The Beauty Bride (The Jewels of Kinfairlie) (31 page)

Even
now, with Dafydd and Henry both dead, and Dafydd’s wife and children also gone,
Nelwyna was merely regent, in her step-son’s stead. Nelwyna chafed with the
awareness that her authority could be (and would be) removed with but a
moment’s notice.

It
was unfair!

On
this day, to be sure, her mood was already sour, but morning had brought many
vexations to test an old woman’s humor. Nelwyna had awakened with aches in her
joints and her years heavy upon her shoulders. She was painfully aware that she
had not much time left to gain her objective.

She
made her painful way to the hall, anticipating a good meal to break her fast,
at least. Sadly, she would not eat alone this day. The pretty face of her
husband’s cursed courtesan, and the sparkle of that woman’s laughter, did
little to brighten the morn.

Indeed,
the sight of Adele was enough to make Nelwyna’s blood boil. Nelwyna had never
become accustomed to the Welsh, with their disregard for the sanctity of
marital vows, with their lack of concern with legitimacy. When Henry had
returned from a journey with Adele fairly in his lap, almost forty summers
before, the entire household had been shocked that Nelwyna was not immediately
pleased.

A
man needed a son, they told her.

A
man must do what must be done.

She
should be glad, they told her, that the burden of responsibility had been
removed from her, that there would be no shame attached to her name.

Nelwyna,
surrounded by mad people, her own womb seemingly intent on producing solely
daughters, had feigned acceptance. She had pretended that their scheme made
great sense, she had hidden her resentment, she had welcomed the whore to her
home with a false smile.

But
Nelwyna had never accepted Adele’s presence. She had prayed for the whore to
die in labor, with no result. She had schemed to ensure the whore had a fateful
accident, but the woman had the luck of the angels.

Worse,
Adele never seemed to age, a fact that Nelwyna despised when she felt her every
year so keenly. Adele’s face was nigh as smooth as the day she had arrived
here. She was calm and serene and so sweet of nature that she fairly made
Nelwyna’s teeth ache.

It
was uncommonly cruel that Adele had been the one to bear Henry the son he so
desired.

“Look,
Nelwyna!” Adele cried as the older woman had made her way to the board. “A
missive from my sister, Miriam.”

That
Adele was happier than usual this day was as salt in the wound.

“How
delightful. How fortunate you are to have kin who remember you.” Nelwyna
settled herself at the board and took the largest piece of honeycomb without
remorse. It was her right to eat first, at least, and she never refrained from
taking the best that was offered. “How wise it was for Miriam to take the veil
and retire from secular life, once her husband had died.”

It
was the broadest hint imaginable, but Adele only smiled. “I had long thought
you might so retire. Henry, after all, has been gone these ten years and you
have no surviving children to make demands upon you.”

The
reminder that Adele’s child lived, despite Nelwyna’s efforts, made the older
woman grind her teeth. Nelwyna vowed then to have vengeance upon the courtesan.
How vulgar and selfish Adele was! And Nelwyna was the only one who could see it!

Adele,
oblivious, unfurled the missive and read with avid interest, her small white
teeth nibbling at the fullness of her ruddy bottom lip.

Was
it possible that there was not a single silver hair in that ebony mane?

“Oh!”
Adele said, and paled. She frowned and read the missive again, then tucked it
hastily into her bodice.

“Bad
tidings?” Nelwyna asked.

Adele
granted her the barest glance. “It is not of import. What fine honey we have
this day!”

In
that moment Nelwyna decided she must read that missive. She would have wagered
that there was news within it that she could use in her own favor.

Tidings
she could use against this pretty fool.

* * *

That
objective brought Nelwyna to Adele’s chamber, in the midst of a fine afternoon.
Adele always retired to rest in the afternoon, a old habit adopted when Henry
was alive. He had accompanied his courtesan to her chamber in those days, and
the sounds of their lovemaking had been evident to any soul who pressed her ear
against the door to listen.

