A Lord For Haughmond Part 22

"I guarded your secrets and aided you in your flight. I've even bled for you. What more do you want of me?"

She blinked back hot tears. Yea, he had offered everything she desired, yet he offered naught she could freely embrace. Had he meant for her to feel so conflicted? She swallowed down the unhappy thought.

"You romanced my heart and delighted my soul," he whispered and offered her a tentative smile. "All I ask in return is your love."

"You ask too much." Longing gripped her throat.

Rhys dropped his hands and stepped back, made a swift bow. "Then I will not tarry. I give you good night." With a growl, he swung toward the door.

Nay, she wanted to shout. She yearned to call after him, to keep him beside her. His words of love yet whispered to her heart, sweet affections not easily laid aside. Her sweating hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into the yet tender scar in her palm. She fought a gale of emotion and the fear she had lost him forever. Trying to keep from being riven like a newly hewn sapling, she bit her tongue and commanded herself not to call him back.

By the time Katherine found the strength to drag her weary body from the wooden tub and had dried herself, the bath water was cold. Thankfully, the tension in her neck and shoulders had disappeared. But her mind was not easy, not with Rhys ensconced under the same roof. She padded barefoot to the small hearth, where a bedrobe draped over a stool was warming. Shrugging into the woolen wrap, she picked up her silver comb and began to comb her wet hair, hoping she would escape her provocative musings.

Unbidden, the vision of what this night would be, had he been her wedded husband, drifted through her imagination-his touch, gentle and demanding by turns as he explored the length of her body, his lips claiming urgent kisses, his probing tongue caressing so enchantingly, the feel of his naked flesh settling over hers in the dark, their legs entwined, her own fingertips in delightful exploration of his brawny physique.

She had not forgotten the feel of him, nor his touch. Each recollection created a vivid picture in her thoughts. Yet each treasured memory undermined her resolve.

Gooseflesh erupted on her skin and she scrubbed at her arms. A flush of arousal flickered to life. Her heart skipped a beat. The sudden hot moisture betwixt her legs had naught to do with bath water. Horrified and breathing heavily, she recognized what it meant. Faith, she must subdue this mounting l.u.s.t.

Even as her heart raced, yet did it ache at the loss and the emptiness. It ensnared her in despair. Dear Saint Winifred, if Rhys were to materialize at this sensitive moment, she could not prevent whatever he might attempt, not with this need festering within her, this longing for his touch and for the press of his body against hers.

Soon, her husband would arrive and try to claim his rights. Defiantly, she clenched her fists. Mayhap she would not allow him access to the castle. Let him lay siege to Haughmond! Let him try to take his husbandly rights. He would find she was a strong woman, a worthy opponent. She would fight and would not give herself to a man she did loathe.

Her maid, Agnes, bustled past with a bucket of hot rocks. At the moment the woman's gray eyes were alight with happiness and the creases in her lined face were all the greater from her broad smile. The tirewoman lifted the thick coverlet Aunt Matilda had embroidered years agone and deposited the rocks in the center of the feather mattress.

"Ye could do with a warm caudle ye could, m'lady, ere ye retire. I'll fetch it right quick for yourself," she said, hurrying back across the chamber, the empty bucket banging against her skirts.

"Nay, Agnes, you are weary."

The servant gave a firm shake of her head and beamed at Katherine. "'Tis what ye should be havin', m'lady, after such a hard journey. I'll not be but a moment." She tugged open the door and disappeared into the corridor.

Anne rushed in. "How could you send Rhys away with such grievous injuries?" she cried. "He will not be able to defend himself in battle. Alas, he shall be killed. 'Twill be your fault!"

"Rhys has departed?" Fear constricted Katherine's throat. She raced to the window and flung open the shutter. The bailey was empty but she heard horses' hooves thudding over the drawbridge.

He had not bid her adieu. Tears welled up in her eyes and a lump filled her throat. She had not given him G.o.dspeed. Clenching her fists, she turned back to the room.

"If he dies, 'twill be your fault."

