Читать книгу Castle of the Wolf - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 12

Chapter Four

Rheged immediately went back to the hall. If Tamsin was being punished because they’d been together last night, he must and would make certain Lord DeLac knew the lady was innocent of any indiscretion.

Well, perhaps she wasn’t entirely innocent, but she’d certainly done nothing worthy of punishment.

When he entered the hall, he saw at once that Tamsin wasn’t there, although more of the guests were, including a few of the ladies.

Deciding he would wait until Tamsin appeared or Lord DeLac arrived, Rheged sat on one of the benches halfway down the hall, away from anyone else. Not surprisingly, no one moved to sit near him. Only the servants addressed him, hurrying to offer him bread, honey, wine or ale. He waved them away and paid no heed to their curious regard any more than he did to the sideways glances the Normans gave him.

“Not like her at all,” he heard a woman say behind him. “Normally she’s calm as can be, even after a feast, but I swear to you, Denly, she fair tore a strip off Baldur this morning for not telling her they was running short of wine.”

Rheged moved farther back in the shadow of the pillar and looked over his shoulder. Two servants, a man and a woman, were replacing the torches in the sconces.

“No wonder she’s snappish,” the man remarked as he lifted down a burned-out torch. “Poor thing’s bone-tired. Not that she’s resting. She’s been in the storerooms all morning, checking the stores as if the king himself were coming.”

So it seemed Tamsin wasn’t being punished. She was going about her daily business, as if nothing at all had happened.

And so should he.

* * *

So Rheged was still telling himself early the next morning as he rode the last mile toward his fortress. He had spent the night encamped in a wood halfway between Castle DeLac and his estate, in a ruin of a coal burner’s hut he’d spotted when he ventured from the road seeking water for his horse. As was his habit after years of being on his own, he always carried flint and steel, and had a loaf of bread he’d slipped into his tunic before he left the hall at Castle DeLac that morning. That meant he was able to save the cost of a night at an inn, as well as the worry that some outlaw or thief might guess that he carried something of value and try to rob him. Not that any thief or highwayman would have succeeded. None ever had before, not even when he was a boy. He fought fiercely to keep what was his, and had first learned to fight not from some honorable knight, but on the streets and in the alleys of more places than he could remember. He could use anything that came to hand to defend himself, or simply his bare fists, if need be.

Thank God those days of living hand to mouth, of never knowing if he would eat that day or starve, of fighting over scraps or holding off any who would take what little he had, were over.

His heart swelled with pride and satisfaction when he rode over the ridge and saw his fortress rising from the autumn mist in the valley—the White Valley, Cwm Bron. To be sure, compared to Castle DeLac, his castle seemed small and more than a half a ruin, but this was only a beginning. One day, he would build a new and better fortress with a moat, at least two curtain walls, an inner and outer ward and a gatehouse with a portcullis. Inside, there would be a larger keep, stables, a hall and a chapel, too. The family apartments would be spacious and comfortable, finely furnished with beds and perhaps even a carpet in his own chamber. Farmers, tradesmen, craftsmen and merchants would feel safe and secure under his protection, and the village beyond the castle walls would grow and prosper, too.

Now, though, only a very small village of wattle-and-daub cottages and wooden buildings had grown around the single outer stone walls of his fortress. Inside the wall only the ancient round keep and one other building were made of stone. The others were wattle-and-daub, or timber, and several were in a sad state of disrepair. So far, he’d managed to have the work on the keep completed and the mill, farther down the river, repaired. Recently his men had started on the outer wall. Later, when it was finished, the work on the rest of the interior buildings would begin.

He could achieve his goals faster if he wed a wealthy woman. Not a titled lady, who would likely look down on a man of his origins, but a rich merchant’s daughter or sister.

With snapping brown eyes and hair to her waist.

He must stop thinking of Tamsin of DeLac. She must be nothing to him.

He surveyed the wall walk nearest the gate and thought he could make out the stocky Gareth, his friend and garrison commander. Gareth had no doubt been watching for his return, ready to ply him with questions about the tournament, the fighting and, being Gareth, the women.

