Dryden's Bride. Margo Maguire

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СКАЧАТЬ what his fate was to be. Waiting…always waiting.

      From nowhere came the sound of running feet along the packed earth of the path, disrupting his dismal thoughts. Partially hidden by the rocks where he sat, Hugh turned to see if the intruder was visible in the near darkness. Dark clothing concealed the figure as it ran down toward the lake, but the sound of weeping was clearly a woman’s.

      Something about the voice was familiar. Untamed, bronzed hair and a dusty blue kirtle came to mind, along with flashing eyes and soft, delicate skin.

      Hugh sat still, hoping she would go away. Instead he saw her drop to the ground near some large stone boulders a short distance away, and commence to weeping in earnest.

      He did not care to have his peace shattered by this gauche display of emotion. But if he moved off his perch on the rock, he’d surely disturb the young woman, and have to deal with her—a choice he was not pleased to make.

      He could end up waiting forever for her to be done with her foolish tantrum, and leave. He saw no choice but to approach her.

      How could life be so cruel? Siân wondered as she stifled her sobs. She sat up with her back to a cold, standing stone, and wrapped her arms around her knees, wiping her eyes. She’d never been much of a one for tears, knowing they couldn’t change anything, but the past few weeks had shown her how utterly useless she was—how entirely inept and clumsy. ’Twas no wonder she was to be consigned to a nunnery. What man in his right mind would have her?

      Owen was lucky St. Ann’s had taken her so cheaply.

      She could not go home—for there was no home anymore, now that her uncles were dead; her aunts and cousins barely eking a living for themselves as it was. Not that Pwll had ever been any great haven for her, but at least she’d understood her place. She’d always known what was expected of her.

      The unpretentious people of Pwll were accustomed to seeing her in mended and dusty kirtles. They had come to expect her to instigate frolicking games and pageants, and caroles, and rhyming contests. Siân didn’t understand what was so wrong with merriment; of sharing mirth and joy with others.

      She had firsthand knowledge that there was more than enough sorrow in the world, without having to look for it. Her life in Wales had not been an easy one, especially as the daughter of Marudedd Tudor, cohort of Owen Glendower, the Welsh rebel. The Saxon lords—one hateful earl in particular—had been especially severe with her people after the uprising, and Siân had suffered as much as any of the other villagers. Perhaps even more, because she’d been doomed to a life apart—tolerated, but kept separate from the people she considered her own.

      Siân and the people of Pwll learned early that closeness to a Tudor only brought tragedy.

      Oblivious to the mist in the air, Siân hugged her knees, resting one cheek against them. Sniffling once. Hiccuping.

      She had been reluctant to leave Pwll along with everything and everyone familiar. In the weeks since being summoned by Owen to this foreign, Saxon land, Siân was constantly making mistakes. She didn’t understand the ways of the courtiers in London—neither the men and their improper, unwanted advances, nor the women and their vicious taunts and gossip.

      Without understanding what she did that was so wrong, Siân disgraced herself time and time again, invoking Owen’s wrath with every mistake.

      Owen had made a fine place for himself as Keeper of the King’s Wardrobe. Now, with King Henry dead, Queen Catherine relied heavily upon Owen for his support and counsel. He could not have a stupid and clumsy sister about. Her incompetence would naturally cast aspersions on him.

      Siân leaned back, pulled the sticky cloth of her ale-soaked bodice away from her breast and let the misty rain fall, cleansing her skin of the spilled drink, and her heart of the oppressive thoughts that plagued her. The air was chill, and Siân knew she should return to the castle, but she could not bring herself to confront the ridiculing faces of those who had witnessed yet another ignominious episode in the life of Siân verch Marudedd.

      But then, why not?

      She would hold her head proudly erect as she walked through the great hall, as she always did, and ignore the sly looks and rude whisperings behind finely manicured, aristocratic hands. She’d lived through enough true horrors in Wales that this, her most recent mishap and Owen’s embarrassingly public censure, hardly rated her notice. So what if she’d spilled her cup of ale? Was everyone in England so infernally perfect, with nary a spill or a speck of dirt anywhere that they could not understand and accept a few small imperfections?

      Wiping her tears, Siân got herself to her feet, only to be startled by the earl of Alldale, who’d come upon her without making a sound.

      He said nothing, but stood formidably, with his arms crossed over his chest, as if awaiting her explanation for being there.

      Siân, having already worked herself up into a defiant, peevish mood, raised her chin. “If you’ve come to laugh at my lack of grace, my lord—” she started to push past him “—rest assured that I am well aware of my shortcomings. I’ve—”

      “Look!” Hugh grabbed her elbow and gently guided her back against the rock where she’d sat moments ago, crying. Their presence was concealed as he turned her to look toward the movement he’d noticed in the distance behind her. “Men are gathering in the mist.”

      Siân peered down the shoreline, and forgot her own small troubles instantly. Directly north of them, were men leading their horses to the water. They did not appear to be Clairmont people. “They’re wearing plaid,” she said in hushed tones. “We’ve heard that Scottish raiders have been attacking the town and stealing livestock!”

      Hugh knew that Richard Bradley had met his death leading Clairmont’s defense against just such Scottish marauders. “Would you estimate…” he asked “…about thirty of them over there?”

      Siân peered into the mist. “Yes,” she said, realizing that he didn’t trust his own sight. “But there are more, with wagons—still making way down the hillside.”

      Hugh shot his gaze abruptly to the northward hills and realized Siân was correct about the others. He hadn’t noticed them before. She had a keen eye, even with her sight obscured by tears. Looking down into her guileless face, Hugh gave a fleeting thought as to what had made her weep, and resisted the urge to touch her face, to wipe the tears from her flushed skin.

      His spine stiffened with the odd notion. She could find her comfort from her brother, or from one of the courtly ladies back at the castle. Siân Tudor certainly had no need of his kind words, even if he knew any. “We’ll need to get back to Clairmont and alert the men,” Hugh said as he took Siân’s elbow and drew her back to the footpath.

      “They seem very well equipped, My Lord,” Siân said. “This will be devastating to Clairmont.”

      “Not if we’re prepared,” Hugh replied gravely.

      They hurried through the light rain, running through the town and up to the castle. Both Siân and Hugh were soaked through when they reached Clairmont’s outer bailey. “Go and get those wet clothes off,” Hugh ordered her.

      “I’m coming with you,” she said defiantly.

      Unwilling to waste time arguing, Hugh proceeded to the great hall, where Lady Marguerite and many of her noble guests were gathered around talking, laughing and watching СКАЧАТЬ