Dryden's Bride (11 page)

“Well, that would not be me,” Siân said, hating the wistful tone of her words. “Though one of my aunts was midwife in my village. I attended many a birth with her,” she added in a more agreeable manner.

“Oh!” Joan said, placing a hand over her heart. “Mayhap…we could talk some…later on…I have a question or two…”

“Certainly,” Siân said. “I’ll endeavor to answer them, but I’m not nearly as knowledgeable as a true midwife.”

“Oh, but any talk will help,” Joan pleaded. “I’ve had no one really, but my husband, and he is not inclined to speak of anything but the strong and fierce son he will have once I’ve birthed him.”

Siân smiled. Morburn was like the men in her village, she thought. No care to the nurturing of the babe within, all hopes riding on the birth of a strong and healthy son. She supposed that was how nature intended it to be and wondered how Hugh would behave once Marguerite was with child. Would he be attentive
to his wife, or would all his thoughts be directed toward the child once it was born?

These were not easy thoughts to entertain, and Siân was glad of the interruption when Joan spoke. “How do you come to be here? With…with H-Henry?” Joan asked, clearly baffled at how to treat the boy. As her monarch? Or as a tired and cranky toddler?

“It all has to do with politics,” Siân answered, unsure of how much she was at liberty to say. “Very convoluted, very dull.”

“More, Siân!” Henry cried, stuffing the last bit of bread into his mouth.

“Chew what you have, little man,” Siân said.

The stew heated quickly, and while Henry was being fed, Hugh and Chester returned from outside and went upstairs. The two women listened to the footsteps from above, and Joan mentioned that the men were probably making up pallets to sleep on. Siân and Joan chatted amiably together and the little king soon fell asleep on Siân’s shoulder. She finally carried him up the stairs to find him a bed.

Hugh was alone in the first room, building a fire in the grate.

Siân stood at the doorjamb, watching him, admiring the play of muscles across his back and shoulders as he added wood to the fire. The day’s tension rolled out of her as she watched Hugh, replaced by a bone-deep weariness that settled into her.

Hugh turned and saw her caressing the little boy’s head with her lips. He could hear whispered, loving words spoken in Welsh, words that held no meaning for him. Standing abruptly, Hugh stepped over to Siân and gently took the sleeping child from her arms. And without ado, he tucked Henry into bed.

“I think I’ll retire now, as well,” Siân said quietly. “I’m too tired to eat.”

Hugh hesitated. She looked frail in that moment, her skin too pale, and dark circles under her eyes. There was no doubt she needed rest, but she needed nourishment just as badly.

“Is this to be my bed, too?” she asked.

Hugh nodded. “If you don’t mind sharing.”

Siân paused, feeling awkward with the moment. “N-not at all.”

“You should eat something.”

“I’ll wait till morning,” Siân said. Then she grinned sleepily. “By then, I will probably feel like eating one of the horses.”

Chester’s great room was comfortably warm, and Hugh’s stomach was pleasantly satisfied. Joan was an excellent cook. He realized that she was with child, and the familiar, affectionate way the couple treated each other gave Hugh a moment’s pause. For an instant, he wondered how it would be to enjoy the comfortable companionship of his own wife as his child grew within her.

Hugh discarded the thought immediately. Companionship and affection would have no place in his marriage, nor did they constitute good reason to wed. His betrothal to Marguerite would be satisfactory because she was an accomplished woman who would require very little from him, which was well and good since that was all he had to give.

“What do you hear of Nicholas Becker?” Morburn asked as his wife refilled his cup.

Hugh declined any more of the warmed wine. “He’s
at Clairmont,” he said, “trying to keep Beaufort from discovering that Henry’s gone.”

“How?”

Hugh shrugged. “You know Nick,” he said. “Gabs like an Irishman.”

“Yes, but—”

“He and the queen will buy us a day or two by telling Beaufort the boy’s ill, or some such,” Hugh said. “It’s doubtful the bishop will insist on seeing him…”

“But possible?”

“Of course,” Hugh replied. “Anything’s possible. But I think we should be able to get to Windermere and have Henry under Wolf’s protection before Beaufort or anyone else can overtake us.”

