Chapter Twenty-three

Hywel

 

 

Hywel groaned and tried to shift to a more comfortable position, but his hands were tightly tied behind him, and the back of the chair prevented him from moving more than an inch or two. That realization had him more awake in a hurry, and he blinked and blinked again, trying to adjust to the darkness around him. He wiggled his feet, which were tied at each ankle to the legs of a chair, and the toe of his boot hit something soft.

He heard a low moan.

Hywel forced down the panic that filled his throat. His eyes were growing used to the darkness, which wasn’t as complete as he’d first thought. Light filtered through the floorboards above his head and through a square opening in the ceiling on the opposite end of the room. Footsteps paced above him, and then a man appeared in the opening, holding a lantern.

“So you’re awake.”

It was too late to feign sleep, but Hywel didn’t answer—not that he could, given the gag in his mouth. The man came down the ladder, carrying the lantern, which illumined the cellar in which Hywel found himself. Mari lay on the floor at Hywel’s feet, unconscious and no longer moaning. Her chest rose and fell as she breathed, and no blood showed on her clothing, which eased some of the tension in Hywel’s shoulders. She was alive and, on the surface, unhurt.

Hywel tried to recall how they’d ended up here. He remembered talking with Mari in a quiet corner of one of the receiving rooms at Newcastle. He’d gone to find her after his meeting with the empress, which had been cordial, dull, and endless. Evan had brought them some wine and then … Hywel could remember nothing after that. He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious, but from the light coming through the trap door, Hywel guessed that dawn had come and gone, and the day was already passing.

Hywel didn’t recognize the man who held the lantern high so he could see into Hywel’s face and then tugged the gag from Hywel’s mouth. “Go ahead and shout. No one will hear you.”

Hywel tried to spit, but his mouth was dry, and he couldn’t make any saliva. “Do you know who I am?”

“Oh, I know.” The man smiled. “You’re one of the Welsh bastards.” He shined the light around the chair on which Hywel was sitting. “See that blood? Yours’ll join it soon enough if you don’t cooperate.”

“What do you want?”

“Me? Nothing. But my master? He didn’t tell me exactly what he wanted from you, but he’ll be along shortly to collect it.”

Hywel groaned internally. He could guess what the man’s master wanted: the emerald. Hywel had never had it on him, but either the killer didn’t know that or thought he could torture its whereabouts out of Hywel.

While Hywel hoped he was strong enough to withstand whatever a torturer might mete out, he honestly didn’t know what his limits were. Gareth had survived abuse last winter, and Hywel hoped he was man enough to do the same. But he didn’t know. With Mari unconscious at his feet, he knew he had to get out of here before he found out.

As the man turned away, Hywel’s mind wandered to a last aside he’d had with Prior Rhys, back at the castle. Hywel had asked him the real reason he’d joined their company on the journey to England. There’d been a pause, and then Rhys’s voice had come softly. “It struck me as my duty to go, given my knowledge of the area. And perhaps, after all these years, as a gift. I have always felt it wise to accept the gifts God gives me.”

With these last words, Prior Rhys’s eyes had skated over to Mari and then back to Hywel. The old churchman had meant that Mari was a gift to Hywel, and as he sat in the chair, tied as he was, Hywel knew within himself that it was time he claimed the right to protect her.

The guard climbed the ladder, leaving the lantern on a hook by the trapdoor. Hywel was glad for the light, though he was disappointed to see the bottom of the ladder rising up.

From the trap door and ladder, to the stone and dirt foundation, to the chair in which he sat and the blood beneath, Hywel could guess now where he was: the farmhouse cellar. Gareth had described it to him at length, but other than those initial details, all else was changed. It must have taken several cartloads to clear out everything in the cellar but the chair. He wondered if all that work had been done in preparation for his abduction. He didn’t exactly feel honored.

Hywel nudged Mari’s shin with his toe, and this time her eyes popped open. “Where am I—?” Her voice went high in anguish and panic. “Hywel?”

