Outrageous (28 page)

Raucous laughter sounded from the woods.

Griffith sidled closer to the ravine.

“Give me th’ child,” Dolan instructed. “Ye’re squeezin’ him.”

She handed Lionel to Dolan, unwilling to turn her gaze away from the horrible scene unfolding. For she knew, as Griffith did, that if by chance or skill he won the contest, he was still the target of bolts and arrows wielded by unseen watchers.

“Come, you coward,” Harbottle taunted. “Meet my steel and know I’ll have my way with your woman ere the night is through.” Before he had finished speaking, the sword stabbed at Griffith’s stomach. It struck—and stuck.

“Ooh, leather armor,” observed a mercenary.

Suddenly the situation raged out of Harbottle’s control. He lunged for the sword. He retrieved it with outstretched hand, and the war hammer crashed down on the bones of his arm. The crunch of bones and his shriek of pain made Marian squeeze her eyes shut, as if that would keep out the sound.

It didn’t. She heard the hammer fall, heard the burst of the skull as Harbottle lost his last battle. She would have turned away without looking, but Dolan burst out, “Th’ dirty dickweed! He’s goin’ t’ get him.”

Opening her eyes, she saw Griffith dashing for the chasm that wrapped itself around the camp.

“Run, man!” Dolan urged.

Following Dolan’s line of vision, she stepped from behind an oak’s wide trunk to observe Cledwyn perched on one of the lofty sandstone pillars, aiming a crossbow at Griffith.

She screamed a warning even as Cledwyn let fly. On the edge of the ravine, Griffith jerked, then tumbled out of sight.

Like a ravaging wolf who has brought down his prey, Cledwyn lifted his head and howled to the moon, and from the nearby woods two howls joined the primitive chorus.

Swept from nightmare to nightmare, Marian staggered when Dolan gave her a push. “We’ve got t’ save th’ child,” he growled.

As Marian fled toward the horses, a stitch started in her side and spread to her heart—or was it the other way around?

Griffith was wounded—or dead. Fallen, with no one to tend to him. Laid flat in the dirt of the ravine…

She mounted and received Lionel from Dolan.

Into the ravine…

“I’ll take his horse an’ ride at yer back,” Dolan said.

Into the ravine…

Facing the east, she spurred her horse toward Wenthaven, hoping for sanctuary where before she had hoped for support.

She’d been taken in by Griffith’s acting. He hadn’t really been hit. He’d done as Art had done so many years before, pretended death to fool his enemies.

But why didn’t her spirits lighten?

And she knew the answer.

Because Griffith had been convincing. Sweet Jesus, he had been convincing.

Teetering on the edge of the precipice, Cledwyn shrieked his victory at the still body lying below. “I got him. I got th’ Welsh traitor!” He turned and beamed at the mercenaries creeping out of the trees. “’Twas a good night’s work, wi’ Griffith ap Powel killed an’ Harbottle smashed like th’ bug he is, an’ Lady Marian takin’ th’ brat back t’ Wenthaven as fast as she can go. Let’s chase her a bit, lads. ’Twill be great entertainment, an’ th’ earl’s waiting wi’ a fine reward.”

“I can scarce walk, much less chase th’ wench,” the limping mercenary said.

“Buck up, Bryce. Ye’re alive, aren’t ye? An’ I killed th’ Judas what shot ye, an’ he killed Harbottle an’ saved us th’ trouble.”

“Aye, but what about that Billy? I’d be sittin’ easier if he hadn’t left us t’ visit th’ bushes an’ never returned.”

Cledwyn kicked out and landed a telling blow to Bryce’s wounded ankle. Collapsing with a profane curse, Bryce ducked when Cledwyn swung again. “Don’t ye mention it t’ anyone, especially not th’ earl o’ Wenthaven. If anyone asks, Billy was killed on th’ trail. Hear me?” He aimed another kick at Bryce, and Bryce rolled away, crying his assent. “Hear me?” He aimed a blow at the remaining mercenary.

“Aye, we’ll do it,” he said.

