Authors: Christina Dodd
But Marian had her own dreams, and one crafty old peasant wasn’t getting in her way. True, she had Lionel, and he was a disadvantage in a fight, but she also had a strong arm, a sharp knife, and enough guile to lull the man into eternal repose. With a flutter of her eyelashes and a coy smile, she watched Dolan row. “You’re very strong. I imagine the muscles in your arms are like tempered steel.”
He stared at her suspiciously.
“Most of the men I’ve known have been lords, and
they’re such weaklings. They only know how to lift a pen, not coil rope and lift that heavy anchor and move the oars back and forth. What do you call that?”
“Ye’re woofin’ me,” he said. “Ye’re not as stupid as all that.”
He was rowing them parallel to the shore, traveling east toward the wash of the river Dee, but he kept them far enough out to sea to preclude her swimming to land, even if she hadn’t had Lionel. Widening her eyes, she said, “Why do you say I’m stupid? Not everyone knows the names for all these boat things.”
“I said ye’re
not
stupid. Took one smart lady t’ figure an escape from Castle Powel. If ye’d gone by land, they’d have caught up wi’ ye.”
“Aye,” she said, remembering the wretched trip into Wales, and she dropped her hand on the top of Lionel’s dark head.
“But a ship at sail leaves no trail, so th’ sayin’ goes, an’ ye reasoned that out, an’ reasoned out who t’ ask who’d not go cryin’ t’ Lord Rhys.” He nodded, his body bending with the rhythm of the oars. “So there’s no use a-tellin’ me ye’re a fool.”
His black eyes snapped with resentment, although she knew not why. His sensuous lips smiled, but not with kindness. He was as handsome as sin itself and, she feared, twice as evil.
“Man,” Lionel said, pointing at Dolan and smiling so widely all his little white teeth showed. “Nice man.”
“Hey? What’s that?” Insulted, Dolan reared back and glared at Lionel. “Did he call me a nice man?”
Marian tried to hush Lionel, but Dolan insisted, “Did he?”
“He did,” she answered.
Dolan transferred his glare to her. “I’m not a nice man.”
“Grandda,” Lionel insisted, still obviously enchanted with Dolan. “
My
grandda.”
“Nay, sweeting. He’s not your grandda.”
Leaning down, she pulled a piece of bread from her bag and handed it to Lionel, hoping to quiet the inopportune worship. She thought she’d succeeded when Lionel took the bread and gnawed on it, dropping enough crumbs to attract the seabirds, but Lionel used the moment of silence to contemplate Dolan.
“What’re ye starin’ at?” Dolan snarled to the child.
“Grandda…Rhys?” Lionel inquired.
Dolan leaped up, making the oars clank in disarray and the boat rock dangerously. “I’m not Rhys! Ye hear me, I’m not Rhys. I’m Dolan.”
Marian cowered from his fury, then surreptitiously verified the presence of her knife in her sleeve; but Lionel only watched Dolan with intense interest. With his mouth still stuffed with bread, Lionel said, “Grandda Dolan.”
Sagging back onto his seat, Dolan demanded of Marian, “Can’t ye make that whelp shut his mouth?”
“It would appear not,” she admitted. “Why did you agree to take me?”
“I liked th’ money.” He picked up the oars again, keeping a wary eye on Lionel. “Can’t never have too much money.”
“And?”
“Am I goin’ t’ rape ye, do ye mean?”
“Are you going to try?”
He stopped rowing and looked her over, giving special notice to the stretch of her bodice. “Nay. My quarrel’s wi’ old Rhys, not wi’ his son, an’ if I raped his son’s betrothed, I have no doubt young Griffith’d take it in his head t’ slit my gullet. Nay, I’ll not rape ye. Provided ye pay me twice what ye promised. I don’t like skinny women.” He cursed when Lionel bobbed up and scrambled toward him. “An’ I don’t like whelps, so keep this one out o’ me way!”
Marian grabbed for Lionel, but the child was too
quick. Thrusting the damp, mashed chunk of bread in Dolan’s face, he said, “Grandda Dolan eat.”
