The Beauty Bride, page 27
His mouth worked for a moment, and she feared that he truly was surprised. “We meet well abed.”
“Marriage must be more than that, especially as you already vowed to me that I could not rely upon you to be faithful to me alone. You may have need of sons, but I am not certain that I have need of a spouse. Find yourself a whore, Rhys, and she may keep you content.”
Leaving her husband staring at her in annoyance and astonishment - and fuming more than a good bit herself - Madeline marched away from him. Her fears of the ship were forgotten for the moment, so severe was her anger.
How could Rhys have so betrayed her trust?
* * *
Madeline made her way back to the cabin, her tears only spilling when Gelert welcomed her with such enthusiasm. She sat with the dog and tried to summon her memory of James’ beloved face.
To her horror, Madeline could not remember what James looked like. Indeed, another man’s grim visage filled her thoughts. Madeline tried to recall the sweet magic of James’ voice.
She could not hear him, not in her memory. Instead, she heard the lilt of a deeper voice, one that recounted a tale with humor and passion.
Madeline desperately sought some recollection of her beloved James, her fear easing only when she envisioned his slender fingers upon the strings of his lute. She smiled and closed her eyes, knowing all would come aright. James would come to her at Caerwyn, for Rosamunde knew Rhys’ destination. Rhys himself had supplied the detail Madeline needed to have their marriage annulled.
Something twisted deep within her, for Madeline knew she had become fond of Rhys. But he himself had sworn that he had no intent to love his spouse. He desired Caerwyn and sons, no more and no less. His wife would be a vessel, no more and no less.
James was the man for her, Madeline knew it well.
They would be united soon, and they would be together for all eternity. Rhys, she suspected, would not even miss her. Against all odds, Madeline’s sole desire would be her own.
How curious then that her heart did not sing in anticipation. Madeline remembered the gift from her mother, then, and her fingers shook as she unfastened the velvet pouch around her neck. She poured the Tear into her hand and was reassured by the sight of the gem.
A fierce light burned deep within the stone, brighter than the glimmer she had seen before. It was a golden light, a vigorous glow that told her that all finally came aright.
Her tears must be tears of joy, and only fell with such enthusiasm because of her hunger. Madeline told herself as much, time and again, and stared at the bright star in the stone.
But she could not believe it and she did not know why.
* * *
Chapter Fifteen
Rhys had little to lose. At this point, he told himself, his marriage with Madeline could only improve.
Unless, of course, it ended.
Rhys was not quite prepared to face that prospect, not without fighting for the lady’s favor. In his view, he had the duration of this journey to win her heart, and he had no intent of losing a moment granted to him.
How could he have forgotten the differences in consanguinity laws between the Welsh church and the Roman one? How could he have erred so soundly? How could he have wed Madeline within a chapel that answered to Canterbury and never seen the flaw in his choice?
He was losing his wits in the presence of this woman.
And worse, he did not want to be without her, at any price.
Rhys fetched two bowls of the stew the sailors had made with salted cod, two tankards of ale and a loaf of bread. When a man tried to take issue with Rhys’ portion of bread - of which there would be no more before they reached another port - Rhys gave him such a glare that the man slunk away like a whipped hound.
Rhys marched down the lurching corridor, carefully balancing his burden, and acknowledged that he was more fearful of what he might face in the small cabin ahead than any battle he had faced in all his days.
He rapped upon the door, though Madeline did not answer.
Rhys had not truly expected her to do so. He thought he could discern the sniffle of tears, and cursed himself for granting his lady such injury that she wept.
It was his duty to see her smile again, if nothing more. He braced his feet against the rolling deck and cleared his throat, for he knew just the tale to recount to her.
“Once there was a man, whom all believed to be blessed with keen wits. His wife thought him the most clever man in all their valley, though soon she was to be proven wrong.”
Rhys heard a little sniff of laughter from behind the door, which was better than the tearful sniffle he had heard earlier. He dared to be encouraged.
“This man was not only clever - at least in the estimation of his friends and neighbors - but he dearly loved to see others merry. So, his heart was good, if his wits were soon shown to be somewhat less so. This man befriended a group of fairies, who lived beneath a hill near his home. It is told that he had done them some favor, though I do not know its nature. Suffice to say that the fairies felt inclined to indulge him and offered him his heart’s desire.”
The ship was obviously struck by a swell, Rhys lost his footing slightly, and some of the stew went over the lip of the bowl. The pain where it landed upon his hand reassured Rhys that the meal was not yet cold, though he winced until the burn’s sting subsided.
He knew that Madeline would be afraid of the ship’s motion, and he continued his tale with haste, hoping to distract her from her fears.
“And so, this man thought about his friends and neighbors, and how much he liked to see them merry, and he asked the fairies for a harp that would play of its own accord. Those who loved to dance in his valley had long complained of musicians who grew tired before they did, and he thought this a fitting gift that would make all merry. He was sufficiently good of heart to wish to share his good fortune.
