Chapter 40 #2
Within a few weeks, they set out for Claiborne castle. The gentle rocking of Saffron’s gait put William to sleep in Gwen’s arms. His chubby little cheeks quivered every now and then as his jaw worked.
She smiled. He was surely the most beautiful baby that ever lived and she loved him with all her heart. She raised her eyes to his father’s back.
Until two days ago, he’d been gone, commanding Marcher forces in the south. He’d not sought her out since returning. She’d lain awake at night, wanting him to come to her, wanting him to need her like she needed him, but he had not.
How could it ever be right between them again when the lines were so firmly drawn?
He would deny his own son his birthright and Gwen refused to understand how he could do it. She looked down at the sleeping babe in her arms. God how she wished her father had lived to see his grandson!
He would have made sure William inherited all that belonged to him.
Rhys’s laughter drifted to her from where he and Owain rode a few paces back. Now that her father was dead, Rhys refused to fight with Dafydd and Richard had allowed him and his men to come with them.
Gwen was surprised, but pleased. She did not know all that had passed between them, but whatever it was, they seemed to have formed a grudging truce.
Claiborne was only a few leagues away when a party of knights appeared. Gwen knew they were Richard’s from the hawk banner they carried and the colors they wore. Her chest tightened as Richard rode forth to meet them.
Andrew and five of the other men who had ridden from Builth Wells joined the waiting knights. Richard turned and rode back to her.
“You are leaving,” she said. She should be used to it by now, but she was not.
“Aye. I must return to the king.”
“How long will you be gone this time, my lord?”
He pulled his mail gauntlet off and ran his finger down her cheek, then slipped to William’s, caressing him as well. “I know not. Days, weeks…”
“Months,” Gwen said dully.
“Until Dafydd is stopped,” he replied. He smiled then, the first she’d seen in weeks. “What is wrong, wench? Miss me already?”
Gwen nodded and a lone tear spilled down her cheek. “Aye. I do not want you to go.”
His expression sobered. He sidled Sirocco closer. “Kiss me, then. Show me how much.”
He bent to her and she met him, losing herself in the heat and scent of him.
It was she who insisted on deepening the kiss, she who slipped her tongue into his mouth and forced him to join her.
His mouth turned ravenous as his hand came up to grip the back of her head.
And then he broke away, pressed his lips to her cheek, her throat, William’s forehead.
“I love you,” he said. “Both of you.” He whirled Sirocco around to join the others, never looking back.
The knights broke into a gallop, the thundering of horses’ hooves and the chinking of metal still hanging in the air long after she’d lost sight of them.
Once again, King Edward had taken him from her.
The king was lodged at Rhuddlan castle when Richard returned to him. Since Llywelyn’s death, the spirit of the Welsh uprising was sinking faster than a ship full of holes and Edward was in good spirits.
“Dafydd calls himself Prince of Wales now, but the chieftains are deserting him quicker than a whore’s tongue. If we can get the slippery bastard out of the mountains, ’twill be over before the new year.”
It was late in the day and the two men stood on the battlements, gazing toward the Welsh mountains. The tang of salt and keening cries of gulls drifted to them from the sea at their backs.
The army sprawled across the valley below. The sounds of men and animals mingled with those of clanking metal and chopping wood as the evening tasks were carried out.
The bitter November wind ruffled Richard’s hair as he turned to look at the king. “There is something I must tell you, Ned.”
“Aye?”
Richard took a deep breath. “Madoc ap Maredudd was my grandfather. My mother was Welsh.”
When Edward didn’t say anything, Richard continued. He told Edward everything, how his mother and father met, how they defied Prince Madoc and King Henry, how eventually no one even remembered William de Claiborne’s dead wife had been a Welshwoman.
“Jesú,” Edward breathed. “’Tis why you speak it so well. And the beard. I always thought you kept it because it drove the ladies crazy.”
Richard laughed, rubbing his face. “Nay, ’tis because it suits me. And it reminds me of what I cannot escape.”
Edward ran his fingers through his blond curls, scratching his head. “Edmund de Mortimer thinks your wife guilty of treason.”
Richard sucked in his breath. “The bastard,” he hissed.