Gareth had lost three of his bottom teeth in a skirmish, most of one eyebrow was nothing but a scar and his visage had been none too pretty to begin with. Despite his lack of physical attractiveness, however, he rarely had trouble finding female company, for he was as merry as Rheged was serious. Nevertheless they had been friends and comrades-in-arms for over fifteen years, from the time a half-drunk Gareth had tried to knock Rheged down and instead had fallen, laughing, into a horse trough.

As Rheged raised his hand in greeting, Sir Algar, white-haired and agile despite his years, came hurrying out of the open gate of Cwm Bron. Rheged hadn’t expected to find his overlord waiting for him, and he was pleased and flattered. And relieved, too, a little, for now Gareth’s questions would have to wait.

“Greetings, my lord!” Rheged called out, riding closer. Unlike Lord DeLac, Sir Algar was slender and although his long tunic, embossed leather belt and polished boots had surely been expensive, he wore few jewels.

“I couldn’t wait to find out who the champion of the tournament was,” Sir Algar cheerfully explained when Rheged swung down from his horse to walk beside him.

“I was.”

“I knew it!” Algar cried, slapping his thigh with delight. “I knew nobody’d beat you!”

“Nobody at that tournament anyway,” Rheged replied.

They’d no sooner entered the yard than Dan the groom hurried out of the stable as fast as his short legs could take him. Between his lack of height, potbelly and red face, the groom was rather like an apple with limbs. He was also honest and good at his job, and that was what counted with Rheged.

“Rub Jevan down well, and have my mail and surcoat taken to the armory for cleaning,” Rheged said, stroking his destrier’s nose.

Dan nodded and took hold of the reins while Rheged retrieved the smaller leather pouch that had also been tied to his saddle.

“Well, then, no limbs missing, I see,” Gareth noted wryly after he joined them, running his gaze up and down Rheged’s frame, which was as long and lean as his was short and brawny.

“No,” Rheged replied, apparently equally serious. “Only a few bruises.”

“And he won!” Sir Algar exclaimed.

“Can’t have been much of a competition, then,” Gareth observed.

“Not much,” Rheged answered with a shrug. “I see the fortress is still standing, so no trouble while I was gone, I take it?”

“Not a thing.”

Rheged noticed Sir Algar fidgeting. “Good. Tell the guards the watchword for the night is...woolshed.”

Gareth looked a little surprised, but he nodded and strolled off toward the men standing near the gate while Rheged, with Sir Algar beside him, started toward the keep.

“What did you make of Lord DeLac?” Sir Algar asked as they went up the steps to the second level in the building that served as Rheged’s hall. The chamber where he slept was on the third level, just below the new slate roof.

“Rich and prosperous and pleased with himself,” Rheged replied as they entered. This room was half the size of Lord DeLac’s great hall, and had no tapestries or other decoration. The tables were scarred and none too clean, the benches likewise. There was one chair, also old and not in the best of condition. Compared to Lord DeLac’s hall... There was no comparison, but then, he had no wife to rule it.

Sir Algar chuckled. “That’s one way to put it, I suppose. He always was a vain fellow, and arrogant. Who else was there? Anyone to give you trouble?”

“It wasn’t my easiest victory,” Rheged conceded while they walked toward the smoking central hearth. “A few of the younger knights decided to try me, and one or two will be formidable when they’ve had more experience.”

Hopefully by the time those young bucks were skilled enough to be serious competition, his estate would be so prosperous that he wouldn’t have to travel to tournaments to augment his income like some kind of entertainer.

Sir Algar slid him a grin. “And the ladies? Any beauties among them? Did any quarrels break out over you?”

“I was thinking about the battle before the melee and was too tired to pay much attention afterward,” Rheged replied, deciding there was no need to tell Sir Algar about Lord DeLac’s niece and his encounters with her.

“What, you saw no one to make you think of marriage? What of DeLac’s daughter? I hear she’s very beautiful.”

Rheged wondered if that was why Sir Algar had been so keen that he go to this particular tournament. If so, he was going to be disappointed. “I don’t think Lord DeLac would consider me a fitting son-in-law, and Lady Mavis didn’t seem at all interested in me.”

The older man chuckled and settled into the chair. “I find that hard to fathom.”

Rheged sat on a nearby bench and called out for Hildie, a middle-aged maidservant with a mole on her cheek who was lingering near the door to the kitchen, to bring wine.

