His Lady Bride (Brothers in Arms) (29 page)

Aric swallowed against the truth. His heart bear like a drum in his head.
Boom, boom, boom
—the insistent drone made him quickly feel unsound of mind. Thoughts flew through his head, but he could latch onto only one: He could not be the death of Gwenyth.

Breathing deeply, he willed his heart to slow, his head to silence. Neither heeded him.

Suddenly, Guilford rose at his side. “I have said enough. Drake and Kieran left earlier this morn to find the battle. Now you must go wherever your conscience takes you.”

The old man left the great hall and disappeared up the stairs, barely visible in the dawning morn. Aric cast his gaze into the mug of ale before him. Where should he go? What should he do now?

But his heavy heart already knew the answer.

* * * *

Gwenyth awoke near midday. A serving woman, Kieran’s redhead from the night before, brought her fresh water to sponge with and a light repast to break her fast. She stared at the cheese and fine white bread and frowned. The smell of mead and the hard cheese left her stomach unsettled.

That and the fact Aric had gone.

With a shake of her head, Gwenyth refused the meal and wandered to the window. As she sank into the chair beside it and stared out onto the inner bailey below, the rolling pasture of green hills and the saffron-dotted dales beyond, she held in fresh tears.

After their argument the past night, Gwenyth had hoped to find oblivion from her heart’s pain in sleep. But the comfort of slumber had not come. From this very window, she had watched her husband depart while Dog whined beside her. Aric’s rigid body had looked full of anger, the face he turned up to her window without emotion.

The foolish part of her heart that loved him wanted to run after him and follow him to the cottage. Her mind stayed her with reminders of his ugly words, his poor opinion of her. The dark, drafty cottage rife with insects and the dirt floor that quickly became mud after a good rain made her shiver as well. Nay, life in such a place, with such a stubborn, unfeeling man, was not for her. No one needed her there, least of all Aric.

Of its own will, her hand rose to the ruby sundial Aric had given her at the cottage. The trinket held little value in the face of his total wealth, yet he had cared for it at one time, as he had seemed to care about her.

Now he thought her nothing more than a mercenary bitch. The mewling, jester-brained varlet.

Mewling though he might be, Gwenyth missed him already. She bit her lip to stop the stinging moisture in her eyes.

A knock on the door behind her brought her to her feet and whirling about. At the command, the Earl of Rothgate entered, cautious in his old steps, his gray beard framing a gentle smile.

“Good morn, Gwenyth. I will not ask if you slept well, for your face tells me you did not.”

Frowning, Gwenyth stared at the man. What did he want here? Had not Aric told his mentor of her “faults”?

“The chamber is most comfortable,” she began. “I simply was not…”

“At ease?” When she would have rebutted him, Guilford put up a wrinkled hand to stay her. “Nay, I see your heart’s distress upon your lovely face.”

“It will pass.” The old man’s intrusion into her feelings puzzled her greatly. Why did he care about her heart?

“Will it? That is a pity, for I do not think Aric can say the same.”

Gwenyth stiffened. Not certain what her husband had told the older man, she refused to provide details he might be lacking. “He is gone.”

“Aye, to battle.”

She signed impatiently. “Nay, to his cottage near my home of Penhurst in Bedfordshire.”

Guilford’s kind smile deepened. “We spoke this morn. He goes to battle. He goes for you.”

For me?
What a seductive thought. If only she could believe it. “You are mistaken, I am certain.”

“Sit, child, and I will tell you some truths.”

Skeptical, Gwenyth sat. For all she knew, the old earl might be as hen-brained as any village idiot. Still, Aric would not afford him such deference were that the case.

Nodding, Guilford settled on the sill of the window, his height still substantial, despite his age. “Aric loves you—”

“Nay!” Gwenyth protested, even as her heart leaped.

“Aye, and this I know because he is ready to fight for you. For himself, he would rather have died.”

“That puzzles me greatly,” she admitted.

“As it does all of us, child. Aric’s heritage is steeped in ambition, always wielding power in court circles with the authority of a master over his vassals. He was no exception to his father and uncle, as well as his grandfather before that. He has ties to England’s most powerful families, including the Plantagenets…and the Tudors.

