Master of Craving (19 page)

“Draceadon,” Stefan whispered hoarsely above the thundering hooves.

 

As they approached the wide studded doors, Stefan called up to the lookout, “ ’Tis Stefan, allow me entry!”

Slowly the heavy gates swung back. A sudden thought hit Arian amidst all of the turmoil: was the lady knight Stefan’s lady love? ’Twas obvious by their quick exchange she held his word dear. And the lookout? Stefan was known to him; had he not been, the gates would have remained firmly closed. A prickle of some emotion she had no experience with jabbed at her belly.

As they passed through the narrow opening, Arian dared another look over her shoulder, and saw that the entire Saxon garrison stood at the bottom of the steep hill, facing the Normans.

She dared not breathe a sigh of relief. While she felt Stefan would protect her, now they were at the mercy of the lord of the manor. Would he help? Or would he too hold her for ransom?

They rode through the forbidding gates of the menacing fortress and into a bailey, then farther on to a courtyard. Stefan grabbed her from the saddle and handed her off to a golden-haired girl who stood wide-eyed, out of the rain, just inside the wide doors to the hall. “Lady Brighid, see to her until I return with Lady Tarian.”

He reined the horse around and to Arian’s utter astonishment; he rode back toward the Normans.

Stefan charged down the hill to the standoff, pushing the destrier to the limit. When he reined his horse up beside Lady Tarian’s gray, he nodded to her, then to her stalwart captain, Gareth, who broke into a smile beneath his helm. Slowly he turned to his cousin, who, despite Stefan’s torn and bloodied face, immediately recognized him. He watched Ralph’s eyes, so much like his own, narrow behind his helm. Feeling at home with Tarian and Gareth and her loyal men at his back, Stefan grinned.

“Lady Tarian of Dunloc, my cousin Sir Ralph du Forney.” Tarian nodded her head but Ralph did not return the respect. Stefan grinned wider. “Lord Wulfson de Trevelyn’s bride.”

Ralph’s eyes narrowed, and this time he bowed from the waist. “My lady,” he said, his voice barely civil. There was no love lost between any of the Blood Swords and those who held themselves and their noble blood above them.

Stefan kept his gaze focused on his cousin. “What brings you so far south, Ralph?”

 

“We patrol the lands for armed Saxons.” Ralph sneered, then demanded, “Why did you run like a coward from us?”

Stefan reached down and patted Apollo’s slick neck, then looked up to the clearing sky. “You are not privy to my motives, dear cousin. Now stand back so that I may have a private word with Lady Tarian.”

“You dare speak with such airs!” Philip sneered, nudging his horse closer to Stefan. Twenty swords behind Stefan were drawn in unison, the lady lowering her short lance, brushing the noble’s mail. She jabbed him hard.

“A warning, sirs,” Tarian said levelly. “My husband is earl of this shire, and well you know he has the ear of William. Trespass against Stefan and you trespass the king!”

 

“Are you so craven to put a woman up to champion you, Stefan?” Ralph scoffed.

Stefan’s anger seethed, but he would not allow his cousin to bait him. “Bray like the ass you are, Ralph. I have most urgent news for William and my lady. None of which concerns you.”

Ralph bowed in his saddle. “My lady, as my bastard cousin has told you, I am Ralph du Forney, heir of the great house of de Lyon. My uncle, the great Comte d’Everaux, also has the ear of William, I can assure you.” He smiled like a snake before it swallowed its prey. “My men and I are battle-weary, and in dire need of food and pallet.”

Stefan stiffened even more in his saddle. His narrowed gaze swept the men who sat silent behind their leader. Some he remembered from his youth growing up in the shadow of a man who refused to acknowledge the obvious. His gaze briefly touched on Philip, who regarded him with open hostility.

Yet, despite the contempt he felt for his cousin and cohorts, the lot of them looked as exhausted as Stefan felt. It would be of utmost rudeness for the lady of the manor not to extend the hospitality of Draceadon to them.

“We have pallets aplenty in the stable, the hall is most spacious, and our stores are full. You and your men are welcome to share Draceadon’s hospitality for one night,” Lady Tarian invited. She looked to Stefan. “Sir knight, would you ride alongside me to the hall?”

