Читать книгу Border Bride - Deborah Hale, Deborah Hale - Страница 11

Though Enid slept in later than usual the next morning, she was not sorry for it. The hounds of Chester had long since risen, no doubt. Con ap Ifan might be miles from Glyneira by now, depending on which direction his roving inclination took him. And she’d been spared the polite necessity of seeing him off and wishing him godspeed.

Yet some bitter herb had crept into her sweet brew of relief at Con’s going.

“Think no more of him,” she chided herself as she buried the handsome green kirtle at the bottom of her trunk once more, then pulled on another, better suited for all the work she must do to prepare for Lord Macsen’s arrival.

Con’s surprise coming yesterday had made her realize the border chief might appear any day. She wanted the maenol in good order to welcome him.

Despite their late night, her children had not slept past their normal rising time. Myfanwy must be out feeding the fowl, while Davy would be off conning lessons with Father Thomas.

With no company and the prospect of a good day’s work ahead of her, Enid dispensed with a veil. Instead she combed out her long dark hair and plaited it back into a thick braid, with only a passing speculation as to how many white threads it had sprouted as a result of Con’s unexpected advent.

As she dressed her hair, Enid mulled over the preparations needed for Macsen’s arrival. They must butcher a few geese and perhaps a suckling pig so the meat could hang. She’d send Idwal with the hounds to bring in some fresh game. The hall must be swept out and fresh rushes strewn with sweetening herbs.

Once all those tasks were seen to, she would turn her attention back to such of the wool clip as she’d chosen to keep for their own use. The rest of the shorn fleeces awaited a visit from the merchant in early summer. Now that the wool had been washed, it would need to boil with dye plants, and mordant to fix the colors.

Did she have enough woad on hand to dye a batch blue for a new cloak for Bryn? Enid mulled the question over on her way to the wash shed. As she rounded the corner of the house, her mind already planning the pattern of weave, she collided with…

“Con ap Ifan! By Dewi Sant, what are you still doing here? I thought you meant to be on your way early.”

If he minded her uncivil greeting, Con gave no sign. “Call it the caprice of a bard.”

With those airy words and the casual hoist of one shoulder, he razed Enid’s carefully constructed plans to the ground.

“You and I never truly got a chance to talk over old times,” he added by way of explanation. “Though you got your ears filled with all the news of my doings, I scarcely know a jot about you. Why, I had no inkling you were set to wed your first husband’s lord. As private as a mole, you are, woman. Most ladies I know would boast of such an honor even before they offered a guest water.”

“How did you come to hear of that?” The abrupt question had hardly left her lips before she guessed the answer.

“Your sister-in-law told me last night.” Con confirmed Enid’s certain suspicion. “After you’d taken the children off to bed. Gaynor said it was a pity I couldn’t stay to entertain the wedding guests. On reflection I agreed it would be a terrible shame. So I made up my mind to accept your hospitality a few days more.”

Suddenly aware of how close he hovered over her, Enid took an unsteady step away. “Gaynor’s a good soul, but she gets ahead of herself betimes. There’s nothing settled between Lord Macsen and me by way of wedding.”

A teasing light twinkled in Con’s blue eyes, like the swift dance of water over a stony mountain riverbed. “You do expect him to come soon, though? And you have hopes of him?”

“What business is it of yours if I do, Con ap Ifan?” Enid wasn’t sure what vexed her more—his dangerous decision to linger at Glyneira, or the fear that each day he spent here would make it that much harder to part with him again.

“I only clapped eyes on you yesterday for the first time in a dozen years. You’re burnt brown as a Saracen and you fought long in the service of the Normans.”

The more she spoke, the hotter her indignation kindled. “You said yourself, you mean to go away again as soon as you may, leaving who knows what kind of a pig’s breakfast behind you. You’ve got no call to meddle in my plans or even to know what they might be.”