“I’m far from wealthy,” he said to Lord Algar, “and I’m Welsh to boot—hardly attributes to attract a Norman bride.”

“Plenty of women wouldn’t care about wealth or nationality when they look at you. Good God, man, you’re any maiden’s dream!”

“I didn’t appear to be Lady Mavis’s dream.”

Sir Algar sighed. Then his eyes lit up again. “What of the man’s niece? Is she not of marriageable age?”

“Yes.”

“What sort of woman is she?”

“Betrothed.”

“Betrothed? To whom?”

“Sir Blane of Dunborough.”

“That old reprobate?” Sir Algar cried with a disgust that matched Rheged’s own.

“I gather DeLac needs an ally in the north.”

“DeLac must truly be desperate if he’ll give his niece to that black-hearted villain!”

“Or she wants a rich and powerful husband,” Rheged answered, for was that not what she herself had said?

“Ah.” Sir Algar leaned back in the chair and stroked his beard. “That could be—and it would be understandable, too. She came to DeLac with nearly nothing as a child after her parents died of a sickness and has been dependent on his charity ever since. That cannot be a comfortable existence. But Blane! Surely there must be someone else she could marry in the north.”

“The lady has already agreed.”

“Well, then, there’s an end to it,” Sir Algar said with another sigh. “At least Blane is old, so she may soon be a widow. Perhaps she’s already considered that.”

“Perhaps,” Rheged agreed, although he found no comfort in that thought. He didn’t want to believe the passionate woman he had kissed could be so coldhearted that she would eagerly anticipate widowhood, any more than he wanted to see her in Blane’s household. As for spending even a single night in the man’s bed...

“But what of the prize, man?” Sir Algar demanded, his query breaking the silence. “And how much did you take in ransoms for arms and horses?”

From his belt Rheged drew out a purse of coins that would have delighted him at any other time and set it on the bench. “Fifty marks in coin, and this.” He opened the leather pouch, pulled the golden box from the leather bag and held it up. “This was the prize I won.”

“God be praised!” Sir Algar gasped, his light blue eyes widening as his white eyebrows shot up. “I can’t believe it! Either the man’s richer than I ever suspected or he’s grown generous over the years.”

Sir Algar reached out for the box and took it almost reverently. Then he squinted and rotated it slowly in his hands, examining it closely.

“What is it?”

“Did you think this was solid gold?” Sir Algar asked slowly.

“Isn’t it?”

Sir Algar shook his head. “The gems aren’t real, either. Could you not—”

“Tell? How could I?” Rheged retorted, taking the box from him and studying it just as intently. “I’ve never had any jewels, or anything solid gold, either. Are you certain?”

Sir Algar took the knife from his belt and scraped the bottom of the box. The gold peeled off, revealing the dull gray of some other metal underneath. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. DeLac’s always been a miser, unless he wants to impress his guests.”

Rheged grabbed the box, shoved it into the leather pouch and started for the door.

Sir Algar jumped to his feet. “What are you—”

“That damned miserly bastard won’t make a fool out of me! I’m going to get my proper prize!”

“Perhaps it might be wise to accept—” Sir Algar began as he followed Rheged.

“Being cheated? Never!” Rheged paused and turned to face the older man. “What would you do if a merchant sold you bogus goods?”

“I would either get my money back, or demand the goods I paid for.”

“I am going to seek the goods I paid for,” Rheged replied.

“Lord DeLac is a powerful man, Rheged,” Sir Algar said warily.

“And I am not. I realize that, my lord.” He managed a grim smile. “I am well aware that I lack sufficient power to risk the man’s enmity, my lord, but I must try to get a more proper prize, or I will have deserved to be cheated.”

Sir Algar nodded. “Farewell, then, and good luck—but be careful.”

“I will, my lord.”

His mouth a grim, hard line, his knuckles white as he gripped the pouch, Rheged left the hall and marched across the yard to the stable. Gareth, standing near the well talking to one of the maidservants—the quiet one whose name was Evie or some such thing—saw him and immediately hurried to meet him at the entrance. “What’s wrong?” he asked gravely, clearly realizing this was no time for jesting.

