Chapter 25
March, 1177
Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd
The ward was nearly deserted of soldiers when she emerged hesitantly on to it from the ground-floor entrance in the rear of the keep. After the heavy midday meal, most of Longsword’s men disappeared into the barracks or remained in the hall to amuse themselves with gaming or storytelling or napping. Still, she could tell it was a busy place, this Rhuddlan Castle. Even at such a lazy time of day servants bustled about, guards prowled the towers, the smith pounded a horseshoe into proper shape at his forge and, out of her view, two combatants practiced against each other, clanging metal together with unnatural ferocity.
She had decided on the spur of the moment to take advantage of her freedom after Teleri had dismissed her. Delamere hadn’t once allowed her to leave Longsword’s side and she was finding the waiting tedious. It was especially worse without the diversion of her daughter, whom she keenly missed. She pulled the ends of her rough cloak closer together and contemplated her next move. Her breath came out in puffs of mist. The air was cold but she didn’t mind; it smelled fresh and crisp. She was a scrupulous housekeeper and kept Longsword as clean as possible, but there was a mingled smell of sweat and human waste which clung tenaciously to the air in his chamber.
There was no purpose in strolling the Norman-occupied sections of the castle yards; these belonged to knights and squires and the large, heavy stallions. She would be less noticed among other women and other servants. She turned away from the ward and towards the collection of single-roomed, timbered buildings just beyond the stables and the postern gate. It was a veritable city of narrow lanes and close-set houses and she wandered around almost happily, glad for the respite from Delamere’s constant demands and Longsword’s constant silence.
All at once, she became aware that someone was watching her too steadily for her comfort. She turned her head very slightly and saw the shape of a man, dressed in Norman clothing, out of the corner of her eye. A knight or a man-at-arms. Nervous, she increased her pace. She sensed he was following her and ducked down one lane and around another corner but it was a lost cause. He knew the layout of the little town and she didn’t. She couldn’t shake him from her trail. Her feet moved even more quickly. All she wanted now was to return to the keep. On the path before her she saw half a dozen women gossiping and laughing together. She hurried towards them, thinking to lose her pursuer in the confusion, and when she finally got around them she breathed easier. She could see the gate not far away. She was almost there.
But before she went another step, a hand reached out and grabbed her arm, and pulled her to the side. She was too frightened even to scream. The grip on her arm slowly eased and she looked up at her abductor.
“Lady Eleanor? Is that you?”
The voice was bewildered and demanding…and familiar. The haze of fear which covered her eyes evaporated.
“Alan?” she asked hesitantly.
“I don’t believe it! That night when you arrived with Sir Richard, I thought…but I decided no, it’s too fantastic, just a trick of the light! But…what are you doing here? In Wales?”
There were a million things she could say but she didn’t know which to say first. She opened her mouth but nothing came out.
“They said you were a Welsh witch brought to cure Lord William from his deadly fever,” he said. “So I thought no more about it. But then I saw you come out of the keep just now and it nagged at me again. I tried to get as close to you as I could but—”
“I didn’t know why you were chasing me!” she burst out, finally able to speak. “I was afraid.”
He grinned at her. “Of me?”
“I didn’t know it was you, Alan. If I had known it was you, I would have flown right into your arms.”
He held his arms out. “So come now. Greet me as your long lost cousin,” he said, half-teasingly, half-earnestly.
Something held her back. It was impossible to move her feet. Was it the memory of the last man who had touched her? A man who had beaten her and cursed at her? Her heart, which had just returned to a normal rhythm after the shock of seeing Alan d’Arques, started beating frantically again.
He frowned, puzzled. His arms drooped. “What’s wrong, Eleanor?”
What could she answer? If she said the truth, then the rest of it would come out. She had put it all so carefully behind her and as the years went by she found herself thinking about it less often. Bronwen was her sole direct link with the past but Bronwen grew up every day and had become to her evidence only of the future.
“I’m so filthy,” she said quietly. “I’m ashamed that you see me like this.”
