Chapter 17
As dawn sent its first pink shards skyward, Richard rode through the gates of Claiborne and into the valley below. Ten knights accompanied him, breaking into a gallop at his signal.
Frost covered the rippling hillocks. The morning air stung his throat and lungs. Mist hung over the Dee, cloaking it in ghostly raiment.
Sirocco, sensing his master’s grim mood, cocked an ear backwards. Richard patted the stallion’s shoulder. Horses were a damn sight easier to understand than women.
Richard had spent the night on a bench in the hall. He’d not had the energy to find another chamber. He’d had to listen to the grunts and moans of satisfied lovers mating beneath blankets on the floor. It had not helped his temper in the least.
He could have sent Gwen to the women’s quarters, but somehow the thought of sleeping in his bed without her was too much to bear after the brief taste he’d had of her.
God, the night they could have had if she’d only let it happen! His body hardened as he remembered the silken feel of her skin beneath his fingers, her startled gasps as she’d discovered her sensuality, the way her wet hair had clung to her neck when he’d brushed it aside to kiss her throat.
It would be a long ride if he kept thinking of his wife.
The morning sun quickly disappeared behind a blanket of thick clouds, yet it was still early when they reached Lydford manor.
The villagers stared as they rode through.
’Twas not often Richard rode out to his manors.
Patrolling the border took up all of his time, so he left the management of his fiefs entirely to his estates steward.
Richard noted with satisfaction that the houses were well thatched and the walls stout.
No holes in the wattle and daub. Pigs and chickens ran freely.
Dogs barked. Some loped along beside the destriers, wagging their tails.
Others stood and watched them pass, too busy or too lazy to join in the chase.
The villagers raised hands in greeting, calling out to Lord Black Hawk.
These people knew the value of their overlord and they told him so with their grins and waves.
Not only did he provide them the means to fill their bellies and those of their families, he also kept the borderland safe so they could prosper in peace.
Laughing children with dirty faces ran behind the knights, gaping at the giant warhorses and the armored men who sat atop the beasts. Black Hawk de Claiborne was a legend come to life and they followed him all the way to the gates of Lydford manor.
The men rode into the courtyard. The laundress looked up from her trough of linens. She wiped her wrist across her face, her solution of wood ash and caustic soda forgotten for the moment.
Isabelle de Lydford rushed from the keep. She wore a plain brown surcoat and chemise and her hair was hidden beneath a woolen wimple. A smile lit her plump face as her gaze searched eagerly over the men. The smile died slowly as Richard dismounted.
“W-where is Hugh?”
Richard clenched his fists, the mail biting into his skin. God, how he hated this! He’d told wives before that their husbands were dead, but each time was like the first. The pain was always the same. “Lady de Lydford, I wish to speak privately with you.”
Isabelle’s face paled. Her back stiffened and her chin lifted bravely. “I would hear what you have to say now, my lord.”
“’Twould be better if--”
“Nay! I cannot bear to wait. Tell me now, my lord, please.”
Richard took a deep breath and stepped closer. “Hugh served me well, lady. ’Tis no greater honour than to die in the service of your lord, and of your king.”
Isabelle’s eyes filled with tears. She began to shake and she pressed her hands to her face. “I thought I could bear it, but I cannot,” she whispered.
A scream rent the air as she fell to her knees. She beat her fists into the dirt, wailing. Richard bent to lift her up but she jerked away from him. He stooped beside her, the edge of his scarlet surcoat pooling like blood at his feet.
“Lady de Lydford, please, for your children’s sake.” He never knew what to say or how to comfort the women.
Always, he thought of his father. Had William de Claiborne felt like this when his wife died? Richard swallowed. Jesú, to love someone so much that the loss was like having an arm or a leg ripped off. It was frightening.
Isabelle’s body shook beneath the weight of her sobs. She looked up at him finally, her eyes red-rimmed, tears streaming down her face. “What…will…become of me…and—and my children?”
“Your son is heir to the fief Hugh held for me. You are under my protection until he comes of age.”
She turned away, nodding, her body still shaking with sobs. Richard stood. His men were looking the other way. Some of them fidgeted with their reins, others sat stiffly. Each man knew that it could have been him, or that he could be next.
The village priest hurried forward. Richard remounted. “Take care of her, Father,” he said, gathering his reins and signaling his men forward.
