Chapter 38
Dafydd’s army was encamped high in the mountains and the trip up took several hours. Richard sat on Sirocco, his hands tied behind his back. His body ached from the fighting and the hard fall to the ground.
He eyed his sword, strapped to another man’s side, with longing. They’d stripped him of it, along with his dagger, and he watched the polished metal gleaming in the sunshine with impotent anger.
Andrew rode beside him, silent and withdrawn. Behind them came the three other knights who had survived the ambush. All were nursing the aches and pains of the superior Welsh assault.
When they rode into camp and halted, the Welshman who had saved Richard’s life jerked him off Sirocco and shoved him toward a large tent, speaking in broken French.
Dafydd stood when they entered. He was dressed in the short tunic and leather jerkin of his people, his auburn hair grown long and curly, his green eyes glittering with unrestrained glee.
The man poked Richard in the ribs with a spear. “Kneel,” he said.
Dafydd laughed. “’Tis no need for that, Steffan. And ’tis no need to strain your tongue by speaking French.”
“But—”
“Black Hawk de Claiborne speaks Welsh just fine, don’t you, Gwalchddu?”
Richard did not care to deny it. He fixed Dafydd with a look of contempt. “Do you think to ransom me back to the king? Be advised he might not be willing to pay much. Earls are hardly worth going in debt over.”
Dafydd tilted his head to the side and scratched his beard. “Ransom? Now that is a possibility I had not considered. Actually, I thought killing you might be more to my pleasure.”
Richard met his stare evenly. “That attack was planned. Who told you where to find me?”
A female voice, speaking in French, came from the entrance of the tent. “Dafydd, darling, do you have him?”
Richard spun around. Anne ducked in and flipped her hood from her golden head. “Oh, you do!”
She giggled, coming to him and smoothing her hands over his chest. Her touch made his flesh crawl. “Greetings, my love,” she whispered.
Richard ground his teeth, his fury raging within him like a tempest. “You are nothing more than a whore, Anne. You have always sold your body for favors. What did Dafydd offer you? What was the price for becoming a traitor?”
Anne’s face reddened. Her hand cracked across his jaw. She whirled away, laughing gaily as she went to Dafydd’s side. “God, I’ve always wanted to do that! You are an arrogant whoreson, Richard de Claiborne. You would not make me a countess, but Dafydd is going to make me a princess.”
Richard couldn’t help but laugh. “A princess? I wonder what his wife will have to say about that.”
Anne glared daggers at him. “When he is prince of Wales, he can do whatever he wants, including setting his wife aside.”
Dafydd gave Anne a quick kiss. “That is enough of that talk, I think.”
Richard switched back into Welsh. “Planning another double-cross, Dafydd?”
“Nay, but my brother is certain to make me his heir now that his wife is dead. He has no more chances, no more time.” He smiled. “And neither do you, I might add.”
“If you wanted me dead, why didn’t you just let your men kill me in the ambush? ’Twould have been much easier, would it not? And we both know ’tis the Welsh way. It certainly worked for Llywelyn when he wanted my father dead.”
Dafydd frowned, then smiled just as suddenly. “Ah, the previous earl of Dunsmore! I had almost forgotten.” His grin broadened. “You are making this too much fun for me, Dunsmore, but it will still get you no mercy. Llywelyn didn’t kill your father. I did.”
Richard’s body went rigid. The tent walls closed in around him, and he filled his lungs with stale air, letting it out again in a rush. “You ambushed my father?”
“Aye. I had nothing against him, but you on the other hand… you I mean to see suffer.”
“Why did you kill him?”
“’Twas ten years ago,” Dafydd said, his brows drawing together.
“Still, it cannot hurt to tell you now. I was trying to draw Llywelyn out. He never would strike against the English when the timing was right, you understand. King Henry was ill and Edward was in the Holy Land. ’Twould have been perfect.
“I led some raids in Llywelyn’s name, hoping to involve him enough that he could not back out.
William de Claiborne was one of the better known Marchers, and one I felt fairly certain would rouse the clans and embroil Llywelyn in the uprising.
” He shrugged. “It didn’t work, and by that time the prince of Powys wanted to remove Llywelyn from the throne, so I got involved in that instead. ”
“You bloody bastard,” Richard hissed, jerking against his bindings.
Dafydd came to stand in front of him, tilting his head back to look up at him. “You are an interesting man, Dunsmore. For instance, I wonder if your king knows you are a Welshman?”
