The ring? Did ap Idwal know about the legacy? Had Sir Hugh told him? Perhaps. Or did ap Idwal see the ring as Alberic once had, as proof of lordship?
He heard the soft footfalls of Gwendolyn’s mare coming up beside him, dread coiling in his stomach. Though she went no farther than his side, he didn’t like having her exposed.
“Your bargain with my father no longer stands,” she declared. “Another man has been chosen, and I am content with the choice.”
“Who the hell cares what you want?
I
was chosen, and I will have what I was promised!” Ap Idwal dismounted and pulled his sword. Alberic tensed. “I challenge you, Alberic of Chester, for the rights to Lady Gwendolyn and Camelen.”
And hadn’t he known all along it would come to this? He and ap Idwal, sword to sword. For the possession of Camelen, of Gwendolyn, and now the seal of the dragon and a legacy he barely believed in.
Resigned, he prepared to dismount.
Gwendolyn’s voice stopped him.
“Your hand,” she said softly. “Will it hamper you?”
“Nay,” he answered, hoping he told the truth.
She smiled at him, a blessing from a goddess. “Then I leave him to you.”
“Remember what I said about seeking shelter at the castle.”
“I heard you, but it will not be necessary.”
A smile and a profession of confidence. She didn’t even tell him to have a care before she backed up her palfrey several steps.
Dismounted, Alberic pulled his sword from its scabbard and perused the battlefield. He saw no advantage or disadvantage. He wore no helm or mail, but neither did ap Idwal. The road was rutted, but not deeply, favoring neither man. His only concern was ap Idwal’s supporters, Edgar in particular, the man’s bow a nasty reminder of an arrow whizzing past his head to pierce the village church’s door.
“What assurance have I that your men will not interfere?”
“You have my word of honor.”
“An honorable man would not have set fire to the village before his stated deadline had passed.”
Mouth pursed in a hard line, ap Idwal called over his shoulder. “Toss down your weapons, all of them.”
Soon swords, daggers, a bow, and a quiver of arrows all lay on the road.
Ap Idwal waved his sword. “And your assurance?”
Alberic looked over his shoulder to Garrett. “Ride back and see that our men do the same.”
The old knight frowned. “This is madness, my lord. Allow Roger or I to take your place.”
He shook his head. “Do as I say. No one is to interfere.”
Garrett jerked his horse around to obey, riding to the back to relay the order to the soldiers who guarded the rear. Roger looked none too happy about the disarming, but soon the soldiers of Camelen piled their weapons on the side of the road, within ap Idwal’s sight.
As the last dagger clanged onto the pile, ap Idwal rushed forward with a cry devised to curdle a man’s blood, his sword in position for a punishing blow. Alberic waited until the sword reached its peak, then deprived the cold steel of its target. He ducked fast and low, the maneuver perfectly timed. The edge whistled over him, the weight of the sword spinning ap Idwal clean around.
“A new dance, ap Idwal? Prettily done.”
“Put up your sword, whoreson, or do you plan another retreat?”
“I yet wait for an attack worth countering.”
“Bastard!”
Ap Idwal’s anger drove him to yet another forceful but ill-planned attempt to skewer his enemy, and Alberic knew he had his opponent’s measure. Too often men fought with their brawn and not their brains. All he had to do was block a few thrusts, let the Welshman wear himself out with his wildness, and then he’d have him.
’Twas almost a shame.
So Alberic began to circle, mostly staying on the defensive to draw ap Idwal into a false sense of having the upper hand, the tactic learned on the earl’s practice yard. How odd that he had Chester to thank for being hard on him, driving him to spend hours sparring against skilled knights, believing he trained to please his sire. He knew differently now. All of those hours had prepared him for this one battle alone, the most important of his life.
Blow after blow rained down, each blocked and thrown off, though not with ease. Ap Idwal was strong, his blade heavy and finely honed, and he fought for a prize he believed rightfully his. Such men often won with a lucky stroke.
But not this time.
His attention divided between ap Idwal’s sword and eyes, Alberic saw the flash of doubt and moment of hesitation. On the next stroke he countered differently, letting ap Idwal know that he, too, fought for what was rightfully his: Gwendolyn, Camelen, and aye, the damn legacy if it proved true. All were tightly bound together. To lose one was to lose all.
