Master of Craving (3 page)

Once his quiver was depleted, Stefan reined up the black and drew his broadsword again, and with his other hand he grasped a deadly pike and pulled it from the carcass of a downed Welshman. He twirled it around in his large hand until it fit comfortably in his grip. Then he scanned the horizon for his brothers amongst the hordes. When he could not locate them, for the first time since the eight of them had fled that hellhole of a prison in Iberia, Stefan knew that Madam Death lurked on the horizon for not one of them, but for all of them.

Rage infused him. They would not fall to these cowards!

Stefan cast a quick glance over to Rhys, who had moved in, and as Stefan had, grabbed a pike from a dead man. In his other hand he held his sword at the ready. Each of their mounts was as highly trained in the art of war as were their masters. With both hands free to wield weapons, the knights controlled their mounts with their legs and body movement.

“To the Blood Swords!” Stefan yelled above the din of battle. As they came together, a force of nature to be reckoned with, they let loose their battle cry. The buzzards that waited patiently in the trees above scattered high into the hot summer sky.

And as his brothers came into view, Stefan watched in horror as they were swarmed by scores of Welsh. He roared his fury that he should lose any one of them, and as he hacked his way toward them, the sharp burn of a blade sliced into his thigh. He turned in his saddle to see the flat end of several swords flash before his eyes. Pain seared his face, and then the world went black.

TWO
Dinefwr Castle

 

“Lady Arrrreeeeeeaaaaaaannnnn,” Jane called from the chapel door. “Hurry, child, the Jarl’s train comes!”

Arian’s heart thumped in her chest, and she suddenly felt nervous. From the small graveyard not too far from the chapel, she nodded, acknowledging her nurse’s command. Letting out a long breath, Arian patted the spray of late bluebells resting next to the ones her father had left just that morning on her mother’s grave. Papa told her they had been her mother’s favorite, and every time the sweet scent was taken up by a breeze and passed beneath her nose, it reminded Arian of the woman she would never know.

The stone cross that marked where her mother lay gleamed white, like the seashells on the beaches under the clear August sun. For a long moment, Arian stared at it, and mourned the loss not of her mother, but a father who, so saddened by the loss of his one true love, lived with bouts of such despair she feared for his well-being. Of late, his bouts of darkness came more frequently. He roamed the dark halls of the castle, and could be found late at night and in the early morning fog, sitting here as she did now, tears glistening on his cheeks.

In all her score of years, Arian had tried to pull the man who was responsible for her life out of his dark moods. Gone were the days when he strode robustly through the castle, calling for his daughter to race the wind upon the Dinefwr stallions. Gone were the days when she accompanied him to far-off lands to trade for silks and spices and exotic baubles. And while those luxuries were most coveted in her land, the true treasure they sought in their travels was discovering another hotblood to strengthen their renowned stable’s line.

Since their return last spring from King Murchad’s court in Dublin, if she came too close, he would stop and stare at her as if she were a phantom. She loved the man who looked at her as if she were a ghost. ’Twas not so easy to convince him, though. For all his distance, she was, with each anniversary of her mother’s death, in his eyes Branwen reincarnated. And she knew she was the reason for his deepening despair.

“Arian!” Morwena, her stepmother, called sharply, coming toward her from the bailey. “Get thee in the castle now!”

Arian sighed and gave one last glance to the cross and slowly stood. Morwena. ’Twas not a more unhappy woman in all of Wales than her father’s wife. Arian sighed again, and slowly swept the dirt from her emerald and saffron kirtle. She shrugged, and looked over her shoulder to the woman who stood ramrod stiff in the middle of the bustling bailey, her hands on her narrow hips, her dark brows dipped in a V above her noble nose.

She could not blame Morwena. Though the woman tried, she could not, even with the birth of a son, make Hylcon of Carmarthenshire happy. And it was her father’s great sorrow that tutored Arian well in the lessons of love. While she looked forward to marriage with Magnus the Tall of Norway she would never love him. The life her father led, having loved so deeply only to lose, was not what she wanted for herself. And the misery Morwena suffered daily because her husband would not let go of a ghost did not settle well either.

