A Lord for Haughmond (15 page)

     “Anne, are you well?”

     Katherine leapt out of the chair where she’d been fighting sleep. The other ladies, jolted awake, scrambled from their straw pallets in alarm. The long night had been a strain on them all.

     “Simon?” Anne flew to the portal.

     “Yea, my lady,” came the squire’s muffled reply. “’Tis safe to open up.”

     Together the sisters heaved the unwieldy bar from the metal braces. Simon rushed inside to clasp Anne’s hands.

     “Praise the Blessed Mother for your deliverance, dear Simon,” she burst out.

     “You and Rhys are well?”

     Katherine was sure Simon hadn’t heard her query. He never looked in her direction but drilled Anne with all the joy a man could possibly possess.

     Her sister’s inane grin set her on edge. “I see you’re in good health,” she said sharply. “How fares Rhys?”

     With relief lighting his face, Simon continued to stare at Anne with relief lighting his countenance, but he did make reply, “In pursuit of the attackers, no doubt. The revolt’s crushed. He wasn’t among the dead or wounded and ’twasn’t Sir Geoffrey as we feared. A handful of Llewelyn’s outlaws were pretending ta be knights. They breached the wall with a knotted rope.” He snorted in disgust and finally slanted a brief glance toward Katherine. “Most were killed or taken prisoner. They couldn’t rally their force, once we divided ’em. A few escaped over the wall, but Rhys will fetch them back, right quickly.”

     “’Twas not Sir Geoffrey?” Katherine’s fears were not so easily set aside after her terrifying nightlong vigil.

     “Nay, he guarded the king’s back, fighting as fiercely as the next man.”

     A murmur of approval and relief rippled from the knot of hovering women.

     But an unsettled feeling filled Katherine. Something was amiss. It took a moment to realize ’twas Simon’s choice of words. “What mean you, ‘no doubt’?”

     “I assume Rhys is with the king.”

     “Assume?” Katherine snapped, alarm making her tone needle-sharp.

     Simon swung around to face her. At last she had his attention.

     “Were you not with him in battle?” she demanded.

     The squire shook his head.

     “You did not guard his back?” Her voice rose with her panic. “Who had his back?”

     Simon gave a quick shrug of his shoulders.

     “’Tis your bounden duty to guard your master.”

     “He sent me away, do you recall. His temper was provoked.”

     “You blame Rhys for shirking your duty?”

     A flash of anger crossed Simon’s face. “I did not shirk my duty. He sent me to the king.”

     Katherine stepped close to the squire and thrust her face beneath his chin, stabbing his hauberk with a shaking forefinger. “He has not returned to see to our welfare. Do you not think that strange?”

     “All the injured are accounted for. Rhys rides with the king. Where else could he be?”

     “’Tis a query I’d like answered right quickly.” Her voice shook with emotion. “Go find your master!”

Chapter Eleven

    
So this was life with a warring husband.      

     Sitting on a bench beside Anne not far from the queen’s ladies, Katherine blinked in surprise. What an uncommon thought!

     All the day they had awaited word from the king. With her ladies-in-waiting thronging about her, displaying a calmness Katherine was far from feeling, the queen sat by the warmth of the large stone fireplace and concentrated on her embroidery. Yet when the young acrobats, who usually performed for her, cart wheeled across the floor, she cut them short with an abrupt wave of dismissal.

     Katherine’s insides churned and threatened to burst apart. She had no husband, certainly none awarring. But once she married, this
would
be her existence. Would she respond appropriately when her husband went off to battle? Could she feel as much anguish for another man as she felt for Rhys? Or as much love? His image flickered to life in her imagination. Indeed, could she bestow affection on another knight?

     The king demanded it. Haughmond’s future required it.

     But surely her heart would break without Rhys as her wedded husband. These hours of uncertainty, not knowing his fate, had brought her to a trembling standstill. ’Twould be easy to unhinge her sanity were he wounded—or killed. How could she abide without the man she loved? The harrowing thought made her heart pound and her hands shake.

