Outrageous (11 page)

That should have alarmed him. Instead it fostered pride in him—an unfamiliar notion. Now he would have to probe her mind to discover the depth of her interest in this Griffith ap Powel. It pleased him when she stammered, “He—he wanted a room where he could speak without having your spies listen.”

“And how did he discover my spies were listening?”

“I don’t know.” She threw out her arms in an excess of innocence. “I don’t know, Wenthaven. I only know his servant questioned me about your spies. Probably King Henry knows about it. Probably the king’s spies are spying on your spies.”

That was a thought. A depressing thought, and one worth investigating. But he wasn’t done with Marian yet. “Why were you in Powel’s room in the middle of the night?”

She made it clear she didn’t like it, but she answered bluntly, “I was collecting my money.”

“Of course.” He didn’t believe that, but it wasn’t important. “Back to the original question—why did you put him in the tower?”

“I don’t know what you’re asking.”

A fine parry, but he thrust under her guard. “Is Powel your newest lover?”

“Nay!”

Well accustomed to interrogation, he leveled an accusing stare at her. “You wanted to put him in the tower because there you could indulge yourself without my knowledge.” He felt that stab of pride again when she visibly pulled herself together.

“Nay. Sir Griffith is ill tempered, ill mannered, and ill favored. He thinks me a whore and despises me for my wantonness. I’ve remained celibate since Lionel’s birth. Why do you think he would tempt me?

Wenthaven wondered how well she’d learned the fine art of acting during her latter days at court. Did she hide an ardor for this Griffith ap Powel? Better than most, Wenthaven understood the illogic of pas
sion. With his hands cupped, he lifted water from the tub and poured it around Honey’s ears. “Your mother wasn’t the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met, nor the most interesting, but I never stopped pursuing her, even when she was mine. Even now, when I see a woman who resembles her…but they’re never the same.”

As he had intended, this glimpse of his soft underbelly fascinated Marian. “So you mourned my mother when she died?”

For some reason, he told her the truth in a neutral tone that he hoped disguised the old anguish that was still alive after almost twenty years. “If I could, I would level the tower that killed her.”

“It would be difficult, but not impossible. Why can’t you?”

“She won’t let me. I planned to do it once, and went into the tower to explain to the workers what must be done, and she…” He recalled a whisper of silk, a scent of rose, a quick turn to see…nothing. He pressed one wet wrist to his forehead, then plunged it into the water again. “I haven’t gone back since. It’s not a pleasant feeling, being dictated to from beyond the grave. Especially not by a woman who said so little when she was alive.”

“Does she disapprove of you?”

“Your mother was an innocent.” It made him angry that he still remembered, still longed for her. “She never approved of my activities, my little forays to gather information. She didn’t like the people I keep around me.”

He didn’t look at her directly, but from the corner of his eye he could see her gathering her courage. He braced himself for another probe about her mother.

But she asked only, “Why
do
you have those people here?”

“What people?”

“Those pathetic imitations of courtiers. Those
poor souls who hang about, looking for a handout. These dogs have more dignity than they do.”

“From your lips I heard the answer.
Poor souls
.” He relished the phrase. “If I didn’t take them in, who would?”

“They’d have to do something useful with their lives.”

“How? Most of them are noble. They have no skills. The younger sons can tilt at tournament, recite their own dreadful poetry, sit a horse—one of them can even recite a mass. He was a priest destined for high office in the Church until his bishop caught him with his hand up his daughter’s skirt. The bishop’s daughter’s skirt, that is.” Wenthaven rolled his eyes. “No political acumen.”

“And the women?”

“Ah, the impoverished daughters!” He blew an annoying strand of silver hair out of his eyes. “Who’ll pay for needlework and gossip? The unfortunate souls are dependent on me for everything.”

“And that gives you power.”

He slid her a sideways glance. “How clever of you, darling.”

“Why do you want so much power?”

“Ah. Are you asking about my motivation?”

“I…aye, I suppose I am.”

He clucked his tongue and kept his tone smooth. “’Tis the first time you’ve shown interest in me and my background. I’m flattered.”

