My Lord Raven (Knights of the Royal Household)

Chapter Twenty

CHAPTER TWENTY

Two days later, after All Saints Day had come and gone without his wife leaving the solar, Bran marched upstairs.

He found Richard sitting up in bed with Olwen by his side. When he entered the room, she shut her mouth much too quickly and turned a book face down on her lap as if not wanting him to hear what they said.

“You do not knock, my lord?” Olwen asked, her voice sounding thin and wispy.

Bran read the panic and defiance in her eyes, and a pang of regret stabbed him. “This is my room too, my lady, remember? Yet you should have no fear.” He smiled at the irony. “I can’t decipher what you are reading. You have no need to hide it from me.”

Turning from her shocked visage to the face of the wide-eyed boy, Bran bowed slightly. “I am glad to see you so much improved, my lord.”

“Aye,” the child acknowledged with a shy grin. “I have felt more like myself today.”

“I’m glad,” he replied. “Olwen has tended you faithfully. ”

“Aye, my lord.” The boy glanced sharply at his wife. He hesitated. “My…er…cousin is loyal to a fault, I believe.”

Bran gazed at the young earl, deciding the lad’s clear eyes bespoke a keen intelligence. He nodded. “I find all of your family to be loyal, my lord.”

“ Fidelitas usque ad mortem . Loyalty ’til death. ’Tis the Rothmore motto,” Richard said with a touch of pride.

“And a fine motto, to be sure.” Bran smiled. “I am Lord Northbridge, your guardian.”

“I know who you are, my lord.” Richard brightened. “You are the King’s Raven, his majesty’s champion. You are to teach me what I need to know to become a knight and a lord of the realm.”

“I will teach you the ways of a warrior, for I have firsthand knowledge of it,” Bran said with a nod. He glanced at Olwen. “But first, I am taking your nurse away from you. For all of her devotion, my wife needs fresh air. She has been too long cooped up.”

Amusement sparkled in the lad’s eyes. “You have my permission, my lord.”

“Richard!”

“You know I am better, Olwen ,” Richard said, emphasizing his cousin’s name.

“The day is fair, my lady. Ride with me. We shall not have many such days this winter.” Bran wanted to touch Olwen, to grab her hand and pull her out of the sick room and into the light. He hated that he had to plead with her, that he was pleading with her. She was his, by rights, was she not?

Slowly, she stood, looking wan, shadows smudging under her eyes. She lowered her lashes submissively. “I will go with you, as you request, my lord.”

Bran swallowed, wanting her to go with him because she wished to. “Fine. I will have Merch saddled and brought to the bailey. Dress warmly.”

Before she could nod, Bran whipped around and departed the solar. Silently, he cursed the feelings gnawing at his insides. Why couldn’t he name these strange feelings? All he knew was that he wanted his wife to be his wife in more than name. He was not a patient man. He didn’t want to give her time to forget her sorrow. He didn’t want to go slow, as the queen suggested.

Bran curled his fingers. “ Myn Duw !” He swept through the great hall and down the steps to the bailey.

These feelings were swallowing him up, making him forget his good judgment. Making him behave as wild and dangerous as his Welsh ancestors his wife so despised.

They rode at a hard gallop, Bran astride Taran, his black destrier, and Olwen on Merch. When they reached the place where he had given her the brooch, Bran pulled his horse down to a walk. She slowed the mare.

“So, what is it that you say to the earl?” he asked, turning in his saddle to gauge his wife’s expression. “Why do you hide it from me?”

Color flushed her cheeks. The ride was doing her good. She no longer looked as pale as in the solar. He was right about forcing her out of the sick room. ’Twas doing him good to be with her as well.

She did not answer, looking suddenly unsure of herself. Or was it of his reaction?

He guided Taran in a sweeping circle around her as she and the mare continued a flat walk. “You need not fear me, my lady.”

Still no answer.

“You have my word.”

She licked her lips, seeming to catch her breath. “I speak to him of the tales of Tristan and Isolde, Arthur and Genevieve, tales of courtly love.”

He lifted a questioning eyebrow. “Your choice of entertainment matter is curious, for I doubt the king wants the lad’s head filled with such nonsense.”

“Nonsense? The queen and her ladies listen to the reciting of romances,” she replied, tipping her adorable little nose into the air.

“‘Ladies’ being the operative word,” he pointed out. For some reason, he enjoyed baiting her. “You cannot think the subject is fit for Earl Rothmore?”

“Tales of chivalry and courtly love are always good instruction.”

Bran caught her meaning. She was being critical of him. Of their relationship. Yet, his heart was light, and at the moment the darker implications of her words did not trouble him. That she was talking with him at all pleased him, so much so that he wanted it to continue. He wanted to connect with her on a level other than the purely physical.

At the small stream, he reined in Taran. “Let us rest and give the horses a drink.”

Olwen halted her palfrey. She nodded, lifting the back of her hand to her brow. “I could use a moment to catch my breath.”

He dismounted, finding it easy without the normal weight of his mail and helm. He neared the mare and his wife. Those strange feelings clogged his throat once more .

“Let me help you down.” He reached up for her and circled her tiny waist with his hands.

She swayed toward him. For one brief second, that seemed almost an eternity, she searched his face.

“My lady,” he whispered, awestruck by her beauty.

Then she jerked and cried out, her horrifying scream of pain reverberating in his head. She collapsed like a child’s rag doll into his arms. Going down on one knee to cushion her fall, he sank with her weight.

“Olwen?” Could she not hear him? “Olwen!”

Her eyes were shuttered, and her chest rose and fell slowly with each laboring breath. Bran cradled her and climbed to his feet holding her in his arms. His wife’s blood soaked his surcoat.

“ Mon Dieu !”

Frantic, Bran scanned the horizon, looking for the hunter who shot the wayward arrow penetrating his wife’s shoulder.