He grinned again, happily. “I see nothing but your face, Eleanor. You.” He stretched his arms out once more. “I’m so glad to see you, you could be dressed in rags and covered with scabs and I’d still want to embrace you.”
This time she smiled in return and walked forward until she was pressed against his chest and felt his arms clasped firmly around her back. His pleasure in meeting her was so obvious and his embrace so sincere that she wanted to give herself up to it, to break down and confess all the horrible events that had brought her to this point. But she didn’t dare. Six years had passed since they had last seen each other; six years that had had a profound effect on her life. Who was to say something similar hadn’t happened to him? She wasn’t the same person; how could she be sure he was? So she willed her mind not to crumble and held her body rigidly.
He sensed it. He pulled back and held her out at arm’s length. “Eleanor?”
“Tell me what’s happened to you, Alan,” she said in a soft, urgent voice. “How did you end up at Rhuddlan Castle?”
“I serve Lord William,” he answered. “And this is where the king sent him after the war.”
“What war?”
“You don’t know about the war? Young King Henry against his father?” He gazed at her in astonishment when she shook her head. “Where have you been, Eleanor? Your husband sided with the rebels against the king. I was at Dol when he was taken prisoner. We learned earlier this year that he’d recently been released from Falaise but his castle at Chester was confiscated and put under Henry’s control. You know nothing about this?”
“No. I’ve been here for the last four years, Alan. At the abbey of St. Mary. Living in peace.”
He stood perplexed, trying to make sense of her words. “And Chester?”
“One day, I left,” she said, looking away. “I felt a stronger call than marriage.”
“I’m sorry, Eleanor.”
It was her turn to be confused. “Why?”
“I never approved of the marriage. I knew you had been promised to the church and there was something about the earl I just didn’t like. I wanted to tell you but you and Gwalaes seemed happy enough and I didn’t want to spoil it for you. And then I thought perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad after all. The earl was well-respected and in the short time I knew him I always saw him open-handed and pleasant company.”
“He was not so pleasant with me,” she said bitterly. “Especially after my brother died.”
“He loved your brother. He married you because Robert asked him to do it…Eleanor, I want to know everything that’s happened to you since I last saw you. Does Chester know you’re here?”
A shiver ran through her. Until recently her husband had been a terrible but much faded memory. This contact with the Normans, however, was breathing new life into fears she had thought she’d never again experience. She almost didn’t answer; perhaps if she refused to talk about it, the whole looming specter of Hugh would dissipate and leave her at last in peace.
But Alan’s face was so open and earnest, so obviously solicitous and remindful of the happier time when he’d come to live with her family, that she knew she could trust him. And so she described to him her long journey to the abbey. The careful planning of her escape from Chester, the cold trip to the Church of St. John, slipping through a rear door, the deliberate foot
steps to the edge of the city in the darkening gloom, the need to keep walking, walking, walking even though she had only a vague sense of the direction to Wales because she feared a humiliating capture and return to the castle; the frigid November nights during which she dared not close her eyes for fear the wolves would attack her or the wild Welsh warriors of whom she’d heard such terrifying tales; of walking, walking, walking until her fine leather shoes, unused to the punishment, split and she’d had to rip strips of cloth with numbed fingers from the hem of her gown to tie around them just to keep them on her feet; of the hunger which had finally attacked her on the second day and made her dizzy by the third and half-crazed that she was killing her unborn child by denying it nourishment; of the fear, worst of everything, that her journey would never end, because she had no idea where she wanted to go or how she would recognize safety when she found it.
“A child?” Alan interrupted. “The earl’s heir?”
She nodded. “A little girl. I call her Bronwen, a Welsh name…” Her voice rose eagerly. “I left her at the abbey; you have to come and meet her.”