“The fairies bade him go home, and when the man awakened the next morning, he found a harp beside his hearth. He knew from a single glimpse that this was no mortal harp - it was wrought of gold and the strings shimmered even when they were still - and he was delighted. That very night, his friends and neighbors gathered to see the marvel, and the man laid his hand upon it. No sooner had he touched the strings than the harp began to play a merry tune. Every soul gathered there could do naught else but dance.”
Rhys juggled his burden again, hoping that Madeline was listening to him, and further that she would find favor with his tale. “The music from the harp was so merry that the people danced with uncommon vigor. They leapt and spun, they stamped their feet and clapped their hands, they danced until they swore they could dance no longer. But they could not halt, not so long as the harp played. Their feet were enchanted by the music, so they danced and danced and danced.
“When they cried that they could dance no longer, the man lifted his hand from the harp. It fell silent, then and only then, and all agreed that it was a marvel. The wife thought that her spouse was a rare prize, for not only had he won his heart’s desire, but his desire had been one to make more merry than simply himself.
“And so it went that the friends and neighbors came calling when they had need of a dance, and the man brought his enchanted harp to every gathering in the valley. All enjoyed the music, all benefited from this gift of the fairies, all danced as they had never danced before. All thought the man wondrous, but slowly, he began to doubt that he was invited to join festivities for his own sake. He began to believe that people asked him only so that he would bring his harp. He began to think that his friends only feigned friendship, that their true affection was for the fairies’ gift. He began to think his friends and neighbors unappreciative that he had shared his good fortune. This shadow seized hold of him and would not relinquish its grip.
“And so one night, he laid his hand upon the harp strings as so many times he had before. His friends and neighbors danced, for they could do nothing else, and they danced and they danced and they danced. But when time came that they were tired, and they called out to him to halt, the man pretended that he had not heard them.
“The man let the harp play on and on, he coaxed it on without remorse, he compelled his friends and neighbors to dance endlessly. So deep was his conviction that they invited him solely for their own pleasure that he resolved to grant them their fill of dancing. The older and the weaker began to collapse in exhaustion, but the man did not heed them. Even the virile began to weep that they could endure no more, but the man only laid his hand more firmly across the strings. When the dawn touched the sky, the man finally let the harp fall silent.
“He looked up, seeking his vindication. To his horror, his friends and neighbors had not only fallen to the floor, but some of them were dead. Many more were nearly so. There were holes in the leather of their shoes from the force of their dancing, and even those who were alive could scarce move. His wife was among those who had died in the mad dance.
“The man was sickened by the folly of his deed, his heart weighted like a stone.” Rhys paused to lick his lips and juggle the bowls again. He could hear Madeline’s breath beyond the door, as if she anxiously awaited his next words.
“And the following morn, the morn of his wife’s funeral, when the man awakened, there was no golden harp upon his hearth. He never saw the harp again, and he never had the chance to aid the fairies again. He had no friends after that trick, and his neighbors distrusted him. Not a one of those who had danced on that fateful night ever danced again.
“The man was alone. He missed his wife sorely, far more than he missed the harp. He lived very long, though he did not prosper. Too late he learned that he was neither so clever nor so good as his wife had believed him to be, too late he learned that his heart’s desire had been his all along.”
Rhys finished his tale and considered the stew. It was cooling, the steam no longer rising from the bowls with such enthusiasm. There was silence behind him, a silence that told him that he had failed in his first attempt to soften Madeline’s anger with him.
Then she opened the portal. Her eyelids were puffed and reddened, her lips tight. Her lashes were dark spikes, still wet with tears. Her flesh was pale, a reminder of the posset that had so weakened her and her distrust of ships, and her fingers seemed to tremble upon the door. Rhys was certain that she was the most beauteous woman that ever he had seen. He knew himself a knave for having so deceived her and knew his tale to be a poor offering.
It was the only one he had, beyond himself and he knew Madeline could not desire so little as that.
“Is that by way of an apology?” she asked.
“It is meant to be but a start,” he said, hardly daring to hope.
Madeline studied him, though Rhys could not guess her thoughts. “You tell many tales of people losing all they hold dear. Do you think then that no good fortune can endure?”
Rhys frowned, for current evidence seemed to confirm that possibility. “I have oft believed as much, for that has been my experience.”
“But?”
“Perhaps the lesson is that one should savor whatsoever one is granted, for one cannot say how long any goodness will last.”
She smiled then, though her smile was sad, and she rubbed the hound’s ears as if only Gelert could grant her solace. “Can a person not hope for better, instead of fear that matters must become worse?” Her eyes were bright and she watched him, as if anxious to know his answer.
Rhys licked his lips, uncertain what she wanted him to say, wishing desperately that he knew the correct answer. “That would be a fine skill to learn.”
She tilted her head. “What have you endured, Rhys, that you hope for so little?”
“No more than most,” he said with a shrug.
Tears filled Madeline’s eyes then and she averted her gaze. Rhys feared that she would close the portal and he spoke before he could consider the wisdom of what he offered.
“I will confess to you what you have asked of me time and again,” he said abruptly, making a pledge to her before he could swallow the impulse. Madeline met his gaze, her own eyes bright. “I will tell you why I was named a traitor.”