“I’m going back to Castle DeLac,” Rheged replied. He went into the stable and called for Dan, whose head appeared over the wall of Jevan’s stall, surprise on every feature.

“Saddle Myr,” Rheged ordered. Jevan was for fighting; Myr, his gelding, was for speed.

“Forgot something, did you?” Gareth asked.

“Not me,” Rheged grimly replied. “Lord DeLac.” He glanced at his puzzled friend. “He forgot his honor, and what is due a knight.”

“Want some company?”

Rheged shook his head. “I need you here.” He put his hand on Gareth’s shoulder. “The man will either do what’s right or he won’t, and if he won’t, I’ll come back and fetch you.”

Gareth grinned and nodded. “As you will, my lord.”

* * *

Tamsin shivered, pulled her cloak more tightly about her and checked the figure for the total number of baskets of neeps in the kitchen storeroom against the list in her hand. On other shelves were apples drying on racks, baskets of peas and leeks and clay jars of honey. Sawdust covered the floor and scented the air along with the vegetables and fruit. A few dust motes danced, and one or two must have gotten into her eyes, to make them water.

Thankfully the total of all the stores here was correct, so she could be sure she was leaving a good count for Mavis. She wanted to be certain all was in good order before Sir Blane arrived and she was taken away to the north, where it would be even colder.

Unfortunately what should have been a simple task was taking far too long. Her thoughts kept drifting to what she might encounter in her future, and what she would be leaving behind. She wouldn’t be sorry to see the last of her uncle, but she would sorely miss Mavis, and the servants. Even Armond. And she knew how to manage this household. What would Sir Blane’s be like? she asked herself as she wiped at her eyes. Because of the dust, of course.

A commotion outside jerked her back to the present. It seemed to be coming from the yard, near the gates. They weren’t expecting any visitors today, at least none that she...

Surely it couldn’t be Sir Blane! Her uncle had said he would arrive within the fortnight, not today—unless her betrothed had traveled more swiftly than expected, anxious for the alliance. Or the marriage.

Although that thought was enough to make her queasy, Tamsin put down the list, gathered up her skirts and hurried to the yard.

To see Sir Rheged of Cwm Bron standing near the gates, feet planted, his hands on his hips and obviously angry.

That explained why the guards were watching him so closely, even though he wasn’t dressed for battle. He wore a white shirt open at the neck beneath a boiled leather tunic, the attire of common men-at-arms. Despite the autumn chill in the air, the long sleeves of his shirt were rolled back to reveal skin bronzed brown by the sun. His breeches were of wool, his boots splattered with mud and he stood beside a foam-flecked gray gelding, not the powerful destrier he’d ridden in the melee. He did, however, carry a sword, the scabbard resting against his muscular thigh.

Despite her determination to keep certain memories locked away forever, she vividly recalled the thrill of being in his arms and the sensation of his lips on hers, especially when his gaze swept the yard and settled upon her.

Then he started toward her, as if his business was with her alone.

That must not be. That could not be. She must marry Blane, regardless of what this man said. Or did.

Straightening her shoulders, she walked forward resolutely, determined to send him on his way. “Greetings, Sir Rheged,” she said, managing to sound calm.

“I wish to see your uncle.”

So he hadn’t returned to offer her aid again, or sanctuary. Or so she thought, until she saw something deep in his eyes that revived her hope of rescue.

Her useless, wistful hope that must be nipped in the bud. “He rode out this morning, sir knight,” she said with cool detachment.

The Welshman skeptically raised a dark eyebrow. “He went riding?”

She, too, had been surprised to hear her uncle’s plan, until it had occurred to her that he might wish to avoid his niece as much as she wanted to be far away from him. “You’re welcome to wait in his solar, or you may tell me your business and I will see—”

Sir Rheged turned on his heel, went to his horse and took a leather pouch from the saddle. He opened it and, like a conjurer at a fair, held up his prize. “This is not gold, but painted metal and the jewels are false, too. Your uncle lied to every knight who fought here, and I demand a proper prize.”

Oh, she was a fool to harbor such romantic notions of rescue by a knight she barely knew!

