Chapter Five

"U pon my oath, I watched the lot of them leave."

Alyce's hand stopped mid-stroke along the bulging belly of her pregnant mare. She pivoted her head in the direction of the muffled voice.

"Then make haste," a second voice hissed in command, followed by the whoosh of a stall gate swinging open upon its leather hinges.

Overcome by curiosity, Alyce stepped gingerly over the straw strewn on the floor of her mare's stall, moving closer to the gate to peer into the passageway. Sunlight streamed in through the open barn door but only the dust swirling in the beams of light was visible, and the dark silhouette of a man holding the gate while another led a horse out of the stall. Alyce pulled her head back out of sight, knowing they would have to walk directly past where she stood to get to the saddles and tack. Not wishing to be discovered, she stepped farther back into the stall, out of the view of the men.

Thieves? At the height of day?

Pressing her back into the rough planks of the wall behind her mare, Alyce held her breath and listened. The muffled thudding of hooves on the hard-packed dirt floor grew louder in unison with the beats of her heart as the men led the horse down the aisle way. Thankfully, they were too absorbed in their task to look in her mare's stall as they walked by.

The footsteps stopped just beyond the next stall. All was quiet save for the rustling of the two men and the horse. Alyce had welcomed the silence when the stable master and stable boys left for the midday meal. Cook refused to let any man, woman, or child work on an empty belly, and all who lent a hand at the castle could expect sustenance, albeit simple, in return. Now she prayed Cook would quickly shoo them from under her feet and out of the kitchens. She did not wish to confront thieves alone.

"The envoy of knights from the king does not bode well. Tell him to keep his distance." Alyce recognized the voice despite the low murmuring and her stomach lurched with dread. Why would drive Cynwulf to have a clandestine meeting in the barn with an unknown man?

"You must find out what you can from these knights. He will want to know if they are on a scouting mission and if more troops will follow?"

She did not recognize the second voice, nor did she know who the "he" was they referred to who wanted information. She wanted to believe it was just another Marcher lord being curious and cautious, but covertness would not be required if that was all it was.

"Urge him not to set foot near Hawkspur; the danger is too great. I will be of little use to him now. He must stay away."

"He will not like that, and he will not be put off so easily."

"There is nothing I can do about it," Cynwulf hissed. "You must go, now. None will question you leaving at this time of day, but I have no wish to dally long enough for anyone to see us together." The saddle groaned as the other man hoisted himself into the stirrups. "I'll take you to the side door. Ride around the backside of the training field where you are less likely to be seen."

"And if I'm questioned?"

"Tell them you brought a message from Montworth and are returning to him. Godspeed, man. I give you my trust this message will reach him in time, or all will be for naught if he comes here."

Alyce quickly ducked behind the pregnant mare. She wanted to know the identity of the other man but her fear of being seen was greater than her curiosity. As the horse plodded past, the back of the man's hooded head was all she could see.

Cynwulf could be impulsive and headstrong, but he was not foolish. She trusted he would never do anything to jeopardize Hawkspur, but at times Cynwulf's best intentions did not work in his favor. None of what she heard boded well, but she also had no idea what any of it meant. She must find out what Cynwulf was about, and she would not let him put her off again.

She waited for the creak of the heavy side door closing, then stepped from the stall into the aisle to face her brother. But she faced nothing more than the dust floating idly in the air. Cynwulf was gone.

For a fleeting second, she wondered if she had imagined it all. Could Cynwulf really be so foolish as to send a messenger to the Welsh right under the noses of the army sent by King Edward?

She shook her head. Likely as not, she misunderstood the true nature of the exchange. Cynwulf could not possibly be involved in treason. She could think of no reason for him to betray his king and country. Such an act would endanger not only their family, but everyone at Hawkspur, all the people who had looked to her uncle for protection and guidance, and now looked to her brother.

Lost in thought, Alyce returned to her pregnant charge. The mare craned her neck and nuzzled at her hand. Obediently, Alyce rubbed the soft nose and scratched under the heavy forelock, letting the soothing, warm scent of the horse's hide mixed with the scent of the fresh hay fill her lungs and calm her nerves.

"'Tis strange, Guinevere," she murmured to the horse. "Cynwulf is impetuous at times, but foolhardy is not like him. I fear what he has gotten himself into this time."

