Castle of Dreams (34 page)

“I disregard all of that. We love each other.
She will be content with me at Tynant.”

“I think,” Guy said coldly, “that you are
mad.”

“Because you are incapable of feeling love,
you think everyone else should be like you. We want to marry, Guy.
I beg you to release me from my oath and give us your
permission.”

“I will think about it. I’ll give you my
answer in a day or two.”

“Let it be yes. For the sake of our
friendship.”

“And what will you do, old friend, if the
answer is no?”

Walter’s dark eyes fell before Guy’s clear
blue gaze. He looked exceedingly uncomfortable.

“Have you already given your oath to
Chester?” Guy asked quietly.

“By my honor, I have not.”

“By your honor, and mine, you ought not to
have spoken of marriage to Isabel without permission from me.”

“I love her,” Walter declared once more.

“You have spent too much time at the court of
Toulouse. They talk this kind of romantic nonsense there. The
ladies sigh and swoon and give silken scarves to knights to wear
into battle. Here we have more serious matters to concern us: the
Welsh, who are always ready to revolt against our rule, and the
marcher lords, who would make themselves greater than the king. Be
careful, Walter. Until now you have been my friend. I would not
like to see you caught in a net woven by the earl of Chester.”

“The only net I’ll be caught in is the one
woven by Isabel’s love.”

“Poor Walter.” Guy rose from his perch on the
hard stone. He shook his head pityingly. “Who will prove more
dangerous to you, Isabel or Chester? Either way, I think you will
lose much before your unseemly passion has run its course.”

Guy was used to keeping his own council and
making his own decisions, but this was different. He described his
conversation with Walter to the friends who had first alerted him
to the possibility of disloyalty. He did not think it odd for a
knight, a man of action and warfare, to consider the bookish, quiet
Reynaud as a friend. Reynaud had proven himself day by day during
more than two years of work at Afoncaer, and Guy had come to value
his advice on subjects other than building.

They stood in the almost completed lord’s
bedchamber after the workmen had left for the day, certain they
would be unheard and uninterrupted. Another few days would see the
painting of the plaster finished, and then the carved wooden bed,
which was being made in the carpenter’s shop in the outer bailey,
would be brought in piece by piece and put together, and at last he
could move in. Guy would miss the easy companionship of his nights
in the great hall with his men, but it was right that the master of
the castle should have his own room.

He knew Reynaud would have no regrets about
moving into the smaller chamber on the level below, also almost
completed, that Guy had assigned to him. Away from the bustle of
the great hall, with its mealtimes and men coming and going, the
architect would be able to keep his sketches and his documents in
order more easily than he did now. Reynaud had suggested that his
chamber should become a library when his work on the castle was
finished and he finally left Afoncaer, a place where his plans for
and records of the building of the castle could be kept, along with
the household accounts for years gone by, and the history of
Afoncaer that he was writing.

“You will leave your books and papers with
me,” Guy had teased him, “As though they were children sent for
fostering.”

“Beloved children sent to a dear friend,
knowing the friend will care for the children as if they were his
own,” Reynaud had replied. “You know I have taken a vow of
celibacy, my lord, so my writings are all I will leave behind me
when I die. I would leave them with you.”

Guy had agreed to the proposal. Now he smiled
to himself, knowing that just beneath his feet Reynaud’s dream was
taking form. It was a more pleasant thought than the matter which
had brought Reynaud and Brian and himself here this evening.

Guy reported his conversation with Walter.
His listener’s responses were characteristic.

“So now,” Brian said, “We know why Walter
went to Chester. It’s obvious to me that Lady Isabel told him she
would marry him only if he got himself some property.”

“I wonder if that’s all there is to it,”
mused Reynaud.

“So do I,” Guy said. “Walter has never shown
any sign of wanting to be aught but my household knight, until
now.”

“He has wanted to stay here at the castle, to
be near Isabel,” Brian said. “He’s mad for her. I have watched them
sometimes when they are together. Isabel has played the courtly
game well enough, but I have never seen her show him any real favor
until she had that quarrel with you a month or so ago. Now she is
all blushes and sweet smiles when Walter is about, like some young
girl in love. Will you agree to the marriage? It might be to your
advantage to have a friend in Chester’s camp.”