Marian reached for her son, but something stopped her. The odd expression on Dolan’s face, she supposed, or the way he stared at Lionel, like a tomcat about to adopt a puppy. Slowly he parted his lips, displaying a mouth full of strong teeth. Then, slowly, he took a nibble.
Only one, and not more than a crumb, but it satisfied Lionel, and Marian felt great triumph. For only twice what she’d promised, she’d gained safe passage to England for her and her son, she didn’t have to fight for her virtue, and Dolan—well, even Dolan might yet prove to be one of Lionel’s conquests.
Perhaps this adventure would yet prove successful.
She wasn’t so complacent as she watched the old mariner pull away hours later.
“I’m glad to see you go,” she said to the disappearing boat. “You’re a nasty man.”
Dolan didn’t even wave when Lionel called, “Grandda! Grandda!”
“Nasty, nasty man,” Marian insisted, half hoping Lionel would repeat it. “Nasty man.”
He didn’t repeat it. He only sat and cried.
She picked him up and wiped his tears. Her feet sank into the marshy ground, and her bags were piled at her feet. Her purse was noticeably thinner, thanks to Dolan, who seemed to regret his moment of softening and had proceeded to prove it with his unyielding demand for money and his absolute refusal to acknowledge Lionel.
Now she needed a horse, and it had better be a cheap one.
Worse still, she needed a destination.
She’d escaped Castle Powel knowing only that if she stayed, Lionel’s destiny would remain unfulfilled.
But who in England would help her? Would her father?
Aye, Wenthaven would, for his own benefit—but who then would protect Lionel and his interests?
Only her. Only Lady Marian Wenthaven. But she could do it. She was strong.
Picking up her bags, picking up her son, she trudged toward Shropshire. Toward Castle Wenthaven and her father.
“She’s gone?” Art could scarcely credit it, and his hopes sank as he stared at a grim-looking Rhys. “Ye couldn’t find her?”
“Two days we’ve searched, and not a sign of her. How could she have gone so far with a child?” Rhys struck the stable wall with his fist.
“I don’t understand it,” Art mumbled. He’d scarcely stepped through the gate of Castle Powel when Rhys had found him and told him that the woman he sought—the one woman Griffith wanted—had vanished. Now Art dislodged his cap and rubbed his bald head, trying to massage some thought into his weary brain. “When I left, she had sent Griffith a token, and I thought everything was settled. Now…”
“There’s no understanding women,” Rhys said.
Art nodded. “Aye, so I’ve always said. Damned shame they’re so fine between the covers.”
“There’s enough of that.” Angharad stepped through the open door of the stables, bringing the sunshine of the spring day with her. “The lass was disturbed in her mind about the marriage, and we knew that, but we had the banns called anyway because we were so excited about Griffith and his madness for her. ’Tis easy to understand, but hard to fix.” Slipping her arm through Art’s, she said, “You know her better than any of us, Art. Give us the benefit of your thoughts.”
“What’s Art going to do that I haven’t done?” Rhys snapped.
“Tell us where she’s gone, mayhap,” Angharad snapped back.
Art looked at Rhys and shook his head. Art knew the sweat and stain of the trip was ground into his clothes. He knew his face looked like scraps of leather patched together. But if anything, Rhys looked worse than Art. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands hung at his sides, and he could scarcely speak for frustration. “I’ve sought her everywhere she could have gone.”
“Then seek where she couldn’t have gone! She has to be somewhere. Don’t you understand…” Angharad pressed her hand to her cheek. “I can’t believe I’m arguing about this with you. You’ve been searching for three solid days, Rhys. You’re tired and not rational. Get you up to bed and let Art and me find Lady Marian.”
“Fine. You and Art find Lady Marian. You and Art succeed where I have failed.” Rhys started out the door, then turned back. “But I can tell you where she isn’t. She isn’t on the road to England, and she isn’t at St. Asaph’s monastery, and she isn’t with that mercenary troop haunting the neighborhood, because I personally spoke to the mercenary, Cledwyn, and took his camp apart.”
“Cledwyn?” Art said. “Did ye say Cledwyn?”
“So I did.” Rhys’s bitterness seemed to ease. “Do you know the name?”
