A Lord for Haughmond (29 page)

     All stood silent while the king scratched his signature on a parchment. At a side table, a royal chamberlain wrote briskly, dipping his quill into the horn inkwell with regularity. He leaned forward to jot figures in the two ledgers for debits and credits, then handed a new document to the clerk, who presented it to Edward.

     “Your order of 200,000 crossbow bolts to St. Briavel’s, sire.”

     With a quick flourish, the parchment was signed. “Have you contacted the Italian merchants?” the king demanded, handing the documents back. “If they desire business with England, they can be persuaded to lend me the 3,000 pounds I require.”

     “They are reluctant, sire,” the chamberlain murmured, his tone at once soothing.

     Edward growled. “I am not their overlord and cannot command them, well they know it. But, should they consent, I will see their profits are enhanced. Relate this to them, but be subtle. I do not want it rumored abroad that I am desperate.”

     Another missive was handed to him, and he sneered, reading a portion of it aloud, “The king being in great need of money— ” With an angry oath, he bent to sign it. “You make me sound the beggar!” He flung down his quill with an angry oath and rose abruptly.

     Finally, his attention settled upon Rhys. The blistering glare revealed the depth of his wroth.

     It did not bode well for his cause, and Rhys tried not to show his dismay. The king’s left eyelid drooped, a sure sign of trouble, an inherited affliction heightened by fatigue or anger. Invariably, it prompted a sour Plantagenet disposition. Rhys made haste to execute a gracious bow.

     “Know you Geoffrey de Borne is spoiling for a fight?”

     Rhys had not known, albeit, the king’s pronouncement did not surprise him. No deed ascribed to that ravenous libertine was outside the realm of possibility. Hoping to allay his sovereign’s tension, he replied with a tight smile, “We can hardly dight him with another joust to settle the matter.”

     “The matter
is
settled!” Edward’s voice was all but a shout. At the side table, the chamberlain bent his head and wrote feverishly. “Dafydd de la Motte is the rightful lord of Haughmond Castle. Thereto, the rightful husband. He was eager for the wench. Let him find delight where he may."

     Rhys’s gaze skidded away at the awful thought. How very muddled life had become.

     “Let him deal with Lady Katherine’s recalcitrant nature.” Edward drilled Rhys with a frown. “You are to yield. I will not have a second thorn in mine side. There is intrigue aplenty from Prince Llywelyn and his ilk.”

     “Yea, my liege.” Rhys struggled to achieve a response above a whisper.

     The king leaned on his table. “You are to forswear this vengeance against Sir Geoffrey. I needs mine barons to fight the Welsh, not each other.” He stomped across the tent, his clerk darting out of the way.

     Swinging back, he settled a dark scowl upon Rhys. “I did not summon you, you have no right to attend me.” His surliness filled the tent and filled Rhys with dread. “Inasmuch as you trespass, I will tell you how very much I mislike your actions. They distract from our greater purpose. I will not have it!” He pounded the table with a clenched fist, and the gold cup tipped precariously. “Wales occupies my every thought, not the diversion you do cause. Cease your amusements!”

     “My lord.” Rhys made a swift bow to obscure his deceptive reply and the fury that shot through him like a quiver of arrows. 

     “’Tis meet you are chastened,” the king raged. “But it does not diminish mine ire. I am beset by Sir Geoffrey, who does press me about your encroachment of his son’s property. He complains of the wife in particular. He wishes to know what reparation I plan for you.” He took a breath and glared his displeasure. “Sir Dafydd petitions me to visit Haughmond. Out of the blue, that knight displays quite a fortuitous impatience for his bride. I can only wonder at its cause! Yet he was quite content to allow Rhys of St. Quintin to proxy him not so many days agone.”

     Shuddering, Rhys tried to maintain his aplomb in the face of the king’s sarcasm.

     Edward swept up a parchment and shook it. “Should I deny this request and hold that knight here beside me? Is that your wont? Both he and Geoffrey de Borne desire that he be allowed to attend his wife at Haughmond.” The king snorted. “Dafydd has his husbandly rights, no matter the lady wishes it otherwise.”

     Rhys knew where this conversation was leading and trembled. In his machinations to keep Katherine for himself, he’d vexed the king mightily. Edward was a warrior, with a warrior’s hard instincts. When engaging the field of honor, his sights would be on victory. He would care naught about Katherine’s happiness, so long as he won the day. Once again, she became a royal pawn.

