Outrageous by Christina Dodd
She glanced at his enigmatic face, then back at Griffith’s stony one. “You’ll not leave without me as I sleep?”
“I will not,” Griffith answered. “Do you trust me enough to believe that?”
It wasn’t sarcasm, but it sounded almost like indifference. “I do trust you. I came to you though hell had formed the barrier. I wish you could believe…”
And for the first time, she saw the scar.
Long and red, crisscrossed with the brown of sheep-gut stitching, it was a gruesome reminder that death could visit the man she considered as strong and immutable as the earth. It was a miracle he could speak and see. It was a miracle he hadn’t died. With trembling fingers, she touched the scab that stretched along his cheekbone from nose to ear. “You’ve been horribly wounded.”
Remote within her arms, he answered, “Aye. Through the heart.”
17
They woke Marian much too early in the morning for her weary body yet not soon enough for her anxious heart. They squawked like silly geese and pushed her from one to the other as they dressed her in riding clothes that fit almost perfectly. They promised a large breakfast after the ceremony. When she demanded to know when she would ride, they giggled as if at a great wit. They placed flowers in her hair, and when she yawned widely, they tossed water in her face. Then the anonymous, fatuous clump of noblewomen and servants led her through the thin dawn light to Kenilworth Chapel, where Griffith waited with the priest on one hand and King Henry on the other.
Henry smiled too cheerfully.
Griffith frowned too darkly.
Henry said, “’Tis a fine morning for a wedding.”
Griffith said nothing.
Confused, Marian wondered what a wedding had to do with seeking Lionel. If the king wished them to share a hasty mass before they left, that she could understand, but her befuddled mind failed to grasp this meaning of this riddle. “A wedding?” she asked cautiously.
Clasping his hands behind his back, Henry said, “I have decided you shall wed Sir Griffith before you go seeking your son.”
Numb with shock, she repeated, “Wed Sir Griffith?”
“’Tis the right and honorable thing to do, and it is Sir Griffith’s dearest wish.”
Was his dearest wish. Marian could almost hear Griffith’s correction. It had been his dearest wish, before Marian had proved herself to be all he feared—unreliable, careless, licentious, intemperate. She’d lost her son and killed Art by seeking truth and honor and Lionel’s rightful heritage, and that error she needed to correct now. “Your Grace—”
Red circles bloomed on Henry’s cheeks. His hands moved incessantly. She wondered at the intensity of his behest. “Sir Griffith has assured me he believes the banns have been called in Wales the requisite number of times, so holy custom has been fulfilled. As the king, I will take the place of the earl of Wenthaven. ’Twill make all equitable for you, Lady Marian, and I’m sure I can make all equitable with your father when next I see him. From my own treasure, I have selected two rings of royal value—”
In desperation, Marian interrupted Henry. “May it please Your Grace, I must protest.”
He paused in midflight, quite as if this were what he dreaded. “Lady Marian?”
“You don’t mean for us to wed right now?” A faint, pervasive snicker passed through the crowd, and still bewildered, she looked over at them. She recognized no one except Oliver King, standing off to the side with an official-looking document in his hand, and that only contributed to her sense of disbelief. This morning, so unlike the day before, had dawned in delicate shades of pink and gold. The king, her enemy, had offered to act as her father. The priest, the ladies, the gentlemen, were all strangers, yet not as distant from her as the man who would be her bridegroom. He frowned at her, the new slash on his face no longer accented by brown stitching. He seemed a tall and mighty monolith of disapproval, and she found it odd that she could be attracted to disapproval.
But she was. Stupidly she wished this were a true wedding, with feasting and laughter and a merry bedding after. Instead—
“What about my child?” she asked, taking care to project her voice to the king and Griffith only.
“We shall seek him as soon as we’ve finished here,” Griffith answered, his deep tones sounding as barren as the Welsh peak of Snowdon.
