bleeding now, Sir Richard. Look for yourself."

She stood still, her arms down at her sides, as he bent over the bed. Her heart was pounding with fright. So many years spent in the peaceful atmosphere of the abbey...she had forgotten the violence that was encouraged in these men. If the handsome knight was displeased with her work, he would think little of taking out his anger on her. But when he finally straightened up he appeared to be satisfied, although his face remained grim.

"You weren't to do anything unless I was present," he said again. But this time he wasn't shouting.

"I'm sorry, Sir Richard," she answered meekly.

He hmphed and looked down at Longsword once more.

"I would like to clean all the blood away. Can you raise him while I remove his—this mass of metal he's wearing?" she asked.

"You'll never get it off him; it's too heavy." He signaled for one of the men who was with him to get behind Longsword. They were far gentler than she would have supposed rough men to be and they were quick. Within minutes they had stripped Longsword to the skin.

The room was silent as she unwound the linen from his neck and removed the soiled moss. She used the water Delamere had brought and a fresh cloth to clean out the wound and applied a poultice of sicklewort, warmed over the fire, to it and held it fast with another wrapping of linen bandage. All the while, she felt every eye watching her carefully and it made her nervous.

"What next?" Delamere said suddenly, startling her.

"I'll have to change the poultice every few hours. The sicklewort draws out the bad humors and prevents festering and the poultice must remain fresh." She glanced at him. "The bedding is filthy. The linens must be changed as well."

"I agree," he said curtly. "But this time you will fetch what you need and I'll remain with Lord William."

The night passed slowly. Delamere dozed on the stool, which he placed against the wall near Longsword's bed so that he was in her way and had to be wakened and asked to move whenever she wanted to change the poultice. In this manner he was able to observe her ministrations and satisfy himself that she wasn't poisoning the injured man or fouling the wound and could afterward sleep easy for another two hours.

She didn't sleep. She spent the hours making up new poultices or washing out the soiled bandages and setting them near the brazier to dry. Her sicklewort came from the forest. The leaves were dried for future use in teas or syrups, while the stalks were mashed and boiled in water until the mixture congealed. She kept the jelly in a tightly closed earthen pot in a dark corner of her quarters until some accident necessitated its use. To make a poultice she mixed the jelly with a little barley meal, which gave it an even consistency, and suet, which made it spreadable, put it on a clean cloth, warmed it over the fire and applied it directly to the wound.

The suet, which at St. Mary's was primarily from mutton, made a strong odor in the hot, closed room, but it was a small inconvenience when weighed against the satisfactory effects of the poultice. With each successive changing, she could see the positive results of her labor. The bleeding had stopped long ago, and the red, swollen mouth of the wound was clearly visible against the Norman's light skin. The first few poultices had drawn up pus; now they came away clean. The neat lips of the puncture had come together. She was pleased. A few days of observation, because the danger of fever striking her patient was possible until the wound healed sufficiently that air couldn't get into it, and then she would permit him to sit up and take solid foods.

Toward dawn he stirred and spoke. She had finished changing the poultice and Delamere, instead of returning to his seat, had gone outside to use the latrine. Longsword suddenly groaned in his sleep and shifted position, thrusting his arm out violently and knocking aside his blanket. She went to tidy the bed and as she leaned across his chest to put his arm underneath the cover, his hand clamped with surprising strength around her wrist. Her eyes flew in consternation to his face; his eyes were open and staring at her.

"Where am I?" he said to her in a hoarse whisper. "What happened?"

"You were wounded, my lord," she said. "It's all right now. You're in the abbey of St. Mary."

His breathing was labored. A spasm of pain made his mouth twist, but he did not release her wrist. "Who are you?"

"Gwalaes, my lord."

"What happened to my men? Richard..."

"Sir Richard is here. The rest of your men are here, my lord." She put her free hand on his forehead and on the side of his face. He was warm but she felt no trace of fever. He wasn't sweating or shivering.

Her touch appeared to calm him and the grip on her wrist relaxed. For a moment they watched each other intently. Finally his fingers loosened and his hand slid to his side. "I'm thirsty."

She brought over a cup of water and held it to his lips. He gulped at it sloppily and half of the water ran down the sides of his face but the act of swallowing didn't seem to be painful to him.

When he finished, he closed his eyes. She put the cup down and gently patted his face dry with the end of her sleeve.

His eyes struggled open briefly. "Thank you," he murmured. "You are kind..."

It was only afterwards that she realized with a start that the Norman had spoken to her in French—and she had answered him the same way.

She heard the thunder of hooves behind her and she began to run. She didn't have to look around to know that it was the handsome Norman, the one who hated her, who chased her. Had the injured man died after all? Her mind struggled to think as she forced her legs to move faster. He'd been fine, breathing easily, when she had told Sir Richard that she was going back to the storehouse for fresh herbs and bandages and to sleep for several hours. She had told him she would return when her daughter came to wake her after Prime. What had happened during those few, short hours?

The pounding grew louder. The warhorse seemed to have no problem negotiating the dense terrain of the forest. The knight was gaining on her. Already she was running as fast as she could, her skirts catching around her legs. Her lungs were bursting; all she could think to do was pray, so she did. Then she heard the knight call to her and even though it meant slowing her pace, she turned around. She gasped. To her horror, it wasn't Sir Richard bearing down on her but her husband, his face cold and distant but for the satisfied smirk which creased his mouth. He hung low on the saddle and reached out his hand.

"Mama! Mama!" The hand which grabbed and shook her roughly did not have a grip like a vise but all the ineffectual muscles of a small child. And it was a child who had taken hold of her; it was Bronwen. She opened her eyes, her heart still pounding from the residual effect of the nightmare.

"Wake up!" her daughter commanded sternly. "There's a big man at the door."

"Who?"

"The strange man with the pretty horses."

Bronwen was used to the abbey's two ancient mares and had expressed pleasure at the sight of the six Norman stallions, tall, fine-boned and decked out with massive, high-backed saddles and fancy tack. She had never before seen such finely dressed men, either, and had stared in awe at their gleaming swords, short hair and expensive cloaks.

Gwalaes had merely fallen fully-clothed on the small pallet she shared with her daughter upon her return from the sickroom, too exhausted to care about changing. She threw a shawl over her shoulders, ran her fingers through her hair and retied the ribbon which held it back and pushed aside the cloth partition which separated the little sleeping alcove from the rest of the room. Delamere was standing with his back towards her, idly inspecting the contents of a pot on her worktable.

"Is something wrong?" she said.

The knight spun around. "Gwalaes. No—nothing's wrong. As a matter of fact, everything is fine. Lord William awoke for a short time and spoke to me. He's still very weak but his mind was sound and he didn't complain of pain."

"He will shortly," she said. Bronwen came up behind her and held on to her skirts while she gazed shyly at the Norman. "As he regains full consciousness. I have herbs here that when steeped in boiling water will lessen the pain."

Delamere rubbed his hand over his beard. "Actually, that's why I've come. If you give me these herbs, I can take them back to Rhuddlan. We're leaving now."

She was so shocked by his words that her fear of him evaporated. "Sir Richard, that's impossible!" she said. "It's out of the question! Your lord needs bed rest for at least the next three days." The knight shook his head. "He cannot be moved!"

"He must be moved, Gwalaes," Delamere said, quietly but firmly. "Rhuddlan is safer than St. Mary's. If the Welsh who ambushed us discover we're here, they'll come in full force and we won't stand a chance. And it would only mean putting the abbey at needless risk," he added, when she started again to protest. He glanced pointedly at Bronwen. "You don't want that to happen."

Her mouth clamped shut abruptly. No, nothing must happen to her daughter. The Norman lord would have to take his chances with his men.

She untangled Bronwen's hand and went to a corner cupboard in which she kept jars of various dried herbs. She found the chamomile and shook out a generous portion onto a clean square of linen. She tied the ends of the linen together and held it out to the Norman.

"This is chamomile. It's quite safe. Whenever Lord William complains of pain, have someone brew a spoonful in a cup's worth of freshly drawn water and then make him drink the entire mixture. If he doesn't like the taste you can add honey until it suits him."

Delamere took the bundle and slipped it inside his tunic, adjusting his cloak so that it fell over his chest and left his right arm exposed. "Thank you, Gwalaes." He hesitated. "And thank you for what you've already done," he added awkwardly. "You saved his life. I'm grateful. I'll see that the abbey is properly rewarded."

Gwalaes stood in the doorway with Bronwen and watched Delamere walk away. She hoped the weather was a propitious omen of Lord William's recovery, for the rain had stopped during the night and with the exception of a few scattered puffs of white, the sky was deep blue and the sun was bright. Perhaps, she thought, shooing Bronwen inside and closing the door against the cold air, there was someone at Rhuddlan who would look after him and make sure he remained in bed and would change the wraps around the wound...if, of course, he survived the rigorous journey back to the castle.

Chapter 21

March, 1177

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

Longsword made a quick recovery.

He was barely conscious when they left the abbey and Delamere had had to hold him in his arms the entire, torturously slow way back to Rhuddlan, but once put to bed he made rapid progress. When Teleri hadn't bothered to greet her husband's return, Gladys had immediately stepped in and insisted on being the one to nurse the man through his convalescence. It was Delamere's opinion that she did so only because she had a vested interest in keeping Longsword alive but he had to admit she was gentle and solicitous and obviously successful, for by the end of three days Longsword was sitting up and eating solid foods and by the end of the week he was complaining that if he wasn't permitted down in the hall with his men for supper that night, he would climb out the window and join them.

Delamere grinned at his querulous tone. "Don't you find it ironic that you were the only man wearing a hauberk that day and the only one to be almost mortally wounded?"

"No, just bad luck," Longsword retorted. It always seemed to give Delamere pleasure to joke about his mail. If it was hot or raining, Delamere wouldn't wear his because the hauberk was heavy and uncomfortable but Longsword would no sooner go out without it than his sword.

He didn't remember anything after being shot. He had some vague memories of a soft voice and calm touch which he couldn't quite reconcile with Gladys' capable hands and incomprehensible tongue, but didn't pursue. He had a more important matter on his mind: revenge.

The six men who had chased after the Welsh had returned that same night to Rhuddlan, having seen not a trace of their enemy. But even though the warriors had been mostly hidden during the attack, Longsword was certain Rhirid ap Maelgwn had been their leader. It was the image of the Welshman's cool, appraising eye frozen in Longsword's mind that convinced him of it.

After two weeks, Longsword was still complaining of pain but he rode his horse, swung his sword and hurled his javelin anyway. The lips of the wound hadn't fused but he kept the area covered and drank the chamomile tea Gladys boiled for him and didn't think anymore about it.

One day he said to Delamere, "I'm ready now."

"Ready for what?"

"Rhirid!" he said impatiently. "I want Rhirid!"

"We've had men out every day, Will, and not one of them has seen a Welshman since the attack."

"We'll go to Llanlleyn," he declared. "A big settlement of stinking Welsh—it shouldn't be too difficult to find."

Delamere was cautious. "I don't know, Will; you're not completely healed. Riding around the ward isn't the same as running down a settlement."

"Of course it isn't," Longsword agreed grimly. "Overrunning Llanlleyn will be much more pleasurable."

The day was unusually warm for March but even Delamere was wearing his hauberk.

A sense of increasing excitement gripped him. He couldn't remember the last time he'd thought about Olwen and the little ones, so wrapped up had he been in Longsword's near fatal wound and the necessity to get him back to full strength. And now the quick pace through the forest, the dull, steady clomps of the horses and the jangling of hardware—tack and weapons—all served to revive memories of previous journeys and campaigns, memories which had nothing at all to do with his current familial obligations. It was suddenly as if Olwen, his children and the manor had ceased to exist; he belonged solely to Longsword and could think of nothing he'd rather be doing than avenging his lord's wounded honor.

The Normans had a rough idea where Llanlleyn lay. When Longsword had assumed responsiblility for Rhuddlan, he'd been given a quick review of his neighbors. The land was a bit more of a mystery but at least the season favored them—another month and a profusion of greenery would have obscured their passage.

On the second morning, their journey was made easier when they were spotted.

Delamere, riding ahead with several companions, suddenly saw the not-too-distant figure of a man on horseback galloping away from them. Whether the man was a simple traveler or some sort of guard Delamere didn't know but it was obvious he was rushing to warn Llanlleyn of the Normans' close presence.

Delamere sent word back to Longsword and took off after the Welshman. He didn't want to overtake the man; he only wanted to follow him. He was more wary of traps and ambushes now than he'd been before the day Longsword was shot.

The Welshman made no effort to hide himself. Perhaps he believed the Normans already knew exactly where Llanlleyn was situated. In any event, he couldn't afford to waste time by trying to keep out of their sight. His sole purpose in flying at breakneck speed was to get to the fortress and warn the chief before the foreigners attacked.

Then the man rounded a curve and disappeared from Delamere's view. His companions spurred on ahead of him, enjoying the chase, but when he followed them around the hillside he had to suddenly pull back hard on the reins to keep from crashing into them.

They had stopped because they had seen, about a mile in the distance, the fortress of Maelgwn ap Madog. It sat on a short hill; a sprawling collection of low, unimpressive structures surrounded by an earth and timber wall. One of the knights made a contemptuous noise in his throat. He'd been expecting something a little more worthy of his trouble.

They could see the Welshman below them, riding hard towards the fortress. The knight asked Delamere if he should continue the chase.

"No." Delamere shook his head. "It's Lord William's revenge. Let him lead the charge."

They dismounted to wait for the others to catch up. Delamere's two companions amused themselves by practicing with their swords while he kept an eye on the walls of the fortress. The gate had been open—he was certain of it—but now that the Welshman had ridden through it was closed. He saw no other sign of activity.

After a while, they heard the gathering sound of hoofbeats behind them. The Normans had been riding at a steady but not very quick pace to save their horses for the attack. They halted and milled around the narrow road, really nothing more than a rough path, looking across at the fortress. Delamere turned to grin at Longsword, who had pulled up next to him. "Take a look at your quarry," he said. "Are you sure you want to bother?"

Longsword stared at Llanlleyn and didn't smile. "Yes."

"Their most formidable defense appears to be the gate."

"We'll ride it down."

He was confident this would be easily accomplished. Formidable was hardly the word he would have used himself. Llanlleyn wasn't a particularly rich or strategic commote and in all likelihood no one had ever bothered with it—past invaders of the region had probably simply absorbed it along with larger, more important conquests while permitting its chiefs to remain. Longsword was certain the gate and the walls were only there as a matter of form and not function.

He split his knights into three groups. The larger was to attack the front of the fort; the two smaller ones would ride around it on either side. But to the Normans' surprise, as they swept down upon Llanlleyn, there was no reaction at all from inside. No warriors appeared along the wall; no arrows flew at them. They reached the fortress unscathed. Longsword was momentarily disconcerted; he and Delamere exchanged a puzzled glance. The gate was apparently their only adversary, but even this proved to be easily overcome. One man stood on his saddle and, after a cautious peek, hoisted himself over the wooden gate. He lifted the bar which had effectively locked the gate and stood back as his compatriots rushed inside.

Llanlleyn was deserted. No one—not even a stray dog—was there.

Longsword was furious. He'd wanted revenge and was being denied it. He galloped his horse around the clusters of small buildings, looking for anything that might move and not finding it.

Delamere watched his friend slash his sword through the air in frustration. Other knights rode into and out of the houses, ducking their heads to pass under the doorways. There was no one anywhere.

He stuck his sword back into his belt and urged his horse forward. When he reached the rear of the fortress, he met the men from the two groups which had circled around it.

He returned to Longsword. "They must have gone out the back," he told him. "There's a gate there, too. It was wide open."

Longsword cursed and spat on the ground. "You should have intercepted the Welshman."

"Oh, it's my fault you have no one to kill, is it?"

"If he hadn't been able to warn them, they'd still be here!"

Delamere dropped the argument, mostly because he'd already thought the same thing himself. But he was damned if he were going to apologize. "What do you want to do?"

"Burn it."

Suddenly they heard shouts behind them. They turned to see Alan d'Arques and half a dozen others rush towards the front gate.

"Looks like you'll have your fight after all," Delamere said to Longsword as he pulled on the reins and maneuvered his stallion around. "I think the Welsh are attacking us."

They soon discovered this statement was not precise. The Welsh had not mounted a conventional attack; instead, they had crept up to the fortress while the Normans were occupied, shut the gate without being noticed and set it and the timbered portions of the wall on fire. The blaze was quite substantial before Alan d'Arques and his companions had caught sight of it and shouted the warning. And now, as they all stood and stared at the burning wall, flaming arrows whizzed over their heads. Some landed harmlessly on the ground but others found their marks: thatched rooves.

"Cover the rear gate!" Longsword ordered when he realized what the Welsh were planning. "Fitz Maurice! De Vire! Get to the back! Quickly!"

They were lucky. It was clearly the Welsh intention to trap them inside the burning fortress but a handful of Normans had remained at the rear gate and spoiled the plan. The knights sat idly on their horses exchanging glares with twenty of Maelgwn's men. The Welsh, although on horseback like the Normans, were not disposed to attack and the knights believed themselves too few in number to go on the offensive. Delamere, who had raced to the back as well, did not have such prudence. "Go! Go!" he shouted at them. Fitz Maurice and de Vire were right behind him.

The Welsh were waiting for them as they burst through the open gate, the hooves of their horses throwing up clumps of earth and grass. Half a dozen archers stood to the left; at the first appearance of the Normans, they released a hail of arrows. One bounced harmlessly off Delamere's helmet. He swung around sharply. The sword he'd thought he wouldn't need was back in his hand. He raised it high and charged at the archers, screaming at the top of his lungs. The Welsh frantically attempted to fit another arrow but they were too late. They were close to the fortress and Delamere was almost on them. Four of them turned and ran but the other two had swords in their belts as well as arrows. They pulled them out but were no match for a screaming Norman bearing down upon them on his snorting, wild-eyed beast. There was more of an immediate threat in the animal's strong legs than in Delamere's sword. Another Welshman turned and ran. The last remaining warrior slashed futilely at the horse before the heavy animal knocked him into oblivion.

De Vire, fitz Maurice and the others had engaged the Welsh on horseback. Although a century of dealing with the Normans had taught the Welsh that they must be prepared to fight while mounted, it was not their preferred tactic. They outnumbered the Normans almost three to one but after a few half-hearted swings and jabs, they fled the field.

"Go round to the front!" Delamere shouted. By this time more knights had joined them, since the fire made the main entrance impassable. En masse, they flew around the perimeter of the small fortress but their adversaries were nowhere to be seen.

"They've gone into the hills, Sir Richard!" Ralph de Vire said excitedly. "Should we follow them?"

Delamere shook his head. "Those hills are a better fortress to them than Rhuddlan is to us. You wouldn't get any further than a hundred paces."

Longsword trotted up to him. "Any casualties?"

"None on our side. One trampled man on theirs but I think they took him away. They weren't here to fight us, Will; they only wanted to deny you the pleasure of burning Llanlleyn to the ground."

"I know it. They succeeded." He glanced at the growing flames. "He's quite clever, isn't he?"

"Rhirid?"

"Yes." Longsword stared at the fire consuming Llanlleyn and cursed. "He knew exactly what I wanted to do!"

Something in his friend's manner struck Delamere as odd. Although Longsword was obviously angry, his voice wasn't as loud or strong as it inevitably was on such occasions. And it was odd, too, that he hadn't pushed by all of them to be the first out the back gate. "Are you all right, Will?" he asked.

"What do you mean? Yes, of course. I'm just a little tired." He frowned at Delamere. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

Delamere's voice was dismayed. "Your neck is bleeding again."

This time, fever set in. For several days Longsword writhed and moaned in his bed, unaware of anyone or anything. It was all Gladys could do to slip a bit of broth down his throat at the odd moment.

Delamere entered his friend's chamber and was horrified. The windows had been shuttered and the atmosphere was dark and putrid. Scant light was given off by fire in the brazier which Gladys had pulled close to the bed and which made the room stifling. Bowls and cups littered the floor. Longsword lay on the bed, the linens, soiled with his own waste and sweat, pushed down and twisted around his legs. Gladys herself was in no fine state. Her hair was loose and uncombed, her gown unbelted and she walked about barefoot. Dark circles under her eyes attested to a lack of sleep.

"God Almighty, girl!" he exclaimed. "What's going on?"

"No one will come in anymore," she said dully. "They're afraid."

"Of what?"

"God's revenge. They say the fever is God's revenge for Lord William's attack on Llanlleyn."

Delamere crossed the room and threw back the shutters covering the windows. Cool air and light came through.

"Sir Richard, no!" Gladys said, suddenly agitated. "The air will kill him! He must be made to sweat!"

"It stinks to high heaven in here! If you can't get anyone to come in and clean, you'll have to do it yourself!" He leaned over Longsword who was, for the moment, lying still but breathing shallowly, his chest rising and falling rapidly. The wound at the base of his neck was swollen and dark red. A noxious whitish pus oozed from it.

"I've tried to keep a bandage over it, Sir Richard, but he keeps pulling it off," Gladys said, coming up behind him. "I've really been trying—" She suddenly burst into tears.

Delamere ignored her. He touched Longsword's brow and felt it scorch his hand. He straightened up. There was only one thing to do.

"Listen, girl," he said quietly, turning to Gladys, "I'm going out to fetch someone who can cure him and I'll be back at nightfall. In the meantime, I want that bed stripped and changed, I want him bathed and made comfortable, I want the rubbish cleared out of this room and I want you to make yourself presentable. Understand? I don't give a damn about you or your baby, only that man. If you haven't done as I've told you by the time I return, I'll personally take you down to the ward and flog you to death. Do you understand?"

She was too frightened to do anything more than nod.

Rhirid stood in a corner of the makeshift council room, listening with growing anger as his father's advisers cautioned against further incitement of Norman wrath. Was it old age or just years of complacent living that made men of the warrior caste so soft and tentative? And what had they done to infuriate the Normans, anyway?

"Perhaps we ought to send a delegation to Rhuddlan—" someone started to suggest, but Rhirid rudely interrupted.

"What for?" he demanded. "To apologize for being in their way? To give them all our cattle and hope they leave us alone?"

"Rhirid, that was no idle attack on our fort," Maelgwn said. "You do know that, don't you?"

He didn't like the way his father was eyeing him. "What do you mean?" he hedged.

"We've recently learned that you and some of your friends almost killed Lord William."

"That was pure luck," Rhirid said, not a little smugly. "We thought to avenge the murder of the shepherd since the galanas was obviously not forthcoming. We had no idea who it was we shot. By rights that wound should have festered."

"But it didn't and now he's looking for revenge."

"He's already destroyed Llanlleyn. What else can he do? They have no subtlety, these Normans; you can hear them coming a mile off. We can easily keep a step ahead of them."

"For how long?" Maelgwn demanded. "Until we're sitting in the lap of the earl of Chester? Rhirid, stop reacting and start thinking. We can't hope to win against the Normans; we don't have the manpower. We have to put an end to this war or Llanlleyn will cease to exist."

"No!" Rhirid exploded. "We can win against them! It's solely a matter of—"

"Rhirid," Maelgwn said impatiently, "why don't you go outside?"

He wanted to say more, to shame them into action, but the faces of the old men were staring at him with annoyance and he knew they were too preoccupied with their own plans for conciliation to take him seriously. He whirled around angrily and plowed into a servant bearing cups of sweet mead on a platter. The tray was upset and the cups went crashing to the ground but Rhirid stormed through the doorway and outside without a backwards glance.

A voice stopped him. "What are we going to do?"

He glared into the afternoon sun, shielding his eyes with a hand. Half a dozen men stood before him—young men like himself; his father's warriors. They waited expectantly.

"Give in," he blurted out before he thought the better of it. He was furious with the council meeting but also embarrassed that his father planned no retributive action. It was behavior, he believed, unworthy of a chief. "Placate the Normans."

The men were surprised. They'd spent the days since the attack on Llanlleyn sharpening swords and flexing their muscles. They'd been looking forward to an all-out assault on Rhuddlan.

"They burned our fortress and we're going to thank them for it?" one man, Dylan ab Owain, boomed in astonishment.

"Something like that," Rhirid said bitterly.

Dylan ab Owain was a large man with black, shoulder-length hair and thick mustaches which he had grown long so that it framed his mouth and gave him an impressively rough look. He was one of Rhirid's closest companions, although Rhirid was never certain whether it was mere friendship or a fear of his wife that prompted Dylan to spend so much time with him instead of with her.

"I say we attack Rhuddlan!" he declared. The others with him agreed.

"We don't stand a chance against those stone walls," Rhirid said. "It would be suicide to attack Rhuddlan Castle."

"Then you're just like your father!" Dylan said angrily. "We need someone who'll lead us against the foreigners, not sit and wait for them to overrun Gwynedd."

"And I'm your man," Rhirid told him. He'd had an idea; he was excited about it but kept himself calm. "Rhuddlan is out of the question. It doesn't suit our style of warfare. Strike hard and pull back; that's what we do best. It worked nearly perfectly when we met the foreigners on the road last month, didn't it?"

"What are you proposing instead?" someone else demanded.

"The Normans didn't heal William fitz Henry, right? At least, not the Norman warriors. Where did they take him after we shot him?"

"To the abbey. But, Rhirid, we can't attack a holy place!" Dylan protested.

"It isn't our holy place. It's Norman just like that fortress." He shrugged. "We don't have to inflict much harm, only enough to draw the Normans away from Rhuddlan. I'm thinking we find the person responsible for healing William fitz Henry and take our revenge." He looked at the still doubtful circle of faces before him and jerked his head backwards. "Or we can lay our weapons down at their feet like those old men in there want us to do."

The mid-afternoon sun illuminated the quiet abbey enclave below Delamere and his companions. They'd ridden hard; Delamere felt an excruciating urgency to get to St. Mary's and back to Rhuddlan because he feared Longsword wouldn't survive the night. Now he paused to collect his thoughts. He decided to abandon social niceties and not stop to greet the abbess but to detour directly to the storehouse where he remembered leaving the Welsh chit almost three weeks earlier.

"Sir Richard," one of the men said in a low voice. "There's something to our right."

Delamere tensed and listened. The last thing he needed was to run into Rhirid ap Maelgwn's warriors. He heard rustling in the undergrowth and relaxed. "After two years in Wales, can't you tell the difference between a squirrel and a Welshman?"

The men laughed and Delamere picked up his reins and pressed his knees into his mount's flanks. Suddenly a bolt of scraggly grey came hurtling out of the bushes and into their midst, spooking his horse. The frightened animal whinnied in alarm and reared up. The intruder was a dog. It didn't run from the group before it but started snarling with hackles raised and teeth bared. With difficulty Delamere brought his horse under control. A knight lifted his arm and aimed his javelin at the angry cur. "No!" Delamere shouted at him.

He'd seen a small girl standing a few yards away behind the dog, dressed in a plain blue gown, looking utterly composed and even a little amused. She noticed he was watching her and gave him a wave.

"Hello, Sir Richard!"

It was Gwalaes' child; what was her name? He'd only met her that one time he'd gone to look for Gwalaes before he had taken Longsword back to Rhuddlan. She was too young to be wandering in the forest, he thought. Perhaps she was lost.

With calm assurance she walked up to the barking, snarling dog, put her baby arms around its neck and scolded it into silence. The mangy thing licked her face and she actually laughed.

"Bronwen, is it?" he asked. "What are you doing so far from home?"

"I'm not far from home. It's right there," she said, pointing towards the abbey. She eyed him shrewdly. "But you're far from your home."

He nodded. "We've come to see your mother." A sudden thought struck him. He remembered how awed she'd been by the horses. "How would you like to ride with us back to the abbey?"

Her serious expression melted instantly. "On one of them?" she breathed in excitement.

He smiled and, swinging his leg over his mount's rump, jumped to the ground. The dog growled again but Bronwen hushed it impatiently. Delamere knelt on one knee before her so that his face was on a level with hers. "You can ride with Sir Ralph, all right? You see him, the knight on the pretty white and brown horse? Do you think you'll be frightened?"

"No," she answered. "But what about Kigva? Who'll she ride with?"

"Who? Oh—your little dog. Don't worry about her, Bronwen; she'll run alongside you." He stood up and gestured for de Vire to move closer. "The girl is coming with us," he said in French. "Hold fast to her. Whatever happens at the abbey, don't release her unless I tell you so, understand?"

The knight looked frantic. "But, Sir Richard, I don't know anything about children! What if she cries? I don't even speak Welsh!"

"Just do as I say!" Delamere snapped. "And remember—don't let her go or I'll have your head!"

They found Gwalaes inspecting her laundry down by the stream behind the storehouse. Bronwen's dog barked and rushed towards her. Delamere heard her laugh and scold the animal for coming precariously close to her clean bedsheet. And then she looked in his direction, expecting to see only her daughter chasing after Kigva and instead seeing four Normans in full battle gear on their massive horses—one of whom had an arm around Bronwen's waist.

Delamere wasted no time. He leaped to the ground before his horse had even stopped. "I need you," he said flatly.

"What are you doing with my daughter?" she demanded in a low voice that wouldn't reach Bronwen.

He ignored the question. "Lord William is close to death. The wound didn't heal and he has fever. You must come with us to Rhuddlan."

"No! I told you to leave him here for a few days—"

"I don't think you understand," Delamere said, so intensely that her attention was momentarily diverted from her daughter and her eyes flicked to his. "If you don't come, he'll die."

Something in his haggard face and burning expression must have touched her because she reluctantly relented. "Very well. Bring him here—"

"That's impossible!" Delamere cut in viciously. "He can't be moved! You can. If you don't agree to come voluntarily, I have no qualms about picking you up and carrying you off—"

She gasped. "How dare you! How dare you threaten me!"

"—but I don't think you'll refuse. Because I've got your daughter and I'll take her to Rhuddlan if it's the only way to get you there."

For a moment she was stunned into silence. She stared at him, frightened, her heart pounding furiously. He stared back, implacable.

"Mama!" Bronwen called. "Did you see me riding the horse?"

She swallowed and looked over Delamere's shoulder. One of Bronwen's hands clung to the saddle pommel and the other one waved at her. "Yes, I saw you," she said as brightly as she could manage it. "You ride very well!" She was suddenly more angry than afraid. "How can you do this to a little girl?" she hissed at Delamere. "What kind of man are you?"

"A desperate man! I'll do anything to save Lord William!"

Her mind spun rapidly. "Very well," she said finally. "I'll come. But Bronwen must stay here."

He shook his head. "No."

"I've said I'll come! There's no reason—"

"There's a very good reason—I don't trust you Welsh. Your daughter is my hostage. My possession of her will ensure your best efforts."

"I swear I'll do whatever you want, Sir Richard, but please leave Bronwen here! She's only a little girl!"

He clicked his tongue impatiently. "I have no time to argue with you, Gwalaes. Fetch what you need and be quick about it. We must get back to Rhuddlan today and every minute we waste discussing your daughter is another minute of sunlight squandered." He returned to his horse and hoisted himself up. He picked up the reins and looked down at her with a stony face.

She considered him for a moment longer. He was desperate...but he also needed her. And she wasn't about to permit her daughter to be a pawn in his game. She decided to call his bluff. Heart racing and muttering every prayer she'd ever learned, she turned and began rapidly walking away from the Normans, in the direction she'd last seen the abbess.

A short time afterwards, they were on their way to Rhuddlan—without Bronwen. The entreaties of the nuns and their earnest appeals to his character were too much for Delamere to fight. Besides, the continued waste of time was threatening his sanity.

He had the Welsh girl behind him. She clung to his belt so lightly that sometimes he could forget she was even there. He knew she detested him so much she didn't want to touch him. But they were riding as quickly as they could with the late afternoon sun shining directly into their eyes and the journey was not smooth. More often than not she had to grab him to keep her balance.

But he didn't spend much time thinking about her. He was concerned for Longsword and it was with great relief that after what seemed an interminable time, he spied Rhuddlan. He turned his head slightly. "We're almost there," he said to her. "Look—you can see the top of the keep."

Despite her feelings of revulsion, she looked. He felt her shift to the left. All at once the grip on his waist tightened. Obviously, he thought, she'd never seen anything like a Norman stronghold and was overwhelmed by the sight of Rhuddlan Castle.

"It's entirely self-sufficient," he added, unable to resist a little boasting. "We provide all our own food, craft our own weapons, brew our own ale and weave our own cloth."

"Do you trample your own grapes to make your own wine?" she inquired.

He didn't bother to answer such a flippant question. Perhaps she wasn't as impressed as he'd imagined.

Before long they reached the gate. Delamere cantered through and pulled his horse to a halt in the middle of the vast ward. A groom came up to help the Welsh girl down and then held the bridle while he dismounted.

By now the sun had gone beneath the horizon although there was still enough illumination to make lighting the torches ringing the ward redundant. The yard was full of people—every one of Longsword's men and a couple dozen curious Welsh. The girl stood apart, her eyes taking in everyone and everything. De Vire had been entrusted with transporting her basket of medicines and now he walked over to hand it to her with an embarrassed face while his cronies snickered at him. Delamere, who'd been checking on Longsword's status with Guy Lene, came up and silenced them with a harsh glare. Still without a word, he grabbed Gwalaes by her wrist and pulled her hurriedly towards the keep.

He'd been told that Longsword's chamber was now neat and the air within tolerably fresh. But Longsword himself was not faring so well. Yesterday he'd been in the throes of delirium, thrashing wildly around in his bed, but now he was lying still; his breathing was raspy and quick and his face had a deathly pallor.

He released Gwalaes' wrist and pushed open the door. His eyes went immediately to the bed, the horrifying thought suddenly striking him that perhaps his friend had died in the short time between his arrival at the front gate and his arrival at the chamber, but no. Longsword was still alive. Blankets had been pulled up to his chin, but Delamere could see his chest rising and falling.

Gwalaes slid past him. She placed her basket on the floor near the bed and bent over Longsword's prone form, her head tilted as if she were listening to his breathing. Then she moved the coverlets down to his waist and out of her way. Carefully, she peeled back the linen bandage untidily wrapped around the injured area. She gasped.

"Is it very bad?" Delamere asked worriedly.

"Yes," she answered shortly. For a moment all she could do was stare down at the wound in total disbelief. Then she heard the sound of a hand slapping hard onto flesh and a cry and she whirled around.

There was someone else in the room. A young woman who'd been hovering in the shadows and was now the object of Delamere's fury. He was standing over her still as she cringed into the wall, his hand raised as if to strike again.

"What are you doing?" she demanded. Her heart was pounding so violently it hurt.

He turned his face to her, his handsome features twisted by ugly rage. "This is her fault! I left it to her to doctor him and instead she's all but killed him!"

"This is your fault, Sir Richard!" she said, her voice trembling with anger. "I told you to leave him with me for a week but you insisted on taking him away. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that the wound reopened on your journey back to Rhuddlan."

He stared at her, his chest heaving. When the second blow did not fall, Gladys uncovered her face and watched, uncomprehending, the interplay between the two.

Delamere turned away from Gladys and came up close to Gwalaes, never taking his eyes from her. She tried to hold his stare but couldn't. She took an unsteady step backwards and bumped into Longsword's bed.

"Can you help him?" he asked, his voice low but with no trace of the anger that had pulsed through him only an instant before.

Her own anger also deflated as she looked down again at his master. She sighed. "I'll do whatever I can, Sir Richard. I swear it."

Chapter 22

March, 1177

Hawarden Castle, Gwynedd

Despite the season, Hugh's work at Hawarden proceeded rapidly. Rather than waste time tearing down the old tower and erecting a new, larger one as had been his first impulse, Hugh, on the advice of his master builder, had simply built upwards. The tower was circular and the original wood had already been replaced with dressed stone by some previous tenant; he merely added two storeys and had the interior chambers whitewashed and hung with tapestries.

The palisade was torn down and a stone wall put up in its stead. New guard towers were erected on either side of the stout gate. The bailey, connected to the motte above it by means of a wooden bridge across the ditch, was expanded to three times its original size. The barracks and stables were enlarged to accommodate Hugh's sizable garrison and a warren of alleys and rough dwellings was evolving to shelter the workmen and their families.

Roger of Haworth complained there wasn't enough land to support this sudden invasion of people but Hugh wasn't worried about such a small detail at this point. His demeanor was much more relaxed since he'd arrived at Hawarden and he was feeling too optimistic about the future to take Haworth's criticism seriously. The only cloud on the horizon was his mother. He'd had a messenger only a week earlier from Stroud by way of Chester. Maud was working with great vigor on procuring him a new wife and she had sent him a list of five possibilities. Miles de Gournay, apparently apprised of the contents of the letter to Hugh, had included a note of his own in which he outlined the more desirable characteristics of each contender. Hugh had glanced cursorily through both letters while the messenger stood by impassively, having previously informed Hugh that Maud had ordered him not to leave without a response. Hugh cursed his mother under his breath. How far did he have to flee to finally escape her? He had written back that such an important decision required more than several hours' consideration and that he wanted to ride to Chester to discuss the matter in earnest with de Gournay. Then he'd sent the messenger off and promptly tossed the two letters into the nearest brazier.

Haworth, fiercely solicitous as always, had immediately protested the earl's decision to visit Chester, pleading instead that de Gournay be brought to Hawarden. Hugh had had to bite his tongue to keep from bursting out into laughter. He neither planned to go to Chester nor consult with his steward. He had no intention of marrying again. He was quite enjoying his freedom after the long years of incarceration at Falaise.

"You can delay all you want but she'll only keep at you," Haworth warned.

"Perhaps her next messenger will disappear under mysterious circumstances, Roger."

"She'll just use another one," Haworth said. "She's not the type to give up."

Hugh snorted. "As usual, you're correct. I'll adjust my thinking. Perhaps she'll simply drop dead."

The Normans were not alone at Hawarden. Gruffudd ap Madog, the ruler of northern Powys, was keeping a very close eye on their activity at the castle. It was soon obvious to him that his old enemies were settling in for a long stay and the knowledge worried him. He had spent the last few years since his father's death fighting with his brother over the right to Powys, a struggle only recently resolved with a judicious division of the principality. Northern Powys was probably the worst part of the bargain but he was damned if he was going to lose any inch of it to the Normans. He knew about the Rebellion; he knew the earl of Chester had fought against the king. He suspected the earl had been exiled to the outpost at Hawarden and he believed the Norman, fearing to cross his king one more time, had nowhere else now to flex his muscles but in Powys.

Gruffudd wasn't a man to sit and wait for trouble to come to him. Although strictly speaking Hawarden was in Gwynedd, he sent his warriors to the castle to harry the laborers and check their progress. For nearly a week after Hugh's conversation with Haworth, the Normans found it impossible to do any work in the bailey. The Welsh struck quickly, randomly and without warning. They burned the wooden houses beyond the protective curtain wall; they halted a convoy bringing rough stone through the forest to the fortress, burned the wagons and shepherded away the ox-teams. They shot at the workmen, killing two and wounding half a dozen others. When Hugh sent his soldiers after them, they did not stand and fight but disappeared into the dense woods where the Normans dared not follow. Every day they grew bolder and the Normans more frustrated. Gruffudd even began imagining taking Hawarden for his own. And after that, Gwynedd.

Hugh decided to apply to Prince Dafydd for aid. Haworth's reaction was less than thrilled. "Why the Welsh?" he asked. "Let's send to Cheshire; call up your levy. Let's fight with Norman manpower."

"And risk the king's involvement?" Hugh scoffed. "No, it's better if this dispute is simply viewed as a Welsh problem which is being resolved by the prince. Henry will be apt to keep his nose out of it."

"What if the prince refuses to help us?"

"He won't. Especially if his old nemesis is threatening his own land."

The next day a messenger was dispatched to the Perfeddwlad, the seat of Dafydd's government, to seek an audience with the prince on behalf of the earl of Chester.

Chapter 23

March, 1177

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

To Longsword, it was as if he had been cast down into the depths of a deep lake. When his eyes were open he could see light beyond the murkiness, shimmering hazily on the surface of the water. But it was a struggle to keep them open, to keep his sense of direction, to keep flailing the arms which would propel him upwards into the world he knew he had once inhabited. Sometimes the effort overcame him and he would give up and slip back into the inky depths. Sometimes he felt a warm hand on his cold body, consoling him. Sometimes he heard voices from the surface calling to him and encouraging him.

And then...the struggle seemed not so great, or perhaps he had gained in strength. He forced himself to concentrate on moving his muscles until, body aching, he finally burst through the gloomy, icy water and emerged into the peace of familiar surroundings.

At first he couldn't even shift his head. He moved his eyes instead, and saw the blurred outline of a woman standing near the open doorway to the chamber. There was something familiar about her, he thought...and then he remembered. She was his woman; she was carrying his child. Thank God, he thought with relief, he remembered something. He wasn't quite sure how he had ended up in his bed in the middle of the day and he didn't even know what day it was, but he recognized the woman all right. Surely the rest would come back in a few moments. He was tired. He closed his eyes.

Suddenly they flew open again. He couldn't remember her name!

She had turned away from the door and closed it. She was walking towards the bed. He cursed his eyes, blinking furiously in an attempt to clear his vision but it was no good. His eyes felt as if they'd been dipped in sand: gritty and scratchy.

"Wait a moment," she said.

She disappeared from his view. When he tried to turn his head to follow her, a searing pain ripped up the side of his neck and, not expecting it, he grunted involuntarily.

"Don't move," she ordered sharply.

He felt a little annoyed at her tone. He was the master here, not her. He opened his mouth to tell her so but nothing came out except a few hoarse,indecipherable bursts of air.

She returned. There was a stool near the bed and she sat on it. She held a linen cloth in her left hand and she leaned over him and dabbed gently with it at his eyes. The cloth had been soaked with warmed water; he felt the grit loosen and wash away. He blinked several more times until he could see clearly. He frowned. He didn't know this woman.

He stared at her. No, that wasn't right; he did know her. He couldn't remember where but he knew he had seen her before. She stared back at him, a faint smile on her lips. Her eyes were large and brown and crinkled at the corners.

"Welcome back, my lord," she said. "You've had a nice long rest. You must be thirsty." She stood up again and moved out of his view but came back almost immediately with a cup in her hand. She wrapped the cloth around it and tipped it towards his mouth. "Don't try to raise your head. Just swallow slowly. It's wine flavored with rosemary. Just smelling rosemary reminds me of spring. But it's a very beneficial herb, too. It makes you feel nice and comfortable inside..."

He felt a thin trickle of the wine invade his mouth. He swallowed gingerly. His entire neck and left shoulder ached and he didn't want to exacerbate the pain. The chattering girl seemed to know how much liquid was enough to fill his mouth before he was forced to swallow. Not a drop ran down the sides of his face.

She pulled the cup away and blotted his lips with the cloth. "I don't want you to have too much or you'll fall asleep. I'd like to get some broth inside you, first."

Christ! His mind was full of cobwebs. He couldn't concentrate. It was driving him mad, wondering who the hell she was and what she was doing with him. Gladys...Somewhere in her rambling she'd said the name 'Gladys.' He remembered Gladys now; she was the one who was carrying his child. And Teleri—that was his damned wife. So who was this?

She'd gone back to the table. Longsword found that if he gritted his teeth and moved his head very slowly, the pain was not so great. He watched her move busily at the table. She was dressed in something plain and brown and her dark hair was gathered into a single loose braid which reached almost to her waist. She was tall for a woman—she must surely tower over Teleri, he thought—but not ungainly. She worked quickly, cutting up bread and mixing it into a shallow bowl. The rhythmic motion of her hands and his own steady breathing started to make him drowsy...

"I told you not to move your head, my lord!"

His eyes snapped open. She was sitting near him again, the bowl in one hand. She gave him an accusing look. "I don't want you to stretch and pull the wound until I've had the chance to look at it," she explained.

Wound? That must be why his neck and shoulder ached. Now he remembered: the Welsh had shot an arrow at him; he'd recovered but then the spot had broken open. Yes—it had happened at Llanlleyn. And the Welsh had burned Llanlleyn to the ground before he'd had the chance to do it himself. Rhirid ap Maelgwn...He had yet to take his revenge on the Welshman.

But right now he wasn't about to allow this chit to dictate to him. If he wanted to move his damned head, he'd move his damned head! So he straightened it up, just to show her who was boss and instantly a bolt of pain seared through his neck. Somehow he managed to keep his expression even so she didn't notice...he hoped she hadn't noticed.

Luckily, she didn't mention it. "It's gotten cool, my lord," she said apologetically about the broth. "But at least that will make it easier for you to swallow. Sir Richard told me you were thin to start with, but you've gotten very skinny since you fell ill with the fever. Gladys was hardly able to feed you because you thrashed around so much."

He listened to her ramble on with only half an ear because he found he had to concentrate on chewing the soggy pieces of bread and then swallowing. It was actually satisfying; he hadn't realized he was hungry. But it was a real effort and by the time he'd finished, he was exhausted.

The last thing he was conscious of before he slipped away into a deep sleep was the dampened cloth gently blotting his mouth clean.

Richard Delamere was extremely pleased to learn that Longsword had finally awakened although equally disappointed that he hadn't been there at the time. Once he passed around the good news, the entire mood of the castle lightened. Every one of the Normans had been holding his breath, waiting. To those who had seen Longsword in the throes of the fever, it seemed a miracle. One day he had been at the very threshold of the gates of Heaven and then, only three days afterwards, he'd been snatched back to earth.

Delamere felt it premature to thank Gwalaes for her work. After all, although he could see quite plainly that Longsword breathed easily and no longer flung himself violently around a sweat-drenched bed, he had yet to speak to him or hear him speak. And despite Gwalaes' conviction that all was well, he still wouldn't let her leave Rhuddlan. She claimed that the worst was over, that only rest and nourishment were necessary to fully restore Longsword and that anyone could serve him now but in Delamere's mind she was the sole link between Longsword's death and return to life and he wasn't about to lose her until Longsword was up and walking.

That night Gwalaes, her mind churning, lay awake on her pallet on the floor in Longsword's chamber. She wanted desperately to get back to the abbey. She and Bronwen had never before been separated and, even though she knew such fears were groundless, she worried that her child wasn't eating properly or sleeping quietly.

At length, she fell into a fitful sleep, only to be awakened by a nightmare. The vivid memory of it receded almost immediately but she knew quite clearly what it had been about: Bronwen. Something terrible happening to Bronwen. Something terrible had happened to Bronwen. Gwalaes was in agony for the rest of the night. She tried to convince herself it was her earlier worrying that had put apprehension for Bronwen in her mind but the horrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach would not go away. Only seeing her daughter again would dissolve it. She heard Longsword shift his position in the dark. Tomorrow, she thought with determination, he must come fully back. Delamere had all but promised when Longsword regained his senses, she would be permitted to leave Rhuddlan.

It was a simple enough matter for Rhirid and his small band to come up on the abbey in the cold, clear morning light and to swoop down upon its inhabitants like wild marauders, swords drawn and whooping. It was simple enough to call forth the abbess and to force the admission that someone there had indeed tended to the seriously wounded Norman leader. It was simple enough to threaten to burn down the entire compound if that person wasn't immediately given up to him. The rest of it was not so simple.

"The person whom you seek isn't here," the abbess told Rhirid calmly. She did not appear to be frightened by his sudden invasion. "Knights came from Rhuddlan. Lord William has the fever and Gwalaes was compelled to return with them."

Rhirid stared at the abbess. This was a twist in his plan he hadn't foreseen. "You permitted her to leave? These knights are our enemy. You must have heard by now what happened at Llanlleyn."

"We are very sorry for the trouble at Llanlleyn," the abbess said carefully. "It certainly seems to have been the fault of the Norman knights. But it is our Christian duty to help those who need us—"

"So they might recover to order new murders? New destruction?" Rhirid cut in angrily. "My father's people lost everything when Llanlleyn was burned to the ground! And now you tell me your healer, this—this—Gwalaes, has gone to help the Normans again?"

"She couldn't do otherwise, Lord Rhirid! They were holding her daughter hostage. It was only through my intercession that they agreed to leave the girl here but if Gwalaes had refused to go, there was no telling what they might have done with Bronwen!" The abbess stopped to catch her breath. Normally patient and reserved, the events of the last several weeks coupled with this fresh assault had pushed her to the edge of civility. "You and your hooligans can turn around and go home," she added. "You're no different from the knights who came rushing in, demanding this and that. Only they got here first!"

Rhirid raised his eyebrows in surprise at her tone. But the insult just made his decision easier. At first he was embarrassed to learn the object of his quest was not in residence. His men had looked to him for answers and it seemed the one he'd confidently given them was fizzling into nothing. They watched him now, expectantly, certain of his ability because he was as aggressive and determined as they were but with the additional power of being a chief's son. He dared not disappoint them. They might never give him another chance.

His decision was obvious. "We've come here to take revenge for the destruction of Llanlleyn," he said to the abbess, "because William Longsword was cured by your healer. It would be justice if we burned your abbey to the ground. But—" he held up a hand to override the abbess' imminent objection, "—we will go without further trouble...if you give us the girl."

The abbess paled. "Bronwen?"

"That was the name you mentioned."

"No! Bronwen is a little girl! You can't take out your revenge on a mere child!"

"I have no wish to harm a child," Rhirid agreed. "What I really want is her mother. If the Normans were successful using the girl as bait, why should I not also succeed?"

"It is an evil plan!"

He shrugged. "Very well." He called Dylan ab Owain over to his side. "Bring every female child you can find to stand before me," he instructed.

For the first time, the abbess looked frightened. "We are under the protection of the bishop at St. Asaph's and of Prince Dafydd himself!"

"We have no quarrel with the prince, only with those who shelter and aid our common enemy."

The peaceful morning was brutally shattered by the screams and pleas of children ripped from their parents and carried forcibly to form a small group under the shadow of Rhirid's spotted grey horse. There weren't many girls; perhaps a dozen. But there was only one who was bent over a scraggly grey dog, trying vainly to comfort herself by comforting it.

Bronwen didn't understand what was happening but she knew the man on the horse wanted her. He had said her name; she was the only Bronwen at the abbey. She glanced up and craned her neck, searching for the woman who was watching her while her mother was gone but when their eyes met, the woman covered her face with her hands and turned away. That just made Bronwen even more nervous.

She looked instead at the angry man who had said her name. He was speaking very loudly to the abbess, who seemed upset. The other men stood about, unsmiling. Bronwen was afraid of them. They were rough-looking and held long swords in their hands. The Normans had been neat and had kept their swords by their sides.

She heard her name again. Kigva was barking and growling, standing her ground. Bronwen saw with dismay that one of the rough men—one who had long black hair and big black mustaches—was coming towards her. She backed away but there wasn't anywhere she could go. Too late she saw that she was standing alone with Kigva; the other girls had fled to the safety of their mothers' arms.

Then one of the sisters lurched forward suddenly as if she would throw herself between Bronwen and the menace to her safety. But after a few steps, she stumbled and clutched a hand to her chest. Her mouth moved but no words came out and finally her eyes rolled back in her head. Before anyone nearby could catch her, she collapsed onto the ground, dead as a stone.

"Murderer!" a woman screamed. "Murderer!"

Bronwen shrieked as Dylan ab Owain seized her and lifted her off her feet. Kigva hurled herself at the strange pair of legs but the warrior gave her a mighty kick which sent her skidding across the ground with a whimper. The Welshman handed Bronwen up to the nearest horseman.

Rhirid watched the proceedings without expression. Inwardly, however, he was annoyed. He couldn't understand the tremendous uproar to his seizure of one small child. It wasn't even as if someone had stepped forward and claimed to be kin to the girl. She was practically an orphan; what did she matter?

He nodded to Dylan. "Fire anything that will burn."

"No!" The abbess stepped forward. "You promised if you got Bronwen—"

"If you gave her up to me," Rhirid interrupted. "Which you didn't."

"Please, Lord Rhirid! Isn't it enough that you have the child? That one of our own is dead because of you and your men?"

Rhirid craned his neck to watch the first straw and mud roof succumb to one of Dylan's torches. There were shrieks and screams from the on-lookers.

"No," he answered at length. He glanced down at the abbess. "I have the feeling that when it comes to William Longsword, it won't be enough until one of us is dead." He took the reins up in his hands. All around him the timbered buildings were burning. Although some of the inhabitants had fled, most were gathered near the stone church and the nuns. "Tell him I look forward to meeting him again." Then, without warning, he kicked the flanks of his mount and shouted to his men. After several thunderous moments, the abbey grounds were once more peaceful.

Except for the wailing.

Chapter 24

March, 1177

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

Longsword woke up irritated. Dawn was breaking; his chamber was filled with a murky grey light, a certain indication of a cloudy sky. Why was the weather always so damned dreary in Wales, he thought grumpily. And why were the shutters standing open, anyway? He didn't remember leaving them open the night before...

He felt a pressing urge to relieve himself. There should have been a pot around somewhere, or maybe he'd just go to the garderobe at the end of the passageway...

But at his first movement came shooting pains which reverberated from his neck down into his shoulder and back again. For a split-second he was surprised; then he remembered the wound. He cursed out loud. How was he going to do such a simple thing as empty his bladder if he couldn't move? With his right hand he pushed away the bedclothes, finishing the job with his legs. He took a deep breath, gritted his teeth and very slowly and painfully lifted his head and shoulders from the pillow. His stomach strained from the effort; absently, he wondered how long he'd lain prone to have had such a deleterious effect on his stomach muscles. Finally he was sitting upright. His neck throbbed and he couldn't have moved his left arm if his life depended on it, but he felt grimly proud of himself. As soon as he was able to mount his horse, he was going to hunt down Rhirid ap Maelgwn and kill him.

A ragged hem and two ill-shod feet appeared in his field of vision. With a second painful effort, he raised his head and saw a woman standing before him. He recognized her; she was the same one who had fed him the broth and wine. He opened his mouth to speak but she was quicker.

"What do you think you're doing?" she demanded. Almost as an afterthought she added, "My lord."

He scowled at her. Every muscle in his body ached and his neck was screaming murder and she had the nerve to stand there with her hands on her hips and a crease in her forehead and berate him? It was intolerable. "Give me a hand," he ordered, his voice hoarse. "I want to—Christ!" He had just realized he was naked. He grabbed his pillow with his right hand and plopped it in his lap.

She burst out laughing.

"What the hell is so funny?" he said angrily.

"My lord, who do you think's been looking after you these last few days? All of you?"

He stared at her. This was how she'd looked the day before; her eyes smiling and her face relaxed. In a calmer voice and with as much dignity as he could muster, he said, "I need to relieve myself."

Without another word, she went around to the opposite side of the bed, picked the pot up from the floor and brought it back to him. She retreated to the unshuttered window.

"Where's Richard?" he asked.

"I'm sure he'll be in right after Mass," she answered. "Last night was the first he didn't sleep on the stool by your bed."

"He was staying here?" Longsword felt foolishly touched.

"He refused to leave. I think he thought the sheer force of his will was sufficient to make you recover. Are you through?"

"Yes."

She came around to take the pot, which she put outside the chamber door. "Let me help you lie down again."

"No, I want to stand up. I might as well try it while I'm already halfway there." He tentatively flexed his leg muscles. "I've been in this damned bed too long as it is."

She planted herself so close in front of him that he couldn't have stood up without falling backwards, or knocking her down, even if his legs had felt capable of supporting him. "No," she said.

He frowned. "What do you mean, no?"

"You've only just got over a fever, my lord. Your body is too weak."

"Well, this is the way to begin strengthening it again—"

"No, this is the way to fall flat on your face and burst open the wound again, my lord," she cut in furiously. "I won't have it!"

He blinked at her suddenly sharp tone. She was glaring, her hands clenched. If he hadn't been so annoyed, he would have laughed at her display of anger. What was she planning to do? Assault him with her fists?

"Better do as she says, Will."

Longsword looked past the girl, his annoyance evaporating instantly. "Richard! I'm glad to see you! I'm much better. If I could just stand up, I'd be perfect."

Delamere came into the room. His glance fell on the healer's stony face. "If Gwalaes thinks you ought to stay put, you ought to stay put."

"Richard—"

"For God's sake, Will, you nearly died!" Delamere exploded. "She's the only one who knew what to do and you must follow her instructions completely!"

Longsword was taken aback by the vehemence in his friend's voice. His eyes swiveled from one to the other. The girl, the one who saved his life, stared at the floor, her lips pressed into a straight, bloodless line. Delamere's face bore an uncharacteristic glare.

"Fine," he said grumpily. "If that's what you want..."

Delamere helped him ease back onto his pillow. His face finally relaxed and he sat down on the stool by the bed. "I swear to God, Will; I never thought I'd speak to you again. The fever..."

"I can't remember anything after Llanlleyn," Longsword admitted. "But I feel fine! Richard, how much longer must I remain in bed? I want to see my men. And we've got work to do. Rhirid—"

"Rhirid can wait. Don't worry; you'll get your revenge. He isn't going anywhere." He grinned at his friend's expression of frustrated ambition. The healer would have her hands full now, he thought. Longsword unconscious and thrashing about was light work compared to Longsword fully sensible and unable to do what he wanted to do. "I have an idea. We'll have a feast tonight to celebrate your return to us. I know the men want to see you; everyone's been asking after you. We'll rig a chair or something and carry you down to the hall. How does that sound?"

"Great," Longsword answered fervently.

Delamere turned to Gwalaes. "Is that all right with you?" he asked her in Welsh. "I think his recovery will be swifter if he can be with his men."

She shrugged. "I can bind him up tightly so that he can't move his head too much."

There was a little silence and she glanced at him. He was staring intently at her and then suddenly he stood up. "Come out for a moment; I want a word with you." He went to the doorway and waited for her to join him. She noticed he was frowning again. "What's going on?" he demanded.

She was confused. "What do you mean? He wanted to get up. I said no; it's too early yet. Sir Richard—"

"No!" he interrupted. "How did you come by your Norman French?"

She caught her breath. Why hadn't she kept to Welsh? She stammered, "I—I don't understand; the nuns—"

"You didn't learn it at the abbey. I was there. I never heard the sisters speak anything but Welsh to their servants. Even among themselves it was mostly Welsh." He watched her face. "Several days ago you addressed me in French and you just now spoke to Lord William in French. And you spoke it perfectly."

She didn't look at him. "I learned it at the abbey," she said in a stubborn voice.

For a moment he didn't respond. She could feel his eyes trying to burn right through her skull, to see what was in her head. "Very well," he said finally. He brushed past her.

"Sir Richard, my daughter—" she said urgently.

He turned around. "What about her?"

"I would like to go back. We've never been separated and I've been away too long."

"If you remember, I wanted to bring her here."

"Yes, but—"

"As you said, Lord William isn't yet fully recovered."

"But Gladys—"

"I told you before, I don't want her anywhere near him!"

Gladys hesitated in the stairwell. What if that hadn't been him? What if he were still inside? She turned to leave and then stopped, scolding herself for cowardice. Of course that had been him! He'd been bareheaded; there couldn't be two Normans so handsome. She had watched from her window as he'd called for his horse and a dozen men to accompany him. They had ridden through the gate and disappeared from her view. Of course he was gone.

And, anyway, she had the right to see Lord William, hadn't she? She carried his child. And he would want to see her, to know that everything was all right with her. Yes, now that Lord William was conscious, she had nothing more to fear from Richard Delamere.

Before she could think any further, she climbed the remaining steps and nodded nervously to the guard at Longsword's door. Act as if what you're doing is normal, she told herself. Not for the first time did she feel the frustration of not being able to speak French. She would have liked to have commanded the guard to push open the door for her. But this turned out to be unnecessary because he pushed it in without being told. She was thrilled. Obviously Lord William had been asking for her.

Gwalaes was sitting up on a pallet to one side of the burning brazier, rolling strips of linen into tight wads.

"I've come to see Lord William," Gladys told her in a defiant voice from the threshold.

Gwalaes looked amused. "Then come in. He's still here."

She knew! The slut knew why she had dared this visit. Gladys flushed. "You don't have to look so smug!" she said angrily. "He can't keep me out."

"Who?"

"Sir Richard!"

Gladys glared at her. Gwalaes had done it on purpose—tricking her into admitting Sir Richard's absence was the only reason she had dared to come to Lord William's chamber.

"He might trust you, but I don't!" she added. She went to Longsword's bed. "Why should you care if Lord William lives or dies?"

Gwalaes put the bandages down and stood up. She studied Longsword over Gladys' shoulder. "He fell asleep right after he had his breakfast," she said. "Sir Richard is making a feast for him tonight and I told him he couldn't go unless he slept all day. His mind is at full strength but his body is still very weak."

"I suppose Sir Richard fell all over himself to thank you. He had no kind words for me when I cured Lord William after he was brought back from the abbey. But when Lord William broke open his wound at Llanlleyn and caught the fever, it was all my fault. He told me he would kill me." She looked down at Longsword and smoothed a corner of his blanket. "He's jealous of me."

"Jealous?"

"Yes." She turned to Gwalaes with a haughty expression. "I've done the one thing he can't—I've got Lord William's child inside me."

"Oh...I see."

"That's the real reason he didn't want me around Lord William, you know. He didn't want Lord William to wake up cured and be forever in my debt. He can just send you back to the abbey but I'm staying here and he doesn't want to compete with me for Lord William's favor." She sat comfortably on the edge of the bed and looked up at Gwalaes. "Why don't you let me care for him until Sir Richard returns? If he's only going to sleep..."

The chit didn't answer right away and Gladys frowned. She shouldn't have asked; she should have insisted. She had a position to uphold now but everyone would continue to treat her as usual if she didn't assert herself.

She spoke again. "Yes, I think that's a good idea, Gwalaes. You just show me what to do and then go out. He'll be pleased when he awakens to my face."

"Very well," the other woman said reluctantly. She went to a side table, the surface of which was covered with bandages, bottles and jars and several shallow bowls. "If you come here, I'll show you—"

"No. Bring it to me," Gladys commanded imperiously. To her delight, it worked. After a slight hesitation, Gwalaes complied. Another thought struck Gladys. "Where did you learn to speak the Norman tongue?"

Gwalaes, as she was crossing the floor to the bed, stopped abruptly. "How do you know..."

"I heard you. The first night you were here. You turned on Sir Richard and said something to him in Norman and he said something back to you."

"Oh...yes." She was flustered. "I learned it from the nuns at the abbey, of course. They're all Normans."

"Did it take you long to learn?"

"I've been there almost all my life. I just picked it up, I suppose."

"What I'm trying to say is, how long do you think it would take me to learn it?" Gladys asked impatiently. "I know a few words, a few phrases already."

"I really couldn't tell you. I suppose you have to keep listening and practicing." She held out a jar. "Should I tell you what to do with this?"

"No." Gladys glanced at it without interest. "Put it back. I don't want you to go after all. I want you to teach me whatever Norman you can before Sir Richard sends you back to the abbey."

While Delamere and the other Normans at Rhuddlan had prayed fervently for Longsword's recovery, Teleri had waited just as anxiously for word of his death. His refusal to accede to her demand that Gladys be dismissed had turned an indifferent distaste for all Normans into an intense personal hatred of him and she had convinced herself that when he died she would be blessedly free. She would return to her uncle and he, being unable to argue with the fact that she had diligently done her duty, would grant her freedom to choose her next husband. Longsword had spoiled her dream with his initial convalescence but then fate had kindly granted her a second chance. It had been rumored that his condition was much graver this time.

But just when the situation couldn't have looked any better for her, she learned that Delamere had brought in a woman claimed to be a miracle-worker. This woman had already cured Longsword once and the Normans had no doubt that she would do it again. The talk had made Teleri uneasy. Longsword just had to die! She thought she'd end up mad if she were forced to spend the rest of her life with a husband she detested, his servant mistress and their illegitimate children. For the first time, she cursed the vagary of fate which had made her female, and wished she was a man so she could simply jump on a horse and ride far away.

She'd held her breath but more bad news had followed. On the third day, Longsword was said to have opened his eyes and asked for wine. Her servants brought her all the gossip. The ones who understood some French were especially helpful although she suspected a tendency toward exaggeration. Apparently her husband's speed of recovery was so miraculous, it seemed he'd soon be walking on water.

Worse yet, the whore Gladys was asserting herself once again. Her women had told her now that Longsword was fully conscious Gladys no longer hid in her chamber but went wherever she pleased with her personal attendant trailing behind her and her nose stuck up in the air. The chit was becoming dangerous, Teleri thought sourly; giving herself privileges and an authority which far exceeded her position. The handsome Sir Richard, who seemed to detest Gladys as much as she did, had managed to keep her in check during Longsword's illness, but now...Teleri was not a little apprehensive that Gladys' true aim was to replace her as de facto mistress of Rhuddlan by insinuating herself so deeply into Longsword's life that he would be unable to get rid of her if he wanted. In a way, then, Gladys was more of a threat to her than Longsword; her husband possessed control of her life but Gladys could one day very well influence her status at Rhuddlan.

It was time to take matters into her own hands. She knew Sir Richard was planning a feast for the evening meal, to honor Longsword, and she knew that he had left the fortress in order to kill with his own hands the centerpiece of the board. Perhaps it wasn't too late...Heart tight with anticipation, she ventured to Longsword's chamber accompanied by two of her women.

The guard was lolling near one of the arrow slits in the outer wall of the stairwell, staring idly outside, but he snapped up straight when she and her entourage came up on him. She ignored him. The door to her husband's outer room stood open and she could hear voices coming from the bedchamber. One of them she recognized immediately as belonging to the slut, Gladys; she supposed the other belonged to the miracle-worker. She listened for a moment but they were discussing nothing of importance and she swept regally over the threshold.

The voices fell silent. Teleri could feel two pairs of eyes on her as she surveyed Longsword's bedchamber. It was well-lit from the unshuttered windows although a trifle chilly. A table was spread with bandages and bowls and little jars. A generous fire burned in the brazier close by the bed and took the edge off the air. And then her studiously casual glance fell upon a tall young woman dressed in plain, dull brown standing opposite her. The famed healer? Teleri was disappointed. She'd expected a wizened old woman, a witch of some sort, not this young, nervous-looking girl.

"I've come to see Lord William," she said coolly.

She noted with amusement that the miracle-worker seemed awed by her, as well she should. The poor thing looked like she hadn't slept since her arrival, her hair was falling out of its braid and her clothing was stained and spotted with blood and medicines. In contrast, Teleri wore an expensive scarlet surcoat of fine brocade, embroidered with gold thread in swirling patterns. Her long, dark reddish hair had been brushed until it shone, left unbound and capped with a sheer, pale veil and a golden circlet. Her tapered fingers were capped with clean, white-tipped nails and the perfume of the lavender with which she had scented her bath almost defeated the sick smell of the chamber. She exuded cleanliness and wealth. She was impressive.

She looked at Gladys, who had risen from her seat on the bed and was trying not to appear nervous. "What are you doing here, slut?"

Gladys thrust her chin up in a valiant effort to match Teleri's calm assurance. "I have the right to visit Lord William, my lady," she said, but her voice faltered on the last few syllables.

Teleri laughed mockingly and pointed to her husband. "While he lies there, insensible, you have no rights at all, slut."

Gladys flushed. "When he finds out—"

The other woman laughed again, greatly amused. "How? Can you tell me just how he will find out?"

Gladys opened her mouth and closed it. Her hands twisted around each other nervously.

Teleri tired of the game. "Leave."

Gladys fled.

Teleri considered the miracle-worker. "I wasn't told your name."

"Gwalaes, my lady."

"Gwalaes," Teleri repeated. She moved towards the bed and stared down impassively at her husband. "How is Lord William? I heard you worked a miracle and brought him back from the brink of death."

"If there was a miracle it wasn't I but God who worked it, my lady," the woman answered.

"How pretty," Teleri said, her lip curling. "So, there's every indication of a complete recovery, then?"

"Yes, my lady. He just needs time. Although with him, perhaps not too much time. Already this morning he wanted to get out of bed and test his legs."

Teleri left the bed and wandered to the table, feeling irritated. He just couldn't die, could he? She picked up various jars, peered without interest inside them and put them down again. If it weren't for him, her life wouldn't be so miserable. It was all very unfair. She blamed the Welsh, too; whoever had shot him ought to have had better aim. And her uncle, of course, who had dropped her in this mess. It was time she took charge of her own life.

She turned decisively to the miracle-worker, whom she considered the only person who now stood between her and happiness.

"Why are you doing this?" she demanded.

"Doing what, my lady?" Gwalaes asked, confused.

"This—saving Normans!" Teleri answered with a dismissive gesture toward Longsword. "You ought to just let him die!"

The stupid girl actually looked shocked. "My lady?"

"They're our enemy, Gwalaes! They invade our land, kill our men...And that one lying so helplessly in bed is one of the worst! Surely you've heard about the horror he inflicted on the innocent people of Llanlleyn, how he attacked the fortress and burned it to the ground! God knows how many people were killed—women and children unspared! They all bragged about it when they came back with their bloodied swords. And now you've cured him of his fever and he'll soon recover his strength and he'll go out and do it again! Others will die and it will be your fault! Can you understand that?"

Gwalaes' face was pale. "Sir Richard never said..."

"He wouldn't, would he? He isn't an idiot. He knew you would never consent to help if he told you the truth."

Gwalaes' eyes flicked uncertainly towards the man on the bed. "I—I didn't know..."

"And if you had known? What would you have done then?"

"I don't know, my lady. I—I have a child. Sir Richard threatened to hold her hostage for my skills."

Teleri nodded. "Ah, yes. The Normans have no love for children. He would probably have lopped her head off if you'd refused to help. Where is she?"

"At the abbey, my lady. He agreed to leave her there when I said I would come."

Teleri gave the miracle-worker a measured look. "So she's safe...Maybe, then, it's not too late," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"Well...maybe there's something that you're supposed to do for Lord William that you won't. Or," she made a motion towards the table, "maybe you can give him a concoction that will worsen his condition instead of curing it. Surely there's some potion among these that can do the trick."

"That would be murder!" Gwalaes breathed.

Teleri lifted her fine eyebrows. "No," she said calmly. "Retribution. He killed innocent people, Gwalaes; even children. I'm not making this up—ask Gladys to tell you the story. If he survives, he'll kill again. You can count on it. Would you like to have that on your conscience?" The miracle-worker looked suitably horrified. "It was a bad wound, Gwalaes," she continued persuasively. "You must have been surprised when you were able to heal him the first time. And everyone knows how much worse he was this time. No one, not even Sir Richard, expected him to live. If he died now, they'd all nod and say they'd known all along he wouldn't come through."

"But Sir Richard has seen for himself that Lord William's doing better, my lady," the other woman protested. "If something ill happens now, he'll think I must have done it deliberately."

"Why you?"

Gwalaes looked blank. Teleri turned to her women and bade one of them to bring Gladys back.

Comprehension suffused the miracle-worker's face. "My lady, I couldn't—"

"Why not? What's she to you?"

"But she told me she's pregnant with Lord William's child—"

"Stop worrying, Gwalaes! She almost killed him once before and Sir Richard merely considered her inept, not a would-be murderer. Gwalaes—" she spoke more loudly as the other woman started to protest, "—just try to remember all the evil that's come out of this man and others like him. He's their leader; if we cut him down, the others will have no choice but to crawl back to England."

The healer looked miserable but didn't say anything. Teleri watched her, pleased with herself and the argument she'd made. Of course she knew she was exaggerating the assault on Llanlleyn but that only made the argument more compelling.

Gladys entered the room warily. Teleri gave her a wide smile.

"You're going to get a second chance, Gladys!" she said brightly. "We're leaving you to tend to Lord William on your own. Gwalaes is coming back to my chamber. I've had such bad headaches lately and she says she's got something to help me. She tell you what salves to slather on Lord William's neck and what potions to slip down his throat when he opens his mouth to snore..."

"Thank you, my lady." Gladys' face was filled with happiness. She turned to Gwalaes expectantly.

Gwalaes appealed once more to Teleri. "I don't think—"

"Please! My headache..." Teleri touched a hand to her forehead. "I can't argue anymore, Gwalaes. Sir Richard won't be back for hours; he'll never know if Gladys was here."

"He doesn't have the right to keep me out!" Gladys asserted.

The miracle-worker looked from one to the other. The obvious indecision was maddening to Teleri but she tried to appear calm. If her plan succeeded, her two worst enemies would disappear from her life. Sir Richard would murder Gladys if Longsword turned up dead and she was considered directly responsible. He would probably murder the miracle-worker as well, but there were some things over which Teleri had no control.

Finally Gwalaes made up her mind. She picked up a jug of wine in one hand and a tightly covered jar in the other. She beckoned to Gladys. "Let me show you how to infuse these leaves to make a drink for Lord William..."

Chapter 25

March, 1177

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

The ward was nearly deserted of soldiers when she emerged hesitantly on to it from the ground-floor entrance in the rear of the keep. After the heavy midday meal, most of Longsword's men disappeared into the barracks or remained in the hall to amuse themselves with gaming or storytelling or napping. Still, she could tell it was a busy place, this Rhuddlan Castle. Even at such a lazy time of day servants bustled about, guards prowled the towers, the smith pounded a horseshoe into proper shape at his forge and, out of her view, two combatants practiced against each other, clanging metal together with unnatural ferocity.

She had decided on the spur of the moment to take advantage of her freedom after Teleri had dismissed her. Delamere hadn't once allowed her to leave Longsword's side and she was finding the waiting tedious. It was especially worse without the diversion of her daughter, whom she keenly missed. She pulled the ends of her rough cloak closer together and contemplated her next move. Her breath came out in puffs of mist. The air was cold but she didn't mind; it smelled fresh and crisp. She was a scrupulous housekeeper and kept Longsword as clean as possible, but there was a mingled smell of sweat and human waste which clung tenaciously to the air in his chamber.

There was no purpose in strolling the Norman-occupied sections of the castle yards; these belonged to knights and squires and the large, heavy stallions. She would be less noticed among other women and other servants. She turned away from the ward and towards the collection of single-roomed, timbered buildings just beyond the stables and the postern gate. It was a veritable city of narrow lanes and close-set houses and she wandered around almost happily, glad for the respite from Delamere's constant demands and Longsword's constant silence.

All at once, she became aware that someone was watching her too steadily for her comfort. She turned her head very slightly and saw the shape of a man, dressed in Norman clothing, out of the corner of her eye. A knight or a man-at-arms. Nervous, she increased her pace. She sensed he was following her and ducked down one lane and around another corner but it was a lost cause. He knew the layout of the little town and she didn't. She couldn't shake him from her trail. Her feet moved even more quickly. All she wanted now was to return to the keep. On the path before her she saw half a dozen women gossiping and laughing together. She hurried towards them, thinking to lose her pursuer in the confusion, and when she finally got around them she breathed easier. She could see the gate not far away. She was almost there.

But before she went another step, a hand reached out and grabbed her arm, and pulled her to the side. She was too frightened even to scream. The grip on her arm slowly eased and she looked up at her abductor.

"Lady Eleanor? Is that you?"

The voice was bewildered and demanding...and familiar. The haze of fear which covered her eyes evaporated.

"Alan?" she asked hesitantly.

"I don't believe it! That night when you arrived with Sir Richard, I thought...but I decided no, it's too fantastic, just a trick of the light! But...what are you doing here? In Wales?"

There were a million things she could say but she didn't know which to say first. She opened her mouth but nothing came out.

"They said you were a Welsh witch brought to cure Lord William from his deadly fever," he said. "So I thought no more about it. But then I saw you come out of the keep just now and it nagged at me again. I tried to get as close to you as I could but—"

"I didn't know why you were chasing me!" she burst out, finally able to speak. "I was afraid."

He grinned at her. "Of me?"

"I didn't know it was you, Alan. If I had known it was you, I would have flown right into your arms."

He held his arms out. "So come now. Greet me as your long lost cousin," he said, half-teasingly, half-earnestly.

Something held her back. It was impossible to move her feet. Was it the memory of the last man who had touched her? A man who had beaten her and cursed at her? Her heart, which had just returned to a normal rhythm after the shock of seeing Alan d'Arques, started beating frantically again.

He frowned, puzzled. His arms drooped. "What's wrong, Eleanor?"

What could she answer? If she said the truth, then the rest of it would come out. She had put it all so carefully behind her and as the years went by she found herself thinking about it less often. Bronwen was her sole direct link with the past but Bronwen grew up every day and had become to her evidence only of the future.

"I'm so filthy," she said quietly. "I'm ashamed that you see me like this."

He grinned again, happily. "I see nothing but your face, Eleanor. You." He stretched his arms out once more. "I'm so glad to see you, you could be dressed in rags and covered with scabs and I'd still want to embrace you."

This time she smiled in return and walked forward until she was pressed against his chest and felt his arms clasped firmly around her back. His pleasure in meeting her was so obvious and his embrace so sincere that she wanted to give herself up to it, to break down and confess all the horrible events that had brought her to this point. But she didn't dare. Six years had passed since they had last seen each other; six years that had had a profound effect on her life. Who was to say something similar hadn't happened to him? She wasn't the same person; how could she be sure he was? So she willed her mind not to crumble and held her body rigidly.

He sensed it. He pulled back and held her out at arm's length. "Eleanor?"

"Tell me what's happened to you, Alan," she said in a soft, urgent voice. "How did you end up at Rhuddlan Castle?"

"I serve Lord William," he answered. "And this is where the king sent him after the war."

"What war?"

"You don't know about the war? Young King Henry against his father?" He gazed at her in astonishment when she shook her head. "Where have you been, Eleanor? Your husband sided with the rebels against the king. I was at Dol when he was taken prisoner. We learned earlier this year that he'd recently been released from Falaise but his castle at Chester was confiscated and put under Henry's control. You know nothing about this?"

"No. I've been here for the last four years, Alan. At the abbey of St. Mary. Living in peace."

He stood perplexed, trying to make sense of her words. "And Chester?"

"One day, I left," she said, looking away. "I felt a stronger call than marriage."

"I'm sorry, Eleanor."

It was her turn to be confused. "Why?"

"I never approved of the marriage. I knew you had been promised to the church and there was something about the earl I just didn't like. I wanted to tell you but you and Gwalaes seemed happy enough and I didn't want to spoil it for you. And then I thought perhaps it wouldn't be so bad after all. The earl was well-respected and in the short time I knew him I always saw him open-handed and pleasant company."

"He was not so pleasant with me," she said bitterly. "Especially after my brother died."

"He loved your brother. He married you because Robert asked him to do it...Eleanor, I want to know everything that's happened to you since I last saw you. Does Chester know you're here?"

A shiver ran through her. Until recently her husband had been a terrible but much faded memory. This contact with the Normans, however, was breathing new life into fears she had thought she'd never again experience. She almost didn't answer; perhaps if she refused to talk about it, the whole looming specter of Hugh would dissipate and leave her at last in peace.

But Alan's face was so open and earnest, so obviously solicitous and remindful of the happier time when he'd come to live with her family, that she knew she could trust him. And so she described to him her long journey to the abbey. The careful planning of her escape from Chester, the cold trip to the Church of St. John, slipping through a rear door, the deliberate footsteps to the edge of the city in the darkening gloom, the need to keep walking, walking, walking even though she had only a vague sense of the direction to Wales because she feared a humiliating capture and return to the castle; the frigid November nights during which she dared not close her eyes for fear the wolves would attack her or the wild Welsh warriors of whom she'd heard such terrifying tales; of walking, walking, walking until her fine leather shoes, unused to the punishment, split and she'd had to rip strips of cloth with numbed fingers from the hem of her gown to tie around them just to keep them on her feet; of the hunger which had finally attacked her on the second day and made her dizzy by the third and half-crazed that she was killing her unborn child by denying it nourishment; of the fear, worst of everything, that her journey would never end, because she had no idea where she wanted to go or how she would recognize safety when she found it.

"A child?" Alan interrupted. "The earl's heir?"

She nodded. "A little girl. I call her Bronwen, a Welsh name..." Her voice rose eagerly. "I left her at the abbey; you have to come and meet her."

The dawn broke mistily on the fourth day. Every tree branch and every blade of grass seemed to sparkle with a thin sheen of ice but there was a dampness to the air which made a wispy fog while promising a warmer day. She woke from a fitful nap; miserable, cold and starving, and felt she couldn't move. She didn't want to go on. She thought about her baby but was too exhausted to feel guilty that it, too, would die if she died in that spot under the tree. Then she had heard the faint toll of a bell. For a confused moment she imagined it was God calling her home to heaven. But the bell was insistent and finally she had gotten up and stumbled towards it, out of the forest, down a barren slope and up to the entrance to a small, stone church from which a dozen or so brown-draped women were leaving...and collapsed in the midst of them.

They washed her, propped her up in a bed and fed her. They addressed her in Welsh and she responded in kind. Her name was Gwalaes, she told them. Even though she was grateful that the abbey had taken her in without question, she couldn't risk revealing who she really was. The sisters were all Norman gentlewomen; they might have felt an obligation to convince her to return to Chester and to her duties as a wife and countess. She spoke passable Welsh, and although she suspected that the lay people who served the nuns weren't fooled by her rough accent into believing she actually was Welsh, they apparently never said so to the sisters. Months later, she heard it rumored that she was a slave who had run away from a harsh master, and because the nuns were morally opposed to slavery they didn't press her on the subject of her past.

Anyway, there was so much present to be concerned about. It was soon obvious that she was pregnant. One of the nuns employed her services in the infirmary. She discovered an aptitude for the work; she had a quick memory and was soon able to recognize the various herbs and plants which the abbey grew and knew their purposes. Five months after her arrival at the abbey, she delivered a perfect baby girl whom she named Bronwen in memory of the true Gwalaes' mother, who had for all actuality been her own as well.

"When Sister Infirmarer died a year later, I simply took her place. And then, last month, your Lord William was brought to me. And now I'm here."

Alan was shaking his head in disbelief. "My God, Eleanor! What a fantastic tale! You—who had never set foot outside your father's house except to journey to Chester—suddenly took it in your mind to walk to Wales?"

"Perhaps it was because I'd never been anywhere that I thought I could do it." She shrugged. "I was frightened but at least I could speak Welsh. Gwalaes' mother always spoke it to us and most of the servants at Chester are Welsh."

"Where is Gwalaes?" he asked abruptly. "Is she at the abbey?"

Eleanor didn't look at him. "No. She didn't come with me."

"Why not? You two are like twins. What one does—"

"We argued at Chester," she cut in. "She hated it. She hated the earl and his retainers and their wives. She was only another servant there and she resented it."

"All the more reason for her to come with you, I would think..."

That was true. Eleanor decided she would have to lie. She looked straight into his face. "She returned to Oakby."

"I see..."

"Alan, I must go. I must get back to Lord William."

He put his arm under her elbow. "I'll walk with you. I have to see you again, Eleanor."

"Yes. Yes. I'd like to know more about the war—and what happened to my husband." They emerged onto the ward and she turned to him urgently. "Alan, you won't say anything..."

"Of course not!" He smiled at her. "I still can't believe it's really you. There were times I wondered if I'd ever see my little cousin from Oakby again, and Gwalaes, too."

She felt her stomach drop. He hadn't changed at all. Somewhat taller. Somewhat heavier. A calm confidence in his manner. But he was as kind and pleasant as he'd always been. She was tempted to blurt out the entire story but for his sake caught herself. There was nothing he could do for Gwalaes so why not let him live on in ignorant contentment? She forced herself to smile back at him. "You don't know how we wondered the same thing the day we were informed you were no longer in Robert's entourage. I'm glad to see you, Alan."

He gave her arm an affectionate squeeze—a gesture which did not go unnoticed by Richard Delamere, who was angrily waiting for Gwalaes on the landing outside the hall.

There was a knock at her door and then a breathless servant burst inside without waiting for permission. There was, she informed Teleri with an excited face, terrible screaming and shouting coming from Lord William's apartment.

Teleri rose from her seat. Her embroidery fell to the floor. "Who's shouting?" she demanded. "What's being said?"

Sir Richard was doing most of the shouting. The miracle-worker was there and so was Gladys. Teleri's heart pounded and the blood roared in her ears. It had been done! The healer had done it! She was so excited, she began to shake.

Her women didn't understand what had happened and why she trembled. They pestered her with questions until she impatiently hushed them. There was only one curious twist to the story; Sir Richard was shouting in his native tongue and the miracle-worker was apparently answering him in that same language.

"Get someone over there who understands Norman French," she ordered and the servant flew off eagerly. Now there was nothing more Teleri could do but pace the confines of her chamber and wait. She didn't dare go over herself; she was certain Delamere would point a finger at her if she happened to appear before his eyes. No, better to wait it out, she thought, although it was hard. She couldn't keep still. She rehearsed speeches in her head and twisted her face into various expressions of shock, practicing for the moment Delamere came to give her the news of her husband's death. She prayed to God she would be able to keep a straight face.

The waiting was unbearable. Once she stopped pacing and strained her ears. She fancied she could hear Delamere's angry voice even though Longsword's apartment was, by his design, on the other side of the keep. It was hard for her to believe it had really happened and she would soon be free. It was a little frightening—humbling, too—to realize the power she possessed. What was it that had convinced the healer? Teleri's deft hand with Gladys? Her imperious manner? The argument she had made with its bloody details?

"Oh!" she exclaimed out loud, stamping her foot into the floor in frustration. Her women looked at her, puzzled, and began badgering her with questions again until she told them to shut up.

Then the same servant came back. "What's going on?" she asked her urgently. "What are they saying?" But the servant had no answer. She had returned to tell Teleri of a new development: three horsemen had just ridden into the ward. One of them had leaped off his horse and jogged off towards the keep in a single movement and was at this moment clomping his way up to Longsword's chamber. The remaining two had been joined by other knights; they were talking with great animation and waving their arms around for emphasis. Teleri made an automatic grimace; wild gesticulation was another Norman habit she found distasteful.

Now it was doubly hard to remain in her rooms. She felt so isolated, cut off from the important business of the castle and she didn't like it at all. She stood on the threshold of her antechamber. She no longer had to strain her ears; she could hear quite plainly the sound of uproar in the hall two storeys below.

"Fetch my cloak!" she ordered, whirling around on the balls of her feet. "I'm going out! Hurry!"

The women looked up from their sewing with blank expressions, having no idea of the drama unfolding beyond their walls. One of them protested that the sky was almost dark and there was a sharp chill in the air. The other asked her why she wanted to go out. Old women! She decided she didn't need a cloak.

By the time she reached the hall it was empty. Instead, a small crowd was pressed into the double doorway which led out onto the landing above the ward. But everyone moved aside when she came up and she went straight to the head of the stair.

Sir Richard was standing in the middle of the great expanse, surrounded by four other knights and Gwalaes, the healer. Gladys was nowhere in sight. At this distance their voices weren't clear but the unexpected shriek from the healer surely reached to the farthest ends of the fortress. Teleri leaned over the wooden railing with interest. Now Gwalaes was ranting hysterically, her words unintelligible but her distress plain. She rushed up to Sir Richard, still ranting, until without warning he grabbed both her arms above the elbows and thrust her backwards into the secure grip of one of the other knights.

Because she had no idea what was happening but her conscience was guilty, Teleri's imagination ran wild. Obviously Longsword was dead and the healer implicated. Why else would Sir Richard hold her captive in such a manner? Perhaps he'd already killed Gladys—she could quite easily picture him slicing his sword down through Gladys' hapless neck—and in the meantime the healer had sought to escape, only to be recaptured. But what had Longsword's death to do with the riders who'd just ridden in? She had no idea...

But then Sir Richard was staring up at her. The soldiers with him looked up also. Her heart began thudding rapidly and before she could stop herself, she'd taken a step backwards. She felt the skin on the back of her neck prickle and she knew from the sudden silence that the crush of people that had been standing behind her was no longer there. How could they possibly suspect—

Sir Richard was coming towards her, almost hurrying. The healer must have told him everything! Well, if he wanted to accuse her she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of an audience to watch her humiliation. He could confront her in her chambers and perhaps by the time she'd gotten back upstairs, she would have thought of some innocent sounding alibi.

She turned around as casually as she could manage it under the circumstances and nearly jumped out of her skin. Standing right behind her was her husband.

Even though he was leaning heavily on one of his men, Longsword felt as if he would sink to the ground. It had been folly to get out of bed. Gladys had tried to stop him but her efforts were feeble. Still, if she hadn't rushed out ahead of him and somehow made his man understand that he needed help urgently, he probably would have ended up tumbling down the twisting steps. He was angry with his body for not doing what he wanted it to do. He'd felt a little lightheaded sitting up in bed and gesturing for Gladys to put the tunic over his head and push his feet into his deerskin slippers but he was able to stand so that she could drape his robe around him and belt it, and he'd been confident he could make it to the hall and find out what it was that had so alarmed Richard.

And the woman who had saved his life. He'd been lying in his bed, tired out by Gladys' zealous ministrations, when Richard had come in, fresh from the hunt, or rather not so fresh but reeking of horse and blood. Delamere had taken one look at Gladys and had exploded, shouting questions at her so rapidly that she hadn't been able to answer. She'd started crying so naturally he had tried to come to her defense, but his friend was having none of it. He'd shouted a bit longer at a now sobbing Gladys and then spun around and out of the chamber.

Longsword had been bewildered. His head ached from the noise and confusion. Gladys was no help; even if she could have spoken his language, she was crying too hard to be coherent. Her sobs had quickly started to grate on him but he couldn't tell her to stop and risk upsetting her—and his baby—even more. He wondered where the other woman was, the calm one who had gotten angry when he'd wanted to stand up earlier in the day. He felt certain she would know what to do and would be able to explain everything to him.

But when she finally came, it was at the end of Delamere's arm. He was dragging her behind him, into Longsword's chamber, and then he started in on his shouting again, pointing from her to Gladys and back again. He'd pointed a few times at Longsword, as well, which was disconcerting but still unhelpful.

Then, apparently having exhausted his supply of Welsh, Delamere switched to Norman and Longsword finally understood the gist of his friend's anger, which concerned the calm woman leaving Gladys in charge despite strict instructions against it. Rather than bursting into tears as Gladys had done, the other one tried to defend herself but Longsword could have told her to save her breath. It wasn't often that Delamere got angry but when he did it was best to put up with it quietly and just wait for him to calm down.

The shouting had only ended when fitz Maurice had jumped into the room with some fantastic message which had the effect of propelling Delamere and the healer from his bedside like arrows from a finely stretched bowstring. After a quick bow to him, fitz Maurice had chased after them, and Longsword had been left alone with the still sobbing Gladys.

Some of the pain and dizziness left him when he came upon the strange spectacle of a nearly empty hall and the press of people by the doorway. Curiosity overwhelmed the screaming nerves in his neck, at least for the moment, and he and his human crutch made their way forward.

He was surprised to find Teleri at the head of the crowd. She was staring back at him with a white face, obviously equally surprised. He couldn't help but grin. She must have been holding her breath these last few weeks, waiting for word to be brought to her of his death. She quickly recovered her composure and inclined her head as slightly as etiquette permitted but she did not leave.

Delamere had taken the stair two steps at a time. "Will! What are you doing?" he exclaimed. "Have you lost your mind?"

"I'm fine, Richard, fine," he answered testily, because he wasn't really fine but felt exhausted by his exercise. "What's happened?"

"Rhirid's burned the abbey down. De Vire and fitz Maurice saw the smoke from miles away and they went to investigate."

"Why would he do that?"

Delamere shrugged. "It's a poor man's retaliation. Because of Llanlleyn and because the sisters had taken you in after you'd been shot. In fact, de Vire said the abbess told him Rhirid specifically demanded Gwalaes be brought to him."

Simultaneously, they looked down into the ward at the healer, a blatantly anguished captive. "Well," said Longsword, "it's lucky for her that she's here."

"Perhaps not. He took her daughter instead."

"She has a child?"

"Yes. And there's more. One of the sisters died from the shock. But it's murder. It's as if Rhirid had killed her with his bare hands." Delamere paused. "Will, I can handle this. You shouldn't be—"

"Sir Richard!"

The shout had come from the ward. Delamere strode to the edge of the landing in time to see a horse shoot through the open gate, out of the fortress. "Who was that?" he called down.

"The girl!" fitz Maurice answered. "She swore she'd be calm, so I let her go. But instead she jumped on my horse! The grooms—"

"Never mind about that! Go after her!" Delamere roared.

Teleri slid into the spot next to her husband's side abandoned by Delamere. Longsword looked down at her, teeth gritted into what he hoped resembled a careless grin. "Didn't expect to see me again in an upright position, did you?"

Once more Teleri experienced that instantaneous moment of panic, imagining her scheming had been found out, but then she realized that Longsword was simply needling her. She relaxed and smiled back at him. "It is indeed unfortunate, my lord husband," she said in an equally good-natured tone. "I will just have to pray harder next time."

Delamere waved off several offers and helped Longsword back upstairs, an even more torturous procedure than coming down, himself. "How do you feel?" he asked his friend anxiously once Longsword had been returned to his bed.

"Like I'm a thousand years old. It's a damned inconvenience..."

"Does it hurt much?"

Longsword struggled to think of a flippant reply but the pain was too great and his mind was too fuzzy. He settled for the monosyllabic truth because it was the easiest answer. "Yes."

"When Gwalaes gets back, I'll have her brew some of that tea that kills pain." If she ever came back. By now it was pitch black outside. "In the meantime I'll have mulled wine brought up."

Before he could give this order, there was a knock at the door. Fitz Maurice, de Vire and several others walked in, followed by Alan d'Arques and Eleanor.

Delamere wasn't prepared for the change in Eleanor's appearance when she was pulled through the doorway and stood trembling and sullen before him. Her hair had come loose from its braid and hung disorderly and in knots around her shoulders and down her back. Her gown was dirty and part of the hem was torn away. Her face was smudged with dirt, her mouth was set in a grim straight line and to Delamere it seemed her whole body was rigid with tension.

"What's happened to her?" he said to fitz Maurice.

The man gave Eleanor a contemptuous look. "She didn't want to come. We practically had to drag her back. Only d'Arques could handle her."

"There's a mark under her eye."

"Sir Richard, she took my horse! It's dusky outside; even darker in the forest! She could have lamed it galloping like an idiot over the rough ground, or worse!"

Delamere moved very close to him. "This woman saved your lord's life," he said in a low voice. "I don't think King Henry would like to learn that you hold your damned horse in higher esteem than his son, do you?"

The man's gaze faltered and he glanced nervously at Longsword. "No, Sir Richard."

He dismissed the knight and turned back to Eleanor. She didn't look at him but stared stubbornly at the floor. Before he could speak, another voice said urgently, "Sir Richard, she was only concerned for her daughter!"

It was Alan d'Arques. The young knight's face was worried, as if he imagined Delamere was going to punish Eleanor for stealing a horse.

He sighed, tired of conflict. "I know," he said calmly. "We're all concerned—"

"That's a lie!" she snapped, finally raising her head. Her eyes blazed. "Don't insult me by expecting me to believe your lies!"

He was taken aback. Not only was her appearance different but so was her demeanor. Her face was bloodless and her hands clenched into fists as she confronted him. "Gwalaes—"

"You didn't care about her at the abbey and you don't care about her now!" she interrupted again, her voice trembling with emotion. "Well, you no longer have any hold over me, Sir Richard! Lord William has recovered. You've got the horse back. Just let me walk out of here and find my daughter!"

"No."

They stared at each other. Delamere's face was tight but expressionless. Eleanor's was a mixture of disbelief, hurt and fury. She felt as impotent as all those times she'd endured her husband's cold rages and she didn't trust herself to speak again without breaking down.

"Listen..."

Everyone turned in surprise towards the bed. Longsword had spoken. His voice was now weak and his face very pale. The excruciating journey up and down the stairs had obviously exacted a harsh toll.

"You can't go...without us," he said. "This isn't anything personal against you despite the message; it's a declaration of war."

"Lord William is correct, Gwalaes," Delamere said. "The Welsh want to finish the job they started when they shot him. They know we've got you and that they can get to us through you."

She shook her head. "It doesn't make sense. Why would they think that? Why would they think I'm anything to you? That you wouldn't just throw me out and leave me to their justice?"

"You're right; they don't know that," Delamere agreed. "But I'm certain they're counting on it, otherwise why not just kill Bronwen then and there? You see? It's a matter of pride. He's taunting us with this kidnapping; he knows we won't stand the insult. Besides, it was a Norman abbey he attacked. We have a moral obligation to protect it and to avenge the death he caused."

She looked unconvinced. The nightmare was too fresh in her mind.

"He won't harm her, Gwalaes," he added soothingly. "Rhirid needs her. And there are plenty of women at Llanlleyn to look after her. You needn't worry about Bronwen."

A sudden jolt ran through her. For a moment her chest was so tight she couldn't breathe. Alan d'Arque saw her distress. "Are you all right La—" he started.

"But there aren't any women at Llanlleyn—there isn't any Llanlleyn!" she burst out frantically. Her ears rang and she felt lightheaded. "Women and children—little children, she said! Hewill murder her!"

She was bordering on the verge of hysteria. The men all looked at each other, puzzled. "What are you talking about, Gwalaes?" Delamere asked in a sharp voice to gain her attention.

Her expression was wild. "She said you murdered everyone in Llanlleyn, including women and children! And then you burned it to the ground! Can't you see? He will murder Bronwen for revenge!"

"It isn't true, Gwalaes!" Delamere said. "Calm down—"

"I've had enough of being calm!" she suddenly shouted at him. "I want my daughter back!"

In the excitement, Longsword had somehow struggled to an upright position in his bed without realizing it. He felt no pain, only a surprising concern for the woman who had saved his life. "Come closer to me!" he commanded Eleanor in the sudden, shocked silence which followed her outburst. "So I don't have to shout."

She hung back sullenly for a few heartbeats and then went to his bedside. Her face was a picture of distrust.

"Who is this 'she' you're talking about?" he asked. "Petite? Red-brown hair? Pouting disposition?"

Eleanor nodded. "I don't know her name or who she is. She came to see you this morning."

"And was probably disappointed you were here and she couldn't carry out her plan to put a pillow over my face," he said. "That was my wife, Lady Teleri."

"She told me your wound burst open when you attacked Llanlleyn, killed its inhabitants, including women and children, and burned it to the ground," she said accusingly.

"That's not true," he said, and told her what had really happened. "Now will you be calm?" he added in a kind voice when he was through. Delamere raised his eyebrows in surprise. Longsword was always matter-of-fact and blunt with whomever he spoke. "We'll get your daughter back."

She stared at him, trying to gauge his sincerity. For some reason—perhaps it was because she so desperately wanted Bronwen and was willing to clutch at any straw offered—she trusted him.

But he thought she hesitated. "I swear it to you," he said and held out his hand.

Chapter 26

March, 1177

Llanlleyn, Gwynedd

Rhirid didn't like the way the little girl stared at him. Calmly, displaying none of her former fear, almost benignly. It was, he thought angrily, as though she knew he had lost...and was feeling sorry for him.

His whole plan had hinged upon a rapid retaliation by the Normans. Speed was necessary to keep the mood of his men aggressive so that when the Normans emerged from behind their stone walls, they would be no match for the Llanlleyn warriors. He hadn't been certain of the effect of stealing the child; that was partly the reason he'd burned down the entire abbey complex. And there had been that nun who'd suffered a fatal attack—an unplanned bonus. If nothing else, that ought to have propelled the Normans from their impenetrable towers.

But it was a week afterward and the Normans had yet to venture out. The impetus was dwindling. The child was precocious but not insufferable and everybody loved her. Even his own warriors were beginning to wonder why they had taken her because it was soon obvious no one at Llanlleyn would ever be able to harm her.

His father had been outraged. With the girl watching, Rhirid stood immobile as Maelgwn berated him for the troubles that had lately come upon Llanlleyn. He was perversely fascinated by the amount of anger his father was displaying, thinking that it would be better expended on William Longsword.

And then one sentence penetrated his thoughts:

"This is down to you, Rhirid!" his father shouted at him.

He could remain silent no longer. "Me? Me? How do you figure that? They were Normans who imposed on the hospitality of a humble man and murdered him!"

"Perhaps if you hadn't been so belligerent when you met William fitz Henry, he would have paid the galanas and that would have been the end of the affair! Instead, look at the terror you've wrought: our winter homes are burned and our people go in fear of the Norman might!" He glared at his son. "You should never have attacked him!"

"We didn't know it was him! It's too bad that wound didn't fester. That would have been the end of the affair."

"And King Henry would have attacked us from the east and Prince Dafydd from the west! And then what would you have done?"

"Are you saying William Longsword can do whatever he pleases in Llanlleyn and we can do nothing to stop him?" Rhirid asked incredulously. "I refuse to be a slave to the Normans!"

"I am merely saying that you're not using your head! That you're putting personal grievances before the welfare of your people!"

"You're the one not thinking!" Rhirid exploded. "Why is it so hard for you to understand that there will only be peace when either we or the Normans are completely gone? When one of us slays the other?"

"This is still my commote, Rhirid, or have you forgotten?I make the decisions." Maelgwn looked coldly upon his son. "And I've decided it's in the best interests of Llanlleyn if you leave for a time. Until I can restore peace with William fitz Henry."

For a moment all Rhirid could do was stare, with a shocked expression, at his father. "No..." he said involuntarily.

"Yes. You can take your hotheaded friends with you. You have shamed me, Rhirid. I am chief of Llanlleyn, not you. Indeed, it would be a good penance if you went to the Perfeddwlad and spoke with Prince Dafydd. Beg his forgiveness for the trouble you caused at the abbey of St. Mary—and the death of the nun. Ask him what galanas ought to be paid."

Rhirid looked sharply at his father but Maelgwn wasn't joking. "Never! Beg forgiveness from the man who's practically sleeping with William Longsword?"

Maelgwn fell silent. He pulled thoughtfully at his beard and Rhirid was suddenly apprehensive. His father was much more dangerous when he was silent than when he raged.

"Your behavior is ill-advised for the heir to this commote, Rhirid," Maelgwn said finally.

"What do you mean?"

"You have two cousins, Rhirid, either of whom is more suited at this moment to be chief of Llanlleyn than you."

"You would be dead for that to happen," Rhirid answered insolently. "And then I would fight and kill the both of them and become chief anyway."

Maelgwn shrugged without concern. "You could try. Of course, you'd need men to back up your claim."

"I have men now!"

"You have no land, Rhirid; you don't support those men—I do." He relented and looked at his son with some sympathy. "You claim I've not been strong against the Normans but the reality is I've not been strong enough with you. I've let you get away with too much these last few months, to the detriment of Llanlleyn."

Rhirid didn't answer. He had no doubt that Maelgwn would do as he threatened and name one of his cousins his successor. He could refuse to go to the Perfeddwlad and gamble on the chance that his father would live many years yet and much could change during that time, including his restoration to favor. And perhaps men who shared his intense hatred of the Normans would stay with him despite his lack of wealth—Dylan ab Owain would, if only to get away from his wife. Or, if it came to personal combat between him and his cousins, he had supreme faith in his ability...

But, in truth, Rhirid didn't want to fall from his father's favor. He didn't want Maelgwn to disown him. He suspected the chief knew this and had played a devious hand. He could do nothing other than concede defeat.

"Very well," he said at length. "I'll visit Prince Dafydd, if that's what you want. But I'm telling you," he added because he couldn't resist having the last word at least, "it's not going to make the slightest bit of difference." He glanced at the little girl. "What would you like me to do with her?"

Maelgwn considered a solemn Bronwen. "Taking a child hostage—especially a female child—isn't usually a wise decision," he said pensively. "However, since the deed's already done, I think she might prove useful when I negotiate with Lord William."

Longsword angrily waved off the young man who'd unconciously moved a step forward to help him. He took a deep breath and held it, gritted his teeth and reached up for the saddle pommel with his left hand, ignoring the burst of pain which spread immediately down his arm, up his neck and across his shoulder, and with as much effort as he could muster tried to pull himself onto the patiently still horse. But his breath exhaled noisily in a loud grunt and he fell back to the ground. He extricated his foot from the stirrup and swore. Twice he'd attempted to mount the animal and each time had failed. His entire left side was throbbing from the abuse and he was breathing heavily. He nodded to the groom holding the reins and decided to try again tomorrow.

The group of men watching him reassured him that a wound as serious as his required a long period of rest but he was more embarrassed by their words than consoled. If it was only pain he was certain he could beat it; it had been the same pain during his initial convalescence and yet he'd been back on his horse a week after being shot. But this time there was something else conspiring against his efforts: a bone-numbing weariness. His muscles had been weakened by the extended stay in bed, lack of proper nourishment and the fever. The tiredness made him feel unnaturally old and vulnerable.

"Lord William!" Ralph de Vire was hurrying towards him. "The gate says Sir Richard's approaching."

His spirits lifted considerably at the announcement. Delamere and a heavily armed guard had accompanied a group of workmen the week before to the abbey of St. Mary to query the inhabitants and repair the damage caused by Rhirid. Longsword forgot about his throbbing body and went forward to greet them.

Delamere came through the gate first and slid to the ground with an ease that Longsword, in his current condition, envied. He made a quick bow for formality's sake and demanded, "What were you doing?"

"It's all right—"

"No, it isn't!" he exclaimed. "You're barely a week out of bed—"

"It's actually closer to a fortnight, Richard." Out of the corner of his eye, Longsword saw her pass through the gate, almost at the end of the stream of workers and soldiers. She was riding double behind Alan d'Arques, who twisted in the saddle to soliticiously hand her down to a waiting groom before himself dismounting. Longsword felt suddenly happier; he'd been half afraid that she would stay at the abbey. She looked even more beautiful than he remembered, even though her face was somber—

"Will! Are you listening to me?" Delamere jolted him out of his reverie.

