Keeper of the Dream (11 page)

Her arms loaded with linen, Edith bustled from the
room. Arianna wandered over to the window. It was indeed a beautiful morning, though it had poured rain throughout the night, turning the yard into a sea of mud. At least she hadn’t been shut up within the keep’s stone vault this time. Her prison was a comfortable chamber in the long, two-storied timbered hall within the bailey.

The yard below her window was alive with activity. A cook, lugging a steaming cauldron, emerged from the kitchen, almost colliding with a baker who performed a fancy two-step while balancing a tray of loaves on his head. Now that the chapel bell had ceased its pealing, she could hear the smack of the laundresses’ wooden paddles beating sheets in the wash trough. A cart piled high with new rushes for the floors rattled by beneath her window.

Just then the watchman blew his horn and the gate swung wide. A dozen men on horseback clattered at a fast trot across the drawbridge, the man in the lead bearing the standard that had haunted her dreams—a black dragon on a bloodred field.

Rache and lyam-hounds dashed among the flying hooves. The pack bayed in a fever of excitement, red tongues lolling. A man bore a slaughtered boar’s head on the point of a spear, while another blew on the hunting horn, announcing the kill. The black knight reined up before the hall. He must have been out hunting since dawn. His horse’s sides were flecked with foam from the gallop of the chase, but still the spirited charger danced about, so a squire had to run up and hold the stirrup for the knight to dismount. The squire, she saw by the flash of his red hair, was that wretched, traitorous boy.

The knight had on spurred boots that were higher than was fashionable, reaching to his knees. His plain leather tunic was slit up the side for riding. It revealed thighs encased in tight chausses that hugged every sinew of lean, hard muscles built from hours spent in the tilting yard. His head was bare and the wind stirred his raven-black hair. His chainse showed white beneath the open neck of
his tunic, contrasting with the sun-browned skin of his hard and ruthless face. His incredible arrogance was evident in the very way he walked, in his purposeful, long-legged stride and the sauntering sway of his lean hips.

He stopped just below her window. Close enough to spit on. He stood in profile to her and the sun highlighted the sharp bones of his predatory nose and high cheekbones. He was close enough that if he tilted back his head he would see her. But he was in deep conversation with his squire.

Though she was his prisoner, the only time they had been face-to-face since that day in his tent was last afternoon, when their paths had crossed in the bailey while she was on her way to Mass. She had made certain he knew just what she thought of him by allowing all the hatred she felt to show in her face, and he … he had looked right through her with those opaque gray eyes.

She was of no importance to him beyond the ransom she could bring. In truth, she thanked God nightly that he had no desire to lie with her, for she would be returned to her father a virgin still. But for some reason she couldn’t begin to understand, his lack of interest stung her pride. Dozens of men had begged for her hand in marriage, but none had been deemed good enough for her. Yet this Norman knight, who was a drab’s by-blow without title or land, looked at her—when he bothered to look at all—as if she weren’t good enough to wipe his boots.

Arianna started to push away from the window when her gaze fell on the laver nearby. The basin was filled with water covered by a soapy scum left over from her wash.

Before she could lose her nerve, she picked up the basin and flung the contents out the window, shifting her aim at the last minute so that the water landed not on his head, as she’d originally intended, but at his feet. The water splattered on the wet ground, splashing mud onto his boots.

The knight’s dark head snapped up and around. Arianna
looked right through him, then she shifted her gaze over to the squire, who was also staring up at her, surprise on his face, and she smiled at the boy.

“Oh dear, forgive me, Taliesin,” she said in her sweetest voice. “I didn’t see you there. I hope I didn’t muddy you.”

The squire had been standing well apart from his master and had not been touched by the flying mud. A big grin stretched his mobile face. “Nay, and good morrow to you, milady.”

“Good morrow, Taliesin,” she said, flashing a brilliant smile in return.

Arianna turned from the window, pleased with herself. That had certainly shown the Norman that if she meant little to him, he meant even less to her.

A few moments later the sound of footsteps on the stairs caused Arianna to regret her rash impulse to put the man in his place. But when the door swung open it was Taliesin who entered.