Chilled by his manner, stunned by the absurdity of their plan, she sought a reason to postpone the ceremony. “We have no contract of dower and dowry agreed upon, drawn up, and ready to sign.”
“I have settled the matter,” Henry said. “When the ceremony is complete and the witnesses have signed the registry, then I will give, as compensation, a vacant earldom to Sir Griffith—or, shall I say, Lord Griffith—and you, to be an inheritance for you and your heirs as long as your line shall endure. Currently known as Lillestry, and located on the border of Wales not far from Wenthaven, its value is well in excess of any of the properties currently in your families.”
Marian looked at the parchment that Oliver unrolled and showed to her, and she realized at once her grievance had been thwarted. The prosperous lands would indeed serve as handsome compensation for this unorthodox marriage.
She studied it until Griffith leaned over her. In a voice rich with disdain, he said, “You’ll find it all in order, and you’ll also find Henry does not intend to let us go after Lionel until this ceremony is complete.”
Now she comprehended the wiliness of the king. With her own maternal instinct, Henry had trapped her, then done what he could to render her ineffectual in her quest to place Lionel on the throne.
She rubbed the place above her skirt that hid the leather pouch from view. Henry didn’t know of the weapon she yet possessed and the power it could exert, when she chose to use it.
More, she understood Griffith’s resignation to a match he obviously despised. He had vowed to care for Lionel, and he would do what he must to keep his vow. Griffith also had vowed to serve the king.
This man Henry had chosen to restrain her whispered in her ear, “Resign yourself, my lady. You’re marrying the Welsh beast.”
Did Griffith ever lie? She doubted it. She doubted he knew how, or if he understood why he should bother, and that convinced her to face the priest and repeat the ancient vows.
When they had finished and exchanged the kiss of peace, Marian, Griffith, the priest, and Oliver all signed the registry in neat, ink-saving print. Then Henry flexed his fingers as if in anticipation, took the quill, and added his signature with a flourish.
They were married, as married as any couple could be.
Smiling broadly, Henry took Marian’s arm, then Griffith’s. “And now to break our fast.”
“Your Grace, we must go,” Marian protested.
“You must eat first, and a hearty meal will provide for you on the trail. I’ve ordered other meals packed for your travels, and weapons of every sort in case, God forbid, you must fight. I do hope you’re not attached to the gelding that carried you to us, for I’ve replaced him with a younger, swifter mount.”
Henry was right, damn him. She had to eat now, just as she’d had to sleep the night before, but she found herself subduing panic. Stupid, feminine panic, for she knew Griffith would never be affected thus. He would understand the wisdom of rest and food before a challenge. He would never allow himself to dwell on the thought of the little lad in such rough hands. He wouldn’t be like her, wanting to scream at Henry to let her go.
As the great hall closed around her, cutting her off from the out-of-doors, placing another obstacle between her and her son, she calmed herself and murmured, “My thanks, Your Grace.” With relief, she noted the servants standing at the ready with steaming pots of porridge and joints of meat. Gold plate on the head table was piled with bread, already sliced, and pots of honey, and Marian realized this lavish meal had been prepared to be consumed in haste.
Henry seated himself on a great chair, then indicated she should take her place on his left. Griffith s
Griffith, too, paid unceasing attention to his plate while Henry watched them both. When they seemed near to finishing, he said, “My newest lord, I insist I send men with you on this anxious search.”
Wiping his eating knife on his napkin, Griffith refused with as much courtesy as Marian had ever heard him muster. “Your Grace, I beg you would not. The first duty I must perform is tracking the route of the offender, and these inept Englishmen would be nothing but a nuisance.”
“But when it comes to a battle—”
“When it comes to battle, Harbottle is no match for me.”
“But if Harbottle has allies?”
“If the battle appears hopeless, then will I send to you,” Griffith promised.
Henry stirred a spoon in his still-full bowl of porridge and, fascinated, watched the lumps circling. “You refuse my men, yet you wish to take Lady Marian. She is but a woman, and will surely slow you.”
