CHAPTER TWO
The original keep of Pembroke Castle had been built thirty years after the Norman conquest of England, when the death of the great Welsh king Rhys ap Tewdwr had cleared the way for a further invasion into Wales. Initially a single square keep standing on the edge of a promontory of land, successive generations of prudent—and wealthy—lords had added towers and baileys, tall crenellated battlements and barbicans. William of Pembroke’s father-in-law, the immensely powerful warlord known as Strongbow, had used this castle stronghold as his base for the successful invasion of Ireland. Upon his death and the subsequent marriage of his daughter and heir Isabella to William, work had begun on the enormous eighty-foot-tall circular tower that commanded not only the view, but the respect of several square miles of land and sea surrounding the inlet of Milford Haven. Within a hard day’s ride of Pembroke there were other castles that had been raised to defend and hold this important thumb of Wales— Haverford, Tenby, Lewhaden, Stackpole, Narbeth, Martin. But none were as impressive, as important, or as impregnable as Pembroke.
To the wide-eyed child of four who had first passed beneath its enormous barbican gates, and who had clutched her brother’s hand and stared up in awe at the sharpened teeth of the three separate iron portcullises, the castle had appeared as terrifying and overwhelming as the giant, lion-maned knight who ruled there.
Ariel de Clare and her brother Henry had been sent into the marshal’s keeping upon the sudden death of Isabella’s half-brother and his wife. Barely wed a year and anticipating the arrival of their own first child, neither the gruff Earl of Pembroke nor his dainty wife knew what to make of the two orphaned children who stood in their grimy, tattered clothing before them. Young Henry, at eight years of age, was fiercely protective of his sister, daring to challenge even the marshal at swordpoint when a casual observation was made concerning the unusual, fiery red colour of her hair. Pembroke was quick to recant, albeit with the hint of a smile lurking behind his twinkling blue eyes, and even quicker to recognize Henry’s potential as a knight and vassal whose loyalty and bravery could be counted upon to the last drop of blood. As a result, the boy had not been fostered out to another household as had been William’s first intent, but became page to the Lady Isabella—a very great and grave honour which he bore with the solemnity of a grown man.
The tiny Lady Ariel, with her big green eyes flashing and her jaw jutting with determination, let it be known with equal vigor that she was just as impatient to begin her own apprenticeship toward knighthood. She too looked forward to the day when she would earn the right to wear the golden spurs and smite mighty dragons in battle.
It came, therefore, as a rude and unaccepted shock when she was forced to wear gowns and girdles instead of the more practical garb of jerkins, tunics, and leggings. When Henry turned thirteen and she nine, instead of applauding proudly at his investiture as the lord marshal’s squire, she launched an insurrection in the castle nursery—by then swollen in number with three of the marshal’s natural children—that lasted several months and saw five nurses flee in terror for their lives. No amount of whippings or threats had any lasting effect. It took promises from both Henry and the marshal to finally restore a semblance of peace, with the one agreeing grudgingly to share every scrap of knowledge he gained during his instruction and training for knighthood, and the other agreeing to turn a blind eye to her tutoring, a promise she held her uncle to even some years later when he found her in the stable yards, bruised head to toe, but stubbornly learning how to ride and handle one of the huge warhorses.
Lady Isabella was openly horrified by the calluses on her niece’s hands and the whip-like leanness of a body that should have been growing round and soft and dainty. She scolded and clucked over torn hose and soiled tunics—patches of which were left clinging to trees and palisades that had been climbed and conquered in the heat of a mock battle. She complained often to her husband, but Ariel had long since managed to wheedle her way into a special place in his heart and he could never quite stop the smile that lit his face each time he confronted her with one of her mischiefs. Moreover, in dangerous times and in dangerous surroundings, he saw no reason why a woman should not be proficient with a sword and bow, and had, on occasion, supplemented Henry’s instructions with a lesson or two of his own.
The countess, recognizing defeat when she saw it, had thrown up her hands in surrender and concentrated her efforts on grooming her own sweetly natured daughters to be the proper chatelaines and hostesses they were expected to be as Pembroke heiresses. Thus, at age eighteen, when most young women were long married or at the very least, betrothed, Ariel was still tilting at quintains with her cousins, scorning any and all advances by prospective suitors.
But because she was the niece of the Earl Marshal of England, and because there were a number of modest estates dowered to her through her mother’s will, there was no shortage of two-legged bloodhounds sniffing after her skirts. From the time she came of eligible age at twelve, there was a constant flow of knights, nobles, first sons, second sons passing under those same portcullis gates that had intimidated Ariel as a child. Some erstwhile swains sought only to ally themselves with the House of Pembroke. Some were more intent upon supplementing their holdings in Wales and could not have cared a whit if her teeth were black and her body bloated with suet. Ariel had sent them all riding out again, their ears pinned to their heads and, more often than not, stinging from the vehemence of her rejection.
The countess had despaired; the earl had supported his niece’s right to choose whom she would or would not marry, although he admittedly grew impatient at times with her various reasons for refusal. One had crossed eyes and breath that stank of dead rats. Another possessed narrow, greedy eyes. Yet another, she claimed, had pissed himself when she had drawn her dagger and offered to defend him from an attacking dog.
