In the Shadow of Midnight - By Marsha Canham Page 0,17

has been swivving every courtier and bull-hung mountebank who catches her fancy—”

“Ariel!” Isabella gasped.

“—while the barons plot and scheme behind his corpulent buttocks at every opportunity, searching for ways to curb his powers and limit his authority. Think you he will notice the delay of a betrothal charter to an obscure province in Wales?”

The younger Welsh lord, Dafydd, gaped at the fiery-haired damosel in open astonishment. In his experience with the Norman savages, it was his understanding that women were generally regarded as being little more than receptacles for the breeding up of heirs. Unlike Welsh women, who contributed much to the planning and executing of raids and clan warfare—some even riding into battle alongside their men— the Englishry were not credited with possessing many abilities or desires away from the bedchambers and cook fires. The idea that one would concern herself, nay, understand matters of politics and warfare was uniquely intriguing and he could see why his brother’s interest (along with other things) had been roused.

Henry was equally intrigued, but more over the knowledge that his sister was aware of the queen’s sexual appetites. Royal whores aside, it was a preposterous notion to suggest his uncle would agree to a marriage between Ariel and Lord Rhys ap Iorwerth. He knew it, Ariel knew it, and, to judge by the cunning look in the Welshman’s dark eyes, Lord Rhys knew it too. If it was a gambit to buy time, it was a careless and reckless one to make, for it was indeed an altogether too common practice for these northern outlaws to simply steal a bride of their choosing—the nobler the better. And if the thought had not occurred to Rhys before, it was certainly spinning merry cartwheels through his brain now. An alliance with the House of Pembroke would double his prestige and power almost overnight, not to mention increase the wealth and holdings that would come under his control the moment the marriage was consummated. His present domains were not nearly as extensive as his brother Llywellyn’s, but he would add considerably to his territories that stretched from Deheubarth to Cardigan.

A second shock, as icy and hard as a sharp slap in the face caused Henry to turn and stare at Rhys ap Iorwerth. Not surprisingly, the Welshman’s eyes were waiting for him.

Cardigan Castle had once belonged to the De Clare family. It was, in fact, the place where Henry had been born and lived the first two years of his life before his father had been forced to abandon the castle and flee east to more protected territories along the Marches. The chance of returning the De Clare name to Cardigan was not something to be lightly dismissed, as loathsome as the method might first appear to be.

Lord Rhys smiled faintly. “Is it possible, my lord, you might also begin to see some benefit to this union?”

Henry released the breath he had been holding, mouthing it around a soundless curse. Was the bastard actually going to suggest he do nothing to discredit Ariel’s lunatic proposal … encourage it, even, in exchange for Cardigan?

“Henry, please—” Ariel’s voice tore her brother’s gaze away from Iorwerth’s penetrating stare. “Speak to me.”

“What would you have me say?”

“Say you will help me. One of Uncle’s ships—the Etoile— is anchored in the Wogan taking on provisions. She could be ready to sail on the morning tide and we could be in Normandy before week’s end.”

“We?” Henry’s brows were startled upward, as were everyone else’s.

“You surely would not leave me here, at the mercy of the king’s spies, who you know peek from every crack and crevice in the castle walls! What is more, if I were with you and if we were in Normandy, then we truly could claim we knew nothing of any messenger from the king, naught of any betrothal charter, and certes that we were blissfully ignorant of any mishap befalling Lackland’s courier.”

Isabella made a choking sound and reached for her goblet of wine.

Sedrick stared.

Henry, accustomed over the years to hearing, even to participating in some of his sister’s more ludicrous schemes, pursed his lips and made a slow, careful study of each of his blunted, calloused fingertips.

“If,” he said at length. “And I say again … if I were to decide to go to Normandy in pursuit of this … this venture into futility … how far do you suppose I—or we—would actually get? This is not exactly the time or political climate for a caravan to be