Authors: Karin Tabke
“Nay, Arian, you will say the vows regardless. Lord Dag has no husbandly rights to you, he only stands in Magnus’s stead since he could not be here. ’Tis a common practice,” Morwena assured her.
The buzz in Arian’s belly intensified. A dark foreboding took hold of her. “Nay,” she breathed. “He will not see to my welfare as Magnus would have.” Her head began to pound, and she knew that if she said the vows, she would never arrive in Yorkshire intact. The guarantee of her virginity was part of the marriage contract. Magnus had been adamant that his bride be untouched by any man before him. She closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips to her temples, then slowly shook her head. She opened her eyes and said flatly, “I will not say the words.”
“I will go to Yorkshire, but not as a wife wedded by proxy.” Morwena grabbed Arian’s hands and squeezed them. “You make no sense, Arian. There is no reason
not
to wed this way! Even if Lord Dag is a lout, he cannot touch you!” Morwena pleaded. When Arian would not relent, Morwena slowly exhaled, and more calmly continued, “If you do not go as a married woman, Hylcon will never permit it.” Tears filled
Jane and Morwena looked askance at each other and they both paled. Arian nodded, her mind set. They both knew her all too well. She had a way of getting what she wanted, even when it went against the grain.
When she swept unannounced into the hall, and she first set eyes on the tall bald-headed Viking with the short golden goatee and ice-colored eyes, Arian shivered. Lord Dag’s piercing gaze stabbed her, but only briefly did they meet her bold stare. Instead, his gaze dropped and lingered at her bosom, then traveled slowly down her waist to her hips, where they lingered longer, before returning to her bosom. Arian bit back a sharp barb. His insult was most outrageous. Her gaze traveled up to her father, who sat upon a high dais, Morwena beside him, and while she should have been happy that he scowled deeply at the bold Viking, she was not. Her father’s face reddened as a storm gathered within. Abruptly he stood and pointed an accusational finger at Lord Dag.
Dag had the decency to pale and quickly bowed. He kept his subservient posture and said, in a deep accented voice, “One thousand pardons, my lord, I was but awestruck by her beauty. My lord Magnus did not do her justice in his descriptions of her.” He bowed lower as he turned toward Arian. “You are most beautiful, my lady. Please forgive my boldness. I am at your service.”
Hylcon turned and sat angrily upon his throne. “You are quick with your words, Lord Dag, but I am not a blind man. Return to your master and tell him that until such time he comes in person to claim my daughter as his bride she will remain here.”
Arian gasped, as did everyone else in the hall. Lord Dag stood upright, and though his face had reddened and it was obvious he was alarmed, he kept his composure. He bowed again and when he stood, he took a step closer to Hylcon. “My lord, please, allow my scribe to read the words my lord Magnus would have had me read to your daughter in a private moment. Mayhap it will soften your mood.”
Hylcon scowled, but waved his hand. Dag motioned to his scribe—a tonsured monk—and handed him a sealed document. He broke the seal, and as he unrolled the parchment, he cleared his throat.
“I pray this missive finds you healthy and happy. It is my sincere regret that I cannot come to you myself, for I have thought of naught but your smile and sweet voice since we first met this spring past. Nary a night goes by that I do not dream of you.
“Whilst your good father made his concern for your welfare clear, I was most happy to assure him he has nothing to fear. For you see, my love, I have refused many noblewomen in my pursuit of the perfect wife, but when my eyes landed upon you that glorious spring day, I knew that instant you were to be my lady. I place you and your heart’s desire above my own.
“Please accept my nephew Lord Dag as my proxy. He, as I, has only your best interests at heart, and if I could, I would not wait another heartbeat to come to you. But my king has requested my presence. Whence my affairs for my king are concluded, I will rush to your side. So until we meet again, please, give Lord Dag your hand as if you were giving it to me, pledge your troth to me, sweet Arian, as I, through him pledge mine to you.
Arian stood rooted to the floor. Warmth filled her belly. No one had ever put her wishes before their own. Magnus’s words rang true, and it was because of his clear heart that she had agreed so quickly to wed him. For, as he, she had many suitors vie for her hand, but her father had left the choice up to her. And ’twas Magnus of Norway she chose. He was handsome and kind, and they had from the moment they met fallen into an easy camaraderie. Her gaze rose to the icy eyes of Dag, and a hard shiver rent her entire body. “I will not say the words to you, Lord Dag, but I will go to Yorkshire and await my betrothed.”
As Hylcon strode furiously down the steps toward her, she strode just as furiously toward him. She would not back down. She could not! His heartsickness was so great for her mother that he could not see that she was not Branwen. So long as she remained in Dinefwr, his dark periods would grow closer together and any chance he had with Morwena would be gone. She would go, and never look back. To save them all, Arian refused to back down. She would leave immediately.
As Hylcon’s face reddened, his breathing became labored; his wide silver eyes looked as if they would pop from his head. Arian halted her approach to him. He grabbed at his collar and pulled the fabric away from his neck. He opened his mouth and his lips moved, but no sound came forth.
Arian sank to the stone steps, and with Morwena’s help rolled him over, and was relieved to see that he breathed. Rhodri, never punctual unless it pleased him to be so, burst into the hall, no doubt having come from dawdling with a maid or two.
And so it was that Hylcon fell from a fit of temper into a deep slumber. He was taken to his chamber and tended by his wife and a host of scurrying physicians. Arian stood off in the shadows watching the comings and goings, and felt as if the weight of Wales pressed upon her shoulders. ’Twas her fault. Hylcon made ridiculous demands on her, refusing to let go of the last vital part that was a part of his dead wife. There was no question in her mind as to what she must do.
