Raymond cleared his throat. “Bree, again? She is the only small matter of concern at this keep.” The child was a fair delight, but a constant vexation to her mother, and an endless worry to him. At times he wondered if Bree was a changeling. For all her guileless expression, the amount of trouble she caused made it more than a casual jest.
As if Blanche read his thoughts, she averted her gaze.
Raymond hastened to reassure her. “Never mind. As you say, let us speak of it later. In truth, I wish to have your opinion on the subject under discussion when you arrived.”
Blanche looked up at him expectantly, her clear eyes reflecting a keen intelligence.
“Sir Giles believes I should marry again.” Raymond watched in alarm as the color drained from her face. Giles jumped to retrieve her goblet as it slipped from her fingers. “I beg your pardon, Madame. I did not mean that you were the intended, er, bride.” Raymond almost said “victim,” but resisted the temptation. Sarcasm would not help.
Blanche’s relief that she was not the focus of his intentions was immediately apparent. She took several more sips of wine and revived quickly.
“Explain, Giles.” Raymond waved vaguely in his friend’s direction and gazed into the brazier fire while Giles spoke. He did not enjoy being an object of terror. At least not to women. But all too often that was the case, and why not? They knew he’d been the death of Meribel. And Blanche knew it, too. But whatever she thought of him, he respected her. Anyone who had survived the intrigues of his family deserved as much.
Blanche listened quietly, occasionally murmuring an affirmation. Giles used the opportunity to full advantage. He sat beside her and took small liberties, touching her hand or leaning a bit too close. The young woman was visibly affected, for she started and blushed at each contact.
“I believe Lady Blanche understands, now,” Raymond interrupted Giles. “What say you, Madame?” He did not desire her opinion so much as he did her participation, so she might begin to feel a part of his household. If Giles would but leave her in peace.
“Though celibacy is best,” she began, throwing an arch look to Giles, “marriage is a necessary and proper state, for ’tis part of the divine plan. Of course in this instance there are many advantages, the safe return of Hamfast not the least of them. But have you considered the bride’s willingness, or lack thereof? Has she freely consented, or is she being forced?” Blanche took a deeper swallow from her goblet.
“What difference does it make?” Raymond rubbed his upper lip with the knuckle of one finger. He did not want to be reminded of the possibility of a reluctant bride. “As you yourself point out, she is among the least of the advantages.”
Fresh color flooded Blanche’s cheeks, not entirely due to the imported Rhenish wine, Raymond decided.
“You will feel the difference, my lord. Every day.” She glanced at Giles. “And mayhap every night,” she added boldly, downing the last of her drink.
“I shall suit myself, whatever her position,” Raymond said.
“My lord,” Giles responded, “if I were you, I would succumb to whatever position she chose.” He gazed in apparent innocence at Lady Blanche, who leaned back and returned his look with glazed eyes. She hiccoughed, blushed, and Giles laughed aloud.
Raymond clamped his jaw and frowned. Leave it to Giles to get a lady drunk at the earliest opportunity. And Blanche should know better. Hamfast’s return is all that matters. And the rest can go to hell.
Chapter Three
“Did you hear that?” Rhys put a finger to his lips and halted his horse on the shadowed forest path.
Ceridwen’s senses sharpened in alarm at the question, even as she shook her head “no.” The remote forest through which they passed bore a tense and forbidding air, as though the mountains only waited to rid themselves of unwanted passersby.
Huge groves of beech trees rustled in the breeze, and even here they held a faint tang of the sea. In barren places, rough fingers of black, lichened stone stuck up at odd angles. The Black Mountains were notorious for the bands of outlaws inhabiting their craggy peaks. Such men had no qualms about murdering travelers, whether Welsh or English.
Rhys headed the dozen men escorting her to Sir Raymond’s keep. The Englishman was supposed to have taken her back with him from Trefynwy. But upon retrieving his dog—and the pledge of her land—he had left as abruptly as he had arrived, without even meeting her. Ceridwen had been relieved at the time to be spared Raymond’s attention, in spite of the insult, but now she feared for her company’s safety.
“There it is again,” Rhys murmured.
Heavily armed with both shortbows and swords, the other men of her guard twisted in their saddles to look about, and quickly flanked her. Ceridwen jumped as a flock of small birds burst from the canopy of the thick woods to their left.
“Wait…”
A whistling thud sounded. The horse between her and the forest screamed and began to go down, collapsing into her palfrey. Her mount lurched and lost its balance. She kicked her feet free of the stirrups as the animal careened onto its side. In a swirl of skirts she tumbled to the ground. Something hard struck her head and flashes of red and white exploded behind her eyes. Men shouted and horses whinnied.
“They have crossbows, Rhys! My lady!” Sir Dylan reached down for her hand, pulled Ceridwen up behind him and raced away. It was all she could do to hold on to him. Though her head spun and her heart was in her throat, she would gladly fight. The fear of waiting to be slain was worse than dying in action.
“Leave me, Dylan, I would rather help you than hide!”
Dylan galloped his horse a long way before he halted near a tangled growth of brambles, well out of sight from the lane.
“Do not be foolish, my lady. Crawl into that thicket. Do not make a sound. Don’t move a muscle until one of us comes for you. Do you swear?” He swung her down and held onto her hand, looking into her eyes. “Swear on your mother’s grave you will not follow me back.”
Ceridwen hesitated and he crushed her hand in his grip. Wincing, she relented. “I swear, Dylan, but—”
Before she could protest, he was pounding back towards the fray. She cursed him for the stubborn man that he was and felt for her dagger, only to find an empty sheath. With a separate twinge of panic, she checked the slim leather case at her waist. Her stomach was queasy and her head hurt, but she breathed easier when her fingers touched the warm ivory of her flute.
Ceridwen crept into the shelter of the brambles and resigned herself to wait. Her legs cramped, but she could not move without thorns poking her in a variety of tender spots. Waves of dizziness swept her. A spider descended on a thread in front of her nose. As time crawled by with no sign of Dylan’s return, worry gnawed deeper. Enough of obedience. She was a woman, not a mouse. Carefully she disentangled herself from the clinging vines. She abruptly stood upright, stars swirled before her eyes, and she pitched forward.
When Ceridwen woke, her head throbbed with a fierce ache. The day had waned. A fly buzzed around her nose, and she waved at it feebly. She had to find Rhys and the others. See that they were all alive. She wove her way back to the roadway. Dusk lay quiet on the forest, lending the air a smoky blue haze. A heavy stillness had settled, in ominous contrast to the faint clashes and shouts she had heard earlier. She walked along, ready to dart among the trees at the slightest sound of men.
Topping a rise, she looked at the site of the ambush. Nothing. Not a horse, nor a man, nor a piece of weaponry. She scrambled down the gentle slope and came to a skidding stop in the middle of the roadway. Frantically