Con flinched back from her vigorous rebuke as he might have from a man brandishing a sword. “What’s got into you, woman? I thought we’d parted as friends. Besides keeping your young ones awake late last night, I haven’t done you any harm since I’ve come under your roof. Why must you scold me so, and do your best to chivvy me away? Am I not welcome in Glyneira? You did offer me water…”

And that bound her, damn his hide! Having paid so dear a price for her youthful rebellion, Enid could no longer imagine transgressing against the laws of tradition that obligated her.

“I thought you were someone else.” She doubted the excuse would sway him.

“Macsen ap Gryffith?”

She resented the sharp edge in Con’s voice when he spoke the border chief’s name. “As it happens, yes.”

“Are you saying you wouldn’t have offered me your hospitality had you known who I was?” If she’d kicked Davy’s puppy, the boy and the dog together could not have treated her to such a look of innocent, injured reproach.

“Yes…I mean…no” she sputtered “…that is…” If she wasn’t careful, she might pitch herself into Con’s arms or gather him into hers.

“Have I risen too high to suit you, Enid versch Blethyn?” Con’s posture stiffened and the yearning azure of his eyes froze to dark ice. “Is that it?”

He was the one imposing on her hospitality, rooting into all sorts of matters he had no call to concern himself about. The gall of the fellow to answer her back, proud as a prince!

“I’m sure I don’t know what kind of air you’re mincing.”

“Do you not? Then I’ll be plainer, shall I?” Con’s chiselled chin jutted. “When I was a poor plowboy in your father’s house and you the intended bride of a great lord, it amused you to befriend me. Even flirt a bit to exercise your wiles for your future husband.”

If Enid had soaked her cheeks for a week in bloodroot, she could not have dyed them any redder than they must be at that moment. Con thought she’d been toying with him, when instead she’d been over her head and ears in love.

“Now that you’ve come down a bit in the world,” said Con, “while I’ve come up, it doesn’t suit you, does it, your ladyship?”

“I never heard such idle talk…”

“Let me tell you one thing, then, Blethyn’s daughter, I’ve warmed the beds of plenty women richer and higher-born than you since I left Wales. And they seemed to like it well enough.” With that, Con spun on his heel and stalked off.

Enid stood rooted to the packed earth of the courtyard, trembling with a mixture of fury and dismay. She feared the bubbling cauldron might also contain a tiny but potent measure of that well-aged poison…desire.

He was right in what he’d said, Con knew it better than he knew the gospel. He stormed the length of the timber-walled compound, not certain where he was headed.

When they’d been boy and girl together under her father’s roof, ripe to bursting with all sorts of forbidden inclinations, Enid had fanned his calf-love into a blaze that had consumed him day and night. Especially at night.

How often had he woken in his loft bed above the oxen’s stalls, rampant and slick with sweat over a dream of that elusive girl naked in his arms?

As much as he’d been lured into mercenary service by the call of adventure and advancement, Con had also fled headlong from the demons of lust that had gnawed at his young flesh. And the bitter certainty that he had no chance in the world of winning Enid versch Blethyn.

Con barely noticed his steps slowing.

If she’d been haughty and scornful of him, it would have been so much easier to bear. For then he’d have craved only her ripening beauty, and any other girl would have made a tolerable proxy. But Enid had never once hinted at the difference in their stations and expectations. Then again, she hadn’t needed to. He’d been aware enough of the gulf between them for both.

As far back as Con could remember, she’d always spoken and behaved as though he was every inch the equal of the princeling her father meant her to wed. To the most menial member of Blethyn ap Owain’s household, struggling to cultivate a sense of worth, Enid’s manner toward him had been sweet balm.

“Fie!” Con kicked a tussock of weeds that had forced their stubborn way out of the courtyard’s hard dirt. “You’re thinking yourself in circles, fool! Was she only toying with you back then? Or did you imagine her soft looks because you craved them so badly?”

A deep halting voice issued from the stables, “You must…talk slower…if you mean me to answer.”

