Defiant Passion (Sons of Rhodri Medieval Romance Series) (5 page)

Darkness fell as the captives rode through the gates of the forbidding fortress. The towering palisades, made of stout trees lashed together, were as tall as two men. Once inside, they were led to a chamber. Andras quickly lit several candles. The room was clean but spartan.

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

On one side of the room there were five palettes piled high with linens and furs. A chamber pot sat behind a discrete 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 led them to believe none of the walls was an outer one. They were completely within the fortress.

“My children are hungry, Andras,” the Countess complained, but he did not reply. The heavy door was bolted after he left. The women exchanged worried glances—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, Robert and Baudoin explored their new surroundings, and the women sat down to wait.

They did not 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. 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 Rhonwen did not recognize, wafting 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, every man with his eyes on the hostages.

At the front, on a dais, sat the only furniture—two massive wooden chairs, one slightly smaller than the other. Andras urged the hostages forward to stand directly in front of the chairs, Rhonwen and Giselle behind their mistress and her children.

A large man lounged in the bigger chair, his long fingers caressing the intricately carved dragons on the arms. He wore breeches and boots but no shirt, only a sleeveless leather jerkin which came down to his hips. The open front revealed a well-muscled chest and a necklace of beads around his neck. His face bore the trace of a smile. The sight of him took her breath away. Prickly heat flooded her body and she was relieved no one was paying attention to her.

A blonde woman sat on the edge of the other chair, looking malevolently pleased. A gasp escaped Giselle. “Morwenna,” she whispered to her mistress. Rhonwen’s eyes flew to the woman and her heart thudded in her ears. Here was her mother’s murderer.

The Countess frowned. Her tired face betrayed her embarrassment at the man’s clothing, and Rhonwen could tell her mistress did not immediately recognize the girl with hair flowing in a wild tangle down to her waist. Two tight braids framed 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. A malicious look of triumph had replaced the smile.

My lady doesn’t recognize her, but I do.

Morwenna made a move to rise and speak, but the big man stopped her with a barely perceptible movement of his hand.

Rhonwen knew without being told this giant was Rhodri ap Owain, and she suspected her lady knew it too. He had been a constant thorn in the side of the Marcher lords for a long time. His 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.

Rhonwen contemplated him nervously now—at more than six feet he was a towering figure, with curly black hair hanging 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 she knew 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.

Morwenna’s presence had already caused Rhonwen’s belly to tighten, but this man, intimidating though he was, produced an altogether different reaction in the lower part of her body. He was beautiful, and his beauty drew her like a lodestone.

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.

Despite his primitive garb, he spoke courteously in accented Norman French, and Rhonwen could see the Countess was taken aback, though she tried not to show it. She must be aware this was the man her husband thirsted to kill after their encounter at Ruyton.

“Lord Rhodri,” the Countess stammered. She returned the bow, but not deeply. “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 had 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?”

The bile rose in Rhonwen’s throat. Never had she felt such hatred. Mabelle de Montbryce looked straight at the girl. “
Oui
. Morwenna, murderess of my unborn child and of Myfanwy Dda.”

Morwenna protested. “It wasn’t I who murdered the foolish old hag—”

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

She had an accomplice! Someone within Ellesmere Castle?

Rhodri spoke again, his voice jerking her back to look at his face. “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.”

Rhonwen was afraid her mistress was about to swoon, and Giselle moved forward to support her elbow as she swayed. But she seemed determined to speak. “Do I have your assurances then that my children and my serving women will not be harmed while we’re here? Your men have already killed my escort at Whittington.”

Rhodri came to his feet abruptly, 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 Countess could react, Rhonwen moved to protect the boys, and stood defiantly between them and the aggressor. Rhodri seemed taken aback for a moment as he glared at her. She did not think he had noticed her before. After a few moments he turned back to Mabelle de Montbryce.

“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 the Countess.

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

He looked at her with surprise and she could not turn away from his insistent gaze. Fear chilled her spine but, strangely, it was not 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 Ddas, 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 emanating from him. His deep, sonorous voice evoked the memory of the rich, melodious Welsh folksongs they had 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 had dedicated her life to healing, to saving others.

***

Two things surprised Rhodri when his eyes fell on the healer. One was the strength of his sudden arousal. The other was the feeling of calm that swept over him when he heard the lilting way in which she spoke his language. It was the Welsh of the Marches. The interview with the captives was something he had prepared for, and anticipation had filled him with nervous tension. Yet now, the intrigue, the plot, the ransom, all seemed somehow insignificant. Something in nature had shifted and he knew with certainty the change would affect his life dramatically. Who was this young woman he had barely noticed when the hostages were first led in? When she told him she was the daughter of the murdered healer, he wanted to reach out to console her, to explain it was none of his doing. He was drawn to this diminutive woman much more than to his betrothed who now sat glowering at him. But the healer was his captive and probably terrified of him. He turned away sadly and walked back to the dais, glad he was wearing his long jerkin.

***

Rhodri returned to his chair. Morwenna glared at Rhonwen. She had not failed to notice the brief exchange 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 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 of our
commote
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!”

Andras snorted in agreement. “When is our loyal friend from Ellesmere expected to arrive?” he asked with a hint of sarcasm.

The grin left Rhodri’s face. “On the morrow.”

Morwenna’s eyes widened.

***

Phillippe de Giroux arrived at the isolated fortress of Cadair Berwyn exhausted and frustrated. He had lost his way twice. Despite his peasant disguise, he had been unable to ask for help because he did not speak Welsh and was afraid his manner of speech would jeopardise him. Once he found the right trail, his pony came close to losing its footing on the high path.

“Curse this wild country, and curse these ignorant Welshmen with their fanatical obsession of ousting us,” 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 generous piece of coarse black bread and poured a goblet of ale.

Rhodri came down from his chair on the dais and joined the treacherous Norman who had helped him secure the prize. Rhodri detested spies who betrayed their own countrymen and hoped his contempt did not show.

Morwenna remained on the dais, staring at them. Giroux glanced in her 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. How irritated Giroux was he had spoken to him in Welsh! “Yesterday,
hier
,” he explained.

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. Rhodri knew then that the Norman had lost his way.

Giroux seemed anxious to change the subject. “The weather is already bad in the passes. I hope they get through.”