It should not have come as any surprise to hear of this stubbornness finally reaching the king’s ears, since many of those first and second sons would have whined straight to court with news of the insolence of a certain flame-haired heiress. It was also well within the royal right to contract unions between one powerful house and another, and to use such contracted marriages as a means of repaying debts the crown could not otherwise raise from its depleted coffers. The fact that there were not already writs of betrothal for each of the earl’s five daughters and five sons was solely due to King John’s reluctance to rouse the great lion’s wrath. William the Marshal, with his vast estates in Pembroke, Striguil, England, Ireland, and Normandy, was actually a far wealthier man than the king—a point which pricked the crown’s patience as well as his greed. And as his ambition for more wealth, more power, grew, the king’s cunning black eyes turned more and more often to Pembroke.
“Possibly, because the lord marshal is bogged down in Normandy with these futile negotiations for peace with the French, the king feels safe attempting a small display of his authority this side of the Sleeve.”
The family was gathered in the great hall. Ariel stood before the hearth, a log blazing brilliantly behind her in the twelve-foot-wide fireplace. Apart from the crackle and snap of burning wood, the hall was a cavern of throbbing silence. The monstrous arched beams overhead might have formed the vaulting of a cathedral; the gloom and chill gave it the atmosphere of a tomb. Not a foot stirred the rushes. No servant or varlet dared to venture near the circle of brighter light; they moved like wraiths in the smoke-hazed shadows, with only their eyes flicking warily toward the yellow glow around the hearthside.
Henry, whose neck still stung from the slash he had earned earlier, was keeping a prudent distance from his sister and watched her guardedly each time her agitated pacing took her too near the display of crossed swords mounted along the walls. The Welsh lords, Rhys and Dafydd, maintained a similarly discreet gap between themselves and the immediate family members, although their faces were lit with ill-disguised amusement and intrigue.
“I do not believe it,” Ariel seethed, the rage keeping her voice as taut as a bowstring. “I will have to see the writ with mine own eyes before I will give credence to this news you bring to Pembroke.”
Lady Isabella twisted her hands and appealed beseechingly to her handsome nephew for guidance. Petite and showing little signs of aging or plumping in spite of the ten children she had given her lord husband over the happy years of their marriage, the countess was at a complete loss to know how to deal with her niece’s mounting fury. That an explosion of Ariel’s famous temper was imminent, neither she nor Henry doubted. They watched her as they would watch a pane of glass pressed to the verge of shattering, wary of uttering the breath or word that would bring the deed about.
“De Braose is a fine, respected name,” Isabella offered lamely. “Why, they once held lands in Brednock, Builth … even Limerick. The elder Simon de Braose rode with my own dear father when he fought the Celts.”
Ariel turned nothing but her head. “Indeed? Was this the same Simon de Braose who fell drunk out of his saddle and was trampled to death under the wheels of a passing dung cart? The same De Braose who squandered every single hectare of land they ever owned in Wales and England? The same De Braoses who were reduced to hiring themselves out like common Brabançons just to retain the right to keep the family coat of arms on their blazons?”
“Families … fall into hard times,” Isabella said haltingly. “And the current lord has … has performed valued services to the king in his desire to restore his family’s former prominence.”
Ariel’s eyes narrowed. “Well. He will not be restoring it at my expense. I have seen this poxy son of his. At a distance, mind, for the stench he gave off would have offended a swineherd. The very sight of him would have offended the swine themselves, so pocked and bloated and festered with pustules was he. He could not walk without his finger up his nose and what he found there made for most enjoyable nibblings between meals. His eyes do not look in the same direction, but go every which way as if someone is standing constantly behind him hitting him with a pan. Marry him? Marry Reginald de Braose?” She snorted a fair imitation of a warhorse and whirled back around to face the fire. “I would sooner marry myself to the Church … or to the grave.”
Lady Isabella fluttered a dainty white hand to her throat and looked hopefully toward Henry. “Perhaps … perhaps there has been some dreadful error in understanding the communication.”
Henry had been eased of his armour but had not yet been allowed the time to bathe and refresh himself from his travels. His hair stood up in tarnished spikes, glinting gold in the firelight as he sighed wearily and shook his head.
“There is no mistake. As I told you, we were delayed at Llandaff by heavy rains, and, as it happened, the king’s courier had sought refuge there as well. He readily accepted our offer to share a tankard of ale by the fire, and when we asked if he had any news from Normandy, his tongue began to flap like a codfish thrown aground. Soothly, since he was ignorant of our identity—we four addressing ourselves only as Lord Sedrick or Lord Rhys or Lord Whatnot—he thought it might prickle our humour and tip our flagon more generously to hear how the king had recently taken it upon himself to contract the hand of Pembroke’s niece. A few tankards more bought us the name of the happy groom.”
“Happy?” Ariel grumbled. “He will be happy with the business end of a pike thrust up his arse.”
Lady Isabella’s hand fluttered again. “Surely there might be some room for error. There are fully a score of De Braoses in the king’s service. Possibly more than one named Reginald, for they do tend to marry amongst themselves and name sons after fathers and brothers after uncles.”
“Inbreeding and incest.” Ariel spat contemptuously. “An easy guess by the squinty look of them.”
“This particular Reginald is certes the son of William de Braose,” Henry continued, ignoring his sister’s japing. “Who, until as recently as five months ago, presided as captain of the guard over the king’s citadel in Rouen.”
“A prison guard!” Ariel exclaimed. “How charming. The king has pledged me to the son of a common gaoler!”
“Not just any gaoler,” said Lord Rhys, venturing into the circle of firelight for the first time. Indeed, he showed a certain reckless courage by drawing close enough to Ariel that a stretch of his long arm could have touched her. “Forgive my intrusion, my lady, but I too am familiar with this particular brood of De Braoses. Some of the lands they lost to incompetence and poor defense border our own.”
