She kept her eyes fastened on that gatehouse, barely aware of crossing the wooden bridge that linked the road with the building itself. Then, they rode into the bailey.
The babble of castle folk penetrated her uneasiness. She glanced around the courtyard. Her natural curiosity took hold and she gazed at a hundred people gathered around the returning knights and foot soldiers. Waiting wives and sisters clamored around them. Twice Lydon shifted his charger to make way for a running, laughing woman.
Against the confusion, Rhianna searched for her brother’s cherished face. She could not afford to lose Arthur, not with the unknown before her. Then, abruptly, she found herself lowered to the ground. Lydon followed her from the saddle.
“Nay,” she pulled against his hand, but with a nudge to her waist, he urged her up the steps leading toward enormous wooden doors. She struggled against him but she was no match for his strength.
Rhianna gazed over the milling soldiers before Lydon pushed her into the great hall. Even here chaos reigned. Knights shouted to squires, and the clang of metal against metal served as a counterpoint to the din. She shook her head to lessen the conflict. For a fraction of a second, she let Lydon draw her toward the dais.
In a high-backed chair sat Garrett deShay, his light brown hair shimmering golden in the glow of a thousand candles. Her heart bumped against her ribs. She yanked against the hand that held her.
“Nay,” she whispered.
Just the sight of the man as master held her entranced. Panic, she told herself, and hate. She forced herself to look away from him.
The candles registered in her flustered brain. One thought alone slipped past the loathsome noise and the alarm that threatened to well up and destroy her. This man must be as wealthy as the King of England himself, to burn all of those candles.
She knew she wasn’t ready to confront the lord of the castle, not in his own den.
Just for the moment it seemed infinitely wiser to view the room than the master. She stared at the sight before her. But, similarities existed between the two.
The room was like the man, massive. At one end she stared at a hole in the wall. The pile of cinders told of the many fires built in that place. She glanced around and noticed the room had no fire hole like her keep.
Several tall, narrow chairs stood close to the hole where the fire must burn, so the occupants could enjoy the warming heat from the comfort of a chair. She shook her head and continued her study.
Above her, heavy oak timbers bore the names of England’s kings and princes. And yet, no tapestries graced the walls to make this hall a home. Instead, against the whitewash, the instruments of war hung in intimidating splendor.
There were swords and crossbows, daggers, javelins, mace and shields. A mighty display for a mighty lord, and she recoiled. With that display, Garrett deShay declared to one and all that he was a man of war.
She searched the room, then her heart jumped with relief. A short distance away, she watched brother’s unhappy face survey the crowd. He was looking for her.
She wrenched free of her guard and edged toward Arthur. When she reached his side, she whispered in Welsh, “Idiot, yesterday, you took off without me.”
He looked stricken. “I know,” he said.
“Next time we have to succeed.”
Still whispering in their own tongue, Arthur mumbled, “I’ve overheard the soldiers telling those here that you are a witch, that deShay captured a witch.”
“Nay, surely not.” A chill raced down her spine as she watched her brother move his head solemnly up and down. “What do they say that I have done to make them think I could be a witch? I have done nothing. We must escape this place. Now.”
The hairs on her nap bristled and some second sense told her to look up. Scarcely a rod from her she gazed at deShay’s angry face.
“Speak my tongue, or you will speak to him no more,” deShay snapped.
She straightened to her full height. Although she was a proud daughter of Wales, only a few days before, this heathen had ordered a good and honorable man killed. She had to remember that. They were naught but his captives. Despite her situation, a healthy dose of anger surged through her.
“Arthur,” she said, throwing caution to the wind, her vibrant voice ringing through the hall, “We must escape.”
“You may discuss my castle.” Garrett grabbed her wrist. “The weather, my servants, even my men, but you will not speak of escape. And wench, you must apologize for the act that almost cost this youth his life. You’d best ask after his health, for he goes to the stable in minutes. Before you whine and cry, know that once a week, if you cause no trouble, I’ll permit you to spend a few minutes together. Now give him your apology.”
She stood rooted to the floor, her mind working against the dismay she felt. The warmth of the hand holding her sent sharp bolts of concern and something else through her.
Stunned at the affect he had on her, she pulled against his strength. She thought of his words. Without Arthur to aid her, she would never escape this place. She must abide by his command, at least for a time.
Arthur reached over and patted her arm, “Fear not. Perhaps it will not be too bad.”
She gave him a tentative smile, then remembered Garrett’s orders to apologize.
“Aye, I must apologize to you, dear br—dear friend.” She almost had called him brother. She felt her cheeks warm with embarrassment. “You know I would never have placed you in danger.”
“Now, we are even,” Arthur grinned at her. “I poked your shoulder with my blade, and you almost got me skewered on an English sword. But we are well, and we will survive. Besides, you know I like stables.”
“Oh, Arthur.” She choked on the words.
“Give her your pledge for you are away. The knights and their horses leave much to be done.” Garrett stepped back and motioned Joseph D’Arcy forward.
Rhianna fought the tears that threatened to fall. She
would not cry before this man, no matter what. As Joseph led him from the room, she waved a hand at her brother. She clenched her fists and fought for control as anger replaced the sorrow. deShay had caused nothing but pain and grief for her and her brothers. Now he kept her from her child, and that was the worst of pain. This was all his fault.
She spun around. In tones of full fury, she shouted, “A plague on you.”
She heard the gasp from those in the hall and held her breath. Garrett stared at her. His full lips thinned to a straight line and he took a step back.
“See the woman begins her duties now,” he snarled at Lydon. “She can begin her work in the kitchen, cleaning. Just tell Cook to keep her away from the food.”
~ * ~
Garrett turned back to the dias. Sinking into his chair, he called for ale. Damn the woman to Hades. Those convinced that she possessed powers just had it confirmed. Well, his people would see in time the woman’s curse meant nothing.
