Outrageous by Christina Dodd
Why had God brought Griffith to her? Before Griffith, she’d been sure in her mind, knowing what she must do, what she’d sworn to do. She’d dared to dream of greatness, of justice, for herself and for her son.
But being with Griffith had shown her a different dream. Was Griffith a gift from God? Or a temptation from the devil?
In that first passionate night, Griffith had proved himself to be a temptation, and she had proved herself to be wise and valiant when she fled. God would reward her—so she had thought.
Instead He had taken her to Castle Powel, and that had proved an even crueler fate. She didn’t believe in love. She couldn’t, and it had been almost easy to dismiss Griffith’s affection when no example of love disturbed her ambitions. But living with his parents made happiness seem tangible. Despite their early problems, Rhys and Angharad were happy together. They loved each other. And seeing them together almost convinced Marian to put her own happiness before the rights of her son.
That was why she’d left. Though she’d hated leaving without a word to Angharad or Rhys, they’d been calling the banns and she couldn’t—
“Best keep him away from th’ oars, too, m’lady, or I’ll smack him wi’ one an’ knock him into th’ drink.”
Marian dragged Lionel back to her by the scruff of his neck and eyed the Welshman with unease.
Dolan had shipped all over England, he told her, stashed a lot of coin, and had come back to his home in Wales where the living was cheap and no one cared that his two gloves covered no more than five fingers altogether. So she’d hired him and his rowboat to transport her back to England. Now she wondered if she’d been impetuous.
Perhaps the mariner had shipped all over England, but not necessarily with any legitimate concern. More likely he’d been a pirate, preying on the innocent, losing his digits in pursuit of ill-gotten gains. Perhaps now that he had her in his power, he dreamed his pirate dreams once more.
But Marian had her own dreams, and one crafty old peasant wasn’t getting in her way. True, she had Lionel, and he was a disadvantage in a fight, but she also had a strong arm, a sharp knife, and enough guile to lull the man into eternal repose. With a flutter of her eyelashes and a coy smile, she watched Dolan row. “You’re very strong. I imagine the muscles in your arms are like tempered steel.”
He stared at her suspiciously.
“Most of the men I’ve known have been lords, and they’re such weaklings. They only know how to lift a pen, not coil rope and lift that heavy anchor and move the oars back and forth. What do you call that?”
“Ye’re woofin’ me,” he said. “Ye’re not as stupid as all that.”
He was rowing them parallel to the shore, traveling east toward the wash of the river Dee, but he kept them far enough out to sea to preclude her swimming to land, even if she hadn’t had Lionel. Widening her eyes, she said, “Why do you say I’m stupid? Not everyone knows the names for all these boat things.”
“I said ye’re not stupid. Took one smart lady t’ figure an escape from Castle Powel. If ye’d gone by land, they’d have caught up wi’ ye.”
“Aye,” she said, remembering the wretched trip into Wales, and she dropped her hand on the top of Lionel’s dark head.
“But a ship at sail leaves no trail, so th’ sayin’ goes, an’ ye reasoned that out, an’ reasoned out who t’ ask who’d not go cryin’ t’ Lord Rhys.” He nodded, his body bending with the rhythm of the oars. “So there’s no use a-tellin’ me ye’re a fool.”
His black eyes snapped with resentment, although she knew not why. His sensuous lips smiled, but not with kindness. He was as handsome as sin itself and, she feared, twice as evil.
“Man,” Lionel said, pointing at Dolan and smiling so widely all his little white teeth showed. “Nice man.”
“Hey? What’s that?” Insulted, Dolan reared back and glared at Lionel. “Did he call me a nice man?”
Marian tried to hush Lionel, but Dolan insisted, “Did he?”
“He did,” she answered.
Dolan transferred his glare to her. “I’m not a nice man.”
“Grandda,” Lionel insisted, still obviously enchanted with Dolan. “My grandda.”
“Nay, sweeting. He’s not your grandda.”
Leaning down, she pulled a piece of bread from her bag and handed it to Lionel, hoping to quiet the inopportune worship. She thought she’d succeeded when Lionel took the bread and gnawed on it, dropping enough crumbs to attract the seabirds, but Lionel used the moment of silence to contemplate Dolan.