"Of course! Something about Rhirid..."

"He told the nuns there'd be no peace in Gwynedd until one of you was dead."

That commanded Longsword's full attention. "Well, he's had his chance. He'll soon regret his archer didn't have a steadier hand."

"It's an invitation to war," Delamere grinned. "Now you can't be accused of orchestrating this feud. If the king or the prince complains, you can honestly say you're acting in self-defense."

"What about the little girl?"

"Gwalaes' daughter? Definitely gone. She took it rather well; or at least, if she cried hysterically she didn't do it before me."

Gwalaes—that was her name. He repeated it to himself several times. She hadn't left the ward; she was standing with Alan d'Arques. He thought she was watching him as her body was turned in his direction.

"I'm going to try one more time," he said to Delamere, all at once feeling more energetic.

"Don't be a fool, William!" Delamere protested but Longsword was already walking back to the horse.

He was aware of the growing throng of onlookers behind his back. He rolled his left shoulder tentatively and decided the pain wasn't so bad. The worst discomfort was caused by putting his arm above shoulder-height which was necessary when he reached for the pommel. He decided to make the maneuver so quickly that his body wouldn't know what he was doing until he was seated. He breathed in deeply, stretched his arm up and thrust his left foot into the stirrup simultaneously, grabbed the rear end of the saddle with his good arm and hauled himself up by a sheer force of will. He glanced down, almost surprised to realize that he'd done it. He exhaled and relaxed. And then the floodgate of pain opened and radiated out of his neck down into his arm, across his chest and up into the base of his head.

His men were cheering and he grinned in embarrassment. Even some of the Welsh clapped politely. He took the reins from the groom in his right hand and urged his mount forward with pressure from his knees. As they trotted around the ward the agony in his shoulder and neck increased to the point where he could scarcely draw a breath but it was worth it because she had seen him do it. And she was still there, watching him parade back to his waiting men.

He tossed the reins down. He couldn't move his left arm at all. He held his breath again, swung his right leg over the horse's neck and jumped to the ground in a competent, though graceless, motion.

She was standing directly in his line of vision some fifteen feet away. He saw a slight frown on her forehead, obviously prompted by concern for his welfare. It was wonderful how happy he felt just to be in her presence. The joke Richard would make of it if he knew, Longsword thought. He didn't quite understand it himself but he felt the oddest rush of tenderness for her. It was as if he'd had a pleasant dream about her and the afterglow was carrying over into reality...

"For God's sake, Will!" Delamere's irritated voice burst through his mind. "What's wrong with you? You haven't heard a word I've said! Perhaps that little escapade wasn't as easy as it seemed. Should I have Gwalaes come to look at the wound?"

"No! No, Richard, I'm fine! Really! I was just thinking...about Rhirid," he ended lamely. Much as he desired the opportunity to speak to the woman, he didn't want her to continue to consider him an invalid. "My throat's dry. Let's go in."

When they headed off for the keep, Alan d'Arques jogged up to them. "My lord," he said to Longsword, "Gwalaes begs a word."

"Of course," Longsword answered immediately.

Alan turned and gestured Eleanor forward.

"We don't have time for this!" Delamere groused.

Eleanor curtsied to Longsword. "I hope you are well, my lord," she said politely.

"Very well," he said. "Perhaps you just saw...?"

"Yes. It must be a great relief to you to be able to sit your horse again. It's been a long time." She raised hopeful eyes to his face as she straightened up. "My lord, did you heard anything of Rhirid ap Maelgwn when we were away?"

He hated to tell her no, especially when he saw the light die in her eyes. "But I expect he's waiting for us," he added in an encouraging voice. "He can't challenge these walls with the small force he's got. We've got to go out to meet him."

"Gwalaes, I told you not to worry—" Delamere stepped in, only to be instantly trampled upon.

"How can you tell me not to worry, Sir Richard? It's my three year old daughter I'm talking about, not a piece of wood. Not a rock!"

Delamere bristled and started forward. "I think I've put up with your disrespectful attitude long enough!" he snapped.

Both Longsword and Alan d'Arques suddenly found themselves face to face when each one quickly inserted himself between the arguing pair. Longsword, with his advantage of height, stared down challengingly at Alan until the younger man wordlessly conceded and moved aside.

"My lord," Eleanor said to him calmly, "I have a solution to offer you. Mother Abbess and I spoke several times on the subject of Rhirid. She told me she's sent letters to Prince Dafydd and to the bishop at St. Asaph's protesting the violence committed by Llanlleyn and asking for justice. She told me she is quite content to await their judgments. No one at St. Mary's wants the abbey to be caught in an on-going feud between two fractious parties."

Delamere's face contorted angrily and his mouth opened to speak but Eleanor ignored him and hurried on: "My lord, the only question which remains is what is to be done about my daughter, Bronwen. I discussed this also with Mother Abbess. We're both in agreement that I will give myself up to Rhirid ap Maelgwn in exchange for Bronwen's safe return to the abbey."

A dismayed "No!" burst out from Longsword before he had the chance to vocalize a measured response. Fortunately, no one noticed because Delamere was shouting too loudly about women making bad decisions for men, women making decisions that were better left to men and women simply making decisions. He stood just behind Longsword's shoulder but threatened to push forward at any moment. Longsword felt the force of his friend's outrage like a strong wind. His eyes were locked with those of the healer, who gave no attention to Delamere's tirade but waited for his decision.

Finally he held up his hand. "Richard," he said quietly and Delamere subsided. "If I may speak..."

"What is there to say to such stupidity?" Delamere sputtered.

"It is not stupidity but a very peaceful solution to a potentially violent dilemma," Longsword said equably. Hope began pulsating again in Eleanor's eyes but Delamere snorted derisively. "However, I don't like it. There's no reason for you to pay," he said to her, "for being a charitable person."

"But, my lord, I don't care! My daughter—"

"I've already sworn to you that we'll get your daughter back and I meant it. I'm sorry indeed that you and the abbey have gotten caught up in the middle of this feud, as you called it, but I have no doubt it will soon be ended to everyone's satisfaction."

Eleanor was shaking her head. "No..."

Delamere made an angry noise and stepped around Longsword. "I've had enough of this! Alan, take her off! Lord William is in no fit condition to rationalize his decisions, particularly to a Welsh chit!"

Alan took Eleanor's arm. He had never seen Delamere angry and was uneasy. Eleanor seemed to resist but then gave up. However, the sight of the young knight's hand on the healer provoked some kind of primal response in Longsword. Without thinking, he moved forward and looked as if he would strike Alan's hand away.

"Will!" Delamere caught his arm. "Let her go."

"I just want to explain—"

"You don't need to explain to her. Will! Your men are watching you. How's your shoulder?"

"Fine," he answered sullenly.

They went into the keep. Most of the Normans were already in the hall, getting in the way of servants trying to set up the tables and benches for the evening meal. As was typical of men used to spending a large portion of their time out of doors, conversation was shouted instead of spoken. But it was Delamere, freshly arrived from the relative peace of the abbey, who complained. Longsword glanced curiously at his friend as they sat together, his former annoyance forgotten.

"How is Gladys?" Delamere said abruptly.

"Gladys? I expect she's fine."

"You don't know?"

Longsword tried to shrug, thought the better of it and replied, "Well, you know there's nothing interesting happening just now. Just waiting and waiting. It's a little boring."

"Hmph!" Delamere snorted. "I'd wondered when you'd tire of sitting in her chamber with her, staring at the walls."

Again Longsword gave him a curious look. Delamere was usually smiling and easy-going but tonight he seemed grumpy and irritated. Perhaps he was merely travel-worn but they had often traveled together without either one exhibiting any ill effect. "Richard, what are your plans?"

"What do you mean?" He rubbed hand over seven days' worth of beard on his chin. "Now that you can sit your horse, I think we ought to work on strengthening your arm again."

"I thought, perhaps, you might want to go to the manor for a week or two...see Olwen and the boys."

Now it was Delamere's turn to stare at Longsword. "Why?"

"When were you last there?"

Delamere considered. "Before our run-in with the Welsh...Before that sudden snowstorm a few months ago." He chuckled ruefully. "Seems years ago."

"Olwen must be wondering if you're still alive."

"This is a change of character for you, Will," he said suspiciously. "What are you up to?"

"Nothing! I swear it! It's just you seem on edge. When were you last with a woman?"

"The last time I saw Olwen," Delamere answered promptly. "You don't believe me, do you?"

"On the contrary—I believe you too well! So, will you go?"

There was really nothing for Delamere to decide. The moment Longsword put the idea of Olwen into his head it proved impossible to get it out. Suddenly it was a matter of the greatest importance and urgency to visit the manor.

"I suppose so..." he said. But his eyes narrowed as he looked at his friend. "I still don't believe you don't have an ulterior motive for getting me out of the way."

"I don't want to get you out of the way, Richard!" Longsword protested innocently. "I just want you in a happier mood and if none of the women here pleases you then you must go home for a visit, right?" And if Delamere's absence provided him with a better opportunity to woo the Welsh woman who had saved his life, then how could he possibly argue against it?

Chapter 27

April, 1177

Hawarden Castle, Gwynedd

Hugh discovered he liked war after all.

It had been different in Normandy, he supposed; he'd been senior in rank but a novice in practice and all of the planning and implementation of plans had been the work of men like de Fougères, flamboyant characters who were reluctant to yield even a fraction of the playing field to less forceful personalities. And then, of course, there had been that humiliating, bloodless surrender at Dol which would have been enough to turn any knight off war for the rest of his life. But this conflict with the Welsh was different.

Prince Dafydd had agreed with Hugh that keeping Gruffudd ap Madog out of Gwynedd was in his own best interest. He sent one hundred soldiers and archers to Hawarden and begged the earl via messenger to keep him informed.

Roger Haworth wasn't pleased with the additional strain on the castle's resources. "More mouths to feed," he'd grumbled.

"You complain as if you were the steward," Hugh had cheerfully replied. He was in high spirits, not having been completely confident of Dafydd's positive response to his request for aid. He hadn't known whom the prince would look upon as more of a threat: Gwynedd's traditional Welsh enemy, the rulers of Powys or its traditional Norman enemy, the earls of Chester. "Anyway," he'd added, "a foray or two into northern Powys to prove our might and we can send them home again."

It couldn't happen too soon for Haworth. In his opinion, it was bad enough to be in a foreign land and beset by a foreign army but to be forced to fight side by side with the foreigners themselves was the height of insanity. Would it take very much indeed to persuade men of Gwynedd to unite with men of Powys to defeat the earl of Chester? On the other hand, it was hard to deny that this conflict with Powys and the alliance with Dafydd seemed to have completed Hugh's recovery from the devastating years at Falaise. Haworth had to admit that Wales in general had had a positive effect on the earl's well-being and so he tried to keep complaints about his new Welsh allies to a minimum.

For a week after the arrival of the Gwynedd warriors, Gruffudd ap Madog remained out of sight. On the sixth day, Haworth ventured the disappointed belief that perhaps he'd taken his men and gone back to Powys but Hugh didn't think the chief would give up so easily, particularly after he'd been winning all along. More likely he was sizing up this new threat.

It was Hugh's plan to anticipate Gruffudd's reaction and use his resources to effectively stifle it.

Having spent his early years on the Welsh march and brought up on tales of his formidable ancestors and their protracted battles with their neighbors to the west, and now with information from his new partners, Hugh understood the Welsh method of warfare better than most men. Sudden, swift strikes were necessary when the manpower of the attackers was less than that of the defenders. Fighting on foot or with the shortbow was more efficient and required less space than swinging a sword from atop a horse. Making use of the environment—the forests and hills—was an advantage over invaders who didn't know the lay of the land as well.

Hugh believed that an intelligent man familiar with the basic tenets of Welsh warfare ought to be able to reasonably predict Welsh reactions to certain situations. An even more intelligent man, like himself, ought to be able to manipulate circumstance to create these situations and thus gain the edge in the competition.

First he had to lull Gruffudd into imagining that the increase in manpower meant little actual might. He sent his laborers out again to cut timber under the protection of a small guard of new men. The guard's instructions were to fight only defensively if attacked and not to pursue the warriors from Powys but to retreat to the fortress.

On the seventh day Gruffudd struck. Shouting loudly and wildly to disorient their victims, the Powys men raced in on their horses, ran down one or two hapless workmen, slashed their way to the other end of the group and disappeared before Dafydd's men were even able to string a bow.

Hugh was pleased to give Gruffudd this one small victory. A few days later, he gave him one more. This time, however, his men, under the guidance of Roger Haworth, chased after their enemy until they pretended to lose them in the tangle of the countryside.

Hugh wanted to put to rest the problem of Gruffudd ap Madog before spring arrived in full force and caused the yet dormant foliage to erupt into leafy hiding places. He had to pretend to be mindless and inept in order to gain the advantage. Although Hugh had explained his tactics to him, Haworth grumbled anyway. He didn't like intentional stupidity.

His honor was vindicated with Hugh's next trick, a variation of the Bastard's rout during the Rebellion of the convoy which had been heading for Dol. The day of the operation was fine; the sun rose early in a clear sky, enabling the short train of three wagons, six oxen, three drovers, seventy armed Welshmen on foot and twelve knights to leave the bailey at Hawarden at the crack of dawn. Haworth was in the lead, his eyes suspiciously raking either side of the old Roman road in an apparent search for trouble. He headed northwest, travelling slowly to accommodate the plodding oxen; anyone watching might have supposed him to be taking the convoy, perhaps loaded with gifts, to Prince Dafydd.

It felt a bit eerie—waiting to be attacked. Haworth was distinctly uncomfortable but his naturally dour demeanor was a perfect mask. He had no fear of Gruffudd and his Welsh warriors except that they would not rise to the bait. The further the futile convoy plodded, the more his hope diminished only to be replaced with anxiety of a different kind—how would the earl take it if his plan didn't come to pass? Haworth worried that he might relapse. With every hoofbeat, he willed Gruffudd to attack.

When it actually came, then, it startled him so much he jumped in his saddle. Of course no one noticed; everyone was too busy twisting around to see what was happening.

Gruffudd's men had swept down upon the rearguard of the line, where there were only two knights to get in their way. The path was narrow and bounded by prickly undergrowth and the knights found it difficult to maneuver their horses around to face their attackers, their first instinct upon hearing the wild shouts and whoops that suddenly filled the air.

The Welsh were riding double and they came from the rear. By the time the Normans and their allies could even consider reacting, the Welshmen on the rumps of the horses had already slid to the ground. They were archers, armed with the shortbow which was suited to the cramped and narrow space. They strung their weapons and moved up the flanks of the column, providing some cover for their horsemen.

Gruffudd had hoped to capture at least one of the wagons but he quickly decided such a feat would be impossible. The guard was too large for his band to sweep away in one strike and the wagons too cumbersome to turn on the narrow road and lead off. The success of his attack depended on surprise and speed and he couldn't afford to spend much time on the road and risk an organized retaliation, no matter the lure of riches.

He called out to several of his men and with swords flailing they forced their way through a dozen Gwynedd warriors to the last wagon. Dafydd's men fought heartily but were no match for men on horseback. They pressed close to the wagons, further tantalizing Gruffudd, who imagined they must be protecting some great hoard of valuables. The real challenge came from the knights guarding the rear of the line. One saw Gruffudd and kicked his horse in the Welshman's direction, sword held out straight, its tip aimed at Gruffudd's chest.

The Welsh chief yelled at the knight, taunting him with words the Norman couldn't understand. He crouched low beneath his own mount's neck and held his sword near his knee. The horses were in danger of colliding with one another. The Norman was unnerved by the sight of the barehead Welshman, screaming at him, bearing down on him at full speed and his tactic switched from offense to defense. He pulled back on his mount's reins but the impact never came. At the last moment, Gruffudd swerved to the left, the Norman jabbed ineffectually at the air where the other's body should have been, the Welshman plunged his own sword into the unprotected chest of the knight's horse and ripped it out viciously and then, as the animal shrieked and sank to its knees, he freed his foot from the stirrup and kicked the Norman's head with all his might and momentum.

The Powys archers had been instructed to keep up a continual hail of arrows to disorient Dafydd's men and hold the knights at bay, as well as to protect their own warriors. For the moment, the plan was working. But Gruffudd, despite the sudden surge of exhiliration which shot through him after his encounter with the Norman, was clearheaded enough to realize that men with bows could not long hold back men in armor, on horseback.

He called for his warriors to follow him and they reached the last wagon unscathed. The man leading the team took one look at Gruffudd's fierce scowl and flowing dark hair and abandoned his duties with a shriek. Gruffudd reached down with his sword and slit the neck of the ox nearest him. The animal started to bellow, lost its voice and fell like a stone to the ground. Another warrior killed its partner. Blood spurted up in a dramatic arc and soaked him.

Meanwhile, Gruffudd had reached down and flung back the heavy cloth covering the bed of the wagon, wanting to see if the treasure were something he might be able to carry with him. But the grin died on his face as he looked down and saw a cart laden with straw. He frowned. Straw.

Suddenly he raised his head and bellowed for his warriors to turn back. It was a trap of some kind; there was no treasure. He had watched with great interest the arrival of Dafydd's men at Hawarden and he knew there were many more than were represented in the convoy. There were more Normans also, as well as their leader, the earl; Gruffudd had supposed the excess manpower had simply been left behind as superfluous to the escort of three wagons but now he imagined all the prince's and all the earl's men were lying in wait, ready to ambush the Powys men, somewhere up the road.

Under cover provided by the archers, Gruffudd and his men pulled back. Some of his warriors had already disappeared into the forest; the others swung themselves up onto their companions' mounts as they passed by. Gruffudd shouted for the men to fan out in different directions. It took the Normans some time to work their way through the confusion at the wagons but they didn't even pause to glance at the damage. As soon as they were free of the wreckage, they put spurs to their stallions and chased after the Welsh.

Haworth had been one of the first to reach the wagons and consequently the first to go after Gruffudd's men. He had his quarry in sight, too; two men on one horse. They couldn't hope to outrun his larger, stronger beast. As he had done a thousand times in practice, he stood up in his stirrups, raised his slender javelin over his head, pulled his arm back and flung the missile forward with deadly accuracy. It hit the rear Welshman square in the back; the man's arms went flying outwards and he tumbled to the ground, dead. His companion looked back over his shoulder, saw what had happened and held his horse in with the reins wrapped around one wrist. He turned to face Haworth with his sword. The Norman didn't attempt to halt his own mount. Instead, the animal went crashing into the Welsh horse, tottering it and throwing the Welshman off-balance. Haworth pressed his advantage and pushed the tip of his long sword into the chest of the foundering warrior.

Gruffudd and his men might not have been fleeing en masse but they were each heading in a southerly direction, towards the border of northern Powys. That was a mistake. The chief was correct in thinking the convoy had been a lure into a trap but the ambush wasn't waiting up ahead of him, it was behind him. When the men from Powys turned and fled south, Hugh, his knights and the remainder of Prince Dafydd's warriors were there to meet them with deadly arrows and finely honed sword edges.

Gruffudd's threat, at least for the moment, had fizzled. Finally beaten, he and his army slipped back into Powys. Roger Haworth was all for chasing after them, now that the manpower was available, and Hugh had to remind him that it wasn't so long ago he was bemoaning the intrusion of the soldiers from Gwynedd. Haworth grudgingly but fairly acknowledged their exceptional abilities and admitted they'd been an integral part of the victory. He'd been particularly impressed by their rough-looking longbows which, when in the proper hands, had sent arrows flying further than he'd ever seen. "It's why we ought to press our advantage right now!" he said, still fired up from the fracas.

But Hugh was more cautious. Although Dafydd had agreed Gwynedd must be protected from Powys, the earl wasn't certain if the prince's good will extended to a Norman invasion of Powys using Gwynedd warriors. Besides, he didn't want to go on the offensive until his back was secure and Hawarden was not yet complete.

"But you told me we want as much of Powys as we can get!" Haworth protested. "You said Wales has plenty of land for the taking!"

"And we'll take it, Roger! But we can't risk it just now..."

Hugh was able to act immediately on one of his problems. In the fortnight following the ambush, Hawarden saw quick improvement. Without Gruffudd's continual harassment, Hugh was able to clear away the land directly surrounding the castle bailey. He increased the distance between the curtain wall and the start of the woods and had constructed a second palisade with the resultant lumber. He was confident the walls were now far out of arrow range and should any agent of Gruffudd ap Madog dare to lurk around Hawarden, he would be immediately spotted.

The castle was fast replacing Chester as a personal favorite. Chester he had inherited; Hawarden he had built—not to mention the important victory he'd conceived and brought off on its behalf. "I should have insisted on taking charge at Dol," he told Haworth. "I believe we might have won against the Bastard if I had."

At the mention of William fitz Henry, Haworth spat onto the ground which, because they were standing in a newly erected guard tower in the inner bailey wall, was a considerable distance below them.

Hugh was greatly enjoying himself. He had liked tricking Gruffudd and looked forward to doing it again. Miles de Gournay had once told him that the Welsh in Gwynedd had called his great-grandfather, Earl Hugh, 'the Wolf' because he had been a relentless scourge upon their land. It had been this earl and his cousin who had conquered much of Gwynedd and raised the castle at Rhuddlan. Not only did Hugh finally feel a kinship with a member of his family but he thought he might one day win a similarly respected sobriquet.

"Funny how we should both end up in Wales," Hugh mused, still thinking about Longsword. "At least I've come as a voluntary exile. He fought for the king and what was his reward? Custodian of Rhuddlan. It's got to be dull as an overused sword. No Gruffudds to fight. And I remember him as a hotheaded man..."

"That's probably why the king sent him to Rhuddlan," Haworth said. "The rumor at Falaise was that he was angry with the king for taking the Young King back into his bosom."

"And with good reason! I'd wager the Bastard must be feeling very disaffected right now, Roger. We ought to remember that—on the chance there might be another rebellion one day. William the Bastard's had several years to simmer; he might prove a valuable ally."

Haworth wasn't so convinced but didn't have a chance to reply. A sudden movement below them had caught Hugh's eye. "Who can this be?" he asked abruptly. Haworth followed the direction of his gaze. A solitary figure on horseback was approaching the castle at a steady but unhurried clip. Whoever it was bore no colors or other outward sign of identification.

Apparently Haworth found something familiar in the rider's posture and manner of travel. "It's that messenger the dowager countess sent you a few months ago," he said.

"Are you certain?" Hugh demanded, surprised. He caught himself; there was no reason for surprise, was there, when it seemed his mother was an expert at undermining his happiness; obviously she had a sixth sense for knowing its moments of occurrence. "It would be too much to hope that he's bringing news of her death, I suppose," he added.

"I think he would be traveling with more urgency, my lord. No, she's probably just wondering why you haven't chosen a wife yet from her list."

"It's amazing, isn't it, Roger? How eagerly she awaits the arrival of a grandchild when she never had any use for her own son." He glanced down unfavorably upon the messenger. "At least I have the excuse of having to wage war..."

"But Gruffudd's gone, my lord," Haworth said. "Everyone's talking about it still. The man's bound to hear there's no longer any sudden threat from Powys."

As he watched the messenger trot inexorably closer to his front gate, an idea formed in Hugh's mind. "Well, then, we'll have to think of something else."

"I could kill him," Haworth said seriously.

Hugh laughed. "Weren't you the one who told me she'll just keep sending others? No, I meant we'll leave for a while. We'll pay a visit to our partner in war, Prince Dafydd. We'll bring him a few gifts—foreigners always like that—and thank him for the loan of his men."

Haworth caught on immediately. "And ask him if we can use them to invade Powys?"

"Roger, while I've always admired your way with a sword, I have to admit that your most attractive quality is your singleminded devotion to my causes," Hugh said, still smiling.

But to Haworth, it was no joking matter. "Always, my lord," he answered fervently.

Some nights, she had a dream.

The dream itself took place at night, which made its already surrealistic imagery even more fantastic. Up in the glowing sky, the moon was low and full, so bright that there was no need for the torches to be lit. But it was a filmy, greyish light which distorted and stretched all objects it reached. The walls ringing the ward seemed to soar one hundred feet into the air, the shadow cast by her billowing cloak rippled majestically for miles and her feet, as she ran excitedly, lightly, never touched the ground.

She was running away from someone who wasn't chasing her. She had planned an assignation in the stables, she remembered, but then had decided not to keep it. She'd gotten all the way to the main door, she had heard the animals within snorting and stamping and then she'd turned around and run back towards the keep. She was laughing to herself, thinking of the surprise and frustration of the man she had promised to meet. She supposed she was slightly drunk, but whether from wine or moonlight, she didn't know.

She loosened her hair from its trap of braid and linen so that it flowed behind her like an inky river. She was running, running, running for the stair below the hall, holding up the skirts of her gown with one hand while the other one clutched at the cool air. It was wonderful how free running made her feel, how powerful, and though the length of the ward seemed to go on forever, she still had lungs full of energy.

But finally she reached the steps. As though her feet had wings, she flew up the shadow-obscured stones until she stood at the very top. And then she turned around to see if her would-be lover was following her after all...and instead she saw another man.

She caught her breath. This man was perfect. Although she could quite plainly see his figure, the milky moonlight cast a veil over his features. She saw his head, but not his face; the outline of his body, but not his clothing. Still, she knew this man was perfect. He was kind, courageous and generous.

He was staring at her. She could tell by the tilt of his head. She wasn't the least ashamed that she was staring back so hungrily. She felt drawn to him, she wanted him...In that moment, she knew she would do anything to have him.

In her dream, the moonlight became misty. Somehow they found themselves in each other's arms. His were solid, comfortable and fit around her shoulders as perfectly as she'd known they would. His face pressed into her hair and she closed her eyes. He whispered her name over and over: "Olwen, Olwen, Olwen..."

"Olwen! Can't you hear me calling you? Why are you out here?" he said. "The baby's crying his head off!"

She turned reluctantly. Richard was assiduously stepping aound the muck in the foreyard. He complained about the cows wandering where they would and making a mess wherever they went but what did he expect? This was a farm, not the ward of some great castle like Rhuddlan. And cows had to be brought in for milking...

"What are you doing?"

She looked at him. Physically, he was exactly the same as on the night she'd first seen him. His beautiful green eyes, dark, curly hair and slender, taut body never failed to send a rush of excitement through every one of her nerves. But as for the rest of it...that had only been a dream, a fantasy. Although he was the same person and she loved him, reality was still taking some getting used to.

"The baby is crying," he said again. "I think he's hungry."

He was so handsome, she thought, but there was danger for her in his beauty. Did other women find him as attractive as she did? The women at Rhuddlan, for example. Were there a few there, young and unencumbered by children and an untidy manor house, who watched him in the moonlight and enticed him to fall in love with them?

She shook herself abruptly. "I'll come."

But before she could move, he put his hand out. Unconsciously, she backed away a step so it wouldn't touch her. The memory of the dream was strong yet and she knew if she felt the familiar weight of his fingers on her arm she would burst into tears and disgrace herself. She had to be strong, hadn't she? This was, after all, what she had wished for...

He was frowning. His hand hung between them as if he was still giving her the chance to accept it. "What's the matter?"

Why couldn't she just tell him? Why not simply ask him why he had to leave so often and stay away so long? But she knew why she couldn't—she didn't want to hear his answers. She suspected she knew those, too. Duty, friendship, responsibility...

"Nothing." She forced herself to smile at him. "I suppose it's the suddeness."

His face was full of relief and she was irrationally angered. Couldn't he hear the lie in her words? His arm reached out and rubbed her shoulder. She clenched her jaw and stood still, neither accepting nor refusing the caress. Couldn't he see the emotion eating her up inside?

"Will's like that," he said, almost cheerfully. "When he decides something, it must be done right away." He laughed a little. "Everything is urgent business to Will."

Olwen had begun to regard William Longsword with as much loathing as did her former mistress, Lady Teleri. This was the man who continually contrived to deprive her of Richard's presence. On whom Richard bestowed his duty, friendship and responsibility. Did either man never think of Richard's family? Of his two sons who were still young enough not to recognize their father when he returned to them after spending months with his lord?

She was furious but averted her face and moved away. "I'd better see to the baby," she said. He made no effort to stop her. She was furious but she was frightened even more because she loved him and didn't want him to leave her. She'd seen the situations of too many shrewish wives before; their men turned to tongues which didn't nag so much and arms which beckoned instead of gesturing angrily and they themselves became greyer and less appealing in contrast. She shuddered to imagine such a fate. What if one day he decided it wasn't worth his while to return home?

Richard Delamere had been home only two weeks when Alan d'Arques showed up with the news that a delegation of Welsh sent by Maelgwn ap Madog had arrived at Rhuddlan with express instructions to treat for a peaceful solution to the unfortunate violence which had erupted between Llanlleyn and Lord William fitz Henry.

Delamere was astonished. "How did Lord William react?"

"There were plenty of wagers on that!" Alan said cheerfully. "The consensus was that he'd run them off Rhuddlan land but he didn't. He's agreed to talk."

Delamere was even more astonished. Longsword was invariably aggressive when he felt he was the aggrieved party in a dispute. "I'd heard that fatherhood can change the character of a man but I never before believed it!"

"Oh, it's not because of that!" Alan told him. "Or, at least, so the talk goes. The rumor in the barracks is that it's down to the healer."

"Gwalaes? Is there news of her daughter?"

"That was the first question Lord William asked. When he was told she was safe and sound, he replied that he refused to treat unless Bronwen was returned to her mother immediately."

So the little girl was still alive. Delamere was inwardly relieved. He'd liked the serious, precocious child. Then something Alan had said before struck him. "What do you mean, it's Gwalaes who's behind Lord William's change in behavior?"

To his surprise, d'Arques managed to turn red. "It's only talk, Sir Richard..."

"People don't talk unless there's reason!" Delamere said sharply. "I've only been away a fortnight—what's happened?"

"Nothing's happened, Sir Richard! Lord William just seems, er, very grateful to her for saving his life. It's said that's the reason he restrained his impulse towards violence when the Welsh came. She asked him to."

"Asked him to?" Delamere repeated incredulously. He frowned. "Well, she must have been frightened for her daughter..."

"No, Sir Richard. After Lord William demanded the child, the delegation told him that, as a measure of the chief's good faith, she had already been safely returned to the abbey."

Delamere almost choked and Olwen gave him an appraising look. She was waiting on the two men as they sat at the table eating a quick meal before they set off for Rhuddlan, and listening to their conversation. She understood the gist of the Norman words but not Delamere's reaction. He sounded almost jealous of this woman who had earned the respect of his lord. It was clear by the expression on his face that he couldn't believe another person could possibly have influence over his beloved master.

It was true; it was hard for Delamere to accept what he was hearing. However, he said no more about it lest Alan d'Arques begin to suspect Longsword was behaving irrationally—because that was exactly how he saw it. Yes, Gwalaes had saved Longsword's life but hadn't the men of Llanlleyn almost taken it away in the first place? And then they'd burned down a Norman abbey and kidnapped an innocent child to use for extortion. To treat with people like these, Delamere considered, was an admission of weakness.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that his leave-taking of Olwen and his children was almost perfunctory, which only increased the dismay and impotent anger Olwen was already feeling. She wanted desperately to ask when he would return to them but bit her tongue out of pride. He might take her and the boys for granted but she would never let him know how much it hurt her.

Chapter 28

April, 1177

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

Longsword didn't understand it but it made perfect sense. Every time he saw Gwalaes he felt immeasurably happier; every time she spoke to him, he lost his concentration and his heart beat faster. He thought about her constantly and his slightest effort was performed as though her eyes were on him. He thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen, tall and slender with thick dark brown hair and large brown eyes. He found her soft voice soothing and pleasant. He respected her skill in healing, her capable manner; he remembered the delicate way her fingers had touched his wounded neck...He was completely in love with her.

He was equally convinced that she loved him. He didn't give it much thought; he merely assumed that such strong attraction on his part must surely be reciprocated. But she was shy, perhaps owing to her position, and never approached him or spoke to him unless he spoke to her first. It didn't matter; he needed a little time anyway. He needed to figure out what he was going to do with Teleri because of course he couldn't marry Gwalaes if he were still married to the prince's niece. He would like to have asked Delamere for advice but sensed that his friend did not approve of his interest in Gwalaes. But that didn't matter, either; he was prepared to sacrifice a friendship for a relationship with the woman he loved.

His immediate problem was finding ways to be with her. There were few excuses he could make to compel Gwalaes into his presence now that his shoulder and neck were much improved; few reasons that their paths should cross. And he couldn't very well be upfront about it, not with a wife eager to find another reason to condemn him and not with a pregnant mistress in residence.

The obvious answer was to reunite her with her daughter. If he could accomplish that, he was certain she would fall into his arms...

When the Welsh delegation had come with its overture of peace, his first impulse had been to massacre every man but one and send heads back to the Llanlleyn chief. But Gwalaes' daughter had been returned to the abbey and Gwalaes was so pathetically grateful that he hadn't been able to repay concession with violence. He'd swallowed his anger and agreed to meet the chief. He'd insisted the Welsh bring the little girl to Rhuddlan so that Gwalaes would not ask permission to return to the abbey. He was determined to bring mother and child together in his fortress so Gwalaes would always associate the happy reunion with him.

Delamere trotted through the gate with a scowl on his handsome face, his lips pressed tightly together. He had not been totally immune to Olwen's emotionless farewell; it had, in fact, grated on him all the way back to Rhuddlan. Sometimes he felt she was the female equivalent of Longsword, who often looked put out as well when he left Rhuddlan to visit his home. His unplanned comings and goings should, by now, have become routine to her; instead, she seemed angrier with each new departure and he didn't like this attitude. Was it only a matter of time before she started to greet him in the same unenthusiastic manner?

He'd barely spoken a word to Alan on the ride back to Rhuddlan. His irritation with Olwen had spilled over into his consideration of Longsword's affairs, making him more and more displeased with every mile gone. By the time they reached Rhuddlan, he was ready to explode.

Longsword, waiting for him in the ward after being apprised of his arrival by the watch, recognized the look on his face and wisely decided against a cheerful greeting. He said nothing at all.

Delamere jumped off his horse and tossed the reins to a groom. He quickly and briefly inclined his head to Longsword and spat out one word. "Well?"

"Come inside—"

"Alan said you're prepared to make peace with Llanlleyn. Is that true? Am I too late?"

"No, but come inside, Richard. I don't want to provide a spectacle for all and sundry."

Grudgingly, Delamere allowed himself to be maneuvered into the keep. As they passed through the hall, he noticed Eleanor sitting alone on one of the benches against a wall. She glanced up as they walked by; he saw Longsword nod to her. She responded with a small smile. Alan's insinuation ran through Delamere's mind; it certainly seemed confirmed by what he'd just witnessed! He was well aware that arguing over women was the primary cause of discord between friends and he tried to keep his voice level when he confronted Longsword as soon as the door to the council room had closed behind them.

"I'd have thought she would have returned to the abbey," he said. "Alan told me what happened to her daughter."

"No. I wanted them to bring her when they come back."

"So you are prepared to treat. Alan wasn't wrong."

"Again Alan!" Longsword was irritated. He had sent the young knight for Richard Delamere in order to get him out of Rhuddlan because he was jealous of him. Alan d'Arques seemed to spend too much time in Gwalaes' company and that annoyed Longsword.

He sat in his heavy, carved chair and gave his friend a measured look. "You don't think I should?"

"Of course I don't!" Delamere finally exploded. His voice was loud and forceful. "Aren't these the same people who almost killed you? My God, Will, I don't think you realize how close to death you were!"

"It was Rhirid who tried to kill me. I'm informed that he's been banished from Llanlleyn. His father sent him to make amends with Prince Dafydd."

"And that's good enough for you?"

Longsword shrugged. "Why not?"

Delamere was so perplexed by Longsword's attitude that he forgot his previous anger. Usually, Longsword was overly sensitive to any perceived slight and often reacted to it like a rabid dog, snapping and snarling at anything in his path. Now, however, he just sat back in his chair, meeting Delamere's confused frown with a bland face. "After your initial recovery, you wanted a quick revenge..." Delamere said, less stridently.

"Yes, and Llanlleyn was destroyed as a result. The chief—whatever his unpronounceable name is—wants to come to terms to make certain that doesn't happen again. So you see, we can think of it as victory, Richard—"

"And when Rhirid returns?" Delamere cut in.

"The chief—"

"His father wasn't able to control him three months ago, Will!" Delamere's voice rose again, this time in frustration.

"I'm not going to worry about something that hasn't happened yet, Richard! As I see it, there isn't any reason not to come to some kind of understanding with Llanlleyn. Gwalaes will get her daughter back and our debt to the family of that man one of my knights murdered will be forgiven. All the loose ends tied up."

For a moment, all Delamere could do was stand and stare uncomprehendingly at Longsword. Was it insanity? Complacency? Or was it, as Alan d'Arques had hinted, Gwalaes' influence?

Finally he said, "All right. All right—forget about the wrongs Rhirid's committed. There's still your plan, Will. To get land for your son. We were going to start with Llanlleyn, you said."

Longsword's eyes dropped briefly and his mouth seemed to tighten but then he looked up and his face was as composed as before. "I will have to reconsider that plan, I think, Richard. My son will be the king's first grandchild. I'm sure he'll provide sufficiently for him." He smiled slightly. "And you were the one who pointed out that the child could just as easily be a girl..."

Suddenly Delamere couldn't listen to another word. He didn't know this person who looked like his oldest friend. In a low voice, scarcely more than a mutter, he excused himself and hurriedly left the room. He didn't hear Longsword call after him.

Eleanor was still sitting in the hall but she got to her feet when she saw Delamere striding in her direction. "I hope you're happy," he told her in Welsh.

"Isn't peace preferable to violence?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Not when it will be taken as evidence of weakness."

"I remember the priests telling us about turning the other cheek," she said. "I think Lord William is demonstrating strength, not weakness."

"Even if he has to swallow his pride to do it?"

"Pride!" she snorted derisively. "Pride is a very vain emotion!"

"Perhaps, but it's one men like us build our lives around." He glanced back over his shoulder. Longsword was coming towards them. He turned once more to the healer and added before stalking off, "Wake up, Gwalaes! This is the real world you're in now, not your abbey!"

There was no rumor spreading around Rhuddlan that Teleri did not know. She seldom left her apartment and never ate in the hall with her husband and his noisy retainers and yet the steady stream of servants to her rooms was sufficient to keep her abreast of all the news and gossip rebounding off the stone curtain walls of the fortress. She was particularly interested in anything to do with Longsword. Having decided to achieve his death or to at least make him suffer a humiliation like the one he had caused her, she had become obsessed with him. The increasing attention he gave to the healer, Gwalaes, did not escape her notice, and neither did the rumor that he was coming to terms with Llanlleyn because Gwalaes was in favor of it.

She was rather sorry to see the feud with Llanlleyn end; she had been hoping Rhirid ap Maelgwn might finish the job he'd started several months before. It was obviously not to be—not soon, anyway—but she decided to satisfy her curiosity concerning the chief's son by going down to meet the men from Llanlleyn when they returned. She was interested to see what the man looked like; after all, they had something in common in their wish to see Longsword dead.

Someone came to tell her when a pair of the Norman knights galloped into the ward with the news that the Llanlleyn chief and his entourage were soon arriving. She hastily changed gowns, choosing one in a sky blue color which had always attracted attention in her uncle's court, and had her women brush her hair until it gleamed like burnished copper. She rushed down the stair to the hall, her heart thundering with excited anticipation, her personal attendants following at a slower pace and wondering at all the fuss.

The hall was filled with soldiers and servants. Everyone seemed to be talking at once. Teleri had to stand on her toes and crane her neck to see over the heads in her way. The crush of people kept a respectful distance from her so that she and her women appeared to comprise a little island at one end of the cavernous room. She didn't see the Welsh delegation and breathed in relief. She wasn't too late. She looked up again and her eyes immediately met those of her husband. His face registered involuntary surprise so she tried to look nonchalant; then he frowned and said something to Richard Delamere, who was standing next to him. Delamere glanced in her direction and replied. Longsword must not have liked the answer because his frown deepened and he raised his voice loud enough for her to hear it, although she couldn't make out the actual words. She ignored them, confident Richard Delamere would win the argument. He seemed to be the only person to whom her husband would listen.

Unless it was true what they said about Gwalaes. The healer stood near the front of the throng, close to but separated by Delamere's body from Longsword. Ostensibly waiting for her child to be returned to her...Teleri watched her through narrowed eyes. She certainly didn't give the appearance of a scheming, manipulative woman. She looked quiet and meek. That explained much of Longsword's desire for her, Teleri thought, her lip curling; she'd often suspected her husband felt that if he had to endure the presence of women, they had better be silent ones. Small wonder he used to visit Gladys and stare at the walls, neither he nor she knowing how to say the simplest sentence in the other's language.

Delamere was coming towards her. He gave her a courteous bow. "May I escort you to Lord William's side?"

He had won. She gave him her hand and they proceeded through the crowd to the front of the hall.

Longsword was plainly not happy to see her. "What do you think you're doing here, Teleri?"

She hated the way he spoke to her. There was no finesse, no attempt at polite address. Just blunt words. She smiled innocently at him. "I heard you had guests, my lord husband. Surely they would wonder if your wife doesn't come forward to meet them—"

"They're not guests. It isn't a social visit!"

She shrugged. "It doesn't matter. It gets so boring in my chamber, my lord husband. Hearing your Norman language all day. I look forward to greeting some of my own people."

"Hmph!" Longsword snorted rudely. "I'm warning you now to keep your mouth shut and not interfere in my affairs."

His abrasive manner angered her but she refused to be drawn into an argument in front of Gwalaes. Besides, she knew she was better equipped for an exchange of sarcastic insults than her husband.

"Which affairs are those, I wonder?" she said innocently. "Don't tell me you've invited the chief of Llanlleyn here to seek his advice on your private life!"

Longsword's face darkened but before he could retort, Richard Delamere cut in. "My lord only meant these negotiations are very serious, affecting the lives of everyone at Rhuddlan as well as Llanlleyn. We can't allow distractions."

"I fail to see how I could possibly be a bigger distraction than Gwalaes recovering her child."

"Leave Gwalaes out of this!" Longsword growled.

Teleri stared at him calmly, masking her surprise. To be so blatant..."Well, it's true, isn't it, my lord husband? Which one of you has the larger grudge against the chief's son? Men have to be diplomatic but we do not. I expect Gwalaes will not be able to restrain herself from sharp words at the least."

"I think Maelgwn counts his son as a distraction which can't be tolerated," Delamere said.

Her heart sank. "Do you mean Rhirid ap Maelgwn isn't taking part in the negotiations?" she asked. She felt keenly disappointed. It seemed she had changed her gown for no reason.

"Yes," Longsword said. Suddenly his whole demeanor seemed more cheerful. He even grinned at her. "He's been exiled to your uncle to learn how to love Normans. What do you think about that?"

She raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps the prince will find him a suitable Norman bastard to marry, my lord husband."

Longsword's grin vanished. Teleri saw his hand clench and knew she had gone too far. But she held her ground even as he took a step in her direction, trusting in his sudden recollection of where he was and how many people were watching them, or at least in Richard Delamere's timely intervention.

"My lord, they've arrived," a voice spoke urgently. It was Gwalaes. She touched Longsword's arm anxiously, almost as if she would hold him back. "Please look."

The words and the contact had an immediate effect on Longsword. He turned away from his wife. "Of course," he said, and his face and his voice were now gentle.

Teleri stared in disbelief at the two of them and then at Gwalaes with narrowed eyes. As Longsword made to step outside, Richard Delamere moved into his former place and Teleri saw him watching Gwalaes with a different, though intense, emotion. Jealously. Sir Richard was jealous of Gwalaes.

Longsword suddenly glanced back at his wife as if a thought had just occurred to him. "Listen to me well, Teleri! You had better not say anything untoward to the Welsh or you'll regret it. And stop referring to me as your lord husband!"

"You have just named my most fervent wish," she muttered underbreath.

The chief of Llanlleyn was disappointing. He and his group of conciliatory counsellors looked old, tired and very eager to come to an agreement with William Longsword. Teleri stayed in the hall only long enough to give him a proper greeting. Although she despised her husband and his countrymen, she hadn't been joking when she'd said she imagined the Welsh chief would wonder if the mistress of the castle did not come forward to welcome him. She would have been mortified if he had returned home and complained that Prince Dafydd's niece hadn't been brought up with proper manners.

She thought Rhirid ap Maelgwn wouldn't have looked so...well, mortal . She had never met him, nor seen him, but she felt she knew him. He was strongly built and serious. He saw the Norman threat as plain as day. He would not have stood in Longsword's hall wearing the expression of a supplicant. One day he would beat Longsword, perhaps even kill him, and then she would be free to return to the prince's court.

Gwalaes' reunion with her daughter, a solemn, self-possessed child, proved to be of more interest than the political proceedings. Longsword seemed anxious that everything was well with the girl and that she had been treated benevolently by the Welsh. He hovered over Gwalaes for so long that Teleri thought he was making a fool of himself. Richard Delamere didn't look pleased by the display of obvious infatuation either. But it was only when Gwalaes was satisfied that her daughter had suffered no ill effects that Longsword finally allowed Delamere to draw him away to the council chamber.

Teleri watched the little girl for some time. She—her name was Bronwen—was at first sober and then smiling. She didn't seem the least bewildered by the whirlwind of events that had swept her up in the last month and she didn't appear overwhelmed by the sight of her mother ensconced in a huge stone fortress, surrounded by armed men and a crush of servants. She greeted her mother happily but it was Gwalaes who brushed back tears and clutched the girl to her body as if she would never let her go again. Bronwen's only concession to the circumstances was to insist that the grey mongrel which had accompanied her to Rhuddlan not leave her side for an instant.

Teleri was enchanted by Bronwen. She wished she had a proper Welsh husband so she could have a little daughter of her own. Instead she was chained to a man whom she hated and with whom she would never again share a bed. If only Rhirid had come! Her desire to get away from Longsword had never been stronger.

When she finally exited the hall she noticed Gladys standing, almost forlornly, near one of the far walls. The slut's face was white, stricken. Obviously she had seen her lover's little display of tender solicitude a few moments earlier. Teleri had a sudden flash of inspiration; the kernel of an idea formed in her mind. She returned to her apartment thoughtfully and no longer concerned with Rhirid.

Gladys was not having a wonderful pregnancy. From the very first she had been struck by bouts of nausea so severe as to keep her in her bed for days at a time. She had vomited so often that she had a strong reluctance to eat. Time had not, as some of the kinder women had promised her, eased the cramping in her stomach and the dizziness she felt if she moved her head too quickly. In fact, everything got worse. As she entered her fifth month, her teeth ached constantly, her hair was limp and lusterless and her legs had swollen painfully. She couldn't wait to rid her body of the life-sucking creature growing within it but, perversely, it was the continuation of these symptoms which reassured her that the baby still lived; because she ate so little, she hadn't gained much weight and it was only with close scrutiny that someone might have noticed the slight swell of her abdomen when her gown clung to her as she walked. She thought with alarm that she had even caught Longsword looking at her doubtfully.

The healer had given her herbs to chew which would settle her stomach but she had thrown them down the garderobe when she had seen how it was between the lord and the woman who had brought him back to life. She was angry that this tall, ill-dressed peasant had captured Longsword's interest. Obviously, it was because of her that Longsword no longer came to her chamber. Gladys had no idea what to do.

When one of Lady Teleri's servants knocked on her door with a summons from her mistress, Gladys was already red-eyed. When questioned, she admitted to a great deal of unhappiness with her lot. When pressed, she confided her fear that Longsword was no longer interested in her. She felt only the slightest tremor of shame in speaking her innermost concerns to Teleri; she was desperate for advice or guidance, even from someone who had no reason to pity her.

Teleri listened and thought it was all going to be much easier than she'd imagined. She surveyed the bloated, sickly-looking girl before her and suppressed a desire to kick her stomach to see if there really was a baby inside it or if it would merely deflate as Gladys herself had deflated into gasps and sobs when she spoke about Longsword.

She encouraged the other woman. "You know I keep mostly to my rooms but even I've noticed this infatuation of my husband," she said. "And the servants! They can't stop talking about it. Every day someone brings me another story. He's making a fool out of himself!"

Gladys sniffled miserably. "She's making a fool out of him, my lady. What's so special about her? She isn't the least bit attractive."

"He isn't much to look at, either," Teleri said equitably. "However, are you quite certain Gwalaes has anything to do with this? From all reports, she seems to keep a discreet distance and since her child arrived I don't think she's spoken to him."

"But that's just a game, my lady! It's an old game and nothing but a snare to entrap him!"

She sounded so confident that Teleri suspected she spoke from experience. "I see," she said. "Well, she did save his life..."

"But I carry his life inside me, my lady!"

Teleri considered the trembling, hysterical woman before her. Gladys was desperate to hold on to Longsword. Desperate enough to do anything? "I wonder..." she murmured.

"Yes, my lady?" Gladys said eagerly.

"Well, I'm just thinking that if Gwalaes' spurning of Lord William serves to make Lord William want her badly, then perhaps the same might prove true if you spurned Lord William."

"But I can't do that!" Gladys protested. "What if he didn't care? Where would that leave me? And with this?" She covered her abdomen with her hands.

"That's precisely the point, can't you see? Your child is the one thing he cares about more than you or Gwalaes. He knows he'll never get one on me but—" Teleri's eyes narrowed "—just imagine, Gladys; what happens to you when he finally succeeds in making Gwalaes pregnant?"

Gladys gasped. Her face turned white.

Teleri was pleased with herself. She didn't know how intelligent Gladys was. Smart enough to manipulate Longsword into her bed but not smart enough to keep him there. Somewhere in between. "Can't you see, Gladys?" she added persuasively. "He needs you, if only to make sure he gets his son."

"And he's got me, my lady! The problem is, he doesn't want me—he'd rather have her!"

"But if you weren't here, he wouldn't have you," Teleri said quietly.

Gladys was suddenly still. "What do you mean?"

"We agree he wants the baby, correct? Illegitimate, born of a servant, he doesn't care...he only wants his child. So, if you were nowhere to be found, how do you think he'd react?"

"He'd be frantic, my lady."

"Of course." Teleri smiled. "He'd have searchers out every minute of daylight combing the hills, the caves, the shoreline...He'd have nothing on his mind but you, Gladys. Not even that chit Gwalaes. Nothing would be so important to him as finding you. Don't you think that's true?"

Gladys nodded vehemently. "But where could I go, my lady? I don't know any place—"

Teleri waved her hand unconcernedly. "Oh, that's no problem at all! I know places. Just think, Gladys: when he finally finds you, he'll fall all over himself to be kind to you. He'll treat you better than he ever did. You'll be able to lord it over Gwalaes. Wouldn't that be a sweet revenge?"

"Oh, yes, my lady—"

"Just leave it all to me, Gladys..."

"Where's Bronwen?"

Eleanor jerked into full consciousness. She'd been leaning against the stone wall, eyes closed and face tilted towards the morning sun pouring down on the kitchen garden, and lulled by the warmth and the relative silence of the spot had felt so drowsy she hadn't heard Alan's footsteps.

"At this time of day? More likely than not hovering around the ovens, waiting for the new bread."

Alan laughed and put his own back against the wall next to hers. "She isn't shy at all like you, is she, Lady Eleanor? Nor is she quiet and cold like the earl. She is rather like..."

"Like my brother? Is that what you want to say, Alan?" The knight glanced guiltily at her but Eleanor gave him a small smile. She closed her eyes again and went on, "I suppose there is a similarity. Bronwen is friendly as Robert was, and everyone seems to like her immediately. But Robert was also manipulative and selfish and I've never seen that kind of behavior from my daughter. She is open and honest. And too easily impressed. She's in awe of all the fine things she sees here—and fine people. She is in love with Lady Teleri."

"Then she's the only one!" Alan shuddered. "It's no wonder Lord William turned to another."

"Mmm...Gladys. I've told her many times what to do when she feels ill but she never seems to listen."

Alan looked sideways at her. "Perhaps it's because she's jealous of you."

Eleanor's eyes flew open. She couldn't have been more surprised if d'Arques had just confessed that he was in love with her. "Pardon?"

"Don't pretend you haven't noticed it, Lady Eleanor!"

"Noticed what, Alan?" she said so sharply that he straightened up and twisted his torso in her direction.

"You know, Lady Eleanor—the way Lord William looks at you. The way he was so concerned about Bronwen. The way he agreed to this peace with Llanlleyn because you asked it of him—"

"I never asked any such thing! I only said Mother Abbess was anxious to avoid more death and destruction! As for Bronwen, he made a vow that he'd return her to me even when I said I would ransom her from Llanlleyn with my own self!"

He shrugged. "We were surprised when he gave up his plans for Llanlleyn," he told her. "He feels certain Gladys will give him a son and he had decided to carve out a patrimony for him." He kicked at a stone. "Besides, there's precious little to do in this place, Lady Eleanor. We were looking forward to the contest."

"You said 'we'. I thought only Sir Richard blamed me for Lord William's decision... Anyway, Lord William's mind is his own to make up. I had nothing to do with it."

"That isn't the word going round the men, Lady Eleanor," Alan said. "It's generally agreed that Lord William is so in love with you that it's befuddled his mind. Anyone who knows him knows he would never have decided on peace on his own—"

She flushed angrily. "You men gossip like the chattering girls whom you constantly deride for gossiping! You are all wrong! If Lord William feels kindly towards me it's only because I healed his wound and nothing more! I would appreciate it, Alan, if you would put a stop to these rumors!"

He looked at her curiously. He'd never seen her so angry; she'd always been even-tempered, shy and quiet. It had been left to Gwalaes to make any argument or demand or defense that needed to be made while Eleanor hovered in the background. He nodded. "Very well, La—Gwalaes."

He was no longer looking at her but at a point just beyond her shoulder. She whirled around. Bronwen was skipping up the narrow path separating the garden beds, Kigva close on her heels and Richard Delamere bringing up the rear.

"Mama!" Bronwen shouted happily. Eleanor smiled despite her mood. Her daughter was finding the experience of Rhuddlan exciting and wonderful; in two weeks she had yet to express the desire to return home. "Sir Richard asked me to find you!"

"Lord William would like you to attend Gladys. She's complaining of cramps," Delamere told her. As usual, he did not look pleased to see her but now she suspected it was for the reason Alan had just given her...

"I'll come," she answered briefly but when she started forward, he moved slightly in front of her so that she could not pass.

"I find it strange," he said in Welsh, "that you learned Norman French from the sisters at the abbey yet Bronwen is completely ignorant of the language. Even though she appears to be an exceptionally intelligent child."

"Bronwen is young..."

"My son is slightly younger but still he is able to greet me in my own language."

"You must be very proud of him!" she retorted and brushed past him. He was so surprised by the unexpected heat that he let her go without another word.

Chapter 29

April, 1177

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

Eleanor played Alan's words over and over until she was forced to admit to herself the truth of them. She noticed it now not so much by Longsword's own actions but by the way everyone else at Rhuddlan treated her. Suddenly she noticed people giving her long looks. They stopped talking when she walked by or they started whispering furiously. Gladys refused to have anything to do with her no matter how uncomfortable her condition. Delamere was curt.

It was the last thing she wanted. Although no man had ever before expressed a romantic interest in her and she was somewhat flattered by it, she was also very much aware that what William Longsword had in mind could only harm her. Even if he were sincere, what kind of relationship could they expect? He was married and he thought of her only as some low-born chit. What could he possibly want from her other than that which Gladys—and who knew how many others—had already given him?

While she didn't fear him physically as she had her husband, she was nonetheless frightened because he would not let her leave Rhuddlan. Twice she had asked; the first time just after Maelgwn had gone and the second time when Alan had opened her eyes to the situation. On both occasions he had politely, even regretfully, refused. It was necessary, he had told her, to wait and see that the peace would hold. He'd had a message from Llanlleyn. Maelgwn had recalled his son from the prince's court but Rhirid was no longer there. Dafydd, to punish him for instigating the attacks on Longsword and on the abbey of St. Mary, had sent him and his men to put their aggression to better use in another part of Gwynedd. There was no knowing when he would return—and whether he would accept the peace his father and Longsword had negotiated.

Besides, he said to her, there were many more people at Rhuddlan than St. Mary's. Couldn't she put her healing talent to work in the castle just as well as at the abbey? Whatever she needed, he would provide.

She didn't dare argue with the king's son. She contemplated fleeing Rhuddlan as she had fled Chester. Why not? she thought. She owed William Longsword nothing. He had given her back Bronwen but she had saved his life. Bronwen...Could she travel on foot all that way to the abbey? Would she even want to leave? Where did that child disappear to, anyway?

Kigva's frenetic barking led her to the stables. The scraggly dog was dancing around a group of laughing men which included Richard Delamere and Alan d'Arques. The reason for their good humor was soon apparent to Eleanor: precariously balanced on an unsaddled stallion was her missing daughter. Delamere was holding onto the little girl's leg and she in turn was holding onto the animal's mane. It was all Eleanor could do to keep from screaming.

The men were smiling and giving Bronwen encouragement. Delamere's voice was calm as he instructed her on posture. But everyone stopped talking when they saw Eleanor—except for her daughter, who called out a cheerful greeting.

Delamere told Bronwen to let go and slide into his arms. He swung her to the ground and she ran to Eleanor, excited by her adventure. He had the grace to look guilty but said, "There was no danger at all." He slapped the horse's shoulder. "This one's my own and he's gentle as a lamb."

"He's fifty times larger than a lamb, Sir Richard!" she said angrily. "And it wouldn't matter how gentle he is if he happened to be suddenly spooked, would it?"

"It was Bronwen's idea," Alan d'Arques tried to explain. "She wanted to sit on one of our horses. She's utterly fearless."

It was obviously a quality the men found amusing in the child. They smiled and looked indulgently at her. Eleanor wanted to knock their heads together. She supposed next they'd be teaching the little girl how to wield a sword.

She considered the men for a moment; they were waiting for their horses to be saddled and brought out. Reluctantly, she dismissed the idea of leaving Rhuddlan on her own. If Longsword were so inclined—and obviously he was if he refused to allow her to go—his knights would find her in no time.

Delamere had no love for her, she knew. A thought occurred to her. "Sir Richard, may I speak privately with you for a moment?" she asked.

"I haven't any time. We're almost ready to leave," he said, assuming she was going to further berate him for giving her daughter a treat.

"Please. I only have one question."

He looked annoyed but nodded. They moved several yards away from the others, Eleanor tugging at a somewhat resistant Bronwen, who was more interested in the huge beasts than in her mother's business.

Delamere didn't say anything, just stared expressionlessly at her, his arms crossed over his chest. Eleanor began to feel nervous. She'd lived so long at the abbey that in her mind she believed she could say anything to a man but Delamere's clothing, attitude and stance were so reminiscent of Hugh that the words faltered on her tongue.

"Well?" he said finally.

She swallowed. "Sir Richard, Bronwen and I would like to return to St. Mary's. However, Lord William thinks it's not yet safe for us to do so. Do you think you might speak with him and persuade him to change his mind?"

A sardonic grin slowly twisted his lips. "If you knew Lord William for as long as I've known him, you'd never even think to ask a question like that, Gwalaes. Besides," he added in Welsh, looking down at Bronwen with a more benign expression, "I really don't think your daughter wants to leave Rhuddlan. Do you, Bronwen?"

The little girl shook her head vehemently. Delamere laughed and walked back to the waiting men, leaving Eleanor frustrated with the sudden realization—not felt since she lived at Chester—that she was not in charge of her own affairs.

Teleri wanted to slap Gladys senseless. Actually, she reconsidered, that would be difficult as it seemed the slut was already senseless. She decided she just wanted to slap Gladys for the pleasure of it.

Gladys had changed her mind. She was frightened at the actual prospect of leaving the fortress. Her face was red and swollen, ugly. Perhaps, she stammered, the situation wasn't as bad as it had originally appeared. She hardly ever saw Gwalaes around Longsword anymore. She hardly ever heard people gossiping about them—

"You don't get out much, do you?" Teleri interrupted. She raised a fine eyebrow. "I mean, you've been especially ill lately, haven't you?"

"It's the weather, my lady," Gladys said in a miserable voice. "I always have trouble breathing this time of year and it doesn't do me any good to carry this weight around."

"Of course you should rest often!" Teleri exclaimed. "Don't think I'm suggesting otherwise. I only meant that if you had been out, you would have heard the latest..."

Gladys looked interested, reddened eyes notwithstanding.

"Gwalaes has asked Lord William's permission to return to her abbey..."

Gladys' puffy eyes opened wide and she leaned eagerly forward on the cushioned bench upon which Teleri had generously allowed her to sit in order to ease the swelling in her ankles.

"...but Lord William has refused it."

Gladys' breath swooshed out loudly. "He did?" she gasped.

"We should have guessed that when he had her child brought here, he had a definite reason inside his small mind," Teleri continued. She bent her head over a section of needlework she had just finished and appeared to squint critically at it. In reality she was watching Gladys' reactions from the corner of her eye. She noted with satisfaction that the slut seemed suitably shocked. "It's quite obvious that he wants her around. There can be only one reason why."

Gladys was too stunned to make very much noise as she cried. The tears rolled down her face in steady rivulets. Her mouth moved and Teleri thought she was about to speak but it turned out she was only chewing the insides of her lips.

"Are you all right, Gladys?" Teleri asked in a kind voice. She signalled to one of her women, sitting nearby with disapproval on their faces, to bring wine over. "Don't carry on so; it can't be good for the baby. Here, have a drink of this. It will calm you. Do you know, I'd thought of the best of all places where you could hide and make Lord William frantic with worry and I'm a bit disappointed that you don't want to go now. It would have been nice for you..."

Gladys put her cup down. She sniffed. "Where, my lady?"

"My uncle's court."

"The prince's court!" Gladys sniffed again and absently wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her gown. "Truly?"

Teleri nodded and casually considered her needlework again. "I would have given you a letter to Dafydd stating that your husband had been one of the archers he had sent to King Henry during the war. He'd returned with Lord William and was in the garrison at Rhuddlan until he was killed in a hunting accident. Your grief is so great that it pains you to be at Rhuddlan and since you are one of my favorite servants, I've decided to indulge you by sending you to the Perfeddwlad for a while. It's a story that can't fail to move him—or his Norman wife."

"But, my lady, why must I pretend this isn't Lord William's child?"

"Well, we don't want the prince to think badly of Lord William, do we? Which he'll do if he discovered Lord William shuns a lawful wife—who happens to be his niece—in favor of an ill-bred servant. I think it will also make him and his household more kindly disposed to you. You would never guess it by the way I'm treated here, but in my uncle's house I am the most favored person."

Gladys was silent, considering. She twisted the now soggy end of her sleeve nervously. She gulped. "But how long would I have to stay, my lady? I don't want Lord William to forget all about me!"

"Of course he won't, Gladys! You won't stay very long, I'm sure; perhaps several weeks." Teleri looked at her sideways. "Although you might find you enjoy being at court. As long as you use the story I gave you, the soldiers will take you in and the other servants won't ignore you or gossip about you as they do here..."

"That would be nice..." Gladys whispered.

Teleri saw the wistful expression on her face and was jealous. She still thought of the Perfeddwlad as her home, she missed it dreadfully and was struggling to come to terms with the fact that she was sending someone there while she herself was forced to remain a virtual prisoner of a situation she hadn't manipulated.

She said suddenly, "Do you know, Gladys? I wish I were going instead of you! I envy you so much..." and of all the sentences she had uttered that evening, those three were the only ones she spoke truthfully.

Chapter 30

May, 1177

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

There was a soft knock on the door and she heard one of her women speaking in a hushed voice to someone. Angrily, she strained her ears. Why did her servants whisper? Once, she would have been mollified at such a display of tender concern for her emotional state; now, she was annoyed. It didn't change anything, did it, for her women to be so solicitous? If she were still at home and feeling melancholy, her uncle would devise some amusement to raise her spirits. But here at Rhuddlan her husband offered no such sympathy. And he was the one with the power; what good did it do anyone else to try to make her feel better?

A hesitant shadow creeped over her field of vision and she looked up from the piece of cloth on which she'd been sewing in a disinterested manner with a sharp frown.

It was that healer who had saved her husband's worthless life. She darted a shy glance or two at Teleri but mostly kept her head bowed as if she were unsure of her reception. Her obvious awe lifted a few of Teleri's spirits.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

"My lady, I was told you've been troubled by bad headaches," Gwalaes said nervously. "I was asked to bring you a poultice which you can lay across your forehead when you rest to help ease them."

Teleri smiled humorlessly. "The trouble is not so much the headaches but being unable to rest in the first place, Gwalaes." She looked unfavorably on the folded cloth in the woman's hand. It was, she imagined, filled with something that smelled vile. In fact, she thought she could smell it already...or perhaps that was just the scent of the healer's gown. Still, her head was pounding..."You may leave it here."

But instead of simply putting it down on the table and going, the healer hesitated. Teleri looked up again from her sewing impatiently.

"Why can't you sleep, my lady?"

Her first instinct was to snap back some angry reply. She certainly wasn't about to admit the truth: that she was feeling low because Gladys had successfully escaped Rhuddlan a week earlier and Longsword hadn't even noticed. It seemed all her plotting had been for nothing. And now Gladys was walking the same halls she longed to walk and talking to the same people to whom she wished she might speak.

No one had said anything to her about Gladys. Apparently, aside from her immediate circle, she was the only one who was aware of the servant's absence. It gnawed on her and made her so unhappy that she was unable to sleep a night through. Instead she lay awake, imagined arguments between herself and her husband running through her head at top speed in which she condemned his relationship with Gladys and he had no good answer; in which she was scornful and blistering and made him, at last, finally understand how beloved she was to everyone in her uncle's house and how shamefully he had been treating her. Sometimes, in these imagined conversations, Longsword was so chastened by the truth of her accusations that he capitulated and allowed her to leave Rhuddlan.

For the past week she had tossed and turned, silently cursing the fate which had forced her to marry Longsword, forced her to endure the humiliation of Gladys' pregnancy, forced her to always be on her guard around her husband so that he wouldn't suspect her weakness and take advantage of it. When she finally slept, it was a fitful rest which left her grumpy and headachy all day.

No. How could she possibly admit to being jealous of such a pathetic creature as Gladys?

"I have no idea," she said instead. "Perhaps it's the change in weather."

"I've got dried herbs and flowers—chamomile and rose petals—that would calm you and help you to sleep, my lady," Gwalaes said. "But not here. In my storeroom at the abbey."

"I've heard that my husband won't let you leave Rhuddlan," Teleri said curiously. "Is that true?"

Eleanor felt her face flush with shame. After several years as her own mistress, she was more than aware of her present situation of helplessness and she didn't like it. The nuns lived a strict and ordered life but never before had she felt as free.

"It's true, my lady. He says he worries for Bronwen's safety—and mine, of course." She wondered why she was making an excuse for him.

Teleri stared intently at her. "It's a lie. You know that, don't you? We both know the true reason he keeps you here..."

A thousand protests ran through Eleanor's mind but in the end she didn't reply at all. Teleri struck her as spoiled, capricious and impatient but not stupid.

Without warning, the Welshwoman jumped up from her bench. "I hate him, Gwalaes! He's ruining all our lives!" she said angrily. "Why didn't he just die from his arrow wound? Anyone else would have died! I don't think he's King Henry's son at all—I think his father must be the devil himself!"

The women sitting nearby who were listening to the conversation immediately started buzzing and one crossed herself. Teleri glared at them. It was suddenly all too much for her.

"Do you know that Gladys is missing?" she demanded.

"Missing?" Eleanor echoed, startled.

"Yes, missing! Gone! Disappeared! Lord William made her pregnant and then lost interest in her. Another life he's ruined! No one's seen her in days!"

Eleanor didn't remember anybody commenting on the absence of Gladys but neither did she remember seeing the servant in the last week. "But where could she have gone, my lady?"

"Lord William had better pray she has gone somewhere!" Teleri said bitterly. "If I were her, I'd just kill myself and get it over with! What is she without his protection? Nothing! She's totally at his mercy! As am I!"

The women protested their mistress' avowal of suicide until she snapped at them to shut up. And then, as quickly as the emotion had burst out of her, it left her. She sank back onto the cushioned bench. Her hands reached up to rub her temples and she closed her eyes.

"How much more of this can I endure?" she said in a low voice, almost to herself.

Eleanor couldn't breathe. Teleri's outburst had struck a chord; although Longsword wasn't the physically abusive husband Hugh was, it was obvious that Teleri was as miserable in her marriage as she herself had been. But while she had had Gwalaes to comfort her, the Welshwoman had nobody.

"My lady—" she began, but was interrupted by a sudden commotion down in the ward below. She could hear shouted voices and the trample of hooves. "Maybe it's news of Gladys," she suggested.

Teleri laughed shortly. "I don't think so..." Gladly accepting the diversion, she stood on the bench and looked through the window above it. "A horseman has just come in through the gate," she reported to the other women. "A Norman, but not from Rhuddlan. I don't recognize him." She turned back to the window. "It's odd; he's just sitting his horse. Men are just standing there. I think I can hear my beloved husband arguing at the top of his lungs with someone. Probably poor Sir Richard...Gwalaes, you speak that horrendous language; run and find out what's going on for me."

The hall was crowded with men when Eleanor entered it and all of them seemed to be speaking at the same time. She didn't dare walk up to one and ask who had just arrived. She scanned the throng for Alan d'Arques, but in vain.

She was about to retreat to Teleri's chamber no more enlightened than before when out of nowhere came a stream of such loud shouting that it hushed the noise in the hall. Eleanor recognized Longsword's voice and guessed he was in his council chamber. She couldn't quite make out his words but he was obviously angry.

One of the knights standing near her suddenly raised his voice. "Two marks says he doesn't let him in!" Immediately the bet was taken up and the stakes were raised as men clamored around him with their wagers. Eleanor was in danger of being swept away by the surging tide and she quickly turned and escaped back up the stair.

"Well?" Teleri demanded the moment Eleanor appeared on the threshold. "Who is it? What's all that shouting? Why did everyone rush into the hall?"

"I don't know who it is, my lady," Eleanor said breathlessly. "Only that he must be an enemy of Lord William. The soldiers are gambling on whether or not Lord William will admit him—"

"I asked you to find out what's happening, Gwalaes! I could have guessed this much by standing at my window! Oh—" Teleri drew her breath in sharply. Her eyes bulged as she looked at Eleanor. "It must be Rhirid ap Maelgwn who's come!" she said excitedly. "That would account for my husband's reluctance to greet him. Do you hear me, Gwalaes? It's Rhirid!"

Eleanor was more cautious. "But you said the messenger is a Norman, my lady."

Teleri waved an impatient hand. "Perhaps I saw wrong. Or perhaps he was simply dressed in the Norman fashion. Who else could it be if not Rhirid? Who else would my husband consider his enemy?"

Eleanor had no answer.

"I'm going down! I want to meet Rhirid at last!"

"My lady, you can't do that!" Eleanor said, alarmed. "Lord William sounds extremely angry. You know the feud between the two—"

"He is despicable, Gwalaes! He is like an infant! A real man doesn't let petty misunderstandings hamper his judgment."

Eleanor failed to see how a nearly fatal arrow could be construed as a petty misunderstanding but said nothing.

"You must come with me, Gwalaes," Teleri ordered.

"I don't think—"

"You haven't any need to think, Gwalaes. Come!" Without a backward glance, she swept out of the chamber. Reluctantly, Eleanor trailed after her.

With great self-assurance, Teleri moved through the mass of people in the hall to the landing outside. Apart from a handful of soldiers and several grooms, the ward was empty. The gate was closed. There was no activity at all below; a rare occurrence at Rhuddlan. It was as if everyone and everything waited for Longsword's decision.

"They must be on the other side of the gate," Teleri hissed over her shoulder to Eleanor. "I've never seen such a display of poor manners, Gwalaes! This would never happen in the prince's court—it must be a Norman custom to let important guests languish without. And what of the peace between my husband and Maelgwn? If I were Rhirid, I would—"

But she didn't have the chance to finish. Ralph de Vire came out of the hall in such a rush that he nearly knocked Teleri down. He paid no attention to either woman. Instead, he shouted to the knights below to have the gate opened. The men in the ward leaped into action at last; there were calls to the guards in the tower and yells for the grooms to stand by. Several men ran to the gate and heaved it back, the iron-reinforced wood creaking in protest. There were indeed horsemen waiting on the other side and the first few moments of their entrance were a confusing swirl of rising road dust, jangling bridles, ringing spurs and tramping hooves.

Teleri watched it all with a thrilled smile. That one in the front, at the head of the line—that must be Rhirid, she thought, leaning forward over the low wall to get a better look. He wasn't very much like she'd expected; he didn't look like a grim-countenanced avenger carrying a fiery sword...And like his messenger, he was dressed as a Norman—

She frowned. No one in the assemblage appeared to be Welsh. The riders were lined up in neat rows, wore mail and carried long, tapered shields. Their heads were capped with metal helmets that covered their foreheads and noses as well. Their saddles were large and heavy; the horses upon which they sat were large and heavy.

The man in the lead, the one she'd assumed was Rhirid, stood with one other slightly apart from the rest. In contrast to their companions, both were bareheaded and the first man did not wear mail. The second was dark-haired, stocky and scowling; his lips moved as if he was muttering something disagreeable to the first one, the mail-less one, who was russet-haired and wealthy. She could tell he was wealthy by the fine accoutrements adorning his horse, the signet ring on his finger which gleamed in the noon sun, the ornate clasp holding the ends of his dark tunic together and by the calm, amused expression creasing the pleasant features of his face.

He was grinning at her. She half-turned her head and whispered to Eleanor, "That's not Rhirid ap Maelgwn! That man is a Norman!"

Roger of Haworth, protective of Hugh's dignity, muttered angrily. "This is intolerable, my lord! Where is he?"

"Probably watching us from some window above." Hugh sounded unconcerned. "Probably gauging how much time may be permitted to elapse before his continued absence is perceived an insult."

"It is an insult! He should have been down here, waiting to greet you, before you even entered his damned castle!"

The earl glanced at his captain with amusement. "The Bastard obviously doesn't care as fervently as you do for custom, Roger. Only a man who feels he's strong enough in his own right will defy convention."

"Whatever strength he has comes from the king," Haworth spat out. "He holds nothing in his own right, my lord."

"Yes, of course," Hugh agreed. He shrugged. "Well, he can't leave us here forever."

They had spent several weeks as guests at the court of Prince Dafydd, after which Hugh had decided they would visit Rhuddlan before returning to Hawarden. His interest had been piqued by conversations with the prince, during one of which he'd learned that some of the men Dafydd had sent him to use against Powys were from a small commote called Llanlleyn and had been responsible for recent trouble in the area, including an almost fatal ambush on the Bastard himself. It was to be hoped, Dafydd had told him wryly, that the instigators of the ambush would find better occupation for their swords in northern Powys than closer to home. And spare him, Hugh had added to himself, the necessity of informing King Henry that his bastard son had been killed in some petty altercation.

No, a few days at Rhuddlan wouldn't come amiss, Hugh decided. He was familiar with the fortress, of course; it had been in his family from the Conquest until that fateful day when Owain Gwynedd had sacked it and reduced it to rubble. He was curious to discover how the Bastard, who'd always had the reputation of being the most loyal son to his father, had settled into a pedestrian life. This dispute with Llanlleyn—was it indeed a petty matter or was the Bastard so bored that he had tried to create some excitement?

When Haworth objected, Hugh gave him an explanation designed to appeal to his masculine pride: "How would it look, Roger," he said reasonably, "if the Bastard were to learn that we had been in his neighborhood but hadn't come calling? He would think we're too humiliated to see him! Do you really want him to think we're cowards?"

Needless to say, Haworth bristled at the very idea and made no further argument.

Convincing Haworth was the least of his problem, Hugh thought. He wondered if the Bastard would even receive him. Basic etiquette demanded as much but being the son of the king was a position not without its perks and it was well known that William fitz Henry cared for no one's opinion but his father's.

So he sent his messenger ahead when he and his party were just a few miles from the fortress, reasoning it was more difficult to turn away people who were right there on the doorstep than those half a day's ride away, whose faces were unseen. And, after a short hesitation, the ploy seemed to work. The impressively massive gate was opened to admit him and his men.

"He's either forgiven us or is starved for company," Hugh murmured to Haworth as they rode through to the ward.

But the hospitality ended abruptly. Hugh, Haworth and their twenty soldier-strong entourage were left standing alone and feeling slightly foolish. Grooms loitered nearby but didn't rush up to take their horses; no one came out of the keep to welcome them. Haworth became annoyed and after listening to his complaints for several minutes, Hugh began to wonder if it had been a good idea to come to Rhuddlan after all.

He looked up at the keep again. A small knot of people stood looking down at him. One was a petite, finely-featured woman. Her eyes were all over him and he smiled at her. She turned her head slightly, as if to speak to someone standing behind her, and then he saw her whole body whirl around and after a moment's hesitation, disappear quickly inside.

And finally, he saw the Bastard appear on the landing.

"Teleri!"

She jumped involuntarily at the unexpected voice and swung around. Longsword stood in the doorway, glaring at her. Richard Delamere and several other men were behind him but Gwalaes had disappeared. "Get inside!" he ordered. When she hesitated, he gestured impatiently to one of the knights, who pushed past him and reached his hand out for her arm. She jerked away.

"I'll go myself!" she snapped.

She walked back into the hall with as much dignity as she could muster, humiliated by his disrespectful address. Her women hurried up to her, clucking and fussing until she told them to let her be; they gathered on either side of her, almost possessively, and when she started towards the stair at the rear of the hall it was as if one giant mass were moving across the wooden floor.

Gwalaes was standing in the shadows by the pantry. "It isn't Rhirid after all," Teleri informed her, pausing. "Only another Norman. Gwynedd seems to be full of them these days...Gwalaes, you look like you've seen a ghost."

"It's the confusion, my lady," Eleanor stammered. "I'm not used to all this noise and activity. The abbey is so quiet."

"I can imagine," Teleri sniffed unfavorably. "Well—I'm certain my beloved husband is not planning to present the mysterious visitor to me, so I will retire. Too bad; from a distance, anyway, the man has quite a pleasant appearance."

Eleanor could not prevent a shudder of revulsion. Teleri noticed it, and thought it an unusually strong reaction. "You disagree? You saw him, then?" she asked.

"I saw them all, my lady," Eleanor said. Her voice trembled despite her attempt to keep it level. She knew she had to be careful in what she said before Teleri but it was difficult to repress her shock in seeing Hugh again and at the same time watch her words. "All these soldiers in one place—it frightens me."

"Indeed?" Teleri said, turning toward the stair. "It sickens me."

When the Welshwoman had gone, Eleanor gave in to the trembling that had threatened to consume her the instant she'd set eyes on her husband as he waited in the ward. Her head spun dizzily. Never had she expected to see him at Rhuddlan Castle—never had she expected to see him again!

She had recognized him in one glance and had immediately retreated into the shelter of the hall. But there had been time enough to see that Roger of Haworth was still by his side. The man who had murdered Gwalaes...The sight of the two of them made her stomach heave in revolt.

She hovered near the pantry, uncertain of her next move. She thought she ought to do something—speak to Longsword, confront them herself—but the idea made her shake so violently she didn't think she'd be able to speak clearly.

In the end, she just slipped down the steps behind the pantry, down to the groundlevel entrance to the keep through the storerooms and across the yard to the kitchens. She had to find Bronwen and keep her away from the earl and his men; given her daughter's penchant for ogling the fine-looking Norman stallions, she knew the little girl would not be hard to locate. Bronwen was the most important consideration, she realized, in the whole horrifying shambles of her relationship with her husband. She felt relief at finally making a decision. Bronwen—and her own new identity and the way of life she had cultivated over the last four years—had to be protected at any price.

Surely Gwalaes would have understood...

Chapter 31

April, 1177

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

Longsword's mood was blacker than even Richard Delamere had ever seen it. He had needed an enormous amount of persuading to receive Chester and when he'd finally, reluctantly assented, had behaved churlishly, responding impolitely to the earl's little speech of thanks for welcoming him and his men to Rhuddlan, and asking the earl straight out how long a visit he was planning.

As they'd argued with each other in the council chamber, Delamere had seen his friend's insecurities and delusions of persecution resurface after half a year of blessed quiet. Longsword was convinced Chester had come to gloat at him because after all his efforts on behalf of his father, his reward was nothing greater than the governership of Rhuddlan, while the treacherous earl's only penalty had been a few years' worth of comfortable confinement and the seizure of one of his castles. Chester was still the wealthiest peer in the realm; all his lands and revenues remained untouched. They'd had him at Dol, they'd taken his wagons full of treasure and his oxen and had precipitated the surrender of the fortress and his capture but it hadn't mattered at all because he still had wealth beyond imagining while Longsword was lucky if his lazy Welsh villeins could provide him with enough fish from the nearby sea to get Rhuddlan through Lent. Chester was fortunate to have escaped Normandy with his life; he could go anywhere he wanted to go—except Chester Castle, Delamere had put in, but Longsword was too busy shouting to listen—but the king's bastard was stuck in this insignificant heap of stone in the middle of a watery plain where nothing ever happened. And Longsword had wanted to snub him and not admit him because if a man in the earl's position hadn't come to gloat, then that man was an idiot.

Delamere knew Longsword had to be in an extremely foul temper to refer to himself as the king's bastard.

After the earl had been admitted and they had gone down to the ward to greet him, Longsword as unenthusiastically as possible without actually telling him to leave, Delamere started to wonder if would have indeed been smarter to have risked extreme animosity with Chester rather than to ensure it with his friend's atrocious behavior. When Longsword angrily asked the earl what possible reason had brought him to Rhuddlan, the man answered mildly that as the only Normans in Gwynedd, he'd considered it advisable that they should meet—"And under more favorable circumstances than our last meeting," he added gravely.

Delamere was certain Longsword was thinking that he could have very well gone through the remainder of his life without ever having met the earl of Chester again, regardless of the circumstance; he just held his breath and hoped he wouldn't say it. But he wasn't quite as certain what to make of this excuse to invade Rhuddlan; the earl's voice was bland enough but Delamere would have sworn there was the glint of mockery in his eyes.

He winced inwardly. He was becoming as paranoid as Longsword.

A small figure standing with the on-lookers at the perimeter of the ward caught his eye. Bronwen. He winked at her and she raised her hand in solemn acknowledgment. He lifted his gaze but didn't see her mother. When the party of visitors and hosts began slowly making its way to the keep, Delamere paused for a moment by the child and bent his knee. "Have you come to see the horses, Bronwen?" he asked.

She nodded. "And the pretty men."

He laughed and stood up. "Well, remember that your mother doesn't want you too near the beasts," he said, and put his hand on her head. He laughed again and added, "That includes the pretty men, of course!"

Longsword had turned around to find him and was giving him a look that was a mixture of murder and pleading. Delamere nodded and started following after him, but immediately felt a tug on the end of his tunic. "Lord William is calling me, Bronwen," he said.

"Sir Richard, I only want to know if I may ride your horse again," she said.

"Perhaps later, not now, Bronwen."

"All right, Sir Richard, but later when we go, can I leave the castle like Gladys did?"

"That depends on your—" he stopped abruptly, and frowned. "What did you say? About Gladys?"

"Gladys went out of Rhuddlan on a horse and I want to do the same."

He knelt in front of her again. "Gladys left Rhuddlan? That's impossible, Bronwen; she can't ride a horse."

"I know that!" the little girl scoffed. "She wasn't alone. One of the grooms was in front and she held on to him from the back."

From the corner of his eye, Delamere could see Longsword waiting impatiently; loath to be on his own with the earl. Chester and his men were watching him as well, and he could well imagine what they must have been thinking about a knight who stopped to talk to a small child.

"When did this happen, Bronwen?"

She smiled broadly. "It was the same day the loud knight fell off his horse."

That would be fitz Maurice; Delamere remembered the incident because it had provided almost a whole evening's entertainment in the telling and retelling. Fitz Maurice's horse had been startled by a scampering squirrel and the Norman, who had just taken one boot out of the stirrup to show off to de Vire the new spurs the smith had made for him, had lost his balance and tumbled backwards into a bed of nettles.

Where was Gladys now? He was sure he had seen her moping in the hall just the other night. Or had he? Longsword would be angry to know that she was jostling up and down on a horse in her current state—even angrier that she was apparently cavorting with another man. Delamere wondered...this news cast everything in a different light. Was it possible that Longsword wasn't even the father of Gladys' baby?

"Have you seen Gladys, Bronwen?" he asked. "Do you know where I can find her?"

The little girl shook her head.

"Well," he said, rising to his feet, "better, anyway, to wait until the earl's been settled before calling her before Lord William. Thanks, Bronwen."

He was about to walk away when he felt that tug again on his tunic.

"You can't call her, Sir Richard," Bronwen informed him. "She isn't here. She never came back."

Longsword didn't believe any of it. Delamere knew the turmoil of the earl of Chester's visit was taking up most of the room in his friend's head but he'd thought Longsword would have welcomed the diversion. Besides, the evidence was, if not damning, then certainly compelling. Longsword waved it away irritably. No, he didn't remember the last time he'd seen Gladys, but he wasn't complaining because her attitude in the past month almost made him wish he'd never see her again. Always looking at him accusingly, always bent over as if she were about to vomit. Good God! he burst out, if his son turned out as disagreeable as Gladys had become, he wasn't sure he wanted it after all!

Delamere told him to stop thinking about himself and if the baby had a foul temper it was more likely than not to have come from its father, whose history of foul tempers was already noted, and not its mother.

Over the rim of his cup, Longsword glared. He swallowed a mouthful of wine. The idea that Gladys had gotten on a horse and ridden out of Rhuddlan was ludicrous. Only a fool would take the word of a two-year old child.

Four-year old, Delamere corrected him. And of course he'd checked her story. According to the stablemaster, there was indeed a cob missing and one of the grooms hadn't been seen in a week. He'd spoken to some of the other Welsh. No one could remember seeing Gladys recently. He'd questioned Bronwen's mother, who hadn't seen Gladys either, and who swore that her daughter had a keen eye and wasn't prone to inventing tales. But if Longsword didn't care...

Longsword hesitated. Not for a moment did he believe anything was amiss but Delamere had that look on his face with which he was all too familiar. Delamere getting angry and riding home to Olwen and leaving him alone with Chester wasn't a pleasant prospect. He relented.

"Of course I care! It's just Chester has put me out of sorts and I can't think about anything else. Of course I care," he repeated, in case he hadn't sounded sincere enough to Delamere the first time. He sighed resignedly and put his cup down on the side table. "It's too late in the day to send out searchers..."

"I've already arranged it for tomorrow morning," Delamere said, mollified. "I think our best bet is the abbey. I can't imagine any other place she could go."

"Did you check under Teleri's bed?" Longsword said humorlessly. "She probably murdered the girl."

"Be serious, Will!" He continued outlining his plans for the next day but it was soon obvious that Longsword wasn't paying any attention to him. "What is it now?"

"Did you question Teleri?" Longsword demanded abruptly.

"Of course not! What would she know—"

"I want to question her. Have someone bring her here and tell him I will not be refused. She must come if he has to use force."

Delamere was mystified but Longsword's stern expression brooked no argument. Two men were delegated to confront Teleri, in case she turned violent.

"She gave me warning," Longsword said when Delamere returned. "On the day she told me Gladys was pregnant, she insisted I get rid of the girl and when I refused, she swore that I would regret my decision." It was plain he now believed the entire story. He believed Gladys had disappeared. "I'll kill her," he added grimly.

To Delamere, it didn't sound like an idle threat. "It doesn't make sense, Will. She was just talking. How could she possibly get rid of Gladys?"

"I'm telling you—she's behind Gladys' disappearance," Longsword insisted.

Footsteps approached the open door of the council chamber and then stopped. They heard Teleri's voice in the hall but she didn't appear on the threshold. Delamere thought she had cleverly sized up the summons and refused to put herself in any physical jeopardy by entering the small, closed chamber to meet with her husband.

Longsword immediately strode into the hall. Because of the turmoil and curiosity surrounding the earl of Chester's arrival, there was a larger number of men there than usual for the time of day, standing in groups, idly talking. All eyes snapped to Longsword when he appeared and all voices gradually stilled. Teleri waited a dozen paces from the council chamber, flanked by her servants. Her face was angry and suspicious but not fearful. Because she was petite, she looked almost like an outraged child confronting an obtuse adult who had just debunked some favorite myth. Delamere felt the stirring of sympathy for her; men had plenty to keep them happy, if not in the home then outside it, but women had only their marriages and their children. Teleri's marriage was a political bargain between a prince and a king and not any source of satisfaction for her and the likelihood of children emerging from it seemed more remote with every passing month.

But he immediately discovered there was no cause to feel sorry for Teleri. She was quite able to defend herself. She turned on Longsword before he could even open his mouth, a tactic which Delamere applauded as admirable because the accuser was now the accused.

"My lord husband! I demand to know the reason I have been confronted by your men in my private chambers and threatened with injury if I did not show myself before you at that instant!" she said furiously. "I know I must live under the same roof with you but I did think I might find some peace in my own rooms!"

Longsword ignored the tirade. "Gladys is missing. I think you know what's happened to her."

Teleri stared at him, her expression astonished. "Missing?" she echoed. "Do you mean you can't find her? Have you had your men try breaking down her door and bullying their way into her room? She's probably cowering under the bed!"

"Of course we searched her room, Teleri!" Longsword snapped, oblivious to her sarcasm. "She's not in Rhuddlan; she's taken a horse and disappeared—with someone's contrivance!"

"I see—you think that someone is me. Why should I help your whore, my lord husband? We're not exactly friends."

Delamere felt the confrontation his friend had initiated slipping away in Teleri's favor. He could see confusion now mingled with the anger on Longsword's face. The man was not equal to a battle of wits with this woman.

"You would do it because it would punish me!" Longsword said.

Teleri smiled. "I can think of more personal ways to punish you, my lord husband. It's news to me she's disappeared. Not that I blame her, of course; if I had half the chance, I'd run off, too."

Longsword muttered something incoherent.

"Why wouldn't you blame her for running off, Lady Teleri?" Delamere asked. "You make it sound as if she imagines Lord William has injured her in some way."

Teleri's eyes slid to Delamere. She stared appraisingly at him and he wondered if he were clever enough to tangle with her. He suspected she would use any weapon that came her way in her battles with her husband, and he knew he was one of the biggest. He could not permit himself be fooled by her mien of physical vulnerability; he could not allow his oaths to be compromised in such a way that Longsword would start to doubt his loyalty.

"I shouldn't think she'd have to imagine anything," she said slowly. "Not with my beloved husband mooning over the latest addition to his household."

There was a brief silence. Then Longsword said quietly, "What are you talking about, Teleri?"

"Not what but who, my lord husband. The healer. Gwalaes. Don't tell me you haven't noticed that you're besotted with her."

"You—"

"Will!" Delamere put a restraining hand on Longsword's arm.

Longsword angrily shook him off. "That's enough of this nonsense! I know you had something to do with Gladys' disappearance, Teleri! I don't want to compliment you in any way, but you probably have the quickest wit of anyone in this fortress, save Richard. So...? I don't even care how you managed to contrive it. I just want to know where she is!"

"I don't—"

"Don't lie to me, Teleri!" Longsword suddenly roared.

Teleri backed up a few steps. Longsword pressed his advantage and began walking slowly, menacingly towards her.

"I swear before God and all these men, Teleri," he continued in a voice that seemed all the more threatening for its quiet after the loud outburst that had preceded it, "that if I do not get my son back, I will make you suffer such torments that Hell itself would be ashamed. If any ill befalls my son, you will pay for it in kind. Now do yourself a favor and start remembering..."

There was a pause. Then Teleri lifted her chin. "You don't care about her at all, do you?"

Longsword frowned. "Care about who?"

"Gladys. You don't care about her, only the baby. She's already suffered these torments of which you boast but you don't care at all. You're worse than an animal, William fitz Henry," she hissed. "Whatever's happened to Gladys now is probably the finest thing that's ever happened to her in her miserable life!"

Without thinking, Longsword's right hand shot up in the air. Teleri didn't flinch. Her women cried out in protest.

"Will!" Delamere said sharply. He quickly inserted himself between the two combatants but he faced Longsword. "Don't do it, Will," he said, more calmly, persuasively. Longsword didn't look at him; his eyes were locked in Teleri's steady stare.

A tense moment ensued. The crowd in the hall was silent, waiting. Teleri's servants wrung their hands nervously. Neither husband nor wife moved.

"Lord William, may I have the pleasure of an introduction to your beautiful wife?"

The words were polite, the speech unhurried and the inflection made it clear the speaker found the situation before him amusing. The earl of Chester stood with his arms behind his back, his lips slightly curved. All eyes swiveled to him. Longsword dropped his arm slowly and turned around.

"When I was a guest of Prince Dafydd, he spoke often about his lovely niece at Rhuddlan," Hugh continued, coming forward. "I confess I found it difficult to believe there could be a woman so perfect, one who possessed such beauty, intelligence and spirit that she put all other women to shame but, my lady," he said with a bow to Teleri, "I can see the prince did not exaggerate."

Longsword's initial anger at being interrupted when he was on the verge of discovering what had happened to Gladys, gave way to incredulity. He had never heard such drivel before, even from Delamere, who knew the right words to send any woman into a swoon. For the first time in his married life he waited expectantly for Teleri's sarcastic comeback.

Teleri stared uncertainly at the earl. Was he making fun of her or was he serious? His face, pleasant and open, appeared serious. Nobody had spoken to her like that since she'd been forced to leave her uncle's house and marry the uncouth lout who'd raised his fist to her before all of Rhuddlan. She lowered her eyes. "Thank you, my lord," she murmured.

Hugh stepped past Longsword and took Teleri's hand, raising it to his lips. "I am Hugh fitz Ranulf, earl of Chester."

"My lord," she said, and curtsied gracefully.

"My lady, you must promise me the honor of sitting beside you tonight at supper."

She glanced up, her eyes flickering to Longsword. His plainly shocked expression decided her. Except for her wedding feast, she had never taken a meal with her husband and his men. She smiled at Hugh. "It would be my pleasure, my lord. If you will excuse me?"

She brushed by Longsword with a triumphant look, collected her women and disappeared into the stairwell at the far end of the hall.

Teleri was determined to punish her husband for humiliating her in such crude fashion in full witness of so many people. Now that she had successfully gotten rid of his slut, she felt near to invincible. She was well aware, from the buzz surrounding the earl's arrival, that Longsword disliked and distrusted Chester; these would be her weapons.

She sat at the high table between her husband and the earl, who had insisted that she have the place of honor, which was his seat, at Longsword's right. She had taken a great deal of care with her appearance, dressing in her best gown, wearing the jewels her uncle had bestowed on her and covering her shining hair with the sheerest of veils. When she'd entered the hall, the noise level had dropped dramatically as everyone had stared in admiration at her, hardly believing that this was the same shrew about whom their master constantly complained. The earl's compliments were by then superfluous but gratifying to one who had gone without for so many months. She didn't look directly at her husband, but could feel his amazed stare.

She had planned to devote all her attention to the earl and shame Longsword before his men. She hadn't planned on finding the earl so attractive.

Besides his courtly manner, he had even addressed her in Welsh and when she expressed surprise that he knew her native language, explained that he had spent his early years in Chester, where hearing Welsh was almost as common as hearing English or French. He apologized for not being fluent; he seemed to have forgotten much of it, he said, but it wasn't a language which came easily to a foreign tongue and he was sure that his poor accent was hopelessly butchering the little he did remember. Teleri was charmed, especially when he praised her own command of Norman French.

She liked this earl of Chester. She tested his name in her mind. Hugh. Not a very nice name; too simple-sounding. Earl Hugh sounded grander. She liked the look of Earl Hugh, as well. Next to Richard Delamere, he was the most handsome Norman she'd ever seen. He was well-dressed, his hair, only a few shades darker than her own, was neatly trimmed and combed, and his eyes were a vivid blue—and fixed, more often than not, on her. He didn't laugh too loudly or shout across the tables as Longsword was wont to do. He was regal in all his movements and speech—quite unlike the shabby Longsword, who was the king's bastard. She thought that if she had married this quiet, polite and attentive man, she wouldn't have hated the Normans as much as she did.

She forgot all about Longsword, sitting on her other side, as she and Hugh discussed his recent visit to the Perfeddwlad. She was anxious to hear the latest news and he had evidently found much to admire and report on in the prince's court.

Longsword fumed. The fact that he knew she was deliberately flirting with the Traitor did not lessen his embarrassment. Others wouldn't see it that way; they would think that he, who had wanted to spurn the earl, was instead being spurned himself. He would be a laughingstock.

Delamere, seated on Longsword's other side, leaned into him and said in a low voice, "I haven't seen Chester's shadow all evening. I expected him to stand behind his master's chair and move his jaw up and down so he could chew." Longsword, a frown creasing his forehead, didn't respond. "Will! Are you listening to me?"

Longsword jerked to attention. "I can't believe this, Richard!" he whispered furiously. "She hasn't a fingernail full of shame! It's turning my stomach!" To prove his point, he pushed his trencher away. It knocked into his cup, upsetting it and spilling wine onto the white tablecloth. Momentarily diverted, Teleri gave him a withering look.

"Is the meal not to your liking?" she inquired.

He glared at her. "I've had enough, Teleri!"

"Oh...Enough food...or wine?"

"You know what I mean!"

"Is something wrong?" Hugh asked politely.

Delamere saw that Longsword was about to lose his temper and said quickly, "My lord, we were commenting that we haven't seen Roger of Haworth tonight."

"No, Roger's always working. Long, formal meals are not to his taste."

"His reputation with the sword is well-known. I hope he can be persuaded to give us a demonstration tomorrow."

"I'm certain of it," Hugh said, smiling. "Roger is generally modest—except when it comes to showing off his skill at swordplay. I tell him he could make out very well in tournaments but he is nothing but loyal. He says he prefers serving me."

After witnessing her daughter's conversation with Richard Delamere, Eleanor decided they must leave Rhuddlan immediately. Bronwen was not a shy child who kept out of sight and Eleanor didn't want the least attention drawn to her. But how to leave and where to go: these were the questions over which she brooded as twilight descended upon the fortress and the earl and all his men entered the keep for the evening meal.

The abbey was the easiest and most logical choice but it was rumored that Sir Richard believed Gladys had fled there and in the morning would dispatch a small group of knights to investigate. If Eleanor wanted to return to the abbey without Longsword's knowledge, then she and Bronwen would have to wait until those men came back—which might mean days. A protracted wait was, in her opinion, too much of a risk.

And how to get there...She had faith in the ability of her own feet, but Bronwen was only a little girl; it would be impossible for her to walk such a distance without a great deal of aid. The journey would take several days at the child's pace, exposing the two of them to the natural elements and perhaps even discovery by Longsword. Taking a horse—even one of no significance like that Gladys and the groom had taken—to speed the travel was similarly impossible. Since the discovery of the missing cob, the stablemaster was doubtless tending to his duty with an overzealous eye.

The situation loomed so hopeless that Eleanor almost cried in frustration. Then salvation presented itself in the form of Alan d'Arques, who suggested fleeing to Richard Delamere's manor.

At first Eleanor was hesitant. Although he was grateful to her for saving Longsword's life, Delamere never quite trusted her and she was certain he would be outraged to eventually learn that she was hiding on his property despite Longsword's order that she was not to leave Rhuddlan.

But she really had no other option.

She and Alan stood close together under the shadow of the guard tower where Eleanor had gone to find him. In the murky light he looked reassuringly large and solid, and she wanted to trust him.

"What of Sir Richard's wife?" she asked. "Will she be angry having unexpected visitors thrust on her?"

"I've never seen Lady Olwen angry," he replied cheerfully. "And I think she'll like Bronwen. Sir Richard told me once she was disappointed their last child wasn't a girl."

"What about horses?"

"The three of us can easily ride on mine," he said.

For the first time since she saw her husband ride into Rhuddlan, Eleanor breathed a little easier. "Oh, Alan, thank you! You don't know how frightened I've been..."

"Are you certain you want to do this, Lady Eleanor? He'll only be here a few days and I don't think he'll recognize you."

"You did!"

"Yes, but..." He grinned suddenly, his expression sheepish. "I look at all the women, Lady Eleanor, especially newcomers. Chester won't so much as glance in your direction, believe me."

"I can't chance it, Alan."

"All right. It'll take us a good half day to reach Sir Richard's farm and I want to be back by nightfall. Can you be ready very early?"

Eleanor nodded, relief flooding through every nerve in her body. "I don't think I'll sleep at all tonight..."

He gave her arm an encouraging squeeze and watched her walk swiftly away, pulling her cloak close around her shoulders. He turned to go back into the guard tower, and almost crashed into Roger of Haworth.

"Alan d'Arques, isn't it?" the man said pleasantly.

"Yes..." His voice sounded shaky, he thought. He tried to remember exactly what he and Eleanor had said and at the same time wondered how much Haworth had heard. "Good evening, Sir Roger."

Haworth smiled without showing any teeth. "So you've been exiled to this outpost of the empire as well, have you?"

"I'm one of Lord William's household knights," the younger man replied, somewhat defensively. "It isn't exile."

Haworth made a show of looking around. "Still, it's not the most prestigious assignment. I'm surprised the king couldn't do better by his son, even if he is bastard."

"Lord William is content enough."

"That's good," Haworth said. He inclined his head and started past Alan. "Perhaps I'll see you tomorrow on the practice field."

He was moving in the same direction Eleanor had taken, which might have meant nothing—or everything. Alan called after him hastily. "Are you looking for some place in particular, Sir Roger? If so, I can direct you."

The other knight turned around. "Just wandering..." He grinned suddenly and to Alan's frantic mind, maliciously. "When I'm in a strange place I like to know where everything is. Good evening..."

One of Longsword's knights escorted Hugh back to the chamber he would never have been able to find again on his own. Particularly in his current, inebriated state. Also in his current, inebriated state, the young knight looked tremendously appealing; well-built, slender, unblemished complexion and an untidy mop of dark golden hair...very much like Robert Bolsover. He had insisted the man lead the way, instead of walking behind and directing him, just so he would be able to watch his shoulders and hips move.

"This is it, my lord."

Hugh halted. "Thank you. What is your name?"

"Ralph de Vire, my lord."

"Thank you, Sir Ralph. I have to admit I've a terrible sense of direction."

"This place rambles quite a bit, my lord," de Vire said cheerfully. "It takes getting used to. Can I help you with anything? Or do you have someone to attend to you?"

Hugh was tempted to take up his offer. He would have been justified, after all; where had Haworth gone? Not for a moment had Hugh believed his claim that he had business to tend to. No—it had been the realization that he would have had to share Hugh with Lady Teleri at the supper board that had prompted his disappearance. Haworth seemed to be able to tolerate the presence of women only if they were anonymous servants or meek, invisible wives.

But it had been a long day of riding and duelling verbally with Longsword and he was tired. "I imagine Sir Roger will be up shortly."

De Vire bowed slightly. "Good night, my lord."

Hugh opened the door to his chamber but lingered outside, looking after de Vire until the man was gone from view. With a sigh—of exhaustion as much as regret—he went in.

"My lord." Haworth's deep voice greeted him. It was amazing the degree of accusation he could put into two small words. But Hugh was too drunk and too tired to feel irritated.

He forced a grin. "Roger! Thank God, some sound company! The Bastard's wife is more than I'd bargained for. She was beginning to get on my nerves. Fortunately, the Bastard's captain has proposed a hunt for tomorrow, to which she is not invited. I don't think she'd be stupid enough to go anyway; I can envision the Bastard happily chucking a javelin into her and calling it an accident."

A strange look came over Haworth's face and he forgot his previous jealousy. "My lord, do you think that's what they intend for you?"

Hugh laughed. "Don't be ridiculous! A little Welsh girl is nothing; they'd have more explaining to do with a peer of the realm, for God's sake—especially when Henry's taxes don't arrive." He went to the side table and poured himself a cup of wine. "Where were you all evening?"

"I was on a hunt of my own."

"What do you mean?"

Haworth's whole demeanor changed abruptly. He looked very self-satisfied and even grinned. "My lord, the countess is here."

"The countess?" Hugh repeated. A picture of his mother sprang into his head.

"Your wife, my lord."

Hugh was further confused. He put down his wine cup, suspecting that too much drink had addled his mind. "What are you talking about, Roger?"

"Countess Eleanor is here, my lord!" Haworth said in an eager voice. "I've seen her. She's dressed in common clothes, but it's her, I'm certain of it. I saw her face when we first arrived and tonight I saw her walk and heard her voice."

"I don't believe this!"

"It's the truth, my lord! You know I have a good memory for people. The height she can't disguise even with the rough clothing. And I heard her! I was in the ward and I saw Alan d'Arques speaking with a woman near the gatehouse. I only caught the end of their conversation. They were making arrangements for her to leave Rhuddlan."

