Knight of Desire (25 page)

They rode for hours, stopping only once to allow her to stretch her legs and relieve herself. Toward evening, small groups
of men appeared out of the woods and joined them. Now she understood why English soldiers claimed the Welsh came and disappeared
like fairies, with the help of magic.

At nightfall, they stopped in a heavy wood to make camp. Her legs were so weak that Maredudd had to catch her to keep her
from falling when she dismounted. He led her to sit on a fallen log, holding her a bit more tightly than necessary.

“Lady FitzAlan, I would have your promise you will not try to escape,” he said as he sat down next to her on the log. “You
would only get lost, and I am too tired to go chasing about the woods for you tonight.”

There was no point in trying. The woods were unfamiliar, and in the dark, she had no idea in which direction to go.

“If you make an attempt, I will catch you. And then you will sleep tied to me.” His face broke into a wide smile. Giving her
a wink, he said, “Perhaps you should try after all.”

“With such charm, sir, how is it that some maid has not yet captured you?”

“Ah, but one has,” he replied genially. “I am married to a remarkable woman named Marged.”

“She is remarkably trusting to let you out of her sight.” She surprised them both by speaking the thought aloud.

“I do enjoy your company,” Maredudd said, slapping his thigh. “Marged knows I am devoted to her. Fortunately, she has the
wisdom not to expect the impossible from me. In sooth,” he added with a twinkle in his eye, “she is quite content with me.”

Catherine wanted to roll her eyes at the man’s vanity, though she suspected he spoke the truth. Maredudd Tudor was charming
and devilishly handsome. Despite the circumstances, she also trusted him to protect her in this camp of armed men.

“May I speak with my young friend now?” She was anxious to talk with Stephen.

“We know the lad is Stephen Carleton, FitzAlan’s half-brother,” Maredudd said.

They could have guessed who she was. They found her near Ross Castle, and her family was well known in the Marches. But how
did they know Stephen?

“Do not fret over the lad. He’ll be returned safe and sound,” Maredudd said. “If it had not been plain the boy would follow
us, we would have left him where we found him.”

At the sound of a scuffle, she peered through the growing darkness. A moment later, the younger Tudor brothers appeared with
Stephen kicking and twisting furiously between them.

“God’s beard, can you not see the lady is well?” one of them shouted at Stephen.

“We Welshmen are not the savages Englishmen are,” the other complained. “Besides, no man here will dare touch her while she
is under the protection of a Tudor.”

Stephen saw her and ceased to struggle. The men dropped him to the ground.

“He does not believe you will be safe, m’lady,” one of the brothers explained, “unless he is the one who guards you.”

She saw the flash of Maredudd’s white teeth in the rapidly falling darkness. “It is encouraging to find chivalry still lives
in at least one young Englishman,” he said. “Stephen, you can make your bed next to the fair lady. That will make it easier
to keep watch over the two of you.”

Leaving them in the care of his brothers, Maredudd left to talk with some of the other men. Catherine and Stephen sat huddled
together while the younger Tudors cooked a supper of small game over the fire. The two men were too near, however, for them
to speak freely.

They waited until after they had eaten and lay down on the blankets spread for them close to the fire.

“The Welsh commanders fear their army is too strung out,” Stephen whispered. “Gethin and the Tudors backtracked from Worcester
to make sure the king did not send part of his army behind them, to cut them off from their base.”

Catherine was not surprised Stephen had managed to overhear so much.

“They did not come for you,” Stephen continued. “But when they caught wind you would be outside the castle this morning, you
were too great a prize to miss.”

This made much more sense than that the Tudors and Rhys Gethin would leave Worcester to take a single captive for ransom.

“Did you hear them say how they knew I would be outside the castle walls today?” She still could not understand this part.

“Nay, but it must mean we have a traitor at the castle,” he whispered. “Who do you think it is?”

Who, indeed.

C
atherine awoke with the prickling sensation that someone was watching her. She opened her eyes to find Maredudd standing over
her.

“Good morning,” he said, and nodded toward Stephen. “I see your gallant protector gave up the fight and took his rest.”

Embarrassed to be talking with Maredudd while lying down, she sat up. Shivering, she pulled her blanket tightly around her
shoulders. The early morning air held a chill.

“We are near Worcester, a few minutes’ ride from where Glyndwr is encamped,” Maredudd told her. “I sent word last night that
I would bring you to him as soon as we break our fast.”

She had not expected to be taken to Glyndwr himself. Unconsciously, she reached up to touch her hair. With no maid—or even
a comb—she did not know how she could make herself presentable to the man the Welsh called their prince.

“Glyndwr understands rough travel. He’ll not think it amiss that you did not have a maid to dress your hair,” Maredudd said
with a smile. “ ’Tis a sin that custom requires such lovely hair be hidden.”

He squatted down and shook Stephen’s shoulder. “Come, lad. Prince Glyndwr has much on his mind, and I do not wish to keep
him waiting.”

Catherine picked up the ornate headdress she wore yesterday. Stephen had helped her remove it last night, but there was no
hope of getting it back on today.

She heaved a sigh. There was nothing for it but to make do as best she could. After painstakingly detaching the gold mesh
and circlet from the headdress, she combed her hair with her fingers and plaited it into a single braid down her back. Then
she put the mesh over her hair and fixed the circlet across her forehead to hold it in place. The makeshift covering left
too much hair exposed, but that was that.

She looked down at the dismal state of her gown. Working methodically, she began brushing the dirt from it, top to bottom.
She was so absorbed in her task that she was startled when she looked up to find Stephen and all three Tudors staring at her,
slack-jawed.