She wisely kept her mouth shut.

He rewarded her acumen with a glimpse of his past. “When I was a youth, I was one of the unfortunate souls.” Lifting the dog out of the tub, he told the approaching kennel keeper, “I’ll care for Honey.” To Marian he said, “I was a poor relation of the Woodville family, and they were not, at that time, related to royalty. But when Elizabeth Woodville married King Edward and produced all those chil
dren—starting with your own Lady Elizabeth of York—that changed. Cousin Elizabeth Woodville—she’s the dowager queen of England now—had King Edward give me a title. She found me an heiress whose lands were not entailed, and I wed.”

“My mother?”

“Your mother.” He pointed at the stack of drying clothes. “Hand me that towel, would you?”

Marian obliged. “What did she think of the marriage?”

His smile wavered. “Your mother was not an easy woman to read.”

“Did she love you?”

“Aristocrats do not love.”

“Then, did you love her?”

He looked at her, noting the coltish grace of her legs and the tilt of her chin. For the first time in his life, he’d slipped. He’d revealed too much, and she’d gotten above herself. She imagined she could insult him without consequence. In the cold tone he often employed with such success, he replied, “I am not so low a breed as you think, my lady Marian. Not so low a breed as a pathetic soul who comes running home with her bastard and begs me for sanctuary.”

She jerked her head back as if he’d slapped her. “You never reproached me before.”

“Reproached you? For the failure of my dreams? For destroying the chance I bought for you?”

She leaned across the dog to grab his arm. “I did what you told me to do.”

With a snarl, Honey sprang toward her. Wenthaven grabbed the dog, and with a cry, Marian tumbled backward onto the grass. Barking frenziedly, Honey fought to escape him, to protect him. He wrestled with the dog, desperate to restrain her, furious with Marian for provoking the attack and more furious at himself.

He should have let Honey maul Marian. It would
have not only taught her a well-needed lesson, but put enough marks on that pretty face to stop Harbottle and Griffith and whoever else she’d been toying with.

But in instinctive reaction, he’d pulled the dog back.

He didn’t want Marian to bleed. He didn’t want her in pain.

“Damn the dog!” Marian cried, her gaze fixed on the sharp teeth Honey kept bared at her. “Why did she do that?”

He calmed Honey until she subsided into a fit of low growls. “She was protecting me.”

“I wasn’t going to bite
you
.” She sat up and flapped her coat, trying to dislodge some of the grass and mud. “Honey never liked me.”

“Of course not. Honey is the dominant bitch in the kennel, and she’s responding to the threat to her domain.”

Still defiant, she said, “I don’t threaten her!”

“I know that, but you’ll never convince Honey.” He tapped her untouched cheek. “She recognizes your scent, and after all”—he smiled with all his teeth—“you are top bitch in the kennel.”

Lionel wiggled
on Griffith’s shoulders, and Griffith adjusted him without giving it a thought. How could he, when his discussion with the Welsh mercenaries, and particularly with the scarred and ruthless captain, proved so much more interesting than one small boy?

But Lionel wiggled again, then tugged Griffith’s hair sharply.

“Hey, lad!” Griffith swung Lionel down to his feet. “What do you mean by it?”

Lionel laughed, a light, joyous sound, and pointed toward the kennel enclosure. Griffith’s gaze fastened on the tall, graceful youth closing the gate.

Not a youth, but a woman with too much faith in a costume and too little in a man’s perception.

Marian.

The mercenary proved Griffith right with a grin that revealed a few broken stubs of teeth. In Welsh Cledwyn said, “Th’ earl’s mad daughter. I have plans t’ visit her some night.”

Griffith gathered the front of Cledwyn’s grimy,
knee-length garment—the only one he wore—in his fist and pulled him close. Looking deep into his eyes, Griffith replied in Welsh, “I’d reconsider, if I wanted to keep my family clappers intact.”

“Is she”—the flesh of Cledwyn’s face quivered—“under yer protection?”

“My protection, and King Henry’s.”

