weakness ...
His hands fel away from her shoulders. "Go," he said roughly His mouth compressed when she remained where she was, clearly stunned by his command. "You heard me," he said almost savagely "Just ... go, dammit!"
She backed away, as if he were naught but some evil scourge. Indeed, he reflected bitterly, that was how she saw him—the scourge of the English. Then she whirled and raced toward Gryffen as if the hounds of hel nipped at her heels. A moment later she was on her knees beside the old man, a gentle hand upon his brow, a telling gesture if ever there was one.
Thorne scowled and tore his gaze away. Yet even as he thrust the pair from his mind, he damned his lovely wife for caring so much about the grizzled old knight ... and caring so little about him.
Sir Gryffen occupied quarters in the building next to the barracks. Two guards carried him inside and dumped him on a narrow pal et pushed up against the wall. They offered no further assistance, so it was left to Shana to fetch a basin of water and cloths to clean his bloodied back.
Gryffen stiffened as she bent to the task. He angled his head to the side that he might see her better. He groaned on seeing the rebel ious compression of her lips. "You must not hold this against him, Shana." His raspy voice was weak and thin.
Shana said nothing, merely set her lips more tightly still.
"I mean it, girl. I'll not be the cause of more strife between the two ot you."
It was on the tip of her tongue to retort that she did not foresee how their situation could possibly be any worse. She did not, because she had glimpsed the ripe anxiety in Gryffen's faded blue eyes.
"I understand why he had me punished—'twas a matter of honor and respect. Had I been in his place, I'd have done the same."
Shana said nothing. Later, perhaps, she might admit Gryffen was right—the knight's code of honor would demand discipline be meted out swiftly and severely. But she was not inclined to be generous towards her husband, not when Gryffen lay hurt and bloodied beneath her.
The tension constricting her muscles slowly eased as she dabbed at the bloodied furrows in his back. Gryffen would be sore and bruised for a few
days, she suspected But the strips left by the lash were neither deep nor wide.
From the door came the shuffle of footsteps. Shana glanced up to see Wil standing there, holding a cup He held it toward her.
"Milady, the earl bade me bring this to you. He said 'twil ease the pain. And here is a healing salve."
Shana was sorely tempted to snap that she wanted nothing from the earl, not even this! She did not, for she knew Gryffen was surely in pain though he had yet to cry out or even moan.
She beckoned to Wil With the boy's help, they lifted the cup to Gryffen's lips so he could drink. It wasn't long before his breathing grew deep and even His lashes fel shut and he slept. Wil sat on his haunches beside her as she began to smooth the greasy salve onto his torn flesh.
"Milady—" the boy's voice was barely audible, "he won't die, will he?"
Shana glanced at him sharply. Her heart twisted as she spied his anxious fear.
An unexpected friendship had cropped up between Gryffen and the boy, despite the vast difference in their ages It had pleased Shana to no end that despite Gryffen's Welsh heritage, Wil was not blind to the good in him. Now she gave a hearty prayer of thanksgiving that the day's events had not besmirched the boy's affection for Sir Gryffen.
"He'l be fine, Wil ," she said softly, wiping her hands on a rag. "I promise you, Gryffen wil be here for a good many years to come." She leaned over and pressed her lips against his forehead. She felt him start in surprise, but he didn't pul away. Indeed, he blushed fiercely, but the next moment his eyes were dark once more.
Shana frowned. "What is it, Wil ?"
He hesitated. "Milady," he said slowly, "I do not think Gryffen freed the prisoners. He slept long
before I, and I think I would have awoken had he left."
But would he have? Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not. Shana experienced a pinprick of guilt. Gryffen was certainly the guilty party, for Thorne was right. Who but the two of them would have wished the Welsh prisoners freed? But she knew she dared not admit such, lest more trouble brew.
She shook her head. "Alas, Wil , we may never know who is responsible."
The troubled frown did not leave his brow, but he said nothing more. Shana rose to her feet a short time later since Wil promised to stay with Gryffen in case he awoke.
