CHAPTER Two
“No tears of joy for your husband?” Ian asked.
Gwynn ignored his evil grin and watched in despair as a mangy gray horse galloped through the castle gates. Astride the bony nag was Roderick of Rhydd, or what was left of him. Never a particularly handsome man, he had aged horridly in the thirteen years of his imprisonment. Bareheaded in the rain, his once reddish strands had become gray and scraggly to match a beard more silver than russet. His shirt was in tatters, his mantle a ragged and dingy green.
All work within the castle walls stopped. Carpenters, masons, and alewives abandoned their tasks to stand in the open doorways of shops. The beekeeper, farrier, and candle maker clustered near the north tower while the boys lugging stones and girls washing wool turned to stare through a curtain of rain at their lord, a man many had never before set eyes upon.
Gwynn swallowed hard and crossed herself quickly at the sight of the pathetic creature who could, despite his shabby appearance, instill a gnawing fear in her heart. Roderick was hollow-cheeked and gaunt of frame, his skin sagging on his bones.
As the horse slid to a stop, he winced as he climbed from the saddle. A pasty-faced boy named George whose skin was marred with blemishes raced across the grass to catch the reins of the master’s steed. Another page scurried from the kitchen with a cup of wine.
Roderick drank heartily, red rivulets trailing through his beard, then flung the cup back to the boy. He swiped the back of his hand over his lips. “Bring me more,” he ordered, seeming to enjoy casting out a command. “I’ll have the wine, along with pheasant and a joint of boar in the great hall.”
“Aye, m’lord.” The page, ducking his head against the rain, ran toward the keep.
“Brother!” Ian stepped forward while Gwynn tried hard to find her tongue. “’Tis good to see you again.”
“Is it?” Roderick’s eyes, the color of ale appeared murky and haunted. “Why did you not pay a ransom to have me returned?”
“Baron Hamilton did not ask for ransom, would not consider payment.”
“Bah! Then why not help me with my escape, eh?” Roderick asked, his nostrils beginning to quiver in rage that had festered for longer than a decade.
“We tried. Thrice within the first two years of your capture. But Castle Carter is strong, the walls impossible to scale, and Hamilton seemed to know whenever we planned an attack.” Ian’s excuse, sounded feeble, even to Gwynn.
“Hamilton is a black-hearted bastard, but his fortress is not secure. I escaped without your help.”
“Aye and how did you—”
“A traitor to Hamilton, one in his army rode in the opposite direction to mislead the guards, but he will come through our gates and when he arrives, he is to be brought to me and paid handsomely.” Roderick smoothed his mustache with one finger. “You may remember him, Ian. He is called Sir Webb these days. He has ridden with you before. Long ago.”
Ian lifted a shoulder and shook his head. “Webb? Nay, I recall not.”
Roderick crackled, his laugh ending in a rattling cough. “He was Sir Hamilton’s trusted knight, but I persuaded him that he would better serve me.”
“You bribed him?”
Roderick grinned. “Aye, and he will lead the rest of Rhydd’s soldiers for he, as only one knight, managed to do what, so you claim, my entire army was unable to do. He, alone, freed me.”
“But, Roderick, do you think that a stranger will be able to—”
“Enough! We will discuss this later. Now—let me savor this moment.” Roderick surveyed the high stone battlements and the north tower where a knight was raising the flag, showing off the green and gold standard announcing that the lord of the manor was home. For a second Roderick’s throat worked, then his tired eyes took in the rest of the keep—old familiar walls and turrets as well as huts and buildings added while he was away. “Rhydd has prospered in my absence,” he said, as if to himself.
“Aye.” Ian clasped him on the shoulder as mist rose from the grass and a dampness seeped through Gwynn’s clothes to chill her heart. “But ‘tis good you return.”
One of Roderick’s red-gray brows lifted and he scratched at his beard as his gaze moved past several knights to land full force on Gwynn.
Dear Jesus, help me.
“Wife.”
“Husband.” Her voice was firm though it tripped over the hated word.
