Chapter 35
The last of the snow melted away, leaving meadows of rippling green-gold silk. Thrushes chittered in the trees, too busy to notice the bright clusters of fragrant lilies blooming all around.
The journey to Devizes castle in Wessex was not unpleasant. Once in a while, Richard let Sirocco have his head and the stallion raced with the joy of a colt. Springtime was not just pleasurable to humans.
Richard had put off leaving Claiborne as long as possible, giving himself less than a week to make the one-hundred-and-fifty mile trip.
He worried about Gwen, though she swore she was fine.
She was four months pregnant now, and he was more in love with her every day.
She was often melancholy since they’d returned from Snowdon.
He didn’t ask her about it, though it hurt him to see her sad.
She hadn’t spoken of Elinor since the day she’d sat in his lap and told him everything about her friend.
He didn’t think she even realized some of the things she’d told him.
She’d shared everything with Elinor: the dreams she’d had of him, the first time he’d kissed her, the fear of being his wife. It brought a smile to his lips to know she’d thought of him as much as he’d thought of her.
His party arrived at Devizes on the Friday before Palm Sunday. He wasn’t pleased to learn they still had to await the arrival of a handful of barons. By the time the middle of the following week rolled around, his anger was full-blown.
He and Edward took wine in a bright, spacious solar with the shutters thrown wide to let in the spring air.
Edward sat in the window seat and gazed outside. The breeze ruffled his hair, fluttering the golden strands between sunlight and shadow. He leaned back against the stone. The breeze whipped higher, just for a moment, as though protesting the temporary loss of Christendom’s greatest warrior-king.
He turned to Richard, who sat in full sunlight with his booted feet propped on the table, brooding.
“Gloucester says the Welsh in the south have been unusually quiet all winter long. What of the north?”
Richard stirred. The warm sunshine could put a man to sleep in no time. He lifted his goblet and took a swallow of sweet wine. He stared at the crimson liquid, thinking of a woman garbed in exactly that color.
“Richard?”
“Nay, nothing in the north. Not since the raid before I left for London.”
“What think you it means?”
Richard shrugged. “Mayhap they are finally accepting the new order. Or mayhap they mourn their prince’s loss.”
Edward sighed. “Aye. My poor little cousin. Her life was not what it should have been.”
Richard studied the swirl of liquid in his goblet. “I was there, Ned. Llywelyn was devastated.”
“You were there when she died? Jesú, how?”
“Gwen. She had a feeling something would happen. She insisted I take her.”
Edward chuckled. “Black Hawk de Claiborne is not catering to a woman’s whims, is he?”
Richard laughed. “Aye, I’ve gone soft.”
“Yes, well, being in love will do that to a man. How does she fare with the pregnancy?”
“She is well.” Richard closed his eyes, reveling in the warmth of the sun’s golden rays. He’d not told Edward he was in love. Was it that obvious? “Mayhap a bit spoiled. You would not believe the things she has me do.”
Edward laughed. “Oh yes I would, my friend. The king of England is like any other man when it comes to a pregnant wife. She has no respect for my royal dignity, I can assure you.”
“I am bringing her with me, Ned,” Richard said softly.
“Aye, well Eleanor will enjoy her company,” he replied.
They sat for a while longer, each lost in his own thoughts. Richard put the empty cup on the table and leaned his head back. He must have dozed because the sound of approaching hoofbeats didn’t register until he heard voices raised in alarm.
He was on his feet instantly, as was Edward. Richard started for the door, but Edward motioned him back.
“Nay, Richard. The king does not go to the news, the news comes to the king.”
He smiled wryly, and Richard thought of the impatient prince he used to know. Too many years had passed since the prince became a king; a king who understood the necessity of allowing men their moments of glory.
They didn’t have long to wait. The earls of Gloucester and Pembroke, along with Roger de Mortimer, the lord of Wigmore, burst into the room with a mud-caked man in front of them.
“Majesty,” the man gulped, sinking to his knees. “The Welsh are in rebellion.”
Gloucester, Pembroke, and de Mortimer began talking at once. Edward cut them off with a glare. His blue eyes glittered. “What?” he said, his voice dangerously low.
The man took a deep breath. “They’ve taken Hawarden castle. They’ve torched the town and put several of Your Majesty’s men to death, including the justiciar.”
Apprehension tingled down Richard’s spine. Hawarden was on the northern coast, near Chester, not twenty miles from Claiborne.
Edward was on the edge of a Plantagenet tantrum. His face was mottled, his jaw working furiously. “Christ almighty! When did it happen?”
“Three days past, Majesty.”
“Llywelyn has lost his mind,” Richard said, half to himself.
