Читать книгу The Warlord's Bride - Margaret Moore, Paul Hammerness - Страница 11

“WHAT IS IT?” Roslynn demanded of Lord Madoc’s uncle as she started to stand. “Is the castle under attack?”

“No, no,” Lloyd hastened to assure her, patting her arm. “Them over the mountain have been after the sheep on the north slope, that’s all.

“There’s no need for you to worry, my lady,” he continued as she slowly resumed her seat. “They’ll have gone back to their own land by now. Madoc and his men will make certain of it, though, and see how many sheep were taken, and ensure that the shepherd and the rest of the flock are safe. And come tomorrow, the thieves will find themselves lacking an equal number of sheep.”

“Won’t Lord Madoc try to catch them and get his own sheep back?” she asked incredulously.

“No.”

“But why not? Especially if he knows who’s taking his sheep.”

“It’s a sort of feud, my lady,” Lloyd explained.

A sort of feud? “Is this a Welsh custom of some kind?”

He colored and ran a hand over his beard. “I’d better let Madoc tell you about it,” he said, before resuming his usual jovial expression. “It’s nothing to get upset about, my lady. Just accept that every now and then, a few sheep will go missing, and Madoc or his men will go to collect the same number from Trefor’s flock.”

“I should think a feud of any kind is a serious business,” Roslynn replied. “Who is this Trefor?”

Lloyd looked as if he wished he were anywhere else. “It’s Madoc’s brother taking his sheep. Trefor has fewer men and the lesser estate, though, you see, so Madoc doesn’t think it’s fair to set the law on him.”

In that, Lord Madoc was quite a contrast to the king. John would stop at nothing to get his brothers’ lands and titles.

“But never mind about Trefor now,” Lloyd said. “Come to the kitchen, my lady, and have a pastry. Hywel’s a dab hand with them.”

Since there was nothing else for her to do, Roslynn dutifully rose to go with him, although pastries were the last thing on her mind.

MADOC SILENTLY cursed as he galloped along the rutted road leading up the northern slope of the highest hill of his estate. Of course Trefor would choose this time to harass him. No doubt he wanted to embarrass his brother in front of his Norman guests. Perhaps Trefor had learned the purpose of their visit and considered that even more reason to trouble him.

Madoc spotted a man running along the ridge—Trefor himself, Madoc realized with a surge of anger.

He immediately turned his horse to follow, but once at the top of the hill, he discovered a mist covering the slope just beyond the ridge, like a white curtain.

Cursing aloud this time, Madoc slipped from his saddle. His black gelding snorted and stamped, as anxious to give chase as his master. Unfortunately, from here it would be too dangerous to ride at a gallop, or even a canter. There could be hidden holes and loose scree that could cause a horse to slip or fall.

“Steady, Cigfran, steady,” he murmured, running a hand over the horse’s strong neck as his men caught up to them.

“Should we go after him, Madoc?” Ioan asked when he and the others reached the top of the ridge and dismounted.

“No.”

Trying to give chase on foot would be just as risky as on horseback. Besides, although he and most of his men had lived all of their lives on these hills and could run like deer, Trefor was just as familiar with the land and as fleet of foot.

Madoc’s curt answer brought at least one groan of frustration from his men. Ioan, no doubt, for he was young and anxious to fight because he was good at it. Or maybe Hugh the Beak, who had the biggest nose in Llanpowell and was an expert with both sword and bow.

“I said no,” Madoc repeated. “He’s gone to ground like a fox. We’ll never catch him.”

“Madoc!”

Taking hold of Cigfran’s reins, Madoc followed the call of his name, his disgruntled men behind him. He soon found Emlyn, the oldest and best of his shepherds. The gray-bearded man held a lamb in his arms as if it were a child, and at his feet lay a larger white shape splashed with violent red.

A ewe dead and a lamb left to starve, or be the prey of fox, wolf, eagle or hawk.

It was a cruel thing to do, and something new for Trefor.

“A fox?” he asked the shepherd, although he already knew the answer. A fox would have killed the lamb, too.

“Men for certain,” Emlyn replied.

“Only the one ewe dead?”

“No,” Emlyn replied. “Five more—and the big black ram is missing.”

Madoc called Trefor an earthy Welsh epithet as he looked across the brow of the rise to the higher land, where Pontyrmwr, Trefor’s small estate, lay. He’d been counting on that ram to build his flock. Trefor would recognize the value of it, too. No wonder he’d taken it, the vindictive, disgraceful lout.

Maybe he’d gotten more vicious and aggressive because he’d heard of Lady Roslynn’s dowry and assumed Madoc meant to have it, although that was still no excuse.