The sun glittered bril iantly when she reentered the bailey. Raising a slender hand, she shielded her eyes against the glare. She was vastly irritated when she beheld Thorne striding toward her.
He greeted her coolly. "You are just in tune to see me off, princess."
Her lips compressed. "Do not tell me. You go to find the prisoners."
His eyes flickered. "Sir Quentin and his men wil see to that. Geoffrey and I have another task, princess, for it seems the Dragon has been busy once again. Up until now he has ral ied people to his side with wit and words. But now he has chosen to wield his sword as well as words. Aye," he said harshly on seeing her eyes widen. "The Dragon and his men attacked a group of English knights camped for the night. They were slain while they slept—"
"While they slept? Indeed, milord, mayhap the Dragon has taken his cue from you—for this raid sounds much like your attack on Merwen'"
Thorne's lips thinned. He did not bother to disavow her claim, for she had closed her mind against the truth—just as she had closed her mmd against him!
"So what wil you do, milord? Search him down like an animal?"
"Nay," he said grimly, "like the traitor he is. And by God, we will find out who he is—most assuredly we will also find out where he is."
She could no longer hide her scorn. "Oh, that would please you, wouldn't it? The king would love to see the Dragon captured, while you would love to see the deed done by your own hand! Indeed, 'tis naught but a means to an end, for we both know you merely covet Castle Langley and the wealth and titles it wil bring you!"
Thorne had gone utterly stil . His mind spun adrift, hurtling him back through space and time, to the blazing sands of the Holy Land. A bittersweet pang pierced his chest. He had been so young then, so unprepared despite the bitter blows fate had dealt him. He thought of the first heathen he'd slain—the first man he had ever kil ed ...
Through a haze, he heard Shana's voice; it sliced through him, like a blade of finest steel.
"In truth, milord, 'tis your own greed and selfishness that wil perpetuate this war with Wales.
To men like you, war means power and strength, glory and riches. Bloodshed and lives lost mean nothing!"
His features grew taut. "Indeed," he said rigidly. "Wel , let me tell you a story, princess, a story of a boy who thought his journey to the Holy Land was the answer to al his prayers for a better life—a boy who thought fighting God's battles would be just as you say, al power and strength and glory.
"Ah, but he was so wrong, princess. The desert heat was like wave after wave of hell itself.
He was sickened by his first battle, for the nauseating stench of sweat and blood and rotting guts was everywhere. There was no escape from it, just as
there was no escape from the screams of agony. But escape was his only thought, and so he fled toward a vil age at the edge of the sand.
"This boy was frightened as never before, his heart pounding like a pagan drum, his lungs bursting. And it was then that a man stepped out of his tent. The man posed no threat, no harm, for he was not even armed. But the boy saw only his? sun-baked skin, black hair, and almond eyes. He struck out ... It was only later, as the man's wife lay weeping over his corpse, that the boy realized ... He had kil ed a man not out of bravery, but out of fear. And he knew then there was no glory in war. There was only death and darkness and despair."
Stunned, Shana stared up at him. "Dear God," she said faintly. "That boy was you ..."
Thorne's lips twisted. A terrible storm brewed within him, an awful brooding, an endless ache ... and an endless rage. "Aye," he said harshly. "I was that boy. And aye, I covet Langley. Oh, you may deny me what little I've ever had, you who always have been coddled and indulged But by God, I'll not apologize for it to you or anyone else."
He snared her by the waist and marched her forward to where his squire held his horse. His troops were already in formation, lined before the palisade. His pennon, blood red with its fiercesome two-headed creature of the deep, whipped in the breeze as if to taunt her.
His arm was like an iron manacle around her back. She gasped when he dragged her close — closer stil !—so that she stood squarely between his booted feet.
"You wil see me off, princess." His whisper was fiercely demanding. "You may not play the role of devoted wife anywhere else, but you wil do so before my men!"
Shana was stung, seared to the core. Thorne's
expression was unyielding—and after what he had just told her yet1 He thought her cold— but he was no less so himself! In her hurt, she lashed out blindly.
"I—I'd much rather play the grieving widow!"
she burst out.
