Conquering Passion (28 page)

“We’re expected,” she whispered sarcastically to Giselle.

Five palettes piled high with sheepskins and furs had been installed at one side of the room, and a chamber pot placed discreetly behind a screen, along with a basin and ewer full of water and drying cloths. An empty wooden bathtub stood propped against the wall. A roughly hewn table and six stools completed the furnishings. The comparative warmth of the room led her to believe none of the walls was an outer one. They were completely within the fortress.

“My children are hungry, Andras,” she began, but he didn’t reply. She heard the heavy door being bolted after he left. She glanced at her children and then at Giselle and Rhonwen. The women understood—they would have to be careful what they said in front of the boys. It was a relief none of them had been raped. They had been treated relatively well by their captors. With the natural curiosity of children, her sons began exploring their new surroundings, and the women sat down to wait.

They didn’t have to wait long. Andras reappeared and ushered them to follow. He led them along a dimly lit corridor, outside across a rocky pathway, then into a great hall, full of light from scores of torches. Mabelle blinked rapidly. It was difficult to believe such a place could exist so high in these bleak mountains. It must have taken considerable skill and perseverance to build.

The high vaulted ceiling was supported by huge wooden crossbeams from which hung banners she didn’t recognize, wafting gently on the currents of air. The walls were decorated with a motley collection of shields, weapons, furs and antlers. The air was hazy with smoke and heavy with the aroma of roasted game. At least a hundred dark-haired, swarthy men, bristling with daggers, lined the walls, standing erect, dressed in sheepskin jerkins, leather breeches and boots. It was the devil’s army.

At the front, on a dais, sat the only furniture—two massive wooden chairs—one slightly smaller than the other. Andras urged the Normans forward, until they were standing directly in front of the chairs.

A large, muscular man lounged in the bigger chair, his long fingers caressing the intricately carved dragons on the arms of his chair. He wore breeches and boots but no shirt, and a sleeveless sheepskin jerkin open in the front. His face bore the trace of a smile. A blonde woman sat on the edge of the other chair, looking malevolently pleased.

A gasp escaped Giselle. “Morwenna,” she whispered to her mistress.

Mabelle couldn’t at first recognize the girl. Her once tightly braided hair now flowed in a wild tangle down to her waist, softened only by two braids on either side of her face. The end of each braid was adorned with brightly coloured beads, and she wore a narrow leather thong around her forehead. She too was clad in leather breeches and boots, and a sheepskin jerkin. The smile Mabelle had been used to seeing was now replaced by a look of malice and triumph. She made a move to rise and speak, but the big man stopped her with a barely perceptible movement of his hand.

Mabelle knew without being told this man was Rhodri ap Owain. He’d been a constant thorn in the side of the Marcher lords for a long time. Even before the Conquest, his frequent sorties into the border counties of England from his stronghold in the Welsh mountains, left a trail of fear and destruction in their wake. It was said he hated Saxon and Norman equally and burned with Celtic fervour for a Wales free of their domination.

She contemplated him nervously now—at more than six feet he was a towering figure, with curly black hair which hung down his back, flowing freely, except for two tight braids at either side of his face, each bound at the end with amber beads. He looked in need of a shave, but she suspected that was always the case.

He embodied primitive masculinity and vitality, with eyes like green jade and the tanned, weathered skin of a man who lived his life in the open air. Around each of his muscular biceps, a narrow band of Celtic knots had been etched into his skin.

He was intimidating to behold, and Ram had told her the mere mention of his name struck fear into the hearts of those living on the English side of the Welsh border. To them he was a feral force. To his own people he was a folk hero of mythical proportions. Though few had ever met him, all knew of his deeds, and the Marcher lords could get no information from the Welsh villagers to help them find him.

Rhodri stood. “Lady Countess of Ellesmere, I bid you welcome, and I apologise for your difficult journey. I wasn’t aware you’re with child. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Rhodri ap Owain ap Dafydd ap Gwilym, Prince of Powwydd.”

