Beauchamp Besieged. Elaine Knighton

      “I will try, Shona-lass.”

      The dew had not yet dried on the grass, and the mossy, intricately carved cairn-cross rose like a tombstone at the side of the road. Ceridwen avoided its chill shadow as she sat astride the drowsy pony Alys had provided. Her escort, arranged by promise of payment from her father, was late.

      Old Nance rubbed his bulbous nose and peered down the road. “Here ye’ll be safe ’til Rory comes, lass. ’Tis a holy place.”

      Ceridwen frowned. “Aye, but how will I recognize him?”

      “No matter, he’ll find ye. There’s no other maid waitin’ here, God love and bless ye.” Old Nance scratched himself in a resigned manner. “I’d best be on me way. The missus’ll have me privates in the cheese press if I’m late to Mass.”

      “But—”

      “That’s settled, then. Godspeed and fare ye well, lady.” With a wave Nance set off for home at a remarkable pace for his bowed legs. The old man wanted his warm hearth, no doubt.

      Ceridwen hoped the crossroads was indeed a safe place, but the stout dagger at her waist offered reassurance. Rookhaven lay quiet with the master and most of his men at large, but it seemed Raymond’s commands were obeyed whether he was there or not. How she was to return, Ceridwen did not yet know. Meanwhile, she would do her best to sort out a plan.

      The pony raised its head, swiveling its shaggy ears forward. Ceridwen tightened her fingers around the knife-hilt as two men crested the hill. Both were stocky, with similar heads of stiff, red hair, and were armed with short swords. Freemen, and brothers as well, she would warrant. But they carried themselves boldly, and their stares made her uneasy.

      The taller of the two spoke up as they neared. “Good morrow, lady. Me and Sam here was just telling Old Nance how Rory’s still too drunk to be of any use this day.”

      Ceridwen woke her mount with a squeeze of her legs. “Aye?”

      The man smiled. “Even sober, Rory couldn’t find his way across the village square to save his own life. We’ll be your guide and guard, and won’t charge much.” He eyed the bag hanging from her saddle. It had bread and cheese in it, but he obviously envisioned something more valuable.

      “I will go after Nance and speak to him myself. I have naught with which to pay you until I reach home.” Ceridwen hoped she sounded convincing. The men exchanged glances. The one who had done the talking stood by as Sam took a step closer to the pony. Ceridwen’s heart thudded and her stomach muscles tensed.

      The talker smiled again. “Naught? But you’ve just been Beauchamp’s…guest.” He winked at Sam. “When it comes to women, Lord Raymond is generous to a fault. Gives them their due, he does.” Casually, he reached for her pony’s reins.

      “Nay!” Ceridwen kicked the sluggish animal forward and whipped her dagger from its sheath. “Back off! I have taken nothing from Sir Raymond. He can keep his filthy blood-money.”

      The men hesitated, then shrugged and stepped aside as she brandished her blade. Urging the pony past them, Ceridwen managed to put it into a canter. She pounded down the road. There was but one, and as long as it led away from the ruffians, she was satisfied.

      “’Tis a poor bargain you’ve struck, girl! A maid’s innocence is worth a pretty penny to a Beauchamp!”

      The guffawing men were soon left behind, and Ceridwen did not look back. It was broad daylight, after all. She would appeal to the parish priest when she found him, to help her find shelter until she knew what to do.

      Raymond rode his courser west, cursing the lateness of the day, the glowering clouds over the hills, the stubbornness of Welshwomen, and most of all, his own idiocy. He had thought he could accept not knowing Ceridwen’s fate, but the wondering had been unbearable. Upon his return Alys had given him a look that would have curdled milk, and refused to tell him anything.

      But that in itself spoke aloud. Surely if the girl had died, Alys would have shunned him entirely, and made his life a much greater misery than she was doing now. So here he was, searching a dozen sheep tracks and byways, every glen and wayfarer’s resting spot, hope dwindling with every step. Hamfast too scoured the hedgerows, only to follow endless false leads.

      Perhaps Ceridwen was lying in a ditch, or wolves had devoured her. Raymond’s fist tightened on his reins. He should have been with her, seen her home himself, or seen her body home, either way. He was a feckless wretch to have abandoned her. It was his duty to see her safe. It did not have to mean he cared.

      There was one thing he could still do for her, though. Raymond looked up toward the bruised, purpling clouds, swollen with unspilled rain, and made a promise to God. While I yet live, I will honor Morgan’s request for an alliance. Even without a bride to seal the pact.

      The sun had vanished into the gathering storm, and Ceridwen took a path leading into the shelter of the woods. A quiet dell would provide grass for the pony and a haven from the road. In a meadow deep amidst the trees the pony grazed, and Ceridwen leaned against the bole of a hoary oak.

      She was tired, and could not afford to give way to fear. The oak sighed in the wind, and her fingers sank into the moss growing thick and cool upon it. Listening to the whisper of the boughs overhead, she watched as red squirrels scampered up the twisted trunk. She felt faint, light-limbed, as though if she released her grip she would float up and away towards the scudding clouds beyond the treetops.

      It was as though her will had been drained along with the poison of her illness. Or perhaps her sanity. She was an utterly pride-addled fool to have left Rookhaven. But what choice had Beauchamp given her?

      A rattle of chain and the pony’s high-pitched whinny startled Ceridwen into alertness. A huge dog bounded toward her through the grass, a horseman loped after. Her first instinct was to run and hide, but Rhys had warned her not to try to outrun dogs. It was better to curl up in as small a ball as possible. She might have done, had the hound been alone, but even as she realized the beast was Hamfast, so did she recognize Raymond.

      There was no mistaking the dark, brooding air that seethed about him, even had his person and horse not been so distinctive.

      “What do you want, sir?” Ceridwen swallowed the lump that seemed to grow in her throat as she met Raymond’s chilly gaze.

      “Get on that pony. I am taking you home.” His voice had a ragged edge, unusual for him.

      He expected her to protest. He wanted her to resist, she could feel it in her bones. Why, she was not so certain. But if it would please him to drag her back to Rookhaven behind his horse, she would not provide such pleasure, when honor required her voluntary return. She stroked Hamfast’s head and replied, “Aye, milord, as you will.”

      Ceridwen hid her satisfaction at the look on Beauchamp’s face. A mixture of surprise, and aye, dismay. He had thought to be rid of her, and hoped to blame her for his own failing, no doubt. Without hesitation she caught the stout pony, who reluctantly gave up its munching in order to be led toward the great courser.

      Offering no assistance, Raymond leaned on his saddle-bow as Ceridwen climbed onto her mount. “You seem fit enough, lady,” he said, rather carefully, she thought. Her wound still ached, but never would she admit that to him.

      “Perfectly, sir. Let us be off.”

      “Right.” With a creak of leather Raymond turned his horse and led the way back to the road. But instead of going toward Rookhaven, he continued in the direction she had been headed earlier.

      Ceridwen had to make the pony trot to keep up with the black horse’s long strides.

      “I thought we were on our way home.”

      “You are.” Raymond flashed her a glance, firm in his apparent course towards Llyn y Gareg Wen.

      Anger kindled in Ceridwen’s breast and she drew rein.

      “I have given you no reason to shame me, to put me aside.