Chapter 34 #2
The light outside the windows faded and died, and still she talked. Eventually, her voice trailed off and he thought she was asleep. His hand strayed to her stomach, and her hand closed over his. “Are you afraid I will leave you, like Elinor left my father?”
“Nay,” he lied. “You are too stubborn for that.” He kissed her forehead. “You will stay just so you can vex me with your sharp little tongue.”
In truth, he was more frightened than he’d ever been in his life.
She yawned. “I will not go, Richard. I will not leave you.”
How could she promise that which she could not control?
“I know, my love.”
Even when she fell asleep, Richard didn’t move. He stared into the glowing embers of the fire and thought of the man who had killed his father. Where he’d once felt burning vengeance, he now felt nothing. Jesú, was he destined to always fail his father?
But what could he do that would be worse than the hell Llywelyn was now living? Aye, Richard recognized the pain on Llywelyn’s face, the same pain William de Claiborne had gone through when his beloved Catrin died.
Losing the woman he loved was punishment enough for whatever sins Llywelyn may have committed in the past. Though the prince may have taken Richard’s father, he had also given him Gwen.
Fear snaked through Richard, hard and cold. She promised not to leave him. She promised. How could he do any less for her?
Life was too short, too precious, to risk a moment of it. He would never live without her. He would never leave her.
He stood and carried her to the bed. She murmured something as he untied her laces. Carefully, he undressed her and tucked her beneath the covers. Her eyelids fluttered open and she entwined her arms around his neck, pulling him close.
He captured her lips in a soft kiss, his arms slipping beneath her to mold her body to his. “I cannot live without you, Gwen. I will take you across the sea, across mountains and deserts, through dust and heat and snow and ice, though you may hate me for it eventually.”
She smiled a sleepy, sad smile. “I knew you would not leave me.”
Richard lowered her to the mattress. Her arms slipped from his neck and her eyes drifted closed. He undressed and climbed in beside her, tucking her into the curve of his body.
No, he would not leave her. Now he prayed she would not leave him.
For the next few days, the Great Hall of the Prince of Wales was silent, mourning the death of one too young, too kind, too beautiful to die.
Gwen found her strength in Richard. Knowing he was there gave her the courage to deal with Elinor’s death, and with her father’s depression.
She directed the servants as Elinor would have wished, kept the hall running smoothly, and selected one of Elinor’s ladies to take over the task when she was gone.
She was busy going over the meal plan with the cook when Richard found her. He waited patiently until she sent the man on his way.
“What is it, Richard?” she asked, slipping into his embrace, uncaring they stood in the hall.
“We must return to Claiborne, sweet. ’Tis nearing time for the council.”
“Oh,” she said quietly, staring at his chest.
He raised her chin with a finger. “It cannot be helped, Gwen. I’ve waited as long as I could. Now that the funeral is over, we must leave.” He smiled softly. “Besides, I think Alys pines for Owain.”
Gwen swallowed the lump that had risen in her throat. “Aye, you are right. We must go home. ’Tis just that I worry about him…”
“I know, love. But he needs time alone, I think. There is nothing more you can do.”
Gwen nodded. “When?”
“In the morning,” he said, kissing her on the forehead.
He left her to finish the tasks she’d begun, but she sank onto a bench instead. She’d wanted to ask her father about Dafydd’s claim, but there would be no time now. It was too soon to think of such things.
She noticed a group of her father’s warriors staring at her. She didn’t realize Rhys was with them until he stood and made his way toward her. He clutched a silver goblet in his hand, and when he sank onto the bench beside her, some of the mead sloshed over the rim and ran down his arm.
“How could you do it, Gwen?”
“Do what?” she asked, meeting his blood-shot stare.
“Do you know what they say about you?” he demanded, gesturing toward the men, spilling more mead down the side of his cup. “They say you are an Englishman’s whore, Black Hawk’s whore.”
Gwen stiffened. “I am his wife.”
“Aye, but you enjoy lying with him. You enjoy letting him touch you. You lick his bootheels like a bitch in heat.”
“You have had too much mead, Rhys,” Gwen said coolly, rising.
Rhys grabbed her wrist and pulled her back down. Gwen tried to twist free, but his grip only tightened. “You love the bloody bastard, don’t you?
Gwen glared at him. “Yes.”
Rhys’s grip loosened and she snatched her hand away. “Jesú, Gwen. How could you? You said you hated him. What happened?”
Gwen rubbed her wrist and sighed. “He is not what you think, Rhys. I did not plan to love him, but I do.”
Rhys laughed. “He isn’t what I think, eh? Do you plan to tell me he doesn’t kill Welshmen? That he has never gone to war against us? That he does not enforce the king’s laws—laws designed to punish us for being Welsh?”
“Nay,” she said quietly, her eyes downcast.
“And you still love him, despite all that?”
“Aye.”
Rhys shoved himself to his feet. “Then you are a traitor, just like everyone says.”