Sharon Schulze (6 page)

Bryn Du, Northern Wales

L
ord Steffan ap Rhys jerked the bedcovers up over his shoulders and burrowed his head beneath the pile of bolsters, but the pounding at his door did not cease. He poked at the woman sprawled beside him. “Answer that, you lazy bitch.”

The slut moaned, rolled over and slid her leg over his hips as she edged closer to him. “Get up,” he snarled, grabbing her by the leg and thrusting her aside. Lips curled in a frown, he shoved the blankets away and climbed from the bed.

A slap on her fleshy buttocks worked well enough to move her off the mattress. “Why are you still here?” He snatched up her gown and threw it at her. Judging from the leisurely way she dressed, his displeasure didn’t disturb her one whit. He’d teach her better next time, he vowed, blood heating at the thought. “Answer the door on your way out.”

She tossed her tangled hair over her shoulder and sent him a gap-toothed grin. “Aye, milord.” Hips swaying,
she ambled across the room, then spun about to face him. Her avid gaze caressed his body, lingering on his engorged manhood. “Certain ye want me to leave just yet?”

Did she count herself responsible for this, his usual morning state? Witless bitch! He stepped into his chausses and pulled them up. “Do as I said and go about your duties,” he snarled.

Jerking the door open, she flounced past Huw, the captain of the guard.

“There’s a fine piece,” Huw said as he entered the chamber and shut the door behind him.

“You’re welcome to her.” Steffan slipped into his shirt. “She hasn’t a brain in her head, but she’s skilled enough between the sheets.”

Huw smirked. “She don’t need a brain for what I have in mind. So long’s she’s got the right parts, she’ll suit me fine.”

“I assume you’ve a reason for dragging me from my bed. And you needn’t look so pleased with yourself, you fool—I’ll not tolerate your arrogance for long.” Despite his displeasure, Steffan kept his tone bland, but something in his voice must have alerted the other man. Huw’s expression grew serious and he straightened, assuming the mien of subservience.

Steffan permitted himself a faint smile.

“That fellow Ralph is here, milord, with two of his men.” Huw spoke in a flat tone quite unlike his previous jocularity. “Says he’s got something for you.”

“Indeed.” Being forced from his bed at dawn just might have merit after all. “Bring them to me.” He paused, waiting until Huw was ready to go out the door. “Bring me bread and wine, as well.”

That order did not sit well upon him, Steffan noted as Huw fled the room.

’Twas clearly time to show him who was master here.

Steffan scratched at his chest and savored the successful completion of his latest strategy. He’d tried three times to bring Catrin within his grasp, and three times he’d failed.

This time he would succeed.

Since subtlety hadn’t worked in the past, brute force might—nay, would—grant him a full measure of success. Rumor had it that the scum he’d hired were the best.

Catrin would be within his grasp soon.

He did hope they hadn’t killed her. There were so many experiences he wished to share with his dear cousin before she died.

The mere thought cheered him immensely.

He’d had little time to put his plan into motion, but the idea had been stewing in his mind for months—ever since his faithless cousin Gillian had escaped him. He rubbed the back of his head. It had taken nearly that long for the lump Gillian had dealt him to disappear. But time had not eased his anger at her perfidy, nor Catrin’s part in it.

Gillian stood beyond his reach for the moment.

But Catrin…

He settled into the commodious seat of a thronelike chair, fingers gripping the carved armrests. By Christ’s bones, he could scarcely wait to get his hands upon the traitorous bitch.

A racket at the door brought his pleasant dreams to a halt. Huw shouldered his way into the chamber, tray in hand, clearly unhappy with the menial chore. Three men followed him into the room.

“Leave that here and get out,” Steffan told him.

Once Huw left, Steffan lounged back into the cushions and gazed at the men. They appeared nervous—not a good sign. However, Ralph stepped forward easily enough at Steffan’s signal.

“You’ve something for me, Ralph?” He could scarcely contain his anticipation.

Ralph took a rough cloth bag from one of the men, opened it and pulled out a woman’s bliaut.

“What is this?”

“’Tis one of your lady’s gowns, milord.” Ralph removed another from the sack and held it out. “There’s two of them.”

“And what does this mean?” Despite his mounting frustration, Steffan ignored Ralph’s offering and sipped at his wine as though he hadn’t a care in the world. “I told you to bring me the woman, not her clothes.”

