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"But—but, sir, how was I to know? She is without an escort— or even a horse!"

  "No matter. It be the Lady Hwyelis right enough."

  Once inside, Hwyelis and her children were taken to a chamber where they could refresh themselves before Lord Hawkhurst, who was out hunting, returned. There, Hwyelis stared at her reflection in the looking glass and sighed. She had donned her finest garments for the trip to Devon, but now, they were bedraggled, stained with salt water from her crossing of the Bristol Channel and dirt from the roads she had walked upon after leaving her small boat. With the help of a serving maid, she did her best to repair the damage, for there were no ladies-in-waiting to attend her. The Lord's wife had died, along with the two small sons she had given him.

  Hwyelis gazed at Waerwic. 'Twas good she had kept her bargain and brought the boy here, to Hawkhurst Castle. One day, he would be its lord; and despite the fact that the keep was old and, from what she had seen, in sad disrepair, it would offer him a far better future than the savage hills of Wales. Here, Waerwic would become an earl, a man of property and importance. In Wales, the most he could hope to attain would be service to some

  lord. She smiled at the eight-year-old, solemn-faced lad, who did not yet fully understand why they had journeyed so far from home. All he knew was that his grandfather, Owein, had been very angry at their going.

  "Hwyelis, thou art a fool!" Grandfather had thundered upon learning of their plans to travel to England. "Dost truly think the English dog will recognize the brat? Ha! 'Tis more than likely the pig will not even recall your name! God's blood! Have ye not shamed us enough already? Three bastards ye have borne, and both Powys and Newyddllyn willing to marry ye!"

  Hwyelis had tossed her head proudly, unmoved by her father's wrath and his tirade.

  "I am not a woman to be bound to any man. I told ye I'd no wish to wed when ye gave me to Bryn-Dyfed, though I didst love him well. My life is my own. Tremayne will remember; he is not a man to forget. He will claim the boy as his and make Waerwic his heir. I shall not throw away such an opportunity for my son simply because his grandfather chooses to be a fool!"

  And so they had come to Hawkhurst.

  Aye, Tremayne will remember, Hwyelis thought as she continued to study her son.

  The boy had her rich brown hair, streaked with the gold of his father's, and his father's odd yellow eyes, filled with mystery like Hwyelis's own. There could be no mistaking the child's heritage.

  "Hwyelis!" Lord Hawkhurst burst into the chamber at last, and one glance at him told her she need not worry that he would cast the lad aside. "Ye came! After all this time, ye came!"

  Then he swept her into his arms and kissed her; and a thousand memories of the long sweet nights they had lain together in the Welsh hills, before she had been ransomed, flooded her very being. In her fashion, she had loved Tremayne, as she had loved all those with whom she had shared her body. It was good to feel his arms about her again. Lord Hawkhurst's eyes glittered as they raked her eagerly, and he remembered too. In the end, he had been forced to let her go, but he had never forgotten her, for she was a woman a man did not forget.

  "Hwyelis," he said once more, scarcely daring to believe she was here, was real.

  She gave a little tinkle of laughter, as though guessing his thoughts, and flung her head back in that arrogant manner he recalled so well.

  "Tremayne. I have come, as promised."

  He sighed.

  "After all these years, I am still Tremayne to ye. Why dost not call me by my Christian name? 'Tis James, as well ye know, my lady."

  She smiled.

  "Tremayne suits ye better, methinks."

  He chuckled with amusement at this, then embraced her again before, at last, he turned to the children.

  "Why, what's this, Hwyelis? Am I supposed to choose which son is mine? Ah, my lady, didst think I wouldst not know my own spawn? Ye, lad"—he pointed to Waerwic—"step forward. What is your name, lad?"

  The boy bowed.

  "Tis Waerwic, my lord," he answered boldly, without a trace of fear of this big, muscular man who had so heartily caressed and kissed his mother.

  "Ye have taught him well, Hwyelis," Lord Hawkhurst observed. "Dost know who I am, Waerwic? Waerwic! Ah, ye cannot go through life here with such a name. After all, ye are half-English and my heir. From now on, ye shall be known as Warrick. Well, Warrick, dost know who I am?"

  The boy glanced at his mother and then back.

  "My father, my lord."