“What’re ye starin’ at?” Dolan snarled to the child.
“Grandda…Rhys?” Lionel inquired.
Dolan leaped up, making the oars clank in disarray and the boat rock dangerously. “I’m not Rhys! Ye hear me, I’m not Rhys. I’m Dolan.”
Marian cowered from his fury, then surreptitiously verified the presence of her knife in her sleeve; but Lionel only watched Dolan with intense interest. With his mouth still stuffed with bread, Lionel said, “Grandda Dolan.”
Sagging back onto his seat, Dolan demanded of Marian, “Can’t ye make that whelp shut his mouth?”
“It would appear not,” she admitted. “Why did you agree to take me?”
“I liked th’ money.” He picked up the oars again, keeping a wary eye on Lionel. “Can’t never have too much money.”
“And?”
“Am I goin’ t’ rape ye, do ye mean?”
“Are you going to try?”
He stopped rowing and looked her over, giving special notice to the stretch of her bodice. “Nay. My quarrel’s wi’ old Rhys, not wi’ his son, an’ if I raped his son’s betrothed, I have no doubt young Griffith’d take it in his head t’ slit my gullet. Nay, I’ll not rape ye. Provided ye pay me twice what ye promised. I don’t like skinny women.” He cursed when Lionel bobbed up and scrambled toward him. “An’ I don’t like whelps, so keep this one out o’ me way!”
Marian grabbed for Lionel, but the child was too quick. Thrusting the damp, mashed chunk of bread in Dolan’s face, he said, “Grandda Dolan eat.”
Marian reached for her son, but something stopped her. The odd expression on Dolan’s face, she supposed, or the way he stared at Lionel, like a tomcat about to adopt a puppy. Slowly he parted his lips, displaying a mouth full of strong teeth. Then, slowly, he took a nibble.
Only one, and not more than a crumb, but it satisfied Lionel, and Marian felt great triumph. For only twice what she’d promised, she’d gained safe passage to England for her and her son, she didn’t have to fight for her virtue, and Dolan—well, even Dolan might yet prove to be one of Lionel’s conquests.
Perhaps this adventure would yet prove successful.
She wasn’t so complacent as she watched the old mariner pull away hours later.
“I’m glad to see you go,” she said to the disappearing boat. “You’re a nasty man.”
Dolan didn’t even wave when Lionel called, “Grandda! Grandda!”
“Nasty, nasty man,” Marian insisted, half hoping Lionel would repeat it. “Nasty man.”
He didn’t repeat it. He only sat and cried.
She picked him up and wiped his tears. Her feet sank into the marshy ground, and her bags were piled at her feet. Her purse was noticeably thinner, thanks to Dolan, who seemed to regret his moment of softening and had proceeded to prove it with his unyielding demand for money and his absolute refusal to acknowledge Lionel.
Now she needed a horse, and it had better be a cheap one.
Worse still, she needed a destination.
She’d escaped Castle Powel knowing only that if she stayed, Lionel’s destiny would remain unfulfilled. But who in England would help her? Would her father?
Aye, Wenthaven would, for his own benefit—but who then would protect Lionel and his interests?
Only her. Only Lady Marian Wenthaven. But she could do it. She was strong.
Picking up her bags, picking up her son, she trudged toward Shropshire. Toward Castle Wenthaven a
“She’s gone?” Art could scarcely credit it, and his hopes sank as he stared at a grim-looking Rhys. “Ye couldn’t find her?”
“Two days we’ve searched, and not a sign of her. How could she have gone so far with a child?” Rhys struck the stable wall with his fist.
“I don’t understand it,” Art mumbled. He’d scarcely stepped through the gate of Castle Powel when Rhys had found him and told him that the woman he sought—the one woman Griffith wanted—had vanished. Now Art dislodged his cap and rubbed his bald head, trying to massage some thought into his weary brain. “When I left, she had sent Griffith a token, and I thought everything was settled. Now…”
“There’s no understanding women,” Rhys said.
Art nodded. “Aye, so I’ve always said. Damned shame they’re so fine between the covers.”