Richard flexed his wrists until the rope cut into his flesh. “I should have killed you long ago,” he growled. “I would have, had Edward not stayed me.”
Dafydd smiled, his finger tracing the outline of the hawk on Richard’s surcoat. “What would Edward say if he knew his most prized warlord was the grandson of Madoc ap Maredudd, a prince of Gwent? Old Madoc was fairly rebellious against Henry in his day.”
The spear in Richard’s ribs prevented him from lunging at Dafydd, from fighting with whatever he had available. His voice was measured, low and deadly. “I do not know how you learned these things, but it will hardly do you any good since you plan on killing me. Edward will not care when I’m dead.”
Dafydd jerked his head toward the opening of the tent. A man entered, shoving another man before him. Richard sucked in his breath. “Jesú… Owain.”
The old Welshman’s face was bloodied. His eyes were blackened and one side of his face was beginning to swell. He smiled weakly, wincing at the split in his lip. “I am sorry, Nai. I failed you again.”
Richard turned back to his captor. “Let him go, Dafydd. Your quarrel is with me.”
“Mayhap I will. I have not decided yet, nor have I decided the best way to dispatch with you. Steffan, put them with the other prisoners,” Dafydd commanded. “We will talk again, Dunsmore.”
“I look forward to it,” Richard answered. The spear jabbed into his ribs. He ignored it, finally obeying when the tip poked through his mail shirt.
“I brought you something, Gwen.”
Gwen lumbered to her feet as Rhys came into her room. She took one look at the rosy red apple and started to cry.
Rhys set the fruit on the table and hugged her. “Shh, sweet. What is the matter? You do not like apples any longer?”
Gwen wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Nay, ’tis not that,” she whispered.
Mayhap ’twas the trip south. It had taken four days to ride to Llanfair-ym-Muallt. Being pregnant had made it more tiring, though it was over a month since they’d arrived. Her father had been ambivalent about bringing her, but she’d insisted on accompanying him.
Staying on Snowdon alone would have given her too much time to think of Richard, though God only knew how it would have been possible to think of him more than she already did.
Rhys directed her to the window seat and sat beside her. “Jesú, Gwen, all you do is cry. What will that babe of yours think of such a weepy mother?” he teased, brushing her hair from her face.
Gwen laughed through the veil of tears. “I am sorry, Rhys. I do not know what has gotten into me lately.”
Rhys stroked her hand. “Gwen, listen to me. I love you.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “Nay, let me finish. I love you. I have never stopped. I can make you happy. I will take care of you and your baby, I swear it. Just let me try.”
“Oh Rhys,” she said softly. “You deserve better. I could not do that to you.” She pressed her cheek to the back of his hand. “I love you, too, but not like that.”
Rhys’s blue eyes clouded. “You would forget him in time.”
She shook her head, staring at her lap. “Nay, I never, never will.”
Rhys stood and raked a hand through his golden hair. “Do you think he will forgive you for this, Gwen? Do you think when ’tis all over, he will welcome you back with open arms?”
“No,” she whispered, choking back more tears. No, Richard would not forgive her for leaving. She knew that now. She’d been a fool to think otherwise.
It had been almost three months, and he’d not even tried to contact her.
Certes, he knew she was gone by now. Sometimes late at night, she pretended he didn’t know.
Then she would imagine him coming for her, or writing and begging her to return to him.
Things she knew a proud man like the earl of Dunsmore would never do.
She caressed her abdomen. She wanted this child desperately. It was already overdue by a sennight, though she tried not to worry too much. She could not lose this babe. It was all she had left of Richard, all she had left of the love of a lifetime.
She sniffled. It would be a son with black hair and celadon eyes. A son to remind her of the man she would always love.
Damn this Godforsaken war!
Rhys knelt in front of her and took both her hands in his. “I have to go north for a few days. Please think about it while I am gone.”
His face was so earnest that Gwen could not tell him no. Her answer would never change so long as she loved Richard, but she nodded anyway.
Rhys kissed both her palms. “I will return soon, Gwen. And I will make you happier than you have ever dreamed. You will see, I promise.”
Gwen kept the false smile pasted on her face until she was certain he was well out of earshot. Then she buried her face in her hands and gave way to the gut-wrenching sobs deep inside her.
The war was at a draw. Neither side gave much ground or gained much either. It was fast approaching the middle of September and though Edward didn’t want to campaign in Wales in winter, the likelihood increased with each passing day.
The Welsh were a hardy people, capable of sustaining harsh winters in the mountains on little more than goat’s milk and mutton.