In the Shadow of Midnight - By Marsha Canham Page 0,20
lightly dismiss.”
“Offering and actually giving are two very different things, Aunt.”
“Sometimes a woman has no choice. Sometimes … a man can do things that render a woman senseless and without a will of her own.”
Ariel sat back and frowned in bemusement. “I should like to meet the man who could render me without a will of my own.”
“I recall saying much the same thing before I met William,” Isabella murmured despairingly. “And all it took was one glance. One moment in his presence … and I was lost.”
“Well, I have glanced at this rogue and I have been in his presence, and I can promise you I am still in full possession of my senses.” She saw her aunt give rise to another spasm of anxiety and sought to comfort her by adding, “I will also promise, if it will ease your mind to know, that I will accept Uncle Will’s judgement in this, whatever it might be.”
“And God’s,” the countess whispered. “That He should not forsake you now.”
“Have you forsaken all your senses?” Lord Dafydd asked his brother, well out of earshot of those in the great hall. “Sending me to Normandy? Proposing a marriage between you and Ariel de Clare?”
“Do you doubt you can put an eloquent enough pledge in the marshal’s ear?”
“I could put it to the pope himself, for all the good it would do.”
Rhys grinned and pulled on his gloves, tamping each finger snug to the joint. “You do not think the old lion will see any benefit to allying himself with Gwynedd? God’s blood, man, he will see the proposal with a warrior’s eye, if nothing else. Access to Snowdonia gives him access to Ireland as well as half of northern Wales. And did you see the brother’s eyes glisten when he thought of Cardigan? I could bed the wench tonight and the brother would cheer us on.”
Dafydd reached out a hand and hooked Iorwerth’s arm, halting the echo of their heavy bootsteps in the stone corridor.
“You are not thinking of—”
“Lying in wait for the fair demoiselle and ravishing her to seal our pact?” Rhys laughed and started walking again. “In truth, the thought occurred to me. I’m hard enough to ride a brace of maids, top and bottom, and still have leavings for a slut or two. But no. You may rest easy on that count, little brother. Your tender morals are as safe as I will expect you to keep hers on the way to Normandy and back. It is important to make no mistakes, to present our intentions in the best, most honourable light. I want her to come to me willingly and pure. I want no taint of corruption or coersion to shadow this marriage.”
“In this quest for purity … are you forgetting you already have a wife?”
Rhys stopped suddenly enough and angrily enough to send Dafydd’s brows arching upward.
“I am not forgetting. How could I forget a spindle-legged, gap-toothed weanling who weeps ceaselessly whenever I am lucky enough—or sodden enough—to succeed in prying her knees apart?”
“Nevertheless—”
“Nevertheless,” Rhys interrupted with a scowl, “I have tried a thousand times over the past seven years of our wedded ordeal to plant the seeds of an heir in her womb … to no avail. The bitch is barren. It will take no great effort to be rid of her, which is why I am returning to Deheubarth and you are travelling to Normandy. You will seal this alliance with the old lion, promising him anything if need be, so long as you return with his sealed contract before Llywellyn sniffs anything in the wind.”
“What about the king’s men?” “What about them?”
“How can you kidnap them, hold them to ransom, then send them back to John without Llywellyn catching the scent?”
“It takes a grievous long time for the odour of corpses to rise up through the earth,” Rhys said matter-of-factly. “By then, my new bride will be queen of Gwynedd.”
He glared his declaration into Dafydd’s eyes a moment longer then turned and ducked through an arched doorway, leaving the younger man staring after him, his expression carefully guarded against the disdain he was feeling.
It was typical of Rhys to expect the world to bend to his designs. Typical of him to think the marshal would welcome him eagerly to the House of Pembroke. Typical to think a woman like Ariel de Glare would be as easily crushed under his thumb as the other cows he normally took to his bed.