Still raving, Cledwyn looked for another chance to vent his fury, and his gaze fell on Harbottle. With a savage grin, he rolled the body over, and the mark of the hammer showed clearly in the moonlight. “Ain’t so pretty now, is he?” With his foot, Cledwyn wiggled the limp head, then rolled the body over and over until it reached the precipice. “Think we ought to say a prayer?” Cledwyn cackled and raised his arms to the heavens. “We consecrate this Englishman t’ th’ depths o’ hell. May he roast there forever.”

The mercenaries shrank back from the blasphemy, but the ravine seized Harbottle with an already whetted appetite, and the sound of his tumbling body hung in the air like a threat softly uttered.

Gloating at his mercenaries Cledwyn asked, “What say ye? Will ye follow me fer th’ gold? Or will ye stay an’ rot wi’ Harbottle?”

“Horses,” Dolan called. “Comin’ fast behind.”

Griffith hadn’t managed to scatter all the mercenaries’ steeds, Marian realized, and although she used every shortcut she remembered and a few she made up, the fighters had no child to slow their pace.

Riding east toward Wenthaven, she urged her gelding to greater speeds. The moon lit the way like
an obliging torch, while the sun tinted with its first hint of gold. The wind whistled in Marian’s ears and plucked at the dark veil tied tightly around her bright hair.

“Still gainin’, m’lady.”

Ahead she heard another sound, the faint sound of barking. Of spaniels.

“The dogs have heard us,” she whispered.

The horse surged beneath her, and she realized they would make it to Wenthaven before the mercenaries. If the gate were open, they would be safe.

If.

It should have been exhilarating, but it was not. Lionel stared about him with eyes too big for his thin face. What the mercenaries had done to him, she didn’t know, but he didn’t speak—couldn’t speak?—and she longed to hear one defiant “Nay!” She cradled him tightly, trying to cushion him with her body from the worst of the jolts.

Straining to see Wenthaven’s curtain walls, she was rewarded with a glimmer of water.

The lake that protected Wenthaven lay just ahead. Breaking into the cleared land that surrounded it, she galloped fiercely for the drawbridge, crying her name to the guards. Dolan fell behind, crisscrossing behind her, trying to draw any stray bolts from the crossbow. The drawbridge slid down, slow and majestic, and it hadn’t touched the ground when she jumped her horse onto it. The clatter of hooves on board sounded like liberation. The sight of her father with his yipping spaniels looked like deliverance. With Dolan at her back, she shouted, “Pull it up. Pull the bridge up, the Welsh are after us!” She skidded to a stop in front of Wenthaven. “Cledwyn’s on his way with his men, and he’s gone mad with money lust.”

“Cledwyn? How delightful.” Wenthaven looked fresh and alert, and her news seemed to pique his
interest. To his men he said, “Keep the drawbridge down.”

“Listen to me, Wenthaven! He kidnapped Lionel!”

“He’s my man.” Wenthaven snapped his fingers at the mercenaries. “Hurry, we mustn’t keep Cledwyn waiting.”

Exasperated and not a little frightened, Marian said, “He was going to hold Lionel for ransom.”

“He took his orders from me.”

He was so calm, so sure, she observed him with a keen eye. He was dressed in a clean doublet, with ruffles at the neck and stylish slashes at the sleeve. His hair was cut and combed as thoroughly as the coat of any of his spaniels. In fact, he looked as fine as any London gentleman attending a city entertainment.

It struck her then. He’d been awake at this hour of the morning. He’d been expecting her.

She’d been betrayed. Betrayed by the one man she ought to be able to trust.

Betrayed by her own father.

Griffith panted as he pushed
Harbottle’s body off of his and groaned when he stood. He’d been grateful for the swordsman’s protection, unknowing though it was, for he’d feared Cledwyn or one of his mercenaries might take a final, finishing shot at him. But his imitation of a man struck by a crossbow bolt must have been masterly, convincing the mercenaries of his death.

Grimly he clawed his way out of the ravine. As he expected, his horse was gone. He had no way of getting to Wenthaven this day. The weight of hopelessness settled on him, and he staggered, going down on one knee. He dug his hand into the dirt and lifted a handful to heaven.

“Keep her alive until I can get there. Keep her alive…” He faltered.