Roderick’s murky eyes narrowed as icy fingers of the wind plucked at Gwynn’s cloak. “I have thought of you often these past years.”
“As I of you,” she said.
“As so you should.” He eyed her as a man would were he purchasing a new horse. “Tell me, where is my son? I have waited many years to meet him.”
Her spine stiffened as if it were suddenly starched. “Gareth,” she called, but the boy, always inquisitive, had already slid off Dragon’s broad back and had walked, squishing in the mud, toward the man he thought had sired him.
A smile teased the corners of Roderick’s mouth for Gareth, not quite as tall as he, was a proud boy with an arrogant tilt of his chin and eyes that missed nothing. Rain flattened his hair and ran down his nose. “Father.”
Gwynn’s heart ached.
Roderick glanced at the horses and leather pouch. “He was leaving?” Silvering red eyebrows slammed together.
“Aye.” The lie was already in place. “’Tis long past time for his training as a page and squire. I had sent a messenger to Luella at—”
“Had you not heard I was returning?”
Gwynn nodded. “Only this morn, m’lord.”
“And yet still you would send my boy away?” His nostrils flared slightly and quivered as if suddenly stung by a foul odor.
“Luella was expecting him—”
“Hush!”
At his harsh command, Dragon snorted loudly and pawed the sodden ground. Charles, who had dismounted and again held the reins of both horses, offered soft words to the animal while Gareth stopped directly in front of Roderick. He did not bow, nor change expression, just stared hard at the older man in the ragged clothes as the heavens poured and gusts of wind tossed damp leaves in the air.
“You are called Gareth.”
“Aye.”
Roderick’s sallow skin suffused with sudden color as he glanced at the peasants and servants gathered in small clusters within the bailey walls. The silence was suddenly deafening. Even the cattle and sheep, penned on the other side of the inner gate quieted.
“So. You are my son.” The baron’s gaze moved from the boy to Gwynn.
Gareth nodded, but didn’t say a word.
“Then ‘tis long past time we met.” He placed a gnarled hand upon the lad’s shoulder and Gwynn let out a long sigh of relief. Mayhap he was vain enough and his memory addled so that he would not recognize that the boy wasn’t his.
“You will not be going to Heath.”
“Husband, please, ‘tis time,” Gwynn insisted.
He waved her arguments away with a flick of his almighty wrist. “We will speak of this later.” His gaze again centered on Gareth.
Gwynn’s heart hammered in her chest and she saw all the differences in her son and the baron. Gareth’s skin was darker, like that of the thief, his hair as black as a raven’s wing, his eyes clear and blue. As had been Trevin’s. Though Gareth was but a boy, his features were already showing signs of becoming sharp and rough-hewn.
“Saints b-be praised.” Father Anthony’s voice rocked through the bailey.
“Christ Jesus,” Roderick swore as the priest, robes flapping behind him ran through the wet grass and mud of the bailey.
“M’lord,” he intoned and Gwynn thought she saw tears gather in the holy man’s eyes. Surely she was mistaken. ‘Twas only the rain that ran down his cheeks. “I thought… er, I f-feared I would never see you again, that you would never… oh, we must thank the heavenly F-Father for your return.” He bowed his head and crossed himself swiftly.
A flush stole up Roderick’s neck. “Good Father Anthony,” he said quietly, “’tis comforting to know that you were here, asking for blessing of Rhydd.”
“My prayers and thoughts were with you.” The priest, blinking rapidly, composed himself. “Perhaps we should share a prayer now, thanking the Holy Mother and—”
“Later.” Roderick shook his head and wiped the rain from his face. “’Tis freezing, I am. Now I needs clean myself and eat.” He touched Gwynn’s arm. “I trust that all has been prepared?”
“Aye, m’lord. Water has been heated and scented, a meal of thanks will be served at your command, and fresh clothes await you.”
“As did you.” His smile was as cold as the sleet in winter.
Gwynn’s teeth ground together. “Aye.” Oh, Sweet Mary, how would she ever lay with him again? Share a bed and have him reach for her only to touch her with icy fingers and an even colder heart?
