Memories of the Heart (27 page)

“Then by my command return to her side and ensure that she doesn't put herself at risk by attending the fraudulent rites.”

“At risk? Fraudulent?” Vevina frowned but her lord's attention had already shifted.

By Westbourne's strong gossip vines everyone knew of Lord James's threat that if the betrothal was not performed this day, a payment in blood would be demanded. Was Ceri, as the bride's friend, actually a part of some foolish plan to prevent the rites? Though the past night Vevina had admired Ceri's selfless insistence that her grandmother continue to share the alcove's comfortable pallet, now she feared more lay behind the thoughtful gesture. In what perilous action was the girl involved?

Bewildered and worried, Vevina watched as Lord Tal briskly strode past her to reach the end of the hallway and turn toward the chapel built within the width of the corridor's stone wall.

An extremely limited party of guests were crowded into the chapel too small to hold more. Taking up an unfair share of the chamber, the beefy Lord James scowled. He had asked to see his daughter before the ceremony but since Edith had yet to appear it was plain that his request had been most unjustly ignored—a further wrong to be added to his list of the earl of Westbourne's many.

Lord James and his most skilled warriors from Farleith were lined up along one side of the chapel while their protagonists, the earl of Westbourne and his knights, stood against the opposite wall. Tal was repulsed by the complete lack of reverence demonstrated by his opponent's dispassionate plan to initiate violence in this hallowed chamber.

The tense silence of waiting grew ever more oppressive until, seemingly oblivious to the pressure of unspoken questions, Tal stepped into the sanctified room's center. When he spoke his deep voice demanded and received the attention of all.

“Lady Edith of Farleith Keep—” Tal announced in precise words and a carrying tone. “Has chosen to retreat into the holy life of a nun. Thus, there will be no betrothal today.”

“Where is
my
daughter?” A furious Lord James demanded while stomping forward to face the erstwhile groom with naught but a perilous hand's-breadth of space betwixt them.

“Well beyond your reach,” Tal responded with a cold and mirthless smile.

“You have no right to interfere between a father and his daughter!” James snarled.

“'Struth,” Tal nodded but gritted out more between clenched teeth. “And never would I have done so had you not sought to use your daughter in a menacing plot against me and mine.”

Face gone dark purple and sputtering with rage, Lord James was a fair way toward exploding. He had come to this site for a ceremony never meant to occur, come with his own shocking scheme only to be met by news of a dastardly misdeed. But, he heatedly assured himself, the bitter acid of Taliesan's wrong would merely make the fine nectar of the earl's planned destruction taste the sweeter.

Though their surprise attack had been too soon revealed, Lord James was still convinced that his warriors would win out. Their aggression was expected, yet he believed greater power and a more certain victory would be achieved by his choice to see the battle fought in a severely limited space.

The fuming baron signaled his followers to immediately launch an assault focused on one man. He was confident that by the earl's death they would conquer the whole of Westbourne.

Despite close confines which made a broadsword's normal sweeping, slashing strokes near impossible, Tal's greater skill easily deflected the barrage of blades almost instantly turned upon him. And yet he would gladly credit divine aid in putting an end to vile deeds wickedly committed in this sanctified chapel.

But more importantly, Tal proved himself the far superior tactician almost as soon as the clash of blade against blade commenced. The opponent whose strategy had included choosing a restricted battlefield was proven in serious error when Westbourne's full garrison quickly arrived and trapped Lord James's warriors within its tight confines.

Farleith weapons were confiscated and piled behind the altar where the priest had taken shelter during the fray. The invaders who'd thought to make short work of Taliesan and thus easily conquer Westbourne with few losses of their own were shamed by the haste with which they were disarmed and herded into a resentful group of captives.

But as Sir Alan started to prod the baron of Farleith toward the stairway which ended in murky dungeons, something shocking occurred.

While Tal stood on one side watching his victorious guardsmen finish their duty to subdue the defeated, a sharp blade suddenly arced from behind and bit painfully into his throat.