Ariel caught a strong drift of leather and lingering wood-scent as Lord Rhys leaned casually close to the fire. Despite the immeasurable fury fomenting within her over the king’s proposed attempt to intervene in her life, she could still spare a portion for the unctuous Welsh princeling.
She had recognized their names when she had heard them in the forest. The lords Rhys and Dafydd had a third brother, older by some years, who had entered into a pact with King John, granting him recognition as Prince of Gwynedd and giving him power and title over the region of Wales known as Snowdonia. In exchange for this recognition, Llywellyn ap Iorwerth had halted his raids on the border Marches and had pledged fealty to the English king, a reprieve of hostilities which allowed Llywellyn to turn his full attention on the growing power of a distant kinsman, Gwynwynwyn of Powys.
All titles and holdings were tenuous at the best of times in the wild, mountainous reaches of Wales. Dozens of self-proclaimed princes ruled dozens of self-proclaimed kingdoms, the possession of which changed constantly from one bloody uprising to the next. To contain and control the savagery of these barbaric clans, the English had erected a line of fortified castles along the border, in territory known as the Marches. The barons who ruled these Marches were often as cruel, bloody-minded, and ruthless as the men they sought to defend against, and few lived long enough to ensure the natural succession of their lands into future generations.
Ariel’s father, Roger de Clare, had once held land along the Marches—land coveted by the ambitious Iorwerths of Gwynedd. A raid had cost Roger and his wife their lives, orphaning their two children into the wardship of the Earl of Pembroke. For this, and other deeds of outlawry over the years, it made anyone associated with the name Iorwerth … including Llywellyn and his brothers Rhys and Dafydd … nothing more than murderers and common thieves in her eyes.
“You say not just any gaoler as if there were gaolers of high blood and gaolers of low blood.”
Her voice dripped with icy sarcasm and Lord Rhys smiled. “More like prisoners of high or low blood, I trow. For unless I am mistaken—a rare occurrence, I assure you—the citadel at Rouen was where King John held the young Angevin prince, Arthur of Brittany.”
“Guarding a prince of royal blood does not turn one’s own blood any richer a hue,” she countered sardonically.
“No. But if you consider a gaoler has access to a prisoner at any time, day or night, and is perforce the only witness to any … accident … that may or may not have befallen that same prisoner …” Lord Rhys paused and let his eyes rove downward to where the firelight was gilding the outline of firm, round breasts. “Would it not give meaning to the king’s sudden gesture of magnanimity? Surely he could have realized far greater profits by selling your hand to the highest bidder.”
In the pensive hush that followed, Ariel felt herself drawn into the Welshman’s eyes—eyes that were not black, as she had first supposed, but so deep and dark a brown as to be easily mistaken. They were dangerous eyes, gleaming with secrets that did not offer too close a scrutiny. The nose dividing them was a straight slash of authority that had somehow escaped the usual damage and breakage of the long years of a misspent youth. The mouth beneath was full and generous, confident of its own sensuality and given to frequent smirks of insolence. His age? Ariel guessed him to be nearing the end of his third decade, although, if he were to scrape away the lush black growth of elflock curls on his jaw, he could scrape away as many as four or five years from that guess … or add as many again by virtue of exposure.
His brother, on the other hand, was not much older than herself—twenty, perhaps—with large, expressive eyes that gave him the look of an earnest-faced puppy. No doubt he had cultivated his beard in an attempt to add substance to otherwise tender features, although to Ariel’s mind, it only made him look like a wilder puppy.
“Are you implying, sirrah,” she asked slowly, taking careful measure of the closed expression on Lord Rhys’s face, “that De Braose was in some way responsible for Prince Arthur’s death?”
“His death has not yet been confirmed,” Rhys replied, treading with equal care into the lure of the emerald green eyes. “His disappearance, however, would seem to match the gaoler’s unexpected turn of good fortune at having his lands around Radnor returned to him.”
Ariel felt the skin begin to constrict in waves along her spine. He was right. The coincidence was too obvious to dismiss out of hand.
“Oh, the poor, poor prince,” Lady Isabella said, sinking weakly onto a chair, “if such was indeed his fate. And it is no secret the king rewards his assassins with great prizes.”
“It is even less of a secret,” Henry said bluntly, “that our valiant king demands hostages from those he suspects of plotting against him. Hostages in the form of brides and grooms wed into households of his choosing.”
“Plot against him?” Isabella whispered. “But my William made him king. When Richard died and the crown could have gone to Geoffrey’s son—”
“Should have gone to Geoffrey’s son,” Lord Rhys interjected quietly.
“My lord husband swayed the barons’ vote in support of John over Arthur,” the countess concluded. “He has no reason to suspect William of treachery.”
“The king has a notoriously short memory,” Henry said dryly. “And a distinct distrust of men who hold more wealth, command more respect, wield more influence than he does. Lackland would plot to have the lord marshal discredited outright if not for fear of turning the entire barony of England against him in open rebellion.”
“The whole world could rise against him in open rebellion,” Ariel cried, flinging her arms wide in exasperation, “and it would be too late to save me from this wretched writ he has imposed upon me!”
She paced a quick, hot path to and fro the length of the hearth. Her skirt dragged the surface of the stone floor, collecting and discarding bits of rushes and dust as she walked, brushing Lord Rhys ap Iorwerth’s booted foot each time she passed. She had not taken the time nor trouble to braid her hair upon returning to Pembroke Castle and the firelight was playing havoc with the foaming red curls, shooting them with threads of gold and amber and bright russet.