Chatter filled the air, putting an end to Alyce's musings as the stable master and his gaggle of helpers returned from their noon meal. The boys laughed and boasted, shoving at each other in their efforts to best one another. Alyce blocked out the cacophony of voices and rubbed her fingers along the back and belly of the mare in long strokes to steady her trembling hands.

"'Twill be anytime now, my lady." Bernard, the stable master, unlatched the gate and approached the mare. He grinned at Alyce, showing yellowed teeth and several black, gaping holes. When the man spoke, his grey beard twitched and moved with his face in a way that always made her smile.

"Not long now." Bernard stood beside Alyce, his balding head not quite reaching the top of her own. The scent of manure, hay, and horse permanently clung to him. She had developed the tactic of breathing as little as possible in his presence long ago, but she adored everything else about old Bernard, which made this one discomfort tolerable.

"She is restless," Alyce said. "She has no liking for being confined, but I worry about her birthing her foal in the pasture if turned out."

"Wart!" Bernard called over his shoulder. "Come, lad. Bring a lead."

A small boy of no more than six or seven summers appeared almost immediately, rope in hand. He bobbed a bow to Alyce and smiled widely. "My lady," he said with exuberance.

"Wart," Alyce addressed him, tipping her head and winking at him. The child was perpetually smudged with dirt, and his dirty blond hair seemed to be in a constant tangle, but she found him endearing, nonetheless.

Bernard took the rope from Wart and looped it around Guinevere's muzzle and neck. "The mare needs air, Wart. Take her walkin' in the grass. Keep 'er from the other horses." He handed the long end of the lead to the boy and shooed him on his way. "And don't you be runnin' 'er, even if yer legs are itchin' to go faster, or yer sure to feel the sting of that rope on yer backside when I find ye."

Alyce watched her mare, belly swaying with each step, lumber slowly toward the doors with Wart's gentle coaxing. He turned to look back at Alyce and grinned proudly when she nodded her approval. A sharp pang of regret gripped Alyce as she watched the boy, but she quickly put all thoughts of what could not be from her mind.

"I'll send word, milady, as soon as that foal shows signs of presentin' to the world," Bernard promised. "The ol' girl will be fine. She knows what to do."

"I will rest assured she will be well in your capable hands," she said, then left the stables to seek out her brother.

Ffyddlon, her loyal wolfhound, bound to greet her, then began trotting along at Alyce's side as she emerged from the stable. She rewarded the hound by rubbing her fingers into her coarse hair. The adoring look she received in return comforted Alyce, and she smiled down at the beast. "You and I, we make a good pair, do we not? I, an aging, barren widow, and you, a staunch maiden." Thomas, the kennel master, had referred to Ffyddlon as a "cold bitch" due to her refusal to mate. She would snap and growl until the male became frustrated, and the coupling would never amount to more than a scuffle. Alyce's husband had been dead less than a sennight when she discovered the hound had been turned out from the kennel and forced to fend for herself.

She had snuck the abandoned wolfhound into her bed and slept the night through with the dog curled against her. Never had a maid slept in the room when she was married, and she did not want anyone in her chamber after her husband died to hear her cry herself to sleep at night. The chamber proved less lonely with the dog for company, and perhaps wishing to return the favor for being saved from starvation, the dog escorted and guarded Alyce wherever she ventured, her faithful companion.

"Tell me, Ffyddlon, what shall we do about Cynwulf?" Alyce asked softly as she walked with her wolfhound, trying to sort out in her mind the peculiar scene she overheard in the stable. She could not bear the thought of anything happening to her brother. She trusted him above all others, but he obviously did not trust her because whatever he was up to now, he was not confiding in her.

She should withhold her judgment until she spoke with him Mayhap she misunderstood, she rationalized, clinging to a shred of hope, but she could not stop the tight knot forming in her belly.

Cynwulf had sworn fealty to King Edward. The safety and security of every person within the castle walls and in the village fell to him. She could not believe he would get involved in anything that brought danger to those who depended on him.

But mayhap the Welsh blood of generations was more powerful than one lifetime in an English household to determine a person's heritage. The Welsh were said to be a mystical people with the blood of King Arthur running through their veins. Did Cynwulf feel a loyalty to his ancestors that he could not explain or ignore, even if he did not know exactly who they were?