“He was ever a shrewd child. As a young man at court, he found ways to make others capitulate happily to his wishes. Together with his skills on the battlefield, ’twas long thought Aric could have more influence over the crown than even his uncle, the kingmaker.”

Such hardly fit her image of the sorcerer living in a hovel. Why would he abandon such a life of his own will?

“What changed?” she asked, wearing a puzzled frown.

The old man lifted his shoulders. “We would all like to know. Aric has chosen to keep his reasons in the matter a secret.”

That same reason was why he resisted battle; Gwenyth felt that deep down.

Yet Guilford thought he had gone to battle for her.

Impossible. Why would he fight to protect the wife he thought ignoble? The wife he had abandoned?

“It is of no consequence now,” she murmured. “He is gone.”

The old man hesitated, then rose to his full height before her. “But your heart has not given up on him. Perhaps you should not, either.” When she might have protested, Guilford ploughed into the silence. “For now, rest comfortably and know you are always welcome at Hartwich Hall.”

Gwenyth watched the old man in silence as he slipped past her, wearing a strangely satisfied smile, then left the room.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Aric rode south and west between Kieran and Drake through the foggy English morning. Conversation had been sparse, except for his Irish friend’s attempts to wheedle a smile or two out of him and Drake.

Nothing made him want to smile now.

Without a doubt, he should have held his tongue with Gwenyth. She did only as other women in laying with a husband to secure a future. ’Twas his foolishness for wishing more of her, of their marriage. Mayhap he could have borne it if not for her lie of love. He abhorred lies. Worse, he foolishly wanted to believe she truly cared, and evidence to the contrary had roused his anger—and something that felt suspiciously like hurt or betrayal.

He frowned. Mayhap marriage had made him soft, made mush of his mind. Or mayhap Gwenyth held the kind of dark powers the people of Penhurst had once believed he possessed—the power to bewitch.

Or perhaps he loved her.

Aric drew in a sharp breath as the truth sank into him. He had hit upon his trouble. Somewhere in the past few months, he had given his heart to the irksome, ill-tempered, warm, wonderful minx he called wife.

God help him.

No wonder he had been unable to accept the barter of her body for his wealth. He loved her and had for some time.

Would Gwenyth ever really love him in turn if he survived this battle? By the saints, he hated to consider living out his days with a woman who sought naught from him but money and position. He could easily see himself falling deeper and deeper under her spell, drawn by her sparring mouth and unique spirit, until he might do anything to truly win her.

Nay—not that such mattered. Love her though he might, they were better off parted. With Guilford, she could have the castle and position she craved. He would seek peace in the cottage once this foolish battle ended, for he would not endure ruthless politics and senseless death again. He could not gladden his heart by hastening the death of his soul.

With a sigh, he studied the gentle rising of the slope before him. The misty green landscape was familiar and not unpleasant. Still, he did not wish to make this journey.

How ironic that he had once wed Gwenyth to spare her life. Now she might die because he had. Aric shook his head in disgust.

Politics, which had once fascinated him, now reeked of inhumanity and dishonor. King Richard, for him, symbolized all that was wrong with England’s affairs of state and morality.

And in order to spare the life of the woman he could not banish from his mind, he had to fight to uphold the very regime that sickened him. Another irony.

And a definite sign of love.

“You look puzzled, my friend.” Drake spoke quietly beside him.

Aric smoothed the frown from his face. “Merely thinking of the battle to come.”

Drake nodded but said naught.

Kieran smiled. “A little sport is good for the soul.”

Sport?
Death and blood and battle made for more than sport. Why could the young fool not see his careless beliefs would likely lead to his death?

He held in a sigh, knowing from years past any attempt to convince Kieran that war was not amusement would be met with disbelief or disdain.

With a chiding glance at his Irish friend, Aric kicked his horse’s sides and rode ahead. He knew Kieran and Drake would silently question his odd behavior, but he cared not.

Rarely had he wanted more to be alone.

