Dryden's Bride

He realized, of course, that she was breathtakingly beautiful, but he could not muster much enthusiasm for taking a wife. He tried to appreciate the delicate arch of her black brows, and her flashing violet eyes, the aristocratically straight nose, and voluptuously full lips. But it was useless. Whether or not he wed this woman, Hugh knew he was destined to a life of lonely isolation. For no one would ever come to understand the blackness of his soul.

The music that Queen Catherine brought to Clairmont delighted Siân. Naturally, the queen had her own musicians and minstrels, and they provided an enchanting accompaniment to every evening meal.

As Siân sat in her assigned seat at supper, she wished for some of Lady Marguerite’s elegance and competence. Not only did the countess’s beautiful and saintly appearance do her credit, but as chatelaine of Clairmont, Marguerite kept everything in splendid order. All of Lady Marguerite’s domain was neat and organized. Guests and servants alike were simply perfect.

Siân picked at the food in the trencher she shared with her tablemates as she watched all the noble gentlemen at the dais vie for Marguerite’s attention.

All but Hugh Dryden, Earl of Alldale. He was different from the other Saxons. He alone seemed indifferent to Marguerite’s abundant and obvious charms, and held himself apart from the excessive adulation. Though he kept his face carefully expressionless, Siân noted the familiar spark of intelligence in his eye.

Alldale was truly a man alone, Siân thought. She’d sensed that about him in the woods that morning and had been wondering about him ever since. He was not a handsome man, exactly…. Still, there was something about him: a depth of fortitude and endurance that had surely served him in the past. A man wouldn’t survive the kind of injuries that had damaged and scarred Hugh Dryden without a well of inner strength from which to draw.

Of all the ladies on the dais, only Queen Catherine seemed unaffected by Hugh Dryden’s appearance. The scars that were barely concealed by the leather patch…the ravages to his hand…Siân knew Hugh must be aware of the aversion he aroused, and her heart went out to the quiet and solitary man. She, at least, knew what it was to be alone in the world. Siân doubted that anyone else on the dais knew what that was like.

Alldale joined in the conversation only when addressed, and Siân considered that he might be ill at ease among the highborn folk at his table. He was like one of the hawks she’d seen out in the woods. With craggy features and a taut, sleek power, hawks prized freedom above all else. Flying high above the land, circling, riding the wind, they were masters of their domain, subject to no one.

Hugh Dryden was as well made as any hawk, Siân thought, with powerful arms and chest, and strength enough to carry her without effort through the forest that morning. She doubted there was anything that could ruffle the feathers of this man, outside of being caged here in polite company, listening to the idle chatter of the queen’s ladies and gentlemen.

Her Majesty eventually took her leave of the company, along with several of her ladies and gentlemen. The minstrels stayed in the hall, continuing to entertain those who remained. Siân forced herself to ignore the thinly veiled, lewd remarks made by the young London courtiers with whom she was seated, and cast several furtive glances toward the main table, hoping to catch a few more glimpses of Hugh Dryden. It did her heart good to see that he remained indifferent to the glorious Marguerite. It was gratifying to know that at least one man in England was unaffected by her perfection.

Soon after the queen’s departure, Hugh excused himself and Siân watched as the earl made his way through the hall and out the main doors. She couldn’t help but wonder how and where this solitary man would choose to spend his time.

And as she daydreamed girlishly about the way his powerful arms had lifted her and carried her so chivalrously through the woods, Siân knocked over her goblet and spilled ale all over her blue gown.

It was the only decent one she had left.

Stone walls began to close in as darkness approached and Hugh often sought solace outside, where the open sky was immense and he could breathe easily. He walked through the town of Clairmont and followed a path up a hill, then down into a clearing to a small lake with a rugged, rocky bank.

Hugh sat on a large, flat rock near the water’s edge and threw a stone into the black depths, where it sank with a plunk! Then he threw another.

He breathed deeply.

It had been a strange day. He’d killed a boar with an arrow. Found his target and dispatched the arrow to its mark. Without hesitation, without fail. A quick, clean kill.

He nearly smiled.

Plunk!

The darkness that dwelled inside him day after day refused to be assuaged by that puny success. He was still half blind, still a maimed man. Tonight, as usual, he would be unable to sleep without images of red-hot tongs and sharp little knives plaguing him. He would see his enemy’s leering face and feel the tongs burning his eye; the cruel mallet breaking fingers and toes….

Plunk!

In the two years since his ordeal, it had been the same. He’d been stripped of his honor, of his potency as a man. Held prisoner like a child, he’d suffered every depravity with as much dignity as he could rouse. Though his dignity had been sufficient, his faith and endurance had not. He’d reached a point where he’d closed himself off from consciousness intentionally, rather than suffer the agonies planned by the twisted earl of Windermere. He’d have bargained away his soul for his freedom.

He had given in to a knight’s ultimate disgrace. Despair.

How could he possibly offer himself as husband to the chatelaine of Clairmont? How could he tie himself to that beautiful, accomplished lady? Hugh was a man with nothing more than a title, an estate…a past. There was nothing for him to offer Marguerite of Clairmont. There was no future for Hugh Dryden.

A light drizzle began to fall and a thin mist gathered across the surface of the lake. Hugh wondered if it would thicken much, for he’d lost his appreciation of the beauty of the mist. Where once it had leant an unearthly, magical appeal to his world, it now made him feel trapped, suffocated.