Nelwyna,
meanwhile, had been compelled to welcome Henry late at night, after he had
drunk his fill of ale, after his prick had already been bathed in his whore’s
sauces.

She
did not miss the old cur. She would have been rid of the whore upon his death,
but the choice had not been hers to make. By some folly of her father - or some
glib tale of her spouse - she had been wed to the younger son of Dafydd, the
man who would only inherit if his elder brother died before him.

Sadly,
Dafydd ap Dafydd had been a vigorous old toad, and had only surrendered his
grip upon all he owned the previous Yule. It had been a measure of Henry’s
merit, in Nelwyna’s opinion, that he had never cared that he lived in his
brother’s home, beneath his brother’s hand, taking his meals and his ale from
his brother’s table. The man had not had a drop of jealousy in his veins, nor
any measure of ambition. He had been content in Dafydd’s shadow, the old fool.

Worse,
when Henry had finally died, Dafydd had professed to liking Adele too much to
cast her out. Nelwyna had oft wondered if he had partaken of Adele’s feast in
Henry’s absence.

She
crept into Adele’s chamber, hating that it was so much finer than her own. It
was warmer, it was larger, it had a better view and it was more richly
appointed. Only an imbecile could have failed to discern the intensity of
Henry’s affections.

It
had been that son that had changed all. Nelwyna could never decide whether she
loathed Adele or Rhys the most.

On
the far side of the chamber, Adele slept, a small smile upon her face - perhaps
one born of recollection - a sunbeam caressing her cheek. The letter was on the
small table beside her bed. Nelwyna stealthily crossed the floor.

It
had been here that Adele had borne her children. Sons, all of them, curse her!
Nelwyna had borne four daughters by the time Adele had arrived, four daughters
conceived with some difficulty and delivered with even more. Adele had ripened
within the season with her first, perhaps because Henry had not been able to
leave her be.

Nelwyna
had been rid of the first son easily enough. She had aided at the birth, for
none suspected the depth of her hatred for this whore, and had offered to check
the progress of the babe. She would never forget plunging her hand into Adele’s
heat, feeling the genitals of a boy, then impulsively easing the slick cord
around the babe’s neck.

He
had been born dead, no one the wiser.

Or
so Nelwyna had thought. At the birth of the second, she had been kept from
Adele’s side by the burly midwife with her suspicious eyes. At Henry’s
insistence, Nelwyna had been given the infant boy to hold - “her new son” he
said, ever gallant - and Nelwyna had seized a moment to hug him closely. She
had pressed the swaddling against his tiny nose and mouth. Only when he
wriggled no more had she loosed her hold, and cried out in dismay that
something was amiss.

Nelwyna
halted beside the bed, glaring down at her competitor with a hatred that was
seldom undisguised. The third son had been born here, but Nelwyna had been
barred from the chamber, accompanied by Henry to the great hall to wait. No
protest had eased his resolve to keep her from joining the women that night,
and miraculously, no ale crossed his lips.

When
they put his screaming son into his arms, Henry had tickled the boy’s chin and
the babe had fallen silent immediately. The small hand had closed around
Henry’s finger, as if trusting his father to ensure his welfare. Nelwyna still
could see Henry, see the awe in his gaze, could hear his voice.

“His
name is Rhys,” Henry had said with rare vigor, then had raised his knowing gaze
to meet Nelwyna’s own. “In memory of the Welsh leader Rhys ap Tudur. Already
this child has overcome such great adversity that I know he, too, will be long
remembered.”

He
had turned then to address the gathered household. “My wife will never be
within three strides of this child, she will not hold him, she will never feed
him, she will never be left alone with him. Does every soul understand me?”

That
he would shame her so in front of their servants had nigh killed Nelwyna. Henry
had no right to speak to her thus! He had no reason to make the household
suspicious of her!

She
had hated him from that day forward.