“If Sir Walter is a friend,” Reynaud said
softly.

Guy thought about that. He had wondered
himself where Walter’s true loyalty lay. And then he thought about
being rid of Isabel and the constant irritation she provided.
Father Herbert would probably go with her, another relief to his
sorely tried temper. There would be no more wild talk about Welsh
witches living in the dark, mysterious forests. Llangwilym Abbey,
where Lionel had been buried, was not too far away. They could
fetch a priest from there when they needed one, until the town was
big enough for Afoncaer to have its own parish priest.

It was all perfectly sensible, a logical
arrangement, yet something was not quite right. It was almost as if
someone had perceived the exact things that irritated him most
about his daily life and had proposed to remove them all at once.
Too neat. Too easy. He had been in enough military campaigns to
have learned to mistrust such ease. It was too often the forerunner
of some vicious attack.

Yet if he refused Isabel this marriage, what
would life at Afoncaer be like in the future? He knew it was often
done, but he hated the thought of beating a woman to make her
behave, even a woman as difficult as Isabel, and he had not the
heart to lock her away somewhere as he ought to do, as anyone else
would have done long ago, to silence her complaining.

“Guy? You are a thousand leagues away.” Brian
grinned. “Well? What do you think of this marriage plan of
Walter’s?”

“I think,” Guy said, grinning back at him
while dreams of a peaceful household overcame all his reservations,
“that it is time for a wedding at Afoncaer.”

Two days later, Guy, assured by Isabel that
she was eager to marry Walter, gave his consent, and they were
formally betrothed by Father Herbert. The wedding ceremony would
take place on September first. Isabel was in a frenzy of
preparations. When Guy relaxed his prohibitions on her so to allow
her to send to Chester town for velvet so that Joan could make a
wedding gown, she was ecstatic.

In spite of Isabel’s happy excitement and
Walter’s obvious pleasure at the wedding plans and his
protestations of continuing friendship toward Guy while in
Chester’s service, Guy could not shake a feeling of foreboding, not
even when he learned the earl of Chester had taken his army and
gone to Normandy to join King Henry. There was no reason to worry,
and yet he did.

The winter had been hard on Rhys. This year
he had not improved with the coming of spring but instead had grown
steadily weaker, until now, toward the end of August, he could walk
only a few steps before the pain gripped his heart and forced him
to sit. The medicines Branwen made for him no longer helped.
Meredith and Branwen seldom left the cave these days, both feeling
the need to be with him at all times. Thomas came nearly every day,
often with Brian. Brian told them that he had led Guy, and anyone
else at Afoncaer who might be interested in his activities, to
believe these excursions were part of Thomas’s training in stalking
game through a thick forest. Brian was skilled at this kind of
hunting. It was credible that he would want to teach Thomas.

Today, Thomas was alone. He entered the cave
and crouched beside Rhys, who sat propped against the cave wall
while Meredith fed him spoons of vegetable broth. Branwen took the
basket of food Thomas had brought and began to empty it, shooing
away the cat when she would have eaten the cheese.

“You do feel better, don’t you, Rhys?” Thomas
asked, one hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“Tomorrow, Thomas,” Rhys said, his old
strength flaring briefly, “you and I will walk down to the stream,
and I’ll tell you again the story of Gryffydd ap Llywelyn, who
fought Harold the Saxon before the Normans ever came to Britain. We
were a great nation then.”

“And will be again,” Branwen said.

“Why, Aunt,” Meredith teased, “I thought you
had made your peace with the Normans.”

“Brian is only half Norman,” Thomas said
slyly, and laughed when Branwen colored. His laughter died at a
sudden noise outside the cave. “Brian, is that you?” Thomas called.
There was no answer. He leapt to his feet, placing himself in front
of his friends as they heard the bushes at the cave entrance being
thrust roughly aside. A tall dark man stepped around the fold of
rock into the outer chamber.

“Walter!” Thomas’s voice was a strangled gasp
of surprise and fear.