     Fear and helplessness and guilt roared through him, for was it not himself who had brought her to the king’s attention? He squared his shoulders and gripped the hilt of his sword with a clammy palm.

     How had his plans gone so awry?

     Edward shifted his weight. Only vaguely did Rhys notice the slight adjustment in the stance. But did he come to full awareness when the king flexed his long sword arm, recognizing another warrior’s threat, belatedly realizing the danger to himself.

     "As—as you wish, sire," he murmured.

     Wholly unnerved, he jerked his hand away from his sword and made a swift bow. What had become of his reasoning? He did not seek to threaten the king, yet Edward reacted as though that were his intent. 

     “Be not reckless, knight of St. Quintin,” Edward admonished, his blue eyes cold and piercing. “You will smart all the more when the wound slices deeper.”

     Rhys swallowed down his alarm, seeing how very much the king did savor his discomfort.

     “Mayhap in the future you will not trifle with me. ’Tis your purpose for Geoffrey de Borne to think his son cuckolded?”

     “Nay!” Rhys tried to make the falsehood sound sincere.   

     “’Twould seem otherwise,” Edward exploded, hot blood surging up his neck and into his cheeks. “By the blood of God, I vow I will see you in The Tower before you do incite unrest along the Marches. Writing endless writs for feudal service is a tedious task that ought not to be suspended by this fribbling discourse. I am beset with fury!” Striding over to Rhys, he looked down his nose at him in disdain. “I ask you, will the lady have Sir Dafydd?”

     “Nay, my liege king. Only Sir Geoffrey does she hate more.”

     “Then your plot does spin out of control.” Edward shook his head. “God’s blood, were this a military campaign, we would be overrun by the enemy.”

     Rhys ground his teeth. ’Twas an unfair accusation and it did rankle.

     Edward must have perceived his defiance, for his expression grew savage. “Do not vex me! You made a severe miscalculation. Your private battle does absorb your better judgment. What of England? Can you tear yourself from Haughmond to win me Wales?”

     “Aye, my liege. I am a man of many talents.” Rhys frowned, startled by the desperation betrayed in his voice.

     The king detected it as well. He paused, scrubbing at his chin. “Cleverness is not one of them.” He turned away and continued in a more moderate tone. “I remember when I was young and randy and the battlefield stood in the way.” He faced off with Rhys, his expression still brittle. “You, my unhappy friend, are ensnared likewise, though ’tis of your own making.”

     Rhys wanted to glare his anger, but he detected smugness in Edward’s expression. His heart skipped a beat.

     “You are sufficiently mended, I presume?”

     The query was too polite. Rhys offered a tight smile, saying, “Aye, but a part of me does remain at Haughmond.”

     “I shan’t ask what that means! Did the lady not restrain your ardor?” The royal frown had returned.

     Rhys’s heart beat faster. His ploy at humor had made no dent in Edward’s pique.

     Suddenly, the king pointed a long forefinger at him. “Rhys of St. Quintin, do you dare to darken Haughmond’s gate once more, I will see you hung from the nearest parapet!”

     Like the ferocious blow of a swinging mace, the command struck Rhys’s midsection. As though his soul deserted him, a hiss of air escaped betwixt his lips. “I had not thought you so heartless,” he rasped.

     “I have a kingdom to rule,” Edward snapped. “Most sure, we have a war to win. You will provoke me no further. Come, I have need of your good sense. You will have opportunity aplenty to prove your worth, if you will but concentrate on war.” Turning his back, he stepped to the table and shook out a map of Wales. “What do you make of this?”  

     Tamping down his emotions, Rhys forced a mask of civility to cloak his bitterness and rage. “We have done this before, my lord,” he murmured tonelessly, eyeing the table from where he stood. His heart hammered fiercely within his chest. 

     “This time, it needs be done aright.” The king gave an exasperated sound. “Mortimer commands the central Marches. De Tibetot oversees western Wales. I am concerned with Chester. De Grey is a capable commander, but information has been inconstant. Go you there and keep me informed. I depend on you for an accurate accounting.”

     Unable to fathom his disastrous punishment, Rhys stared at the king’s back through a haze of red. Blood pounded in his head.

