His Captive Princess (11 page)

Vaughn’s gaze came back to her, and the corners of his lips curled with appreciation. “Your Highness, I fear I have misjudged you. Actually, in your place, I would’ve done the same—seduced the enemy, drawn sympathy for our countrymen—and the pawn has played into your hands.” He nodded. “Aye, you are right. We can’t kill the captive. Escorting him to Gruffydd is the only way. Though it grieves me, I expect your father will demand that this De Tracy wed you. I know ’tis what he will want.”

Her stomach plunged.
The portent!
“Nay. I can’t—I
won’t
marry him.”

“Aye, it’s revolting, but you have already spread your legs for him. He’s violated you, and now you must receive recompense. His seed might’ve already taken root.”

He spoke the truth. Her father, if he knew she and Warren were lovers, would demand their union, foreigner or not. Her mother’s passing had broken his heart, but he’d married her when she was carrying their first child. He always insisted his warriors marry their mates, be faithful, thus ensuring the future of the Gwynedd people.

“There must be something else.” Her mind raced, searching for something—anything—to save Warren from certain death. “Let’s free him, Vaughn! He won’t retaliate against us. I swear it! We ambushed his men mistakenly. His conroi had come in peace, but he was betrayed by one of his own men. He doesn’t hold a grudge against the Deheubarth.”

“He might not, Eleri, but the Usurper would. If anything happened to the king’s cousin once we set him free, such as this would-be assassin…” Vaughn shuffled his feet, thinking. “Well, ’twould be better if we’d killed him, after all.”

Eleri touched her damp, plaited hair resting on her shoulder. She’d only braided it so that Warren’s hands would unwind it that evening, his gentle fingers gliding through the ends, fondling her breasts beneath it until she ached for the relief he alone could give. Then, like always, he would murmur in her ear how much she pleased him, how he enjoyed talking to her, touching her and pleasuring her endlessly.

In her heart, he had been more husband to her than Owain had been.

There was only one thing to do.

Forcing back tears, she placed a hand on Vaughn’s arm and held his gaze. “I know another way.”

In the Holy Land, Warren had grown accustomed to defending his ground against adversaries on dark nights in unfamiliar places. His ears detected the softest sound of feet in sand outside the camps he’d guarded. So naturally, he noticed the light-footed stranger following him through the darkened abbey courtyard within moments of leaving the stables.

Make that
three
strangers. The first two had also waited outside his dwelling, one at each corner of the building, when he emerged for his nightly rendezvous with the princess.

Abbot Bernard of Clairvaux, a supporter of the Templars, had once taught him that a knight of the Order should be truly fearless, secure on every side, doubly armed, for his soul is protected by the armor of faith, his body by steel. Warren had long embraced the words of his mentor and never cowered in battle, but he couldn’t let his confidence cause him to continue on this path, leading an enemy to Eleri’s door.

Rather than taking the stone walkway, which led to the princess’ wing, he veered right, leading his stalkers into the cemetery. He gripped his sword, regretting he no longer had his shield, as he wound around a small tombstone. Three taller stones presented better protection. Ducking behind one, he drew his weapon and wheeled around to challenge the stalker on his heels.

The hooded figure loomed over the graveyard, casting a mammoth shadow over the stones in the moonlight. Warren made a warning arc with his steel. Size was no match against a weapon in the hands of a trained soldier, especially now that his muscles were mended. He didn’t wish to kill anyone…at least not before he knew the identity of his attacker.

“Show yourselves. I’d like to see the light fade from your eyes when I strike you down,” he called to the trio.

The other figures emerged, cloaks swaying, concealing them so they blended in with the surrounding statuary. None had weapons drawn.

He flushed with anger and shame.

The biggest man pushed back his hood. “And desecrate a graveyard? There’s still too much monk in you for that.”

The tension left Warren’s back as he recognized Sayer’s raspy whisper. He lowered his blade. “You’re courting the devil sneaking up on me.”

Sayer moved closer. “Come, Templar. There’s no time to waste.”

At the warning tone of the guard, Warren’s gaze flicked to the other two, a white-shrouded monk and a hooded layman.

Alarm filled him, and his pulse quickened. “Where is Eleri?”

Sayer made a calming motion with his hand. “You’ll see her at the gate. We must be silent as the dead and get you away from here immediately. Lord Vaughn and his men have returned.” He gestured in the direction of the exit.

Warren sheathed his weapon. He glanced again at Sayer’s companions. These must be the forthright men the guard had spoken of, and now they were aiding him to escape the abbey.

Verily, God must be watching over him at last.

Without waiting to be told, Warren returned to the stables and opened the stalls where their horses were kept. Wordlessly, the group took the coursers out and crossed the open field to the gate.