“Good.” He clapped his hands. “Everyone, go back to work.” His mirthless smile curdled Gwynn’s blood as he stared one long heart-stopping minute at Gareth again. “There is much to learn. Much that has happened.”
“Amen,” whispered Father Anthony.
“Aye. Amen.” Ian didn’t bother hiding the amusement that glinted in his eyes. He’s enjoying this, Gwynn thought.
“You, Wife,” Roderick added as he started toward the great hall. There was a fierceness to his tone, an edge underlying his words that made Gwynn’s insides turn to water. “I will have words with you about our son.”
“As you wish,” she said weakly. Roderick, seeming to gather strength with each moment he was within the walls of the castle, strode ahead while curious servants and peasants parted whispering among themselves and allowing him a path. Sheep bleated in nearby pens, a raven, cawing wickedly, flew overhead and fat pigeons cooed from their roosts.
“The boy—he looks not like me,” Roderick said thoughtfully, his gait increasing.
“He—he takes after my older brother Neal.”
“Does he?” Roderick began climbing the steps to the great hall. “A pity Neal died young and no one remembers him.”
He knows! she thought, her heart thundering. Of course he knows for unless he’s become addled and his memory gone, he knows that he did not get you with child. How could he have? She swallowed back her fear and only hoped that he would rather pretend that Gareth was his son than suffer the indignities of admitting to an unfaithful wife who might charge him with being unable to lay with a woman.
The dogs, ever vigilant, sat on the stoop and with rain turning their gray coats to slimy black, growled at Roderick’s approach.
“I’ll not have my own beasts distrust me,” he said, frowning at the hounds. With a hand, he motioned to the guards near the heavy door. “Kill them and get new ones—young ones who will obey me.”
“Aye m’lord,” the guard agreed and started for the growling beasts.
“Nay!” Gwynn, who was a step behind her husband, hurried to catch up with him as he walked into the vast open chamber. Closing his eyes, Roderick drew in deep breaths of air, as if his lungs, so long imprisoned, needed to be cleansed with the smoky air within the walls of the keep.
“Please, do not harm the dogs. They have been loyal and have lain in front of the door to my chamber, keeping watch.”
Roderick’s eyes flew open. “What know you of loyalty!”
“Husband, please—”
“Husband,” he repeated with a sneer. “And what should I call you? Wife? He glanced at the guard, then leaned closer to her, so that only she could hear. “Mayhap harlot would better suit.”
Her heart turned to stone.
“Send the dogs back to the kennel,” he ordered to the castle at large. “I will decide what to do with the curs later. As for you, wife, there is much we needs discuss, but ‘twill have to wait. I’m tired and hungry.” He shoved the wet strands of his hair from his eyes and surveyed the great hall. Tables and benches filled the fore part of the chamber while tapestries splashed color on the whitewashed walls. Candles burned brightly and the fire hissed as it blazed, warming the shadowy interior. “’Tis as I remember it,” Roderick said, his voice softening slightly. “Ah, Rhydd.” He rubbed the tips of his gnarled fingers against the wall in a loving gesture. “I feared I might never return.”
Gwynn felt a moment’s regret for the man who had been imprisoned for nearly thirteen years, but she quickly reminded herself that he was capable of murder, that his previous wives had died, and that she was fearful for her son’s life.
As Roderick stepped onto the dais and sat for a minute in his chair rubbing the worn wooden arms with his palms, she wondered how she could convince him that Gareth was his son. “Go now,” he ordered Gwynn. “I will speak to Ian now and later we will talk. Privately. Of your son.”
“Our son.”
His tired, murky eyes accused her of the lie. “I’ll hear no more of your blasphemy.”
Panic squeezed Gwynn’s heart. So his mind was not addled— he realized that they had never lain together as man and wife. “Do not blame the boy—”
“I know where the blame lays.” He propped an elbow on the arm of the chair and rested his grizzled chin in his fingers. “With you.”
“Nay—”
“And whoever it was who got you with child.”