Dark Welsh eyes followed her every movement, speculative eyes that roved with increasing interest over curves and angles, noting a firmness here, a softness there. He was growing rock hard himself, and it was a true test of mettle to look away and try to concentrate on what Henry de Clare was saying.
“We have a little time, at least. We have preceded the messenger by a day or two, for he comes by way of Kidwelly and Carmarthen, where he had other correspondence to deliver.”
“Good,” Ariel declared, swirling to a halt. “Then we have time aplenty to lay an ambush. The forest road, methinks. It should be an easy enough task to make it look like the work of outlaws.”
“Ambush the king’s messenger?” Isabella looked up aghast. “Surely you cannot be serious.”
“What would you have me do?” Ariel asked. “Greet him at the gates? Plan a fete in his honour and actually acknowledge the charter he carries?”
“We can acknowledge it without accepting it,” the countess pointed out primly. “And perhaps, if we send him back to the king with our felicitations and gratitude for the concern he is showing in your future welfare, we might win the time needed to send a dispatch to your uncle and apprise him of the situation.”
“Think you the king will not have taken measures to guard against just such a ploy? Supposing his writ includes instructions for me to hasten at once to Radnor to take my place beside my groom? Under threat of arms if necessary!”
“Oh, I do not think—”
“Henry—” Ariel interrupted her aunt’s protest and cast a narrowed glance at her brother. “Was this harbinger alone or did he travel with an escort?”
“An escort,” he conceded grimly, lanced on the other side by Isabella’s gaze. “Six or more men-at-arms made their beds in a nearby stable.”
“Six men-at-arms,” Ariel repeated in disgust. “And there is still doubt he means to carry me away, willing or not?”
“I doubt nothing at all,” Henry declared, lifting his arms in supplication.
“And?” she demanded.
“And …” He shrugged his big shoulders and offered a crooked grin. “I would gladly, for the sake of your virtue, set upon them in their beds and throttle the lot, if you asked it of me.”
Isabella sighed and glared at her nephew. Henry had proved to be an invaluable asset in helping to oversee the vast Pembroke holdings during her husband’s prolonged absence in Normandy. He had, in the beginning, resented being left behind, although she could not see where he could complain of having spent these past eleven months sitting lax and inactive. There were constant raids from the north to be dealt with and the guilty parties caught, the stolen properties returned or recompensed; constant peacekeeping missions to mediate between the two rival Welsh warlords, Gwynwynwyn of Powys and Llywellyn of Gwynedd.
Only this past fortnight, one of Llywellyn’s vassals had taken it in his head to lift a herd of some one hundred cattle from a demesne bordering Snowdonia. The two black-haired, black-eyed princes had accompanied Henry back from his investigation in order to convey Llywellyn’s personal apologies for the affront. Not that the culprit had been caught or the cattle returned. And not that it could not be proven absolutely that Lord Rhys himself had not been responsible for the original raid.
Cows and diplomatic platitudes were the furthest thing from Lady Isabella’s thoughts at the moment. She was relieved Henry was home, relieved there was someone with whom she could share the burden of responsibility in dealing with King John’s conniving. After all, he was Ariel’s brother, and he was Lord de Clare, with estates and responsibilities of his own. All the same, “throttle the lot” was not the kind of level-headed advice she was seeking.
“We could always hide you,” the countess suggested. “Steal you away in the middle of the night and keep you moving from castle to castle so the king’s man could not deliver his wretched charter. How quickly can a missive be sent to my lord husband?” she asked Henry, who considered his answer for a moment before replying.
“At last word, he was still in Rouen. If so, three days … four perhaps, if the tides are with us and the roads clear.”
“And if he is not in Rouen?” Ariel snapped. “Or if the tides are against us and the roads a quagmire of mud and offal? Or if we cannot keep the king’s man riding in circles for the required number of weeks it might take to return with advice from my uncle … what then? Will you all think kind thoughts of me as I am dragged away toward wedded bliss?”
“We cannot ambush the king’s messenger,” Isabella insisted calmly. “We are not murderers, nor do we wish to give the king any reason to challenge your uncle’s loyalty.”
Ariel stamped her foot and whirled to begin pacing again, but scattered only a few footfalls of dust before she found herself standing face to face with the indolent and watchful Lord Rhys ap lorwerth, Dark Prince of Gwynedd.
As much as she despised who he was and where he came from, there was no denying he was a man who would not stand on convention to get what he wanted. She could believe he had wanted one hundred of Pembroke’s prime cattle and had taken them without a care to the consequences. His princely brother had commanded him here to make humble amends for the deed, but it would be done, she suspected, with his tongue firmly thrust into his cheek.
It made her wonder what else he would do if the mood … or the incentive … suited him.
“How much have you come to offer my aunt in reparation for the cattle your tribesmen stole?” she asked bluntly.
Lord Rhys, standing with a shoulder leaned casually against the stone mantel, examined the splayed fingers of one hand with exaggerated interest.
“I know nothing of any stolen cattle, my lady,” he mused. “There was some question of a discrepancy in numbers, and in a gesture of good will, my brother has sent me to offer—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” she said impatiently. “Penitent words and a handful of copper coins, no doubt; neither of which would equal the value of one hearty bovine.”
“Ariel!” The countess gasped.