Whatever her uncle had done, this was no place to discuss it, where so many could see and hear. Not only were the guards within hearing distance, but a quick glance around the yard confirmed that several servants and not a few curious guests were watching from doors and windows, including Mavis. “Please come to the solar, Sir Rheged. I will send a man to find my uncle. I’m sure he can—”

“Explain?” Rheged scornfully interrupted. “What explanation can there be? He played me, and every other knight who came to his tournament, for a fool.” He leaned toward her, close enough to kiss, except that wasn’t desire burning in his eyes. “And I assure you, my lady, I do not take kindly to being made to look a fool.”

“Nor do I,” she snapped, her own ire rising. If he could speak so to her, and in public, too, she’d been right to suspect that his motive for complimenting and kissing her had been seduction all along. “I had nothing to do with the prize, yet you stand here and upbraid me as if I were a naughty child. Now either follow me to the solar or get back on your horse and go!”

For an instant, she thought he was going to leave, until her uncle came strolling out from behind the chapel. He was clad in his thick cloak with the ermine collar and lined with fox fur, his silver broach glittering in the September sunlight, his hair sleek and smooth as his voice.

“Greetings, Sir Rheged,” he said genially, although his eyes were far from friendly. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon. Have you forgotten something?”

“Not I, but apparently you forgot you are supposed to be an honorable man. You played me false, DeLac, and all who fought in your tournament. This box is no more made of gold than I am, and the jewels are just as false. If you have a drop of honor in you, you’ll give me a more worthy prize.”

With a shrug of his beefy shoulders, her uncle answered as if he were innocence itself. “You received the prize that was offered. I never said it was real gold, or that the jewels were gemstones. It was on display in the hall the night before the melee, and you were quite welcome to examine it then. If you did not...” Her uncle spread his hands wide, as if to say, “What fault is it of mine?”

“And why such anger?” he continued. “Have you not won another victory? Will that not add to your fame and fierce reputation? Surely that was worth the effort.”

Rheged regarded the man with undisguised disdain and answered in Welsh. Whatever he said, it was obviously no compliment.

“Leave my castle, Sir Rheged,” her uncle ordered, all vestige of amiability replaced by indignant anger, “or I’ll order my guards to—”

“What?” Rheged demanded, his voice low and hard. “Try to make me go? If that’s your notion, think again, my lord. I have my sword.”

“And I have twenty archers with arrows nocked and aimed right at your head,” her uncle returned.

A quick glance at the wall walk confirmed the truth of what he said.

Rheged threw the box onto the ground with such force the lid flew off and it skittered to a halt inches from her uncle’s toe. “Twenty men to one. Why am I not surprised?”

He gestured at the windows surrounding the yard, proving that he, too, was aware that they were being watched by more than the men and servants in the yard. “Soon all will know what kind of honorable nobleman you are. Then we shall see how many friends you have at court.”

“More than you, at least,” her uncle retorted. “More than some peasant of a Welshman will ever have, no matter how well he fights or how many walls he climbs. Indeed, a monkey could have done what you did to earn your knighthood, so don’t think to threaten me. Now get out, Sir Rheged, before I have you shot.”

He would do it, too, Tamsin knew. Leave, Rheged, she silently urged, instinctively stepping forward.

The Welshman glanced at her, his expression unreadable, before he turned his attention back to her uncle. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have expected better from a man who’ll give his niece to a greedy, lecherous lout like Blane.”

“My niece’s marriage is no business of yours!” DeLac cried as Tamsin stood frozen where she was, rooted to the ground, afraid to move a muscle lest she make things worse. “And you’ve got the only prize you deserve. Now go, before I order my men to kill you where you stand!”

“Very well, my lord, who has given a prize worthy of the giver—false and cheap, good for show, but lacking any true value,” Rheged replied as he threw himself into the saddle. “Keep your prize and be damned!”

“Get out and never return, you stupid, stinking Welshman!” her uncle shouted.

Rheged lifted his horse’s reins, but instead of heading for the gate, he rode right at Tamsin, turning his horse at the last moment.

In that same moment, he reached down and grabbed the back of her gown. Gasping with shock and dismay, she kicked and struggled as he hauled her over his lap.

“Put me down! Let me go!” she cried with desperate panic. Ignoring her, he punched his horse’s sides with his heels and, with her slung over his horse as if she were a sack of grain, rode out through the gates.