Dryden's Bride (10 page)

“My lord,” one man said as he dismounted. “Sir George gave us orders to report to you here.”

“You are prepared to travel for several days?”

“Aye, my lord,” the other man said. “Just give us our destination and we’ll be off.”

Hugh told them to hie themselves to St. Ann’s, and to stay in the vicinity of the abbey for a few days before returning to Clairmont. He also suggested that they keep to themselves and avoid towns and other travelers along the way.

The two knights departed Castle Clairmont as part of a patrol so as not to arouse suspicion if anyone asked about the comings and goings through the gate. Hugh had yet to figure out how he was going to get the little king past the castle walls.

He secured the horses’ reins to a post, then headed toward the rear of the stone fortress. Siân should be ready by now, he thought as he walked through the great hall and toward the steps of the castle. “Lord
Hugh,” came a voice, along with the sound of footsteps behind him.

It was Sir George.

“When do you depart?” the steward asked.

Hugh glanced up at the windows toward the early morning sunlight that was just now creeping up over the horizon. “As soon as possible,” he replied. “I just have to gather Lady Siân and…the, uh—”

“Your lordship, I will be going to the gatehouse presently. I’ve spent a restless night and did not sleep well,” Sir George said, as if for an audience. “The insomnia…often plagues me and it will surprise no one when I relieve the guard at the gate.”

Hugh nodded, taking the steward’s meaning. Neither man was about to speak frankly of what Hugh was about to do, for fear that an outsider might inadvertently hear what was afoot. Very few knew of the plan, not even the knights who were, even now, on their way to St. Ann’s.

It was good news that Sir George Packley would be at the gate. Hugh knew he would still have to conceal Henry, but not to the extent that would have been necessary had the gate been manned by another knight.

“I bid you farewell, then,” George said, “and God speed you on your journey.”

Hugh thanked him, then turned and walked up the stairs in order to find Siân and to take Henry from his mother, the queen. He assumed it would be difficult for Catherine to bid adieu to her child, and hoped she managed to have it done before he arrived to take the boy from her.

When Hugh arrived at Siân’s room, he gave a light tap on the door. Receiving no answer, he went in and found the room empty of her belongings but for a canvas
bag on the floor, all packed and ready to go. Momentarily puzzled, he stepped back out of Siân’s room and started toward his own chamber. Perhaps she’d gone there to meet him, he thought, thinking again of their encounter in his room the night before.

He doubted he’d ever be able to forget her wild mane of shining hair, or those glistening eyes. The fullness of her breast in his hand, the softness of her lips on his were memories that would be forever burned into his mind. He wondered if Marguerite would give so freely of her body, her soul, as Siân Tudor did.

An odd glint of light caught Hugh’s attention as he approached his room. There was someone in the corridor near Beaufort’s chambers. Hugh moved closer and saw that it was Siân.

Mystified by her presence here, and her stealthy movements, Hugh approached her quietly.

As she put one hand on the door latch to Wrexton’s chamber, Hugh saw that she carried a long, wicked-looking kitchen knife. She lifted the latch and crept silently inside.

“Siân!” he whispered fiercely as he approached her, but she didn’t hear.

Hugh knew it was madness, but he followed her into the chamber. The bed curtains were pulled aside to reveal a sleeping, loudly snoring Wrexton. The stale, putrid smell of old ale permeated the room and the earl was quite obviously in a drunken stupor.

A woman slept alongside Wrexton, but Hugh did not recognize her. She may have been one of the serving maids, or someone from the village…Hugh did not know. Nor did he know which of the pair was Siân’s intended victim.

As Siân approached the bed, Wrexton snorted and
turned, but did not awaken. His movements startled Siân, and gave her a moment’s pause, but then she crept closer, her hand in a death grip around the knife. The sleeping woman moaned and then quieted, and still Siân moved toward them.

Hugh gained on her. Siân raised the knife, and held it with a shaking hand, poised to strike. She hesitated long enough for Hugh to grab her knife hand. As he did so, Siân gasped and dropped the knife, momentarily awakening Wrexton. The earl opened his groggy eyes, lifted his head slightly, looked at her hazily and dropped his head back down onto the bed.

Hugh grabbed Siân around her waist and covered her mouth with his hand, then pulled her silently out of the room. He let go long enough to pull the door closed behind him, then half led, half dragged Siân down the gallery until they reached her room.

“Are you mad?” he demanded in hushed tones.

Siân shook her head defiantly. Her cheeks were pale, and her lips absolutely colorless.