Nay, Magnus was a good man, nephew to the young King Olaf of Norway. But there were no guarantees he did not have a mistress or two tucked away in his holdings. ’Twas the way of men, was it not? Friar Wythe called her pragmatic, and she took it as a compliment. She would be a good wife to Magnus, and give him sons, but she would never give up her heart only to have it broken. And she was not so naïve to think her husband would never turn from her to another. She understood the ways of marriage, and she was prepared that should he turn away from her as Hylcon had from Morwena, she would be content to raise her children and run the numerous households as one of her station was expected to.

“Now,
child!” Morwena beseeched. “Get thee up here before he sees you in those rags!”

Arian hastened her step, if only a little. Her clothing could hardly be construed as rags, even soiled as they were. They were fit for any princess. Hylcon was rich, and his vigorous trading with the Norse paid off handsomely. She was better jeweled and garbed than most queens. She smiled as she made her way to her stepmother. Aye, she might be pragmatic in the ways of the heart, but she possessed a frivolous side as well. She was a woman after all! One who appreciated fine cloth and jewels and rode upon the most coveted horses in Wales. Not only did King Rhiwallon, her mother’s cousin, and his brother King Bleddyn ride the finest stallions bred from the Dinefwr-Castile line, but kings and emperors brought their mares to stand under the great Spanish stallions of Dinefwr. Aye, she rode with the ease of a breeze upon her cheeks and cherished that time when she galloped like the wind, her chaperone left behind in her dust calling for her to slow. Arian laughed aloud as she thought of poor Oswain, her father’s squire, just yesterday. They had ridden west and she had him convinced she was going all the way to the Irish Sea to meet Magnus when he landed!

He had turned as white as the swans that glided along the Tywi just below the steep slope the castle was built upon. Once returned, the upstart informed her father that she was a hellion and she would break her neck and that of any escort who chased after her. Hylcon frowned and forbade her to ride again unless he accompanied her. What good would she be with a broken neck to the Norse jarl, he demanded when she argued. His mandate only reinforced her decision to marry. She could not wait for Magnus to claim her as his bride. And she could not wait to be gone from Dinefwr and her mother’s ghost.

As Arian came closer to Morwena, she watched her creamy cheeks redden. Morwena was slight, with long dark hair and big bright heather-colored eyes. She was, for one so slight, full of vigor. “If you were my daughter I would box your ears so soundly you would hear bees buzzing in your head for a fortnight. Come, get thee to your chamber. You must bathe and dress for your betrothed. You do not want him to see his future lady with dirt on her face and mud on her dress. He will rethink his offer.”

Arian let Morwena prattle on as she dragged her from the bailey past the dark castle walls and through the great hall that bustled with activity. In two days’ time, she would be a married woman, and a great celebration would follow. She shivered at the thought of the marriage bed and hoped that Magnus would be gentle. Her mood settled when she thought of her husband-to-be. They had met in Dublin this spring past. Upon their first introduction, Magnus made known his interest in her. He was a large, gentle, handsome man with a noble heart. He had asked but for a kiss to seal their contract. When she left Dublin, she left with his promise to come to her by summer’s end and wed her.

Morwena must have felt her apprehension. “Jarl Magnus is a good man, Arian. He promised Hylcon to put you above all other women. He gave his oath he would never raise a hand to you.”

“Papa made him swear that?” Arian asked, genuinely surprised.

 

“Aye, ’twas your mother’s dying wish he give you only to the man of your choice and who placed you above all other women.”

Arian stumbled at the words: not that Magnus had pledged such an oath, for he wanted a princess bride and would tell the prince he would dance on his head and swallow fire if that was what it took. She came with a large dowry of gold, lands, horseflesh, and the bluest blood in all of Wales. Nay, it was that her mother even on her deathbed had thought of her future.

“Did Papa tell you this?”

 

Morwena shook her head, and then gently pushed her ahead up the wide stone stairway leading to the upper chambers. “Nay, Jane; one night after too much honey wine.”

Arian smiled. Jane. Though she was aged, she was spry and could still keep up with Arian. That she was going to Norway with her greatly calmed the girl’s nerves. Jane was all wise and would be able to guide Arian in all things wifely.

As they entered the chamber, Arian expected to see Jane, but did not. “ Did not Jane come up from the chapel?”