Enid’s brother-in-law emerged into the courtyard with a dung fork in one hand. A big fellow was Idwal, with ruddy-brown hair and a nose that looked like it had been broken at least once. That and his size might have given him an air of grim menace, but for his guileless blue eyes and ready grin.

“I need no answer, friend.” As Con’s mouth stretched wide, he could feel his annoyance with Enid slipping. He grabbed onto it and tried to hold tight. “I was only thinking with my tongue, as ever.”

“Oh.” Idwal nodded as if he understood, but his jagged features contorted slightly in a look of puzzlement.

It passed in a flash, chased off his face by a broad smile. “Fine music you made…last night.” He broke into a chorus of “Goat white, goat white, goat white,” then stopped abruptly. “Will you play again tonight and tell more stories?”

That was the question of the day, wasn’t it? Con thought. Would he let Enid’s coldness drive him out of Glyneira, to blunder into Macsen ap Gryffith on his way to Hen Coed, or chance missing the border chief altogether?

His time in the East had taught Con not to waste effort chasing quarry that might come to him if he exercised a little patience.

“I’ve a mind to stay a few days more. Would you like that?”

“Oh, yes!” The vigor with which Idwal’s head bobbed up and down warmed Con. In the fellow’s uncomplicated welcome, he found an antidote to Enid’s baffling shifts of manner.

“I may even hang about until Lord Macsen comes.” Con mused aloud. “He might think it an honor that Glyneira has a bard on hand to entertain him.”

Idwal considered and appeared to see the sense in that, even if his clever sister-in-law couldn’t.

Con himself was still firmly on the fence. This would be an ideal opportunity for his talks with Lord Macsen. All he had to do was wait around for the plum to drop into his lap. On the other side of the balance, his pride rankled at the notion of staying where he wasn’t welcome.

From as far back as Con could remember, he’d been blessed, or cursed, with the ability to see both head and tail of a coin at once. For the most part it had been an advantage, helping him make peace between his fellow warriors when they fell out among themselves. It had come in handy on his mission for the Empress, too, letting him see events through the eyes of the chiefs he was trying to pacify. By anticipating their arguments, he’d been able to marshal all the reasons to counter them.

Perhaps he’d been too hasty with Enid—blinded by his own tetchy pride and the old ulcerous wound of his hopeless boyhood longing for her.

“There’s only one wee problem in all this, Idwal.” Con blew out a breath, not certain if he was more exasperated with Enid…or with himself. “I think the lady of Glyneira would just as lief be clear of me.”

Idwal mulled the idea over and over, like an old hound worrying a tough bone.

“No,” he ventured at last. “That’s just…her way. She’s not a…merry lass like my Gaynor. There’s a…sad place in her. A sore spot she fears folks may…poke at…if she lets them too close like.”

He grew more and more agitated with each word, until at last he broke off, slamming the tines of his dung fork against the dirt in frustration. “I must sound…a fool. I’m that bad…with talk now. Words is all riddles to me.”

“Don’t you fret, Idwal.” A qualm of shame gripped Con’s belly. What was his imagined slight compared to this man’s struggle to make himself understood? Or whatever troubles Enid might carry on her slender shoulders? “You talk better sense than lots I’ve heard. It can’t have been easy for any of you at Glyneira since Howell was killed.”

Idwal calmed. “Not bad…for me. I do as I’ve done…all along. Muck out the animals. Watch the gate. Hunt some. Enid has the…running of the place. Wants to keep it…going…till the lad’s of age.”

It would be many years until Master Davy was old enough to lift the responsibility from his mother. No wonder Enid had looked for a strong, canny husband to share some of the burden. And no wonder she shrank from the prospect of a troublesome guest underfoot while she was trying to prepare for her suitor’s coming. Considering some of the mischief he’d gotten up to during their childhood, Enid had good cause to believe he might be more bother than he was worth.

Then and there, Con swore he’d be no fuss to her. He would work his heart out in the next few days to prove his worth.