“Shush, cariad. I’m here,” he said. “We’re at Prior Rhys’s farmhouse, the one Gwen and Gareth found. We’re going to be fine, but you need to keep quiet.”

Mari gasped another few breaths but then breathed more easily as she gained control of herself.

“Good girl,” Hywel said, his voice barely a whisper. “Now. How tightly are you tied?”

“Tightly—but only at my wrists and ankles.” Mari lifted her hands to show him the rope that bound her hands in front of her. Hywel raised his eyes to say a prayer of gratitude that whoever had abducted them was an idiot.

“Can you sit up?” Hywel said.

“I think so.” Mari rolled onto her stomach, bending at the waist and putting all of her weight onto her elbows until she could get her knees under her. The skirt of her dress made it difficult to move her legs, but she managed to scoot forward so she could kneel in front of Hywel. She lifted her hands to touch his face. “You’re hurt.”

“I hadn’t noticed.” It seemed as if someone had punched him a few times while he was asleep, just to make sure he stayed that way. “Can you wriggle around to the back of the chair and untie my hands?”

“I can try. These bonds are very tight; I can barely move my fingers.”

Still, Mari tried to do as he asked. She tugged at the front of her dress with the fingers she could move, and managed to pull the hem out from beneath her knees. Even so, her legs got tangled up in her skirt the first time she tried to move. She squeaked as she lost her balance, falling forward with her forehead butting into Hywel’s shoulder.

“It’s all right,” Hywel said, trying to shush her again. He wished he could put his arms around her to steady her.

“Sorry.” By holding onto one arm of the chair and allowing Hywel’s weight to counterbalance her own when she leaned back, Mari got her feet under her.

“Good girl,” Hywel said again.

“Do you know how we got here?” Mari said. “My head hurts when I try to remember.”

“I can’t imagine I remember any more than you,” Hywel said. “Evan brought us that wine and—”

“What do you think might have happened to Evan since he’s not here with us?” Mari said, her eyes wide.

“Hopefully, he is asleep in an out-of-the-way place.” Hywel prayed that Evan wasn’t dead; he didn’t even want to speak of it. To voice his fear would mean admitting it might be true. “If he wakes as we have, he will understand immediately that something has happened to us. He’ll find my brother or Gareth and Gwen.”

“All of whom you insisted were to make Prince Henry’s safety their first priority,” Mari said. “They’ll be among those watching for him, and since we have no idea of the current time, he could be arriving at any moment!”

“I think we have to accept that we are out of this particular fight, Mari,” Hywel said. “Control over whether or not Prince Henry lives or dies has moved beyond us.”

“Do you know why we’re even here?” Mari worked her way around the chair with little hops and bent to work at the rope that bound his hands. “We haven’t figured anything out yet!”

“We’re not here because the traitor is afraid of what we know,” Hywel said. “We’re here because he wants his emerald.”

“As if you would tell him where it is,” Mari said.

“I would tell him in a heartbeat if I thought it would get us out of here or if he threatened to hurt you if I didn’t,” Hywel said. “But how long after I told him do you think he’d let us live?”

Mari grunted as her fingers wrenched and slipped on his bonds. “Not long—”

A chair scraped the floor above them, and they both froze. They had been speaking very quietly, and even the sound of Mari’s hopping had been muffled by the dirt floor, but they needed more time if they were to get free. They would get only one chance at this.

Hywel gave it a long count of ten before he shifted his shoulders, working to ease the strain on them from having his hands pulled so tightly behind his back.

“I feel like an animal waiting for slaughter,” Mari said.

“I’m afraid too, cariad,” Hywel said.

“How could this happen?” The last word would have been a wail if she hadn’t spoken it right in his ear.

“I made a mistake,” Hywel said. “I trusted the wrong person. I just wish I knew who that person was.”

“We’ll know before we die,” Mari said. Her voice came out much more matter-of-fact this time. “We’ll have that satisfaction, at least.”

Hywel grunted his assent. “How’s it going back there?”

“My fingers are very stiff. I wish I had a knife—” And then her fingers stiffened on his hands. “I do have a knife, a tiny one. Let me see if I can get it from my boot.”

