A Dangerous Love (14 page)

“Albert, do we have feed? And how many can we take?” Adair asked her majordomo. “And how long until the meadows can be grazed?”

“Another few weeks for the meadows, my lady, but we have feed enough. Stanton folk will be happy to see cattle back again. We can easily care for two dozen.”

Adair nodded. “Aye, I should like to go with you then, Andrew Lynbridge.”

“Go where?” FitzTudor demanded as he crawled 
from his bed space.

“To Brockton,” Adair said impatiently.

“I cannot allow my wife to travel in the company of another gentleman without me,” FitzTudor said.

“I am not your wife,” Adair said wearily. “Why must you persist in this fantasy? The snows are gone. I shall send you and your wretched servant south this week.”

“You will not leave Stanton Hall without me by your side,” FitzTudor insisted.

“Come along then, my lord,” Andrew Lynbridge said jovially. “We will need all the hands we can get driving the cattle back from Brockton.”

“Very well, if you insist on coming, then come,” Adair echoed, “but in the name of heaven, FitzTudor, do not wear one of your fancy garments. No one will be impressed by them, and the traders will try to charge me more than I need to pay for the cattle.” She turned to Andrew Lynbridge. “Cider, sir? A bit of bread and cheese before we go?”

They traveled to Brockton in the company of Dark Walter and a dozen of his men. They would be needed to get the cattle back to Stanton Hall. FitzTudor had actually taken her counsel, and wore a leather jacket instead of a velvet or silk brocade half doublet. Andrew Lynbridge murmuring advice in her ear, Adair purchased thirty head of thin but sound beasts that would be the nucleus of Stanton’s new herd. It was early after
noon when they began to drive the animals back the seven miles to the hall. The animals were docile and moved along well, but when they were almost in sight of Stanton a party of horsemen appeared at the crest of the hills.

“Jesu!” Andrew Lynbridge swore softly. “Scots.”

“What do they want?” FitzTudor asked.

“The cattle, you fool!” Adair said. “They want the cattle.”

“We’re evenly matched, my lady,” Dark Walter said.

“Aye, they may decide ’tis not worth the fight,” she agreed. “The cattle are scrawny, after all.” But Adair had a sinking feeling as the Scots moved slowly down the hill toward them. “Keep going, lads.”

“Protect your lady first,” Andrew Lynbridge said to Dark Walter. “The cattle can be replaced, but she must not be harmed.”

“I am capable of protecting my own wife,” FitzTudor said irritably.

Adair looked at him, astounded, and laughed. “You, boy? I do not think so, but not to fear. Dark Walter will see we are both safe.”

The two groups advanced toward each other, finally stopping, each party blocking the road ahead. The cattle milled about, lowing.

“ ’Tis a fine group of beasties ye hae,” the leader of the Scots said casually.

“These poor starving cows?” Andrew Lynbridge 
replied easily.

“Thin they are, aye,” the Scot agreed, “but yet they would make a tasty supper for our folk over the next few weeks, and they would fatten themselves up on our good Scots grass.” He smiled at them, showing several broken teeth.

“You would do better to wait until they have fattened up on good Stanton grass,” Adair remarked. “You’ve had my cattle before, I am told, sir.”

The Scot laughed. “I have, my lady, but ’twas some 
years back. Now, to show your good faith I would have you turn a few of these creatures over to us today. We’ll come for the rest in a few weeks’ time, I promise you.”

“Nay, good sir, I cannot,” Adair replied. “I must rebuild my herds, starting with these cows. If you will but give me a year or two I promise you the wait will be well worth it.” She grinned at him wickedly.

“Yer a braw lassie,” the Scot said. “I think you might be worth it. Perhaps I shall take you and leave the cows.” He returned her grin.

“How dare you, you low Scots varlet! How dare you speak to my wife in such a manner,” FitzTudor demanded as he pushed his mount forward to face the Scot.

“Jesu!” Dark Walter muttered low.

“I am the Earl of Stanton,” FitzTudor continued, “and if you do not immediately give way I shall send the duke’s men after you and have you arrested for your presumption.” He glared at the Scot and his men.

They burst out laughing. “This bantam cock is your husband, lady?”

“No, he is not. The king sent him, but I will not have him,” Adair explained.