That was something he could not bear. He’d spent days—he could never be sure how many—chained in the darkness. Unsure what his fate was to be. Waiting…always waiting.

From nowhere came the sound of running feet along the packed earth of the path, disrupting his dismal thoughts. Partially hidden by the rocks where he sat, Hugh turned to see if the intruder was visible in the near darkness. Dark clothing concealed the figure as it ran down toward the lake, but the sound of weeping was clearly a woman’s.

Something about the voice was familiar. Untamed, bronzed hair and a dusty blue kirtle came to mind, along with flashing eyes and soft, delicate skin.

Hugh sat still, hoping she would go away. Instead he saw her drop to the ground near some large stone boulders a short distance away, and commence to weeping in earnest.

He did not care to have his peace shattered by this gauche display of emotion. But if he moved off his perch on the rock, he’d surely disturb the young woman, and have to deal with her—a choice he was not pleased to make.

He could end up waiting forever for her to be done with her foolish tantrum, and leave. He saw no choice but to approach her.

How could life be so cruel? Siân wondered as she stifled her sobs. She sat up with her back to a cold, standing stone, and wrapped her arms around her knees, wiping her eyes. She’d never been much of a one for tears, knowing they couldn’t change anything, but the past few weeks had shown her how utterly useless she was—how entirely inept and clumsy. ’Twas no wonder she was to be consigned to a nunnery. What man in his right mind would have her?

Owen was lucky St. Ann’s had taken her so cheaply.

She could not go home—for there was no home anymore, now that her uncles were dead; her aunts and cousins barely eking a living for themselves as it was. Not that Pwll had ever been any great haven for her, but at least she’d understood her place. She’d always known what was expected of her.

The unpretentious people of Pwll were accustomed to seeing her in mended and dusty kirtles. They had come to expect her to instigate frolicking games and pageants, and caroles, and rhyming contests. Siân didn’t understand what was so wrong with merriment; of sharing mirth and joy with others.

She had firsthand knowledge that there was more than enough sorrow in the world, without having to look for it. Her life in Wales had not been an easy one, especially as the daughter of Marudedd Tudor, cohort of Owen Glendower, the Welsh rebel. The Saxon lords—one hateful earl in particular—had been especially severe with her people after the uprising, and Siân had suffered as much as any of the other villagers. Perhaps even more, because she’d been doomed to a life apart—tolerated, but kept separate from the people she considered her own.

Siân and the people of Pwll learned early that closeness to a Tudor only brought tragedy.

Oblivious to the mist in the air, Siân hugged her knees, resting one cheek against them. Sniffling once. Hiccuping.

She had been reluctant to leave Pwll along with everything and everyone familiar. In the weeks since being summoned by Owen to this foreign, Saxon land, Siân was constantly making mistakes. She didn’t understand the ways of the courtiers in London—neither the men and their improper, unwanted advances, nor the women and their vicious taunts and gossip.

Without understanding what she did that was so wrong, Siân disgraced herself time and time again, invoking Owen’s wrath with every mistake.

Owen had made a fine place for himself as Keeper of the King’s Wardrobe. Now, with King Henry dead, Queen Catherine relied heavily upon Owen for his support and counsel. He could not have a stupid and clumsy sister about. Her incompetence would naturally cast aspersions on him.

Siân leaned back, pulled the sticky cloth of her ale-soaked bodice away from her breast and let the misty rain fall, cleansing her skin of the spilled drink, and her heart of the oppressive thoughts that plagued her. The air was chill, and Siân knew she should return to the castle, but she could not bring herself to confront the ridiculing faces of those who had witnessed yet another ignominious episode in the life of Siân verch Marudedd.

But then, why not?

She would hold her head proudly erect as she walked through the great hall, as she always did, and ignore the sly looks and rude whisperings behind finely manicured, aristocratic hands. She’d lived through enough true horrors in Wales that this, her most recent mishap and Owen’s embarrassingly public censure, hardly rated her notice. So what if she’d spilled her cup of ale? Was everyone in England so infernally perfect, with nary a spill or a speck of dirt anywhere that they could not understand and accept a few small imperfections?

Wiping her tears, Siân got herself to her feet, only to be startled by the earl of Alldale, who’d come upon her without making a sound.

He said nothing, but stood formidably, with his arms crossed over his chest, as if awaiting her explanation for being there.

Siân, having already worked herself up into a defiant, peevish mood, raised her chin. “If you’ve come to laugh at my lack of grace, my lord—” she started to push past him “—rest assured that I am well aware of my shortcomings. I’ve—”

“Look!” Hugh grabbed her elbow and gently guided her back against the rock where she’d sat moments ago, crying. Their presence was concealed as he turned her to look toward the movement he’d noticed in the distance behind her. “Men are gathering in the mist.”

Siân peered down the shoreline, and forgot her own small troubles instantly. Directly north of them, were men leading their horses to the water. They did not appear to be Clairmont people. “They’re wearing plaid,” she said in hushed tones. “We’ve heard that Scottish raiders have been attacking the town and stealing livestock!”

Hugh knew that Richard Bradley had met his death leading Clairmont’s defense against just such Scottish marauders. “Would you estimate…” he asked “…about thirty of them over there?”