Chapter 33 #2
His voice was husky with need. “Then you had better hang on, my love. I am about to prove it to you in terms you will never forget.”
A scream of delicious excitement built in her throat. He entered her in one hard thrust, drinking her cries into his mouth as his body began the pounding rhythm that would bring them both to shattering bliss before it was over.
It was late evening when Dafydd rode into the bailey of his castle on the Welsh coast, near Chester. He’d just spent a very lovely sennight at Ashford Hall, fucking the mistress of the manor.
Anne was a delightful bed partner. There was nothing she would not try. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure why Dunsmore gave her up. Certes, little Gwenllian could not be that interesting.
But Anne’s need to have a man between her legs was her undoing. She was quite easy to manipulate as long as she thought she might achieve some measure of power.
As long as she did what Dafydd asked, when he asked it, he cared not what he had to promise her. And right now he wanted her back inside Claiborne castle with a couple of his men in tow. If his guess was right, Richard de Claiborne was not at all what he seemed, and Dafydd needed details.
He swung down off his destrier and tossed his reins to a waiting groom. A woman garbed in green ran to him and flung her arms around his neck. “I missed you so much, Dafydd!”
Dafydd laughed, then kissed his wife soundly. “I missed you, too, Lisbeth. How are the little ones?”
“Anxious to see their papa,” she said, stepping back.
She still gripped his hand and Dafydd smiled.
Lisbeth was slender and pretty and she loved him with devotion.
She’d given him two sons and one daughter in the five years they’d been married.
And he still had four other children by his Welsh mistresses.
If there was one comfort he had, it was in knowing Llywelyn envied him for his ability to sire children. But even that wasn’t entirely true anymore, now that Llywelyn’s wife was expecting.
Dafydd put his arm around his wife and they walked into the hall. He stopped, his arm dropping to his side, and stared.
“Oh, Dafydd, I forgot to tell you he was waiting—”
“’Tis all right, my dear,” he said.
Hywel ap Madog stood. “Prince Dafydd.”
Dafydd met the other man’s keen stare for some moments. Without turning, he said, “Lisbeth, send food and drink to the solar. Hywel and I will talk in there.”
He heard Lisbeth swallow as she mumbled, “Aye, Dafydd,” and he knew she’d not missed the significance of the greeting any more than he had. Prince.
The two men entered the solar. Dafydd gestured for the lord of northern Clwyd to take a seat. Hywel sank his squat bulk into a chair and Dafydd sat across from him, pulling off his gloves and tossing them on the table.
“How did the meeting with the king go?” Hywel asked.
Dafydd clenched his jaw. “As expected. He’ll not rein in his justiciars or police his bailiffs and sheriffs. In short, ’tis business as usual for England, and Wales had better get used to it. And Llywelyn?”
Hywel leaned forward. “He’s ready to strike, but not until the king is gone.”
“And the other chieftains?”
“They are behind him.” Hywel’s eyes glittered suddenly. “But there are those of us who prefer not to wait. Edward may never leave, and each day sees the erosion of our lives and our culture. We cannot let him get away with it any longer.”
“Cura’r haearn tra fo’n boeth, eh?” Dafydd said, arching an eyebrow. Strike the iron while it is hot.
Hywel nodded. “Aye.”
“Are you telling me they will stand behind me?”
“Yes.” It was said without hesitation.
Dafydd threw back his head and laughed. “Why should I risk it?” He swept his hand outward, encompassing the room. “Look around you, Hywel. His Majesty favors me. I have land and money and royal favors.”
Hywel shot to his feet, surprisingly quick for a gnarled old warlord. He came around the table and glared down at Dafydd.
“Nay, Dafydd, you are a Welshman through and through! What’s more, you are a prince of our people.
You cannot sit idly by while Edward crushes Wales beneath his bootheels.
’Twas because you love Wales that you fell out with your brother.
You do not agree with the way he did things, the way he defied traditions and claimed all! ”
Dafydd gritted his teeth. “Aye, and look where it has gotten me.”
Hywel’s voice softened. “There are those who have always sympathized with you, Dafydd.” He put a battle-hardened hand on Dafydd’s shoulder. “Gorau Cymro, Cymro oddi cartref.”
“The best Welshman is the exiled,” Dafydd whispered, gripping the edge of the table. God almighty! All he’d wanted in the early days was his rightful share and his equal place beside his brother. And now he had a chance to lead, another chance to lay claim to his birthright.
Edward would never change. His laws would choke the very life from Wales if something weren’t done soon. Even though he’d promised to respect the Welsh and their customs, every passing day proved he did not.
Llywelyn would wait until there was nothing left to salvage. In his younger days, he’d dared to claim Wales as his own, dared to challenge feckless King Henry III, dared to contract to marry the daughter of a traitor.
Now, he wanted to sit back, wait, and play things safe. Age was creeping up on Llywelyn and making him lazy. This could be the chance Dafydd had been waiting for.
“Very well, Hywel. We shall call a meeting. I want to see who is offering me support before I decide.”
Hywel ap Madog smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Aye, Prince Dafydd.”
“No!”
Richard bolted upright, wakened out of a dead sleep. His first thought was to reach for his sword, but as he became more coherent, he realized Gwen was beside him and they were alone.
“What is it, Gwen?”
“No,” she said, softer, crying. He reached for her, enfolded her in his arms as he sank back against the pillows. She curled into his chest, shaking.
“Tell me, cariad. Let me help.” Her soft crying continued and he stroked her back rhythmically. He very much feared she’d been dreaming about him leaving, and he didn’t really know how to help her.
He’d demanded too much of her, made love to her until their bodies were drained of all emotion. It had been difficult on them both: the outpouring of feelings too strong to be governed, the entwining of souls too intense to be drawn out.
“Richard… I have to go home,” she whispered.
“We are home,” he said carefully.
“No,” she said, her voice turning desperate. “Snowdon. I must go to Snowdon.”
A chill washed down Richard’s spine. “Snowdon? Why?”
She pushed away from him. “I have to go! Elinor… ’tis Elinor.” Her voice broke on a sob. Richard pulled her against him, at a loss for what to say to calm her.
“What about Elinor, sweet?”
“I saw… I saw her dying.”
Richard sighed. “’Tis only a bad dream. I will send a messenger if you like. We’ll make sure she is all right.”
She grasped his shoulders suddenly, her fingers digging into his flesh. “Richard, I beg you, you must let me go!”
“’Tis only a dream, Gwen. All will be well,” he said, bewildered by her vehemence.
“You do not understand,” she whispered. “They come true sometimes.”
“It means nothing, sweet,” he soothed.
“Yes, yes it does! You do not understand!”
Her voice rose hysterically. Richard was seized by a fear she’d hurt herself and the child she carried. Her father’s court was more than twenty leagues away, through the mountains. It would be madness to try and go there in winter.
She clung to him, shaking, her tears bathing the flesh over his heart. He rested his chin on top of her head, his fingers dancing up and down her spine. Her anguish twisted inside him as though it were his own. Right now he would give her anything ’twas in his power to give.
“Hush, cariad. I will take you to your father’s court, I promise.”
Aye, he would take her to Llywelyn’s court, straight into the wolf’s lair…