     ’Twas late in the day when the trumpet finally blared and the castle roared to life. The bailey filled to overflowing, as everyone, from the queen down to the meanest serf, endeavored to be present for the king’s arrival.

     Overhead, banners snapped in the breeze and soldiers lined the ramparts. On the road from the west, hooves beat a steady tempo. Wedged betwixt a lord and a young squire, Katherine shivered in the cold March air. She hadn’t taken time to don a cloak in her rush. 

     The garrison archers stood poised on the wall walk, their bows notched and aimed at the approaching riders. Shouted commands bridged the high walls betwixt uneasy men-at-arms, who shifted their weight restlessly from one foot to the other. Finally, the castle’s captain was reassured the large party closing in on Bereford through the rising mist was, indeed, the king and his knights. Then came his shouted order and the heavy portcullis, amid scraping metal and groaning gears, lifted into the upper reaches of the gatehouse.

     Edward swept through the barbican. The bailey teemed with his knights astride their great war horses. Spurred by success, they shouted in celebration. 

     At the end of the procession came the pitiful prisoners lashed together, gasping for breath, having run the distance or risk being trampled by the warriors riding behind them. The column came to a halt and the defeated fighters collapsed to the ground in exhaustion. A horde of pages and squires raced through the mud to assist their dismounting masters and to take charge of the mounts, while the spectators swept forward in an eager, raucous wave. 

     Standing in his stirrups, Edward surveyed the Welshmen sprawled on the ground, then shook his mail-coifed head in disgust. “This miserable rabble is not worth the loss of a single foot soldier,” he said, his voice full of scorn. Stripping off his gauntlets, smacking them against his thigh none too gently, he dismounted and entered the great hall. His knights made haste to follow.

     With her heart in her mouth, searching on tiptoe and craning her neck, Katherine frantically scanned the stream of departing knights. Where was Rhys?

     By the time the crowd pushed into the hall, the prisoners were lined up below the king. ’Twas difficult for them to remain standing, but the soldiers and their sword tips made it so.

     Edward, reclining in his chair on the dais, surveyed the motley crowd with keen interest.

“What did you hope to accomplish?” he demanded, snaring the bloodied captives in his piercing scowl.

     “Your death, Longshanks!” came a surly reply.

     Jests about the king’s height, acceptable from tested knights, were not so welcome from a defeated enemy. An angry murmur rippled through the crowd at the affront. 

     Edward focused on the Welshman in the midst of the throng, who bore a proud and defiant expression, but who was unable to stand without support from his comrade-in-arms.

     “Alas, such disappointment you must needs endure, for ’twill not be this day,” Edward replied. His unwavering gaze did not match his sympathetic words, nor did his hard tone.

     “Others will take up our cause.” The Welshman’s shout came with great effort.

     “And they will rue the day they attacked me and mine.” The king snorted in derision.

     “You can’t defeat us all!”

     “But I can,” proclaimed Edward, his face clearing as he sat up in the chair and turned to his waiting libation. “And all of Wales with you.” He swept up the tankard of ale. “Consider the cost of your failed attack. You have leave to ponder your mistake. But only for a few hours.” Amid rowdy laughter from his men, he waved the prisoners away.

     The enmity between England and Wales was long standing, but never had Katherine witnessed such raw hatred. The sight of gaunt and ragged prisoners being shoved and kicked toward the dungeon, with desperation and hopelessness in their faces, made her nauseous. 

     A hand slipped into hers. “Where is Simon?” Anne whispered, huddling against her.

    
Where is Rhys
, she wanted to know.

     “So touching.”

     Spasms of alarm rolled down Katherine’s spine at the familiar voice behind them. She gasped aloud when Sir Geoffrey’s large palm settled on Anne’s shoulder.

     “I see you have survived the attack,” he murmured.

     Perspiration broke out on her forehead. They could not escape Sir Geoffrey. He plagued them like an evil stench.

     “You would have been safer had you remained at Haughmond.” Sir Geoffrey clucked his tongue and leaned closer. “Thereto, your aunt would have had mourners at her burial. I dare say, the old lady sacrificed herself for naught?” He straightened and looked down his nose at them. “Forsooth, the king keeps you close, but ’tis impossible for the watch dog to be everywhere.”  