The dawn broke mistily on the fourth day. Every tree branch and every blade of grass seemed to sparkle with a thin sheen of ice but there was a dampness to the air which made a wispy fog while promising a warmer day. She woke from a fitful nap; miserable, cold and starving, and felt she couldn’t move. She didn’t want to go on. She thought about her baby but was too exhausted to feel guilty that it, too, would die if she died in that spot under the tree. Then she had heard the faint toll of a bell. For a confused moment she imagined it was God calling her home to heaven. But the bell was insistent and finally she had gotten up and stumbled towards it, out of the forest, down a barren slope and up to the entrance to a small, stone church from which a dozen or so brown-draped women were leaving…and collapsed in the midst of them.
They washed her, propped her up in a bed and fed her. They addressed her in Welsh and she responded in kind. Her name was Gwalaes, she told them. Even though she was grateful that the abbey had taken her in without question, she couldn’t risk revealing who she really was. The sisters were all Norman gentlewomen; they might have felt an obligation to convince her to return to Chester and to her duties as a wife and countess. She spoke passable Welsh, and although she suspected that the lay people who served the nuns weren’t fooled by her rough accent into believing she actually was Welsh, they apparently never said so to the sisters. Months later, she heard it rumored that she was a slave who had run away from a harsh master, and because the nuns were morally opposed to slavery they didn’t press her on the subject of her past.
Anyway, there was so much present to be concerned about. It was soon obvious that she was pregnant. One of the nuns employed her services in the infirmary. She discovered an aptitude for the work; she had a quick memory and was soon able to recognize the various herbs and plants which the abbey grew and knew their purposes. Five months after her arrival at the abbey, she delivered a perfect baby girl whom she named Bronwen in memory of the true Gwalaes’ mother, who had for all actuality been her own as well.
“When Sister Infirmarer died a year later, I simply took her place. And then, last month, your Lord William was brought to me. And now I’m here.”
Alan was shaking his head in disbelief. “My God, Eleanor! What a fantastic tale! You—who had never set foot outside your father’s house except to journey to Chester—suddenly took it in your mind to walk to Wales?”
“Perhaps it was because I’d never been anywhere that I thought I could do it.” She shrugged. “I was frightened but at least I could speak Welsh. Gwalaes’ mother always spoke it to us and most of the servants at Chester are Welsh.”
“Where is Gwalaes?” he asked abruptly. “Is she at the abbey?”
Eleanor didn’t look at him. “No. She didn’t come with me.”
“Why not? You two are like twins. What one does—”
“We argued at Chester,” she cut in. “She hated it. She hated the earl and his retainers and their wives. She was only another servant there and she resented it.”
“All the more reason for her to come with you, I would think…”
That was true. Eleanor decided she would have to lie. She looked straight into his face. “She returned to Oakby.”
“I see…”
“Alan, I must go. I must get back to Lord William.”
He put his arm under her elbow. “I’ll walk with you. I have to see you again, Eleanor.”
“Yes. Yes. I’d like to know more about the war—and what happened to my husband.” They emerged onto the ward and she turned to him urgently. “Alan, you won’t say anything…”
“Of course not!” He smiled at her. “I still can’t believe it’s really you. There were times I wondered if I’d ever see my little cousin from Oakby again, and Gwalaes, too.”
She felt her stomach drop. He hadn’t changed at all. Somewhat taller. Somewhat heavier. A calm confidence in his manner. But he was as kind and pleasant as he’d always been. She was tempted to blurt out the entire story but for his sake caught herself. There was nothing he could do for Gwalaes so why not let him live on in ignorant contentment? She forced herself to smile back at him. “You don’t know how we wondered the same thing the day we were informed you were no longer in Robert’s entourage. I’m glad to see you, Alan.”
He gave her arm an affectionate squeeze—a gesture which did not go unnoticed by Richard Delamere, who was angrily waiting for Gwalaes on the landing outside the hall.
There was a knock at her door and then a breathless servant burst inside without waiting for permission. There was, she informed Teleri with an excited face, terrible screaming and shouting coming from Lord William’s apartment.