“Do you deny she was with Llywelyn?”
“Nay.” His jaw hardened. “I accept her reasons for doing so, though I did not approve. She is back at Claiborne now and will not leave again, I assure you.”
Edward braced his arms on the wall, leaning on them and gazing at the bailey below.
“We will keep this to ourselves, Richard. The fewer people who know of your parentage, the better. Welsh ancestry is not uncommon in the Marchers, but none of them are married to a princess of Wales nor do they carry the blood of a Welsh prince.”
“If you think it best.”
“Aye, I do. I am the king of England, but even kings have limited power. The other barons might not take it so well. I would not have another revolt on my hands if it can be helped.”
They stood silent for a while longer. The setting sun turned the sky bloodred before disappearing, leaving an angry welt in its wake.
Richard voiced the question he had always dreaded. “Do you doubt my ability to serve you?”
Edward straightened, astonishment crossing his face.
“Nay, Richard. God’s blood, I have not doubted that since the instant you pulled the Saracen off me.
This changes nothing, though I wish you had entrusted me long ago.
” He smiled sadly. “There are few men a king can call friend. My father made the mistake of never knowing whom to trust. I trust very few. I know you will not fail me, now or ever.”
“Nay, I will not fail you,” Richard echoed. “Now or ever.”
He turned toward Claiborne, imagining he could see it across the leagues. William would be Earl of Dunsmore one day. That would be enough. Gwen would understand eventually.
Dafydd held the English army at bay all through the winter months, despite his dwindling support. He was finally free of his brother, finally the prince of Wales, finally in control of his country and his destiny, and he intended to wrest it from England at whatever cost.
But his role as a double-traitor did not set well with his fellow countrymen now that Llywelyn was gone. Too many times, Dafydd had betrayed Welsh interests for English gold, and his countrymen began to wonder how soon it would be before he played them false again.
He retreated to Snowdon for the winter, only emerging when the spring thaw melted the frozen mountain passes. By then Edward had Gwynedd ringed with his forces, pressing Dafydd from all sides. Victory was imminent.
In late spring, two of the chieftains who had previously supported Dafydd came to parley with Edward.
“He is on the lower slopes of Cader Idris,” Edneyved ap Olfyr said before going on to detail the size and strength of Dafydd’s force.
Edward listened with feverish interest. When the two men were gone, he turned to Richard and the gathered Marchers. “Richard, you will lead the force that goes after Dafydd. I want him alive.”
Richard took fifty knights. They made their way southwest toward the Llyn Peninsula then cut to the east toward Cader Idris. He was anticipating a good fight with Dafydd. He wanted to kill him, but Edward forbade it.
Mayhap watching him suffer a traitor’s death at the hands of the executioner would be more satisfying anyway.
They camped within sight of the mountain, careful not to light any fires that would call attention to their presence. The night was beautifully clear and they were in the saddle before dawn, picking their way by starlight toward Dafydd’s hideout.
When they surprised the Welshmen shortly after dawn, Richard expected more of a fight. But knowing their time was up and lacking faith in their leader, they surrendered easily enough. Edneyved ap Olfyr marched Dafydd out of his tent at spearpoint.
“I give you this gift for your king, Black Hawk de Claiborne. Tell him to remember it well.”
Richard climbed off Sirocco. Dafydd spat at his feet. “We meet again, Prince Dafydd. Or would that be Lord Dafydd? I can never remember…”
“May you rot in hell, Dunsmore! I only wish I had succeeded in killing you, you half-Welsh whoreson!”
Two women ran toward them, both crying for Dafydd. Richard recognized Anne, but not the other one.
“Lisbeth,” Dafydd said, his voice cracking. She ran into his arms and he hugged her tight while she sobbed.
Anne came to an abrupt halt, her unbound hair swirling around her. “Dafydd?” she whimpered.
Dafydd didn’t look up. Richard felt almost sorry for Anne in that moment.
Her tear-filled eyes landed on Richard. “You,” she hissed, flying at him. Richard caught her, twisting her arms behind her. She screamed at him, blamed him for all the misfortune in her life. Then she started to sob. He freed her arms and she clung to him.
He stood rigidly. Unbidden, the image of a boy came to him.