She gulped. “Nay, Roderick, the boy is yours. As I live and breathe—”
“Hush, woman!” Roderick was on his feet in an instant. He rounded on her, his muscles tense, his gold eyes suddenly ablaze. “You and your boy have made a fool of me within my own keep. Think you not that the servants and freeman can see what I myself have witnessed?”
“If you will but listen—”
“Listen? Listen? To what? More lies. You and… that boy will not cause me the disrespect of all whom I rule.”
“He is but a lad—”
“Enough!”
“’Tis not his fault that—”
Roderick leaned close and very slowly curled his fists in her hair. “If you be not quiet, m’lady,” he snarled in a hushed whisper meant only for her ears, “you’ll have no room to bargain.” His fetid breath surrounded her in a thick, sickening cloud and she could but nod. To disobey him now would only enrage him further and though she had no fear for herself—those days were long past—she knew that he could harm Gareth, her one weak spot. She needed time to see that her son was safely away and if she had to put up with his scathing tongue, or brute strength, or even lay in the bed with him, so be it.
His fingers unwound from the tangle that was her hair, and then, as if sensing the servants’ eyes upon him, he grabbed the crook of her neck, dragged her face close and kissed her so hard she thought her lips would be forever mashed against her teeth.
Yanking back his head to a chorus of laughter and well wishes from those observing, he flashed a triumphant smile—the martyred ruler returning to his bride and keep. Gwynn’s stomach turned over and ‘twas all she could do not to spit on him. Instead she forced back the bile rushing up her throat, managed a poor excuse of a curtsy, and turned on her heel.
Heat climbing up her neck, she heard the jeers, men’s raucous jokes, and a few nervous twitters at her expense. Her fists balled and her chin inched upward defiantly as she picked up her skirts and took the stairs to her chamber two at a time.
Only when she was inside the room, the door closed and pressed hard against her spine, did she wipe the filth of his kiss from her lips. No longer could she hold back nature and she retched violently, losing the contents of her stomach in the rushes at her feet. What was she to do? How could she save Gareth?
There was a soft knock upon the door and Idelle, her stiff, steel-colored hair bristling around her wimple, swept into the room. “By the gods, Gwynn, look at this.” Through her clouded eyes, she saw more than many. Clucking her tongue she whipped a rag from a pocket in her apron and began cleaning the soiled floor. “I fear for your life,” she said as she gathered the fouled rushes and threw them into the fire. Angry flames snapped and sputtered in revolt. “Roderick is not a forgiving man.”
“Nor a kind one.”
“Aye.” Idelle straightened. Her wise milky eyes met the fear in Gwynn’s. “He sees as plainly as I do, lass, that the boy is not his.”
“I know.”’Twas in this very room where Gareth was conceived, where she’d lain with the thief so many years before. She swallowed hard and chewed on the corner of her lip. She was not a woman to whimper and whine. She believed that for every problem that arose, there was a solution.
Idelle gave the floor a final swipe with her rag. “You should have confided in me, m’lady. Mayhap I could have helped.”
“I-I thought it best to—”
“Lie,” Idelle accused.
“Aye. ‘Tis no use in arguing about it now. What’s done is done. We must but find a way to keep Gareth safe.”
“Mayhap ye should tell his father. The one who helped create him.”
Gwynn shook her head and began pacing, trying to come up with a plan for Gareth’s escape. “’Twould do no good. I know not what became of him. He was but a thief who lingered too long in my chamber.” Sighing, she shook her head. “He may be long dead.”
“So think ye?” Idelle asked and again clucked her tongue in a manner that Gwynn found irritating. “Well, wrong ye be, m’lady, for I know of him.”
Gwynn stopped dead in her tracks and pinned the older woman with a glare meant to freeze blood. “I believe you not.”
“Trevin the thief, raised by Muir, a befuddled sorcerer who knows the old ways. With the jewels ye gave that boy and those he stole off other trusting souls he began his fortune and, in a game of dice, was lucky enough to win Black Oak Hall from the old lord who’d had too much drink and too little luck.”
“Nay, ye deceive me.” Gwynn sagged against the bed. She’d heard the story, of course. Who had not? Black Oak Hall had a history of darkness surrounding it, of trouble within the castle walls.