The monk pushed the heavy wooden door ajar as Warren and Sayer mounted.

He scanned the vacant yard and the small stone gatehouse, which appeared to be empty, as well, searching for the princess. He opened his mouth to ask Sayer where she might be, but the guard was already exiting, leaving Warren to follow. He prayed his friend knew what he was doing, leaving the princess out there alone for so long without any protection.

Anticipation strummed in his chest as he rode, expecting to see Eleri outside waiting for him ahead.

Bane shifted nervously. Wary of the horse’s instinct for danger, Warren surveyed the open field and road in the moonlight. No Eleri.

“Where are you going?” He caught up with Sayer’s mount. “We must wait for the princess!”

The guard said nothing for a moment, then turned his courser sideways in the path, blocking Warren. “We’re taking you to De Braose and the Normans.”

Warren’s jaw tightened as realization and fury sank in. “You would betray me,
mon ami
? And her? Your
dywysoges
? She won’t stand for this! Where is she?” He took a deep bracing breath, straightening to his full height in the saddle and bracing for battle.

Sayer’s hand rested on his sword. He shook his head sadly. “She is with us.”

His stomach sank. She knew? And yet she allowed him to be taken?

He looked left and right. Welsh soldiers on horseback curled around him from the shadows of the outer wall. The leader, Lord Vaughn, he recognized, riding in front to join Sayer. A rebel archer flanked him, his arrow trained on Warren.

Surrounded.

His gaze fell on the abbey gate far behind, already closed against him, where the hooded layman stood watching, pale hands clenched tightly together in the folds of the cloak. A single, long braid hung down from the hood.

Eleri
.

Chapter Eleven

Royal Court of Gruffydd ap Cynan, Bangor, Gwynedd, Late Summer 1136 A.D.

Her father had never looked so tired…or so
healthy
.

Eleri watched the newly wedded couple from her seat at the king’s table and stole glances when they were preoccupied. New lines creased her father’s whiskered cheeks, his eyes sagging with weariness from keeping up with his young wife, but all in all, Gruffydd seemed as fit as a stallion.

Queen Betrys, sharing a seat on his throne at supper, leaned over her husband as she stole a bite of honeyed figs from his fingers. A fresh spitted boar dominated the table on the dais, and its massive body stretched across six place settings.

Remembering the day Warren had saved her from such a beast, Eleri doubted she could swallow a bite.

Instead, she scraped at the peel of a fig with her knife, pretending to have an interest in the feast, but nothing could interest her
less
than celebration. There had been far too much joy in Gwynedd by her reckoning.

For the past seven months, she’d endured torments awaiting her behind every wall of the castle. Kissing couples. Families. Happiness. Reminders of what she wanted for herself, what might’ve been, and what she’d given up. Her oldest sister Alys was with child, and Tegan, her other sister, had the twins. Their husbands doted on the princesses, which also pleased her father now that Gwynedd was in no short supply of men to lead his planned rebellions against the Norman colonists.

When she’d first arrived in the rugged mountain valley of her father’s court along with Nest and Sayer, she’d been surprised at finding her widowed sire married again. Not that she hadn’t expected him to replace her mother, gone three years now—he had several concubines, after all—but she recalled Gwrach’s warning, “my husband…” She’d immediately feared she’d gotten the portent wrong, that Gruffydd was the one in danger, and she’d betrayed Warren for no reason at all. Guilt, as well as fear for her father’s life, had driven her into sickness. She’d spent weeks not eating or sleeping, just crying into her pillow at night and watching every move the king made during the day.

After the first month passed, it became clear that nothing tragic would befall Gruffydd, a hearty Irish-born nobleman, half-Viking, who’d escaped imprisonment by the Normans at least thrice in his lifetime. Apparently surrendering Warren had broken the portent after all, and the wraith hadn’t visited her since.

She’d made the right decision. Still, she mourned.

In Gwynedd, she had always found her independence refreshing—the opposite of life with her husband’s people. Her opinion was respected, and she attended her father’s council meetings as they prepared to send warriors to aid in the southern revolts against the Normans. She often spoke her mind, and as free as any man, she could enjoy the beautiful Snowdonia wilderness surrounding their stronghold any time she wished.

Still, her freedom came at the price of her happiness. She could only pray Warren had found both wherever he was.

“My King,” Lord Vaughn approached the dais, taking a knee in the bone-strewn rushes below the table, “a few days ago you offered me the use of your wolfhounds for a hunt. May I use them on the morrow? One of my men has spotted a particularly large stag in the woods near the castle.”

Eleri turned her gaze away from him as resentment filled in her gut.
Wretched ass!
He would deplete the forest of all the deer if he had a chance.

“Aye, ye may.” Her father spoke in his Dublin brogue, “I’ll join ye. I’ve not hunted in months.”