“So this is where you go when you sneak away
from your duties. Who are these villeins?” Walter fitz Alan sneered
down at the boy. “You forget yourself, Thomas, consorting with such
folk.”

“They are my friends,” Thomas said
stoutly.

“Friends? If your mother knew about this
she’d see you severely punished.”

“Please don’t tell her, Walter.”

Walter did not answer. He had seen who was
standing directly behind Thomas.

“Meredith, isn’t it? I remember you from
Afoncaer. I wondered where you had gone. Did my lord Guy tire of
you and send you away from his presence?” As Walter approached her,
Meredith backed away.

“No,” she whispered, horrified that he should
think such a thing. “It’s not true, Guy never…”

“Guy? Not Sir Guy, or my lord?” Walter’s
white teeth showed in a mirthless smile. “So, my old friend has
fallen from grace at last. At least he chose a pretty whore to
bed.”

“He did not!” Meredith lost her temper at the
insult. “I left Afoncaer because of your beloved Lady Isabel,” she
flared.

“Isabel?” Walter’s face darkened as Meredith
backed further away from him. “What about Isabel? What do you
know?”

“Don’t you touch her.” Branwen was at
Meredith’s side, the small jeweled dagger she always wore at her
waist flashing in her right hand. “Leave Meredith alone.”

“Will you dare to stop me?” Walter mocked,
seeing the weapon. “With that paltry toy?”

Rhys had struggled to his feet while Walter
spoke. He stood a little unsteadily, supporting himself with his
long staff, but his voice was like thunder, reverberating though
the cave.

“If Branwen does not stop you, I will. You
are unwelcome here. Leave this place at once!”

Walter fell back a step. Then he unsheathed
his sword and advanced on Rhys.

“You insolent villein, I’ll put an end to
you,” Walter snarled.

“Put your weapon away!” Rhys thundered. One
bone-thin arm rose majestically, grey sleeve flowing as he pointed
a long finger at Walter. “Leave us! Go!”

Walter raised his sword, and before
Meredith’s shocked eyes the cave erupted into violent action.
Thomas let out a yell and grabbed at Walter’s sword arm. Branwen
screamed and stabbed at Walter’s other arm with her dagger just as
Brian appeared in the cave entrance, saw what was happening, and
threw his arms around Walter from behind, holding him immobilized.
Branwen, having missed in her first effort, stabbed at Walter
again, but Thomas caught her wrist just in time.

And Rhys – Rhys was clutching at his chest,
sinking slowly onto the cave floor, his robe like a soft grey cloud
around him. His staff lay on the ground at his side.

“Rhys!” Meredith was on her knees, supporting
him, his head on her shoulder. Grey eyes looked into hers one last
time and then closed. She felt the breath go out of him. Her ears
were ringing, her heart was pounding with a great, tearing pain, as
the world she had known for seven years collapsed around her. “No!
Rhys!”

Thomas was there, kneeling on Rhys’s other
side, touching his friend’s thin, still hand. Tears trickled down
Thomas’s cheeks. He made no effort to brush them away.

“Walter,” Brian said through clenched teeth,
releasing him and pushing him toward the cave entrance, “Leave this
place now, or by God, I swear I will kill you.”

“Meredith, is he…?” Branwen could not finish
the sentence. She stood with the dagger forgotten in her hand,
staring down at Rhys, looking as though the life had gone out of
her, too. Meredith nodded, unable to speak. Walter’s silky voice
grated on her overwrought nerves.

“It was only an old man,” Walter said. “He
had already lived overlong by the look of him.”

“You killed him!” Thomas screamed. He flew at
Walter, fists pounding at the tall man’s midriff. “You killed my
friend. I hate you, I hate you.”

“Friend?” Walter caught Thomas’ wrists,
holding him in a firm grip. “This villein can have been no friend
of yours, Thomas. Remember who you are.”

“Thomas is right,” Branwen said, now turning
on Walter. “You killed Rhys.”

“He died of fright,” Walter said. “I never
touched him. The old man couldn’t stand to see a naked sword.”

“I swear to you,” Branwen responded, drawing
herself up proudly, “I do here make my vow: You, Norman, will pay
for what you have done, if it cost me my own life.”