“Then what is this about?” he continued fiercely but quietly, pacing the room, raking his hair back with one hand. He was dumbfounded. “Why? Why in kingdom come would you…?”

“I—”

“You thought to murder Wrexton in his bed!” he answered for himself, hardly able to believe the vision of his one good eye. He’d never have thought her capable of it, never have believed there was a murderous bone in her body. And Wrexton! Of all people, she’d attempted the murder of an earl!

Siân nodded. Her chin, though she’d raised it bravely, trembled. One tear spilled over. She looked terrified, yet resolute.

It seemed a natural thing for him to pull her into his arms, but Hugh held back. He would not be swayed by her tears. He’d resolved to keep his distance from Siân Tudor, and he would satisfy his vow.

“There is no time for this,” Hugh said more gruffly than he intended as he bent over and picked up Siân’s bag. Whatever her reason for wanting to kill Wrexton, there was no time to dwell on it now. “We must leave right away. Before the guests stir. And before
you
can get into any more trouble. I don’t think Wrexton saw my face, but we can only hope he didn’t see
yours
.”

H
enry was a sleepy little boy that morning.

Not at all did he seem to mind the game he was about to play with Siân and Hugh. He hugged his mother, who remained stoically poised as she said goodbye, then crawled into a blanket-lined basket, put his thumb in his mouth and pretended to sleep. Siân hoped the boy would remain quiet as they carried his little basket out to the courtyard and hoisted him onto the back of her horse.

Hugh hoped they could get away without Wrexton calling an alarm. With any luck, the earl’s drunken stupor would prevent him from realizing how close he’d come to losing his life that morning.

All they had to do was get past the gate without Henry being seen. As far as everyone knew, Hugh was taking Siân to St. Ann’s as planned, and the two knights who’d left Clairmont earlier would provide the tracks to substantiate that story.

Hugh and Siân mounted their horses and rode slowly toward the gate, careful not to rouse anyone’s interest. The rather large basket that hung from one side of
Siân’s horse roused no suspicions—it appeared to be just another piece of her baggage.

It wasn’t until they were outside the gate and well past the edge of town that Siân allowed herself to breathe easily. The morning had been fraught with tension, and their “escape” from Clairmont had been nothing short of miraculous. Besides all else, Siân had had difficulty believing that the toddler in the basket could manage to remain quiet for that entire stretch of time—a stretch that had seemed an eternity to her.

When they reached the woods on the northern edge of town, Hugh rode abreast of Siân and told her to halt. He reached over and unfastened the basket from her saddle, pulling it onto his lap.

Inside, Henry slept, his thumb still firmly tucked inside his mouth. Siân might have smiled had her mood been different, but with all that had happened that morning, she could not. She was frustrated and angry with Hugh for thwarting her plan.

Yet she felt strangely relieved.

She’d fully intended to kill Wrexton. She had purposely gone down to the kitchen and found a suitable knife, then crept back to his chamber without being seen. At least, she’d
thought
no one had seen her. She’d had every intention of rendering the fatal wound as Wrexton slept, then slipping away with no one the wiser.

Siân conceded that seeing the woman in Wrexton’s bed had thrown her off. What if the woman had awakened? Had started screaming?

And the killing itself…
Could
she have done it? Siân chewed her lip. She felt shaky and nauseated all over again. Her palms were moist. Could she have taken the life of that horrible man?

Wrexton truly was evil. He deserved to die for what he had done all those years ago to Siân’s friends. And who knew what other vile crimes he’d committed since then for which he deserved a death sentence? With a man like Wrexton, there had probably been plenty. Never before had Siân been in a position to do anything about him, and now she’d missed her chance.

And after all was said and done, she didn’t know whether to thank Hugh or curse him for obstructing her in her purpose.

“Shouldn’t we be going?” Siân asked peevishly. “I thought haste was imperative.”

Hugh said nothing, just gritted his teeth and fastened Henry’s basket in front of his own saddle. He had no interest in catering to Siân’s mood this morning, as they had quite a number of miles to cover before reaching their destination at the end of the day. He was still baffled and astounded by his discovery of Siân with a knife in Wrexton’s room, but could not afford to get into a discussion about it now. Nor was he inclined to speak with her about what had transpired between them the night before. He wanted
that
pushed back to the farthest reaches of his memory, never to be thought of again.

“We’ll continue north for a few miles until we reach the river,” he said.

Siân silently acknowledged his words. She knew the plan was to make tracks toward St. Ann’s, then ride through a shallow stream that bordered Clairmont land, and double back through the water so their tracks would not easily be found. Then they would be free to head southwest, toward Windermere.