“You have some other suggestion to make?” Lord Rhys asked blithely. “Some other method of repairing any damage this sorry misunderstanding might have caused?”
Isabella started to protest again, but Ariel’s habit of voicing a thought the same time it sprang into her mind cut her aunt short.
“My lord,” Ariel said, her eyes leaf-green and sparkling with conspiracy as she addressed the tall Welsh prince. “You have seen this messenger and you know what he looks like? What road he is likely to travel?”
Lord Rhys nodded, vastly amused by the wench’s audacity. More than that, he was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on what she was saying when all he could think about was the way those sweetly shaped lips would feel beneath his. She was a magnificent beauty: high-spirited, hot-tempered, yet as supple and silken as fresh, warm cream. It was no great stretch to envision her naked on a bed of dark furs, or to imagine the heat of her body wrapped fiercely around his. So strong was the picture he formed, so real and so exciting, he felt fine beads of moisture forming across his upper lip.
“Would it not be child’s play,” she was asking, “for a man of your considerable … talents … to waylay this rogue and carry him north into your own lands, there to hold him as your, ah, guest … until such time as a suitable ransom could be squeezed from the king for his safe return? Is that not a common method employed by your kinsmen to prick the royal temperament? Common enough he would not suspect the deliberate selection of one courier over another?”
Lord Rhys returned her stare for a long moment, then slowly, slowly gave way to the smile that had been toying at the edges of his mouth. “Of more appeal is our fondness for stealing away heiresses the king has designated for his lackeys, and to marry them out from under the royal nose without a care for writs or charters.”
Ariel’s heart skipped a beat, but she stood her ground and submitted to the boldness of his gaze moving speculatively down the length of her body. She could sense movement beside her and knew that Henry was not reacting quite so calmly to the Welshman’s impertinence, but she managed to catch his eye and discourage him from displaying any errant gestures of protectiveness. She could handle this brigand herself.
“I do not believe my uncle would take too kindly to that particular solution to the problem. It could, in fact, lead to an unpleasant urge to retaliate.”
“The beauty of a deed that has been done is that it cannot be undone.”
Ariel’s skin began to burn, as if she was standing too close to the fire, but she suspected it was the heat of his eyes searing her, his lust blazing as bright and hot as any flame.
“By the same token, my lord … would you not prefer my uncle’s gratitude instead of his enmity?”
Rhys waited, curious despite himself, guessing what was about to come from between the vixen’s luscious lips, but never in his wildest imaginings believing he would hear it.
The objects of his focus required a liberal moistening before she could dare voice the absurdity herself, but she did it, keeping her face straight and her voice steady all the while.
“An alliance between our two families would not be entirely without advantages.”
“An alliance, my lady?”
“Yes. A … a matrimonial alliance. Assuming the proper candidate could be found, of course.”
“Of course. Would I do?”
Ariel blinked. “You?”
“Assuming I was interested, of course.”
“Of course,” she murmured. “Well—” Her composure suffered a small stumble and she lowered her lashes in an attempt to appear modestly embarrassed. “Naturally, my uncle would have to sanction any proposed union, but … if he could be convinced it was not entirely to my disliking …”
Lord Rhys’s pulse beat visibly in his temples. He was no fool and knew it was only a ploy to buy time, but by God’s teeth, the idea was not without enough appeal to send a shiver of awe down his spine. He had raged at Llywellyn a full week before grudgingly bowing to the command to present himself at Pembroke Castle, there to grovel in mock vassalage while the self-declared Prince of Gwynedd feasted on the roasted spoils of his labour. Returning to the forests of Deheubarth with the lion’s niece bound to his loins, willingly or not, would more than make up for the humiliation. He would not only be able to thumb his nose at his lordly brother—who had been trying for years to win the marshal’s favour—but quite possibly be in a stronger position to challenge Llywellyn for control of all of Snowdonia.
His dark, gleaming eyes studied the lowered sweep of Ariel’s lashes a moment longer, not yet trusting his voice to conceal his excitement. While it was barely conceivable that William the Marshal would sanction a union between the House of Pembroke and the Dark Prince of Gwynedd, it was equally doubtful he would agree to bind his favorite niece to the loins of a common gaoler’s son. The proposed union was itself an outright slap in the face for the ld warrior—an insult to his integrity and popularity with the people. If he was presented with a viable alternative, however farfetched, but delivered with honour and sincerity—not to mention a promise of extended peace along the Welsh Marches—by God … he might just take it.
He might just take it!
Rhys’s gaze slid past Ariel’s shoulder. Lord Henry de Clare’s handsome face was without expression save for the tension keeping the muscles in his jaw strained and jumping. It was plain to see he was fighting the urge to grab his sister by the shoulders and shake her until her teeth rattled. Both Rhys and Dafydd had acquired a healthy respect for the tawny-haired Norman as well as for the hulking shadow of Lord Sedrick of Grantham. The pair had ridden boldly and without escort into the heart of Gwynedd, and had ridden out again, their skins intact, their dust cloying the throats of the two Welsh princelings forced to follow like humblies in their wake.
A debt was owing there too, Rhys determined. A debt that could be avenged with the greatest pleasure each time the sister’s bared thighs spread beneath him. In the meantime, the De Clare scion would require careful handling. A hook, perhaps. Something of distinct benefit to himself that might make him regard the proposed union as being more than a bad jest.
His humour restored at the thought, Lord Rhys smiled again. “I certainly have no qualms about extending an invitation to the king’s man to be our guest for as long as you wish it. But would it not be easier to simply run the harbinger through and leave him for the sheriff’s men to find at some future date?”