Ralph flung the gowns to the floor. “Would you rather we’d carried her lifeless body through your bailey for all to see?”

Outraged by the man’s gall, Steffan leapt to his feet. “I wanted her alive, you fool!” He snatched a bliaut off the floor and tore it in two. Perhaps there was still a chance…He thrust the garment toward Ralph. “This proves nothing. It could belong to anyone.” Flinging the fabric aside, he snarled, “Bring Lady Catrin uerch Dafydd to me.”

Though Ralph stood his ground, it appeared his courage had fled, for he wouldn’t meet Steffan’s eyes. “It couldn’t be helped, milord. In the thick of battle she took an arrow—a couple of arrows—in the back.” The others nodded agreement. “It’d be more’n our lives’re worth to carry her in here like that.” His face grew pale. “What if that hell-spawned brother of hers found out? All the gold in the world couldn’t save us from the Dragon!”

Ready to howl his frustration, Steffan dragged his hands through his hair. “What must I do to get anything done properly? I’d wager you never even saw the bitch.” He swept his arm across the table, sending food and wine
flying against the wall with a satisfying crash. “I didn’t pay you to spend the night in some tavern—warm and lazy in your doxy’s arms.”

Ralph’s cohorts sidled toward the door. “Get back here,” Steffan demanded. “I didn’t tell you you could leave.” They stopped in their tracks, legs aquiver. “Sniveling cowards,” he muttered, turning to Ralph. “Well?”

“Truth to tell, milord, you haven’t paid us yet.” Ralph smiled—smirked, more like. Steffan’s hands itched at the provocation, but he restrained himself. He wasn’t done with the man quite yet. “But you should,” Ralph continued. “Indeed, milord, though we couldn’t capture the lady like you wanted, we got the job done. She’ll ne’er cause you trouble again.”

One of the others stepped forward, much to Steffan’s surprise. “Aye, milord. Deader than a haddock, she is. Seen it wi’ me own eyes. Weren’t no help fer it, sir—she attacked us.” He hitched up his breeches and nodded. “Right fearsome bitch, weren’t she, Ralph?”

Blood afire, Steffan lunged forward and struck him across the face, knocking him to the floor. “How dare you speak so of a noble lady?” ’Twas his right to speak of her however he wished—she was his kin and his equal. But these scum…

“See here, milord—” Ralph said.

“Get out, all of you!”

Ralph drew himself up and stood his ground. “You owe us, milord. ’Tain’t our fault things didn’t go the way you planned. Lady Catrin is dead—go see for yourself if you don’t believe us. ‘Course, by now the wolves’ve likely been at her, but what can ye do? ’Tis too risky for us to be trottin’ through the woods wi’ a dead noble-woman. By the rood, we’d be dead men ourselves fer that.”

Steffan stared at Ralph’s misshapen hands. “Been caught at mischief before, I see.”

Ralph held up his hand and wiggled his three remaining fingers. “I have. And that’s why I don’t plan on getting caught again. Be my neck, the next time.” He motioned his man up off the floor. “We killed her, ’tis true, but we lost eight men ourselves. You can’t expect us to take a loss like that for nothin’. We came for our money, and we aim to get it.”

He’d had enough of these fools. “You’ll get nothing from me until you can prove to me that she’s dead—or bring her to me alive. I’ll not accept that she’s gone until I see her corpse for myself. I’ll pay you then, and not a moment sooner.”

Cursing, Ralph snatched the gowns off the floor and stuffed them in the sack. “Come along, lads. ’Tis plain his lordship’s in a right foul mood. Be wasting our time trying to make him see sense.” He slung the sack over his shoulder. “You know how to find me, milord, should you change your mind.” Turning on his heel, he led his men out the door.

Steffan stomped out after them and paused on the landing. “Huw,” he yelled once they’d started down the steps. The soldier crossed the hall and stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Get up here.”

Looking much put-upon, Huw climbed up to join him at a leisurely pace. “Now what, milord?”

Though tempted to knock Huw back down the stairs for his insolence, instead Steffan motioned him closer. “Find a man you can trust and send him to follow those jackals,” he said in a low voice. “I want to know where they go and who they speak to—as soon as possible.”

“Aye, milord.” Huw sent him a mocking salute as he left.

Steffan lingered at the railing and watched his impertinent servant’s slow descent, vowing to light a fire under him at the next opportunity. For the moment he needed Huw, but another chance would present itself soon, no doubt, since Huw irritated him with annoying regularity. “Escort those vermin from the keep,” he called after him. “Don’t let them in again until they bring me what I need.”