“Wolf will protect him as his own,” Chester remarked.

“Aye,” Hugh replied. “He will.”

“What about Wrexton?” Morburn asked. “Why was he with Beaufort?”

“Do you know him?”

“A little,” Morburn replied. “His estate is well south of here, beyond Windermere. It borders Wales.” Hugh gave no outward reaction to that news, but his ears perked up. “Joan can tell you. She’s from down Stafford way so she knows more of him.”

Hugh looked to Joan for confirmation. Joan blushed and lowered her eyes. She nodded quickly, nervously, her manner indicating she would prefer not to speak of him.

“Wrexton was…” She frowned a bit and looked to Chester for help, but none was forthcoming, other than the urging in his eyes. “He was…unkind to the nearby
Welsh towns. Well, perhaps a bit more than unkind. He was at times, brutal.”

“How so?” Hugh asked.

“Well, after the rebellion, and the Welsh were put down, there were some Englishmen who felt it was their duty to personally persecute the ‘traitors’—meaning
all
the Welsh.”

“Glendower’s rebellion?”

Joan nodded.

“But that was what? Twenty years ago?” Hugh said, frowning. “Wrexton can’t be much older than me. Mayhap ten years or so.”

“I don’t know, my lord,” Joan said, “I never saw the man. But I know of Englishmen who, to this day, harbor resentment for the Welshmen who rose with Glendower against the king. Wrexton lost his family during the rebellion. It’s why he hates the Welsh. And beyond that…Edmund Sandborn has a reputation for cruelty.”

Hugh’s thoughts returned to the woman he’d left upstairs. Had she experienced Wrexton’s legendary brutality? He frowned. He couldn’t imagine any other reason for Siân to attempt to murder the man.

Still puzzled, Hugh stood. He thanked Joan for the meal and both of them for their hospitality. Then he bid them good-night.

Climbing the stairs, Hugh’s puzzlement changed to a certainty that Wrexton had committed some unforgivable cruelty against Siân or, more likely, against someone she loved. He couldn’t imagine her committing a violent act against any man—unless that man was guilty of a crime committed against an innocent.

He tapped lightly on the door, gently enough not to
disturb her if she was asleep. She did not answer, so Hugh pushed the door open and went to the grate. Crouching down, he banked the fire, then stayed a moment, basking in the warmth of the room. He finally allowed himself to look at Siân, sleeping so peacefully with the little boy tucked protectively in her embrace.

One of her fine, delicate shoulders was exposed, with only the soft linen ties of her underclothes to shield her. The silky mane of her russet hair was loose about her face, framing its perfection with tiny, untamable tendrils.

Henry kicked in his sleep, and Siân sighed but slept on, raising one arm to rest above her head. And at the sight of that bared arm, everything inside Hugh urged him to shed his clothes and lie down with her. That vulnerable length of smooth, flawless skin made him think of the rest of Siân’s body as he’d seen it, felt it, the night before—soft and smooth, warm and inviting.

He could spend the night just holding her there, keeping her warm and safe, sharing the intimacy of sleep. Their breaths would intermix once again, and he would relearn the sensations of her legs resting against his, her breasts against his chest.

As she slept, a small frown marred her perfect brow. Hugh reached over and lightly brushed a bit of hair from her face. An impossible tenderness filled him.

Could he lie with her and not want her? Was he just asking for torment in being so near, yet so impossibly far away? Hugh looked at her lips, parted in sleep, and remembered her taste, her passionate sighs.

He stood up quickly. This would never do. He had to get away from here and find his own bed before he
made an irrevocable mistake. He walked to the door, then turned to look at her again.

No. He had not the power of will to be so close, and still resist her.

Knowing he must, Hugh left Siân to her slumber.

T
he nightmare woke her. Siâan hadn’t had the dream since her reunion with Owen. Not that Owen had caused the dream, Siân thought. Common sense told her it was all the recent upheaval in her life that had brought the awful dream back.

It was still deep night and Henry was sleeping soundly, each of his breaths audible to Siân’s ears. She got out of bed and shivered with the chill of the room. After adding more fuel to the fire, she ran her hands up and down her arms to warm them.