“Benedicite,” Isabella groaned and covered her face with both hands.
“As my aunt has already made clear,” said Henry evenly, “we are not murderers, nor do we condone murderous acts.”
“We merely wish to have the delivery of the king’s writ delayed,” Ariel added.
“To what end?” Henry demanded, his patience with his sister’s madness drawing dangerously near an end. “The king will only send another and another. Suppose our uncle does not see any merit in this”—he wanted to say crackbrained scheme, but checked himself at the last instant—“this proposed union … and sees instead that he must obey or run the risk of defending a charge of treason? How do you explain this waylaid messenger then?”
Ariel squared her shoulders. “The king is at war with France. He is in jeopardy of losing control over Normandy. In his absence, his child bride has been swivving every courtier and bull-hung mountebank who catches her fancy—”
“Ariel!” Isabella gasped.
“—while the barons plot and scheme behind his corpulent buttocks at every opportunity, searching for ways to curb his powers and limit his authority. Think you he will notice the delay of a betrothal charter to an obscure province in Wales?”
The younger Welsh lord, Dafydd, gaped at the fiery-haired damosel in open astonishment. In his experience with the Norman savages, it was his understanding that women were generally regarded as being little more than receptacles for the breeding up of heirs. Unlike Welsh women, who contributed much to the planning and executing of raids and clan warfare—some even riding into battle alongside their men— the Englishry were not credited with possessing many abilities or desires away from the bedchambers and cook fires. The idea that one would concern herself, nay, understand matters of politics and warfare was uniquely intriguing and he could see why his brother’s interest (along with other things) had been roused.
Henry was equally intrigued, but more over the knowledge that his sister was aware of the queen’s sexual appetites. Royal whores aside, it was a preposterous notion to suggest his uncle would agree to a marriage between Ariel and Lord Rhys ap Iorwerth. He knew it, Ariel knew it, and, to judge by the cunning look in the Welshman’s dark eyes, Lord Rhys knew it too. If it was a gambit to buy time, it was a careless and reckless one to make, for it was indeed an altogether too common practice for these northern outlaws to simply steal a bride of their choosing—the nobler the better. And if the thought had not occurred to Rhys before, it was certainly spinning merry cartwheels through his brain now. An alliance with the House of Pembroke would double his prestige and power almost overnight, not to mention increase the wealth and holdings that would come under his control the moment the marriage was consummated. His present domains were not nearly as extensive as his brother Llywellyn’s, but he would add considerably to his territories that stretched from Deheubarth to Cardigan.
A second shock, as icy and hard as a sharp slap in the face caused Henry to turn and stare at Rhys ap Iorwerth. Not surprisingly, the Welshman’s eyes were waiting for him.
Cardigan Castle had once belonged to the De Clare family. It was, in fact, the place where Henry had been born and lived the first two years of his life before his father had been forced to abandon the castle and flee east to more protected territories along the Marches. The chance of returning the De Clare name to Cardigan was not something to be lightly dismissed, as loathsome as the method might first appear to be.
Lord Rhys smiled faintly. “Is it possible, my lord, you might also begin to see some benefit to this union?”
Henry released the breath he had been holding, mouthing it around a soundless curse. Was the bastard actually going to suggest he do nothing to discredit Ariel’s lunatic proposal … encourage it, even, in exchange for Cardigan?
“Henry, please—” Ariel’s voice tore her brother’s gaze away from Iorwerth’s penetrating stare. “Speak to me.”
“What would you have me say?”
“Say you will help me. One of Uncle’s ships—the Etoile— is anchored in the Wogan taking on provisions. She could be ready to sail on the morning tide and we could be in Normandy before week’s end.”
“We?” Henry’s brows were startled upward, as were everyone else’s.
“You surely would not leave me here, at the mercy of the king’s spies, who you know peek from every crack and crevice in the castle walls! What is more, if I were with you and if we were in Normandy, then we truly could claim we knew nothing of any messenger from the king, naught of any betrothal charter, and certes that we were blissfully ignorant of any mishap befalling Lackland’s courier.”
Isabella made a choking sound and reached for her goblet of wine.
Sedrick stared.
Henry, accustomed over the years to hearing, even to participating in some of his sister’s more ludicrous schemes, pursed his lips and made a slow, careful study of each of his blunted, calloused fingertips.
“If,” he said at length. “And I say again … if I were to decide to go to Normandy in pursuit of this … this venture into futility … how far do you suppose I—or we—would actually get? This is not exactly the time or political climate for a caravan to be traipsing through the provinces.”
“I do not recall saying anything about a caravan.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Speed, dearest brother, would be of the essence, would it not? Who would pay heed to a knight and his squire carrying letters to the earl marshal from his beloved wife?”
The countess cradled her brow in one hand and refilled her wine goblet with the other. “I am not hearing this. Jesu, Mary, and Joseph … I am not hearing this.”
Lord Rhys folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the wall. He was truly beginning to enjoy himself. The wench had more nerve and more spirit than a hundred Englishmen thrown together. Disguise herself as a squire? Run halfway across the Continent to find her uncle? Christ, but she was magnificent! Far too magnificent for anyone but himself to possess, by whatever means or method.
“William,” Isabella continued, more to herself, but loudly enough for the others to take heed, “would be furious. No. No, he would be more than furious; he would be in a rage. And doubtless, he would blame me for contriving the whole affair.”