“Rhodri,” she called to her brother, as he strode into the chamber. He came to her, his eyes so much like her own, questioning. She could not help a warm smile. He was a good head taller than she, which was not short for a woman. Whereas she had the sunburst-and-honeycolored locks of her mother, Rhodri was dark like their sire. He was most handsome, and could wheedle a mouse from the talons of a hawk. The people of Carmarthenshire adored him, and were most anxious for the young prince to take a bride. Her smile widened despite the dark mood of the chamber. There were plenty of bastards running about with the same silver eyes she and her brother possessed. Arian knew that as she had her own reservations concerning true love, Rhodri did also. ’Twas a topic they spent many hours pondering: while both desired a spouse, they did not desire love. She took his large hands into hers and pulled him to a quiet corner.
“I must leave here before Papa awakens. As you are master here while he is ill, I beg your permission to go.” Rhodri’s silvery eyes darkened and he opened his mouth to argue. She shook her head and pled her cause. “By my staying, your mother will never have a chance at happiness, and for me the same applies. If I do not go now, Rhod, when he awakens— and he will, for he is as healthy as our stallions—he will never allow me to go.” She squeezed his hands. “I
must
go, Rhodri. I must go and live my own life.”
His eyes beseeched her; she could tell he was afraid that if he allowed her to go while Hylcon slept there would be hell to pay when he awoke. “All I ask for is a contingent of soldiers to escort me to Yorkshire along with Lord Dag’s men.”
Arian nearly collapsed in relief, but instead she drew strength from her choice, and as the eldest sibling, she did have a say in some things. And she would not have her brother whom she loved above all others put himself in peril for her. “You will be Prince here, Rhodri, if he does not survive. ’Tis not wise to go so close to England now.”
He cast an angry glance at the man they both called father. “I have no loyalty to him, only to my mother and to you, sister. If he should awaken and find me gone, ’twill not be the first time, and, as all the other times, he will not care.”
She placed her fingertips to his cheek, where dark stubble shadowed the chiseled lines of his handsome face. “Do not make the same mistake as he, Rhodri. Find a worthy wife, but one you can live without.”
He smiled a tight, crooked smile. “As have you, sister, I have learned that lesson well.” He looked over his shoulder to their sire. “Prepare to depart at first light. I will handle him when he awakens.”
The droning buzz of flies was Stefan’s first conscious thought, but the intense pain along his right cheek and right thigh soon overshadowed it. Something heavy pressed upon his chest, and the stench of death clogged his throat and nostrils.
He coughed, and tried to move his legs, but they were pinned by a greater weight. He opened his eyes, only to be met by darkness. Alarm filled him when he could not make out his surroundings. His burning body twitched. Had he lost his sight? He stilled the wave of confusion. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath, and slowly he opened them again. Inhaling deeply, he exhaled slowly. “Thank the saints,” he muttered hoarsely. From where he lay on his back, he could see the slight twinkling of stars above.
Carefully, Stefan absorbed his surroundings, and as his gaze moved across the darkened field he knew where he lay. On the battlefield at Hereford. Low voices far off carried over the still, sultry night. He attempted to move his right leg, but fire burned white-hot in his thigh. He raised his hand to his cheek and winced. His gauntlet was gone, and his callused fingers touched an open wound, sending the flies from it.
“God’s blood!” Was he in hell? And his brothers, where were they? Had they fallen? Had they been left for dead as he? In a great surge of strength, he pushed the body from his chest and tried to sit up. But his legs too were pinned. He scowled, and his heart stopped for a brief moment and he felt it constrict. In the soft glow of the moon, Fallon, his stallion that he had raised from a colt, lay dead at his feet, his great head resting upon Stefan’s shins. A hard knot of emotion clogged his chest, making it difficult to breathe. The steed had given his all for his master, and had asked only for love and respect in return.
Setting his jaw, ignoring the pain, with great effort and precision, Stefan maneuvered his legs from beneath his steed’s head. He was close enough to the forest’s edge that if he could drag himself there, he could observe and wait. Taking a full skin of wine from his saddle, Stefan tied it to his sword belt, then he dug in the rear saddlebag for the small sack of dried venison he always carried, as well as several pouches of healing herbs, salves, linens, and a needle and sturdy thread. As the horse master, he was never without a balm or herb to soothe his or his brothers’ horses before, during or after a battle.
Once fortified, under the cloak of darkness, with what strength he had left, Stefan slowly, with only his arms and one good leg to aid him, half crawled, half dragged himself over the bodies of Norman, Saxon, and Welsh alike, into the protective shroud of the forest.
In his gut, he knew Normandy had lost this battle, and when he thought of the loss of his brothers, his heart could scarce stand the pain. He had failed them. He had been given the command and he had failed them!
It took everything Stefan had to crawl to the forest edge. His strength sapped, he leaned against a fallen oak and took great deep breaths. When he gained a normal breath, he carefully prodded his damaged thigh. He could feel the separation of the snug-fitting circlets of steel, and, beneath, the sticky blood. He winced as his fingers went deep into his thigh. He unlaced his boots, kicking them off, then pulled off his mail chauses, the chore costing him more strength. Sweat erupted and rivulets poured down his face, but he pushed through the pain. He ripped the bottom part of his woolen chauses from his right leg and scowled. In the dim light he could see a long deep slice that ran horizontally across the front of his right thigh. At least the wound was not to anything so vital as to prevent him from ever walking again. As deftly as he could manage with what he had, Stefan cleaned the wound with wine from the skin, crumbled up several herbs, mixing them with a balm, then smoothed the mixture into and across the wound. Almost immediately, some of the heat lessened. As he labored, the wound on his face began to ooze, and with only his fingers to guide him, he cleaned the gash, then rubbed the soothing balm into it. He dug through one of the pouches and grunted in satisfaction. His needle and sturdy thread.