She compressed her lips to keep from arguing. Hopefully her father would prevent Vaughn from killing too many of his lovely deer.

You hate Vaughn most of all because he reminds you of what you did.

Oh, ’twas true. She’d traded Warren’s smiles, kisses, and his arms around her at night for months of Vaughn’s disgusting leers. She owed the revolting man a favor for allowing her lover to survive, and he would not let her forget it. Once, not long after they’d arrived in Gwynedd, he’d cornered her in the dovecote and stolen a squeeze of her breast. More recently, he’d snatched her aside in the kitchen where he’d pressed his horrible mouth against hers before she’d clawed her way free of him.

Would she be as lucky the next time?

At least Warren lived and would come to no harm. He was better off with his kind, she’d convinced herself, than with her, hiding from enemies like Gareth. According to Sayer, whom she’d sent to seek information from De Braose’s servants, Warren had been interrogated and eventually left with the Normans, presumably returning to his cousin’s court in England.

“What about you, my dear?” The king leaned around Betrys to look at her. “Ye’ve not been hunting since ye’ve been home. You used to keep my table laden with venison.”

Her sire’s brows knit with concern. He knew nothing about Warren or the sadness overwhelming her. If she refused to participate in her favorite sport he would recognize something was wrong. Vaughn would tell him that she and Warren had been lovers, and her father would be livid. His history with the Normans was long and complicated, his hatred deep. She loved her father too much to disappoint him, especially when he was so happy.

She pasted on a smile. “Aye. Of course I’ll join your hunt. I’ll bring Nest, too.”

The next morrow, she was saddened to find that hunting the Menai woods offered her no pleasure, either. She and her servant rode across the moorland with the courtiers, as she had dozens of times before. Out of habit, she stuck out her tongue to taste the tang of the nearby Irish Sea filling the air, but the familiar salty flavor yielded no satisfaction.

Ruefully, she shifted her bow and quiver on her back, preparing herself for the long day ahead.

How had she come to such a dismal place in her life that she preferred the solitude of her bedchamber to the beauty of Mother Goddess’s woods?

She felt Nest’s eyes upon her as they followed the horses and wolfhounds into a grove of oaks.

“If you’d like to go back, I’ll make your excuses, Your Highness.”

The men fanned out to flush the stags.

Even when she felt like hunting, she preferred to stalk her prey in a way that gave the deer more chance to escape.

Eleri shook her head. “Thank you, Nest, but I’ll be fine.”

Her friend glanced away, but she caught the scowl of disapproval on her face. The day after they’d returned Warren to the Normans, Nest had arrived with news from Deheubarth. Lew was fine and had no idea why Gareth had suddenly quit him to conspire with an enemy. In fact, Lew’s attacks against the Normans had been so effective that he’d been offered a truce from the English king. When Nest had left Castell Dinefwr, the prince had been awaiting an envoy carrying terms of agreement from England.

Nest’s good news brought little comfort to Eleri. She’d broken into tears and was forced to admit the reason why. The entente came too late—if only Deheubarth’s council had reconciled before she’d betrayed Warren he might’ve been safe from Gwrach’s prediction.

Nest, younger than her, had been unable to console her with words. She’d been mistreated badly at the hands of the invaders, so naturally she despised Normans even more than Eleri once had.

“You’re still not eating enough, Eleri.” Her dark eyes flashed with censure. “I watched you in the hall last night, picking at your food, and now…you’ll be lucky if you can draw your own bow.”

“I can!”

“Not from back here, behind these fools. They’ll scare all the game away first.”

“I trow I’ll take the largest animal. I’d love to see the look on Vaughn’s face!”

“So would I. Now you sound more like
my
dywysoges
.” Nest grinned, and Eleri felt her heart lighten a bit, witnessing such a rarity.

Leaving her friend, she urged her horse over the thicket, charging west of the others. The woods grew closer, the forest more dense. No wolfhounds could manage the thorny scrub where she was headed, which made it ideal for fleeing deer.

As she guided her mount over fallen trees, sailing high above the guelder rose with its branches full of ripe berries, she made her form small against the horse. Listening to the forest, she ignored the sounds of the winded animal and the far-away hunters. This was how alert she should’ve been when she’d come upon the wounded boar. Pushing Warren firmly out of her thoughts, she became part of the woods.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the flare of a stag’s tail. Her heart took flight, and she set chase. The gorgeous red deer bounded over obstacle after obstacle. She chastised herself inwardly; if she’d been less melancholy and obstinate, she would’ve taken a few of the hounds for herself and cornered the animal easily. As it was, she could only aim her arrows and hope for the best.