She narrowed her eyes at them. “How long have you been watching me?”

There was a general shrugging of shoulders.

“Do you men have nothing better to do?” she asked, her irritation evident in her tone.

Stephen had the grace to look away. The three Tudors, however, just shook their heads and smiled.

The other men were breaking camp when Catherine and Stephen rode off with the Tudors. Praise God her captors brought her here,
rather than into Wales. William was in Worcester. She could be ransomed and delivered to him this very day.

“Can you see the old Celtic fort at the top of that hill?” Maredudd said, pointing ahead. “That is where we and the French
are encamped.”

Catherine dragged her thoughts from her reunion with William to prepare herself to meet the rebel leader. Quickly, she reviewed
what she knew of Owain Glyndwr. He was a Welsh nobleman, close kinsman to the Tudors. Before the rebellion, his home was known
as a center of Welsh culture, where troubadours and musicians were always welcome.

A man who liked music, she told herself, could not be completely heartless. The common folk claimed he used magic to call
up terrible storms. There were other stories she could not dismiss so easily. She had ridden out after rebel raids. She had
seen the smoldering villages and heard the women weeping.

Before she knew it, they were riding through the gates of the old fort. The bailey was teeming with soldiers. They rode through
the chaos of men and horses and carts to the main building. After helping her from her horse, Maredudd led her up the steps
with Stephen and the two brothers following on their heels.

The guards inside the entry nodded to the Tudors and opened the second set of heavy doors. Once her eyes adjusted, Catherine
saw they were in a dark, cavernous hall. There was a huge hearth against one of the long walls and trestle tables set up along
the other. A number of men were in the room, talking in groups or cleaning weapons.

Only one man drew her attention, however. He was watching her from the far end of the hall.

With his hand firmly on her arm, Maredudd walked her across the room to him. Catherine dropped into the low curtsy reserved
for monarchs and kept her head down until a deep voice told her to rise.

When she did, she got her first good look at the famous rebel whose name had been on everyone’s lips for the past five years.
Owain Glyndwr looked to be in his late forties. His sternly handsome face was lined, and the dark hair that fell to his shoulders
was streaked iron gray. Catherine had the impression of long limbs and a powerful body beneath his robes. The riveting black
eyes held hers.

“Lady FitzAlan, you have done great harm to me and my people.” Glyndwr’s words carried through the hall and reverberated off
the walls.

Taken aback, Catherine could make no reply. What did he think she had done?

“I wondered for a long time who passed the information that led to my son and his men being caught unawares at Pwll Melyn,”
Glyndwr said. “In the end, I decided it could only be you.”

How had he known?
King Henry did not believe she was the one, even when the prince had told him.

“I am sorry, Your Grace,” she stammered. “It was my duty.”

“Prince Harry took three hundred Welshmen prisoner at Pwll Melyn,” he said. “He executed them all, save one.”

Involuntarily, she put her hand to her mouth. She had heard something of this before but had not believed it.

“At least young Harry does not kill for sport or revenge. He kills ruthlessly in pursuit of his aims, as a great commander
must.” Glyndwr’s face looked suddenly weary as he turned to gaze into the hearth fire. “The difference, however, matters not
to the widows and orphans.

“He executed them all, save for my son Gruffydd, who was taken to London in chains.” Glyndwr paused and pressed his lips together.
“He is tortured, I am told. After he was caught attempting to escape, the king had his eyes put out.”

Catherine felt the sting of tears at the back of her eyes. The truth of Glyndwr’s words was etched in the pain on his face.
She did not want to believe her king capable of such barbarism. Yet, in her heart, she knew he was. For the first time, she
wondered if what she had done was right. Should she have told Harry he could catch the Welsh unprepared that day? Would she
have, if she could have foreseen the consequences?

“I hear you have a son, Lady FitzAlan,” Glyndwr said, jolting her attention back to the present. “So you will understand that
I will do what I can to get my son out of my enemy’s hands.”

Catherine held her breath, waiting for Glyndwr to reveal his purpose in telling her this.

“You shall be my son’s deliverance. His life is the ransom I will claim for your return.”

Dismay and confusion warred within her. “I fear you mistake my importance, Your Grace,” she said, clutching her hands together.
“The king would never trade your son for me. He is not… a sentimental man.”

She gave up trying to find a diplomatic way to explain it and said, “The king would sacrifice me without a second thought.”

She felt disloyal for her frankness, but she saw what looked like appreciation in Glyndwr’s eyes.

“Rayburn was a fool not to realize he had such a perceptive wife. You are right, of course. Henry would not, on his own, make
a sacrifice for you.”

“My husband will not be able to persuade him otherwise,” she said. “I believe Lord FitzAlan would, however, be willing to
pay a handsome ransom for me.” She no longer cared how much William had to pay, just that he pay it quickly.

“I will not make my demand to FitzAlan,” Glyndwr said, “but to the king’s son.”

Catherine was stunned. “To Harry?”

“I have heard troubadours sing of your beauty, Lady FitzAlan.” Glyndwr smiled at her for the first time. “ ’Tis no wonder
you have a prince besotted with you.”

Catherine opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.

“I will send a message informing Prince Harry I will take no payment but my son in exchange for his lover.”

“But I am not the prince’s lover!” Catherine said, finally finding her voice.

When Glyndwr looked at her skeptically, she attempted to explain. “We were childhood friends. We are friends yet. Besides,
I am a married woman.” Her face flushing hot with embarrassment, she said, “He would never… he would not…”

“Surely you do not believe your wedded state would stop a man from wanting you,” Glyndwr said, raising an eyebrow. “And an
English prince would never think such rules applied to him.”