Beyond that, she didn’t know what to expect. She’d only been told to trust Hugh.

Luckily, it seemed neither of them was in a mood for talk.

The little king slept over an hour. They’d gone several miles by the time he was up and asking for his
maman
.

They stopped while Siân soothed him and got him food and drink. The little toddler didn’t understand why he could not see his mother, why she had not come with him. Then Hugh disappeared into the woods and Henry started to cry, so Siân held him. She patted his back and called him
“Parry,”
the pet Welsh name that used to make him giggle.

It was a ploy that didn’t work this time.

Then Hugh reappeared. “Henry,” he said as he squatted down next to Siân and the tearful child. “Look.” He held a small toad in his cupped hands, and showed the boy. Henry’s crying slowed down slightly to a pattern of shaky breathing and hiccups. His tear-filled eyes took interest.

Siân took an interest, too, but not in the toad. It was Hugh, and his instinct for giving gentle attention to the child. Many a man would have cuffed a two-year-old and been done with it, but not Hugh. He spoke softly to Henry and told him all about toads and how if you weren’t careful, they’d make warts grow on you.

“Hew don’t have warts,” Henry said, pulling his thumb out of his mouth long enough to speak. “But your finger’s gone.”

“That’s true,” Hugh replied. “But toads didn’t do that.”

“What did?” Henry’s big hazel eyes looked innocently up at Hugh. “A snake?”

Hugh shook his head. “It was a bad accident,” he
replied without hesitation. “And it happened a long time ago.”

“I sorry, Hew,” Henry said, sniffling. “Can I hold him? I don’t get warts, either.”

Siân wondered how Hugh had lost the finger. In an accident? Not in battle? She couldn’t imagine what kind of accident would cause him to lose an eye, too, and make all the small scars she’d seen. She wouldn’t ask him, though. She didn’t really want to speak to him at all. Not after what he’d done that morning. And especially not after what
she’d
done the night before.

She should have been dying of embarrassment. Siân had avoided thinking about her blunder of the night before, her awkwardly attempted seduction. She should have known a man like Hugh Dryden would have no interest in her—even for one night. Betrothed to a woman like Marguerite, Hugh had no need of a—what did Owen always call her?—an ill-kempt
minx
. A regretful laugh slipped out and Hugh glanced up at her. She turned quickly away, unwilling to let him witness her anguish.

Why hadn’t she guessed? In retrospect, it should have been obvious that Hugh and Lord Nicholas had arrived at Clairmont for some reason. She just hadn’t stopped to think what it was.

Now she knew. All those evenings he’d sat next to Marguerite at the dais…the afternoons spent in her solar…How could she have been such a dunce? Thinking he might care…finding that he was betrothed to the most beautiful, most cultured woman in all England. They were perfectly suited to one another. Both were quiet and reserved. Hugh was the perfect masculine foil to Marguerite’s stunning femininity.

Why hadn’t she realized it before she’d made a fool of herself?

They spent some time fooling with the toad. Henry calmed down enough for Hugh to talk to him, and explain that he was going on an adventure, that he would soon visit a little princess at her castle. The things he said seemed to pacify the child enough to allow them to continue on their journey, which they did. Hugh carried the king on his lap and they increased their pace, hoping to reach the manor house of a friend before nightfall.

Siân felt worse after the short interruption of their journey. She was on edge, having spent too much time thinking. She’d forced the door closed on thoughts of Hugh, but that left her preoccupied with memories of the incident in Pwll, her guilt over the deaths of her young friends.

Siân’s blood boiled anew. How had she allowed herself to be foiled in her purpose? If anyone in the kingdom deserved killing, it was Wrexton, and she’d had the perfect opportunity. Siân knew she could have done it quietly, with no one the wiser. She could have rid the world of that awful man, then sneaked back out of his room and left Clairmont forever.

Why had Hugh interfered? Why couldn’t he have let her complete her anointed task? Now, she would just have to return to Clairmont when she was through at Windermere, and finish Wrexton off as she should have done that morning.

With her return in mind, she kept careful track of the road and all the landmarks. Since she would return to Clairmont alone, Siân would not be able to rely on Hugh’s sense of direction.

The day’s ride was difficult for Siân, who was unaccustomed
to riding horseback for such long stretches of time. Naturally, her physical discomfort did not work toward abating her ill temper.

It was not easy for Henry, either, a typical child who needed freedom to play and exercise his little legs. By nightfall, he was squirming and whining so much Siân didn’t think they’d be able to go any farther.