Katherine nigh lost her breath at her sister's cutting accusation. Why must Anne heap more guilt upon her shoulders? Was her own not sufficient?

"Mercy." Her voice came out in a whisper. "You are out of humor." Only belatedly did she see the tears glistening Anne's eyes.

"You deserve every harsh reproach that's hurled at you," Anne retorted.

Katherine paused in consternation. What had caused this outburst? "It does seem strange to me that at this late hour you should display so prodigious a concern for Rhys's health."

"What becomes of Simon should his master perish on the battlefield?" Anne lamented, wringing her hands.

Ah, the true measure of her sister's concern was finally known. Katherine sighed, realizing Anne's love drove her fears. She tried to be patient. "Take heart, G.o.d will safeguard him."

"And who will succor us if He does not?"

"You must have faith." She put emphasis into her voice and bestowed a disapproving look on Anne, tried to believe her own advice. "Your tongue does need to learn discretion."

"'Tis as your own, sister! Do you practice discretion?"

The marrow of her soul had already been picked clean by Rhys's unexpected departure. Anne's savage rebuke was too stunning to tolerate. Backing away from her sister, unshed tears burning the back of her eyes, she turned and ran down the stairs, seeking refuge in the chapel.

Dropping to her knees at her mother's tomb, she let the tears fall. "I have not the strength to fight him, Mother mine, yet I fear he will not return from Wales. I cannot have him, but I cannot live without him." With hands clasped tightly together, she prayed with all the force of her despair.

Why could Rhys not have been her husband?

A pox on the king! To secure Haughmond, she had dutifully married-and lost her soul. To her dying day, she would love Rhys of St. Quintin. What could Edward do or say that would be worse?

What did it matter, a mere king's edict?

Chapter Twenty.

Rhys swept off his helm and ducked inside the tent behind the king's aide-de-camp, not waiting to be announced. His spurs jangled with each determined step. Edward was not going to send him away, sight unseen, not after he and Simon had ridden at breakneck speed to intercept the army before it decamped for Worchester. In the wake of the set down bestowed on him at Bereford, the royal ire must not be allowed to fester.

"I came as quickly as I was able, your majesty." Tucking his helm beneath his arm, he made a swift bow.

King Edward, seated at a folding table in the midst of the campaign tent, never glanced up from the stack of parchments that absorbed his attention. Like Rhys, he wore full armor. His helm rested within easy reach, as did his steel sword, ready against attack. The remains of a half-eaten meal languished on a gold plate beside him. Sweeping up a matching cup of gold, he took a generous gulp of wine and continued to examine his letters.

Rhys clenched his jaw. Plainly, he was to await the king's pleasure. His hopes for a cordial audience dashed, he swallowed down his trepidation at the deliberate insult from a yet angry sovereign.

A chaplain was keeping vigil in the near corner, his eyes closed, his hands clasped, his lips forming silent words of intercession. Likely the queen had requested his services. Beside him, a tall lad with the long, st.u.r.dy legs of a royal messenger, awaited letters for the box slung across his chest.

All stood silent while the king scratched his signature on a parchment. At a side table, a royal chamberlain wrote briskly, dipping his quill into the horn inkwell with regularity. He leaned forward to jot figures in the two ledgers for debits and credits, then handed a new doc.u.ment to the clerk, who presented it to Edward.

"Your order of 200,000 crossbow bolts to St. Briavel's, sire."

With a quick flourish, the parchment was signed. "Have you contacted the Italian merchants?" the king demanded, handing the doc.u.ments back. "If they desire business with England, they can be persuaded to lend me the 3,000 pounds I require."

"They are reluctant, sire," the chamberlain murmured, his tone at once soothing.

Edward growled. "I am not their overlord and cannot command them, well they know it. But, should they consent, I will see their profits are enhanced. Relate this to them, but be subtle. I do not want it rumored abroad that I am desperate."

Another missive was handed to him, and he sneered, reading a portion of it aloud, "The king being in great need of money- " With an angry oath, he bent to sign it. "You make me sound the beggar!" He flung down his quill with an angry oath and rose abruptly.