Hugh sobered. "You're serious, aren't you?" he asked and, when Haworth nodded, felt the wine sour in his stomach. "But it's impossible!"

"De Gournay never found her body. Only her cloak."

"It's impossible..." Hugh repeated but with less conviction. He frowned. "This Alan d'Arques. Why does his name sound familiar?"

"He was squire once to Robert Bolsover."

"Oh, yes—a relative of some sort, I think. Of course he would know Eleanor. But this is unbelievable!" He looked at Haworth, his eyes burning. "Are you absolutely certain, Roger? I don't want to be made fool of in front of William the Bastard. Might it not be simple coincidence? A Welsh girl who has the misfortune to resemble Eleanor?"

"Then why should this girl want to leave Rhuddlan, my lord, if not for fear of discovery? She said to d'Arques, what if he recognizes me? She meant you, my lord!"

Hugh had to sit. His head was spinning but he doubted it was because of the wine. De Gournay had never found her body...Could it really be possible?

"Where is she?" he asked grimly. "I want to see her."

"Shall I bring her to you?" Haworth's voice was eager.

"No. I don't want the Bastard to know that I know anything just yet. Because if he's been harboring her, I'll have a sweet revenge. No, take me to her."

Longsword and Delamere had retired to the council chamber after supper, tired, disgruntled and morose. They sat sprawled out in chairs, drinking wine and watching the flames in the brazier settle into a dull glow. From time to time, one of them would throw out some off-hand comment and the other would grunt in response, but mostly they just sat and drank and stared with an increasing lack of focus into the fire.

There was a sudden rap at the door which made both of them jump. Ralph de Vire entered the chamber. "All's well, my lord—he's in for the night. Past drunk; you won't see him again until the morning."

They grunted simultaneously and de Vire withdrew. Longsword felt exhausted, as if he'd spent the entire day in battle. There was a dull ache in his neck which he hadn't felt in a week or more. What a day it had been...he was still annoyed that Teleri had bested him at supper.

Thinking of his wife reminded him of Gladys. Delamere was certain she was at the abbey and had told him to forget about questioning Teleri further—it would serve no purpose but to aggravate him even more.

He thought about Teleri's accusation, that Gladys had left Rhuddlan because he didn't care about her any longer and his affections had turned in Gwalaes' direction. Although it was true, he thought he had kept it his own secret. Certainly he'd never acted on his feelings, except for refusing to permit Gwalaes to return to the abbey. Delamere suspected, partly because he knew Longsword so well and partly because of the argument they'd had concerning peace with Llanlleyn. But he would have sworn no one else even imagined such a thing, until Teleri had practically shouted it before the entire population of the fortress.

What did it matter, anyway? The healer avoided him. He rarely saw her, either within the keep or without, unless their paths crossed coincidentally. And even then, she wouldn't look at him except for a quick, polite smile and a hurried curtsy.

Longsword could sum up the reason Gwalaes avoided him in two words: Alan d'Arques. He believed she was in love with the young, cheerful knight. Richard had seen the two of them together many times and he himself had heard others talking about them. Delamere could have given him advice; told him the right words to say to get her away from d'Arques and into his bed, but Delamere was still too annoyed at the peace he'd agreed to with Llanlleyn to be rational on the subject of Gwalaes. That was becoming a sore subject with Longsword as well, because considering what he had done for her, he had expected a little more gratitude in return than he'd so far received.

"Bloody women!" he muttered.

Delamere stirred. He opened one eye just enough to squint in his friend's direction. "What?"

"Do you realize that when we were part of the king's entourage and traveled with him from here to there to there and back again, women were never any trouble?"

"That's because you didn't have very many," Delamere said sleepily, closing his eye and shifting into a more comfortable position.

Longsword went on. "But three years in one place and look at all the problems: Teleri's jealousies and schemes, Gladys' misperceptions—"

"Misperception?" Delamere snapped awake. "Are you referring to what Lady Teleri claimed was the reason Gladys was so eager to leave Rhuddlan?"

"We don't even know if that's true," Longsword answered evasively. "That's only what Teleri says. Who knows? Teleri herself might have murdered her and left her body for the wolves."

"Will, if your wife were to murder anybody, it would be you."

"I don't see why you're having such a joke at my expense," Longsword retorted. "Last time you came back from a visit with Olwen, your mood was none too good."

Delamere hmmphed. "Olwen's the finest woman I've ever known but she's a woman all the same and she's got that trouble common, it seems, to most women: she thinks I can read her mind."

It was fortunate, Longsword thought, that Gwalaes couldn't read his mind. On second thought, perhaps she could. Perhaps that's why she avoided him.

Suddenly he was sick to death of them all: Teleri, Gladys, Gwalaes, Olwen and even the large-bosomed red-haired woman who always seemed to press herself against him whenever she leaned over to place something on the supper board. He got up from his chair, rolled his shoulders and twisted his neck from side to side. The cup from which he'd been drinking was still in his hand and he heaved it across the small room where it crashed with a grating metallic screech against the wall. Delamere looked up in surprise.

"I don't care about the lot of them," Longsword informed him. "I just want my son."

Delamere grinned. "The way your luck is running, Will, I expect you'll have a daughter."

Eleanor pushed in the chapel door hesitantly. "Alan?" she whispered into the gloom. When there was no response, she stepped over the threshold and raised her voice. "Alan?"

Hugh moved into the faint light cast by the holy flame which burned day and night on the altar. Although Haworth had ultimately convinced him, it was shocking nevertheless to see her standing right in front of him. For an instant, his mind was blank.

Eleanor gasped, and that broke the spell. All at once it came back to him...her fear of him...the physical power he'd had over her...the unbearable truth that she was alive while her brother was not...he felt the familiar hatred rise in him.

Seeing her reminded him of Chester, which he had also lost.

A flash of light suddenly cut through the shadows. Haworth, who'd been waiting outside the chapel, loomed behind Eleanor with a torch. As he brushed past her to fit the torch into a sconce on the wall, she shrank away from him, the fear apparent in her face.

Hugh studied her in the yellow light. Although not dressed as finely, she looked much the same as she had the last time he'd seen her, almost five years ago. Still drab, still ungainly. The undyed, coarse homespun she wore only worsened her appearance. Every time he looked at her, he found himself amazed that this was the sister of one of the most handsome, charming men he'd ever known.

She stood nervously, clutching her elbows in her hands, her eyes averted. Her breathing was rapid. Was it fright or just the shock of seeing him again? In the last month of their relationship, right before he'd gone off to join the Young King's rebellion, she had seemed to have lost her fear of him. If he had approached her, she hadn't cowered; if he had struck her, she had taken the blow silently. The lack of response had lessened his power over her.

Certainly she shouldn't have been shocked by the sight of him. She knew he had come to Rhuddlan to see Longsword; the fortress wasn't so big that news of a visitor wouldn't reach the furthest corner. And Haworth swore she'd been making plans with d'Arques to leave because he was there...

So...it was fright. He felt a surge of confidence.

"The last I heard," he said to her, "you'd been torn apart by a pack of wolves. Your recovery is a miracle, to say the least."

She did not respond.

"I was assured by de Gournay that everything had been done to find you," he continued. "Apparently, he never thought to look as far as Rhuddlan. I'm sure he, above all others, will be pleased to learn of your resurrection...If he does not already know it."

She raised her head at the insinuation. "Whatever report Sir Miles made to you was the truth as far as he knew," she said in a quiet voice. "I didn't need his help to get here."

"No? Then why don't you tell me how you did get here."

She was silent for so long that he thought she wasn't going to answer the question but then she said, "I walked."

"Walked?" he echoed incredulously. "You walked from Chester to Rhuddlan? I don't believe it!" He laughed a little at the notion. Even Roger of Haworth's dour face twisted itself into something that might have been a grin.

"Perhaps I'm a bit more clever than you think, my lord," she said.

He eyed her thoughtfully. "Does the Bastard know who you are?"

"Lord William knows who I am," she answered. "But not who I was. No one here knows and that's fine with me, my lord. As far as the world is concerned the countess of Chester is dead. You may ride out of here and live the rest of your life a free man."

"How very kind of you to give me advice," he said. "There's only one problem. The countess of Chester quite obviously is not dead and while she lives I can't remarry. That means I can't get an heir. And I must, Eleanor, have an heir. If I simply walked away from Rhuddlan, pretended I never saw you here, remarried and had a child with another woman, that child—my heir—would be illegitimate. Perhaps that doesn't matter much to you or to the Bastard, but I'll be damned if I'll permit my earldom to pass into the hands of the Crown after everything Henry's taken from me already!"

His voice had risen sharply with each angry sentence. Once, his explosion would have been enough to send her cowering into a corner. But her reaction now was startling. With every sentence, her posture became a little straighter, her gaze a little bolder. By the time he was through, she no longer seemed at all fearful of him.

"That doesn't matter to me, my lord," she said at length. "I live in Gwynedd now. I will never go back to England."

"You are my wife—"

"Not anymore, my lord!" she interrupted. Her voice trembled because she had never before dared to cut him off, but she did not back down. "I—I belong to another now."

There was a moment of shocked silence. Behind them, Haworth sucked in his breath.

"What?" Hugh asked softly. "What did you say?"

She lifted her chin. "Lord William will not let me leave."

His eyes burned into hers until finally, she looked away. "Are you telling me that you're the Bastard's whore?" he demanded angrily. She didn't answer. He took a deep breath and tried to consider the prospect rationally. It didn't make sense to him. Longsword was just too unappealing. "I don't believe you," he said to her in a calmer voice. "You're bluffing. The Bastard wouldn't know what to do with a woman if she threw herself into his arms. His own wife told me that. But—" Without warning, he reached out and grabbed her wrist, pulling her up close to him so that their faces were barely inches apart. It gave him pleasure to hear her cry out as she had often done in the past. "But if I find out you're not," he added menacingly, "I swear to God I'll kill you."

The door to Longsword's chamber was closed. He stared at it and frowned. He would have sworn he'd left it open; it was always left open. He swayed slightly as he pondered what the closed door might mean and then his brow cleared. Of course! With the current influx of strangers at Rhuddlan, some well-meaning servant must have shut it to ward off curious eyes. Or maybe the earl of Chester was waiting within, having found him much more attractive than Teleri. The idea was so preposterous he laughed aloud, and was still laughing when he pushed the door open so hard that it hit the inside wall and bounced back almost enough to hit him.

The grin died on his face slowly. There she was; she was there. Standing in the middle of the floor, hands clasped, face anxious. Her hair shone from the reflection of the candlelight from the nearby tripod, her dark, somber eyes were fixed on him...Was it a dream? He couldn't help but blink several times...

Gwalaes curtsied hastily. "My lord, I apologize for coming—"

"What are you doing here?" Then, realizing he might have sounded brusque, added, "Is everything all right?"

"I needed to speak with you privately, my lord," she said, ignoring the question. Her voice was quiet, nervous. "I'm sorry; I'm sure you're tired, but it's important..."

He stared at her, feeling suddenly calm although, strangely enough, his heart was thudding strongly. "No, I'm fine. What is it?"

"I think I know where Gladys is," she said.

"Oh?"

"I think she's in the Perfeddwlad."

"The Perfeddwlad?" His eyes narrowed. Teleri! Hadn't he known all along she was behind this? "Why do you think that?"

She bit her lip. "I don't want to say..."

"Well, I want you to say!" He walked around her and sat on the corner of his bed. He bent over and started unlacing his boots, cursing his wife underbreath. When Gwalaes didn't answer, he looked up expectantly. "Well?"

"It's—it's just a feeling I have, my lord."

"Did Teleri say anything to you?"

"That Gladys was there? No, my lord."

He pulled one boot off and tossed it into a far corner of the room. He leaned forward, hands on thighs. "So why do you think it?"

Gwalaes hesitated. He was on the verge of telling her to forget it, he didn't need to know because he was so mesmerized by her steady gaze. He felt as if he had known that face all his life. He remembered how soft and soothing her hands had been when he'd lain helpless in that same bed, how patiently she'd spooned broth into his mouth, how encouraging the words she'd spoken to him...He had to break the stare and bend over his other boot before he embarrassed himself in front of her. His head spun; all the wine he'd drunk at supper and with Delamere was now asserting itself and he had to fight to keep from giving in to it and taking her in his arms—

"Lady Teleri was the first one to notice that Gladys was missing," she said finally. "And she's been melancholy lately; unable to sleep, moping in her chambers...Her women have told me she's homesick. I just thought, why would she be homesick if she hadn't been thinking a lot about the Perfeddwlad, and why would she be thinking about the Perfeddwlad if she hadn't arranged for Gladys to be taken there?" She looked a little embarrassed. "I could be wrong, of course..."

Longsword pushed off the second boot with his foot and kicked it across the room. "Damn it!"

She came to stand before him, her expression earnest. "Please, my lord, you won't confront Lady Teleri, will you? I don't know for certain that anything I've said is true—"

"Yet you believe it or you wouldn't have told me!" he said.

"I do believe it, but I'm telling you for a different reason."

There was a subtle change in her tone, something which took her from hesitant and deferential to resolved and urgent. Even her eyes had changed; her gaze was now intense.

"What is it?"

"My lord, I need your protection. I'm offering you this information about Gladys in exchange for it."

He was startled. "Protection from Lady Teleri?"

She seemed to catch her breath. "No, my lord."

He frowned, puzzled. "Who then?"

"The earl of Chester, my lord," she said quietly.

"Chester!" Longsword repeated. He stared at her. "Why?"

She held his gaze. "I have good reason to believe he means me harm, my lord. On my own, I can't fight him but with your protection I think he'll leave me alone."

"I don't understand how this is possible, Gwalaes! The man only just arrived—and has spent most of his stay so far in conversation with my wife!"

"My lord, he lured me into the chapel tonight by sending me a message said to have come from Sir Alan d'Arques," she said.

His jaw nearly dropped. D'Arques again! He hadn't known she was used to meeting him in the chapel. "Oh? What did he want?"

"He—he gave me warning, my lord."

Had the earl found out about her meetings with the young knight and wanted to put a stop to it—because he had designs on Alan d'Arques himself? Was this the reason he wanted to harm Gwalaes? "Warning about what?" he asked, his voice suspicious.

She wouldn't look at him. "I can't say, my lord."

Longsword was no longer bewildered, only angry. He wanted to ask her why Alan d'Arques wasn't good enough to protect her from the earl but despite himself was flattered she had asked him to do it. Obviously she was uncertain of d'Arques' ability but confident in his. He felt calmer, a bit more secure. It wasn't much but it was something...

Then he realized that he was, of course, the most logical choice for role of protector; he was the one in charge at Rhuddlan. Nearly all his good will drained away then, leaving just the anger behind. He'd been a fool. What he had wanted to believe she'd done out of affection, she had really done out of duty. It was Alan d'Arques whom she loved, not him.

"I can't see what possible harm Chester can do to you," he said stiffly, "but if you want my protection, you have it." She smiled and started to speak, but he held up his hand to forestall her effusive thanks. "However," he added, "I expect more in payment than this—this guess as to Gladys' whereabouts. You believe she's in the Perfeddwlad; Richard is equally certain she's at the abbey."

"Sir Richard may be correct," she agreed cautiously. Her face was sober again. "What other payment can I give you, my lord? I haven't any money; nothing even to barter with..."

He stood up. The blood pounded in his ears. "I want you," he said.

She didn't move. She said nothing for a moment and when she finally spoke her voice was strained. "I don't understand..."

He almost relented when he realized she was frightened. But the image of Alan d'Arques flashed ruthlessly through his mind and he hardened his heart. She was asking him to do something for her; why shouldn't he get a bit of what d'Arques got in return?

"It's simple enough," he said. He thought he ought to have felt ashamed of what he was asking but he didn't because he wanted her so badly. He couldn't stop staring at her, couldn't stop imagining what her dark hair would look like when she removed the band, loosened it from its braid and it fell around her face, couldn't stop thinking about her long legs, her fingertips, the heat of her skin...He walked up to her and put his hands on her shoulders. He felt her body tense but she didn't pull away. He bent his head and covered her lips with his own.

It felt as good as he'd always suspected. What other evidence did he need to prove she was meant for him? He broke away, the taste of her lips potent in his memory. He stared into her eyes. "This is what I mean," he whispered hoarsely.

He waited for her to decide; there would be no joy in it otherwise, although he had to fight the urge to just rip away her gown and carry her to the bed. His breathing was heavy. He didn't know how much longer he could wait.

And then...then, her face composed and blank, she reached up her arms and clasped her hands together behind his neck...and pulled his head down to hers.

Chapter 32

April, 1177

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

He had Gwalaes in his arms. Her hair was soft and endless and he pressed her close and buried his face in her neck, letting the fine strands fall across his head. Her skin was warm and pulsed beneath his cheek. He moved his lips towards her mouth...

Suddenly he felt her body stiffen. He glanced up. The earl of Chester stood in the doorway to the bedchamber, his expression, as usual, unreadable but there was no mistaking his intent when he slowly pulled the sword from his belt. Gwalaes gripped his arm. "You swore to protect me..." she whispered.

He took up his sword and suddenly he and Chester were exchanging swipes and cuts. When their swords met, the clangs reverberated off the walls; the sound became deafening and began to echo in his head; from far away, a voice called his name—

Longsword awoke with a start. Someone was pounding on his door. A faint light filtered in through the edges of the closed shutters. He looked down but he was alone. Still, even if the dream wasn't fresh in his mind, he would have remembered the night.

"Come in, for God's sake!" he shouted at the door.

It opened quickly. Ralph de Vire appeared on the threshold. "My lord, are you all right?" he asked, concern apparent on his face.

The question seemed strange to Longsword. He flipped the rumpled cover back and swung his bare legs over the edge of the bed. "Why wouldn't I be?"

De Vire grinned at the familiar, querulous tone and relaxed. "It's just that you're always up before any of us. We thought perhaps the wound...Well, anyway, there's the hunt today."

Longsword's hand involuntarily reached up to press the side of his neck and the small ridge of the scar which adorned it. Almost two months had passed since he'd been shot. The spot was numb if he touched it directly but the pain caused by moving his shoulder had gone. Although he felt so good this morning he doubted he would feel a thing if Rhirid shot a whole slew of arrows into him.

"I overslept." He stood up, stretched with his arms straight up in the air and yawned. "Toss me that tunic on the floor, will you? Where's Richard?"

De Vire stooped to pick up the various bits of clothing Longsword had discarded haphazardly the night before. "Sir Richard also overslept, my lord. He's sitting at the table with a pitcher of weak ale and cursing every time someone speaks too loudly."

"The earl?"

"He and Lady Teleri attended Mass not long ago and have just sat down to breakfast."

Even that bit of information failed to rouse his ire, despite the fact that not once during their marriage had Teleri joined him at Mass. But the mention of his wife's name reminded him of an important matter.

Everything was falling into place, he thought with satisfaction as he left his chambers. He finally had Gwalaes and he knew where Gladys was. All that remained was to get rid of the earl, his scowling captain and their score of retainers. Teleri would once again keep to her suite and then he would be a very happy man.

He felt content enough this morning at any rate; well-rested and fresh. He thought he must have slept like a dead man for the first time since he was a boy. He felt so good that he whistled a tuneless air as he jogged down the stair and entered the hall. De Vire hurried to keep up with him, perplexed by behavior he'd never before witnessed from his master.

Longsword had never stood on ceremony which required the ebb and flow of the castle's activities to follow his habits so the tables and benches had long been set up for the morning meal. There was a hasty shuffle of feet as everyone scrambled to stand up when he appeared. His gaze went immediately to the high table. Delamere nodded to him and sat down again heavily. Teleri and Chester had not risen and watched him imperturbably. His wife's head was tilted up; her face bore a mocking smile. Longsword wanted to laugh out loud. Did she honestly believe he could be made jealous by any attention the earl of Chester might pay to her?

He stood next to her chair and nodded to the earl. "My lord, good morning," he said and Hugh responded in kind. "Teleri, I would like a word with you," he said to his wife.

She speared a sliver of cheese with her cutting knife. "Of course. When I've done with my meal."

"Now, if you don't mind."

"I do mind. I'm eating." She glanced at the earl, and although Longsword couldn't see her face, he saw what surely must have been Chester's sympathetic smile in response.

He leaned close enough to her to whisper into her ear. "If you don't get up from this chair right now, I'll grab your arm and drag you off just like the animal you claim I am."

She glared at him. "Very well. I'm listening."

"In private, Teleri."

She hesitated for only a moment. Then, with a stony face, she dropped her knife and pushed back her chair. She turned towards Hugh and with a brief, dazzling smile excused herself from the table, and then she marched off towards the council chamber without a second glance at her husband.

Longsword closed the door and stood with his back against it, watching Teleri come to a halt in the center of the room and turn around very deliberately to face him. Not once in all the time he'd known her had she ever seemed afraid of him and now was no exception. Her chin was lifted and her expression was angry. If he admitted the truth to himself, he was a little afraid of her; he had a strong suspicion of people who were quick with words. He didn't relish the prospect of another argument, not after the pleasant night he'd had and certainly not with someone who always seemed to beat him but if Gwalaes' speculation was true, then he wanted to know the reason behind it.

"I—" he started.

"I suppose it's not enough that you must make a fool of yourself before the earl," she said in a vicious voice, "but you must humiliate me as well!"

"I wasn't trying to humiliate you, Teleri."

"Weren't you? Last night you interrupted my very interesting conversation with the earl by spilling your wine in a pathetic attempt to gain attention. This morning you threatened to make a scene if I didn't immediately leave my guest to attend to you. And you don't think any of that humiliates me? By some quirk of bad fate I happen to be married to you. I'm sure the earl imagines you are a cross, brutish, ill-educated oaf, no better than one of the peasants who tills his land, and I'm quite sure he feels a great deal of sympathy for me—he's said as much to me and if you doubt it, you can ask him yourself!"

"I don't give a damn for the earl's opinion, Teleri," he said.

"Nor for anyone else's. I really can't imagine how Sir Richard can bear to spend so much time in your company. It must be maddening to be around someone as selfish as you—"

"That's enough!" he cut in sharply, taking a few steps in her direction. He had tried, but it was impossible for him to keep his patience with her.

"Are you going to threaten me again, my lord husband?" she sneered, but positioned herself so that Longsword's great chair was between them. "Hit me? I swear that if you harm me, my uncle will hear of it!"

"And do what? You're my wife, Teleri—I can do whatever I want with you." He dropped his eyes from her enraged face to her chest. "Even things we haven't done in a while," he added in a quieter voice. When she didn't respond, he glanced up and grinned. "I don't think I've ever seen you with your mouth shut."

"I curse the day you came to Gwynedd! You're a mean-spirited, cruel man and I don't know why you couldn't have just died when Rhirid ap Maelgwn shot you!"

Longsword nodded. "That's more like it."

"Let me out of this room!"

"Not so fast. Why did you send Gladys to the Perfeddwlad?"

It was a risky question—he wasn't even positive Gladys was at the prince's court—but it had the strangest affect on Teleri. It was plain she was completely taken by surprise; her eyes widened and her mouth dropped slightly; for a moment she stood stiff and motionless as a statue, and then she lifted her chin.

"So my uncle will know how you treat me!" she said angrily. Her eyes glistened. "That you sleep with whores and get children on them and humiliate me in my own house!"

So it was true...He stared at her. "I'm a man, Teleri! I have to sleep with someone! And you made it very clear that you didn't want to be that someone! You've no one but yourself to blame!"

"Are you saying your adultery is my fault?" She wiped her eyes and gave him an incredulous look. "That's ridiculous—and I can promise you my uncle won't see it that way!"

"Do you think I care for Dafydd's opinion?"

"You'd better pray he doesn't kill her, my lord," she retorted, "for the insult she's done me!"

The words hit him like a blow to the stomach. Without thinking, he leaped towards her, shouting incoherently, his arms stretched out and ready to seize her. Teleri screamed and gripped the back of the great chair as if holding on for dear life.

The door to the chamber burst open. Richard Delamere took one look at Longsword and dived after him, somehow managing to grab him around the waist and check his forward impetus. Two of Teleri's women stood anxiously in the doorway, wringing their hands and wailing.

Delamere was yelling. "William! Will! Stop!"

"Let me go, Richard!" Longsword shouted, struggling mightily to escape his friend's grasp. "You have no idea what she's done!"

"He's mad, Sir Richard! He wants to murder me!" Teleri shrieked.

"I swear before God, Teleri, if any harm's come to my son, you'll pay for it!"

Teleri's women wailed on. The noise, Longsword's powerful strength and the fact that he'd drunk too much the night before all started Delamere's head pounding at twice its earlier rate. He was losing the battle to contain Longsword and his stomach didn't feel right, either. So he did the only thing he could think of under the circumstances: he told Teleri to flee while she had the chance, and she did, her women falling in on either side of her as she reached the doorway to spirit her away.

Finally Delamere released Longsword. They both breathed heavily from the exertion and Longsword was still ranting. As far as Delamere could make out, Prince Dafydd was holding Gladys at the point of a sword and all of Longsword's army had to be dispatched immediately to effect her rescue.

If she wasn't already dead, which she probably was.

"You're going hunting with the earl," Delamere told him. "We'll send someone else to the Perfeddwlad. Will!" He grabbed Longsword's shoulders when the other began to protest. "You'd look like a fool chasing after the girl," he said in a low, strong voice. "The prince will wonder why you don't have the same regard for his niece. There could be trouble..."

"There already is trouble, Richard!"

"Prince Dafydd isn't the sort to go around slaughtering young, pregnant women, Will! Lady Teleri just wanted to provoke you and once again she succeeded admirably. She knows exactly how to get to you, do you know that?"

"One day she'll push too far..." Longsword said darkly. He took a deep breath and exhaled noisily. "Very well," he said, his voice sounding calmer. "Send Alan d'Arques to the prince."

"Lene is the better choice. He's actually learned a few words of Welsh. Besides, Chester's captain specifically requested that Alan accompany us on the hunt. He said they're acquaintances from years ago. Remember? Alan was Robert Bolsover's squire and Chester married Bolsover's sister."

Longsword didn't remember, nor did he care. His intention was to separate Alan d'Arques from the latter's too frequent association with Gwalaes. "Send them both, it doesn't matter. Thwarting Chester is an added pleasure."

But Alan d'Arques was nowhere to be found. The stablemaster reported that the knight had saddled his horse just before dawn and hadn't mentioned the time of his return. Longsword was furious but there wasn't anything he could do other than complain, which he did to Delamere's increasing annoyance for the remainder of the morning. The report angered Hugh as well until he learned from Haworth that wherever d'Arques had gone, he'd traveled alone because the countess was still at Rhuddlan. But Hugh was no fool, and having finally found his wife, he wasn't about to lose her again. What if it was planned that d'Arques should snatch her away the moment the hunting party had departed?

Haworth was torn between his desire to remain behind to make certain that didn't happen and his conviction that he must attend Hugh on the hunt or some ill would befall him. In the end he detailed two soldiers to watch over Eleanor's movements. The earl could always get another wife but Haworth could never have another Hugh.

Eleanor herself appeared in the ward as they prepared to leave.

It was an unfavorable morning for outdoor pursuits. A steady wind blew in from the sea to the north, piling massive dark clouds in the sky above the fortress. That a storm was coming was obvious; Delamere darted frequent glances overhead and hoped it would hold off until afternoon. He'd tried to persuade Longsword to cancel the hunt without success. His friend was damned if he was going to sit around and entertain Chester all day and he didn't mind getting wet. Delamere suspected that Longsword was convinced if he showed the earl an arduous and uncomfortable few days at Rhuddlan, the man would never return. Delamere, his throbbing head and roiling stomach, would just have to deal with it.

Longsword was waiting for his horse to be brought up when he saw Gwalaes standing at the entrance of the little alleyway which led to the maze of outbuildings behind the keep. She stood straight and tall. The wind blew her gown against her body, reminding him of the form he'd caressed the night before. She was staring at him.

Without thinking, he went over to her, suddenly feeling awkward and not knowing what to say. She dropped into a respectful curtsy and he was embarrassed. It wasn't right somehow that she should bow to him. "Good morning," he said.

"Good morning, my lord," she answered. "You are well?"

"I've never felt better," he said fervently. He glanced back and saw Delamere watching him with a frown. "Why did you leave?"

She colored and looked away. "I—I thought it best, my lord."

He didn't understand what she meant, but didn't pursue it. "Will you come this evening?" he asked instead. Then, thinking he sounded too eager, added, "I would like to talk to you, nothing more. Will you?"

He saw her hesitate, he saw her eyes focus on a point beyond his shoulder, he saw her expression suddenly clear...She looked directly at him—even smiled slightly—and answered, "Yes, my lord."

The sound of thudding hooves reminded him of the hunt; the saddled horses were arriving. He bade Gwalaes farewell and turned back towards the ward to find the earl of Chester's narrowed stare piercing through him.

The party which ventured out into the swirling weather in the forest behind Rhuddlan was largely silent and brooding, following the lead of its two primary members. Longsword could not erase the image of Chester's burning eyes from his mind; he'd known immediately that Gwalaes hadn't exaggerated when she'd said she feared the earl and wanted protection from him: there was something between the two of them, and he wondered what it was.

As for Hugh—never before had he felt such a rage. Eleanor hadn't lied; she and Longsword were lovers. He'd seen it quite plainly when she had looked at him over the Bastard's shoulder with a level expression. It wasn't enough, was it, that the king had confiscated his favorite castle but now the king's son had taken his wife!

After midday, the dour party halted for a rough meal and, leaving Haworth to hobble his horse, Hugh moved casually to Longsword's side. The young knight he'd admired last night, de Vire, was gutting one of the deer they'd taken, tossing the offal to the panting dogs which had accompanied them. Longsword was watching the grisly proceedings with uncharacteristic studiousness; a blatant attempt, Hugh thought angrily, to avoid speaking with him.

He wrinkled his nose against the rising stench and made some inane comment on the morning's activities to which Longsword responded briefly and monosyllabically. "I hope this exercise isn't too much of a strain on you," Hugh added.

Longsword thought he was being slighted. "What do you mean?" he demanded.

"At the prince's court I'd heard you'd been injured—almost fatally," Hugh said.

"I'm perfectly fine," the other man retorted. He didn't like having his weaknesses laid bare, particularly before his enemies. "I've been riding now for weeks. I hardly feel it."

"One of your men told Roger you caught an arrow in a bad spot..."

"Yes," Longsword answered grudgingly. But, like most people, he found it difficult to keep from bragging about his wounds, even to a man he despised as much as he did the earl. "A chance shot from the trees. It actually took me here," he said, indicating the joint of his neck and shoulder. "It was seen to almost immediately but one thing after another happened and fever set in. That's what nearly killed me, not a Welsh arrow."

"You were lucky, then. Fevers are tricky things to cure. You must be indebted to the one who saved your life..."

Longsword gave him a sharp look. "I am. She's under my care and protection."

"Yes, Roger was told it was a woman who healed you. Rather unusual, isn't it? The funny thing is, the woman was pointed out to me and she looks very much like someone I once knew. Do you think that's possible?"

"I doubt it, my lord. Gwalaes is a simple Welsh woman, quite unlike the fine ladies with whom you're acquainted."

"You must know that at Chester there are many Welsh working in one capacity or another," Hugh said pleasantly. "And a woman so tall makes an impression. How long has she been with you?"

Longsword didn't want to answer any other questions. He no longer believed Chester's interest in Gwalaes had anything to do with Alan d'Arques but until he knew the true reason behind it, he thought it wise to keep his mouth shut.

He gained a reprieve when Richard Delamere came up to them with a worried face. "I think we ought to turn back, my lords," he suggested. "The sky looks heavy and the wind has picked up again." Involuntarily, they all glanced upward. "If we go now, we might be able to outrun the coming storm," he added. "It looks to be a wild one."

Indeed, it was the wildest storm in living memory. Strong gusts tore down heavy tree branches, sheeting rain flattened the grassy fields and made mud of the cultivated ones, the wind and rain together disoriented sheep and cattle just settling into their summer pastures, scattering them far and wide and the Clwyd overflowed its banks, carrying off more than one coracle.

The inhabitants of Rhuddlan huddled inside their tenuous dwellings and held their breath every time they heard the roar of the wind and felt the tremblings of their walls. Those in the keep were more relaxed, secure behind stone; the atmosphere was almost carnival-like as they drank, swapped stories and burst into impromtu song...there was even a mock battle being fought in one corner and everyone had to shout to be heard over the persistent, ringing steel.

Longsword's self-control was hanging by a thread by the time the hunting party galloped into the ward, just before the storm broke, a victim of the earl's continuing inquisition. Chester had not given up his questioning even at a gallop, and his stallion was more than equal to the punishing pace set by Longsword. Try as he might, Longsword hadn't been able to shake the man and had finally shortened his reins and allowed the rest of the group to catch up with him just to be able to put several horses and riders in between them. "He's obsessed with Gwalaes," he told Delamere as they brought their mounts to the stables. "And his damned captain—all day I could feel his distrustful eyes on me. Me! As if he didn't trust me not to murder a guest of my home. I don't know which one of them is worse!"

"Why would he care so much about Gwalaes?" Delamere said curiously.

"Who the hell knows?"

They stopped in the barracks so Longsword could remove his hauberk. He leaned forward as Delamere pulled at the sleeves and muttered something indistinct as the heavy mail closed over his head.

"What did you say?"

Longsword rolled his shoulders, feeling pounds lighter. "I said it's as if he knows her."

Just then Alan d'Arques walked in. After having to endure Chester's never-ending questioning about Gwalaes, the sight of her lover, d'Arques, was particularly offensive to Longsword and he approached the younger man angrily.

"Where were you this morning?"

"I'm sorry, my lord, I—"

"I had a job for you; you were told about it last night!"

"I know, my lord; I thought I would be back in time, but my horse went lame and ..."

Longsword stepped close to d'Arques. "I don't want to hear stories!"

"I'm sorry, my lord, I—"

"I want men who will obey my instructions, do you understand? If you don't think you can do that then perhaps you should approach the earl of Chester and ask if he will take you on!"

Alan d'Arques looked stricken. "Please, my lord—"

Delamere put a hand on Longsword's arm and pulled him back. "Will, come into the hall..."

Longsword shook him off. "I'm not through here!"

In a low voice Delamere said, "I think I've figured out why Chester's so interested in Gwalaes; it explains why she speaks Norman French so well."

Longsword looked at him suspiciously. "Why?"

"You said it's as if he knows her. Maybe he does. Maybe she's a runaway villein from Chester. A piece of the earl's property and he's not at all pleased to see her here. Perhaps he thinks you know—"

"How would I know something like that!"

"What if he wants her back?"

To Delamere's surprise, the other man's face turned purple. Delamere was well aware of Longsword's infatuation with the healer but he had obviously underestimated its depth.

"He can't have her," Longsword snapped. He spun around and left the barracks. Delamere exchanged a glance with d'Arques and followed.

The rain had started spattering down in fat, hard drops. Longsword was halfway across the bailey and Delamere had to jog to catch up with him.

"Will..." Delamere started cautiously. "Maybe it's time Gwalaes went back to the abbey."

Longsword spun around. "Why?" he demanded.

"Three reasons. First, there's no longer any danger from Rhirid. Second, her presence here is wreaking havoc in your household—"

"I don't give a damn about Teleri and as long as my son is safe I don't care if Gladys stays at the Perfeddwlad forever!" Longsword interrupted. He glared at Delamere. "The earl can bleat all he wants but he won't take Gwalaes away from me and we don't even know where Rhirid is, let alone know if he's no longer dangerous! It's idiotic to speak of sending Gwalaes away! She saved my life! I owe her, Richard!"

"Very well." Delamere took a deep breath. "There's the third reason. Last week she asked me to persuade you to release her. She told me she wanted to return to the abbey."

For a long moment Longsword just stared at Delamere while the rain beat on their heads and ran down the sides of their faces. Then he said calmly, "That was last week."

"Will, you're being—"

Longsword ignored him, and turned back towards the keep.

Delamere sat in a corner of the hall, nursing a cup of wine and fuming. Longsword would not listen to reason. Teleri's accusation that he was besotted with the Welsh healer had been dead-on. Delamere couldn't understand it—he would never let a woman influence him the way Longsword was doing. Of course, it wasn't Longsword's fault; after all, what did he know of women? This notion that he owed her something because she had saved his life was ridiculous. Certainly it didn't mean he had to make peace with the very people who had tried to kill him or cross one of the most powerful men in England, whom even the king hadn't dared to strip of his lands or titles.

He swirled the wine in the cup absently, looking out onto the pandemonium in the hall but not really seeing it. He was worried about the situation with Longsword. They had known each other for twenty years and had never fallen out over anything. He did not want to fall out over an inconsequential Welsh healer—

"Excuse me, Sir Richard..."

A woman's voice interrupted his thoughts. He looked up with a polite smile. The voice belonged to one of Teleri's servants, the one who was invariably dispatched to convey orders from her mistress to the rest of the household. Although she rarely left her rooms, Teleri had gradually taken control of the running of Rhuddlan from an indifferent Longsword and had proven herself an efficient chatelaine.

"What is it?"

"Lady Teleri, Sir Richard. She asks if you would pay her the honor of a visit to her chamber."

Delamere raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Of course," he answered. "Tell her I'll be right up."

The woman nodded briefly and left him. Delamere tipped the cup towards his mouth and swallowed the last of the wine thoughtfully. He couldn't think of any reason Teleri would want to see him but suspected it had to do with Longsword. He just hoped he wouldn't come away from the interview with a greater headache than Longsword had already given him.

The door to Teleri's antechamber was open and he heard the sound of what was surely a hundred women all talking at one time. He smiled wryly to himself; it was precisely the same sound he heard whenever he walked in on Olwen and her servants in his own house. He paused at the doorway. He could see Teleri sitting on a cushioned bench pulled up close to the crackling fire in the low, wide brazier, speaking to a boy he recognized as the stablemaster's son. Beyond her, on another bench, sat three of her women, chattering away. Apart from the noise, which was only slightly less offensive to the ear than the tumult in the hall below, it was a heartening scene. The sole window in the room had been shuttered against the rain but there was more than enough light from half a dozen thick beeswax candles judiciously distributed about the whitewashed walls. A pleasant scent of lavender filled the air and all the women were neatly dressed in finely woven cloth. It struck Delamere that his friend was a fool to ignore this enticing haven of domestic calm in favor of the rough charms of a woman who didn't even want him.

Teleri spied him just as he raised his hand to knock on the door frame. She dismissed the boy, who scooted past Delamere, and rose from her seat, at the same time beckoning to the knight to enter.

The sight of Richard Delamere never failed to start her heart beating just a bit faster. It was the collective female opinion that he was the handsomest man at Rhuddlan, although there was considerable argument whether it was his green eyes, curling hair or sensuous lips which made him so. For a moment, Teleri was flustered and at a loss for words. She quite envied Olwen.

"I hope I'm not inconveniencing you, Sir Richard," she said.

"Not at all, my lady," he replied, bowing respectfully and coming up with an indulgent grin. "A summons from a beautiful woman is never an inconvenience," he added, flustering her further. She was normally self-assured and opinionated and a lifetime spent in her uncle's house meant she was comfortable dealing with any man but Richard Delamere made her nervous not merely because he was so good-looking but because he was invariably deferential, despite the fact that he was her husband's closest friend and advisor.

To cover her nervousness, she commanded her women to bring Delamere to a bench and to serve him sweet mead, and during the ensuing activity she resumed her seat and collected her thoughts.

Getting rid of Gladys had not satisfied her craving for revenge upon Longsword because he was still humiliating her with his affair with the healer. She knew that the pair had spent most of the previous night together and had barely been able to contain her fury on the subject when Longsword had forced her into the council chamber and accused her of engineering Gladys' departure. His audacity was staggering. She desired nothing more than to see him suffer as much as he was making her suffer.

She had information she thought would do it, too. She didn't quite understand all of it—probably there were pieces missing—but what she did know was certain to be of interest to her husband. And his new whore. But Longsword wouldn't listen to her; she needed Delamere's assistance. She never doubted he would give it to her, either. He hated Gwalaes almost as much as she did.

"Mead has an unusual taste," he said, startling her from her thoughts. He raised his cup to her. "But, like Wales herself, a man can learn to like it very much."

"I remember that Olwen's was always superior," Teleri said politely. "She used to spice it a particular way."

"Is that so? Unfortunately, I've never sampled Olwen's recipe. We only have honey in the house if I remember to bring it from Rhuddlan and certainly not enough to use to brew mead."

"She doesn't keep bees?" Teleri asked, surprised. A good supply of honey was a mark of a well-stocked manor. "My uncle's bees are known across Gwynedd for the quality of their produce. I insisted on bringing several hives with me when I came here. Tell me next time you go to Olwen and I'll see you have more honey than she can use."

"That's kind of you, my lady..."

"Not at all." She added lightly, "If I had known Alan d'Arques was traveling there today, I could have given him half a dozen pots to carry along."

A sudden gust of wind slammed into the wooden shutter, making it rattle. No one spoke. The rain outside slashed against the wall and the window. The fire in the brazier crackled. The other women in the room, having attended to Delamere, were silent and watchful. Teleri watched the flickering lights of the candles.

Delamere said, "Alan d'Arques went to my manor this morning?"

"Yes, Sir Richard."

The knight's voice became sharp. "How do you know? Did he tell you? He had no answer for Lord William not long ago when he was questioned."

"No, Sir Richard, he didn't tell me," she answered. "Someone overheard him speaking and reported the conversation to me."

"Why?"

She was surprised at the question. "I spend most of my time in these chambers, Sir Richard, but I know what goes on in this fortress just as well as you or Lord William...possibly even better," she said. "We are all Welsh here, you see. People tell me everything. I know, for instance, Alan d'Arques went to your manor...and I know with whom."

"Who told you this, Lady Teleri?" he demanded.

"That boy who was here. Cynan. He was roused from sleep and ordered to ready Sir Alan's horse just before dawn. Sir Alan then told him to find Gwalaes, Gwalaes bade him take Bronwen out of Rhuddlan through the postern and when Sir Alan arrived on his horse, he gave up Bronwen and received a plain dagger in thanks." She smiled. "Or payment."

"And Alan and Bronwen went to my house?"

"Yes, Sir Richard."

Delamere fell silent. Teleri experienced a moment of panic; she hoped the story was indeed accurate. The boy from the stables was quick but few people who weren't born to it could understand a foreign tongue when spoken rapidly.

A noise caught her attention and she looked over at Delamere. He was chuckling. "I think you're making too much of a mystery out of this, Lady Teleri. Bronwen likes our horses. She begged me for a ride only the other day. Obviously Gwalaes talked Alan into doing it and he was too embarrassed to admit to it later."

"But they went to your manor—"

"No, no," he shook his head. "The boy must have misunderstood. A quick ride, perhaps in the direction of the manor, that's all. Why would Alan take a child that far with the sky as it was this morning? A blind man could have felt the storm coming."

His smile was benevolent and, to her mind, pitying. She was angry. Obviously he believed that she was a solitary and lonely woman, prey to gossip and rumors. He did not look so handsome anymore.

"I would agree with you, of course, Sir Richard," she said politely, "but for one question. Why didn't Bronwen return with Sir Alan? Because according to Cynan, Sir Alan came back alone. Gwalaes met him at the stables and asked him if all had gone well."

The smile disappeared from his face. His green eyes bored into hers; she stared back unblinkingly.

"Why are you telling me this, Lady Teleri?" he asked softly.

"Doesn't this little escapade prove to you something's not quite right with Gwalaes? First she manipulated Lord William and now one of his knights. She claims to be Welsh but has a horrendous accent, which you probably didn't notice, yet she speaks impeccable French. Why am I telling you this, Sir Richard? Because I want to get rid of her. I think she's a threat to Rhuddlan, not only to me but to the status quo. What would happen to Lord William, Sir Richard, if his men deserted him?"

"That isn't going to happen—"

"But if it did? Would the king send him elsewhere? You see, Sir Richard, I don't want to go elsewhere. It's bad enough to be married to Lord William in Wales but I couldn't bear to be married to him in some foreign place. Do you understand? I don't want to leave Gwynedd."

"You needn't worry over that, my lady," Delamere said. His voice was subdued. "The men aren't about to desert Lord William. I think we all believe that this—this regard he has for Gwalaes will pass soon enough and he will send her back to the abbey."

This time it was Teleri who chuckled. "Don't fool yourself, Sir Richard. My husband is in love with Gwalaes and he won't ever send her back. I have every reason to worry. Don't tell me you've forgotten that my uncle is prince of Gwynedd. He's married to a Norman and is a great friend of King Henry. I know all about men deserting their leader, Sir Richard. I know that the biggest threat to Gwynedd isn't King Henry's might but my uncle's brothers, who hate the peace he's made with England. Do you see what I mean? His own people. And one more thing, Sir Richard," she continued when he made no answer. "Sir Alan called Gwalaes by another name. A Norman name: Eleanor. Lady Eleanor, he called her. Cynan remembered it specifically because it is the same title you Normans give to me."

It took Richard Delamere almost an hour to complete the puzzle. The missing piece, the piece Teleri had suspected was missing but didn't know, was the earl of Chester's acute interest in Gwalaes. As soon as Delamere added that to what Teleri had told him, he knew Gwalaes didn't speak Norman French so fluently because she was a Welshwoman who had once been a servant at Chester Castle but because she was a Norman.

It was bizarre, to say the least. He couldn't even begin to work out the hows and whys but, like most of his sex, he wasn't really interested in them. He only wondered how the situation would affect Longsword because Longsword, of course, would have to be told. Oddly enough, having begrudged his friend the relationship from the start, he now felt a rush of sympathy for him. Longsword, he knew, would see it as just another unfair defeat for a man who had done nothing to deserve it.

Suppertime came and Longsword was in such a good mood that Delamere didn't have the heart to broach the subject. Obviously Gwalaes—or should he call her Eleanor, now?—had visited Longsword's chamber after he had left it. He remembered how his friend's eyes had sought her out as soon as they'd entered the keep...

"I'd love to tell her she's wasting her time," Longsword said.

Delamere came back to the world of noisy conversation, noisier laughter and servants bearing trays threading their way in and out of the tables. "Who?"

"Teleri! Look at her talking the ear off Chester! I would pity the man if I didn't despise him so much." Longsword watched his wife and the earl while chewing his meat. He fished a bit of gristle out of his mouth and set it down on the edge of his trencher. "Perhaps she's begging him to steal her away. She's the reason Haworth doesn't take meals with us, you know. Jealousy. He can't bear the sight of other people speaking so intimately with his master."

Delamere didn't reply. He, too, watched Teleri and Chester. As far as he could see, the former was doing all the talking and the latter all the listening. Was she telling the earl the same story she'd told him? For a moment he was frantic—he wanted Longsword to know it before Chester—but he quickly relaxed. There was no reason Teleri would say anything about Gwalaes to the earl; she had no idea of the significance of the name Eleanor.

He wondered if he ought to speak to Chester rather than to Longsword. If he knew what the earl was planning, he'd be better able to deal with his friend when the axe fell.

"Whatever became of Chester's wife?" he asked Longsword abruptly.

Longsword shrugged and mumbled incoherently through a mouthful of his supper.

"Robert Bolsover's sister, wasn't she?" Delamere said. "I believe her name was Eleanor. Do you remember that?"

Longsword swallowed. "No. You said this morning she was Bolsover's sister but you didn't say her name." He lifted his wine cup and drank. Immediately the large bosomed, red-haired woman was there to refill the cup as it touched the table and to give him a lingering glance. Longsword grinned. "When it rains, it pours," he murmured.

"Don't be foolish, Will!" Delamere admonished sharply. "Haven't your romances caused enough trouble?"

"I was only having a joke with you, Richard," Longsword protested unconvincingly. "Of course I was referring to the weather."

Chapter 33

April, 1177

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

The storm blew itself out overnight. Eleanor was awakened by the sudden silence shortly before dawn. A greyish light filtered through the odd cracks in the shutters and picked out various pieces in Longsword's chamber: a table bearing cups, a flagon of wine and a dully gleaming sword; a pair of stools, one upended; strewn clothing; and the darkened end of the bed. She didn't turn her head to look at her companion but knew from his motionless body and even breathing that he was sleeping.

She was not, perhaps, as ashamed of what she had done as she ought to have been; this, in fact, surprised her. But she had done it for her daughter, for whom any sacrifice could be justified. During the past two days, she had never once reproached herself. It was a bargain she had made and she was merely keeping her end of it.

Longsword was kind. He had even sworn his love for her once or twice. She hoped he wasn't hurt by her lack of ardent response, although he never seemed to be. In the beginning she had been completely frozen, fearfully half-expecting tactics similar to Hugh's, but those fears hadn't been realized. He wasn't Hugh; wasn't at all like Hugh. She almost wished she could return his obvious regard for her but she couldn't. It was Bronwen whom she loved, so wholeheartedly that there wasn't room for anybody else.

She slid quietly from the bed, making a face when her bare feet hit the cool floor. Her clothing lay in a rumpled heap near the bed and she picked it up and took it into the antechamber, where she dressed quickly. She went back to the door to the bedroom and looked in on Longsword. He hadn't wakened. She thought it most likely that she would never be with him under such circumstances again. She felt a pang of guilt but squelched it. She had only done it to ensure her daughter's safety and Alan had promised her that Bronwen was now indeed safe.

It no longer mattered whether or not she had Longsword's protection. Hugh could do nothing to her. She had realized that night in the chapel he didn't even suspect that he might have a child. The knowledge had virtually erased her fear of him. Even if he made some protest to his host, revealed who she was, she wouldn't go with him. She knew Longsword wouldn't force her.

She went out of the keep through the cellars and emerged in the little alleyway between the kitchens and the keep. She paused for a moment to look at the sky. All traces of yesterday's storm had vanished. The sky was clear. Birds sang. The sun was creeping over the horizon. Eleanor breathed deeply, the first calm and untroubled breath she'd taken since the day she saw Hugh ride into Rhuddlan. She was resolved. If Hugh wanted an heir he would simply have to marry again. So what if the child were illegitimate in reality? No one would know it except for her, Hugh and Haworth.

She made a vow right then and there to say prayers every day for the child's soul and to expiate her part in the sham.

There was stirring at the stables. From a safe distance Eleanor could tell they were Hugh's men who milled near the entrance, dressed in full kit. She counted a dozen—surely that was almost half the number Hugh had brought with him. Where were they going so early in the day?

A familiar, hated voice drew her attention. Roger of Haworth was snapping orders to the stablemaster and the grooms. Perversely enough, the sight of him this morning cheered her already soaring mood. She was well aware that Haworth and her husband were inseparable. If Haworth was preparing for departure, could Hugh be far behind?

She watched the activity for several minutes and felt as though a heavy weight had been lifted from her back. She felt as if she had entered a contest of wits with her husband, with the highest stake possible at risk, and had won. She felt sure she would never set eyes on him again.

Shortly after noon, Alan d'Arques found her in the kitchen garden. "I knew you'd be here," he said cheerfully, blocking the sun so that his shadow fell across her kneeling form.

She straightened up at the sound of his voice and brushed the dirt from her knees. "I wanted to see if the storm had left us anything," she said, smiling at him. "Besides, I have to do something. I'm used to being very busy. Where were you all day?"

"The earl expressed an interest in the iron mines, so we took him down to have a look. He said he was considering a forge for Hawarden and if Lord William could provide him with an inexpensive, steady supply of ore he just might go ahead and do it. But I have to say, he didn't seem all that impressed by—" He broke off with a slight frown. "Are you all right, Eleanor?"

"The earl is still here? I thought he'd gone...I thought I saw his men making ready to leave early this morning..."

"Oh, that's true enough—he sent half of them back, he told us. And tomorrow, he and the remainder will leave. You should have seen Lord William's face beam and he was actually quite pleasant to the earl on the tour."

"Tomorrow?"

Alan nodded and grinned. "Tomorrow, Lady Eleanor."

"Thank God!" she said fervently. Less than a whole day, she told herself, trying to steady the fierce beating of her heart which had started the moment Alan had mentioned Hugh's name. "You don't know how much I long for tomorrow to be over...And once you've brought back Bronwen, I must somehow persuade Lord William to let us return to the abbey."

Alan snorted. "He's got more of a reason now to insist you stay." When he saw her dismayed expression, he explained. "While we were out today, the advance men ran into two Welshmen who were crossing Lord William's land. Not knowing who they were, they held onto them until we caught up. It turns out, Lady Eleanor, that the men were from Llanlleyn and they were on their way to Prince Dafydd to inform him that during yesterday's storm, their chief Maelgwn was killed when a large tree was uprooted by the wind and came crashing down on top of him!"

Eleanor's eyes widened. "Oh, no!" she breathed.

"The Welshmen want to ask the prince to release Rhirid so that he can take up his father's mantle. Apparently, some other relative has taken advantage of his absence and seized power."

Eleanor stared down at the garden. The heavy rain and strong wind had flattened new shoots and weathered plantings alike but the mild temperature and full sun of the morning had conspired to produce a miraculous recovery, and vegetation which had looked limp and lifeless at dawn was now glistening and healthy.

"Does Lord William think that if Rhirid ap Maelgwn returns, he will break the peace?" she asked calmly.

Alan shrugged. "He didn't say so, but it can't be far from his mind. After all, the man did try to kill him once before." He saw her disappointed expression but was largely unsympathetic. He wanted her to stay at Rhuddlan; he believed she belonged with her own people, despite the fact that the sisters at the abbey were Norman, and he wanted to be in a position to look after her. "Rhuddlan isn't so terrible, Eleanor, is it?"

"No, of course it isn't," she said, glancing up and giving him a quick smile that didn't quite reach to her eyes. Then, just as suddenly, the smile died. "Alan..."

"Well, d'Arques," a deep voice sounded behind the young knight, "It seems that to find the countess, all I must do is look for you."

Alan whirled around. "What do you want, Sir Roger?" he asked frostily.

Haworth considered Alan d'Arques with a smirk. "I have a message for the countess. Am I permitted to speak to her?"

"What is the message?" Eleanor asked calmly.

Haworth bowed shortly in her direction. "Madam, the earl wishes to have a word with you in his chamber."

She and Alan exchanged a glance. "Very well," she said, and added over the start of Alan's protest, "Tell him I'll be there presently."

She hadn't the slightest intention of doing so and Hugh must have anticipated such a response because Haworth said, "I'm instructed to escort you. Now, if you please."

Alan d'Arques stepped forward as if he would make an angry retort. Eleanor forestalled him by taking hold of his arm in a reassuring manner. "It's all right, Alan. I'll be fine," she whispered. She looked at Haworth and her demeanor became confident. He dared not lay a violent finger on her in broad daylight; that wasn't his cowardly style. And neither did the prospect of meeting face to face with Hugh frighten her: he could bluster all he wanted—he might even strike her—but he had no hold over her. "I'll come, Sir Roger. But I don't wish you to escort me. Walk behind or before me if you like but do not walk with me." She paused and then added in an unfavorable tone, "I thought I'd seen the last of you this morning..."

The chilling smile which spread slowly across Haworth's face nearly shook her resolve. "You ought to know better, my lady," he said, "than to suppose the earl would travel without me. No, this morning he merely sent me on a small errand."

Longsword had had the manor house built for Richard Delamere, insisting that it follow the form of a small Norman keep for safety's sake. It was made chiefly of stone. Half the first storey was dug into the ground and served as storerooms for surplus grains, dried fruits for the winter and smoked meats. An outside wooden stair led to the entrance to the top floor. There was a hearth at the near end, with a long table and benches set before it. The far end served as the sleeping quarters for Delamere, Olwen and their children, and was separated from the rest of the hall by a wooden screen.

Olwen sat on a bench at the table, nursing little Henry and humming. The late morning was peaceful and she was glad of the opportunity to relax. Her eldest son and Gwalaes' daughter played together on the grass before the stairway. Their voices were chatty but amiable. William was usually a handful but Bronwen was something new and wonderfully strange to him: a child like himself, a little older, a little taller and dressed more like his mother than his father, and he was plainly in awe of her. And if Bronwen weren't enough to keep him enthralled, she had a dog she called Kigva who didn't mind being chased around.

Olwen shifted Henry around to her other side, stoppering his mouth before he had the chance to complain, and then froze. She strained her ears. There it was again. The sound of horsemen coming into the yard and judging from the jingling of hardware, Norman horsemen.

Her heart began pounding wildly. Richard had never arrived with company; all she could imagine was that he'd been injured or worse and Longsword had sent men to inform her.

She pulled Henry away and put him in his basket on the table. Deprived of the remainder of his meal and his mother's comfortable embrace, he immediately started to howl. Olwen barely noticed. She straightened her clothing and went outside.

A dozen men waited in the yard, dressed head to toe in mail, their faces obscured by the flat metal guard projecting from their helmets and covering their noses. The two children were watching them with solemn interest and the servants had come from the back of the house to investigate this unexpected intrusion. Only Kigva was not awestruck. She barked and snarled, leaping forward and falling back with her hackles raised.

Roger of Haworth, astride his horse, frowned down at the animal. He fingered the pommel of his sword, tempted to shut the mutt up forever but Hugh had warned him not to abuse Delamere's whore or his property in any way.

Olwen went nervously down the steps. She tried to keep her voice calm and level over the dog's barking as she gave the men a cautious greeting.

Haworth glanced at her without interest. Only one of the two children on the grass was a girl and she looked to be the correct age. He'd come for her, not to pass idle time with some woman. But he remembered Hugh's instructions and inclined his head a fraction.

"Good day, mistress," he said. "We're here at the behest of the earl of Chester. You have something that belongs to him..."

"The earl of Chester?" she repeated. Her tone became more hopeful. "Then you're not from Rhuddlan?"

"We're guests at Rhuddlan," he answered impatiently. "We've come for that child." He pointed at Bronwen.

Bronwen didn't know what the silver-shrouded man was saying but she didn't like his harsh voice or the way he sat on his horse and stuck his finger at her. She moved closer to Olwen, who crossed her arms over the little girl protectively.

"I don't understand—" Olwen started.

"There's nothing for you to understand, mistress!" Haworth interrupted sharply. "The girl is the earl of Chester's daughter and he wants her. With as little trouble as possible," he added, glaring.

"You've made a mistake—"

"There's no mistake!" Haworth's horse, perhaps sensing its master's annoyance or perhaps frightened by the snarling Kigva, stepped nervously and threatened to rear up. With a savage jerk, Haworth brought the animal under control. "I don't want to be unpleasant," he told Olwen. "Hand over the child."

"I'm sorry you came so far for no reason—" But she got no further. With a noise of exasperation, Haworth signaled to one of his men who dismounted and seized Bronwen by an arm. The girl screamed and began wailing. Olwen tried desperately to hold onto her but the knight was much stronger and she feared he would rip Bronwen's arm from her body. She was forced to let her go. She protested vehemently, running after the man as he carried Bronwen, writhing and shrieking, to a comrade and handed her up. Olwen reached out and touched the knight's shoulder. He whirled around immediately and pushed her away with such force that she stumbled backwards and fell. Her women rushed forward to help her to her feet. Haworth watched the proceedings with a grim expression.

"You've no right to do this!" Olwen shouted at him. "You've no right to trespass and kidnap!"

"Mistress, a father has the right to his own child!"

They were off at a gallop. Olwen ran after them, crying out to Bronwen, trying to reassure her, until she was out of breath and unable to go further. Kigva chased onward. Everyone could hear Bronwen's pitiful cries and calls for help rise...and then fade away.

"Admit it, Will—the idea excites you."

"I refuse to say anything other than we can only wait and see."

"I don't think we should. Now's your chance for an easy revenge. Let's strike while Llanlleyn's in disarray."

Longsword was reluctant. "We don't know when Rhirid will return."

"The peace was made with his father," Delamere said strongly, "and his father is now dead. What are you waiting for, Will? Do you have any doubt that one of the first things Rhirid will do as chief is come against you?"

Longsword's voice was almost indistinct. "Perhaps he will uphold the peace."

It was as if he were trying to convince himself, Delamere thought angrily. He'd spent most of the afternoon trying to persuade Longsword to take advantage of Maelgwn ap Madog's death. He'd tried cajoling; he'd tried reasoning. The only thing he hadn't tried was shaming his friend—demanding to know how much longer Rhuddlan was going to abide by the hysterical impulses of its master's lover. And he knew he wouldn't; it would be crossing a line that would cost him the best friend he'd ever had.

Before he could speak again, a knock sounded on the council room door. Longsword looked up gratefully. "Come in!" he said.

Alan d'Arques stepped into the chamber, his face nervous and apprehensive. "My lord, he's summoned Lady Eleanor! Sir Roger came to take her up to him. My lord, I don't know what he means to do to her but it must be ill—"

"Hold on! Hold on!" Longsword interrupted, frowning with irritation. "Who are you talking about? Who's Lady Eleanor?"

Delamere moved to his side. "I think Alan means Gwalaes, my lord."

"Yes, of course—Gwalaes!" The young knight struggled to catch his breath. "The earl of Chester has called for her!"

Longsword sprang quickly to his feet. "Damn that man! He couldn't just leave it alone, could he?"

"Will! Where are you going?" Delamere said as Longsword reached the door.

Longsword paused and turned around. His hand dropped to his sword and he said tersely, "To Chester! He's either going to give me a satisfactory explanation for his obsession with Gwalaes or I'm going to kill him!"

Before Delamere could protest, he was halfway across the hall. There was nothing other to do than hurry after him.

Longsword reached the earl's chamber quickly. He contemplated the closed door before him. Should he knock? Barge in? What if Chester had barred it—he would look a fool trying to force his way in, only to meet the resistance of solid wood.

Delamere came up behind him. "Will, I'm not sure this is a good idea—"

"Then turn back!" Longsword snapped.

"Let me go first," Delamere urged, raising his hand to knock.

Longsword thought, what the hell. He lifted the latch and threw open the door. It flew backwards.

Two of the three occupants of the antechamber turned to see the cause of the intrusion. His eyes went first to Gwalaes; she alone hadn't looked up—her head was bent towards the floor, her whole body seemed rigid and unconscious of his entrance. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Haworth standing partly in the shadow to his left. And then he turned his head towards the earl.

Chester's gaze was on him. He was staring at Longsword with undisguised hatred, through narrowed eyes and clamped lips. For a brief moment the younger man was startled; although he assumed Chester hated him for the humiliation at Dol and because he was the king's son, the face Chester had always presented to him had been neutral or faintly mocking. But now the man was making no attempt to play either social niceties or politics and once his moment of distraction had passed, Longsword found himself grimly happy because it meant that he, too, could stop the pretense.

"What's going on?" he demanded.

"Do you make a habit of bursting in on your guests, Lord William?" the earl asked testily.

"Only when they seize my people! What do you want with this woman?"

"This woman happens to be known to me, Lord William. I told you yesterday she looked familiar. She's from Chester."

Gwalaes hadn't moved a muscle. Longsword looked at her again, and this time noticed that her face was very pale and her breathing rapid.

He turned on the earl in fury. "What have you done to her?"

"I don't have to answer to you, Lord William, in this matter!" Chester retorted in a low, clipped voice. "I don't even know how you have the nerve to confront me!"

Longsword's hand fell onto the butt of his sword. Delamere saw it and moved closer to his side. Haworth pulled his sword from his belt and took a few steps in Longsword's direction. Longsword ignored both of them. "I've been patient with you long enough, Chester! I didn't invite you to Rhuddlan and I don't give a damn if I offend you! This is my fortress and whatever goes on within it is my business!"

The earl was still. His expressionless eyes were fixed on Longsword's angry face. "It's obvious you don't mind offending me, Lord William, and I won't mention your little discourtesies," he said coldly. "However, I draw the line at your...relationship ...with my wife."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"You can stop your game now, Lord William! I know what's been going on! I could kill you where you stand and not even the king would blame me!"

Longsword had no idea what the earl meant but he certainly recognized a threat when he heard it. He drew his sword and held it up. "I answer your challenge, Chester!"

Haworth immediately placed himself between his master and the younger man, his own sword twitching in his hand.

"My lord," Delamere said urgently, "I swear to you, Lord William knows nothing about this matter!"

"Am I to believe you, Sir Richard?" the earl said scathingly. "You aren't blameless in this."

"You can believe me, my lord. I told you once before that Lord William doesn't know who I am."

The voice was just loud enough to cut through the noise of the arguing men. All eyes turned its source. To Longsword, Gwalaes looked unnaturally fragile, as though she might suddenly break into a thousand pieces and crumble to the floor. He could see her whole body trembling beneath a white and frightened face. Without thinking, he took a step in her direction.

Chester was quicker. He strode up to Gwalaes, seized her arm and pushed her towards Longsword without releasing his grip. "Then let me enlighten him. This woman whom you call Gwalaes is my wife, Lord William!"

Longsword was dumbfounded. The point of his sword dipped slowly downward. "Gwalaes is your wife?"

"Her proper name is Eleanor Bolsover."

The name barely registered. Instead he looked from one face to another to another, all the time thinking wildly that there had to be some mistake—that the great earl of Chester couldn't possibly be married to a Welshwoman—that if Gwalaes were his wife as he claimed, why was she living at an abbey—that it was surely a hoax perpetrated by the earl as revenge for Dol—

"Will, are you all right?"

Delamere's voice sounded distant. Longsword swallowed hard and abruptly forced himself to speak.

"I don't believe you, Chester. What do you want with a wife?"

With an outraged oath, Haworth swung his sword up. "My lord, allow me to deal with this insolent boy! With this ignorant bastard son of the devil!"

"That isn't necessary, Roger," the earl said in a tight, controlled voice. "You've already provided the answer. I need a wife, Lord William, so that I may have legitimate heirs." And then a thin, mocking smile suddenly creased his lips. "But since you appear to be so genuinely fond of her, you may keep Eleanor—if she will stay with you..."

Longsword immediately forgot Chester's insult. He turned eager, confident eyes on Gwalaes who, if it were possible, seemed to grow paler and more unsteady. She opened her mouth as though to speak and then, to the surprise of all four men, shielded her eyes with a hand and fled the chamber.

Longsword chased after her. He called out her name when she reached the spiraling stair at the end of the corridor but she never hesitated before plunging down. She was running so quickly that he was afraid she would fall and tumble to the bottom with a fatal result. But her footsteps were sure and it was only with reckless abandon on his own part that he was finally able to overtake her in the shadows of the pantries. He reached out for her arm, the same one that the earl had grabbed to thrust her forward in his chamber, and she recoiled so violently that he realized she'd had no idea he was following her. She backed up hard against the stone wall and was trapped by his body before her. She looked on him with an expression that was a little relieved but mostly nervous; she said, "Please..." in a soft, desperate, pleading voice as if she wanted him to get out of her way so she could resume her flight.

He didn't move. He spoke quietly but imploringly. "I swore I would protect you, Gwalaes, and I meant it. I don't know what's going on; I don't know what Chester was talking about up there. I just want you to stay with me." She didn't respond; she wouldn't even look at him. He rushed on. "Please, Gwalaes. It's more than just the gratitude of the man whose life you saved. Chester is right—I am genuinely fond of you. I love you! Please stay with me."

"I can't..." she whispered.

"Why not? That story he was telling—is it true? Are you truly the countess of Chester?"

She nodded wearily. "I am, but it's not by choice and I wouldn't care if I never saw Chester castle again."

"Then stay," he urged. "We can petition the Church for an annulment of your marriage—and mine, for that matter. We can be married, Gwalaes. Just stay here."

"I can't, Lord William."

He was confused. "I don't understand. He said you could—"

"He said it because he knows it's impossible, Lord William!" she said angrily, as if she were frustrated with his ignorance. "He's taken my daughter!"

"Bronwen? But why?"

"Because as it stands now, Lord William, Bronwen is his only heir." To his look of bewilderment, she added impatiently, "She's his daughter, too! Oh, yes, he's very generous. I can stay behind at Rhuddlan and go on as before, or I can go to Hawarden with him and see my daughter again!"

Longsword was silent, considering the implications of Chester's offer.

"Bronwen means everything to me, Lord William," she continued less stridently. "Surely you can understand that. I've seen how eager you are for Gladys' baby to arrive."

"But the earl is the richest man in the empire," Longsword said. "He can give Bronwen anything she wants."

"She's been happy this long without him. She has no need of him or his wealth."

"But she's his heir, Gwalaes! Heir to Chester! Do you know everything that means? A patrimony stretching back more than one hundred years! The right to a marriage second only to that of one of the king's daughters! Do you really want to deny Bronwen her heritage? Her fortune?"

She said quietly, "I had the same once, Lord William. A title and wealth. I discovered they mean nothing compared with happiness."

"Don't be a fool, Gwalaes!" he answered angrily. "They mean everything. Take it from someone who's been denied them all his life and is no happier for it!"

She stared at him. "Bronwen is my daughter."

"Yours in flesh, Gwalaes, but not in law," he said.

Wordlessly, she maneuvered around him. She walked away with a quick step. He called after her desperately but she didn't stop. He started after her.

"Will!"

Delamere's urgent voice checked him. He turned around and waited wordlessly as the other man descended the last several steps.

"Are you all right?"

"You knew," he said flatly.

Delamere nodded slowly. "Yes."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I only found out yesterday, Will. I'm sorry."

Longsword felt a surge of anger. "For what? For not telling me? For making me look like a fool before Chester? Everyone in that room knew the truth except me!"

"You didn't look like a fool, Will—"

"I imagine Haworth and Chester are having a good laugh over it right now," Longsword said, snorting. "It'll make a great story at Hawarden."

"The earl isn't going to say anything, Will. You slept with his wife. You've humiliated him. Believe me, it's in his own interest to keep quiet about the whole thing..."

But Longsword wasn't in a mood to be mollified. He knew his conversation with Gwalaes had gone terribly wrong—he knew he had said things she didn't want to hear—and he was angry. "How did you find it out?"

"It doesn't matter, Will. It's all over."

"I want to know!"

Delamere said firmly, "I can't tell you."

Longsword stared at him, outraged. He could feel his throat tighten; his fists clenched impotently. "You've never approved of Gwalaes, have you?" he demanded. "You blame her for the peace with Llanlleyn."

"Shouldn't I?"

"No! That was my decision, Richard, and no one else's!"

"Do you really expect me to believe that, Will? I know you!"

There was a brief silence. Then Longsword said stiffly, "I've always held you closer than my own brothers, Richard. I never thought there would come a time when you would begrudge me a little happiness."

Delamere's face was taut and his jaw was set. He moved as close to Longsword as he could get without stepping on his feet. "You've got a lot in your life to make you happy, William," he hissed, "but you're too self-pitying to see any of it. Let me tell you that you'd better start appreciating what you have before it slips through your fingers and leaves you clutching—too late—at nothing!"

He turned on his heel and stalked off in the direction of the stairway. Longsword watched him disappear up the steps; as usual, slightly daunted by his vehemence. But it was only a momentary diversion; he quickly remembered his need to find Gwalaes and convince her, somehow, to stay.

The sight which greeted him when he entered the hall, however, stopped him in his tracks. There was Gwalaes—and standing by her side, his arm tight around her shoulders, was Alan d'Arques.

Alan urged Eleanor outside, away from curious eyes. She was shaking so violently that he couldn't understand the words coming from her mouth. They made their way to the quiet confines of the kitchen garden and by then Eleanor had calmed down enough to speak coherently. Her worst nightmare had come true, she told him in a trembling voice; the earl had found out the truth about Bronwen. He had snatched her away from Richard Delamere's manor and only God knew where the child was now. Her only hope of seeing Bronwen again was to leave with Chester in the morning...

Her face was pale and distraught. Alan said gently, "Perhaps it's for the best, Eleanor."

"To go back to him? How can you say that, Alan?"

"Because you're a countess. You ought to be living in a great castle, Eleanor, not a rustic abbey and Bronwen ought to be growing up with all proper honors, not running around with barefoot children."

"He hasn't got a castle anymore," she said bitterly.

"I've heard his men say Hawarden is quite remarkable."

She wiped her eyes. "I can't believe you would take his side, Alan..."

"I'm only thinking of what's best for you and Bronwen," he insisted, feeling vaguely frustrated by her refusal to see sense. "The earl is still a powerful presence in the empire despite his treacherous action during the war. And who knows what will happen with Chester Castle in the future. Henry can't live forever and the earl was one of the Young King's primary allies. You might well find yourself back behind those walls, Eleanor. And you're young yet—you'll have more children—God willing, one or two a boy."

She shuddered. He started to speak again but saw that she was suddenly preoccupied with the neckline of her rough gown. Her fingers fumbled until they managed to extricate something which she presented to him. "Do you recognize this?" she asked.

He held out his hand and she placed the object on his palm. He stared down in confusion at the twisted weaving of wire he had called a brooch when he'd given it to Gwalaes. "Of course I do," he answered. He looked up at her. "Didn't Gwalaes want it any longer?"

"It was her most prized possession, Alan. Poor Sir Roger, he was unlucky the night he murdered her! It dropped from her body as he carried her through the postern gate at Chester." She was impatient with his lack of reaction. "I lied to you when I told you Gwalaes returned to Oakby, Alan. There wasn't anything you could do, so I thought I would spare you the truth. But the truth is my husband—the very man with whom you think I should once again share a bed—had Sir Roger kill Gwalaes because she was my friend. He never had much use for me and after my brother died, he began to hate me. He took away everything that was precious to me and that included Gwalaes. Now can you understand why I left, Alan? Why I wanted to flee when I saw him enter Rhuddlan two days ago?" Her voice broke and tears welled in her eyes. "Why I'm so frightened for Bronwen?"

"Lady Eleanor, why didn't you tell me this when the earl arrived?"

"I'm sorry, Alan; I had to protect Bronwen."

"But Lord William was just looking for an excuse to refuse Chester entrance!"

"I'm sorry," she repeated. She dabbed at her eyes with the wrist of her gown, confused by his sudden anger. "I thought I was doing the right thing, Alan."

He was chastened by her obvious agitation. "Oh, don't mind me, Lady Eleanor," he said. He rubbed his face tiredly and stared down at the brooch in his hand. Gwalaes' most prized possession...and he had barely given her a passing thought since the day he'd left Robert Bolsover's service.

Once again there was pounding on his door, only this time he wasn't dreaming about holding Gwalaes and crossing swords with the earl of Chester—he had stayed up nearly all night trying to dissolve the hard lump in his stomach with wine, ale, small beer and even the foul-tasting mead the servants always insisted on placing before him at the board and which he'd never before ventured to drink—anything. But none of it had worked and finally, he'd simply passed out on his bed.

The pounding woke him from a deep sleep. He opened one bleary eye. The chamber was still dark; he hadn't overslept. So why was that idiot thumping at the door?

"Come in!" he shouted angrily, raising himself to a sitting position in the bed. Or rather, on the bed. He looked around. Apparently he had just stripped himself and collapsed onto the linens.

"My lord!" Ralph de Vire stuck his head inside the room. "Sir Richard asks if you can come quickly to the stables! There's a fight! One of ours and one of the earl's men!"

Richard had marvelled once that he could drink all he wanted and never suffer for it in the morning but it was the truth. He was dressed and hurrying through the keep in less time than it would have taken another man in a similar condition to merely roll out of the bed.

In the relative stillness of the early morning, he could hear the clash of swords while he was still a good distance from the stables. "Strange place for a sword fight," he growled over his shoulder at de Vire, who was struggling to keep up with him.

"The earl's men were readying their horses for departure, my lord; that's why everyone's at the stables," he panted.

"Is Chester there?"

"He ought to be by now, my lord. Sir Richard sent to him, as well."

They rounded the corner of the stable block. The noise of the fight grew louder. Longsword saw the earl in front of him, standing with his arms crossed over his chest, several of his men surrounding him.

Delamere was standing four or five yards away from the earl, with other Rhuddlan knights. Longsword's heart jumped when he saw that Delamere was holding Gwalaes by the arm—and then it wouldn't stop pounding. He almost didn't want to—he was afraid if he took his eyes from Gwalaes, she would disappear—but he glanced at the two combatants circling each other in a small, cleared area. One was Roger of Haworth.

The other was Alan d'Arques.

Longsword promptly forgot that Gwalaes was close by. When he saw Alan, all his small jealousies came rushing in on him. All he could imagine was that Haworth had made some offensive comment about Gwalaes and Alan, her lover, had jumped to defend her honor. The sight of Alan duelling with Haworth enraged him far more than had any of the occasions on which he'd seen Alan and Gwalaes engaged in conversation. All he could think was that perhaps he ought to be doing what Alan was doing.

"Lord William!" Gwalaes' desperate voice called out to him and he was brought back to reality. "Lord William, please do something! Please stop this fighting!"

He looked at her; she was straining against Delamere's grasp. He missed Alan's sudden leap towards Haworth, the downward slash of his sword and Haworth's effortless block. He heard the clang of metal and Gwalaes' scream. In that instant, she managed to extricate herself from Delamere's hold. She rushed to Longsword and threw herself at his feet, and pleaded with him again to stop the fight.

Chester loomed behind her. "Get up, Eleanor!" he said angrily. "You're making a fool of yourself!" He glanced at Longsword. "There's no reason to call a halt to it. It was d'Arques who issued the challenge. Sir Roger is only defending his name."

"Lord William, please! Sir Roger will murder Alan!"

As if he hadn't thought of that probability the moment he'd seen who was fighting.

Delamere came up and raised Gwalaes to her feet. She never took her eyes off Longsword but she had fallen silent. She looked at him with an uncomprehending expression, as if she couldn't understand his lack of reaction. He didn't quite understand it himself. He didn't trust himself to speak.

Then came a series of noisy clashes. Gwalaes shrieked again and lurched in the direction of the fight. Delamere barely managed to hold her back. Irritated, he snapped at the earl for God's sake, remove the countess from the site because the commotion was distracting Alan d'Arques.

Chester smirked. Everyone present knew the outcome was a foregone conclusion, whether or not the countess remained. "But I suppose she must collect her belongings because, of course, we'll be leaving right after sunrise."

He signalled two of his men forward. They seized the young woman by either arm and pulled her away. Her pleas and cries echoed in Longsword's head long after she disappeared from sight.

Now the men focused their attention on the fight. Only a few ventured to make a wager, mostly encouraged by the fact that Alan was younger than his opponent who, at this point, merely appeared to be defending himself from his provocations.

Still, it was a very able defense. The younger knight lunged, but Haworth easily pushed his sword aside. Alan twisted around and took a swipe at his opponent's upper body, was blocked, ducked low and tried to jab up at Haworth's abdomen and was rebuffed again.

Hugh said to Delamere and Longsword, "He's waiting. Can't you see how much more work your man is doing than mine? Young or no, d'Arques can't keep up this pace forever. He'll get tired. And then Roger'll finish him."

Alan's anger cleared under the force of the exercise. He wondered at Haworth's unwillingness to attack and came to the conclusion that his opponent was old and no longer possessed the edge which came from living under hostile circumstances. The thought buoyed him. He had tossed and turned all night, imagining every instant of this duel but when the other man had actually pulled out his sword, he'd had a moment of sober hesitation. Now the doubts disappeared. To his mind, he was getting the better of a well-regarded knight. He became cocky and more showy, lunging and twisting, dancing circles around Haworth until he found himself heaving for breath.

He failed to notice that Haworth had suddenly become very adept. He slashed with his sword at Haworth's side one last time; Haworth stepped back and as Alan's momentum kept him going forward, Haworth kicked him in the ribs with such force that the young man fell onto his hands and knees. He never saw Haworth raise his sword, and the pain which suddenly seared through his neck was mercifully short-lived.

Richard Delamere rode at a fast clip to his manor. He felt a pressing urgency to see his home and his family and make certain everything had been left intact. The earl had coldly assured him that Haworth hadn't touched a hair on the head of anyone at the manor—had even smirked and told him that women and little boys were not to his captain's taste—but Delamere wouldn't believe it until he saw it for himself.

He reached the manor at midday, halting in the front yard and looked around with a sharp eye. He noticed nothing unusual or disturbed. Perversely, the peace angered him. He dismounted and tied the reins to a rail on the wooden stairs leading to the entrance of the house. A movement caught his eye. Olwen was standing at the top, smiling as if nothing had happened. Had she simply handed the child to Haworth? He looked away.

Her first impulse had been to rush down the stairs and jump into his arms but the angry expression on his face killed her joy. She stepped slowly down to the ground and waited for him to speak.

They stared at each other for a brief moment. Delamere wondered why she didn't greet him with a hug and kiss as she always had before. "Where are the boys?" he asked gruffly.

That wasn't what she wanted to hear. "They're inside. Until you came, I didn't want to let them out."

"They're unharmed?" She nodded and could see his relief. "And you?"

"I'm all right, Richard."

He looked around the yard again and to the shed to the side. "Everything seems to be fine."

"Yes, it is. They were quick."

"How many were they?"

"I don't know. I didn't have the chance to count. But they were many." She searched his face for sympathy as she spoke but didn't see any. He was fooled by the peace. "What did it all mean?"

"It's an unbelievable story. Bronwen is the daughter of the earl of Chester, although neither one of them knew it until yesterday." A flash of impatience crossed his face and he ran a hand through his hair tiredly. "I'll explain it to you later."

"The poor child screamed as they took her away. I can hear her still in my dreams..."

"There was nothing you could do to hide her?" he asked. "Couldn't you have told them she was your daughter?"

Olwen was stung by his implication that what had happened was her fault. "No, I told you they were quick. But they had to rip her from my arms, Richard!"

"All right—I didn't mean—" He gave up with a sigh. "Never mind, it's been a hell of a morning," he said, thinking of Longsword's stoic silence and Alan's death. "I'm hungry. I left Rhuddlan without breakfast."

She told him to go up into the house and she would bring him food. But she was outraged further. Did he imagine that the ordeal hadn't been the least bit horrifying for her?

Delamere ate in thoughtful silence, oblivious to the chattering voices of his children and the low whispers of Olwen and her servants. He was suddenly concerned with his manor's relative lack of security. He didn't care about his livestock or the small garden but he'd been unnerved to learn how easily Haworth and the earl's men had been able to accomplish their task. Several male laborers and a handful of female servants were no match for trained, armed men. A few stout dogs and men-at-arms were needed.

Thinking of the dogs reminded him of the gruesome sight he'd come across on his way home. It had been a dark shape laying motionless on the path. Dismounting, he'd discovered that it was the body of Bronwen's dog, Kigva. The animal had been pinned to the ground with a javelin and had evidently been the feast of the previous night for the nocturnal creatures of the forest. He'd pulled out the javelin, broken it across his knee and thrown the pieces into the woods and then picked the remains of the body up by the tail and heaved them out of sight.

Olwen fumed steadily as the day wore on. Richard hadn't even paid much attention to the children and finally she had put them into the big bed behind the partition at the end of the hall, the eldest by the wall and the baby next to him. When he went out to settle his horse for the night, she quickly undressed and slipped into the bed, curling up on her side facing the baby. She had never thought him capable of such callousness. She told herself she hated him, and when he came to bed and put an arm over her waist and his lips close to her neck, she pretended she was already sleeping.

Chapter 34

April, 1177

Hawarden Castle, Gwynedd

He'd had more than usual to drink that night but instead of feeding his rage, it had merely made him tired. He'd gone outside to clear his head with a walk down to the bailey and back but it hadn't helped. Haworth, who accompanied him, was strangely garrulous but Hugh had often noticed that brisk activity seemed to invigorate some men while in his case it only slowed him; anyway, he supposed Haworth had done enough in the last week to invigorate himself: stealing away a child, killing Alan d'Arques and making a quick return to Hawarden.

It was Haworth who had encouraged him, earlier in the day, to confront Eleanor and punish her for running off and causing so much trouble all those years ago. Since their return, she had been confined to two rooms at the very top of the castle tower with only one woman to serve her. She had been silent and expressionless during the journey but the instant the horses had ridden through the gate, she had demanded in a cold, sharp voice to see her daughter. When her request was curtly refused, she would not dismount and had to be pulled protesting and struggling from the horse she shared with one of Hugh's knights, and then half-dragged and half-carried into the keep and up to her prison. Hugh had been startled; he couldn't remember such aggressive behavior from her during their marriage and it had taken a little off the edge of his anger.

Haworth had fixed a guard at her door, which was proved warranted the very first time the servant had entered it with a tray. Eleanor had practically knocked the woman over in her zeal to escape and the guard had had to wrestle her back inside. After that there had been no more trays, no more food or drink or someone to cart away the waste bucket. For more than a day she could be heard even in the farthest reaches of the castle, screaming for Hugh, screaming to be released, screaming for her daughter...until at last, she had fallen eerily quiet and everyone had wondered if she'd died.

"Save us all a lot of trouble if she is dead," Haworth had declared. "Would you like me to go and see?"

"No, no," Hugh shook his head. "I can't deny myself the pleasure."

But inside himself he wasn't so confident. Although he knew he was in the right, Eleanor's bizarre behavior made him imagine that she'd lost her wits while in the Bastard's keeping and there wasn't a man alive who could predict how an insane woman would react to the slightest provocation.

"Though you need an heir," Haworth continued thoughtfully. "A daughter isn't much use; she can't be earl. You need a son, and then you can be rid of the Bolsovers forever."

That was when Hugh decided he needed a bit of fresh air. He didn't like to hear Haworth speak disparagingly of Robert Bolsover, even indirectly. Despite the passage of five years, the affair still rankled on Haworth and he was becoming increasingly vocal about it.

To his dismay, Haworth had insisted on accompanying him outside. The man was displaying a new confidence that was beginning to grate on Hugh's nerves, which was odd considering Haworth's former subservience had also irritated him. Of course, if anyone had a right to a sudden infusion of confidence in his own ability, it was Roger of Haworth; indeed, if it hadn't been for Haworth's keen eye, Hugh would have eventually remarried and unknowingly produced a bastard. He supposed he ought to feel grateful to Haworth but he didn't. He felt strangely dismayed that the past had been stirred up and cast into his face again just when he'd finally managed to put it all behind himself.

Or perhaps he was starting to tire of his lover.

He turned abruptly and went back into the keep. He called for Eleanor to be brought to him. "I think, Roger," he said carefully, "I will see her privately."

Haworth looked injured. "My lord, I can help—"

"Yes, I know, Roger, but I—" he thought quickly, "—I can't expect you to do everything for me, can I? You've done too much already these past few years. And—" he continued as Haworth started to protest, "—I remember what you said about needing an heir..."

The other man nodded immediately and Hugh sensed his relief that there was no slight intended against him.

He was sitting alone when Eleanor was brought in. She stood where she was placed, in the middle of the small chamber, in front of his chair. She wore the same clothes in which she'd arrived; probably, he thought, wrinkling his nose, the same clothes she'd had on the day she landed at Rhuddlan. Her long hair hung lank and unbound down her back, her face was white and gaunt with dark shadows below her eyes and her lips were pressed shut in a thin line. Her eyes betrayed the only spark of life in her: they stared at him with unblinking, burning hatred and for the first time in their relationship, he was actually a little bit afraid of her.

"If you swear to me that you won't attempt another escape, I will be more than happy to restore your servant to you," he said loudly, to cover his sudden discomfort.

She didn't answer. But her eyes never left his face.

"Did you hear what I said? You must be starving by now. I can have food sent up to you as soon as you leave me if you give me your word you won't try to escape. Otherwise—" he shrugged.

Still she said nothing. He frowned, discomfort changing into irritation.

"Well? If you're trying to play games with me, Eleanor, be assured that I will always win—"

"I believe you already have, my lord," she interrupted in a sharp voice.

"What do you mean?"

"You haven't any intention of permitting me to see my daughter, have you? You never had, even back at Rhuddlan." Her lips twisted wryly. "I should have guessed, of course, but I was in such a panic..."

He smiled slowly then, feeling the uncertainty ebb away and the current of power flow towards him. "No, my lady, you're correct. You will not see the girl." He stood up abruptly. She took an involuntary step backwards and he smiled again. He moved past her to a table and poured out a cup of wine. "Did the Bastard treat you well? He looks even more miserable than I remember at Dol. There's a man who will never be content. The only flash of agreeableness he showed was when he spoke about you. How you saved his life. Did you see him? He had his sword out. He was ready to kill me just to keep you." Hugh lifted the cup to his lips and swallowed. He didn't know why he was drinking; he didn't feel like drinking and the wine was beginning to turn in his stomach. He lowered the cup and set it down hard on the table. "Do you miss him?"

"I don't care about him," she answered. "What have you done with my daughter?"

"Your daughter! It's always your daughter! She's mine as well, isn't she? She's my heir!"

"She's your daughter only in blood," Eleanor snapped angrily. "A mere twist of fate! I'm the one who has provided her shelter and food. I'm the one who has raised her—"

"You never gave me the chance, did you? You contrived your death and disappeared—"

"I saved you the trouble of it."

He paused, narrowing his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"I know you and your animal murdered Gwalaes, my lord. I suspected I was next."

"You're more clever than I thought," he said.

"Circumstance made me so," she retorted.

They stared at each other for a moment, not moving a muscle. Hugh was astonished at the transformation four years had wrought on her character. Not once in all their time at Chester had Eleanor displayed the slightest inclination towards assertiveness and now she was having an argument with him. Had the Bastard done this? It was a more fitting revenge than Longsword could ever know because Hugh's ardor for Eleanor was only ignited by seeing her terrified submission.

She broke the silence, startling him from his thoughts. "Will you at least tell me how she is?" she asked calmly.

He shook his head. "I can't. I don't know how she is. But I'm certain my mother will send a messenger here soon enough..."

Eleanor seemed to turn even paler. "Where is she?"

"The men who rode with Roger to fetch her have taken her to Stroud. My mother lives there. I think she'll be pleased to have her granddaughter with her." He gave a little laugh. "Especially if the girl's as quiet as Roger said she was. Solemn. Once she'd stopped screaming, after they'd got her away from that wretched manor, he said she never uttered another sound. Didn't even cry."

"You never even saw her, did you?" she said slowly. "You're truly despicable, my lord! Your own flesh and blood—haven't you the slightest curiosity about her?"

He looked uncomfortable. "There was no time..."

He turned away, pretending to seek out his wine cup, but he could feel her eyes boring into the back of his head. It had all gone wrong, he thought; this interview was supposed to have been his triumph, not hers. It was supposed to have ended with her tears, her pleas for his mercy...perhaps her rape.

"My only consolation," she said in a level voice, "is that Bronwen was spared the sight of the monster who fathered her."

When he woke up the next day, his head was pounding. The chamber was in semi-darkness but he could see the shape of a man sitting on the end of his bed. "Roger? Is that you?" he asked groggily.

Haworth finished lacing his last boot. He stood up and walked towards Hugh. "You slept like the dead, my lord," he whispered in deference to the morning hush. "I came up last night but you never stirred. How did it go with Lady Eleanor?"

Hugh closed his eyes again and leaned back into his pillow. He was too ashamed to admit the truth. "Well enough, I suppose. She's changed, Roger...Do you know, if I didn't know the look of her, I would say this is not the same person. This one is...harder. She called me a monster for not having seen my daughter."

"I hope you put her in her place, my lord!" Haworth said, bristling.

"Of course," Hugh lied. He was silent as he remembered the conversation with Eleanor. He opened his eyes and pushed himself into a sitting position. "Anyway, I came to a decision last night. Gruffudd ap Madog's been quiet for a few weeks. I believe we made our point. He knows now that if he invades my land, he has to face not only my knights but the prince's soldiers as well and he'll think twice before he does it again. I'm going to send Dafydd's men home."

Haworth looked confused by the abrupt change of subject but his expression cleared quickly. "My lord, no! What about your plan for Powys? You said we would wait long enough to persuade Gruffudd we weren't pressing our advantage and then we'd launch our own invasion! We can't do it without the extra manpower!"

"That plan will have to wait," Hugh said.

Haworth's voice was outraged. "Why?"

"Because I have a more pressing concern, Roger! I told you at Rhuddlan that if the Bastard had anything to do with keeping my wife from me, I would have revenge and so I will. But obviously I can't act overtly; I don't think Henry would understand, do you? However, the man who shot the Bastard—what's his name?"

"Rhirid ap Maelgwn," Haworth answered unhappily.

Hugh nodded. "That's him. I know he's got his own grievance against the Bastard. With a little encouragement, I think he can be convinced to go after him again. And with my money and weapons, perhaps this time he'll do a better job." Despite the murky light, he could see Haworth's frown. "What's wrong?" he asked impatiently.

"But you've got Lady Eleanor back! It was revenge enough against the Bastard—he was begging her to stay! He was prepared to fight you for her! You've had revenge, my lord; let's turn our attention south now. With the prince's men we'll have less trouble penetrating Gruffudd's defenses. We can't do it alone..."

Hugh shoved back the sheets and got out of bed with an angry oath. "I don't understand you, Roger! I thought you hated the Bastard as much as I do! I thought you hated the presence of so many Welsh soldiers at Hawarden! Suddenly, you want to forget the insult the Bastard has done me—not only here but at Dol, I may remind you!—and you want the Welsh to stay even longer!"

"Everything you say is true, my lord. But we shouldn't pass up the opportunity to increase your holdings just because of this feud with Longsword. Who knows when we'll have another chance at it!"

Hugh was furious. What was happening? Haworth was disagreeing with him? Giving him advice? The man stood there, only a pace or two away from his face, staring calmly into his eyes, infuriatingly composed but for his strong, urgent tone. Hugh felt his self-control start to slip as his anger rose to the surface. He was used to being obeyed without question, particularly by Haworth, and although one small rational part of his mind was telling him that to take his man's advice would be the only way to finally escape the past he'd felt creeping up on him again, it could not hold out against the stubborn remainder which was telling him that he was lord and master.

But he never had to speak. Roger of Haworth knew the earl too well. His new confidence faltered. "Of course I'll do whatever you command, my lord," he said in a low voice.

Hugh stared at him a moment longer. He nodded slowly. "Good," he answered shortly. "Because I've made up my mind to have the Bastard's head on a platter, Roger, and I will get it with you or without you."

Chapter 35

May, 1177

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd, Wales

The mood in the castle was tense and uneasy. The departure of the healer, rumored to have actually been a Norman noblewoman, had affected the lord to a troubling degree and no one knew what to do about it. Longsword brooded constantly, rarely spoke and flew off the handle at the slightest incident. The servants worked in silence, his men avoided him and even Teleri remained shut in her chambers, apparently unwilling to cross his path lest she finally lose one of their battles.

Everyone breathed easier when Richard Delamere returned from his manor. It was the general consensus that if there were one person in the world who could talk to Longsword, that person was Richard Delamere. But Delamere himself could have told them all that this time he was as much on the outside as they were. He knew his friend still blamed him for concealing Gwalaes' true identity.

But Delamere had his own problems. He and Olwen had hardly exchanged a friendly word during his recent stay, unless it pertained to the boys. Instead, their mostly frosty conversation centered around his proposal to build a wall around the perimeter of the manor house. Olwen's response was lukewarm. Despite the unpleasant shock of Haworth's invasion, she didn't seem to appreciate the idea as he had expected. She had asked him what the purpose of it was if there wasn't anyone in the manor to defend it. Meaning, he supposed, him. And then it had hit him all of a sudden—the reason for her withdrawal, the reason for her frustrating silence: she was angry that he didn't stay at the manor but returned to Rhuddlan. He was relieved it was something so simple—he had begun to think she was no longer interested in him—but annoyed as well, because she apparently didn't understand that he had a responsibility to Longsword.

He returned to Rhuddlan after an absence of less than a week, when the tension between him and Olwen grew unbearable. He was angry that she wouldn't take the idea of the wall seriously; obviously, he told her, she felt she was capable of managing quite well on her own. But the larger part of the reason he left was something he couldn't now admit to Olwen: Longsword. Delamere was worried about him. He had never before seen Longsword so touched by another person, including the king, and he wondered if he might not try something crazy, like chasing after Chester.

He'd breathed an inward sigh of relief that Longsword hadn't yet managed to get himself into trouble but after two days of trying to coax something more than single syllables out of his friend, he almost wished he'd had. He wasn't familiar with this Longsword, who was quiet and cold, whose eyes seemed permanently stained with black, who would stride off to the stables without warning, leaving his men to scramble after him, and go on murderous hunts through the countryside; this wasn't Longsword's typical manner and after nearly a lifetime of friendship, Delamere was suddenly powerless to influence him.

And then, like the hot, steaming weather they'd endured on the plain before Dol during the war, the tense situation broke. A large man, heavily mustached in the style some Welsh preferred, appeared at the gate of Rhuddlan Castle, bareheaded, dressed in worn clothing and, as far as the guards could tell, weaponless. He was riding, not very expertly, a plodding field horse, which he addressed in bursts of impatient language. The guards grinned at each other. A free man, perhaps from the iron ore mines or a fisherman, with some imagined crisis to report. Sure enough, when the man saw he had their attention, he started calling out to them in a frantic tone. Really, they thought, the Welsh were inveterate complainers.

The urgent language did not abate once the man was inside the fortress. He slid clumsily from the patient horse and it wasn't long before his wild harangue and gesticulations had attracted a small group of soldiers who watched his performance with various degrees of amusement and laid bets on what his message might be. Guy Lene was summoned; his command of Welsh was limited but he thought something had been attacked and the mood of the guards quickly sobered and it was decided Longsword should be consulted.

Longsword was located in the hall but his presence wasn't enough to suddenly enable the Welshman to speak French. The stranger raised his voice in an effort to make the Normans understand Welsh but this ploy also failed. Lene was dispatched to fetch Richard Delamere, whom he found polishing his sword in the otherwise empty barracks where he'd gone to puzzle out both Longsword's and Olwen's strange behavior in solitude.

Delamere's serious expression darkened when he heard the message. He turned towards Longsword and the others. "He says the abbey's under attack by Rhirid ap Maelgwn."

"He's back?" Longsword asked.

"Apparently so. The man says he recognized Rhirid from his last visit to the abbey."

They should have expected it, Delamere thought; obviously Prince Dafydd had released Rhirid after hearing the report of Maelgwn's untimely death.

The effect of the news on Longsword was immediate. He seemed to expand in all directions, as if knowing that he was vitally needed had filled him with a self-confidence that was physical. Once more he was the calm and efficient leader he had shown himself to be at Dol. He ordered his men organized and prepared to ride out within the hour. He gave instructions for his hauberk, coif and helmet and heavy boots to be brought to him in the hall. He chose Ralph de Vire to stay behind with a handful of men. Delamere was absurdly pleased to see the abrupt transformation in his friend's mood. At long last, Longsword would have his revenge against Rhirid ap Maelgwn. The peace with Llanlleyn was broken.

Teleri had known about the attack on the abbey before her husband because the messenger of these dire tidings had awakened her with his loud shouting below her window. She'd watched the subsequent, frantic activity in the ward with barely a flicker of interest; even the realization that Longsword was finally going to meet Rhirid in violent confrontation didn't excite her as it once would have done. And when the last man-at-arms had trotted through the gates, Rhuddlan's ensuing silence had seemed as forlorn and hollow as her entire being.

She didn't care about anything anymore and she didn't feel like fighting anymore. Gladys was gone and Gwalaes was gone but she was still there and nothing had changed. The earl of Chester had gone as well, leaving her feeling slightly hurt that he'd turned out to be married and more than a little mortified that he was rumored to prefer men to women anyway. And she was still there. Forgotten by her uncle, hated by her husband and even abandoned by Rhirid ap Maelgwn, whom she'd irrationally counted on to rescue her from the nightmare she was living.

In the weeks since Gwalaes' abrupt departure, Teleri's appetite had decreased to the point at which her women had to cajole, often tearfully, several bites of selected meals into her mouth. Always petite, she had lost enough weight to alarm those who saw her. She took no interest in her appearance, her hair had lost its rich sheen and splashing water now and then on her face sufficed as far as bathing was concerned. The weather outside her windows was mild but more often than not, she insisted on keeping the shutters closed. Her rooms became as gloomy as her mood.

She stood at the window and shivered. Judging from the light, it was midday but she was still tired. She seemed to spend most of her time sleeping lately; to do anything else merely caused exhaustion. She stared onto the empty ward and couldn't remember how long she'd been standing there or what she'd been watching...vaguely, she heard the click of someone's tongue, a flurry of footsteps and then a robe fell down around her shoulders, but it was a cold and heavy robe and gave her no comfort. Sleep was her only comfort and she started to move towards her bed.

A great shout caught her attention and she turned back to the window. There was activity near the gate; pandemonium, she thought. Longsword had left a guard behind and it appeared that all the soldiers comprising it were rushing full force to the main entrance, climbing up onto the walls or into the tower. Teleri stood on her toes and squinted her eyes until she saw, in the near distance, tens of horsemen thundering in the direction of Rhuddlan.

Welshmen. Warriors, by their roars.

She knew immediately what had happened. It was a trick. There was no attack on the abbey of St. Mary; the attack was to be on Rhuddlan.

Her heart beat furiously. Her tiredness evaporated. Down below, Longsword's men were struggling to close the gate before the Welsh arrived. There was only a handful of defenders but Teleri knew from her husband's ceaseless bragging that only a handful was necessary to successfully defend his well-stocked fortress from a larger opposing force.

She caught her breath. "Hurry..." she urged in a whisper.

But the gate was closed and barred and when in the next moment several Welshmen finally reached it, a barrage of arrows flew down to greet them, although the steep angle ensured that none of the missles hit anyone.

One of the Normans was shouting, "Wait until they pull back! Wait until they pull back!" and Teleri recognized Ralph de Vire waving his arm at the others.

She couldn't see the Welsh at the gate but their more numerous companions had halted just out of arrow range. Some had dismounted and were huddled together. She wondered which one was Rhirid ap Maelgwn but although she had always envisioned him as taller than any other man and twice as broad, there wasn't any one person who didn't look like the others and the distance made it impossible to see individual features.

The air was filled with a silence as one side waited and the other conferred which seemed almost absurd after the tumult of only a moment before. Teleri felt frustrated; why hadn't Rhirid rushed more quickly? Why had his men shouted and hooted, alerting the Normans to their presence? Would they turn around and leave if they failed to draw the Normans out of the fortress?

A streak of light tearing through the blue sky caught her eye. Suddenly the noise resumed. So many men were yelling at once that it was impossible for her to understand their words. She looked beyond the wall to the Welsh and saw that some of them had ridden forward. She squinted hard because it appeared that they were on fire. And then she saw them raise their bows to the sky and let fly a dozen flaming arrows in the direction of the fortress before pulling their horses' heads around and retreating out of the range of retaliation.

Teleri watched this scene repeat itself several times before slipping from the window. A thought had just occurred to her: if Rhirid was determined to burn down Rhuddlan, then she had better be prepared to escape, in which case she needed to be dressed. She clapped her hands together and ordered her women to bring her clothes. No, no; she changed her mind; she wanted water, soap and a drying cloth first; there wasn't time to have it heated, she just wanted a bowl—and, she added sharply, one of these lazy women ought to be brushing out her hair while she waited.

Suddenly there was more activity in Teleri's chamber than outside where de Vire had put servants to good use extinguishing flames while he and his men attempted to prevent the Welsh from getting close enough to shoot off their flaming arrows to harmful effect. Her hair had been brushed and braided, her face washed and her women were just about to remove her shift when the door to the outer chamber slammed backwards and a very large man with long, black mustaches materialized on the threshold.

Teleri stared at the intruder in amazement. Her mouth dropped open. Her women, bent double and holding the hem of her shift, froze. The shouting outside was the only sound in the room. "What do you want?" she asked the stranger in a steady voice.

The man rudely looked her up and down, smiling slowly, and belatedly, she realized she was practically naked. She reached over to her bed, snatched up her discarded robe and held it in front of her body. "What do you want?" she repeated angrily.

"Not that, mistress! I'm a married man!" he protested, grinning. "Do I have the honor of making the acquaintance of Teleri, Prince Dafydd's beautiful niece?" When she didn't answer, he glanced unfavorably at the trio of stout old women surrounding her and flashed his teeth again. "Apparently so. Well, mistress, I'm sorry, but I've come to take you away. We haven't much time; it would be best if you came with a minimum of fuss, although I have no problem with flipping you over my shoulder—"

"Aren't you the same man who rode in here not long ago and told Lord William that the abbey of St. Mary was being attacked by Rhirid ap Maelgwn?" she interrupted, frowning at him.

"Not a suspicious mind among them," he said cheerfully. "And I'd always heard the Normans were an untrusting lot."

Teleri sucked in her breath. "Are you Rhirid?"

The man hooted. "No, no! But I'm his man. My name is Dylan ab Owain. Now, if you please, we must hurry."

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask why Rhirid wanted her. But she decided she didn't want to know the answer. It was enough she could reassure herself that she hadn't become worthless after all.

"I'll come," she said, feeling a thrill of excitement she hadn't felt in a long time. "But I need to dress first. I can't meet Rhirid ap Maelgwn like this."

Before he could protest, she slammed the door to the inner chamber against him. He stared dumbly at it. He hadn't planned on any delay; Rhirid's instructions had been explicit, particularly the part about not wasting time.

He started pacing the perimeter of the antechamber and for want of a better occupation, counted his number of circuits. He grew anxious when he arrived at double digits and was nearly shaking with panic ten circuits later. How long did it take to throw on a gown? Suddenly he stopped in his tracks. What if there were another door in the bedchamber, one which led out of the keep?