The messenger’s gaze flew to him. “Nay, milord. ’Twas not Llywelyn.”
“Who?” Edward demanded.
The man swallowed. “Dafydd ap Gruffydd.”
Edward exploded. “Goddamn fucking whoreson! I gave that bastard everything, everything!”
“Dafydd?” Richard asked. “You are sure?”
The man nodded. “Aye, milord. ’Tis Dafydd and he has the backing of a sizable army.”
“What word of Llywelyn?”
“None, milord. He’s not been seen with Dafydd.”
Edward paced back and forth, lightning quick. “Goddamn Welsh bastards! I’m through with them, through!” He whirled to face Richard. “I want them stopped, Richard. I want Dafydd’s head on a pike, and I want those bloody Welsh put in their place once and for all.”
Richard let the cold reality of duty wash over him, cleansing his soul. God would forgive him, though Gwen might not. “The first thing we should do is demand Llywelyn honor his vow of fealty. He must come to the field on the side of England and his liege lord.”
Edward nodded. “Aye, ’twill split Wales in twain.” He turned to Roger de Mortimer. “Get me a scribe and a messenger.”
“What of the crusade, Majesty?” de Mortimer asked.
“To hell with the bloody crusade,” Edward snapped. “’Tis war with Wales, man!”
Gwen plucked a rose, careful to avoid the sharp thorns. She lifted it to her nose and inhaled the sweet scent of springtime. She picked up her skirts and kept walking along the water’s edge.
The day was bright and beautiful. She hadn’t been able to stay within the walls of Claiborne for one more minute. Richard had been gone for almost a month and she missed him terribly. Mayhap a walk in the open would take her mind off him for a while.
Her escort sat at the top of the hill, talking. Gwen didn’t have to guess what they discussed.
The whole castle was alive with talk of the Welsh uprising. She was sick of hearing about it. Dafydd was a rebel, nothing more. The Welsh followed her father. Dafydd’s attempt at glory would fail because he wouldn’t have the support to keep going for very long.
The sun was high overhead, bathing the verdant meadow in life-giving warmth. The river roared past, swollen with the melting snows from the mountains beyond. The air chorused with birdsong.
Vaguely, she heard hoofbeats. She spared a glance for her escort and saw they waved at the riders. She couldn’t see who approached, nor did she care. Messengers were always coming and going these days.
Alys came from farther down the bank, her basket brimming over with flowers and herbs.
Gwen smiled. Alys was happier than she’d ever seen her.
She and Owain still tried to pretend there was nothing between them, but Gwen knew better.
How could she not recognize the signs? She knew what it meant to love a man so much it hurt.
At least Alys loved a Welshman.
Gwen was accustomed to the small stab of pain in her heart by now. Rhys’s accusation still hurt, but no doubt it was the truth. Maybe one day he would understand.
Gwen sank into a fragrant patch of clover. Alys sat beside her. “’Tis a lovely day, my lady. It makes the heart light to be alive on such a day.”
“Aye,” Gwen said, lying back against the hill and closing her eyes. “I wish it were always like this.”
“Mmm, well I think I will walk a bit further down,” Alys said, rising.
“Very well, Alys. I’m feeling too lazy to move right now,” Gwen said. She heard Alys shuffle off, singing, and she stretched her arms above her head, arching her back against the soft clover.
She started to yawn, shock stilling her but a moment as a male mouth captured hers. Her eyes flew open at the same instant her knee drove into his groin and her fist connected with his jaw.
“Richard!”
He sat back and rubbed the side of his face. “Thank God for chainmail,” he said. “You might never know marital bliss again otherwise.”
Gwen threw her arms around his neck and tumbled him backwards on the hillside. “Oh Richard, I am sorry,” she said, planting quick kisses on his jaw. “You should not have frightened me like that.”
He rolled her onto her back. “Kiss me, Princess,” he whispered huskily.
Gwen pulled his head down, fusing her mouth to his. Her tongue slipped between his lips, engaging him in a love play that left them both breathless.
“I have missed you, Richard.”
“Mmm, you seek to make me forget I am angry with you, my angel.”
“Angry? But I would not have hit you if you hadn’t snuck up on me.”
“’Tis not what I am talking about. You should not be out here. ’Tis too dangerous with Dafydd so close by.”
Gwen laughed. “Dafydd is harmless. He will not last for long. The Welsh will not follow a traitor.”
His face clouded for an instant, then he reached above her head and picked up the forgotten rose. He smelled it, then trailed the soft petals from her temple to her lips.
“I should like to make love to you on a bed of rose petals,” Richard said. “I would rub the petals over your soft skin and then—”