“That man worked for Wenthaven, and ye can wager he isn’t here to do Lady Marian a good turn.” Art scratched the prickly hairs on his chin. “She wasn’t in the camp?”
“I swear it.”
“They couldn’t have taken her from the castle?” Art asked. “Through the secret passage?”
Rhys’s weariness was almost palpable. “I plugged
the passage years ago, you know that, but I inspected it anyway. ’Tis untouched.”
“Nevertheless, I’d like to pay Cledwyn a visit.”
Rhys shook his head. “As soon as I spoke to them, they fled.”
“Mayhap,” Angharad said, “they were giving chase to Lady Marian.”
“To an illusion, then.” Rhys’s patience vanished completely. “She left no trace, I tell you. She didn’t take a horse, she’s not hiding within the castle, and”—he pointed accusingly at Angharad—“she didn’t go by sea.”
He marched out of the stable, head held high, and Angharad turned to Art. “I suggested she might have gone by sea, and he’s angry he didn’t think of it. That’s why he’s going up to bed—so we can go speak to the fisherfolk and his pride won’t be involved.”
“Not until later,” Art said.
“Oh, well, later he’ll be rested and able to shrug it off.”
They stepped into the sun, and Art saw that Angharad, too, looked tired. He comforted her with a hug. “Ye can’t blame yerself for this. The lass is half-wild and a bit of a handful.”
“But I can blame myself.” Angharad smiled wistfully. “I know how she felt, better than most, but I wanted her for Griffith so badly. I wouldn’t listen when she tried to tell me of her dreams for her boy—I thought only of my dreams for mine.”
“’Tis no sin. I have those dreams, too.”
“Aye, you would.” Angharad touched Art’s scraggly chin.
“I worked hard to bring this match to fruition, and I’ll not give up now.” With a hard determination, he demanded, “Tell me why ye think she went by sea.”
“For all that Rhys is a hardheaded man, he’s a good tracker, and his men are good trackers.” Angharad strode toward the open gate with grim
purpose. “’Tis impossible for Lady Marian to have gone and left no sign, unless…”
Art followed her pointing finger and saw, silhouetted against the ocean below, the fishing village. He understood Rhys’s frustration and objected, “The fisherfolk are yer folk. They’d not take Griffith’s betrothed. Not on her request, nor on anyone else’s.”
“Nay, the fisherfolk wouldn’t.” Angharad smiled with an almost wicked amusement. “But do you remember Dolan?”
“Do I remember Dolan?” Art cried aloud. “Aye, I remember Dolan. A bad seed. He was the squire who thought he could woo ye.”
“That’s Dolan.”
“Rhys threw him out years ago.”
“Aye, and he swore he’d have no more of the knight’s life, and ran away to sea.”
“So he did.” Art looked at her closely. “Are ye saying he’s back?”
“Last year, and more perverse than ever.”
“I’m surprised Rhys hasn’t killed him.”
“Are you?”
Art shifted his feet. “Nay, I suppose not. Blood’s thicker than water, and for Rhys to have the blood of his brother—”
“Half brother,” she corrected.
“—half brother on his hands would be a bit of a stain.”
“Dolan knows it, too.” Angharad once again linked arms with Art and pulled him down the path to the village. “That’s why I think we should ask him about Lady Marian.”
The crack of a twig
in the woods beside the road stopped Marian in her tracks and brought her whirling around. Vigorously she shushed Lionel, but the boy in the saddle insisted, “Why, Mama? Why?”
The reins in her hand tightened as the old gelding spied a chance at freedom and tugged, but she was wise to his tricks now, and she clutched the leather as she scanned the shadows in the trees. She saw nothing, but she had discovered she presented an easy target for looters and scoundrels and other characters even less savory.
Although she could hear nothing else suspicious, she led the horse into the bushes on the other side of the road and tethered him firmly to a branch. Each wheeze sounded like the horse’s last, and Lionel still asked, “Why, Mama? Why?”
“Hush, Lionel.” She pulled him from the saddle and walked deeper into the shadows. “Let Mama hold you.”