But just as he reached for the door, it swung open and Teleri emerged, dressed in her sky blue gown, the one she had put on in anticipation of Rhirid's arrival for the peace negotiations two months earlier. The long hem trailed behind her. Her hair was now loose and covered with a sheer veil in blue and gold, there was a pair of soft leather slippers on her feet and she had rings on every finger. Draped across the arm of one of the servants following her was a light, fur-trimmed cloak.

For a moment Dylan just stared. Teleri looked utterly beautiful, especially to a man who had been away from home for a long time. She realized the affect she was having on him and smiled modestly but lifted her chin a little higher. Dylan's mouth opened and then clamped shut quickly as if he'd thought twice about what he'd been about to say. Instead he looked away and cleared his throat. "We must hurry," was all he said.

They left the keep the same way Dylan had entered it: through the ground level entrance across from the kitchens. They were out of the sight of the Norman guard although they could hear quite clearly the sounds of the assault on the walls. He kept his hand secure around her wrist and urged her along with whispers and tugs while her women fell further and further behind. They ended up behind the stables and before the postern gate. Dylan turned to grin at her.

"Not even one man here!" he said.

"Well, it's barred," she answered, breathing heavily from the unfamiliar exertion. "No one can get in."

"But I'm already in! What's to prevent me now opening this gate to a dozen more of Rhirid's men?"

"Is that what's planned?" Teleri asked excitedly. "Rhirid is going to take Rhuddlan?"

The big man laughed. "No, mistress; only you."

"But why not? The timing couldn't be more perfect!"

"I don't think King Henry would approve, nor your uncle." He lifted the bar which kept the gate locked and tossed it to one side. He gestured to her. "Come. If everything's gone right, there ought to be a few horses on the other side and we'll be away."

Teleri looked back. "Wait a moment; my women are almost here."

"There isn't time, mistress. We can't take them along, anyway."

"But my cloak—"

"Rhirid will give you an even finer cloak! Come!" And before she could protest further, he swung back the gate and hustled her through it to the waiting horses.

Rhirid watched another wave of his warriors thunder as close to the fortress as they dared before loosing a slew of flaming arrows into the air. He was growing impatient; he was running out of arrows and the Norman defenders had nearly killed two of his men with well-aimed missiles of their own. Dylan should have returned by now. He swore under his breath and hoped no ill had befallen the man; not only would he hate to lose his most valuable warrior but it would mean he'd squandered a perfectly good opportunity to sack the abbey of St. Mary and draw the Normans out from behind those insurmountable walls in favor of a plan which had failed.

At last there were hoofbeats to his right. The young man he'd put as lookout rode up to him. "Lord, they're coming!" he called.

Rhirid shielded the sun from his eyes with a hand and peered towards the west. Dylan wasn't hard to identify and there was a figure sitting behind him on his horse. He dropped his hand. "Good. Guri," he said to his cousin, "give us some time to slip away and then make a slow retreat. I don't know how long it will take them to realize what's happened but stall as much as you can." He clicked his tongue and urged his mount into a trot. He and the remainder of his guard headed in the direction of the river, away from the view of the men on the walls.

Dylan and his escort had already reached the bank by the time Rhirid arrived and he gave his chief a hearty greeting. "It went perfectly, Rhirid!" he said in a booming voice. "There was never a question that we might be tricking them!"

"Yes, we watched them leave," the other man replied. "It was a good job." He switched his attention to Dylan's companion, whose slight figure in such close proximity to the Welshman's large bulk made her look like a child, and inclined his head. "It's my honor to meet you, Lady Teleri. I apologize for our crude methods and I hope you weren't very much inconvenienced."

"Not at all, Lord Rhirid. I'm happy to meet you at last."

Her voice was calm, which pleased him. Chester had stressed how unhappy the woman was in her marriage but Rhirid had always suspected that most women complained about their husbands merely as a topic of conversation. And he'd assumed that because Teleri was Prince Dafydd's niece, she was a Norman-lover.

Perhaps not. She was attractive, he noted. Chester had left out that part, of course. She rode astride, holding onto Dylan's belt, and the skirt of her dress was hiked up to her knees, exposing shapely legs...and feet encased in useless gear. Rhirid brought himself abruptly back into reality. Riding around with unbound hair was pure folly and the pretty gown she was wearing was surely going to be ruined by the end of their journey. He darted a quick glance at Dylan, who understood exactly what he was thinking and who shrugged and raised his eyes upwards.

"We have a small journey before us, Lady Teleri," Rhirid said brusquely. "We'll try to keep it as comfortable as possible for you." He took up the slack in his reins and started to move off.

"Lord Rhirid!" she called and he felt his lips tighten because her tone was commanding. He turned back. "Why don't you take this opportunity to burn Rhuddlan to the ground?"

"We haven't time," he said.

"It wouldn't take long," she insisted. "The postern's open and unguarded. There are only a dozen or so soldiers left on the walls. You can be in and out in no time!"

"It isn't as easy as that, Lady Teleri. A fortress that size would take some doing and we've been told that this son of the king can move very fast. We want to be safely away by the time Lord William realizes the hoax we've played on him."

"But—"

But Rhirid had already kicked his horse into action and wasn't listening any longer.

Chapter 36

May, 1177

near Llanlleyn, Gwynedd

Almost immediately, Teleri had second thoughts.

The journey to Rhirid's summer pastures, a seemingly neverending loop to the west and then south and then east of Rhuddlan—all to avoid running into her husband—was torturous in its duration. It was the longest time she'd ever been on horseback. Her seat and legs were sore from the constant bouncing and her arms ached from clinging to the waist of the man who sat before her. She rode with Dylan ab Owain, who bragged to the others that he'd been the one to convince her to come away with them. Rhirid laughed and said he hoped Dylan would tell William fitz Henry the same when the Norman came for revenge. All the men within hearing laughed heartily. Teleri was irritated. She didn't appreciate being discussed as if she weren't sitting right there among them and, besides, hadn't she played a part in the deception perpetrated on Longsword?

Dylan was a garrulous man and due to circumstance, Teleri was a captive audience. Most of the time she didn't mind, for she learned quite a bit about Rhirid; for instance, that he had been furious when informed that his father was dead and the role of chief had passed to his cousin. "The very moment we were released from service, we flew back here," Dylan told her. "I don't think I'd ever seen Rhirid so angry, even when Maelgwn wouldn't take action against William fitz Henry after he refused to pay the galanas owing on that poor shepherd his men killed. Challenged his cousin before he'd even gotten off his horse and dispatched him almost as quickly."

Teleri was thrilled. "Was there a lot of blood?"

"Oh, sure!" Dylan nodded vigorously. Then his tone became sheepish. "To tell you the truth of it, Lady Teleri, I didn't actually witness the contest. I would never have heard the end of it if my wife had discovered I'd come back and not gone straight to greet her."

Teleri laughed. She could scarcely imagine the size and temper of the person who might strike fear into the heart of such a formidable-looking man as Dylan ab Owain. "I suppose your release means my uncle has forgiven Lord Rhirid for firing the abbey," she said to him.

"I doubt the prince even knows about it yet," he answered cheerfully.

"What do you mean?" she asked, startled. "You said you were released. You didn't—" but she had to leave the question unspoken because she didn't know how to make running away sound noble.

"We were! Only not by Dafydd but by the earl of Chester."

There was a pause. "I'm a little confused," Teleri said. "I thought Rhirid had gone to the Perfeddwlad..."

"We had. But then the prince sent us to the earl, who was having a bit of trouble with Gruffudd ap Madog of Powys. But we soon sent him back over the border." Although she was sitting behind him, Teleri could sense Dylan's chest expanding with pride. "The earl was very grateful for our help," he added, "and paid us handsomely."

Teleri thought to herself that it was strange Hugh hadn't mentioned knowing Rhirid, even though she must have referred to him a dozen times. "The earl never spoke of you..."

"No? Well, he told us all about you." He twisted his head around and grinned at her.

She felt herself blush. "Did he?" And hadn't she been thinking that Hugh seemed to have completely forgotten her? "I'm flattered he remembered me..."

"You shouldn't be so modest, Lady Teleri," Dylan said, laughing. "Who could meet you even once and not remember your beauty?"

But flattery was no comfort when Rhirid finally halted his men and they prepared a rough camp for the night. Teleri was used to a mattress stuffed with feathers and sweet grass, placed on a rope-slung bedframe, but she had to content herself with a fitful sleep on the ground with several donated cloaks for cushioning and covering. In the morning there was no woman to help her with her toilet. Her body was stiff from lying on the hard ground and ached from the brutal exercise of the day before. She felt unclean and unkempt. The hair she'd left loose to impress the chief was tangled and windblown, and somewhere she'd lost her veil. Her clothing was streaked with dust and grass stains and she was embarrassingly aware that she reeked of horse.

Her mood was no better than her appearance. When Dylan, greeting her in a loud, friendly voice, came to hoist her up onto his horse, she instead demanded to see Rhirid, who had already started off with Guri and a half dozen other men. More familiar with unpleasant female moods than he wished to be, Dylan dropped the smile and hesitantly suggested the fastest way to see the chief was to mount up and follow him at a quick pace but before the last word passed his lips, Teleri indicated her displeasure with this proposal by turning her back on him.

A man was dispatched to overtake Rhirid.

Rhirid's expression, when he returned to the campsite, was neutral. He jumped off his horse, walked up to Teleri and fixed unblinking grey eyes on her. "Lady Teleri?"

She was encouraged by his apparent deference. "Lord Rhirid, I am sorry to make you come back but as the niece of a prince and the wife of the son of the king of England, I'm sure I'm entitled to ride with the chief of Llanlleyn and not merely one of his warriors," she said imperiously.

"Is that so?" Rhirid said. "Despite the other considerations?"

She frowned. "What other considerations?"

"For one, the fact that Dylan's horse is the largest, making the ride most comfortable for you and him and even the beast. For another, the fact that Dylan isn't merely one of my warriors but my champion and if by misfortune we're attacked, he's more than able to protect you. For another, he's friendly and likes the company." Rhirid moved closer towards Teleri with every sentence, his voice growing sharper and more ominous, until she was so crowded that she had to take a step backward. "And finally, the most important consideration: because that's the way I ordered it!"

The on-lookers maintained an awkward silence. But Teleri wasn't easily intimidated. "I'm asking you to reconsider your order," she said in a less offensive tone, her only concession to his anger. "Obviously you know better than I do our chances of being attacked but I'm willing to take the risk. And while I found Dylan ab Owain a genial companion, I would like to speak to you regarding your plans for Rhuddlan and Lord William."

He stared at her in amazement. "I don't discuss my plans with my hostages, Lady Teleri!"

"I hardly consider myself your hostage, Lord Rhirid," she retorted. "I came quite willingly. I hate the Normans as much as you do."

"Really?" His eyebrows shot up. "I heard there's only one Norman you truly hate. Your husband."

Now Teleri was angry. "Who told you that?"

"The earl of Chester. He told us a lot about you." He gave her a sly look. "He said you didn't seem to despise him very much."

Chuckles rippled through the line of Rhirid's warriors. Teleri flushed but lifted her chin. "Men tend to have an exaggerated opinion of their appeal to the opposite sex," she said coolly. "Now, may I ride with you? If you don't wish to discuss your plans, perhaps you'd rather tell me what other gossip you picked up from the earl."

This time when his men laughed, it was directed at him. For a brief moment, he felt a flicker of sympathy for Longsword.

They traveled into the hills. Dylan had told her that after the destruction of Maelgwn's fortress, a new stronghold was erected in higher country, hopefully out of the reach of the Normans, who hated to pass through the wooded areas which made them so vulnerable to Welsh attacks. He'd told her that her kidnapping would put that theory to a stronger test.

Teleri hadn't dared tell Dylan that he shouldn't hold his breath waiting for Longsword to come to her rescue.

Traversing the rolling terrain was worse than the never-ending circle they'd made the day before. Rhirid's revenge for forcing the change of plan was to not speak a word to her on any subject, claiming the noise of the clomping horses and the breezy winds made conversation difficult, but as the day wore on, Teleri cared less and less. By late afternoon she was so sore and tired that she was tempted to simply let go of his belt, slide off the horse and die. It was at that point that he half-turned his head and despite the phantom noise told her the fortress wasn't much farther. But he also warned her not to expect anything as large and grand as Rhuddlan or her uncle's court. "My father's men did what they could but we're still building..."

"I understand," she answered gravely. What did it matter? As long as there was a bed for her somewhere inside.

Finally, they burst out of the shadowy canopy of the trees and into a sunlit meadow. Teleri was glad of the sun; its heat soothed a bit of the ache in her shoulders and legs and she felt somewhat revived. She craned her neck to get a look around Rhirid's broad back but all she could see were a dozen or so cattle grazing in the near distance, unaffected by the sudden intrusion of horsemen into their domain.

Not for long. "Hold tight!" Rhirid instructed and without further warning kicked his mount into a fast trot and then a gallop. He stood up in his stirrups and let out a long, exultant shout which was promptly echoed by every one of his warriors until the air was filled with the deafening din of thundering hooves and jubilant voices. All her pain forgotten, Teleri felt a rush of excitement as the wind blew by her face. The Llanlleyn men shouted to celebrate their victory over the Normans and the thrill was infectious. She was proud of her people; at last they had beaten the foreigners.

The unfinished fortress occupied the highest point of the undulating meadow and rushing up to it from below as they were doing, she could see nothing of it but a long, wooden palisade, the top end of each stake carved to a point, with a gate in the center, flung open and full of people. She could feel the powerful muscles of Rhirid's horse straining as it tackled this final rise until Rhirid finally reined in, slowing the animal to a snorting, prancing walk as they reached the gate. The cheering on-lookers moved aside to allow them to pass through. Teleri's heart thudded wildly and happily. The people waved and called out to Rhirid. As they rode through the gate, her attention was diverted by something fluttering above their heads, and she glanced up to the top of one of the spikes. There she saw the greyish head of a man, his long, black hair flapping in the breeze. She gasped.

Rhirid heard her and turned his head. "My cousin," he said over his shoulder, in a voice hoarse from shouting. "How will you like to see William fitz Henry next to him?"

Dylan's wife stood among a small group of women and watched the parade of horsemen file one by one into the fortress. First to enter was Rhirid and, without trying to appear too obvious, she craned her neck slightly to catch a glimpse of the woman sitting behind him, arms clasped around his waist. "So that's her," she murmured to her nearest companion. "She looks very young. Barely older than a child. And thin. She certainly isn't the beauty I've heard tell of, despite her fine clothes."

"Her gown's in a terrible state," another woman added. "And look at her hair! Tangled and snarled..."

"It's lovely hair, though, when it's combed out and clean," Goewyn's companion said. "With the sunlight on it, her head seems to glow as though on fire."

The second woman giggled. "That must be painful."

"Look at her stand there," Goewyn said with a deprecating sniff. Rhirid had handed Teleri down to an eager pair of arms which had grabbed her around the waist and swung her off the horse and onto the ground in one graceful motion. "Her nose in the air and the unfriendly mouth. She must be thinking we're all peasants and herders!"

"No, I'm sure she must be terrified," her companion ventured. "She's used to only her uncle's court and her husband's castle. You ought to have heard the noise she made when the prince told her she was to marry the Norman and leave the Perfeddwlad. He had to practically pry her fingers from the bedposts to get her outside and onto a horse for the journey to Rhuddlan and she hasn't left since."

Goewyn smirked. "My husband said the earl of Chester told Rhirid that Lady Teleri hates Lord William fitz Henry so much she would jump at the chance to leave him. She isn't terrified, unless it's to imagine that she'll have to do without her usual luxuries for a while."

The woman next to Goewyn didn't answer. She didn't know why she was defending Teleri anyway. The baby in her arms started fussing and she shifted him to her other hip, quietening him with low, soothing noises.

"Goewyn, my love!" A loud, hearty voice startled the watchful group, intent on Teleri's smallest movement.

"Shhh!" Goewyn hissed. She glared at her husband, whose arrival had caught her off guard. His outstretched arms dropped slowly to his sides.

"What's wrong?" he whispered, bewildered.

She turned an appraising eye on him. "I hope, Dylan, that you did not offer your services as a means of transport to the prince's niece..." she said.

He laughed nervously. "Oh—of course not, Goewyn! Didn't you see her with Rhirid?"

"How did she travel, Dylan?" the second woman asked. "Did she complain about every bump along the way?"

"No, no; not so bad as that!"

"How would you know she didn't complain if you weren't riding with her?" his wife demanded.

"Because I heard her when we stopped for the night! And I never said she didn't complain at all; she made one or two noises! Aches and pains and the like..."

Goewyn looked unconvinced but luckily for Dylan, Rhirid chose that moment to approach the group, and Goewyn switched her attention to him. She saw that although he was mindful to greet everyone politely, his eyes lingered on her companion. The change in him whenever he looked at the young, dark-haired woman was remarkable. For months now, since the feud with Rhuddlan began, Rhirid's expression was invariably tense and unsmiling. His father's unexpected death and his new responsibilities as chief had added years to his face. But he seemed to cast off these burdens and relax into something like his former, calmer self when Olwen stepped into his line of vision...

It was quite obvious to Goewyn that Rhirid was infatuated with his hostage. She had mentioned as much to Dylan but he had dismissed the idea with loud and unrestrained laughter. It was probably the first time in their marriage that he'd had the last word because he refused to be convinced.

But Goewyn would not be dissuaded. In fact, she thought she approved. As Rhirid had no close female relative to guide him and as she was the wife of his champion and right hand, it was up to her to direct him towards the arms of the proper mate. She promptly took Olwen under her wing and was pleased to find her mild-tempered and easy going. She was further encouraged to learn that although the woman had two sons with one of the Normans at Rhuddlan, she was not married to him. The portents appeared perfect but there was one problem: Olwen did not return Rhirid's admiration. She was angry over her forced abduction, worried about the affect of it on her sons and concerned for the servants and laborers who had been left behind...

Rhirid asked Goewyn to choose several women to attend to Teleri as befitted her station.

"I will serve, lord," Olwen offered. "I did it once before and I know her habits."

"Thank you, but no," Rhirid said. He gestured at the baby. "You've more than enough to do now. There are plenty of others."

Olwen said nothing more and after giving Goewyn further instructions for the feast that night, Rhirid took his leave of the women. Dylan seized the opportunity to escape with his chief.

"Well..." Goewyn said archly. "He's very protective of your time."

Olwen frowned. "Most likely, he doesn't want us to speak to each other because we're both hostages."

"Do you think so?" Goewyn smiled indulgently. "I think he merely wants you to look kindly on him."

"After what he's done to my family, that would take a miracle."

"But you can't blame him for this, Olwen," the other woman protested. "It wasn't his idea. It was part of the agreement..."

Olwen's voice was sharp. "What agreement?"

Goewyn hesitated. She was torn between desire for Olwen to have a better opinion of Rhirid and apprehension that the chief might not want his private business, which she had learned from Dylan, discussed in public.

But, then, Dylan shouldn't have told her if he didn't want her to repeat it.

"An agreement between Rhirid and the earl of Chester," she said, and was rewarded with a shocked gasp. "Don't ask me how or why, but somehow Rhirid and his men ended up in Hawarden fighting for the earl against some chief or another from Powys. Afterwards, the earl went up to the Perfeddwlad and then to Rhuddlan and when he returned, he told Rhirid that he'd heard about the trouble between him and Lord William. He told Rhirid he wanted to help but he couldn't do it openly. He gave Rhirid weapons and horses and in exchange there were two things he wanted Rhirid to do for him. Kidnap you and Lady Teleri."

"But why?" Olwen said, shaken. "Why?"

"Dylan doesn't know the reason. He says Rhirid doesn't know it. They only know the earl hates Lord William as much as they do and he wants to destroy Rhuddlan and Lord William in it." Goewyn looked at the other woman anxiously. "Does this ease your mind a little with regard to Rhirid?"

"My mind was never concerned with Rhirid ap Maelgwn," Olwen answered absently. She no longer seemed to be paying attention to Goewyn. Instead she stared into the distance. Those closest to her heard her whisper, "Oh, Richard...", and then Henry, perhaps sensing the change in his mother's mood, started crying.

Chapter 37

May, 1177

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

The men's voices rose in an angry wave. Richard Delamere got to his feet and held his hands out in an effort to quell the torrent which threatened to wash over him. "Peace," he urged. "Peace. Let's talk quietly."

"What's there to talk about, Sir Richard?" someone in the back of the room shouted. "It's obvious he's gone mad!" There were noises of agreement.

"That isn't true and I'll challenge the next man who repeats it!" Delamere said so fiercely that the protesting subsided at once. He relaxed his stance a little and tried to sound reasonable. "I think we'd all react similarly if an enemy burst into our homes and stole our wives—"

"He doesn't even like his!" Warin fitz Maurice said.

"That's what makes his behavior so irrational, Sir Richard!" said someone else and everyone laughed.

Delamere allowed the joke at Longsword's expense because it was preferable to the mutinous speeches he'd been listening to nearly all morning. When the men had quieted again, he continued. "We should all be ashamed that Rhirid ap Maelgwn was able to steal into Rhuddlan and back out with Lady Teleri so easily. We were all fooled by his ruse." He paused. "De Vire's dismissal was the result of bad temper, not insanity."

The grumbling began anew. Guy Lene, seated on one of the barrack benches, raised his voice. "It's a bad temper that's lasted too long, Sir Richard! We don't deserve it! We've served him loyally these past three years! And there was his reaction when I told him his slut Gladys didn't want to come back here—I thought he would kill me! As if it was my fault what happened! Sir Richard, if this and getting rid of de Vire are indications of the kind of arbitrary behavior we can expect from him from now on, why should we feel compelled to stay here and serve him?"

"We've all sworn our allegiance..." Delamere said warningly.

"He won't even listen to you any longer, Sir Richard! That's how bad it is! The king ought to be told. Of all people, Lord William might listen to him!"

"No!" Delamere quashed the suggestion right away. The men were upset about de Vire's treatment and, he thought, rightly so. But involving the king would not help matters. The last thing Longsword needed was his father sweeping into Rhuddlan with his army, crushing Rhirid and snatching back Teleri in his usual blunt fashion, all the while berating his son for causing a diplomatic crisis in Gwynedd. "The only thing we're going to do is deal with Rhirid. That's all Lord William needs to shift his mood. You saw how he was when we rode to the abbey—his old self. All he needs is activity."

Finally, he saw a few nods—grudgingly given but at least his point was conceded. Encouraged, he continued strongly, "You say we've been with Lord William three years now; well, then, you should know his current mood isn't natural to him. And to threaten to leave his service because of it after he's been the perfect master for all but one month of those three years is just as arbitrary an action as his dismissal of Ralph de Vire!"

Now he saw embarrassed expressions and more vigorous nods. Lene looked chastened. "Sir Richard, I apologize," he said, standing up. "I was talking without thinking."

"I'm sure we can all understand that," Delamere said dryly. "And that includes Lord William." He surveyed the room silently. He seemed to have made his point; there was no face which didn't watch him expectantly. "What I'm about to say is in strictest confidence. It doesn't leave this room." He took a deep breath. "It was told to me that Lady Teleri was not abducted from Rhuddlan in the usual meaning of the word. It appears there was no struggle, no force used. Apparently, she went with Rhirid quite willingly."

As far as he knew, it was a lie; in fact, Teleri's servants had been hysterical, claiming their mistress had been dragged away screaming. But he had to deflect the men's dissatisfaction with Longsword to a more unsympathetic target and his words had the effect he'd wanted: from the angry clamor which broke out, it was clear the men were outraged on behalf of their lord, and from the way they all surged towards him at once, it was obvious to Delamere that they were ready to do something about it.

When Delamere had told the men that all Longsword needed to put him right was a bit of physical exertion, he spoke with a confidence he didn't entirely feel. He was bewildered by Longsword's devasted reaction to the way events had unfolded and Gwalaes' subsequent departure. He'd never known Longsword to show such passion for anyone other than his father and consequently, perhaps, he'd never believed Longsword was capable of it for anyone else. Coupled with the bewilderment was guilt. He imagined that if he'd acted on Teleri's information as soon as he'd heard it, he might have saved Longsword some grief; at the least, he would have saved him the shock of that horrific encounter with Chester.

Teleri had been right and he'd been wrong about the depth of Longsword's infatuation. But Delamere was determined not to allow the rest of Teleri's prediction to come true. He would not allow the men's loyalty to slip away from Longsword. He viewed it as his only chance to redeem himself to his friend.

"Are you just going to stand there?"

The harsh tone of Longsword's voice jerked him back to the present. He was standing in the doorway to the council chamber. Beyond the door Longsword sat in his great chair, a cup in one hand, a glaze of tension and anger over his eyes. As Delamere watched, he raised the cup, tipped its contents into his mouth and drank until there was nothing left. He wiped his other hand across his mouth and gave him a baleful stare.

"Well? What's wrong? Have you come to gape at me or do you want something?"

"I want something," Delamere said, subdued by the sight before him. He stepped into the room and closed the door. Longsword's appearance was horrible. His face was unshaved, haggard and bore a greyish tint, his hair was lank and unkempt and an odor clung to him which Delamere remembered but couldn't quite recognize and which made him uneasy. He was slumped in his chair and wore the same clothing he'd been wearing for days. Only his angry, narrowed eyes showed there was life left in him...

Delamere started. Now he recognized the smell. It was the same mixture of unwashed body and sickness which had surrounded Longsword when he'd been in the throes of his fever after his wound had reopened. It was the smell of death.

"I don't like the atmosphere in Gwynedd lately," he said, struggling to ignore the stench. "And I feel my family is vulnerable. I'd like permission to go to the manor, collect Olwen and the boys and bring them here."

Longsword laughed mockingly. "You think Rhuddlan is safer than your manor? You always do see the positive side of things." He paused a moment but Delamere didn't respond. He waved his cup. "Go ahead; do what you want."

"Thank you." How strangely they were talking to each other, Delamere thought. But the whole situation was strange, he supposed. How much longer could Longsword go on like this...

"By the way, how was the meeting?" Longsword asked, just as Delamere reached the door. "Don't look so surprised; of course I knew about it. Well? How did it go? They think I treated de Vire abominably. I've heard the grumbling. Obviously they've calmed down and have decided to stay with me or you would have told me. Unless you don't want to be involved. Is that what it is? This visit to your manor—is it only a pretext to be gone while the others tell me they've lost faith in my abilities?"

"No!" Delamere said, stung. "Even if what you believe about your men is true I wouldn't behave so cowardly! Yes, there was a meeting. Naturally, everyone's upset about de Vire but—"

"They're upset?" Longsword suddenly bellowed, and to Delamere it seemed that he'd been waiting restlessly for this one moment. He sprung up from his chair and hurled his cup to the floor. "He had one simple task—to guard the fortress in our absence—and he couldn't do it! We're hardly in the middle of civilized country, Richard; if a man can't do his job, it could mean death for all of us! And it might have but for some reason only Rhirid knows." He glared at Delamere. "They're upset? They're not the one who has to explain to Prince Dafydd that some petty chieftain simply walked in and carried off his niece!"

"I'm not debating the point with you, Will—" Delamere started.

"Are you not? You probably agree with them." Longsword went to the sideboard and poured wine from the pitcher there into a new cup. He turned back towards the other man and said challengingly, "Do you think I did the wrong thing?"

Delamere considered his answer carefully. "I don't think you would have done it a month ago."

For a moment, Longsword simply stared at him, his face expressionless. Delamere began to grow uneasy under the unblinking scrutiny, unable to guess Longsword's response although he assumed, because that was the kind of mood Longsword seemed to be in, that it would be loud, hostile and defensive.

He was wrong.

"A month ago," Longsword said quietly, with only the slightest edge, "I had the birth of a son to look forward to, I had a woman living in my house whom I loved and I even had a wife. Now I have nothing. I don't expect you to understand, Richard. Everything in your life is perfect. It's always been easy for you but for me it's been one long battle to prove myself and for what? A hovel in Wales and retainers who want to desert me at the first sign of trouble." He looked down at the cup in his hands. "I was angry when my father told me he was sending me to Gwynedd, to keep me out of the Young King's way. Remember? I had wanted him to make me an earl, at least, but he wouldn't. He must have known..."

Delamere, his attention diverted from the outrageous claim that his life was so wonderful and despite a private vow not to continue to feed his friend's highly developed sense of self-pity, asked curiously, "Known what?"

Longsword glanced up. "That I couldn't do it," he said in a tone which implied anyone over the age of infancy knew so obvious an answer. "That I'm not a fit leader. That's why he sent me where I could do the least harm."

"And you promptly got into a feud with one of your neighbors, was almost killed by him and have now had your wife kidnapped by him! Does that sound like least harm?" Delamere snapped. "For Christ's sake, William, stop feeling sorry for yourself! You've got to make a decision: either go back to the king, tell him you couldn't stick it and offer him your service, or put the past behind you and get on with your work!"

Another pause. Then Longsword said quietly, "I'll go back to the king."

Delamere was incredulous. "You can't do that, Will!"

Longsword took a deep breath and let it out with a shudder. He sat down heavily in his chair and to Delamere it seemed as if the statement had greatly eased his tension. His expression was suddenly more tired than angered and when he spoke, his voice was unemotional. "I don't care anymore, Richard. I'm not feeling sorry for myself; I just don't care. Everything I've ever wanted has been taken from me and right now Rhirid doesn't bother me a bit. Let him win."

Delamere crossed the room with an urgent stride. "Will, you don't mean that. Perhaps you've lost Gwalaes and Gladys but what about Teleri? She's your wife and she's been kidnapped by Rhirid—you can't let him get away with it!"

"If I send a messenger to Dafydd, he can force Rhirid to give her up much sooner than I could if I scoured the hills for her."

"I can't believe what I'm hearing!" Delamere exclaimed. "You don't care that Rhirid's made a fool of you and Dafydd will know it? Have you never thought that perhaps the reason Rhirid didn't wait in ambush for us was because the greater insult to you was for him to steal your wife away from under your nose? Doesn't that infuriate you?"

Longsword looked up at him, unsmiling. "A month ago, it would have."

"Will, stop joking—"

"I'm not joking, Richard!" His gaze was steady. "You know, there's a certain freedom in not caring..."

Delamere controlled himself with effort. "Is that so?" he retorted quietly. "I have no idea...and neither do the sixty-odd men in the barracks who have sworn their swords to you. Do you know what I'm thinking, Will? That perhaps the king made you custodian of Rhuddlan Castle to teach you how to lead. To teach you how to stop putting yourself first all the time and instead make decisions and take actions which result in what is best for the entire kingdom!"

In Longsword's ensuing stunned silence, he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him.

Chapter 38

May, 1177

Llanlleyn, Gwynedd

Ever since she'd first heard his name in connection with Longsword's attempted murder, Teleri had harbored a few fantasies about Rhirid ap Maelgwn. Her favorite one, in which Rhirid rescued her from her rude and boorish husband, was actually realized. She had indeed been plucked out of Rhuddlan and spirited away by Rhirid. But the moment she'd passed through the gate into Llanlleyn, the fantasy had abruptly ended. The fortress was a forlorn affair, a collection of round wooden buildings chinked with mud and capped with turf set close together upon an expanse of uneven, trampled ground. The living arrangement was old-fashioned, with nothing more than screens separating the sleeping chief from the rest of his people. The unmarried women had their own house and it was here, behind her own arrangement of screens, that Teleri had been put into an insultingly tiny amount of space. With everyone living so close, it was impossible there could be secrets and she was uncomfortably aware that she was the primary topic of conversation.

Rhirid had warned her not to expect anything grand but she hadn't pictured such a primitive place. And the inhabitants were as dour as their dwellings. At first she'd been perversely flattered by their collective silence, believing them to be awestruck by her status as Prince Dafydd's niece, but eventually she decided that they were simply unfriendly. Especially the women. The quartet appointed to serve her was mostly silent; its spokesperson was the surprisingly average-sized woman who claimed to be the wife of Dylan ab Owain, but even her words were terse and grudgingly uttered.

To say she was dismayed by this turn of events would have been an understatement. Having been raised by a childless, indulgent uncle, Teleri wasn't used to disappointment and the stark reality of Llanlleyn hit her hard. She thought that if she'd known the Welsh could have the same contempt for each other that the Normans had for them, then she would never have left Rhuddlan. At least at Rhuddlan she had familiar, doting servants, the outward reverence of all the inhabitants, including the foreigners, and a husband whose actions she could predict. Her fantasy of a triumphant partnership with Rhirid ap Maelgwn hadn't materialized. The chief hadn't spoken to her at all since their arrival, despite several requests to Goewyn to arrange an interview. She began to wonder if Goewyn, whose attitude towards her was invariably frosty, was even passing on her messages.

In the meantime, she kept to her tiny space in the women's house, reluctant to go out among the people who whispered about her and who stopped to stare at her as if she'd suddenly grown a second head. She became increasingly dissatisfied with her decision to leave Rhuddlan, and more querulous with her attendants, prompting daily arguments between Goewyn and Dylan.

"How long is Lord Rhirid planning to keep that woman here?" Goewyn demanded one evening.

Dylan's hand paused over the sword he was polishing with a square of oiled sheepskin. He looked up at his wife. "Lady Teleri?"

"Who else? Has he got a few others hidden away somewhere?"

Goewyn stood before him with her hands on her hips, the sleeves of her gown pushed up past her elbows. Dylan noticed she was glaring more intensely than usual and that her normally impeccably dressed hair was slightly tousled.

He frowned. "Why are you all wet?"

"She wanted to bathe! It's wet work! And first the water was too hot and then it grew too cold. And then she was annoyed when I told her there was no scented soap but when I offered to throw crushed herbs in the water instead she very curtly refused. Then she became angry because it was taking so long to comb out her hair but she complained we were too rough with the snarls and knots! Why does she insist on wearing her hair unbound? And her gown!" Goewyn snorted with disbelief. "That's the best part. She said that under normal circumstances she would have tossed her gown out for rags because it was ruined from rough treatment these past five days but she knows there can't possibly be anything suitable at Llanlleyn to borrow and so now every day we must take it away and brush and clean it for her to wear again in the morning!" She stepped closer to her husband. "I'm asking you once more, how long is she staying?"

Dylan leaned his sword carefully against the side of the stool on which he sat. From long experience, he'd learned that the best way to avoid a protracted argument, which he couldn't possibly hope to win, was to ease out of the room slowly, before his wife realized that he was running away from her.

"That's for Rhirid to decide, Goewyn. You know I have nothing to do with it," he said mildly.

"You're his champion! His most important man! He must listen to you if you choose to advise him!"

He stood up and tried to stretch casually. He attempted a different approach. "So she's a little spoiled. She can't help it—she was brought up that way by the prince. Just ignore her."

"I can't! I've been told to wait upon her, Dylan!"

"Goewyn, you know why she's here. It's a huge insult to the Norman lord. It's a great victory we've won by stealing the girl away from under her husband's nose."

"And are we supposed to keep her until her husband decides to come and get her?" she demanded. "With his army? And the prince's army? And the king's army?"

He was beginning to feel irritated. "You don't understand this business, Goewyn! You just do what you're told and don't worry about what will happen tomorrow."

"The trouble with you men is you never think about tomorrow! You never think at all! You just act!"

"Goewyn, hush!" Dylan whispered nervously. "Rhirid will hear you!"

She glared at him defiantly. "I hope he does! I would like him to tell me why it isn't it enough we lost Llanlleyn once but now we must be threatened again! His father, blessed man, would never have countenanced this action!" Her voice rose sharply. "Where are you going?"

He took up his sword and swiftly retreated without answering. Although cowardly, it seemed to be the safest course.

Olwen didn't know which was worse: Teleri's reportedly atrocious behavior or Goewyn's ceaseless complaints about it. She remained silent on both subjects because she didn't believe it was her place to express an opinion under the circumstances, but a strange thing happened as the days passed. She became aware that her status at Llanlleyn was bizarrely high. The men were invariably deferential to her and the women treated her with the same respect they accorded Goewyn. It was to do with Rhirid, of course. She knew from her own instinct and Goewyn's none-too-subtle hints, that he was besotted with her. For another woman, perhaps, this would have had a useful purpose but Olwen was still angry at being taken out of her home and fearful of what was meant for Richard. She maintained a cool demeanor around Rhirid. She never expected to be asked to use her influence to persuade him to divulge his plans for his hostages.

Her initial reaction to Goewyn's request was negative. She wanted to have as little as possible to do with Rhirid and it was already enough that he seemed to continually turn up in the places she visited—her access unlimited on his order—and that he frequently embarrassed her by sending her the choicest parts of the meat from his own table. Now Goewyn wanted her to risk his misinterpretation of their relationship by approaching him. She refused.

But Goewyn persisted and as time wore on, Olwen started to relent. After all, she reasoned, it was perfectly natural for her to want to know what was going to happen to her and her boys...and she had to admit to herself that she did want to know. Additionally, she couldn't deny that Goewyn's fears of another destruction of Llanlleyn were well-founded. Richard had told her about the Norman raid on the original stronghold and she didn't doubt that Longsword would want to exact a similar revenge—and probably more dire—this time. Why should the innocent suffer the loss of their homes simply to assuage the wounded reputations of the combatants?

But the most compelling reason turned out to be her desire to repay Goewyn for the kindnesses the other woman had shown her, particularly after she'd learned the poor esteem in which Teleri was held. As in most small holdings, the women of Llanlleyn were a tight-knit group but Goewyn's warm example had admitted her without reservation. It was years since Olwen had been part of the larger population, and she hadn't realized how much she'd missed the camaraderie, the friendships and the gossiping of a group of women. She was by nature a friendly, generous person and despite the presence of two serving women and half a dozen male laborers, she'd often felt lonely in the relative isolation of her manor. She could almost wish to live forever in a place like Llanlleyn; perhaps, then, Richard's long absences would be easier to bear...

"Very well," she told Goewyn. "I'll ask him. But don't expect a miracle. Men can be very close-mouthed when it comes to their plans. If Dylan won't tell you anything, why would Rhirid tell me?"

"Because he's in love with you and trying to make you fall in love with him," Goewyn said matter-of-factly. "So if you ask him a question, he won't refuse to answer it because he wants to get on your good side."

Olwen opened her mouth to say that there was little chance of that happening but Goewyn looked so eager that she couldn't bring herself to dash her hopes. "Very well," she repeated instead. "How will it be arranged?"

"Don't you worry! I'll pass along a message through Dylan. Just keep yourself looking nice."

"We've got trouble."

Rhirid glanced up from his task, alarmed by Dylan's sudden materialization at his elbow and his grim pronouncement. "What trouble? Normans?"

"That wouldn't be trouble; that would be pleasure," Dylan snorted. "This is much more serious. Women."

"Ah..." Rhirid relaxed. "One woman in particular?"

Dylan nodded glumly. "She's up to something, Rhirid. She's been too nice to me these past few days. Do you know, she hasn't complained about Lady Teleri since the day before yesterday and last night she offered to rub my back when I mentioned it felt a little sore." He shivered. "I tell you, Rhirid, it's like when the birds stop chattering and everything is quiet in the forest. You look up and sure enough, there's a storm waiting to break."

Rhirid stepped away from the trench and adjusted his clothing. He grinned and slapped the other man's shoulder. "Or perhaps she's finally realized what a wonderful husband you are, Dylan."

"It isn't a joking matter, Rhirid!" Dylan retorted. He closed his eyes as he settled into position. "She's up to something; I know it. It's to do with that Olwen. They're very cozy."

"Olwen?" Rhirid asked sharply. "What about her?"

Dylan sighed as he finished relieving himself. He opened his eyes. "I don't know precisely. Goewyn said she's worrying about her future. Wants to know what's going to happen to her. I didn't like to say anything, Rhirid; I don't want Goewyn to know too much of my business. I need every advantage over her I can get, otherwise she'd be giving me endless instructions—making all my decisions—"

"I'm quite aware of your wife's efficient qualities, Dylan," Rhirid interrupted impatiently. "What else did she say about Olwen?"

Dylan gave him a curious look. "That was all. She wanted me to say something to the girl to ease her mind but I claimed I had no information to give her."

"Perhaps I should talk to her..." Rhirid frowned. "Have Goewyn bring her to me just before the evening meal." He turned to leave.

"Rhirid!" Dylan hurried after him. "Do you think that's a good idea? I mean, Goewyn has a knack of finding out what she wants to know even if I won't tell her. I'm sure she's up to something and—"

"Don't be ridiculous, Dylan! Of course it's only natural that Olwen's been wondering what's going on!" An amused expression suddenly crossed his face. "And even if Goewyn has some ulterior motive, what does it matter? She's hardly going to rush off to the Normans and tell them, is she?" The thought made him laugh out loud, and he was still laughing as he left Dylan, who stared after him with the sinking feeling that Goewyn had been right, after all.

When he saw her hesitate in his doorway, he caught his breath. The sun was low in the west and the chief's house had no windows, only a circle in the high roof over the fire pit, so the faint illumination in the main room beyond his quarters came from the torches around the perimeter of the hearth. Olwen stood framed by the soft yellow light; he couldn't see her face but she looked utterly beautiful. The light glowed around her. She shimmered and sparkled. If she hadn't spoken, he would have stared at her forever.

"Lord?"

He heard his voice greet her and invite her in but all the while his mind was racing, awash with a strong desire; he wanted to touch her, to kiss her, and wondered how that could be arranged; he wondered how soft her lips were, lips which looked so soft and red...he longed to put a hand on the back of her head and feel the richness of her long, dark hair...

He heard his voice speak glibly of Dylan and Goewyn and his understanding that she had expressed concern about her future but he wasn't really paying attention to his words. How could he when all he saw was her still, graceful figure standing quietly before him, her face and manner serious? When all he felt was the aura of self-reliance that surrounded her and the wall of distrust she'd put up between them?

He felt his mouth smile in an effort to thaw her out; he heard himself ask her teasingly if being at Llanlleyn were such a hardship, but it was the wrong thing to say; he knew it immediately by the way her mouth creased tightly shut and her glance dropped mutinously from his face to the floor, and he knew he ought to shake himself out of his gaping stupor but he couldn't, he couldn't...He was mesmerized by her presence...

He reassured her that no harm was intended to her or her sons, that everyone at Llanlleyn held her in great esteem but these words did not impress her. She looked impatient and, having run out of platitudes which weren't succeeding anyway, he begged her to speak her mind. For the first time, he saw a flicker of interest in her eyes; intelligent, dark eyes which fixed on his with steady purpose. She spoke.

He answered, heedless of his words. All he could think was how strong she appeared to be. He had never met a woman so strong in mind, unless he counted Dylan's wife but Goewyn had always seemed to him to be something other than male or female, some different being entirely...But Olwen was a woman and she was strong. He'd never once heard that she'd complained about Llanlleyn, unlike his other hostage, and she'd done much to incorporate herself into everyday life within the confines of its walls, unlike his other hostage. She watched him without fear, with no expression more favorable than neutral, while he sputtered on and on, having no idea if what he said pleased her or not.

When finally he had stopped, she thanked him gravely and asked if she might leave, politely apologetic for holding up his supper. She walked past him and it was only with great effort that he refrained from catching her waist and swinging her back towards himself. For an all-too-brief moment, she was so close! He closed his eyes, retaining the last image he'd had of her face...

"Lord?"

His eyes opened eagerly. She had paused in the doorway, in a posture exactly like that she'd assumed just before entering his room, with the torchlight making her hair glow.

"Would I be allowed to visit Lady Teleri?" she asked, and when he immediately assented—of course; she must go anywhere she chose; she could see whomever she pleased—she merely nodded, but as she turned away to leave, the light hit her face and he could see that she was smiling.

He stood rooted to the ground, stunned by the obvious pleasure such a small gift had given her, with a determination welling up in him that was greater than even his desire for war against the Normans: if there were one purpose in his life, it was to make her fall in love with him.

She was still smiling when she met Goewyn in the women's house. Without a word, she took little Henry from the other woman, sat down next to her and began to nurse him, humming underbreath. After a moment, her eyes crept up to meet Goewyn's puzzled expression, and she burst out laughing.

"Olwen! What happened? Why are you laughing?"

"You were right, you know," she said. "About Rhirid wanting to make a good impression. It's gratifying to know there's someone more interested in me than in a wall."

"Olwen, that doesn't make any sense—"

But Olwen had no desire to explain. Her demeanor sobered. "You were right about other things, as well," she said in a low voice. Most of the women had left for the feast house and the evening meal but there were always several stragglers and these had looked over when they'd heard her laughter. And there was Teleri, hidden behind her screens only a dozen paces or so away..."About Rhirid and Rhuddlan. He means to use Lady Teleri as bait to entice Lord William into a trap. He means to kill Lord William."

Goewyn paled. "Where? Where is he planning to do this?"

"Not here. I'm not sure, but he did say it wouldn't happen at Llanlleyn."

"Oh, what does it matter where—the king's wrath will fall on Rhirid anyway, and so on Llanlleyn!" Goewyn jumped up in agitation and began pacing. "We must do something! I will not be put out of my home twice! What else did he say?"

"Nothing more about Rhuddlan." Olwen bent her face to Henry's warm head to hide the smile which had begun to creep across it at the remembrance of Rhirid's other words. "Only about me. He told me not to worry, he won't allow any harm to come to me." She glanced up at the other woman. "Do you remember you told me that my abduction and Lady Teleri's were part of a bargain Rhirid struck with the earl of Chester? Well, Rhirid was supposed to send me to the earl..."

"What?" Goewyn sat down with an astonished thud. "Why?"

Olwen shrugged one shoulder. "I didn't ask. I didn't have much of a chance to speak, as Rhirid rambled on and on." But she suspected the answer had quite a bit to do with Bronwen.

"You said, supposed ..."

"He told me he won't do it." She wondered if he would remember even half of what he told her. He had spoken so earnestly and rampantly, almost as if he'd been afraid she would find him tiresome and turn around and leave him, that it had been impossible to feel anything but flattered. She could think of nothing she had done to inspire such adulation, but she was ashamed to admit she had enjoyed it...She shook herself. "Goewyn, you're right. We have to do something. Richard told me a great enmity exists between the earl of Chester and Lord William. If the earl is deeply involved with Rhirid, then it's not just a petty feud between Llanlleyn and Rhuddlan anymore—all of Gwynedd may be concerned."

Goewyn nodded. "We must ruin Rhirid's plan. But how?"

"By getting rid of the key element in it."

"Lady Teleri?" Goewyn cast a skeptical look in the direction of Teleri's screens. She whispered, "But according to Dylan she wanted to get out of Rhuddlan so badly, she begged Rhirid to burn it down. And she hates her husband; why would she want to help him avoid war with Rhirid?"

"Mostly, I think, for her uncle's sake. We must make her see that if the king comes to Gwynedd to settle this dispute, it might mean the prince will be forced from the throne because he can't control his people. Teleri wouldn't want that to happen." She lowered a sleepy Henry onto her lap and fixed her clothing. "She's unhappy here; Llanlleyn doesn't meet her expectations. I think she'll go back. The only question is how will we get her there?"

Chapter 39

May, 1177

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

The two soldiers galloped up to the small party, pulling their reins back with only inches to spare and causing their horses to prance fitfully. "It's there, my lord; just over that hill," one of them said breathlessly. "The land slopes down into a meadow. A single structure, undefended."

"Anybody about?" Longsword asked, pushing his helmet down tight over his coif.

The man hesitated, darting a quick glance at Richard Delamere's inscrutable expression. "Several children, my lord," he said.

"Right," Longsword nodded. "Let's go."

Delamere needed no further urging. With a sudden dig of his spurs, he leaped forward, ahead of Longsword and his companions.

Rhirid had committed a fatal error, Longsword thought as he followed his friend with slightly less speed. The Welsh chief had been lucky three times before: wounding him without reprisal, kidnapping Gwalaes' (would he ever be able to say her name without his stomach twisting painfully?) child without reprisal and, most recently, abducting his wife without reprisal, but he'd gone one step too far when he'd taken Olwen and her sons. Longsword had been quite prepared to give up Teleri—he'd practically wanted to give up living, anyway—but he'd been abruptly and violently shaken out of his doldrums when Delamere had raced into Rhuddlan with the heart-stopping news that his manor and its surrounding fields had been burned to the ground, his animals slaughtered, his laborers and servants forced to flee for their lives and his family taken away.

He had snapped to action then because at that moment Delamere meant more to him than anybody ever had, including Gwalaes. His lethargy evaporated and his self-pity was forgotten. He was outraged that Rhirid had dragged an innocent party into their feud. Delamere was out of his mind and practically unapproachable. He'd hurtled into the fortress, hollering for a fresh horse to be brought to him and, seeing his obvious agitation, fitz Maurice had gotten the story out of him. Longsword was called down and together the two men had tried to persuade Delamere from his intended action, which was to find Rhirid, but he would not listen to reason. No one had any idea where Rhirid was, Longsword argued, and the woods could be littered with Welshmen just waiting to ambush passing Normans.

Delamere had turned on him with a savage look. "If that's true, then it's your doing, William! Sitting on your backside for a week, feeling sorry for yourself and drinking yourself into a stupor—Rhirid could very well be up to our gate with his men, for all you're concerned about defense!" And then the stinger: "This never would have happened if we hadn't stopped fighting Llanlleyn! If you hadn't agreed to that ill-conceived peace!"

Longsword hadn't anything to say to that. There'd been nothing to do but call for his own horse and equipment and half a dozen men and go with Delamere.

They'd found nothing but shepherds' homesteads and seen nothing but sheep.

"He's disappeared and we'll never find him," Longsword said. "We must make him come to us. An accidental death and he showed up on our doorstep with a contingent of advisors; let's find out what the Welsh fine is for deliberate murder."

Their objective stood in the lee of a gentle hill, on a sweep of flat, green earth. The mild but wet winter had been kind to the land and a profusion of tiny white and purple blossoms decorated the hillside. Longsword and his men reined in behind Delamere, who had paused at the crest of the hill to gaze down at the low stone building with a door but no windows and a stable for the livestock at one end. Smoke drifted in a slow spiral upwards from the center of the roof, a small vegetable garden, protected by a brush wall from rooting animals, looked freshly planted and a pair of goats grazed lazily on a small patch of grass near the stable. Three small children played together in the bright sunlight, their laughs and squeals reaching to the men looking down on them.

It all happened very quickly. The sun glinted off one man's shield and caught the attention of the children, who gaped up at the knights and soldiers lining the hill and then ran shouting towards the house. A cloud passed before the sun; Longsword raised his sword to signal the attack and the horsemen rushed down the hillside, trampling everything in their paths.

Two men appeared in the doorway, armed only with heavy sticks, and were immediately cut down by flashing blades. The goats were chased and slaughtered; knights thundered out into the pastures, whooping and shouting, and hunted down the panicked, bleating sheep.

Longsword ordered the house burned. The Welshmen's bodies were dragged out of the way and the door broken down. The three children and two women emerged screaming and pleading. A pair of Longsword's men pushed them out of the way and entered the house. They smashed up the sparse interior with the joy of unruly adolescents and came out with hastily fashioned, flaming torches which they tossed up into the thatch roof.

Delamere sat on his horse and watched the proceedings with a cool eye. Longsword glanced uneasily at him once or twice, wondering why he didn't join in the destruction and get some of his frustration out of his system, but was too put off by his friend's detached demeanor to ask. He heard the women screech as they fell on the bodies of their husbands and saw Delamere grit his teeth in annoyance. The children, all young boys, hovered nearby, frightened and confused. One of them bent down and picked up a rock. With freak accuracy and surprising strength, he heaved it at the pair of Normans and it struck Delamere square on the shoulder. Delamere cursed and grabbed his reins and Longsword thought that this was it, but then the other man checked himself; he stared at the children for a long moment and then turned his mount's head in the opposite direction and trotted off.

The return to Rhuddlan was loud and triumphant. Longsword imagined that Rhirid could hear it wherever he was hiding. There was cause for celebration apart from the successful raid because the Normans believed that the old Longsword was back and they were delighted that after nearly a fortnight of inactivity, they were to finally be allowed to avenge Rhirid's assaults.

Richard Delamere disappeared within the fortress and did not surface at the wild and drunken revel which that night passed for supper. It didn't occur to Longsword until much later that perhaps his friend had gone back out, dissatisfied with the attack on an inconsequential holding and determined to flush out the Welsh chief. Suddenly anxious, he searched the barracks, the stables, the narrow corridors running among the outbuildings behind the keep in the hope that perhaps Delamere was finding solace in the arms of one of the Welsh servants; even the latrines, but with no luck. The guards at the front gate reported no one had gone out or come in since the marauders had returned and the one at the postern, newly placed since the debacle with the Welsh, also hadn't let anyone out, although Longsword wondered how true that statement was; the man had clearly been dozing when confronted.

But at last he found Delamere in the chapel, sitting alone with a skin of wine. The small light of the perpetual flame was the only illumination in the room and it took Longsword's eyes a while to adjust to the obscurity and a little longer to make out his friend's figure, sprawled on the ground between two rear benches.

He walked slowly to the back of the chapel until he was standing over him. "Are you all right?" was all he could think of to say.

Delamere didn't look up. He grunted.

"I've been looking for you. I didn't think this was the sort of place you'd visit voluntarily but I'd searched everywhere else."

Delamere sighed. He squinted at Longsword. "I came here because I thought it would be the one quiet place in this castle. I wanted to be alone."

"Oh...Should I leave?"

Delamere sighed again and pushed himself into a more upright position. "No." He held up the wineskin. "Drink?"

"Thanks." Longsword took a swallow and passed it back. He sat down on the nearest bench and cleared his throat, but remained otherwise silent.

"If you want conversation, I'll have to disappoint you," Delamere said. "I'm not very good company tonight."

"Well..." Longsword laughed awkwardly. "I feel I owe it to you. I wasn't good company myself the past few weeks..."

He could see his friend smile faintly. "After all these years, Will, I'm used to your moods..."

Longsword felt a vicious stab of emotion in his stomach. Delamere knew him better than anyone, had stood by his side and at his back since they'd been boys, had always counselled him wisely or prodded him mercilessly when he'd needed advice or a push, had hitched his future to his not because Longsword was the son of the king and certain to reap the wealth and prestige of such a position, but because he genuinely liked him—"I'll get her back for you, Richard; I swear it..." he asserted suddenly and vehemently.

Delamere smiled again. "Thanks, Will." He paused and added quietly, "The thing is, I've been wondering if she wants to come back."

"What do you mean? Of course she does—she's been kidnapped!"

"I was told that Rhirid's men came only for her. That she screamed and fought because she wouldn't leave the children and that when the men agreed the boys could go along, she calmed down and went without further fuss."

"But how can you imagine—"

"There are things you don't know, Will!" Delamere interrupted forcefully. "Olwen and I haven't been getting on lately. Since Henry was born. To put it plainly, she resents my time with you. She wants me at the manor most of the time and at Rhuddlan a short time, not the other way around as it is now."

"Oh..." Longsword asked tentatively, "What do you want?"

The growing silence wasn't a good sign, he thought, heart sinking. But then Delamere said, "I want both. I want to be here and I want to be there. I want to be with her the way she was when she was happy. I know she isn't happy now. She doesn't complain or nag but I know it, from her silence. She resents Rhuddlan and you and she's annoyed with me..." He shook his head slowly. "And I just don't know what to do about it."

Longsword didn't answer. Delamere raised the skin to his lips and drank. He passed it up to the other man and stared down to the darkened end of the bench. "When we were standing at the bottom of that hill, watching that house burn and the women scream and the animals being slaughtered and the garden trampled, all I could think was how horrified Olwen would be to know I had done something like that to innocent people. She would hate me for it."

Longsword wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "It's war, Richard," he said matter-of-factly. "It had to be done to flush out Rhirid. Besides, you didn't do anything—you just sat on your horse and watched."

"That means nothing and you know it, Will!" Delamere said sharply. He lowered his voice. "Don't you understand what I'm saying? It was us and them. Not getting along peacefully but one side murdering and burning and the other throwing rocks. And Olwen would see herself as them. She's Welsh, Will." He drew a deep breath and let it out unsteadily. "To tell you the truth, I think being unhappy with us—with me—she would jump at the opportunity to be with them—which is what she did when Rhirid came calling."

Although he had the utmost faith in his friend's power of logic, particularly in the instances where it involved women, Longsword thought Delamere sounded so bereft and hopeless that he felt bound to boost his confidence. "She'll be back," he said firmly. They were the same words he'd repeated to himself over and over those first few days after Gwalaes' departure.

Delamere looked at him, unconvinced. "Do you know what frightens me the most, Will? The thought of finally finding her—and hearing her say she'd rather stay where she was than come back to live with me."

Chapter 40

May, 1177

Hawarden Castle, Gwynedd

Roger of Haworth stared after Ralph de Vire with narrowed eyes. He didn't like this latest addition to the earl's entourage, who had shown up on the doorstep a fortnight ago with a dramatic tale of being unceremoniously cast out of the Bastard's service. At first Haworth had been as eager as Hugh to welcome the young man because the story he brought with him was proof that the plot Hugh and the Welsh chief Rhirid ap Maelgwn had concocted had actually succeeded but the allure quickly wore off when Haworth began to wonder at the length of time de Vire spent with the earl. In his opinion, it was excessive.

Haworth, unimaginative at the best of times, started to complain about de Vire to Hugh and then tried to insinuate that the Bastard had devised a counter-plot which involved sending de Vire to the earl with a bogus story about Lady Teleri's abduction. Hugh's initial response had been amusement but as the days passed and Haworth's complaints and allegations grew more strident, he became testy and finally snapped at his captain to get off that tired subject. Haworth was offended and withdrew into a surly silence but if his intention had been to shame Hugh into an apology, it did not succeed. Instead, Haworth's absences seemed to give the earl an excuse to be with Ralph de Vire.

Haworth had been slow to see betrayal in the Robert Bolsover affair and since then he'd kept his eyes wide open. If Hugh so much as looked twice at a brawny laborer on the castle walls or a handsome man-at-arms, Haworth immediately found a way to put the former to work clearing a road in the forest and to send the latter to another one of the earl's properties. He wondered once if he was overreacting because Hugh never appeared to notice the sudden absences of the men he'd admired, but reassured himself with the thought that it was better to be safe than to be sorry. He had lost Hugh once before and the result had been disastrous to the earl's health. He had sworn not to lose him a second time.

It seemed that this personal oath was about to be tested. Aside from his pale, blonde looks to which the earl was annoyingly vulnerable, de Vire had one edge over Haworth in the battle for Hugh's affections and that was in the matter of the Bastard. In de Vire, Hugh discovered a person with as large a grudge against the Bastard as himself. He told Haworth that de Vire was providing him with details of Longsword's management of Rhuddlan; his security precautions and the like. When Haworth questioned the need for this information—"It's not likely that we're planning to storm the gates of the castle, is it?" he asked with an unaccustomed touch of sarcasm—Hugh retorted angrily that such an attitude was undesirable in the person who was responsible for his army.

Haworth believed that his master had never quite forgiven him for trying to dissuade him from a plan of vengeance against the Bastard upon their return from Rhuddlan. Indeed, despite the apparent success of the plan, Haworth was still far more interested in expanding Hugh's influence in southern Gwynedd than in hounding the king's son into war. Yet Hugh was like a dog worrying a bone: he could not stop thinking about the Bastard. And now they were waiting for the Welshman to send them the whore of Richard Delamere because Hugh had the strange idea that he would be justified before the king in this abduction. If the Bastard chose to retaliate on his friend's behalf (as Hugh hoped), then Hugh would be well within his rights in defending himself. And this time, unlike Dol, Hugh intended to win.

"There you are!"

An arm landed around Haworth's neck. He turned his head away from de Vire's retreating figure and smiled at Hugh. "My lord."

"Beautiful day, isn't it, Roger?" The earl sounded happy and relaxed.

Haworth glanced up, surprised. He rarely noticed the weather. But it was true: the midmorning sun was high and bright in a clear sky and the air was pleasantly warm. Then he looked down into the bailey and immediately spotted Ralph de Vire's shining head among the crowd of people there, and his pleasure at seeing Hugh and feeling the weight of his arm on his shoulder vanished.

"Good weather means only one thing, my lord," he said stiffly. "Good traveling—and we're not going anywhere."

Hugh's arm slipped away. "Good hunting, I suppose you mean," he said in a displeased voice. "Do you never think of anything other than Gruffudd?"

"I'm interested only in your good fortune, my lord."

"Well, you'll be sympathetic to my appeal, then. I'm asking you not to come to my chambers tonight, Roger. I'm having Eleanor brought down. And perhaps in nine months, I'll reap some of that good fortune."

"All night, my lord? Surely it won't take—"

"I can't say how long it will take, Roger!" Hugh snapped. "That's why it's better if you make other arrangements tonight."

Haworth struggled to maintain his composure. Since their return from Rhuddlan, he'd spent every night with Hugh—he'd even had the oak chest which contained all his worldly goods moved into Hugh's bedchamber—and now he felt slighted. But he knew the earl needed a male heir and he supposed Hugh might as well get it over with as soon as was possible. "Of course, my lord," he answered finally, with a small bow.

Hugh grinned and slapped his back. He seemed to have forgotten Haworth's unfortunate reference to Gruffudd and querulous question and was once again in a highly genial mood. "I knew you'd understand, Roger! It's just something that's got to be done, isn't it?" He gave Haworth an uncharacteristic wink. "Be thankful it's not you who's got to do it!"

He walked away, leaving Haworth to stare after him in puzzlement. For someone contemplating such an undesirable task, the earl was certainly in high spirits. Haworth was almost jealous of Eleanor. Not for a moment did he imagine that he inspired a similar mood in his lover, although it was his most fervent wish. Hugh was unfailingly considerate but Haworth knew the blaze of emotion which had marked their early relationship was now nearly extinguished, despite his strenuous efforts to breathe life into it. He blamed Robert Bolsover; Hugh may have expressed an interest in other men every now and again but nothing had ever come of it and they were all forgotten within days but his affair with Robert Bolsover seemed to have given him a restless spirit. Haworth didn't think he was merely being overly suspicious; he felt strongly that Hugh was bored with him and yearned for someone else. Perversely, the idea made him cling all the more to the earl but it was a desperate clutch and he quite often heard the impatience in Hugh's voice or saw the disdain in his eyes.

Robert Bolsover—it was his fault, Haworth thought angrily as he returned to the wall and his study of the back of Ralph de Vire's golden head. Robert Bolsover—five years dead and still coming between him and the earl.

"What's wrong?"

"What did you tell him?"

"Sir Roger?" Hugh laughed. "That I was spending the night with my wife. Why are you so nervous? If anyone sees you enter my chamber and if Sir Roger asks me about it, I will tell him that you were the one I sent to fetch Eleanor. So? Nothing to be nervous about."

Ralph de Vire looked unconvinced. "I was there when he fought Alan d'Arques, my lord. I don't think I'd last half as long."

Hugh poured out two cups of wine. "You're too modest, Sir Ralph," he said, handing one to the other man. "Besides, Roger is my creature. He may look fierce, he may growl, but he loves me beyond comprehension and if I tell him it's for his own good that he believes I sent you to fetch my wife, he will believe it. The last thing he wants to do is provoke an argument which might end in his dismissal from my service."

As he spoke, he watched de Vire and his heart began throbbing in his chest. The younger man was so much like Robert Bolsover in appearance it was uncanny—and thrilling.

He watched de Vire and knew, despite Haworth's gloomy opinion, that his decision to revenge himself upon the Bastard had been right. The proof he had was standing before him. De Vire was like a gift from heaven, as close a physical reincarnation of Robert Bolsover as he could ever hope to find, and the direct result of his and Rhirid's plan to snatch away the Bastard's wife. After all, he reasoned, if revenge wasn't right, then the plan would have failed.

Hugh had received precious few gifts in his life. He meant to enjoy this one to the fullest.

He raised his cup to de Vire and smiled at him. "Drink up!"

Chapter 41

May, 1177

Llanlleyn, Gwynedd

Olwen watched Goewyn pace the small confines of Teleri's room with increasing agitation. She was highly distressed. Little Henry reacted to the tension by squirming in Teleri's arms. His face screwed up in preparation, Olwen knew, for a loud howl. She couldn't blame him; she felt like howling, too. She looked at Teleri, who looked back at her with upraised eyebrows.

"He's about to cry," Olwen said in a low voice. "Do you want me to take him?"

Teleri shook her head. She picked up the baby, smiled into his face and jiggled him playfully.

"These men are nothing but animals!" Goewyn burst out suddenly. She stopped pacing to address them, her normally capable demeanor replaced with a wild, frazzled expression which worried Olwen.

"You'll get no argument from me," Teleri agreed mildly. "But, to be fair, the fault lies not only with the Normans. Rhirid provoked this. Lord William is just reacting to it in his usual, bull-headed fashion."

Goewyn stared at her, turning red with anger. "Rhirid may have burned a few fields but he never murdered anyone! Your husband has just attacked his third holding! God alone knows how many innocent people he's killed this time! Why is he doing it?"

Teleri shrugged with apparent disinterest and made a funny face for Henry.

"You don't care, do you?" Goewyn demanded, stepping closer to Teleri. "Lord William may destroy our people—your people, too, I might add!—but all that matters to you is getting to the Perfeddwlad!"

Teleri's diversions failed. Henry, frightened by the shouting, started wailing. "Oh, look what you've done!" she scolded. "Really, Goewyn, can't you see? The sooner we get to the Perfeddwlad, the sooner my uncle can put a stop to this war. Or isn't that what you want?"

"I want the war ended but I don't want the prince involved," the other woman retorted. "For reasons that should be obvious even to you, Dafydd will be on Lord William's side, so any settlement will only hurt Rhirid and Llanlleyn. It would be better if you go back to Rhuddlan and not involve the prince!"

With a noise of disgust, Teleri handed the baby back to Olwen and stood up to face Goewyn. "I am not going to Rhuddlan. There's no debating that point so you might as well accept it! As for my uncle favoring Lord William—he has yet to hear the tale I have to tell him."

"Can't you two stop fighting?" Olwen pleaded. "Lady Teleri won't get anywhere if we don't stop arguing and start making plans."

Goewyn and Teleri stared malevolently at each other for a little while longer, and then Teleri returned abruptly to her seat and Goewyn said in a more subdued voice, "Dylan told me they're riding out at dawn to retaliate against this latest attack. He said they don't expect to be gone long—they might not even be out overnight. But I think their absence is our best chance to sneak Lady Teleri out of Llanlleyn without anyone noticing."

"Tomorrow!" Teleri exclaimed. "That gives us little time. Olwen, can you be ready?"

Olwen and Goewyn exchanged a glance. "I'm not going, Lady Teleri. That was never part of the plan. I can't travel quickly with two small children," Olwen said.

"Besides, Lady Teleri," Goewyn added with a malicious gleam, "Rhirid will notice immediately if Olwen isn't here to greet him upon his return."

Surprise flitted briefly across Teleri's face but to Goewyn's disappointment, she recovered smoothly. "Is that so? It doesn't matter. But tomorrow morning! I'm not sure..."

"Lady Teleri, what have you got to do?" Goewyn asked in exasperation. She felt the anger pulse again, giving her a headache. "You're only taking yourself! There's nothing you must prepare!"

"I'd like to interview the man who's escorting me to the Perfeddwlad," Teleri said blandly. "I want to make sure he knows the way and won't accidently drop me at Rhuddlan."

"Are you calling me a liar?" Goewyn demanded furiously. "I disagree with you but if you insist on going to the Perfeddwlad then that's where you'll go! And good riddance to you!" Without giving Teleri an opportunity to reply, she turned to Olwen. "I have to see to the evening meal. Could you please persuade Lady Teleri she must leave tomorrow morning?" With a last glare at Teleri, she whirled around and left the room.

"That poor man..." Teleri murmured, watching her go.

"I think it's the better plan to go to the prince," Olwen ventured.

"Of course it is! If I turned up at Rhuddlan, my beloved husband would probably have me murdered! He would never believe I was abducted against my will."

"We've promised your escort that the prince will reward him generously..."

"I swear to you, Olwen, if this man gets me safely to the Perfeddwlad, I will reward him generously. He'll never want to come back to this mud-spattered place."

Olwen seriously doubted he'd be able to..."Lady Teleri," she asked hesitantly, "do you think you'll be ready tomorrow?"

"I would leave now if I could! That woman has done her utmost to make my life here a misery and the others aren't any kinder."

Olwen rocked the baby in her arms, his wailing reduced to small squeaks and murmurs. "I told you the reason for that," she said. "They're afraid your presence will draw Lord William to Llanlleyn. Look what he's done already."

"What about you?"

"Me?"

"Well, you're a hostage, too, aren't you? And Sir Richard is Lord William's closest friend. What makes everyone think all this isn't for your benefit?"

"For me?" Olwen laughed. "I'm not important enough."

"Not even to Sir Richard?"

The grin on Olwen's face died. She looked down at her baby and did not respond.

"But apparently to Lord Rhirid..." Teleri added slyly. "Is he the real reason you won't come with me?"

"I told you the reason," Olwen said firmly. "I can't travel. Henry's nursing and William still has nightmares about being snatched away from his home. We'll stay where we are for the moment."

Teleri shrugged indifferently. "Very well."

After Olwen left her, she threw off her nonchalant façade and started shaking with impotent anger. She was mortified, mortified, that Goewyn should have insinuated that in the battle for Rhirid's regard, she was the loser! Dylan must have found her interest in the chief to be beyond merely curious and commented on it to his wife. She was mortified that Goewyn should even imagine she had a reason to be jealous of Olwen.

As she was—but she didn't anyone to know it. Her only relief was the realization that at this same time tomorrow, she'd be far away from Llanlleyn and the gossiping would be out of earshot.

Olwen had spoken of nightmares. Teleri would have sworn she was living one. Far from being her hero, Rhirid had turned out to be just a petty Welsh chief administering a petty Welsh commote. And to add insult to injury, he wanted nothing to do with her because he was in love with Olwen! It was the low point of several years of bad luck—dating from her unfortunate marriage—and it was the last straw. She was going back to her uncle's court and she would not budge from it unless God Himself came down from Heaven with a divine command.

"It looks like rain," Teleri said, her head tilted up towards the cloudy sky.

"You don't want to change your mind about leaving over a little bad weather, do you?" Goewyn said.

"Of course not! I just hate getting wet. Fortunately I'm not wearing anything that might spoil."

Goewyn, who had given her the plain dress to wear in place of her own, which they'd all agreed attracted too much attention, frowned at the insult but bit her tongue. She refused to be drawn into an argument; she didn't want to do or say anything that could result in Teleri perversely deciding to change her mind about leaving.

"Cover your head with this," she instructed, handing Teleri a large square of brown linen. "It's clean!" she added sharply, after she saw the other woman eye it doubtfully.

Teleri put it over her hair, crisscrossed the hanging ends across her chest and threw them back over either shoulder. Goewyn studied her critically and reached forward to pull the front of the hood a little lower down on her forehead.

"Where's Olwen?" Teleri asked.

"She's got to see Rhirid off, hasn't she?" Goewyn answered. "I told you before: he'll notice if she isn't around."

Teleri said innocently, "And Dylan won't notice if you're not around?"

Goewyn gritted her teeth. "Olwen will be here when it's safe for us to leave."

Teleri wasn't sure if she liked the look of the man who was to escort her to the Perfeddwlad. He was slight and non-descript and he stared at her with a strange, unblinking gaze. Once or twice, as Goewyn gave him instructions, he started to cough, a heavy, rumbling noise which turned Teleri's stomach, and then, without warning, swiveled his head and spat out the by-product. The first time it happened, Teleri shot Goewyn a horrified look but the other woman appeared not to have noticed, or perhaps she was merely accustomed to his habits.

The sight of the horse she and this man were to share on the journey was even more discouraging. An old, placid grey mare, most likely the smallest beast in Rhirid's stable, Teleri wondered if it could successfully complete the trip, let alone support their combined weight.

"She's sturdier than she looks, lady," growled the man, noticing her apprehensive glance.

Teleri had no choice but to believe him. And to trust him.

Goewyn had explained that the man had been one of a few to favor Rhirid's cousin. After the cousin had been summarily deposed, his supporters were shunned by the new chief and not permitted to join in any of his activities. "Rhirid was never so vindictive before the Normans," Goewyn had told her, but it was to their advantage because the man wanted to get out of Llanlleyn just as badly as Teleri.

Still, it was reassuring to feel the unfamiliar weight of a dagger at her hip, hidden beneath her cloak, and to know she wasn't completely at this stranger's mercy. Olwen had given it to her; it had been a gift of protection from Richard Delamere after the earl of Chester's men had taken Gwalaes' child. "It didn't work, did it?" Olwen had laughed. "I mean, when Rhirid's men came to the manor..." But Teleri believed she would be able to use it if she had to.

Finally, Olwen appeared. She was breathless, as if she'd been running, and without her children. She told them the direction Rhirid's army had gone and how long ago it had departed. Goewyn looked expectantly at Teleri and the latter, who was finding a great deal of sport in provoking her, couldn't resist inquiring why she had to leave after all. "If Lord Rhirid is answering this last attack by the Normans now, then he must have decided against using me in his scheme for revenge."

She was rewarded with a gasp from Goewyn. "No, no, no," the woman said hurriedly. "He's only going out to make mischief in the land around Rhuddlan. Slaughtering livestock, burning crofts...He won't even be seeing Lord William. You've still got to go!"

And so she went. Her escort smelled horrible and their mount's pace was so slow she sourly imagined that she could make better time if she walked. The man had estimated three days for the journey; she had no idea but a general direction where the Perfeddwlad was, yet she believed he was being generous. Still, she bit her tongue and kept all negative comments to herself. She was going home—how could she possibly complain?

It was after midday when she started to think that perhaps something was wrong. The one thing she did know—that the Perfeddwlad lay to the west of both Llanlleyn and Rhuddlan—seemed out of line with the direction in which they were traveling. She wondered if the man had been so eager to leave Llanlleyn that he'd exaggerated his familiarity with the way...

"I don't think this is right," she said to him.

He didn't turn his head. "What? I can't hear you."

"I said, I don't think this is the right way to go," she repeated, with more force.

To her disgust, he began coughing. The fit lasted quite a long time and she cringed behind him, praying no flecks of spittle flew back into her face. Finally, it ended—with a large splat onto the gound.

"Didn't you hear me?" she demanded, when it appeared he would not speak. "I just told you this isn't the right way!"

He twisted his head around. "Of course it is. We'll be there in no time. Just sit tight."

But there was a strange, nagging voice in the back of her mind which insisted he was wrong. In fact, the whole situation suddenly felt wrong. Her previous suspicions multiplied. She began to imagine that Goewyn, Olwen and this man had concocted a plot to lead her in a circle back to Llanlleyn, for a laugh. The people of Llanlleyn didn't like her; this was a plot to humiliate her for their amusement...

She dismissed the idea; it was a lot of trouble for one laugh and, after all, there was the very real possibility that she might truly seek to escape.

Well, she thought...if not to the Perfeddwlad and if not back to Llanlleyn, then there was only one other destination and that was Rhuddlan. Despite her insistence to the contrary, Goewyn had betrayed her and had directed the man to return her to Longsword. Teleri was enraged. To see her husband again under such circumstances would be the worse humiliation.

She made a sudden decision. Her legs were relatively unencumbered because the skirt of her gown was hiked up to her knees so that she could sit astride. And the horse's dull plod made it a simple matter to put her left leg across its rump, let go of the guide's tunic and slide to the ground with only a slight jar.

"What are you doing?" the man demanded, immediately jerking back on the reins and bringing the horse to a stop.

"I told that woman I was not going back to Rhuddlan and I meant it!" Teleri retorted. "I'll find my own way to my uncle and I don't mind telling you that he'll be extremely angry to learn what happened here!"

"Lady, please! I'm not taking you to Rhuddlan! If this path looks unfamiliar to you, it's only because it's a seldom used route. I figured we had less of a chance of running into Lord Rhirid or Lord William if we went this way."

She hesitated only briefly. She didn't trust this man; there was a prickling at the back of her neck which even made her fear him. She put one hand down to her dagger and felt somewhat calmer. She began to back away from him slowly but steadily, her eyes locked on his, her heart beating furiously. She did not reply.

As she watched, his face changed expression and she knew then she was right to be apprehensive. The dull-witted, wheedling look vanished and was replaced with desperate determination. When he dismounted, she whirled around and started running.

She had never been so frightened in her life. She imagined the man would kill her if he caught her. But she didn't know how to evade him. All she could do was flee down the same path they'd just traveled up: a narrow, worn trail barely large enough for a cart. Outstretched branches caught at her billowing cloak and skirt and slowed her pace; the shawl over her head slipped further down and blinded her momentarily until she could push it up past her eyes. She ran without thinking, without a plan. She could hear the man's rushing footfalls behind her, the sound growing louder and louder; she forced her feet to move faster but she was unused to the strenuous exercise, her shoes were thin and had no grip on the packed, sometimes stony, earth and she could not get enough air into her lungs. She flagged, stumbled over a tree root and fought to regain her balance but it availed her nothing. She shrieked when the man grabbed her arm and forced her to stop; she struggled and twisted in his grip, too frightened now to make anything other than involuntary whimpers; she tugged and pulled but could not get her arm out of his grasp...suddenly, she remembered the dagger and reached down for it with her free hand, fumbling with the cloak that blocked access to her gown and the cord around her waist to which the dagger was fixed, all the time pulling and twisting away from him, no longer paying attention to him...when all at once she felt a sharp, blinding pain explode on the left side of her face and everything went black...

...She woke up gradually, groggily, but remembered what had happened immediately. She had a tremendous headache and couldn't focus her thoughts but she remembered it in bursts of images. She was back on the horse, bouncing up and down uncomfortably; the horse was moving faster than it had done previously; she was once again astride it—but this time she sat in front of the man and it was his arm that snaked around her waist and held her so firmly she could scarcely take a breath.

"Awake, are you?" she heard his harsh voice demand. She didn't answer; she was too frightened to speak. In all her pampered life a rough hand had never grabbed her, threats had never been made against her and she had certainly never been struck. She was dazed and overwhelmed by events and the possiblilities of what lay ahead.

"There's been a change of plan," he continued. "I've decided against going to the Perfeddwlad. I don't know anybody there. But you needn't fear I'm taking you to Rhuddlan because I've no wish to be skewered on the point of your husband's sword. If you'd been paying the least bit of attention when Rhirid's whore was talking, you'd have noticed that we're traveling in the same direction she said Rhirid had gone. I figure Rhirid will be very grateful to learn what that bitch Goewyn's been up to. Grateful enough to forgive me and let me back into his circle. That's all the reward I need. There's nothing the prince could give me—" His breath caught on the phlegm in his throat and he started coughing violently. From a vague distance inside her head, Teleri worried that spittle would land in her hair, because she knew she had lost the square of brown cloth. He tightened his grip on her waist with each successive spasm so that her body was shaken as much as his. At length the fit ended with the now-familiar splat onto the ground. He removed his arm from her waist in order to wipe his sleeve across his mouth but it was a fleeting respite and the arm was immediately returned to its lodging place. "I don't know who Goewyn thinks she is to make decisions for Rhirid," he said, his voice no longer harsh but plaintive. "It's no secret she runs Dylan's life but that's his problem. Taking it upon herself to get rid of you affects all of us. I wouldn't be surprised if Rhirid casts her out of Llanlleyn, and Dylan behind her..."

He rambled on but Teleri ceased listening. She was sleepy and couldn't stay focused on the meaning of his endless words. She fought desperately to stay awake because if she were about to meet Rhirid again she didn't want to seem dazed, but it was difficult. Her head sagged downwards and the only thing in her field of vision was the mesmerizing blur of passing ground.

The first splash of rain slightly revived her; cold, fine droplets. She was glad of the rain: she wanted to be as uncomfortable as possible, to feel as sorry for herself as she could. She hoped it was a long, steady storm and not merely a shower. She raised her head and closed her eye and the cool water on her face seemed to restore her equilibrium. And then something happened which banished all her tiredness.

She heard her captor's sudden intake of air and felt his body tense. Again, the arm tightened around her waist. She opened her eye and saw on the path ahead of them a trio of horsemen who were decidedly not Welsh, but Norman. Elation jolted through her, making her stomach lurch and her heart pound. Rhuddlan wasn't as agreeable as the Perfeddwlad but at this point it was more welcome than Llanlleyn.

The Welshman jerked on the reins and the horse stopped. For an instant, he and the Normans stared at each other, neither side moving; then one of the Norman horses lifted a foreleg and pawed the ground like a bull preparing to charge and the Welshman sprang into action. He pushed Teleri away from him and pulled the horse's head around in one fluid motion, and fled back down the path.

Teleri hit the ground hard and fast, landing on her shoulder with such force that the wind was knocked out of her and for a horrifying moment she couldn't breathe. But she was sufficiently aware to realize that the knights were going to chase after the Welshman and so, gathering all her strength, she rolled herself off the path and into a cluster of thin, scraggly bushes. A snap of the fingers later and the Normans came charging.

They thundered past with shouts and whistles, paying her no attention, intent on their quarry ahead. Teleri opened her mouth and to her relief was able to gasp the moist air without pain. She raised herself until she was half-sitting, half-kneeling, her arms propping her up. She looked down the path. The Welshman never had a chance. The distance between him and the Normans wasn't enough to make his capture debatable, and the latter were upon him almost instantly, forcing him to stop. One of the men took his reins and another began talking to him. Teleri couldn't hear the words but she was surprised because she didn't remember anyone other than Richard Delamere capable of speaking Welsh and it was obvious the man understood what was being said to him because he calmed down, nodded several times and then responded.

And then he pointed at her.

The three Normans turned in their saddles and looked at her. Although only a moment before she had had trouble breathing, now her breath came rapidly. She felt strangely lightheaded. She didn't recognize them; their faces were obscured by the protective nasals which came down from their helmets and they were dressed in undistinctive battle gear. They stared at her and spoke among themselves, discussing her for so long that she forgot her apprehension and grew irritated. Did they intend to keep her sitting in mud for the entire afternoon?

Finally, one of them kicked his horse and came down the road towards her. She decided to get to her feet and salvage a bit of her dignity, and slowly pushed herself upright. Her head swam and her stomach felt sick. She squeezed her eyes shut and the dizziness drained away. When she opened them, the knight was standing only several feet away. She still didn't recognize him but she'd never paid much attention to every one of her husband's men. She was a little puzzled when he asked if she were indeed Lady Teleri of Rhuddlan but even as she retorted sharply she flushed with embarrassment, realizing she must have looked a mess, disheveled from travel and the rain, dressed in a cast off gown and nondescript cloak, hair hanging down untidily in dripping snarls...small wonder he had to ask!

It wasn't until he'd politely instructed her to put a foot into his stirrup and take his hand so that he could hoist her onto the back of his horse and this had been accomplished that her suspicion grew. As they rode back to the others waiting down the road, she realized that he'd spoken to her in Welsh.

Richard Delamere ran as fast as he could in his bulky, heavy hauberk, up the short incline to where Longsword sat on his horse and watched the activity in the meadow with an increasing frown. "My lord! Change of plan!" he shouted.

"What the hell is going on down there?" Longsword demanded.

"The slope is slippery from the rain," Delamere said, hands on his knees, breathing heavily. "Several of the horses couldn't control their footing. What are the Welsh doing?"

"Turning back! They saw the commotion."

"They know we're here..."

Longsword nodded grimly. "We've got to go now. We can't let them get to the woods." He took up his reins. "Don't just stand there, Richard!" he snapped and kicked his horse forward, shouting orders to his men both mounted and on-foot. By the time Delamere managed to hoist himself into his saddle, most of the army was halfway down the hill, with Longsword at its helm.

It was pure luck which had led the Normans to Rhirid. Scouts had spied the Llanlleyn party as it came out of the hills and proceeded onto the knobby vale, headed in their direction. Longsword could not have hoped for a better meeting; the Welsh would be forced to fight a Norman-style battle, on open land. All the advantages would fall to him. His men were organized and efficient and worked as a group, unlike the Welsh who were used to fighting helter-skelter, with quick strikes and sudden retreats. And while the Welsh preferred to fight on foot, the Normans' power relied heavily on the combined strength of a knight and his horse. A charging line of mounted knights with their spears held horizontally was almost invincible. But only on open ground. Longsword and his men had remained hidden to ensure that Rhirid would cross enough of the meadow to make a bloodless retreat impossible.

But several Norman horses, unable to keep their footing on a steeper part of the rocky hill, had put that scenario in jeopardy. The Welsh saw no shame in prudent withdrawal and Longsword could see that they were already turning around. His archers would never be able to catch up and he shouted for them to stop and take up positions on the near side of the stream. The only way to rescue the situation, he thought, was to somehow get behind the Welsh, force them to turn again and drive them into his archers.

But he and his knights would need great speed to get behind Rhirid and on the treacherously rain-saturated grass and bumpy and stony ground, speed was an impossibility. To sacrifice their horses would gain them nothing and probably cost them their lives. His sole consolation was the knowledge that the Welsh were as much at the mercy of the weather and terrain as he was.

He splashed across the shallow stream, followed immediately by a dozen of his better mounted soldiers. And there, behind the tufts of overgrown vegetation that invariably springs up alongside water, the Welsh were waiting.

There was only a handful of them, but they were archers and they greeted the Normans with a hail of arrows shot at close range. They aimed for the horses; the larger targets and half of the knights' effectiveness. Longsword, bounding past them first, escaped unscathed, but he heard the screams of one or two beasts and the shouts of fallen men. There was no time to stop.

It was a trick, the best that Rhirid could salvage of the situation. Once he had seen the Normans charge out of the forest, he'd sent some of his men back the way they'd come to give the illusion of flight, but the rest he'd deployed in groups behind whatever shelter they could find. Another man might have given Rhirid a grudging respect for having so completely fooled him, but not Longsword. He didn't respect trickery, no matter how clever, only skill and bravery in an open contest.

"Will!"

He barely heard Delamere's shout through the confusing haze of noises in his head, the shrieking horses, the pounding of his own mount's hooves, his rapid, steady breathing and the wind echoing inside his coif, but he knew his friend wanted him to slow down and wait to be joined by more of his men. But his blood was up and he did not want to lose his momentum. And just before him, not a hundred yards away, he had seen Welsh who were stopped and facing him. Waiting for him.

Longsword didn't quite remember what Rhirid ap Maelgwn looked like, but he knew instinctively that it was the Welsh chief who stood at the front of the group. Without answering Delamere, he lowered his sword and spurred his horse onward.

Rhirid watched Longsword rush towards him. One of his companions raised a bow, fitted with an arrow, but Rhirid snapped at him to aim elsewhere. The Norman bastard was his quarry alone.

He pressed his knees into the flanks of his horse. He didn't relish the idea of fighting from horseback but if he was to die, he didn't want to be remembered as having waited for death to come to him. In his right hand he held the reins, in his left he gripped his sword. It was his bloodcurdling roar as he moved to meet Longsword that caught Richard Delamere's attention.

Longsword was standing in his stirrups, leaning forward and holding his weapon out as if it were a spear. Rhirid's sword was up and out. At the last moment, Rhirid jerked on the reins and forced his horse to swerve to the right. Longsword's sword met air and as the wild-eyed warhorse thundered past him, Rhirid cut viciously down at his opponent's back with the butt of his own sword. Longsword felt the wind go out of his lungs and forced himself to relax until he could breathe again. He hadn't realized the Welsh chief was left-handed; he wouldn't give Rhirid a second opening like that.

Now the two men were each in dangerous territory, having exchanged positions. Rhirid was between the Normans and Longsword; Longsword was between the Welsh and Rhirid. Delamere had rushed forward upon hearing Rhirid's war cry. The Welsh shouted out to their chief; Rhirid looked over his shoulder and saw Delamere bearing down on him. He barely had time to react. Delamere pulled up just short of the Welshman, sword flailing wildly. Rhirid blocked the swipes, but his horse was intimidated by the Norman's snorting, prancing stallion and backed nervously away. Delamere pressed his advantage, urging his mount closer and closer, propelling the Welsh horse backwards. Rhirid pulled hard on the reins but his horse wasn't bred, as were the Norman mounts, for steadfastness under the duress of warfare. The animal was too terrified to heed any of Rhirid's exhortations.

It was Longsword who saved him. He had recovered from Rhirid's blow and had pulled his horse around. His back was to the Welsh but he paid them no attention. Rhirid ap Maelgwn was the only enemy he wanted.

He shouted to Delamere to leave the chief and reluctantly Delamere obeyed. Rhirid patted his horse's neck reassuringly. Then, without warning, he kicked the animal hard and it jumped forward, straight at Longsword.

The rain, which earlier had been light, suddenly flung itself down in loud, fat drops. It splattered into the men's faces and obscured their vision. It adversely affected the aim of the Welsh archers. The unhorsed knights rushed them, hacking at both men and greenery with their swords.

Further on, Rhirid charged, shouting at the top of his lungs, cursing Longsword with Welsh invectives. The Norman urged his mount to meet him, this time holding his sword close. He barely heard Rhirid's roaring because the thrill of finally being able to exact his revenge caused the blood to pound loudly in his ears. He saw nothing but the Welsh chief bearing down on him in deadly earnest. He didn't look at Rhirid's face, only the man's left arm, which held his weapon, and his chest, which he planned to run through with his own sword.

This time, the horses did not pass each other. At the last possible moment, Longsword nudged his horse left with his knees. The heavy animal crashed into Rhirid's smaller mount.

Rhirid knew his horse would fall. With admirable dexterity, he managed to extricate his feet from his stirrups and as the beast beneath him tottered and fought for its balance, he gave himself a mighty heave and flew straight onto a totally unsuspecting Longsword.

Like his horse, Longsword was bigger and heavier than his adversary and should have been easily able to knock Rhirid away, but the Welshman's unexpected move caught him off guard and while his mind sifted through possible reactions the decision was made for him. With determination and with gravity on his side, Rhirid managed to pull Longsword off his horse. The two men tumbled onto the slippery grass.

The Norman had lost his weapon. Luckily, he had landed on top of Rhirid so the Welshman was unable to get his own sword up for an attack. Longsword spied the sword on the ground, a yard or two away and scrambled towards it. The rain was a hindrance; his boots slid on the mud and water coursed off his helmet and into his eyes. As his fingers closed on the hilt of the sword, he heard Rhirid coming up from behind. Still prone, he rolled onto his back and slashed sideways in a wide, crazy arc. Steel met steel with a harsh clash.

For the moment, Rhirid had the advantage. He stood over Longsword and played the aggressor, never letting up his onslaught of blows. He jabbed and swung and cut at Longsword, who could do nothing from his position on the ground but defend himself. Having felt all along that he was the injured party in their feud, Longsword found himself startled that the Welsh chief was being so relentless and so desperate in his attack.

But Rhirid's advantage didn't last long. Collecting himself, Longsword blocked a blow and then brought his leg up and jammed his muddy boot square into Rhirid's chest. The Welshman went flying backwards and in that instant, Longsword clambered to his feet. He strode purposefully towards Rhirid, who was sitting on the ground, gasping for breath.

Rhirid's chest heaved painfully. The rain was still steady and loud; the shouts and screams of the men fighting surrounded him, although he heard everything as if it were happening very far away.

He looked up and saw Longsword coming at him. He tried to stand but one of his heels slipped in the mud and he fell back again. He became dimly aware that he was precariously close to his panicked horse. His last thought was that he was surprised the beast didn't just run away. Instead, it stood nervously, stepping fitfully and snorting anxiously—until Dylan ab Owain, seeing Rhirid's plight, opened his mouth and lungs and bellowed so loudly that even Longsword was momentarily diverted. Then the animal reared up in fright and came crashing down, its left foreleg catching Rhirid on the side of his head.

Rhirid collapsed into a still heap. Longsword stopped in his tracks as if confused as to what to do next. He glanced back at Delamere and lifted his hands.

"Will, look out!"

Longsword whirled around. Dylan ab Owain was bearing down on him, followed closely by the other Welsh on horseback. He looked to his horse, which waited patiently for him where he'd been knocked off of it. The pounding of hooves suddenly drowned out the sound of the pouring rain. The Normans, led by Richard Delamere, were also charging.

Longsword ran to his horse and hoisted himself into the saddle with a kick. He took the reins in his left hand and pulled the animal's head around just as the Welsh reached him. He blocked a blow intended for his head and pushed his adversary's sword down. He slashed back quickly and caught the man under his arm, but it was nothing more than a scratch because both horses had moved slightly apart. The man came at him again, furious and intent, sword flailing wildly, and again Longsword rebuffed him. The Welshman tried a third time. This time, Longsword managed to stab him straight through the chest with the point of his sword. He pulled his sword free; the man made a choking sound as the blood began to pour from his mouth and finally he toppled to the ground.

There was a shrill whistle. Longsword looked around to see who had done it. Delamere and the others had flown past him and now they were chasing the Welsh away, back into the hills. He was alone on the grass. The rain fell heavily onto the body of the dead Welshman. He looked to the spot where Rhirid had fallen, but the chief was no longer there.

He rode back to the stream, where the remainder of his men, the unhorsed knights, the archers and the men-at-arms, had collected. He counted four of his men lying prone on the ground, and six of Rhirid's. Dying horses thrashed and screamed.

Longsword wished the damned rain would stop.

Not long after, Delamere returned. "They've disappeared," he told Longsword, panting heavily from exertion.

Longsword frowned. "What happened to Rhirid?"

He shrugged. "One of them picked him up and carried him off."

"Do you think he's dead?"

Delamere shook his head. Longsword, who agreed with him, spat onto the ground.

Chapter 42

May, 1177

Hawarden, Gwynedd

Roger of Haworth climbed onto the parapet, leaned his arms against the ledge and looked towards the south. Northern Powys was there, made invisible by distance but as firm and real as the land upon which Hawarden stood. He couldn't see anything except the seemingly endless forest but he stared, anyway, and wished desperately for Gruffudd ap Madog and a full complement of battle-hungry warriors to burst into the cleared land below.

The south. That was where the future lay, if only Hugh were not too stubborn to admit it. Instead, the earl harped on Rhuddlan and the Bastard—and chided Haworth for harping on Gruffudd. It was obvious Hugh did not plan to deal with Gruffudd any time soon; that was why Haworth desired the Welshman to come north and force the earl's hand. But after the shock Gruffudd had received the last time he was in Gwynedd, it didn't appear he was in much of a hurry to confront his enemy again either, despite Haworth's wishes.

Hugh's current concern was producing a male heir. It was a subject even more compelling than the Bastard, if the number of nights Haworth had been shut out of his master's bed chamber was anything to go on. He was becoming a familiar face in the barracks, where he was well-regarded by the other men, but the enforced abstinence was beginning to chafe on him. Never before in his life had he been jealous of a woman but it had come to that now. He was at times surly towards Hugh and at others plaintive. Perhaps, he'd grumbled one day to Hugh, it simply wasn't the season for a woman to become pregnant and the earl should stop trying for a month or two.

Hugh had had a good laugh at that and even though it was at his expense, Haworth was perversely pleased that he wasn't being dismissed with a curt word or a burst of angry language. Well, he maintained, it might be true; animals gave birth at certain seasons, why not a woman? Hugh explained the difference, but Haworth heard nothing as he found himself mesmerized by Hugh's mouth. And a glance at his eyes proved him happy and relaxed. Haworth was faintly puzzled that a woman could bring his master such contentment, especially the charmless Eleanor Bolsover, but he was too resentful to actually question it.

And then there was Ralph de Vire. Haworth knew the earl liked the young knight because of his resemblance to Robert Bolsover. Hugh was capable of speaking with him at such length at supper that occasionally the entire meal would pass by and he would not have spoken to anyone else, including Haworth. As a result of this attention, de Vire strutted around Hawarden with an overly familiar attitude which Haworth detested, although so far the younger man had wisely kept out of his way.

Haworth was disgruntled. The peace he and the earl had enjoyed before the arrivals of the countess and de Vire no longer existed. Eleanor he dismissed as a temporary problem; once she became pregnant, Hugh would have no further need of her. But de Vire seemed to be the kind of problem which could only get worse, and Haworth felt powerless to get rid of him. De Vire wasn't simply some anonymous man-at-arms. He saw Hugh every day and he sat at Hugh's table every night. Haworth suspected that if he attempted to transfer de Vire to a different holding, the young knight would complain to the earl and Hugh would not permit it.

It wasn't long before he discovered that he was not the only one suspicious of the relationship between the two. There were rumors. He sat one night in the barracks, as usual slightly apart from the other men, cleaning his sword and only half-listening to the increasingly boiserous conversation before him. Most of the men were drinking and in the beginning told stories which may or may not have been true and whose sole purpose seemed to be to inspire an even taller tale from the next speaker. When the novelty of the contest wore off, they turned to discussing the members of their set who were not there with them. Eventually, they remarked upon Ralph de Vire, pronouncing him fair enough with weapons but rather stand-offish in personal relations. It was to be expected, one man said; de Vire hadn't been with them long and he was still feeling his way around. Yes, another man snickered; that explained why he spent so much time with the earl.

Suddenly, there was dead silence in the room. Haworth wasn't fully aware of what had been said but when he realized the silence had to do with him, he recalled the knight's words and their implication and he looked up from his work to find that everyone's face was studiously averted. He stood up and carefully replaced his sword in his belt, and then left the barracks.

The night air had a slight edge and he could smell the tang of a wood fire in it. There was a new moon; the sky was mostly dark but for pinholes of light here and there. The bailey was full of shadows because of it, although high torches had been planted in the ground in various spots to facilitate travel. He was halfway up the steps to the motte before he realized where he was headed, and he stopped. He couldn't very well burst in on Hugh and demand to know if the person in his bed were truly Eleanor Bolsover. A small light flickered in his chamber and Haworth stared at it longingly until it blurred. He stood still on the steps and watched the light until, finally, it went out...

After a sleepless night, he found himself again on the steps to the motte. This time, he climbed them resolutely, buoyed by the persuasiveness of the arguments he'd had with himself when he couldn't sleep. He'd been with the earl for years, far longer than Bolsover or de Vire, and his devotion and allegiance deserved an explanation. At the top of the motte, he paused and looked at the keep, to Hugh's window; it was unshuttered to let in the summer breezes as it had been the night before. Without further hesitation, he entered the keep. Servants setting up the trestle tables for breakfast gave him blank looks. He went up the winding stair to the second storey. There was no guard on Hugh's door; that was as it should have been, because if someone were to guard the earl's sleep, it could only be Haworth. He lifted his hand and rapped harshly on the door. When there was no answer, he rapped again even more loudly, lifted the latch and walked in.

"Who is it?" Hugh's voice demanded, irritated and displeased.

Haworth paused briefly in the antechamber to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloomy light and proceeded to the bedchamber, which was better lit from the outside window. "It's me," he said.

"Roger?" Looking rumpled and barely awake, Hugh pushed himself up onto his elbows and squinted towards the door. "What's wrong?"

"Where is he?"

"Who, for God's sake?"

"De Vire!"

"Sir Ralph?" Hugh yawned and twisted his neck from side to side until it cracked loudly. "Why would he be here?"

Haworth's anger deflated. De Vire was not in evidence. He and the earl were the room's only occupants. "I'm looking for him..." he said lamely.

"Yes? So, why do you look for him here? Have you tried the barracks? Where all the men sleep?"

"But I was there myself all night and he never came in!"

Hugh leaned back into his pillow and stared up at the wooden ceiling. "Well, I don't know what to tell you, Roger. Perhaps he's got a young woman somewhere."

"A woman!" Haworth exclaimed as if the possibility were a novel idea. But it was one he liked. "A woman..." he mused.

The earl frowned at him. "I don't know what's gotten into you lately, Roger! You've been acting very strangely—like this preoccupation with Ralph de Vire."

"It isn't a preoccupation, my lord!" Haworth protested. "I'm sorry! It's only that I hardly see you. You rarely speak with me." His voice dropped and his tone was earnest. "I never stay with you anymore."

Hugh made a noise of irritation and shoved back the bedcovers. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and glared up at his captain. "Roger, we've discussed this many times! You know I need an heir!"

"Yes, my lord, but Lady Eleanor doesn't stay the night! I could—"

"Could what? Am I supposed to send a man to fetch you whenever I'm through with my wife? To be honest, Roger, it takes so much out of me that I tend to fall asleep as soon as she goes." He stood up. "Since you've woken me, you can help me dress."

It didn't seem right that a woman should have any claim to that, Haworth thought as he stared at Hugh's naked body. "You always look so beautiful in the morning, my lord," he said hoarsely.

"I have a busy day ahead, Roger," the earl responded neutrally. "Bring me a shirt." When Haworth turned away, he added, "You know your trouble, Roger? You need a diversion. You saw so much activity at Rhuddlan that quiet Hawarden isn't thrilling enough for you now. Why don't you pay a visit to Chester? Check the accounts. I barely trusted de Gournay when I lived there, I trusted him less when I discovered he was informing my mother of my every move and since finding Eleanor I don't trust him at all. I still don't believe she made it to Rhuddlan on her own and he always had a weak spot for her."

Haworth stopped abruptly in the process of passing a tunic and hose to Hugh, alarmed. "I don't want to go to Chester, my lord."

"Fine! I was only thinking of you..."

"But if you're so concerned about your accounts, why don't you send de Vire? I've heard he can read and write like a cleric."

The proposal seemed to anger Hugh. "Why are you always harping on de Vire? It's as if you're jealous of him!"

"I don't think I would begrudge you your time with the countess if the rest of it wasn't taken up with Ralph de Vire," Haworth said. He knelt down at Hugh's feet and took up his boots.

"And I've told you the reason I must speak to Sir Ralph. We are discussing Rhuddlan."

Hugh tugged his tunic down impatiently and sat on the edge of the bed. He stuck out a leg and Haworth pushed a boot onto his foot and cross-gartered the hose to his leg. The feel of the taut muscles beneath his hands was almost mind-numbing. But his resentment of de Vire was overpowering. "Three weeks of discussing Rhuddlan..." he muttered.

"Oh?" Hugh said sharply, snatching back his leg and putting out his other one so violently that it narrowly missed striking Haworth in the nose. "It's either Rhuddlan with de Vire or Powys with you and I'm sick of Powys!"

Haworth looked up at him with a pained expression. "But—"

"But nothing!" the earl interrupted angrily. "Listen to me, Roger—the Welsh bother you? Well, I'm bothered, too, but not by the same man. I'm bothered by Rhirid ap Maelgwyn. He was supposed to be our ally against the Bastard; I gave him horses and weapons, and damned fine ones at that! All I asked in return was Richard Delamere's whore and perhaps a strategic arrow sent in the Bastard's direction. And what have I got? Nothing! This is what you ought to be concerning yourself with—not Gruffudd of Powys, who might have cut his throat while shaving last month, which would explain why he hasn't turned up recently! Not Gruffudd, but Rhirid ap Maelgwn!"

Rhirid revived on the hurried ride back to Llanlleyn to find himself slumped in a very undignified posture in Dylan ab Owain's arms. His head throbbed and the ground spun but he insisted on being transferred to his own horse for the remainder of the journey. "What happened to William Longsword?" he asked his champion hoarsely, once this change had been effected.

The other man shook his head. "Nothing, Rhirid. He lives. But we fought well! It was an even match and I think we surprised them."

But Rhirid was in too much pain to feel pleased with a draw. He cursed the vagary of fate which had sent his horse's foreleg crashing down on his head, certain that he could have killed Longsword and put their feud to rest at last. He was suddenly tired of it. So tired...

By the time they reached Llanlleyn, the daylight was waning. The rain had settled into an unabating, steady rhythm and everyone was glad to see the torches blazing in the covered platform by the gate where the look-out stood and shouted down to those inside that the men had returned. Despite the weather, the welcoming was crowded and boisterous.

Rhirid ordered a feast and scanned the crowd briefly for Olwen before the ache and dizziness in his head overcame him. He barely made it standing to the chief's house and to a corner of privacy, clenching his jaw and counting every step of the way. He collapsed in a chair and fought nausea while attendants stripped him of his battle gear and his healer studied him thoughtfully and gave him something bitter to drink. Noise swirled all around him, addling wits dulled by pain and the herb drink. Through the confusion, he saw Goewyn standing hesitantly to one side, apparently reluctant to enter the press of men; he saw Dylan go to her and bend his head to hear her words and then he saw the pair of them look at him.

After what appeared to be a short argument, Dylan returned to his side. "My wife would like to speak to you. Privately, if possible. She won't tell me what it's about. I tried to convince her it was a bad time but you know how insistent she can be."

Whatever Goewyn wanted, it was a fortuitous interruption; Rhirid raised his voice as loudly as he was able and ordered everyone out. He gestured for Goewyn to approach.

For the moment, his throbbing head was forgotten. He had never seen Goewyn as she appeared to him now: pale and uncertain, barely able to look him in the eye, nervously twisting a small, damp square of cloth in her hands. He felt a shudder of premonition. "What's wrong?" he demanded, half-rising from his seat. "What's happened to Olwen?"

Goewyn raised her head and he saw that her eyes were red-rimmed. "She's gone, lord," she said in a rising voice. "She's been taken."

"Taken?" Dylan exclaimed.