“King Henry? Ooh, ’tis frightened, I am.” The mercenary shot two fingers out toward Griffith’s eyes.

Griffith deflected them with a slash of his flattened palm.

Cledwyn considered Griffith. “Ye can fight, can ye?”

Calmly, making it clear he did it because he chose to, Griffith loosened his grip on the mercenary’s filthy garment. “How did you lose your teeth?”

“Mace swing t’ th’ head.” Deprived of the structure that teeth lent a face, Cledwyn looked like a clay molding mashed from jaw to forehead. “Only a Welshman tough as me could live through it.”

Griffith nodded. “’Twould be a cruel irony if it happened again. I doubt you’d be lucky enough to live through it twice.”

Not at all alarmed, Cledwyn again considered Griffith. “Some Welshman ye are, threatening yer fellow countryman.”

“Some Welshman you are,” Griffith countered, “dealing treacherously with King Henry of Wales.”

Cledwyn seemed more surprised than sullen. “There’s money t’ be made.”

Lionel pulled on Griffith’s coat, but Griffith only patted his head and answered Cledwyn. “That doesn’t absolve treason.”

“Money absolves everythin’.” Seeing a chance to challenge Griffith, Cledwyn sneered. “Especially when Henry remembers he’s a Welshman only long enough t’ secure his arse on th’ throne, then do his dirtiest t’ my own dearest country o’ Cymru.”

He ended on a sob that didn’t impress Griffith at all. “Your affection for Wales isn’t worth piss.” Lionel tugged at Griffith again, and Griffith shook him off. “If enough Welshmen think as you do and hire themselves out to a petty lord with dreams too big for his codpiece, Henry’ll have reason to betray Wales, won’t he? All of Cymru will be squeezed out at the little end of the horn.”

Cledwyn’s voice rose. “Save yer breath t’ cool yer porridge. Ye’ll never convince me—damn little turd!”

Griffith jerked Lionel away from Cledwyn’s hairy leg and swung him away just as the mercenary’s hand descended.

“He bit me!” Cledwyn shrieked, lunging for Lionel. “Th’ half-wit whelp bit me!”

Griffith’s hands were full, so he aimed his kick to Cledwyn’s groin and let Cledwyn’s forward momentum drive the blow home. Cledwyn’s arms flew out, and he paused like a man dangling from a sky noose. Then he crumpled while his fellow mercenaries cheered.

Griffith took no notice of their approval, knowing well they’d have cheered just as vigorously had he suffered the defeat. To the groaning Cledwyn, he said, “I did warn you about your clappers.”

“Mama!” Lionel pointed in the direction of his old home. “Mama!”

Jolted, Griffith stared at the lad. “You can speak!”

“Damn clear, too,” said one of the mercenaries.

“Been practicin’ on his own,” another commented.

As proud as if he were Lionel’s father, Griffith grinned. “His first word, and he said it to me.”

“Mama!” Lionel insisted.

Griffith glanced around, but Marian had disappeared. “Where did she go?”

Apparently deciding he’d said enough, Lionel again pointed. With the child in his arms, Griffith set off at a trot through the orchard, searching for
Marian. He found her just as she slipped through the gate of the cottage fence. He wanted to call her name, but she skulked along so furtively, he stopped himself. Lionel, too, seemed to have detected the need for secrecy, and withheld his astonishing cry.

Marian avoided the cottage and crept around toward the curtain wall. She was headed for the copse and, to Griffith’s disgust, disappeared among the trees. He shifted his position but she still remained out of sight. No matter how he moved, he couldn’t see her, and he knew now why she’d chosen that place to conceal her secrets.

When she emerged, he stepped back, hiding himself.

He didn’t like doing it. It was not the act of an open and honorable knight, but when dealing with wild creatures, with kings, and with women, Griffith had sometimes found cunning to be essential.

With Lionel safe in his arms, Griffith slipped around to the walls of the castle that so closely overshadowed the copse. He used the rough stone as a protection against spies from above and depended on the unremarkable black of his mantle to hide him from any other gaze.

