Dryden's Bride

“Clearly, there was further need of your skills amongst the villagers,” Hugh said offhandedly as he peered out the narrow window of the turret.

This Saxon earl cut an imposing figure, Siân thought wistfully. Wearing a light tunic and dark chausses, he stood tall and quiet in the faint light of the turret. He truly was the hero of Clairmont, Siân thought, just as the people were saying.

Lightning flashed again, and thunder rumbled in the distance, giving Siân a new reason to be uneasy. Her brow creased in concern. “Will we be safe up here?”

Hugh nodded in reply, and Siân realized that she could see him better now. The low rumbles and faraway flashes of light had become almost constant; their faces were illuminated often, as if by an unearthly, flickering fire. She tried to make herself relax, but the fierceness of the storm was beginning to frighten her.

“The worst of it is still in the distance,” he said.

“Will it get worse here?” Siân asked, gazing worriedly through the narrow window at the driving rain outside. Violent storms always frightened her, and this one seemed to carry the wrath of God with it. “Lightning? Floods?”

“Could be,” Hugh said absently. “But it could blow over. Or change direction.”

Siân was not reassured. She shivered suddenly, violently, and backed away from the open window, holding the infant more closely. “We should go down,” she said.

“Not yet,” Hugh replied, just now realizing Siân’s fear. “This will let up in a few minutes, then I’ll escort you down,” he said to reassure her.

Siân glanced out the doorway, and Hugh could see that the fool woman was considering whether to make a run for it through the rain to get to lower ground. Haste would likely make her slip on the wet stone and injure herself, perhaps even drop the child. He could not let her go.

“Lady Siân,” he said, attempting to mask his exasperation, “the storm is in the distant hills. You need not be concerned for your safety.”

Siân wasn’t so sure. Lightning had struck the church tower in Pwll many years before, and that was a memory she would never lose. She did not care to be high up in the castle turret when the worst of this storm struck, although a run through the cold rain was not appealing, either. She knew the earl was right—that there was time before the storm worsened—but still, it was difficult to remain calm.

Stiffening her backbone, Siân strove to rein in her anxiety. She was a grown woman, not some child to be ruled by her fears. “I’ve seen storms,” she said, “that—Och!”

A fierce arc of lightning lit up the near sky, then instantly a bone-rattling thunderclap sounded. Siân jumped. At the same time, Hugh turned to reassure her, but somehow drew her into his arms, surprising them both, and waking the babe Siân held. The wound in Hugh’s upper arm began to bleed, which Siân noticed as they broke apart.

Over the infant’s crying, Siân exclaimed, “You’re hurt!”

“’Tis naught,” he replied. “I’ll tend it when we go down.”

“But it’s bleeding badly,” she told him. Hugh’s need momentarily surpassed Siân’s fear. She looked around to see if there was a cloth to be used to stanch the flow of blood, but there was nothing. Her mind off the storm for the moment, Siân went to the doorway and looked for a guard.

They must all have taken cover from the rain.

“Here,” she said, handing the infant to him to hold with his unhurt arm. “Take her for a moment.”

Hugh felt an instant of shock when she shoved the child at him. He held the babe awkwardly with his uninjured arm, and watched as Siân turned around, then bent over and pulled up the hem of the ugly, dark over-kirtle she wore, to expose the fine, white linen gown underneath. A smooth, elegant length of leg was exposed, as well, and Hugh’s mouth went dry as he turned quickly away from her inadvertent display.

He heard the tearing of cloth, then suddenly she was there, taking the babe from him, pressing the clean linen to the wound near his shoulder, stanching the flow of blood.

“You should have this attended to, my lord,” Siân admonished severely. She could not see the wound through his light tunic, but by the volume of blood staining the cloth, she knew it was long and deep. “You might well lose your arm with a wound this severe.”

“And what would you know of lost limbs?” Hugh answered with derision.

Siân froze. His tone of voice had changed. Now he sounded just like all the other haughty Saxons she’d recently met. For all she knew, he could have been one of the Saxon soldiers who’d repeatedly harassed Pwll and the other Welsh border villages in retribution after the Glendower revolt. She should have known better than to allow herself any warm feelings for a Saxon aristocrat.

They were all the same.

What did she know of lost limbs, this earl wanted to know? Siân didn’t care to recount the terrible price of those bloody raids on her people—the lost lives, as well as lost limbs. Nor did she want to recall the atrocities committed by some of the Saxon pigs, when their victories had already been secured.

With lips pressed tightly together, Siân plopped the makeshift bandage into Hugh’s free hand. She wrapped the child securely in her little wool blanket and ran from the turret, moving quickly down the open stone steps in the pouring rain.

