Chapter 18
It was more than a fortnight since Richard had gone. Gwen stared out one of the large windows in his chamber. Their chamber.
A light blanket of snow covered the valley below. The River Dee cut through the white landscape like a knife. Jagged mountain peaks rose beyond the valley. Owain had told her that the highest and furthest was Snowdon.
Every day she looked for it, and every day she was thwarted by the steamy clouds clinging to the mountain range. She sighed and turned away.
Alys sat beside the fire, humming a melody while she sewed. Gwen’s gaze drifted to the huge bed.
She’d come to think sleeping in it was torture. The covers, the pillows, the sheets—they all smelled of Richard. It was like lying in his embrace, and yet it was not.
“I am going for a walk, Alys,” she said, sweeping on a heavy velvet mantle lined with white ermine.
Alys looked up from her sewing. “Is aught amiss?”
Gwen shook her head. “I just need to get out of this room ’tis all.”
“He will return safely.”
Gwen swallowed. “I was not thinking of my husband, Alys.” In truth, she had thought of nothing else for days.
Alys shrugged and bent her head over her sewing. Gwen hurried for the door.
Claiborne castle was huge. Gwen wandered with no real destination, moving from room to room in silence. Servants bowed or curtsied when she passed. She smiled her acknowledgment.
Without thought, she trailed her hand along tabletops and woodwork, searching for a trace of dust. There was none, and that pleased her.
Gwen scanned the faces of the chambermaids and serving wenches she passed, wondering which of them Richard had spent the night with before he’d left.
It didn’t matter. His attempt to belittle her with his servants had not worked, thanks to Owain’s cooperation. She’d had to suppress a desire to be harder on the women, certain all their chattering in a language she couldn’t comprehend was about her. Even if it was, they still obeyed her orders.
There had been a few problems at first. Servants who were asked to do things they’d probably never done before complained bitterly. One woman refused outright to scrub the smoke from the walls. She’d been sent packing only to return the next day humble and ready to work.
Rushes crackled under Gwen’s feet as she walked, the scent of marjoram and roses rising from them.
Some of the smaller rooms were carpeted in the same manner as Richard’s chamber.
The carpets had been dragged outside and beaten until not a pouf of dust came from them.
The wainscoted walls shone with fresh paint.
Some were white, others green, some gold.
In the Great Hall, a mural of Richard’s coat of arms commanded the wall behind the dais. Now that it was washed, the colors leapt out and made the hawk seem alive somehow.
As far as Gwen was concerned, they could have left it dulled by smoke.
The hall was orderly these days too. The knights had rebelled at first. Gwen had had to threaten them in the same manner as she’d threatened Oliver. For them, she’d worn silk and velvet and made sure it was tightly laced.
The humor of it hadn’t escaped her. A virgin pretending to be a siren.
Just keeping her color down while she’d strutted in front of them and spoken of Richard’s devotion to her had taken all of her willpower.
Owain had not needed to translate for them because the knights spoke French as well as English.
It had been satisfying to finally be able to speak for herself.
She stopped at the passage leading to the women’s quarters.
She’d considered taking a room there, but the idea of leaving Richard’s chamber had disturbed her for some reason.
His bed might be torture, but she didn’t want to give up the feeling of being with him.
It was ridiculous, but she actually felt safe in his room. Safe in Black Hawk’s lair.
What had Elizabeth felt when she lived here?
Gwen chewed her lip. She wanted to ask Owain about Richard’s first wife, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.
Owain was close to his lord. He would likely tell Richard all she’d said and done since he’d left anyway.
Having Richard know she’d asked about Elizabeth was too much.
Gwen turned away from the passage. It was a good thing Owain had not suspected her true purpose when she’d insisted on touring every last inch of the castle. She’d searched all the rooms for a sign of a kept woman. If Richard had a leman, she wasn’t at Claiborne.
She thought of Anne again. Ashford Hall was less than a day’s ride away. Richard could come and go with ease if he so desired. Mayhap that was where he was now. He’d probably caught the Welshmen the first day out and was avoiding his wife.
Gwen was fuming by the time she found Owain in the Lesser Hall. His face lit up when she approached. “How are you today, milady?”
“Very well, thank you,” she replied stiffly. Owain frowned. Gwen’s anger crumbled. “I’m sorry, Owain. Mayhap I am feeling a bit restless.”