“The king sent him? Now why would the king be bothered with a little border lass such as yourself?” the Scot wanted to know.

Before Adair might say a word FitzTudor was speaking again. “Why? Because the Countess of Stanton is his natural daughter, that is why! Now, move aside and allow us to pass with our cattle.”

“Perhaps you are worth more than your cattle, my lady,” the Scot slowly mused.

“Nay, sir, I am not. And I am not in the king’s favor at all, I fear. And I will be even less so when I send this pompous boy back to him and demand an annulment,”

Adair said lightly. “He is quite useless.”

The Scots burst out laughing again, and then their leader said, “For a man to be useless with you is a
 
tragedy, lady. Very well, we will take six head of cattle now, and return for the rest at summer’s end.” He nodded to his men to begin cutting the animals out of the herd.

Dark Walter looked to Andrew Lynbridge, who nodded in silent agreement. At a signal from Adair’s captain the Stanton men drew their weapons, and a brief battle was on between the English and the Scots as the cattle scattered into the nearby meadow and began to graze. Swords clanged against one another. Horses whinnied in fright, their hooves kicking up dust from the narrow road as the short skirmish raged. Realizing he was outnumbered, the Scots’ leader had thought better of it, and now reached out to grab at Adair’s reins.

She slashed at him with her dagger while struggling to maintain her seat.

Then, to her surprise Llywelyn FitzTudor came to her aid, his sword drawn, but he was no soldier. The Scot parried his opponent’s flailing blade. FitzTudor managed to briefly get beneath the man’s guard and bloodied his arm. The Scot swore angrily and then swiftly thrust his sword directly into the boy’s chest, drawing it slowly out as FitzTudor, a look of complete surprise upon his young face, fell forward onto his horse’s neck. With a shout to his remaining men the Scot galloped off, followed by those who were still a-horse. No other Stanton men had been killed, although several of the Scots had.

Llywelyn FitzTudor fell slowly from his horse. Adair was immediately on the ground by his side, cradling his head in her lap. “Now, boy, that was very foolish of you. Gallant, but foolish,” she scolded him gently. She could feel tears pricking at the back of her eyelids at the futility of it all, for she could see the wound was a mortal one.

“I could . . . have . . . loved you,” Llywelyn FitzTudor whispered with his dying breath, and then his weak blue eyes glassed over. He was gone.

Adair stared down in shock. She had not liked this husband the king had forced upon her. She had fully intended to send him back to his family. She had not been kind to him at all; nor had he been kind to her. He had even tried to rape her. Yet he had come to her defense when he thought her in danger. “He has died bravely,”

she said softly. “I will tell his father that he died bravely in my defense, but if he had not insisted upon coming this day he would still be alive. How odd that a moment’s decision can lead to death, yet if he had remained at Stanton Hall he would have lived.”

“Aye, he did a noble thing,” Dark Walter said. “I would not have expected it of him, my lady, if you will pardon my saying so.” The captain slid from his horse and bent down. “Let me take him, my lady.”

Adair looked up, her face tearstained now. “Aye.” She nodded. “We’ll give him a fine funeral, and bury him on the hillside with my parents.”

Dark Walter lifted FitzTudor’s body up and carefully slung it across the back of the boy’s horse. Andrew Lynbridge had dismounted, and now helped Adair to rise from the ground where she had been seated. She stag-gered against him for a moment, and his arm tightened about her, steadying her as he helped her to her mount.

“Can you ride alone?” he asked her low. “ ’Tis no shame if you can’t.”

“If I give way now,” she told him, “I will not be able to do what must be done. For all I did not want him; for all the marriage was no real marriage in any way; he was my lawful husband. We did not treat each other well in life, but I will give him the honor he deserves as the Earl of Stanton in death. I will ride alone, Andrew.”

He helped her to mount, his heart contracting, for she had called him by his given name for the first time.

Hearing it on her lips had set his pulse racing and his blood pounding in his ears. Once she was firmly in her saddle he mounted his own horse. The Stanton men at arms were busily gathering up the cattle from the field
 
to which the animals had fled in a panic when the battle had begun. And then they were on their way again.

When they reached the hall the servants came out and, seeing the body across the horse’s back, looked in surprise to Adair.