“Do you not think he would be more furious if we did nothing and allowed the king to proceed with this travesty?” Ariel asked. “Surely he would want to know how Lackland is seeking to manipulate and undermine him. He would want to know, dear Aunt … if only to safeguard his back and ready himself for the next assault.”
Isabella looked up. “The next assault?”
Ariel took shameless advantage of her aunt’s confused state and went down on her knees before her. “Are you forgetting you have children of your own in the nurseries above us? If the king succeeds in shackling me to this gaoler’s son, what is to stop him from binding sweet Matilda to a Flemish foot soldier, or Sibilla to a lust-mad fishmonger, or Eva, Joanna, and Isabella to—”
“Stop!” the countess gasped, her hand covering her mouth. “Oh, my poor dears—the king would not do such a thing … would he?”
Ariel’s response was a dramatic sigh, rife with pity and melancholy.
“Oh.” Isabella’s huge, swimming eyes looked to Henry for guidance. “What shall we do?”
The word applaud came wryly to mind as Henry assessed his sister’s performance, but it was Sedrick, quiet until now, who stepped forward and bowed solemnly before the countess.
“Forgive ma boldness, Lady Isabella, but as much as I am loathe to say it, there is some merit in what the Lady Ariel says. Lord William should be told what is happening in his absence. He should be told of the king’s connivings and he should be told without delay. I, in ma humblest capacity, would be more than willing to carry the news to Normandy … and to carry aught else ma lady deems necessary under the protection of ma sword.”
Ariel glanced up from beneath the thick sweep of her lashes, but Sedrick would not meet her eyes. He was the eighth son of a noble who had had very little to begin with, and nothing at all after deeding lands to his other seven sons. Sedrick had, if castle gossips were to be believed, at one time intended taking the cross and shaving his head in the tonsured style of a penitent. His plans went awry when several women in the village near the abbey where he was studying to take his vows gave birth to by-blows who bore a striking resemblance to the swarthy-skinned Celt.
Undaunted and secretly relieved to be off his knees, Sedrick of Grantham had quite happily taken up a cross of a more violent nature. He had answered the Lionheart’s call to join the Crusades, and, because of his size and ferocious appetite for battle, had soon joined the ranks of Richard’s personal guard.
Serving thus, he had made the acquaintance of William the Marshal—not only met him but managed to save his life by thwarting the aim of an assassin’s sword meant for the earl. Sent back to Milford Haven to recuperate from his wounds, he and Henry had struck up a friendship which had remained solid to this day. Despite his years of service to Pembroke, he still felt like a shy, cumbersome creature when he was near the dainty Lady Isabella and seemed always to be balancing on a bed of eggshells in her presence. He had, however, proven his bravery and loyalty to the House of Pembroke too many times to have his opinions or his concerns waived lightly.
“You think we should send word to William?” Isabella asked.
“I think ye cannot take a chance on the king’s moods these days.”
“You may also count upon me to help in any way I can,” said Lord Rhys. “From waylaying a dozen couriers, to conveying my own sincere application for the Lady Ariel’s hand in marriage.”
“Henry and I will present your offer in the best terms possible,” Ariel assured him, barely glancing up.
“I have no doubt you would,” Rhys agreed affably, his teeth appearing in a white slash through the parting of his beard. “But since it would be an honour beyond my ken to have the lord marshal even consider me a candidate, I could not do him the disservice of approaching the matter with anything less than personal representation. My brother Dafydd will accompany you to Normandy, with my signed and sealed offer of good faith.”
Henry and Ariel both stared at the Welshman.
“Your brother?” they asked in unison.
“Being somewhat more scholarly inclined than myself”— meaning he could read and write, where Rhys could not— “Dafydd is far more capable with pen and ink negotiations than he is with bow and arrow … which is not to say he suffers any lack of skill or enthusiasm with either. In fact, it would further ease my mind to know there was another stout sword arm at your disposal.”
“It … is a generous offer, my lord,” Ariel stammered, “but—”
“You object to his company?” Iorwerth asked lightly.
Ariel looked askance at Henry, but for the moment he appeared content to let her stew in the juices of her own concocting. “N-no, of course not, but … surely you cannot expect to kidnap the king’s man and six of his guards on your own?”
The gleaming slash of teeth broadened. “Surely not,” he agreed. “There are a dozen of my men within sight of these castle walls even as we speak. For unlike your brother, my lady, I travel without the Pembroke lions on my shield to guarantee me safe passage through unfriendly lands.”
Henry, clearly startled to hear that Iorwerth’s men had been following them, exchanged a hard glance with Sedrick. Neither the glance nor the insult to their powers of observation went unnoticed by Lord Rhys.
“And now,” he stated evenly, “if there are no further objections, my brother and I have quite a few things to discuss before morning. Lady Pembroke, Lady Ariel … my lords …”
The two Welshmen offered a formal bow and excused themselves, striding out of the ring of firelight, then out of the room entirely, leaving utter silence in their wake.
Ariel, still on her knees by her aunt’s chair, frowned after them, wondering how such an inventively clever plan had flared so completely out of control. She had no intentions of marrying Rhys ap Iorwerth. She’d had no intentions of even putting him forward as a candidate in her uncle’s eyes—a conclusion the outlaw had obviously determined and countered with the offer of his brother’s “company.” His brother’s watchful eye, more’s the like.
“Well.” Lady Isabella waited until her niece, nephew, and husband’s liegeman gave her their full attention. “It seems as though this Welsh renegade is familiar with the game of chess. If I am not mistaken, he has just placed us in check. William,” she added curtly, “will not be impressed.”