     “War does have its advantages, does it not?” Edward glanced over his shoulder, then turned fully and lifted a brow.

     At the provocative tone, Rhys’s gaze focused on the king’s face. Plainly, Edward was not finished with him. Cold fear gripped him. 

     The king spoke with deliberate care, “When my troops go into Wales, you will go with them, Rhys of St. Quintin. And there you shall tarry, never to return to England.”

Chapter Twenty-one

     Leaning on the highest rampart of the castle, Katherine shaded her eyes against the brilliant sunshine. A plough lay broken in the south field. Amid the furrows of dark loam, two yeomen, their tunics hiked up above their knees, tried to maneuver the ploughshare back into position.

     In the distance, heaps of timber lay at the edge of the forest, awaiting the return of the carter. In the meantime, two serfs were diligent in stripping off bark for the tanyards. 

     Closer at hand, the beekeeper was removing honey from the skeps. His assistant, a young lad of two and ten, gave a sudden yelp and darted back on splindly legs, his thin arms flailing the air. Katherine grimaced, sympathizing with his pain.

     His distress did naught to drown out the sounds of bleating that had persisted all the day. From this vantage point, she was relieved she could not see the river’s edge, where the sheep awaited their yearly shearing. Washed in the swift waters of the Severn River, the fleece provided healthy revenues from the Flanders market, but she did hate to see the gentle creatures prodded and panicked.

     Springtide was the busiest time of the year and everyone labored from dawn to dusk, hurrying to supplant the nigh-empty larder. Yawning, she pulled her mantle closer. Though the breeze this day was warmer, it yet held a chill. The solid stones beneath her palms were as cold. She gripped them tightly and turned her face toward the sunshine, breathing in the fresh scent of the soil, basking in Haughmond’s embrace.

     Voices from the east field drifted on the breeze. Katherine turned to see a little cavalcade make its way over the plowed turf. Led by the sower scattering seeds from his leather pouch, a serf followed behind, guiding the horse-drawn harrow. It covered the seed, but never too soon. Young serf lads dashed about with their slingshots, emitting a chorus of complaints, chasing raucous crows bent on thievery.

     Another year’s planting of barley appeared well in hand. Soon the endless task of weeding would commence.

     A stifled giggle and a gasp drifted up from the village below. She stood on tiptoe and looked over the parapet. On the slope below the castle wall, cottage gardens were bursting with the season’s first crop of pease, thick and promising. Dried and kept for winter fare, they would provide against starvation, if Godwin, the miller’s son, didn’t trample them while he stole kisses with the alewife’s youngest girl.

     Averting her gaze, Katherine almost smiled. But the desperate furtiveness of the young couple reminded her of her own lost love. As usual, the thought of Rhys launched sadness so deep, it stabbed every bone in her body. Their time together had been but a moment, yet he had made a lasting impression on her. She missed him. Nightly, Saint Winifred received her diligent prayers. Verily, she sought to suppress her feelings. To yearn for Rhys meant she yearned for the frustration and fear and anger that accompanied him.

     ’Twas insanity to desire such strife.

     Yet she did. Daily she fought the battle and the tears it did inspire.

     A shout drew her attention. The broken plough mended, the ploughman and his oxen moved steadily down their long furrow. The second yeoman, Walter, was once again working his own stretch. He came to the end of the field and paused, giving his hard-working beasts their due rest. Leaning over one ox, he adjusted the wooden yoke and scratched the animal’s broad, sturdy neck darkened with sweat.

     The bawling of a newborn calf reminded her that she must find Alice. The yearly quibbling betwixt the dairymaids, who claimed the dwindling fodder for their breeding cows, and the ploughmen, who demanded it for their oxen, was once again in full sway.

     She made her way down to the dairy and found the girl vigorously scraping a wooden bucket with marestail. Beside her stood a row of slop stones, with new cream rising.

     Alice paused in her labors. “Ah, mistress, ’tis glad I am ta see ye. Thank the blessed saints for yer safe return.”

     Katherine nodded and smiled. ’Twas the same litany she heard each day, though she’d been home a month. Everyone welcomed her as lady of the castle. The atmosphere at Haughmond had grown festive in Sir Geoffrey’s absence. Easy laughter, jokes—even horseplay—had swiftly replaced the stilted tenor of his lordship.