He was willing. Poor lad, he was more than willing. He’d been torn from the only home he’d ever known, dragged to Wales, given into the keeping of
Rhys and Angharad while she was ill, and just as he had settled into a routine with them, she had dragged him away again. Two days of traveling had tired him, the killings of the day before disturbed him, and nothing could convince him she could keep him safe.
Now he buried his face in her neck, and her heart ached when she felt him tremble. Straining, she listened again for sound of a footfall, but all she heard was the horse’s everlasting groans as it tried to free itself and gallop back toward its home.
“Mama,” Lionel whispered.
She rubbed his back. “Hush, Lionel.”
“Mama—Art.”
“Nay, my babe, there’s no Art. He’s far away.”
Lionel lifted his head and pointed to the trees. “Art,” he insisted. “Art! Art!”
His voice got louder with each repetition, and he bounced in her arms.
“Art! Art!”
Incredulous but half-believing, she turned to face the shadows. There was nothing there. Nothing but a blasted stump with holes that looked like eyes. She patted Lionel again and moved toward it. “Nay, Lionel. See? ’Tis only—”
Like some dwarf spirit come to life, the stump rose. She stumbled backward, tripped on an exposed root, and fell with Lionel clutched in her arms. He landed on her stomach, knocking the breath out of her, and scrambled up before she could catch him.
“Art!” the boy shrieked.
“Lionel,” she cried as the man-tree stooped and picked up her son.
The man-tree moved forward, and she struggled to her feet, prepared to fight this spirit for her son. But the stump spoke in familiar tones. “Greetings, m’lady.” Art stepped full into the sun, and he grinned as cheerfully as if they were meeting in the great hall of Castle Powel. “What a surprise to meet ye here.”
Marian placed her hand on her chest, the thump of her heart so strong that it shook her fingers.
Or were her fingers shaking on their own?
“Art, where’s…?” She faltered, looking to the man who stood behind him.
He wasn’t Griffith. Although she couldn’t see him well, she had discovered she placed every man in the world in one of two categories. They either were tall, dark, and Griffith, or they were not. She never needed a second glance. Whether she liked it or not, she recognized Griffith with more than her sight; she recognized him with her soul.
Dolan stepped out and mocked her with a bow, then said, “I’ll take care o’ yer noble steed, shall I?”
“Why are you here?” Marian asked him, but she saw only his back as he stomped away. Turning to Art, she demanded again, “Why are you here?”
He said the last thing she expected. “I came from Castle Wenthaven.”
“From Wenthaven? What were you doing there?”
“Looking for ye.”
“Mother of God.” Marian grabbed his wrist. “Is Griffith hurt?”
Art’s mouth curled in a crafty smile of satisfaction. “He was fine when I left him at Stoke.” He scarcely waited for her heartbeat to calm before he added, “Of course, that was before the battle.”
“You left him before the battle? Art, how could you?”
Art let Lionel slip to the ground and stepped forward to look straight in Marian’s face. “Are ye accusing me of abandoning him in his hour of need, m’lady?”
“I…” Her gaze slipped away from his. “Nay, Art, of course not.”
“Glad to hear it, I am. For it would be an inappropriate accusation coming from ye, would it not?”
Art’s tone contained a bite she’d never heard before,
and the guilt that had dogged her every step strengthened. “Have you heard any word on the battle?”
“Word in the countryside is that Henry’s forces easily defeated the pretender, and Henry’s returned to Kenilworth to rest.”
“But no word of Griffith?”
“What word would there be about one man?”
“Aye.” On edge with frustration and uncertainty, she wandered to the rough-skinned oak and hugged it as if it were her lover. “You…how did you know I had left Powel?”
“Lord Rhys and Lady Angharad told me. They were much distressed at yer defection and very worried about yer safety.” Art glanced at Lionel as he ran in circles, exalting in his freedom. “About Lionel’s safety, too.”
“You couldn’t have gone from Powel to Stoke, back to Powel, and then here in only nine days. ’Tis…” She wanted to say impossible, but as her gaze swept him she stopped. He might claim he had blended with the scenery because he was Welsh and canny about the woodland arts, but the dirt he wore lent him a natural camouflage, and he looked worn, thin, and years older. Even those few hairs that so jauntily decorated his bald pate hung wearily. Aye, he’d traveled the distance.