Finally, his attention settled upon Rhys. The blistering glare revealed the depth of his wroth.

It did not bode well for his cause, and Rhys tried not to show his dismay. The king's left eyelid drooped, a sure sign of trouble, an inherited affliction heightened by fatigue or anger. Invariably, it prompted a sour Plantagenet disposition. Rhys made haste to execute a gracious bow.

"Know you Geoffrey de Borne is spoiling for a fight?"

Rhys had not known, albeit, the king's p.r.o.nouncement did not surprise him. No deed ascribed to that ravenous libertine was outside the realm of possibility. Hoping to allay his sovereign's tension, he replied with a tight smile, "We can hardly dight him with another joust to settle the matter."

"The matter is settled!" Edward's voice was all but a shout. At the side table, the chamberlain bent his head and wrote feverishly. "Dafydd de la Motte is the rightful lord of Haughmond Castle. Thereto, the rightful husband. He was eager for the wench. Let him find delight where he may."

Rhys's gaze skidded away at the awful thought. How very muddled life had become.

"Let him deal with Lady Katherine's recalcitrant nature." Edward drilled Rhys with a frown. "You are to yield. I will not have a second thorn in mine side. There is intrigue aplenty from Prince Llywelyn and his ilk."

"Yea, my liege." Rhys struggled to achieve a response above a whisper.

The king leaned on his table. "You are to forswear this vengeance against Sir Geoffrey. I needs mine barons to fight the Welsh, not each other." He stomped across the tent, his clerk darting out of the way.

Swinging back, he settled a dark scowl upon Rhys. "I did not summon you, you have no right to attend me." His surliness filled the tent and filled Rhys with dread. "Inasmuch as you trespa.s.s, I will tell you how very much I mislike your actions. They distract from our greater purpose. I will not have it!" He pounded the table with a clenched fist, and the gold cup tipped precariously. "Wales occupies my every thought, not the diversion you do cause. Cease your amus.e.m.e.nts!"

"My lord." Rhys made a swift bow to obscure his deceptive reply and the fury that shot through him like a quiver of arrows.

"'Tis meet you are chastened," the king raged. "But it does not diminish mine ire. I am beset by Sir Geoffrey, who does press me about your encroachment of his son's property. He complains of the wife in particular. He wishes to know what reparation I plan for you." He took a breath and glared his displeasure. "Sir Dafydd pet.i.tions me to visit Haughmond. Out of the blue, that knight displays quite a fortuitous impatience for his bride. I can only wonder at its cause! Yet he was quite content to allow Rhys of St. Quintin to proxy him not so many days agone."

Shuddering, Rhys tried to maintain his aplomb in the face of the king's sarcasm.

Edward swept up a parchment and shook it. "Should I deny this request and hold that knight here beside me? Is that your wont? Both he and Geoffrey de Borne desire that he be allowed to attend his wife at Haughmond." The king snorted. "Dafydd has his husbandly rights, no matter the lady wishes it otherwise."

Rhys knew where this conversation was leading and trembled. In his machinations to keep Katherine for himself, he'd vexed the king mightily. Edward was a warrior, with a warrior's hard instincts. When engaging the field of honor, his sights would be on victory. He would care naught about Katherine's happiness, so long as he won the day. Once again, she became a royal p.a.w.n.

Fear and helplessness and guilt roared through him, for was it not himself who had brought her to the king's attention? He squared his shoulders and gripped the hilt of his sword with a clammy palm.

How had his plans gone so awry?

Edward shifted his weight. Only vaguely did Rhys notice the slight adjustment in the stance. But did he come to full awareness when the king flexed his long sword arm, recognizing another warrior's threat, belatedly realizing the danger to himself.

"As-as you wish, sire," he murmured.

Wholly unnerved, he jerked his hand away from his sword and made a swift bow. What had become of his reasoning? He did not seek to threaten the king, yet Edward reacted as though that were his intent.