Nay, not quite true. He could lose Camelen and go on with his life, and the legacy could go hang. But to lose Gwendolyn would tear the heart and soul from him, leave him a shell of a man. His love for her overshadowed all. She was his reason to live, to fight.
Alberic pressed his offense. With stroke after stroke he hammered at ap Idwal, punishing him for daring to covet the woman he loved. For the deaths of two soldiers and the burns on Mistress Biggs’s legs. For the dishonorable firing of the village and the knock on the head in the graveyard that had put him in bed for several days, and worse, had led him to doubt himself.
Sword slid against sword, emitting a lethal metallic hiss. In those few moments when he stood chest to chest with ap Idwal before pushing away, he heard the man’s labored breathing, saw clearly the man’s hatred and determination.
Alberic’s own breath was as labored. His hand hurt, his arm grew weary. Dust swirled around them, rising from the churned-up road. Yet he patiently waited for that moment when ap Idwal left his guard open too long. When it came, his sword flashed, drawing first blood with a slash to ap Idwal’s left upper arm. The man howled and spun away, but with the tenacity and fury of an injured beast, he viciously flung himself back into the fray, exactly as Alberic had hoped.
Ap Idwal barreled at him with the intent to deliver a finishing blow. Alberic changed his grip on his sword. He took his stance, his foot landing at the edge of a rut. Pain pierced his ankle and shifted his balance. He remained upright, but not steady. Sharp steel flew toward him. Alberic countered at the angle he’d planned and, to his relief, the maneuver worked despite the flawed arc of his sword.
Ap Idwal’s weapon flew out of his hands. Alberic hit the dirt road and rolled, barely catching sight of his opponent pulling a dagger from his boot. He rolled once more, bracing for the lunge that was sure to come.
That never came. Ap Idwal spun on his heel and ran toward Gwendolyn.
Nooooo!
Heart in his throat, he shouted, “Gwendolyn, flee!”
But even he could see she had no time.
He gained his feet and began to run, hearing shouts of outrage from his soldiers. Garrett had dismounted, and though Alberic gave valiant effort, his limp wouldn’t allow him to reach Gwendolyn ahead of ap Idwal. Roger gave heel to his horse, but he was too far away to give aid.
Then Gwendolyn shifted in the saddle, her expression a mix of outrage and resolve.
Yes! Wait. Wait.
Gwendolyn’s legs tightened around her mare. Ap Idwal lunged for the horse’s halter.
Now!
She reared the horse. The front hooves rose high off the ground, one iron-shod hoof catching ap Idwal in the chest, knocking him over. The steep angle was too much for Gwendolyn to maintain her balance on the mare’s back. She slid off, arms flailing, and hit the dirt with a sickening thud.
Ap Idwal got up.
“My lord, behind you!” came Roger’s warning.
Alberic didn’t turn around, his entire being torn between wanting to tear ap Idwal limb from limb and reaching Gwendolyn. He heard the arrow’s angry buzz, knew it was aimed at him, and braced for the impact. He heard the arrow bite into human flesh, but felt no pain.
Ap Idwal jerked and flung his arms wide, the dagger dropping from his hand, an arrow protruding from his back. He fell first to his knees, pausing there for an eternal moment before his body toppled forward.
Within the space of two heartbeats, Alberic reached Gwendolyn, who’d risen up to lean on her arm. Relief flooded him as he looked her over. No blood.
He dropped to his knees and gathered her in his arms, his fears easing, though his heart still pounded against his ribs. Pressing his face into her neck, he breathed in her sweet scent, kissed the steady pulse at her temple, and allowed himself to believe everything might be all right.
“Good God, Gwendolyn, you scared me.”
She laughed lightly. “Not nearly as much as you frightened me, I warrant. When you fell . . . and then the arrow . . .” She gulped in air. “Are you all right?”
“I will be. You?”
“I shall have a large bruise on my hip, but am otherwise unhurt.”
He would tenderly rub salve on that bruise as soon as he got her home. “Are you sure?”
“Aye, my love, I am sure.”
My love.
The words flung his thoughts in another direction, a path he refused to follow while kneeling in the middle of a dirt road. His heart soared even as he fought the elation, unsure if Gwendolyn truly meant the words as he wanted her to mean them.