She was loath to admit it, but she depended upon her brother. If anything should happen to him, she would be forced to depend on the charity of a nunnery or to find a husband. By Marcher customs, the ownership of the castle had been transferred to the new lord according to the wishes of the previous lord's will. The king did not own the castle and did not have the final say in who would be the next lord of a Marcher castle. But willing a fortress to a woman was risky, especially when the woman was made even more vulnerable by not having any living male relatives to support her.

Had the lords of any Marcher castles been traitors to the English crown? She could not recall but she wondered if the rule of the Marcher customs would still prevail if the treason scandalized the family who owned the castle.

Uncle Ranolf, never one to conform to expectations, left the castle to both Cynwulf and Alyce with the stipulation that if anything were to happen to Cynwulf before he begot an heir, Hawkspur would be hers. But she did not want that responsibility, and she could not do it alone. She knew well how to manage the day-to-day life of the castle and the village, overseeing the planting of crops, harvesting, filling of the stores, and seeing to the needs of all who resided here. What she did not know how to do well was to defend the castle and the village while navigating the political machinations of the king and the other lords, and she had no desire to learn. The bloodshed, manipulations, and flexing of muscles felt like nothing more than men needing to stroke their egos.

Women had served as castellans before, and though rare, it was not unimaginable. Everyone in the Marcher lands knew the tales of Isabella Mortimer and her iron fist rule of Oswestry Castle as she garrisoned the fortress to fight the prince of Wales. As the daughter of the powerful Lord Mortimer, her authority was not questioned, and she stood to inherit the castle when her father died. The king rarely intervened in Marcher traditions, but if he suspected treason nothing would stop him from going against Marcher tradition to demand forfeiture of Hawkspur.

If something happened to Cynwulf, would the king offer her up along with Hawkspur as a reward to one of his loyal nobles, forcing her to marry out of fear she could not hold Hawkspur alone? Or worse yet, he might forcibly remove her from her home and marry her to some landed baron seeking a bride. Was she strong enough to serve as castellan of Hawkspur if the lives and wellbeing of the villagers depended upon it? She prayed she would never have to find out.

She crossed herself quickly as a cold shudder rippled through her frame at the thought of anything happening to Cynwulf and she pushed the dreadful images from her mind. She clung to the hope nothing would change at Hawkspur and Cynwulf would remain lord of the castle for many years to come—even if it meant he continued to hound her to take a husband for the remainder of her days.

That thought brought on a scoffing snort. She desired a doddering widower to take as husband about as much as a man would desire a barren widow for a bride, no matter how young she may be.

Alyce put the idea of being forced to marry again out of her mind and instead focused on what she would say to Cynwulf. She crossed the great hall, too lost in thought to even remember entering the castle, crossing the hall, or halting in front of the door to her brother's solar. But here she was and there was no reason to delay yet another confrontation with her brother. It seemed they did more arguing than anything as of late.

With quick determination, she balled her fist and rapped her knuckles on the worn wood of the door.

*

Hawk watched Lady Alyce cross the bailey, absently scratching the head and neck of the wolfhound at her side, too lost in thought to notice anything but what lay directly in front of her. She appeared troubled and curiosity drove him to follow her.

In a man, expressing every thought and emotion so plainly on one's face would be a flaw of the utmost severity, but in Lady Alyce, he found it to be quite intriguing. It proved her innocence in his mind. She could never be trusted to be a part of a treasonous plot—everyone would know the moment they looked at her if she was desperately trying to hide something shameful.

He followed her up the stairs of the keep, across the hall, and even ducked after her through the doorway leading to the tower stairs and Cynwulf's solar, and still, she did not notice he followed her. The hound had turned its head several times to assess Hawk but continued to trot along at the lady's side.

Alyce puffed out a loud breath and leaned her head against the solar door when her knock went unanswered. Leaning a shoulder against the door frame he just passed through, Hawk crossed his arms over his chest.

"Troubles, my lady?" he asked gently.

She nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound of his voice, but he already knew that would happen. He had a strong feeling that the woman wouldn't hear a marauding army approach when lost in her own thoughts.

When she turned to look at him, he was mesmerized by her sapphire blue eyes for a moment so that he wouldn't have noticed a marauding army either. Anger reddened her cheeks and flashed in her eyes, but it only intensified the allure of her face.

"Wh…what?" she stammered, one hand over her heart. "Where did you come from?"