If she would just
stay
alive, he would make sure she continued to live to the fullness of her years. He would make sure if he had to bind her and drag her all the way to Castle Powel. It wasn’t a pretty plan—imprisoning your wife could lead to ugly whispers.
But he’d heard Cledwyn’s exaltation at the success of his mission. He realized the extent of Wenthaven’s genius. He realized, too, that should Wenthaven set his plan in motion and lead a rebellion in Lionel’s name, Lionel was doomed.

Henry would perceive his mercy to Lambert Simnel, the previous pretender, as weakness, and he’d resolve not to be so weak again. He’d put Lionel to death. He’d put Wenthaven to death. He’d put Marian to death and probably Griffith and every member of the Powel family.

A bleak ending to a new marriage, to a vigorous family, and to a blameless lad. Griffith alone could stop the disaster—if he could reach Wenthaven in time.

Again he dug his fingers into the dirt, the sand scraping as it filled beneath his fingernails, the mulch of years past a ready reminder of the fleeing seasons.

A faint nicker floated on the air. He lifted his head, suddenly intent and determined.

A farm, perhaps? Unlikely in the wilderness, but…He rose and followed the faint scent of horse. It led him along a winding track to a meadow, lush with spring grass, and he almost laughed aloud at the sight of a horse, grazing without a care in the world.

It belonged to one of the dead mercenaries, stampeded in the fight, and lacked saddle and bridle, but he’d learned to ride the wild and ill-natured Welsh ponies as a child. If Saint Dewi had sent him a horse, then, by God, he would ride him.

And ride him he did, but only after some bone-crunching falls. Saint Dewi’s horse had spirit and his own opinion about his destination, but the struggle restored Griffith’s battered confidence. He soon found himself galloping along the road to Wenthaven, wrestling the unbridled stallion. He wrestled, too, with his dream of Marian, contemplating the ways to make it come true.

Once he had her imprisoned, he’d teach her to
enjoy domesticity. He’d give her a kiss for every stitch she set, a caress for every healing skill she learned. She’d comprehend the pleasures of womanhood and forget excitement, swordplay, and adventure.

He must be delirious with pain.

Rising in his mind was a picture of Marian, dressed in her male garb, sewing a seam and chatting about fashion.

Aye, he was delirious.

So delirious he thought he heard Henry’s voice.

“Griffith. Griffith!”

Griffith stared. It even looked like Henry, coming up behind him at the head of a large, armed troop.

“I thought it was you. God rot it, Griffith, what have you done with yourself? You look like hell’s spawn.”

Sweeping the king with a comprehensive gaze, Griffith noted the light armor he wore. More than that, he noted the pleasant smile, the innocent expression, relaxed manner—all belied by Henry’s watchful gaze. Had Henry been following him? Didn’t Henry trust him? And why not? Giving no indication of his thoughts, Griffith waited until the horsemen reached him. “You look like my king, come to…rescue me?”

As Henry rode to Griffith’s side, he observed his bruised and dirty knight. “It appears you need rescuing.”

“Not rescuing, but mayhap assistance. I ride to Castle Wenthaven.”

“Ah. Our destination is Castle Wenthaven also. I’ve had word from one of Wenthaven’s men-at-arms that Wenthaven’s mercenaries are up to no good, and I fear for the boy.”

“The boy?” Griffith asked.

“Lady Marian’s child.”

Henry still couldn’t bring himself to use Lionel’s name. As much as Griffith wished for the backing of the royal troop, he also wished Henry would disappear.
Marian’s confessions rested heavily on his conscience, and he feared Henry’s true motives. Warily he asked, “Who brought you this news?”

Twisting in his saddle, Henry pointed. “That man.”

Griffith twisted, too, and saw him. Billy, stolid and plain, Marian’s faithful guard. How had Billy come to this pass?

But he had no time to speak to him, for Henry demanded, “What has happened to the lad? Why are you here without him? And has the lady Marian been…been…”

“Killed, Your Grace? I trust not. She rescued Lionel from the mercenaries and is even now taking refuge with her father.”

“God rot her!” Henry’s destrier leaped beneath his hand. “We’ve got to stop her.”

“Why?” Griffith demanded, knowing the answer yet wanting to discover the extent of Henry’s knowledge.

“Because Wenthaven intends to use her son as the arrow to pierce the heart of my monarchy.”

