From what she could see, she was in an inner tower that was surrounded by a low wall. Directly underneath her, there were no gardens with flowers and benches. Without any ornamentation, the grey stone walls jutted out forcefully from the hard-packed ground. It was as if the castle stood in defiance of nature. Very much like the lord who governed it.
She had not spoken to Teague since the day he had asked for her name. Then she had still been so weak and sick, she could only feel the darkness and tightly coiled anger surrounding him.
But at night, Teague had been almost reluctantly kind. There was such a difference between the man at night and the man at day, she wondered whether she had dreamed the night. It had probably been Greta or Edith. There could be no kindness in the Traitor of Gwalchdu.
The cold reality of daytime should prove that to her. She was kept a prisoner here no matter what Ffion said. She doubted the lord kept her here because Brynmor was her home. If he knew she was from Brynmor, all he had to do was inform Sir Robert and ask for a boon. Teague was Marcher Lord and consequently had power over Brynmor. He also had power over her.
She rested her head upon her knees and stared out the window. If she was counting the days correctly, she had been here over a sennight. It was long enough for either someone to rescue her, or to think her dead.
She could endure whatever the Traitor expected of her, but there were people who needed her at Brynmor. Melun, who had raised her like a father, was losing his sight and depended upon her to care for the birds. The falconer had probably already been punished for losing a goshawk. And fragile, gentle Alinore needed protection from her father, Lord Urien of Brynmor, and his spitting rages.
Feeling trapped and restless, Anwen fisted the rich green gown they’d given her. She was as unused to this inactivity as she was to long gowns, but it was easy to spot the man responsible for her imprisonment. For days she’d been watching Teague. His tall frame, dark hair and movements were now as familiar to her as a hawk’s flight.
He was training his men in hand-to-hand in the lists. A circle of men surrounded both Teague and a red-haired man. Both of them were crouched, their arms stretched and angled in front of them. Even in the cold heavy mist, they were similarly garbed—bare, except for loose braies that bunched at the waist and fell above the knee.
But it was Teague she watched. On him, the braies didn’t look so much like they were worn as much as they hugged a tight waist that supported a wide defined chest, broad shoulders and arms and legs rigid with muscle.
He was often hardly clothed, yet each time she saw it, it was as if his body presented some new facet for her to watch. He held a savage beauty, like a peregrine’s wings arching back only to pound the air in a fluid rhythm.
His eyes never left his opponent and his arms remained steady, but she saw the almost imperceptive movement of his great thigh muscles when he launched. With one arm sweeping around his opponent’s neck, he forced him to the ground.
Then each of them stood. Teague gave a satisfied grin as the man re-entered the crowd.
Anwen’s breath caught in her chest. It was a strange breathlessness that had occurred to her more than once in the days she watched him. His face did not hold the perfect symmetrical beauty of his brother’s; his features were masculine, hardened, and his cheeks, brow and jaw looked as if they were fragments of Gwalchdu’s stone. One did not call him beautiful as one does not call a cliff that jaggedly slashes downward to crashing waves beautiful, but both held a magnificence that could not be denied. And when he smiled, his eyes flashing victory, Teague was truly magnificent.
Even having won, he did not rest, but pointed to another man, who entered the circle. Teague pushed his long dark locks over his shoulders before crouching in the almost ritualistic stance. It would continue for hours until Teague was satisfied and it seemed he was never satisfied.
He pushed his men as she had seen no man train before. Teague would not call a halt until muscles visibly shook from strain, and sweat built upon sweat and dirt upon dirt. There were times he would get hurt, by a misstep, or a flawed arc to a sword, but never did she see him lose.
Through it all, he still held the air of a leader. Day after day, soldiers and servants came to him. He either directed or simply listened, but she would never see or hear a complaint or an argument against his direction. It seemed everyone obeyed Gwalchdu’s lord out of respect and admiration.
For many days she had watched the Traitor, yet in all this time of trying to find a weakness so she could escape she had found only one. What she knew of Teague now conflicted greatly with her earlier knowledge. His arrogance and power were there, and a few servants crossed themselves on his approach as if warding him away, but he was also a fair leader and generous caregiver. No, Teague of Gwalchdu wasn’t only the Traitor, yet that facet would always exist.
She had seen the consequences of him siding with the English for Brynmor and even now, he kept her a prisoner. For those facts alone, she could not trust him.
* * *
It was hours later when Greta and Edith barged in carrying full water buckets. More servants followed with a large hip tub and more buckets.
‘The kind Sister thought you could use a bath.’ Edith set the buckets near the tub.
There were more important things for Anwen than a bath, but the steam from the buckets was intoxicating. ‘Thank you. But you shouldn’t be cross with Sister Ffion if she wanted me to have one.’
‘Oh, I’m not cross with Her Mightiness about the bath.’ Edith helped Greta pour the water into the tub after the other servants discreetly left. ‘I’m cross because she had to decide when. I knew I shouldn’t have asked for one days ago.’ Edith gestured with her arms. ‘Why don’t you come here then and let me help with your clothing?’
Anwen, who had never been mothered a day in her life, couldn’t get used to the coddling, yet she bent as Edith stripped her clothes and bandages.
When the bandages were gone, Anwen did something she had wanted to do for days.
She approached the tub, leaned over and without touching the smooth water, she scrutinised her reflection. She saw, as she expected, a stranger.
The woman looking back at her was gaunt, with cheekbones pronounced. Her hair fell lank around her down-tilted face, but it was the left side of her face that caused her to gasp.
Ffion was right—despite the stitches and poultice, the wound would scar. The raised jaggedness covered her entire left temple, but it wasn’t so wide, or it would have affected her eyesight. Tentatively, she placed the tips of her fingers over the wound.
She could almost imagine it didn’t exist. But it did and would for ever. Quickly standing, she immersed herself into the bath, causing waves to crash against the surface.
The steaming scent of lavender and sage immediately surrounded her and she rested her head against the back of the tub to simply enjoy it. Which she did, for about two drips of a candle; then Edith was there to assist.
‘You can’t rest now. Why, what if you go to sleep before we can get you clean? Help me here, Greta, get her up a bit, I’ve got to get to that hair and I can’t do it proper and not affect the healing, as well.’
Anwen’s thoughts of a lovely leisurely bath were dashed long before Edith began work on her back and arms. The woman cleaned her with a determination paralleling