  Lord Hawkhurst's booming laughter rang out once more.

  "Aye, and so I am."

  The days that passed were happy ones, for Lord Hawkhurst was much taken with his son and had no objection to the boy's half brothers either. It was good for the lad to have such close ties to Wales. They would serve him well in the future, Tremayne thought, though even he did not know just how well his son was to profit from his heritage and childhood bonds. That was to come later, much later, long after the Earl lay buried in his grave, and a war-torn England proclaimed a Welsh upstart King.

  Lord Hawkhurst showered all the boys with a careless, haphazard warmth that stemmed from his deep fondness of and affection for Hwyelis, who again shared his bed. He would have taken her to wife and said as much, but she only laughed gaily and shook her head.

  "Nay, Tremayne, I am a wild thing, not meant to be caught and caged. I must be free to love where I will and part without care. Ye know that."

  Aye, how well he did. He had tamed her once, for a time, but

  only because it had pleased her to be his. He had never bound her to him. He could not. It would have killed her spirit and left her but an empty shell. The Earl held her as long as he could, but eventually, the time came when Hwyelis grew restless and longed for the hills of Wales and gave thought to the future of her other three sons. 'Twas not right that they remain in England, the land of their enemies. They were pure Welsh, and Madog was Bryn-Dyfed's heir.

  She told Tremayne she must go, and though he was sorrowed by her leaving, he realized he could not keep her. It was as she had said. She belonged to no man, for she was a woman meant to be free.

  Warrick, however, was too young to understand this. He was bereft with emptiness and fright as his mother hugged him to her breast in farewell, enveloping him in the fragrant forest scent of the wild roses and moss that belonged to her alone. He clutched her frantically, clinging to her tightly, as though he would never let her go. 'Twasn't true! She just couldn't be leaving him! She was his whole world, everything he knew; and yet, she was actually smiling and ruffling his hair as though he were but a stray pup for whom she had found a home.

  "Mama, please," he begged, "say 'tisn't true... that ye aren't going away."

  "But 'tis true, Waerwic," she told him gently. "I must return to Wales, and ye must stay here. 'Tis our fate to be parted from each other."

  "Nay. Nay! Don't leave me, Mama. Oh, please don't leave me!"

  But she only set him from her, straightened her back, and mounted the mare that Lord Hawkhurst had given her. She spared Warrick not even a single glance as she rode through the iron portcullis of the keep, so he never saw the tears streaming silently down her cheeks. Bitterly wounded, he ran to the stables and hid, flinging himself down upon the hay in the loft and weeping great, wrenching sobs. The only woman he'd loved and worshiped all his life had deserted him.

  After a time, in a small comer of his mind, something hard and cold was bom at the cmel thought and lay in icy dormancy, waiting to flourish.

  At ten years of age, Warrick was sent to a neighboring estate for fosterage. Lord Drayton, one of Lord Hawkhurst's closest friends, was pleased to have the Earl's heir given into his care and did

  his best to see the boy was well trained. Warrick worked hard at the tasks put to his doing—harder than most, for though he was recognized as his father's heir, the boy was taunted unmercifully by his foster brothers for being a half-Welsh bastard. "Savage," they called him—and worse—when there was no one to int
erfere, often making him the butt of vicious jests and beating him when they wished to teach him a lesson.

  Such harsh treatment might have broken a gentler, weaker lad, but it only served to make Warrick strong, firing him with a grim determination to succeed in besting them all. This he did by mastering his weapons—the broadsword and shield, the battle-ax, the lance, the momingstar, the crossbow and longbow, and the dirk—so proficiently that soon all were afraid to challenge him. He walked among them without fear then, his head held high, his pride his only comfort in his lonely existence.

  Whenever he could, Warrick slipped across the Bristol Channel to Wales too, to learn a different form of fighting—the guerilla warfare with which the Welsh had managed to keep the English from conquering Wales. There also, he grew close to his half brothers, his only friends, and dutifully visited his mother, Hwye-lis, though he could never quite forgive her for deserting him. It was there as well, in the wild hills of his early childhood, that he met Brangwen, the woman to whom he later gave his whole heart.