"There were three of them, lord! Normans! There was nothing I could do!"

Rhirid and Dylan exchanged a glance. "Normans were here?" the chief asked harshly. "Are you certain?" When Goewyn nodded, he added, "Did they say who they were? Where they were from?"

"The earl of Chester, lord."

Rhirid sat down again. His head spun.

"How could they have found us, Rhirid?" Dylan asked in disbelief. "Even William Longsword hasn't been able to find us."

"The better question is how did they manage to get in!" Rhirid said angrily. "Three Normans stroll up to the gate and are simply admitted? They seize a woman under my protection and stroll right out again? Who was supposed to be watching out?"

"They didn't come inside, lord," Goewyn said.

The two men looked at her. "Well?" Rhirid prompted sharply when she hesitated.

She exhaled shakily. "We were summoned, Olwen and I, to the wood. They were there. One of them spoke to her in that foreign tongue and she said something in return. On it went for a while and then she turned to me and said she must go with these men or they would return with a large army, burn Llanlleyn to the ground and kill all of us. She begged me to look after her children. She said she would be all right but she had to leave immediately. It was urgent and she wasn't even able to say goodbye to her boys."

"And you're sure they were from the earl and not Rhuddlan?" Dylan asked.

"Yes, I'm sure!" Goewyn answered shrilly. "Olwen told me so!"

"If they were from Rhuddlan, they would have taken the children," Rhirid said shortly. "And Lady Teleri as well, no doubt."

A sob caught in Goewyn's throat and he glanced at her curiously. He would never have imagined she could be so affected by anything. And it was strange, too, that she—invariably deferential but imperious; self-assured and self-righteous—was avoiding his gaze.

"I have the feeling, Goewyn," he said softly, "that you're not telling me something. What did you mean when you said you and Olwen were summoned? Who summoned you? It couldn't have been the Normans because you didn't know they were in the wood until you got there."

There was a moment of hesitation, and then she nodded slowly. She dabbed at her eyes with the square of cloth and finally raised her head. Her expression was worried but resolute and he had the sinking feeling he wouldn't like what he was about to hear.

Her voice was low. "Lord Rhirid, against your wishes, we plotted," she said. "The three of us, Olwen, Lady Teleri and I. We plotted to sneak Lady Teleri out of Llanlleyn—"

"What?" Dylan roared. "Were you out of your mind?"

She darted her husband a nervous glance out of the corners of her eyes but appealed to Rhirid. "We all had different motives, lord; Lady Teleri wanted to go home to the Perfeddwlad, Olwen wanted to end your feud with Rhuddlan and I wanted to save Llanlleyn from a second destruction. I found a man willing to escort Lady Teleri to the prince and they left this morning on your heels—"

"Who is this person?" Dylan demanded, his face red with anger. He stepped close to his wife, towering over her. "Who is he? I'll kill him myself!"

"He isn't here, Dylan! He's gone! The three of them are gone!"

"From the first day you were determined to treat Lady Teleri unkindly! How could you—"

Rhirid held up his hand. "Enough, Dylan! Recriminations may come later. First I want to hear this story." He looked at Goewyn. "Are you saying Lady Teleri was taken by the Normans as well?"

She nodded miserably. "We were betrayed, lord. To our surprise, the man turned up in the women's house this afternoon, dripping with rain and very agitated. He told Olwen and me that we must come down to the wood. We had to hurry, it was urgent that we get to the wood right away. Of course we thought something terrible had happened to Lady Teleri and off we went. The man led us; kept telling us to hurry, hurry, hurry. He wouldn't say what was wrong no matter how often we asked him and after a while we were so winded from rushing down the hillside and across the fields that we couldn't even ask anymore..."

She took another breath. "When we got there, we saw three Norman soldiers on horseback. Lady Teleri was with them. Olwen recognized one of the men immediately; I heard her gasp and when I looked at her, she was staring white-faced at him. He spoke to her and she grew paler and paler. I myself was so frightened I was shaking like a leaf. Then Olwen told me what the soldier had said to her, what I already told you...and...and off they went." She fell silent.

Rhirid was silent, too. He didn't know if it was because he was so tired that he wasn't outraged over Goewyn's interference or because he was numb inside. His setbacks seemed insurmountable. Both his hostages and possibly his best chance to defeat Longsword in battle lost. Now he had no leverage and had made an enemy of a more powerful man than the custodian of Rhuddlan.

But worse than any of this: Olwen had been taken away. He had failed to protect her and that made him no better than her Norman consort. He wondered what Chester would do with her. She wasn't nearly as important a hostage as Teleri and practically disposable.

"I swear to God, Goewyn, I warned you to keep out of Rhirid's business, didn't I?" Dylan said, unable to keep silent, breaking in on his thoughts. "Now the earl of Chester knows where we are—he could bring Lady Teleri and Olwen back to Rhuddlan and then he and Lord William could both send their armies against us! What chance will we stand? And you say you want to save Llanlleyn!"

For the first time in Rhirid's memory, her husband's words caused panic in Goewyn. She turned to Rhirid and pleaded frantically, "I'm truly sorry for what happened, lord! You must believe me! I would never have done it if I'd even imagined it might turn out this way!"

He felt drained; there wasn't even a spark of anger inside him to ignite against her. He looked blandly into her anxious, tear-stained face and told her to attend to the feast.

He watched her walk across the length of the chief's house to the entrance and suddenly called her name. "I have a question," he said when she turned around. "If your plan had succeeded as you'd wanted, how did you ever hope to explain Lady Teleri's disappearance to me?"

He couldn't see her expression through the murky distance but he heard her shaky laugh. "I wasn't even going to try, lord," she said wryly. "Olwen would have done it."

Chapter 43

June, 1177

Hawarden Castle, Gwynedd

When Hugh had attempted to divert Haworth's attention from their Welsh neighbors to the south by angrily proposing he seek out Rhirid ap Maelgwn and force him to hand over Olwen as promised, he hadn't actually expected Haworth to succeed. The man would have to avoid meeting the Bastard and then somehow find Rhirid's fortress without the benefit of a guide. When, two days after this scene in his chamber, Hugh learned that Haworth had gone off with a pair of soldiers who were fluent in Welsh, he'd been not only struck once more with a sense of guilty acknowledgment of Haworth's incredible loyalty but also guilty relief, imagining his captain would be out of the way for some time and he would now be free to entertain Ralph de Vire as often as he liked.

But Haworth had had phenomenal good fortune and was back at Hawarden in four days, which not only ruined Hugh's plans but created a problem: what to do with his new hostages. He'd probably looked as shocked as they had when he'd met them down in the ward, disheveled and exhausted from the journey. The Bastard's wife, he noted, had lost most of her haughty self-possession along the way; she was blessedly silent as a result.

He pretended a polite interest later that evening as Haworth smugly related the story of their capture but he was really trying to play out the situation in his mind. What did it mean to the Bastard that his wife was now in the hands of his old enemy? Would he be angry enough to come against Hawarden? Would the confrontation begun at Dol finally conclude? The more he thought about it, the more Hugh liked the idea of a physical conflict with Rhuddlan.

"What do you suppose the Bastard's wife was doing at Llanlleyn?" he asked Haworth abruptly.

"Trying to escape," Haworth replied and laughed, flushed with his success and quite a bit of celebratory wine. "At least, that's what the Welshman we intercepted told us. He was taking her to the prince."

"The prince?" Hugh repeated sharply. "Not to the Bastard?"

"The prince."

That was a stroke of luck, he thought. He wanted to remain on good terms with Dafydd; although he believed the prince's influence was slight, his access to fighting men made him a good ally. Haworth's incessant worries over Gruffudd ap Madog had infected Hugh to a certain degree, even if he would never admit it.

Haworth was watching him expectantly. He smiled. "Well done, Roger," he said. "I think you've shown our erstwhile comrade who's in charge. If I'd known it would be so easy for you, I would have told you to take a score of men. Obliterate the place..."

"My lord, we can!" Haworth took an eager, if not unsteady, step forward. "Now we know the way—"

Hugh couldn't help laughing. "You would leave right this moment if I said the word, wouldn't you?"

"You know I would do anything you ask, my lord..."

The force of emotion behind the words struck Hugh in the pit of his stomach but he kept the smile on his face. "Yes...But Rhirid ap Maelgwn no longer concerns me, Roger. How do you think the Bastard will react when he learns that I've got his wife?"

When it came to military matters, Haworth's mind was sharp. He saw the implication of Hugh's question immediately. A grin slowly twisted his lips. "I'd say he'll be very happy, my lord."

Hugh raised his eyebrows. "Happy, Roger?"

"Yes, my lord. He'll see a chance to come against you and hopefully finish you off—this time without any interference from the king. He was fairly itching to attack you at Rhuddlan, my lord. Only propriety held him back. This time, nothing stands in his way."

"I agree." He added casually, "Do you see why it was so important for Sir Ralph and I to discuss Rhuddlan and Lord William to such great length? Although I couldn't have predicted your skillful contribution to my feud with the Bastard, I knew sooner or later we'd meet again. I wanted to be ready."

All animation left Haworth's face. "Yes, my lord," he said stiffly.

Hugh stood up. "Well, we'll speak more about it tomorrow, Roger." He yawned. "I'll retire now."

"My lord, would you like me to accompany you?" Haworth asked, following him to the door. "Perhaps you have further questions about Llanlleyn and what we saw there..."

Hugh paused on the threshold. "I appreciate the offer, Roger, but I'm tired. Must be age. I'll see you in the morning. Good night."

"Good night, my lord." Haworth's voice was so low, Hugh barely heard it. Lately, Haworth's devoted-dog behavior prompted one of two responses in him; one was irritation and the other—the one he felt tonight—was acute remorse. But he found the more physical distance he put between Haworth and himself, the more the feeling lessened, and by the time he reached the door to his chamber, he wasn't thinking of Haworth at all, only the younger man who waited on the other side.

Teleri was awakened by a sudden burst of warm sunlight on her face. Her eyes closed against the brightness, she lay unconcerned for a moment, reveling in the comfort of the plump mattress and soft pillows and feeling more relaxed than she had in a long time. It was, she thought drowsily, so nice to be home again; perhaps, in celebration, she would spend the entire day in bed. She certainly deserved the respite from the world after the harrowing experiences of the past several weeks. Especially that encounter with the putrid, spitting man and his incessant cough—

She opened her eyes in alarm, all at once aware that she'd never made it to the Perfeddwlad, that instead she was at Hawarden.

"Are you awake, my lady?" a voice asked hesitantly.

A young woman stood at her bedside, simply dressed and attentive. "I'm to wait upon you, my lady," she continued. "I can help you with your toilet now, if you like."

Teleri pushed herself up in the bed. The side of her face ached and reminded her of the blow she'd received. "Where is the earl?"

"At Mass, my lady, and after that, he will be at breakfast with his men. Do you care to join him?"

The idea of sitting in a crowded, noisy hall made her shudder and hold her blanket closer. She couldn't face a room of strangers...she didn't want to see anyone...

"No..." she said. "I'll stay here." She felt uncharacteristically lethargic and shy. The memory of the events of the last two days was slowly returning; the escape from Llanlleyn, the plodding horse, the rain and the mud, the frightening meeting with the Normans, the uncomfortable, sleepless night in the forest on the way to Hawarden...But the worst memory was of her harsh treatment. She'd been chased, struck, addressed without respect, and abducted—against her will this time—and brought to Hawarden. Apart from the arrangement of her marriage, there hadn't been one situation in her life which she hadn't been able to successfully manipulate to her advantage, until she'd entered Llanlleyn. It was little wonder she felt overwhelmed by her current circumstances.

"Where is Olwen?" she asked suddenly. "The woman who was with me?"

"She was sent to the countess, my lady."

The countess? Oh, yes...Gwalaes. Of course she was here at Hawarden; where else? Her husband's lover, the earl's wife, Bronwen's mother... "Why? To act as one of her attendants?"

The other woman looked evasive. "I'm not quite sure, my lady. I was told only that I must wait upon you."

"I would like to see her."

"I'll tell the steward, my lady. In the meantime," she added in a tactful tone, "do you care to bathe?"

Teleri was suddenly aware that the odor of rough travel clung very strongly to her. She was embarrassed. "Yes...but I haven't got anything to wear. How can I meet the earl in the rags I wore when I arrived here?"

"The seamstresses have been working since dawn to make you a suitable gown, my lady, and the earl has promised others. I'll have a man bring up the tub and set it before the brazier. Will that do? There's always a slight chill to the morning, even during this time of year..."

Teleri assented and gave herself up to the woman's ministrations. Perhaps after she was fed and bathed, and dressed in proper clothing, she would feel like her old self. In the meantime, she thought about the earl. Why had he taken her? Was it because of the rancor between him and Longsword? And what were his plans?

The more she considered the questions, the more agreeable she found her situation. Apart from her uncle's domain, Hawarden was the next best place to be. The earl hated Longsword almost as much as she did; perhaps even more, since his discovery of his wife living at Rhuddlan under a false identity and apparently sleeping in Longsword's bed. How, then, could he be anything but sympathetic to her plight? Teleri relaxed. She could see nothing alarming in her kidnapping and nothing evil in the earl's plans for her.

When she finally met him later that afternoon, she was, as she had anticipated, more certain of herself. She hadn't forgotten the tortures and humiliations of the past several weeks but she wasn't going to let them stifle her natural, determined character. Washed and dressed in a becoming dark green gown of an obviously expensive shiny material which had yet to find its way to Rhuddlan, she entered the earl's private chambers with her head high. He bowed to her, she curtsied in return. He offered her a cushioned seat and a servant brought her a little stool for her feet.

There were several other men in the room but no one she recognized. The face she had expected to see, Roger of Haworth's, was not in evidence and she was relieved. Haworth had seemed jealous of the attention the earl had paid to her while at Rhuddlan and he had been uncommunicative and rough on the way from Llanlleyn to Hawarden.

The earl smiled expansively. "Lady Teleri," he said, "let me begin with an apology. I deeply regret what you've had to endure these past few days at the hands of my men but I have to say that you show no ill effect at all; in fact, you look radiant as usual. But please—tell me the mark under your eye was not left by one of us."

Self-consciously, she raised her hand to the side of her face. "No, my lord; this is a souvenier of Llanlleyn."

"You are well out of the place, my lady," he said quietly. "I cannot imagine anyone with the audacity to strike such a beautiful woman."

"Thank you, my lord," she answered happily. "I must also thank you for coming to my rescue. But how did you know I was there?"

"Ahh..." He glanced at the others in the room. "To be truthful, we didn't."

"I don't understand," she said, looking around as well.

"Lady Teleri, I'll be honest with you, even though I hope the truth doesn't show me in a bad light. The feud between your husband and Lord Rhirid of Llanlleyn is well known to us and I think you also know of the...well, unfriendly situation which exists between your husband and myself. I tried to improve the relationship a few months ago on my visit to Rhuddlan but unfortunately, Lord William was not inclined to meet me halfway."

She nodded knowingly. "He's a pigheaded fool."

"Yes...And then, as you know, I found my wife, whom I had believed to be dead, alive and well and living at Rhuddlan with a child I never knew I had. After that, Lord William lost all pretense at politeness. I felt, quite naturally, that I had been used and made to look a fool...and I admit I wanted a small measure of revenge. Because your husband's father happens to be the king, there isn't much I can do overtly, so I thought to lend a little assistance here and there to Lord Rhirid. And that was what Sir Roger was doing when he came across you."

"I see..." Teleri breathed, the implication of his words striking her immediately. The earl had the manpower and the knowledge to defeat Longsword; he wouldn't fail her as Rhirid had.

"I feel I can trust you with this disclosure, Lady Teleri, based upon our previous acquaintanceship," he added. "Needless to say, I wouldn't like Lord William to hear of it."

"He won't hear it from me, my lord!" she said firmly. Another thought struck her, causing her pleasure to fade into concern. "My lord," she said, "will my rescue put you at bad terms with Lord Rhirid? If you are allies—"

His voice was so low and cultured and his blue eyes so intent on her that she promptly forgot all the other men in the room and even the rumors she had heard at Rhuddlan about his sexual tastes. "My lady," he said, "I now consider my small alliance with Lord Rhirid ended. I don't want to stand beside any man who would use an innocent woman as bait in his game of cat and mouse."

"Oh—" She could actually feel her face flush. He was so sweet, so gallant, unlike her husband and Rhirid...

"Now," he said in a louder voice, clapping his hands on his knees and standing up, "I understand you were on your way to the Perfeddwlad. If that remains your intention, I will see you arrive safely."

"Thank you, my lord; I would like that."

"Fine. But first, I have a favor to beg of you. Would you mind spending some time at Hawarden? You were such a gracious hostess at Rhuddlan, I would like to repay the kindness by entertaining you here. You would do us a great honor, my lady. I'm afraid we're sadly lacking in refined company."

After so pretty an invitation, it would have been rude to refuse and, anyway, she didn't think she wanted to. Her mood had been low since her disappointment at Llanlleyn. The earl had raised her spirits once before; surely a small pause in this beautiful fortress with an attentive host would give her back the self-confidence she needed to face her uncle and insist he arrange for her marriage to be annulled.

She was happier still when Olwen entered her chamber a short time afterward. Earl Hugh was indulging her every wish; she had asked if Olwen could attend her and he'd agreed. She knew her husband and Rhirid would never have been so accommodating and probably purely out of spite.

She had assumed the other woman would be as pleased with the arrangement as she was and with barely a pause for greeting, she launched into a recounting of her interview with the earl, stressing his kindness and his gentility but halted abruptly when she finally noticed that Olwen looked more stricken than glad.

"What's wrong?" she asked with a touch of impatience. "Is it your children? Olwen, they're fine. You know Goewyn will look after them..."

"That doesn't make it any easier to be away from them, Lady Teleri. They're only babies."

"You'll see them soon; don't fret."

Olwen frowned. "How do you know that, Lady Teleri?"

"Because," she answered smugly, "as I've been trying to tell you, I've spoken with the earl. He's promised to have us escorted to the Perfeddwlad. He's so angry with Lord Rhirid for using me as a pawn against Lord William that I didn't dare tell him that I went willingly!" She closed her eyes and sighed. "He's so nice to look upon, Olwen; almost as nice as Sir Richard..." She opened them again when the other woman didn't respond. "What's the matter now? I told you we're to leave soon."

"When, Lady Teleri?"

"I don't know...In a few days. Earl Hugh asked if I wouldn't mind staying so that he'd have someone interesting to talk to. And then..." She shrugged.

"And he meant me, as well, Lady Teleri? Or did he just refer to you?"

"Of course he meant you, also! Why not?"

Olwen did not reply. Teleri was annoyed. She'd been upset in the morning but the earl had reassured her and set her to rights and now Olwen was clouding her joy. She bit back a sharp spate of words because she supposed the other woman was concerned about her children, after all, and how could she argue with that? But soon the silence became oppressive and finally, as a diversion, Teleri ordered her to comb out her hair and prepare her for the evening meal. "And you must tell me all about the countess," she added. "I'd like to know how you found her."

Roger of Haworth surveyed the brightly lit, noisy hall, crowded with tables, men and servants until his eyes fell upon the dais where the earl and Dafydd's irritating niece sat chatting. Ralph de Vire had put himself on the girl's other side, and leaned over occasionally to speak. For a moment Haworth debated leaving but then forced himself to move forward to occupy the empty seat to Hugh's right. Of late, meals had become a source of anguish to him. He sat down with the sole purpose of diverting some of Hugh's attention from de Vire. The work took so much mental effort that he was often unable to eat and relief came only when Hugh had finished and was ready for his stroll down to the bailey. De Vire never accompanied them.

He gave Hugh a small bow before he sat which was acknowledged with more enthusiasm than Haworth had been shown in weeks. Judging from his flushed face and genial expression, the earl was in a fine mood. Haworth's own spirits lifted in response; he knew the earl's mood had everything to do with the thought of engaging the Bastard and nothing to do with de Vire. Haworth's dislike of de Vire hadn't lessened with time. Although he believed Hugh when he insisted there was no personal relationship between him and the younger man, he didn't trust de Vire's intentions.

The damned Welshwoman prattled on and on, her high-pitched voice grating on his nerves. He wondered how long she was going to stay and how many meals she would take with them. When he and his companions had come upon the Welshman who would lead them to Llanlleyn, the man had sought to deflect attention from himself by pointing her out and claiming she was the wife of the Bastard. In other words, a more valuable hostage than he. But Haworth hadn't wanted any hostages, only a guide. He'd been tempted to leave the bitch on the road and would have, if he'd been alone. His two companions had assumed Hugh would want her and one of them had ridden back to fetch her. He'd fully expected a blistering earful when she was brought to him but to his surprise, she was quiet, and had remained so until this meal—

He heard his name and glanced up guiltily. The three of them—Hugh, the Welshwoman and that pig, de Vire—were staring at him with amusement on their faces. "He didn't hear me," Hugh said with a chuckle. "He's too busy trying to decide whether to eat or to drink."

De Vire laughed and Haworth scowled. "I beg your pardon, my lord," he said stiffly. "Did you ask me a question?"

"Lady Teleri and I were discussing Rhirid's champion. You remember him, don't you? The big fellow with the black mustaches—Dylan ap something or other?"

"I do, my lord. Big, but like most large men, unspectacular on his feet. We practiced against each other while he was here."

"What do you imagine your chances against him would be if the battle were not practice but real?"

"Excellent, my lord. I know all his moves. I would win such a contest." His eyes slid past Hugh to de Vire. "I've never lost yet."

"What did I tell you, Lady Teleri!" Hugh exclaimed. Haworth switched his full attention back to the conversation. He didn't want give the golden de Vire another opportunity to laugh at him, although for some reason the younger man's expression was suddenly subdued.

"I thank you for permitting Olwen to stay with me, my lord," the woman was saying to Hugh. "Although I hope the countess isn't angry with her departure. Will we see her?"

"I doubt it, Lady Teleri. My wife prefers to be far away from me and doesn't venture from her rooms very often."

"I hope at least to see little Bronwen. A precocious child but very good-natured..."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you there, as well, Lady Teleri," Hugh answered and Haworth could hear a touch of annoyance in the words. "Mathilde, as she is now known, is living with my mother in England. Wales is a beautiful country, but my daughter has been running wild since her birth and needs to learn the language and customs of her native culture."

The bitch smiled. "Of course. Well, you'll have another one soon enough, whom you needn't send away for a few years."

Haworth, in the process of bringing his cup to his lips, stopped moving, his arm frozen in mid-air. His head whipped towards Hugh.

"I'm sorry, Lady Teleri," Hugh said slowly, frowning in confusion. "I don't understand..."

"Perhaps if I said congratulations instead, you would! After all, your wife is with child, isn't she?"

The cup slipped from Haworth's hand. For a moment, he couldn't draw a breath. His head was still fixed in Hugh's direction. He saw Teleri blithely resume eating...he saw the earl and de Vire exchange a glance...he saw the earl's eyes swivel towards him...

"You've spilled your wine, Roger," Hugh said blandly. "The cloth will be ruined."

"I beg your pardon, my lord." His heart pounded rapidly; he thought it would burst. He stood up. "My lord, do I have your permission to leave?"

"Of course. But I'm done as well. Why don't we go down to the bailey as we usually do?"

Hugh apologized to the Welshwoman for leaving so abruptly, waved the rest of his men back to their seats and proceeded to the door. Haworth hesitated. He didn't think he wanted to hear what he supposed Hugh might tell him. But then a movement caught the corner of his eye; it was de Vire nervously refilling his own cup from the pitcher on the table, and suddenly he was more angry than bewildered. He threw his napkin down and followed after Hugh with a firm step.

Hugh was halfway to the steps leading down to the bailey when Haworth caught up with him. Without a glance in his direction or before Haworth could even open his mouth to speak, the earl said in the same bland tone: "I wonder if it's true."

Haworth was startled. "If what's true?"

"That story about the baby, for God's sake!"

"Didn't you know?"

Hugh stopped abruptly and looked at him. "Of course I didn't know, Roger! She never told me." He started walking again. "In all that time, she never said a word."

But Haworth's suspicions had seethed for too long to be so easily deflated. "Why wouldn't she tell you?" he asked. "Does she enjoy your company so much? I always knew she was a strange woman but to actually enjoy being raped every night..."

They reached the steps. Hugh halted again. "Is something wrong, Roger? Something you want to say? You act as if this is some kind of slight against you when it's the biggest shock I've ever had in my life!"

"That bitch said the baby would be here soon enough. To my mind, she means your wife has been pregnant for some time," Haworth accused.

The earl stared at him for so long without answering that he began to regret his harsh words. How could he truly doubt the person he loved more than anything in the world? "My lord, I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I don't—"

"Roger, we both have cause to be angry with this news," Hugh interrupted. He looked away, back to the keep. "I've never told you this because it's somewhat shameful to me but it will answer most of your questions. Although I saw Eleanor almost every night, I was sometimes unable to—" he faltered and glanced back at Haworth with a rueful smile. "You know what I mean. It was always difficult for me because I felt nothing for her. When she feared me, it was better. Easier. But since her return from Rhuddlan, she has feared me less and less. It's as though I can no longer intimidate her. The worst part is that she knows it. She uses her new strength against me. When you ask does she enjoy my company so much, I think the answer is yes. I think she quite enjoys coming to my chamber and seeing me fumble to complete the act. She enjoys seeing me humilate myself before her. But I was determined to have my heir out of her and so I kept trying."

Haworth was outraged. "My lord, I will kill her for you," he said in an intense voice. "How can she do this to you? Humiliate you—the earl of Chester! Let me kill her and you can have another wife."

"Steady, Roger!" Hugh smiled. "If Lady Teleri's gossip is true, then I may have my heir...and not need another wife. But there's something else you could do for me..."

"Anything..." Haworth whispered eagerly.

"Take my message to Rhuddlan. Tell the Bastard I have his wife and Delamere's whore. Tell him he must pay a heavy ransom to retrieve them and imply that in a fortress this large unfortunate accidents are not uncommon."

"But I thought we wanted to fight him!" Haworth protested.

"We will, Roger! The ransom I have in mind is far too rich for the Bastard. He won't be able to pay it. He'll come here himself to tell me so and then he'll attack Hawarden." He put his hand on Haworth's shoulder. "Think of it, Roger! We'll finally have our revenge."

It was impossible to think with the familiar, comfortable weight of Hugh's hand gripping his shoulder. A shiver ran down his spine. "Of course I'll go, my lord. I'm honored that you choose me..."

His life, Hugh thought wearily, was suddenly too complicated. Haworth was becoming suspicious, although he seemed to have accepted the latest fabrication, and de Vire was becoming too bold, although not yet where Haworth was concerned. He wondered when he'd be able to get rid of Olwen and he couldn't wait to get rid of Teleri. To crown it all, his wife, whom he'd seen only once since their return to Hawarden—an interview which had reduced him to an ineffectual handful of jelly—was pregnant. Hugh looked forward to a very long, drawn-out war with the Bastard, if only to take his mind off personal matters.

Ralph de Vire was lounging in a cushioned chair in the antechamber of Hugh's suite when Hugh, unescorted, arrived. He sprang to his feet, his handsome face creased with frowns. "My lord, we must speak."

An evening spent maintaining a polite demeanor with Teleri, trying to digest her incredible accusation, and then spinning lie upon lie to Haworth had not left Hugh in a genial mood. He bristled. "We must?"

The sarcasm was wasted on de Vire. "Did you see the way he looked at me?" he demanded. "He knows everything! Did you hear him brag about his skill with the sword? He as much as admitted he wants to murder me!"

"You're imagining things..." Hugh said irritably. He threw himself into the chair vacated by de Vire and stared at the floor. He wondered what would be the best way to confront Eleanor. The hopeful thought occurred to him that perhaps Teleri had gotten it wrong and Eleanor wasn't pregnant; after all, there'd been no direct conversation between the two women. If only he'd refused Teleri's request that Olwen wait upon her...

De Vire's feet were suddenly in his field of vision and he glanced up involuntarily but the sharp retort on his tongue slid back down his throat. The younger man's expression was so outraged that it prompted a surge of protective feeling in him. Robert Bolsover had always been self-assured and aggressive and Hugh had often felt in awe of his strong personality. Bolsover hadn't needed his protection, but de Vire was a different story and Hugh was beginning to discover a certain pleasure in rising to the occasion.

"Obviously you didn't see his face!" de Vire retorted. "Something must be done about him—I don't want to have to constantly look over my shoulder!"

"I've already done something, Ralph," Hugh said. "I'm sending him to Rhuddlan tomorrow. He'll be gone for days."

"And when he returns? What then? If the countess is with child, then he'll expect your summons again. Where will that leave me?"

"Don't worry about that now, Ralph." Hugh had the uneasy feeling that de Vire, having sensed Hugh's reliance on him, was slowly starting to take advantage of their relationship with his blunt demands, but he felt powerless to remonstrate. He enjoyed making the younger man happy. "I'll figure it out, I promise."

De Vire looked unconvinced. "You ought to send him to one of your other properties. It would be kinder for him not to be around..."

Reluctantly, Hugh said, "You may be right..." Words de Vire had spoken suddenly reverberated in his head and he gratefully realized he didn't have to think now about Haworth. He stood up and put his hands on the other man's shoulders. "Forget about Roger for the time being. Do me a favor and fetch my wife to me. If she shows the slightest hesitation to come, you have my permission to force her..."

Lying in bed but awake, Eleanor heard the sudden pounding on her outer door with an emotion almost like relief. Her servant, however, wasn't as prepared; the girl had been soundly asleep and jumped up from her pallet with a little scream. She glanced apprehensively at her mistress, plainly afraid to confront the intruder. Eleanor got out of bed, pulled a shawl over her shoulders and slippers onto her feet and went out.

Ralph de Vire led her down the twisting steps. The door leading to Hugh's rooms stood open and while the knight went straight in, she paused in the doorway. Hugh sat in the antechamber, in a chair which faced the front of the room and he was staring at her. She knew, of course, what the summons meant. She'd been expecting it from the moment she'd told Olwen. Why had she done it? She wasn't certain unless it had been Olwen's friendly demeanor. Her servants and her guards were cold, either too intimidated by or too respectful of Hugh to disobey his order to not speak to her.

"My lord, she's here," de Vire said, reaching out his arm to pull her across the threshold.

It was impossible to read his expression. She watched him warily while around them de Vire talked until Hugh interrupted him in a soft voice and asked him to leave. Although Eleanor had warned herself all the way down to remain calm, the thud of the closing door started her heart beating more quickly. Her hands shook but she didn't think Hugh could see them in the shadowy candlelight. She concentrated on controlling her breathing, well aware that her only weapon against him was an impassive self-possession.

For a long time he said nothing. It was impossible to return his steady gaze. When he finally spoke, she jumped. "You," he said in that same soft voice, "have something to tell me."

Her mouth was dry. "You already know, my lord."

"So, the bitch was telling the truth. Whose is it?" When she didn't answer right away, he suddenly lurched out of his chair and shouted loudly enough to wake everyone in the keep, "Whose!"

Eleanor couldn't help herself; she was forced backwards by the strength of his anger. She stammered, "Th—The child is the heir to Chester."

"That doesn't answer my question, Eleanor!" he snapped. His abrupt silence after his loud outburst made her glance at him. He was staring at her with more loathing on his face than she'd ever seen, his blue eyes like ice chips. "It's his, isn't it?" he said evenly. "The Bastard's bastard."

"I am the wife of the earl of Chester," Eleanor insisted nervously. "The child is yours; it isn't a bastard."

He snorted. "Mine by default? I don't know if I like that..." She said nothing. He considered her. "Does anyone else know? Does he?"

"No one knows."

Again the considering silence. Then he said, "What an adventure marriage to you has been. Disappearances and reappearances. False identities. Kidnapping. And when I first saw you, I thought you were such a dull thing. Quite unlike your brother. You're certain of this...pregnancy?" He made the word sound almost distasteful.

"Yes."

"And when can I expect to see it?"

"With the grace of God, January."

"God?" He smirked. "Will God protect you from some terrible misfortune?"

The remark angered her so much she forgot her fright. She drew herself up; she was nearly as tall as he and she saw the smug look on his face fade. She smiled thinly at him; coldly and pityingly. "Your threats mean nothing to me, my lord," she said quietly in a voice no longer stammering or nervous. "Our marriage hasn't been an adventure but a nightmare. You made it your business to ruthlessly exterminate everything and everyone who brought me pleasure. But if you thought to grind me down, you failed. I'm stronger now. I know what I'm capable of now. The last three years were the happiest of my life and strangely enough, I have you to thank for them. What you're doing now, I look upon as a test from God. I don't quite understand why it's necessary but I accept it. Perhaps I loved my daughter too much. Perhaps that's why she had to be taken from me. And if you take this child from me as well...so be it. I can't stop you but I don't have to. You'll answer for it in the end. I don't know what kind of demon you are, my lord, but I do know that in the end you will pay for everything you've done...everything you've done..."

He sprang bolt upright in bed, drenched in sweat, and tried to catch his breath. The room was eerily lit by moonlight coming in through the unshuttered window and he looked around at the familiar furnishings with relief. He wiped a hand over his face and waited for his heart to stop pounding; the memory of the nightmare was persistent but slowly ebbing.

Like a good soldier, Ralph de Vire awoke almost simultaneously, instinctively sensing that something was wrong. "Hugh?" he whispered. "What is it?"

"A bad dream, I think," Hugh answered. His voice sounded hoarse and he coughed to clear it. "Just a bad dream."

He felt a hand on his back. "You're sopping wet!" de Vire exclaimed. "Are you all right?"

"Yes..." But he was still breathing rapidly. "Fetch a light; it's too dark in here. Fetch a light!" he snapped when de Vire was slow to move. He muttered, "I'll be fine. I have to get rid of her."

"Who?"

"Who! My wife, of course! She cursed me. She called me a demon!"

"It was only a dream, my lord—"

"Not in the dream, Ralph; during our interview!" He shivered suddenly, the sweat turning cold on his bare skin. "She said I would pay for what I've done to her."

De Vire crossed the floor and went into the antechamber but all the candles had been put out and the torches doused. He had to go a few steps down the short hall to the alcove where the garderobe was located and where the servants left a torch burning all night. He plucked the torch out of its sconce and brought it back to Hugh's bedchamber, pausing at the window to find the location of the nearly full moon and calculate the hours until dawn. He yawned and turned around to face Hugh. "Where do you want it?"

"On the near wall to me..."

He was sitting up in the bed, trying to shake the terror of the dream he couldn't clearly remember. The light drove most of the shadows away but he was grateful for de Vire's company and his comforting.

De Vire returned to the bed. He pulled a sheet over Hugh's shoulders and fell back onto his pillow. "Taking her out of Rhuddlan and restoring her to her title hardly seems a reason to curse someone. And now she carries your child; God willing, a son." He yawned again. "I didn't know you see her, Hugh. In all the time I've been at Hawarden, I've never even heard you mention her name. I'd forgotten she's here!"

Hugh glanced back at him but his expression was inscrutable in the pale light. His panic was momentarily gone. Did nobody guess the truth? Or would everybody assume the baby was truly his? "I haven't seen her since you've been with me, Ralph," he said calmly. "Lady Teleri was right when she implied the countess has been pregnant for some time; it must have happened directly we returned from Rhuddlan."

"Lord William would be bereft if he heard this news," de Vire said sleepily. "You can't believe how he doted on her..."

It was too dangerous, Hugh decided; she could no longer remain at Hawarden. Better to put enough distance between her and the Bastard that no one would ever link the two. Too many people knew them in Gwynedd and they couldn't all be as gullible as Ralph de Vire. Besides, he wasn't quite certain he trusted Eleanor to keep her mouth shut.

Avranches in Normandy lay at the extent of his properties. He had a small estate there called Blundeville. The last time he'd visited it was during the rebellion, right before the ill-fated siege at Dol. Yes, he thought, it would do perfectly. It was far enough away from the Bastard, far enough from Wales and, thankfully, far enough from him.

Down below, Roger of Haworth stared up at the earl's now-empty window. He stood motionless in shock and was only remotely aware of his heart tightening in his chest. If someone had asked him at that moment what he'd meant to do when he'd climbed the steps to the motte only moments before, he would have been hard-pressed to answer. It was to stay with him for the rest of his life: that sudden flash of light in the window and Ralph de Vire's brightly lit face in its frame.

He left the next morning with three others. If Hugh wondered at his lack of enthusiasm or reserve, he didn't comment on it, which was like rubbing salt into the wound. De Vire was nowhere in evidence, which was lucky for him because Haworth didn't know if he'd be able to control his anger. He felt he was treading a narrow line between normalcy and raging emotion. He heard none of Hugh's cheerful patter and couldn't wait to leave the suddenly strangling confines of the sprawling fortress.

It was lucky, too, that Haworth was the only one, besides Hugh, of course, who knew the purpose of the journey. This was to ensure that not even a hint of the truth find its way to the ears of the hostages. The prattling bitch, Teleri, had already shown herself adept at picking up gossip and it would have been disastrous if she found out Hugh was only pretending to enjoy her company while he waited eagerly for her husband to take the bait. Immensely safer if Haworth's companions weren't told the truth until they were well on their way.

And lucky—because Haworth now had no intention of going to Rhuddlan.

He felt a childish urge to be spiteful in response to the calamity which had befallen him. He wanted to thwart Hugh's carefully plotted plan. He wanted Hugh to be puzzled over the Bastard's lack of response and then, when he finally admitted the truth, he wanted Hugh to look stricken and beg to know the reason behind his refusal to obey this important request. He wanted to see Hugh chastened by the knowledge that he had deeply wounded the most loyal friend he'd ever had.

Beyond the gates, he told his companions that they were going to make a general sweep of the countryside to the west and south of Hawarden. The earl was concerned, he said, that Gruffudd ap Madog had been too quiet for too long...

Chapter 44

June, 1177

Hawarden Castle, Gwynedd

Olwen found herself back at Llanlleyn. Nothing had changed. It seemed like years since she'd been gone but little William was still unsteady on his feet and Henry still spent more time asleep than awake. Goewyn appeared, smiling happily, glad she had returned to Llanlleyn instead of going to Rhuddlan. She hugged Olwen tightly. "Welcome home!" she said...

Home. She had once had a home all to herself; a pretty little manor in the midst of several cultivated fields. She'd had servants and a cow and a number of sheep. She'd had her children and plenty of work to do. But she'd been terribly lonely.

Llanlleyn was her home. She felt comfortable living communally; if her children had been left behind at the manor when she'd been abducted, who would have looked after them? At Llanlleyn there were many mothers, even a few who were nursing. Lady Teleri had been right to insist she needn't worry, that Goewyn would have found someone to care for the boys.

She sat alone in the women's house. Goewyn had gone out to supervise the cooking for the feast; a celebration as much for Olwen's return as for Rhirid's and his men's safe return, she had said. Rhirid was happier than Goewyn could remember him and it was due to Olwen. "I told you once he was in love with you," Goewyn said before leaving the women's house. "What will you say when he asks you to marry him?"

She was gone before Olwen could answer. The shadows in the building lengthened as the day waned and she sat there alone, musing over the events of the last few days. As she had thought, the earl hadn't wanted to let her go with Lady Teleri. She was to be used instead to bait a trap for Lord Rhirid. The earl wished to entice Lord Rhirid into battle because of the insult he'd received when she hadn't been delivered to Hawarden as promised.

Everything happened so quickly. The earl told Lady Teleri he had arranged an escort to take her to the Perfeddwlad but she, as she'd sworn, refused to leave unless Olwen could leave as well. The earl was angry; it didn't please him to have his plans disrupted. He had the two women brought to his wife's rooms and locked in with her, declaring that none of them would ever leave Hawarden.

Olwen was afraid, remembering the horror stories the countess had told her when they'd last been together. Teleri was livid. She boldly vowed to escape from the fortress or die trying. Olwen reluctantly agreed to accompany her. The plan, however, came from the countess. She lay in her bed, very still; blood-stained sheets, courtesy of Lady Teleri who was bleeding, covering the lower part of her body. Lady Teleri called frantically for help, crying out word 'baby' over and over. The guard and the servant who'd been taking them food, burst in and recoiled at the sight of the apparently unconscious countess. In the confusion of people in and out of the chambers, Olwen and Lady Teleri managed to slip through the door.

They kept their heads down and strolled nonchalantly down the stone steps to the hall, outside and across the ward, through the open gate and down the steep stair to the inner bailey and there mingling with the women who habitually left the fortress at that time to bring their husbands and sons in the fields a noon meal. They passed through the gate without recognition, Olwen's heart throbbing nervously every step of the way.

And then they were free! Teleri told her they were going to head towards the Perfeddwlad and although she was anxious to return to Llanlleyn, she acquiesced without a fight.

They began walking. It was hot and sunny and, for some reason, very quiet. Neither one of them spoke, saving all their energy for the journey. After a short time, she thought she heard a faint, steady noise coming from behind them but she refused to turn around, certain that such an action would actually bring the noise to life. Trying to ignore it didn't make it go away, she soon found out. The noise grew until it was identifiable as galloping, pounding hoofbeats. She and Lady Teleri whirled around at the same moment—and there, rapidly bearing down on them, was Roger of Haworth.

She tried to run but it was no use; Haworth had a horse. He cut in front of them and forced them to stop. He seemed to glare at her with the same cold expression he'd worn when he'd snatched Bronwen from her. And then he drew his sword and raised it high. She squeezed her eyes shut...thought about her children...murmured a little prayer...waited to be killed...

A short, whistling sound and a thud. Lady Teleri gasped and she opened her eyes. Haworth tottered in his saddle, one hand grasping the shaft of an arrow. His eyes glazed over and then he fell to the ground.

She heard her name, 'Olwen!' and turned around. Lord Rhirid was coming towards her, slinging a bow around to his back as he walked. He was grinning; he was so happy to see her. He had saved her life, she thought as she watched him approach. She smiled back at him, but for some reason, she knew she didn't feel as happy as he obviously did.

"Olwen!" he said again but now he was walking through the women's house to where she sat. The shadows were longer; the sun was sinking and it was taking him a long time to cross the relatively short space between the door and the bench upon which she sat. Why didn't her heart leap up to meet him? she thought. She was glad he was coming but that tickle in the pit of her stomach was missing. And yet, she didn't run from him. She was comfortable in the darkening embrace of the women's house, of Llanlleyn...

Finally he was near. He stepped from the murkiness into a space lit by a torch in a sconce on the wall. He wasn't grinning anymore, she noticed, looking first at his mouth. She raised her eyes. It wasn't Lord Rhirid's face staring back at her—it was Richard's.

"Olwen!"

Everything slipped away in an instant. She opened her eyes to find Lady Teleri bending over her.

"It must have been a good dream," Lady Teleri remarked. "I called your name several times before you finally awoke."

Her neck ached. Her sewing, part of another gown for Teleri, lay on the floor near her feet. She must have fallen asleep on the bench, sitting up and in the middle of the day. It was understandable because most of her nights at Hawarden had so far been sleepless: it was difficult to lie in bed and pass into a comfortable oblivion when she worried about her sons and was, six days on, beginning to wonder if this exile would ever end.

"I dreamt about Llanlleyn," she said.

Teleri sat down next to her. Olwen didn't like the sober look on her face. "I hope it wasn't too fond a remembrance."

"What do you mean? What did the earl have to say?"

"Well, I tried to put it to him prettily; I suggested that after nearly a week, we must be overstaying our welcome, but he waved my concern away. So I tried to put it tactfully; I hinted that I was anxious to see my uncle and he said, of course, of course. Then he became very serious. He said he hadn't wanted to alarm me but Sir Roger, who had been in the field for the last five days or so, had returned with news of having sighted enemy activity. I asked him what that meant and he said Gruffudd ap Madog was in the area and to send two young women off with even a small protective force would be to tempt the anger of Prince Dafydd."

"He said two women, Lady Teleri?"

"Yes. See? I told you he meant to include you. Anyway, he doesn't want to risk harm coming to us as Powys and Gwynedd are enemies. He wants to contain the problem himself and then we may go. It will be several days yet, Olwen. That's why I hope you aren't too homesick for Llanlleyn."

Olwen stared at the hem of her skirt for a moment and then reached down to pick up the cloth she'd dropped. "It's not Llanlleyn I miss but my children," she said quietly. "Lady Teleri...do you trust the earl?"

Teleri looked astonished. "Trust the earl?" she repeated. She laughed. "What a question! Of course I trust him. Of all the Normans I've met, I trust him the most."

"Even though he betrayed the king during the Great War?"

Teleri shrugged. "Men do things like that..." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why are you asking me this?" When she didn't answer right away, she said sternly, "Speak to me, Olwen! Why don't you like the earl? What are you thinking?"

Olwen bit her lip and picked at the stitches along a hem until Teleri snatched the material out of her hands. She looked up guiltily. "I'm sorry, Lady Teleri. I suppose I've been influenced by Richard...and the countess. She had nothing good to say about her husband..."

"Such as?" Teleri prompted.

There was a slight edge to her voice. Olwen was well aware of the esteem in which her mistress held the earl and she was obviously feeling protective of him. She debated the purpose of giving Teleri any further information, but the other woman was watching her intently, ready to claim victory when Olwen was unable to produce specific evidence. She took a deep breath.

"Such as...he keeps her prisoner, under lock and key. She can't leave her rooms. Her servants and her guards aren't permitted to speak to her. She said when she first arrived and asked for her daughter, he refused her request and starved her until she stopped screaming for Bronwen. He sent Bronwen elsewhere to live. He even gave her a Norman name—Mathilde. She doesn't know if she'll ever see her own daughter again, Lady Teleri!"

Teleri looked unconcerned. "The way the earl put it to me, he sent Bronwen to his mother to learn the Norman customs. That seems reasonable."

"Very well, Lady Teleri. There's more. It concerns me. Despite what he implied, I'm fairly certain the earl won't let me go with you when you leave."

Teleri jumped up from the bench in exasperation. "How many times do we have to go through this?"

"Lady Teleri, it's true! Please listen! Lord Rhirid told me that when he left the earl, he was given horses and weapons to specifically use to fight Lord William. In return, I was to be abducted from my home and sent to him. But Lord Rhirid promised me he wouldn't keep his bargain...and I think that's why the earl sent his men to take me away by force."

"You?" Teleri stared down at her. "For what purpose?"

Olwen shook her head helplessly. "I have no idea. But I think I know why. One of Lord William's knights brought a little girl to me and asked if I could keep her for a few days. He said she was the daughter of the healer who had saved Lord William's life and that the healer herself would come to fetch her. But she never came. That horrible man came instead, the same one who came to Llanlleyn. The little girl was Bronwen."

Teleri was silent, her face expressionless. Olwen watched her with some trepidation, suddenly afraid that if Teleri didn't believe her story and instead ran to tell the earl about it, the earl's vengeance might be terrible indeed and not only against her but against the countess as well.

Finally Teleri seemed to resolve something in her mind. When her glance returned to Olwen, her chin was up and her eyes were cold. Olwen's heart sank, knowing that look all too well. "I won't leave without you," Teleri said. When the other woman, shocked, didn't answer quickly enough, she added forcefully, "I swear it!"

"I—I don't doubt you, Lady Teleri," Olwen stammered, still surprised. "But I wouldn't ask you to do that for me."

"No," Teleri shook her head dismissively. Her voice was stiff. "No. I want to pay the debt I owe you, Olwen. You were kind to me at Llanlleyn when no one else was kind. I have not forgotten."

Later that night, as she lay in bed with no hope of sleeping because of the anger eating away at her gut, Teleri picked over the conversation she'd had with the earl on her first day at Hawarden, searching vainly for anything personal, any syllable proving he might have been speaking the truth to her. All his polite, concerned words resonated earnestly in her head...but she realized now that they'd been lies and that Olwen's fears were quite justified; after all, she knew exactly how the earl had discovered he had a daughter and where he—or Haworth—could find her...She felt a shiver of apprehension at the thought of what Hugh intended for Olwen. It was a point in Longsword's favor that she always knew where she stood with him on any given day, because he shouted when he was angry with her and ignored her when her existence didn't bother him. A silent, calculating man such as the earl was much harder to estimate...Teleri might have felt more than a grudging sympathy for her former servant if she wasn't so damned jealous of her.

Because it was Olwen again. Olwen again who was the center of attention while she—who by birth, at least, should have been more important—was a mere pawn. Olwen, beloved of Sir Richard while her own husband despised her; Olwen, who had captured the heart of Rhirid while she had languished in isolation, her grand schemes fizzling into nothing; Olwen, who had been the real target of the earl's invasion of Llanlleyn while she had just been collected because she couldn't have very well been left in the rain, a situation which might have inspired the prince's wrath...

Lying in bed, Teleri had never felt so insignificant in all her life...

Roger of Haworth was saddling his own horse in the far end of the stables, away from the grooms similarly preparing mounts for the contingent of men off to meet the latest challenge from the south. He felt the need to be alone; he didn't want to speak to anyone or listen to idle talk. He had spent the last five days moving methodically and deliberately keeping his mind on the task at hand and nothing else. He hadn't dared think about the past or the future.

He threw a coarse blanket across the animal's back and smoothed it out. He bent down to pick up the heavy, high-backed saddle and was vaguely aware of a change in the current of noise from the other end of the stables. He ignored it, concentrating on lifting and then fitting the saddle over the blanket. As he set it into place, he heard footsteps crackling on the straw which littered the walkway before the stalls. This, too, he ignored. He pulled the cinch snug and buckled it. He reached for the bridle—

"Roger."

He stopped. He was suddenly so nervous that he couldn't hear for the loud rush of blood in his ears. He turned around slowly.

"Ready to leave?"

"Almost, my lord," he said.

Hugh approached him until he was close enough for Haworth to see the strands of grey in his beard; color which hadn't been there before they'd come to Hawarden. It was a shock—it struck him for the first time that Hugh was getting old.

"Before you go, Roger, there's something I'd like to ask you," Hugh said in a low, pleasant voice.

"Yes, my lord?"

"Did you go to Rhuddlan?"

Haworth hesitated only a heartbeat. "No, my lord."

He saw Hugh's eyes widen instantly but the earl quickly recovered his composure. "I heard the rumor," he said, "I questioned one of your companions and I still didn't believe it. So I thought I would ask you and you've confirmed what I heard. That leaves only one other question, Roger: Why not?"

He picked the bridle off its hook in the wall and stared down at it threaded between his fingers. "I was going to go. I thought I'd first take a look to the south. You'd always denied me permission..."

His answer was met with a weighty silence. Finally, he looked up to find Hugh staring at him in obvious confusion. "I'm at a loss for words," the earl said. "You're not yourself, Roger. You've never refused my orders before. Is something wrong?"

Haworth's resolve faltered. He had told himself that when confronted, he would let Hugh know the true reason he hadn't gone to Rhuddlan. He would tell Hugh he knew about his relationship with de Vire. If the earl had confronted him in a rage, yelling and red-faced, it would have been an easy task, but the soft voice and the hint of concern unnerved him. He even wondered if he was blowing the whole incident out of proportion. Perhaps there was an innocent explanation for de Vire's rumpled head to appear in Hugh's window in the dead of night...But the unbidden image was as shocking as the real one had been and suddenly Haworth heard himself speak before he was consciously aware of doing it. In a harsh voice, he demanded: "Is it the same between you and de Vire as it was between you and Bolsover?"

Except for the minute lifting of an eyebrow, Hugh's expression never changed. "Yes, Roger..." he said quietly.

Haworth had thought he'd be furious if he heard a positive answer and was surprised that all he felt was a terrible sadness. His throat was so choked that he couldn't say anything. Hugh watched him, unblinking, somber.

"I suppose," the earl continued when he didn't respond, "it's better to have it all out in the open. As you know, the countess is indeed pregnant. While you were away I sent her out of Hawarden, to Avranches...and Sir Ralph moved into my chambers."

He sucked in his breath. "What about me?"

"I'll do whatever you want, Roger. You're my best man. I'll place you wherever you want to go. Or enfoeff you, if that's what you prefer; you can be your own man, then."

Haworth looked at him helplessly. "But I don't want to go anywhere else."

"I think it's for the best, Roger," Hugh said carefully. "For you and for me. It will hurt you to remain here and I'll be miserable because of it. As I wish you happiness, don't you wish me likewise?"

"He cannot make you happy!"

"Roger—"

"Did Bolsover make you happy? No! You admitted as much to me after his death! You said all you wanted to do was please him and he would never be pleased! Do you imagine de Vire will be any different? That kind is all the same!"

"Roger, I don't want to discuss Sir Ralph or Sir Robert now. If you're upset, perhaps you ought to stay here. We can talk further—"

Haworth snorted and resumed saddling his horse with short, angry motions. "If you don't want to discuss de Vire, there's no point in talking further! Now, please pardon me, my lord, I've got a job to do."

He noted with satisfaction that Hugh looked stunned. He supposed Hugh had expected him to continue to argue or plead. Well, he wasn't about to waste energy in a futile endeavor when it could be better expended on Gruffudd ap Madog. Besides, his quarrel wasn't with Hugh, it was with de Vire. Having been with the earl for so many years, he was well-acquainted with the man's weakness for simpering blonde peacocks. De Vire was exploiting Hugh's generous nature, as Robert Bolsover had done before him. Haworth was struck by the similarities between the two young men. He couldn't help but imagine it would all end the same way.

He returned at twilight the following day with such astonishing information that any uneasy or ill feeling between him and the earl vanished immediately upon its telling. Crossing the border into northern Powys, Haworth and his men had been ambushed by the Welsh, who had inflicted light damage on the heavily protected knights before scattering in all directions. The event was noteworthy, Haworth told Hugh, because he had seen Rhirid ap Maelgwn alongside Gruffudd's men.

Ralph de Vire walked to Hugh's chair with an almost lazy step and handed him a cup of wine. He turned to Haworth. "Are you certain? Did anyone else see him?"

Haworth ignored him, keeping his eyes on Hugh. "My lord, a number of my men can confirm this. It was definitely Rhirid."

Hugh swallowed the wine thoughtfully. He knew that when Haworth had gone into Llanlleyn and seized Olwen and Teleri, he'd made an enemy out of a former ally but he'd discounted the threat of retaliation. Surely Rhirid wasn't stupid enough to be swayed by a foolish pride into attacking Hawarden's superior force. He hadn't considered the possibility that Rhirid might seek out an alliance with Gruffudd, but as he digested Haworth's report, his sudden apprehension faded. After all, he reasoned, hadn't he already defeated Gruffudd and recently gotten the best of Rhirid? No, he didn't believe he had anything to fear from this united Welsh front.

"My lord, if I may suggest..."

Hugh nodded. "Yes, what is it, Ralph?"

"You should march down into Powys to meet this threat, my lord. A showy spectacle; all your army. Burn whatever buildings you find and slaughter the livestock. Let these two petty chiefs take note that you mean business and will retaliate harshly for any slight against your soldiers, including what just happened to Sir Roger's men."

"My lord, that's a foolhardy plan!" Haworth immediately protested. "You'd be exposing your entire army to the unorganized, unseen quick strikes the Welsh favor. The king tried this tactic in '65 and it was one of his few failures! And what happens if Gruffudd and Rhirid don't attack at all? How long are you planning to sleep, eat and travel rough?"

"You can't compare '65 to our trouble!" de Vire said. "The king was more at the mercy of the weather than the Welsh and his line of supply was too long—"

"His intention was the same as ours—to subdue the Welsh—and he failed!" Haworth, provoked into addressing de Vire, snapped.

Whatever merit his captain's argument may have had was lost on Hugh, who was annoyed that Haworth kept harping on Henry's failure, which for some reason served merely to remind him of Henry's great success at Dol.

De Vire appealed to Hugh with an exasperated expression. "My lord—"

"My lord," Haworth interrupted, striding forward to stand in front of Hugh, just a step before de Vire, "a smarter plan is to imitate the Welsh and send out small raiding parties to harass Powys until Gruffudd tires of the game and is provoked, along with Rhirid, into a face-to-face confrontation!"

"My lord, that could take forever!" de Vire exclaimed. "It's nearly the end of August. Winter is practically around the corner!"

Haworth made a noise of derision but was prevented from retorting when Hugh stood up suddenly and thrust his cup into de Vire's hands. "It seems to me that Sir Ralph might be right in this matter, Roger. I can see no reason not to show our full power to the Welsh. And I don't want to waste time playing games. Remember, we've got the Bastard's wife and his captain's whore here and I'd like to get rid of this Welsh threat before taking on Rhuddlan." In a more conciliatory tone, he added, "Perhaps it's just as well you didn't go to Rhuddlan, Roger. I've no doubt our exceptional army can defeat both the Bastard and the Welsh; it might, however, be awkward to have to do it at the same time."

He'd never seen Haworth look so stunned and he felt a little guilty. His captain stood motionless and when it was obvious he wasn't going to respond, Hugh suggested kindly that he might prefer to remain behind with a small guard to watch Hawarden. Haworth's flat rejection of this idea was immediate and forceful.

"Well, then," Hugh said, "we'll leave in the morning."

He had almost immediate cause to regret not insisting Haworth keep charge of the fortress instead of leading the army south. With every passing league Haworth's frown deepened and when they paused for a meal at noon the second day without having seen one Welshman, he approached Hugh to complain again about the foolhardiness of their venture. And once again it was de Vire who answered for Hugh, scoffing at Haworth's fears and telling him to return to Hawarden if he was so nervous about engaging the Welsh.

Purely to allay de Vire's worry about possible retaliation by Haworth, Hugh had recounted to him the conversation with Haworth in the stables. He had thought only to reassure de Vire; to let him know that Haworth now understood that de Vire had taken his place. He'd wanted to prove to Ralph that his interest in him was serious and that was why he'd gone through the distasteful but necessary step of letting Haworth know their own relationship was over. But he could never have imagined de Vire's response to this news. It was as if an entirely new personality had been unleashed. Apparently secure in the earl's acknowledged favor, de Vire had become arrogant and outspoken, particularly concerning Haworth. That was natural enough—to be jealous of a lover's former bedmate—but Hugh wished de Vire wouldn't lord it up over Haworth, who hadn't done anything to earn such disrespect. He'd been meaning to speak to de Vire privately about his attitude but whenever they were alone together he had other things on his mind. He couldn't very well reprove the young man in front of Haworth, which seemed to be the only time he remembered he had to do it.

So now he hadn't only the Welsh to worry over; there were Haworth and de Vire carping at each other constantly and vying for his attention. Hugh didn't want to think about his personal life at the moment, even though it kept poking up in his face. There really was only one solution for this problem and he would have to convince Haworth to take up his offer of enfoeffment...or he'd have to dismiss him from his service...

"My lord, my scouts have returned." Haworth's bearded face swam suddenly before his eyes. Hugh started. He must have dozed off from the affects of the warm sun and hearty meal. He pushed himself upright and suppressed a yawn. He glanced around as inconspicuously as possible but de Vire, who had been sitting with him as they'd eaten, was no longer there. "They've spotted a small group of Welsh a few leagues from here. Warriors. Resting, perhaps, as we've been doing."

Hugh cleared his throat. "Were your men seen?"

"No, my lord. They counted only twenty-odd Welsh."

"But who!" Ralph de Vire appeared at Haworth's side. He addressed Hugh. "My lord, they said one of the Welsh was Gruffudd and another was Rhirid."

Hugh's head swiveled toward Haworth. "Roger?"

"That's indeed what they said, my lord, and I'm sure it's true. But something's not right—only twenty-odd men? And no guard posted? And conveniently waiting not very far from here?"

"What of it?" de Vire demanded. "They didn't expect us to come after them, that's why there aren't any guards! They expected we'd keep behind our walls and retaliate only if they came onto the earl's property! My lord, if I may make a suggestion?" He went on before Hugh could respond. "Let's split our army into two parts. The larger part, mostly bowmen and the footmen, will advance forward to surround the campsite in all directions. The smaller part will charge headlong into the camp and when the Welsh scatter in response, there will be Norman swords and arrows ready to meet them in any direction. My lord, it will be glory for you!"

"My lord, this strategy is too impetuous!" Haworth protested. "It's just too much good fortune that the Welsh are simply waiting for us. I think it's a trap!"

"And I tell you they're merely a raiding party!" de Vire argued. "My lord, you've got Rhirid and Gruffudd there, protected by only a handful of warriors. We must not waste this opportunity to kill them!"

The biting enmity between Haworth and de Vire and their constant appeals to his favor were giving Hugh a throbbing headache—but also a growing appreciation of de Vire. His unbridled eagerness for immediate, violent action made Haworth's careful suspicion seem old and unattractive. He was exciting, fresh and bold, and entirely irresistible, especially when he turned his intense eyes on Hugh...

"We've already discussed being unable to waste time, Roger," Hugh answered finally. "We'll go with Ralph's plan."

Haworth stared at him, plainly shocked at this second betrayal in as many days, and Hugh tried not to shrink under the honest scrutiny. He was suddenly angry; why did Haworth believe he had a permanent claim on him? Why did he insist on perpetuating a relationship which had petered out long ago? Was it so wrong of Hugh to desire someone else?

But Haworth was not only shocked, he was angry, too. He stepped very close to Hugh. "It's a trap, pure and simple, my lord," he said in a tight, low voice. "I won't expose my men to it—"

"Your men, Roger?" Hugh demanded.

"I'm their commander."

"A situation easily remedied!"

Haworth glanced at de Vire, who was not within earshot of this intense but hushed exchange, and curled his lip. "If you think to put that young fool in command, think again! The men won't follow him!"

"They'll follow me!" Hugh glared at Haworth for a moment while he sorted out his thoughts. He didn't relish the idea of Haworth riding off in a huff with battle imminent, not only because such an action would demoralize the men but because it would create ill-feeling against Ralph de Vire. His expression relaxed and he softened his tone. "Roger, I don't want to argue with you," he said reasonably. "You said not long ago you don't want to leave me; if that's so, then take this order...please..."

He waited tensely but Haworth had always backed down when push came to shove and this moment was no different. After a short interval, Haworth bowed his head.

Like two creeping vines, the main bulk of the Norman army spread quietly around either side of the Welsh camp until it was virtually surrounded. The terrain was rough and hilly, and covered with sufficient vegetation to keep the men hidden. Haworth was to have led one branch himself but he had stayed behind, giving instruction instead. Hugh pretended not to notice, unwilling to force the issue. De Vire, proud and barely able to keep still, had taken the other branch and now he was out of sight.

The earl stood at the head of a phalanx of knights, their helmets pulled low, their horses stamping the ground and their lances upright. He waited for a runner to bring back word that everyone was in place...

And then it was time. At the last moment, Haworth had doubled the guard around Hugh with the result that it was difficult for him to move quickly without crashing into the knights before him, all of whom seemed to be moving at an almost casual pace. They couldn't afford to lose their impetus; Hugh waved his men onward even as he fell further back. He suspected that this was Haworth's intention.

The men ahead of him began shouting and whooping and he guessed they had reached the Welsh camp. The sudden commotion acted as a spur to his guards and they hurried forward, their formation breaking down. They had been led to believe this battle would be a rout and now they were eager to join in. Hugh saw an opening and immediately urged his mount through it. He had no desire to remain in the safety of the rear; he wanted some glory to recount to Ralph de Vire.

The camp was in a small clearing at the bottom of a short hill and as he reached the crest, Hugh paused to extract his sword from his belt. He glanced briefly below at the scene below and the thought crossed his mind that the Welsh had flouted a basic rule of campaigning by making camp in such a low lying, vulnerable spot. The twenty-odd warriors whom his scouts had reported were stirring from their casual seating on the ground and his soldiers were almost upon them. He gripped his sword and prepared to join them.

Suddenly, there was chaos. Archers had sprung up out of the undergrowth just before the clearing and were shooting into the fast-approaching ranks of the Norman cavalry. Although a few arrows struck riders, most were aimed at the horses.

Because the Normans were so close, the Welsh had time for only one, well-orchestrated surprise salvo and to Hugh's dismay, they pulled it off with great success. He counted six downed horses, whose dead or flailing bodies immediately proved a hindrance to the forward progress of the knights following the first line. As the men struggled to get past this obstacle, the archers fell back and the warriors who'd acted as lures stepped up to take their place. They waited patiently, believing themselves to be in control of the situation.

Hugh immediately spotted the large man with the long mustaches who was Rhirid's champion and had only to glance at his left to find Rhirid, not nearly as impressive, standing beside him. He tightened his grip on his reins and pressed his knees into his mount, urging the beast forward. Perhaps the Welsh were a bit more clever than he'd supposed them to be but they still could not prevail over his more expensively and better equipped soldiers. And now he was determined to kill Rhirid himself.

Without warning, a mailed rider loomed in his field of vision, pulling up so abruptly on the reins that his stallion reared up with snorts that carried above the din of the mayhem all around them. Hugh had to quickly pull his own horse back to avoid the heavy hooves which crashed to the ground, and then took advantage of his attacker's momentary unbalance to press closer to him and slash viciously at the arm holding the reins, although his own precarious footing made the blows more glancing than lethal. The attacker was aggressive. He used his horse as a weapon as much as his sword, urging the animal to push into Hugh's mount in an effort to topple Hugh to the ground, and when that tactic failed, took to butting Hugh's head with the pommel of his sword. The closeness of his opponent made it impossible for Hugh to swing his sword to any effect and he was forced to back up to relieve the assault on his head. Again, his attacker bolted forward to close the gap between them but before he could inflict any damage, a third horseman hurtled into the fray. Holding his sword straight out before him as if it were a lance, the newcomer plowed unerringly into Hugh's opponent. The sword was forced by the momentum and strength of his body through the man's metal hauberk and into his chest. There was a brief moment when nothing seemed to move, and then Roger of Haworth pulled his sword back with a quick, sudden jerk and the dead man dropped to the ground. Oblivious now to the chaos of noise and flailing weapons around them, panting from exertion, Hugh and Haworth stared down at the inert, metal-shrouded body.

They looked up and at each other at the same time. "Well," Hugh said calmly, "you were right; it is a trap."

"I didn't expect this, my lord! Did he belong to the Bastard?"

"Without a doubt."

"What will we do?"

Hugh hesitated, frowning. He hated to admit that the Bastard had gotten the better of him but there was no way his men, superior in ability and training as he believed they were, could fight the combined forces of three armies at once. He suddenly saw the battle as standing for something greater than merely the Bastard's revenge for the kidnapping of his wife—it was to be the conclusion of the fight started at Dol. Whatever differences might have existed between Longsword and Rhirid ap Maelgwn were but trifles when compared with Longsword's grudge against him.

"We must get back to Hawarden. The Bastard wants to kill me, Roger, but he needs to do it clean; in battle. He realized he hadn't a chance coming against me at Hawarden; he could sit outside those walls for a year with no hardship to us."

Haworth nodded grimly and took up his reins. "I'll collect your bodyguard and send you off, my lord."

Hugh looked down the incline to where the fighting was kicking up the dust. "Where's Sir Ralph? His men ought to be here to help. Without them we're outnumbered. Don't they hear the ruckus?"

"He deployed the archers and footmen so far out that they probably don't hear anything," Haworth said flatly. "Don't worry; I'll retrieve them. The most important thing is that you get safely away, my lord. If you're lost, we're all lost."

Hugh reached over and gripped Haworth's shoulder firmly. "You're in charge, Roger, as ever. Will you do me one favor?"

"Of course, my lord."

"Find Sir Ralph." He hesitated. "I know it's a terrible thing to ask of you but you're the only one I trust. The only one I can truly depend upon..."

"I'll find him," Haworth promised.

Hugh smiled, relieved. Dropping his hand, he returned his sword to his belt and took hold of the reins.

Rhirid had told no one, not even his healer, about his persistent dizziness and periodic headaches. Although nothing had been spoken aloud, he knew that in his men's opinion he'd already committed one offense by humbling himself to the Norman lord when he'd sought aid against the earl of Chester; to admit to physical weakness now could prove tantamount to being forced to give up lordship of Llanlleyn. He'd become adept at keeping himself as still as possible for as long as possible. He didn't think anyone had noticed.

It had been the Norman lord's idea to enlist the support of Gruffudd ap Madog. Rhirid had been of two minds about this; while he welcomed the additional swords, it had not been so long ago that he and his men had fought against Gruffudd at the behest of the prince and he wasn't certain that Dafydd would condone an alliance with northern Powys now. Longsword had scoffed at his apprehension and waved away his concern. His almost sneering dismissal of Dafydd's potential reaction led Rhirid to believe that the Norman had some grievance against the prince.

Rhirid usually looked forward to a good fight as much as any man but on this day his dizziness made him doubtful of his ability. He didn't know if his coordination would be affected. As he waited, he prayed he wouldn't make a fool of himself in front of his warriors. Only one thought could drive away his insecurity: that he would meet Roger of Haworth, the man who had ridden onto his land and stolen Olwen, and kill him.

After hearing Goewyn's shocking tale, he had spent a sleepless night turning over and over in his mind what horrible fate might await Olwen at Hawarden. In the morning, despite a throbbing headache and a painfully swollen face, he'd felt calmer. He knew what he had to do to get Olwen back. He'd put it simply and quietly to his men. His tone had been soft but there'd been no missing the steel behind it, and although there were unhappy, even angry, faces looking back at him, no one had dared protest when he'd told them that he was going to seek the assistance of the lord of Rhuddlan.

To his mind, he had no choice. Olwen was more important than an ultimately meaningless feud with Longsword and he believed the Normans at Rhuddlan—or at least one of them—would feel the same. Besides, he had to at least try to neutralize this Norman threat while he faced the other, more powerful one from Hawarden.

He'd supposed Lord William would receive him at best distrustfully and at worst with a drawn sword; after all, a mere two days earlier they'd tried to kill each other. He'd brought a hostage with him, a measure of his good faith and this seemed to work in his favor. Olwen's Norman lover had done the translations, all the while glaring at him with such intense hatred that he'd decided he had more to fear from this man than from Lord William. He'd turned away from the frosty scrutiny only to find Longsword staring at his face with undisguised distaste.

"It's a pathetic battle indeed when my enemy's horse inflicts more damage on him than I do," the Norman had remarked. Then his tone had hardened. "I must move more quickly next time."

"—Rhirid!"

Dylan's harsh whisper shook him out of his reverie. "What's wrong?" he said.

"Nothing! Everything's right. Look! The first of the earl's men are approaching. We must stand up as if they've surprised us!"

The ones who were truly surprised were the earl's knights, when the hidden archers jumped to their feet at Gruffudd's signal, fitted an arrow and took almost immediate aim. The charging horsemen were too close to halt or shy away and the result was confusion, swirling dust and a lot of noise.

The second wave of the earl's attack came quickly on the heels of the first but these men, having seen what had happened to their comrades and realizing this was no chance meeting after all, had a few moments to adjust their forward impetus. They were speeding at such a rate that there was no time to stop; instead they looked for gaps in the collection of men and beasts lying in their path or ducked low and jumped over the obstacles. The archers retreated to a position behind Gruffudd and Rhirid and the other Welsh in the clearing. The Powys chief shouted and waved his sword in the air and suddenly dozens of men sprang up from the verges and jumped down from the trees, and pushed their way towards the clearing, wielding swords and spears to meet the earl's knights.

Rhirid reached up with several others and pulled a Norman from his horse. Before the man had a chance to regain his balance, the chief lunged at him, ramming his shield and the full weight of his body into him. The Norman fell to his knees under the force of the collision and then Rhirid brought the butt of his sword crashing down onto his helmet. The Norman collapsed. Rhirid watched the others fall upon him and was pleased with this successful start to his battle. With a start, he realized his dizziness and pain were gone. It was a good portent. Fate was surely smiling on him. The plan had worked, Chester was trapped, he would have his revenge on Haworth and he would return to Olwen.

Dylan was behind him. "They don't know which way to turn," he laughed. "It's a rout!"

"Where's Roger of Haworth?" Rhirid shouted above the din of the battle.

"I saw him a moment ago—talking to the earl. They've both gone now." Dylan wiped his sweating face with an arm and suddenly his expression changed. "Rhirid! Take care!"

The chief swung around. A Norman man-at-arms approached to challenge him. Rhirid felt such an exhilirating rush that all at once he jiggled his forearm and wrist from the bindings and tossed his round, iron-bound shield to the side. What did he need it for, anyway? Today he was invincible.

He was lighter without the shield. His every nerve was singing. With a grin, Rhirid faced his new opponent, hearing nothing at all but the deafening, excited pulse in his ears. The Norman came to him, sword drawn. Rhirid swung but the other man blocked him. He grasped his sword with both his hands and began his attack in earnest, never giving the Norman the opportunity to do anything else but defend himself. Again and again, he repeated the same sequence of moves: slash to the right, cut down over the soldier's right shoulder, feint to the left, jab upwards, draw back, feint to the right, slash to the right...until his opponent imagined he was able to predict his next move and then Rhirid abruptly changed the pattern. The Norman's sword flew in the wrong direction, whistling harmlessly through the air instead of crashing into metal, and Rhirid took advantage of the opening to swing his weapon with all his strength into the man's exposed side, biting through his leather armor. Off balance, the Norman staggered and dropped his sword. He fell to his knees. Rhirid raised his sword a last time and struck off the man's head.

Today he was invincible. He spat onto the ground and looked around. The ambush was winding down; all Chester's men who were able were beginning to retreat. William Longsword's footmen were giving chase. He and his warriors were to follow after, sweeping up any enemy laggers, but that could wait for the moment. Instead, he took a deep breath and bellowed out Roger of Haworth's name.

Haworth finally located Ralph de Vire up in the higher ground, in a deadly contest with a Rhuddlan knight among the trees. Somehow, they'd both ended up fighting on foot while their horses waited not far away. Haworth was careful to keep himself out of the way and neither combatant appeared to have noticed his sudden intrusion onto their battle ground.

He watched them with a professional eye and was grudgingly impressed with de Vire's performance. The young man was displaying an aptitude for swordplay Haworth hadn't seen him demonstrate on the practice grounds at Hawarden; obviously, he thought sourly, when dueling with Hugh, de Vire was prudent enough never to win. Now he was giving the fight everything he had...

It was an even match and might have gone on forever, if de Vire, stepping backwards to avoid a cut, hadn't tripped over an exposed root and fallen hard onto his backside, clutching his lower left leg and losing his weapon. Haworth saw his opponent's mouth twist into a smirk; the man descended deliberately upon de Vire with his sword clutched in both hands. De Vire seemed helpless to defend himself. His sword lay several feet away. As the knight from Rhuddlan raised his weapon over de Vire's prone body, Haworth felt conflicting emotions of relief and jealousy—but there was no need; at the last moment, de Vire rolled onto his side and scrambling to his feet, jabbed the sharp point of a dagger into the man's throat. It happened so quickly that the knight from Rhuddlan wasn't even aware that he was mortally wounded until he tried to take a breath and found he couldn't. Haworth heard his blood gurgle. He watched the man collapse onto the ground and saw de Vire give the body a vicious kick in the ribs.

He dismounted and walked slowly towards de Vire. "Nice work."

The young man whirled around. "Sir Roger!"

"A former companion of yours?" Haworth inquired, nodding towards the dead man. "It was a good trick; you had me fooled. I thought I'd have to bring your corpse back to the earl." He paused and smiled a little. "Well, I'll probably have to do that, anyway. As I said, nice work. I'm always looking for a fresh arm. Why don't you try your skill against me?"

De Vire's face was curiously pale for someone who'd just undergone such furious exercise but he spoke firmly enough. "I think our energy would be better spent on our adversaries, don't you?"

"The way I see it, de Vire, you are my adversary. You're my primary adversary." He took his sword out of his belt. "Come. That was a short fight; you can't be winded."

"This is ridiculous!" the other man sputtered. "There's a serious battle occurring just beyond those trees!"

"More serious than you think," Haworth said agreeably. "It's actually the trap I tried to warn Hugh about. Don't worry; I saw him safely away."

De Vire stared at him. "I don't want to fight you, Sir Roger."

"It's less work for me if you don't."

"The earl will not countenance this!"

"The only way he'll ever find out is if you kill me, de Vire. So? You have a chance, de Vire." Haworth's voice became taunting. "Why don't you take it?"

After a pause, the other man, apparently resigned, said, "Will you allow me to retrieve my sword?"

Haworth laughed. "Of course! It would be murder, otherwise..."

He watched de Vire walk to where his sword lay and bend over to pick it up. He never underestimated his opponents, but he'd seen enough of de Vire's style to be reasonably certain of his own victory. All that remained was what story to tell Hugh. The dead knight from Rhuddlan was a good touch. He'd come upon de Vire just as he was cut down by the unknown knight; in a fit of fury and revenge out of respect for the earl, he had promptly challenged the knight and defeated him...Haworth glanced back at the body and debated taking the head with him to give further credence to his tale...

De Vire straightened up. And then Haworth heard his name bellowed so loudly, it sounded as if the caller were directly behind him. Reflexively, he spun around and saw no one. He turned back to de Vire and saw the man running towards his horse, which, Haworth realized belatedly, waited only twenty feet from the sword. It had been de Vire's plan all along, and Haworth's suddenly diverted attention had bought him a little extra time.

With an oath, Haworth ran after him and just managed to grab his shoulder as he reached up to take hold of his saddle. He pulled de Vire back with his free hand, swung him around and punched him in the face with the force of the pommel of his sword in his other. De Vire sank unconscious to the ground. It was a small mercy and Haworth wouldn't have been able to say why he'd done it. Perhaps for Hugh's sake. At any rate, it meant that de Vire never saw or felt the sure, heavy thrust of Haworth's swordpoint breaking through his chest.

For Longsword, the waiting was unbearable, especially when he could quite clearly hear the shouting and clanging of metal from the not-too-distant battle. His primary thought was that the Welsh were going to mess it up. Something would go wrong or something unexpected would happen; it was always the way. If he was there, he could make adjustments and save the victory. Instead, he was waiting with his knights among the trees, between the battle and Hawarden, fretting. It had all seemed foolproof in the planning; why were there always so many sudden doubts and second thoughts in the execution?

He was anxious also because the plan had been his own creation. If it failed, he would look like a fool to the Welsh. He still found it difficult to believe he was allied with Rhirid ap Maelgwn and he didn't want to lose this tenuous semblance of overlordship he'd gained when the Welshman had come begging to him.

But mostly he was anxious—so incredibly on edge—for his plan to succeed because Gwalaes was at Hawarden...To defeat the earl and ride in triumph back to his fortress and rescue her was the goal towards which Longsword strived with such urgency that the enforced waiting was threatening to snap his nerves...

"My lord!" Fitz Maurice was galloping up the short hill upon which Longsword and his men stood. He gasped for air as he reined in. "My lord!"

"What is it?" Longsword demanded, his chest tight. "What's happened?"

"It worked! They were completely surprised! The Welsh fell upon them without mercy!"

Some of Longsword's anxiety lessened but he kept his features straight. "The earl?"

Fitz Maurice shook his head regretfully. "We weren't as fortunate there, my lord. He sensed or he saw the trap and he never got close enough for us to finish him."

"Never mind; we'll get him now." Longsword's voice was determined. He took up his reins. He hadn't actually expected Chester to become entangled in the Welsh snare because he knew the earl didn't have much battle experience and probably preferred to let others take charge of his operations; anyway, he didn't want the Welsh to have all the glory. If he and his knights could bring down the earl, that would be a fitting end to the plan. He glanced around. "Where's Richard?"

"He told me he wanted to keep an eye on the Welsh, my lord," fitz Maurice said. "I said you would miss him but he ordered me to leave."

Longsword swore under his breath. He debated sending fitz Maurice and another man to bring Delamere back but decided there wasn't enough time and he was certain his friend would have realized this, as well. Ever since Rhirid had ridden into Rhuddlan with the report that the earl had abducted Olwen, Delamere had been nearly impossible to deal with; in fact, Longsword had had to physically restrain him from jumping on his horse and charging straight down to Hawarden that very night. And then there was the steady, malevolent stare with which he watched Rhirid, like a cat just waiting for the right moment to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse. Longsword had done his best to persuade him to keep away from the Welshman, but now they were both out of sight.

There was nothing he could do; Chester was the concern of the moment. He ordered his knights to take up the positions they'd discussed earlier. He was confident about this part of the plan, mostly because he had direct control over it. It was necessary, however, that the earl flee the ambush in the same direction from which he'd come.

A sharp whistle suddenly pierced the air and he gripped his sword more tightly and looked around and nodded at his men. It meant the earl was in sight and was the signal for the archers to prepare to fire. Longsword had sent his foot soldiers and several knights to fight with the Welsh but he'd kept his archers back in the event of the need for a second attempt at Chester. Surely the earl wouldn't think his enemies would use the same trick twice.

From his station, Longsword couldn't see the surprise attack by the bowmen but he could hear men shouting and horses screaming and knew it had been a success. Hopefully, not too much of a success—he wanted to take the earl himself—but enough to put a significant dent in the bodyguard.

The archers had waited in a part of the wood where the travel path was forced to narrow because of heavy undergrowth; Longsword and his knights were several hundred yards away on more open ground. They didn't have long to wait before the first riders burst out of the wood and into their paths.

"Go!" Longsword shouted. He dug his spurs into his horse's ribs and jolted forward. Now there was no plan; his only instructions to his knights had been to chase down and kill anyone from Hawarden who didn't immediately offer surrender, with the exception of the earl who was his own prey. Fitz Maurice had given him a description of Chester's clothing, accoutrements and the color, size and rigging of his horse and he scanned the handful of men who'd emerged from the trees with an impatient eye, trusting his mount to watch the ground as they sped along.

And then he saw him. Both Chester and his horse seemed to have gotten through the trap unscathed. The earl was crouched low over the beast's neck, his head tucked down. In one hand he held the reins, in the other his sword. There was a man behind him and another one by his side: his guards. Longsword was momentarily angry with Delamere for not being present because he and fitz Maurice could have dealt with the guards, leaving the earl vulnerable, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

The trio was fast approaching. Longsword pulled slightly on the reins to alter his direction. It had been his intention to jump in front of the earl but it was obvious Chester was not going to stop no matter what appeared in his path. Longsword would have to chase him until one of their horses gave out. He berated himself for not carrying a javelin. Despite the fact the earl was low to his horse and even though they were all moving very fast, Longsword felt he'd have a perfect, clean shot at him when he drew closer.

He glanced back to fitz Maurice, whose horse was struggling valiantly to keep up its speed, and shouted for him to intercept the guard in the rear. The sound drew the attention of the two front riders who raised their heads to locate its source and saw Longsword racing across the ground to their right, going in the same direction but in an ever narrowing trajectory which would soon end in collision if someone didn't veer away. Longsword kept going.

The guard riding with the earl dropped slightly back and then suddenly broke away and made for Longsword who immediately understood his intention and cursed Delamere again. The guard wanted to get in his way—push him off his course and increase the space between him and the earl. Longsword tried feinting, slowing down and angling sharply to his left but he wasn't near enough to the guard to make this maneuver work; the guard quickly compensated. It would be impossible to dodge the man and Longsword knew the more time he wasted on him, the greater the earl's chances of escaping.

He pulled firmly on the reins and brought his horse, breathing heavily, to a fitful walk. He slid the shield from his back onto his left arm and held his sword ready, using only his knees to keep his balance on the animal. Whether Chester's guard had expected a fight or not, he didn't know, but the man did not shirk it. Still moving quickly, he came directly towards Longsword with an upraised sword and a determined posture, fanatically loyal, as the other man knew most of Chester's knights were, to the death.

When he deemed the gap between himself and the guard narrow enough, Longsword urged his mount into a trot and raised his own sword. The two men met with a harsh clang. Momentum kept them going until they checked their progress and wheeled around. This time Longsword kept his horse standing. They could pass and lunge at each other for hours before one of them got lucky and caused the other one damage but by that time the earl would be back on his own land. Longsword had to be lucky now. The guard approached and slashed downward with his sword. Longsword thrust his shield up to protect his head and shoulder and felt the blow glance off it but his answering swipe met with air as the guard moved beyond his reach.

Longsword pivoted. His attacker jumped forward and the two horses nearly collided. Longsword swung his weapon horizontally into the guard's hauberk-protected body but he was too close to his target for the blow to amount to anything more lethal than a bruised rib. The guard began swinging his own sword rapidly, back and forth, with sudden, short swipes aimed at Longsword's upper body and head. For a moment, all he could do was hold up his shield to stave off the blows. The man, possibly emboldened by Longsword's apparent inability to return the bombardment, redoubled his efforts, his horse prancing around. Longsword grew frustrated. He hated the idea of anyone getting the better of him but he knew as soon as he fought back, the guard would swing out of reach, and the scenario would be repeated until they were miles away from where they'd started. He tried to think of another way out, cursed Delamere yet again and wondered where the hell fitz Maurice was.

A blow landed on the side of his head. He was momentarily stunned; his shield must have slipped. The pain hit him an instant later, a jolt of lightning searing down his neck and into his shoulder; scorching the old wound Rhirid's arrow had made months earlier. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt it but it screamed now with all its former intensity. The sudden shock made him furious. Without thinking he lashed out, thrusting his shield away from his body with a violent push and swinging his right arm around, over the neck of his horse, bringing his sword down on top of his opponent's head.

The clout wasn't deadly; the earl had outfitted his men with the best equipment available and that included sturdy helmets, but it was enough to halt the man's barrage. The more successful piece of the attack was the shove with his shield, which had the fortunate effect of knocking the guard off-balance. At the same time, Longsword let out a roar of pain and frustration and the guard's horse backed nervously away, shaking its rider's already precarious position. As Longsword watched in disbelief, the man struggled to regain his seat but he was weighted down by his heavy gear and finally, arms flailing, slid from the saddle until he was upside down, his head nearly touching the ground, because one of his boots was entangled in a stirrup and he couldn't pull it loose.

The pain in his neck was gone. Longsword hesitated but to dismount and kill the man was an expenditure of time he couldn't afford. Instead, he shrugged his shield up onto his back, grabbed the reins and kicked his horse into a gallop.

The earl was nowhere in sight. Longsword cursed his friend for the fourth time and thought angrily that if he failed to take the earl it would be Delamere's fault. Of course, he'd never make such a judgement aloud because first Delamere would tell him it was down to some foolish error on his own part, and then become extremely offended and ride off in a huff. But where to? He no longer had another home...only Rhuddlan. Just Rhuddlan...That thought cheered Longsword so much that he promptly forgot his displeasure with Delamere's absence.

"My lord!" A voice hailed him from behind. Longsword twisted in his saddle and saw fitz Maurice and three other knights coming towards him. He slowed his horse to allow them to catch up.

"How did it go?" he asked when they were all together.

"The bowmen knocked three from their horses and another two were taken prisoner after a short fight," Guy Lene answered.

"I killed the earl's guard," fitz Maurice said.

"And I left one behind." Longsword put the numbers together. "Seven knights to guard Chester? I thought he was regarded more highly than that."

"Perhaps there are others ahead..."

Could men have passed him while he'd been engaged with the guard? It was possible...but it was even more likely that they would have come to the aid of their comrade, especially when every one of Longsword's accoutrements practically screamed his patrimony.

"Not unless they went by another route," he said. "No. The earl is up there, alone. He's had a good headstart but his horse must be tiring. Let's go."

They increased their speed until they were once more galloping. Longsword had the advantage with his larger, sleeker horse and he was soon ahead of the others, which suited him fine. He had determined to kill Chester, and if the man was intent on surrendering instead of fighting when finally confronted, it would be preferable not to have witnesses to his murder.

He rode almost recklessly, feeling that he'd wasted too much time battling the earl's guard and that the earl himself must by now be impossibly far away. The transformation of open ground into hillier, leafy terrain set loose the demons of insecurity in his head. He couldn't stop imagining his worst nightmare: that Chester had slipped the trap. No—even worse: that Chester had slipped the trap and was laughing at him.

He proceeded more cautiously when he entered the forest. There was a trail and it showed obvious signs of having recently supported a large retinue but it was barely wide enough to accommodate an ox-cart and the number of hiding places along its verges seemed infinite.

He was so full of fretting over what might have gone wrong that when he finally came upon the earl, he was actually startled to have found him. But there he was, and by some strange miracle, standing near, not mounted on, his horse. He seemed not to have heard Longsword's approach; instead, he stood with his back to him, patting the horse on its neck. Longsword, who had pulled up, watched in puzzlement for a moment because he had the eerie feeling that the earl was waiting for him. But he chided himself for such a ludicrous thought. More likely, the horse had gone lame.

He moved forward, making enough noise to cause the other man to turn around to face him. For a moment there was silence. The last time Longsword had seen the earl, they'd traded angry words concerning Gwalaes. That memory came flooding back to him as they stared at each other and his grip tightened on his sword. Here was the man who always seemed to get the best of him. He wondered why the earl didn't speak—some banal, careless comment to show just how little he thought of Longsword and the arrogant assumption that Longsword would not dare attack an unhorsed man who wasn't offering him a threat. But the earl said nothing. He watched Longsword as Longsword watched him, his bearded face half-hidden by his helmet and the expression of his eyes shadowed by the trees and the helmet's descending nasal.

Longsword was nonplussed. Perhaps it wouldn't be as simple as he'd thought to murder. He had to decide quickly; his men would soon find them.

He dismounted carefully, keeping the earl in his sight in case the man suddenly launched himself at him. But the earl didn't move. Despite every detail of the revenge which had obsessed him in his waking hours, Longsword's resolve faltered. What would his father think? The king was ruthless when political or military circumstances dictated but as far as his son knew he'd never killed another knight in cold blood...

Damn! he thought angrily; he'd have to take Chester prisoner. It would be humiliating for the earl but not nearly as satisfying for him. Still, if his father were to discover the murder—and Longsword had no doubt he would—his life wouldn't be worth living. At least there were rewards for taking a person as wealthy as the earl prisoner: ransom and the gain of forfeited properties.

He took a few steps forward and then, to his surprise, Chester lifted his sword and struck an aggressive posture. He halted. He'd never seen the earl fight; he hadn't thought the man knew how. Was this bluster or was he in earnest? What did it matter? If he wanted to fight, Longsword certainly wasn't about to dissuade him from doing so.

He raised his own sword and continued forward. Chester came up to meet him. The early afternoon sun filtered through the tops of the trees creating splotches of light on random parts of the ground. Longsword decided it wouldn't be a factor in the duel. He suddenly felt deliriously happy. The earl had challenged him and no blame could be attached to him upon the man's death. He was confident he would prevail and he would ride to Hawarden in showy triumph and then...well, the very thought of then was enough to cause him almost unbearable yearning. First, he had a job to do.

His excitement spawned a burst of energy and he broke into a jog, the best he could manage in his heavy hauberk. He heard his spurs clink on the packed earth and a gathering roar which he realized was coming from him. When he was near enough, he took his sword in both hands and swung it with all his might.

His opponent was ready. His sword met Longsword's in a loud, perfect block, and then he flicked his wrists upward and deflected the force of the swing up and out of harm's way. Longsword was again surprised by the earl's action but it served only to increase his aggression. Grunting with exertion, he attacked again and again, but each time his swing was blocked and pushed away until finally, he fell back, panting.

The earl did not pursue him. Obviously, he was content to merely defend himself but his defense was so able, Longsword began to think he'd die of exhaustion before he penetrated it. He needed to try a different tactic.

He approached Chester again, this time without his former exuberance, and made another swipe, aimed low. The earl met the attack, striking Longsword's weapon with his own and pushing it down out of harm's way as he'd been doing earlier, leaving his upper body exposed. Longsword quickly swung around so that his back was pressed against the earl's stomach. He jabbed his left elbow backwards, hitting the earl in his chest and sending him stumbling back, gasping for air. While he was still dazed, Longsword approached him again and raised his sword as if he was about to cut off his head. The earl lifted his sword to block the blow; while their weapons were entangled, Longsword stepped closer and brought his knee up between the other man's legs. The earl yelped involuntarily and doubled over. Longsword raised his leg again and kicked him in the head. Chester groaned once, sank to the ground and was still.

"My lord, congratulations!"

Breathing heavily, he turned around. Fitz Maurice and others were there, watching him. He had no idea when they'd arrived. He nodded to them. Fitz Maurice dismounted and Longsword told him to retrieve the earl's sword. He stepped away to catch his breath.

Chester was beginning to stir. Longsword glanced at him. "You're conceding whether you want to or not," he informed him. "I've got your sword."

The man groaned again. Fitz Maurice, wishing to be helpful, pulled off his helmet to make him more comfortable. "My lord!" he suddenly called out to Longsword, who had turned away. "Come quickly!"

Longsword heard the urgency in his voice and came running. He knew something was dreadfully wrong and when he stared down at the man he'd just defeated, he discovered exactly what.

He didn't recognize the man lying on the ground. The man was not the earl of Chester.

Rhirid, Dylan and several others rode into the clearing just as Roger of Haworth was heaving Ralph de Vire's body across the back of his horse. Rhirid glanced at the dead Norman on the ground and the dead one dangling ignobly from the horse and wondered briefly what had happened. He raised his eyes to Haworth and for a moment, everyone was still, just looking at each other with shuttered expressions and taking measure.

Rhirid knew from their previous alliance that Haworth spoke no Welsh. He suddenly felt the press of time; he had to follow after William Longsword in the event that the earl had set a trap of his own. It would be awkward but he'd have to use hand signals to challenge Haworth and he didn't know if he'd be able to make his adversary understand that the reason behind it had to do with trespass and kidnapping.

Well, he thought dismissively, what would the reason matter to Haworth when he was dead?

He took a step forward, pointed to Haworth, pointed to himself and then raised his sword in a threatening manner. Haworth seemed to pause but then he nodded, patted the neck of the horse which carried the body and pulled his own sword from his belt.

"Rhirid, no!" Dylan hissed. "I'm your champion—I'll fight him!"

"I want him myself, Dylan," Rhirid said, rolling his shoulders while staring at the Norman. "This is personal."

Although he'd fought beside Roger of Haworth during his brief tenure as ally to the earl of Chester, Rhirid had never really considered his ability as a opponent. Haworth was probably his own height but broader and heavier. His dark face and unsmiling demeanor gave him the aura of being in deadly earnest, whatever his task. He hefted his sword effortlessly, as if it were merely an extension of his hand. He stood a few feet from the horse, waiting for Rhirid, watching him without expression, motionless.

The Welshman, however, wasn't intimidated. He'd thought that the dizziness might return once the battle on the road had died away and the breathless excitement with it, but images flashing through his mind of his fortress invaded and Olwen snatched away kept his heart pounding rapidly and every muscle in his body tingling. Rhirid wanted this fight. Without hesitation, he lifted his sword—

"Peace!" someone shouted desperately. "Peace!"

All eyes turned to the newcomer entering the clearing, a man on horseback—a Norman—slightly disheveled in appearance as though he'd also fought in the ambush. He was followed by other Normans.

"Lord Rhirid, please! One moment!" the man called anxiously. He pulled up on the reins to halt the horse, swung himself out of the saddle and onto the ground and removed his helmet. It was Richard Delamere. "Will you tell me what's happening?" he asked, breathing heavily.

"I've just challenged this man," Rhirid said, sounding faintly puzzled. Wasn't it obvious?

Delamere's eyes slid to Haworth and back. "Do you know who he is?"

"Of course I do, Sir Richard!" Rhirid jabbed the point of his sword in Haworth's direction. "He's the dog who invaded my land."

"Yes, but he's also our most valuable prisoner, Lord Rhirid," Delamere said. "I must ask you to rescind your challenge and turn him over to Lord William."

"What?" Rhirid asked incredulously. He snorted. "No!"

"Lord Rhirid, please listen! The earl has slipped the trap and escaped. If he gets past Lord William, then all of this has been for nothing—unless we have something, or someone, with which to bargain! Chester holds this man Haworth in high regard. He will give anything to get him back!"

Rhirid frowned, and was promptly rewarded with a stabbing pain behind his eyes. He said angrily, "It's not my fault that the plan Lord William concocted failed to trap the earl. He had his chance! And now I've got my chance to kill this one here. Unlike Lord William, I don't intend to fail."

Delamere came up close to him so that no one else could hear. Although the words he'd already spoken had been polite and respectful, Rhirid could see quite clearly the hatred searing his face. It was a mutual feeling; Rhirid would just as willingly have fought Richard Delamere as Roger of Haworth.

Delamere clenched his jaw and made an obvious effort to control his temper. In a low, tight voice he said, "I'm here as Lord William's emissary. It is in this capacity that I beg you to rescind your challenge and give up your prisoner. If it's a question of payment—"

"Payment!" Rhirid exploded. His eyes bored into Delamere's. "This is the man who invaded my land and took Olwen away by force! The insult he did me is beyond compensation!"

Delamere was outraged. He took another step closer. "Now you know how I feel, Welshman!" he said so quietly it was almost a whisper; a furious, earnest whisper.

"You should never have left her alone—Norman," Rhirid snapped, and then his lip curled with pleasure at Delamere's predicament. "Soon, she'll be back where she belongs. Llanlleyn."

The knight's face flushed angrily. "Not if the earl makes it back to Hawarden and we've nothing to bargain with! This time I'm asking for myself. Don't fight Haworth. I've seen him work. You'll lose. And that will deprive me of the opportunity to kill you myself!"

They stood eye to eye. Rhirid considered Delamere's words, a task suddenly made difficult by the headache which had returned with all its former fury. He managed a cocky grin. "Sir Richard, I feel so good today I'm certain I could take the both of you. But Lord William agreed to help me and in honor of our alliance, I'll now help him. On one condition: if Lord William has no use for him after all, Roger of Haworth is given back to me."

"Fine," Delamere said tersely and began to turn away.

"One more thing, Sir Richard," Rhirid spoke up. Delamere waited with an impatient expression. "Our duel. Please arrange for it as soon as possible. I intend to marry Olwen and I don't want anyone standing in my way."

Olwen burst into the room and shut the door with an unintentional bang. She hurried towards the inner chamber. "Lady Teleri! Lady Teleri, please wake up!"

"I am awake—who can sleep with all the noise you're making!" a grumpy voice complained. "Come light the candles."

Teleri's bedchamber was shrouded in murky, early evening shadows. Teleri herself lay in bed as she had been wont to do since the earl's departure several days earlier, preferring to sleep away the time instead of enduring it with an increasing lack of spirit. The realization that her arrival at Hawarden had been a complete accident and that the earl wasn't interested in her company had made her melancholy and the routine of boredom in a household in which she played no part had quickly killed the initial appeal of her new surroundings.

She pushed herself up into a sitting position and watched as Olwen flew from one lamp to another. "What on earth is wrong?"

"The earl has returned."

"Oh. Obviously the news bothers you..."

"Lady Teleri, he's returned with only eighteen men."

Teleri yawned. "What of it? It's getting dark and he probably didn't want to spend another night outdoors if he was close to home, so he and some of his knights went ahead of—Well?" she demanded. Olwen was shaking her head violently.

"I've heard terrible rumors, Lady Teleri! There are only eighteen men with the earl because all the others were captured or killed. There was an ambush! And Lord William was there, as well!"

"Lord William?" Teleri frowned. "But how did he know?"

"Perhaps Lord Rhirid sought him out."

Teleri made a dismissive gesture. "Impossible! Why would he—" she started but broke off abruptly and stared at the other woman with an appraising eye.

"They're saying the Welsh and Lord William will be here soon," Olwen continued, too frantic to notice the scrutiny. "That there will be a siege and that the earl has said many times how easily his castle can withstand a siege of months—perhaps years! Lady Teleri, I can't stay here for years! My children need me! I must be with my sons!"

"Calm down, Olwen! You only heard talk; you don't know anything for certain." But even talk had a kernel of truth to it. The gossip machine ran as surely at Hawarden as it did at Rhuddlan and it was no secret to them that Rhirid and Gruffudd had joined forces and that the earl had taken his army to confront them. And now, if Longsword was also involved, it seemed the entire western part of Gwynedd was fighting for her and Olwen.

She drew up her legs and put her arms around her knees. She grinned. "I don't think there will be a siege."

Olwen wiped her eyes. "Why not?"

"Well, if the earl has come back with only eighteen men, then Lord William and Lord Rhirid have many prisoners. And prisoners must be ransomed...Or exchanged for hostages. Meaning us, Olwen."

The idea that she was finally of value cheered her immensely. She scrambled out of the bed and crossed the floor to the window, which overlooked the upper bailey. She could see no increase in the mundane activity there but further below, down the motte, the lower bailey was full of tiny, darting figures: men swarming along the walls like ants on a discarded bone. She raised her gaze to the fields beyond and farther, to the hazy fringes of the forest, to where Rhirid and Longsword would appear.

As yet, the fields were empty and quiet. Dusk was spreading quickly; probably Longsword wouldn't arrive until the following day. She wondered idly how he would find her—it seemed years since they'd last seen each other, although it was merely weeks. A thought crossed her mind and the irony of it made her chuckle.

"What is it, Lady Teleri?" Olwen asked anxiously. "What do you see?"

Teleri stepped down from the window. "Nothing yet," she said. "I laughed because for the first time, the idea of meeting my husband doesn't make me shudder. That's how desperate I am to get out of here."

Olwen was so astonished that her anxiety evaporated. "But I thought you never wanted to see Rhuddlan again—when we were at Llanlleyn, you insisted you would only return to the Perfeddwlad..."

Teleri shrugged. "I know, but I've changed my mind. I've had a lot of time lately to think." Another smile pulled at her lips and she added in a modest voice, "Besides, it would be churlish to spurn Lord William when he's gone to all this trouble to fetch me."

Longsword watched the day wane and with it, he thought, his last chance to defeat the earl of Chester. And as the shadows grew, so did his frustration.

He was angry because his plan had failed; the earl had slipped through every trap laid for him and was, presumably, once more ensconced behind the walls of Hawarden. He was angry because Gruffudd ap Madog and Rhirid and their men had acquitted themselves well during the battle and had done what they were supposed to have done. He was angry because of all that might have failed out of all he had planned, it had been his own part which had gone disastrously wrong.

But above all, he was angry because he'd wanted to march in triumph to Hawarden, Chester's head stuck on the point of a pike, three armies at his back, and impress the countess with his military prowess.

Well, there would be no impressing now. He racked his mind for some other way to get to the earl and kill him, and discarded every idea. The man was absurdly lucky. And there wasn't any point in sitting outside Hawarden; he couldn't possibly hope to outlast the well-provisioned and secure fortress unless he was prepared to wait a year or more...

Chester had won. There would be an exchange of hostages, he and the Welsh would go home and everything would be as it had been.

The general disposition of the camp was a pleased satisfaction. No one knew of his desperate desire to murder the earl and so everyone was content with the effect of the ambush, the seizure of nearly one hundred prisoners and the forced flight of the earl of Chester. The ransoms were certain to make many rich. There was music and merriment on the Norman and Welsh sides of the camp and even some friendly exchanges of the paraphernalia of warfare.

Although his smile felt as if it looked false, Longsword maintained a celebratory demeanor so he would not dampen the spirits of his men. Delamere, however, had no such qualms. He rode into the makeshift camp at dusk with Rhirid and his huge champion and such an evident frown that no one had the nerve to call a greeting to him. Strangely enough, one glance at his friend's set face had the perverse effect of lightening Longsword's own mood. Longsword always felt slightly apprehensive when Delamere was out of sorts, as if the entire natural world ebbed and flowed according to his whim. It was impossible to dwell on his own problems when the likelihood of earthly disaster loomed imminent.

He turned to acknowledge Rhirid but his attention was caught by a figure on horseback just behind him, guarded by Normans, and two others, obviously dead. When Longsword realized who the live one was, his mood improved further still. It would not be a routine exchange of hostages after all; now, at least, he could withdraw with dignity intact. All at once, the smile was genuine.

Delamere dismounted, tossing the reins to a squire. He inclined his head at Longsword. "My lord..."

"Richard, is that who I think it is?"

"Yes. He was about to kill Rhirid when I rode up and saved his hide."

"Whose? Rhirid's?"

Delamere glowered. "Why should I want to save Rhirid's hide? No, Haworth's. Rhirid's warriors would have ripped him apart after he killed their chief." He looked past Longsword and across the field to the forest and then his line of vision swept back to linger on Gruffudd's men. "The earl?"

"Safe and sound, the hellspawn." Longsword spat onto the ground. "Who're the other two?"

"One's ours. The other is Ralph de Vire."

"De Vire!" He was shocked and suddenly felt uncomfortable. "A bad end..." he muttered.

Fortunately, Delamere was not in the mood for reproach. "I'll see to Haworth," he said shortly and began to walk away. He stopped almost immediately and turned around. "By the way," he added, "keep your new friend away from me. I don't trust myself around him."

Longsword walked off to the edge of the encampment to relieve himself, and stopped to stare up into the clear night sky and think. Encumbered by prisoners who needed to be guarded, baggage carts pulled by lumbering oxen and scores of men on foot, he figured he'd need the better part of a day to make it to Hawarden. If the weather held. Negotiations could start the next morning...He knew Chester would pay generously to ransom his men...Haworth was certainly worth Olwen...Teleri he'd part with for nothing, to avoid problems with the prince, who might complain to the king...If there was any part of the drama which caused Longsword the slightest anxiety, it was the thought that the earl, in his anger, might exact on Gwalaes the revenge he could not take on his more inaccessible adversary. Having Haworth was no advantage if Gwalaes was to be threatened—

"My lord!"