“Your quick mind is ever a delight to me, but really, what did you expect? You lied to me about your son.” In the comfort of his chamber, Wenthaven poured wine, cut bread, and acted so urbanely innocent that Marian ground her teeth.

Sinking onto the chair he indicated, she shifted Lionel in her aching arms. “I did not lie to you.”

“You did not lie, nor did you tell me all the truth.” Wenthaven looked on Lionel as a miser looks on gold. “You left the truth for me to discover.”

“With your talent for spying, that should not have been difficult,” she snapped, still hurt from the realization of betrayal, still angry at herself for seeking sanctuary with her father.

“Ah, but first I had to realize you bore a secret. Once the lad grew enough to resemble his father, I
began to wonder about Elizabeth’s ever-open purse. Then the secret was not difficult to ferret out.” He placed a platter and cup on the table at her side, then leaned close to her face and murmured, “You weren’t the only one present at the birth, daughter, and although the nobility have proved close-mouthed, one servant at last proved willing to speak.”

What a fool she’d been to expect anything more than this of him. This was all he could comprehend. Prestige, wealth, intrigue, and the obtaining of them were his life’s blood. “You have sunk too low, Wenthaven.”

“I will yet rise high.” Straightening, he waved a gracious hand. “Daughter dear, I’m fulfilling your every dream. I have hired the mercenaries. I have contacted every disgruntled noble in the land.”

“And told them what?” She held her breath.

“Nothing, but that I have the key to Henry’s downfall.”

“Think you Henry hasn’t had word of this muttering?”

“Does it matter?” Honey frisked around Wenthaven’s feet, adoring him with her big brown eyes and her lolling tongue, and he bent to rub her ears. “With Lionel at the head of an army, we are invincible. By the end of the year, we would be in London, placing the crown on his little head.”

Remembering Griffith’s deductions, she tested the truth of them. “And taking the head off of Henry.”

“An unfortunate necessity.”

“And Elizabeth.”

Expansive and generous, Wenthaven decided, “She is your friend. We will banish her to a nunnery instead.”

“And the infant prince Arthur.” She waited, breathless, for the denial, wanting it so much.

Caught in a spasm of discomfort, Wenthaven examined the dog’s paws and plucked from them
some burrs. “Killing a child is…not acceptable. Richard of York proved that.”

“So we would simply neglect him until he died?” Wenthaven tried to speak, but she waved him to silence, so disappointed she could scarcely contain herself. “Or drop him on his head? Or place him in a monastery until all have forgotten his existence and he’s old enough to be murdered?”

“Very inventive,” Wenthaven commented.

“God rot you, Wenthaven, you’re as low as a snake’s belly.”

With a growl, Honey made clear her displeasure at Marian’s tone.

“I prefer the term
ruthless
.” With a frown, Wenthaven made clear his exasperation. “You’ve wanted to go back to court. Don’t tell me you haven’t. You’ve dreamed of being the foster mother to a king. Don’t tell me you haven’t. You’ve wanted to smear the title of ‘whore’ in the faces of your detractors. Don’t tell me you haven’t at least lusted for that.”

Of course she had. Marian couldn’t deny any of it. But the memory of her dreams now brought her shame. She’d wanted the monarchy for Lionel, aye. But she’d wanted it for herself, too, and that had influenced her judgment. It had taken Griffith’s clear vision to see her for what she was and to hold up the mirror for her to see.

“I did want those things,” she admitted. She cuddled Lionel in her lap and wished his large, watchful eyes would close in slumber at last. But despite his obvious weariness, despite her comforting presence, he still clung to wakefulness. “Look at him,” she whispered. “Sleep holds no security for him now. He fears the abrupt awakenings, the monster kidnappers, the absentminded cruelties of men burdened with a child. He fears…everything.” She rubbed his back in slow, firm circles. “If he were the vanguard of a
movement to usurp Henry, he would know nothing but fear—and the nightmares of his childish mind are as dust compared to the nightmares of reality. Don’t tempt me with what I want. Think of what’s right for Lionel.”

Wenthaven condemned her in once succinct phrase. “You’re thinking like a woman.”