“Harm any man of Farleith,” Ulrich snarled, “and I swear your precious earl, your Lord Taliesan, will instantly die.”

Westbourne's victorious cries were promptly hushed into a rumble of disgust for the traitorous knight who'd once been their captain. That ominous hum was punctuated only by stinging oaths of revenge as Sir Ulrich issued another order.

“Men of Farleith—” Though speaking to his new cohorts, Ulrich met the gaze of the knight who'd replaced him as guard captain, the foolishly softhearted Sir Alan. “First free your comrades and then precede my captive and me from this place where weakness is perilously valued above strength.”

The few invading warriors who had yet to be bound hastily released those who already were, before quickly reclaiming their weapons to depart with mocking grins and malicious taunts. Ulrich, knife still at the earl's throat, backed from a chapel now crowded with near the whole of Westbourne's garrison.

Once Lord James's unexpectedly valuable ally was beyond the door with their prisoner, he motioned for several of his most trusted knights to approach. They were commanded to immediately block the chapel's exit with trunks, chairs, any movable item from every chamber along this highest level's central hallway.

In compliance with her lord's demand, Vevina had remained in the solar with Lady Angwen. As the room where they waited was nearest the chapel, it was the first entered by Farleith's intruding knights making them the first among castle inhabitants, save guardsmen, to know the day's bleak outcome. When challenged by Vevina, the rude trespassers curtly announced Taliesan's capture. Hysteria instantly swept over Angwen and her loyal companion had perforce to give the woman her full attention.

Ceri and her grandmother, huddling in the alcove fearfully near the chapel conflict had heard too well the frightening sounds of a battle fought in earnest—clashing blades, groans of exertion, and cries of pain. Thus, when the noise calmed to a dull thunder, Ceri had waited with ever increasing anxiety to learn the outcome.

Finally ominous footsteps were heard in the hallway—but no shouts of triumph. Ceri hastened to the door, carefully cracked it open, and peeked outside.

The reality of Ceridwen's most horrifying fears approached as Taliesan was marched down the hall while Ulrich held a deadly sharp dagger to his throat. Blood oozed from the wound already inflicted. Ceri wanted to rush to Tal but dared not for fear that the dishonorable Ulrich would complete the assault by slicing her beloved's throat open, forcing her to watch as his lifeblood drained away.

Ceri was terrified that once the brief period of Tal's use to his captors as shield was past, they truly would take his life.

*   *   *

The lady of Castle Westbourne lay sprawled across the rich coverlet of her tester bed with none of her usual grace. Face buried in bedclothes bunched in clutching fingers, she quietly moaned in terror for her beloved son's peril.

“Angwen, what ails you?” The words spoken from an open door held no shred of concern only disgust for time foolishly wasted.

Sitting bolt upright, the abruptly quiet lady glared toward the speaker of a question too familiarly phrased. It would be an insult from any among Westbourne's inhabitants but from this aging woman long her enemy, it was far worse.

“You're acting the weak, witless fool that we both know you are not.” Not serf but freeborn woman, Mabyn was not intimidated by her hostess's position and marched boldly into the chamber. “If you responded like this—as a milksop—to honest losses suffered, then how can you dare blame me for your woes?”

Angwen's shoulders squared and her chin tilted defiantly.

“What happened to the fiery princess I knew?” Mabyn demanded, hands firmly planted on broad hips. “Was she the real victim of your apparently endless complaints and unfounded accusations?”

“Milady—” Vevina softly called to the companion of near a lifetime as she moved to stand at her tactless mother's side. “You must restore your composure and prepare to act in Lord Taliesan's defense elsewise all will be lost.”

Suddenly aware of her disarray and embarrassed by this betrayal of weakness, Angwen rubbed dry the damp cheeks brightly rosed by emotion.

“Aye,” Angwen firmly assured her listeners. “I'll be myself, the fiery princess turned countess, and prepare to act in my son's defense. But where to begin … what actions can be taken?”

Seeing a flicker of the young princess in this stern lady of the castle, Mabyn reassured her. “Belike we will find one, if we search—calmly.”