“Not I!” Marian said, vexed at the king’s censure. “I ride as well as any man, have done battle with knife and sword, and I will not be left behind when my son’s life is at stake.”
Henry looked at her as if she were a creature from beyond the fall of the sea, and an unattractive one at that.
“You see,” Griffith said. “I cannot leave her behind, for if I did, she would follow me. Lady Marian is a strong woman, and dedicated to her son’s welfare.”
“Aye, she is indeed strong, and dedicated.” Without a trace of a smile, Henry said, “However, I see I cannot help you with your quest, and so I send you on your way. Be off at once! The child is even now slipping beyond your grasp.”
Marian stood immediately. “Let us go.”
Griffith bowed with great ceremony. “Remember, my liege, my vows to you. You are my king, and none other.”
Henry waved a dismissing hand to them.
He waited only until he heard the heavy door slam below before he called for Oliver King. His secretary hurried forward, and Henry said, “Gather a small force of the most trustworthy men we have about us. Order them to outfit themselves for a journey with their king.”
Surprised by the command and by Henry’s abrupt and hasty manner of speech, Oliver stammered, “You—you will follow them, Your Grace?”
“I will not follow them, for Lord Griffith will honor his vows to me above all else. This I know. But he is one man, and in a matter as great as this…I believe we will ride toward Castle Wenthaven and see who goes to visit. It might be enlightening. Very enlightening.”
Normally Griffith preferred to ride in silence. He preferred to concentrate on his tracking. He wanted no distractions.
But this silence was different. It was tense with unspoken questions, fraught with Marian’s own concentration as she led him to the place where the attack had taken place and then on, following him as he took his position in the lead.
As morning wore on to afternoon, he watched her with a kind of wonder. This woman was his wife. At one time he’d thought her undisciplined, out of control, a frivolous woman of lascivious tendencies. But she’d ridden most of the day yesterday to reach him, and now she rode back, without complaint, without even an indication of the discomfort she must be experiencing.
No, she wasn’t undisciplined. She was too disciplined. It was a complaint others had made of him, and he found it ironic. He found it even more ironic that, regardless of her mistaken beliefs, her lack of trust, her independence, he still wanted her.
He gave his whole attention to the task of tracking, for when they had recovered the lad and Marian’s mind was at rest, he planned to created a ferment in her body. He planned wonderful things, wild things, things he’d heard whispered among the men and dismissed as impossible—but for Marian, he would try them.
“Griffith?”
Marian broke into his thoughts, and he flushed guiltily. Had she noticed his condition? Did she wonder why he shifted with discomfort?
“Why haven’t we found Art? He can’t have gone far in his condition.”
He almost sighed with relief and debated how to answer. He hated to tell her what he suspected—not because it was the worst, but because he suspected Art had manipulated her with consummate skill. He suspected Art still lived.
Art would search for Lionel and would find him. And for all Art’s age, his craftiness and fighting ability commanded respect. Griffith wanted to tell her, for he’d seen the tears that pricked her lids and the guilt that shadowed her, but he feared to raise her hopes.
“Perhaps we’ll find him downstream. Or perhaps thieves were attracted to his raiment and weapons.” It was evasive, but almost an answer. More important, they had broken the great silence between them. Pointing at the trampled yellow rape flowers and blue lupines around them, he said, “Harbottle met some friends on his travels. He’s gone on with them.”
“How many?” she asked.
“I read four, and they are cunning. They cut a straight path through the wilderness”—he waved a hand back across the undulating hills, dotted with patches of forest and strips of field—“to this place, then proceeded straight toward Wenthaven without trail or path. They must be Wenthaven’s men.”
“Harbottle is not Wenthaven’s man,” she said.
“You don’t wish for your father to have such a man, but in sooth, it would appear Harbottle is Wenthaven’s man.”
Her face tightened, pulling the rose from her cheeks. “Do they still have Lionel?”