“Where did ye think to go?” Art asked, as if he had the right. “Running away like a thief in the night.”
His rebuke infuriated her, and she snapped, “You’re just like every other man. Questioning me about my destination and intent, just as if I weren’t the daughter of an earl and a friend of the queen.”
“Oo, been a hard come-down fer ye, has it?” Dolan stood on the roadway, holding the reins of her piteous animal and glaring at them with evil intensity.
She drew herself up and glared at the impudent old pirate. “I’ve done well by myself.”
“O’ course ye have. That explains th’ blood smeared all over yer skirt, an’ th’ split on yer chin
that looks like a second mouth.” He stepped back and studied her. “Only lower.”
Art pushed up her chin with a firm grip. “How’d ye get this, lass?”
“I fell.”
Dolan snorted, and Art said, “Try again, Lady Marian, with the truth.”
She didn’t like being treated like a child, but beneath Art’s gruff exterior existed a true concern, and after a brief defiance she gave in. “There were two thieves—”
Even Dolan cried out.
“Oh, it’s not as bad as it sounds. They tried to steal the horse.” Funny, she trembled like a pup in the cold. She hadn’t been nearly so impacted yesterday, when it had happened. “I had to…um…kill them.”
Art stood, mouth hanging open, hands slack, and after a glance at him, Dolan demanded, “Ye killed two men?”
“Well, not exactly.” Sweat trickled down her forehead and beaded on her upper lip, and she blotted it with her sleeve. “That horse killed one of them. Kicked him in the head. He’s a vicious beast.”
“The thief?” Art croaked.
“The
horse
.”
Dolan tightened the reins. “An’ th’ other thief?”
“Well, I had a knife, you know.” She had plunged it into his chest without remorse, for the thieves had taunted her with tales of screaming women and roasted children. They had described the fate of the last woman they’d laid hands on. They had eyed Lionel and speculated on the price he would bring in a market.
She had no remorse, she really didn’t, but faintly she heard Dolan say, “She’s goin’ down,” and she found herself sitting beside the road, her head thrust forcibly between her knees.
When they let her up, she gasped for air and said,
“I’m not squeamish, but when I remember the way his muscles collapsed, that gray fog of death over his blue eyes, it just makes me—”
“Ah, well, lass, we all get that way after our first bloodin’.” Dolan sounded almost kind. “An’ most o’ us after every other bloodin’, too. But there’s some that like it, an’ it seems ye found a couple.”
“If ye hadn’t killed them, ye’d be dead, or wishing ye were dead by this morn, and this lad…” Art snatched Lionel off his feet and hugged him until the little boy kicked to be put down.
“I know.” Marian propped her elbows on her raised knees and buried her head in her hands. As if the admission had been forced from her, she added, “Adventure isn’t as much fun as I’d hoped.” A silence followed, and she dared not look up. She didn’t want to see their complacency or hear them tout the proper way of life for a woman and how she’d be safer within castle walls, sewing a seam. That wasn’t what she meant at all, only she needed more money, more food, her suit of men’s clothes, and a sword in her hand to properly protect Lionel.
And there had been a moment, yesterday, when she would have been glad of Griffith’s company. But Griffith was far away, fighting for the king she despised, and Lady Marian Wenthaven had never depended on any man for anything.
’Twas a sign of weakness. ’Twas a sign of Griffith’s bad influence on her and another reason to keep staunchly on her path.
As aggressively as she knew how, she demanded, “What are you doing, chasing after me?”
The odd mixture of compassion and affection on Dolan’s face curdled to aversion. “That’s what I’d like t’ know. She’s just an Englishwoman, an’ a stupid one at that.”
Marian’s faintness vanished in a flash of fury. “I’m not stupid.”
Dolan peered at her. “Where ye be goin’?”
“To Wenthaven. To my father’s house. Do you have any objections to that?”
“Not at all.” Dolan casually picked at his teeth with his fingernail. “But ye’re on th’ wrong road.”
“I am not,” she answered automatically, but she glanced around.