The men rode in silence to the crossroads where Andrew awaited them. Richard thought of Isabelle de Lydford long after they’d left the village and manor behind.
Loving too much was dangerous. His mother had been the lucky one. She’d gone to her grave loved and loving. It was his father who remained to bear all the pain. And him.
That was why he swore he would never love anyone again, especially a wife. Women died in childbirth all the time. Elizabeth had, and the babe with her. What was to stop his newest wife from doing the same?
Gwen awoke all alone in the strange bed. She damned herself for even thinking Richard might have come back in the night. His bed was not unpleasant, but it had certainly evoked provocative dreams of him.
Easing from the big bed, she slipped on her robe. Alys bustled into the room, her face a very indignant red.
“You would not believe, my lady!” Her hands gestured wildly in time with her mood.
“These English heathens have no fresh bread or pastries. The cook says ’tis mutton and cheese and stale bread, or nothing!
And that I only gathered by his pointing and shouting.
He speaks not a word of Welsh or French!
Just that vile, guttural, grating-on-my-ears English! ”
Gwen groaned inwardly. English. It had never occurred to her that these people wouldn’t speak French. In all her time in the king’s household, she’d never had a problem because all the servants spoke court French.
Even in Shrewsbury she’d never encountered a servant she could not converse with. But this was the March, a border castle at the edge of the Welsh wildlands. There would be scant need for Richard’s servants to speak French.
How could she have overlooked something so vital? Even Elinor had never thought of the possibility. She had been raised in exile in France, and was unaccustomed to English households.
Damn Richard for leaving her to this!
“’Tis all right, Alys. Help me dress and I will straighten these barbarians out. First, I will find that Owain. Mayhap he speaks this crude English.” She would not let her husband beat her down!
Alys brightened at the suggestion. “Aye, he can give that cook the tongue-lashing he deserves!”
“Now for my dress. Nothing too grand, and nothing too plain. I must look noble, but not too far above them. Wool, I think. ’Tis too cold for silk, and velvet will be too pretentious.”
“Aye, my lady,” Alys replied, heading for the antechamber. She heard Alys flipping through her trunks and she retrieved her brush.
When Alys returned, she had a black chemise and a red surcoat. Gwen grimaced. “Crimson and black, Alys?”
The woman nodded. “Think about it. ’Tis the perfect reminder that you are the Countess of Dunsmore. If I’d thought of it before, I’d have embroidered hawks on some of your gowns.”
Gwen took the garments. “Nay, Alys, no hawks. I’ve enough reminders without wearing them myself.”
Alys shrugged. “As you wish, but ’tis a good idea.”
Gwen dressed and went looking for Owain.
Alys followed, grumbling about English heathens the whole way.
Gwen stopped a girl and asked in French if she knew where Owain was.
The girl blinked. Gwen moved on. She asked two more women who looked at her like she had ten heads. Gwen’s patience snapped on the fourth.
“Owain!” she shouted. “Take me to Owain! I don’t care whether you understand another word, you understand Owain.” She motioned for the woman to start and incredibly she obeyed, taking Gwen and Alys right to the old Welshman.
“Milady,” he said, rising from his seat and bowing. “What may I do for you?”
Gwen walked into the room, her jaw dropping.
It appeared to be the family solar. It was quite large and well furnished, though the furniture looked as if it hadn’t been polished in years.
A fire burned in the hearth and smoke stained the rocks of the fireplace black.
Dusty tapestries hung from the walls, which were wainscoted and painted, though dull from lack of cleaning.
The cushions on the chairs were worn, the velvet cracked and faded. Gwen shook her head. Richard de Claiborne was wealthy. This was ridiculous. An earl of his standing should have a well-kept castle, not one that oozed neglect from the very foundations.
She whirled on Owain. “What is the meaning of all this?” she asked, sweeping her arms wide.
Owain’s fuzzy white eyebrows drew together. “I do not understand, milady. The meaning of what?”
Gwen sighed. He was a man. This whole castle was full of men. The only women were the serving women and they wouldn’t be interested in keeping the castle clean if no one made them do it. Richard had said he doubted she had much training for administering a castle. Well, she was about to show him.
Dear Lord, if this mess was what the English thought keeping a household was all about, it was a wonder they’d ever managed to find their way out of the rubble to defeat the Welsh.