The Warlord's Bride. Margaret Moore

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      “I’ll not take any chances,” Lord Alfred replied before raising his hand and shouting for the rest of the cortege to move on.

      Lady Roslynn suppressed a sigh. She didn’t know why King John’s courtier had even bothered to ask her opinion. No doubt she shouldn’t have bothered to answer.

      The cortege continued on its way, the silence broken only by the falling rain, the jingle of accoutrements and soldiers’ chain mail, and the slap of hooves on the muddy road, every step bringing them closer to the castle of the lord of Llanpowell. Like the rocks, it seemed to be a natural feature of the landscape, exposed by time and the weather, not an edifice built by men.

      This entire land was a rough contrast to Roslynn’s familiar Lincolnshire, where the flat fens stretched out for miles and the sky seemed endless. Here, there were hills and valleys, unexpected streams and wet bracken, scree and rocks. It was wild and untamed, strange and breathtaking, despite the presence of the colossal fortress looming ahead.

      Roslynn tried to stifle her dread as they neared the massive, bossed gates of thick oak. Whatever happened here, at least she was away from the king’s court, and the accommodations should be better than those they’d had along the way.

      A voice called out from the top of the barbican, speaking Norman French, albeit with a noticeable Welsh accent. “Who are you and what do you want at Llanpowell?”

      “I am Lord Alfred de Garleboine, on the king’s business,” the nobleman shouted back.

      “The king’s business?” the man on the wall walk repeated. “Which one?”

      “Is the man a simpleton?” Lord Alfred muttered. He raised his voice. “John, by the grace of God, king of England, lord of Ireland, duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, count of Anjou.”

      “Oh, the Plantagenet usurper who killed his nephew.”

      Although the man on the wall had said only what many believed was true, this didn’t bode well for a pleasant reception.

      Three others, likewise bareheaded and wearing tunics, not chain mail, joined the man on the wall.

      “What does John want?” one of them called out.

      “I will discuss that with your overlord,” Lord Alfred replied.

      “Maybe you’ve come to attack,” the first man called back.

      Lord Alfred shifted impatiently in his ornately gilded saddle. “Do we look like a band of brigands?”

      “Can’t be too sure these days,” the first man replied, apparently quite unconcerned by the nobleman’s growing impatience. “Seen some well-dressed Norman thieves in our time, we Welsh have.”

      “Open these gates or the king shall hear of this, as well as your master!”

      It seemed that while the sentries were content to make sport of Norman visitors and their king, the lord of Llanpowell was not likely to be amused by their insolence, for the massive gates slowly began to open.

      What did that say about the lord of Llanpowell? That he ruled by fear and harsh punishment? Or was he simply not to be trifled with, but respected and obeyed?

      Whatever Madoc ap Gruffydd was like, there was no turning back or running away now.

      “About bloody time. Insolent savages,” Lord Alfred growled as he flicked his gauntleted hand and gestured for their party to enter the castle.

      Inside the outer wall was a large area, grassy and perhaps fifty yards long. Beyond the outer ward was the inner curtain wall, taller than the first, with another gate and a less elaborate gatehouse.

      The inner gates were open, and a large wooden cart pulled by two thick-chested oxen rumbled toward them, followed by a group of twenty men, all wearing sword belts, with bows in their hands and quivers at their hips. They wore only leather tunics, breeches and boots, however, not chain mail or helmets. Their hair was almost uniformly dark brown or black, and most sported thick beards.

      Despite their attire, they must be part of the garrison, for they briskly formed two rows lining the road leading through the studded gate to the inner ward.

      Lord Alfred’s jaw clenched. “The king shall hear of this insult, as well.”

      “I believe it’s a guard of honor, my lord,” Roslynn quietly offered. “See how they’re arranged and how still they stand?”

      Lord Alfred’s only response to her observation was a noncommittal grunt.

      Nevertheless, she was sure she was right, for the men remained where they were, staring stoically ahead, as the cortege continued into the courtyard.

      Here the buildings were of several sizes and materials. Some were made of stone, with slate roofs. Others, like the stables, were half-timbered and wattle-and-daub, and some looked like little more than wooden lean-tos attached to any available wall. At least the yard was cobblestoned, so while there were several large and growing puddles, it was not a sea of mud.

      Unfortunately, there were also several armed soldiers around the perimeter, standing beneath the eaves of buildings and watching them warily.

      Before they could dismount, or a groom or stable boy arrived to take the horses, the door to the largest of the stone buildings flew open as if caught by a strong wind. A rotund, gray-haired fellow clad in a dusky green tunic, plain breeches and scuffed boots, with a dark brown woolen cloak thrown about his shoulders, came hurrying down the steps. Like the others, his hair was long and his beard full. Unlike the others, he wore only a simple belt, with no obvious weapon at his side, and a smile lit his round face. He also carried a huge mug in his hands, despite the continuing rain.

      “Welcome, my lord, my lady!” he called out in Welsh-tinged French, ignoring the puddles as he splashed his way toward them. “Welcome to Llanpowell! Welcome to my home. An honor it is to have you here!”

      It felt as if a stone had settled into Roslynn’s stomach as she realized this must be Madoc ap Gruffydd, the lord of Llanpowell.

      She had—foolishly, it now seemed—assumed the Bear of Brecon would be a younger man. She’d also assumed he was called the Bear because of his fierceness in battle, not for wild gray hair that fell to his shoulders, his bushy beard or the size of his belly.

      Or perhaps that name had been given to him in his youth.

      The Welshman called out a few orders in his native tongue, and immediately grooms and boys appeared from the stables to take hold of their horses.

      Apparently the lord of Llanpowell’s servants were as well trained as his soldiers, in spite of his jovial appearance and friendly manner.

      “Come inside and get dry!” the Welshman cried as he waved his hand toward the large stone building that must be the hall, paying no heed to the drink that spilled from his mug.

      Roslynn sincerely hoped Madoc ap Gruffydd wasn’t a drunkard.

      His СКАЧАТЬ