“ ’Twould be my honor,” he replied softly. They turned their horses, and as they broke from the group, Apollo pulled up lame. Stefan cursed, and immediately dismounted to inspect the hoof. A sharp rock had embedded itself between the shoe and the sore spot he had tended. He pulled the seax from his belt and dislodged the stone. One of Tarian’s men dismounted and handed Stefan the reins to his own horse. “I will walk him to the stable.”

Stefan nodded and mounted, but said, “Be gentle with him, he has been ridden hard. Rub him down and do not feed or water him until after the noon meal.”

Once more ahorse, as Stefan and Tarian made their way up the steep hill, Stefan said softly, “Tread lightly, milady. Ralph is as cunning and as secretive as a fox, and that lout Philip will shift alliances twice a day should it prove a benefit to him.”

She nodded and looked ahead, her eyes focused on the great fortress. “I pray you have word of my husband,” she softly said.

A sudden knot in his throat prevented him from answering, so he nodded. She cast him a grave look, and he could see the glisten of tears in her eyes. She sat sword-straight in her saddle and his heart went out to her.

She swallowed hard, and just barely above a whisper she asked, “Does he live?”

 

Once again not trusting his voice, Stefan nodded. Lady Tarian made a noise half sob and half laugh, but when he looked at her, she sat regally composed upon the gray.
TWELVE

From the threshold, having refused to go into the hall with the Lady Brighid, who eyed her with open curiosity, Arian watched for Stefan’s return. Arian knew she looked a fright, standing in her bare feet, the sodden oversized threadbare tunic stuck to her, her hair plastered to her dirt-smeared face and arms. But she didn’t care. She wanted to know that Stefan was unharmed, and only then would her anxiety lessen.

A hard tremor of fear ran through her limbs as she watched Stefan come through the gate beside the lady knight. She squinted. He sat upon a different horse. Her eyes widened when the Normans, mingled with the Saxon knights, filed through behind him. What was this? Stefan did not seem to care that they were behind him? But—? He appeared to be completely consumed in conversation with the knight who rode the great gray horse beside him.

“Why are the Normans permitted within the walls?” Arian, in Welsh, asked the young lady beside her.

 

“I do not understand, your tongue, my lady,” Brighid said in English, coming out despite the drizzle to stand beside her.

But Arian could not repeat the words, so captivated was she by the sight unfolding before her. The Normans turned toward the long stable at the far side of the bailey, followed by the lady’s men; only she and Stefan turned their horses toward Arian. A squire ran up to both horses and took the reins. Stefan dismounted and she watched him limp to the lady’s side.

“Dear Lord, what happened to him?” Brighid gasped beside Arian.

She cast the girl a scowl, then turned her attention back to the knights. Arian’s jaw dropped when the lady knight pulled her helm from her head. Long thick black hair tumbled about her shoulders. She tossed the helm to her squire and dismounted the high steed, with Stefan’s careful assistance. To Arian’s amazement, the dark-haired woman threw herself into Stefan’s arms. Despite his wounded state, he pulled her into his embrace and hugged her close, whispering soft words into her ear. When they broke apart, Stefan offered his arm, and thusly they came toward her. Arian felt suddenly faint.

Jealousy pricked her hard, its nails gouging into her belly. She shook her head at the absurd emotion. Stefan was nothing but a lowly knight, a knight with no land, no title, a knight with only his horse and sword.
A bastard.
Yet her belittling him in her mind did not quash the hurt feelings.

Frustrated and feeling out of place, Arian watched him guide the lady up a wide step to stop several paces from her. When he looked to face her, Arian caught a small gasp. His expression startled her, for she did not think the man capable of a joyous look, but there it was before her. While fatigue lined his face, and to be sure that face was torn and bloody, there was a calmness about him that transcended his pain.

“Sir Stefan!” Lady Brighid gasped. “What happened to your face?”

 

He smiled at the girl and yanked a braid. “ ’Tis nothing.”

 

She giggled nervously, then asked, “Sir Rhys? Does he come with you?”

 

Instantly Arian watched Stefan’s face flash to furious. “Nay he does not, but rest assured he is alive and will come to you as soon as he is able.”

 

The girl grasped his hands. “Is he wounded? Have you seen him? Did he ask about me?”

 

Gently he set her from him, “In truth I do not know his whereabouts, but in my gut I know he lives.”

Brighid broke away, and in a flood of tears ran into the hall. Arian let out a short breath she had been holding. She caught the brief, intimate exchange between Stefan and the lady and her anger rose.

