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If he continued to want her, she would soon be again with child. His child this time. He sat back, listening to all the voices that filled the great hall, blending together in a low rumble, the individual words indecipherable. It was pleasant, all this noise, and it gave him peace, strangely enough. He looked over at Lady Katherine and Sir Thomas. Thomas was smitten, no doubt about that, besotted to the roots of his grizzled hair. He wondered about Katherine. Perhaps they would wed. If that happened, he hoped they would remain at Chantry Hall. The idea of having a large family surrounding him was satisfying. It made him feel needed; it made him feel like he belonged. Finally there was a place for him and he would fill it with those he cared about and those who cared about him.
Roland took a slow drink of his wine. He replied to a question from one of his men. As he spoke, he heard Daria’s clear laughter. It warmed him more than the sweet wine. Then, quite suddenly and unbidden, he remembered walking beside her into the cathedral in Wrexham to get out of the endless Welsh rain. He was sicker than the devil’s dog, aye, he remembered that. He’d felt weak, and his throat was raw and his head pounded and he’d wanted to puke. He remembered desperately trying to keep control of himself, but he couldn’t. He remembered clearly when his mind blanked away and he was sliding to the floor. He remembered nothing else. But he should remember more, and he didn’t understand why he couldn’t. He frowned as he emptied his flagon.
Why couldn’t he remember anything else? Two days were missing from his life. Two days until he’d come to himself to see Daria standing over him, and he remembered the feelings of humiliation when he’d had to relieve himself but was too weak to see to it without her help. But even much of that time was blurred and indistinct in his mind. He saw an older woman standing over him, smiling and giving him an evil potion to drink. Her name was Romila and she hadn’t told him Daria had disappeared until he’d threatened to go search for her. What had he done in those two days? Had he possibly taken his wife’s virginity during one of those two nights?
Graelam de Moreton felt good, for at least ten more seconds. He felt very good during those seconds, for under guard on the eastern side of his camp was the Earl of Reymerstone. Then he heard a woman’s voice and he started to his feet, dropping the wooden goblet of ale, when he recognized that the voice belonged to Kassia. And then she was striding up to him as if she were conqueror of the damned world, dressed like a boy in tunic and hose, a feathered cap over her hair, and she was laughing. When she got five feet away from him, she let out a whooping yell and hurled herself at him.
He caught her, holding her tightly to him. She was laughing and babbling, her words tumbling to and fro, saying things about paying her debt to Daria, and here he was doing the same thing, and they’d more than paid back their obligation.
Graelam shook his head, set his wife away from him, and tried to look fearsome. It wasn’t difficult, for he was stripped down to a loincloth, preparing to bathe his sweating, dirty face and body. He was large and hard, and when he wished to, his expression could be as frightening as the devil’s.
“Oh,” Kassia said, looking at him from his toes to his mouth. “Oh,” she said again, and she smiled up at him brilliantly. “You’re nearly naked, Graelam.”
He clasped her waist between his hands and lifted her. When her nose was right in front of his nose, he said, “You are here in my camp, a wild and lonely place that lies twenty miles from Wolffeton, a place you shouldn’t be, and you are garbed like a silly boy in clothes you shouldn’t be wearing, and you are grinning like a half-wit. I heard your wild babbling but didn’t understood it. Now, madam, you will tell me what the hell you’re doing here and why—”
She laughed, leaning forward to kiss him. “I will tell you everything, my dear lord, if you will but let my feet touch the ground again. I should love some ale. This tracking makes one vastly thirsty.”
“Kassia.”
She danced away from him, and he watched her, shaking his head, knowing she would tell him everything in her own good time. He commenced with his bathing. When he felt her take the wet cloth from his hand, he smiled, and gave a contented moan as she scrubbed his back.
He was naked now and they were alone in his tent and she was standing between his legs, her fingers massaging his scalp.
“I worried about you, Graelam.”
“There was nothing to worry even little Harry. The Earl of Reymerstone wasn’t expecting me, needless to say. I took him and his men with no bloodshed. He lies yon in a tent with Rolfe and three of my soldiers guarding him. He’s a very unhappy man at this moment, and likely confused as to why I, a stranger to him, would take him prisoner.”
She leaned down and kissed him. “Let the lout suffer awhile longer.”
“And will you tell me what you’ve done, Kassia?” he asked, all calm inquiry. “Clearly this time.”
“Aye, I will tell you, my lord. I have the Earl of Clare with me, and four of his men.”
“You what?”
His incredulous reaction warmed her to her fingertips. She grinned. “I owed Daria a debt for saving your life. You were going after the Earl of Reymerstone, but what was I to do? Oh, yes, I overheard Rolfe speaking of it, that’s how I found out. There was a shortage of enemies. Then the most wonderful news came to Wolffeton whilst you were gone. The Earl of Clare—that Marcher Baron who’d held her captive for all those months—had come into Cornwall to try to recapture her. Nay, Graelam, don’t bellow at me. Please, heed me, my lord, for I have right and reason on my side.”
Graelam’s face was grim. He couldn’t believe his ears, couldn’t believe what his wife—this cocky little twit—was telling him. “Continue,” he said, but he wasn’t at all certain he wanted to hear the rest of it.
Kassia said happily, “I saw it as a sign from God, Graelam, surely you must understand that. You were gone and thus I saw it as a divine signal for me to act. It was my opportunity to repay my debt to Daria. None of my men—your men—were hurt. The Earl of Clare lies bound and in some discomfort in the small copse just beyond your camp. The man has the reddest hair, did you know that? The fool had thought to sneak into Chantry Hall, steal Daria away, and disappear like a thief. I told him that I wouldn’t allow that. He’s equally as unhappy as the Earl of Reymerstone, I daresay.”
Graelam stared at his delicate, white-skinned, very small wife. “I should beat you,” he said, his eyes darkening.
“I pray that you don’t, my lord, for I am very weary from my hunting.”
He rose, towering above her, his naked body gleaming in the lone candlelight, and pulled on a bedrobe. As he belted it, he heard her say from behind him, “I would prefer you naked, husband. Just to look at you makes me hungry for you, not for a boring meal.”
He turned on her, roaring, “You won’t make me forget your reckless stupidity, Kassia. Don’t try your woman’s wile on me.” He paused, eyeing her, then said, “There is some bread and meat left from our supper. I will have one of the men bring it to you. Remain in this tent or it will go badly for you.” With those threatening words that didn’t make Kassia tremble in the least bit, Graelam strode out of his tent. He quickly found Rolfe, his master-at-arms.
Rolfe grinned at him. “Nay, my lord, don’t bite off my tongue. Your lady took him fairly, and your men protected her well. I’ve bedded him down on the western side of the camp. Both our knaves are well-guarded, my lord.”
Graelam could manage nothing more than a grunt. Rolfe chuckled. “I don’t lie to you. Your men did guard her well, my lord. Indeed, they much enjoyed themselves, taking the Earl of Clare and hearing your lady crow in triumph. Would you like to sit down and drink a bit of this wine? It’s from Lady Kassia’s father. It will warm your innards and make you smile.”
Graelam, knowing there was nothing for it, did as Rolfe suggested. Rolfe asked, “What will ye do with the bastards, my lord?”
“Ah,” Graelam said, and sat back against the trunk of an oak tree. “We have a surfeit of earls,
both so black of soul I doubt the sun will rise fully on the morrow. It’s amusing. I suppose we could ransom them for a goodly sum, if there is anyone who cares whether they live or rot.”