  Warrick asked her to marry him, not realizing that beneath her outward facade of breathtaking beauty lay a black core of evil. Unlike Hwyelis, who gave herself freely for the joys of loving and sharing, Brangwen gave only to lure and ensnare and finally destroy. She took pleasure in wielding her wicked power over men and seeing them brought to their knees. She used Warrick, promising to wed him, then when she was certain he was hers, she laughed in his face.

  "Didst truly believe I wouldst marry the bastard spawn of an English dog?" she sneered. "Thou art a fool, Waerwic. Why should I settle for that crumbling old heap of stones, to which ye are heir, in the land of my enemies, when I can be mistress of one of the finest keeps in all of Wales? Get ye hence, ye son of a churl. Ye have ceased to be of amusement to me."

  Warrick was stunned; his heart was broken. The cold worm of hatred for all women that had crawled into his soul at his mother's desertion grew to monstrous proportions at his beloved Brangwen's cruel betrayal of him. He was only nineteen, but already, he was a man grown hard from the wounds his life had

  inflicted on him. His pride and arrogance were all that sustained

  him—those, and his vow never to love again.

  When, two years later, his father was killed in battle, Warrick knew only that he wanted to get away from Devon and Wales. He had won his spurs, and blind with grief, he left Lord Drayton's service and made his way to London, where he sought a place for himself at Court. There, he distinguished himself in service to the Crown and became one of His Grace's favorites.

  Now, at twenty-five, as he stood before Edward, the only liege to whom he had sworn fealty, Warrick cursed the day that had ever brought him to the palace: for the man the King had chosen to act as the new warden to the Ashleys was none other than Lord Warrick James ap Tremayne, now Earl of Hawkhurst; and he felt nothing but rage upon learning of his appointment to the office, despite the honor of the position. 'Twas Dorset or Hastings who had suggested the idea—he had no doubt—for those two favorites of His Grace were always trying to rid themselves of their rivals at Court.

  "With all due respect. Sire—I am well content here at the palace," Warrick protested stiffly, trying to think of some way in which to extricate himself from the unwanted chore.

  Edward only laughed and bent to fondle the voluptuous breasts of his latest mistress, who lay at his feet and who was gazing too raptly for the King's liking at the handsome countenance of the courtier who stood before him.

  "Come, Hawkhurst," His Grace chided softly, his crystal blue eyes filled with the cruel deviltry that, of late, his subjects had come to know only too well. Edward liked his gifts to be accepted with gratitude, and Warrick's attitude irritated him. "I award ye an office most men would have paid handsomely for, and still, ye are not pleased. Rushden is a rich estate. Its revenues are quite sizable, I am told, and your share will be most generous. Though yt are hardly a pauper, I would not have thought ye would scorn so fair a prize. What ails ye, my lord? I fear I do not understand your reluctance in accepting the position."

  "Begging your pardon. Sire, but with all due respect—I am not a nursemaid. I do not believe I am a man fit for such a task."

  "Christ's son, Hawkhurst! Is that all?" Edward laughed again. "Godamercy! The Ashleys are hardly in swaddling clothes, and even if they were, they would have a nanna to attend them. What are ye thinking of. my lord? Ye will scarcely see the lad, Giles, who is fostered to my brother Gloucester. And the girl. Isabella, is a pretty maid of thirteen and quite a taking little wench—or

  so Dickon informs me," the King added as an afterthought. "In fact, I have decided she would make ye an excellent bride."

  "Bride, Sire!" Warrick gasped, stunned and angered by this announcement. And then, forgetting whose presence he stood in, he burst out, "But I have no wish for a wife!"

  His Grace's eyes hardened slightly, though still, he smiled.

  "But / wish for ye to have one, Hawkhurst. 'Tis time ye gave thought to the matter of producing an heir. The idea of your lands descending to one of your Welsh half brothers strikes me ill, very ill indeed. 'Twould ease my mind greatly if ye were not so tied to that lot."

  "Except for my older brother, Madog, my brothers are bastards like myself. Your Grace, and not likely to inherit. After all, I am hardly in my grave. Sire! Does Your Grace have cause to doubt my loyalty?" Warrick inquired coldly, lifting one eyebrow demoniacally.

  There were not many who insulted the Earl—and lived.

