“I heard the prince demanded her hand at the threat of war.”
“Nay, I heard that the prince values peace above all else.”
Tanon valued peace as well, but she disliked being traded for it twice.
She had tried to tell herself last eve that marrying Gareth was better than marrying Roger. It was a noble thing to sacrifice oneself for such a worthy cause. But that was before the bold brute sauntered into her room and pretended to be Rebecca! And, oh, the way he’d looked at her! God help her, just his presence in her room had made her breathless. He’d stood there so arrogantly by her bed, like he had every right to feast his eyes on her. When he had touched her, she nearly sighed aloud. She didn’t like how he had stormed back into her life and summoned all her childish fantasies back to life. At least he hadn’t tried to kiss her. Thinking about it now, she chewed her lower lip. Was she that unappealing that even a Welshman refused to lay his mouth on her? She saw how he had looked at her body. Why hadn’t he tried to kiss her? Mayhap, he wasn’t pleased at what he saw. She should be relieved that the prince didn’t find her to his liking. She certainly didn’t want to kiss him. Ever.
Determined not to let him spoil the last shred of good humor she possessed, Tanon turned her attention to the colorful pavilions strewn across the magnificent lawns of Winchester Castle. Nobles and knights were still arriving from as far away as Normandy to pay their yearly homage to the king, and to compete in the many tournaments that would last for up to a se’nnight. Ladies dressed in their finest gowns strolled the lawns, giggling at jesters who somersaulted in their paths. Children squealed with laughter at the antics of little wooden marionettes staged upon piled haystacks dotting the fields. Stalls lined the western wall, alive with singing mistrals and vendors raucously shouting their wares. It was a time to celebrate the peace brought to England by its Conqueror, as fragile as that peace was. And while the jousting and sword fighting competitions were brutal indeed, the men sported smiles and good cheer. The generous purses awarded to the victors, along with endless vats of ale lent to the merry mood.
“Come,” Hilary tugged on Tanon’s arm. “Your prince and his men have been practicing all morn. Their skill is causing quite a stir.”
It took Tanon a moment to realize where Hilary was leading her. When she saw the lists a few yards away, she dug her heels into the ground. “Non,I don’t want to see the certainty of my demise as it comes upon me.” She pulled Hilary back, her eyes wide with dread. “You know if he defeats Lord deCourtenay, I’m his.”
Hilary narrowed her hazel eyes on her, casting Tanon an indignant look. “You could do worse, Tanon. Remember old Lord Edwin DeValance who requested your hand last summer? Be grateful that your father didn’t agree tothatunion.”
Heavens, she’d almost forgotten Lord DeValance, the one-eyed Earl of Gloucester who’d accidentally killed his wife while he practiced his swordplay in the courtyard of Gloucester.
Tanon squared her shoulders. “It matters not, Hilary. I would rather marry the Earl of Blackburn than live in Wales.”
“Goodness.” Hilary snapped her tongue against the roof of her mouth and then pointed past Tanon. “You don’t honestly want to marry that rascal. He cares only for your dowry.”
Tanon looked over her shoulder. Looking quite convalesced from his soused condition of the previous night, Lord Blackburn strolled with Lady Fitzdrummond, smiling as though he hadn’t a care in the world.
“He doesn’t seem very concerned about losing you,” Hilary mumbled.
Why would he be? Tanon thought. He’d always hated her. Even so, where was the man’s pride? Was he going to simply sit back and hand her over to the prince without even lifting an eyebrow? Vaguely, she felt Hilary moving her along while she stared at Roger. What was the point in fighting? Anyone had to be better than that scandalous worm.
“I’ve had other offers, you know,” she said, her pride pricking her shoulders.
“But none from the likes of him.”
They stood just outside the low-circled wall of the lists. All around them men, and even some women, cheered, tossing coins into the circle. Others swore and stormed away shaking their heads in disbelief.
None like him. Damnez-le, Hilary was right. Tanon’s breath stalled in her chest at the sight of her future husband within the ringed wall. For there was no longer any doubt in her mind that Prince Gareth was going to pound Roger into a bloody pulp. She was going to Wales. But even while her hopes that she might remain close to her family faded, her skin tingled at the sight of him.