She said nothing, though her eyes widened. Rhys could not understand her mood and he feared that he would err again if he said more.
Perhaps she did not wish to know his tale any longer.
Perhaps she did not care.
Perhaps he deserved no less for the wound he had granted her.
“Are you hungry?” Rhys offered the stew and ale, the bread being tucked beneath his elbow, and the hound stretched to its toes to sniff the food. “It is humble fare, but it is yet a little warm.”
Madeline’s glanced at the bowls of stew. “I am hungry, as must you be. We had best eat it, afore the hound finds all of it upon the floor.” She studied him with rare intensity. “And then I will have your tale, if you are still inclined to share it.”
Rhys nodded, words abandoning him utterly for the moment. Madeline smiled then, a sight to warm him to his toes. She stood back and let him enter the small chamber, and Rhys’ heart thundered fit to burst.
The lady granted him a chance, and he meant to ensure that she never had cause to regret it.
* * *
Rhys FitzHenry had vowed to confide in her. Madeline could scarce believe it. She would have more readily believed that this was another man, one who resembled Rhys in appearance only. It was so unlike Rhys to share his own tales, no less to volunteer to do so.
Madeline wondered why he felt so compelled. She was curious, though. She barely tasted the stew he had brought, though it put a satisfying heat in her belly. Madeline was not so annoyed that she could not admit herself glad of Rhys’ company. She felt safer with him beside her, for even if the ship foundered, Madeline believed that Rhys would not abandon her.
There was much to be said for a man who could be relied upon.
They ate in a companionable silence, the hound glancing up when Rhys ran the last bit of the bread around the inside of his bowl.
“I thank you for bringing the food,” Madeline said. “I was more hungry than I had believed and I feel much better.”
Rhys nodded. “One’s fears are always less when one’s belly is full.”
“I suppose that is true enough.” Madeline said no more, merely waited, for she was not truly convinced that Rhys would keep his promise. It was as much against his nature to share such secrets as it was a part of his character to keep his vows.
If he did confide in her, she wanted it to be because he chose to do so, not because she had entreated him.
So, she sat in silence, showing a patience she had not known she possessed.
* * *
It took him some moments to compose his thoughts, then Rhys lifted a finger. His own memories were entangled in the greater history and he wanted to recount a coherent tale. “You must know already Owain Glyn Dwr, and his dream of Welsh sovereignty.”
Madeline nodded at his sidelong glance. “Hotspur was allied with him, and thus named a traitor.”
“Indeed,” Rhys agreed, appreciating that his wife was not witless. “Owain Glyn Dwr and his allies meant to replace Henry IV with Edmund Mortimer as King of England. Further, they intended to divide England between them - Scotland and the north to the Earl of Northumberland, Wales and the west to Owain Glyn Dwr, and the rest to Mortimer. The scheme failed, of course, for it was too bold and Henry IV was too wily.”
“It is bold to try to unseat the king.”
Rhys chuckled. “Though Henry IV had done much the same. He himself deposed Richard III in his own favor.”
“If one succeeds, there is no charge of treason.”
Rhys nodded and sobered. “At any rate, Owain Glyn Dwr came oft to my uncle’s abode, filling the air with his dreams of what Wales might be, for they had fought side by each and were old comrades. Owain knew all the history of our people, he could recount all the old tales. He had a rare charisma and a resonant voice, and people listened to his words.
“There is a tale that Arthur and his knights are but sleeping within Eryri, and that they will awaken to aid the true prince of Wales. It was said in those days that Owain was that one, the man chosen to reclaim Welsh independence. It was whispered that he was a sorcerer, so potent was the spell that he cast over his audience. He cast a potent spell over me, to be sure.”
Rhys paused for a moment, then frowned at his own memories. “Owain was no sorcerer, though he was a man who knew how best to say what people wished to hear. They loved him for it. They followed him, they fought for him, and many of them died for him.”
He looked to the lady beside him and was startled to find her watching him, listening avidly to his tale. He looked away, unable to hold her bright gaze.
“I should begin sooner, the better for you to understand. Wales has been a kingdom for ages beyond recollection, though oft it has been without a prince. In the hearts of the Welsh is the certainty of their difference and the weight of their pride. The Normans were but the latest to try to claim the land of Wales: they enslaved the Welsh, or kept us in fetters, or reduced our status to serfdom, but their suzerainty was never assured. Rebellion was constant.
“Llywelyn ap Gruffydd was our last leader, acknowledged as Prince of Wales by the English kings until Edward I declined to make such acknowledgement. Llywelyn withheld tribute in protest, was declared a rebel, and killed in 1285.”
“Edward I made few allies in Scotland either,” Madeline murmured.
“He was a king determined to unite the isle beneath his hand, one can say that much for him at least.”
“At least,” Madeline agreed, and they shared an unexpected smile. Rhys felt a tenuous bond between them and he dared to take her hand within his own.
She did not resist. Indeed, her chilled fingers curled around his own, as if taking comfort from his heat. She was finely wrought, this wife of his, as delicate and beauteous as a spring blossom. He thought of losing her and hastened on.