Longsword jumped at the unexpected interruption. Cynan was running across the darkened field towards him.

"My lord!" he repeated, breathless; "Sir Warin asks if you can come right away!"

"Is it Sir Richard?"

The boy nodded violently.

Longsword swore and took off in the direction of the tents. He'd only been gone a moment! Mindful of Delamere's terse warning, he'd stuck close by his friend all evening, particularly during the supper to which the two Welsh chiefs had been invited. Delamere had been quiet during the meal and unable to keep his eyes from Rhirid. Longsword had been relieved when it was over and Rhirid had returned to his own side. Now what had happened?

It was worse than he'd anticipated. Up ahead he could see a circle of men and blazing torches and emanating from some unseen force within it, he heard the clash of swords. He cursed again and broke into a run.

He slowed down just enough to push his way through the on-lookers and size up the situation of the combatants. As yet, Rhirid and Delamere both appeared to be unscratched; thank God at least for that small favor, he thought. Without further hesitation, he strode up to Delamere and demanded his sword.

"Get out of the way, Will; this doesn't concern you!" Delamere said tersely, looking past him at Rhirid.

Longsword's voice was cold and low. "Don't presume upon our friendship out here, Richard. If you don't give me your sword, I'll have you taken back to Rhuddlan and locked up."

Delamere's eyes swiveled to his in surprise. After a slight pause, he handed the weapon over and then, before Longsword could say another word, spun angrily on his heel and strode off.

Longsword turned to Rhirid and the Welsh contingent with him. The chief's bruised face looked eerie in the shadows, as if half of it were missing. Only the white of his eye stood out in the darkness. There was nothing to say, as neither one spoke the other's language; one of the warriors spat out a few words but Rhirid immediately put a hand up to silence him, and then he, too, turned and left the circle, albeit less angrily, and his men followed.

"What happened?" Longsword snapped, but no one answered. He glared at the sheepish faces around him. "Fine. Did anyone at least see where he went?"

Someone answered, "To the horses, my lord."

He thrust Delamere's sword into the man's hand. "Don't return this to Sir Richard until the morning, do you understand?" To another, he ordered, "Bring me a torch."

It didn't take long to find Delamere. He waited at the edge of the grassy plain where the horses had been hobbled for the night. It was apparent from his angry stance—arms folded across his chest and legs planted aggressively—that he'd decided to have his fight after all; if not with Rhirid then with Longsword, who approached him cautiously.

Delamere struck out first. "Why did you stop the fight?" he demanded.

"Because one of you was going to get killed," Longsword said reasonably. "And no matter who it was, the result would be disastrous for this enterprise, which happens to be the reason we're all here in the first place."

"He challenged me, Will!"

"It doesn't matter who chal—"

"He told me Olwen's going back with him! He said she prefers to be with her own people!"

"He was just saying that—"

"How could he say it if he knows it isn't true?"

Delamere's voice was loud and, to Longsword's ears, frightened. Fortunately, he didn't seem to require an answer because he turned away sharply, staring over the neat rows of horses tied up for the night, focusing on something Longsword couldn't see.

Finally, Delamere exhaled noisily and rubbed his hands over his face. In a calmer voice he said, "I know I swore to keep away from him but I just couldn't..."

Longsword put a hand on his shoulder. "Richard, it's not Rhirid's decision to make. It's Olwen's. She's the only one who can tell you what she'll do."

Delamere glanced at him, the torchlight flickering across his face but the cynical expression all too apparent. "I suppose I was trying to help her..."

"I don't understand..."

"So she wouldn't need to choose. If he's dead, then she'd have to come back with me." He cleared his throat. "I didn't want to take the chance that she'd decide for him."

"But what if..."

"If he'd defeated me?" He grinned. Longsword could tell because the light glinted off his teeth. "I guess in that case, too, there'd be no choice to make."

Chapter 45

June, 1177

Hawarden Castle, Gwynedd

He was dead. Hugh knew it as certainly as he knew he was soon due for another one of his mother's irritated missives. As certainly as he knew Henry's lucky talents had been passed on to his son, after all. As certainly as he knew that Haworth was not dead.

He wondered if it was his fault—that the men with whom he was so besotted died young—or if he simply fell in love with men whose unfortunate destiny it was to die young. Not that it made any difference; the result was the same.

...The Bastard had finally gotten the better of him. He'd won. Although another forty-odd of Hugh's soldiers had managed to make it back to Hawarden between the time of his arrival and the Bastard's late the next day, there were still far too many missing. He would ransom all of them, even though he didn't have to, because the success of the ambush had been his fault.

These twin disasters would once have devasted him but he supposed he had grown used to the heavy blows of his life because although his movements and utterances were mechanical, still he walked and talked, ate and drank. He was quieter, but then, he'd always been quiet and perhaps his men noticed nothing amiss, or put it down to concern for the missing...

It was when he stopped that he felt the disasters most keenly. A fog would swirl around his head and paralyze his mind. He was unable to concentrate and had to struggle to put a thought into words. Even his eyes could not focus properly, but darted from one object to another. He dared not sleep; he went into his bedchamber but the idea of lying upon the bed and closing his eyes horrified him. He didn't know what sorts of dreams would haunt him. He sat in a chair all night instead and gave himself over to fitful spurts of unconsciousness.

"My lord, they're here..."

He went out with his men and climbed the wooden stair to the top of the curtain wall and pretended an interest in the spectacle just visible in the southwest: a sprawling, crawling line of Norman knights and Welsh warriors, footmen and archers, two baggage wagons and four oxen...and prisoners, all beginning to emerge from the forest onto the grassy field. The distance was, as yet, too great to distinguish between faces and he soon gave up trying to pick out Ralph de Vire. He was distracted by the glare of the lowering sun and for a heart-stopping moment imagined that perhaps he was wrong...perhaps Ralph wasn't dead...perhaps Haworth had indeed found him and now they were both prisoners of the Bastard—it was possible—until he saw the body he would believe it true. For a moment he was so happy he spoke to the men with him, discussing the ransoming and what kind of payment the Bastard would demand.

...But despair washed over him once again, when the sun had gone down and he found himself at the supper board. He couldn't eat or drink and the sight of the servants weaving around the trestle tables made him so dizzy that he had to force his numb gaze to the place before him...Of course he was dead...of course...The evening passed without his notice. He was aware of being escorted to his suite of rooms by a small bodyguard, which, in a flash of lucidity, he thought amusing; did they think the Bastard would creep into Hawarden and snatch him away? He tried to be suitably gracious when they stripped him and put him to bed—there would be two men on the door if he needed anything, they said gravely. He thanked them again and asked for all the lamps to be lit...and when they left him alone, he got out of bed, threw a robe around his shoulders and sat down in the chair...What was the point of being in bed, when he knew he wouldn't sleep?

The light helped somewhat...the chair helped, too...But it didn't really matter; it didn't make a difference, did it? Ralph de Vire was still dead.

"Which gown do you think I should wear?" Teleri asked Olwen, gazing down at the three stretched out across the bed. "I don't suppose I'll be able to take the other two with me..." She put a finger on her mouth as she considered. Suddenly, she whirled around. "You could wear one! And then I'd only have to leave one behind. Olwen? Did you hear me, Olwen?"

Olwen stepped down from the window, her face creased with lines of worry. "I'm sorry..."

"I said you could wear one of the gowns."

Olwen looked horrified. "Oh, no, Lady Teleri! I couldn't do that—not your clothes! It wouldn't be right!"

"Just until we get to that rough camp and then you could change, Olwen. The earl's seamstresses are so much more clever than mine; it would be a pity to have to leave two gowns behind."

"I would feel uncomfortable, Lady Teleri. Besides, I'm taller and thicker than you; I'd never fit." She turned back to the window, standing on the cushioned bench beneath it.

Teleri conceded this final point with a reluctant nod. She considered wearing two gowns together but the warm day made that prospect unappealing. She squeezed her eyes shut, reached her hand down and grabbed the first piece of material she felt.

The steward had been by after breakfast to advise them to prepare themselves to be exchanged for some of the prisoners. To Olwen, this meant staring down into the lower bailey, where the negotiations were apparently taking place, with increasing panic. To Teleri, it meant making herself presentable, although she doubted Olwen's shaking hands would be of much use in helping her dress.

She opened her eyes and looked down at the winning gown. She liked the soft material but wasn't certain the color suited her. She discarded it and picked up a different one.

"I need you, Olwen," she said. "I don't know why you have to watch them. You can't hear what they're saying and they're all just standing there on their horses."

"I'm frightened, Lady Teleri. There could be a problem. Why haven't they come inside the keep? Perhaps the earl has changed his mind and he won't exchange us. I don't know what I'll do if he refuses to let me go!"

"He will! He hasn't any choice...The question is, to whom will you go?"

Olwen's voice was firm for the first time that day. "To my children, Lady Teleri."

"Mmm. That means Llanlleyn," Teleri said casually, but then she changed the subject. Olwen was getting far too much of the attention in this matter and there wasn't any reason for her to contribute to it. "Could you brush my hair out, please?"

She wished the steward would return for them. She wanted to be down in the midst of the negotiations; she wanted to know how many of the earl's men would be exchanged for her. Besides, Olwen's increasing anxiety was irritating. She'd already bitten back two or three sharp words about blocking the window but she didn't know how much longer she could remain close-mouthed.

Her situation was rather like one of the stories the bards at her uncle's fortress would sing after a fat supper. A fable from long ago in which a princess is kidnapped and rescued by her lover. Of course, Longsword was a far cry from being her lover and she wasn't a princess but there was still something romantic in the events of the last few weeks...Perhaps, she thought suddenly, there was a purpose in all that had happened and was about to happen. A higher purpose than mere ransoming and settling accounts. Perhaps God was trying to tell her she belonged with William Longsword, after all...

It was a frightening idea at first glance—and ludicrous; she almost laughed aloud but that would have unnerved Olwen even further. Still, after what she had seen of men whom she'd once admired, she was prepared to concede that Longsword had several good points. One was his honesty: it was often brutal given their tempestuous relationship, but he had never lied to her or used her as a means to gain his ends. Another was her complete freedom to run the domestic side of Rhuddlan. As for his physical appearance...he was tall and well-built...his wasn't an exceptionally handsome face but pleasing enough—or was when he bothered to shave. He didn't have bushy eyebrows or a weak chin; his ears didn't stick out and his nose wasn't too generous. She decided she could do much worse—

Because it was expected but its timing uncertain, the sharp rap on the door produced a shock like a lightning bolt. She jumped up and heard Olwen involuntarily yelp. Two knights stood on the threshold; their escort, at last, to the lower bailey.

There was a brisk breeze blowing into their faces and whipping back their clothing, which made it all the more difficult to keep up with the fast-paced men. Across the ward and down the many steps of the motte into the inner bailey. There were people here, watching them pass swiftly by; the artisans and craftsmen of Hawarden and their families. Teleri would have liked to have slowed down a bit in order to revel in the attention but the knights' stride never slackened. And then, through the open gate and into the outer bailey, where they halted.

She couldn't see anything but the backs of a number of the earl's men-at-arms standing in front of her and, just over their shoulders, the torsos of the men on horseback. She didn't see the earl but he was there; she knew it because she could hear, quite distinctly, a voice she hadn't heard for some time, her husband's, and it was addressing her host in a loud, angry tone.

One of the knights disappeared into the men before them, presumably to inform the earl of their arrival. She was impatient; she wanted to be up in front, to see what was going on.

"—no traitor, Chester!"

It helped that the wind was blowing the conversation towards her because the earl's voice was lower and calmer and only by holding her breath and straining her ears could she hear him.

"No, you're not, are you?" he said. "You're still loyal. The king's most loyal son—although the most badly used. Was it your royal father's idea or were you hoping to impress him enough to get you out of Wales?"

"What the hell do you mean?"

"Well...he took Chester Castle, my home...and the next thing I discover is that you've taken my family..."

A derisive snort. "Is that what this fight is about, Chester? You kidnapped Olwen as retribution because your wife ran away from you and ended up with me?"

Teleri nearly gagged. Olwen again!

"Not at all, Lord William!" the earl snapped. Teleri was surprised to hear him lose his temper. "You'll recall that I offered to let you keep Eleanor."

"Perhaps now that she's been back with you these last two months, she'll be more agreeable to the proposition!" Longsword retorted.

As quickly as his anger had flared, it died. The earl's voice dropped into easy insouciance. "It's a pity we can't ask her."

"What are you talking about?" Longsword demanded, his voice rising harshly. "What have you done to her?"

"I've sent her away, Lord William, to Avranches. There are too many bad memories for her in Wales. A woman in her condition must concentrate on pleasant ones."

The knight returned and beckoned to them. Teleri followed after him eagerly while Olwen's step lagged. Teleri was so bemused by her companion's apprehension that she missed Longsword's reply. They rounded the edge of the front line of the earl's men and stopped again.

Her eyes went immediately to her husband and she drew in her breath sharply. He sat on his favorite horse, bareheaded but otherwise garbed for battle in hauberk, gauntlets and thick boots, his shield slung across his back and his sword in his belt. His appearance showed the effect of living rough and while she normally detested untidiness, she found it now strangely appealing. The dust of the road, blood and sweat stains were apparent, and bristles covered his chin. He looked very much like that hero from the song she'd just imagined; powerful, hard and intent on his mission. Richard Delamere stood next to him and he was staring in her direction, obviously at Olwen, who was just behind her shoulder. The two Welsh chiefs were on his other side: Rhirid, who was also staring at Olwen and Gruffudd, whom she'd never before seen. And there were others, perhaps twenty or so, knights and Welshmen, all of them looking grim and prepared to expect anything.

Longsword did not look at her; he didn't notice she'd arrived. His eyes were fixed on the earl with as much intensity as those fixed on Olwen. She glanced at the earl who appeared clean and refreshed in newly laundered clothing and a gleaming hauberk. But there were traces of strain in his expression as well. She had heard rumors that he was so upset over losing most of his men that he had hardly eaten or slept since the ambush.

But his voice betrayed none of that. "You must congratulate me, Lord William," he said unhurriedly. "Eleanor is with child. Another heir. Hopefully she'll do a little better this time and give me a son. I, of course, like the king, must have a legitimate son..."

Teleri's eyes swiveled back to Longsword, whose face had gone pale. Despite the grubby start of the beard and the windblown hair, he looked unnaturally vulnerable and young. It was a complete contrast to his expression of only a moment earlier. She was surprised; surely he must have heard that particular insult many times.

His horse suddenly began to step nervously and he did nothing to control the beast, seemingly mesmerized by the earl. Chester noticed his two hostages at last and extended an arm in their direction.

"Here they are, Lord William. An even exchange. All my men, their weapons and horses, my oxen and supply carts and a guarantee of peace for three years for these two women," he said.

The absurdity of this proposal shook Longsword out of his daze. With an unconscious flick of his wrist, he brought the horse under control. At the same time, his face turned towards Teleri and Olwen. Teleri lifted her chin a little higher but there was no recognition in his expression.

"You're not the one in the position to dictate terms, Chester!" he said.

The earl smiled humorlessly. "No? I think I am."

"I've got Roger of Haworth—"

"I care about all my men equally, Lord William," the earl interrupted. "There's no point in reciting a list. Perhaps you need some time to think it over..."

Longsword was silent. Then he answered, "No," in a tight voice. "I need no time. I consent."

Chester's eyes widened as if he hadn't expected such an easy capitulation but he quickly recovered his aplomb. "Very well. Perhaps you and three or four of your advisers would like to come up to the keep to set down the terms."

"Not I," the other man said. "Richard will do it." He nodded to Delamere and tightened his grip on the reins, preparing to leave.

"As a mark of my good faith, Lord William, you may take your wife with you now."

It seemed to Teleri that time stopped for a few heartbeats. Even the driving wind died away. No one made a sound. Longsword's head turned slowly towards her. She felt suddenly as nervous as Olwen had been all day. She hadn't fooled herself into believing that during their interval apart he had grown fond of her, but neither was she prepared for utter hatred in his eyes. She was taken aback; she had to stiffen her spine not to gasp or step backwards from the force of his hatred. He stared at her in that vacuum of silence for what must have been an interminable time and then he looked again at the earl and said, "I don't want her, Chester. Keep her and good luck to you."

She couldn't breathe. She thought everyone had heard him and was a witness to her humiliation. She dared not move for fear of collapsing. She was dimly aware of the earl's startled response to this insane proposal, but his words were lost in the rush of blood in her ears.

"Then send her to her uncle, the prince," Longsword was saying in return, loudly and sharply. "I don't care what you do with her. Just make certain Olwen walks out of here when your men walk in."

"No!" A woman protested before the earl could answer. Olwen came up to stand by Teleri's side. "I'm not going anywhere without Lady Teleri," she said in a quavering voice. "I will stay with her!"

Delamere appealed to Longsword. "My lord, consider your words..."

For a moment, Teleri thought he would remain obdurate; he turned cold eyes on her once more. Then he looked away. "Do what you want, Richard; you're in charge," he said in a grim mutter; kicked his heels into his horse, pulled its head around and left Hawarden at an increasing pace.

The dilemma Olwen had hoped to postpone a while longer presented itself almost immediately upon the negotiating party's return to the haphazard camp in the earl's southwestern fields. She stuck close by Teleri, ostensibly to give support to the unnaturally subdued and quiet young woman, but in reality to avoid having to speak with Richard Delamere and Rhirid, both of whom seemed anxious to the point of desperation to be with her.

The mood of the camp was a barely hidden displeasure. The men had begun the day with thoughts of ransom and when it became clear that the only prize won was the return of the two women, the result was disappointment and anger. Gruffudd ap Madog, in particular, was unhappy with the outcome; he had agreed to the venture not merely to prove to the earl that he, too, was capable of attracting allies but to hopefully seize a portion of the earl's property as his reward.

It was all too quickly passed around that the only winner in the contest had been its apparent loser, the earl of Chester. Olwen felt the sting of criticism and dared not meet anyone's eyes. Only Teleri was oblivious to the tension and upset in the camp but she was dwelling on something more dire. Her face hadn't yet regained any of the color it had lost at Longsword's humiliating pronouncement and instead of the proud posture with which she always carried herself, she sat slightly slumped over, as if she'd been punched in the stomach.

They waited in silence, alone inside one of the earl's tents, for the men to finish the business of effecting the prisoner exchange. The tent, being part of the baggage train, was similarly slated for return to Hawarden but for the moment it provided a shelter from the accusing glances, as well as the midday sun. Its material, however, was not substantial enough to block out the sounds coming from a companion tent several yards away, where Gruffudd was proclaiming his right to some financial reimbursement for his part in the ambush, Delamere translating with an edge to his voice and Longsword angrily defending his decision to immediately accede to the earl's terms.

The argument showed little sign of abating and, frustrated with the shouting, Olwen jumped up from her stool. "I would rather be trapped at Hawarden again than forced to listen to any more of this senseless bickering!" she muttered.

She'd been speaking for her own benefit but to her surprise, Teleri answered. "I would, as well," she said in a quiet voice.

Olwen didn't know how to respond. Teleri had never invited confidences before and Olwen wasn't even certain she was doing it now. "Well...it will soon be over," she said awkwardly.

Teleri shuddered. "I hope not. I hope it goes on forever."

"Why, Lady Teleri?"

"Because when it's over, I'll have to see Lord William again. I'll have to go back to Rhuddlan."

"He didn't mean what he said, Lady Teleri. He was just angry because of the earl's demands."

"He meant it," Teleri said, staring at a point on the ground just past her feet. "Didn't you see his face? His eyes? I saw them. He hates me, Olwen. He never liked me much but now he hates me." She was silent for a moment and then a thought seemed to strike her and she glanced up at the other woman. "Do you suppose Rhirid told him something about me?"

"Such as?"

"I don't know. Something false..."

It was on the tip of Olwen's tongue to deny the chief was capable of slandering a woman's reputation but she realized Teleri would assume she was merely coming to the defense of her admirer so she said nothing.

"I wish I could leave here," Teleri continued. "I wish I could just walk out of this camp and keep walking until I reached the Perfeddwlad."

"If we had horses, we wouldn't need to walk," Olwen said wistfully.

Despite her mood, a small smile appeared on Teleri's face. "Do you know how to ride a horse?"

"No," Olwen admitted. "All right, then. I wish I knew how to ride a horse."

"I wish we could open the tent flap and see nothing but grass. No soldiers, no swords, not even Hawarden in the distance."

"Just the horses."

"Of course the horses," Teleri agreed. "And there are the practical considerations: we'd need food and drink enough to sustain us on the journey and perfect weather."

"And I wish I had another gown. I've been so nervous the last few days, this one's past knowing."

Teleri looked shocked and then started to laugh. "Olwen!"

"Well, it's true!" Olwen said, grinning.

"I know it is!"

They both broke up at that and for Olwen the laughter seemed to improve her spirits dramatically. She thought Teleri appeared a little brighter, as well.

Teleri wiped her eyes. "There's only one problem, Olwen..."

"What is it, Lady Teleri?" she asked with another giggle.

"I have no idea how to get to the Perfeddwlad from here!"

They laughed so hard that Olwen had to sit down. Her stomach hurt. Every time they happened to meet each other's eyes, they burst into fresh peals.

"Well," Olwen gasped. "At least we can't hear that senseless argument anymore."

"The senseless argument is over," a third voice—a man's voice—said.

The two women were startled into silence. In the entrance stood Rhirid ap Maelgwn with Dylan just visible beyond his shoulder. He took a step forward. "May I come in?"

Olwen rose quickly to her feet. "Yes, lord, of course." Teleri said nothing and didn't move. The Welshman politely inclined his head towards her but when his eyes came up, they went straight for Olwen.

"Gruffudd has been mollified with a score of cattle and some Norman weapons," he said, and paused. His voice was warm. "There was no opportunity earlier to speak with you, Olwen, although I've been anxious to make sure the earl treated you kindly. But you—and you also, Lady Teleri—appear to be fine."

"We are, lord," Olwen answered. "But it seems the same cannot be said of you. What on earth happened to your face?"

"Oh—a small accident. Every day it improves." He moved several steps closer to her. "It's so good to see you, Olwen..."

She felt her color rise and she looked down at the ground. "How did you leave my children, lord? Are they well?"

"Very well," he said. "I'm sure you're eager to see them again."

"Yes, I am," she said fervently. "It's been ten days of agony."

He grinned. "Does that mean you'll be coming back to Llanlleyn with me?"

"Yes, lord." She looked up into his eyes and smiled.

"There's no point remaining, then. We can leave straight away. My men are ready. We'll get almost halfway before sunset."

"What about Sir Richard?" Teleri asked in a loud voice. She stood. "Don't you want to talk to him, Olwen?"

"I—I suppose I should..."

Rhirid said nothing but his glance in Teleri's direction was decidedly unfriendly. Teleri gave him back a bland stare.

"He's here now, anyway," she shrugged.

Richard Delamere entered the tent through the open flap. He paused for a moment, his eyes traveling from Dylan to Rhirid to Olwen to Teleri and finally, narrowing, back to Rhirid. "What's going on?" he demanded sharply.

It was strange to look at him; her reaction was muddled. There was the pang of happy emotion, from looking upon something comfortable and familiar—even intimate—yet it seemed to have been tempered by time; it was as if she remembered him from some long ago point in her life, lived under other circumstances. It was odd, then, that she also felt guilty...But they had made so much together and he was still the only man she'd ever seen who set her heart beating faster.

Rhirid walked up to him, planting himself between him and Olwen and crossing his arms over his chest. "We're just finalizing our plans, Sir Richard. Olwen is anxious to get back to Llanlleyn as soon as possible."

Delamere looked past him to Olwen. She thought his eyes were cold. "Is that true, Olwen?"

She switched her gaze to the floor and nodded.

"Are you satisfied, Sir Richard?" Rhirid asked with a slight smile. "We'll be away from here within the hour—"

"I want to speak with Olwen in private," Delamere said abruptly.

"Don't be unreasonable, Sir Richard—she's made up her mind."

"Please, Richard...this is hard enough..." Olwen pleaded.

"Is it?" he demanded angrily. He stepped around Rhirid before the other had a chance to react. "It seems to me it's pretty easy for you. How much thought did you give it? Just these last few moments or since the day he fired our manor and stole you away?"

Despite an effort to maintain her composure, tears came to her eyes. She was tired, she missed her children and she wasn't used to hearing him snap at her. It was impossible to answer.

"Why don't you leave, Sir Richard?" Rhirid said.

"This has nothing to do with you!"

Rhirid smirked. "Doesn't it?"

Delamere had his sword out in a flash. Olwen, nearest to him, grabbed his arm with a shriek. Dylan came up to Rhirid's side with his own sword readied.

"She doesn't know what you did to our manor, Welshman! She doesn't know how much you have to answer for! The house burned to cinders—the livestock slaughtered and their carcasses left rotting in the open—our servants, homeless, and chased away—the fields trampled beyond recovery—"

"Richard, please!"

"—You Welsh are always going on about your galanas—well, I demand recompense for the destruction of my property!"

Rhirid glanced down at the sword in his rival's hand with an amused expression and slowly raised his eyes to Delamere's face. "Is that all you want recompense for, Sir Richard?" he asked insolently, and then he looked at Olwen.

Delamere threw down his sword and with an oath hurled himself upon Rhirid, knocking him backwards through the tent opening and onto the ground beyond.

Perhaps drawn by the angry shouting, a dozen men, Welsh and Norman, were already lurking nearby and they were soon joined by others anxious to witness a fight. Delamere and Rhirid rolled over several times as each man grappled for a grip on the other, scattering the feet of the on-lookers. Delamere, the larger of the two and all the more heavy because he was wearing his hauberk, came up on top, a knee on either side of Rhirid's torso. He pulled his arm back and drove his fist into the Welshman's face but before he could repeat the attack, Rhirid gave a mighty heave and threw him off balance. The chief swung his elbow as he twisted to free himself from Delamere's knees and caught the Norman on the chin, knocking his head back. Rhirid finally extricated himself and scrambled to his feet.

Delamere was not as nimble, hampered by his mail, but once he was up he kept moving, driven by rage and the desperate sense that he had nothing left to lose. He threw a punch at Rhirid's head; the chief ducked back and it missed but the Norman immediately followed it with a quick blow to his exposed midsection and when Rhirid doubled over, gasping for breath, knocked him down again with a fist to the back of his head. For a moment, everything in Rhirid's eyes was black but he well aware of his audience and fought to clear his head. His was the more difficult task; while Delamere had shots at all of him, he was limited to his opponent's head. If he punched Delamere anywhere in the torso, he was more likely to hurt his hand on the metal hauberk than to crack the Norman's ribs.

Delamere knew he ought to press his advantage but the hot weather and the heavy hauberk forced him to pause to catch his breath. By that time, the Welshman was up again. He approached Delamere, who had decided he would duck the blow and ram his head into Rhirid's stomach but this plan backfired. Rhirid swung out with his right fist; Delamere ducked but immediately met Rhirid's left fist on its way up. The punch caught him firmly under the chin and knocked him to the ground. Dimly, the blood pounding in his head and bright points of light sparkling in his eyes, he recalled Longsword saying something about the chief being left-handed. He struggled to his feet.

The crowd around the two combatants had grown even larger and now included Longsword. Finally realizing her protests were lost in the cheers and groans of the on-lookers, Olwen pushed her way to his side and begged him to stop the fight.

He looked down at her, aghast. "I can't do that!"

"Please, Lord William! One of them is going to be killed!"

"No, no; there's little danger of that," he said dismissively. He glanced over her head in time to see Delamere take another hit on the chin, and winced. "If they didn't decide it this way, they'd take up swords and then you'd be right."

But Olwen, frightened by the blood streaming from both men's faces and the eerie approval of the crowd, was unconvinced. "There's nothing for them to decide, Lord William! This is senseless!"

Longsword's mouth twisted sourly. "Most women would be flattered to see two men fighting over them," he told her.

"Then most women are idiots!" She whirled away angrily, ready to leave the both of them, Richard and Rhirid, when the full import of Longsword's words struck her. If the men were fighting over her, then she had the right to stop the fight herself. Resolutely, she turned back, forced her way through the press of on-lookers and entered the circle of combat. She was behind Rhirid, who did not see her, and facing Richard, who did. For a moment he was frozen in place as he stared at her. Someone shouted her name but she ignored him. Just as she stepped forward to take advantage of the lull, Rhirid swung at the unmoving Delamere, who swerved away reflexively and sent out his own fist in reply. The blow connected with the chief's face and, off-balance and arms flailing for support, he teetered backwards, striking Olwen on the side of her head and sending her to the ground.

Chapter 46

June, 1177

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

Teleri walked into her rooms at Rhuddlan and was startled to realize that everything was the same, just as she had left it, complete with fussing servants. For some reason, she'd expected something different—perhaps the expectation merely came from the odd feeling that she'd been away for much longer than she actually had been. At first she submitted to the women who wept over her because they believed she'd been ill-treated, so pale was her face, so thin was her body and they did everything they'd always done for her: they scented her bath, adorned her in fine clothing, combed and dressed her hair, propped cushions behind her back, brought her mead—but even after three days it was to no avail. Everything was the same but she was not. Instead of providing her a measure of comfort, the familiar ministrations irritated her to the point at which she wanted to scream from frustration.

She wasn't the only one. The whole mood of the castle was tense and tentative. Rhuddlan felt like a stoppered wineskin lying in the sun. Pressure was building up inside. There was very little activity in the ward. The gates remained shut; stoppered.

She hadn't expected Longsword's cold reaction to meeting her again. Anger and a lot of loud words, yes, but not the hateful, stony eyes boring into her. After the embarrassment of his public rejection had died away, outrage had replaced it. By what right did he humiliate her in such a callous manner? She was the one with the grievance, after all; it had always been her grievance, not his. He couldn't, after three years, steal it from her—why had he? She hadn't learned the answer on the long ride back to Rhuddlan; the stiff wind had blown directly into their faces and had made the travel tiring, and no one had dared speak to her unless it involved personal necessities. Whether the men feared Longsword's reaction or had elected her the scapegoat of the failed plan to destroy the earl, she didn't know.

The situation did not improve upon arrival at Rhuddlan. Longsword barely thanked his men for their efforts before disappearing. It was whispered he was unhappy with the lack of ransoms even though the main purpose of retrieving Olwen had been achieved. But Teleri, her mind unconsciously sifting through the numbing chatter of her servants, suddenly realized the truth had to do with her and nothing else, and she understood why he had spurned her at Hawarden.

She sat down to await his angry summons, certain that he would not be able to contain himself for long. She was nervous; for the first time in their married life, she felt she had wronged him.

One day passed, and then another. The summons did not come. Nothing seemed to move or breathe in Rhuddlan until she heard that Richard Delamere had ridden off to inspect what little remained of his manor. The information unnerved her further. Delamere had invariably supported her and now he wouldn't be able to come to her defense.

Another day passed without comment. She was growing fidgety. She'd kept to her rooms because she hadn't wanted to draw attention to herself but she was starting to believe Longsword's lack of communication was his way of punishing her for her crime. One more day and then she could no longer sleep. Now it was less punishment and more like torture. A bit of her former spirit returned to her. She may have been in the wrong, she thought grimly, but to force her to dangle uncertainly for almost a week was similarly reprehensible. She decided she didn't need his summons; she would find him.

Delamere had told him once that if there were any one trait which proved beyond doubt that he was his father's son, it was the repugnant habit of cultivating melancholy. Some men, having experienced misfortune (Delamere had told him), got drunk until they felt better; others picked fights in order to feel a physical pain as great as the emotional one; still others toiled ceaselessly in an effort to divert their minds. But (Delamere had told him) he and his father preferred to immerse themselves in a mourning so complete that it alienated anyone around them who might have been of some comfort. "It's my opinion that you enjoy wallowing in self-pity, Will," Delamere had told him. "You've always had a tendency to interpret trouble as a personal insult."

But Longsword had no idea how else to interpret the troubles which had befallen him over the past three months. Every interest of his, every action, every relationship had ended in calamity. It was more than a mere streak of bad luck, right up to that horrific interview in the bailey at Hawarden.

The worst of it all had been the news about Gladys.

For a long time he'd cursed Teleri. No one knew how wrenched apart he'd been; the impotent fury he'd felt and the desire to smash everything he saw...But he'd said nothing to anyone, not even Delamere, mindful of the reaction he'd gotten when he'd dismissed Ralph de Vire from his service. And eventually the days had become easier, more benign. He'd found himself looking forward to another day out of the fortress, first hunting Rhirid and then plotting against the earl; he didn't flounder as much when he had a purpose and he thanked God it took his mind off his personal problems...And now this—

Seeing Teleri again brought it all back in a sickening rush. Of course he'd known she was at Hawarden but he hadn't really dwelled on the probability of meeting her face to face. He just hadn't thought about it—and yet there she was, looking exactly as she had looked the last time he'd seen her at Rhuddlan—as if nothing at all had changed—as if his whole life hadn't been turned on its head...

He heard, from somewhere far away, a voice commanding someone to "place it there," followed by the thud of a chair hitting the wooden floor to his left and the hasty scurry of feet. There was a swish of clothing and a body dropped into the chair. The thought crossed his overburdened mind that Delamere, crushed by Olwen's defection, had gone away. But then he smelled the faint scent of lavender and as abruptly as he realized that the entire hall had gone dead silent, he knew who was sitting next to him. He swiveled his head in shock.

Teleri, in the process of placing her meat knife on the table, stared coolly back at him.

His eyes narrowed. "What are you doing here?"

"I came down to speak with you," she said, "but when I saw you were eating supper, I decided not to disturb you until you were through. And then I thought, why make someone carry a tray all the way up to my chamber tonight when I'm already here?"

He couldn't stop looking at her, his shock quickly replaced by a growing anger. How dare she sit there so calmly, as if nothing were wrong, and speak to him so flippantly? It was an insult! He got to his feet so violently that his chair tumbled backwards. Teleri also stood up, albeit less noisily.

"You want to speak with me?" he demanded.

She nodded.

He reached out suddenly and grabbed her arm, making her gasp. "Let's talk now!"

He pulled her away from the table and towards the council chamber. He could feel her stumbling along behind him, barely able to match his pace and stride. It was hardly dignified and there was a hall full of men and servants to witness her humiliation but he didn't care. In fact, he was grimly pleased.

The door was open as he'd left it, and he swung her around and into the room, stepped across the threshold himself and kicked the door shut. He stood with his hands on his hips and his back against the door, wanting her to see there was no escape, that she'd thrown herself into the lion's den uninvited and wasn't about to be let out until he'd finished with her.

She stood in the very middle of the room. He stared at her without blinking, thinking how much he loathed her, that she had never even pretended to like him, had never hidden her disgust for him—and he was certain it was only him, not Delamere or fitz Maurice or the rest of them, only him—had conspired against him by getting rid of Gladys and flirting with Chester, had probably gone with Rhirid ap Maelgwn quite cheerfully, despite her servants' protestations; he stared at her, unmoving, seeing in her the sum of his experiences in Wales, which was failure: failure to best Rhirid, to keep Gwalaes, to find happiness in his situation at Rhuddlan because she had gone out of her way to deny it to him...she'd never done anything for him, as a wife must do, only against him.

He stared at her. She watched him, quiet and still. He heard nothing but the sound of his own breathing inside his ears. She was dressed very simply, in a dark blue gown belted at the waist. Her head was uncovered and her hair was gathered into one long braid which reached halfway down her back. Her shoes were plain leather slippers. She wore no jewelry or other adornment. It looked to him as if she were in mourning and he was startled to discover that the effect was vaguely comforting. What nonsense! He shook himself, crossed his arms over his chest and demanded abruptly, "Well? You have something to say?"

She did not look as confident in the small room alone with him as she had in the hall with dozens of potential interlopers but her voice was firm. "Yes, my lord; it concerns Gladys—"

He dropped his arms. "I don't want to hear this!"

"But I—"

"No!" he interrupted. "Don't say it!" Agitated, he pushed himself away from the door and took a few steps forward but he didn't know what he wanted to do or where he was going and he stopped and glanced back at the door. Now he felt like a person trapped. He glared at her. "I swear to God I don't know how you have the nerve to stand before me like this!" he said angrily. "Are you insane? I know it isn't stupidity...Did you imagine I would be rational in my response? Be able to control myself?" He started walking towards her, slowly and deliberately. "From the moment you arrived, you set yourself against me, Teleri! The only good days I've had at Rhuddlan are the ones I've managed to escape seeing your disapproving, arrogant face. And now this! Am I supposed to just take it?"

At first she hadn't budged, standing rigid under the weight of his tirade and against his predatory creep in her direction, but now he was crowding her and she was forced to back up or be run over. There was an expression of apprehension on her face which satisfied him and made him feel more in control.

"Did you think you could simply walk up to me and apologize and I would forgive you?" he demanded, still advancing. "I will never forgive you, Teleri! I don't even have to think about that one!"

She bumped up against the far wall of the chamber. She looked nervous but met his eyes without blinking. "I didn't come here to apologize," she said.

He caught his breath. Her audacity, her temerity were outrageous! And she refused to drop her eyes; she stared at him steadily and he knew he was beaten. There was nothing he could ever say to which she wouldn't have some insolent or stubborn retort. He felt his heart throb hard and fast, and he shut his eyes. "Teleri," he said hoarsely, "you'd better get out of here before I strangle you."

A moment passed before he realized he hadn't heard her move. Had he been so deep in misery he'd missed her leaving? But when he opened his eyes, she was still there, still watching him.

"I haven't come to apologize because I realize that mere words would be inadequate," she said in a voice low and rapid, her body poised for escape. "You probably wouldn't believe the sincerity of my apology, anyway. And although I'm very sorry for what happened—deeply sorry—I'm not asking your forgiveness because I understand that you can't forgive me..." She paused. "But I am sorry. I know it meant everything to you..."

She stopped, but he said nothing; he was stunned. His mind churned. He wanted to believe her. She had spoken words he'd waited for someone else—anyone in his entourage—to say to him but in vain. Even Delamere, his closest friend, had avoided the subject...

He wanted to believe her but three years of enmity cautioned him against a zealous outrush of emotion. After a moment, he stepped back. "You've changed your tune," he said slowly and not without suspicion.

"Please believe me, my lord, not for a moment did I imagine she would lose the baby—"

"No? Isn't that what you wanted from the moment you informed me she was pregnant and I should send her away?"

She looked bewildered. "I know it might appear that way to you...I never thought..."

"I don't believe you," he answered tersely and walked away to a sidetable. There was a pitcher on the table but when he picked it up, he found it was empty. He had finished the wine before the meal, he remembered and cursed underbreath. He turned back. "What do you want, Teleri?"

"I want to be your wife."

He frowned. "You are my wife."

Her voice was steady. "In all things, my lord." And then, in the silence which followed because he was staring at her in speechless disbelief, she rapidly added, "I'm not the same person who left with Rhirid ap Maelgwn, my lord. I realized it all at once, when I was trapped at Hawarden. Years ago, before we set off for the wedding feast at Rhuddlan, my uncle warned me to try to be agreeable—for my own benefit, he said, but I was so angry at being forced to marry against my will that I didn't listen." She paused to take a breath. "My life has been like quicksand these past three years, my lord; I've been struggling to free myself but now I see I've only succeeded in sinking deeper. I would like another chance. I want to start our marriage over—"

But he was shaking his head. "It's too late for that, Teleri."

"It might seem so, but if you give me a second chance I'll do everything I can to make you change your mind."

"I don't think that's possible..."

She approached him then, pale and as fine-boned as a bird; he wondered that he hadn't broken her arm when he'd dragged her through the hall. Her expression was earnest and her eyes never blinked. He stepped back nervously. "Your answer implies uncertainty, my lord," she said softly. "Can we make a deal? Give me a year to give you what I caused Gladys to lose..."

He didn't know what to say. He was confused. Only a moment before she had been an enemy more vehement than even Rhirid ap Maelgwn and now she was proposing a truce and continuation of their disastrous marriage. What was he supposed to say?

He took refuge in bluster. "I suppose," he said, with the barest hint of resentment in his voice, "Rhirid wasn't quite the man you thought he was."

He had intended to provoke a flush of embarrassment but was disappointed. Teleri's head came up and the familiar, disdainful expression showed plainly in the curl of her lips. "Rhirid," she sniffed, "is a petty chief. You are the son of a king..."

Her second entrance into Llanlleyn was much happier than her first. Then, she had been forced in against her will, kidnapped and frightened, with two young children in tow. Now, it was as if she were coming home. All the faces she saw were known to her and even the small buildings looked reassuringly familiar. Most comforting, however, was the friendliness of her reception. People smiled at her as she and Rhirid rode in through the gate on his horse; they shouted out greetings to her. It was enough excitement to fluster her. She felt like a queen.

The crowd increased and grew more loud and boisterous as Rhirid's warriors filed in, one after the other. In a blink of an eye, it seemed the area before the gate was jammed with every last person who dwelled in the fortress. Dogs trotted around the people, barking at the disruption in the day's quiet routine.

Rhirid leaned his head back and caught her eye. She smiled at him. "How do you like this?" he asked, grinning. "It's all for you, you know. We went after the earl because he dared to trespass and seize you."

She knew he was exaggerating but her smile slipped a bit anyway. "In that case, it's a relief to me, lord, that no one was killed and only a handful wounded."

He laughed heartily. "It's a relief to me as well, Olwen! I wouldn't have made it back here alive, otherwise. My decision to go to Lord William wasn't popular—"

"Olwen!"

She looked down. Goewyn was approaching as quickly as she could manage it, carrying a squirming, squealing load and maneuvering in and out of the gathering crowd. With an excited gasp, Olwen slipped down from the chief's horse and hurried forward.

She reached out for the baby and took him in both arms, laughing as she hugged and kissed him all over his face, reveling in his familiar scent. She realized she'd missed him even more than she had imagined and to see him again was beyond wonderful. He cried and wriggled in protest against her heartfelt embrace, but at length permitted himself to be calmed, and watched her with solemn eyes.

"Oh, Goewyn, thank you, thank you for caring for him!" she exclaimed. "I'm so happy to be back!"

Goewyn looked pleased. "Are you? That's good to hear, Olwen."

"Where's William? Is he among the crowd or hiding in the women's house because all the noise frightened him?"

"William?" Goewyn frowned. "I thought he'd be with you."

"With me? Why would I have him?"

"Well...he was at Rhuddlan, wasn't he?"

"Rhuddlan?" She shifted Henry to her hip. Goewyn's expression was troubled and it made her apprehensive. "We didn't go to Rhuddlan. Why would you say he's there?"

Goewyn looked intently at her. "Rhirid didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what? What's going on, Goewyn?"

"Perhaps Rhirid—"

"Goewyn!"

"All right! He ought to have told you himself before now." She put her hand on Olwen's arm. "He took William with him to Rhuddlan when he sought Lord William's aid. To show the Normans there was no trickery in his visit. A gesture of good faith..."

"No..." She suddenly couldn't get enough air into her lungs. Her chest heaved rapidly but she still felt as if she were suffocating. Little Henry, sensing his mother's discomfort, began fussing in her arms. Absently, she clutched him more tightly, which only succeeded in agitating him further.

"Olwen, let me take the baby."

Goewyn's voice sounded far away. She was dizzy. There was a haze of noise surrounding her and she couldn't concentrate. She looked at the other woman uncomprehendingly but Goewyn's attention was no longer on her; she was staring at a point over Olwen's shoulder. Olwen turned around. Rhirid was approaching, grinning broadly, his eyes on hers—

"No..." she said again and turned back. She began to walk. She heard the chief call her name but ignored him and continued walking, increasing her pace. Henry wailed loudly in protest. She was dimly aware of rapid, even trotting, footfalls behind her and then felt a firm grip on her arm, which had the effect of stopping her.

Rhirid released her and stepped in front of her. "Why are you running away from me?"

She was too upset to be polite. "Don't you know?"

His face was a mixture of genuine confusion and concern. "Olwen, please...Is something wrong?"

"Why didn't you tell me at Hawarden what you'd done with my son, lord?" she demanded, furious that he obviously thought so little of his action that he didn't even remember it—or imagine how important it might be to her.

"I—" He broke off and his expression cleared. "Your other son. William."

She felt on the verge of tears. "Goewyn told me you took him to Rhuddlan."

"Yes." He ran a hand through his hair and glanced to his right and left. He reached out a tentative arm. "Olwen, come inside. Please."

She allowed him to steer her into the chief's house. Henry's cries, nearly lost in the hubbub outside, filled the hall and she bent over him, trying to soothe him but knowing that as long as she remained distressed it was a vain endeavor. In her current state, his wailing had the effect of making her want to howl along—as well she might after hearing Rhirid's story.

"I can't quiet him," she said. "You will have to speak loudly."

He nodded. His face still bore the bruise, now considerably faded, from his horse's hoof, and there were fresher cuts and swells caused by Richard Delamere's fists. He looked to her like a boy who'd done something wrong and knew he was about to get into trouble for it. But she didn't feel sorry for him.

He took a deep breath. "When I came back here and discovered that Roger of Haworth had abducted you, I nearly lost my mind. Surely you know by now I care for you, Olwen. Much as I wanted you back for myself, I was afraid of what the earl might do to you. I just wanted you safe. At first, I thought I'd simply go and humble myself before him but I wasn't certain that would be enough for him—or that such a move would be palatable to my warriors. So I approached Lord William instead."

When he paused, she said sharply, "With my son as a hostage!"

"Not a hostage, Olwen! More like proof. I suspected the Norman would never imagine that you'd voluntarily allow your son to be used for my purposes. He'd immediately know I was telling the truth about your abduction...I thought also that the earl would be persuaded not to harm you if fellow Normans came against him." He shook his head. "That's all I can tell you, Olwen. Except that I apologize..."

His expression was so earnest that her anger lessened, or perhaps she'd gone completely numb inside. How would she ever be able to persuade Richard to give up little William? Especially after that horrible fight at Hawarden...

"Are you listening, Olwen? I said I'll send a council group to Rhuddlan to negotiate—"

Her head snapped up. "Negotiate!"

"The Norman might not be in the mood to be generous or fair. He might take some persuading. If we have to give up Roger of Haworth's ransom, so be it."

"No, no..." she shook her head impatiently. "I will go. I'm not negotiating. William is my son and belongs with me! If you send your men, lord, Richard will dismiss them out of hand. But he'll talk to me."

She thought he looked suddenly insecure, like the young boy of a moment earlier, now nervous. "All right. I'll escort you."

"I don't think that's a good idea, lord," she said quietly.

He opened his mouth to protest but closed it before speaking. Then he nodded.

They stood in awkward silence for a moment, looking at each other. Olwen knew he wanted her to say something that would ease the guilt he was feeling because he'd caused her anguish, but she couldn't; she was angry.

"Well..." he said at last, in a subdued voice. "I must bathe before the feast. Will I see you there?"

"Yes, lord."

He brightened a little at her reply. "I am sorry, Olwen," he said earnestly. "At the time, I wasn't quite rational. I would have done anything to get you back. And I thought, the boy would be with his father; there's no harm in that. I just never thought about what might happen when it was all over..."

She stared down into the face of the baby, now blessedly sleeping. She didn't know what might happen, either; everything depended upon Richard.

Dylan ab Owain sighed contentedly as Goewyn put all her might into her hands and rubbed his back. Since his return, she had been the epitome of a dutiful wife, catering to his every need—sometimes even before he was aware he had one. He hadn't felt this looked-after since those heady weeks following their marriage three years earlier. He knew the reason, of course—she was trying to expiate her guilt over the plot to send Lady Teleri to the prince—and he also knew the special treatment wouldn't last. Once Llanlleyn settled into its usual routine, Goewyn would revert to her former opinionated and busy self which would leave little time for him. He was determined to get as much of her attention as possible until that happened.

It was a large relief to see Olwen back within the walls of the fortress. When Rhirid had first announced his decision to ride to Rhuddlan to enlist the help of the Normans to get her back from the earl of Chester, Dylan had concluded that the chief's head wound was much more serious than the physician had told them. He'd tried to argue instead for an appeal directly to the earl but Rhirid wouldn't listen. Rhirid believed he had no leverage with the earl; that Chester had kidnapped Olwen from under his nose to prove his might and collect the debt he'd been supposed to pay, and was now an enemy greater than Longsword.

Dylan had been doubtful that Rhirid could convince his adversary at Rhuddlan to fight against his own countryman but he'd gone with him anyway, after giving Goewyn a sincere farewell, certain he wouldn't see her again, certain the Normans would either attack them once they were within sight of the castle or invite them in and then close the gate behind them and slaughter every last man. All of Rhirid's warriors had believed the same but they'd followed him without remark because they were loyal and because they didn't mind finally meeting the Normans in combat.

Dylan sighed again. "I thought you'd fallen asleep," Goewyn said to him.

"Just a little more around the neck, please," he mumbled into his pillow.

"How long will Olwen be at Rhuddlan?" she asked, kneading the muscles on the sides of his neck.

He mumbled that he didn't know.

There was a short silence. Then Goewyn said, "I don't understand why the Norman can't come here to meet Olwen. What if he grabs her when she's inside and kills her escort?"

"Then I'll go there and kill him." He rolled slowly onto his back and looked at her with half-closed eyes. "The Norman never mentioned to Olwen that their son was at Rhuddlan. Don't you see? He's forcing her to go to him. What does that tell you? He's afraid. He thinks she doesn't want him but he knows she wants her son. He thinks if he'd allowed us to retrieve the boy and bring him back to Llanlleyn, he'd never see Olwen again." He made a face. "What good Welshwoman wants to live in some foreigner's castle, listening to that foreign gibberish all day?"

"Lady Teleri does it..."

He laughed. "Oh, that explains why she was so eager to leave when I burst into her chamber."

"Yes, but then she went back again. I'm worried, Dylan. What if Olwen wants to stay?"

He shrugged. It didn't matter to him if the woman decided to stay. Rhirid would have to get over it; it would be a good dose of reality. Dylan had learned over the years that women had their own schemes and expectations regarding marriage and husbands figured rather weakly in the formula. He had learned that marriage for women had less to do with the men involved than with the tangibles those men could provide, from possessions to status to children. He had learned to take advantage of the days when he was in favor and to disappear on those he was not. Perhaps it was best that Rhirid get the disappointment over with before it actually came to marriage itself.

Still, Dylan knew better than to tell Goewyn to leave the matter alone. He looked innocently into her face and answered quite solemnly, "In that case, my dear, you'd better start casting about for another candidate."

Chapter 47

June, 1177

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

Richard Delamere shook out the cloak he'd used for a blanket and secured it to the back of his saddle. There was half a bucket of water left from last afternoon and he splashed some over his face and dumped the rest onto the smoldering coals of his fire. He stared for a moment at the bucket in his hand; it had looked eerie when he'd first seen it, standing upright on the ground near the charred remains of his barn. Near the burned remains of the house. Near the scorched earth that had been his fields. It had looked strange, perfectly untouched and positioned as if someone had just set it down, in the midst of the blackened ruins of his manor.

He was alone. The first time he'd seen this horror, the day he'd gone to fetch Olwen and the boys back to Rhuddlan only to find Rhirid had gotten to them first, one of the laborers and two of Olwen's serving women had been there to tell him what had happened. Now he and his horse were the only living creatures in the area and the bucket the only whole and undamaged object within sight.

In the solemn afternoon peace and the waning light of the evening which followed, the anger he'd experienced upon arrival had been replaced with deepening melancholy. There was so much to do, but was there anyone to do it for? The site looked unfamiliar, not because of the ruins but because Olwen wasn't there. For almost three months, his hatred of Rhirid had been a violent one; now it was desperate. The Welshman had destroyed his land and seized his family; he had everything and Delamere had been left with nothing. It was all the more obvious as he surveyed his former home...

But the clean, clear light of the morning had brought hope with it. Delamere had poked a little more among the devastation and decided he could rebuild. Would rebuild. After all, what had been standing on that piece of land before his arrival? Just some cottar's dwelling which he'd had to tear down anyway in order to raise his manor house. As he saddled his horse, he devised a timetable for the work to be done; he figured how many men he'd need to ask Longsword to lend him. As he stowed his cloak, he considered larger dimensions, a separate room for the children, a solar for Olwen...As he rode back to Rhuddlan, he glanced back once to fix the exact position of the wall in his head...

By the time he reached the fortress, he was in a fine mood. His mind was full of ways to make the manor a place of which Olwen would be proud to be mistress. Warmed by the sun and buoyed by his plans, he started to believe he would win her again. After all, his recommendations were numerous. Rhirid was an insignificant chief while he was the right-hand man to Prince Dafydd's nephew-in-law. His property probably rivalled Rhirid's entire holding in size, yet supported far fewer people which made him the wealthier man. And he was a Norman; his king was, for all intents and purposes, the overlord of Wales, despite Welsh opinion. To Delamere's way of thinking, Olwen would have to be a fool not to admit to the advantages of being his wife.

He had decided he would marry her.

The gate was open; he called up a greeting and lifted a hand in salute as he trotted through. His stomach rumbled and he hoped he wasn't too late for the midday meal. Sweat dribbled down the side of his head—

He saw her immediately and pulled up on the reins. She was standing in the very center of the ward with several Welshmen around her. Teleri was at her side. Beyond them were Longsword, fitz Maurice and perhaps a dozen others; he wasn't certain, he didn't count them. He was vaguely surprised that he noticed anyone else at all.

Cynan, the stablemaster's son, raced up with the energetic enthusiasm of a ten-year-old to take his horse and he tossed him the reins and dismounted without even looking at him. He didn't dare take his eyes from Olwen in case she disappeared as unexpectedly as she had appeared. He walked towards her, pulling off his gloves and tucking them into his sword belt, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair and absently wishing he had shaved, all the while watching her. And she watched him as well.

When there was less than two arms' length between them, he stopped. He couldn't read her expression and that made him uneasy. They'd always known what each other was thinking just from his or her face; it had practically been their only form of communication in the first months of their relationship.

Perhaps her face seemed shuttered because one of her eyes was black and blue. It had merely been swollen by the time she'd revived and been swept off by Rhirid and his men and he was ashamed to see how horrible it had become...because of him.

"Does it hurt much?" he asked abruptly, in a soft voice.

She frowned as if puzzled, winced and realized what he meant. "Only when I do that," she said. "I can't be too angry, at least for a few more days." The absurdity of her statement made her smile.

He smiled as well. "I'm sorry, Olwen—"

Her cheerfulness vanished instantly. "Please, Richard; I'm not here for apologies or regrets." There was a slight tremble in her voice although her gaze was steady. "I'm here for William."

"William..."

"Yes." She added, "You might have told me he was here when we were at Hawarden."

He thought her tone accusing and was offended. "I might have? What about Rhirid ap Maelgwn? After all, he was the one who brought William to me."

"I've already spoken with Lord Rhirid, Richard. Can we please leave him out of this?"

"I wanted to leave him out of it back at Hawarden but you refused to speak with me then and he put his nose where it didn't belong!" he snapped. He looked at the men around them. "Where is he, anyway? Where's his big bodyguard?"

"He isn't here," she said. "I thought it best to see you alone—"

"Why is that? Because now I've got something you want? You had no time for me at Hawarden because he made you believe both our sons were waiting for you at Llanlleyn. Am I not correct? But now that you know the truth, you're more agreeable. I don't think you're being fair, Olwen!"

"I'm sorry if you think that, Richard. I can't help what happened between you and Lord Rhirid; that's your business," she said calmly. "I just want my son. Surely you can understand he's too young to be without his mother."

"And never to see his father again?"

She didn't answer. She looked away.

"Olwen?"

"Sir Richard, if I may?" Teleri stepped closer to them. "Olwen didn't get here much before you," she said quietly. "I'm sure you're both hot and uncomfortable and hungry from your journeys. Why don't we all go inside, where it's cooler, have something to eat and then you two can speak privately and not in the open where everyone can hear you."

"Yes. Thank you, Lady Teleri," Olwen said and after a moment, Delamere inclined his head. As the two women moved off towards the keep, he stared at Olwen's retreating figure with sinking spirits.

"What was that all about? What were you saying to each other?"

He glanced at Longsword. "She wants to take little William back to Llanlleyn," he told him.

"Oh...I had thought perhaps she...Well, when I didn't see Rhirid, I thought she might be coming back here to stay with you..."

"No, Will. It's all exactly as I predicted," he said in a tight voice.

"Oh..."

Delamere looked back again at the keep. The women were almost to the steps when a small figure darted out from the kitchens on the lower level. It was his son. He watched in dismay as the child ran to Olwen with obvious joy and as she knelt down to meet him, scoop him up in her embrace and whirl him around.

"Did you truly mean it when you told Sir Richard you wanted to remain at Llanlleyn?"

"Yes, Lady Teleri..."

"You don't sound too certain," Teleri said sharply.

Olwen raised the towel to her face and blotted it dry, taking care around her bruised eye. "I'm not certain," she said in a low voice. "I think it's the right decision—I've been happy at Llanlleyn; Lord Rhirid has been kind and I know I'm welcome—but I also feel as if I'm betraying Richard."

"You'd only feel that way if you still loved him..."

"But that doesn't matter, Lady Teleri. I have to think of my children. Is it fair they grow up without a father? When William was first born, Richard came to stay with us quite often. But after Henry was born, he came less and less. I know he was needed here because Lord William was injured but for months on end?" She looked down. "I began to imagine there was another reason he didn't come."

"You imagined wrong, Olwen. I never heard even the hint of a rumor that he was with someone else. He loves you."

Olwen was silent for a moment. Then she looked at Teleri. "I don't know if I love him still. Don't you remember when we were at Llanlleyn? I dreaded waking up every day to hear the story of yet another holding burned and ransacked, its people perhaps murdered, by Lord William's men. By Richard, Lady Teleri! I hated him then."

"Our people...their people..." Teleri shrugged. "What does it matter? We're all people and there are as many evil Welsh as Norman. You must remember, it was Lord Rhirid who brought all this on his head by shooting Lord William. Speaking of heads, did he show you his cousin's blackened one which adorns the gate to Llanlleyn?"

"Please, Lady Teleri, say no more!" Olwen begged. "I've already made up my mind. I never grew used to that manor. Llanlleyn is more like the Perfeddwlad—there are women to speak with and men to teach my sons." Her face was throbbing too much for her to be more than mildly curious about the amount of interest Teleri was taking in her relationship with Richard.

Teleri shrugged. "Very well. Anyway, you don't leave until the morning; you have the rest of the day and all night to reconsider."

"I won't, Lady Teleri," she whispered.

The other woman gestured towards the bed. "Rest as long as you like; those meals below are interminable. One man tells a story and all the others clamor to top it. I call it hell with refreshment."

Olwen smiled politely but even as Teleri left the chamber, her thoughts turned to Richard and the smile faded. Was she making a mistake? Was she doing him a misservice? She was reminded of the day before, when she waited in the women's house while her escort to Rhuddlan was being readied and in the sudden silence, he had crept into her mind. A small movement had caught her attention and she'd looked up; there in the doorway, the sun streaming behind him and obscuring his identity, a man had paused to adjust his eyes to the dim interior. It was Lord Rhirid, of course, come to find her, but for one instant, one heart-stopping, confused, joyous instant, she had thought it was Richard.

If Delamere had not been feeling as if his entire life had just been turned on its head, he might have seen a wry humor in the situation in the hall that evening. Always in the past, it was Longsword who would sit in silence, morosely contemplating a cup of wine, while Delamere made the attempt to cajole him out of his misery; now it was the other way around. And now he understood how maddening it was to endure the friendly but strained conversation when all he really wanted to do was disappear into some dark recess.

His face was bruised and his body battered but he felt little pain; the fact of Olwen leaving him was a sufficient analgesic. He hadn't been surprised by her decision because he'd spent the last few months believing she was gone for good, anyway, but there was still the shock of hearing the words spoken. And he remembered Rhirid, with that smug expression on his face...

"...And I said, you're not taking the boy without Richard's permission!" Longsword was telling him what had happened before he'd ridden in to Rhuddlan. "She looked a little stunned. I thought she might get hysterical but she didn't. I was actually glad Teleri was with me."

"Thank you, Will," he said mechanically.

"She'll come back, Richard," Longsword said, his voice slightly anxious. "As long as you keep William..."

"Yes," he said. He stared at the cup in his hand and pushed it away slowly. Getting drunk didn't appeal to him at the moment; somehow, to forget it all tonight but to wake up with a raging hangover and stark reality would be worse than getting it all over with as soon as possible.

He just hoped he'd be able to get over it.

A woman hovered behind him and he put his hand up to signal that he wanted no more wine but to his surprise, she leaned forward and whispered into his ear. He nodded in response. Longsword looked at him questioningly. "Excuse me, Will," he said, rising from his seat.

It was clear from Longsword's face that he thought the woman had propositioned Delamere—a face at first shocked, then impressed and finally encouraging.

Delamere followed the woman through the maze of tables, uncomfortably aware that the noise in the hall had been reduced to the low buzz of gossip and that everyone was watching him. They entered the stairwell behind the pantries and climbed the winding steps. His heart beat quicker and not merely from the exertion; he was nervous. He couldn't remember the last time he was nervous to meet a woman.

They stopped at Teleri's chambers. His guide pulled the latch on the closed door and pushed it open, standing back so that he would enter before her.

"Sir Richard, come in!" Teleri, seated on a chair in the middle of the floor, invited him. She gave him a critical stare. "You look much better than you did earlier. How do you feel?"

"Better, Lady Teleri," he lied.

"I thought you might want to see Olwen here. She's resting in my bedchamber; she didn't want to eat, she said. She's very upset, Sir Richard and not just because of William. She really loves you."

Delamere was surprised. Ordinarily, he would have never have discussed such private business with Teleri, but now he was greedy for the least information...the slenderest twig of hope.

"I know I'm intruding," she continued, "but I thought you should know what she told me before you see her."

"She said that?"

"Well, I put it to her and she didn't deny it, Sir Richard." She stood up "You'll be alone. My women and I will go to the hall. We won't return until you come down."

"Thank you. May I ask you a question, Lady Teleri?" he said as she started to move past him. "Why are doing this for me?"

"I'm repaying a favor you did me, Sir Richard."

He frowned. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"That stormy day I told you about Gwalaes. Do you remember? I'm not stupid and I knew of the earl of Chester's interest in her, so I merely took everything to its logical conclusion...and that meant figuring out who Bronwen was. And then I told the earl that night at supper. I was angry with Lord William. Getting a child on Gladys was bad enough but then to turn to yet another woman? I knew I'd become the laughingstock of Rhuddlan—probably all of Gwynedd, for that matter—if my husband kept this up."

"At the time, you said you were afraid Lord William's men would desert him and he'd be forced to return to England," Delamere said slowly. "And you didn't want to leave Wales..."

Teleri shrugged. "That, too. But anyway, despite the pain it caused Lord William when Gwalaes left, you never told him that it was I who discovered everything."

"I saw no reason to, Lady Teleri; I never approved of his interest in that woman and I was glad when Chester claimed her." He hesitated. "How is it between you and Lord William? He has a tendency to hold a grudge and he was still angry when I left..."

She gave him a wry smile. "It's more than a grudge he holds but our marriage yet lives." She put a hand on his arm and squeezed. "Good luck, Sir Richard."

He turned toward the door to the bedchamber and hesitated. For a moment he contemplated it, unable to understand his sudden ambivalence. Perhaps, he thought, he'd simply spent too much time imagining his life without Olwen and because of it, in his mind, the decision was final. To go through that door meant confrontation and accusation and he'd already rehearsed every argument in his head and come to every conclusion.

He took a step backwards.

Yet...perhaps there was still a chance. There wouldn't be a better time or place see her again, because now she was alone, without Rhirid standing at her shoulder, without the children clinging to her skirts, without even the servants overhearing the whispers they might exchange in the dark. There would be only the two of them.

And Teleri's last words echoed in his mind...

He went quickly forward before he could change his mind, tapped firmly on the door and, after a pause, went through.

He'd never been in Teleri's bedchamber before; it was a large room and his eyes were not immediately drawn to the bed up against the farthest wall. The unshuttered windows showed a waning daylight but combined with the flame of a single lamp perched on the table near the door, there was enough illumination for him to see the array of neatly ordered furnishings and then the figure lying in the bed. He moved closer and heard Olwen stir.

"Who is it?" she called out softly, in Welsh.

He walked to the foot of the bed. "It's Richard."

"Richard!"

He couldn't tell whether her short exclamation was pleased or angry. He asked cautiously, "Do you mind I'm here? If you wish, I'll leave..."

"I don't mind," she answered.

He moved up to the head of the bed and sat down on the stool alongside it. Once again, he couldn't take his eyes from her but this time it wasn't because he feared she'd disappear. This time it was because he hadn't been so physically close to her in months, alone, and she looked so wonderfully familiar that he wanted only to bend his head to hers and kiss her.

She pushed herself up into a sitting position and met his hungry stare with barely disguised trepidation. It chilled his ardor and he sat back. "What's wrong?" he asked. "You act as if you're frightened of me."

"Not of you, perhaps, but of what you might say..."

"What do you mean?"

She hesitated. "Your answer about William..."

He shook his head slowly. "To my mind, this isn't about William. It's about us, Olwen. You and I."

She looked away. "It's about William, Richard. That's all. Everything else has been decided."

"By whom? By you? Or by Rhirid?"

"Please, Richard! Why do you keep harping on Rhirid?"

His voice reflected his frustration. "Because he's the one who's turned you away from me, Olwen! And after what he did to our home and to you and the boys, I don't understand the regard you have for him!"

She stared at him. "I have no regard for Lord Rhirid, at least not in the way you mean it," she said quietly. "He's been kind to us; he's sorry for what he did. But he has nothing to do with you and me."

"Then why are you going back to Llanlleyn?" he asked. His heart pounded painfully but he forced himself to ask the questions. "Why not send for Henry and stay here? With me?"

Her eyes were large and sympathetic. "And return to what? Will you build a new manor? I'm sorry, Richard. If anyone's to blame, it isn't Lord Rhirid. I suppose it's me. I just couldn't stand to be at that manor on my own."

He was bewildered. "But you have servants...the children..."

"I wanted you."

"I came—"

"And then you left."

For a moment, he didn't speak. They looked at each other, unblinking. Then he said quietly, "I don't know what to tell you, Olwen. That's the way my life is. I serve Lord William."

Suddenly he could read her expression once again and the hurt he saw there made him want to wince. He had to look away.

"I'm leaving in the morning, Richard." Her voice was flat, unemotional. "I want to know if you'll allow me to take my son with me."

Only a heartbeat before, he'd thought how everything could be put right with a mere kiss. Now, it was all over. What had happened in such a brief time?

He put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up off the stool. He looked down on her. "Yes. If you're certain about this, I won't object."

A fortnight later, the summer heat eased considerably and likewise most of the tension that had gripped Rhuddlan. Longsword, again, was resigned to his losses and no longer surly and short-tempered. Part of the reason had to do with Teleri; she was doggedly keeping her end of her bargain and had given him no cause for complaint. Everything was peaceful...

Too peaceful, perhaps. He felt tremendously let-down. It seemed to him that after all the activity of the past year, he was back where he'd started, before Rhirid, before his baby, before Gwalaes...nothing to look forward to...

"Do you know the one thing I regret about my settlement with Chester?" he asked Delamere as they stood together on the edge of the practice field and watched a dozen men trade jabs. "The three year peace."

Delamere was surprised. "Why? You'd go against him again? On what pretext?"

Longsword shrugged. "Something might come up." He saw an indulgent smile on his friend's profile and added in frustration, "Everything is the same, Richard! A year ago we were probably standing in this very spot. The fighting with Rhirid, the fighting with Chester—it changed nothing."

At first Delamere didn't respond, staring out at the men vying against each other, and too late Longsword realized that his friend would have preferred to be back where he was a year ago, because then he'd have Olwen and his sons again. But then he said, "Lady Teleri's different. More kindly disposed towards you, for some reason. I've even heard rumors that she shares the same bed with you on occasion."

Longsword flushed and scraped at the ground with his boot. "She's decided she wants to be married to me, after all," he muttered. He looked up. "But I'm not convinced of her sincerity, Richard! She's yet to prove it to me!"

"I would imagine a clean hall, servants who move quickly to do your bidding and her presence at your table every evening are solid indications of her sincerity," Delamere replied. "She's trying."

"So?" Longsword demanded. "Has she complained that I'm not trying?"

"Not at all, Will! I'm just telling you what I've observed."

Longsword grunted noncomittally. He knew that he hadn't been trying and was a little ashamed as a result. He'd accepted whatever she'd offered, from banal conversation to sex, but he had yet to reciprocate and wondered if he ever would because it would feel as if he were betraying Gwalaes. "Let's go away," he said abruptly.

Delamere's head swiveled towards him. "What?"

"Let's go away. Out of Rhuddlan."

"What's brought this on?"

"Just the two of us, Richard! God knows we could both do without this place for a while..."

Delamere looked pensive. Longsword watched him intently. "Where do you want to go?" he asked at length.

"Anywhere!" Longsword said eagerly. "Wherever the king is holding court."

"We don't know where—"

"That's the beauty of the thing, Richard! We'll have to find him and who knows how long that might take. He might be at Westminster...in London...in Falaise...Anjou..."

Delamere grinned. "You'd have to cross the sea, Will."

"For once in my life, I welcome it, Richard," he said. "Come on, what do you say? Fitz Maurice and Teleri can look after Rhuddlan quite capably...We can leave tomorrow..."

Delamere shifted his gaze to the practice field but Longsword knew he wasn't looking at anyone there. If he saw anything, it was the image of Olwen riding away with their son...Finally, he nodded. "All right," he said slowly. "Let's go."

Chapter 48

October, 1177

Hawarden Castle, Gwynedd

It was like Robert Bolsover and Chester castle all over again. Once more, Haworth was the one who was left.

He wasn't certain how many days had passed since Ralph de Vire's cloak-draped corpse had come to stand before him. He remembered little of that day, just his triumph over Longsword and his subsequent feeling that his good fortune would surely hold and de Vire would be the first to ride through the gate. That honor, however, had gone to Haworth; Hugh had embraced him in welcome, all the while thinking of de Vire, and Roger had been speaking, trying to tell him something, but he hadn't paid any attention, just smiled and patted him on the back, ready to greet the next man, to get to de Vire...He would never forget the noise that roared through his ears when Ralph's horse and its burden stopped in front of him and his worst fear was stark reality.

He withdrew from society at Hawarden. He didn't care what was happening; he didn't care who was giving the orders. Haworth was the only one who dared to see him but what he reported during those visits Hugh couldn't have repeated.

The days grew thankfully shorter. He spent more time in bed, sleeping fitfully and drifting in and out of terrifying nightmares. Despite his welcome of the long nights, he discovered he needed to have his chambers lit at all times...he had the expensive tapestries removed and the grey walls whitewashed so that the light from his lamps reverberated four-fold...

Roger brought him his meals and although he was never very hungry, he ate what he could because the man looked so stricken and solicitous it would have been rude not to. As he ate, Haworth would chatter on and on, tunelessly; the words rarely penetrating the fog around his mind...Poor Haworth; he always tried so hard, but then, that was part of the problem.

Once or twice, Hugh felt sharper. He would attempt to pay attention to Haworth's blathering about some war or other, nodding as if he understood his captain's difficulties. He may have even responded; he didn't remember.

And then one day, in the midst of his forced cheerful, inane talk, Haworth suddenly stopped. Hugh only noticed because Haworth's voice was loud. He glanced up to find his man staring at him, his expression worried and fearful. This was also puzzling because Haworth's face was generally so dour, Hugh had long ago imagined any other emotion was impossible.

"My lord," Haworth said in a low voice, "do you wish to reproach me..." He paused but Hugh merely frowned, not understanding the question. He swallowed. "Do you wish to reproach me over Sir Ralph's death?"

To hear the words out loud was as bad a shock as seeing the corpse. For a moment, Hugh could do nothing more than stare stupidly at Haworth.

"You have every right, of course, my lord," Haworth continued quickly, as if anticipating an explosion and wishing to explain his side of the story before it happened. "You sent me on a mission and I failed. We were caught unaware by the—"

"I don't understand," Hugh interrupted. "Why should I reproach you? Did I ask you to save his life? Was it you who killed him?"

Haworth was horrified. "My lord, no! Never!"

"Then why should I reproach you?" he repeated.

"You asked me to find him—"

"I remember what I said, Roger. I asked you to find him and you evidently did. Too late, but that wasn't your fault." He turned his head to look into the flames of the small blaze in the brazier. The weather had grown chillier as the days had shortened but it seemed to him that he was always cold lately and when he wasn't lying in bed, he sat in front of the fire. "I reproach myself..." he whispered.

"My lord, why?"

Hugh glanced at him and the ghost of a smile appeared briefly on his face. "You sound genuinely outraged, Roger. Are you just being polite or do you honestly not realize?"

"Not realize what, my lord?"

"You argued against confrontation with the Bastard, didn't you? You wanted to go after Gruffudd, instead. But I insisted on revenge and because of it, Ralph is dead. It's not your fault, it's not the fault of the Welsh or even of William Longsword. It's my fault alone. That poor boy..." He rubbed his hands over his eyes and then shook his head as if trying to toss out the bitter thoughts and looked squarely at Haworth. The blue eyes were sharp with anger. "I reproach myself," he repeated firmly. "Some days I rage against myself, Roger; I berate myself, I curse my vanity, I punch the walls and other days, I—" he broke off abruptly and closed his eyes. His voice dropped. "Other days, I plot my death."

Haworth rushed to his side and dropped onto his knees by his chair. "My lord, you shouldn't talk like this! It isn't right! It's a sin!"

Hugh smiled wryly, reflexively. "It's a sin only if you actually do it, Roger." He reached out and put his hand on Haworth's shoulder. "Never fear; I won't."

"Please let me help you, my lord," Haworth said in a low, fervent voice. "I'll do anything, I swear it! Whatever you want! I've helped you before..."

Hugh dropped his hand and turned his face away, feeling suddenly flushed. The room was stifling and it was hard to breathe...Was it always going to be like this? Was it always Haworth who'd be there to pick up the pieces and put his life back together after every tragedy? He wasn't certain which was worse: the terrible events of the last few years or Haworth's unfailing presence.

"My lord, perhaps if you were to lead us tomorrow..." Haworth suggested tentatively. "It will do you good to get out and back to business. You've already lost most of the color you had this summer...And the men will be pleased to see you."

For a moment, the span of time a heavy cloud cover might break apart to reveal a brief, blazing, hopeful glimpse of the bright sun, he was actually tempted to accept. But a picture of how injured Ralph de Vire's face might look if he were to associate with Roger of Haworth so soon after the former's death, darkened his mind and he slowly shook his head. "I don't think so, Roger," he said. "I don't want to get in your way."

"You wouldn't! My lord, you haven't been on a horse in nearly a month!"

Hugh smiled indifferently, the malaise reclaiming him. The rest of Haworth's pleas and exhortations sounded like some distant, indistinct rumbling to which he paid no further attention. Instead, he focused again on the fire. The prophetic words Eleanor had uttered when he'd accused her of carrying a bastard's bastard came suddenly to him. She'd promised him he would pay dearly for every wrong he'd done her. But it seemed Hell wasn't waiting until he died for its due.

Haworth claimed that every order he gave came directly from the earl. It wasn't that he thought the men wouldn't do his bidding without this veneer of authority, he simply believed that an outward display of Hugh's interest in their activities would keep up their morale and stifle the continually sprouting rumors about his ill-health. He was convinced that the ruse worked. Privately, however, he worried about the earl's state of mind. He didn't know how many more disasters Hugh could weather; each one seemed to leave him more vulnerable to the next. Even during the dark months after Robert Bolsover's death, Hugh had never mentioned suicide, nor had he shut himself away in his chambers. Or perhaps Ralph de Vire had had more charm than Haworth had believed. While another man might have been jealous of de Vire's lingering presence, the idea never crossed Haworth's unimaginative mind. After all, de Vire was dead and he was alive. Eventually Hugh would recover his senses and he'd find Haworth, loyal, steady and patient, right where he'd left him.

As the days, then weeks, passed with no apparent change in the earl's behavior, Haworth began to acknowledge a nobler side in what he'd done. He didn't understand how Hugh could have formed so deep an attachment with de Vire in a relatively short time and considered such an irrational occurrence proof that the affair had been an example of dangerous obsession and that he'd been right to eliminate it before serious harm had been done.

Hugh received periodic letters from his mother informing him of his daughter's progress, which was apparently steady, but even these failed to spark his interest. He had never seen the girl and therefore could take no pleasure in her activities. The dowager countess' obvious enjoyment of the company of her grandchild did have one benefit to him, apart from sparing him the necessity of finding another home for the girl: there were no further complaints about his inability to regain the lost earldoms. Haworth was glad of this one small favor. He was always present when the messenger read the letters aloud to Hugh, who would not stir himself even to read them himself, and ready to shut the man up if the contents drifted toward the old and overly familiar criticisms.

The feast of Christmas was, curiously enough given the circumstances, a pleasant time. It was almost as if the inhabitants of Hawarden had forgotten all about their lord, who by now had not been seen by most of them in four months. The steward, on Haworth's instructions, had arranged for musicians and entertainers to be sent over from Chester, new clothing was distributed, the castle scrubbed and whitewashed and everyone lingered at the table. All was done in the earl's name.

Haworth discovered he had an aptitude for administration and something more—he enjoyed it. Soldiers or laborers would come to him with petitions and quarrels and dutifully he would relate them all to Hugh. Hugh's lack of response, however, meant that Haworth would have to make the decisions himself, although he passed them off as Hugh's, and after a short time he found he was comfortable with this role. He had always done Hugh's bidding—indeed, had never wanted to do anything else—but he'd certainly been with the earl long enough to have learned how to confront most situations. What he lacked in imagination and quick-wittedness, he made up with fairness and common sense. Despite his unsmiling demeanor, he'd always been respected by the garrison; by the end of the year, he was well-regarded by everyone at Hawarden.

One day in late January, he thumped with uncharacteristic agitation on the door to Hugh's outer chamber and went inside without waiting for a response. He found the earl in his usual place, seated before the brazier and staring senselessly into its fiery heart. Hugh did not look up at Haworth's approach, nor did he seem to realize there was another person in the room. Despite his excitement, Haworth halted abruptly, his spirits sinking and his pity rising as he watched his master.

Hugh's physical appearance had changed dramatically as a result of his self-enforced exile. His once russet hair was now almost completely grey, his beard sparse and his face drawn and sallow. He had lost so much weight that his posture was hunched and his movements slow like those of an old man. But it was the lack of response in his eyes which bothered Haworth most of all; there was no spark of life in them, nothing to indicate that something yet lived in his body.

"My lord," he said softly, standing next to the brazier, "a messenger from Normandy arrived not long ago. You have a son, my lord! Healthy and strong, your steward at Blundeville says!"

He paused and waited for anything in Hugh's expression to shift and was disappointed. He wondered if this lassitude was his fault; if he should have insisted months ago that Hugh set aside his grief and force himself to participate in normal activities.

"My lord, did you hear me?" he said more loudly. "A son...Your line is secure. Hugh—"

"I heard you," the earl answered.

"Aren't you pleased? After all you endured with that woman and her brother—it finally paid off—"

A frown crossed Hugh's sickly face. "Please, Roger, let's not speak of the Bolsovers...I'm too weak."

"What about your son? Will I send the messenger back with instructions to bring the child here?"

To Haworth's surprise, the earl's head snapped up and there was suddenly and unexpectedly strong emotion in his eyes. Horror. "No!" he said forcefully. "Let him remain where he is! Both of them!"

Haworth knelt down before Hugh. "You have something to live for now, my lord," he said in a quiet voice.

The earl laughed harshly. "Do I? It seems to me I've done my work, Roger! If I die now, there will be a new earl."

"An infant in the hands of the king, my lord? As you were once? Do you truly want that for your son?" When Hugh didn't answer, Haworth continued, "You must raise him, my lord, not that cursed house of Anjou."

"No, no, no..." Hugh whispered.

"Yes, my lord," Haworth said firmly. He reached out and gripped Hugh's shoulders. He was shocked for a moment by the bony, almost fragile feeling beneath his fingers. Hugh made no resistance. "You must live! If only to have your revenge against William Longsword!"

"I don't care about the Bastard any longer, Roger. He got the better of me...It's over between us."

"Then you don't care that he murdered Ralph de Vire...?"

Hugh's posture stiffened. He turned his tortured face towards Haworth's, less than a hand-span away. "Murdered?" he echoed hoarsely.

"I didn't want to tell you, my lord," the other man said. "I never wanted to tell you because I feared your reaction. I thought the birth of your son would revive your spirits but you seem bent on withering away until there's nothing left of you. Perhaps the idea of revenge might stir your blood instead."

"Tell me, Roger!"

Haworth dropped his hands and leaned back on his heels. His bearded face was composed, his eyes serious. "My lord, Sir Ralph's awful death was the result of his poor timing and the sudden appearance of a dozen or so soldiers from Rhuddlan," he started. "The moment I left you, I went in search of him and found him in a clearing, engaged with one of the Bastard's men. They were duelling and, between blows, calling out to each other with taunts. It was obvious they knew each other. I was loathe to interfere, my lord—Sir Ralph would not have appreciated it and probably would have complained to you that I'd made him look a fool. If I had thought he was in mortal danger—if for one moment I had conceived he was ill-prepared for the match—I would have certainly intervened, but I swear to you, my lord," he said earnestly, "he was the better of the two and I had no such apprehensions."

"Then what the hell happened?" Hugh's voice was tight with frustration and bewilderment.

"He fell. He took an unlucky step backwards, tripped over a tree root and fell. He lost his sword."

"And his opponent—the Bastard's man—murdered him in cold blood?"

"No, my lord! I would never have let that happen!" Haworth protested. "Of course, I immediately jumped down from my mount and challenged the Bastard's knight, if only to divert attention from Sir Ralph. The tactic worked—the man turned to me and we began fighting. After a short bout, I gave him a wound which proved mortal, and it was at that moment that the Bastard and a dozen or so of his guards galloped like maniacs into the clearing. I was so outnumbered that when Sir Richard demanded my sword, I surrendered it. Sir Ralph...he didn't want to surrender, my lord."

Hugh leaned his elbow on the arm of his chair and covered his face with a hand. He was very still.

Haworth knew the worst thing he could do would be to make de Vire's fictitious role seem anything less than heroic; he had to walk the line between keeping the lie manageable and raising the young knight beyond mere competence. "He held his sword out," Haworth continued, "and shouted that he would take on the lot of them. The Bastard sent four men to subdue him. It wasn't an easy procedure and he nearly killed two of them but ultimately he was brought before Lord William."

He paused and peered uncertainly at Hugh, but the latter did not move. He cleared his throat. "Well...the Bastard began to shout at Sir Ralph, demanding to know how he had dared betray Rhuddlan—and him—by joining your service. But he never allowed Sir Ralph to answer! He went on and on...it almost seemed he was a bit mad, my lord; it made me nervous because I'd already given up my sword. Finally the Bastard stopped to draw breath. Sir Ralph started to defend himself but whatever he said just made the Bastard angrier until he pulled his own sword and brandished it in front of Sir Ralph's nose. I shouted over to him to behave in an honorable way and Sir Richard begged him not to do anything foolish, that you were sure to pay a high ransom for the two of us. But, my lord, as I said, it was as if he'd gone mad. He shouted out that traitors should all die together and then he...he rushed straight at Sir Ralph and stabbed him in the stomach. Sir Ralph never had a chance. It was brutal, deliberate murder, my lord, and although I admit I had no love for the man, he didn't deserve to die like that..."

PART V

Chapter 49

May, 1178

Taillebourg, Angoulême

Longsword reined in, squinted his eyes at the looming monster in the distance and whistled in admiration. "If he couldn't take Pons," he said in a low voice to Delamere, "how in the hell does he hope to take that?"

Delamere shook his head. "They say Taillebourg is impregnable."

"He's bitten off more than he can chew, Richard. Five castles in a month is a pretty good feat, even for the king, but I'm not certain Henry himself wouldn't have trouble with this one."

They spoke in mutters because Richard, duke of Aquitaine, was close at hand and had a more prickly pride than even Longsword, his half-brother. The prince, however, was too busy conferring with his advisers to have overheard these pessimistic comments, which only encouraged Longsword to further denigration.

"He razes five castles in one month and now figures he's more powerful than God," he continued. "Of course, the five castles weren't perched on top of a rock with sheer drops on three sides and triple ditches and walls on the fourth. Let's see...he's been besieging Pons since Christmas and it's now a month past Easter. Hmm...by that reckoning, Taillebourg should fall sometime in the next century."

"It does seem rather futile..." Delamere agreed. Then he yawned and shrugged. "What does it matter? We're only here to help, whatever his scheme. But you ought to go over there with the others, Will; you are one of his advisers."

Longsword picked up his reins. "The advisers are only for formality. Whatever's decided will be Richard's decision alone. I've been watching him. He loves this; he loves the plotting and the fighting, and he's good at it," he said with grudging admiration. He hadn't been as charitable during the Rebellion when the two had been on opposing sides. "But he's not rash. Well," he amended before moving off, "at least I didn't think so until today."

When he was gone, Delamere glanced once more without much interest at the walled city of Taillebourg and then dismounted and led his horse to the makeshift pens already being set up by the dozens of laborers whom the prince employed for the mundane tasks of warfare. There were others to do it, but he unsaddled and curried the animal, cleaned out its hooves and gave it feed and water. The longer he kept away from the camp, the fewer inane conversations about the good weather and the immense castle he had to endure.

He had thought Longsword's idea a good one. To leave Gwynedd for a while and travel, to see different scenery and perhaps do a little fighting...maybe then his mind wouldn't be so consumed with losing Olwen. But after two months of joining the king's retinue in Normandy followed by six months of battling Prince Richard's rebellious vassals in Aquitaine and Angoulême, he had come to the wrenching conclusion that he would never be able to forget her, quite probably because he didn't want to.

He'd informed Longsword that once Pons fell to the besiegers, he was returning to Rhuddlan.

Longsword found him after supper lying on his back with his cloak rolled up beneath his head for a pillow and staring into the darkening sky. "Good weather," he said conversationally. "Hope it's a good portent for tomorrow."

"I'm not even going to acknowledge that remark, Will," he answered. "What great plan has the prince devised?"

"First, he wants to offer terms," Longsword said, lowering himself onto the ground with a bit of effort. Three years in Wales seemed to have stiffened his muscles and he found the activities he'd once done with ease were slightly more arduous. Delamere had told him the culprit was age, not Wales, but he didn't believe that. "Which he fully expects to be rejected."

"Certainly he hopes they'll be rejected. What then?"

"What else? Siege."

Delamere clicked his tongue in annoyance. At this rate, he'd never see Rhuddlan again.

"Also, he wants to devastate the fief," Longsword added. "Tear up the farmland, drive off the beasts, burn the villages..."

"How original." He rolled onto his side and propped himself up on an elbow. "You don't sound very excited."

Longsword shrugged. "It's like you said. We're here to help Richard do whatever he wants."

"Will, we just spent a very wet winter sitting outside of Pons, waiting for Richard to break de Rancon. My hauberk is rusted through in four places but I can't afford repair because there's been precious little plunder and no ransoms at all. And until a few weeks ago when he decided to get off his ass and look for easier challenges, this campaign was more boring than anything we ever did or didn't do in Wales. And now what? Taillebourg? Taillebourg? If his plan is to burn down the countryside to deprive ourselves of victuals while every man, woman and child—and dog—in that city laughs at our folly as they enjoy a hearty supper, I'm telling you right now I'm leaving. I'll go back to Rhuddlan at first light." When Longsword didn't reply, he added less stridently, "You want to leave, too, don't you?"

"No..."

"Coming here was a bad idea, Will. Admit it. We ran away."

"We didn't!"

Delamere resumed his former position and clasped his hands behind his head. "We ought to have stayed, if only to put Rhuddlan to rights. Perhaps it really was too late for Olwen and I to reconcile but Lady Teleri had finally come around and we had peace for the first time in a year...We ought to have stayed," he repeated. "Clean clothes, comfortable beds, a dozen servants to jump at your bidding...You're the master of one of the king's castles, Will, but what are you doing here? Giving advice to someone who isn't even listening to you."

After a short moment, Longsword said in a subdued voice, "I couldn't stay, Richard. I needed to speak with my father..."

"Yes? So you did."

"Concerning an annulment. I needed to know if he would seek one on my behalf..."

Delamere was surprised. "You never said—"

"Because I knew you wouldn't approve!" Longsword said curtly. He flipped a pebble into the distance impatiently. "And, as it turned out, neither did the king. In fact, he seemed to find my request amusing and told me to look to the example of his own marriage."

It was common knowledge that since the Rebellion, Queen Eleanor, who had supported and advised her sons against their father, had been kept a prisoner by her husband. Despite his mood, Delamere grinned. "Well, that's one solution, of course. But, Will, there is another. Stop trying to fight her. She's decided to make the best of the situation; why can't you do the same?"

But Longsword didn't answer that question. He flung away another pebble instead.

"Let's go back, Will..."

Rather abruptly, Longsword got to his feet. "I need to find the latrines," he told Delamere shortly and stalked away.

There wasn't any way Delamere was going to leave his friend after having heard the real reason for their departure from Rhuddlan. He just prayed the prince had some secret plan up his sleeve to ensure a quick end to the siege of Taillebourg. Or failing that, he hoped Richard would simply get bored and dismiss his army.

Upon the expected rejection of the prince's terms, which demanded full capitulation of both town and fortress in return for royal forbearance in the matter of the destruction of the countryside and the sparing of many lives, Richard's forces proceeded to lay waste to the area as promised. This activity did not trouble the besieged, who were well-provisioned and somewhat smug behind their formidable walls and ditches but there was bewilderment within when Richard moved his camp directly beneath the wall nearest the city gate. With its line of escape so convenient, the garrison came out to challenge him but he'd been counting on a frontal assault and defeated it easily. He and his men entered the city and after two days of rioting, looting and mayhem which proceeded in a steady, inexorable sweep towards the defenses of the fortress, the garrison there surrendered as well—without a fight. The impregnable Taillebourg, which had never before been challenged, had fallen to the king's son. The city's defenses were stripped away and the castle, like its five cousins before it, was razed to the ground.

The rebellious petty barons of Angoulême and Aquitaine who had been testing the mettle of Richard, their overlord, were subdued and humbled...at least for the moment.

The prince and his army returned to Pons to deal with Geoffrey de Rancon, the most vociferous of the rebel barons, but that man, having been informed of the fall of Taillebourg, gave up his castle to Richard on bended knees and watched the prince tear it down around his ears.

Delamere finally came away with enough goods to barter for repairs to his hauberk. And when the prince disbanded the army and announced his intention of returning to Henry's court to give a personal account of his activities in Angoulême and Aquitaine, Longsword, rather than meet his father again, reluctantly agreed to go back to Rhuddlan.

Chapter 50

June, 1178

Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd

Teleri stood on her toes and dug her hand into the wagon-load of long grass. She extracted a fistful and sniffed it, at first tentatively but then with more appreciation. Still, she was careful not to display too much enthusiasm as she turned to the cart's owner. "I suppose it will do," she said with a doubtful expression. She pursed her lips and frowned. "But not at the price you seek. I would be happy to pay you three pennies."

The man protested. Teleri eventually paid four and a half silver pennies but not until she had made certain that all the grass was fresh and sweet-smelling, even down near the bottom of the cart. The she directed him towards the rear yard beyond the kitchens, where women were waiting to stuff new mattresses. It was the final bit of her spring cleaning effort, during which the keep had been turned inside out and whatever hadn't moved had been scoured, swept or whitewashed. And she was well-pleased with the results.

Longsword's abrupt departure several weeks after the battle with the earl had caused her much embarrassment. Wherever she went, she was positive that people were whispering about his rejection behind her back. She was angry with herself for catering to him and being spurned nonetheless. She was angry with him for being a stubborn fool. But she stopped short of secluding herself as she had after the earl's visit the year before. Instead, she'd taken charge of the household and organized the smallest function to her specifications. Warin fitz Maurice was the commander of all things military and by mutual agreement, she handled what remained, including the resolution of squabbles and petitions and the procurement of the castle's supplies. Nine months after Longsword had gone, she was satisfied with her work and happy because of it. She had merely one cause for complaint: that despite trying, she hadn't been pregnant when her husband had left her.

She watched as the cart ambled off on groaning wheels and was about to head for the keep when her attention was diverted by a sudden hubbub at the gate. A group of soldiers clogged the entrance and the guards in the tower were intent on a sight on the road outside. Several voices shouted for Sir Warin. She wondered what might warrant such excitement, and then it occurred to her that perhaps her husband and Sir Richard were at last returning. She wasn't certain if she was pleased with the possibility.

But from the snatches of sentences which rose above the general din, she inferred that something more dire than Longsword's unexpected arrival had happened. Fitz Maurice suddenly passed swiftly by her without his usual acknowledgement, followed closely by two other knights. Apparently this business was too important to share with her. She frowned, moved forward and tapped the nearest soldier on the arm. "What is happening?"

The man glanced nervously at fitz Maurice before answering in a low, quick voice: "The earl of Chester is coming up the road."

The earl of Chester! For some reason, her heart began racing. This was indeed a surprise. After all that had passed between him and Longsword, she had supposed never to see him again.

She realized the great concern at the gate was whether or not to admit him; in the end, the gate remained open and the earl and his modest entourage trotted into Rhuddlan, seemingly oblivious to the sensation created by their arrival.

Hugh's men halted just inside the gate but he himself continued forward until he was directly before her and waited a brief moment while a groom ran up to hold his horse and then he dismounted—almost carefully, she thought. She discovered why in the next moment, when he bent low over her hand and gave her his usual, respectful greeting. She was shocked to see his hair was now mostly grey. He straightened up and smiled at her and she was further shocked at the sight of him. He was much thinner than she remembered and his face was wan. The blue eyes which had been his most striking feature were duller and less piercing. She had once considered him attractive but now he merely looked old. It occurred to her as she welcomed him to Rhuddlan that some terrible illness might have befallen him during the winter and she laughed inwardly at the apprehensions of Lord William's men. What could they possibly have to fear from this less than imposing figure?

Fitz Maurice interposed himself. "May we ask why you have come to Rhuddlan, my lord?" he asked in a firm, authoritative voice.

Hugh turned bland eyes on him. "Is your master within?"

"No, he is not, my lord. I am in charge."

"Then I must direct my story to you, Sir—?'

Fitz Maurice inclined his head. "Warin fitz Maurice, my lord."

Teleri wished the man didn't sound so stiff, as if he begrudged the earl every breath he drew, but Chester appeared not to notice. "Sir Warin," he said in an unhurried voice, "we were traveling along the old Roman road when, not far from this fortress, we stumbled across an unsettling sight—"

A sudden shout, a call to fitz Maurice, interrupted his story. The three of them glanced immediately in the direction of the gate and to a spectacle of milling and muttering men.

"You must have a look, Sir Warin," the earl said.

Fitz Maurice frowned and strode off toward the gate. When Teleri tried to follow, Hugh held his hand up. "I don't think you should see that, my lady. There was a lot of blood...there is blood all over the place."

Teleri stared at him for a moment without speaking and then went after fitz Maurice. But the soldiers proved a more effective obstacle than the earl; they were large men and she couldn't see between them.

After some time, fitz Maurice emerged from the crowd and as the men shifted to let him pass, she was able to see a makeshift litter lying on the ground with a prone figure in it.

"What is it? Who is that?" she demanded as fitz Maurice neared her.

"He is one of our knights, Lady Teleri," he answered tersely. He did not pause but went right up to the earl. "My lord, will you explain how you found this man?"

Chester shrugged a little. "There isn't much to the story, Sir Warin. He was lying off the road a bit, in the undergrowth, apparently the victim of some treachery—"

"It was the Welsh that did this, Sir Warin!" Another man, his expression outraged, burst out. He pushed by Teleri with unrestrained movements. "The Welsh did it! Llanlleyn did it!"

Fitz Maurice did not look pleased with the interruption. "That's as may be, but—"

"What has Llanlleyn done?" Teleri asked in as loud and sharp a voice as she could muster, tired of being ignored.

The man turned to her. "They've finally taken their revenge, haven't they? For the killing of the shepherd the winter before!" He stabbed his arm into the air behind him. "He was the one who came to my defense when the Welshman attacked me. He killed the Welshman and now Llanlleyn has killed him!"

Teleri's face was skeptical. "You think Llanlleyn did this? I don't believe it!"

"Lord William never did pay the fine..." fitz Maurice ventured cautiously.

"Lord Rhirid paid the galanas with the money he received for giving up Sir Roger to Lord William. Olwen told me so. The debt was paid. Llanlleyn didn't kill that man; Lord Guri wouldn't dare."

"Why not, Lady Teleri?"

"Why would he?" she countered. "He has no reason to provoke a conflict with Rhuddlan."

"But he knows Lord William is absent..."

"He still has no reason, Sir Warin!"

The earl, whom she'd forgotten was standing quite near to them, as slight and shrunken as he'd become, spoke up in a languid voice. "He might have done it to strengthen his position. Lord Rhirid's decision to make an alliance with Rhuddlan could not have been a popular one."

"But it was a successful one!" Teleri argued. "His warriors might have complained before but certainly not afterward!"

"Not necessarily, my lady," fitz Maurice said. "There were grumblings, remember? When Lord William agreed to the earl's terms without seeking the advice of either Welsh chief. And they got nothing for their pains."

"Except a large payment for Sir Roger and horses and weapons!"

"I'm only suggesting that Lord Guri might have condoned or even committed this murder himself to prove his loyalty to Llanlleyn and to his warriors," Chester interposed smoothly. "But there is one sure way to discover the truth. Go to Llanlleyn."

"No!" Teleri protested. "The whole idea is preposterous! Guri wouldn't break an oath of peace even to appease his men—"

"But the formal peace is between myself and Llanlleyn, my lady, and between myself and Rhuddlan..."

"There's no such agreement between us and Llanlleyn," fitz Maurice slowly agreed and Teleri saw in his face that it was this last thought which convinced him of Welsh guilt.

"I've only a small force with me," the earl said to him, "but if you'd like, I can send to Hawarden for men to accompany you to Llanlleyn."

Fitz Maurice shook his head. "Thank you, no, my lord. We've more than enough soldiers to take care of Guri."

"Of course. I merely thought you might want to show Guri that Hawarden and Rhuddlan stand together in this matter." He shrugged. "Anyway, it would mean a delay of several days and I'm sure you want to take care of this as soon as possible."

"You can't send an army to Llanlleyn!" Teleri exclaimed. "You don't know the truth of the matter! Send a formal delegation if you must but you will offend Guri for perhaps no reason if you appear at his gate with an army!"

"Yes, my lord; you're right," fitz Maurice said, ignoring Teleri. "It's best to settle this matter immediately and let the Welsh know a harsh retaliation is the penalty for laying hands on a Norman."

"You're making a mistake!" Teleri said in frustration.

Fitz Maurice turned to her angrily. "Then will you tell us who did perform this act of murder, my lady?"

She held his cold stare for a long moment but was ultimately forced to look away for lack of proof or even a suspect to sustain her conviction. "I don't know..." she admitted reluctantly.

"Perhaps, as the hour grows late, the earl and his entourage will consent to pass the night as our guests, Lady Teleri..."

"Of course," she said stiffly. She glanced at Hugh. "I will make the arrangements, my lord. You are welcome to Rhuddlan."

Her humiliating dismissal did not bother her as much as her stubborn feeling that fitz Maurice's conclusion was wrong. But she had no other to offer in its place and so her argument had no chance against the muscle of outraged male sensibility. The simplest—and probably most enjoyable—way to solve the problem was to fight.

But her unease remained unabated even as the day drew to a close. She made excuses to the earl and retired to her rooms for the evening. She was certain the conversation in the hall would be of an entirely martial bent and was uninterested in hearing about tactics and revenge and blood, especially when it degenerated after extensive drinking into wild boasting. She mulled the story over and over in her mind while she sat with her women, scarcely able to eat a bite of her supper because of the knot in her stomach and then she lay awake a long time in bed. She thought of going to the barracks and confronting Sir Warin without the earl standing over them but she knew he would only ask her to leave. He believed Guri was responsible for the murder and she also knew he saw this opportunity for revenge as the perfect way to prove his loyalty and good leadership to Longsword. He didn't want her to convince him he was wrong...

She awoke early the next morning, vaguely surprised that she had managed to fall asleep. There was still a murkiness to the daylight; it was not yet fully dawn. Her women lay quietly, except for a gentle snore here and there, but a certain noise had jiggled her into consciousness and although she was too woolly-headed to realize completely what it was, she was positive it was something she couldn't ignore. She slipped from her bed, tiptoed to the nearest window and opened the shutter a crack. She heard the noise again—several nearly simultaneously—saw the men milling in the bailey below and remembered everything with a sharp intake of breath. As quickly and quietly as she could, she got dressed, pulled a veil over her hair and left the chamber.

The hall was deserted. The door at the outside entrance was thrown back and the sounds of jingling tack and spurs, of swords sliding across chain mail to be fitted snugly into belts, of men talking, coughing, spitting, laughing because they were all as eager to believe the terrible accusation as Sir Warin, came to her as she paused in the stairwell near the pantries. There was a figure on the landing outside, leaning on the stone wall overlooking the bailey. It was the earl, and she walked towards him.

"My lord," she said.

He straightened up and spun around. "Lady Teleri!" he greeted her cheerfully. He made a short bow and she curtsied. She thought he looked much better than he had the day before; although his hair was still grey and his frame thin, his face seemed less weary and some of the age had dropped away. "Have you come to see your men off? And bid them good luck?"

"I wish I could, my lord," she answered, joining him at the wall, "but I still disagree with this undertaking."

He laughed. "Well, you're not a man, my lady, nor a soldier. Right or wrong as the matter may be, you can't imagine how keen they are to pursue it, if only for the fresh air and exercise."

"Here was I thinking it's revenge they're all after," she said tartly.

"Oh, yes," he said, his expression sobering. "Revenge is the strongest motivation of all. Surely even a woman would agree with that? A woman can understand as well as a man the impulse for revenge."

She lifted a shoulder indifferently, not feeling strong enough at that hour to debate with him, and stared at the knights and foot soldiers gathered below her.

"I had news this past January I would like to share with you, Lady Teleri," he continued in his earlier, jovial tone. "My wife was delivered of a healthy baby boy at one of my estates in Normandy. My heir."

Teleri turned to him in surprise. "I had forgotten, my lord. Congratulations. You must be pleased."

"To be truthful, I'm of two minds. The existence of an heir saves me much bother and yet...Tell me, Lady Teleri," he said, fixing her with an intent expression, "what do you think your husband would do if he suspected the child is his?"

She drew in her breath sharply, astonished that he had voiced the idea. "I—I'm not sure, my lord," she stammered.

"Do you think he does suspect?"

She paused, and then shook her head. "No. He's impetuous. He would have done something by now if he suspected."

A shout from below distracted them. The army was ready to depart. Fitz Maurice looked up to the landing and raised an arm in salute. Hugh waved in return but Teleri made no gesture.

It took some time for all the men to clear the gate. The earl and Teleri watched every one leave, in silence.

"You suspected..." Hugh said matter of factly, but in a low voice which trailed away like a wisp of smoke.

It was true. The nagging idea had first come to her at Hawarden, when Olwen had told her the countess was pregnant and later resurfaced in the first weeks after Longsword's departure, when she realized she had failed to conceive. She had found it strange that no one had even hinted at the possibility, particularly her husband, but she saw no reason to mention it. Even now.

"What will you do, my lord?" she asked, instead of acknowledging his remark.

He smiled a little. "What I'm doing already. I must say, it was the most wonderful coincidence that the man we killed was the very one who began the whole business between Rhirid and your husband. I had thought the weakest part of the scheme would be trying to persuade Sir Warin that the Welsh were responsible without actually having to declare it. A wonderful coincidence."

She was confused by this abrupt change of topic and gave him a puzzled look. "I don't understand. What are you saying? Guri didn't kill that knight?"

"Of course not!" he laughed.

"But you agreed with Sir Warin that he had! You dismissed my protest!"

"Certainly! How else to get his blood up? How else to get him out of Rhuddlan with most of his army?"

She could do nothing but stare at him, open-mouthed.

"Perhaps it will be clearer to you if I ask you a few questions, Lady Teleri," he said. There was delight in his eyes and she was suddenly apprehensive. "For instance, do you know where Lord William went when he left Rhuddlan last fall?"

"What has that got to do with anything?"

"I know where he went. Your husband, perhaps taunted by the suspicion that my wife may have been pregnant with his child when she left this fortress—or perhaps not, as you believe—arrived in Normandy late last year and has been fighting alongside Prince Richard ever since. But he did find time to approach the king and ask for a favor. Do you know what that was, Lady Teleri? No? I'll tell you. He asked his father's assistance in having his marriage—your marriage—annulled."

She was stunned. She sputtered, "No—no—we—" reflexively and then fell silent. This news shocked her more than the revelation that the Welsh were indeed innocent of her man's murder.