So now he had further reason to get her home, get her alone, and find out if the woman he’d forced into marriage, whom he didn’t deserve, had come to love him as much as he loved her. ’Twould make his life complete and full. And as much as he preferred to remain here a few moments longer and cling to Gwendolyn, now assured no undue harm had befallen her, ’twas time to get up.
He allowed himself only a kiss to her cheek before he helped her to stand. His arm around her shoulders, and hers around his waist, they walked over to where Garrett and Roger stood guard while Edgar pulled his arrow from ap Idwal’s back. Only then did Alberic wonder why the archer had disobeyed the order not to interfere, and why the arrow wasn’t planted in
his
back.
“Why?” was all he asked.
Edgar bowed, then squared his shoulders. “I would have allowed him to slice you in two, Lord Alberic, but had Lady Gwendolyn suffered injury I would never have forgiven myself.” He bowed to Gwendolyn. “My lady, please know I never meant you harm. Always I believed the man chosen by Sir Hugh as your betrothed to be the better man, deserving of the lordship of Camelen, even when I deplored his methods.
“Madog ap Idwal’s dishonorable and cowardly attack on your person proved me wrong. I found it unforgivable that he broke his own bargain, and unpardonable that he meant to somehow use you against Lord Alberic. I most humbly beg your pardon, my lady. If you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I offer my bow and my life to your service.”
Alberic raised a surprised eyebrow. Gwendolyn’s arm tightened on his waist. She looked up at him, seeking guidance. He couldn’t give it to her, his feelings too mixed about the man who’d once tried to take his life, but today had possibly saved Gwendolyn’s.
“I am grateful for your accurate arrow,” she said. “As to your service, I am in a quandary. You were in company of those who robbed Camelen’s horses, killing two soldiers. How do you propose to face the garrison, to say naught of Mistress Biggs?”
“I had charge of the horses, and had naught to do with the deaths. Roger can testify to my innocence on that score.”
All looked to Roger, who scowled. “I fear I must say he is right. Edgar left the camp before the attack occurred.”
Edgar continued, “Nor was I aware of ap Idwal’s plan to fire the village until I saw the flames. I swear to you, neither was done with my knowledge or approval.”
“Our point guards?” Garrett asked.
“Up the road, bound and gagged but otherwise unharmed.”
Silence reigned until once more Gwendolyn spoke. “Have we your pledge to nevermore aim an arrow at Lord Alberic?”
“Henceforth my arrows shall be aimed in his defense, my lady, this I so thee pledge.”
“Then I give my blessing, but the decision must rest with his lordship.”
It really wasn’t a decision. The man had protected Gwendolyn when most needed. Such a man was welcome, though Alberic wasn’t ready to have the man too close at hand yet.
“Garrett, take Edgar and two others and lay claim to ap Idwal’s holding in my name.” He glanced at the Welshmen who stood by their ponies, their weapons still in a pile in the dirt. “Will there be trouble on that score?”
Edgar shook his head. “Not likely. You will note that none of ap Idwal’s men moved to stop me from picking up my bow and an arrow, and I believe all knew whom I intended to aim for. When the extent of ap Idwal’s shame becomes known, I doubt anyone will raise a blade to defend his right to the holding.”
With a last look at Madog ap Idwal, Alberic realized he’d obtained his revenge and would lay claim to the Welsh holding without the earl’s help. Although he hadn’t done it in his own time and certainly not by himself. But then, he no longer had to prove himself worthy. Not to the earl, not even to himself.
He had several loyal men, and one incredible woman, upon whom he could rely.
Never again must he be alone.
A humbling and heartening thought.
Alberic turned Gwendolyn around and whispered, “I need a bath. Let us go home.”
T
WAS NIGH ON MIDNIGHT, THE DARK
, silent
between
time. Gwendolyn lit every candle in the bedchamber, now five in all, then swished a hand through the steamy water in the new tub, not caring what the servants thought of their lord and lady bathing at such an odd hour. A soak in lavender-scented water would do them both good.
She ached all over and imagined Alberic did, too. The bruise on her hip wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it might be, and he’d uttered no complaints of physical discomfort. But damn, she’d come close to losing Alberic today, and the need for closeness, to make love to him, was almost unbearable. So she’d ordered the tub filled while he made a final round of the battlements to ensure the guards were in place and assure the garrison once again that he’d come through today’s ordeal whole and hardy.