With a dagger clutched in each fist, he moved with the sinuous agility of a great cat. A glistening sheen of sweat accentuated the bronzed sinew in his bare arms. Thin strips of corded leather were wound tight around his biceps. His tight legs, encased in buff colored doeskin, crouched, and then, in one fluid move, he sprang forward delivering a blow to his opponent that sent the knight’s sword flying. He landed, perfectly balanced on the pads of his bare feet and tossed back his locks of glimmering gold.
He looked elemental and terribly barbaric. The power in his sapphire eyes quickened Tanon’s pulse when his gaze caught hers. He offered her a sudden, arresting smile. Heat licked down her spine and went straight to her belly.
“And look there.” Hilary gestured subtly with her veiled chin. Tanon severed her gaze from Gareth’s and brought it to a man watching the practice with eyes of deep sable, hooded beneath a brooding brow, a mop of mink curls spilling over his forehead. “That’s Madoc. You cannot see it from here, but he sports a small scar along his jaw.” Hilary breathed with a lusty sigh just as Madoc turned his dark gaze on them. She smiled, but he slid his eyes to Tanon briefly before turning back to Gareth. “Isn’t he the most dangerous looking man you’ve ever seen?”
Madoc definitely had a forbidding look to him, but Gareth was a lethal menace. Before she was tempted to look at him again, she excused herself to Hilary and left the wall. She tripped over the hem of her gown and muttered a tight oath while she righted herself.
Gareth excited and frightened her. And she loathed the idea of being afraid of anything. She was a Risande, for goodness sakes! Her mother would never have run away as she just had. Her father would be ashamed if he knew how her heart was threatening to pump right out of her chest, even now, halfway across the lawn. And that was exactly what frightened her, not the Welsh prince’s effect on her, but the fact that he affected her at all. How could one look from him make her skin feel so tingly all over?
Witnessing her parent’s love had made her ache for it. Passion certainly wasn’t a stranger to Tanon. Her parents often kissed in front of their children. Their glances were full of meaning, their tender touches and secret whispers that ended in the privacy of their bedchamber, had taught Tanon that passion was not only acceptable, but something to be sought after.
But with whom? Cedric? Roger? She didn’t want to let herself feel with men like those. What purpose would it serve? Why hope for something she would never have? She couldn’t deny Gareth had been her friend once, or that he was attractive. But she would not allow him to stir that hope.
Mumbling to herself, she made her way toward the many vendor’s stalls set up along the western wall of the castle. Why did he have to come back? She was perfectly content in her predictable little world.
She stopped short in front of a row of colorful vendor’s stalls. Heavens. She hadn’t thought about what being married to a Welsh prince would entail. Until now. Roger reminded her of a dog, sniffing in whatever direction the scent came from. She preferred not to think of his bed. She’d been a child last time she saw Cedric, but she knew she would have been unhappy with him. She was curious about Gareth though, intimidated a little by his innate sensuality, and intrigued by it as well.
She’d been taught about the Welsh along the marches. They were men and women willing to fight their enemies to the death. But a few times, when her father’s soldiers were lost in their cups, they spoke of the people who lived in the deeper parts of Wales, called the Wild Lands, where the princes still ruled. It was said that the natives dressed scantily, and Tanon believed it now seeing Gareth garbed in his sleeveless tunics. They danced around great bonfires to music that could tempt angels into committing wanton acts. They prayed to heathen gods and swore on ancient relics. They celebrated pagan feast days whose names Father Anveley forbade to be spoken at court.
Tanon patted her flushed cheeks at the thought of Gareth running half-naked through some ancient forest hunting down an innocent woman. Namely, her. When her skin began to feel clammy beneath her gown, she vowed to stop thinking of Gareth altogether, at least until they stood before the priest, exchanging vows. Her brow creased with worry. Would her new betrothed insist they be wed by a high priest donning war paint and a pike with a head on the end of it?
“Goodness, Tanon, you’re working yourself up into an unnecessary fluster,” she murmured to herself before offering the vendor a graceful smile. “One tart, if you please, kind sir.”