He bowed slightly.

Whatever Mabelle had expected from a Welsh rebel chieftain, this man, this wasn’t it. He spoke courteously, despite his primitive garb. A memory of her father rattling off his long list of lands and properties flitted into her head, but she’d learned enough about Welsh naming traditions to recognize this man’s pride was in his ancestry, not his lands. She was also well aware this was the man her husband thirsted to kill after their encounter at Ruyton.

“Lord Rhodri—” she stammered, trying not to let her fear enter her voice. She returned the bow, but not too deeply. Courtliness aside, this man held their lives in his hands.

“My lord, my children and my serving women are in need of food and clean clothing. And—I am in need—of an explanation—as to why we have been—?”

He silenced her with the same slight movement he’d used with Morwenna. “Forgive me, Countess, I haven’t yet finished my introductions. I believe you’re acquainted with my betrothed, Morwenna verch Morgan ap Talfryn?”

Mabelle looked straight at the girl and felt Rhonwen tense beside her. “Yes. Morwenna, murderess of my unborn child and of Myfanwy Dda.”

Morwenna protested. “It wasn’t I who murdered that foolish old woman—”

Again Rhodri silenced her with a look, and she sank back into her chair, scowling.

Mabelle now knew for certain there was a traitor in Ellesmere Castle.

“As to why you’re here, Countess, it must be obvious by now we intend to ransom you to your husband. He and I have met before, you know.”

Mabelle’s knees went weak with relief. But was he referring only to her when he spoke of ransom? Seeking protection for her children and her companions she asked, “Do I have your assurances then, Lord Rhodri, that my children and my serving women won’t be harmed while we’re here? Your men have already killed my escort at Whittington.”

Rhodri strode quickly from the dais and reached the captives in a trice, his hand on the hilt of the large dagger tucked in his belt. Before the exhausted Mabelle could react, Rhonwen moved to protect the boys, and stood defiantly between them and the aggressor. Rhodri seemed to be taken aback for a moment as he glared at the girl, apparently noticing her for the first time. It was a few moments before he turned back to Mabelle.

“Not a single one of the soldiers in your escort was killed when you were taken. I give you my word, as Commander of Cadair Berwyn and Prince of Powwydd, that no harm shall come to any of you as long as you’re in my care. Unless, of course, you try to escape.”

He laughed and winked at Mabelle.

Suddenly he turned back to Rhonwen, and speaking to her in Welsh, asked her name. She replied in Welsh, “I am Rhonwen, a healer, daughter of Myfanwy Dda.”

Had Rhonwen uttered Myfanwy’s name? Mabelle wasn’t sure, since Welsh was an unintelligible language to her. She assumed Rhonwen had told of being a protégé of Myfanwy’s. Rhodri looked at Rhonwen with surprise for a few seconds, but the healer didn’t turn away from his insistent gaze.

***

Fear chilled Rhonwen’s spine but strangely, it wasn’t him she feared. This man’s aura of primitive power drew her and brought on conflicting feelings. As a healer, she recognised and admired a strong, healthy body when she saw one. The mystical side of her, passed down through generations of Dda’s, drew her to him. She sensed an affinity that transcended the physical and it alarmed her.

She wanted to reach up and touch his dark face, fondle his braids, run her hands over his tattooed biceps, feel the controlled strength that radiated from him. His deep, sonorous voice evoked the memory of the rich, melodious Welsh folksongs they’d enjoyed at the fayre in Whittington.

Her thoughts made her blush. How childish to expect a Celtic prince to welcome the attentions of a lowly woman such as her. She determined to quell her feelings, knowing with dire certainty she would avenge her mother’s death by killing Morwenna, his betrothed. It was a harsh knowledge for a woman who’d dedicated her life to healing, to saving others.

***

Rhodri returned to his chair. Morwenna glared at Rhonwen. She hadn’t failed to notice the brief exchange that had taken place between Rhodri and the healer. She smiled at him, but her thoughts were black.