Teleri rose from her seat. Her embroidery fell to the floor. “Who’s shouting?” she demanded. “What’s being said?”
Sir Richard was doing most of the shouting. The miracle-worker was there and so was Gladys. Teleri’s heart pounded and the blood roared in her ears. It had been done! The healer had done it! She was so excited, she began to shake.
Her women didn’t understand what had happened and why she trembled. They pestered her with questions until she impatiently hushed them. There was only one curious twist to the story; Sir Richard was shouting in his native tongue and the miracle-worker was apparently answering him in that same language.
“Get someone over there who understands Norman French,” she ordered and the servant flew off eagerly. Now there was nothing more Teleri could do but pace the confines of her chamber and wait. She didn’t dare go over herself; she was certain Delamere would point a finger at her if she happened to appear before his eyes. No, better to wait it out, she thought, although it was hard. She couldn’t keep still. She rehearsed speeches in her head and twisted her face into various expressions of shock, practicing for the moment Delamere came to give her the news of her husband’s death. She prayed to God she would be able to keep a straight face.
The waiting was unbearable. Once she stopped pacing and strained her ears. She fancied she could hear Delamere’s angry voice even though Longsword’s apartment was, by his design, on the other side of the keep. It was hard for her to believe it had really happened and she would soon be free. It was a little frightening—humbling, too—to realize the power she possessed. What was it that had convinced the healer? Teleri’s deft hand with Gladys? Her imperious manner? The argument she had made with its bloody details?
“Oh!” she exclaimed out loud, stamping her foot into the floor in frustration. Her women looked at her, puzzled, and began badgering her with questions again until she told them to shut up.
Then the same servant came back. “What’s going on?” she asked her urgently. “What are they saying?” But the servant had no answer. She had returned to tell Teleri of a new development: three horsemen had just ridden into the ward. One of them had leaped off his horse and jogged off towards the keep in a single movement and was at this moment clompin
g his way up to Longsword’s chamber. The remaining two had been joined by other knights; they were talking with great animation and waving their arms around for emphasis. Teleri made an automatic grimace; wild gesticulation was another Norman habit she found distasteful.
Now it was doubly hard to remain in her rooms. She felt so isolated, cut off from the important business of the castle and she didn’t like it at all. She stood on the threshold of her antechamber. She no longer had to strain her ears; she could hear quite plainly the sound of uproar in the hall two storeys below.
“Fetch my cloak!” she ordered, whirling around on the balls of her feet. “I’m going out! Hurry!”
The women looked up from their sewing with blank expressions, having no idea of the drama unfolding beyond their walls. One of them protested that the sky was almost dark and there was a sharp chill in the air. The other asked her why she wanted to go out. Old women! She decided she didn’t need a cloak.
By the time she reached the hall it was empty. Instead, a small crowd was pressed into the double doorway which led out onto the landing above the ward. But everyone moved aside when she came up and she went straight to the head of the stair.
Sir Richard was standing in the middle of the great expanse, surrounded by four other knights and Gwalaes, the healer. Gladys was nowhere in sight. At this distance their voices weren’t clear but the unexpected shriek from the healer surely reached to the farthest ends of the fortress. Teleri leaned over the wooden railing with interest. Now Gwalaes was ranting hysterically, her words unintelligible but her distress plain. She rushed up to Sir Richard, still ranting, until without warning he grabbed both her arms above the elbows and thrust her backwards into the secure grip of one of the other knights.
Because she had no idea what was happening but her conscience was guilty, Teleri’s imagination ran wild. Obviously Longsword was dead and the healer implicated. Why else would Sir Richard hold her captive in such a manner? Perhaps he’d already killed Gladys—she could quite easily picture him slicing his sword down through Gladys’ hapless neck—and in the meantime the healer had sought to escape, only to be recaptured. But what had Longsword’s death to do with the riders who’d just ridden in? She had no idea…
But then Sir Richard was staring up at her. The soldiers with him looked up also. Her heart began thudding rapidly and before she could stop herself, she’d taken a step backwards. She felt the skin on the back of her neck prickle and she knew from the sudden silence that the crush of people that had been standing behind her was no longer there. How could they possibly suspect—
Sir Richard was coming towards her, almost hurrying. The healer must have told him everything! Well, if he wanted to accuse her she wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of an audience to watch her humiliation. He could confront her in her chambers and perhaps by the time she’d gotten back upstairs, she would have thought of some innocent sounding alibi.