“Take your time.” Hywel leaned back his head and closed his eyes, breathing in and out, searching for patience and not wanting to put any additional pressure on Mari. He could think of only one other woman who wouldn’t have been reduced to tears to find herself bound and left to rot in a dark cellar—and who might carry a knife in her boot as a matter of course—and that was Gwen.

While he waited, he strained to hear more from the guard above them. He hoped it wasn’t too much to ask that he could have fallen asleep.

“I’ve got it.” She worked at the bonds some more, and it took long enough to slice through them that he guessed the blade wasn’t as sharp as it could have been. “There,” Mari said at last. The strand of rope fell to the ground.

Hywel brought his arms around in front of him, working one wrist and then the other to renew the circulation in his hands. Then he took the knife Mari handed him and began sawing through the rope that constrained his ankles.

He got his feet free and moved around the chair so he could crouch in front of Mari to free her hands. “We’re going to have to trust that Gareth and Gwen will do what they can, and that what is meant to happen, will.”

“You are very sensible,” Mari said.

“I’ve had to be,” Hywel said. “And I would return the compliment. While I regret that your father abandoned you for his work for the empress, your upbringing has made you strong. Capable.”

Mari regarded him with a composed expression. It was on the tip of Hywel’s tongue to speak of how he felt about her, but now that it came to it, he had no idea what to say. He’d had more women than he’d had any right to, wooing them with an eloquent tongue—or more often a song—and yet anything he thought to say to Mari sounded trite and insincere when he rehearsed it in his head. His default was to simply kiss her, but that might send the wrong message. She had kissed him, true, but she’d had no idea what she was doing.

He did. It was up to him to make this right.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Mari said.

Now that her hands were free, she let Hywel ease her down to sit on the ground. She straightened her legs so her feet were in front of her, and he could get to the rope that tied her ankles together.

“I was thinking about two things of equal importance,” Hywel said. “The first is how we’re going to get past that guard up there. The second—” He almost looked away but at the last moment told himself not to be a coward, “—the second is how to tell you that I love you.”

The bonds around Mari’s ankles loosened and dropped to the floor. Hywel grasped her hands and pulled her to her feet. He didn’t let her go.

“Do you really?”

Hywel was glad his hands were no longer tied because he knew what to do with them. He slipped one around her waist and brushed a stray hair back from her face with the other. “I do.”

“Why?” Mari said.

Hywel made to laugh but then swallowed it back, afraid the guard would hear him. The cellar wasn’t the place for this, and it certainly wasn’t the time, but now that the words were out, the rest was easy. “You may know that I haven’t given any woman my full attention in a long time, but I don’t think you know the reason for it.”

Mari didn’t speak, just remained focused on his face.

“After I lost a woman and her babe—our babe—three years ago, I swore I would never care that much about anyone ever again,” Hywel said, remembering the path of self-destruction he’d followed for far too long after Branwen’s death. “Although I meant it at the time, I know now that I was wrong to make that oath, and I cannot keep it, not if it means I can’t have you.”

Mari put the palm of her hand to his cheek. “Whether you admit it or not, you are a sweet man, Hywel ap Owain, and I love you too.”

A bang from above had them jumping apart.

“Who are you?” their guard said.

A chair scraped on the floor, and then a different voice said, “I am someone about whom you should be very worried.”

“Prior Rhys—” Mari breathed the name. Hywel would have recognized the prior’s educated French accent anywhere.

Grunts, slaps, and thuds resounded throughout the house, and then Hywel heard a loud thunk as if something heavy had fallen to the floor.

Taking a chance, Hywel raced to the opening. “We’re here!”

“My lord.” Prior Rhys crouched above them, grinning and shaking his hand to ease its hurt. His knuckles were scraped red and bleeding.

“I’m glad you haven’t forgotten how to fight,” Hywel said.

“Son, I can’t say that I’m glad I had to use my skills, but I’m certainly not sorry to have them,” Rhys said. “Let’s get you out of there. We have a traitor to catch.”