The unpleasant aura of the dream hung on. Her stomach growled with hunger. Now that she’d taken the edge off her exhaustion with a few hours’ sleep, Siân realized she’d never be able to go back to sleep until she ate something. Intent on finding a slice of bread for herself, or perhaps an apple, Siân wrapped herself in an extra blanket, then lit a taper and quietly left the room.

Joan Morburn’s kitchen was in perfect order. Siân remembered where everything was kept, so she took out the remains of a loaf, found a knife, and sliced a piece of bread. So intent on her purpose, she did not
hear anyone behind her until she turned to reach for the butter crock, high on a shelf.

“Siân,” Hugh whispered before she had a chance to be startled and perhaps wake the entire household.

Siân gave a little squeak of surprise anyway, and dropped her blanket. “Hugh!” she gasped. “You scared me!”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

His form was cast in shadows, her flickering taper providing very little light. Siân could not help but notice, however, that he was nearly naked. Somewhere in her rational mind, she realized that her stirring about must have awakened Hugh and he’d come to investigate.

He was lean and taut, with well-defined muscles in his shoulders, chest, stomach. She remembered how the crisp hair of his chest had brushed against her own sensitive skin, how his strong arms had held her in their embrace.

She shivered.

“You’re cold.”

“I—I dropped my—”

He reached down and picked the blanket up for her. Then, when she thought he would wrap it around her, he seemed to change his mind. He handed it to her, keeping some distance between them.

“You…must be hungry.”

Siân nodded. “It woke me, I guess,” she said in a small voice, avoiding thoughts of the nightmare. She pulled the blanket around her shoulders and turned to reach for the butter crock.

“Henry’s asleep?”

“Yes,” Siân said. “He had a long day.”

“So did you,” he replied, watching her spread the
butter. He poured her a mug of water. “We never talked about the incident this morning…with Wrexton.”

Siân shook her head and sat down on a hard, wooden bench near the fireplace. The fire was still smoldering and Hugh rearranged it to burn hotter. Siân took a bite of her bread.

“What did Wrexton do to make you hate him so?” Hugh asked as he took his place on the bench next to her.

“You won’t understand,” she said.

“You cannot know that,” Hugh responded. “You might be surprised at the kinds of things I understand.”

Siân realized that it was true. He had surprised her several times in the days since she’d met him, and perhaps it was time to speak of what Wrexton had done. She’d held the pain inside for so long…

“When my da died, Owen was sent to London,” she said. “I was given to my mam’s brothers in Pwll.”

“How old were you?”

“When I went to Pwll? Ten or so,” Siân said. “Pwll’s a small village—it lies near the eastern border of Wales. It’s just a hillock or two from Wrexton lands.

“The people of Pwll weren’t exactly pleased to have a Tudor in their midst…My father’s name was heavily associated with Glendower and the rebellion. I couldn’t deny it. My uncles couldn’t deny it. And Pwll had already had plenty of trouble from Wrexton.

“So I was supposed to keep to myself,” Siân said. “I was to stay away from the other children in town, though that wasn’t quite practical. I couldn’t avoid them altogether.”

Hugh got a distinct impression of a lively young Siân, being kept to a solitary existence and his heart
clenched in his chest, thinking of the loneliness and isolation she must have felt. Though Hugh’s own parents had died when he was young, he’d been welcomed into Wolf Colston’s family like another son. And after Wolf’s father and brother had been killed in ambush, Hugh had been taken into the house of Wolf’s German grandfather. He had never wanted for companionship.

“Our families didn’t know it, but I had friends…two young boys in particular. Idwal
ap
Rhys and Dafydd
ap
Dai. We used to run all over the hills and dales, getting into trouble as much as not, but careful not to let anyone know I was with them.” She smiled wistfully, remembering the fun they used to have.

“It was late winter, about a year after I had gone to Pwll, when I found two young lambs lost in a narrow valley that lies between Pwll land and Wrexton land. They weren’t any of
ours
, at least that’s what Idwal said. Between us, we decided that if they were Wrexton’s, he could afford to lose a couple of little lambs, being a rich Saxon.”