“Aye, they have the lad. The scat of a babe occurs along the path—have you not noticed?”
“I hoped…Then he’s alive.”
“Aye, he’s still alive, but if they are making for Wenthaven, we’ll not catch them before they enter the gates.” He tested her with his words. “But perhaps that doesn’t matter to you. Perhaps you feel safe with Lionel in your father’s hands.”
Grief and worry had dulled her spring green eyes to the colors of autumn, and she refused to respond to his query. She said only, “Let us go,” and her palfrey leaped forward.
They followed the trampled grass straight toward Wenthaven, and Griffith almost missed the signs of a lone horseman breaking off. But he couldn’t miss the sudden change when the track of the main group veered toward the river Severn. The trail led them along the bottomlands, then around toward the wilderness near the Welsh border. They made a great circle, then Griffith lost the trail.
Griffith slid from his horse and examined the confusing markings on the ground. “Welshmen. These are Welshmen we’re following, for only they could disguise a trail so well that I could lose it.”
Still mounted, Marian said, “I recognize this place. These are the western reaches of Wenthaven land.”
Standing, Griffith looked about him. Scraps of the Welsh mountains were strewn about like stones from a giant’s hand. Untouched by civilization, unclaimed by Celts, Saxons, or Normans, the primeval forest still teamed with boar and deer and wild spirits. He could hear the boar snuffling in the underbrush. He could hear the boar snuffling in the underbrush. He could hear the clash of the stag’s antlers. He could hear the high, sweet whisper of fairies and feel the malevolent gaze of the dwarves, and he prayed to Saint Dewi for guidance.
As if to deny him his plea, the sun suddenly cloaked itself with clouds. It seemed an evil omen, as if the saint himself couldn’t bear to watch their fate. But—
“Griffith, look.”
He followed the direction of Marian’s finger and saw, not far ahead, a glow between cracked slabs of sandstone.
“Bless you, Saint Dewi.” Griffith mounted quickly and backed his steed away. “Bless you.”
The sun broke out again as Marian followed him to a thick grove of ash and oak. “Is it them?” she asked as she dismounted.
“Aye, no doubt it is, and all unknowing, I almost came too close.?
To his surprise, she nodded. “If you are taken, I will still be free to do what I can—seek help, recapture Lionel, or be captured and care for my son.”
Her logic was good, but he found it distasteful. He didn’t want her to calmly plan her strategy should he be apprehended. He wanted her to cry and wring her hands and be frightened. He wanted her to behave like a silly woman as far as he was concerned. Hoarse with disappointment, he said, “I won’t be taken.”
“I know.”
He started toward the sandstone slabs.
“But why don’t you wait until ’tis fully dark? ’Twould be safer.”
He smiled and, using his best woodland skills, faded into the twilight.
When he returned, he called her softly. A slim shadow, she moved out from between the two horses. “What news?”
“Lionel is safe,” he told her first, and a soft exhale expressed her relief. “He’s asleep beneath an overhang. Cledwyn leads three of Wenthaven’s Welsh mercenaries. Harbottle is huddled by the fire, sword at the ready. Their horses are down by the stream, clumped together and easy to scatter. And”—he frowned—“I don’t understand, but Dolan of Powel is with Lionel.”
Lady Marian surged forward. “That miserable sack of dung!”
Catching her by the arm, Griffith asked, “Why is he here?”
“Because he’s a pirate, a thief, and a coward. He has my baby. My baby, who cared for him.” She strained against him, but he held firm and her resistance collapsed. Massaging her forehead with both hands, she said, “He was probably part of this plot from the start, and I, like a fool, asked him for help.”
Her bitterness was palpable, and Griffith answered it. “You’ll have your chance for revenge. They’re awake now, but eating well and drinking deep. In the darkness before the dawn, when they’re stupid with sleep, we’ll remove Lionel from their care. In the meantime, we must rest.”