She turned around as casually as she could manage it under the circumstances and nearly jumped out of her skin. Standing right behind her was her husband.
Even though he was leaning heavily on one of his men, Longsword felt as if he would sink to the ground. It had been folly to get out of bed. Gladys had tried to stop him but her efforts were feeble. Still, if she hadn’t rushed out ahead of him and somehow made his man understand that he needed help urgently, he probably would have ended up tumbling down the twisting steps. He was angry with his body for not doing what he wanted it to do. He’d felt a little lightheaded sitting up in bed and gesturing for Gladys to put the tunic over his head and push his feet into his deerskin slippers but he was able to stand so that she could drape his robe around him and belt it, and he’d been confident he could make it to the hall and find out what it was that had so alarmed Richard.
And the woman who had saved his life. He’d been lying in his bed, tired out by Gladys’ zealous ministrations, when Richard had come in, fresh from the hunt, or rather not so fresh but reeking of horse and blood. Delamere had taken one look at Gladys and had exploded, shouting questions at her so rapidly that she hadn’t been able to answer. She’d started crying so naturally he had tried to come to her defense, but his friend was having none of it. He’d shouted a bit longer at a now sobbing Gladys and then spun around and out of the chamber.
Longsword had been bewildered. His head ached from the noise and confusion. Gladys was no help; even if she could have spoken his language, she was crying too hard to be coherent. Her sobs had quickly started to grate on him but he couldn’t tell her to stop and risk upsetting her—and his baby—even more. He wondered where the other woman was, the calm one who had gotten angry when he’d wanted to stand up earlier in the day. He felt certain she would know what to do and would be able to explain everything to him.
But when she finally came, it was at the end of Delamere’s arm. He was dragging her behind him, into Longsword’s chamber, and then he started in on his shouting again, pointing from her to Gladys and back again. He’d pointed a few times at Longsword, as well, which was disconcerting but still unhelpful.
Then, apparently having exhausted his supply of Welsh, Delamere switched to Norman and Longsword finally understood the gist of his friend’s anger, which concerned the calm woman leaving Gladys in charge despite strict instructions against it. Rather than bursting into tears as Gladys had done, the other one tried to defend herself but Longsword could have told her to save her breath. It wasn’t often that Delamere got angry but when he did it was best to put up with it quietly and just wait for him to calm down.
The shouting had only ended when fitz Maurice had jumped into the room with some fantastic message which had the effect of propelling Delamere and the healer from his bedside like arrows from a finely stretched bowstring. After a quick bow to him, fitz Maurice had chased after them, and Longsword had been left alone with the still sobbing Gladys.
Some of the pain and dizziness left him when he came upon the strange spectacle of a nearly empty hall and the press of people by the doorway. Curiosity overwhelmed the screaming nerves in his neck, at least for the moment, and he and his human crutch made their way forward.
He was surprised to find Teleri at the head of the crowd. She was staring back at him with a white face, obviously equally surprised. He couldn’t help but grin. She must have been holding her breath these last few weeks, waiting for word to be brought to her of his death. She quickly recovered her composure and inclined her head as slightly as etiquette permitted but she did not leave.
Delamere had taken the stair two steps at a time. “Will! What are you doing?” he exclaimed. “Have you lost your mind?”
“I’m fine, Richard, fine,” he answered testily, because he wasn’t really fine but felt exhausted by his exercise. “What’s happened?”
“Rhirid’s burned the abbey down. De Vire and fitz Maurice saw the smoke from miles away and they went to investigate.”
