Beauchamp Besieged. Elaine Knighton

’Tis no place for a man on his own, let alone a woman. There are things there, best left undisturbed,” he warned her sternly.

      “The wildwood is lovely in its own way, but aye, I wish I had not disturbed that man who tried to throttle me.”

      “I, for one, have only found trouble in those woods. That is why I race through them. I might easily have not seen you. Especially with that great lout blocking my view.”

      “I am sorry to have inconvenienced you.”

      “Think nothing of it. ’Twas my pleasure.” Raymond stifled a yawn, and stretched his arms behind him.

      Ceridwen’s eyes widened. His pleasure? To kill a man, justified or not? He spoke of it so casually. Just another bloodletting—good sport. But what else could she expect? His fame had grown from the merciless fury he displayed, never accepting defeat at the hands of his enemies. Her people.

      It was said he routinely destroyed farms and hamlets on his raids of acquisition. Rumor even had it that churches had burned by his command, to demoralize rebellious vassals. All to satisfy the greed and blood lust typical of his whole family.

      She must not let his present mildness lull her into forgetting who and what he was. Ceridwen eased herself deeper under the covers. She had no defenses against him, in her weakened state. Why did he not go away and leave her alone?

      Raymond spoke again, still not looking at her. “Who is your father, or husband? To whom do I return you?”

      Ceridwen suppressed the leap of joy his words evoked. She could not go home, and he needed to be jolted out of his rude disregard. She glared at him, with what she hoped was an expression of fierce independence. “I am Ceridwen of Llyn y Gareg Wen. My father is Morgan ap Madog. And you are my husband.”

      Raymond’s head snapped up, his face pale. He stood, then sat down again. “Nay…she is but—you cannot be—”

      “Why not? ’Tis not the person that is important, but the pact. If I do not please you, that is regrettable, but be assured I find the prospect of wedding you no more appealing.”

      “I did not expect you to find me appealing. I will force myself upon no one. Do as you will, go where you like.”

      His defensive attitude surprised Ceridwen. She had feared once he realized she was his betrothed he would simply take what was his due. All the more frightening a prospect when she was not certain exactly what constituted…his due.

      He continued, “However, Lord Morgan can count upon my good faith. I will marry his daughter, as promised. If in fact you are who you claim to be.”

      “My word is as good as yours, sir.”

      Raymond studied her, his blue eyes sharp and unforgiving. “You might have told me sooner.”

      “I tried. I kept getting interrupted—”

      “And you fear me.”

      “Nay,” Ceridwen lied, twisting the blanket in her fingers.

      A rueful smile curved Raymond’s lips. “If you do not, you would be wise to.” He reached down and stroked the shoulder of a large, hairy dog snoring in the rushes at his feet.

      “What is that?” Ceridwen peered in alarm at the great beast, with its tangle of impossibly long legs and rough fur.

      The knight narrowed his gaze. “You did not meet, whilst he was your…guest?”

      So this was the hostage wolfhound. Her rival. The Lord of Rookhaven’s first love. The thought was so ludicrous Ceridwen had to cough in order to smother a giggle. Both actions hurt dreadfully, and she forced herself to be still. “Nay. I assure you I had nothing to do with that, sir.”

      Raymond returned his attention to the dog. “This is Hamfast. My wolfhound. He hunts with me, eats with me, and sleeps with me. He will not harm you.”

      His pride in the ungainly creature was evident.

      Ceridwen nodded. “My brother, Rhys, cared for him with all due courtesy. But, sir…” She swallowed the sudden lump in her throat. “We had trouble in the beech-wood pass of the mountains, and I was separated from my people.”

      He arched one dark eyebrow. “You astound me. ’Tis a long way to come afoot and alone, milady.”

      “Mother Mary smiled upon me.”

      Raymond eyed her dubiously. “No doubt.”

      She fought the stinging behind her eyelids. “I am afraid they are lost. P-perhaps dead.”

      His perpetual frown deepened. “I will send a search party.”

      “I thank you for that, sir. And please, get word to my father that I yet live.”

      At this, a pained look crossed Raymond’s face, and he gave her a curt nod. Not knowing what to think, Ceridwen forged ahead. “Do I or do I not have your word that I may take up residence as your lady—in name only?”

      She shivered again, this time at her own audacity. If he did not want her, she’d not be used as a…a convenience. He could keep a—what were they called?—concubine for that. There it was again. She was not quite sure what that meant, or what concubines did. It was an area she must address, and soon. But for now…“Y-you said you would not force—”

      “I know what I said.” Raymond placed his palms on his knees and rose to his feet. “Once we are wed I care not what you do. Just keep out of my way. And do not have a mind to changing things. I am happy with my current arrangements.” Hard-eyed again, he turned toward the door.

      Ceridwen sniffed. “You do not look happy to me.”

      Raymond’s back stiffened, and he reversed his departure. His gaze bored into Ceridwen as if he could see through her and liked not what he saw. “Right you are, milady.”

      It was not what she had expected him to say. He snapped his fingers at the hound. Hamfast woke and sat up next to her bed, one huge paw resting on the blankets, his brown eyes sorrowful. Tentatively, Ceridwen held her hand out for him to nose.

      Halfway to the door, Raymond turned and spoke a quiet command. The dog’s lips drew back as if in a smile, then he returned to his master’s side. The door flew inward and Alys narrowly missed careening into her lord as she trundled through, her arms full of linens. After a last swift glance at Ceridwen, Raymond guided Alys back out into the hallway.

      Ceridwen could hear the low rumble of his voice, but could not make out the words.

      After a few moments Alys returned.

      “Himself says yer poorly, and to take extra good care ye don’t give up the ghost,” the old nurse said bracingly.

      “Did he, now? There’s naught wrong with me. I am only a bit tired.” Ceridwen tried to swallow the tendril of fear creeping higher within her. He must know, merely by looking at her, that the wound had gone bad. She could feel it too, though she did not want to face it. The fever, the chills, her clammy skin.

      “Here. These are the finest linens anywhere’s out of Ireland. You’ll be more comfy swaddled with them betwixt ye and this wool. And now for my special hot compress, to draw the churl’s evil humors from ye.”

      “What’s that you said?” Ceridwen asked weakly, not sure that she wanted to know. English terms still challenged her.

      “Sir Raymond said his sword carried the churl’s evil humors, from his foul gut into yer own sweet body. I’m to draw them out, or he’ll see my hide nailed to the barbican.” Alys chuckled.

      Alongside numerous others, no doubt. “Oh. Ahhh!” The steaming bag of herbs settled on Ceridwen’s wound.

      “If yer not better by the morrow, Himself’ll send young Wace to find a physick, to bleed out the illness right proper.”

      “I will be better. I promise.” No one would bleed her.