“Have you another fork, Idwal?” he asked, striding toward the stable. “Two can muck out a barn twice as fast as one. Then we can go scare up some game for the feasting when Lord Macsen comes.”

She must have gotten rid of him after all, Enid decided as the day wore on with not a sign of Con ap Ifan around the maenol compound.

Not that she’d been looking for him, of course.

As she went through the familiar steps of wool dying, Enid swept her thoughts clean of the dreadful fancies that had plagued her. When Macsen ap Gryffith and his party arrived at Glyneira, Con would not be here to meet them.

Con would not set eyes on Macsen’s fosterling, her twelve-year-old son, Bryn, and see the truth he might have guessed sooner, if he hadn’t willfully blinded himself to it.

That her late husband had not been the boy’s father.

The flutter of panic in Enid’s chest eased, but an ache of regret took its place. She would probably never again set eyes on the only man she’d ever loved for she had driven him from her door with harsh words.

She’d had no choice, Enid reminded herself. Con had lain waste to her life once already. She had so much more to lose now than she’d had then.

Her plan to bind her family closer together, safe as downy chicks under motherly wings, would all be for naught. Even if Macsen would still marry her once he found out the secret she’d hidden for so long, she’d be sure to lose Bryn.

The boy was so much like Con—daring to the point of foolhardiness, eager to venture forth into the big dangerous world beyond Powys. If Bryn discovered he had a Crusader for a father, the boy would stick to Con like a burr.

And Con? He’d be just irresponsible enough to permit it, like as not. Imagining fatherhood a great lark without sparing a thought for the responsibilities.

For the first time, Enid understood something of her father’s actions when she’d informed him she could not wed the man he had chosen for her because she’d surrendered her virginity to a young plowboy turned mercenary. At the time she’d thought her father harsh and hateful.

Part of him might have wanted to punish her for challenging his authority and thwarting his plans of a grand alliance, but another part had likely just wanted to protect her in the way she now longed to protect her own children.

“Mam!” As if summoned by her thoughts, Davy came tearing into the wash shed. “Mam, come see. Idwal and the bard have brought meat and fish!”

O Arswyd! For a moment Enid struggled to catch her breath. She should have known it would not be so easy to rid herself of Con ap Ifan. As a boy, he’d deafened his ears to scoldings until all but the most severe physical punishment rolled off his back. His temper might have flared a little when they’d spoken that morning, but Con had never been one to nurse a grudge. His quickness to make up a quarrel had baffled and infuriated her by turns when they’d been young.

How would she ever get rid of a man who refused to take offense and leave? Unless she defied the most sacred traditions of her people by chasing off her unwanted guest at the point of a sword?

“Come, Mam!” Impatient with her delay, Davy grabbed Enid by the sleeve and tugged her into the courtyard.

For a moment, she could barely see Con through the crowd that had gathered around him and Idwal. As Davy towed her toward them, though, the flock of admirers parted.

Idwal toted a mess of fat brown trout, while Con held aloft a pair of good-sized hares by the hind legs. Catching sight of Enid, he waggled the rabbit carcasses and flashed her a smile of such infectious appeal that the corners of her lips twitched in spite of her.

“Now, no talk of guests sitting idle and being entertained while the rest of the household is scurrying to make preparations,” Con insisted. “Clever fellow that he is, Idwal found the means to satisfy both. I enjoyed a fine day’s hunting, and we’ve brought back a fair catch to stock the larder.”

The look of beaming pride on her brother-in-law’s broad features made Enid bite back the sharp words that tingled on the tip of her tongue. What could she say that wouldn’t knock poor Idwal flatter than a cake of lagana?

Did Con understand just how dirty he was fighting?

“A few more days like this,” quipped the bard-turned-hunter, “and you’ll be able to gorge Macsen ap Gryffith until he’s as round as the old Earl of Chester!”

In what she hoped would pass for a bantering tone, Enid replied, “Lord Macsen won’t thank us if he grows too heavy for his horse to bear him. Still, we should be able to furnish a good table with such a fine catch.”