“Why would he do that?”
Delamere shrugged. “It’s a poor man’s retaliation. Because of Llanlleyn and because the sisters had taken you in after you’d been shot. In fact, de Vire said the abbess told him Rhirid specifically demanded Gwalaes be brought to him.”
Simultaneously, they looked down into the ward at the healer, a blatantly anguished captive. “Well,” said Longsword, “it’s lucky for her that she’s here.”
“Perhaps not. He took her daughter instead.”
“She has a child?”
“Yes. And there’s more. One of the sisters died from the shock. But it’s murder. It’s as if Rhirid had killed her with his bare hands.” Delamere paused. “Will, I can handle this. You shouldn’t be—”
“Sir Richard!”
The shout had come from the ward. Delamere strode to the edge of the landing in time to see a horse shoot through the open gate, out of the fortress. “Who was that?” he called down.
“The girl!” fitz Maurice answered. “She swore she’d be calm, so I let her go. But instead she jump
ed on my horse! The grooms—”
“Never mind about that! Go after her!” Delamere roared.
Teleri slid into the spot next to her husband’s side abandoned by Delamere. Longsword looked down at her, teeth gritted into what he hoped resembled a careless grin. “Didn’t expect to see me again in an upright position, did you?”
Once more Teleri experienced that instantaneous moment of panic, imagining her scheming had been found out, but then she realized that Longsword was simply needling her. She relaxed and smiled back at him. “It is indeed unfortunate, my lord husband,” she said in an equally good-natured tone. “I will just have to pray harder next time.”
Delamere waved off several offers and helped Longsword back upstairs, an even more torturous procedure than coming down, himself. “How do you feel?” he asked his friend anxiously once Longsword had been returned to his bed.
“Like I’m a thousand years old. It’s a damned inconvenience…”
“Does it hurt much?”
Longsword struggled to think of a flippant reply but the pain was too great and his mind was too fuzzy. He settled for the monosyllabic truth because it was the easiest answer. “Yes.”
“When Gwalaes gets back, I’ll have her brew some of that tea that kills pain.” If she ever came back. By now it was pitch black outside. “In the meantime I’ll have mulled wine brought up.”
Before he could give this order, there was a knock at the door. Fitz Maurice, de Vire and several others walked in, followed by Alan d’Arques and Eleanor.
Delamere wasn’t prepared for the change in Eleanor’s appearance when she was pulled through the doorway and stood trembling and sullen before him. Her hair had come loose from its braid and hung disorderly and in knots around her shoulders and down her back. Her gown was dirty and part of the hem was torn away. Her face was smudged with dirt, her mouth was set in a grim straight line and to Delamere it seemed her whole body was rigid with tension.
“What’s happened to her?” he said to fitz Maurice.
The man gave Eleanor a contemptuous look. “She didn’t want to come. We practically had to drag her back. Only d’Arques could handle her.”
“There’s a mark under her eye.”
“Sir Richard, she took my horse! It’s dusky outside; even darker in the forest! She could have lamed it galloping like an idiot over the rough ground, or worse!”
Delamere moved very close to him. “This woman saved your lord’s life,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t think King Henry would like to learn that you hold your damned horse in higher esteem than his son, do you?”
The man’s gaze faltered and he glanced nervously at Longsword. “No, Sir Richard.”
He dismissed the knight and turned back to Eleanor. She didn’t look at him but stared stubbornly at the floor. Before he could speak, another voice said urgently, “Sir Richard, she was only concerned for her daughter!”
It was Alan d’Arques. The young knight’s face was worried, as if he imagined Delamere was going to punish Eleanor for stealing a horse.
He sighed, tired of conflict. “I know,” he said calmly. “We’re all concerned—”
“That’s a lie!” she snapped, finally raising her head. Her eyes blazed. “Don’t insult me by expecting me to believe your lies!”