Siân stopped to take a swallow of water.

“People were hungry. It hadn’t been a good year, and we were in need of food,” she said. “Dafydd butchered the lambs out in the woods and we took the meat home. Their mothers were suspicious, as were my aunts, but hunger won out and our families had several fine meals.”

“How did Wrexton find out?”

Siân shook her head. “I’ll never know,” she said. “We never thought to bury the carcasses…never realized…In any event, Wrexton came to the village with some of his men, demanding that the thieves own up.”

“And did they?”

“Not at first, of course,” Siân replied. “We were children. Afraid. But people had figured it out…”

“What happened, Siân?”

“I—I came f-forward first,” she said, her voice trembling now, her throat burning. “I told him I’d stolen the sheep and that I’d pay for them. The earl laughed in my face. He said he knew a measly
girl
hadn’t taken his sheep and butchered them in the woods—even if I
was
a Tudor. He had me tied to a post and he beat me—”

“God’s Cross, Siân!”

“—and tried to get me to tell who’d helped me.”

Hugh pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her.

“Idwal came out,” she said. “Then Dafydd. They couldn’t bear to watch what Wrexton was doing to me. His men grabbed them. Oh, Hugh!” she cried, burying her face in his chest. “They were only
boys!
Barely twelve years old! Their voices had not yet changed. They were still so soft, so gangly.

“Wrexton took them. He had them bound…”

“You don’t have to finish,” Hugh said quietly, but it was as if she hadn’t heard him.

“The Saxons threw ropes over a tree branch,” she said, weeping now, having difficulty getting the words out. “Wr-Wrexton said this was what they g-got for trusting a Tudor. And he…he h-hanged them. In front of me, in front of the whole town…everyone.” Her voice was the barest whisper by the time she finished.

“I still see their faces sometimes,” she said, sniffling, thinking of the nightmare.

“Siân, don’t.”

“And their mothers…I hear their voices…see their eyes,” Siân continued. “And I know I was to blame.”

“You weren’t, Siân,” Hugh said. “If there’s any blame at all—it lies with Wrexton.”

“Yes, he carries the blame,” Siân said, “and that’s why…this morning…why…”

“I see now.”

“I promised myself that day—the day those boys died—that I would deal with Wrexton someday,” Siân said. “I didn’t know how or when, I just knew that someday I would end his life just as he ended Idwal’s and Dafydd’s.”

Hugh let out a long sigh. Her head was nestled under his chin, so his breath ruffled the hair on top of her head. “Siân…”

“But even now, I don’t know. Even if you hadn’t stopped me, I don’t know if I could have gone through with it,” she said, pulling away and looking up at him with those luminous blue eyes, her nose red and runny, her lips swollen from crying. “I still don’t know if I have the courage to hold to my vow.”

Hugh tenderly caressed her face. It was no wonder she’d wanted to murder Wrexton. Her feelings for the man must have been akin to what he’d felt about Philip Colston, the deadly madman who’d captured and imprisoned him in one of the dark tunnels under Windermere Castle. The man who’d tortured him beyond all covenants of humanity.

Hugh didn’t know if murder was ever justified. But he
did
know how it felt to want it more than he wanted his next breath.

“You were a child when you made that vow,” he finally said. “You can’t hold yourself to it now, Siân.”

She didn’t answer him, only sat close, in the shelter of his arms. Hugh didn’t feel the chill of the room on
his bare skin, nor the lateness of the hour. For now, it was enough to hold Siân Tudor.

They left Morburn Manor before daybreak, to avoid being seen by the thatchers and carpenters who would soon arrive. Henry was still asleep, a condition in which both Hugh and Siân wanted to keep him, so Hugh carried the boy for the first hour of the day’s journey.

Siân rode quietly behind Hugh, thinking of the way he had held her the night before as she poured her heart out to him.