Thorne swore with bitter wrath. "By God, woman, I wil count as blessed every day 1 am spared your vile tongue!"
"And I your presence!"
His temper exploded. "Think on this while I am gone, princess. The F.nglish did not start this conflict. But if your people want war, then war it shal be."
His mouth came down on hers. His kiss was starkly possessive and hotly demanding. Oh, she tried to hold back, but her body displayed a frightening wil of its own. Her hands found his back and dug in, as if she sought to bind him to her forever. Her lips parted, an invitation she was powerless to withhold. His tongue dove swift and deep in tantalizing play. She forgot that his men looked on—she forgot everything but the fiery heat of his mouth on hers, his body hard and tight against her own.
It was over as abruptly as it had begun. He left her standing in a whirlwind of dust, her heart stil pounding a bone-jarring rhythm.
Not once did he look back.
hat day was to linger in Shana's memory, not only because of Gryffen, but because Thorne's prediction proved al too true.
The battle had indeed begun in earnest.
Always ... always there was the sound of war. The smithy pounded at the forge from dawn until daybreak; in the bailey carpenters fashioned wooden screens called mantlets which the archers used as shields; men shouted as they prepared to ride out, their horses plumed and decked out in the trappings of war.
Reports flooded in daily of mounting resistance against English rule. The Welsh deeply resented Edward's show of right and might along the Marches. Scarcely a day went by without skirmishes somewhere along the border.
She overheard Thorne with Geoffrey one evening. Llywelyn had seized on their marriage as an insult to Wales and used it as an excuse to incite more violence. Forays led by the Dragon against the English had become bolder—and more deadly.
Only last eve Sir Quentin had limped into the hal . Shana had been sitting stiffly at Thorne's side when she caught sight of Sir Quentin. One sleeve of his tunic was split nearly to the shoulder. Wrapped around his arm was a blood-soaked
bandage. His face was filthy and smudged, his temple scraped raw and bruised.
Thorne leaped to his feet with a scathing oath. "Bloody hell!" he swore. "More of the Dragon's handiwork?"
Sir Quentin acknowledged with a weary nod. "He's a crafty one, I'll give him that."
Thorne's features were tightly drawn. " 'Tis his way to strike here and there unexpectedly, to appear and disappear."
Sir Quentin shifted his weight to his other leg, wincing as he did so. "It was too late to return to Langley last night, milord, so we prepared to make camp half a day's ride afield. No sooner were we off our horses than the Dragon sent his men sweeping down from the hil s— we saw him from afar, wearing a mantle of blazing scarlet. 'Twas a battle slanted in his favor from the start, for most of my men were unarmed and il -prepared ..."
Evening found a somber group burying a dozen bodies outside the wal s. Shana had surveyed the procession through eyes that stung painfully, one burning question etched in her brain—what victory was there in death? She could feel no triumph at the loss of these English soldiers. Some of them were so young, hardly older than Wil . But despite her brimming sadness, a niggling voice inside berated her fiercely. It cried that in allowing sympathy for the English, she betrayed her people. Her heart twisted. Especial y when she thought of her father ...
Over the course of the next month, Thorne was often gone. On the rare occasions he was back at Langley, he did not speak to her of the battles being waged. Shana did not pretend to misunderstand why—he did not trust her. Nay, she decided bitterly, he did not bother to hide his suspicion of her. It was there in every glance, every sharp look
cast upon her when she chanced to pass by him, together with his men.
But even as conflict raged across the land, conflict raged within her heart. No matter how she tried to deny it, it preyed on her mind that Thorne had not demanded his marital rights since the night the prisoners had escaped. Nay, he did not touch her, not out of duty or in passing, for though he kept his possessions in his tower chamber, he slept elsewhere.
Shana assured herself she was vastly relieved, yet there was a questing restlessness deep in her soul that burned fitfully al through the night. Nor could she control the frightening rush of awareness whenever he was near. She had come to recognize the sound of his step, the pleasant scent of the soap he used, the way he tightened his jaw whenever he was displeased—and with her it seemed that was always!