But Hugh cajoled Henry into riding just a little longer, and soon they came upon a large, gracious house with a thatched roof. Lights were burning in the windows and, though it looked warm and welcoming, Siân was leery of approaching. They had to be cautious of who saw them, even if they had to eschew a warm bed indoors.

Not that
that
would have been the best thing for Henry—or herself, for that matter. It was quite cold now that the sun was setting and Siân knew it would become much colder as the night progressed. A warm and cozy bed was nothing to scorn when she was cold as well as sore.

“What place is this?” she asked Hugh.

“Down!” Henry cried.

“All right,” Hugh said to Henry, “you can get down soon.” He looked at Siân. “This is Morburn Manor. It’s the house of Chester Morburn, an old friend. We’ll be able to stay the night.”

“Shouldn’t we avoid—”

“Chester can be trusted,” Hugh replied. “No one will ever know we’ve been here.”

Siân had her doubts about that, but she followed Hugh into the yard. She’d been told to trust Hugh’s instincts, and at this point, she had little choice. There was no further thought about it, though, when the front door opened and a tall, thin fellow with light hair appeared,
carrying a branch of candles. He had the bearing of a soldier and an attitude of wary welcome.

“Morburn!” Hugh called as he urged his horse forward.

“Dryden? Is that you, man?”

“It is,” Hugh replied. He rode up to the front of the house with Siân right behind him. “I’ve brought friends.”

“So I see,” he replied, stepping back in the doorway and setting the candles somewhere inside. “Joan!” he called, then walked down the steps to greet his guests.

Morburn first helped Siân dismount, who immediately went to take Henry from Hugh.

“Where is the princess, Siân?” Henry asked after Siân had let him down.

“Come, little
Parry
,” Siân said, taking the little boy’s hand, “let’s visit the privy, then we’ll talk about the princess.” She had no idea what princess Henry was talking about, and glanced suspiciously back at Hugh. Had
he
been telling tales of princesses?

“Never thought to see you outside Windermere’s gates,” Morburn said when Siân had left.

Hugh did not reply. He’d never thought to find himself out in the world again, either, much less caught up in the intrigues of court. Yet here he was, stopping murders in the morning, harboring a runaway child-king in the evening.

“You are well, then?”

Hugh gave a quick nod as Morburn’s wife came out to welcome the guests. Chester introduced his wife to his old friend. “You’re no more talkative than you ever were,” Morburn said.

Hugh shrugged as he pulled saddlebags off the horses and handed them to Chester, who set them inside
the house as if it were a common occurrence for old friends to drop by of a night. “We’re on our own here, Hugh,” Morburn said, “no servants yet. So you’ll have to help me with the packs and the horses.”

Siân soon returned with Henry. Hugh took charge of the horses, but before he and Chester led them to the stable to bed them down, he stopped to introduce Siân to their hosts.

“Siân Tudor, this is Baron Chester Morburn and his wife, Lady Joan,” he said. “His Majesty is, without doubt, more interested in food than protocol.”

“His Majesty?” Joan queried, understanding what had been said, but hardly believing it.

“Say hello, Henry,” Siân said to the squirming toddler in her arms.

“No, Siân,” Henry whined. “Down!”

Joan Morburn regained her composure quickly. “Would you care to come in? You’ll pass the night with us, won’t you?”

“Thank you for your kind offer,” Siân replied as she followed Joan inside. “We will stay if it’s no inconvenience.”

It looked as if Joan and her husband had already supped. The table in the big room was clean, but there were tempting aromas emanating from somewhere.

“Eat, Siân!” Henry said, pulling on Siân’s skirts.

“We will,
Parry
,” Siân responded. She was hungry, too. “Soon.”

“We have plenty,” Joan said as she led the way to the kitchen in the back. She tied on an apron and took several pieces of covered crockery off a shelf, and began pouring the contents into cooking pans. “But we have no servants as yet. Chester and I only recently came to the manor, and there is still much to be done.”

Joan was a pleasant-looking woman with light brown hair and freckles across her nose. Siân noticed a slight rounding of her belly under the apron, and felt a pang of jealousy which she quickly brushed aside. Joan was a friendly sort, and seemed glad for Siân’s company. She said she had little contact with other women since coming to the manor and missed it.

“Especially now that I’m with child,” Joan explained. “We have workmen coming in to make repairs to the house and stable, but Chester hasn’t been able to hire any household help yet. I would dearly love to talk with another woman—someone who has born babies.”