Baron Dryw, a fool of a man known to enjoy drink and gambling, had drunk too much wine one evening, invited some of his knights to join him in a simple game of chance, and had wagered his keep only to lose it. Some had said the game was crooked, that the soldier who won had cheated but that he was a fierce one whom no one had dared challenge. Worse yet, the baron had died, and it was oft speculated that the dark knight who took the rule of Black Oak so callously had killed the older man. Gwynn had listened to the gossip with only half an ear, for she cared not what happened in other castles, nor did she know Dryw of Black Oak. “Did… did not the new baron wed the old man’s daughter?” she asked, her interest piqued as she twisted her wedding ring. Was it possible? The stable-boy-turned thief had become a baron? A neighbor? One who had never violated their pact upon his leaving so many years ago? Her wretched heart twisted knowing that he was nearby.
“Aye.” A shadow passed through Idelle’s cloudy eyes. “Faith was Dryw’s only issue. The poor lass died in childbirth and the babe was born without drawing a breath.” Idelle sighed. “’Tis much trouble they’ve had at Black Oak. Some say the castle is cursed.”
Gwynn had heard as much for gossip ran swift and eagerly through the land. Had she but listened more carefully to the rumors flowing between castles, she, too, might have divined that Trevin the thief was the black knight who had by less than honest means become baron of a nearby castle, that the father of her son was within three days’ ride. That thought should have given her solace. Instead she shivered, as if an ill wind had passed through her body and rattled her bones. “I cannot believe that—”
“’Tis the truth I tell as always.”
“But—”
“Have ye ever known me to lie?”
Gwynn shook her head and rubbed her arms.
“M’lady, please,” Idelle entreated as she tossed a final handful of soiled rushes into the fire, then wiped her hands on her apron. “I know ‘tis said that Trevin killed Dryw, though no one saw him push the baron from the curtain wall. But I believe it not.”
“You trust him?”
“More than I trust your husband.”
Gwynn could not disagree. “Why tell me this now?”
“’Tis a feeling I have deep in me bones. Trevin of Black Oak will come and claim his son.”
“Why now?” Gwynn asked, her heart beating a little faster at the thought of seeing him again. “I have his word—”
“The word of a thief and outlaw.”
“He has not come forward afore.”
“Roderick was not on his way home.” Idelle frowned deeply. “’Twill be evident to him that Gareth is not of his flesh. What then? Will he accuse ye of betraying him? Betraying the castle? I mean not to frighten you, but I worry.”
“And what would you have me do?” Gwynn demanded, her head reeling.
“Be careful,” Idelle warned, then offered an enigmatic smile. “And trust only your heart, for it is true.”
Though a fire blazed in the grate, candles flickered and smoked, the scents of cinnamon, apples, and roasted meat still lingered, the great hall was cold as death. Roderick, clean-shaven and washed, fresh tunic and hose upon him, appeared stronger than he had when he’d first arrived at Rhydd. He sat in his chair with the carved-wood arms as if he’d never left, as if he had every right to rule all those who resided within the curtain walls.
The hall had reverberated with laughter and good cheer, though beneath it all had been a silent tension, dark looks, distrustful glances, and thinned lips.
Toasts had been offered, much wine consumed, and Jack the cook had outdone himself. The sugar sculpture in the shape of a castle had caused a collective gasp from those at the tables below the salt and a smile to light Roderick’s grim countenance. Musicians, acrobats, and the jester had entertained them with stories, song, and bawdy jokes. Though she’d sat at her husband’s side, Gwynn had barely eaten or spoken. While Roderick had feasted on eel, jellied eggs, pheasant, venison, beef, and plum tarts, she’d not been able to swallow, hadn’t so much as dirtied her fingers on her trencher or picked at a bite of bread.
Gareth sat on the far side of Roderick. He had eaten hungrily, without many manners, suspiciously eyeing the man who was supposed to have spawned him. They had barely said a word throughout the meal though Ian, near his nephew, had appeared amused, his cold eyes laughing, his lips curved in a smile that had not been inspired by the musicians and jesters who had entertained them.