“I am Arianrhod, daughter of Prince Hylcon of Dinefwr and Lady Branwen of Powys,” she said to the lady. “Your man holds me against my will. I demand to be released at once!”

The lady smiled, and when she did it was as if the moon rose. Arian could well understand any man’s smitten heart. She was breathtakingly regal. For one so petite, she walked as if she were the queen of the realm. As she approached Arian, eyeing her disheveled appearance cautiously, she said, in a commanding voice, “A princess? Really?”

Arian nodded, her chin high, her spine straight, ignoring those who lingered in the courtyard trying to catch a word. She may look a waif, but she knew by the lady’s tone and approving eye she was aware she spoke the truth.

Lady Tarian nodded. “I am the daughter of Sweyn Godwinson and the Abbess Edith.”

 

Arian caught a breath. “An abbess?”

Lady Tarian nodded, her dark eyes snapping. “Aye, an abbess.” She strode past Arian and said over her shoulder, “Your train was here two days past in search of you. Should I send a rider after them?”

The news stunned her and gave her hope. “I demand you allow me to go to them at once!” Arian commanded.

 

“All in good time, princess,” Stefan said, taking Arian’s arm and escorting her into the hall. “All in good time.”

She balked, yanking her arm from his grasp, halting their stride. “Nay! Now! I have spent these last days chained to a bed, tied to you half-naked, my person bruised and scarred by your hand, and nearly starved, and you tell me all in good time? Nay. My time is
now!”

Lady Tarian turned from the doorway, sweeping Arian’s disheveled person with a nonchalant gaze. “Your clothes are not fit for a field churl, most unbecoming a princess.”

 

“Indeed, Lady Tarian, your man would not allow me to clothe myself!”

 

The lady looked up at Stefan, her eyes twinkling at some hidden secret. “Chivalrous knight, do you forget your lessons so soon?”

 

Stefan grinned and bowed. “There were extenuating circumstances, my lady.”

 

The lady glanced back at Arian, and said, “I cannot wait to hear the tale. But first your wounds must be tended and the lady bathed and clothed.”

When they entered the hall, Arian gasped in surprise. Compared to the forebidding exterior, it was beautiful. Large, intricate wrought-iron sconces lined both sides of the long stone walls, and in between them large colorful tapestries adorned the walls. Suspended from thick oak ceiling beams in the middle of the hall, a huge round black iron candelabrum with intricate scrollwork hung, adorned with scores of blazing candles. There was a large fireplace built into the front end of the hall—it was cold—and at the far end another fireplace, easily twice the size of the forward one. Above it hung an ornate standard, a golden dragon on a sapphire field, and beside it hung another standard, one of a gruesome white skull with a sword plunging through it, on a black field, crimson drops of blood dripping from it, but in between both was the standard of two golden lions on a scarlet field.

Arian stiffened and halted. She looked to Lady Tarian and Stefan who walked with them.

 

“ ’Tis the lion of Normandy. Why does it fly here?”

 

“My husband, Lord Wulfson, is William’s trusted vassal. Why should it not?”

Arian’s jaw dropped. So she was not Stefan’s lady? Then her eyes narrowed as a startling realization stung her. She looked hard at Stefan, who stood tall and all too arrogant before her.
Why did she not see it?
All Normans were killers with more arrogance than any other men on earth! “You are not Saxon!” she accused.

“I never said I was.”

 

“But you—you led me to believe it was so!”

 

He shook his head. “ ’Tis what you wanted to believe, so I allowed you.”

 

She looked to the lady. “How could you marry a Norman?” Lady Tarian smiled tolerantly. “My mother is Welsh and my sire Saxon. I married my Norman husband because I could not survive another day without him.”

 

“Why did you flee from the Norman knights?” Arian asked Stefan.

He eased against the hearth. Deep pain lines etched his face. “Ralph du Forney would have snatched you for his own pleasure, and you, dear princess, would not command the high ransom I demand if you were no longer a virgin.”

Arian strode to where he stood and struck him with her open, palm upon on his good cheek. Lady Tarian gasped, as did the servants who bustled by. Stefan grabbed her by the wrists and yanked her hard to his chest. “Does the truth bother you?” he ground out.

“You are heartless, Sir Stefan, and I would expect nothing less from a Norman.” She spat to the floor.

 

“If I were heartless, you would have been raped at the hands of your guard. Do not talk to me of what I cannot do. You are in no position to order.”