"It's quite true, my lady."

She shook her head and immediately felt dizzy, listening to such revelations before she'd eaten breakfast. "No," she said firmly. "I don't believe it."

"I assure you, my lady, it's true. I'm a man with many interests beyond my little property in Gwynedd. Interests in Normandy and in England. I need to know the condition of the realm almost as badly as the king. And so I have another army—this one composed of messengers who bring all kinds of information to my backwater castle. Trustworthy messengers who earn their money by ensuring the information they carry is accurate. The king, by the way, refused his request."

But she could hardly hear his words through the blood rushing in her ears. "We had an agreement!" she said, aloud but really to herself.

"An agreement?"

She looked at him, her eyes suddenly focusing. She didn't explain what she'd meant. "Never mind," she said. "This has been rather a full morning and I'm not thinking clearly, my lord. I must go back inside, I think."

But as she turned away, he took her arm and held her fast. "Perhaps you'll recall my earlier words, Lady Teleri," he said quietly. "Perhaps you will recognize now that we have something in common."

"What is that, my lord?"

"A desire for revenge against Lord William."

"Revenge!" Her heart began racing. She was trembling like a frightened child but it wasn't the earl who had provoked this reaction; it was her husband. She shook with helpless outrage at his betrayal.

He had told her he was leaving because Sir Richard needed a change of place. Sir Richard was desolate after losing Olwen and waking up each morning in Gwynedd was driving him mad. He had told her that he had an obligation to his friend—Sir Richard had always stuck by him—and he believed that if they left Wales for a short time, Sir Richard would be better for it. His plan was to join the king's entourage for the duration of Sir Richard's recovery and afterwards, they would return to Rhuddlan. It had all sounded so plausible to Teleri. Even a simpleton could have seen that Sir Richard was suffering.

But that had just been Longsword's excuse, she realized now. He wasn't interested in helping Sir Richard; what he'd really been after was the annulment. He'd always been honest with her before their agreement but now he had betrayed her.

If the earl hadn't been standing there, watching her, she would have burst into tears, she thought, because it was simply too much to swallow. Instead she stopped her trembling, lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. "Revenge, my lord?" she repeated, a little shakily. She cleared her throat. "What is your plan?"

Chapter 51

June, 1178

Rhuddlan, Gwynedd

"I think we're quite near the abbey," Longsword said, pulling up on the reins and halting when the dusk seemed to verge on the edge of turning dark. "Shall we detour and ask for hospitality for the night or make a meal out of whatever's left in the saddlebags and sleep on the damp ground?"

"I haven't got anything left in my bag but the rind of the cheese we've been eating the last two days," Delamere answered. "But you go if you want. I'm not up to being cheerful for the sisters."

Nor for me, Longsword thought sourly. He watched as Delamere dismounted and led his horse off the road and down towards the stream which ran alongside it.

He was glad there was only a day and a half of travel remaining. Delamere was making him crazy. It had to do with Olwen. In almost all the time they'd been away, Delamere had rarely mentioned her and if he had, it had been some general comment connected to their sons and nothing very personal. Initially, Longsword had taken this to mean he had finally put that life behind him. He'd looked to his own situation as corroboration because it seemed the more time which passed, the less often he caught himself thinking about Gwalaes. In fact, it abruptly occurred to him now that he hadn't thought about her at all since crossing into Gwynedd, despite riding through familiar hills and along the old Roman road which passed very near to Hawarden.

But he finally realized that Delamere's somber moods meant he was still pining for Olwen. Although it had had a beneficial affect on Longsword's own obsession, the passage of nearly a year had done nothing to dampen Delamere's desire. Longsword was bewildered; he had no idea how to react to this. He had no advice or wise words—in Angoulême he hadn't even dared summon one of the women who always tended to collect around soldiers to try to tease Delamere out of it—so he'd done his best to pretend nothing was wrong.

That had been fine when they'd been surrounded by hundreds of other men but now that it was just the two of them it had become increasingly difficult. There were times when Delamere's mood was so foul that he didn't speak to Longsword at all. Since crossing into Wales and drawing closer to Rhuddlan, the silences had become almost oppressive. Longsword couldn't wait to get home, if only to escape Delamere for a little while.

He grunted and dismounted, and went to the spring. After he drank, he splashed water onto his face and over his bare head and sat back on his heels. It seemed to him ironic that in Angoulême Delamere had been the one eager to return to Wales, yet now that they were in Wales, he was dragging his feet. In contrast, Longsword was impatient to get to the fortress, while in Angoulême he'd been reluctant to leave. He supposed he was getting old. The idea of sleeping in his own bed and waking up to a familiar landscape was beginning to appeal.

"If we'd just pushed a little harder earlier, we could have made Rhuddlan tonight," he said aloud, more to himself than to his companion because Delamere was standing at the edge of the water, one hand on his hip, the other on the pommel of his sword, and staring straight ahead at, as far as he could tell, nothing.

But Delamere had heard him. He turned around. "I never figured you to be so desperate to get home, Will. I'm starting to imagine you can't wait to see Lady Teleri again."

Longsword couldn't very well have told him the real reason for his haste. "Not at all," he said. "I'm just looking forward to a good meal and a bath."

"Hmph," Delamere snorted. "And perhaps a young woman to soap your back?"

Longsword grinned. "As if Teleri would permit it!"

"I was thinking of the lady herself."

This time he laughed. "As if Teleri would!"

Delamere was silent for a moment and Longsword thought that was the end of conversation, but then he said, quietly but quite firmly, "You're a fool, Will." Without giving Longsword a chance to respond, he turned and began to unsaddle his horse.

Longsword frowned angrily as he did the same. He'd never admit it, but after his father had dismissed his desire for an annulment with a sarcastic retort, he'd resigned himself to the hard fact that he would have to make an effort to get along with Teleri. He would never love her as he'd loved Gwalaes but love seemed to have brought him nothing but misery anyway. He didn't want misery; he wanted children. Sons, especially.

Hugh nodded to the guard and proceeded to climb down the ladder to the ground. Haworth was nowhere in sight. Of course, he shouldn't have been but Hugh knew he had to be close by, so that he'd be certain to make it to the fortress by dawn. Although Haworth was unimaginative there was nothing wrong with his thinking when it came to military matters and Hugh admired his evident skill in keeping an entire army hidden from the view of the lookout in Rhuddlan's tower.

His bodyguard joined him as he touched the ground but before he could take another step, he spotted Guy Lene hurrying towards him, his expression serious and not a little worried. Hugh suspected the man did not relish his current role as leader of the garrison and he smiled. Well, it wouldn't be much longer for poor Lene...

"My lord earl, if I may..." Lene puffed. He wasn't a heavy man but ever since fitz Maurice had gone, he'd been rushing from here to there and had apparently not yet caught his breath. "If I may have a word..."

"Of course, Sir Guy," Hugh answered politely. "How can I be of service?"

"The lady has just informed me that she is leaving tomorrow morning. With you, that is. She says you will take her to the Perffeddwlad and to the prince. Is this true, my lord?"

"Yes, it is. She asked if she might come along and I agreed. Is there a problem, Sir Guy?"

"Yes, my lord, there is. Don't you think the journey could be dangerous in light of the current situation? I believe the lady would be safer here and I beg you to convince her."

Hugh laughed and started walking towards the keep. "Have you no faith in the strength of your men, Sir Guy? Practically the whole of Rhuddlan's army has gone after the Welsh and in an entirely different direction than the one I propose to follow to the Perfeddwlad. No, I don't believe the journey will be dangerous; indeed, I had thought it would be very boring and I'm glad of Lady Teleri's company to provide a little pleasant conversation."

Lene followed at his shoulder. "I'm not certain how Sir Warin will react when he returns, my lord. If the lady is gone, that is."

"Why should it matter to him if Lady Teleri wishes to visit her uncle?" Hugh asked. "She's told me she hasn't seen the prince in nearly four years."

"I would just like her to be the one to inform Sir Warin, my lord. Lord William put the care of Rhuddlan into his hands and I believe he ought to be the one to say yes or no."

"But I won't be here by the time Sir Warin returns," said Hugh, pausing at the base of the stone stair leading up into the keep. "If your mistress wants to leave with me, she must leave tomorrow as she told you."

"If you would refuse to take her..." Lene suggested hesitantly.

Hugh shook his head brusquely and began to climb the steps. "I will tell her of your concern but if she wants to go with me, I'll not refuse to take her." He looked down on Lene and grinned. "She's a rather stubborn woman. If I refuse, she might simply decide to go on her own. Wouldn't you rest easier if she were with me and two dozen stout men to defend her?" Lene seemed so utterly crestfallen that Hugh took pity on him. He sighed. "Very well, Sir Guy. I will try to convince her not to go, but I can't promise she'll change her mind."

Lene's relief was obvious. "I'm grateful, my lord. I would appreciate your help. And there's just one more thing..." he added as Hugh continued to the head of the stair.

"What is it?"

"We've decided to have a special Mass, my lord, before supper. To pray for the success of our endeavor against Llanlleyn and to ask God's blessing on our comrades. Would you and your men do us the honor of attending?"

"Of course," Hugh said. "I'll have word passed around. Is that all, Sir Guy?"

Lene bowed. "Yes, my lord. Thank you for your help, my lord."

Hugh nodded. "Fine. I'll be in my chamber. Send someone to me when I'm expected at the chapel."

After he'd washed and dressed more appropriately for Mass, Hugh paused to look out the open window of his chamber and towards the river which sparkled under the slanting, early evening sun. A benign view; a flock of sheep on the other side of the river, a scattering of rude dwellings and a bridge joining either end of the road. He'd crossed that bridge yesterday and Haworth would cross it in the morning. The thrill of anticipation suddenly rippled through him. For the first time in months, he felt physically and mentally fine. His arms and legs seemed stronger and his mind was keen—and well-satisfied with the knowledge that his plan was unfolding spectacularly. In the morning Roger and his army would arrive and soon after he would leave to escort Teleri and her women to the Perfeddwlad. In a matter of days, his revenge against Longsword would be realized.

A series of quick raps at the door startled him out of his pleasant reverie. The guard in the room with him moved to answer it, and he, assuming it was only one of Lene's men come to summon him to the chapel, turned once more towards the window.

He was surprised again when he heard Teleri's voice speaking to his man and for one frightening moment imagined she had come to inform him that she had changed her mind and would not participate in his plan.

He forced a smile as she came towards him. "Lady Teleri!"

"My lord, I wonder if you would escort me to Mass," she said, and he was relieved to see that her expression was friendly.

"Of course!"

She stopped barely a foot away from him. Disconcerted by the nearness, he stepped backwards. "I sent my women ahead because I have something to discuss with you before we go," she continued. She glanced at his man. "It will take but a moment. A private matter..."

He gestured to the guard, who left them with a short bow and closed the door gently. "May I offer you something? Wine?" he asked. He was flustered by this unscripted intrusion and how close she was standing in front of him. He moved around her to the narrow table which held a pitcher and several polished cups.

She laughed. "My lord, we are to attend Mass soon! We can't drink now! Or, weren't you planning to go? Your men are already in the chapel."

He put the pitcher down with a thud. "How foolish! No, of course I'm going. Perhaps we can discuss this matter of yours as we walk downstairs."

To his horror, she approached him again, her eyes intent on his. She put her hand over the one that still gripped the pitcher. "I want to discuss it here, Hugh. I may call you Hugh, I suppose? After all, we're now partners in revenge, aren't we?" Her voice was low and breathless. Hugh felt his throat constrict. His hand was frozen under her fingers. He wanted desperately to pull it away but he couldn't risk offending her.

"Are you all right, Hugh?" she asked politely.

"Yes...A little tired, I think." He cleared his throat. "This plan took a lot of, er, planning."

"I'm sure it did," she agreed. She moistened her upper lip with the tip of her tongue.

She wouldn't take her eyes off him. It was unnerving and he didn't know what to do. He wished he hadn't dismissed the guard.

"What is it you wanted to discuss, Lady Teleri?" he said finally.

"Please, Hugh! You must call me Teleri. And the matter is us. You and I. Do you know I've been in love with you since the very first day you rode into Rhuddlan?"

He pulled back his hand. "Lady Teleri! Why are you saying this?"

"Because it's true! You rescued me from my husband that day, do you remember? He was angry with me, as usual, and I think about to strike me when you diverted him with some clever comment."

He forced a smile. "That's very flattering, my lady, but—"

She moved closer and reached for his hand. "And now you've rescued me again, Hugh."

For the first time he noticed that her hair was unveiled and unbound, falling around her shoulders in rich auburn waves. Her face was slightly flushed and her large brown eyes seemed to be swallowing him. The sickening thought came to him that she was trying to seduce him.

He extricated his hand from both of hers as gently as possible. "You mustn't think of our plan as my rescue of you, my lady. We're helping each other. This is as much for my benefit as yours."

"When I first saw you," she said, ignoring his protest, "I thought you were the noblest Norman I'd ever seen. You were dressed so finely. You spoke so confidently. So beautifully! You paid me many compliments, do you remember? I remember..." Without warning, she stretched up her arms until they snaked behind his neck, pulled his head down and kissed him on the lips.

Hugh had no idea how to react. He stood motionless, afraid that she would take the slightest movement as encouragement. He wished desperately that Roger would burst into the room and tear her away. He wished she would get bored and stop. His heart was racing—

He lifted up his head, breaking the kiss. "Did you hear something?"

She sighed. "I heard nothing, Hugh."

"No, there's someone on the stair."

Teleri was still, listening. "That's just your man, isn't it?"

Now there were loud voices beyond the door. Hugh recognized one as his guard's. He unhooked Teleri's arms from his neck and strode across the room.

Just before he got to it, there was a loud thumping on the door. Someone demanded to be let in. Hugh felt a relief of some sort; at least he knew how to deal with a situation like this.

He threw open the door. Half a dozen men stood before him, dressed in hauberks and helmets and carrying swords. "What's going on?" he said angrily. "Who's in charge here?"

A man in front pushed past him into the chamber, took Teleri by the arm and maneuvered her away from him.

"I'm in charge, my lord," Guy Lene said, materializing at the head of the group. "We have new information. We know of your plot to ruin Rhuddlan and Lord William. We won't let that happen! We're putting you under arrest until Lord William's return."

"Are you mad?" Hugh sputtered. "This is preposterous!" Then a thought struck him and he looked at Teleri. Her eyes were intent on the floor.

"You will remain here, my lord," Lene continued. "No companions. There will be two guards on the door."

Hugh was incensed. "This is ridiculous! Lord William's already been gone nearly a year! He might not return for months!"

The knight looked him up and down with an expression of distaste. "Don't you worry, my lord. We can provide for most of your comforts."

Hugh was stunned by the man's rudeness. "Where are my men?" he asked stiffly.

"They haven't been harmed, my lord, nor will they be if they behave. There's no reason for concern for them. Best you keep your concern for yourself. Lord William will not be pleased that you broke the peace."

"That's a lie! What proof have you got? Lady Teleri was against the attack on Llanlleyn from the start. And why? Because she's Welsh like they are! You are making a mistake—"

"Your army has been seen, my lord!" Lene interrupted. "We sent someone out to verify the lady's story and he saw Sir Roger and your army moving in this direction."

Lene turned to go. Now Teleri looked at Hugh—it was not the hungry stare of earlier because that had been merely a ruse to keep him occupied and alone until Lene arrived, but a regretful one, as if she were sorry for what she was doing. And then one of the soldiers touched her arm and she swept out of the room along with everyone else.

The door slammed shut and Hugh heard the latch being barred. He heard the scrape of boots—his new guards, presumably—on the wooden floor outside the door.

He was a little bewildered by what had just happened. He felt stupid for having been fooled by Teleri and uncertain of what was to come. He'd once been a prisoner of the king for three long years and did not care to repeat the sentence in Rhuddlan. His shoulders sagged. Why had the brilliant plan gone wrong?

Why did the Bastard always win?

Chapter 52

June, 1178

Rhuddlan, Gwynedd

Sometime during the night, the wind picked up and thick and fast-moving clouds invaded the sky, and Roger of Haworth woke to a gloomy morning and the threat of imminent rain.

It wasn't a far distance from the quiet, fireless camp he and his men had made the evening before to Rhuddlan, for Hugh had expressly instructed them to arrive early, and as long as the rain held off there was no impulse to hurry, so the soldiers from Hawarden moved at an easy pace along the road. Two of Haworth's scouts had found the camp the night before and delivered the news that Rhuddlan's army was indeed on its way to Llanlleyn. The plan was proceeding exactly as he and Hugh had concocted it; there wasn't any reason to push the men.

He felt the uncomfortable quiver of unease when they finally came upon the fortress and the rain began. It was an ill omen, he thought, a belief that was reinforced when he saw the gate was shut tight. According to their scheme, Hugh had told him it would be open and he could walk straight in. He forced himself to relax; of course there was a sensible explanation for the discrepancy.

He wiped rain off his face. He gestured to his entourage to halt and then he walked his horse forward and hailed the guards. "Sir Roger of Haworth to see Earl Hugh!"

There was shouting within the fortress but he wasn't near enough to hear the actual words. The gate did not open. A new man, bareheaded, appeared in the left tower. Haworth recognized him as Guy Lene.

"Sir Roger!" he called down in a grave voice. "A bad day for travelling."

"Will you open the gate to us, Sir Guy?" Haworth responded, a little bewildered. "We have urgent business with the earl."

"It's strange that you think to find the earl of Chester at Rhuddlan, Sir Roger. Stranger still that he was here yesterday, having discovered the body of one of our men not far away and kindly returning him to us. But he left this morning."

"Left?" echoed Haworth. "He's gone?"

"Yes, Sir Roger. Before the rain."

Haworth did not know what to do. He thought back quickly but couldn't remember any part of the plan which involved Hugh leaving Rhuddlan before his arrival. An idea came to him. He lifted his head. "What about Lady Teleri? Can I see her?"

"I'm sorry, Sir Roger, but the lady went with the earl. Apparently she had a wish to visit her uncle and the earl very kindly agreed to escort her."

Haworth didn't like the way Lene repeated the word kindly. It didn't sound as if the man thought either action kindly at all. Something wasn't right. In a firmer voice, he said, "Perhaps we may come in and rest a while, Sir Guy. The rain has exhausted us. We were to meet up with the earl around Rhuddlan, this being the halfway point to the Perffeddwlad, but obviously he's gone ahead. If we could partake of your hospitality until this storm passes, you would be doing us a great service."

He watched as Lene looked over him and observed the mass of knights, archers and footment assembled at his back. He didn't expect Lene to agree and he wasn't disappointed.

"I'm sorry, Sir Roger," Lene told him, "but we can't possibly accommodate such a large force within the fortress. However, if you yourself wish to come in, I can provide you with a few skins of wine and rounds of bread to bring out."

Haworth wasn't fool enough to be taken in by that one. "Let me pass your messages along to my men, Sir Guy, and I will return to speak with you."

He wheeled his horse around, his mind racing furiously. The plan had failed and Hugh was in danger. Someone had given it away and when he discovered who...But there wasn't time for that now. First, on the very slim chance Lene was telling the truth, he could attempt to verify one claim. He gestured to a knight with a particularly swift horse. "They say the earl left at dawn with the lady. Take the road west and see if you find them. They don't have much of a headstart and they must be forced to travel slow if they've got Lady Teleri's women and baggage. Do you understand what I'm saying? Go far enough that you estimate you would have come across them if they were truly on the road and then fly back here. I'm betting you'll find no one." He jerked his head in the direction of Rhuddlan. "I'm betting the earl is still in there."

And if, somehow, Guy Lene had uncovered the plan, then he would know also that the story about Llanlleyn was false. He would know that Warin fitz Maurice and the others would have to be recalled as urgently as possible to stave off the threat that was now standing before the walls of Rhuddlan. That messenger, or messengers, had to be intercepted before he reached Llanlleyn.

Richard Delamere felt lower than he'd ever felt. He glanced at Longsword, riding sullenly ahead of him. Longsword was angry with what he considered Delamere's foot-dragging, which now resulted in their soggy travel. Delamere loved Longword as he loved no other man; they'd been close friends for more than half their lives and the only times they'd been separated were those days he'd spent with Olwen and his sons at their manor. He'd thought, only a year ago, that he could juggle his two lives, but he couldn't. And when the time had come to choose between the two, he'd chosen the wrong one.

He thought he'd done it for Longsword, whom he considered unable to properly look after himself, but after a year of reflection—endless, agonizing reflection—he concluded that he'd really done it for his own benefit. He was young, strong and active and he'd wanted to spend most of his time with similar men and that had meant being at Rhuddlan and not his manor. He'd wanted the comfort of hearing his own language and he hadn't sufficient experience with small children and infants to be comfortable with his own sons. He'd preferred being Longsword's captain to the unfamiliar role of landowner...

Olwen had never complained, not one word of reproach, until that day she'd come to retrieve little William. And he—caught off-guard and before his year of reflection—had dismissed her complaint with unblinking matter-of-factness. He realized now that she'd had her own year of reflection long before his.

He reined abruptly to a halt. "Will!"

Up ahead, Longsword turned in the saddle and then brought his horse to a stop. He walked back to Delamere and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"I'm turning off here," Delamere said. "I'm going to Llanlleyn."

Longsword's sullen expression disappeared. He looked surprised. "Why?"

"What kind of a question is that? To see Olwen, of course! And my boys."

A drop of rain splashed onto Longsword's cheek and he sneezed. He stared down the road for a moment and Delamere thought angrily that he was trying to come up with an argument against such a plan.

"Richard, we're almost home—"

"You go on, Will," he interrupted. After all he'd done for his friend, including abandoning the only woman he'd ever truly loved, he couldn't believe Longsword would still pathetically try to cling to him.

"I will, of course," Longsword answered, his voice, as usual when confronted by an indignant Delamere, cautious. "I only meant that you might want to get a hot meal in you and have a bath before you visit her. We could send a messenger to prepare your way. It would give you time to consider your words—"

Delamere laughed harshly. "I've done nothing but consider my words since the day we left Angoulême. I know exactly what I want to say."

Longsword nodded, conceding the point, and for an instant, Delamere felt his anger soar. Of course he'd brooded but how dare Longsword make him feel guilty about it when he was the direct cause of the crisis.

"Richard, we've been away for some time. We don't know how things stand...It might be dangerous. Fitz Maurice can let us know."

"I don't want to wait any longer, Will!" Delamere exploded. "I've been waiting for months now! If Rhirid shoots an arrow into me before I've passed under his gate, so be it!" He took a deep breath, exhaled and added in a calmer voice, "Do I have your permission?"

"I'll come with you."

"No. You'd only complicate matters."

Longsword took that meekly. He shrugged and picked up the slack in his reins. "Good luck, then."

He kicked his horse into a trot and rode away. He refused to look back at Delamere, who had probably already disappeared, anyway. He didn't know what Delamere expected to happen at Llanlleyn but he'd meant it when he'd said good luck. Life was definitely easier when Delamere was in a good mood.

After a short time, he slowed the horse to a walk. The rain persisted and he thought to be careful with the leggy animal. He couldn't get any wetter and every time he looked up the road, water splashed into his eyes. He pulled off his riding gloves because the leather was soaked and clinging tightly to his hands and because it was easier to rub the rain out of his eyes with his bare fingers. The tunic under his hauberk was soaked, too, and heavy and his boots kept slipping in the stirrups. The last thing he needed was a lamed horse.

The ground began to slope gently downward as he entered the valley and the heavy foliage that had lined the road thinned for the moment. He paused and squinted across the grand expanse but couldn't see the fortress which sat on a low rise opposite him. In the winter, when the trees were bare, it was plainly visible...it was odd to think that he hadn't seen it in nearly a year and he was strangely remorseful that he'd left it.

Before it, the river Clwyd looked grey in the grey, misty weather and almost indistinct from the surrounding land. Another drop of rain trickled down his face, causing him to sneeze again and shaking him from his reverie. Hot food, that's what he wanted most. But just as he was about to click his tongue to his horse, a strange movement in the otherwise still countryside caught his eye and after a moment he realized it was a pair of mounted men coming up the very road upon which he rode.

Despite the weather, the men were riding fast. Longsword sat on his horse and watched them curiously, thinking they must be from Rhuddlan and wondering who they were. He pushed the coif back from his head so they would recognize him.

The one in the lead suddenly shouted back to his companion and Longsword knew he'd been spotted. He waited for them to reach him because he knew they'd want to greet him and welcome him back after such a long time away. But to his surprise, the lead knight blew by him without a glance, disturbing his horse so that he had to fight briefly to bring it under control. He cursed. Something wasn't right. The man obviously wasn't from Rhuddlan, wasn't one of his.

Before he could figure it out, the second knight reached him. This one, however, reined in and stared at him from a short distance. Despite the helmet which obscured his face, Longsword knew he, too, wasn't one of his men.

He pulled his sword. "What's going on?" he demanded.

The knight didn't answer. Instead, seeing that Longsword was prepared to fight, he drew his own sword, suddenly spurred his mount and jumped forward.

Longsword went to meet him, keeping to the left of the trail, holding his sword out at an angle in preparation to slash at him as they passed. But an instant before the horses were to pass, Longsword jerked his mount to the right and passed the sword to his left hand in one smooth movement. As his adversary cut down into empty air, Longsword pushed sideways into his stallion and swiped at the beast's neck. The animal was startled and with a shrill noise skipped to its right, throwing its rider off balance. The pair was already precariously close to the verge and when the horse lost its footing, the knight went tumbling down into the underbrush.

What the hell was happening? he thought wildly. The man had been prepared to kill him. Something was terribly wrong.

He jerked on the reins and turned his horse in the direction which they'd just traveled, urging the animal to a greater speed despite the slick road. His quarry was ahead of him, growing larger in his view as his swifter mount closed the gap between them.

He leaned over his horse's neck as it ran, his long, straight sword held close by his knee. His adversary had the misfortune to be less favorably mounted and although the slope wasn't sharp, the horse had already been charging uphill since leaving the valley and was winded. Longsword's heels clamped down hard in the stirrups. He raised himself a little, to steady his aim and to give more force to his blow. His arm came up and slightly out. And then the point of his blade caught the knight neatly between his shoulders. The man's arms flung outwards involuntarily, his body arched and Longsword drove the sword in further until the tip broke through his chest. His large horse plowed into the other and knocked it down. He tried to pull back his sword but it would not come out as easily as it had gone in and in those few seconds that momentum kept his horse going forward he should have let it go but he didn't. When the other horse fell, screaming, and the dead knight fell with it, Longsword was pulled off his stallion and landed on the both of them.

He extricated himself from the tangle and whooped aloud. What a mighty feat! Then the exertion caught up with him and he doubled over, his hands on his knees, rain coursing off his head, and waited for his heart to stop pounding and his breathing to slow.

He jerked his head up suddenly, still panting. He'd heard the unmistakable sound of hoofbeats. He looked down the road, saw his first opponent racing towards him and cursed himself for not killing the horse. He scrambled for his sword, still in the dead man's back, and tugged desperately on the grip.

"Stay down, Will!" a voice shouted and he ducked low as Richard Delamere's horse leapt over him. A moment later, Delamere attacked and the noise of clashing swords rang over the sound of the rain. Longsword finally pulled his own sword free and ran to join them but he was in danger of being trampled by four pairs of hooves and spent as much time avoiding the horses as he did slashing at the attacker. Finally, Delamere's sword landed on the man's helmet, stunning him into immobility, and Longsword reached up with his left arm, snagged a handful of the man's hauberk and gave him a jerk so violent that he slipped out of the saddle and onto him. As the knight tried to rise his elbow knocked into Longsword's face and Longsword responded with a forceful push. The man gained his feet and turned on Longsword with his weapon. Longsword rolled out of harm's way but his boots could find no purchase on the wet ground and when the man descended on him again, he could only hold his sword out, squint against the rain and pray but his adversary never struck. Delamere had come up behind him and jabbed his sword into his back.

The man was dead. Both of the men were dead. Longsword, however, was too tired to feel the same elation he'd felt earlier. He lay on the ground, breathing heavily, at last grateful for the rain which cooled his face. Delamere loomed suddenly in his field of vision. He removed his helmet. "Can't stay out of trouble, can you?" he remarked.

"They attacked me first, Richard! At least, the other one did. Who are they?" Longsword asked. He sat up slowly.

Delamere tugged at the first knight's helmet until it popped off. "I don't know for certain, but I think I might have seen this one at Hawarden."

Longsword sucked in his breath. "They were coming from Rhuddlan—they must have been! The damned earl's broken the peace! He must have taken my castle!" He scrambled to his feet with renewed vigor and ran back to his horse.

"Will, if it's true, you can't go charging in!" Delamere shouted after him. "You'd be taken immediately, or killed!"

Longsword heaved himself into the saddle. He didn't respond.

"Did you hear me?"

Longsword walked his horse over to Delamere and looked down on him. "Are you coming?"

Delamere tasted grit in his mouth and spat onto the ground. "Only if you swear to leave Haworth for me."

Chapter 53

June, 1178

Llanlleyn, Gwynedd

Roger of Haworth moved his men back to a secure position east of the fortress, near the banks of the Clwyd, and immediately dispatched a contingent to cut timber. When his fear had been justified and it was obvious that Hugh was not on his way to the Perfeddwlad, he had decided to build a rough scaling tower and a quantity of ladders for use in overcoming Rhuddlan's defenses. He didn't know how long he had before fitz Maurice's men began to return but he wasn't particularly worried; there couldn't be more than a dozen soldiers left inside Rhuddlan and with a scaling tower, he could put many more than that over the walls in a matter of moments.

Still, it would be honorable on his part to give the defenders some warning of his intentions, on the narrow chance they would decide to surrender peacefully. To that end, he and two of his knights approached the gate again and demanded to talk to Guy Lene. This time, however, Lene did not immediately appear and they were forced to stand in the rain, which did nothing to improve Haworth's mood. But he stayed, because Hugh was in there.

At last Lene's upper body showed in the tower. "What are your men doing, Sir Roger?" he demanded in an angry voice. "We can see them felling trees—our trees! What do you mean by this?"

"I should think it quite obvious, Sir Guy; we are preparing to take your fortress," Haworth answered. "Hear me well, because I will not repeat this offer! If you don't immediately open the gate and release the earl and his bodyguard, you leave us no alternative but to take Rhuddlan by force. And I promise you—take it we will! We know you're few in number while we are at full strength. And don't expect aid from the men at present en route to Llanlleyn. As a precaution, two knights were sent to intercept any messenger you may have posted to your captain. He will never deliver your plea for the army's return!"

Without excusing himself, Lene abruptly stepped away from the front of the tower, disappearing from view. Haworth and his companions exchanged a puzzled glance. At length, Lene re-emerged.

"We regret we cannot compy with your request, Sir Roger!" he shouted. "And we must warn you that any assault on our walls will be interpreted as an act of war for which your master will be held accountable. As he is currently our guest, he won't be difficult to find and judge!"

Haworth's mouth dropped open. He hadn't thought Hugh's life would be in peril. "Don't do anything rash, Lene!" he said threateningly. "The earl is the foremost peer of the realm!"

"And this castle belongs to the king's son!" Lene retorted.

"It's Rhuddlan which has acted precipitously by seizing the earl and holding him against his will!" Haworth argued. "Release him immediately and we will leave!"

Again Lene stepped out of view. Haworth decided he must be conferring with another knight.

Lene returned. "Once more we regret we cannot comply with your request, Sir Roger! The earl gained entrance to Rhuddlan with false information and accusations which were designed to destroy this fortress and everyone in it, as well as everyone at Llanlleyn. We are holding him for Lord William to judge when he returns from Normandy!"

"Are you mad?" Haworth was incredulous. "God alone knows when Lord William will return!"

"Take your men and leave now, Sir Roger, and perhaps when Sir Warin comes back from Llanlleyn, he will agree to release your master to keep the peace!"

Haworth's horse stepped fitfully, sensing its master's indignation. "We're going nowhere without the earl, do you hear me, Lene? We'll be back in the morning to take this fortress and I swear by all the saints above, if even one hair on the earl's head has been touched I will personally carve up your body into a thousand pieces! Do you hear me, Lene! I will show no mercy to anyone in Rhuddlan and that includes your mistress! You have tonight to think it over, Lene! When we come back tomorrow, this gate had better be standing open if you value your life and those of your comrades!" With an angry jerk, he turned his horse and he and his entourage galloped off, spraying clomps of grass and dirt.

Guy Lene watched them go and then wearily descended the ladder. Teleri was waiting for him. Two servants held a taut length of cowhide over her head to keep off the rain.

"You don't look happy, Sir Guy," she said.

"I'm not, my lady. I don't like holding someone as important as the earl of Chester prisoner. And Sir Roger is right: once he's built those ladders he can take this fortress with little effort."

"Only if you're prepared to expend little effort in return, Sir Guy!" she said impatiently.

"Sir Roger's a formidable opponent..."

"He isn't invincible! He was already captured once, and by the Welsh, whom you consider less able than you Normans."

"I don't see how a dozen men can hold off—"

"Sir Guy, as long as we have the earl Sir Roger can't touch us. If we have to parade him along the walls with a knife to his throat to keep Sir Roger at bay, then we will. Sooner or later, Sir Warin will return. All we have to do is hold off Sir Roger until then. It couldn't be easier."

The knight's face showed plainly that he didn't agree with her. Frowning, she stepped closer to him. "I'm giving you a warning, Sir Guy. You do as I say or I'll have you arrested. I told you yesterday what the earl had planned for Rhuddlan and Llanlleyn. He would kill us all! Keep your mind on that fact and perhaps your resolve will return! The earl remains a prisoner and Rhuddlan resists any attack by Hawarden. Understand?"

Daunted by her vehemence and cowed by her position, he nodded.

From their hiding place among the trees in the wooded area opposite Rhuddlan, Longsword and Delamere watched Haworth and his companions retreat to the river. Thanks to Haworth's and Lene's booming voices, they had heard the entire exchange, which had explained the reason Hawarden's two knights had attacked Longsword, but not why the earl was now a prisoner at Rhuddlan. And Delamere had another worry: Llanlleyn was apparently under attack. He wanted to leave immediately but this time Longsword pleaded with him to stay. "You heard what Haworth said, those men were sent to intercept a messenger. We killed them before they could get to him, so he'll get to fitz Maurice before the army reaches Llanlleyn—"

"What if they're already there, Will! Llanlleyn is no match for our army!"

Longsword heard fear in his voice and tried to speak calmly. "Neither will Rhirid give up without a fight, Richard. Besides, it's raining and fitz Maurice never did like to get wet. If he's already at Llanlleyn, he's more likely shivering in a tent than sitting on his horse, rusting." He looked earnestly at his friend. "Please, Richard. I need you. Stay this night and we'll leave together first thing in the morning. Our horses will be rested and we'll be fed. Lord, but I'm hungry." He thought longingly of the hot meal he'd envisioned waiting for him at Rhuddlan.

"Need me for what?" Delamere asked suspiciously.

"I have a plan," Longsword said with a little smile. "But it must wait until dark. Will you stay?"

"What is this plan?"

"All in good time, Richard...First, I need a meal. If we head north and get close to the sea, we should find a fisherman's hovel. We can get food and shelter...and rope," he added, the smile widening at some private, sudden inspiration. He focused again on Delamere. "And I swear to you, we'll head for Llanlleyn at first light."

After a moment, Delamere nodded. "Fine."

They headed back to where they'd left the horses. Longsword bent down and unhobbled both of them. He was filled with excitement with his plan but tried to remain placid because he knew Delamere was still worried about Olwen. As he straightened up, a thought occurred to him. "Richard, back there on the road. You were going to Llanlleyn. Why did you turn back?"

Delamere heaved himself into the saddle and picked up the slack in his reins. "I never started off, Will. I was watching you go, wondering if I should have gone with you after all. I saw the two riders. Lucky for you I had an attack of conscience."

Yes, Longsword agreed; lucky. He only hoped that one day he'd be able to adequately repay Delamere for all his years of loyalty and friendship.

Four riders hurtled toward the fortress, heedless of the rain-slicked grass. They shouted to the guard standing in the covered platform above the high palisade and galloped up the short mound and through the open gate, reining to a halt just on the other side. One of them jumped to the ground as Guri came hurrying to meet them, followed by half a dozen men who wore expressions ranging from wary curiosity to apprehension. Everyone knew such a dramatic entrance was invariably followed by an unusual announcement.

The Norman army, the man breathlessly informed them, was on its way to Llanlleyn.

There was an immediate buzz of disbelief and Guri had to hold up his hand for silence, just to be able to ask a few questions. It was true; there was no mistake: a force the size of that Lord William had fielded in the battle against the earl the summer before was headed in their direction. Lord William himself had not been seen but there was no misinterpreting the intention of the grim faces, the steady marching of the footmen and the bows slung across the backs of the archers.

It was quite obvious the Normans were coming to fight. As to the why, none of the four Welshman had been fool enough to inquire. None of them had even gotten close enough to be spotted. The Normans had so much faith in their abilities that they rarely bothered to look around.

Guri supposed the why didn't matter, anyway. If the men from Rhuddlan were coming, there were preparations to make. Rhirid had built Llanlleyn with defense in mind—it was on the tallest rise in the meadow, the wall was mounded, packed earth topped with a spiked pallisade and there were blocks at various points along the inside of it upon which an archer could stand and shoot—but Guri knew it could not hold out very long against a Norman force superior in numbers and weapons. Anyone who couldn't fight had to be sent into the forest for safety; the cattle had to be rounded up and likewise removed. Weapons had to be honed; the gate reinforced. There was no hope for the fortress, but Guri wasn't about to abandon it.

He gestured to several men to step forward. One of these was Dylan ab Owain, who had been Rhirid's champion. Guri had never cared much for Dylan because he hadn't liked the influence Dylan's wife had had over Rhirid, particularly where the cast-off mistress of one of the Normans was concerned, but Dylan was always eager to prove himself as loyal to the new chief as he'd been to Rhirid and Guri decided to test him now. He wanted Dylan and the others to find the Normans and track their progress. There was a certain route through the forest which was narrow and winding. Perhaps a small ambush of a sort could be devised to help slow that progress.

It didn't take long for word to spread through Llanlleyn and soon there was a riot of activity within the walls. Olwen, clutching little William with one hand and holding Henry tight against her chest with the other, made her way through the throng of people to the front gate, where Goewyn was watching her husband set off with two companions to track the Norman advance. Her friend's face was creased with worry, her expression unhappy, and when Dylan was out of sight, she turned to Olwen plaintively. "What's happening?" she cried. "I thought we were safe now, at least while Lord William ruled Rhuddlan. What happened?"

Olwen shook her head. She dropped little William's hand and shifted Henry to her hip. "There must be some mistake. Rhuddlan has no reason to break the peace. Don't worry about Dylan."

"How can I not? He's so large, he's bound to be seen. And if he's seen, they'll shoot him!"

"Hush, Goewyn! Don't talk like that!" Olwen admonished. "I'm telling you there's a mistake...but I do have a favor to beg of you."

The other woman looked at her through red-rimmed eyes. She touched a square of cloth to her nose.

"I was told by Lord Guri that I'm to remain here," Olwen said. "Will you take my children and watch them?"

Goewyn was plainly surprised and all other expression briefly left her face. "Of course...Olwen, why must you stay?"

"I don't know," she said helplessly. "I suppose to translate, if the situation gets that close." But privately, she couldn't help but wonder if Guri had a darker reason: to use her as a hostage.

The messenger from Rhuddlan finally caught up to the army in the late afternoon. The rain which had started earlier in the day now fell with large, steady drops and showed no inclination towards abating. The dismal weather had made fitz Maurice's journey not only a physical misery but a mental one as well; the men had left Rhuddlan the day before eager and optimistic but now they trudged along muddy paths in morose, miserable silence. They had nearly reached their destination but their pace was slow and fitz Maurice, riding back along the line every so often to encourage them, began to despair of arriving before dusk.

He had returned to the head of the winding line when the messenger laboriously worked his way up to meet him. At first he continued to ride as he listened to man relay Guy Lene's message but the story was so incredulous that he soon reined his horse to a halt to demand elaboration. Three other knights who had heard pieces of the message stopped as well, but fitz Maurice, anxious to make camp while there was still some light, gestured to everyone else to keep going.

The messenger repeated the story and then looked at his audience expectantly, imagining fitz Maurice would give the order to turn around. Instead, he saw shock, disbelief and even outrage on the knights' faces. It was clear they didn't believe it. Indeed, they wanted to know what was wrong with Lene for allowing himself to be bullied by Lady Teleri.

The messenger was taken aback. He insisted he was speaking the truth. After all, Roger of Haworth had been seen travelling to Rhuddlan.

"But you didn't actually see him arrive," fitz Maurice said. "And the lady's feelings on this matter were clear two nights ago when the earl showed up. She's Welsh; of course she wants to protect Llanlleyn. And since when has she any love for Rhuddlan? She's never cared about it or Lord William."

"If she is telling the truth," another man added, "then who killed our comrade? The earl himself?"

There were a few humorless chuckles. Fitz Maurice looked at the messenger. "Well, as long as you're here, you can stay and fight. It'll be dark soon and there isn't much we can do in the rain, anyway, but tomorrow will be a different story."

"But, Sir Warin, Sir Guy's instructions were explicit!" the man protested.

"Sir Guy has no authority over me!" fitz Maurice snapped. "Don't worry: you're blameless. You've done your job. Tomorrow, we'll do ours and a few days later we'll be back at Rhuddlan, trying to placate the earl. I only hope he understands that his imprisonment is Lady Teleri's doing and will not hold it against us."

"Perhaps I may be permitted to return to Rhuddlan and tell Sir Guy and Lady Teleri of your decision..."

"I've already told you your new orders," fitz Maurice said impatiently. He glanced around at his companions and shook his head slowly. "My God, how could that woman have expected us to believe such an outlandish, exaggerated—"

A sudden burst of shouting from the soldiers ahead interrupted the rest of his words. He immediately took up his reins and spurred his horse forward, scattering the men-at-arms who were still trudging past and followed closely by the other three knights and the messenger. When he reached the head of the line he saw one of his men lying prone on the ground, an arrow jutting out of his chest, the man's horse thrashing wildly, half-sitting on crumpled back legs and trying to stand on its front two, stuck with three arrows, and everyone else pointing in different directions, swords pulled, horses wheeling.

"What the hell happened?" he demanded.

"An ambush, Sir Warin!" someone shouted back. "A quick strike as we turned the bend! We've gone after them—"

Fitz Maurice looked at the body in the road and knew that might have been him, if he hadn't stopped to listen to the messenger. He swiveled in the saddle, found the man and glared at him. He pointed to the dead knight. "Do you see that? That is the evidence of your own eyes! There is your proof that Llanlleyn has broken the peace—your second proof! Now there are two to avenge!"

Longsword and Delamere cautiously approached the far northern end of Haworth's encampment on foot, leading their horses. It was now full dark but their destination was near the western bank of the river and the flat, stony ground so glistened with raindrops that it was not difficult to negotiate. Further away, they saw Haworth's makeshift camp of rough lean-tos and sputtering fires under the relative shelter of the forest trees and heard the sound of men speaking companionably and even laughing. Obviously, Hawarden wasn't concerned with whatever might happen the next morning.

Longsword hoped that attitude would soon change. He could see his target directly before him and, as he nudged Delamere and pointed out in a whisper, no guard.

The noise of the rain, steady but not hard, obscured the crunch of their boots on the rocks and stones when they continued forward, hunched slightly as if that might render them invisible. The fruits of Haworth's labors were heaped up together in a high pile: all the ladders his men had fashioned from saplings and branches and next to them, the tower, perhaps the height of three men, lying on its back.

Longsword grinned. "Ready?"

Delamere nodded.

They started with the ladders, carrying them one by one down to the edge of the river and throwing them as far out as they could, hoping to reach the swifter currents towards the middle. Longsword would rather have burned them in a spectacular bonfire that could have been seen by Rhuddlan but the wood was too wet and the rain prohibitive.

When they'd gone through almost half the pile, they discovered there was a guard after all. He came up from the direction of the river, perhaps after heeding the call of nature, and casually approached them. When he was close enough to realize they were dumping the ladders and to recognize Longsword, he gave a great shout. Delamere dropped his new load, ran up to the man and punched him in the nose so hard that he collapsed, senseless, onto the rough ground. Someone in the camp, having heard the shout, called over questioningly, but Longsword shouted back that it was all right; he'd just seen a rat crawling up from the river. More laughter. Delamere bent over to make sure the guard was truly unconscious and then they quickly finished the job.

The last matter was the disposal of the tower. Longsword took the rope and secured it to the rough structure by looping it around the unfinished pole ends near the top. Delamere brought the horses up. The free ends of the ropes were fixed around the high backs of the saddles and on Longsword's signal, he urged the horses towards the river by pulling on their bridles. For a moment, they both doubted the scheme would succeed; the tower refused to budge. Delamere tried the horses again and Longsword threw his weight onto the tower from the other end. The rain splattered down on their bare heads and Delamere sneezed when a rivulet ran down the side of his nose. Whether the timing was coincidental or startled by the sudden, loud noise, the horses strained forward again and this time the tower moved. Longsword lost his footing on the wet stones and fell to his knee. With a curse he gained his feet and put his shoulder against the tower once more. Once the five of them—men, horses and tower—were underway, they kept going and when the ground began to slope, the tower practically moved by itself.

The bank of the river was flatter and needed more effort. The water was dark and churning in the rain and Delamere cast a dubious eye on it.

"Is it a good idea to put the horses into the water?" he called back to Longsword. "It's hard to see. It's too dangerous."

"We're not going to get this thing in unless the horses pull it in," Longsword answered. "Let's switch places."

The horses themselves seemed to have reservations about going into the water. It took all Longsword's strength to coax them and they had just gotten their forelegs wet when he heard Delamere's voice over the rushing river. He paused. "What are you saying?"

Delamere splashed through the shallow water to his side. "They're coming! Sounds like the whole camp! The guard must have woken..."

Longsword redoubled his efforts with the horses. "Come on! We have a little time and we're so close! Haworth's not keeping his damned tower if I can prevent it!"

The horses whinnied and strained against the ropes. Longsword shouted at them encouragingly. Delamere pushed on the tower with a strength born of urgency. The structure shifted forward, crunching on the stones. Longsword was up to his waist in the water. For a brief moment he thought with a sinking heart that soon he and the horses would not have the stability of solid ground to enable them to move the tower any further but then he felt something give and realized the top half had just fallen in. He left the horses and waded back up onto the bank to join Delamere. He could hear the cries and jangling of Haworth's men as they ran across the span between their camp and the river. No horsemen; not yet. That gave them a little more time.

With loud grunts of exertion, he and Delamere pushed and pushed against the tower until it was completely in the water. "Cut the horses loose!" he shouted to Delamere, who decided the quickest way to get to them was to scramble across the solid back of the tower. By now the two animals were frightened, left in the swirling water alone, and were thrashing their heads and trying to buck. Delamere dared not jump into the river; he tried to speak calmly to his own mount with little effect. He heard Longsword tell him to hurry and felt the tower shift under his weight. He didn't know if it would sink but if it didn't, it would soon gather a momentum of its own and sweep downstream towards the sea dragging the horses with it. He pulled his knife from his belt and reached down for the rope tied to his horse. He sawed through it frantically but the rope was wet and his knife not as sharp as it should have been. After what seemed an eternity the rope separated. The horse immediately tried to scramble away but Delamere clung to the rope and jumped off the tower. He worked his way hand over hand to the other end of the rope and then grabbed hold of his saddle and maneuvered around to the animal's left flank and hauled himself into the saddle. He took the reins and looked for Longsword's horse.

The water level reached his knee as he sat in the saddle but the current was swift from the rain and Delamere had to struggle to keep his mount's balance on the soft river bed. Longsword's horse was several yards away and shrieking from the tug of the moving tower. Longsword had entered the water and behind him, appearing as dark, indistinct forms on the top of the slope, was Chester's army. Delamere hoped he and Longsword were as difficult to distinguish as they were. Then he heard the whiz of an arrow pass close to his head and knew they weren't.

Carefully, he urged his horse towards Longsword's. The tower was moving by itself now; he had to reach the tethered horse, cut the rope and move both animals out of its path before it gathered more speed and plowed into them. Another arrow shot by. Longsword was shouting. Delamere leaned as far over in his saddle as he could and managed to grab the taut rope with his left hand. Not daring to let it go, he tugged mightily on it; the buoyant tower moved obligingly in his direction and put enough slack in the rope that he could pull it towards himself and reach down with his right hand to cut through it. Longsword shouted his horse's name. He waded through rushing water which now reached to his chest and seized the animal's bridle.

"Will, the tower!"

The structure still floated. It was bearing down on them with all the force of the swollen river behind it and they were directly in its path. Longsword threw his body over the saddle and gave a few kicks to right himself. "Move center, Richard!" he shouted and urged his horse in that direction as well. The tower sailed past. Longsword whooped with pleasure like a child.

By now Haworth's men had lined up along the riverbank and the archers were shooting steadily despite the rain and the darkness which hindered their accuracy. The other men hurled stones; one hit Delamere's horse on the shoulder.

"We'll have to cross to the other side!" Longsword shouted.

"Are you crazy? We'll never make it!"

"It's our only chance, Richard!" He jutted out an arm. "See! That clump of trees! That will be our marker—make for it!"

Delamere wished he'd gone to Llanlleyn as he'd planned.

He shortened the reins and clamped his legs firmly to the ribs of the horse and pulled its head towards the center of the river. Fighting the current and keeping control of the horse took every ounce of his strength. For a long time, they seemed to be making no progress, and then he felt the animal stumble and he almost went under. He realized they were swimming. It was an eerie sensation, not at all enjoyable. He wondered vaguely why he no longer heard the rush of the river and the splattering rain or even Haworth's shouting men but he didn't mind the sudden peace after so much activity...He was tired, very tired; it had been a long day, he thought. He hoped the horse had a bit more strength left in it and he tried to speak reassuringly to it but for some reason, his voice was mute. Just a bit further, he thought instead; a little further. At least, on the other side of the river, he would be closer to Llanlleyn. He ought to have gone there instead of riding after Longsword. He had missed Olwen so much this past year; he didn't know why they had let their relationship deteriorate but he was willing now to do whatever she asked of him. He thought he saw her waiting for him on the other bank but then he smiled wryly and knew he was only wishing to see her there. Why would she be there? But her face wouldn't leave him. Her lovely long, dark hair, so soft...he would pay any price just to touch it again...the way she had looked at him that first time at Rhuddlan, her laughing eyes and her mouth curved up slyly, like a cat's. He smiled. She was standing at the well, stretching out her hand to him, offering him a drink of cold water and he stared and stared at her, wanting only to kiss her, to drink her...

"Come on, Richard!" Longsword shouted. The crossing had been brief and he thought Haworth wouldn't hesitate to follow once he realized how easily his opponents had done it. But Delamere was lagging and he made no response. Then he slumped forward and Longsword saw the shaft of an arrow sticking out of his back.

Heart racing, he splashed into the water and grabbed his friend just as he began to slip out of his saddle. He dragged Delamere up the stony bank and held him in his arms, his head close to Delamere's face. Delamere was breathing in slow, labored gasps. Every breath burst in Longsword's ears like a rush of fierce wind. He felt helpless. His friend lay before him, dying, and he didn't know what to do or say. He took off his thick leather gloves and tentatively touched Delamere's cheek with one hand. The flesh was warm and for an instant he thought it would all turn out well. "Richard," he whispered, "hold on. I'll get you help. Just keep breathing. Please, Richard, keep breathing!"

Delamere's eyes opened slowly but Longsword could tell immediately that he saw nothing. "Olwen..." His voice was barely audible. He tried to say more but there wasn't any breath left. His head fell to one side as if the sinews holding it firmly to the neck had been suddenly severed. For a horrifying moment, Longsword was immobile. Then he bent over Delamere's lifeless body and grabbed his head in his arms and pressed his face to his, feeling the rough growth of beard, smelling sweat and horse and the river water and he couldn't believe it. Only moments before he was alive...only moments before...what had happened?...moments before the man he loved above all others was alive and now he was dead...what had happened? Already, Delamere's cheek was growing cold. Longsword sat hunched, covering Delamere's face with his own so the rain wouldn't fall on it. A loud, growing roar began to distract his tumbling thoughts. A roar he finally realized was coming from his own throat.

Roger of Haworth froze. He thought he'd heard something; a long, anguished howl—human, not animal—but though he strained his ears, it was gone now. It was difficult to hear anything over the rushing water and the clomping hooves of the horses that were just being brought over. Perhaps he was mistaken; none of the others appeared to have heard it and some of the bowmen were still shooting arrows out into the river despite the poor visibility. He called on them to stop wasting missiles which would be better employed the next day and turned again to the man who was supposed to have been guarding the ladders.

"I would swear it was Lord William, Sir Roger," the man said in a nasally voice. "And Sir Richard knocked me out."

"So you've said," Haworth replied dourly.

He was vaguely surprised he didn't feel shock at the knowledge that the Bastard was back from Normandy. He supposed it was merely another rip in the fabric of the perfect plan he and Hugh had concocted. If Hugh hadn't been a prisoner of Rhuddlan, Haworth would have cut his losses and retreated to Hawarden at first light.

One of his knights approached, breathless from having galloped from the horse pen to the river. He was mounted and led Haworth's horse by the reins. Half a dozen knights stood behind him, most dressed in nothing more than a tunic, leggings and boots and holding only their swords because they hadn't had time to properly outfit themselves for a fight. Their horses stepped impatiently, as if they were angry at being awakened when they'd just settled down for the night.

"Your mount is ready, Sir Roger! Should we go ahead?"

Haworth shook his head. "No. They've crossed the river; there's no point riding along this side."

"Then we'll cross as well!"

"Save your enthusiasm for tomorrow," Haworth answered. "I'm not risking my best men on that river in this weather. They were lucky to make it..." If they had, he thought, remembering the howl.

He looked down at the spot where the ladders had been stacked and his tower had lain. This little surprise had cost them a day at most but perhaps that price was cheap in view of the information they'd acquired. The Bastard and Richard Delamere were back and they obviously knew what was happening at Rhuddlan. If he were the Bastard, Haworth thought, what would be his next move?

Head for Llanlleyn.

Teleri awoke in the middle of the night to frantic knocking on her outer door. Her women, similarly roused, looked helplessly at each other and with a Norman oath she shoved back the bedclothes, covered herself with a robe and walked barefoot to the door. "Who is it?" she hissed.

"Cynan, my lady!"

"Cynan!" She pulled up the latch and opened the door. "What's the matter? The earl hasn't escaped, has he?"

"No, my lady! Can you come down to the stables, please?"

"At this hour? Why?"

"Please, my lady; they won't talk to me. They want to see you and say it's urgent!"

"Who?"

"They're fishermen. I don't know their names."

Obviously she wasn't going to get any sensible information from the boy. She told him to wait, shut the door and ordered her women to dress her quickly. Then she lit a lamp and went out.

They went down the stairs to the ground floor opposite the kitchens. She was relieved to find the rain had finally stopped and there was a full moon high in the sky, although somewhat obscured by streaky clouds. Still relatively early, then, she thought. Perhaps she'd yet be able to have a decent sleep once she dismissed these fishermen.

"How did they get in here?" she whispered to the boy. "Didn't Sir Guy put a guard on the postern?"

"It was the guard who fetched me," Cynan said. "He didn't understand what they were saying. Most of the craftsmen and their families in the village have come into the castle for protection and he thought it was just two more. But they kept saying your name, that much he understood, so he sent for me. And they told me they had seen Lord William and now they must see you—"

Teleri stopped walking and grabbed his arm. "Lord William?"

"Yes, my lady, that's what they said."

"He's back? Where?"

"He wasn't with them. Perhaps he gave them a message for you."

"Impossible! Lord William doesn't speak Welsh and they obviously don't speak French." She released him and started walking again, faster than before so that Cynan had to trot to keep up with her.

"Sir Richard does," he said.

There was a small crowd outside the stables. Most of the villagers had gone into the hall for shelter but now that the rain had stopped, the potential excitement of the next day had driven the restless ones out of doors to talk.

As she drew closer, she heard two men's voices above the murmurs of the others, speaking as if they were telling a story. The few sentences she heard shocked her. With tight lips, she strode through the crowd and confronted them.

"You there! Come with me immediately!"

Without a backwards glance she continued past the stables and down to the postern gate, thinking the nosey crowd wouldn't dare follow. She nodded to the Norman guard and then turned on the two fishermen. "I understand you have a message for me!" she snapped.

"Yes—"

"Then why were you telling it to everyone?"

"We weren't told not to!"

"We are under siege! It is no time to spread rumors!"

"It's no rumor, my lady," one man said earnestly. "It's true! The Norman is dead! The lord is beyond this gate, waiting for you."

There was a little pause.

"My husband?"

"Yes, my lady."

Her heart thudded. "What do you mean, he's beyond the gate?"

The two men looked at each other, clearly puzzled. The one who'd been speaking repeated, "He's waiting for you..."

She tried again. "And he's dead?"

"Oh, no, no, my lady! Not he; the other one! Please, my lady, the lord came knocking on our door. We didn't understand his words but he kept saying Rhuddlan and your name. His companion was lying across the back of his horse. It was plain he wanted to come here. We took two boats. We know where the safest crossings are, of course; closer to the bay where the river widens."

Teleri didn't know why, but relief spread through her body. She was relieved it wasn't Longsword who was dead.

"The river is some distance from here..." she said.

"The lord carried the dead one all the way."

Teleri turned to the guard. "I'm going out with these men. Please open the gate."

The guard looked uneasy. "My lady, is that wise? Let me send for Sir Guy."

"That's not necessary. I'll be fine."

He glanced at the Welshmen. "I'm only thinking it might be a trap of some kind."

"I don't understand..."

"Perhaps they were sent by Sir Roger. To kidnap you. You know, because we have the earl."

She hadn't thought of that. She studied the two men closely. Bah! She was becoming as paranoid as these Normans. But the truth would be out soon enough, anyway.

"You might as well come, too," she told him. "Lord William is outside and Sir Richard with him. That's what these two have come to tell me."

Instead of being cheered by this information, the guard looked even more alarmed. "Lord William and Sir Richard? My lady, that's preposterous! Why would they enter through here? This is a trap!"

"Shh!" she hushed him. She thought there was a reason Longsword had summoned her and not Guy Lene and if the guard continued objecting so loudly, another soldier might hear and tell the commander. "It isn't a trap, I promise you! If you won't come, at least let me out. I'm ordering you to let me out!"

"I can't, my lady," he protested, but his voice was not too firm. "I will have to speak first with Sir Guy."

"Lady Teleri, I will go!" This was from Cynan, who had followed her and heard everything the two Welshmen had said.

After further debate, the plan was agreed to by the Norman. He opened the gate as slightly as would permit the boy to slide through and quickly closed it behind him.

Teleri turned back to the fishermen. "How did Sir Richard die?"

The one who had been speaking shrugged. "I don't know, lady. It was dark and raining when the lord appeared at the door and the other Norman was just slung over the horse, as I told you. Of course, we didn't dare go near him."

"So, how do you know he's dead? Perhaps he's merely wounded or ill."

The two men exchanged another glance and the first one looked at her pityingly. "He was in my boat when we crossed the river, lady. He never drew a breath." He sighed. "I suppose I will have to have the priest out to bless it now."

Teleri was just about to make a sharp retort when Cynan thumped on the gate and announced himself. The guard opened it cautiously. "It's him!" the boy said breathlessly, as if he'd been running. "And he's angry the lady wasn't with me and he says to get over to him right away!"

"Are you satisfied?" Teleri asked the guard, who still looked doubtful but he knew Cynan wouldn't put the soldiers he admired so much in jeopardy and so he dutifully followed her out, the two Welshmen behind them and the boy jogging ahead into the maze of little houses.

Longsword was standing in the middle of the ox path, waiting for them with his arms crossed over his chest. Cynan stopped but the guard maneuvered past Teleri and approached his master with sudden enthusiasm. "My lord, is it truly you?" he exclaimed. "Welcome home!"

Longsword nodded to him. Teleri paused. The light from the sliver of moon was thin and cast his angular face in various degrees of shadow which made it impossible to read his expression. But for some reason, she could quite clearly see the tension around his mouth and the guarded look in his eyes, which soon fell on her.

"Come here, Teleri."

She moved forward slowly, unaccustomed to seeing him so still. It was one of his less endearing qualities: he constantly moved or fidgeted, as if he were eager to be anywhere than where he was, but now he just stood and she was disconcerted.

"My lord," she greeted him cautiously.

He turned abruptly on his heel. "Follow me," he said without looking back and entered the nearest building, a workshop of some kind; it was hard for her to distinguish in the darkness. But there was a long table in the center of the room and she saw right away there was a body lying on top of it.

"Oh, no," she breathed. She supposed she hadn't really believed the fishermen. She went closer. It was indeed Richard Delamere.

Longsword exhaled noisily. "Oh, yes," he said steadily. "I want you to take him back to the castle. I want you to—to—well, you know," his voice was brusque, "do what is usually done."

"But—"

"All right?"

"Of course...But what happened, William? What happened to him?"

"What do you think happened to him, Teleri? One of Haworth's men killed him!"

It was plain to her that he was keeping himself under tight control, although she didn't understand why; it was only the two of them in the room. It was as unnatural for him as his lack of movement only a moment earlier.

"I am sorry, William," she said quietly. "He was a good man."

He ignored the acknowledgment. "What brought all this on, Teleri? Why is Haworth camped outside the gate and why is the earl my prisoner?"

She told him the story but didn't include her own conversation with Hugh, and he was apparently too numb to notice that she had explained the mechanics but not the motivation.

Neither did he seem surprised by the earl's treachery. Instead, he indicated Delamere's body with a jut of his jaw. "Take care of him, please." Then he turned towards the door.

"William, wait!" she said. When he hesitated, she approached him. "Why don't you come back with us? You must be exhausted. You can rest—"

"I don't want to rest," he said curtly and turned back to the door.

"Please!" She touched his arm. He jerked it back as if stung, but again he paused. "What are you going to do?"

"Find fitz Maurice."

"What should we do?"

"Keep Haworth out. You have hostages, don't you? Use them. Threaten to kill them if Haworth tries to scale the walls. I'll need a couple of days."

She began to feel frantic. "Why don't you come inside and tell this to Sir Guy? Perhaps he has questions—"

"That's why I asked for you, Teleri!" he said in a low, sharp voice. "I don't want to answer questions; I just want to leave! Do you understand? I don't have time for pleasantries and condolences and questions! I didn't think you'd give me any of those. Now—just do as I say, will you?"

It was on the tip of her tongue to react angrily. To demand to know why she must help him when, if the king had been in a better or worse mood, he might have gotten approval for his plea for annulment. To ask why she must do as he commanded when he had made it so clear, not even a year before, that he couldn't stand the sight of her.

But—he couldn't, even in the murky light and despite the sharp tone, quite hide the anguish in his eyes; she saw it and her anger subsided. If their history was any augur of the future, there would come another day for accusations and arguments. Besides, to clean and dress Sir Richard would not be a duty but an honor, because he'd been a true friend to her.

So as she stared at her husband, her face relaxed. "I will," she said. "I will do it."

He nodded and put his hand on the door latch. But then he stopped again, without warning so that she, who was following close behind, almost bumped into him. He turned around and looked down upon her. "Thank you," he said tersely, to her amazement. Before the shock had passed, he was out the door and striding past the Norman guard and Cynan, and beckoning to the fishermen who were to presumably put him on the other side of the river.

Chapter 54

June, 1178

Rhuddlan, Gwynedd

Longsword woke groggily to the uncomfortable realization that he was being watched. He opened his eyes and for a moment was confused by the low, sooty ceiling and the windowless, semi-dark room in which he lay. A shaft of light through the open door penetrated the gloom and once he'd pushed himself up onto his elbows and his eyes had adjusted, he looked around and remembered that he was in the fisherman's hut. The three children who had been staring at him as he slept in the middle of their home, scrambled to their feet and ran outside when his emotionless gaze fell upon them.

He stood up tiredly and pulled his cloak up after him, shaking off the dust of the packed earth floor from it and rolling it absently into a tight wad which he tucked under his arm. He picked up his hauberk, ducked beneath the low doorframe and went outside.

He nearly recoiled from the sudden brightness. It reflected off the flat, barren bank of the river upon which the little house stood, off the white stones, off the rushing water. It made a mockery of the storm-filled night that had just passed and it was disturbing in its utter disregard for the passing of Richard Delamere. Longsword squinted his eyes against it and muttered a curse under his breath, and trudged over the stony ground towards the edge of the river, where he fumbled with his clothing and relieved his bladder.

When he turned around, the fisherman was there, his face blank and eyes not quite meeting his. The man couldn't wait for him to be gone, Longsword thought darkly—but neither could he. He remembered he had to find fitz Maurice. There was absolutely nothing for him to do but find his army and avenge the death of his friend.

"Bread?" He asked the man. "Ale? Anything?" Shifting the cloak and hauberk, he made the motion of eating until the fisherman understood the pantomime and nodded vigorously. He said something to his wife, who was hunched over a smoking cooking pot suspended by a tripod over a small fire, and the woman came forward with a little bundle of cloth. Longsword opened it and found several dried fish. He grimaced, because fish was what he and Delamere had been given to eat the evening before, but re-wrapped it and stuck the bundle into his tunic. He'd eat while he rode.

His horse and Delamere's were hobbled in a grassy clearing some distance from the hut. Away from the noise of the river, he could hear the sound of pounding surf as the sea met land to the north. Thinking of the sea reminded him of his journey to Normandy not long ago. If they hadn't left, Delamere would still be alive. If Delamere hadn't wanted to see Olwen so badly. If...This was a fruitless game. Longsword clicked his tongue impatiently and shrugged roughly into his hauberk. He saddled both horses, looped the reins to Delamere's around his pommel and hauled himself onto his own mount, and headed south.

Teleri finished washing her hands and took the cloth held out by a servant. She gave the women in the room a somber smile. "Thank you...you did a fine job," she told them and looked down upon the clean and neatly dressed body of Richard Delamere. He was as handsome as the day she'd first seen him. She thought of Olwen. How would Longsword break the news to her? Remembering his stricken face the night before, she doubted he'd need to use any words at all.

She lingered another moment at the bedside. Delamere's death had been so sudden, so unexpected, she could still hardly believe it...her eyes misted. She touched the cloth to them and moved away. "We had better shutter those windows," she said. "The day's already warm and damp and the sun certainly won't do him any good."

"My lady, come and look," said the girl who had gone to do her bidding. "The ones from Hawarden are standing outside the gate."

Teleri crossed quickly to the window. Her husband had chosen this room as his own because of the view across the bailey and beyond the front gate it afforded. She could plainly see Haworth and two others waiting at the base of the short incline leading up to the entrance of the fortress. Beyond them were perhaps a dozen more men, some on horseback and the rest on foot, all out of arrow range. Haworth and his companions were bareheaded and armed only with their swords, which were not held out threateningly but fixed to their belts as if they were merely another accoutrement. Teleri realized the implication of this appearance immediately. She reiterated her order to close the shutters and hurried away to find Guy Lene.

"I don't think they want to let us in," said one of Haworth's companions.

"They will," Haworth answered without looking at him. His eyes were fixed on the gate in front of him.

"If they do," said the third man, "let us go in while you remain out here, Sir Roger. You're too important to risk. If they decide to ignore convention and break the truce, they'll have both the earl and you. There's no—"

"It won't come to that," Haworth interrupted sharply. "I know Lene. He doesn't want trouble."

"What about the Welsh woman? The Bastard's wife?"

Haworth's head swiveled in surprise. "What about her? It's nothing to do with her!" The very thought of meeting with Teleri caused him to shudder slightly.

"Unless she was the one who gave the earl up to Lene."

"Nonsense! That would mean the earl confided his plan in her and why would he do that? No, more likely it was one of our own. Someone got drunk and said something someone else overheard. We just have to convince Lene he's made a mistake."

"Hard to do that if they won't let us in," the first man muttered.

They stood another few moments in silence and then heard shouting from within the fortress. Haworth's heart started thudding urgently. As soon as the gate began turning inward, he nodded to his two companions and proceeded up the slope.

Their entrance into Rhuddlan was greeted by half a dozen archers positioned along the wallwalk. Lene and six others, armed and helmetted, stood near the center of the bailey. As Haworth walked his horse forward, he heard the groan of the gate as it was pushed closed again and the heavy thud of the bar falling into place. He halted a short distance from Lene and dismounted as a groom ran up to hold the bridle.

He nodded courteously to Lene while taking the man's measure. Lene's face was drawn and haggard and his hair was unkempt, as if he'd done nothing but run nervous fingers through it all night. He wasn't certain if he should be pleased Lene looked nervous. Sometimes a nervous man became stubborn in the face of a persuasive argument, just to assert some authority. But nervousness also meant Lene wasn't comfortable with the situation and Haworth might be able to convince him that giving up Hugh would solve all his problems.

"Thank you for accepting my plea to parley, Sir Guy," Haworth said, with another incline of his head. "I realized last night that perhaps we misunderstood each other and our dilemma might be resolved in a peaceful manner."

"Indeed?" Lene sounded skeptical. "A sharp departure from your attitude yesterday. I'm willing to hear you out, of course, because of custom but I must tell you Lady Teleri isn't happy to see you within these walls."

"If she keeps to her rooms then she needn't see me at all," Haworth said humorlessly. "Anyway, this is a military matter, Lene, between men. There isn't any reason to involve your mistress."

"Only one: she insists on being involved." He gestured towards the keep. "Shall we go inside?"

Haworth barely noticed the hateful stares and mutters from the Welsh that followed him and his entourage as they crossed the bailey. He was annoyed that Teleri was interfering and had no idea what she might do or say. Hugh had discounted her influence on the Normans and Haworth had figured she would be out of sight somewhere. Now, he was not only about to confront her but he must be deferential and polite in his bid for Hugh's freedom.

It was worse than he'd imagined, he thought when he entered the council chamber and saw that she was sitting in the great carved chair that was the focal point of the room and that Lene took up a position slightly behind her.

His eyes met Teleri's and he bowed shortly to her before sitting down on a bench. Her gaze was cool and unfathomable. He looked upward, into Lene's face and noticed again the man's discomfort. A new thought occurred to him: perhaps Lene was nervous because the Bastard's wife was insinuating herself into his business and there was nothing he could do about it. But...if he could discredit her; if he could convince Lene that she couldn't be trusted where the Normans were concerned; if her loyalty to the Bastard could be questioned...then maybe his plan would succeed and he would yet walk out of this room with Hugh.

His voice was much more conciliatory than it had sounded the day before when he'd demanded the immediate release of his master and threatened the destruction of Rhuddlan. "I believe there has been a misunderstanding between us," he said, ignoring Teleri and fixing his dark eyes on Lene. "I was angry when I learned what had happened to the earl and perhaps I didn't listen closely enough to your story. Why don't you tell it to me again?"

After a glance down at Teleri, Lene recounted all that had happened from the time of the earl's arrival to his imprisonment. Haworth saw the glaring flaw immediately. "So, really—all the evidence against the earl comes down to your lady's word?" he asked with an air of incredulity.

"There is the evidence of your own army, Sir Roger!" Teleri retorted immediately. "Why are you here?"

Haworth refused to look at her. "Sir Guy, I told you yesterday: we were to join my lord at the Perfeddwlad. We were to have paid a visit to the prince."

"That isn't true!" Teleri said sharply.

"Sir Guy, why don't you bring out the earl and hear his story from his own mouth and not Lady Teleri's?" he asked Lene reasonably.

Teleri stood up. Haworth at last spared her a glance. Her face was red with anger and her hands were clenched. Although he betrayed no expression, he was spitefully pleased, feeling he had accomplished a small vengeance against her for all the time she'd spent with Hugh at Rhuddlan and later at Hawarden.

"Your story is false, Sir Roger! When Sir Warin was preparing to ride to Llanlleyn, the earl told him if he could wait a few days, he would send to Hawarden for his army so that Llanlleyn could see he and Rhuddlan stood together. Why would he say that if he knew you were only a day behind him?"

He didn't flinch. "I don't know, my lady. Did he indeed say such thing, Sir Guy?"

"I—I wasn't present when the earl arrived. I don't know what was said...or not said."

"Very well. Then again I ask you to send for the earl."

"I forbid it!" Teleri said forcefully.

"Can it do us any harm to hear the earl, my lady?" Lene asked hesitantly.

Haworth gritted his teeth. Who was in charge here? Or did Lene doubt his position enough to defer to her? This time, before Teleri could challenge him again, he said:

"If Lady Teleri is speaking the truth, then why should she fear the presence of the earl? Sir Guy, we are men used to fighting, not speaking. Somewhere between a few days ago and today, someone misunderstood someone else. I believe the earl, as a peer of the realm, ought to be allowed to tell his version of the story in the presence of you and me and the knights we have with us—"

"Are you calling me a liar?" Teleri demanded angrily, stepping towards him. "Are you saying I made it all up? For what reason, Sir Roger? To what purpose?"

"Perhaps you could better answer that, Lady Teleri," Haworth snapped. "Your commitment to Rhuddlan has often been questionable."

"How—"

He went on, rising to his feet. "Does Sir Guy know that you left Rhuddlan quite willingly when Lord Rhirid came for you? That's what you told the earl. There was no abduction! Or will you now say the earl has lied about that as well?"

The red had seeped from her face in an instant. She was pale as an egg but Haworth suspected it was the result of a higher level of anger and not fear. He turned quickly to Lene. "Is it any wonder Lord William repudiated her at Hawarden? He knows the truth about where her loyalty lies!"

He was proud of his argument; after all, it was all true. Lene was practically sweating. And then, to his surprise, Teleri laughed.

"I wondered why you asked for a parley after your vicious threats yesterday," she said, the anger gone from her voice. "You had made it sound as if you'd have no trouble at all taking this fortress, but this morning you came to beg for peace. I finally understand. You know my husband is back and you're afraid. You want to get the earl out of here because you're afraid my husband will kill him. You don't have time to waste fighting. You want him now."

She looked back at Lene. "As for the question of my loyalty, I think Lord William put that to rest when he came here last night and asked only for me. He told me what he wants us to do about the threat from Sir Roger and giving up the earl was not part of his instructions. So, Sir Guy, I don't think we have anything more to discuss with Sir Roger." She fixed contemptuous eyes on Haworth. "Let him wait by the river. Because my husband has gone to find his soldiers and when he returns, he's expecting battle."

Longsword traveled at a quick pace, switching mounts when he sensed his was beginning to tire of his weight combined with the punishing pace, but apart from that one instant of realization, he passed much of the journey in a daze. His mind was numb and could hold few thoughts. He didn't want to do too much thinking, anyway, because the cold fact of his utter solitude confronted him whenever he did. Richard was gone and now he had no one. He was all alone...

When he stopped a little after midday to water the horses at a narrow brook, he bent and examined the ground. The force of the previous day's rainstorm had been blunted by the forest's canopy of leaves and the impressions of a multitude of hooves and boots were more obvious than they'd been on the open land. The prints were heading in the same direction as he. He recognized immediately that this was his army and was hopeful that he'd join it before nightfall.

But as he straightened up, he was aware that he was under scrutiny for the second time that day, only this time it wasn't children who watched him intently but a Welsh archer, who seemed to have materialized from thin air and who stood unmoving before him, heavy bow curved majestically, sinew cord pulled taut to the ear and gleaming arrow aimed directly at his chest. Longsword, surprised, could only stare and then he heard the clomping of approaching horses and turned his head slightly. Two mounted Welshmen, one carrying a long spear and the other a sword, halted a few paces from him. He couldn't recall his name, but he recognized the one holding the sword, a huge man with black hair and long mustaches: Rhirid's champion.

The horses halted. Longsword, remembering Teleri's story, remained still. This was unexpected, he thought. They looked like angry men, unsmiling and silent. Why? They had no grievance—it was supposed to be Rhuddlan with the grievance, Rhuddlan which believed one of its own had been murdered by someone from Llanlleyn. So why was that arrow so decidedly fixed on his heart?

Had Haworth sent out other assassins—ones who had not failed—to intercept the messenger, and were his men right now besieging Llanlleyn?

The one with the sword spoke but Longsword didn't understand a word. He did, however, understand the gestures to throw down his own sword and to remove his boots and hauberk. The first two items were easily discarded but it was nearly impossible for a man to take off his hauberk without help and the Welshman with the spear dismounted and grabbed hold of the armor by the shoulders. As it was pulled over his head, Longsword debated fighting back but thought the better of it. That arrow was certain to fly and he doubted his father would be very impressed with a son who was killed, barefoot, swordless and with his vision obscured by a hauberk, trying to escape from three Welshmen.

The warriors spoke among themselves, obviously discussing what to do with him. He watched them blandly, feeling strangely detached from what was happening. He didn't think they would kill him; surely they would have done it already and surely Rhirid would want to see him first. He started at the thought. If he went to Llanlleyn, he was certain to see Olwen...What would he say?

The discussion was short. The Welshmen seemed pressed for time but Longsword understood their urgency if Llanlleyn were truly under attack. The spearman took out a knife and cut a long swath of Longsword's cloak, which he then wrapped around Longsword's eyes and tied securely. Another rip and a second piece of cloth bound his wrists in front of him. Then the man took his arm and pulled him forward. Longsword's bare foot stepped down on the point of a stone and he stumbled, immediately expecting to hear shouts and the whiz of the arrow being released and exhaling with relief when nothing happened. His hands were pulled up to the pommel of his saddle, his foot was placed in a stirrup and he hauled himself onto his horse. Reflexively, he felt for the reins but the Welshman had taken them. He was to be led.

The ride was long and fast. It was especially arduous for him because he wasn't able to see and had no warning when the trail suddenly dipped or inclined or when there was some obstacle over which his horse tripped. He tried contorting his face in every direction to shift the blindfold, to no avail. All he could do was hold on tightly to the pommel.

The land they traveled was forested but every now and then a break in the tree covering would send warm sunshine down onto the top of his head. This ordeal might have been worse, he told himself ruefully; this might have been the day before, and it would be rain running down his head and shoulders, not sunlight, in addition to the other indignities of being bootless, defenseless and trussed up. How Richard would laugh at the sight of him! He smiled to himself and, for a moment, felt his tension lessen.

At last, they halted. Someone gave a tug on his leg and he dismounted. The cloth over his eyes was removed and he blinked and rubbed his bound hands into them. The bowman said something to his companions and walked off. The other two sat on a fallen tree trunk, rummaged in their leather bags and came up with half of a round loaf of bread and chunks of strong cheese. Longsword accepted a share. He sat opposite the Welshmen. The bread was going stale but he was hungry and he gnawed on it while his guards spoke softly to each other and darted occasional glances at him.

The bowman came back, startling everyone with his silent approach. He obviously had important news and the previously murmured conversation became quite animated and the glances in Longsword's direction became calculating stares. Undaunted, he chewed his cheese and stared back.

By the end of the rough meal, a consensus had apparently been reached. The blindfold was replaced and he was again brought to the horse and helped up. But this wasn't his horse, nor his saddle. He could tell immediately but before he had a chance to react, one of the Welshmen climbed up behind him. He felt the edge of a knife at the side of his neck and the Welshman said something in an ominous tone.

He heard the remaining men mount up and they set off. Longsword had no idea where he was, no idea where Rhuddlan was. The man sitting behind him was sucking the errant fibers of his afternoon meal through his teeth, practically in Longsword's ear. Seated on an unfamiliar animal and virtually in the lap of his captor made him very uncomfortable. Every heavy footfall of the horse jarred his shoulders and threatened his balance. He wondered how much longer he would have to endure this humiliation.

Then he heard it: the sounds of fighting.

They were sounds he knew very well. Men shouting, taunting, horse hooves thumping into the soft earth, arrows whining through the air; jeers and cheers. He didn't need to see the scene to know that his men had not gotten the message...and for some reason, he thought again of Olwen, imagining her sitting nervously with the other women inside Llanlleyn, trying to understand the siege and wondering if Richard were coming to save her.

The knife at Longsword's throat was so close that he was forced to keep his head back to avoid it but he didn't need to see to understand what was happening. His captors were bringing him into the fortress. They would have to go right through the besieging Normans to do it and he was their guarantee of safe passage. Any attempt to rescue him or to shoot one of the Welsh would result in his immediate execution.

It was only when he heard the gradual cessation of the fighting that he knew they'd been spotted by his soldiers. He heard fitz Maurice's loud, urgent command to check all weapons, to give the Welsh and their prisoner a wide berth, repeated over and over. He heard the sudden pounding of approaching hooves and was surprised that someone would go against fitz Maurice's order and jeopardize his life but then he heard fitz Maurice himself ask him how he fared in an almost frantic voice before the Welsh shouted at him and the blade pinched the thin skin on his neck and he felt a tickle of something roll down under his shirt. He said in as strong a voice as he could muster that he was fine and fitz Maurice answered that he would await his orders. Then Longsword felt the horse beneath him slow and felt himself tip slightly backwards as if they were ascending a short hill. More shouts, the sound of a gate being opened and then shut, level ground and finally the knife dropped away from his neck and Longsword swung his head backwards so viciously that his captor was knocked clean off the horse and fell unconscious onto the packed earth.

Chapter 55

June, 1178

Rhuddlan, Gwynedd

Teleri had taken advantage of the general listlessness which always seemed to follow the heavy midday meal to retire to her chamber, where she lay on her bed in the semi-darkness of the shuttered windows and thought her plan through. But the day was warm and she was drifting into a light sleep when she was roused by a faraway thudding noise and then her servant shaking her gently by the shoulders.

"My lady!" the woman whispered urgently, "wake up! Sir Guy Lene is asking for you!"

She grumbled as she got off the bed and allowed her clothing to be straightened and her hair brushed but she was pleased Lene had sent for her. She suspected he would have given in to Haworth's argument earlier that day and released the earl if she hadn't been present to stop him, and she'd hoped she'd made it clear that she expected to be involved in every decision concerning Rhuddlan until Longsword returned for good.

A soldier was waiting to escort her to the gatehouse and she climbed the ladder up into the tower where Lene stood, bent forward over the railing and staring intently at something in the distance. He was oblivious to her arrival until she called for his attention and then he whirled around.

"My lady!" he exclaimed. "You must see this! Sir Roger is taking his men and leaving! Come look!"

His face had lost its tired, anxious expression; it beamed like the sun. Teleri stepped to the railing and peered towards the river. The makeshift camp, which had been mostly obscured by the trees, did appear to have been abandoned and when she followed Lene's pointing finger south along the road she saw Haworth's army walking and riding at an even pace. About half the parade had already crossed the stone bridge but the men were so far away she couldn't make out which one was Haworth himself.

"Well, well..." she said cautiously. "Perhaps he thinks if he goes, we'll release the earl."

"Don't you see, my lady?" Lene could barely suppress a triumphant cackle. "It's what you told him—that Lord William would be back looking to fight. He got scared! He's running away!"

Teleri was skeptical. "Surely his army is larger than Lord William's. He must know that, as well. Why should he run away?"

Lene shrugged, and Teleri knew it was enough for him that Hawarden was leaving. He didn't care why.

"You didn't tell him about Sir Richard, did you?" she asked. He said he hadn't and she believed him. What she couldn't believe was that Haworth would abandon the earl. She turned back to watch the snaking line of Normans make its way across the bridge and wondered what the man was plotting.

"My lord," Olwen said tentatively, halting several feet away from where Longsword sat on a stool, "how do you fare?"

"If you're referring to my head, it's fine," he answered. "But I'm past anger now. I want to know what's going on. Why I was seized and brought here, my arms bound as if I were a criminal, blindfolded and my weapons taken away. And my boots," he added, indignantly. It was a relief to speak again to someone who understood what he was saying and the words came pouring out like the violent gush of water in a rain-swollen river. "I'd like to know why I've been thrust into this mud hut and kept waiting without so much as a cup of water for common courtesy. I'd like to know what has happened between Rhuddlan and Llanlleyn since I've been gone." He glared at the half dozen armed men behind her. "I'd like to know what my men are doing here!"

She nodded and turned to the warriors and translated his words. Almost immediately there were raised voices and angry gestures in response. But the man standing next to her held up an impatient hand and the protests subsided. He addressed the others in a firm, commanding voice. Longsword recognized him as Rhirid's cousin and immediately felt snubbed. Where was the chief himself?

After receiving instruction, someone stepped forward with a glinting knife blade, gestured for Longsword to show his arms and cut through the band of twisted cloth around his wrists.

Guri spoke again and Olwen said, "Lord William, we don't know why your men are attacking us. They arrived at dusk yesterday and made no effort to explain their presence. But now that you're here, Lord Guri requests you give him this information."

Longsword rubbed his wrists and considered the Welshman with a frown. "Where's Lord Rhirid? I would rather speak with him."

To his surprise, she seemed disconcerted by his request but before she could respond, Guri snapped something at her, having caught Rhirid's name and guessing what Longsword had said. In a rushed voice, she said, "Please, Lord William, I can't answer your questions; Lord Guri says you must answer his. Why are your men attacking us?"

Her eyes pleaded with him. She looked upset and again he felt a jolt of a sudden remembrance of Delamere. He wondered if she already suspected what he must ultimately tell her, simply because Delamere wasn't with him. His stridency weakened.

"Tell Lord Guri that I have been out of Gwynedd for nine months and have only recently returned. I don't know why my men have attacked Llanlleyn. I suggest he invite Warin fitz Maurice in to discuss it." Everything from hoots of incredulous laughter to growls of outrage greeted his words. Longsword was annoyed. He didn't want to reveal what Teleri had said until he had fitz Maurice in front of him. He didn't want the Welsh to know that his men were, in fact, physically trapped between them and the earl's force.

Guri had been watching him through narrowed eyes, arms crossed over his chest. He said, "You were alone when my men found you, Lord William. I'm surprised a great man like yourself doesn't travel with a bodyguard...But you were also travelling in this direction and not towards Rhuddlan. How do you explain that?"

Guri's voice was hard but Olwen's translation was soft and tentative. Longsword suddenly discovered he couldn't look at her, for fear one of them would blurt out Delamere's name. He returned Guri's steady stare. "I had an entourage, of course," he lied. "But before we could reach Rhuddlan, we were met by two of my tenants who informed me that there was trouble of some sort at Llanlleyn. As we were tired from our travels, I decided we would spend the night at Rhuddlan and leave for Llanlleyn at dawn the next day. But shortly after we started off again, I realized I couldn't wait. I ordered my entourage to continue on and then I headed here."

None of the men, Guri in particular, looked convinced by this flimsy story but Longsword never even blinked and finally the Welshman nodded.

"We'll be eating shortly," he said to Longsword. "You will join us. I'll have your boots returned to you."

As he turned to leave, Longsword stood up. Every one of the men facing him grabbed for his sword. "What about calling in my captain?" he demanded. "Let's resolve this now!"

"My men and I will discuss the matter, Lord William, before I make a decision!" Guri said sharply. "Someone will be sent to bring you to the table."

Olwen gave him a small, sympathetic smile. Guri saw it, grabbed her arm and pulled her away with him, leaving Longsword disgruntled by his refusal to bring in fitz Maurice but also feeling vaguely relieved, as if he had won a temporary reprieve from delivering the tragic news of Delamere's death.

It had come to Haworth as he'd ridden back to his camp from the fruitless endeavor to obtain Hugh's release that he must seize the initiative. He couldn't simply wait for the Bastard to return and then fight him; he had no idea what might happen between Llanlleyn and Rhuddlan. Nor could he mount an attack against Rhuddlan's defenses without risking the lives of the men Lene and Teleri were holding captive, including the earl himself. And to fight the Bastard on his own ground was to give him an advantage which could well make up for the difference in size of the two armies.

So Haworth had decided to chase after Longsword and his men and confront them as close to Llanlleyn as possible. Thankfully, his force was fresh after spending an idle day outside of Rhuddlan; they traveled all day and then through the night by the light of the full moon and now, just nearly dawn, they arrived at the Welsh fort. He stopped his soldiers in the obscuring forest and sent a pair of scouts forward to find the Rhuddlan encampment.

The remainder of his men rested but Haworth did not. His mind was racing, full not only of plans for the immediate fight ahead but also of self-recrimination. After all, what was now happening was the direct result of the lie he had told Hugh. He didn't regret the lie; he knew he'd had to do something to spark the earl's interest in living but perhaps the plan had been too ambitious. Perhaps he ought to have suggested merely lying in wait himself for the Bastard to cross into Gwynedd upon his return from Normandy and then murdering him and Richard Delamere. It would have been risky—Henry would certainly have investigated the suspicious death of his son—but Haworth had taken risks before. At least then Hugh would be safe and not a prisoner. If anything happened to Hugh...Haworth had no idea what he'd do.

He heard a hail and glanced up. His scouts were returning but they weren't alone. Haworth squinted to get a better look and rose to his feet in disbelief. Warin fitz Maurice raised his hand in greeting and then dismounted and strode towards him, followed by two of his comrades from Rhuddlan.

"Sir Roger! Well met!" fitz Maurice said heartily. His face was smiling and showed no sign of mistrust. Haworth nodded cautiously in return. "Your arrival is timely, to say the least. I assume the earl told you of our problem? It has since been compounded."

Haworth didn't know how to respond. Had his men intercepted the messenger after all? They had found the two bodies when they'd left Rhuddlan the day before and concluded that Longsword and Delamere had killed them. Or perhaps there had never been a messenger.

"How so, Sir Warin?" he asked calmly.

"The Welsh ambushed us the day before. One of my men was killed. And yesterday, as we were avenging our losses, three warriors rode up to Llanlleyn with a hostage. Lord William himself."

"Lord William!" Haworth did not need to feign his astonishment. "How did that come about?"

Fitz Maurice shook his head. "We had no idea he was back in Gwynedd. Next we know, he's being held at knife-point and taken in to the fortress."

"Were you able to speak with him?"

"Very briefly. He looked unharmed, but he'd been blindfolded and tied up. I'm glad to have a knight of your reputation with us, Sir Roger. We waited all evening yesterday for the Welsh to come forward with their demands but heard nothing. The earl offered us your service when he discovered the murdered body of one of our knights but I thought it was a problem Rhuddlan could handle on our own. But this," he made a sweeping gesture in the direction of Llanlleyn, "changes everything." He nodded at Haworth's men. "You came quickly. The earl is kind to us, even after I declined the use of his soldiers."

"We marched through the night, and the road from Rhuddlan is in good condition," Haworth said, relaxing a little. Whatever the story with the messenger, fitz Maurice and his men hadn't heard it. An idea was beginning to form in his head, one which would ensure Hugh's safe release. He smiled. "Why don't we ride to your camp and discuss how we're going to get Lord William out of Llanlleyn...and destroy the Welsh."

Olwen rose early after another sleepless night of troublesome dreams. Since the birth of her first child, she'd been a light sleeper, a maternal ear always cocked for the slightest whimper or call, but the events of the last several days had transformed concern into something much more intense, with the result that she was edgy and nervous during the day and would toss and turn all night.

Usually, thinking about her sons led to a thought, sometimes fleeting, sometimes lingering, about Richard Delamere but not now. She wouldn't let her mind turn in his direction. Wherever he was, he was safe; their children were not.

She went out into the damp and chilly air, shivering. There was little light yet and no one else about. A thin morning fog obscured the fortress' timber walls and for a moment she felt as if she were on the top of a mountain, all alone. The feeling was calm and peaceful and eased her churning mind. She shut her eyes and breathed in deep breaths of the cold, wet air and sent it flooding through her body.

She stood still for a long time, enjoying the peace and beginning to feel optimistic. Today, somehow, the problem of Lord William and Rhuddlan would be solved. Tonight she'd see her sons again. Tomorrow, life would return to normal...or as normal as it had been for her since January.

An abrasive voice suddenly jarred her from her pleasant fantasy. She opened her eyes. The voice was shouting but sounded muted, as if it were travelling a great distance. It shouted for Guri to present himself. It shouted in Welsh.

Without knowing why, she was terrified. The voice was obviously outside the fortress but she thought the only one among Lord William's men who spoke Welsh with any ease was Richard and this voice was not his. And the tone of the voice was confident and unhurried, as if its owner held the upper hand and wasn't worried that its master was in danger of physical harm.

She realized she was running across the yard toward the gate. A few men materialized from the feast house, looking sleepy and dazed, and there was a look-out in the sheltered platform above the gate but no great mob yet. No Guri. She ran to the broad ladder and slowed herself down just enough to climb up the rungs safely. When her head appeared in the cut-out in the floor, the guard reached down and helped her up.

"What's happened? Who is that?" she demanded breathlessly, not caring that she wasn't one of Guri's warriors, just an unimportant woman, neither servant nor lady, just a sort of guest whose status was becoming more questionable with every passing week.

The guard pointed to the far side of the platform and, now tentative, she went over and looked down onto the field below. What she saw made her stagger backward, white as a sheet, gasping for air, blood thudding in her ears, numb and so oblivious to all else that when Guri and his entourage finally crowded onto the platform and she was displaced none too gently and forced back down the ladder, she barely noticed the rough treatment. She heard and felt nothing and her eyes were filled with only one image: the picture of her children in the hands of the Norman soldiers.

Haworth's horse shifted and snorted, impatient with the inactivity. Haworth was growing impatient too, but he didn't fidget. Instead, as he waited for Guri to appear, he mentally debated whether or not to demand entrance to Llanlleyn in order to discuss the release of the Bastard and the handover of the hostages. It would be the proper custom, of course, but Haworth didn't know if the Welsh kept such customs. Guri might well invite him in and then keep him in, against custom and against his will. Better to have it done in the open.

The sun rose and light spread, its heat burning off the mist. The gate of Llanlleyn faced west but as yet the creeping rays hadn't reached him. Not much longer, though, and the sunlight would be full in his face, putting him at a disadvantage. His horse stepped again and as if this had nudged him into action, he told the translator at his side to hail Guri one more time. "And keep on shouting until you see someone," he added, wondering if everyone inside had gotten so drunk the night before that they could not be roused by a strong voice.

Two of his hostages stood on the grass in front of the men on horseback: a woman and a small boy. The woman held a younger boy in her arms. As the translator called to Llanlleyn in a booming voice, the younger child wailed almost as loudly. It was an annoying and unnerving din. Haworth had to keep the reins tight to prevent his horse from bolting. He felt like bolting, too. He had to conjure up an image of Hugh, to focus on it and remind himself why he was in this predicament.

He glanced to his left. Six of the Bastard's knights sat their horses a small distance away from his own men. He nodded to fitz Maurice and felt easier when the man returned the acknowledgement. Fitz Maurice had been skeptical about scouring the forests for hostages but whether because he didn't believe it was right for women and children to be bartared in this fashion or because he wanted to fight for the Bastard man to man against Guri, Haworth didn't know. Nor did he care. He simply wanted to win the Bastard's release as quickly as possible and drag him, dead or alive, back to Rhuddlan.

"My lord, someone is there!" the translator said to him excitedly.

Haworth's eyes went immediately to the guard tower. The upper torso of a man was suddenly in evidence but he was clearly not Guri. Guri would not appear alone. But at least this man would see the threat in the field below and call for his master.

And then someone else was there in the tower. A woman. He could hear her anguished cries as she turned in his direction and saw her children standing helpless and surrounded by a dozen armed men. He knew her, of course, and a satisfied smile creased his lips. As a rule he had no use for women but when they had somehow been thrust into his life, as this one had when Hugh had demanded her from Rhirid, he liked to see them suffer for the intrusion.

The older boy saw his mother and now he, too, began wailing. The woman with the children lost control of herself and started crying as well. Haworth's horse made its displeasure with this bellowing known by snorting loudly and trying to move away. Haworth had to press his lips together to prevent himself ordering the three hostages killed immediately, just for the peace. But at last his patience was rewarded. Olwen abruptly disappeared from view and a small crowd of men took her place. The foremost one was Guri. Haworth walked his horse forward a few paces and, despite the fact that the Welsh couldn't understand him and his translator was at his side, raised his deep voice and hurled it against the fortress before him.

The sounds of urgent voices and hurried activity woke Longsword from a sleep which hadn't been particularly peaceful anyway. He'd spent most of the night trying to think of an argument to convince Guri to ask for a parley with fitz Maurice. All he could come up with was the truth, which itself sounded like a flimsy story and not like the truth.

He fretted about Rhuddlan. What was happening there? Would Teleri obey his wishes and keep Haworth out and the earl in? The longer this confinement lasted, the easier it would be for her resolve to weaken.

Then there were voices outside his door, one male, low and calm and the other female, high-pitched, louder and almost hysterical. That one belonged to Olwen, and he was suddenly apprehensive because Richard had always described her as pleasant and even-tempered. He didn't know what she was saying but he heard Guri's name mentioned frequently...Was it possible Guri had been killed or wounded by one of his bowmen and Olwen had come to somehow get him out?

Just as he got up from the pallet upon which he'd been sleeping, the door opened and his guard stuck his head inside. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior and when they had, they snapped onto Longsword and gave him a considering perusal. Then his head disappeared, a few more words were spoken outside and finally Olwen slipped through the opening and into Longsword's small prison. The guard did not shut the door; he stood in the frame, blocking most of the burgeoning daylight, facing them with his arms crossed over his chest as if warning Longsword not to—not to what? Longsword had no idea. It wasn't as if he could push past Olwen and leap over the stockade wall. Not with his horses still in Rhirid's paddock.

The sounds of frantic action were louder now that the door was open. Longsword watched as Olwen approached him and saw even in the poor light that her face was anxious. "Olwen, what's happening out there?" he asked. "Have my men attacked? Has Guri engaged them?"

She shook her head quickly. "No! Lord William, there is big trouble! You must do something!" Her voice rose and the guard in the doorway took a step forward. "I don't know what Lord Guri will do! I thought of you—"

"All right. Be calm, Olwen. Tell me what's happened."

"Sir Roger has my children!" she cried. "He's threatening to kill them if you aren't released to him!"

The words hit Longsword like a physical blow. Haworth was at Llanlleyn? It was impossible—he was at Rhuddlan! "Sir Roger? The earl's man? Olwen, are you certain?"

"Yes, Lord William, I'm certain! I've seen him twice before—the first time he took away little Bronwen and the second time he took me away! Now he's got my children—Richard's children! He says he will kill them!"

"And where are my men, Olwen? Did you see them as well?"

She shook her head again. "All I saw was Sir Roger and three of his men with their hands on my sons and Dylan's wife."

"But are they there? Somewhere still on the field? Olwen, it's important."

Her eyes filled with tears. "I don't know, Lord William. They must be. Why would they leave without you?"

Longsword didn't answer her. He thought furiously. Haworth must have marched through the night; it was possible with the bright moon. But what had he done when he'd run into fitz Maurice? Surely if there had been fighting between the two Norman armies, someone in the Welsh camp would have heard it and then he would have heard about it. So, either fitz Maurice had been persuaded to return to Rhuddlan with his men or he had joined with Haworth, not knowing what had transpired at Rhuddlan. That meant there had been no messenger. Why hadn't Lene sent a message to fitz Maurice?

But why would fitz Maurice leave him, even if he'd believed whatever Haworth had told him? Could it be that Haworth had made him a prisoner...or worse—killed him?

Olwen sniffled and the noise shook him from his thoughts. He watched as she wiped her eyes. "Lord William, Sir Roger said if you're turned over to him, he will release his hostages. He said if you aren't given to him, he will k-kill them."

"Is that what Guri will do? Give me to Haworth?"

"I don't know! I'm afraid—" she broke off abruptly and looked at the ground.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked softly. "That he won't?"

"Lord Guri has no love for me or my children," she said in a low voice. "Because they're half-Norman."

"Who is this Guri, Olwen? Where is Rhirid?"

She drew her breath in sharply. "Oh, Lord William, you don't know...Lord Rhirid is dead!"

Another blow. "Dead!"

"At the Christmas feast. I saw him. He was drinking and laughing with his men one moment and the next, a queer look spread across his face and he was very still...and then, he just fell. His head just fell forward, onto the table, into his food. Everyone rushed to help him but there was nothing to be done. He was dead." She bit her lip at the memory. "His healer told us it was his head. That he'd never completely recovered from the blow his horse had given him months before. Guri was his cousin. No one challenged his claim to be chief in Rhirid's place."

This was unexpected. Not that Longsword believed it would be any more difficult to deal with Guri instead of Rhirid but now there was the added complication that Guri might still be in the process of establishing his authority. Facing two Norman armies and holding a Norman lord prisoner all at once would be a fine test of his leadership but how would he react? Slowly or impetuously? Neither boded well for Longsword.

"Olwen, Hawarden is no friend of Rhuddlan. If Haworth gets his hands on me, he'll have me killed."

"Then you won't go?" The question burst out of her before she thought the better of it; he could see her anguished embarrassment when she realized the implication of her words.

"It's not my decision," he answered.

"But Lord Guri—"

"Guri isn't going to permit Haworth to harm your children just because he doesn't like you or them, Olwen!" he said impatiently. "He'll make his decision based on what he believes is best for Llanlleyn. Unfortunately, the way it stands now, it will appear to him that holding onto me is his best plan. He looks out the guard tower and sees two armies confronting him. As long as he has me, however, those armies won't attack."

Olwen was pale. "So my children will die!"

"Not necessarily..." Longsword glanced at the guard in the doorway; the man was watching them intently but couldn't have understood a word they were saying. He turned back to Olwen, staring her straight in the face. "If I'm not here, Guri has no decision to make. If I can get to fitz Maurice and my men, without Haworth knowing of it, we can attack the earl's army before anything happens to your sons. But I have to get out of here, Olwen!"

"But it's impossible, Lord William! There's the man at the door and beyond that, there are warriors everywhere! And what if your men aren't there?"

"You said yourself why would they leave without me? They wouldn't, Olwen! You just didn't notice them because you saw only your sons. I must leave here! It's the only way, Olwen, to save your children..."

He wished he could speak as persuasively as Delamere when addressing women but he had never had the knack. It was easier for him to deal with men—he had merely to command and it was done without question. Women rarely responded to commands; they had to be convinced or flattered or bribed. He didn't know Olwen very well; she hadn't lived long at Rhuddlan before Delamere had whisked her away to the manor he'd had built for her. Had he spoken the words which would persuade her to help him escape? He looked at her, trying not to appear anxious or tentative.

She stared back at him, unblinking. As he watched, the frantic expression drained slowly away, her face became calmer and her chin lifted resolutely. He had the feeling she no longer saw him. Then her intelligent eyes focused on his and when she spoke, her voice was quiet but firm.

"There is another way."

Guri watched as the Normans collected their hostages and prepared to ride back to their camps. Roger of Haworth was the first to leave, wheeling his horse about and galloping away as if he were incredibly impatient for this deal to be done so he could be on his way. He had been polite but brief: the lives of the hostages for Lord William. If the Welsh refused to accept this exchange, the hostages would be killed and the forests around Llanlleyn scoured for additional hostages until they were empty. He had given no explanation for his army's presence in the field and seemed to have dismissed Guri's demand to know why Rhuddlan had come against Llanlleyn with a brusque motion of his head, suggesting this reason was unimportant. The tone of his voice and his translator's arrogant words implied the Normans feared the Welsh not at all and Haworth was being kind in asking for the exchange instead of simply attacking the fortress right away.

When the last Norman had left the field, Guri turned and descended the ladder. He sent an order for breakfast to be made and served as soon as possible in the feasting hall. He would think better if there was something in his stomach.

As he and his growing entourage walked to the hall, Dylan came up on Guri's right and begged a word in a tight, low voice. He asked permission to leave the fortress and challenge Roger of Haworth. He knew Haworth's ability and believed he would prevail. There was no other leader from Hawarden, he said; kill Haworth and the threat disappeared.

"I'm not so certain Hawarden is a threat to us," Guri answered. "It seems to me Sir Roger desperately wants Lord William for some reason and we just happen to have him. I don't even think he would accept your challenge."

"Perhaps I might at least try?" Dylan persisted. "It's my wife he's threatening to kill!"

Privately, Guri wondered why Dylan cared so much. He could only imagine that Goewyn's sharp tongue was put to more creative use when the two of them were alone.

"It won't come to that, I promise you," Guri said gravely. Dylan did not look mollified but dropped the argument. Guri relaxed a little; he hadn't been chief for very long and acceptance of his decisions was crucial, especially now. He added, "Have someone find Olwen and tell her to come see me and then go fetch the Norman."

The situation Guri faced was the most serious since he'd assumed leadership of Llanlleyn. He couldn't imagine why the Normans were attacking the fortress and Longsword wasn't talking. How had Roger of Haworth found his people, who were supposed to have been in hiding somewhere in the hills? What did Haworth want with Longsword and why were the lord's own men excluded from the negotiations? What answer was Guri going to give Haworth when time ran out?

As they sat and ate, his warriors debated just that. Words flew over Guri's head; he pretended to be listening but he'd already weighed both sides of the question. If he gave up Longsword, he had no defense if the Normans turned on Llanlleyn; if he didn't give up Longsword, the Normans would sacrifice one after another of his people. Either way, the future didn't look bright for Llanlleyn. The only slim ray of hope that penetrated the dense stockade wall was what he had said to Dylan: that Haworth seemed to want Longsword for a personal reason. But what this was and what it meant to Llanlleyn, Guri had no idea.