“Sir Raine summons you to the bailey, milady,” he said, his face blank, though she thought she caught a twinkle of gleeful anticipation in his eyes.

Arianna’s mouth went dry. She nodded and, her spine rigid, her head held high, she followed the squire out the chamber. But it was the two burly guards, and not Taliesin, who brought her outside and into the bailey.

The knight stood next to the hitching post beside the hall’s front stairs. She stopped before him and met his hard, gray eyes. “You wished to speak with me, Norman?”

He braced one muddy boot against the rail. “Clean them.”

Arianna’s chin jerked up. “Summon a servant.”

“You dirtied them, wench. Now you will clean them.”

There wasn’t a trace of inflection in his voice, and his eyes remained flat, inscrutable. They could have been discussing the weather.

She gave him a freezing smile and cooed in a sing-song, “Clean your boots, sir bastard knight? Why, I would sooner eat them.”

He bared his teeth back at her. “Shall I summon the cook?”

He wouldn’t dare, would he? Of course he wouldn’t dare. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He shrugged. “Nay, you are right. It would be a waste of a perfectly good pair of boots.” His face hardened, and his eyes took on a lazy, dangerous cast. “Clean them, wench. Or feel the flat of my sword across your backside.”

She heard a snickering coming from the two guards behind her, which was abruptly cut off at a look from their master. The laundresses had stopped their beating, and an expectant silence had fallen over a bailey, which seemed suddenly filled with people. Even the mews and kennels were quiet. She thought of how humiliating it would be to be beaten like a disobedient child in front of all these strangers, and she knew she didn’t have the courage to test his resolve.

His eyes had fastened onto her mouth, as if he waited for her to speak. Her lips felt suddenly dry, and she wet them with her tongue. “I … I don’t have anything to wipe them with.”

His hand lashed out and Arianna flinched, thinking he meant to hit her. Instead he grabbed a fistful of her bliaut and yanked. The material gave way with a loud rip and Arianna flinched again. He jerked at the thin silk cloth twice more until a piece of it came free in his hands. He held it out to her.

“Now you do,” he said.

Beneath her bliaut, Arianna wore a pelisse, and beneath that a chainse. He hadn’t exactly stripped her naked, and her cheeks burned more from anger than embarrassment. She snatched the piece of ripped cloth out of his hand, but in the next instant she was possessed with a
desire to laugh. It seemed he thought her good enough to wipe his boots after all.

Leaning over, she brushed off the drying flecks of mud. The boot was made of the finest Cordovan goatskin, but it had long since seen better days. The leather had almost worn through at the inside of his calf, from rubbing against his horse’s flanks. Her father would have thrown such a pair of boots out long ago. The knight obviously needed the money she would bring him. It angered her to think that his lot in life would now improve because of her.

Finished, she glanced up, expecting him to be watching her and gloating over her humiliation. But his eyes were focused instead on the keep at the far end of the bailey, and she saw to her surprise a look of naked hunger on his face.

“I’ve finished, Norman.”

His head jerked around, and he looked at her a moment, and she thought he might really be seeing her this time, though his face had regained its usual closed expression. He studied the boot, pointing to the heel. “You missed a spot.”

Arianna’s jaws clenched. She bent over, rubbing so hard her hand slipped and she cut her knuckles on the sharp edge of his spur. Tears of pain stung her eyes and she cursed beneath her breath.

“Did you say something, wench?”

She straightened with a snap. “I said give me the other boot and damn you to hell.”

His lips moved slightly, and she thought he might be about to smile. Instead, he dropped the spotless boot to the ground and supplanted it with a muddy one. Arianna finished the task in silence.

He examined her work. “Passable, but just barely.” His head came up and she saw in his eyes the glint of some unnamed emotion that came and then vanished. “I
wouldn’t hire myself out as a servant though, if I were you. You haven’t the talent for it.”

In spite of herself Arianna almost smiled. But before she could think of a snappy retort he had started to turn, and she realized he was about to walk away. She had found out nothing about what he intended to do with her.

“Wait!” she cried out, louder than she’d meant to. He paused, black brows raised in a mild enquiry. “Have … have you spoken with my father? Is the ransom arranged?”

“The matter has been concluded to my king’s satisfaction,” was all he said.