“Aye, but I sent her on an errand. I would have you fitted one last time in your wedding gown before the wrinkles are smoothed,” Morwena spun Arian around, and not waiting for her to undress, began to untie the back laces of her kirtle.

“I am hurt at your eagerness to rid my home of me,” Arian softly said, standing still as her stepmother lifted the fabric over her head.

 

Morwena paused in her chore, the fabric stifling Arian. Then she pulled it all the way off and said, “Do not be, Arian, ’tis not you I want gone but the memories you stir.”

Arian let out a long breath and nodded. If she were waspish she could hurt Morwena, but she was not. In her own way, Morwena had been a good mother, and was a most doting parent to her brother Rhodri. He was just ten-and-seven, and so much a man. Where Arian was told she was her mother’s image, Rhodri was their father’s.

“I pray, Arian, that once you are wed and gone from here, Hylcon will begin to see me as his wife.”

 

“I pray it as well. You both deserve happiness.”

 

Morwena made a soft sound deep in her throat, but when Arian turned to look at her she turned away and motioned to the steaming tub. “Come, the water grows cold as you dally.”

As she sank into the warm velvety water, Jane bustled into the chamber, followed by two maids. It took the three of them to carry the length of a sky-blue velvet and goldembroidered wedding gown. Arian frowned. Though beautiful, ’twas not what she had charged the dressmaker with.

Her heart began a soft steady thump against her chest. “ ’Tis beautiful, Jane, but not what I was to wear on my wedding day.”

 

The old nurse looked up and a frown wrinkled her brow. “ ’Twas your mother’s.”

 

Morwena and Arian gasped in unison. “But—”

Jane shook her head and looked sadly at Morwena before she looked back at Arian. “Prince Hylcon insisted you wear it on your wedding day. When I voiced my concern he cut me off with those silver eyes so much like yours and said, ‘She will wear her mother’s dress or there will be no ceremony!’ ”

“ ’Tis not right!” Morwena cried. “He will lose all composure when he sees her dressed in Branwen’s gown! I forbid it!”

 

Jane shook her head and looked at her lady with something akin to pity. “My regrets, milady but he was most adamant.”

Morwena choked back a sob and flew from the chamber, slamming the thick door shut behind her. Jane shooed the maids from the room and set about bathing her charge. “In three days’ time you will leave here a wedded woman, Arian. Leave the sadness here, do not drag it with you. ’Tis not yours to bear.”

Despite her nurse’s words, Arian’s heart weighed heavy in her chest. If only her mother had survived her birth, how different life would be. “You have not changed your mind? You will go with me?” Arian asked. For as brave as she was, and as much as she was looking forward to life in Norway, she could not bear the thought of Jane staving behind.

“Aye, I go where you go, just as I did with your mother.”

And so, with that peace of mind, Arian was ready to greet her betrothed. Just as Jane was weaving the last golden ribbons into a braided crown, Morwena burst into the chamber. Her abruptness startled both Arian and Jane. “Jarl Magnus has sent a proxy

groom!”

 

Arian’s cheeks chilled. “He did not come himself?”

 

“Nay, he is caught up in some political strife in his homeland. He will travel to his estate in Yorkshire in two months’ time to wed with you there.”

 

“But we were to sail to Norway. Does he mean me to travel across England?” The thought terrified her. With bloodthirsty Normans ravaging the countryside, she would not be safe.

“He sent a large contingency escort and his nephew Sir Dag as your proxy groom. Their ships were attacked by Irish pirates. Only three boats survived. ’Tis too treacherous to sail with so few. With his train and the men Hylcon will provide, you will be safe crossing England.”

“But Father supported Harald! And Magnus’s great-uncle attacked York less than a year ago! William is no fool. He will see no ally in Wales or Norway!”

 

“Lord Dag seems to think safe passage in England would be guaranteed with the Jarl’s gold.”

 

A buzz started in Arian’s belly, as if a single bee sought escape. “What does my father have to say on the matter?” she asked.

 

Morwena paled a few shades, wringing her hands. “He does not know. He took to his horse along the river path when Lord Dag’s outrider arrived.”

 

Arian snorted. “I will see my proxy groom. But if he does not sit well with me, I will wait until Yorkshire to say my vows!”