“There’s enough of that.” Angharad stepped through the open door of the stables, bringing the sunshine of the spring day with her. “The lass was disturbed in her mind about the marriage, and we knew that, but we had the banns called anyway because we were so excited about Griffith and his madness for her. ’Tis easy to understand, but hard to fix.” Slipping her arm through Art’s, she said, “You know her better than any of us, Art. Give us the benefit of your thoughts.”
“What’s Art going to do that I haven’t done?” Rhys snapped.
“Tell us where she’s gone, mayhap,” Angharad snapped back.
Art looked at Rhys and shook his head. Art knew the sweat and stain of the trip was ground into his clothes. He knew his face looked like scraps of leather patched together. But if anything, Rhys looked worse than Art. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands hung at his sides, and he could scarcely speak for frustration. “I’ve sought her everywhere she could have gone.”
“Then seek where she couldn’t have gone! She has to be somewhere. Don’t you understand…” Angharad pressed her hand to her cheek. “I can’t believe I’m arguing about this with you. You’ve been searching for three solid days, Rhys. You’re tired and not rational. Get you up to bed and let Art and me find Lady Marian.”
“Fine. You and Art find Lady Marian. You and Art succeed where I have failed.” Rhys started out the door, then turned back. “But I can tell you where she isn’t. She isn’t on the road to England, and she isn’t at St. Asaph’s monastery, and she isn’t with that mercenary troop haunting the neighborhood, because I personally spoke to the mercenary, Cledwyn, and took his camp apart.”
“Cledwyn?” Art said. “Did ye say Cledwyn?”
“So I did.” Rhys’s bitterness seemed to ease. “Do you know the name?”
“That man worked for Wenthaven, and ye can wager he isn’t here to do Lady Marian a good turn.” Art scratched the prickly hairs on his chin. “She wasn’t in the camp?”
“I swear it.”
“They couldn’t have taken her from the castle?” Art asked. “Through the secret passage?”
Rhys’s weariness was almost palpable. “I plugged the passage years ago, you know that, but I inspected it anyway. ’Tis untouched.”
“Nevertheless, I’d like to pay Cledwyn a visit.”
Rhys shook his head. “As soon as I spoke to them, they fled.”
“Mayhap,” Angharad said, “they were giving chase to Lady Marian.”
“To an illusion, then.” Rhys’s patience vanished completely. “She left no trace, I tell you. She didn’t take a horse, she’s not hiding within the castle, and”—he pointed accusingly at Angharad—“she didn’t go by sea.”
He marched out of the stable, head held high, and Angharad turned to Art. “I suggested she might have gone by sea, and he’s angry he didn’t think of it. That’s why he’s going up to bed—so we can go speak to the fisherfolk and his pride won’t be involved.”
“Not until later,” Art said.
“Oh, well, later he’ll be rested and able to shrug it off.”
They stepped into the sun, and Art saw that Angharad, too, looked tired. He comforted her with a hug. “Ye can’t blame yerself for this. The lass is half-wild and a bit of a handful.”
“But I can blame myself.” Angharad smiled wistfully. “I know how she felt, better than most, but I wanted her for Griffith so badly. I wouldn’t listen when she tried to tell me of her dreams for her boy—I thought only of my dreams for mine.”
“’Tis no sin. I have those dreams, too.”
“Aye, you would.” Angharad touched Art’s scraggly chin.
“I worked hard to bring this match to fruition, and I’ll not give up now.” With a hard determination, he demanded, “Tell me why ye think she went by sea.”
“For all that Rhys is a hardheaded man, he’s a good tracker, and his men are good trackers.” Angharad strode toward the open gate with grim purpose. “’Tis impossible for Lady Marian to have gone and left no sign, unless…”
Art followed her pointing finger and saw, silhouetted against the ocean below, the fishing village. He understood Rhys’s frustration and objected, “The fisherfolk are yer folk. They’d not take Griffith’s betrothed. Not on her request, nor on anyone else’s.”
“Nay, the fisherfolk wouldn’t.” Angharad smiled with an almost wicked amusement. “But do you remember Dolan?”
“Do I remember Dolan?” Art cried aloud. “Aye, I remember Dolan. A bad seed. He was the squire who thought he could woo ye.”