Hawk shrugged nonchalantly as he continued to watch her wordlessly—a trick he had picked up as a youth. Silence intimidated people, often making them ramble under scrutiny and revealing much more than ever intended.

A slow smile crossed his face as she boldened and stared back at him, allowing the silence to linger. Her face paled slightly, but she did not back down from him, nor did she resort to nervous chattering. She gathered her composure more quickly than he expected and returned his intimidating look. Of course, she wasn't intimidating in the slightest. He cocked his head to the side as he tried to recollect any other woman standing her ground with him as Lady Alyce did now.

No, he decided, such a woman wouldn't be so easily forgotten.

"I asked you a question, my lord."

Her voice was surprisingly calm and authoritative.

Hawk pushed himself away from the door frame to stand over her, and still, she did not shrink from him. He had to admit that her unusual height meant he did not have the same towering effect over her as he did others. A worried crease formed between her brows, and she wavered slightly, but she did not retreat from him in the slightest.

Such gall deserved an answer. "I followed you from the stable," he said.

"You followed me? Why?" Her eyes opened wider, and Hawk's suspicion was aroused. She was incapable of hiding anything of great importance, of that he was sure, but something had her feeling guilty.

"Does this upset you, my lady?" He fully expected her to back down, contrite, to ease his suspicions.

"Yes, it upsets me. Why did you follow me?" Her voice rose with anger, and she surprised him by taking a step closer. "Timid" did not describe this woman. Nor the hound—it took a step forward as well and a low growl rumbled in its throat.

He did not usually explain himself to anyone, but he wasn't ready to end this conversation, and he wanted to know what had upset the lady. "I am looking for your brother, and this was the logical place to start. You happened to be walking in the same direction."

The sideways tilt of her head and her slanted lids indicated she did not believe him. He grinned at her and twitched his eyebrows once to let her know he did not care if she believed him or not. He nonchalantly reached out his hand to the dog and let it sniff at his fingers.

"Obviously, Cynwulf is not in his solar. You will have to look elsewhere," she said, lightly lifting the hem of her gown with both hands to step past him. "I will take my leave. Good day, sir. Come, Ffyddlon." She said the last through tight lips while keeping her eyes locked with his as though in challenge, and he had to admit he admired her fearlessness.

Hawk did not move out of her way. Instead, he forced her to press against him as she tried to pass by. "If you find him, Lady Alyce, tell him to come to me."

Alyce stopped mid-stride, which put her shoulder to bicep with Hawk, her face close enough that all it would take to kiss her was the slightest dip of his head. A temptation for sure, but not one he thought the lady would appreciate at this moment. The dog, however, showed more appreciation for his attention, nuzzling its head against his leg as he scratched its ears.

"Lest you forget, Cynwulf is lord of this castle," she said through gritted teeth. "I will tell him you have requested a meeting so he may bid you to come to his solar at his convenience."

Hawk should be offended by this woman for her haughty attitude, but he found himself wanting to see just how riled he could get her. Quite the change from the woman who had stood in the bailey with her hair twisted around her fingers looking up at him with uncertainty when he arrived only that morning. Aye, he'd unsettled her then, but now her hackles stood up like a she-wolf's.

"Ffyddlon!" Alyce's tone was that of a mother scolding a child who had forgotten her manners. She snapped her fingers and pointed to her side. The hound had the good sense to quickly pull away from Hawk's fingers and nudge Alyce's hand for forgiveness.

He wanted to laugh as she glared at the dog for its betrayal, but he held his mirth when Lady Alyce turned her glare to him in warning to stay away from her pet.

"What manner of name is that?" he asked, unfamiliar with the word.

She eyed him with suspicion for a long moment before answering. "Ffyddlon. It is Welsh. It means loyal ."

"Fitting," he said as the hound sniffed in his direction again.

"She is meant to be loyal to me, not you, sir, but she seems to have forgotten that." She tugged at Ffyddlon's ear to turn her attention away from Hawk.

"You should follow the hound's good instincts, and put your trust in me," he said with a grin, knowing it would irritate her. Alyce's gaping mouth lacked appeal, but the fire blazing in her eyes was well worth her wrath.

"And do you expect me to follow you around the yard wagging my tail and looking at you adoringly?" she said in an angry huff. "It takes more than scratching my ears to earn my loyalty, sir."