Hugh slapped the bloody dressing back on his wound and cursed himself for a fool.

The lady had only tried to be kind, but he’d insulted her intelligence, speaking to her as if she were a simpleton. He hadn’t really meant to offend her, but any talk of lost body parts always set him to boiling. How could anyone know how it was to lose a limb…an eye? Certainly not Siân Tudor, the softhearted, stormy young sister of Squire Owen.

She’d been angry with him—there was no doubt of it in Hugh’s mind. Her mouth had been pressed so tight that her lips were nearly white in the unnatural light of the storm. Her eyes, too, Hugh thought…deep blue, and flashing with fury.

And as Hugh leaned back to watch nature’s tumultuous display outside, he knew a moment’s regret for the few sharp words he’d thoughtlessly thrown at her. She received enough harsh treatment from her own brother. She certainly did not need more from him.

Chapter Four

Hugh assisted Queen Catherine from her horse and walked through Clairmont town with her entourage as she surveyed the damage and bolstered the spirits of her son’s people. Hugh gave Catherine a great deal of credit. Her petit Henri would become King Henry VI one day, and the queen had learned some valuable lessons from the boy’s father during their short marriage. One of those lessons had been the importance of the people’s good wishes toward their monarch.

Hugh Dryden and Owen Tudor walked with the queen as she progressed on foot through the town, speaking to everyone who crossed her path. As she passed, she gave small tokens of her presence—ribbons, a bit of silk, a small leather pouch—and questioned individuals on how they and their families had fared in the battle.

Lady Marguerite accompanied the party, following at a close distance with Nicholas Becker and Sir George, as well as the reeve of Clairmont. They discussed grain and food stores, survival of the livestock, and the death toll in the town. Hugh and Nick were asked about methods of securing Clairmont and how to protect themselves from further attack.

There were no easy solutions to the problems Clairmont faced, though Hugh knew they were not insurmountable. Between himself and Nicholas, they could call a hundred knights to battle. The only question was one of payment. Was Clairmont rich enough to support additional knights?

With careful portioning, there would be enough food to last the winter. Some goods could be imported—Hugh knew that Alldale, among other estates, had had very productive growing seasons. It was possible there were surpluses that could be purchased. Again, it was a matter of funds.

“Look, Owen,” the queen said, pointing toward one of the distant fields. “It is Siân, non?”

Hugh looked up as Owen followed the queen’s glance and everyone saw that Siân was indeed on the hillside with a large group of children. To Hugh, she was little more than a spot of bright blue on the hillside, topped by a cheerful crown of red-gold. She was too far away to see her features, although he didn’t need to see her to know how her mouth quirked in laughter. Or the impudent tilt of her chin.

Her brother, Owen, sighed in frustration and said, “I’ll go and get her, your Highness, and try to—”

“Non, Owen,” Catherine interjected. “Leave her.”

“But—”

“Do you not see, Owen?” the queen asked. “She has taken all of the smallest ones and gotten them out from underfoot. She has them playing at a…” She searched for the English word. “A pageant. See how some are sitting in a circle around the performers in the center?”

“You are right, Your Majesty,” Lady Marguerite said. “How clever of her.”

Hugh heard Siân’s laugh carry over the distance, then the gleeful giggles of the children in her care. He supposed it was clever of her to have gotten the children out of the way as the adults cleaned up the town and tended the wounded. Tudor’s sister seemed to have a way with the little ones, he thought, perhaps because she herself was so childlike.

She ought to get back to the castle, Hugh thought, or at least closer. No telling whether or not they’d been successful in routing every Scotsman from the area. He’d never met anyone so naive, so ingenuous. Hugh doubted she ever gave a thought to her own safety.

Hugh’s attention was drawn back to Lady Marguerite. With a no-nonsense manner, Marguerite Bradley saw to her responsibilities with a deep sense of duty. Her assessment of the situation at Clairmont was astute. Action had to be taken to ensure the success and continuity of her town, and Hugh had no doubt that the lady would manage it. Everything about Marguerite indicated an efficiency of mind and deed.

Her manner in all things was serious and thoughtful. Hugh doubted there was a foolish or frivolous bone in her body.

Even Marguerite’s clothing bespoke her elegant competence. Expensive silks and woolens were dyed to perfection and tailored into fashionable gowns. Shoes were made to match. Her sable hair was perfectly arranged—not a hair out of place under stylish headgear.

Hugh glanced back at Siân, just as she dropped to the ground amid the laughter of her small charges. Then he studied Marguerite’s profile. The lady of Clairmont was certainly beautiful, he thought, as well as intelligent and competent: a prize any man would be proud to claim.