The Warlord's Bride

“Then no more alliance with John, either,” Ivor said, and it was clear he considered this a good thing.

“Aye, but what will happen to Llanpowell?”

Ivor sighed and shook his head. “Glad I am it’s not me making such decisions,” he admitted. “When do you have to give Lord Alfred your answer?”

“He’ll stay two days, then he’s going back to court.”

“Not much time, is it?”

“No. Rest assured, Ivor, I’ll think carefully on the matter before I decide.”

Madoc gave his friend a wry smile, although he was feeling anything but amused. “Now I had best go back before Uncle Lloyd drinks himself under the bench and Lord Alfred with him.”

AFTER A RESTLESS NIGHT and a mass presided over by an elderly Welsh priest, Roslynn sat in the hall of Llanpowell, breaking the fast. Lord Madoc, who’d been as plainly dressed as before in a leather tunic, linen shirt, wool breeches and boots, with his swordbelt around his narrow waist, had already eaten and departed. He’d said very little as he consumed his bread, cheese and ale. She’d said even less and asked no questions, determined not to encourage him in the slightest. That also meant she had no idea where he’d gone, or why.

Lord Alfred had been seated at Lord Madoc’s right. He hadn’t touched a morsel and could barely hold up his head, having had too much of that Welsh mead, no doubt.

Sitting beside her, Lord Madoc’s uncle seemed as merry and in favor of the marriage as he’d been the day before.

“I warned you about the braggot, didn’t I?” he said as he clapped the slightly green-faced Lord Alfred on the shoulder. “Normans haven’t the stomach for it. Got to be brought up to it, you see. Now me, I can drink a bucket and be—”

Lord Alfred bolted from the table, clutching his stomach as he ran.

“Blessed Saint Dafydd, no capacity for braggot at all,” Lloyd sighed with a sorrowful shake of his head.

“Any man who drinks a bucket of anything might be sick in the morning,” Roslynn observed, feeling duty-bound to stand up for her countryman, even if she didn’t like him and he had treated this journey as an extremely onerous duty.

“That’s true enough, my lady, true enough,” Lloyd replied. “You look a little peaked yourself. I hope you’re not coming down with something.”

“I am rarely ill.”

“Well, there’s a mercy.”

The older Welshman’s heartfelt response made Roslynn wonder if Lord Madoc’s first wife had been somewhat delicate. Or perhaps he simply didn’t want his nephew to lose another spouse.

“Madoc’s healthy as a young ram,” Lloyd continued. “Strong, too. And virile. His son was born just over nine months after he married Gwendolyn. Such a pity she died so young and so soon after marriage.”

Not sure what to say to that, if anything, Roslynn concentrated on finishing her bread and peas porridge, and wondering how she could avoid the lord of Llanpowell for the rest of the day. Perhaps she should remain in the hall, although the sun was shining and the sky was cloudless.

Maybe she should stay in the upper chamber. She could always do a little sewing, perhaps finish the piece of embroidered trim she was making for her blue—

A cry came from the battlements.

Had Lord Madoc returned already? Her heartbeat quickened, then raced even more as several of the soldiers not already on duty grabbed their weapons and rushed out of the hall.

CHAPTER FOUR

“WHAT IS IT?” Roslynn demanded of Lord Madoc’s uncle as she started to stand. “Is the castle under attack?”

“No, no,” Lloyd hastened to assure her, patting her arm. “Them over the mountain have been after the sheep on the north slope, that’s all.

“There’s no need for you to worry, my lady,” he continued as she slowly resumed her seat. “They’ll have gone back to their own land by now. Madoc and his men will make certain of it, though, and see how many sheep were taken, and ensure that the shepherd and the rest of the flock are safe. And come tomorrow, the thieves will find themselves lacking an equal number of sheep.”

“Won’t Lord Madoc try to catch them and get his own sheep back?” she asked incredulously.

“No.”

“But why not? Especially if he knows who’s taking his sheep.”

“It’s a sort of feud, my lady,” Lloyd explained.

A sort of feud? “Is this a Welsh custom of some kind?”

He colored and ran a hand over his beard. “I’d better let Madoc tell you about it,” he said, before resuming his usual jovial expression. “It’s nothing to get upset about, my lady. Just accept that every now and then, a few sheep will go missing, and Madoc or his men will go to collect the same number from Trefor’s flock.”

“I should think a feud of any kind is a serious business,” Roslynn replied. “Who is this Trefor?”

Lloyd looked as if he wished he were anywhere else. “It’s Madoc’s brother taking his sheep. Trefor has fewer men and the lesser estate, though, you see, so Madoc doesn’t think it’s fair to set the law on him.”

In that, Lord Madoc was quite a contrast to the king. John would stop at nothing to get his brothers’ lands and titles.

“But never mind about Trefor now,” Lloyd said. “Come to the kitchen, my lady, and have a pastry. Hywel’s a dab hand with them.”

Since there was nothing else for her to do, Roslynn dutifully rose to go with him, although pastries were the last thing on her mind.

MADOC SILENTLY cursed as he galloped along the rutted road leading up the northern slope of the highest hill of his estate. Of course Trefor would choose this time to harass him. No doubt he wanted to embarrass his brother in front of his Norman guests. Perhaps Trefor had learned the purpose of their visit and considered that even more reason to trouble him.

Madoc spotted a man running along the ridge—Trefor himself, Madoc realized with a surge of anger.

He immediately turned his horse to follow, but once at the top of the hill, he discovered a mist covering the slope just beyond the ridge, like a white curtain.

Cursing aloud this time, Madoc slipped from his saddle. His black gelding snorted and stamped, as anxious to give chase as his master. Unfortunately, from here it would be too dangerous to ride at a gallop, or even a canter. There could be hidden holes and loose scree that could cause a horse to slip or fall.

“Steady, Cigfran, steady,” he murmured, running a hand over the horse’s strong neck as his men caught up to them.

“Should we go after him, Madoc?” Ioan asked when he and the others reached the top of the ridge and dismounted.

“No.”

Trying to give chase on foot would be just as risky as on horseback. Besides, although he and most of his men had lived all of their lives on these hills and could run like deer, Trefor was just as familiar with the land and as fleet of foot.

Madoc’s curt answer brought at least one groan of frustration from his men. Ioan, no doubt, for he was young and anxious to fight because he was good at it. Or maybe Hugh the Beak, who had the biggest nose in Llanpowell and was an expert with both sword and bow.

“I said no,” Madoc repeated. “He’s gone to ground like a fox. We’ll never catch him.”

“Madoc!”

Taking hold of Cigfran’s reins, Madoc followed the call of his name, his disgruntled men behind him. He soon found Emlyn, the oldest and best of his shepherds. The gray-bearded man held a lamb in his arms as if it were a child, and at his feet lay a larger white shape splashed with violent red.