But now the great hall was nearly empty, the tables cleared and stacked as Roderick had ordered everyone back to his tasks. Everyone but family members and Sir Webb, the knight who had helped the imprisoned baron to escape. Webb had ridden from Castle Carter and now stood at the fire warming the backs of his legs. Smelly steam rose from his dark, damp tunic. His brown hair was lank and straight, his face flushed from hours riding in the cold weather. He was a man who did not hide his evil in masks of civility, a soul, Gwynn was certain, who had not one redeeming quality. If ever there was a devil, Webb of Castle Carter was sure to be Satan Incarnate.
“Is there something you would say to me, Wife?” Roderick finally asked, picking at his teeth with the nail of one thumb and watching her every move.
Her heart stilled. Her fingers twisted in her woolen skirt. “Just that I am glad you are safe.”
“In what? Twelve, nay, nigh onto thirteen winters, you have no other words?” He reached for his mazer of wine and scowled at its contents.
“Nay, my lord,” she said pleasantly though each muscle in her body ached with the strain.
“About the boy?”
Dear God, help me, please. “’Tis not the place.”
“Ah, but it is, Wife,” he insisted, rolling the cup between his palms. “You betrayed me.”
“Nay—”
Gareth’s head snapped up. “Mother—?”
“Do not heed your father. He has traveled far and been through a great ordeal.” She held Roderick’s hateful gaze. “Husband, I implore you to think before you speak. We should discuss Gareth and his training to be a knight later, when you are not so tired or have not had so much wine or—”
“—or when the boy cannot hear the truth, is that it?” Roderick demanded, leaning closer, the pupils of his eyes wide. “I speak not of his training, for he will have none. Does he not know that his mother is a common whore? A woman who would sleep with another man and pass him off as her husband’s?”
“Nay!” Gareth’s face flushed red, his entire body shaking.
“’Tis true. Tell him,” Roderick ordered, grabbing Gwynn’s arm with fingers that were callused, stained, and surprisingly strong. “Tell him that he is the son of—whom? Now that is the question, is it not?” He pinched her harder, his jaw set and hard as he spat out his words. “Who slept in my bed and got my wife with child, eh? Whose little bastard is he?”
“’Tis enough of your lies I’ve heard!” Gareth said, jumping onto the table and snatching up the sword Roderick had left by his chair. “Leave Mother alone!”
“Gareth, stop!” Gwynn said, her heart pounding with dread.
“Bastard.” Webb’s sword was instantly unsheathed.
“Nay, do not spill blood!” she cried attempting to yank her arm from her husband’s grasp.
“You dare defy me?” Roderick’s nostrils flared and a sickening grin settled onto his lips.
“Leave her be!” Gareth ordered. He was on top of the table, Roderick’s sword raised as if he intended to cleave him in two.
Fear clawed at Gwynn’s soul. “Gareth, please, do not-”
“The boy has balls,” Ian said as he reached forward to grab his nephew. “But not many brains.” Gareth nimbly ducked from his uncle’s outstretched arms and knocked over a mazer of wine that had not been cleared. Red liquid ran like blood and Ian’s face clouded.
“No brains at all,” Webb agreed.
“I said, ‘leave her be!’” Gareth ordered, the blade of Roderick’s upraised sword glinting malevolently in the shifting light from the fire.
“Get down!” Gwynn screamed, scrambling to get away.
“Hush!” Roderick tried vainly to restrain his wife.
“Let me go, Husband,” she hissed, fear taking hold of her tongue. “And you, Gareth, do not do anything foolish!” She stumbled backward. Roderick lost his grip.
He raised a hand.
“No!” Gareth cried.
Slap! The sound of Roderick’s hand smacking her against her cheek ricocheted off the walls and ceiling. “Scheming, whoring, daughter of Satan!”
Gwynn spun backward, tripping over chairs and the table. Roderick pounced on her and shook her as she kicked and clawed. “I’ll see that you get the punishment you deserve, Jezebel!” He raised his hand and hit her again. Pain exploded behind her eyes.