“Not a broken branch, not a hoof-or footprint,” Emlyn noted. “Like magic it is, how they come and go, invisible as demons.”

“Aye, like demons, but no magic,” Madoc said. “Trefor knows these hills as well as we do.”

Emlyn sighed as the lamb in his arms continued to pleat plaintively. “Aye, that he does. I never thought he’d use that knowledge against us, though.”

“He’s not the man he was,” Madoc muttered. Indeed, once he’d thought his older brother the epitome of a noble warrior—handsome, brave, skilled with weapons, irresistible to women but too honorable to take advantage of it. He’d trotted after Trefor like an admiring puppy and tried to imitate his brother in every way.

Until his brother’s wedding day, when Trefor had disgraced not just himself, but his family, and nearly destroyed an alliance that had held for three generations.

Madoc turned to the man who’d met his patrol yesterday to tell him the Normans had come. “Dafydd, take ten men and get me six sheep in kind from Trefor’s flock and try to find the black ram. No killing any of his animals, though. My quarrel is with my brother, not his livestock or his people who depend on him.”

Dafydd nodded, then fingered the hilt of his sword. “What if them with the ram put up a fight?”

“No killing, not even for the ram.”

Madoc saw his men’s displeasure and ignored it, as he always did. His brother was still his brother, and he wouldn’t be the cause of Trefor’s death, for hanging was the punishment for theft. He wouldn’t attack Pontyrmwr unless Trefor attacked Llanpowell. He wouldn’t sacrifice other lives because of this feud with his bitter, resentful brother.

“You three,” he said to the men standing nearest him, “help Emlyn with the carcasses. You’ll see to the lamb, Emlyn?”

“Aye, Madoc. I’ve got a ewe lost one.”

Madoc knew Emlyn would skin the dead lamb and put the pelt over the living one, then put it to suck at the ewe’s teat. If all went well, the ewe would accept the living lamb as her own.

Content that he had done all that was necessary, Madoc gestured to the rest of the men to follow him back to their horses. There was no reason to linger here, and he had guests at home.

Not that he was in any particular hurry to meet with them again.

LLOYD WAS AT Madoc’s heels the moment he dismounted in the courtyard. “Was it Trefor and his men?”

“Aye.”

Uncle Lloyd’s face turned red and his dark eyes glowered. “I’m so ashamed of that boy, I could spit!”

“We’ll get our recompense,” Madoc assured him, dismissing the stable boy and leading Cigfran to the stable. “He’s taken the black ram, though.”

Lloyd cursed as he followed Madoc inside the dimmer, hay-scented stable. “He always had a good eye for an animal.”

So he had, Madoc reflected, whether for horses, hounds, sheep or women.

What would Trefor make of Lady Roslynn? Would he take her to wife if she were offered to him, even by John? Or would he say no woman, not even a beautiful one with a large dowry, was worth that alliance?

As for her spirited nature, Trefor had always preferred more placid women, like Gwendolyn.

Uncle Lloyd upended a bucket and settled himself upon it. Madoc put his saddle and blanket on the stand outside the stall, then began to rub Cigfran down with a handful of straw.

The motions helped to calm him, and the familiar scent of horse and leather reminded him that if he had much to regret, he also had much to be thankful for. No matter what Trefor said or did, he had Llanpowell—and justly so. Whatever Trefor thought, he hadn’t stolen it from his brother. Trefor had lost Llanpowell and his title by his own selfish, dishonorable behavior.

“I trust you’ve been entertaining our guests in my absence,” Madoc said to his uncharacteristically silent uncle, who sat twisting a piece of straw around his thick fingers.

“Aye, I have.” Lloyd cleared his throat and tossed aside the straw. “I had to tell Lady Roslynn a bit about your troubles with Trefor.”

That was unfortunate. Although he should have expected that some explanation of that morning’s alarm might be necessary, he would rather the Normans didn’t know about his conflict with his brother. John liked to pit Welsh noble against Welsh noble, the better to keep their attention on each other and away from whatever he was up to. “What did you tell her?”

“Just that you’ve a quarrel with your brother and it’s nothing for her to worry about.”

“Aye, it’s not.” Especially if she was leaving. And thank God Lloyd hadn’t said more. “Where are the Normans now? In the hall?”

“Last time I saw Lord Alfred, he was lying on his cot, moaning, poor man.” Uncle Lloyd sighed with completely bogus sympathy. “Like all the Normans, the man can’t handle even a bit of braggot.”