     Their stepfather’s threat was all too clear. Yanking her sister from his grasp, Katherine propelled them closer to where the king sat with his chin in his hand and a deep flush suffusing his long, dissatisfied face.

*  *  *

     “Holy Mary!” 

     Rhys squinted at the approaching figure, recognizing Katherine’s stricken voice. A swollen face and sparks of white light flashing through his head, that made him want to spew up his guts, made vision a chore. Thanks be to God that Simon had had enough sense to search the dungeon. But a belated endeavor it was. Bruised and bloodied, he felt more dead than alive, and he couldn’t cease shivering. The cold, damp cell had sent chills seeping into his bones.

     Katherine’s frantic words came to him through a haze of throbbing pain. Sharp and numbing pain stabbed through his shoulder with each stumbling step. The climb from the dungeon had been exhausting. Now, every muscle screamed in protest as Simon hoisted him along the corridor toward Katherine.

     “What did the monsters do to you?” she exclaimed, rushing to him.

     He detected the glitter of tears in her eyes and felt relief that he yet possessed some degree of vision. “Which monsters?” he muttered through parched lips. “The Welsh or the English?”

     Soldiers from both sides had bestowed their ‘kind attentions’ upon him. The prisoners had lashed out at a hapless Englishman found in their midst, while the king’s men, responding to the loud melee that ensued, added to his misery, taking delight in bringing order to a dungeon filled with defeated fighters.

     He winced in dread, as Katherine seemed wont to fling herself at him. Thankfully, Simon stopped her with a warning hand. “Nay, lady, my master is sore wounded. We needs get him to his bed right quickly.”

     “To the wardrobe. ’Tis a better comfort than his cold campaign tent.”

     She hurried ahead of the two men as they struggled up the narrow circular steps and pulled down the bed linens on the only bedstead within the chamber. “Lady Alma will give up her bed to a wounded knight.”

     Katherine lent her assistance, offering her slight frame as support. He groaned, natheless, when he was lowered to the mattress, regretting the agonized sound. They had tried not to cause him discomfort, their faces reflecting their own dread. Finally, his ragged panting diminished as the mind-boggling pain ebbed into a dull ache.      

     “’Twas not the Welsh, but our own brethren who bestowed such tender care,” he murmured, licking his dry lips.

     “The soldiers cast him into the oubliette, thinking he had provoked the fight,” Simon added, a catch in his voice.     

     He had begun to feel somewhat better when, moments later, the court physician arrived to poke and prod at him and bring back the pain.

     Sent by the king himself, he declared the wounds more superficial than life threatening. He placed two avaricious leeches on Rhys’s lacerated shoulder. Pungent-smelling poultices applied to the tender wounds of his jaw and cheek made him wrinkle his nose, while a greasy ointment daubed on his split lip left a bitter taste on his tongue.

     “If our worthy knight does as I have instructed, the evil humors will be expelled,” the royal healer declared with a nod of his head. “He should mend.”

     Katherine made sure all instructions were followed with care.

     Later, Simon returned to the chamber and related the dreary tale of burying Zeus. He’d placed the alan’s remains within a deep hole, over which he’d maneuvered a large stone to discourage marauding animals.

     Rhys thanked him for his diligence and wearily closed his eyes. Try as he might, he could not contain his sorrow. Battle wounds diminished far quicker than a broken heart. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye, even as Katherine sat beside him holding his hand.

*  *  *

     “It demonstrates my high esteem for my knights, that I attend so readily when summoned to the sick bed.” King Edward drew up a wooden stool and sat down beside Rhys with a look of concern.

     Rhys did not find the royal attention surprising, for Edward ofttimes favored knights who showed their loyalty. The king had even been known to indulge odd whims from valiant warriors.

     But this was no whim. He had overheard Welsh stratagems in the dungeon and now related them to his king. It took longer than normal, for his injuries beleaguered his tongue. But finally, he shared all he had heard in the dungeon.