He lifted the ale a young woman served and stared at the room before him. Instead of his men milling about the hall, he saw the face of his beloved mother, and his heart twisted with tension. Now he housed not one but two of the enemy in his keep.
This captive affected him more than he cared to admit. Mayhap Colvin had the truth of it. Mayhap she
had
placed a curse on him.
Nay, she was but a beautiful woman, and he had been weeks without feminine comfort all the while he prepared to fight Edward’s war. He could trace his desire to basic male needs. Tonight, he’d take one of the serving wenches to his bed. Any number of the women in the keep would be more than happy to pleasure him.
He swallowed another sip of ale and smiled at the assembly. Cook would present them with a celebratory meal this night. His stomach growled in anticipation.
The smile left his face as he recognized the man stomping through the doors of the hall. Sir Harold Moirant headed toward the dias.
“By the saints, what does he want?” Garrett muttered.
“Baron, how goes it?” Moirant shouted at him.
“And, you neighbor? What brings you to my keep?” Garrett shouted back.
The knight approached the dias and when Garrett didn’t offer him a cup of ale, he snapped at a passing servant, “Ale!”
Garrett said nothing, but did nod at the servant who looked his way with a question on his face.
Garrett repeated his question, “Why are you here, Moirant?”
“Baron deShay, I need your help.”
Garrett could just imagine how Harold might need his aid. “Aye, for you see, I’ve lost two more of my serfs. I implore you, my Lord, have some of your men help mine in finding these runaways.”
“Harold, you must learn to treat your people better. If they did not fear for their lives and the pain you like to inflict, they would not desert you the way they do. Nay, I think I am much too busy with harvest to send any of my men after yours.”
Garrett watched Harold fight his anger. He obviously did not like Garrett’s answer and would have argued if the room had not held so many of Garrett’s loyal soldiers.
“Well, if you can’t take the time to aid me in this, then let me do a favor for you. Surely, as busy as you will be, you cannot abide the witch you have under your roof. I will take her from your hands.”
Garrett jerked back in his chair. Colvin had obviously stopped at Moirant’s keep on his way from the battle. The two men claimed a friendship Garrett had never understood. Had Colvin told the man about the slaughter of the man Edward wanted for hostage?
He glowered at Moirant. Garrett wanted no word of failure to reach Edward’s ears until he was of certain that he had one of the sons in his hands.
“So, you want the witch? What did Colvin tell you about her?”
“Well, he said the woman was pleasing to look upon but deadly if you turned your back on her.”
“I think Colvin has misled you, my friend,” Garrett murmured. “The woman is Welsh, but I doubt she has the smallest particle of power.”
“Are you willing to chance it?” Harold asked, drawing Garrett’s anger.
“Harold, did you not have two wives die on you already?” Garrett asked. “In fact, what happened to that troubadour who came to Knockin and then stopped at your home? I heard a rumor that he smiled on your lady wife. Now, he is missing and your wife is dead. Suspicious, my friend, extremely suspicious.”
“My wife’s death is of no concern of yours. I can’t be blamed if she died after the beating she received for her spiteful temper.” He glared at Garrett before he continued, “God gave a husband the right to discipline a wayward wife. Even the church has sanctioned such discipline. I did not kill either one of those women. Besides, I have no control over God’s will. It was His will that they both died.”
“Of the beatings you gave them,” Garrett snapped. “Nay, Harold,” Garrett continued, his voice cold, “I have no intention of turning the woman over to you. You may tell Colvin I saw through his ploy. Now, take your leave.”
He watched as Harold’s face turned a dark shade of red. Garrett had incensed the man, but he didn’t care. He turned to one of his soldiers, “Show Sir Moirant to his mount.”
Harold staggered away from the soldier. “Baron, the church does not hold with those who aid the devil. Excommunication will bring an interdict down on you and on your people. Let me have the witch.”
“Get him from my keep,” Garrett roared to his men.
“I’ll go to the Abbey. I’ll tell the Abbot. I’ll have you excommunicated. You will not get away with this. I will see that you do not.”
“And what of you? If you house a witch, what will the church say about you?” Garrett turned his back on the sputtering knight. He could have Colvin’s head for telling Moirant about the wench. Now, he had to worry about Harold as well as his own people.
He sank into his chair and picked up his abandoned goblet. Rhianna’s face danced before his eyes. Mayhap there was some truth to Colvin’s claim, for the thought of Rhianna in Harold’s grasp left Garrett cold with dread. The Welsh woman would be dead within a day if Harold ever got his hands on her.
“My Lord!” Lydon’s strained voice brought him from his preoccupation.
Garrett turned toward his man rushing from the kitchen.
“Baron! It is the woman, the witch. You must come now.”
Four
Rhianna leaned against the far wall of the cooking area, willing herself to show no fear. She stared at the group of castle servants gathered in the hall behind the cook who shouted threats at her while he swung a huge blade in her direction.
She raised her chin and squared her shoulders. If she was about to die, she would at least face her death with dignity.
“Hold.” The deep voice of Garrett deShay rang above the servants’ chatter.
She whirled toward him, shocked at the expression on his face. He was furious. At her? Surely not, for she had done nothing.
“What is going on here?” he demanded.
“My Lord.” The cook stepped forward. “They say she’s a witch. I don’t want her poisoning your food.”
Garrett’s sigh reached into the farthest corner of the huge kitchen, slicing through Rhianna.
“She has no power,” he said. “However, if her safety is threatened here with you, she will have to remain at my side.”
Rhianna gasped. She didn’t want that. Something about the man made her insides shiver as if she was covered in ice.
“Nay,” she whispered.
“Aye, you will remain at my side,” he announced. “I have much to do. Come!”