Guiding her horse with her legs, she selected an arrow from her quiver, pulled back the string and froze—

A pure white hart wandered into the clearing ahead, oblivious to the first stag disappearing deeper into the woods. It turned its massive antlered head, capturing Eleri in its stare.

The ethereal moment seemed to suspend time. She pulled up, stilling her mount as her breath caught in awe and admiration. The beast could’ve been made of marble, pristine. Glaring at her as if seeing into her soul, the hart lifted his snout, and promptly sniffed with disdain. Then as suddenly as it had appeared, it lumbered on its way.

What was the story her mother had once told her? A white stag meant something…

Oh, aye! In the Mabinogion tale when Pwyll trespassed on Arawn’s hunting grounds, the white deer symbolized stepping beyond one’s bounds.

But she had never done so. Had she not always followed the portents, carrying out the actions Mother Goddess chose for her? Well…all but for sparing Lew and then later, Warren.

Their passionate nights had been a taboo worth breaking.

“You should’ve made the shot,” Vaughn called, riding up beside her.

Eleri wheeled around to face him, notching her arrow reflexively.

He made a half-smile, but his gaze followed her weapon. “Not at me. The stag. Such a trophy, especially for a woman.”

Eleri relaxed, letting her weapon rest in her lap. At least with Nest nearby, she had only to shout for help. She shouldn’t have to fend off his groping hands.

“He’s not for killing, my lord. Too rare. You wouldn’t risk it, either.”

“Ah, the legend. Right.” He rolled his shoulders, looking more confident now that she’d put her bow down. “And you would never do anything that contradicts the Ancients, would you? I can’t say as I’d blame you. The elders in Deheubarth are probably quaking with worry now that you’re away. You’re their closest link to the Otherworld. How will they know when to make war or when disease is amongst them? Lew is pissing himself by now.”

He edged closer, leaning over to snatch the strap of her quiver in his gloved hand. Her horse, sensing the shifting of her weight, sidestepped in Vaughn’s direction as he tugged her toward him, and the tightening of the leather against her shoulder brought her far too close to his repugnant, smiling face.

“Let go, Vaughn.” She pulled against his grasp, but failed to free herself.

“Eleri, marry me. Together we’ll rule Deheubarth and one day all of Cymru.” His leg brushed hers as their jittery horses tried to move apart. Undeterred, he angled his mouth toward hers. The tight space rendered her bow useless, so she dropped the arrow, palming the dagger on her hip instead and bringing it to bear on his neck.

Beneath her blade, Vaughn’s throat moved, but he continued to leer. “Come now, Princess. You know Lew is an ineffective ruler. He had not the ballocks to lead our ambush of the Norman conroi. The Council barely listens to him. But the two of us”—his gaze crawled over her breasts and stomach—“would make the child who would become High King.”

Her stomach twisted with disgust at the thought of his touch. “You think far too highly of your—”

“
Dywysoges
!” Nest called, her courser bounding over the brush. “The hunt is over. Your father is calling a council meeting.” Her eyes narrowed as she took in Vaughn’s hold on her mistress.

He released Eleri and backed away.

She took a small breath, sending up a quick prayer of thanks for her fierce friend. “Right now?”

“Aye,” Nest panted, presumably from hurrying to catch up with her. She ignored Vaughn as she moved closer. “Sayer is back with news of a new revolt in the south. You’ve been asked to attend the council, Your Highness.”

Shortly after the party returned to the castell, the atmosphere of the Council hall was rife with nervous expectation. Seated at the table in her father’s court, Eleri nodded at Sayer in greeting as he entered the hall. He’d been gone three sennights or more, the longest she’d ever been parted from her guardian in her life. He looked haggard, his eyes red and skin burnished from riding the open moorland in full summer sunshine.

Her father’s marshal made introductions. Then, looking tense and uncomfortable, Sayer returned greetings from the esteemed elders seated around the table, which included the lords of Anglesey, Gwynedd and the prince of the neighboring Powys—some of who were still dressed in hunting garb, like Lord Vaughn and herself.

“Ye have news of our men in Gower and Cardigan. Tell the rest of us how our rebels have fared against the Norman strongholds.” Her father rested against the arm of his chair, his brow stern, but otherwise he appeared unruffled.

At least she didn’t have to worry about Warren’s safety in the rebellion. Even if he was at his king’s mercy in stocks, ’twould be better than standing in the way of her father’s archers.

“Well, my lords,” his gaze circled the room, resting briefly on Eleri with an apologetic curve to his mouth, “er, and my princess, I came immediately from Deheubarth once I heard word. Our revolts have been thwarted in both strikes. We’ve failed to take either camp.”

“We sent a vast host to both Norman keeps!” Vaughn growled. “More than enough to storm their defenses.”

“They’ve increased their numbers and have…anticipated all our moves so far.” Sayer straightened, lifting his chin a notch.