She couldn’t remember ever receiving such comfort before, and it gave her an odd sense of belonging, a feeling of intimacy, that she’d never experienced before. No one had held her or spoken gently to her after the boys had been killed. Her uncles had untied and released her hands from the post where Wrexton had beaten her skin raw. They’d taken her inside her uncle Llwel’s house where her wounds had been tended in miserly silence, without a thought to the grief and guilt she felt over the tragedy.

But now there was Hugh, who seemed to understand the depth of her anguish. And Siân’s heart swelled with the wonder of it.

They rode on, following the worn little footpath as the sun crept its way above the horizon directly behind them.

“Hew?” Henry said as he awoke with a yawn and a stretch. “Hungry.”

“You are always hungry,
Parry
,” Siân said with a laugh. She nudged her horse closer to Hugh’s and handed the boy a slice of apple. “We’ll stop in a few minutes, shall we, Hugh?”

Hugh’s brow furrowed with incredulity. How could she smile and appear so carefree when the events of her youth had been so devastating? She might not be justified in murdering Wrexton, but how could she go on so cheerfully, knowing the man lived…prospered?

Siân chatted amiably with Henry as Hugh mulled things over. She was amazingly resilient, leaving all she knew in Wales to go to her brother in London, accepting Owen’s decree that she go to the abbey, taking charge of the children at Clairmont, organizing activities for them during the repair and rebuilding of the town.

He knew of no ladies who could have endured all that Siân Tudor had, and still retain her sense of humor, her apparent delight in life. And courage? She wondered if she had the courage of her convictions.

Hugh almost laughed.

Just because she hadn’t murdered Wrexton didn’t mean she lacked courage.

He wished he could hand the despicable earl’s head to her on a platter, then stopped to realize that it was not his place to become Siân’s champion. He would find a suitable husband for her, and provide a decent dowry if need be, if only to see her satisfactorily settled. Nicholas hadn’t declined to wed her, but he hadn’t exactly agreed, either. In fact, his manner had been altogether unlike Nicholas. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet and pensive when Hugh had spoken to him about taking Siân to wife.

Hugh vaguely wondered what was amiss with his friend. It had been so long since the cares and worries of others had bothered Hugh that he didn’t know what to make of Nicholas and his quiet, sober attitude of late. Something surely was not right, but Hugh dismissed
the question for now, since there was naught he could do for Nick until he returned to Clairmont.

The day’s ride was long and tedious again, with the threat of rain hovering over them all afternoon. The clouds were dark, low, and heavy, and Hugh worried that they would not make as many miles as were needed to get to their destination, and that they’d wind up staying the night somewhere along the road.

Though Henry started well, he ended up being difficult, and Siân insisted on stopping several times—too many times, in Hugh’s opinion—to give the boy a chance to run and play.

But Hugh was only as patient as common sense would allow, and more than once he had to compel Siân and Henry back into the saddle, much sooner than either of them liked.

The rain started near dusk.

Hugh wrapped himself in his thick cloak and held Henry underneath it, close to his body as they rode. The boy snuggled against Hugh and allowed himself, finally, to be lulled to sleep.

“Do you suppose there’ll be a cotter’s hut or shelter of some kind where we can wait out this rain?” Siân asked, glancing fearfully at the faint flashes of lightning in the distance.

Hugh nodded and glanced around for landmarks. “We’ll stop soon,” he said as he nudged his horse to a quicker pace. Siân kept up behind him, wishing they’d soon find a place to stop for the night. She was exhausted, and her backside felt miserable from riding. She needed rest, and knew Henry needed it, too.

Soon, the aroma of a fire reached her nose, and before Siân had time to wonder about it, they came upon
three ragged men sitting at the side of the road under the branches of several low-hanging trees. A small, smoky fire burned between them as they sat among the rocks and broken logs, eyeing the passersby. Siân held her breath. This would not be a good time for a confrontation, she thought, with Henry sitting on Hugh’s lap and her riding behind, unarmed in any way.

Hugh appeared unconcerned by the soggy vagabonds, though, merely kicking his heels into his mare’s sides and quickly moving out of range. The danger was past before it ever really amounted to anything.

They rode on as darkness fell and the rain increased.

“We must stop soon, Hugh,” Siân said. “I fear I am too…sore to go on.”