An image of exactly what he would like to do to make her appreciate his attention filled his mind, causing another slow smile to spread across his face. He knew his nearness was affecting her because her fingers started fidgeting with the cuffs of her gown.

He couldn't resist asking, "What would make your tail wag, my lady?"

Her mouth dropped open again, but she quickly snapped it shut as her cheeks heated and filled with color.

"You overstep your bounds." Each word was clipped with irritation.

"Aye, my lady, I do." He was making her uncomfortable, her renewed fidgeting gave her away, but he detected the faint aroma of lavender when she was near, and he didn't want to move away quite yet. How could the woman show every emotion, every feeling, and thought on her face and in her gestures, and still remain so beguiling?

*

Alyce wanted to be away from Hawk, and quickly. He obviously believed his arrogance to be charming. Hawk's swagger and physique might make other women swoon at his feet, but she'd be damned if she would.

And she would not wag her tail for him!

She pushed past him and walked through the hall with as much poise as she could muster, head held high and shoulders back as though she still had a hold on her quickly shredding nerves. Even as she tried to convince herself that the man deserved nothing more than her loathing, she could not stop the flutter of excitement his presence caused in the pit of her stomach.

Everyone at Hawkspur doted upon her as though she were a child in need of consoling, and not just because her husband had died. No, the pitiful coddling had started nearly two years prior when the kitchen maid bore him the son she could not. The pity she saw in other women's eyes when they smiled at her consolingly caused more humiliation and hurt than healing. She'd learned a long time ago to harden herself to their whispers and annoying stares. Only Ffyddlon, her loyal hound, didn't look at her with sympathy or pity in her eyes.

Nor did Hawk.

Sir Grogan made her feel alive again. He didn't look at her with pity, but with lust, something which should offend her, but she found it invigorating. Granted, he said things that were beyond his liberty to say, but at least he'd evoked some reaction in her other than humiliation and hurt. He roused her anger, aye, but she felt more alive than she'd felt in a long time. It was unladylike for her to feel flattered by base remarks a man should never dare say to a lady, but it had been a long time since anyone had looked upon her as a woman and not a sad, barren widow.

It was true Sir Montworth professed a desire to marry her, but that had nothing to do with her as a person so much as it did with the political advantage he would attain in his bid to gain favor with the other lords and the king. And the look in Montworth's eyes when he raked them over her body made her flesh crawl with disgust.

Heaven help her, when Hawk did the same, she shivered with the potential and promise she saw in his eyes. She had no desire for a husband, but obviously, the desire for a man was not completely dead within her.

Alyce wanted nothing more than the privacy of her chamber, but in her haste to get away from Sir Grogan she'd flitted past him and into the hall instead of up the spiral stairs of the tower to her chamber. Hawk still stood watching her from the small doorway blocking the only access to her chamber without going outside, through the bailey, into the guards' quarters, and up onto the parapet. She didn't know which was more foolish; pretending to busy herself in the buttery until Hawk left, or taking a very long route around the castle just to sneak into her own chamber?

Still, she inspected the inventory of the buttery until she finally saw Hawk crossing the hall to take his leave. She peeked around the door of the buttery, watching until she was sure he was gone. As soon as the heavy door closed behind him, she hurried across the hall and up the stairs to her chamber.

Ffyddlon bounded into the room behind her, tail wagging and ears perked.

"'Tis not a game I play, Ffyddlon," she scolded gently. "And you deserve no rewards for your betrayal, letting yourself be seduced by that arrogant man."

Alyce plopped on her bed while Ffyddlon sat on the floor and leaned against her legs. The dog put her big head on Alyce's lap and looked up at her as if to say she, too, could not help herself. Alyce rubbed her fingers into the fur behind Ffyddlon's ears. "There is something quite alluring about him, I must admit." He may look upon her with desire now, but she must not forget that he would just as easily condemn her as bed her if he found anyone at Hawkspur was anything less than loyal to the king he served.

Alyce turned her thoughts to her brother. The fear mounting in her quickly dampened the invigorating tingle that lingered from Hawk's flirtation. What game did Cynwulf play?

"Cynwulf had better not do anything foolish," she muttered to Ffyddlon. "If he's fallen in love with a Welsh woman and lost all sense of reason, we could all be in trouble."