“That’s Dolan.”
“Rhys threw him out years ago.”
“Aye, and he swore he’d have no more of the knight’s life, and ran away to sea.”
“So he did.” Art looked at her closely. “Are ye saying he’s back?”
“Last year, and more perverse than ever.”
“I’m surprised Rhys hasn’t killed him.”
“Are you?”
Art shifted his feet. “Nay, I suppose not. Blood’s thicker than water, and for Rhys to have the blood of his brother—”
“Half brother,” she corrected.
“—half brother on his hands would be a bit of a stain.”
“Dolan knows it, too.” Angharad once again linked arms with Art and pulled him down the path to the village. “That’s why I think we should ask him about Lady Marian.”
15
The crack of a twig in the woods beside the road stopped Marian in her tracks and brought her whirling around. Vigorously she shushed Lionel, but the boy in the saddle insisted, “Why, Mama? Why?”
The reins in her hand tightened as the old gelding spied a chance at freedom and tugged, but she was wise to his tricks now, and she clutched the leather as she scanned the shadows in the trees. She saw nothing, but she had discovered she presented an easy target for looters and scoundrels and other characters even less savory.
Although she could hear nothing else suspicious, she led the horse into the bushes on the other side of the road and tethered him firmly to a branch. Each wheeze sounded like the horse’s last, and Lionel still asked, “Why, Mama? Why?”
“Hush, Lionel.” She pulled him from the saddle and walked deeper into the shadows. “Let Mama hold you.”
He was willing. Poor lad, he was more than willing. He’d been torn from the only home he’d ever known, dragged to Wales, given into the keeping of Rhys and Angharad while she was ill, and just as he had settled into a routine with them, she had dragged him away again. Two days of traveling had tired him, the killings of the day before disturbed him, and nothing could convince him she could keep him safe.
Now he buried his face in her neck, and her heart ached when she felt him tremble. Straining, she listened again for sound of a footfall, but all she heard was the horse’s everlasting groans as it tried to free itself and gallop back toward its home.
“Mama,” Lionel whispered.
She rubbed his back. “Hush, Lionel.”
“Mama—Art.”
“Nay, my babe, there’s no Art. He’s far away.”
Lionel lifted his head and pointed to the trees. “Art,” he insiste
His voice got louder with each repetition, and he bounced in her arms.
“Art! Art!”
Incredulous but half-believing, she turned to face the shadows. There was nothing there. Nothing but a blasted stump with holes that looked like eyes. She patted Lionel again and moved toward it. “Nay, Lionel. See? ’Tis only—”
Like some dwarf spirit come to life, the stump rose. She stumbled backward, tripped on an exposed root, and fell with Lionel clutched in her arms. He landed on her stomach, knocking the breath out of her, and scrambled up before she could catch him.
“Art!” the boy shrieked.
“Lionel,” she cried as the man-tree stooped and picked up her son.
The man-tree moved forward, and she struggled to her feet, prepared to fight this spirit for her son. But the stump spoke in familiar tones. “Greetings, m’lady.” Art stepped full into the sun, and he grinned as cheerfully as if they were meeting in the great hall of Castle Powel. “What a surprise to meet ye here.”
Marian placed her hand on her chest, the thump of her heart so strong that it shook her fingers.
Or were her fingers shaking on their own?
“Art, where’s…?” She faltered, looking to the man who stood behind him.
He wasn’t Griffith. Although she couldn’t see him well, she had discovered she placed every man in the world in one of two categories. They either were tall, dark, and Griffith, or they were not. She never needed a second glance. Whether she liked it or not, she recognized Griffith with more than her sight; she recognized him with her soul.
Dolan stepped out and mocked her with a bow, then said, “I’ll take care o’ yer noble steed, shall I?”
“Why are you here?” Marian asked him, but she saw only his back as he stomped away. Turning to Art, she demanded again, “Why are you here?”
He said the last thing she expected. “I came from Castle Wenthaven.”
“From Wenthaven? What were you doing there?”
“Looking for ye.”
“Mother of God.” Marian grabbed his wrist. “Is Griffith hurt?”