  "Nay, of course not," Edward answered. "I would scarcely have awarded ye such an honor otherwise. Oh, come, my lord. The boy is the last male heir of his line. If aught should happen to him—if he should die—the maid would inherit all and become a very rich woman in her own right. Even now, she is no mean prize, for her dowry alone is a fortune.

  "Rushden has always been a Yorkist stronghold, Hawkhurst— and one of importance. I must have a man I can trust there to be certain that does not change. The late Lord Oadby, though greedy, knew his duty to his king. 'Tis unfortunate he lost his life in a hunting accident. Ye have served the Crown well, my lord. 'Twould be a pity if that were not to continue. Of course"—the King shrugged when the Earl remained silent—"if ye still have no desire for the appointment or the Lady Isabella, I am sure I can find other tasks—and women—to take your fancy. The Lady Nan was recently widowed"—His Grace mentioned one of his previous whores—"and though her estate is small, the keep is still of some military value "

  "I understand perfectly. Sire." Warrick spoke through clenched teeth, his face white with ire, a muscle working furiously in his jaw as he fought himself for control.

  "I thought ye would," Edward intoned dryly. "Guard my wards well, my lord, and let me know how ye find the Lady Isabella. Dickon does have excellent taste in women, even though he seems to prefer them on the quiet side. Ye have my permission to go now and begin the preparations for your journey."

  Warrick bowed low, then turned abruptly on his heel and wrathfully quit the chamber.

  Once outside, he leaned against a wall for support, shaking all over with impotent ire. The unwelcome thought of leaving Court paled before the even more disastrous news he had just received. Marry! He was to be married—and to a wench he had never laid eyes on! It was either Lady Isabella Ashley or one of the King's cast-off whores. His Grace had made that quite clear.

  Women! A plague take them all! Warrick cursed silendy, recalling Brangwen, beautiful Brangwen, his once-betrothed, who had played him false and left him for another.

  The Earl ground his teeth with rage and frustration, thinking hard, but he could see no avenue of escape. Edward was his liege, and Warrick's duty to the Crown had been made plain. He had no choice; he would have to accept the position at Rushden as the new warden to the Ashleys, and, worse yet, he would be forced to take the Lady Isabella to wife. The first would at least enrich his purse. But the last.. .The Earl's lip curled with distaste. He had no wish for a bride, but since he mus
t wed her,» Warrick determined he would bend the Lady Isabella to his will, or he would break her. He would not be made a fool of again!

  Chapter Eight

  ISABELLA CHEWED THE TIP OF HER QUILL ABSENTLY as she gazed up from the large account books spread before her. She had been poring over the records for a number of hours, trying to set them straight. Lord Oadby had juggled them cleverly, and it had taken her many months to determine just how he had managed to make the ledgers seem square. She sighed, then laid aside her pen and closed her eyes, rubbing them tiredly for a moment.

  After the Earl's death (the manner of which, mercifully, none had questioned), the girl had, with no small measure of delight, sent the highly distraught and suddenly frantic Lady Shrewton packing, despite the Countess's shrill whines that she had no place to go (her husband having cast her off when she'd taken up with Lord Oadby).

  "Poor Percy," Lady Shrewton had wailed tearfully and wrung her hands as though bereft with grief for the late Earl, though Isabella had known the Countess was concerned only about her own fate. "He was all I had. Oh, what is to become of me?"

  The girl had eyed Lady Shrewton coldly and replied, "I neither know nor care, my lady. Ye have one hour to be gone from

  Rushden—taking only those possessions that are rightfully yours—after which time, if ye have not departed, ye will be forcibly removed by my brother's men-at-arms."

  "Oh, ye are cruel. Cruel!" the Countess had cried. "And after all I have done for ye too, ye ungrateful wench!"

  "Ye have done nothing for me but usurp my proper place as mistress of Rushden and make my life miserable," Isabella had rejoined, trembling with quiet rage. "So do not think to shame me with any reminders of your many kindnesses to me, for there were none. Ye never cared for me or made one attempt to ease my unhappy lot. Had it not been for your fear of the Duke of Gloucester, I would not even have had what little I received. 'Tis your own greedy folly that has brought ye to this pass. Had ye but taken pity on me, I would do the same for ye now. As 'tis, I do but despise ye. The sooner ye are gone from Rushden, the better."