“That was beautiful,” Alwyn sniffed and wiped an imaginary tear from his eye.
Madoc’s smile was every bit as menacing as the glint in his eye when he turned his cup upside down, pouring the remainder of his drink on Alwyn’s head. He ignored the flurry of blasphemies spilling from Alwyn’s lips while he sat down beside Gareth. “Sincerest apologies for getting you wet.”
“Aye, now there’s something no woman has ever heard you say, eh, you bastard?” Alwyn retorted, wiping his hand down his face.
“You speak true,” Madoc told him with a trace of humor lifting the corners of his mouth. “I didn’t apologize to your sister.”
The string of threats Alwyn shot at him next were thankfully drowned out by the glorious sound of harp, lute, and tabor drums.
Everyone ate together, filling their bellies with bowls of steamingCawland savory lamb pie. Alwyn’s mood lightened considerably after three helpings. When a small group of the villagers began to dance in the center of the glen, he joined them.
Adara eyed Hereward from across the fire while he chewed on his supper. “Is it true that you’re a Saxon warrior?” she asked him when he slid his gaze to hers, feeling her eyes on him.
He nodded and went back to his food.
“My father once knew a man who claimed to have seen Saxons,” Adara continued. “This man told us that they danced almost as well as theCymry.”
Beside her, Tomas snorted.
Hereward cut him a warning glance. “What’s so humorous about that?”
“Naught, save that the Saxons are too dull witted to…” Tomas’ voice faded when Hereward scowled at him. “No offense intended,” he amended nervously.
“Offense taken,” Hereward replied and laid his trencher down in front of him.
“Our people are as old as yours,” Rebecca offered gently. “And dancing is as ancient as time.”
Ringed within the glimmering vermeil of his mustache and beard, Hereward’s mouth curled into a grin at the pride for her heritage lacing her voice.
“I didn’t know you too were Saxon.” Adara clutched Rebecca’s hand. “Do show us how you dance. I’ve never seen any other movements but our own.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.” Rebecca blushed and shook her head. “I haven’t danced in over a score of years.”
“Hereward looks that rusty,” Madoc threw at the Saxon, a mischievous gleam flitting across his dark eyes. “Dancing with him will be easy for you, Rebecca.”
The nurse glanced at Hereward. Their eyes met briefly before he looked away, expecting her refusal. Hereward the Wake was a frightening man, with a reputation as gruesome as King William’s, but, Rebecca reasoned, he’d always been kind to her. He wasn’t a very talkative man, saying barely a handful of words to her when she rode with him on the carriage. She hadn’t minded though. She had no idea what to talk to him about anyway. Lately though, she found herself noticing the strong angles of his brawny physique, the way the sunlight set his hair ablaze with streaks of cinnamon, scarlet, gold, and bronze. His features were hard and forbidding, nothing at all like Brand’s beguiling beauty. But Hereward possessed an intense male magnetism that grew more captivating each time she looked at him.
She had been nothing short of rude to him over the years when the Risandes visited the king. How could she have possibly shown him any interest when her heart ached for another?
“Very well,” she said watching the firelight play over his arching brow. She came to her feet and dusted off her skirts. “Hereward?” She motioned for him to follow her when he looked up, astounded by her invitation.
“Go on, Hereward. Dance with her,” Gareth urged with a wink.
“All right, then.” The burly warrior stood up, offered Rebecca a handsome smile, and then walked her toward the center of the glen.
Tanon saw herfirst dancing circle that night. It was one of twelve scattered over the enormous glen. Ringed by torches jammed into the earth, the inner perimeter illuminated beneath the vast heavens. The music didn’t stop as Hereward and Rebecca stepped forward to join the other dancers.
Hereward looked as regal as any king, his spine arrow straight, one arm folded neatly behind his back while the other extended to clasp Rebecca by the hand. Compared to the movements of the others around them, the Saxons’ dance was slow, but no less enchanting. Tanon watched them with a happy heart, for Rebecca’s smile was more profound than any she had ever offered to Brand Risande.
“No dancing tonight, my lord?”
Tanon turned to the woman hovering beside Gareth. She remembered meeting her earlier. Her name was Isolde, daughter of Padrig, the carpenter. Her russet braid dangled to her buttocks, and her eyes deepened to a darker shade of blue when she smiled at Gareth.
“Mayhap later, Isolde.”
“But it’s Celebration,” Isolde insisted with a pout that only lasted for an instant. “And I’ve been practicing. I’m sure I could best you,” she challenged. “I bested Ioan.”
Cian snorted a laugh. “Ioan isn’t Gareth.”