Lloyd’s false gravity gave way to a bright-eyed grin. “He’s got to be feeling better by now, though. I’d be feeling better with a pretty woman to nurse me. Lady Roslynn’s tended to him with great kindness, Madoc, although he’s only got himself to blame for his state.”

“You shouldn’t have offered him the braggot,” Madoc said as he filled the manger with fresh hay.

“Not his mother, am I? And I did warn him, the day they arrived, before you came charging into the hall like the wrath of God.”

“If I looked like the wrath of God, it was because Dafydd told me an armed party of Normans had come. I thought Llanpowell was being attacked.” Madoc straightened his tunic and adjusted his swordbelt before giving his uncle his formal smile. “Well? I look amiable enough now, don’t I?”

Uncle Lloyd wrinkled his nose. “You look fine, but you smell of the stables. It’s a fine, sunny day and the river’s nearby. Why not go for a swim?”

A surreptitious sniff proved his uncle wasn’t exactly wrong, and while it was not shameful for a man to smell like a horse, he didn’t want Lord Alfred to go back to the king and his courtiers and tell them the Welsh smelled bad.

“All right,” he agreed, “if you’ll bring me some linen, I’ll be down by the alders. Quickly, mind. I can’t loll about like a lad with nothing to do.”

“Right you are, Madoc!” Lloyd cried, already halfway to the stable doors. “You head off and I’ll be there quick as a fox.”

SITTING ON A STOOL behind the wooden screen painted with a hunting scene and beside the cot of the snoring Lord Alfred, Roslynn heard a commotion in the yard and guessed Lord Madoc and his men had returned.

If they had, she wasn’t sure what she should do. Stay here with Lord Alfred, or go to greet him? Then what? Ask him about the feud? Try to find out how it had started and why, as if she cared?

Or use it to her advantage?

She could question Lord Madoc’s reluctance to go after the thief, implying he was a coward. A man as obviously proud as he would surely take offense at that. Or she could suggest the Welsh must be childish, indulging in such petty games.

As tempting as that was, she might rouse his temper too much. If she did follow such a course, she would have to ensure that she wasn’t alone with him, which shouldn’t be difficult.

Before she could decide what she would do, she heard the sound of brisk footsteps approaching.

Whoever it was, she would be calm and aloof. She would be polite but distant. She would—

It wasn’t Lord Madoc who came to stand at the foot of the cot. To her disappointment—a response she should not feel, she told herself—it was his uncle.

“Poor man can’t hold his drink, can he?” he whispered loudly, regarding Lord Alfred as he might a sick child.

“He should be fine by this evening,” she quietly replied. “I don’t think you should offer him any more braggot.”

“I won’t,” he agreed. “Look you, my lady, Madoc’s come back and he wants to see you. Since it’s such a fine day, he’ll wait for you down by the river, in a little grove of alders. Very pretty spot for a conversation, if you’ll join him.”

Roslynn wanted to get out of the stuffy confines of the hall and there was no real need for her to stay by Lord Alfred’s side; nevertheless, she hesitated. It might not be considered a wise or honorable thing to leave the castle without Lord Alfred to escort her. On the other hand, her host might consider it an insult if she refused his invitation, especially since they would be with his uncle, and so not alone. “Very well.”

“Excellent!” Lloyd cried.

As she rose to join him, he reached around to grab a square of linen on the table beside the bed. She’d been bathing Lord Alfred’s face when he was awake and complaining of evil Welsh brews. This large square, however, was dry.

Lloyd used it to wipe his brow, then tucked it into his belt. “I was in a rush to find you, and I sweat like a horse.”

Accepting his explanation, she took his arm and together they left the hall, passing the servants replacing the flambeaux in iron holders on the walls. Roslynn felt their watchful eyes and wondered if there would ever be a time when she would no longer be the subject of gossip and speculation.

Outside, the weather was still fine, with a breeze redolent of fresh grass and warm summer days to come. Despite their curiosity, the servants at their chores and soldiers on guard duty went about their duties efficiently, although without the haste of colder days.

The yard itself was tidy, with nothing out of place, and the buildings were all in good repair.

As they were nearing the gate, the steward came hurrying around the side of one of the smaller buildings, probably a storehouse, as fast as his limp would permit. “Well now!” he cried. “Where are you two off to? And without Lord Alfred?”

“Lord Alfred’s sleeping and Madoc sent me to fetch Lady Roslynn,” Lloyd answered. “Wants to have a little chat with her down by the river on this lovely day.”