“Ye’re a good thirty miles due east o’ Wenthaven. Didn’t ye notice when ye passed Stafford?”
“I’ve been avoiding the towns,” she mumbled.
“We’d have found ye yesterday if ye had yer bearings.” Dolan snorted. “Just like a woman.”
Marian looked at Art, and he nodded. “Sad, but true. Ye missed Wenthaven.” He swept Lionel up and placed him on the saddle once more. “But if ye want to go to Wenthaven, m’lady, then we’ll be a-going, too.” Art indicated the rutted road. “After ye.”
She took a few steps. “But why are you here?”
“I can ill perform my sworn duty if I’m not with ye.”
Art was playing with her, prodding her reactions, and she was dancing to his tune. First she showed concern for Griffith when she should have shown indifference. Now she struggled against her curiosity and lost. “What sworn duty?”
“To protect young Lionel, of course. Don’t ye remember making me take that vow?”
She didn’t believe him. He hadn’t meant her to, for although his mouth smiled, his eyebrows turned down and his eyes were impatient. “You swore to protect Griffith, too,” she said sullenly.
“Griffith is a man, and well able to protect himself.”
“What if he’s hurt?” She hesitated. “He would need you.”
“If he is hurt, ’tis not my ugly face he wishes to see,” Art replied.
At a loss for words, she glared until Dolan asked, “Are we going to jaw all day, or are we going?”
“Right away, my fine man,” she said sarcastically.
Dolan only nodded. “Got th’ right womanly attitude there, ye have.”
“Who are you to tell me the right womanly attitude? You betrayed me.”
“Me?” Dolan pointed at himself, then shook his head. “Did ye think yer money had bought me loyalty?”
“Nay, but I thought your spite would seal your mouth.”
“Aye, an’ it would, but yer friends were distressed at yer flight—distressed enough t’ threaten me wi’ exile if I didn’t cooperate.” The horse struggled to escape, and Dolan slapped him across the nose with the reins. “I’ve had enough o’ wanderin’. I’ll not be thrown out o’ Powel again, certainly not over a wench like ye.”
Voice shaking with rage, she said, “You are a wicked man.”
He smiled, marring his dark beauty with malice. “Aye, I am. Did ye just now discover it?”
With a toss of her head, Marian flounced away from Dolan. Art followed with Lionel, and Dolan followed with the horse, handling it with ease. He asked, “Where did ye get this fine horse?”
“The horse’s name is Jack.”
“For Jackass?” Dolan guessed with uncanny accuracy. “Got as tough a mouth as any ass I’ve met. He can scarcely carry his own fleas”—he slapped Jack’s rump—“but let’s see how fast we can get this ass a-movin’.”
Lionel’s shout of encouragement drowned out Marian’s cry of, “Oh, nay!”
Art put his hand on her arm. “Don’t worry. Dolan’ll watch over the lad.”
“Dolan doesn’t like children,” she replied in exasperation.
Art cackled. “Perhaps.”
Watching wistfully as her son and his new com
panions raced ahead, Marian wished she could be like them. Happy, carefree, heart whole. “What did Griffith think of his token?”
“His token?” Art acted confused, then seemed to remember. “Ah, his token! A rock and a hank of hair. Quite a token ye sent, lass.”
“Did he understand…?” She took a breath. “Did he like them?”
“Of course, I can’t speak for the man. Not with any assurance.” He waggled his heavy eyebrows. “But he’d been a surly bear until I slipped it into his bag. Aye, as surly as a bear newly awake from its winter’s sleep.”
“I can’t believe I sent it to him. Such a stupid thing. Such a womanly thing.” She ground her fist into her palm. “But he looked almost hurt when he left me, and I couldn’t help but think he’d fight more efficiently if he had a bit of me close.”
“When he saw that rock—representing him, I suppose—and yer hair—representing ye—he smiled so sweet, and marveled ye could send him so clear a message. He was happy to think ye’d be waiting for him when he returned.”
“He didn’t think that.” She dragged her toes in the dirt. “Did he?”
“’Twould have been kinder if ye’d sent nothing,” Art said sternly.
“Well, he had no right to think he knows my mind just because he’s a wizard between the sheets.”