"Be not reckless, knight of St. Quintin," Edward admonished, his blue eyes cold and piercing. "You will smart all the more when the wound slices deeper."

Rhys swallowed down his alarm, seeing how very much the king did savor his discomfort.

"Mayhap in the future you will not trifle with me. 'Tis your purpose for Geoffrey de Borne to think his son cuckolded?"

"Nay!" Rhys tried to make the falsehood sound sincere.

"'Twould seem otherwise," Edward exploded, hot blood surging up his neck and into his cheeks. "By the blood of G.o.d, I vow I will see you in The Tower before you do incite unrest along the Marches. Writing endless writs for feudal service is a tedious task that ought not to be suspended by this fribbling discourse. I am beset with fury!" Striding over to Rhys, he looked down his nose at him in disdain. "I ask you, will the lady have Sir Dafydd?"

"Nay, my liege king. Only Sir Geoffrey does she hate more."

"Then your plot does spin out of control." Edward shook his head. "G.o.d's blood, were this a military campaign, we would be overrun by the enemy."

Rhys ground his teeth. 'Twas an unfair accusation and it did rankle.

Edward must have perceived his defiance, for his expression grew savage. "Do not vex me! You made a severe miscalculation. Your private battle does absorb your better judgment. What of England? Can you tear yourself from Haughmond to win me Wales?"

"Aye, my liege. I am a man of many talents." Rhys frowned, startled by the desperation betrayed in his voice.

The king detected it as well. He paused, scrubbing at his chin. "Cleverness is not one of them." He turned away and continued in a more moderate tone. "I remember when I was young and randy and the battlefield stood in the way." He faced off with Rhys, his expression still brittle. "You, my unhappy friend, are ensnared likewise, though 'tis of your own making."

Rhys wanted to glare his anger, but he detected smugness in Edward's expression. His heart skipped a beat.

"You are sufficiently mended, I presume?"

The query was too polite. Rhys offered a tight smile, saying, "Aye, but a part of me does remain at Haughmond."

"I shan't ask what that means! Did the lady not restrain your ardor?" The royal frown had returned.

Rhys's heart beat faster. His ploy at humor had made no dent in Edward's pique.

Suddenly, the king pointed a long forefinger at him. "Rhys of St. Quintin, do you dare to darken Haughmond's gate once more, I will see you hung from the nearest parapet!"

Like the ferocious blow of a swinging mace, the command struck Rhys's midsection. As though his soul deserted him, a hiss of air escaped betwixt his lips. "I had not thought you so heartless," he rasped.

"I have a kingdom to rule," Edward snapped. "Most sure, we have a war to win. You will provoke me no further. Come, I have need of your good sense. You will have opportunity aplenty to prove your worth, if you will but concentrate on war." Turning his back, he stepped to the table and shook out a map of Wales. "What do you make of this?"

Tamping down his emotions, Rhys forced a mask of civility to cloak his bitterness and rage. "We have done this before, my lord," he murmured tonelessly, eyeing the table from where he stood. His heart hammered fiercely within his chest.

"This time, it needs be done aright." The king gave an exasperated sound. "Mortimer commands the central Marches. De Tibetot oversees western Wales. I am concerned with Chester. De Grey is a capable commander, but information has been inconstant. Go you there and keep me informed. I depend on you for an accurate accounting."

Unable to fathom his disastrous punishment, Rhys stared at the king's back through a haze of red. Blood pounded in his head.

"War does have its advantages, does it not?" Edward glanced over his shoulder, then turned fully and lifted a brow.

At the provocative tone, Rhys's gaze focused on the king's face. Plainly, Edward was not finished with him. Cold fear gripped him.

The king spoke with deliberate care, "When my troops go into Wales, you will go with them, Rhys of St. Quintin. And there you shall tarry, never to return to England."

Chapter Twenty-one.

Leaning on the highest rampart of the castle, Katherine shaded her eyes against the brilliant sunshine. A plough lay broken in the south field. Amid the furrows of dark loam, two yeomen, their tunics hiked up above their knees, tried to maneuver the ploughshare back into position.