“Nay!” Gareth screamed.
The room spun but Gwynn managed to draw some moisture and spit upon the dog who was her husband.
“A public flogging until you faint, then I’ll revive you and use the whip again!”
“Die!” Gareth swung the heavy sword downward and Webb jumped onto the table.
“NO!” Gwynn’s shriek exploded through the chamber.
The blade glanced off Roderick’s shoulder and rammed into the dark knight’s arm. Blood spurted. Roderick howled. Webb swore and fell back, clinging to his wound, blood running through his fingers.
“Bastard! I’ll kill you!” Roderick rounded on the small imposter, reaching into his belt for his dagger. Webb shot forward, Ian hoisted his sword aloft, but Gareth, atop the table, dodged and ducked, swinging wildly with his deadly blade.
“Miserable cur!” Webb spun and sliced.
Gareth lithely jumped above the sword. Webb jabbed, Ian flung himself onto the table. Gareth rolled away from both men.
“Run!” Gwynn yelled as she climbed to her feet. Her face throbbed but she grabbed a table knife and before Webb could deliver another blow toward her son, she flung the blade at him. It caught him on the thigh and he winced, throwing off his mark.
“Aaaggh!”
Roderick grabbed for Gareth’s legs, missed, flailed wildly with his knife, cutting Gareth’s knee, sending a spray of blood from an ugly gash as the boy spun, slashing downward, his weapon imbedding in Roderick’s side.
With a horrifying wail, Roderick fell across the table, his blood spilling into the pool of wine, the sword imbedded deeply in his body.
“Nay!” Father Anthony ran into the great hall, his vestments unfurling behind him. His face was white with terror, his eyes wide at the carnage. “For the love of all that is holy, stop! M’lord, m’lord!” Crossing himself and mumbling prayers, he flung himself upon Roderick who lay, half sprawled over the table. With a strength borne of desperation, he withdrew the bloodied blade and dropped it onto the floor. “Bless this man, keep him safe.” The priest’s face was twisted in a grief so deep it tore at the man’s soul. “Do not let him die, Father, I beseech thee! Now that he has returned to us, do not take him away!”
Gwynn, still stunned, reached for her boy, pulled him off the table, and whispered into his ear. “Run for your life. Find Idelle or Sir Charles—”
“He will go nowhere!” Ian’s voice boomed through the castle. He stood next to his brother who lay slumped over the table. “Guards, grab the boy. He is an imposter. His mother betrayed Rhydd and, therefore, as I am Roderick’s only brother, I will rule.”
“No!” Gwynn was frantic. Knights appeared from the hallways and several looked to Gwynn. “Leave Gareth be.”
Gareth was still wound in her arms and she clung to him as if to life itself.
“I said, ‘grab him.’ And his lying mother as well,” Ian ordered.
Webb staggered forward, swiping the air as if to take her child from her. With only thoughts of saving her son, Gwynn pushed Gareth toward the door and tripped the black knight. “Run! Gareth, RUN!”
The boy took off, only to be blocked by three guards, all men Gwynn had once trusted, the heaviest of which grabbed her son and plucked him, swinging and kicking, off the floor.
“Let him go!”
“’Tis too late, m’lady,” Ian said, his face spattered with blood, his expression fierce.
With a last rattling breath, Roderick of Rhydd gave up his soul and slumped to the floor.
“Oh, no. No, no, no!” Gwynn said as hands, someone’s hands who was behind her, an enemy she could not see, tried to restrain her. Blood smeared over her sleeves and she realized Webb was holding her fast.
“He’s dead! The baron is slain!” the priest proclaimed with tears running down his face. “Oh, Father, who art in heaven…”
“You did this, woman!” Ian pointed a long, sanctimonious finger in her direction. “With your whoring ways and evil treachery, you brought death upon your husband. You and your son be murderers.”
“Nay!”
“’Twill be.” He glanced around the chamber, as if to see if anyone would dare disagree with him. Servants, peasants, and soldiers had gathered, circling the carnage, their faces ashen.