Miles upon miles fell away. The morning turned into one day, then the next, punctuated by warm, humid nights of fitful sleep. Aric willed his thoughts away from Gwenyth, but his mind rebelled. And the one thought he could not escape taunted him each hour: He loved a woman who would never accept the simple life he needed to keep his sanity.

* * * *

The trio of men encountered King Richard’s forces in Nottingham and followed them south to Leicester, where they camped. Aric shared a tent with Drake and Kieran and prayed for some miracle, that God might end this foolish war before it came to a bloody climax. Henry Tudor’s forces had marched westward from Wales and now awaited the clash mere miles away.

Sleep would not come that night, except for scattered crimson dreams of the dead boys and their cries for help. Aric rose to another hot, damp dawn, knowing how badly he had failed the princes, the younger in particular, and how badly he had judged the king’s intent and shamed his own honor, all because of ambition.

More than anything, he wanted not to fight this useless war, but he must—for Gwenyth. Hopeless fury ate into his gut. Still, naught could be changed or avoided. The moment of his truth—indeed, of England’s truth—had arrived.

The thought made him ill.

Restless, he strode out of his tent, leaving a drowsy Drake and Kieran behind to rise at will. His agitated gait took him past rows upon rows of tents, all housing men loyal to King Richard, all harboring men willing to keep a heinous killer upon the throne.

Such a realization made him grit his teeth—until he passed the Duke of Norfolk’s tent and happened upon a note pinned to its canvas.

Jockey of Norfolk:

Be not too bold, for Dickon thy master is bought and sold
.

Frowning, Aric read it again, trying to decipher the riddle. Over and over, he turned the puzzle in his mind and could reach only one conclusion: King Richard had been betrayed by one of his supporters, bought to the enemy’s side by Henry Tudor. But who?

Many northern lords had withdrawn the better part of their support over the past two years. The Duke of Buckingham had been caught in open revolt and been executed for his treason right in Salisbury’s market. Though his neighbor Northumberland was still supportive, Aric had heard rumblings that the earl resented the king’s tightfisted nature. Lord Stanley, well known for his uncertain loyalties, seemed even more in question than usual now that he had become the third husband of Margaret Beaufort, Henry Tudor’s mother. Only Lord Howard could be counted upon for certain, Aric mused, and his army would not be enough to sway the whole battle.

God help them all, for many this day would find death. And for what?

“Know you what this means?”

Aric froze, recognizing that sharp, authoritative voice in an instant.

Bracing himself for the loathing and schooling it from his features, he turned to face his king and gave a slight bow. “Your Highness, I do not.”

King Richard cursed, his wiry body still with tension. “Can no one’s loyalties be trusted anymore?”

Fury reared up, and Aric wanted to let loose his angry tongue, to tell the foolish man he would not fight, not for a child killer. Here was his chance, as they stood alone and he had the king’s ear.

But to do so would resign him—and, more important, Gwenyth—to a traitor’s death.

Aric choose his words carefully. “There are ambitious men everywhere who would seek power for themselves at the expense of others.”

Ambitious men like the king, who had sacrificed his nephews to capture the throne.

Richard’s dark eyes narrowed. “A smart man knows when to cleave to others in order to preserve his domain and when to seize power for himself.”

Apparently, Aric mused, the king considered himself a smart man. Any why not? ’Twas nearly unheard of for a third son to become king. How neatly he had arranged for the deaths of his nephews and supported his grieving eldest brother, Edward, who, as king, had been forced to execute their other brother. How neatly such maneuvering left the door to power open to a man such as King Richard.

And how little he appeared to regret his murdering ways.

Aric forced a tight smile. “Many a foolish man has thought himself clever in the past. I see naught that bespeaks change.”

The king’s dark eyes sparked, but he paused uncertainly. Aye, he thought he had been insulted, only he could not say for certain.

“I will see any traitors dead!”

“I would expect no less of you, sire.”

Giving a cold glance and a stomp of his foot, the king ripped the note from the tent, turned his back on Aric, and marched into Norfolk’s shelter.