Angwen gazed into the eyes of the wise woman of Llechu without either fear or resentful hate for the first time since she'd left her father's princedom and journeyed to Westbourne.

“Surely—” Vevina quietly interposed. “The first step must be to await the demands Lord James will assuredly issue as a proposed exchange for ensuring the safety of our earl.”

“But while we wait—” Ceri spoke quietly from several paces behind the two older Welshwomen. “There will be time to consider any possible plans for Tal's rescue.”

*   *   *

Though crowded with inhabitants gathered for the day's first meal, the great hall of Westbourne Castle was abnormally silent this morning after the aborted betrothal and fiendish capture of Lord Taliesan. Their repast was finished, but the people lingered while a grim-faced Lady Angwen sat alone at the high table's center and steadily watched the approach of an unwelcome visitor.

“Milady—” As the unkempt figure spoke in a thready, obsequious voice his open mouth revealed a tangle of crooked and discolored teeth. “I been sent to bring this to you.”

Along with this announcement the man roughly slapped a folded sheet of parchment down on the high table's linen-covered surface directly in front of the lady of Westbourne.

In equal parts distaste for the messenger and dread of the item's likely contents, Angwen hesitantly began to reach for the deceptively harmless sheet.

“Who are you?” The imperious woman demanded, still so loath to touch the delivered piece that she disdainfully motioned toward it instead. “And who gave you this?”

“I be Orm.” Beneath the lady's fierce glare the uneasy man awkwardly shuffled. “But I don't know the one what insisted I see it come to you.”

“Then, pray tell—” Angwen sneered. “How was it that you went to meet with this individual you claim not to know?”

“
Didn't
go to him!” The denial's fervor went far to prove its honesty. “Nor would I have met the toad, were it my choice.”

Skeptical, Angwen's dark brows arched in dubious question.

“I were minding my own business, weren't I? Just a free man toiling in his garden when of a sudden I were wickedly grabbed from behind, blindfolded, and dragged away.”

Distrust sharpened the probing gaze Angwen focused on the uninvited visitor.

“To meet their master, your captors must've taken you to a building of some kind,” Angwen persisted, determined to learn more from this peculiar stranger than the precious little she already had. “What did that building look like?”

“No building.” Greasy strands of lank hair fell forward as the unwilling messenger firmly shook his head. “When they peeled the wretched cloth from my eyes, I were in an unfamiliar forest glade (took horrible long to find my way back) and I were facing a man hefty enough to make a pair of me.”

With this description's oblique confirmation of an already assumed fact, Angwen had no further excuse to delay in dismissing this creature and turning toward the the unpleasant item he'd brought.

Orm quickly departed, as glad to escape the castle as no doubt its intimidating lady was to be rid of him.

Despite a continuing reluctance, Angwen focused on the ominous delivery. As was true of all the women and most of the men among her Norman peers, she couldn't read. Though it would be simple to summon the cleric responsible for castle records, she hesitated. Too many traitors had been revealed in their midst for her to easily trust. Moreover, the cleric was well known for his skill in cultivating the castle gossip vines. Until she knew what this parchment contained, Angwen deemed it best to guard the message's privacy.

But Mabyn possessed such skills and had taught them to her daughter—likely granddaughter, too. For that reason as Angwen clutched the parchment and rose to her feet, she motioned for her Welsh companion to follow as she retired to the solar.

Vevina sat with her mother near the top of one of the hall's two long lines of lower tables. As Vevina moved to slip away, Mabyn refused to be abandoned and trailed behind as her daughter led the way to obediently join their lady on the climb up stone steps.

While crossing the chamber to reach the corner stairwell, Angwen paused only to command that Ceridwen also join them.

Once the women were enclosed in the solar's privacy and seated at its small table, Angwen dropped the missive to bare planks and jerked her hand back as if the dark marks on the sheet were poisonous snakes coiling to strike.

Angwen's companions gave their full attention to the document. The parchment lacked an identifying seal, yet its never doubted source was unmistakable in the terse wording of its ultimatum.