She almost laughed out loud, but she feared she wouldn’t stop. “My thanks, Father.” She hadn’t convinced Wenthaven. Why had she even tried? Staring at her own hands, she wondered if they would be strong enough to do all that must done—alone. For there was no one left to help her, no one. Dolan, that creeping pirate of a Welshman, had disappeared as soon as they’d ridden in. Art was dead, and Rhys and Angharad were far away.

No one. “You killed Griffith,” she finally said.

He lifted one brow. “Is he dead? I had no idea.”

“You know he is.”

“How would I—”

“You ordered your mercenaries to kill him. You ordered that dreadful Cledwyn…” She faltered. Cledwyn had been grinning, openly triumphant when he swept across the drawbridge and accepted his reward. The life he’d taken meant nothing beside the money he’d won and his delight in killing.

“You’re so dramatic,” Wenthaven chided, pouring himself some wine. “But why should you care? Griffith was only a lesser Welsh knight. Did you have a tendre for him?”

“I was married to him.”

She had surprised him at last. He stalked toward her, cup in clenched hand. “You dared wed without my permission?”

“I dared not refuse. King Henry Tudor insisted on the union, gave me away, and presented us with a large estate not far from here.”

Wenthaven’s eyes sparked with fury. “By God,
you’re my daughter. You’ve got a brain in your head. Couldn’t you have stalled?”

“I was anxious to find Lionel—whom you had kidnapped from me. Henry refused to let us go until the deed was done, and I had no thought beyond the safety of my son. ’Tis your fault I’m wed.”

“
Was
wed,” he snapped.

She thought of the ravine, of the speed of the bolt, and of the way Griffith’s body convulsed as it went over the edge, and still she hoped. It was foolish to hope he lived. Yet even if he couldn’t reach her, even if he couldn’t help, still she hoped.

Wenthaven accused her of being his daughter, rife with deviousness and manipulation. So she struggled to formulate a plan, but she needed time. With that in mind, she stroked the black hair off Lionel’s forehead and said, “Lionel and I need to rest.”

But Wenthaven understood her only too well. “I don’t know if I should allow you to remain with your son. You might decide to do something foolish, like escape with the lad. I can take him from you.”

All thought of plan flew from her mind, and she clutched Lionel tighter. “As you already have, once, and look what your tender nursemaids did to him in only one day. He’s frightened half to death. He’s lost his faith in me. He’s a battle-scarred child, and you want him to be king of England. Are you mad? He’s just a baby!”

“He’s a prince.” Wenthaven’s indifferent gaze rested on Lionel. “And I’ll teach him to behave like one.”

“How will you teach him that, Wenthaven?” she asked. “You’re no prince. You’re scarcely even a man.”

Wenthaven’s hand rose, hovered in the air, then fell. The cold and scornful Wenthaven, the man always in control, seemed braced for once, as if her contempt for him and his plan could truly harm him.

“M’lord?” Cledwyn stood in the door, molting dirt like a bird molts feathers. “Got a bit o’ a crisis.”

Wenthaven exploded, directing his fire at the convenient target. “I told you never to come into the keep! What are you doing in the keep?”

With a jerk of his thumb, Cledwyn indicated the bailey beyond Wenthaven’s window. “Got a bit o’ a crisis,” he repeated, but slowly, as if Wenthaven were simple.

It was the final straw. First his daughter proved unreasonable and recalcitrant, then this ignorant, claw-toothed savage dared grin and taunt him. Wenthaven swelled again with fury, ready to rend flesh from bone, but Cledwyn hastily did what he could to divert the punishment.

“Ye want me t’ talk about it in front o’ yer daughter?” With unmistakable sarcasm, he added, “It might upset such a delicate lass.”

Cold sense took the place of hot fury, and Wenthaven went to Cledwyn. Gripping his arm with cruel fingers, he dragged the mercenary down the hall and flung him into one of his cubbyholes. “What is it?”

Cledwyn rubbed his arm. “Got a nasty way about ye, ye do.”

Wenthaven leaned closer. “You don’t know how nasty.”

Something about him—his voice, his expression, his stance—seemed to penetrate the mercenary’s cocky assurance, and Wenthaven experienced a deep and vicious satisfaction when Cledwyn stepped back until he smacked the wall.