The copse looked the same as it had only a few hours ago, but the sun no longer touched it, and it seemed less a haven and more a place of enigma and shadows. Same trees, same hammock, but something niggled at Griffith. Something
was
different.…

Lionel pointed. “Mama.”

Griffith stared at the deepest shadow beneath the trees but saw nothing.

Taking Griffith’s chin between both his palms, Lionel turned it toward his own face, looked into Griffith eyes, and slowly enunciated, “Mama’s.”

Griffith grinned at the lad. “You’re my ally in this, aren’t you?” Walking into the trees, he saw what Lionel insisted he see. A fresh mound of dirt,
hastily dug, hastily tamped over. Placing Lionel in the hammock, he dug, too, and found a black waxed box.

It was empty.

“Why do you wear such ugly clothes?”

Marian’s question broke a silence as profound as a monk’s meditation, but no one in the tower room seemed affected. Cecily didn’t move, preferring to sit close against the fire, her arms wrapped around her belly. Lionel lay on a blanket by her, sucking his thumb and looking smug as only a secure two-year-old can. Art and Griffith straddled a bench, playing chess, drinking ale, and muttering in a language quite incomprehensible to Marian.

She wondered if she’d only dreamed she’d spoken and said more loudly, “Griffith ap Powel. Why do you wear such ugly clothes?”

Griffith lifted his head. “Are you talking to me?”

“Is your name not Griffith ap Powel?” Marian asked, exasperated. “And are you not the only person in this room wearing ugly clothes?”

Griffith looked at everybody in turn, his gaze lingering on Marian. She smoothed the tight bodice of one of the gowns her father had sent up to her, wished the skirt were long enough to cover her ankles, and wished she wore a wimple to shield her expression.

Instead she tucked the loose strands of hair back into the braid and stared boldly at the dismal brown surcoat Griffith wore over his linen tunic. “No one’s worn a surcoat of that mode for fifty years, and it looks as if you’ve been rolling in the mud.”

Only mildly interested, he looked down at himself. “’Tis an admirable color for stalking prey, and what does it matter if it’s old-fashioned? I’m not a peacock spreading fine feathers for a mate.”

Dismissing the subject—and her, it seemed—he returned to his play.

It had been a very odd evening.

When Marian had returned to the tower room—as instructed—there had been no one there except a wide-eyed, terrified Cecily, who jumped every time the ceiling creaked and babbled about Countess Wenthaven’s malevolent spirit. But it seemed she was more afraid of Art, so she had stayed.

Marian had taken the garments sent by Wenthaven up the stairs to the tiny room, and there she had changed and hidden the treasure she’d retrieved from the grove behind her cottage. When Griffith returned with Lionel, she had been kneeling before the hearth to start the fire.

She had wanted to say something snappy about her own obedience to Griffith’s commands, but the sight of Lionel held so tenderly by the giant knight stopped her words. Then she was glad she’d held her peace, for obviously Griffith was in no mood for repartee. In fact, he had been so grimly, thoughtfully silent, she’d jumped with pleasure when Art arrived.

But even the exuberant Art seemed tired and tightlipped.

She’d imagined an evening rife with the gripping tension that existed between Griffith and her. Instead he’d ignored her, and she’d had a chance to let down the hem on the other two gowns Wenthaven had scrounged for her.

She couldn’t even pick a fight with Griffith, and it embarrassed her that she wanted to. Was she a child seeking attention?

But Lionel rested quietly, content with his thoughts, and the comparison did not flatter her. “Come, Lionel,” she said, rising off the bench. “You’ve had a big day. Let’s put you to bed.”

As always at bedtime, Lionel’s lip stuck out, but this time he surprised her. He said, “Nay!”

Marian froze.

Cecily choked, then asked, “Did you speak?”

Amenably Lionel repeated, “Nay.”

“You little darling!” Marian flew to his side and knelt on the blanket. “Say it again.”

“Nay. Nay, nay, nay.”

“Did you hear that?” In her pride, Marian included every occupant in the room. “He said his first word. Nay.” Her tongue lingered on it as if it were the best syllable ever created. “Nay.”