And
she had had her vengeance by turning one of the pleasures he loved most against
him. Slowly, Henry became accustomed to a slight taste in his beloved ale. That
was the only hint of the presence of an herb that addled his wits and shriveled
his intellect.

Nelwyna
would have preferred to shrivel another part of Henry and eliminate an entirely
different pleasure, but she did not know the potion for that. What she knew had
had to suffice.

She
laid a hand upon the missive, watching the rhythm of Adele’s breathing
carefully, then fled the chamber on silent feet.

She
would have to return it, but if Adele awakened, all would not be lost. Like
many pretty women, like many souls burdened with the abundant blessings of good
fortune, Adele was inclined to forget the locale of her treasures. Nelwyna
would leave it in the hall, if compelled to do so, and Adele would believe she
had left it there.

Nelwyna
unfurled the missive impatiently, beside the sole window on the stairs, read in
haste, then clenched it in her fist.

Rhys
had wed!

Adele
undoubtedly was wounded that her son had not told her of this news himself, but
Nelwyna saw more in the tale. She saw the bride’s name and already understood
how cunning and thorough Rhys was. Gone was the chance that she could present
an imposter as Dafydd’s sole surviving daughter.

Nelwyna
had waited long for the authority of Caerwyn to fall into her hands fully, she
had already seen children dead for her ambition, and she was too aged to wait
patiently any longer.

The
solution was simple. Rhys FitzHenry would have to die. And if his new bride
Madeline carried his child, she would have to die as well. Nelwyna returned the
missive to Adele’s chamber, then retreated to her own chamber to compose a
missive of her own.

It
was good, in such times, to have neighbors one could rely upon. Robert Herbert
held Harlech, just across the bay, and had made his lust for Caerwyn most
clear. It was time, Nelwyna was certain, to secure an alliance with Robert that
would grant both of them what they most desired.

* * *

Rhys
supposed the tavern before them would serve well enough. It was late and Madeline
was clearly tired, though still she rode valiantly without complaint. He would
have continued onward, but he suspected they would fare no better.

They
would only be more cold and more tired.

This
tavern was not located on a main thoroughfare, and it was not one of the larger
establishments in town. It was busy, but not too busy, and Rhys was glad to
note that none expected to know him here. If they were accustomed to travelers,
then they would take little notice of two more.

“I
believe the babe is making you ill this night,” he said beneath his breath to
Madeline, who had not ceased to tuck the bundle of cloth beneath her skirts
each day.

“How
ill?” she asked softly, with a wondrous lack of argument. That alone showed her
exhaustion, to Rhys’ thinking. He would do well to provide her with a bed and a
warm meal this night, for she must be unaccustomed to such hardship as their
journey had demanded.

“So
ill that you will be compelled to take to your bed and bar the door.” Rhys gave
her a stern look as he dismounted in the small courtyard of the tavern. The
sound of men enjoying their ale carried from the common room and the creak of
masts in the harbor could be heard in the nearby harbor. The wind was crisp off
the sea.

“This
must be Dumbarton,” Madeline said as he fitted his hands around her waist.

“So
it is.” Rhys tossed a coin at the ostler, then held Madeline’s elbow with care.
To his delight, she leaned on him and moaned softly, walking with apparent
effort toward the portal. He had thought his ploy a thin one, but Madeline made
it entirely plausible.

To
Rhys’ further delight, she began to complain, as if they had been wed for years
and were in the habit of bickering. And her accent changed, her words beginning
to rollick and roll with the same vigor as those uttered by the people of the
highlands.

Rhys
was impressed. He struggled to do as admirable a job of disguising himself as
she.

“I
fear we rode too quickly this afternoon, my lord,” Madeline complained, her
tone shrewish. “It was just as I warned you, but did you heed my counsel? Nay,
of course not. What need had you of the advice of a mere woman? You and your
cursed haste! What rush was there, what need for such a pace?”