There was a commotion at the entrance to the house. He looked up from his meal and saw the Norman suddenly fly through the open door and crash onto the packed earth, scattering the feet of the men sitting nearby. Everyone shot up from his seat in a flash. There was a shout, a warning that Dylan was approaching, and murmured conjectures about what had just happened turned loud and barely coherent. The Norman got to his feet, shook his head as if to clear it of something, caught sight of Dylan in the doorway and rushed him, tackling him around the waist and knocking him to the ground. Several pairs of hands pulled at the Norman, trying to get him off Dylan but Dylan shouted them off and elbowed Longsword hard in the face. Longsword fell back and then Dylan scrambled to his feet and, as Longsword was trying to stand, punched him down again. Guri pushed his way to the fight.

"Enough, Dylan!" he shouted, planting himself between the two men and facing the heaving warrior. "Enough! He's no good to Llanlleyn if you kill him!"

"I won't kill him!" Dylan retorted. "I just want to make him suffer a little! As my wife is suffering! As I am suffering! Because of him!"

"I swore to you Goewyn will be safe, Dylan," Guri said in a loud, firm voice. He was sticking his neck out in speaking so confidently but felt he had no choice. In his opinion, a competent leader had to take initiative, had to be decisive and had to make promises which may have seemed impossible to others to keep. He stared calmly into Dylan's eyes until the latter nodded slowly and backed away.

Guri ordered Longsword brought to his table and food and drink placed before him. "Where's Olwen?" he asked, looking around.

"She isn't here, lord," Dylan said, breathing easier now. He rolled his right shoulder as if it had been injured during the fight and was sore. "The guard at the Norman's door said she had come to speak with him almost as soon as the commotion outside began and he had allowed her to see him," he glanced in Longsword's direction, "but he waited in the door while she was there and watched them. He saw nothing unusual. He said she was hysterical when she first came to the house but appeared calmer when she left."

Guri was silent for a moment. It was a problem because now he had no way of communicating with his prisoner but on the whole, he didn't need Olwen. It would be just as well if she never returned. She was only another reminder of Rhirid.

"How did she leave?" he asked quietly.

"She lied to the man on the back gate." Dylan suddenly lowered his voice, aware he had a large audience and slightly embarrassed on behalf of the young man who'd been deceived by the woman. "She told him that you had given her permission to leave. He'd heard all the shouting and she told him that all the Normans were at the front gate, calling for you to negotiate and since they had their own translator, you didn't need her any longer. She told him she missed her sons and you had agreed she could go to them. The boy had no idea her sons were hostages until I told him so. He said he tried to dissuade her, saying it was too dangerous beyond the wall, that he had seen Normans riding their horses outside that gate, but she told him everyone, even all of us, was at the front now, listening to the Normans demands, listening to your responses. She said again that you had agreed she could leave...So, he opened the gate enough for her to slip through and she went..."

Chapter 56

June, 1178

Llanlleyn, Gwynedd

At last it was midday. The fog and chill of dawn had burned off long ago and the day was bright and hot and increasingly uncomfortable for men dressed in heavy mail, their heads and feet encased in smothering metal and leather. For the most part, that group belonged to Warin fitz Maurice, who had assembled his entire army in the field while awaiting his master's release.

Roger of Haworth, who had spent the remainder of the morning honing his sword and his plan, was not subjecting his men to the relentless sun. He waited with only his translator, a handful of knights and the three hostages. The other men had been divided into two groups; one waited at the fringe of the forest, seemingly unconcerned with the proceedings at the fortress; most were lounging on the grass, bareheaded, joking with each other, while the second group waited out of sight, further in the forest. Haworth's dispostion of his soldiers was more purposeful than mere concern for any sensitivity to the sun: it was imperative that fitz Maurice remain unsuspicious of his intention and seeing Hawarden arrayed in all its strength before him might not have that desired effect.

Although Haworth was beginning to imagine fitz Maurice would swallow just about anything he told him. He'd thought fitz Maurice would balk at the decision that Longsword should be released to him and not his own soldiers, but he hadn't. The men from Rhuddlan were apparently content to believe the earl of Chester was now their most faithful ally and were willing to take direction from his commander.

That was fine with Haworth because there wasn't any time to be wasted in argument. And it was important that the Bastard be given over to him because he'd decided the quickest way to get back to Rhuddlan with his army more or less intact was to kill the man.

He'd thought it all through. Longsword alive would be hard to control. He knew the truth of the situation at Rhuddlan and might call out to fitz Maurice and order his men to attack Haworth. Fitz Maurice would fight strenuously on behalf of his lord and this would cost Haworth a lot of time. If Longsword were dead, however, fitz Maurice and his men would perhaps be demoralized and not inclined to fight. Or if there were a response by fitz Maurice, Haworth's first group of soldiers, who weren't really lolling but waiting for a signal, would rush in to beat it back and the second group would be ready to reinforce their comrades.

But Haworth was betting there would be little fighting.

The countryside was strangely quiet for all the men assembled on it. There was the occasional snort from a horse and the far-off birdcalls in the forest but nothing more. The stillness of the air and the lack of visible activity at Llanlleyn made Haworth suddenly doubt his plan. Why should the Welsh give up Longsword when his presence in their fortress was the only reason two Norman armies hadn't yet flattened it? He glanced at the hostages. He'd recognized the children at once as those he had seen with the earl's daughter at Richard Delamere's manor and the woman who'd been with them in the forest had been with Delamere's Welsh whore the last time he'd visited Llanlleyn. He had a good memory for faces. He had seized the children because he believed they meant something to Longsword and, of course, to their mother who he knew was in the fortress with him. Haworth hoped that between the two of them they'd convince Guri to do what Haworth wanted him to do. But he didn't know much about Guri. He remembered him vaguely from the time the Welsh had spent at Hawarden; he'd seemed capable enough, but so had all the warriors in Rhirid's little force. What kind of chief Guri was remained unknown.

"My lord," the translator said and Haworth looked in the direction of the fortress. Guri now appeared in the tower, surrounded by his entourage. Haworth and his man walked their horses forward.

"It is midday, Lord Guri!" Haworth called. "Do we have an exchange?"

"Sir Roger, we are prepared to give you Lord William in exchange for our people, but we must have assurances that once he's in your hands, you'll leave Llanlleyn without causing further harm!"

"You have my word!"

Guri sounded patient but firm. "We also had an agreement of peace for three years, Sir Roger. We would like something more tangible."

Haworth was angry. A Welshman doubting his word? Under normal circumstances, he would have abandoned the pleasantries and attacked the puny fortress with zealous ferocity but current circumstances were not ordinary. He desperately needed the Bastard. When the earl was freed, he might return to Llanlleyn and teach Guri a lesson.

"What do you want?" He could curse the Welsh underbreath and give his disdain for them a free rein in his tone of voice; they heard none of it. His man translated only the relevant sentences and his voice was monotonous and neutral.

"Three of your knights to be given up to us for keeping until we are certain all you Normans have well and truly gone!"

Haworth snorted. That was easy enough. "Agreed!"

"They will enter the fortress first and then we will send out Lord William as you send forward your hostages!"

"Tell him I agree," Haworth said to the translator. He turned his horse and trotted back to the small group of hostages and their guards. He gestured to one man. "Go tell fitz Maurice to send me three of his knights. The Welsh want a few hostages of their own."

More waiting, but Haworth was no longer apprehensive that Guri would reject his deal. Instead, he planned the rest of his day: the exchanges, Longsword's murder, a small skirmish against fitz Maurice...The moon was waning now but still nearly full and if the fine weather held, his men could march all night and be at the gates of Rhuddlan by mid-morning. Even if several of fitz Maurice's men managed to arrive before him, it was no matter. The Bastard would still be dead. Haworth couldn't imagine Rhuddlan standing for a dead man.

The three knights sent by the ever-accommodating Warin fitz Maurice were finally at the gate; it opened, they passed through and it closed behind them. Haworth glanced up at the tower but Guri was no longer visible among the men there. He frowned; was it possible that he and Longsword were planning something? He stared hard at the closed gate, feeling the time slipping by, becoming nervous despite his previous optimism. His hostages were restless from the waiting and their fright; the children were crying again and the woman seemed to have lost her desire to comfort them.

He leaned towards his translator, preparing to tell him to shout for Guri when the man himself re-appeared in the tower. At the same time, the gate opened slowly and Haworth's pulse quickened at the sight of the Bastard, blindfolded and hands tied behind his back, being helped onto his horse. Haworth was tempted to call out and ask that the blindfold at least be removed; not for chivalry but because he wanted the Bastard to see death coming at him, but decided against it. It would only mean another delay.

Longsword was led by a large, heavily mustachioed man whom Haworth remembered as Rhirid's champion. He'd often wondered how he would fare against him in an open contest, but that was another battle to be saved for the future. The woman behind Haworth caught sight of him and half-cried a word, probably his name.

The two men were drawing closer. Haworth heard nothing and saw nothing now but the steady clomps of their horses and their growing figures. Without removing his gaze, he slowly put an arm behind his back and made a small signal with his hand. One of the knights guarding the hostages walked his horse a few steps up and into the empty space behind Haworth's left side, and slid a javelin into his grip. A moment passed; the approaching men came into his range. With one smooth motion, the knight cocked his elbow, hoisted the javelin over his shoulder and hurled it with great force, straight at Longsword.

A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye caught Guri's attention and he reflexively looked from Longsword's receding back to its source, which was the group of the Norman's own soldiers waiting a short distance away from Roger of Haworth and his men. Guri started to turn back to this latter group and then did a double-take. Was an archer, apparently unseen by anyone but Guri, fitting an arrow to his bow, one of longbows favored by some Welsh, and drawing the cord back to his ear? He squinted. Yes. Having gained Guri's attention with that one brief motion, the archer now stood unmoving as a statue, poised and prepared to shoot at the first syllable of the order. But at whom? Dylan, who was leading the Norman's horse straight towards Haworth and the hostages? Longsword, blindfolded and bound with his arms behind his back? Goewyn, craning her neck to get a better glimpse of her husband? Guri followed the line of the bowman's sight as best as he could imagine it.

"Look over there," he remarked to the man standing next to him in the tower. "Do you think that archer is aiming an arrow at Sir Roger?"

The other man stared hard at the scene for a moment and nodded.

Guri nodded as well. "I wonder why..." But he suddenly knew he'd been right about one thing: there was tension between Hawarden and Rhuddlan that had nothing to do with Llanlleyn. In fact, he thought, it was actually fortunate for Llanlleyn that Hawarden had shown up because this action had diverted Rhuddlan's attention from its original opponent.

He felt his decision to give up his hostage was now vindicated. Let these foreigners fight each other. He had saved Llanlleyn.

And then he thought: if that archer kills Sir Roger, then Hawarden will scatter. If Hawarden scatters, then Rhuddlan is left alone on the field. Only this time, with Lord William as its leader and no impediment to attacking Llanlleyn.

He didn't know how to speak the Norman language, but it really wasn't necessary. All he had to do to warn Sir Roger was shout his name until he gained the knight's attention and point towards the archer from Rhuddlan.

It would be a month or so before Longsword acknowledged that Dylan ab Owain had saved his life when it seemed for no reason at all that he had suddenly urged his horse to swerve hard right, which had caused the animal to crash into his own horse, an action which had knocked him off-balance and sent him plunging to the ground. A rush of thoughts and not a few curses flashed through his mind; at first he thought Dylan was finishing the fight he had started that morning in the feasting hall. He was incredulous; he thought the man was insane. Here they were on a solemn business transaction and the Welshman had to involve his personal revenge.

But then he heard shouting and the clanging of armor and swords and the dizzying tumult of a melee and realized that although Dylan had indeed pushed him on purpose, it hadn't been for his own revenge. Something unplanned had occurred, but Longsword, blindfolded and bound, didn't know what it was.

And then all he felt was an incredible pain. He had landed directly on his right side, onto something hard. Instinctively, he had sought to put out his arms as he fell but as they were bound behind his back at the wrists this had been an impossible contortion. He had managed, at least, to pull most of his right arm around so that it was underneath his body when he finally hit the ground. The maneuver had probably saved his shoulder from being shattered; the arm itself didn't fare as well. It snapped on the large, flat rock beneath it and he felt a warm rush of blood on his skin. All thoughts of Dylan's insanity evaporated and all sound from the unseen conflict ended as every nerve and muscle in his arm screamed in outraged protest. He screamed as well.

For a moment he could do nothing but lie curled on the ground, barely able to breathe because of the white hot pain radiating through his arm, up into his shoulder and into his chest. His head felt as if it were full of pressure and his stomach heaved. If he'd had sufficient breath, he probably would have vomited. Then a detached part of his mind warned him that whatever had happened was still happening and he was in danger.

The blindfold over his eyes had been tied securely but the strip of cloth hadn't been pulled tight. Despite the additional pain it caused, he scraped his head against the ground until the cloth shifted enough to permit him to see with one eye.

His horse and Delamere's stood nearby, stepping with a little agitation, their ears back and the whites of their eyes showing, but well-trained enough not to bolt. He tried to speak a few reassuring words but could do no more than gasp at them, which seemed to agitate them further so he stopped. He rotated his eye in as much of an arc as he could manage without moving his head. Dylan had abandoned him; he was nowhere to be seen. But Longsword certainly recognized the rider hurtling towards him at full speed, leaning over in the saddle and holding his long, straight sword low: Roger of Haworth. He knew his chances of evading that sword were better if he was underneath his horse than out in the open field. The pain in his arm momentarily forgotten, he summoned up all his remaining strength, got awkwardly to his knees and scrambled towards the animal just as Haworth reached him.

The speed of Haworth's ride sent him past Longsword and his sword met air where Longsword's body had just lain. Longsword watched as he pulled back hard on the reins and wheeled his mount around in preparation for another assault.

Longsword wasn't wearing a helmet and there was danger in his horse's increasing nervousness and strong, stepping legs. The animal sensed the threat from Haworth and wanted to turn around to face it. Longsword rolled out from under his dubious shelter before a hoof knocked into his head and just as Haworth began a new attack. He was lucky again. Haworth couldn't immediately locate him and then Longsword's horse reared up on its hind legs and gave a long, high-pitched shriek. Its forelegs came crashing down with a menacing thud in the direction of Haworth's own horse, which backed nervously away before its master could assert his control.

The air was suddenly filled with noise. Men were shouting from every direction and Longsword could hear the clash of weapons. He felt incredibly naked, kneeling in the middle of a field with no weapon, his arms tied behind him and with only one eye to see. And there was Haworth, breathing heavily but looking at him with a steady, hate-filled glare. For a moment he was still; Longsword knew he was thinking his quarry was trapped and he could take his time—and of course he was right. Longsword's own breath came in harsh, ragged bursts; the pain had returned with cruel intensity and he thought he wouldn't even be able to kneel much longer. The half vision was hurting his head and making him dizzy. He watched with unmoving fascination as Haworth touched his spurs to his horse and headed towards him one last time.

When he'd seen the way Haworth had arranged his men, Warin fitz Maurice had hardly believed his luck. Just the dozen or so within immediate range. Until then, he hadn't known exactly what he would do; Haworth was, by reputation and in fact, intimidating and his army outnumbered his own by half again, so fitz Maurice had simply agreed to all the other man's proposals while warning his men to be prepared for anything.

Haworth's deployment of his soldiers, however, had shifted the odds in fitz Maurice's favor. And if Haworth were killed, would those odds overwhelm Hawarden? Fitz Maurice was counting on it. He had one man, an archer with exceptional skill, at the ready.

But typical of many schemes, there was an unforeseen element in this plan and that, fitz Maurice discovered an instant too late, was the big Welshman who was leading the bound and blindfolded Longsword to Haworth. The Welshman suddenly moved sideways with such force that Longsword's horse was pushed off balance and Longsword himself was thrown to the ground. The men from Rhuddlan watched in horror as a javelin shot towards the space where their master had just stood; a missile that now narrowly missed the Welshman, who was nearer to that spot. At the same time, there was a loud roar from the direction of the fortress, which startled fitz Maurice's archer, who released his bow string. But Haworth had seen Longsword fall and had started forward almost immediately with his sword drawn. The arrow meant for him struck the translator who'd been standing next to him instead, and the man fell out of the saddle, dead, the arrow jutting out of his neck.

Fitz Maurice knew there wasn't much time. The men on the upper field were mounting up and pulling out their swords. Haworth's first run at Longsword had failed but he had reined in and turned around and was preparing to attack again. Fitz Maurice shouted to the bowman to take another shot; the arrow flew straight and fast but even before they could tell whether or not it had hit home, the Rhuddlanmen were hurtling forward on horse and foot to save Longsword.

The longbow was a more cumbersome weapon than its shorter counterpart, requiring greater strength and a practiced coordination but its advantages were similarly weighty: its missiles travelled further and could pierce mail from a longer distance. Haworth had just urged his mount into a final run at Longsword when he was struck on his right side, underneath his arm.

Through the narrow slit in his helmet, fitz Maurice saw Haworth's body jerk abruptly to the left. The horse, trying to respond to this new command, faltered and then also turned left, but the hand on the reins slackened its grip and the pressure of Haworth's knees suddenly ceased; the animal was further confused, slowed to a walk and finally halted. Haworth slumped in the saddle and then slipped out and crashed heavily to the ground. Fitz Maurice glanced to where he'd last seen Longsword; his master lay unmoving.

Now it was a race to reach the two fallen leaders. Fitz Maurice and his men had had a head start but Haworth's little band near the hostages was closer and his men on the upper field were already riding down. Presumably, the remainder of Hawarden's force had been alerted and would soon be on the scene as well. Fitz Maurice knew there wasn't any time to spare. The forty-odd foot soldiers lumbering after him through the rough, grassy ground could not hope to arrive before Haworth's knights, who far outnumbered fitz Maurice's fifteen mounted companions, nor could they stand for long against men on horseback. But it was too late to turn back. He urged his horse to greater speed and put all thought of the approaching enemy out of his mind.

He reached Longsword before anyone. The fallen man's face was grey but his eyes flicked open and seemed to recognize fitz Maurice. The knight looked back at the men reining in. "Praise God, he's alive!" he said to them. "Now get to Sir Roger and surround him before his men come! You two!" he gestured to a pair at the rear. "See to Lord William. Unbind him and get him on a horse. Ride back to the camp. Quickly!"

Haworth's soldiers came up as the Rhuddlanmen formed a line between them and their captain. They halted and one of them heaved a javelin which bounced off a hastily thrown up shield.

"Enough!" fitz Maurice shouted, trotting over. "One more act of aggression and Sir Roger will die!" He tilted his sword toward the man on the ground.

"Give him to us, Sir Warin!" one of Haworth's men demanded. "You've got Lord William back. Sir Roger's of no use to you now."

"He's a guarantee of our safe passage to Rhuddlan," fitz Maurice answered. "And of your immediate departure from this place back to Hawarden."

The other man glanced between the tangle of horse legs obscuring Haworth's body. "How do we know you haven't killed him, Sir Warin?"

"He breathes. See for yourself."

After a moment's hesitation, the knight from Hawarden dismounted, pushed his way between the line of horses and fell to his knees at Haworth's side. He tugged off his helmet and tossed it carelessly away, then pressed his ear to Haworth's mouth. He gingerly examined the arrow shaft protruding from under his arm. Finally, he straightened up.

"He breathes, but not for long, Sir Warin. He must have a physician!"

"Call off your men and send them home immediately," fitz Maurice ordered. "When we're satisfied you're no longer a threat, we'll give you Sir Roger."

"He'll die long before we leave the field!"

Fitz Maurice shrugged.

The other man glared at him. "You'll regret this!"

Fitz Maurice's eyes were cold and he was very still. He said: "Take care, sir! We know about the earl's plot to lay waste to Rhuddlan and Llanlleyn. We've just seen Sir Roger attempt to murder Lord William. And now you're making threats for the future? Remember who you're talking to! I am a representative of the king's son! Already the earl has much to answer for—don't compound his crime! The last thing you want is King Henry coming to Gwynedd; he might take away Hawarden and banish the earl and all of you who serve him someplace further away than Wales this time." He gave the man a humorless smile. "Unless, of course, you like the idea of living among the Irish..."

Chapter 57

June, 1178

Llanlleyn, Gwynedd

Longsword refused to ride in the litter which had been made for him. The jostling gait of his horse, even at the slowest walk, caused his broken arm to throb mercilessly but he suffered the pain and resulting nausea as a self-bestowed penance. He spoke little but his men didn't mind; they were happy he was back in Gwynedd and happy that he'd been recovered from the Welsh and the near-fatal clutches of Roger of Haworth. He wished he could have been as happy. Returning to Wales had so far brought him nothing but misery.

Their pace was tedious. Fitz Maurice sent a messenger ahead to notify the castle about their impending return but the rest of the army stayed together and travelled at Longsword's speed. Longsword thought this unnecessary but fitz Maurice had insisted and everyone had agreed with him. They couldn't be certain Hawarden wouldn't attempt an ambush. Fitz Maurice had made a good argument, but most men believed revenge was both honorable and obligatory, and worth the risk of banishment.

Longsword had lost consciousness when the two men designated by fitz Maurice to bring him back to their camp had cut the bonds around his wrists. They had seen the blood but hadn't realized the right arm was broken and he had been so weak from pain that he'd been unable to tell them. They were working quickly on fitz Maurice's instructions and had tried to lift him as soon as the cut had been made. Pain overcame him and he passed out, which was just as well because it spared him the rather frightening debate back at the camp over how best to treat the break, and he felt nothing when someone ultimately took his wrist and pulled hard and steady on it in an effort to line up the broken pieces of his upper arm while someone else held his torso. The bleeding was stanched and the entire arm wrapped tightly to keep down the swelling.

He'd regained consciousness as dusk began to fall and the army stopped to rest and have a meal. Fitz Maurice had decided to continue on through the night but it was necessary to wait for the moon to rise. Longsword awoke, groggy and sick to his stomach, and found himself lying on a litter constructed from cloaks suspended between two stout poles, which was presumably carried by a pair of foot soldiers. His head throbbed, his neck and shoulder throbbed and his arm was on fire. Through hazy eyes he saw men nearby but found he had no voice to call to them. He was desperately thirsty. He summoned all that remained of his strength and kicked a foot against one of the poles in an effort to attract attention. The ploy succeeded too well; he soon had a packed circle of concerned faces staring down at him.

"Water..." he managed to croak and for some reason, everyone started grinning and cheering.

Fitz Maurice sat with him until the moonlight was bright enough to show the road and told him what had happened to Roger of Haworth. "Who knows what will come of it," he added with a shrug of indifference. He raised a skin of wine to his mouth and drank. "Will you take some, my lord?" he asked, holding the skin out to Longsword. "It will dull your pain."

But Longsword's stomach revolted at the idea of drinking wine and he was already dizzy enough. "Haworth finally met his match," he said hoarsely.

"Thank God everything turned out well for us—except for your arm, of course, my lord—but I must admit, it was probably a boon that Sir Roger and his men showed up, even if they were planning treachery."

Longsword was indignant but couldn't properly show it in his present condition. The best he could manage was a weak hiss. "How so?"

Fitz Maurice took another swallow of wine. "My lord, I will tell you that when we saw you taken into Llanlleyn, we had no idea what to do. The hostages, the exchange—that was all Sir Roger's plan."

"But you had been warned about him," Longsword said, a little breathlessly.

"Yes, but of course I never believed that story!" Fitz Maurice laughed at the memory. "That poor fellow...he couldn't believe that I—that none of us—believed him! We thought Lady Teleri had gone out of her mind!" He sobered abruptly. "But then Sir Roger appeared the very next morning and proved the story true. How could he have travelled to Llanlleyn so quickly if he hadn't come from Rhuddlan? And he never mentioned that Earl Hugh was prisoner, just that the earl had sent him to help us. Someone was lying to me, my lord, and I didn't think it was our own messenger."

No, no, that wasn't it! Longsword struggled to speak but he was exhausted and in such discomfort that the effort defeated him. He gasped for air.

"My lord, you ought to rest," fitz Maurice said hastily. "I'll call for you when we're ready to leave."

But when he closed his eyes, he was tormented by endless images of Richard and Olwen. The last few days had been like a bad dream and he was afraid to sleep any longer for fear of what might happen next. Pain and self-reproof muddled his mind but one thing was clear: fitz Maurice had not met with Olwen. What, then, had become of her?

The next day brought the question he had dreaded answering since the moment he'd seen Olwen at Llanlleyn. He and fitz Maurice were riding side by side, walking slowly at the head of the army but behind half a dozen scouts, and he was calculating that they would need another day and a half of travel to make it to Rhuddlan at their current pace. The ache in his arm hadn't lessened and he thought he wanted to be back at the castle more urgently for the opportunity to simply lie flat on his back for a day or two than to confront the earl. And then fitz Maurice asked him, hesitantly, how the Welsh had come to seize him and he told him how he and Delamere had returned to Rhuddlan to find it surrounded by Haworth and his men and how they'd foiled Haworth's plan to take the stronghold with scaling ladders and how he'd been on his way to retrieve his own army when the Welsh had captured him. He hadn't spoken so much at one time since being wounded and the exercise cost him dearly. He'd never realized how much the simple act of breathing affected every sinew of the body.

"So, Sir Richard stayed behind to keep an eye on the earl?" Fitz Maurice inquired. Then he put out a hand. "Stop a moment, my lord. That branch will be right in your face." He twisted around in his saddle with an ease Longsword envied and shouted for a man to come forward and cut down a slender twig from a sapling growing too close to the road.

The offending bit of flora hacked away, they continued on, and fitz Maurice said, "Was there a reason Sir Richard didn't trust Guy Lene to keep a good eye on the earl? I mean no slight against Sir Richard but perhaps the two of you together might have fought off the Welsh..."

"No..." said Longsword in a voice barely audible above the steady, clomping hooves. "I trust in Sir Guy's competency. Sir Richard didn't come with me because he's dead. Haworth killed him. Rather, one of his men did. While we were crossing the river after disposing of the ladders." He didn't look at his companion. He stared at the dun-colored road just past his mount's head.

Fitz Maurice was suitably shocked. After a moment of silence, a string of expletives spewed uncontrollably from his mouth. He cursed Haworth, he cursed Hawarden and he cursed the earl, his voice gaining volume as he went on. Longsword felt a little better, listening to this outpouring of grief. Fitz Maurice's invectives attracted the attention of the knights behind them and the footmen behind the knights, and soon all the army knew of Delamere's dishonorable murder at the hands of Roger of Haworth. Longsword was touched. He hadn't had time yet to mourn properly for his friend and when he'd thought of Delamere recently, it had been with shame and guilt. But no one with him seemed to think he was to blame in any way and it was comforting to finally share his burden. Delamere had been well-liked and well-respected. The sympathy of his men made Longsword feel as if he had made all the right decisions concerning the siege at Rhuddlan and the subsequent scrap at Llanlleyn.

After his initial outburst, fitz Maurice quieted momentarily, perhaps mulling some idea in his head. When he spoke again, his voice was low but grim. "Well, my lord; we just took care of one of the killers back there at the Welsh fort. When we get to Rhuddlan, we'll take care of the other one."

Longsword was startled. He hadn't thought of what he would do with the earl. He didn't think he could summarily execute him without enraging his father, despite the evidence that the earl had plotted to do away with everyone at Rhuddlan and Llanlleyn. Hugh was too important a magnate; there were sure to be questions from the royal court.

Yet...the man deserved to die. His father should have executed him after the Great War. The earl was a traitor then and obviously hadn't changed his color. This latest scheme was just one more indictment in his lengthy career of plotting against the royal house. And because of it, Richard was dead. Justice demanded that someone pay for that crime.

But Longsword was tired and it was hard for him to sustain anger against the earl for very long. It was easier to let grief flood his body and mind; merely saying Richard's name to himself was enough to feed it. And coupled with the grief was guilt. What had happened to Olwen?

Chapter 58

June, 1178

Rhuddlan, Gwynedd

Guy Lene wouldn't stop smiling. Teleri had to fight an urge to smack him on the head and wipe off his grin. They sat in the council chamber, listening to the messenger recount all that had happened since he'd left them not five days before and Guy Lene's smile grew broader with every sentence. Was he so relieved to know his master would soon be home and he could give up his command of the dozen men still left in Rhuddlan? Or, she thought scornfully, was he just happy that it wasn't Haworth who was returning?

"When will Lord William arrive?" she asked.

"They're moving very slowly, my lady," the messenger said, "because of Lord William's injury, but perhaps two days behind me?"

"Is there any chance that Sir Roger's army is following them?"

"Surely not, my lady!" Guy Lene interjected. She was amused to see his grin had disappeared, for the moment, at least. He gave what she thought was an anxious look to the messenger. "Surely not?"

The other man shook his head firmly. "Sir Roger was as close to death as someone can be and I don't think he could have survived the night. I saw him myself."

"But his men might want revenge," she persisted.

"Sir Warin said it was a possibility; that's why it was decided our men would stay together instead of the bulk of the army going on ahead, but—" he turned to face Lene, who had turned grey, "—he also said Hawarden was a highly disciplined force which relied heavily on the command of Sir Roger and which probably couldn't immediately function as an army without him."

Lene looked relieved. Teleri stood up.

"I suppose I'd better start preparing for Lord William's arrival," she said. "His chamber needs a good scrubbing." Delamere's body had already been removed and taken to the coldest part of the cellars because of the warm weather but apart from a necessary change of bed linens, nothing else had been touched since Longsword's departure.

"And we must have a feast, Lady Teleri," Lene said, brightening. "Especially now that we have a double celebration—Lord William's return and the foiling of the earl of Chester's plot."

No thanks to you or anyone else, Teleri thought maliciously, but she nodded. "Yes, of course we must have a feast."

"I'll take some men out early tomorrow morning. Now that it's safe again. We've been cooped up too long; a hunt is just what we need. Exercise for the horses and, hopefully, a few additions to the table."

"I'm sure that will be appreciated. If you'll excuse me..."

On the other side of the door, her expression of polite interest faded. She wasn't as happy as Lene about her husband's return. She had been on her own for almost a year and she had liked it. Fitz Maurice and Lene were, she was sure, fine knights but they had no interest in running a castle. They preferred hunting and scouting and what seemed like endless, noisy practicing in the ward right beneath the windows of her chambers at the most inconvenient times of day, and they'd been more than happy to leave everything else to her—even including settling disputes between their own men because, they'd claimed, she was unbiased, although she suspected they just didn't want to make a decision that would be unpopular with at least one person. But now that Longsword was back, people would look again to him.

It was unfair. Hadn't she been the only one to counsel against fitz Maurice's rash decision to attack Llanlleyn and hadn't she been proven right? Hadn't she been the one to set the trap for the earl and the one to refuse to release him when Haworth had come to the fortress and tried to cajole Lene into it? And hadn't Longsword himself asked for her when he'd brought Richard Delamere's body to the castle? She thought she'd turned out to be a more prudent and intelligent leader than any of the men at Rhuddlan and she'd outwitted Hugh, also.

But for what? She and Longsword had unfinished business. He had gone looking for an annulment, despite his agreement to give her a second chance to be a wife to him and she didn't know what she would do about that. When the earl had first told her, she'd been upset; now, having thought of practically nothing else for the last week, she was angry. She thought it was too bad Hugh's own plan of revenge against Longsword had been so extreme; she probably would have been a willing partner if all he'd wanted to do, for instance, was burn down the keep.

She climbed the stair to her chambers and threw herself into a chair, frowning. Her women approached her and spoke to her but she ignored them. Longsword was coming back and there wasn't anything she could do about it. Truth was, she was a little nervous. Richard Delamere had always been an equable influence on her husband; would Longsword become a raging madman without him? If she brought up his quest for annulment, would he react angrily, perhaps attack her?

But almost immediately, she was indignant. Why should he be the angry one? She was the one who had asked for another chance and she was the one who had tried very hard to act as a proper spouse before he had run off to Normandy. He shouldn't be angry; he should be ashamed of what he'd tried to do. It was she who'd be humiliated again when the story came out, and she was certain it would because gossip was the main occupation of a cloistered population like the inhabitants of one of the king's fortresses.

Her frown deepened. An idea flitted across her mind, so quickly that at first she let it go without interest but then, before it had disappeared entirely, she snatched it back and considered it, and laid it aside. She was the injured party, she told herself again; it was her right to seek justice. But, would she ever have justice out of him? Were wives entitled to demand a price, a sort of galanas, of a husband who had wronged them under Norman custom? She didn't know but she doubted it. He had said enough to her at one time or another to lead her to believe that in a Norman marriage, a wife had to do all her husband commanded and could expect virtually nothing in return. He would never see her point of view; he was probably upset that his request had been refused and somehow it would become her fault.

She knew she was working herself up into a frenzy following a line of thinking that might have no merit but she didn't mind. She wanted to be angry with him. Indignation made her less nervous of the kind of person she thought he would prove to be without the influence of Richard Delamere. She retrieved the idea she'd just put aside and mulled it, added to it, refined it. She realized she wasn't without recourse to justice after all; it had been right there all along and now she knew what to do with it.

The guard stared at her. "I'm sorry, Lady Teleri," he said stupidly. "You want me to do what?"

She held his stare and didn't blink. "I want you to bring the earl of Chester to me," she repeated in a level voice. "Now."

"My lady, did Sir Guy leave you permission to speak with the earl? He said nothing to me."

She hadn't expected resistance. This was a man used to being told what to do, wasn't he? She frowned. "Can you explain to me why you think I need Sir Guy's permission to see the earl?" she asked very deliberately.

He stammered but held his ground. "My lady, it's only that the earl is—"

"You are aware, aren't you," she interrupted, "that when my husband went away last year, he left me in charge of this fortress?"

"Yes, my lady; you and Sir Warin—"

"Sir Warin isn't here, is he?" she snapped. "Now, bring the earl to me or I will have you confined to the barracks until my husband returns tomorrow and I have the opportunity to detail to him your insubordination."

After a slight hesitation, he capitulated. He bowed and left the council chamber. Immediately, she jumped out of the great chair and paced the floor. If one guard was going to give her this much trouble over simply seeing the earl, what did that say about her chance of success with the rest of her scheme?

She'd hardly slept last night. She'd dozed and then wakened fully, straining her ears for the sound of rain. When she heard nothing but the soft breathing of her servants, she was able to doze again. It was like that all night until, finally, she heard the jingle of spurs and the snorting of horses and men clearing their throats and spitting. She'd gotten out of bed and peered through the window overlooking the ward. It was still dark, just before dawn, but the moon was clearly visible and there were Guy Lene and his men preparing to leave the fortress. She was relieved; she'd been afraid a sudden rainstorm would sweep the land during the night and Lene wouldn't go out, ruining her plan.

There was a scrape outside the open door and she turned around. Hugh crossed the threshold, followed closely by the guard.

"You may leave," she said to the man. "Shut the door behind you."

"My lady—"

Her voice was sharp. "Must you argue with me over everything?"

The door closed.

She returned to her chair and sat down, and for the first time since he'd entered the room, looked up at Hugh. He was watching her, his expression amused. She flushed. "If I were a man, he wouldn't even have thought of questioning me," she said.

"They underestimate you," he said. The smile vanished. "As I did."

She considered him for a moment and then asked curiously: "Did you really think your scheme would succeed?"

He seemed surprised at the question. "Yes, of course, Lady Teleri. Why else would I risk so much? And despite your...betrayal, I believe it still would have succeeded had Lord William not returned to Gwynedd. Don't look surprised. I know everything. Men get bored guarding an empty hallway and a closed door. I've had some nice chats with your guards. And last night one of them told me about your messenger's arrival and recounted his story." He smiled again, wryly this time. "I always said the Bastard had the devil's own luck—I'm sorry; I shouldn't speak so crudely of your husband in front of you."

"It doesn't matter," she shrugged.

"No," he said agreeably, "given what you've told me about him, I'm sure you've hurled your fair share of curses at his back."

She didn't want to discuss her relationship with Longsword and said quickly, "If you've been speaking with my men, you know, then, that Lord William is on his way. He should be here late tomorrow or thereabouts. What do you think he'll do with you?"

"I really don't know, my lady." But he didn't sound concerned.

"You know that Richard Delamere is dead."

He nodded.

"If for no other reason, I think my husband will want to kill you for that. Sir Richard was the person closest to him. They were inseparable."

"I understand my man, Haworth, is also dead," he said in a low voice.

"Yes...however, I don't think that will matter to Lord William."

"Probably not," he agreed and dropped his eyes to the floor.

The next part was embarrassing. She rose from the chair and walked slowly away from him, so that he couldn't see her face. "I was thinking, my lord...what would happen to me once my husband has had his revenge on you?"

"I don't know..."

"I think he might pursue your wife—your widow, she would be—again. And if it ever came out that your son is actually his son, I think he might succeed in his petition for annulment." She turned around.

"It's possible..." He looked up. "Would you really care?"

"Yes," she said without emotion.

He waited but she said nothing further. He raised an eyebrow. "Then, according to your thinking, we have a problem," he said slowly. "How have you decided to solve it?"

Chapter 59

June, 1178

Rhuddlan, Gwynedd

Longsword was exhausted. The travel that day had had a quicker pace than previously; there was an undercurrent of eagerness running through the lines which had seemed to propel the men, on foot and on horse, towards Rhuddlan as though it were an oasis and they'd been without water for days. Despite the toll on his body, Longsword hadn't the heart to hold them back. They reached the fortress as the shadows began to lengthen and the light in the sky turned purple and rose. It was a small consolation, he thought as he was helped down from his horse, face contorted, holding his breath as if this would blunt the pain, that he would at least not have to sleep another night on the hard ground.

And that proved to be the only consolation he received that night for his hard travel. Guy Lene was visibly agitated when he greeted the arrivals and practically dancing in an effort to contain himself. Longsword had wanted only to change out of clothing he'd been wearing so long he half-suspected was fused onto his skin, make a quick appearance at the supper board and then crawl into his bed with enough wine to override the pain in the entire right side of his body and knock him into oblivion. But Lene's need to share his burden scuttled those plans. Before Longsword had even reached the steps leading up to the hall, Lene told him that the earl and the men who'd been captured with him were gone.

Warin fitz Maurice, who was standing on Longsword's left side, made an exclamatory outburst. The three men stopped abruptly, which halted the progress of everyone else behind them. After a glance at Longsword, fitz Maurice demanded to know what had happened, who was responsible and what was being done about it.

Guy Lene, flustered, appealed to Longsword. "My lord, a half dozen of us were away from the castle, hunting," he said earnestly. "It wasn't until we'd returned that I was informed the earl had gone."

"Escaped?" fitz Maurice interrupted.

Lene's face was red. He hesitated, then shook his head. "He was released, along with his men, quite openly."

Longsword spoke for the first time. "By whom?"

Another hesitation. "Lady Teleri, my lord..."

Fitz Maurice swore. Longsword felt little more than a flicker of annoyance, probably because he had expected the answer. In another time, he supposed, he would have been enraged beyond control with his wife's action, but everything seemed different now and anyway, he was too tired and too uncomfortable to do more than grunt and nod and move off again towards the steps.

"My lord," fitz Maurice called softly after him, and he paused and looked up at the landing. Teleri was standing there, all alone, bereft even of the tremulous women who always seemed to surround her. She was dressed very properly, in a pale blue gown with a pleated skirt and an embroidered gold surcoat trimmed with white. Her long auburn hair hung loose down her back but the crown of her head was covered demurely with a thin golden veil. She stood straight with her hands clasped before her, a model of competency, efficiency and organization, and the undeniable mistress of the castle.

Despite his exhaustion, he was impressed. She stared back at him, her face composed and her expression unreadable but he saw neither the familiar arrogant tilt of the head nor the mocking twist of the mouth. In that moment he realized that her solitary presence on the landing and her costume and posture had been carefully planned for their confrontation over the earl's release. She had picked the place of battle and donned her gear. Like a good soldier, her face bore no sign of apprehension or boldness. She was tense and wary, but she was prepared to fight and wouldn't back down.

Lene spoke nervously from his right. "My lord, I did ask the lady to confine herself to her rooms until your return, but I didn't feel it would have been appropriate to keep her there by force."

"Ha!" Fitz Maurice could not restrain his incredulity and anger. "Appropriate? Obviously it was necessary! This...betrayal is serious and may yet cost us many lives!"

He spoke loudly enough for Teleri to hear. Longsword, who hadn't stopped watching his wife, saw her lips press firmly together but otherwise she displayed no reaction. He was surprised by his own reaction to her stoic presence on the landing. She could have hidden in her chamber, she could have fled to the sanctuary of the Perfeddwlad—hell, she could have gone with the earl, but she had chosen to defend her action in the midst of a group of hungry, tired and unfriendly men who had been made fools of by the very person she had freed. She didn't lack courage, he thought with a measure of grudging respect. Her resolve was appealing...or perhaps it was the waning light which made her look attractive?

Without acknowledging either fitz Maurice's outburst or Lene's distress, he proceeded up the steps alone. She waited, as still as a statue. A small breeze suddenly blew over her, rippling her veil and lifting the ends of her hair. He was startled and stopped. He was a few steps down from the landing and his eyes were level with hers. He nodded. "Teleri."

Her voice was neutral. "My lord."

He was surprised by her tentative manner. He'd expected her to go immediately on the offensive as had always been her habit but instead she watched him, still unmoving, still expressionless. He wondered what was wrong with her and then it came to him—she was confused and it was his strange behavior which had done it. She had apparently assumed he would have a similar reaction to the news of the earl's departure as fitz Maurice; she had expected him to shout at her, accuse her and berate her and when he hadn't done any of that, she was unnerved. How ironic: he'd finally gotten the best of her and he hadn't done a thing.

She was frowning. "Does something amuse you, my lord?"

He realized he was smiling, an expression which deepened at the familiar, irritated tone. "No. I was just thinking it's good of you to welcome me back."

Her mouth dropped open and he heard her catch her breath.

He climbed the remaining steps. Fitz Maurice and Lene caught up to him and together they proceeded to the hall.

"My lord!"

He turned and looked at her blankly, increasing her obvious discomfort. He was enjoying this. The carefully smooth face she'd presented only a moment ago was gone, replaced with an assortment of emotions ranging from anger to wariness. She didn't know how to react, he thought; she didn't know if he were simply controlling his own anger and was ready to erupt at the least thing she might say.

"Isn't there something you want to discuss with me?" she asked.

"Not now," he answered mildly.

"But—"

"Teleri, I'm tired. I'll see you tomorrow."

For Teleri, sleep was impossible. She picked at the supper sent up to her and paced back and forth through her rooms, thinking. She sat by an open window and watched, unseeing, the activity in the ward below until the torches were lit and everyone went inside for the night. She absentmindedly allowed her women to undress her and plait her hair and put her into bed but she lay awake in the darkness, her mind churning too much to permit her to fall asleep.

What was he up to? she thought, over and over. Was it going to be the same as when he'd ignored her for days after rescuing Olwen from Hawarden? She'd hoped to preempt that sort of reaction by confronting him immediately. She had imagined his rage would be great upon hearing the news of the earl's flight, and when he saw her he wouldn't have been able to dismiss her without a fight. But it hadn't happened like that and she no longer had the advantage.

There was more to it. She wanted to explain why she'd done it and why she believed she'd had the right to do it. She wanted him to know she knew he'd gone to Normandy to ask his father to help him obtain an annulment. She wanted him to realize he would never have Gwalaes or Eleanor or whatever she called herself at the moment because the earl was alive and well and then she wanted to tell him she was going back to her uncle's house.

It was funny. She'd spent the hours since releasing the earl and his men hating her husband with an incredible passion, just waiting for him to return so she could confront him, say what she wanted to say and leave him for good. It had struck her to the core—after all she'd done for him since he'd agreed to give their marriage another chance, after sleeping with him, making sure his clothing and his chamber were clean, taking control of the servants—it had stung her that after all her efforts, he'd tried to get rid of her anyway. And yet, it was funny that when he'd smiled at her on the steps, her stomach had twisted painfully and she had wished so desperately that there wasn't any bad feeling between them.

It was an unusally hot night. She kicked the bedclothes down to her ankles and turned onto her side. What was wrong with her? How could she even think such a thing? He'd never been much of a husband; he'd flaunted two mistresses in front of her, for God's sake! It was true that on her side of the accounts, she'd tried to persuade Gwalaes to kill him, she had sent Gladys away and in doing so caused her to lose his baby and she'd fled Rhuddlan for the camp of his enemy, Rhirid. To be fair, she hadn't been a very good wife. Perhaps it wasn't the fault of either of them. Perhaps they'd just started off on the wrong foot.

With a noise of impatience, she flipped onto her back and frowned at the ceiling. This was the reason she'd wanted him to confront her tonight: now all her unspoken words and accusations were trapped in her head, spinning around and around and keeping her awake. She sat up. There wasn't any point in trying to sleep; she'd twist and turn all night.

She got out of the bed. She would walk a little in the cooler air outside; if the exercise didn't tire her, at least perhaps she might distract her mind. She shrugged a plain dress over her shift and pulled on a pair of leather slippers. The women in the next room didn't stir as she moved silently past them, opened the door and walked out.

Once in the alcove which marked the start of the spiral stair leading down to the hall, she paused to take up the oil lamp which burned in a niche above the first step. She decided to go outside through the kitchens. There were certain to be soldiers still awake in the hall and there wasn't any need for her to subject herself to their drunken accusations. That wasn't the confrontation she sought.

Down the steps, through the pantry and down another stair to the linen room. It was cooler on the ground level. The door leading outside was open but there wasn't anyone around. She went through it and considered where to go. The landscape directly before her was mostly black; the quarter moon had not yet risen and the kitchen garden was in darkness. Around to the right of it, torchlight flickered in the distance, marking the location of the stables, latrines and barracks. The postern was there, as well, and beyond it, the village where she had last met Longsword. Not a real village, of course; there was some commerce in it but only local. All of the inhabitants labored in the keep.

The postern would be closed at this time, she knew, and she could only guess the kind of debate she'd have to have with the guard on duty before he would open it for her. She wasn't in a mood to argue with anybody. She sighed. Giving orders and arguing seemed to comprise the majority of her conversation. She wondered what people really thought of her. Of course, there wasn't anyone she could ask; she had no confidant at Rhuddlan.

Only the dead couldn't argue, she thought, and caught her breath. She hadn't consciously made the connection; it had just come to her. She would go to the chapel and visit Richard Delamere one last time. He was certain to be buried tomorrow; she was less certain that she would be allowed to attend and this might be the only opportunity she'd have to say goodbye.

The chapel had always looked to her as though it had been an afterthought of the builder. Its very location, stuck onto the south wall of the castle, was suspicious. There was no entrance from inside the hall; a visitor had to go out and walk around the keep to get to it. The other end was built onto the curtain wall, which meant there was no clear way around the keep itself. And because the chapel's western side opened onto the rear of the castle, open windows in the summer allowed pungent smells from the stables and latrines to waft in, tempered only by a bountiful crop of herbs in the kitchen garden which stood in between.

The carved wooden door was partially ajar and she hesitated for a moment and stared at it, wondering why it wasn't closed. In the next instant she chided herself for stupidity; most likely it had been left open to keep the air within from becoming overburdened with the smell of Delamere's decaying body. Her servants had cleaned him well and wrapped him tightly but it was still too early in the season for the harvest of the herbs which, through generous distribution about the chapel and in his shroud, would have hidden that scent of death. She went inside, holding the lamp out before her.

The altar was to the left of the door, facing east, and lying upon it was the neatly bundled body. She hadn't been positive the Church allowed bodies on the altar but she hadn't been about to leave him on the floor or on one of the narrow wooden benches. She tiptoed very quietly up to it, knelt down and put her lamp on the wood floor and bowed her head to pray.

After a while, she felt a strange sensation between her shoulders which distracted her so much that she lost her concentration on the task at hand. Her ears pricked up. Quite clearly now, she heard the sound of breathing and it wasn't coming from her nose.

She stood up and turned around to face the rows of benches. The only illumination in the chapel was from her lamp and the small, perpetual flame which burned on the altar. The back of the room was in shadows and she couldn't see to the end of it.

"Is someone there?" she called out.

She heard another sound, as if someone was shifting in his seat. "I am, Teleri."

It was Longsword. She picked up the lamp and walked slowly down the aisle to the rear of the chapel. Longsword was sitting on the last bench, his back against the wall and his legs stretched out along the seat.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"I wanted to see Richard. I'm sorry—I cut open the shroud. I wanted to see his face."

She glanced back at the white-wrapped figure. "It's no matter. Easily resewn."

"I'd thought, with this weather, you might have buried him already," he said.

She was surprised. "You said you'd only be gone a short while. I had him in the cellars until this afternoon. It's quite cold down there. The earl's men were kept in here, you see, but when they'd gone and I knew you were on your way, I had the place scrubbed out and Sir Richard brought up."

She had given him the opening without thinking. She tensed when she realized it but then relaxed. After all, she had wanted to do this tonight, hadn't she?

But he said nothing. She couldn't read his expression in the murky light. The whites of his eyes glistened in the lamplight so she knew he was looking at her, but she had no idea what he was thinking. The situation was bizarre.

She broke the silence with a tentative accusation. "You're not yourself, my lord."

"No?"

She frowned and tried again. "You didn't want to speak with me earlier because you were tired. Why aren't you in bed?"

"Have you ever broken a bone, Teleri?"

She shook her head.

"It hurts like hell, Teleri. I can't sleep." He held up a jar with his left hand. "I've drunk almost three of these and I still can't sleep. Would you like any?"

She shook her head again. He lifted the jar to his mouth and drank. After he swallowed, he settled the jar on his lap and closed his eyes.

She didn't know what to do—stay or leave. She had thought their confrontation would be loud, angry and perhaps even violent. But this...situation had her bewildered.

He opened his eyes. "Why don't you sit?"

That was it. "My lord," she said in a firm and louder voice, "I'm sorry you're in such pain. But I think we have an important matter hanging between us and as long as we're both awake and here together, we should discuss it."

For a moment he was still. Then he sighed. "Very well. What do you want to say?"

"Well..." She bit her lip, disconcerted. "Well, I want to tell you why I allowed the earl to leave."

"Yes?" he prompted when she didn't go on.

"Well, because he was my prisoner and so mine to dispose of."

He inclined his head. "All right."

"All right?" she repeated incredulously. "You agree with my decision?"

"Of course not, Teleri, but as I told you earlier, I'm too tired to debate it now."

She wasn't tired. "I was the only one who was suspicious of his story, William! If it hadn't been for me, you would have come back to a shell, not a fortress! All your men would be dead and everyone at Llanlleyn, too!"

"Didn't you think that was reason enough to hold onto him?" he asked. But his voice was calm, not angry. "I could have sent him to the king for judgment."

She didn't answer. Instead she stared steadily at him until he frowned. "What?"

"I just wonder if he would have survived such a long and arduous journey, my lord," she said. "Especially as he was very ill this past winter and his health hasn't yet recovered."

"No? Well..." He drank again from the jar. "Anyway, the point's moot—he's gone. And losing Haworth will most likely put to rest any further plots against me."

"Is Sir Roger truly dead?"

"I didn't see him; I was flat on my back and unconscious. But the wound was supposed to be very bad. Fitz Maurice told me Haworth's men were seeking aid from Rhirid's physician. Guri's physician now, I suppose."

She was silent. A small breath of wind came through the open door and flickered through her lamp, distorting the shadows along the wall. She said in a steady voice, "There was another reason I let the earl leave...He told me you'd seen the king and had asked for his assistance in obtaining an annulment of our marriage..."

"Ah."

She was stung; she didn't know why. Perhaps in some recess of her mind, she'd believed that Hugh was wrong—or lying. "Is that all you have to say, my lord?"

He groaned a little. "Teleri, the last thing I want to do is argue with you. Even if I weren't tired and in pain, I know I wouldn't win."

"I don't want an argument; I want an explanation!"

She could feel heat spreading across her face; she could hear a note of anguish behind the sharp words. She wrapped her free arm around her waist and pinched herself hard in the side. She didn't want to show any weakness to him but it was difficult because he was behaving in an unfamiliar manner. Their conversation so far had actually been civil and his voice almost...kind. And she didn't like the way he wouldn't stop looking at her, as if he were seeing her for the first time and wasn't displeased. It was disconcerting. She wished for another breeze to extinguish the light in the lamp so she wouldn't have to know he was still looking at her.

"Sit down, Teleri," he said quietly, startling her.

"I don't—"

"Sit down. My neck hurts from tilting my head up at you."

She wanted to tell him not to bother looking at her but instead she sat down on the bench in front of his and set the lamp between them. "Is it true?" she asked, her voice again under control but her arms crossed over her chest in case she weakened.

"Is that the real reason you let Chester go?"

She shrugged. "Probably."

"Even knowing what he'd done to Richard?"

"Now you're angry..."

"Shouldn't I be? You said yourself Richard was a good man. Yet you gave up the earl just to spite me?"

This wasn't the argument she'd thought he'd use. It wasn't right; she hadn't considered the earl had had anything at all to do with Delamere's death.

"One of Haworth's men killed Sir Richard," she said. "That's what you told me when you asked me to prepare his body for burial."

His mouth opened as if he were about to retort—she knew he would point out quite correctly that Haworth's men were the earl's men—but instead he lifted the jar up once again and drank from it. Then he closed his eyes and was still for so long she thought he had fallen asleep. She was irrationally hurt by his apparent indifference, which surprised her when she remembered how she'd half-feared a violent reaction. But this unconcern was strange and seemed more dire. Had she finally pushed too far? A husband's revenge could be harsh and a wife had little protection against it. Teleri had only to look to the current status of her father-in-law's marriage as proof.

Then he spoke. "The truth is, Teleri, I ran away. That's what Richard said we'd done—he was kind enough to include himself even though it had been my idea—and last week when I crossed the march into Gwynedd, I knew he was right. I ran away. I hated being here. I'd had nothing but bad luck here. I wanted to have back the life I'd had before I was sent here, when I had no more responsibility than to use my sword against the king's enemies." His voice dropped. "And I wanted to be free of all the women in Gwynedd who'd ever had some claim on me..."

"I suppose that included me," Teleri said bitterly.

"Yes."

She snorted. "Well, then you can hardly condemn the earl for breaking your three-year peace when you yourself broke faith with me. We had an agreement, William!"

He stared at her. "I was angry with you, Teleri...You can't begin to imagine how angry I was. I didn't consider that I'd made any agreement with you. I merely accepted what you offered."

"And laughed at me behind my back, no doubt!"

He looked down at the jar in his hand. "No...I really didn't care that much."

That hurt. "So you saw the king and asked him to help you get rid of me," she said flatly.

"He refused, of course. I wasn't too surprised. He was never one to run away."

She shook her head slowly, confused by the pain she felt listening to his story. "Perhaps I ought to have fallen in with the earl, after all," she said stiffly. "Then Rhuddlan would be gone, Llanlleyn would be gone and I'd be gone to the Perfeddwlad. You'd have come back to nothing. You'd have had your wish."

"Now you're angry."

"Shouldn't I be?"

He sighed. "Of course you should."

They were both silent. Teleri wanted to get up and walk out of the chapel before she started crying. She had wrongly believed their agreement, their second attempt at this marriage, had put their relationship on firmer footing. That had all been in her own mind, hadn't it? She felt like such a fool and as the embarrassment and frustration grew inside her, eating at her stomach, it took all her inner strength not to break down in tears.

"But I came back, Teleri..." he said quietly.

"Yes. Why?" she retorted. "I'm sure you could have stayed in the king's service for some time, perhaps forever. Or until some adversary killed you."

"You're right...but I chose to come back instead." Suddenly and painfully, he pushed himself more upright with his good arm and then swung his legs over the bench so that he sat facing her. His face was close to hers, only a few hand spans away, and she could feel as well as hear the ragged breath caused by his exertion. "I'll admit coming back was Richard's idea. He wanted to see Olwen. But once I'd agreed to accompany him, I knew it was the right decision for me, as well. I realized I was tired of doing all the things I'd left Wales to do. I realized I missed Rhuddlan...And you."

"Me?" Her voice was thick with disbelief.

"You were a good wife once you'd decided to be one. I thought I could at least try to be a good husband."

"Charming..." she muttered.

"Now I'm asking you for another chance," he said. "This time, I want to be part of the agreement. All right?"

"What about the earl?" she asked cautiously.

"He's my problem, Teleri. Nothing to do with you."

"Your men will say—"

"I don't care what they'll say," he cut in curtly. "He's nothing to do with them, either."

She studied him. He was no longer looking at her; instead, his gaze was directed at the floor. He drank again from the jar.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He glanced up quickly and because his face was closer now to her lamp than before, she could quite plainly see the surprise in his eyes, almost as if he couldn't believe she had guessed he was hiding something. She had to press her lips together to keep from laughing, which would have been a reaction prompted as much by pent-up emotion as his amazement that he was so easily read.

"I don't blame you for Chester not being here," he said in a low voice. "It's my fault."

"How so?" she demanded.

He looked away again. "Richard didn't want to come back here; he wanted to go straight to Llanlleyn. But two of Chester's men attacked me on the road and because he'd been watching me ride off, he saw them and came to help me. And then, figuring there was trouble here, I persuaded him to come with me to find out what it was. We heard Haworth confronting Lene; we knew Llanlleyn was under attack or about to be attacked by our own men and again Richard wanted to go there and again, I persuaded him to wait." He paused. "I had this idea to foul Haworth's plan to take Rhuddlan and it worked. We got rid of the scaling ladders he'd made, but when we crossing the river to escape his men, Richard was shot." He exhaled noisily. "I pulled him onto the riverbank but I couldn't help him. He died in my arms..."

Teleri felt her eyes burn in sympathy. Poor Sir Richard! Small wonder Longsword felt guilty. "I'm sorry, William," she said softly. "But you can't blame yourself."

His head snapped up, his eyes intense. "Can't I? Well, I do, Teleri. But it's even worse than that. You see, I had another great plan when I was at Llanlleyn. I wanted Olwen to help me escape so I could join fitz Maurice and attack Haworth, but she thought it would be too difficult for me to get out of the fortress undetected and too risky for her to help me. They didn't like her very much now that Rhirid was dead, apparently; they distrusted her because of her relationship with a Norman. She said she would go instead. She would get out while Guri and his men were occupied with Haworth and warn fitz Maurice. I never saw her again, Teleri! And neither did fitz Maurice!"

"You think Sir Roger or one of his men...?"

"Killed her? I can't think of any other possibility."

She didn't speak. It was plain to her that he was tormented by the problem and she had to fight her old jealousy of the attention paid to Olwen. Of course, she told herself, he was concerned. He believed he'd caused Delamere's death and now Olwen's. He felt guilty. She studied him; he was staring into the murky depths of his jar of wine with such obvious anguish that, for the first time since she'd known him, she was sorry for him. He was like her now, bereft of confidant and no one to talk to but servants or retainers.

"I can think of another possibility..." she said softly.

He looked up immediately. "What?"

"Maybe she never left the fortress."

"Do you mean she was lying to me? I don't believe that, Teleri! She was frantic for her children."

"No. I mean perhaps she was prevented from leaving."

"By Guri? Do you think so?"

She shrugged.

He stared at her. There was a glint of hope in his eyes. "I have to know..." he said in a quiet voice.

"Are you certain you want to know?" she asked warningly. "It may be just as you think."

"I'm certain."

She paused a moment to think it through and then she said, "Well, even if you could stand the journey, I don't suppose Guri will be happy to see you or your soldiers again for quite a while. I suppose I can go. Explain what happened. Bring him a few gifts to placate him and make him look like a strong leader to his people. He'll appreciate that."

Longsword frowned. "Don't overdo it, Teleri. He killed one of my men. It would have been fitz Maurice if he hadn't stopped to speak with your messenger."

She bowed her head in acknowledgement. "There is one other consideration, William..."

"What's that?"

"Sir Richard's sons. If the worst has befallen Olwen—"

"By all means, you must bring them back to Rhuddlan, Teleri!" he cut in with sudden enthusiasm. She knew he saw at once the chance to redeem himself, to expiate some small portion of his guilt. "I will raise them as if they are my own. In this, at least, I will not fail Richard."

Part VI

Chapter 60

August, 1181

Avranches, Normandy

The page ran up the twisting steps, hardly mindful of the steep ascent or even where he put his feet although the way was dim and the grudging light from his tallow candle fluttered dangerously with his movement and threatened to extinguish itself with every footfall. The boy was young and knew where he was going; the candle had been given to him not for his benefit but to use to light the lamps in the chamber to which he hurried. He was on an important errand, one which would make up for being pulled rudely from his pallet, ordered to wash his face and dress carefully and packed off up the steps to deliver his message.

As he reached the landing, he paused to collect his breath. He suddenly felt very nervous. He would be closer to the viscount than he'd ever been and he worried that he might stammer or drop something or present the wrong apparel...He wished that he hadn't been chosen for this honor. He glanced longingly back at the steps, now almost hidden in darkness.

But there were others waiting on his fulfillment of his task, not merely the viscount. He confronted the closed wooden door before him and debated knocking or simply entering, finally deciding upon the latter. After all, if the viscount didn't want his pages walking straight into his chamber, then he would have barred the door before going to bed. Tentatively, he lifted the latch; it went up very easily and he knew the door wasn't barred.

In contrast to his earlier energy, the boy now crept deliberately across the floor so as not to make a sound. The flame of the candle was steady. There was the bed and in it, the shape of a man. The boy could hear his rhythmic breathing, soft and low, and hesitated again. He'd never woken someone so important before. How would the man react? Perhaps he was in the middle of a good dream. Would he be angry? Annoyed? Would he shout at him, perhaps cuff him? He was a powerful man, not merely a viscount of Normandy but an earl, a premier magnate, of England—he could do anything he wanted and who would deny him?

"Did you come here with some purpose, boy, or just to ogle?"

The voice was gruff and sharp. The page's head shot around. Sitting in an alcove under the window was Roger of Haworth. The unexpected sight so startled the young messenger that he gasped and dropped his candle onto the floor, where it quickly ignited one of the rushmats placed there to protect the lord's feet from chill.

Haworth cursed and jumped down from his seat. He snatched a blanket from the bed and began beating at the flames. In little time, the fire was out, leaving the room in darkness and filled with choking, hazy smoke.

He coughed and was about to turn on the boy, when Hugh's voice came casually from the bed. "Is there a problem, Roger?"

"No, my lord." He hissed at the page, "Fetch another light!" His eyes were adjusting again to the darkness and he could see the cloud hanging in the air. He waved his arms in an effort to dispel what he could, sending it in the direction of the open window.

Hugh sat up, watching him. "You shouldn't be doing that, Roger. You'll aggravate your side. Anyway, it's not accomplishing much."

"That damned boy almost killed us!"

"You must have frightened him."

"I told that bloody steward not to send anyone up this morning!"

The boy came running back with a lamp. Following a terse command from Haworth, he used a spill to light the candles on the room's two tripods, then bowed deeply to the viscount and his captain and hastily retreated.

Hugh yawned. "He's very busy, Roger. I'm sure he didn't forget simply to offend you." He shoved the remaining bedclothes back, swung his feet to the floor, stood up and stretched. "I see you're ready to go."

Haworth's anger dissolved instantly at the sight of the body he loved so much. After all the years, after the betrayals, he was still in thrall to this man. And his devotion must finally be reciprocated, he thought, for hadn't Hugh been faithful to him since that final confrontation with the Bastard? He had been lucky; the arrow had been stopped by a rib—shattering it, of course; even now he couldn't lie on his right side and damp weather gave him pain every time he breathed but he would have been killed except for that rib—and there had been the inevitable illness afterwards which the Welsh healer had brought him through. Those days at Llanlleyn and the services of the Welshman, subsequently brought to Hawarden, had cost Hugh plenty in cattle, horses and coin, Haworth knew, but Hugh never mentioned it. And wasn't he the reason the earl had abandoned Hawarden? With the near fatal shooting, Hugh had had enough. Once Haworth had been well enough to travel, Hugh had left a skeleton garrison at the castle, paid off most of his mercenaries, taken his treasures and retreated with Haworth and a moderate bodyguard to various of his English properties. It was, Haworth thought, as if the knowledge that he'd almost lost Haworth had finally made the earl realize how much he loved him.

"Ready, yes, my lord."

"You don't sound very enthusiastic, Roger."

Haworth knew Hugh disliked unsolicited advice but he was obviously expecting it or his voice wouldn't have held that familiar note of irritation. Haworth obliged him. "I don't like this, my lord," he said earnestly. "What Lord Aymer proposes is dangerous. How could he even think to involve you?"

"He remembers whose side I backed during the Great War."

"But surely the king is watching you..."

"We've been through this before, Roger! Henry's not a brooder. And the only thing he schemes at is marrying his children to partners whose land will increase his empire. It's been three years! Either the Bastard never told him or it's not important enough for him to care about."

"I hope you're right..."

"I am." He looked around. "You haven't used the pot, have you?"

"Of course not, my lord! I went to the privy." Haworth got to his knees and poked underneath the bed. He emerged with a chamberpot which he placed on the floor in front of Hugh.

Over the sudden noise, Hugh continued, "And just in case I'm wrong, I don't wish to offend my neighbors, do I? I might be the one looking for allies. So I'll entertain Aymer and his brothers for a few days, pretend sympathy with their plight and promise them nothing." He finished relieving himself in silence and then went over to a side table. "Anyway, I don't think they're serious. The prince has been successfully asserting his physical power in Aquitaine for a few years. They can't fight him. Better for them to try to obtain satisfaction through legal means. If they appeal to the king, he would probably intervene." He splashed water over his face and held out a hand for the towel Haworth placed in it. "Didn't you sleep well, Roger?" he asked. "You woke me several times with your tossing."

Haworth picked up the frothing pot and put it outside the chamber door. "I'm sorry, my lord. I was restless. My side ached and it was hard to get comfortable. That usually means bad weather."

"Oh? The women won't like rain."

"Perhaps you might suggest they don't join us..."

Hugh threw the towel to him. "Roger, we spoke of this last night. They want to come. What do you care? They won't have anything to do with you. You frighten them."

"Women don't belong on a hunt, my lord. They ruin it. They don't know when to keep quiet, they can't control their horses and they laugh too much. We probably won't kill anything."

Hugh grinned. "Just keep your arrows away from them, Roger! I don't want any accidents..."

The hunting party departed the castle after Mass, a long and noisy line of woodsmen, hunters, horses, dogs, servants, carts and wives. There were only two in the last category but to Haworth's prejudiced ears, they were making the loudest noise. Their high-pitched voices and squeals of laughter made him gnash his teeth in annoyance.

He rode near the front of the line next to Gilbert le Loop, the huntsman. Gilbert was only in his early twenties, young to be the premier huntsman of a great estate, but his father and predecessor had died of a fever the year before Hugh and Haworth had arrived and the steward had simply appointed him in his place. Gilbert had grown up at Avranches and had been his father's constant companion. He knew every deer and rabbit trail in the forest at the northern limit of the demense and he described to Haworth the quarry he had in mind to offer Hugh, a large and well-proportioned stag which he called the Young King.

For someone who spent most of his time stealthily tracking game, Gilbert was unnaturally garrulous, Haworth thought dourly, but at least his chatter obscured some of the more offensive noises behind them and it had a certain friendly charm. Haworth was used to young men who were awed into silence while in his presence but Gilbert le Loop seemed unaffected by his status and spoke to Haworth almost as if they were equals. Perhaps on this territory, they were.

Dawn crept over the land as they left the cultivated fields and entered the forest. Gilbert ceased his speech long enough to breathe a few deep lungfuls of air and squint into the western sky. "I think we might get rain later," he said. "I smell it. And I thought I saw a bank of clouds on the horizon in the west. It all depends on the wind."

Haworth, who didn't need to smell rain to know it was coming, asked, "What wind? It's still as a corpse out here."

Gilbert shrugged and grinned at him. "That's what I mean. The wind will have to pick up if we are to have the rain."

When the sun was a hazy orange disk low in the eastern sky, filtering between the towering oaks and poplars, the hunting party reached a clearing. Gilbert whistled piercingly and the beaters halted, pulling back on the dog leads. The huntsman said to Haworth, "We'll stop here instead of our usual spot. Better for the women." Before Haworth could reply, he turned in his saddle and called back to Hugh, "My lord! We'll break our fast here!"

The next few moments were pandemonium as grooms ran up to help the guests from their horses and servants set up trestle tables and put out food and drink. Hugh and his male guests, Aymer, the viscount of Limoges and his two half-brothers, William, the would-be count of Angoulême and Aymer the younger, stood in a small circle laughing as they spoke, which told Haworth they were no longer discussing the transgressions of the prince. The wives of the two Aymers sat close to each other and blathered away. The dogs barked because they smelled food and were hungry, not having been fed that morning to make them keener for the hunt and the beaters and woodsmen stood in their own version of their lords' circle, presumably discussing much the same subject as Hugh and his companions, Haworth thought, as the amount of laughter coming from them was comparable. Haworth's head ached.

After dismounting, Gilbert had gone to speak a few words with Hugh and now he returned and said to Haworth, "The stream is just beyond that row of bracken. I'm going to have a wash and then I'll take the dogs on ahead and flush out the Young King."

Haworth was aware of Gilbert's quirky ritual of bathing before setting off after his prey. The young man claimed the water washed the scent from him and made him less threatening to the animals he chased and while Haworth mostly doubted this, since he put the same clothes back on, it couldn't be denied that he was an excellent tracker and no one had ever returned from his hunts empty-handed.

"I wonder you didn't stop at our usual spot, then," he remarked. "The stream is right at the edge of the clearing."

"That's why I said this one is better for the ladies, Sir Roger." Gilbert winked at him. "They won't be able to see me in all my glory and tear their hair out because they can't have me."

Haworth almost choked. He thought Gilbert was only half-joking. He glanced back at the chaos surrounding the breakfast board and didn't see a place for himself. "I'll join you," he said, when he'd recovered his breath.

While Gilbert stripped himself naked, walked out into the middle of the shallow stream and lay down in the slow current, immersing himself so that only his nose broke the surface, Haworth contented himself with removing his leather hunting jerkin and the linen tunic underneath. He squatted at the gravelly edge of the stream and splashed water over his upper torso and head, as much for something to do as to refresh himself, gasping a little in shock at its icy temperature and wondering how the other man could lie in it for so long.

Another moment passed and Haworth became concerned. Perhaps Gilbert had had some kind of seizure...but then the huntsman suddenly sat up with a noisy, joyous whoop and gave a mighty swing of his head which whipped the fair hair, now considerably darkened by wetness, off his brow. A few drops spattered into Haworth. He straightened up and began wiping himself down with his shirt to cover his confusion. Gilbert was more than competent in his work but otherwise behaved in a manner better suited to a child than a man. There were at most fifteen years between them but Gilbert made Haworth feel old enough to be his father.

"Sir Roger, is that scar from the wound you received in Wales?"

Haworth automatically glanced underneath his arm to the jagged, puckered scar and the neater cut running a short way down his side where the Welsh physician had opened the wound to remove the arrow point and bone splinters and permit blood to wash it clean. He recounted for Gilbert the circumstances leading to the shooting without mentioning the Bastard or Rhuddlan but making it sound as if it had been just another battle against the Welsh. Gilbert had never seen a longbow but had heard of its tremendous power and was obviously impressed that a man could be shot with one and yet survive. "My lord was right about you," he said with admiration. "He told me you're invincible, Sir Roger, and seeing that wound and hearing your tale, I believe him."

They rejoined the party as breakfast was ending. The two women had somehow ended up on either side of Hugh and Haworth saw that as soon as one stopped talking, the other started. Indeed, when Hugh spotted him, the look of relief on his face was plain. He smiled and said something to the ladies and then extricated himself from the bench and went to meet his captain and his huntsman.

"Thank God you're back!" he exclaimed in a low voice to Haworth. "Those damned women are making my head spin! I let slip that we had stopped at Stroud for a time before ending up here and they've been pestering me with questions about my daughter ever since. And one of them had the audacity to ask why Eleanor and the little boy don't live with us." He gave the other man a quick nod. "Gilbert, what's your plan?"

"I will take the beaters and the dogs up ahead, my lord, and scout out the Young King," the young man said cheerfully. "It's early yet. I've no doubt he and his herd are still feeding and I've got a good idea where I'll find them."

Hugh looked from Haworth to le Loop. "The Young King?"

"A fine stag, my lord. I've been following him for over a year. Just waiting for an important occasion."

"Yes, yes, but why do you call him the Young King? Is there a more impressive one out there?"

"No, my lord, only me. I'm the king of this forest and the Young King is here only at my sufferance."

Haworth laughed, a harsh sound. Gilbert inclined his head and trotted off towards his horse. Hugh watched him go and then turned to Haworth. "Do you find him amusing, Roger? I don't think I've heard you laugh in years."

"He's...different, my lord."

Hugh snorted. "I think the word is charming, Roger."

"If you don't mind, my lord, I'd like to go with him."

The earl gave him a curious look and then shrugged. "By all means..."

Gilbert was right; the Young King wasn't far away. Less than a league from the clearing, the dogs picked up his scent and the intensity of their yapping increased tenfold. One of the woodsmen ran back to Gilbert and said excitedly, "We've found where they've been feeding!"

The huntsman leaned towards Haworth as they rode after the man. "This is hardly sport," he remarked. "The Young King is so brazen he doesn't bother to vary his trail. Look there," he pointed to a tree whose trunk was tufted in one area with what looked like a brown-grey fur. "He rubs his head in the same spot every day and the rough bark sloughs off the velvet from his antlers." He laughed. "Fearless, that's him! He knows I've been watching him for months. I even take a dog or two with me every so often so he's gotten used to smelling them, too. And he doesn't care! He thinks nothing can touch him."

The beaters and the dogs waited just ahead. Le Loop threw down his reins and hopped off his horse. He walked toward an object on the ground and beckoned to Haworth, who dismounted and joined him. "Look at that, Sir Roger," he said with awed glee. "Did you ever see spoor so large? I tell you, the Young King is immense. Lord Hugh will look like a champion when he takes him down."

"The earl will probably give that honor away," Haworth answered, staring at the steaming pile.

Gilbert shrugged indifferently. He found a tree suitable to his purpose and had one of his men boost him up until he was able to catch a lower branch. He climbed the tree as effortlessly as he rode his horse, Haworth noted, and admired the lithe, energetic body without envy. He himself could no longer move as easily, especially since Llanlleyn, but he had accepted that as a part of getting older and at any rate, the last three years had made him a content man and he could look upon anything without envy and with uncomplicated enjoyment whereas once he would have been begrudging and callous. It was because of Hugh, of course. Now he had Hugh, faithful and solicitous.

Le Loop slithered down the tree. "I've seen him! They've stopped to graze again." He paused and frowned, as though he were thinking. Then he said, "Sir Roger, how good are my lord's guests?"

"I don't know. I've never seen them hunt, although Aquitaine is known more for its troubadours than hunters."

"Then may I suggest this plan—you and I will ride back to join the party. The beaters will come up behind the deer, separate the Young King from the others and drive him towards us."

But Haworth was reluctant to return to the hunting party. It was blessedly quiet in this part of the forest. "Why?" he asked bluntly.

"The Young King is a massive creature, Sir Roger," Gilbert said with uncharacteristic solemnity. "If he crashes through my lord's guests, even wounded, he will cause injury. But if I am there to make certain at least one arrow flies true and strikes him dead, I will prevent such harm."

He couldn't argue with well-meaning intent, so he nodded and the huntsman gave the appropriate instructions to his men, hoisted himself back into the saddle and turned his horse's head back toward the path they'd just come up.

Le Loop was describing to Hugh and the men from Angoulême the probable path of the Young King once the beaters flushed him. Haworth, who wasn't expecting to shoot, waited to one side. To his relief, the women had stayed back at the clearing with the baggage and the servants. The only others present were the guests' attendants, all mounted and ready to give chase should the stag escape the trap.

He watched the forest. Under the shelter of the trees, the air was still and heavy with dampness. His side ached and when he looked up into the sky, he saw the tops of the trees swaying.

Hearty laughter diverted his attention and he glanced over at the earl. Gilbert was apparently regaling his listeners with some ribald tale, for the men were grinning and would occasionally break into chuckles. Then Haworth saw the huntsman lean over and clap his hand onto Hugh's shoulder; the others laughed again and Haworth, momentarily outraged, started to snatch up the slack in his reins in order to ride to them and demand le Loop remove his hand. But he relaxed almost immediately. Le Loop meant nothing by it, he was certain; the young man was maddeningly familiar with everyone and Hugh would not appreciate misguided intervention.

A sharp whistle suddenly pierced the air. "That's the signal!" Gilbert called excitedly. "Prepare yourselves and remember: take careful aim! If I know this beast, you'll only have one clear shot!"

As Haworth had predicted, the earl's three guests were invited to put themselves forward, each to have an equal, first chance at the kill, while Hugh himself dropped back. Haworth went to stand next to him but discovered that Gilbert was in his place. He was annoyed but thought little of it as the huntsman had been standing there for some time as he had told his stories. And then there was no time to think: the Young King came crashing out of the undergrowth, headed straight towards them.

Haworth saw the stag's momentary hesitation as it caught sight of the hunters standing in its path but instead of veering to one side as another deer might do, it seemed to increase its speed. Indeed, it let out a high-pitched scream as it ran, as though it were challenging the very men who sought to kill it; the Angoulêmers loosed their arrows at one time and then pulled their horses out of harm's way. From his vantage, Haworth saw that only one of the arrows had hit its mark and it was a feeble puncture to the right foreleg; obviously a lucky shot, but it didn't appear to affect the Young King's gait in the least. He hadn't expected to shoot, but his bow was in his hand just in case and now he quickly fit an arrow to the cord and took aim but even this practiced, fluid movement was too slow. The stag suddenly leaned back on its powerful rear legs and then it was flying in the air. Haworth's arrow passed underneath it and landed harmlessly in some tree a fair distance away. He watched in horror as the animal sailed right at Hugh, still screaming its challenge. There was an answering shrieking of horses being pulled this way and that; the attendants were scrambling to get out of the stag's path and the Angoulêmers were shouting something Haworth's mind could not register. He reached for another arrow but Gilbert had been right; he'd had only opportunity for one: shooting the Young King in the rump would not slow its impetus. And Hugh was just standing there! Haworth yelled but the earl didn't move. Gilbert le Loop was standing in his stirrups, javelin pulled back to his ear, waiting, almost casually it looked to an increasingly frenzied Haworth, but then in one motion he snapped it forward and dove for Hugh, sweeping him off his horse and bringing him to the ground. Haworth saw the javelin hit the stag square in its massive chest; there was an immediate splay of blood and then the animal landed, scattering the remaining horses. Its front legs crumpled under its weight and Haworth could hear its gurgled breathing. It pawed vainly for purchase on the ground, trying to stand, but the blood was seeping away too rapidly; it gave one great shuddering gasp and collapsed into stillness.

From Haworth's position, he could not see Hugh. For all the men and horses strewn around a small area, it was eerily quiet. Haworth dismounted and started to run to the spot where he'd last seen the earl but was stopped in his tracks by a strange sound. At first he thought the stag, which was lying legs spread apart on the path before him, was not yet dead but he saw no movement from the body and the noise continued until he realized it was Gilbert le Loop laughing.

Not six yards from the carcass he found the huntsman and Hugh entangled on the ground. Gilbert was laughing so hard it was apparent he couldn't move, which meant that Hugh, whose face bore a look of amusement, was trapped beneath him. Haworth stood over them and lashed into the young man. "Are you out of your mind, le Loop? What kind of lunacy was that? You might have killed the earl! You might have killed all of us!"

Gilbert collected himself and got to his knees. He reached a hand to Hugh and together they helped each other up. "I did give fair warning, Sir Roger," he said. "I did say the Young King was fearless and magnificent." His eyes came to rest on the fallen stag with a reverential expression. "I did not lie."

"No indeed!" Hugh seconded firmly. He slapped Haworth's back companionably. "No harm done, Roger! Of course, we may never find my mount..."

"I believe if I hadn't brought you down, my lord, that horse would have thrown you when he bolted," Gilbert said.

"So, Roger? A lucky escape."

"I'll send someone after your horse," Haworth said a little stiffly. He felt disgruntled. Gilbert's deliberate manipulation of the hunt, no doubt intended all along to make him look like a hero, had put everyone in danger yet he was the only one who minded. William and the two Aymers trotted up and dismounted hastily, falling over themselves to congratulate the huntsman and ogle the dead animal.

He'd have to return to the clearing to find a groom to send after Hugh's horse, which was probably closing in on the castle by now. As he turned away, he could hear Gilbert describing how he had waited until he'd judged the moment perfect to hurl the javelin. There came the sound of dogs barking frantically. The beaters had returned. As he put his foot in the stirrup and swung himself into the saddle, Haworth glanced back a last time at the hunting party. Gilbert's mouth was still moving although now it was difficult to hear what he was saying because of the clamor of the hounds. He was bending over the carcass and had produced a long knife. The blade glinted very briefly in a shaft of sunlight filtering through the tree tops and Haworth squinted. Impatiently, he pulled his horse's head around and touched his spurs to its flanks.

Despite the mildness of the day, the hall remained full after the heavy main meal. The rain Haworth had felt since the morning and Gilbert had predicted now seemed imminent to everyone. The sky had turned a thin white, with the orange disk of the sun showing plainly but dimly. At the dais, the two Aymers and William pressed their case onto Hugh in voices unrestrained by drink and the flush of the successful hunt. Haworth, at the end of the table, paid scant attention although he was annoyed. One of the reasons the viscount had given Hugh for the hunt was because he suspected the king's spies in Hugh's household; spies Henry might have placed, in the guise of knights or servants, after the Rebellion. He and his half brothers had wanted a private conversation. Now listen to them, Haworth thought sourly; if the king himself was anywhere in Normandy, he would be able to hear their plotting without the expense of paying spies.

Abruptly, he left his place. The hall was crowded but everyone moved out of his way as he walked through it, pausing once or twice to exchange a word with soldiers who greeted him. His side ached; he thought it was strange how he felt more pain after being still for a time, as when he slept or sat down to a meal, than during some strenuous physical activity. He rolled his right shoulder to try to relieve the stiffness.

The air outside was thick and moist and a steady wind blew in from the west. Haworth looked up into the sky. There would be more than a mere rain; he sensed a storm. The worst possible ending to a bad day: stuck in a hall all night with the men from Aquitaine and their silly wives. He would excuse himself early and go to bed.

"Sir Roger! Sir Roger!"

His eyes focused on the figure hurrying across the ward towards him, one arm upraised to catch his attention and the other holding a tan bundle. It was Gilbert le Loop. He hadn't seen the boy since the killing as he had waited in the clearing for the hunters to return and Gilbert had remained behind with his men to do a preliminary butchering, but his displeasure with him had eased. The huntsman suffered from an abundance of self-assurance, ebullience and the need to show-off but these were the faults of youth and sooner or later the world would take him down a peg. Haworth halted but said nothing.

Gilbert stopped a small distance from him. His expression was like a dog's, hopeful but wary. "I'm happy to meet you, Sir Roger," he said.

Haworth frowned slightly. "Why?"

The young man took a step forward. "Because my lord told me you were angry with me," he said. "And I wanted to apologize to you and present you with this." With a dramatic flap, he unloosed the bundle in his arm and shook out the hide of the stag, perfectly recognizable but for its lack of hooves and head. Gilbert had to hold the top with his arms reaching high and even then the bottom trailed a little on the ground.

"Is this the Young King?" Haworth asked unnecessarily, but he was so surprised at such a gift that he couldn't think of anything else to say.

Gilbert's head peeked around the hide. "Yes, Sir Roger. The hide belongs to the one who brings down the beast, so it's mine to give. I hope you will accept it. I'll have it scraped and cured and tanned, of course. I just wanted you to see it in near its proper size. It will shrink with the working."

Haworth put out his hand and touched the rough hairs. "This is a fine hide, huntsman. You would do better to give it to the earl. He might reward you in some way."

Gilbert lowered his arms and started to roll up the hide. "I've no need to gift my lord, Sir Roger, and it was he who suggested I offer it to you. I respect his word. I know I'm fortunate to hold the position I have at my raw age and it's at his sufferance I do so. Will you accept this token?"

Refusal would have meant slighting Hugh as well as Gilbert le Loop but that thought didn't enter Haworth's mind at the time. It was a combination of the huntsman's youth and hopeful eyes which made Haworth feel parentally magnanimous and when he nodded his acceptance and spoke his thanks, he provoked a transformation of Gilbert's expression into delight, which he couldn't help but respond to with his own crooked smile.

Haworth awoke with a start and touched a hand to his cheek. It was wet. He frowned, confused. Had some melancholy dream awakened him? He couldn't remember...Then he felt the splash of water on his face again and realized the rain he'd expected all day had finally arrived and was spattering in through the unshuttered windows.

He reached out to his right but the other side of the bed was empty. Now he was fully awake. He sat upright. By the scant light of the lamp he'd left by the door, he could see that Hugh had not yet joined him; the sheets were smooth and undisturbed. He thought it was perhaps earlier than he imagined but another glance at the lamp, almost sputtering from dwindling fuel, told him it was early morning—past time for Hugh to be with him. It was evident the earl had never come up to his chambers after supper.

Haworth's grip tightened on the mattress. If Hugh was not with him at this hour, then he was with someone else.

In the years since Robert Bolsover's death, Haworth had felt that Hugh was pulling away from him. In consequence, he'd done everything he could think of to make himself indispensable in Hugh's life, culminating in that near-fatal clash with the Bastard's men at Llanlleyn. He'd thought that almost losing him had finally opened Hugh's eyes, especially as the earl had never been so attentive and so caring in the sum of their years together as he had been in the last three. It was Hugh himself who had put that idea in Haworth's head; how many times had he gently run his fingers along the red, puckered scar or kissed it as if amazed at this tangible proof of Haworth's undying loyalty and steadfast commitment to him?

Perhaps he had not been as vigilant as he ought to have been. Perhaps the earl's kindness and outward devotion had made him too relaxed in his position to sense if Hugh was restless and looking for someone new.

A few weeks earlier, Haworth had also awakened to find Hugh was not in bed beside him. For a little time, he hadn't been concerned, thinking Hugh might have gone to the garderobe or in search of wine or something to eat, but Hugh had not returned. Haworth had pulled on clothes and gone to the hall, but couldn't find him. He'd gone back to the chamber, resolved to stay awake until Hugh appeared, but when, a little before dawn, the earl had finally walked in, stripped himself and eased into bed, Haworth hadn't spoken a word. For some reason he couldn't quite articulate even to himself, he'd had the feeling he wouldn't want to hear the answer to any question he might ask.

But tonight, after a day of curtailed meals, a day spent in the company of people he disliked and a day whose weather had given him a nagging ache in his side, he wanted to know the truth. He deserved to know the truth! He got out of bed and his feet touched mats dampened by the rain coming in through the windows. He picked up the clothes he'd flung over the table before he'd gone to sleep and pulled on a tunic and leggings. He thrust his wet feet into his boots and laced them with quick, practiced fingers. His eyes went automatically to his sword and he hesitated. Then his jaw tightened and he scooped up the weapon and his belt. By the time he had reached the hall, he had wrapped the belt around his hips and stuck the sword in a loop on his left side.

The hall was dark and mostly quiet. There were the usual soft noises of people sleeping and here and there a couple sat close together and whispered, their bodies blending in the grainy dimness into one large, huddled lump. Haworth judged the easiest route to the outer doors and took it, his stride sure and brisk.

Because the night was warm, the doors had been left open. There was a small half-circle of wet stone where the rain was spattering in and Haworth halted abruptly. He'd forgotten about the rain. Across the ward, he could see it falling hard and fast against the backdrop of the torchlight flickering in the covered guard towers.

"Do you need something, Sir Roger?" a voice asked.

His head spun to the left. In a small alcove by the doors, out of range of the rain, two men-at-arms stood.

"You don't want to go out in this weather," the second man added. "We can get whatever you want."

He hesitated again. But he wanted to know! "Actually," he said calmly, "I'm looking for the viscount."

Was it his imagination or did the two men exchange an uneasy glance? "We saw him leave just before the rain started," the first man said. "He rode out of the castle. Unless he came through the postern, he hasn't returned."

"But there's no problem, Sir Roger!" the second man assured him in a voice so full of false cheer that Haworth knew the two men knew everything. "He said he'd be back before dawn."

Haworth stepped close to the men. "Where did he go?"

"He didn't say—"

Haworth's hand flew out and grabbed a fistful of the man's shirt. He pulled the guard towards him. "Where did he go?"

"He didn't say, Sir Roger!" the first man said nervously. "But the rumor is he visits the huntsman."

Haworth released the other man and stepped back, staring at the two of them. Blood throbbed in his head and he could hardly breathe. "Bring me a horse and have the gate opened," he said in a tight voice. When neither man moved, he barked, "Do it!" and the two of them hurried out.

By the time Haworth reached Gilbert le Loop's dwelling at the edge of the forest he was soaked, although he scarcely noticed. His mind was churning with fragments of sentences the huntsman had spoken in apparent innocence but which now seemed to have incriminating significance..."I have no need to gift my lord...""My lord told me you're invincible..." The implication that he and Hugh spoke often. He remembered le Loop's hand on Hugh's shoulder and his dramatic leap onto Hugh and the way he'd pinned the earl on the ground...And how had he been so blind to the obvious? Gilbert was young and blond, brash and arrogant—the very qualities to which Hugh had ever been susceptible.

He drew up at the gap in the low stone wall delineating the huntsman's compound. For someone of his age and status, Haworth thought, Gilbert lived finely. The wall enclosed a timbered house, several outbuildings, a substantial kitchen garden and a row of small fruit trees on its inner side. He sat for a moment, considering the number of people who might be inside the house but couldn't remember le Loop speaking of companions or servants. Perhaps a woman to clean and cook for him—perhaps his mother yet lived. If he had brothers they would probably be younger—otherwise he wouldn't have been the one to take his father's position. Haworth absently wiped a drip of rain off his cheek. He decided potential interlopers were a negligible factor and urged his horse through the opening in the wall.

The house, one storey of living area with cellars underneath, was dark and silent to his left. To his right were three rougher buildings. One must, he thought, be the stable and the others some kind of storage buildings. He glanced at the house, suddenly doubtful. Surely if the earl were inside there would be a light. Surely Hugh couldn't risk sleeping if he were to return to his chambers before dawn. What if the guards—the rumor—had been wrong? What if he himself were wrong? He would look like an old, jealous fool. If, however, Hugh's horse were in the stable, then Haworth's dark suppositions would be vindicated.

He dismounted, tied the reins to a crabapple tree by the wall and crossed the yard to the first building. As he put his hand to the short bar of wood fitted into two notched protuberances on either side of the door, he heard strange noises from within; snuffling and shifting sounds quite unlike the usual sounds made by horses. A little puzzled, he swung the bar up and opened the door. At that moment, chaos was unleashed.

This wasn't the stable but the kennels where the huntsman kept the earl's hounds. There were crates and pens inside, generously proportioned and provisioned with straw, and filled with barking, frantic dogs, disturbed in their sleep and faced with an unfamiliar intruder.

The clamor was loud and unnerving. Haworth hastily stepped backwards and slammed the door shut. The barking did not abate, nor did it seem to decrease in volume. He knew what would happen next and he turned towards the house to meet it. Sure enough, a moment later he saw a light moving across the darkened windows and then the door to the house flew in with sudden force. A figure appeared on the threshold and despite the rain and the night, Haworth recognized it immediately. "Who is it?" the huntsman demanded, loudly and sternly. "Answer me! Who is it?"

Haworth moved into his line of vision. "It's I, le Loop," he answered. "Roger of Haworth."

Was there a slight hesitation before le Loop repeated his name? And then, pulling the door closed after him, the huntsman hurried down the steps and across the muddy yard. He stopped a few yards from Haworth. "What brings you here, Sir Roger?" His voice sounded cautious to the other man.

"I was told I would find the earl here."

They were both speaking loudly because the barking continued, even more frantic now as the dogs recognized their master's voice. The noise grated on Haworth's already thin nerves but le Loop didn't seem bothered. "The earl?" he echoed.

Haworth studied him. In the vast darkness, clad only in a thin, unbleached tunic now wet from rain and clinging to his lithe frame, Gilbert's demeanor was not as self-assured as it had been during the hunt—this despite the fact that he stood in his own home. He seemed vulnerable, uncertain what to say or what to make of this strange interruption of his night. His face looked young and bewildered, not calculating or triumphant. He was not like Bolsover or de Vere...Haworth didn't feel the same hatred for le Loop as he had for the other two. The boy had never crossed him; indeed, had treated him with respect.

"Yes," Haworth said when it was clear Gilbert would say no more. "You remember? The man who owns the castle above the plain? This house of yours?" Suddenly he frowned. "Can't you quiet those hounds?"

"Yes, of course, Sir Roger!" The young man seemed relieved to be told what to do. "If you will just move aside..."

Wordlessly, Haworth stepped to his left. Gilbert pushed the bar up and stepped over the threshold. Without warning, Haworth gave his back a might shove and le Loop went flying. Haworth pulled the door shut and set the bar down. He didn't think there was another exit from the building but didn't bother to waste time investigating. He was quite certain Gilbert wouldn't chase after him.

He turned towards the house.

There was now a yellow light showing behind one of the two shuttered windows in the long side of the house facing him. He was aware of nothing now except his own apprehension. There was no rain, no shrill dogs, no night, no horse tethered to the crabapple tree...There was only a hand around his heart, squeezing painfully, a grip so tight it was hard to draw breath. He stared at the window, trying to breathe, feeling lightheaded. For the first time in his life, he was frightened. He could, he thought, just turn around and leave.

But he couldn't leave. He started walking across the yard.

He didn't understand why this time was different than the others. This time he blamed Hugh, not the young man with whom he'd taken up. But why? Because he thought more kindly of Gilbert le Loop, whom he considered cocky but not calculating? Or because it was one time too many? Or because he'd thought Hugh had finally come to realize it was Haworth he needed, not those dazzling youngsters with their fair hair and taut, slender bodies?

He climbed the wooden steps to the door and opened it.

The room into which he stepped comprised most of the house's living space. There were two simple plank doors at the far end to his right where two rooms had apparently been partitioned off and almost immediately to his left was a large hearth, but apart from these features the house was mostly this rectangular room. There were shelves and hooks fixed onto and into the wall opposite the door upon which were arrayed various household implements and nonperishable stores and there was a collection of outer garb hanging on pegs in the wall by the door. He took it all in without really seeing it and then, because there was nothing else to look at, his eyes went to the focal point of the room: an enormous wooden table with a long bench on either side.

Hugh sat facing him, a lamp set on the table beside him. Like the huntsman, he was only casually dressed, as though he'd been naked and had hastily thrown on some clothing when the dogs had barked their warning.

Haworth stared at him, confused by his reaction. He'd been angered by the realization of Hugh's betrayal; he'd spent the time waiting for the saddled horse to be brought to him and riding to le Loop's house gnawing on every possible encounter Hugh and the huntsman may have had, embellishing every word, every casual greeting, until the affair seemed to dwarf his own relationship with Hugh in its passion and intensity, until all his years with the earl had been reduced to a trivial fling. But some of his anger had dissipated when confronted by the young man's cautious civility and now it was further deflated by Hugh's calm, self-possessed posture at the table and his steady, returning stare.

"Well..." Hugh said mildly when Haworth did not speak. "I won't say this is a surprise."

The hand around Haworth's heart squeezed violently and his face twisted with anguish. "Why?" he whispered hoarsely.

"Why what, Roger? Why aren't I suprised to see you? Why after three years? Why Gilbert le Loop?" He paused. "Why aren't you enough?"

Again the hand squeezed and now there was also a sharp pain in his stomach, as if someone had just stabbed him with a dagger. "Yes, my lord..." he croaked. "Why aren't I enough?"

Hugh looked at him for a moment before replying, his eyes dark in the scanty light, expressionless. Then he said, "I don't know," in a flat voice.

Haworth felt lightheaded. He moved clumsily to the nearest bench and sat down. He leaned his elbows on the table, put his head in his hands and closed his eyes.

"Roger...I have a deep affection for you. I respect you as a soldier, a knight and my captain. You've been nothing but loyal—"

His head snapped up at that. "Everything I've ever done has been for you, my lord!" he interrupted plaintively. "I thought, especially since Llanlleyn, that you finally understood that."

"I've always known it, Roger. And have always been grateful. I'm sorry you're upset."

"But you don't really care, do you, my lord?" he said bitterly. "And you can't tell me it won't happen again with someone else."

Hugh frowned. "Someone else? Roger, what have you done with Gilbert?"

"I locked him in the kennels with his precious hounds. Safe enough." Hugh's expression of relief was so obvious that he perversely added, "For now."

"Roger, he's the innocent party in this—"

"Innocent? No, my lord, he is not innocent in this!" Haworth scrambled to his feet. "He is no more innocent than Bolsover or de Vire! Perhaps I will have to take care of le Loop as I took care of those two!"

Hugh was suddenly very still. "What do you mean?" he asked quietly.

"What I said."

"Are you out of your mind, Roger?" But it was spoken calmly, as if Hugh didn't believe him. "Robert Bolsover was killed in a hunting accident and you told me the Bastard himself murdered de Vire."

"There was no accident, my lord! My aim was deliberate. As for that turd de Vire...well, you sent me after him and I found him. It was the Welsh who captured me after I'd killed him and then Richard Delamere. I didn't see the Bastard until I was taken to his camp."

The shock on Hugh's face was plain even in the poor light. Haworth had been speaking with an anger prompted by Hugh's concern for the huntsman and disregard for the man who'd been his most loyal servant for almost twenty years but now he relented. He didn't want to hurt Hugh; that would make him the same kind of man as the others. He leaned over the table and reached a hand towards Hugh's shoulder but the earl pulled back.

"Roger, please tell me you're lying. Please tell me this isn't true! The story you told me about Ralph..."

"I made it up, my lord. I had to! You were at death's door, don't you remember?" Haworth spoke in a quiet, urgent voice. He sat down again and looked earnestly at Hugh. "You hadn't left your chamber for months! You were going to die! I told you that story because I knew the idea of vengeance against the Bastard would spur you into action! Would make you live!"

"But you killed him, Roger! Why? And Robert Bolsover as well? Why, Roger? Because they were rivals for my attention?"

"No! Because they would have destroyed you, my lord!" He tried to keep his voice even but he was strangely elated. He'd long wanted to explain everything he'd done to Hugh; he wanted no secrets between them. He hadn't envisioned this time, this place, these circumstances but it was all right. He'd get the burden of secrecy off his shoulders and then he and Hugh could start again. "You cared for them more deeply than they cared for you—they wanted only what your money and power could give them—they cared nothing for you as a man!"

"But that was my decision, Roger, not yours—"

"My lord, you were too entangled to think clearly. You couldn't make a rational decision. I had to intervene! To save you!" Haworth's heart was beating so rapidly he had to pause to take a breath. "I admit, I was jealous of Bolsover. But that's not why I killed him. His influence over you was too great for a man of your position. You'd given him land and income and horses—you'd even married his sister! Who knows where it would have ended if I hadn't put a stop to him! And afterwards—you thanked me! Don't you remember, my lord? You said you'd been wrong to get involved with a man like Robert Bolsover. You said it must never happen again. You said I must not let you make a fool of yourself again!"

Hugh was shaking his head. "I don't remember that..."

"And then I saw it starting again with Ralph de Vire!"

"You hated Ralph..."

"No, my lord. I hated the influence he had over you."

Hugh did not reply. He sat at the table, no longer looking at Haworth but at some point on the long plank. Haworth said nothing although his stomach was churning. He thought the earl was carefully considering everything he'd said; he thought once Hugh went over it all, he would understand his captain's actions—and admit they had been necessary.

Then Hugh stood up. He looked down at Haworth, whose face was tilted toward him expectantly. "This is the most fantastic story I've ever heard, Roger," he said quietly. "I will not bring charges of murder against you—"

"Charges!"

"—if you agree to leave my service at first light. I will give you coin, three horses, a new hauberk and sword. As long as you swear never to come near me again, I will not divulge the circumstances of your dismissal."

Haworth was stunned further. "You're dismissing me?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Hugh leaned over the table. "Roger, you are a man obsessed. It's best for the both of us, but particularly for you, if we are no longer with each other."

"My lord, didn't you hear what I said? I did what I did for you! To help you! "

Hugh's voice was sharp. "You did it for yourself, Roger!"

Haworth got to his feet. "How can you say that? It isn't true!" he protested.

But Hugh wasn't listening. He'd turned away and now Haworth watched as he picked up the lamp from the table, walked to the far end of the room, opened one of the doors and disappeared behind it. Haworth stood in the sudden darkness, staring helplessly at the door, bewildered by the turn of the conversation. He'd laid it all down for Hugh very plainly. Why didn't Hugh see the truth of it? And now, he thought miserably, it was going to happen again with Gilbert le Loop.

After some time, the far door opened and Hugh re-appeared, holding the lamp before him. He'd gotten properly dressed, including boots and sword. He took a few steps forward and then stopped and frowned at Haworth. "Are you still here? Take your horse, go back to the castle and spend the remainder of the night in the barracks. In the morning, see my steward. Everything will have been arranged."

"My lord, perhaps I didn't explain correctly—"

"You explained very well, Roger!" With an angry step, he crossed the floor and Haworth thought he would keep going, through the door and into the yard but he stopped abruptly when he was close to him, as if he'd had second thoughts. After a long pause, he turned to face Haworth and his expression, which had been so horribly rigid only a moment before had calmed. "We have a long history, Roger," he said. "Because of that, it's hard to see our relationship end." And then, as Haworth started to reach out to him, he added, "But I can never forgive you for what you did."

"My lord, what will you do?" Haworth said frantically, his voice rising as Hugh moved off towards the door.

He meant what would Hugh do without him to watch his back and perhaps the earl even knew this, but his answer was matter-of-fact and firm. "I'm going to release Gilbert and have him saddle my horse. Then I'm going home."

And Haworth heard the unspoken but implicit, final two words, "without you." They echoed in his head, cold and unfeeling, despite the years of friendship and affection between them. In an instant, his anguish grew into an outraged despair. Hugh was walking to the door; he'd switched the lamp to his left hand and had put his right on the latch. Any moment now he would be out of Haworth's life forever. Haworth wanted to cry out, "My lord, what will I do?" because he knew that without Hugh, his life was meaningless. He didn't even realize he was trailing after the other man...

In less time than it took the earl to lift up the latch and begin to pull in the door, Haworth had seized him by the arm. Hugh swung around angrily. The light from the lamp flickered violently. "What do you think you're doing, Roger?" he demanded and tried to pull his arm free.

Haworth, however, was the stronger of the two and his grip tightened rather than eased. "I'm not letting you go to him, my lord!" he said between gritted teeth. Now that Hugh was facing him, he grabbed his other arm. "He'll only ruin you in the end and if you send me away, I won't be here to help you! I'll stop it now!"

Hugh struggled in his captain's grip. "Don't be ridiculous, Roger! Let go of me immediately!"

For a moment they wrestled each other. At first, Haworth heard only the grunting of men vying for position and the scrape of boot heels on the wooden floor and then there was a sudden crash and he heard shouting. It began as an uncomprehensible babble from far away but grew louder and louder in little time until it filled the room and he had to squeeze his eyes shut so he would not see it. But it was impossible to keep it out of his ears. The noise was deafening. He wanted to clap his hands over his ears but that would have meant releasing his hold on Hugh and then the earl would flee and he'd be left alone, forever. As long as he could hold Hugh, he would. He tried to raise his voice over the din, to explain to Hugh why he had to hold onto him, why he couldn't let him go to the huntsman, why he was the only one who had ever loved him and, unlike the others, didn't want anything of him but love in return...And why didn't Hugh understand this? Why? Why had Hugh accused him of being selfish because he'd killed de Vire and Bolsover when he'd killed them out of sheer love? Did he deserve to be treated like a criminal, cast out of Hugh's service and told never to come near him again when he'd done it all to save Hugh's sanity and body? Was his near-death in the field outside Llanlleyn of such small consequence that Hugh would not even think to mention it? Did all those years of devotion count for nothing because he wasn't blond, young and arrogant? It wasn't right!

He was breathless from so much talking, so much exertion. The room seemed suddenly hot and suffocating and the earl was heavy in his hands. Somehow, they'd fallen down onto the floor in their struggling. As he paused to catch his breath, Haworth became aware that the awful shouting had finally stopped but had been replaced with a different roar, crackling and steady. He tried to breathe again but the air was hot in his throat. He looked down at Hugh and saw his face was brightly lit by the fire. Hugh did not move. His eyes were open and staring at Haworth but despite his dulled senses, Haworth knew immediately that the earl didn't see him. He didn't understand what had happened; he was dizzy and his mind was confused. And it was impossible to breathe! That was odd: that he was so tired he couldn't summon the strength to breathe. He looked at the earl again as his elbows buckled. He thought Hugh would not mind very much if he rested his head on his chest just one last time...

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