She took a seat and studied the bright walls with satisfaction.
Owain followed her gaze. “’Tis as grand as ever it was when Lord de Claiborne’s mother was alive. You’ve done an admirable job.”
Gwen smiled. Owain had told her about Richard’s mother and how the castle had flourished in her day. “Do you think so?”
“Aye.”
She twisted a curl around her finger. “’Tis a grand castle. And big.” It was strange, but she’d come to appreciate Claiborne castle. It had a wild, untameable quality about it that reminded her of its lord.
Owain nodded. “Aye, ’tis. King Edward’s master builder Sir James added onto it a few years ago. Refortified it and enlarged the rooms. ’Tis more grand and fearsome than ever it was in milord’s father’s day.”
“’Tis hard to believe you’ve been here that long.”
“Aye, ’tis for me sometimes, too. But I served William de Claiborne since before Lord Richard was born. Richard is eight and twenty and I was here two years before that.”
“What clan do you come from?”
“I am from Gwent, Lady, in the Black Mountains.”
Gwen nodded. “I thought you spoke the south.”
Owain smiled. “After all these years ’tis still obvious?”
“Aye.” She toyed with one of the golden chains hanging from her girdle. “Owain?” He waited, his eyebrows raised. “I…I was wondering why you continue to serve him. He is an enemy of our people.”
“He does what he must to serve his lord, the king. His father would have done the same had it been commanded of him.”
“But you are Welsh! Does it not bother you?”
He took her hand and squeezed it lightly. “Some ties are stronger than others, Lady.”
Gwen cleared her throat. “What was he like? I mean when he was a little boy?”
Owain sat in a chair opposite her. His mouth curved in a smile that was oddly like Richard’s.
“Much the same as now. Stubborn, headstrong. Once when he was four, his mother told him he could not go with his father into the borderlands. Do you think he cried? Nay, he snuck into the stable and would have been out the gates if he could have reached the horse’s back.
He came to me to ask for help and I had to talk him out of it. ”
“Why didn’t you tell his mother?”
Owain chuckled. “I would’ve eventually, but it was easier to talk him out of it first. Even as a boy, he had a damnable amount of pride. Probably would have never forgiven me if I’d hauled him to his mother.”
“How did you manage it?”
“It wasn’t easy. I had to promise to sneak sweets from the kitchen and be his target for sword practice. Thank God his sword was only a stick!”
Gwen laughed. She tried to picture Richard as he was then. She could not. He was too dangerous, too forbidding, to ever imagine him as a little boy.
“Did you teach him to speak Welsh, too?”
“Aye. He has always been good with languages. He learned very quickly.” Owain shot her a calculating glance. “Mayhap he can teach you English better than I… if the two of you find the time.”
Gwen blushed. Owain had been present for every lecture she’d given about how Richard was besotted with her. A sudden thought struck her. What if he did tell Richard the things she had said? Richard would probably laugh and denounce her in front of everyone.
“Is he usually gone for so long?” she asked, changing the subject.
“’Tis never the same, milady. Sometimes days, sometimes weeks.”
Gwen almost dreaded his return. When Richard was back, he would be the lord and master of Claiborne castle. He might not let her make decisions or continue doing things the way she had been.
She twisted the chain furiously. Damn if she would give up without a fight! She felt useful, needed, and she would not let him take it away.
After she checked on the progression of the afternoon tasks, she returned to the master chamber. The windows drew her, as always, and she pressed her hands to the thick glass.
Snow whispered past to cover the ground below. She tried to make out the individual patterns of the white flakes as they fell. Eventually, her eyes registered movement far off in the valley.
What shepherd would have his sheep out in this weather?
She pressed her nose to the glass, then wiped impatiently at the steam that sprang up. She hurried to the next window, and the next, each one steaming in turn.
She wiped the window with her sleeve and peered into the valley again. Horses. Knights. The crimson and black banner of the lord of Claiborne castle.
“Richard,” she whispered, pressing her fingers to the glass. She turned from the window and ran to the door. There were a million things to do.
“Rub him down good and walk him until he’s cool, Edwin,” Richard said, handing over Sirocco’s reins.
“Aye, milord,” Edwin replied. He led the sweating stallion toward the stable, petting his nose and talking softly.
“Are ye ready for a pint o’ ale, milord?” Andrew asked, drawing alongside him.
Richard smiled. “Among other things.”