Cecily wet her lips. “He…is that really his first word? Probably ‘nay’ is all he’ll say for a long time.”

“Actually—” Griffith began.

Delighted with the attention, Lionel interrupted him. “Mama.”

Marian’s heart swelled. She could scarcely breathe with emotion. “Mama?” she whispered.

“Mama.” He crawled into her arms, all grins and wet kisses. “Mama.”

Dropping her head on his shoulder, Marian shed a few tears. Embarrassing tears, tender tears, tears too precious to contain. Her baby, her perfect baby, had just said his first words.

“Can he say anything else?” Cecily asked, and her voice trembled.

Philosophical as any experienced father, Art answered, “We’ll find out soon enough.”

“Sweet Jesú,” Cecily whispered.

Blindly Marian put out a hand to Cecily, and Cecily grasped it tightly between her palms. Lifting her wet face, Marian smiled at Cecily through the blur of tears. “Dearest cousin, you’ve been my rod and staff these last years. How wonderful to share this moment.”

“Aye,” Cecily agreed. “I never expected to be so flustered by one tiny word.”

Still hugging Lionel, Marian gathered his blanket and stood. The flames behind her cast themselves
through the thin material of her makeshift skirt, outlining the length of her legs, and if Griffith could have moved, he would have covered Art’s eyes. Instead he sat, frozen and stupid, while she wrapped up her son. Halting before the stairs, she said, “Lionel, wish Griffith and Art a fair night.”

Still too overwhelmed by Lionel’s miracle to believe in it, she didn’t wait for a response.

But Lionel said, “Griffith.”

Pride and horror took alternate possession of Marian’s features, and she staggered as if Lionel suddenly weighed too much for her.

For the first time in years, Griffith found the blood rushing to his cheeks, and he cleared his throat before replying gruffly, “Sleep well, young Lionel.”

“Guess this answers the question about him saying anything else,” Art said, as close to crowing as Griffith had ever seen him.

Cecily held out her arms to Lionel. “Let me take him, my lady.”

Reluctantly Marian gave him up, then turned her dewy face to Griffith and Art. “His first word was ‘nay.’ Does that mean he’ll be a warrior?” She gurgled with laughter and followed Cecily upstairs.

Griffith stared after her. From the hole in the ceiling, he could hear sounds of bedtime preparation. Lionel squawked but settled easily, worn from his stimulating day. The murmur of women’s voices floated down. In the silence that followed, Griffith unshrouded his own long neglected imagination.

Was Marian in bed? Did she still wear that wisp of a too small dress, or had she bared herself to the chill of the sheets? And if she had—

Art masked his meddlesome stare when Griffith turned to him urgently to say, “Lionel said ‘Mama’ first. He said it this afternoon. Should I tell her?”

“Not if he said it to ye,” Art answered, scandalized.
“Better she should think his first word is ‘nay,’ and that he said it to
her
.”

“That’s what I thought.” Griffith rubbed his aching head. “I’m glad I did one thing right this day.”

“Did ye talk to the mercenaries?” Art asked.

“Aye.”

“Then ye did two things right.”

“There’s treachery afoot.” Griffith again glanced at the hole in the ceiling. “And I know not from where it comes.”

“Not from Marian lass,” Art protested, indignant at the unspoken suggestion.

“Not from her, but about her, I trow.” Griffith touched Art’s shoulder. “Let’s build up the fire and sit beneath the canopy on the bed. ’Twould be warmer and less noisome to the occupants above.”

Art squatted in front of the fireplace. “Ye carry the wood. I’ve tired myself in yer service today.”

Surprised, Griffith complied with the unusual request, stacking the logs where Art could reach them and squatting beside him. “I’ve not heard that complaint before.”

“I never thought I’d see the day where I’d make it.” Art poked vigorously at the fire, and sparks flew. “Did ye know the widow Jane has buried five husbands?”

“Ah”—Griffith scratched his chin as he tried to understand—“nay, I did not know that. Five, eh?”

“Five.” Art pointed at the bed of coals. “Put the log there. Five husbands, and I trow why they died.”