“Then I won’t keep you,” Ivor replied, giving them a smile that didn’t impress Roslynn. It was too much like Wimarc’s—more a barring of the teeth than an expression of pleasure. “One thing you’d better learn if you’re to live in Llanpowell, my lady—if Madoc gives an order, he expects it to be obeyed, and quickly, too.”

“Or what?” she asked.

“If you’re a soldier, night duty and short rations,” Ivor answered. “If you’re his friend, his eyes alone can make you feel you’ve sinned. If you’re his wife…”

His smile widened as he shrugged. “I don’t know. Gwendolyn never disobeyed, did she, Lloyd? A very sweet, quiet wife she was for Madoc—quite different from you, my lady.”

Had Lord Madoc not said he liked spirited women? What, then, did the steward mean by this? Was he trying to insult her, or intimidate her or make her afraid of his master?

Whatever he was trying to do, she wouldn’t let him see that he was affecting her in any way.

Instead, she gave him a smile as condescending as his own. “Poor man, to lose such a model of a wife. But surely you don’t begrudge Lord Madoc another chance for happiness in marriage, especially since it means a powerful alliance and wealth, too?”

She caught a flash of annoyance in the steward’s eyes, although it was quickly replaced with another patronizing smile. “Indeed, my lady, some would consider your arrival most fortunate.”

But not this man.

Yet perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised. He was Welsh, and she was not, and his animosity could be based on no more than that.

Deciding to give him the benefit of the doubt, she said with cool politeness, “Since I don’t wish to upset your master in any way, we had best be on our way.”

“WHATEVER IVOR SAYS, never you fear about going against Madoc, my lady,” Lloyd assured her, trotting to keep up with her brisk pace as they went out the gate. “My nephew’s a bit stubborn and gruff sometimes, but he’d never hurt a woman. Never hurts anybody, except in self-defense or a tournament and then, God grant you, he’s something to see.”

Lloyd’s words might have assuaged her fears, was she not well aware that pain could also be inflicted with a look or a word or a gesture. It didn’t have to be slaps or blows.

“No need to worry about how Madoc will treat you, my lady,” Lloyd persisted. “A soft heart for the women, him. And don’t be troubling yourself about Ivor. He’s got a grudge against Normans, you see, not just you in particular.”

So, it was as she’d suspected, and she was glad she hadn’t sounded as offended as she’d felt.

“Ivor can be like an old mother hen, too, the way he fusses. But he wants Madoc to be happy, as do we all, so if Madoc wants you, Ivor’ll come round in time and so will everyone else who thinks it’s a mistake.”

She wondered if she should give Lord Madoc’s uncle an indication of the unlikely possibility of a marriage, at least enough to warn him that the union he seemed so keen to promote was by no means certain.

“Unless I’m losing my capabilities, I’m sure Madoc does want you,” Lloyd continued so enthusiastically, it suddenly seemed a shame to ruin his expectations. “Ever since Gwendolyn died, he’s had women chasing him and men trying to marry him off to their daughters or sisters, but he’s never had that gleam in his eyes he gets when he looks at you, my lady.”

This was surely empty flattery. She hadn’t noticed any special gleam in Lord Madoc’s eyes when he looked at her.

Haven’t you? a small, hopeful voice whispered. Haven’t you felt his desire calling to your own?

No, she had not. She must not. To listen to the urges of her body was folly.

Lloyd led her along a path that skirted the village at the south end of the castle, sparing her the necessity of walking through the market square, where more people would no doubt stop and stare at her. Whether he had done so on purpose or not, she wasn’t sure, but she was grateful nonetheless.

The narrow river ran between banks of mossy red stones. A small, crooked wharf had been built close to the village and low-drafted boats were tied there or pulled up on the bank close by. Across the river was a forest of willow, ash and oak, pine and alders, so close together it was as if the trees were competing to see which one could reach the river first.

Farther downstream she could hear the happy shouts of children at play and the occasional sharp reprimand of a mother. The language was Welsh, the tone universal.

“Ah, like heaven itself, isn’t it?” Lloyd said with a sigh as they walked around a curve of the bank, so they were out of sight of the village, if not the high outer walls of the castle.

He pointed at the grove of leafy alders ahead. “I told you it was a pretty spot.”

“It is indeed,” she agreed, admiring the rugged beauty of the trees, rocks and river, with the rise of the mountain behind.

Then they entered the grove, and Roslynn’s jaw dropped. A man was rising from the river—a completely naked man. His back to them, he stretched his long, powerful arms over his head as if he was worshipping the sun. Water glistened on his muscular torso, while his black, waving hair spread over his broad, powerful shoulders as he shook himself, like a great bear.

The Bear of Brecon.