You look at her while you’re betrothed to me. A curse on you! I have another who’ll give me much more than this windblown fortress.

“I want to kill the healer,” she told Rhodri after the captives had been escorted back to their chamber, and food ordered for them.

He looked directly into her eyes, his voice cold. “You’ll not kill any of them, Morwenna. I’ve sworn an oath they’ll be protected here. They’re worth nothing to us dead. We need the coin their ransom will bring. It will allow us to buy the things we desperately need to continue our struggle. Our people have to be fed, clothed and armed. Many in the villages will starve without this ransom money.”

He turned to Andras. “We don’t have much time. I’ll write the ransom. Prepare four men to ride to Ellesmere. We must act before the weather turns against us. The Countess is expecting a child, which I wasn’t aware of. We don’t want the babe born here, then he’d be a Welshman! When is our loyal friend from Ellesmere expected to arrive?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm.

“On the morrow, Lord Rhodri.”

Morwenna’s blue eyes lit up.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Phillippe de Giroux arrived at the isolated fortress of Cadair Berwyn exhausted and frustrated. He’d lost his way twice. Despite his peasant garb, he’d been unable to ask for help because he didn’t speak Welsh, and was afraid his manner of speech would jeopardise him. Once he found the right trail, his pony almost lost its footing on the high path.

“Curse this wild country, and curse these ignorant Welshmen with their fanatical obsession of defeating the Normans,” he muttered as he stabled the pony and went in search of Rhodri. “They’ll find out to their regret we can’t be defeated, but till then, I’ll use them to my purposes.”

He found Rhodri in the great hall, now filled with tables and benches. People were gathered for a meal. The air was redolent with the aroma of venison. He helped himself to a chunk of it from the large trestle table at the side of the room, hacked off a large piece of coarse black bread and poured a goblet of ale.

Rhodri came down from the dais where he and Morwenna were sitting, and joined the treacherous Norman who’d helped him secure the prize. Rhodri detested spies who betrayed their own countrymen but tried not to show his contempt.

Giroux glanced in Morwenna’s direction and asked, “All went well?”

“
Ydi
, yes. Very well. I thank you for your help.”

“Has the ransom been sent?”

“Ddoe
,” Rhodri automatically replied in Welsh. He saw how irritated Giroux was he’d spoken to him in Welsh. “Yesterday,
hier
,” he added. Giroux had betrayed Montbryce for his own reasons, not for the freedom of Wales, and he wondered what had caused the anger that drove a man to seek revenge at such a high risk.

“I didn’t see your men on the trail,” Giroux began, and then quickly changed the subject. Rhodri would know he’d become lost if he continued. “The weather is already bad in the passes. I hope they get through.”

“They’re Welsh, they’ll get through.”

***

Rhodri was mistaken. The blinding snowstorm howled out of the frigid peaks and caught the messengers unawares. Though autumn blizzards weren’t unheard of in these mountains, the sudden ferocity of this one forced them to seek shelter in a shepherd’s hut.

The snow stopped after two days, but they had to wait another sennight before the weak autumn sun melted it sufficiently to make the track safe enough for travel. They’d used up their supplies. If they got to Ellesmere, it was unlikely there would be time to return to Cadair Berwyn with the reply to the ransom demand they carried. If they were able to leave Ellesmere alive, they would have to winter in the foothills, and return to the mountains in the spring.

***

“
Capitaine
Gervais?”

The Earl’s Second in Command looked up from his task in the Map Room to see one of their most trusted commanders. The man was obviously exhausted, and Gervais knew why. He braced himself. “What is it, Brémonde?”

The commander shifted his weight, evidently unsure how to begin. “
Mon Capitaine
, I’m a loyal servant of the Earl. I came with him from Normandie. I grew up at Montbryce. I would never question anything he does.”

Gervais waited.

“But—the men—well—we’re exhausted. We’re warriors, used to working hard, to rigorous training. But
milord
Earl is pushing us beyond our limits.”