The Warlord's Bride. Margaret Moore

      Madoc forced himself to smile and tried not to notice that Lady Roslynn was listening, even if she couldn’t understand the language. “As a matter of fact, we were,” he replied. “Don’t you think I should get to know her first if we’re to marry? And she should get to know me?”

      Uncle Lloyd frowned. “What, you just talked?”

      “She’s an honorable woman and I’m an honorable man, so what else?”

      “What’s to talk about?” Uncle Lloyd replied. “She’s a lovely woman and you’re the best catch in the country. And it’s time you married again, nephew. You can’t live like a monk forever. It’s not natural.”

      Madoc reached for the heel of a loaf of barley bread in the basket in front of him. “I’m not celibate and you know it.”

      “As good as,” Uncle Lloyd charged. “How long has it been? And you in the prime of life, too! Why, if I was your age and had your looks—”

      “Yes, Uncle,” Madoc said, hoping to cut the conversation short. Even if the lady didn’t know their language, several of the household nearby, including Ivor seated at the Norman’s left, did. Most of them were snickering, or trying not to.

      Except the slender, thoughtful Ivor. He looked as grim as death, no doubt because he was considering what this marriage would mean politically, as well as financially.

      “Your uncle seems to be a very amusing fellow,” Lady Roslynn noted in the ensuing moment of silence. “It’s a pity I can’t understand what he’s saying.”

      Uncle Lloyd’s eyes fairly danced with glee. “Will you tell her, Madoc, or shall I?”

      “He says you’re very beautiful and I’m a lucky man,” Madoc replied.

      Uncle Lloyd laughed and patted Lady Roslynn’s arm. “Isn’t that the truth! I hope you aren’t upset by my nephew’s temper. He’s a passionate fellow, is Madoc.”

      Lady Roslynn’s eyes were as enigmatic as eyes could be. “Yes, so I’ve noticed.”

      Uncle Lloyd’s bushy gray brows furrowed with a frown. “Nothing to worry about there, my lady. Madoc flares up quick as lightning and cools down just as fast. Not one to hold a grudge, either—well, not often, anyway, and not without good cause.”

      Madoc shot his uncle a warning look. Lloyd was venturing into dangerous territory.

      “He’s a fine bowman, too,” his uncle said, wisely changing the subject. “He can hit the bull’s-eye from a hundred feet easy as you please.”

      “You, a nobleman, use a bow?” Lord Alfred asked with disdain.

      Madoc didn’t care what the Norman thought of him, so he answered without rancor. “I do. Whatever the Normans think, it’s a valuable weapon. Puts the enemy at a disadvantage when they’re still far away. A good volley, and they’ll run before you’ve struck a single blow.”

      “Hardly chivalrous,” Lord Alfred sniffed.

      “So says a man who wears sixty pounds of armor,” Uncle Lloyd noted. “Tell that to your foot soldiers.”

      Madoc realized he’d reduced the heel of bread to a heap of crumbs. “The Welsh have their ways, and the Normans theirs,” he said as he brushed the crumbs off the table and the ever-hungry hounds licked them up. “Time will tell which is effective, so perhaps we should discuss something other than warfare.”

      “You’re right,” Uncle Lloyd magnanimously agreed. “Three to one John’s overthrown before he has an heir.”

      “I don’t think politics is a fitting subject, either,” Madoc said quickly, and trying not to show his exasperation in front of the Normans. He loved his uncle like a second father, but there were times Lloyd could test the patience of a saint—and he was no saint.

      “Speaking of heirs, I had hoped to meet your son this evening,” the lady remarked.

      God help him, it would have been better to talk about John—or anything else. But he was trapped now. “Owain is fostered elsewhere, my lady,” he truthfully and succinctly replied.

      Mercifully, the servants arrived to remove the last of the fruit and the linens and take down the table before he had to say more. Nevertheless, he took steps to avoid having to talk about Owain, or the boy’s mother. “Nobody knows or tells the history of Wales better than my uncle, my lady. Perhaps you’d care to hear some of his tales?”

      Uncle Lloyd smiled proudly as he made way for the servants taking down the trestle table. “Aye, my lady, there are plenty of exciting tales. Battles galore and clever tricks and love—oh, sweet Jesu, the lords of Llanpowell have always been known for love.”

      “Is that so?” Lady Roslynn replied, sliding Madoc a vaguely quizzical look. “I should like to hear all about Lord Madoc’s family.”

      Did she really, or was she saying that only because it was expected? And why the devil was he blushing?

      He saw no need to linger. After all, he’d heard these stories a thousand times before, so once the tables were taken apart and removed, benches set in a circle around the hearth and seats resumed, he left his guests to speak to Ivor. Meanwhile, Lloyd launched into the story of how Madoc’s ancestors had fought off the Romans, and then any Northmen who dared to venture this far inland.

      As he joined Ivor, who was nearly hidden behind a pillar, he noted that Lady Roslynn appeared genuinely interested and even Lord Alfred relaxed, although perhaps that was merely the effect of the braggot.

      After exchanging a few words in greeting, Madoc drew Ivor farther back behind the pillar. “You checked the dowry?” he asked quietly.

      “Aye, it’s as much as you said,” he replied. “Eight hundred marks’ worth of goods and silver, including some of the finest jewels I’ve ever seen.”

      Ivor tilted his head to study his friend in the flickering light of the flambeaux. “You’re not thinking of agreeing to this marriage, are you, Madoc?”

      It was on the tip of Madoc’s tongue to say no. He didn’t want to marry a woman he’d never seen before, and especially one sent by John. But then he remembered the fire in Lady Roslynn’s eyes, her shapely figure, those full red lips and her vibrant boldness as she confronted him and the Norman who’d brought her.

      He also thought of the life Lady Roslynn must have endured in John’s court. He’d heard enough of the king and his courtiers to guess that it hadn’t been easy for a proud and beautiful woman like her.

      So instead, he slowly and cautiously replied, “When all is said and done, I may not have much choice in this. John and his favorites like William de Braose are powerful men who can crush us if they choose.”

      “But she’s a traitor’s widow!”

      “She wasn’t the traitor,” Madoc replied, “and you’re always telling me we need money to get the castle repaired and buy feed for the winter, and there’s that fellow in the south with those good bows, and we could use more armor, too. With a selfish weakling like John on the throne, war’s more likely than not.”

      “Not to mention she’s beautiful,” Ivor said flatly, as if he were taking a tally of fleeces.

      Madoc saw no need to acknowledge the obvious. “Did you find out anything more about her from Lord Alfred’s soldiers?”

      “Apparently she’s a quiet, gracious lady, and was no trouble at all on the journey. But she helped to get her husband captured, Madoc. She arranged some kind of trap for him.”

      “From what we know of Wimarc de Werre,” Madoc replied, “and what she herself told me about him, I can’t blame her. The man was a beast, Ivor, as well as a traitor to his king.”

      “It sounds as if you’re halfway to agreeing to marry her.”

      “It