Beauchamp Besieged. Elaine Knighton
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was one with her. He sang through her veins. He could not be expunged. And no matter what her head told her of his evil, her heart could only rejoice at how right his touch felt.
“There, there, pet.” Alys appeared and patted Ceridwen’s forehead and wrists with a cold, wet cloth. “Lie still, be easy. Himself’s gone now, don’t worry.”
Ceridwen gazed at the woman’s homely, comforting face. Her own hot tears spilled. They ran into her ears as she lay too weak to wipe them away.
“Now, now. You’ll be well soon, and ye should be thinking on that, not on him, the wicked thing.”
“But I was not—” Ceridwen began feebly.
Alys proceeded to ignore her own advice. “Y’know, he weren’t always this way, so dark and broody. Once he was a good boy, a golden boy. You’d not find a kinder, lovelier lad.”
“What happened?” Ceridwen whispered.
“That’s not fer me to say. He’ll be telling ye himself one day, no doubt. Then maybe he’ll come right again.” Alys stood. “I’ll be sending in a nice brew for ye, and I’m warning the lassie to see that ye drink it all down. So make certain ye do this time, or it’s her ears I’ll be boxing.”
“Aye, Alys.” Ceridwen smiled through her dwindling tears.
The afternoon was frigid and clear. Watery rays of sunlight made their way through the narrow, parchment-covered window. Ceridwen sat wrapped in a blanket, mending the long rent Raymond had made in her overgown.
From the day he had kissed her, her recovery had been rapid. The fever left her weakened, but soon she had begun to eat more than gruel, and could totter about the sickroom. The wound closed cleanly at last, leaving a raw, tender scar the length of her little finger.
Sir Raymond had not visited once. But Ceridwen did sometimes wonder where he was. Wisps of memory, or dreams returned to her, of seeing him sitting by her bed, watching her, his eyes churning with the color of the cold, blue ocean depths. She tried to shake away the confusing feelings even the thought of him stirred in her. She had not yet fulfilled her vow to accommodate this man, and she would be a disgraceful coward to betray her father’s trust. Somehow, she had to make it right.
Alys entered the chamber, holding a leather bag. “His lordship said yer to take this, and Godspeed.” The old woman’s hands shook a little.
“What is it?” The deerskin pouch was soft, and the weighty jingle of its contents answered her even before Alys replied.
“Silver coins, to see ye on yer way.”
“On my way? Why would I want his precious bits? Is Beauchamp going back on his word? Does he think he can bribe me to leave?”
“It’s been a good brace o’ sennights since he left, and I daren’t disobey any longer. If he finds the treasure still in his solar, there’ll be the devil to pay upon his return.” Alys wrung her hands and looked over her shoulder every moment or two.
Ceridwen had never seen the woman in such a state. Panic fluttered in her own stomach. She must stay. If she did not, Beauchamp had no incentive to keep the peace her people so desperately needed. He could claim she had run away from him. For Alys’s sake, she tried to sound indifferent. “Then bury the coins, or give them to the poor. I do not understand what they have to do with me.”
“What it has to do with ye is exactly what ye just said. I’m to bury ye with it, or give it to ye. Either way yer to be gone before his return and I expect him ere another setting of the sun.”
“Why would he want his silver to be buried with me? I am not dead.” Fresh apprehension filled Ceridwen, on top of her humiliation.
“Not with ye—for ye to be buried with. Oh, lass, I haven’t the wherewithal to explain it. Ye must go. I’ve food for ye, and a pony, and Shona’s best cloak. Now, old Nance will see ye safe to the village. He’s deef as a post, but a good sort. From there ye can hire a man to take ye to the cloisters nigh Usk. Then send word to your da.”
Hiding her dismay, Ceridwen reached out to touch Alys’s arm. “I thank you for all you have done. I know ’tis your lord who forces you to this. I will not forget your kindness, but neither shall I take his silver, nor aught else I did not bring with me.”
“Please, lady, leave the treasure if ye must, but take the pony and the rest, to keep ye safe.”
The old nurse’s pleading eyes swayed Ceridwen’s proud heart. “Ah, Alys, I will come back soon and repay you.”
Alys wiped her cheeks and nodded in a resigned fashion before she hurried away. Wearily Ceridwen slipped her overgown back on. She could hardly blame Sir Raymond. What a disappointment as a bride she must be, under the circumstances.
But that was neither here nor there—too many lives were at stake. Willing or no, the arrogant marcher lord would simply have to make good on his promise to the Cymraeg.
And she was the only one who could see that he did.
Chapter Five
The fortnight had passed. Ceridwen was gone. Raymond launched the last of the glass goblets he owned towards a certain triangle-shaped stone in the wall of his solar. It struck dead center and burst into a thousand green shards. He had steadily shattered his precious glassware over the past few hours, each display of his deteriorating mood more vehement than the one before.
“Hey, what goes, my friend? Is this how you greet me?” A familiar, imposing figure lounged in the doorway.
“Giles. ’Tis good to see you.” Raymond extended his hand and Giles engulfed him in a hug, slapping his back with hearty thumps before releasing him.
“’Twould appear you have been busy,” Giles observed, dumping his sword, shield, helm and gauntlets onto the tabletop. A carpet of glittering bits lay on the floor and were liberally sprinkled over Hamfast’s sleeping form.
Raymond remained silent.
“Oh, come, tell me what is on your mind. We have no secrets between us. At least none that I am aware of,” Giles said.
Raymond refrained from rolling his eyes at Giles’s deliberate obtuseness. “It would not be much of a secret if you were aware of it, then, would it?” Throwing his leg over the bench, he sat heavily and stared at the cracks in the oak planks of the table.
“Hamfast, what is wrong with your master? His tongue’s sharpened cruelly and he is sulking like a child kept home from the fair.” Giles helped himself to a drink of ale.
Raymond groaned and put his head in his hands.
Giles eyed Raymond thoughtfully. “You need help, my friend. What can I do for you?”
“Put me out of my misery.”
Giles asked knowingly, “Who is she?”
Helpless in his grief, Raymond replied at last. “Ceridwen. My betrothed.”
“Ah. Then what is the problem? Have at her!”
“She has gone.”
“What have you done?” Giles gazed steadily at Raymond.
“When I departed she was dying.” Raymond thought of Ceridwen, ill unto death—and by his hand. Guilt seared his soul anew. “I ordered that she not be here upon my return.”
“Lord, you make things easy for yourself. But why?”
“She reminded me of Meribel. I could not bear it.”
“Then you should have plowed her and have done with it.”
Raymond’s jaw tightened. “You show me less respect than does Alys. Ceridwen is not meant for reckless plowing.”
“Oh, pardon me. I have yet to meet a lass who was not. But what will