He was taken aback. Not only was her appearance different but so was her demeanor. Her face was bloodless and her hands clenched into fists as she confronted him. “Gwalaes—”
“You didn’t care about her at the abbey and you don’t care about her now!” she interrupted again, her voice trembling with emotion. “Well, you no longer have any hold over me, Sir Richard! Lord William has recovered. You’ve got the horse back. Just let me walk out of here and find my daughter!”
“No.”
They stared at each other. Delamere’s face was tight but expressionless. Eleanor’s was a mixture of disbelief, hurt and fury. She felt as impotent as all those times she’d endured her husband’s cold rages and she didn’t trust herself to speak again without breaking down.
“Listen…”
Everyone turned in surprise towards the bed. Longsword had spoken. His voice was now weak and his face very pale. The excruciating journey up and down the stairs had obviously exacted a harsh toll.
“You can’t go…without us,” he said. “This isn’t anything personal against you despite the message; it’s a declaration of war.”
“Lord William is correct, Gwalaes,” Delamere said. “The Welsh want to finish the job they started when they shot him. They know we’ve got you and that they can get to us through you.”
She shook her head. “It doesn’t make sense. Why would they think that? Why would they think I’m anything to you? That you wouldn’t just throw me out and leave me to their justice?”
“You’re right; they don’t know that,” Delamere agreed. “But I’m certain they’re counting on it, otherwise why not just kill Bronwen then and there? You see? It’s a matter of pride. He’s taunting us with this kidnapping; he knows we won’t stand the insult. Besides, it was a Norman abbey he attacked. We have a moral obligation to protect it and to avenge the death he caused.”
She looked unconvinced. The nightmare was too fresh in her mind.
“He won’t harm her, Gwalaes,” he added soothingly. “Rhirid needs her. And there are plenty of women at Llanlleyn to look after her. You needn’t worry about Bronwen.”
A sudden jolt ran through her. For a moment her chest was so tight she couldn’t breathe. Alan d’Arque saw her distress. “Are you all right La—” he started.
“But there aren’t any women at Llanlleyn—there isn’t any Llanlleyn!” she burst out frantically. Her ears rang and she felt lightheaded. “Women and children—little children, she said! Hewill murder her!”
She was bordering on the verge of hysteria. The men all looked at each other, puzzled. “What are you talking about, Gwalaes?” Delamere asked in a sharp voice to gain her attention.
Her expression was wild. “She said you murdered everyone in Llanlleyn, including women and children! And then you burned it to the ground! Can’t you see? He will murder Bronwen for revenge!”
“It isn’t true, Gwalaes!” Delamere said. “Calm down—”
“I’ve had enough of being calm!” she suddenly shouted at him. “I want my daughter back!”
In the excitement, Longsword had somehow struggled to an upright position in his bed without realizing it. He felt no pain, only a surprising concern for the woman who had saved his life. “Come closer to me!” he commanded Eleanor in the sudden, shocked silence which followed her outburst. “So I don’t have to shout.”
She hung back sullenly for a few heartbeats and then went to his bedside. Her face was a picture of distrust.
“Who is this ‘she’ you’re talking about?” he asked. “Petite? Red-brown hair? Pouting disposition?”
Eleanor nodded. “I don’t know her name or who she is. She came to see you this morning.”
“And was probably disappointed you were here and she couldn’t carry out her plan to put a pillow over my face,” he said. “That was my wife, Lady Teleri.”
“She told me your wound burst open when you attacked Llanlleyn, killed its inhabitants, including women and children, and burned it to the ground,” she said accusingly.
“That’s not true,” he said, and told her what had really happened. “Now will you be calm?” he added in a kind voice when he was through. Delamere raised his eyebrows in surprise. Longsword was always matter-of-fact and blunt with whomever he spoke. “We’ll get your daughter back.”
She stared at him, trying to gauge his sincerity. For some reason—perhaps it was because she so desperately wanted Bronwen and was willing to clutch at any straw offered—she trusted him.
But he thought she hesitated. “I swear it to you,” he said and held out his hand.