“We were accosted by Scots on our return home,”

she said. “The young earl was slain, I fear. Take his body and lay it out in the great hall. Where is his man, Anfri?”

The dark little Welshman slid out from among the other servants. “Have you killed him then?” he whined.

“I shall tell my master, the Earl of Pembroke, of your unkindness to his beloved son. I shall tell him!”

“Watch your mouth,” Dark Walter said grimly as he slid from his horse. “My lady has not the heart for murder. The young earl was killed defending his wife when we were attacked by Scots borderers who sought to take the cattle we purchased today.” He turned and carefully took the body from its mount. “Come along with me, little man. You will help the women prepare the boy’s body, which will lie in the hall.”

With a black look at Adair, Anfri scuttled after Dark Walter.

“You had best send to Duke Richard to help you in this matter,” Andrew Lynbridge said to Adair. “I can see the Welshman is determined to make trouble for you.

You have to protect yourself from his slanders. Write a message, and I’ll take it to Middleham myself. You can write, can’t you?”

“Of course I can write,” Adair said irritably. “And read, among other accomplishments. It’s late. Don’t go until morning, please.”

“I’ll stay,” he agreed.

“Thank you,” she said softly; then she turned and went into the hall.

He turned and handed the reins of his horse to a stable lad, and followed her into the hall.

“Now there is a fine figure of a man,” Elsbeth said to 
Albert, who stood by her side. “He would make us a suitable earl, don’t you think?”

“Aye,” Albert agreed.

“She’ll keep a proper period of mourning,” Elsbeth said.

“Let’s hope the king don’t send another bridegroom to her,” Albert remarked.

“I think the duke will help her avoid that trap,” Elsbeth said. “Besides, she is now of little importance to the king. He has other matters to consider that will take precedence over a bastard daughter’s well-being. My lady served the royal purpose. She was wise to come home when she did. King Edward has the Tudors to contend with, I’m thinking. They will not be easily satisfied. Peace, I learned at court, is all very well and good. But with folk of high degree it is power that is more important.”

M
iddleham Castle had been constructed in north Yorkshire in the year 1170. It was one of the largest keeps in England. It had been built upon the southern hills. Its great gray stone towers and walls stood tall above the little village of Wensleydale, and near the town of Leyburn. The curtain walls, gatehouse, and moat had not been added until a century later. As he rode toward it, Andrew Lynbridge could see the white boar pendant of the Duke of Gloucester flying high in a brisk spring wind. As the day was coming to an end he hurried his horse toward the refuge of the castle.

He was tired, and he was hungry. He would find generous hospitality within Middleham’s walls, as well as old friends. Crossing the moat bridge he was recognized and waved through by the smiling man at arms. In the courtyard his horse was taken away, and he entered the castle going to the great hall, where he knew the duke was likely to be at this hour of the day.

Andrew stopped a serving man. “Would you tell your master that Andrew Lynbridge is here with a message from the Countess of Stanton?” he said.

The servant nodded and hurried off. Andrew watched him, and so saw him stop by the duke’s chair and murmur in his ear. Richard of Gloucester looked up and 
around. Andrew stepped from the shadows, and, seeing him, the duke beckoned him forward. Andrew Lynbridge obeyed the command and came to kneel politely by the duke’s side. Having kissed the hand extended to him he arose and drew the folded parchment from where it had rested between his skin and his shirt.

“Do you know what is in this?” the duke asked as he took the message.

“I do, my lord,” Andrew replied.

Richard broke the seal on the parchment, and, opening it out, swiftly read the contents. When he had finished he folded the communication back up, laid it aside, and asked, “Was it an accident? Or did she kill him?” The startled look on Andrew Lynbridge’s handsome face gave him the answer before the man even spoke.

“We were returning from a cattle fair near Stanton,”

Andrew said. “A party of Scots borderers attacked, attempting to steal the animals. FitzTudor went to the aid of his wife when their leader made to carry her off.

Frankly I wouldn’t have thought he had the balls, my lord, but he did. Alas, he was no soldier. Did his father never have him taught better? The Scot skewered him easily.”

“There was no saving him?” the duke asked.

“My lord, the wound was mortal. The Scot slew his heart. The lady jumped from her horse and comforted her husband, but he died in her arms,” Andrew Lynd-bridge said.