She glanced around at those who’d gathered. “Don’t forget, we have other preparations to make for our expected guests from Hen Coed, and our regular spring tasks besides.”

As the small crowd dispersed back to their chores, Gaynor took the hares from Con. “Let me go hang these, won’t you? My, they’re fine and heavy. Bring the fish along, Idwal, that’s a good fellow.”

The children ran off after their aunt and uncle, leaving Enid and Con standing alone outside the wash shed.

A ridiculous wave of bashfulness suddenly swamped the mistress of Glyneira. Swallowing several times in quick succession, she nodded toward the low building behind her. “Can we talk for a moment, Con? In here, where we won’t risk being overheard by anyone who cocks an ear.”

He followed her into the shadowy interior, lit only by what sunrays spilled through the open door and by the small fire that crackled under the dye cauldron. Beneath the faint reek of smoke and the sharp aroma of the dye plants hung the smell of wool.

Enid spun around to face Con…too quickly. He blundered into her and for a heart-pounding instant they gripped each other to keep from falling. The innocent fumble of Con’s hands on her fully clothed body made Enid burn for him as she never had for her lawful husband, God rest him.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“No, Enid. I’m sorry.” Con’s hand trailed down her arm to offer her fingers a fleeting squeeze before letting go. “Sorry for bumping into you just now, and sorry for making such an ass of myself this morning. Of course it’s no business of mine who you wed or when.”

And nothing could persuade him to make it his business. Enid dismissed that twinge of regret the way she would have swatted off an insistent fly.

“As it happens,” Con said, “I have a bit of business to discuss with Macsen ap Gryffith. And Glyneira would be a better spot to meet with him than Hen Coed, for a number of reasons. You’d be granting me a great favor if you let me stay. In the meantime, I’ll put myself at your service to do whatever needs doing around here. Be it to prepare for your company or to get your spring crop sown. I’m not the mischief I used to be as a lad. I swear, you’ll never know I’m around.”

Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Con ap Ifan. Enid nearly choked to prevent that thought from coming out in words. She would know he was around. Her body would tingle with the knowledge from daybreak until dusk every day. Through the dark, empty hours of the night, that tingling would intensify to an unbearable itch.

But how could she deny his request without blurting out the secrets she dared not reveal?

Just as when they were young, he’d woven a circle of words around her—all the reasons and sound arguments his facile mind could spin so easily. He even seemed able to anticipate her objections and counter them before she got them out of her mouth.

All she had was her tenacity and patience. Sometimes, if she clung to her opinion stubbornly enough, she would wear him out. But not often. More frequently, he would dizzy her until she lost her grip and tumbled into his sticky web.

Perhaps he suspected her present silence was an effort to dig in her heels against him, rather than a desperate scramble to rally a reply.

Grabbing the tip of the long braid that hung over her shoulder, he tickled her cheek with it, the way he’d often teased her in their younger years. “Come, now, Enid. I don’t mean you any harm.”

Of course he wouldn’t mean it. He would cause her harm, though, if he stayed. She tried to hold on to that painful certainty, even as her head spun and she tilted toward Con.

Somehow, their lips found each other.

On several special occasions Enid had tasted mead, sweet and intoxicating. Con’s kiss was better. It seemed to transform her blood into honey, flowing in a thick, languid pulse. In her breasts and her loins it distilled into something hot and tipsy.

Before she could melt into a puddle of seething need on the floor beneath him, Con wrenched himself away from her, muttering some guttural Saxon-sounding oath.

“I beg your pardon, Enid.” His easy poise shaken for once, Con staggered back toward the door. “I didn’t mean to do that! I don’t know what came over me.”

As he fled, Enid struggled to bring her rebellious feelings back under control.

Though that kiss had hoisted her high only to cast her back down again, she did not regret it. For she had glimpsed the key to ridding Glyneira of Conwy ap Ifan.

Nothing would spur him to run so far and so fast as if she made believe she wanted to keep him here with her.

Forever.