Arianna wanted to scream with frustration. She wanted to slap that impassive face. She wanted to pound her fists against his indifferent chest. She wanted to make him
feel
something. “Well, it has not been concluded to my satisfaction! You owe Gwynedd a blood debt, Norman. The day will come, and soon I pray, when that debt will be paid with your life.”

“What blood debt?”

He looked genuinely surprised. She realized suddenly that he truly didn’t know the identity of the youth he had struck down before the gates of Rhuddlan. “The man you took this castle from, the man you killed with your lance … he was my brother.”

His eyes widened slightly. “Ah, I see … So that explains why you’ve been trying to stick something lethal in me since first we met.” He shrugged, shaking his head. “I owe you no blood debt, girl. The blame for your brother’s death lands on your father’s and King Henry’s heads for starting this fool war in the first place. And on the boy’s own head for being stupid enough to fall for a trick the veriest babe shouldn’t have fallen for.”

He hesitated, and though his voice remained flat and cold, she thought his face softened a little. “It was war, my lady. If it was in truth my lance that killed your
brother, it wasn’t personal. God willing his soul found salvation.”

Tears burned her eyes, but she would be damned first before she would weep before this man. It made it worse somehow, knowing that he was right. She drew in a deep breath to alleviate some of the crushing ache in her chest, and to her horror a sob burst from her throat. Humiliated, she whirled, stumbling away from him, but he snagged her arm, hauling her up against his chest. His fist closed around her hair, pulling her head back and he brought his mouth down over hers.

She went still as all the breath left her body. His lips moved over hers, hard at first, then gentling. She brought her hands up between them, to push him away. Instead her fingers curled around the edges of his leather tunic and she clung to him as the blood rushed from her head. She didn’t know she kissed him back, she didn’t hear him groan. Her senses reeled, focused only on the strange, sweet, and painful feel of his lips on hers.

He released her mouth. She looked up at him, dazed, confused by the sensations that coursed through her body. She was dissolving, melting, burning up inside. Her lips parted open.

His head dipped, but then his fist tightened in her hair and he pulled her away from him. He stepped back, staring at her with eyes that were wide open and filled with the same bewildered shock she knew were in her own.

That afternoon Arianna sat on a stool before the empty brazier, listlessly picking at a bowl of veal piquant, when behind her the door flung open, slamming against the wall. She whirled in alarm, her fist pressed to her breast, just as a boy came hurtling into the chamber, shoved in by one of the guards.

“Rhodri!” Arianna jumped up to fling her arms around the boy. But her joy turned immediately to horror as it occurred to her what her younger brother’s presence must
mean. “Oh, Rhodri, is Father dead? Has he been captured?”

“Leave off, Arianna, for the love of Christ. You’re smothering me.” Rhodri wriggled out of her hug. At fourteen he considered himself too old for such displays of affection. He smoothed the front of his ruffled tunic. “Nay, Father is well. He’s just agreed to a truce with that devil’s spawn, King Henry.”

“A truce? Have I been ransomed then? Are you here to escort me home?”

“Well, not exactly.” Rhodri’s eyes shifted away from hers.

“What exactly?”

He ignored her, prowling the room. Like all of Owain’s children, he bore the Gwynedd features. His eyes were several shades paler than Arianna’s, the color of baby ferns. His hair was a lighter brown, tipped golden by the sun. Though it had only been a little over a month since she had last seen him, he seemed to have sprouted a foot. He was all skinny arms and legs.

He stopped his prowling when he discovered her dinner. He tore off a piece of bread, stuffing it in his mouth.

Arianna heaved an impatient sigh. “Rhodri, will you tell me—”

“Aye, aye.” He spoke around the food in his mouth. “As I said, Father signed a truce with England. He paid homage to King Henry, but England has agreed to withdraw and respect in future our right to rule ourselves. In return he had to give up Rhuddlan, along with the whole of the
cantref
of Tegeingl, and two hostages as surety for future peace.” He took a swig of the ale to wash down the bread. “Us.”

Arianna’s mouth quirked into a funny smile. “Us? We … we’re to be the hostages?” The thought of being condemned to a life in England was so horrible she could scarce imagine it.