Ariel refused to be daunted. “He will recognize a desperate measure when he sees one.”
The countess sighed and rubbed her aching temples. “I suppose, if I were simply to forbid you from leaving Pembroke Castle, you would not heed me.”
“Sweet Aunt … I do not want to hurt you, or anger you, or ever disobey you,” Ariel insisted, “but this is my life. My future. My very destiny being decided. I would sooner perish on the road to Normandy than tolerate one moment of hellish exile in Radnor.”
“But the dangers—”
“I will have Henry and Sedrick to watch over me … and the Welsh pup, for what he is worth. I have made the crossing before, Aunt. I know the road to Rouen well.”
“Aye, and what if the road back leads to Wales?” Isabella asked gently.
“Well—” Ariel bit the soft pulp of her lip and gave the possibility—however remote it might be—a moment of thought before she offered a quick, too-bright smile. “At least the rogue has no pocks and smells reasonably clean.”
Lady Isabella sighed and stroked a hand down the shiny red ripple of Ariel’s hair. “Nor is he a man to trifle with. You have offered him something of great value which he will not lightly dismiss.”
“Offering and actually giving are two very different things, Aunt.”
“Sometimes a woman has no choice. Sometimes … a man can do things that render a woman senseless and without a will of her own.”
Ariel sat back and frowned in bemusement. “I should like to meet the man who could render me without a will of my own.”
“I recall saying much the same thing before I met William,” Isabella murmured despairingly. “And all it took was one glance. One moment in his presence … and I was lost.”
“Well, I have glanced at this rogue and I have been in his presence, and I can promise you I am still in full possession of my senses.” She saw her aunt give rise to another spasm of anxiety and sought to comfort her by adding, “I will also promise, if it will ease your mind to know, that I will accept Uncle Will’s judgement in this, whatever it might be.”
“And God’s,” the countess whispered. “That He should not forsake you now.”
“Have you forsaken all your senses?” Lord Dafydd asked his brother, well out of earshot of those in the great hall. “Sending me to Normandy? Proposing a marriage between you and Ariel de Clare?”
“Do you doubt you can put an eloquent enough pledge in the marshal’s ear?”
“I could put it to the pope himself, for all the good it would do.”
Rhys grinned and pulled on his gloves, tamping each finger snug to the joint. “You do not think the old lion will see any benefit to allying himself with Gwynedd? God’s blood, man, he will see the proposal with a warrior’s eye, if nothing else. Access to Snowdonia gives him access to Ireland as well as half of northern Wales. And did you see the brother’s eyes glisten when he thought of Cardigan? I could bed the wench tonight and the brother would cheer us on.”
Dafydd reached out a hand and hooked Iorwerth’s arm, halting the echo of their heavy bootsteps in the stone corridor.
“You are not thinking of—”
“Lying in wait for the fair demoiselle and ravishing her to seal our pact?” Rhys laughed and started walking again. “In truth, the thought occurred to me. I’m hard enough to ride a brace of maids, top and bottom, and still have leavings for a slut or two. But no. You may rest easy on that count, little brother. Your tender morals are as safe as I will expect you to keep hers on the way to Normandy and back. It is important to make no mistakes, to present our intentions in the best, most honourable light. I want her to come to me willingly and pure. I want no taint of corruption or coercion to shadow this marriage.”
“In this quest for purity … are you forgetting you already have a wife?”
Rhys stopped suddenly enough and angrily enough to send Dafydd’s brows arching upward.
“I am not forgetting. How could I forget a spindle-legged, gap-toothed weanling who weeps ceaselessly whenever I am lucky enough—or sodden enough—to succeed in prying her knees apart?”
“Nevertheless—”
“Nevertheless,” Rhys interrupted with a scowl, “I have tried a thousand times over the past seven years of our wedded ordeal to plant the seeds of an heir in her womb … to no avail. The bitch is barren. It will take no great effort to be rid of her, which is why I am returning to Deheubarth and you are travelling to Normandy. You will seal this alliance with the old lion, promising him anything if need be, so long as you return with his sealed contract before Llywellyn sniffs anything in the wind.”
“What about the king’s men?”
“What about them?”
“How can you kidnap them, hold them to ransom, then send them back to John without Llywellyn catching the scent?”
“It takes a grievous long time for the odour of corpses to rise up through the earth,” Rhys said matter-of-factly. “By then, my new bride will be queen of Gwynedd.”
He glared his declaration into Dafydd’s eyes a moment longer then turned and ducked through an arched doorway, leaving the younger man staring after him, his expression carefully guarded against the disdain he was feeling.
It was typical of Rhys to expect the world to bend to his designs. Typical of him to think the marshal would welcome him eagerly to the House of Pembroke. Typical to think a woman like Ariel de Glare would be as easily crushed under his thumb as the other cows he normally took to his bed.
But if he thought Llywellyn would simply stand by and do nothing while he raised the Pembroke lions over the battlements of Deheubarth …
Dafydd almost chuckled to himself. Indeed, it would be his pleasure to escort Lady Ariel to Normandy and plead his brother’s case to the Marshal of England. It would be equally pleasurable to bring back an echo of the lion’s laughter, or, should the heavens split open and gold florins fall from the sky, to bring him back his new bride and stand aside while Rhys and Llywellyn fought each other over possession of Gwynedd.
For with any luck at all, they would kill each other and he would be free of them both.