Waving his acknowledgment, Huw fell into step behind the three men as they left the hall.

More inept bandits he’d never seen! Steffan stormed into his chamber and slammed the door.

It seemed that no one he hired ever did an adequate job. Something was always lacking, some vital spark necessary to ensure the success of his ventures.

Perhaps he should take care of his concerns himself. He couldn’t depend upon anyone—his schemes always ended up in ruins.

Look at this situation! He snatched the wineskin off the floor and drank deeply as he considered how it had gone wrong. Such a simple plan, to abduct Catrin from her meager guard.

He’d nearly shouted with joy when his spy at Gwal Draig sent word that Catrin had set out for l’Eau Clair with so little protection. No one there knew she was coming, and Ian wasn’t expected home for another week, at least. Plenty of time to make her pay for the loss of Gillian and l’Eau Clair.

If only Catrin had minded her own business he would be lord and master of l’Eau Clair now, a powerful Marcher lord. His noble cousin Llywelyn—even King John of England himself—would have danced to his tune. The beautiful Lady Gillian would be his bride, although
that didn’t seem such a prize now that he’d come to know her better.

Still, to hold l’Eau Clair within his grasp would be more than sufficient to compensate for her willfulness.

And he’d have shown her who was master soon enough.

Catrin had ruined it all with her concern for Gillian. “I’ve heard that my dear cousin has come to stay with you,” she’d said after Huw had stolen Gillian from her own keep and brought her to Bryn Du. “You must let me visit her.”

He’d had no choice but to allow Catrin to see Gillian, not without rousing her suspicions. He’d known Catrin was a bold, daring wench, but he’d never have suspected her to be in league with Rannulf FitzClifford. She hated Normans!

“She is ill, Steffan—let me bring a physician to examine her,” she’d offered.

Ill! The perfidious bitch wasn’t ill.

She was pregnant with another man’s child.

He’d have taken Gillian to wife as soon as she’d been rid of her bastard.

Indeed, he’d planned to free her of the Norman whelp sullying her womb as soon as possible.

But Catrin’s “physician” had been Gillian’s lover, FitzClifford. They’d wrested her from him and spirited her away from Bryn Du. His dear kinswoman Catrin, allied with the Normans to spoil his plans.

Nay, his destiny.

With their royal blood combined, he and Gillian would have been equal to—nay, superior to—anyone in Wales.

Even Prince Llywelyn himself.

Catrin had done him ill so often, she could never make
it up to him. Could he but get her into his grasp, however, he’d derive some recompense.

And by Christ, he’d enjoy it!

Catrin still lived, he could feel it. He’d know, somehow, if she were gone.

And if those fools could not bring her to him, he’d go out and find her himself.

Ralph and his men pushed their scraggly mounts until Bryn Du was little more than a blur against the sky. He couldn’t help but yearn for the smooth-gaited steed he’d taken from the Norman knight. Every bone-jarring jolt of the mount beneath him served to remind him how unprofitable this venture had proven thus far. Lord Steffan wouldn’t pay them; he’d seen that clear as day in the arrogant bastard’s face. And since it wasn’t easy to dispose of stolen goods, they weren’t likely to get anywhere near the real value of the items.

They stopped alongside a rushing stream. Ralph dismounted and stood for a moment with head bent, pondering what to do. It wouldn’t do to show a mite of weakness, else he’d be dead in no time.

“What do we do now?” Will asked. He hopped down from the saddle with surprising vigor considering how hard Lord Steffan had hit him. “I say we go back and try for the money again,” he added, fingers caressing the knife at his waist. “I’d like to sink my blade into that strutting cock.”

“Get yourself killed, more like,” Ralph told him. He bent and scooped water over his head—all he could do to cool his anger for now. “Here, Will, come stick your head in the water—your nose is still dripping blood. Mayhap the cold’ll put some sense in your noggin.”

Diccon knelt beside them, pausing to drink before offering
his opinion. “I’d like to make that weasel pay. All the work we did, and he won’t pay.” He shook his head. “Can’t trust no one.”

Ralph settled back against a tree and nibbled on a dry crust while Diccon and Will bandied plots back and forth. ’Twas best to let them go on until they ran out of ideas—it wouldn’t take long. It was comfortable here in the forest, and he wasn’t in any hurry to leave.