Pleading, fearful eyes gazed at the corpse of a leader most had never seen. Many made quick signs of the cross upon their chests and whispered prayers while others appeared unable to move.
Ian climbed onto the table, his sword at his side. “Make no mistake,” he said to everyone within earshot. “As Roderick’s brother, I am baron now. The lady has proved herself to be nothing more than a lying harlot who betrayed my brother by pretending that another man’s son was his. The boy” —he swung his bloodied sword in Gareth’s direction— “was no issue of Roderick’s.”
Some of the servants dared speak, but only in low tones, and only among themselves. Gwynn saw them all—Jack, the cook, the beekeeper, Alfred who handled the hounds, the candle maker, tailor, and dozens more, standing transfixed in the great hall, as if rooted to their places.
She tried to pull away but Webb’s meaty, stained fingers only gripped her tighter, squeezing her flesh, causing pain to scream up her arms.
“The boy will be hanged at nightfall tomorrow,” Ian proclaimed and Gwynn’s heart was pierced as though by a lance. She let out a wail that trilled through the turrets. Tears blurred her vision and ran down her cheeks in hot rivulets. “Nay, Ian, you must not. Do what you will to me, but leave Gareth go free.”
“He is a traitor—”
“Nay, a boy. A lad who knew nothing. ‘Twas I who sinned, I who betrayed Roderick and Rhydd, I who should be punished.” Despite the heavy hands restraining her, she flung herself at her brother-in-law, groveling on her knees for her boy. “I will do anything,” she vowed, “suffer any punishment, but please, please, let Gareth go free.”
From his perch on the table, Ian studied the woman trembling at his feet. Lust, ever his enemy, burned bright in his loins. He’d wanted Gwynn for thirteen long years, had lain awake at night thinking of her, letting other whores touch and kiss his member when it was she he wanted, only she would quell his passion. Now, through the fates, she would willingly give herself to him. But for how long? Only until the boy was safe, then, he was certain, she would rather die than lay with him. She was a beautiful, prideful, woman; one unlike any other and he was moved by her passion for her boy.
And then there were the servants and peasants to consider. Most of them seemed to adore her, many of the soldiers were loyal to her. Were he to marry her, they would swear their allegiance to him. ‘Twas a gamble, either way, but he thought the odds weighed heavily in allying himself with this woman. Asides, having her warm his bed was oh, so inviting. “So be it, then, if you agree to marry me and bear me my own sons, Gareth will go free.” She looked up at him with hope in her lovely, damp eyes. “If, however, you betray me as you did Roderick, or withhold your favors from me, or displease me in any manner, your son will be hunted down like a dog, hanged, and drawn and quartered. Do you understand?”
“Aye.” She nodded gravely, terror distorting the fine features of her face at the thought of her only child so treated.
“Then, Gwynn, arise and stand by my side.” He hopped to the floor and glared at the guards. “Let the boy go. He is to be banished from Rhydd, but no harm to come to him.”
Gareth’s face was white as snow. “Mother, nay—”
“Hush!” Her voice was harsh. “You are to do as Lord Ian says.”
“But—”
“Do it, Gareth, and do not argue!” she said firmly though tears again rained from her eyes. The boy had no choice. At a nod from Ian, he was hoisted away and she, pale as death, seemed certain she would never see him again, which, of course, was true. Ian turned to the priest who was still mumbling prayers and crying over Roderick’s body. “Get up, Father Anthony, and quit your insipid grieving. You have much to do. Not only have you my brother’s body to lay to rest, but you must perform the marriage rites for Lady Gwynn and me.
“Now?” she cried, “But the bans have not yet been—”
“Hush! I am baron and as such I say we are to be wed this day. There will be no postponement.” He wouldn’t give her even a minute to change her mind. “The boy is not yet out of the castle, so what say you Bride?”
She swallowed hard, but her small backbone seemed to solidify and her chin, once wobbling, become strong as steel. “Aye, m’lord,” she agreed without any further trace of emotion. “Let us be wed.”