Note: The Long Betrothal is a four-part series. While it's possible to read the sections out of order and not get lost, there's an actual story to back up all the naughty bits, and it's more fun if you start at the beginning! Since this chapter has most of the back-story, it also has the least sex.
Thanks for reading & commenting! -- Stefanie
-- -- --
On a windy hill overlooking the keep of Penrhyn Tywyll, Maxen ap Dyfed stood swaying and surveying the prize he'd won.
"There isn't much to recommend the place, is there?" Edon murmured from behind Maxen's right shoulder, where he was keeping an eye out in case his liege succumbed to blood loss and needed Edon's support.
Maxen grunted instead of enunciating an answer, not because of his wounds-- he wasn't about to fall at the completion of a nine-year journey to get here-- but because the answer was perfectly obvious. There was very little in the vista before them to recommend it as a stopping place.
Tywyll Keep was a castle in the motte and bailey style, constructed hastily of wood, daub, and rubble, with naught but axe and shovel. The original builders had probably intended to replace it with a stronger stone castle after conquering and commanding the surrounding area, but a century later, most of the structure lingered in its original form, fallen into a dismal state of disrepair. The parts that had been replaced by stone, including the keep itself, looked solid enough, but several short sections of stone curtain had been erected outside the original wooden palisades, putting them outside the range of any archers stationed atop the keep, and thereby negating any defensive value the stronger material might have gained. It wouldn't be a problem once the bastions were built, of course.
And that was the
second
order of business, Maxen thought, after rousting the current lady of the land.
The only reason the castle hadn't been taken by force before that day was its home in Mynyddoedd Eryri, the northern mountains of Wales. The reason it hadn't been over-run by bandits was that the remote location was also a strategically brilliant one. The motte- a mound of earth supporting the castle keep-- was itself supported by a jagged promontory of rock towering over the land below and behind the keep, from whence approach was impossible. The bailey walls, though wood and thus susceptible to fire, were fronted by a deep fosse, or ditch, and circled on three sides by flat, wide-open fields with no place to conceal soldiers who might try to approach by stealth.
So the deceitful harlot he'd once thought to wed had managed to hold her heritage for far longer than she should have been able. Without gold to pay soldiers, though, defeat was inevitable. Maxen's spies said she'd only been scraping by on the naiveté of her villeins, who were vulnerable without a secure refuge and a strong master to keep it. Without soldiers to defend their food and families, though, their loyalty and charity would soon have faded.
After winning the battle he'd forced between his men and Tywyll's neighbors to the south, Roger Warburton and Tegvan ab Kynan, Maxen's possession of the keep itself was a foregone conclusion. To conquer it, he'd merely need to ride across the plains below and set knuckles to the gate. Lady Kerin would not put up a fight.
"You said you'd have it and now you do."
Edon's unspoken question hung in the air between them, but Maxen turned away from the windswept walls below and passed him without answering. "Come. These splinters need care, then we've a kingdom to conquer."
Edon followed silently, his handsome face a tense mask cloaking his concern.
Maxen's surgeon removed his "splinters", seven pieces of barbed bone from a home-made spear carried by one of Warburton's scraggly serfs. The barbs were half a foot long and, unlike the blows he'd taken today from more costly lances, the makeshift pieces of bone had wormed their way through Maxen's ring-mail, embedding themselves in his left shoulder and chest, only inches from his heart. They hadn't stopped Maxen from using an axe held in the same-side hand to kill the soldier who'd wielded the spear, however.
He took a few draughts of the wine, more from thirst than any need to kill the pain, and passed the bottle to his surgeon, who drenched the wounds with it and bound Maxen's shoulder with strips of wool. He hadn't yet decided how to dispose of the Lady Kerin, so he ignored Edon's unspoken questions as the surgeon worked.
Years ago, he'd thought to come by this land in a more peaceful manner, but the icy-hearted vixen who lived within would not have it that way, and he'd been forced to fight his way here.
He'd been betrothed to her once. He was eighteen and she was not quite twelve, but while their fathers settled terms, he'd come to like the young Lady Kerin--- she was funny and clever and he could see the seeds of beauty beneath her freckled cheeks and impish grins. She'd liked him too; he was sure of it. Maxen returned to his home in the north well-satisfied with his prize and glad to know he'd not have a loveless marriage like his parents'.
Then when he'd come to collect her four years later, it was as though trolls had stolen the pretty young girl and replaced her with an evil temptress, beautiful but haughty and cold beneath her fair exterior. Kerin couldn't stand to be around him or his men and made her feelings plain to all around, calling Maxen a heathen and a mannerless pig. It was true that without a mother, he had some rough edges that might need smoothing, but he certainly wasn't without manners, and he'd shown her naught but courtesy and kindness.
At first merely baffled, Maxen became more maddened by the hour.
Kerin's father-- the old King Hemmet-- was weak, but had his wits about him then, and by the time Lady Kerin had convinced her father to break the betrothal, Maxen was happy to depart. Though he lost the lands and Tywyll Keep, he'd been well-compensated, taking two-thirds of her dowry with him when he left.
He'd used that money to fund the foundation of an army-- the same one which backed him now.
Without divesting himself of the ring-mail girding his calves, Maxen exchanged his ruined tunic for a clean one, leaving off the matching mail coat in favor of a leather chest piece with three thin metal plates riveted to it, and separate plates buckled over the shoulders. Wearing it now was a way to honor the blacksmith who'd made it for him, since Maxen had found the strange piece effective in battle. As a final show of confidence, he pushed the mail hood away from his face and left off his helmet, calling for horses as he anticipated the final blow he was about to deal the duplicitous Kerin Hemmet.
-- --o-- --
"They come, my Lady."
Kerin straightened her spine and smoothed her skirt down, wishing it wasn't so worn. Oh well, there was naught she could do about the appearance of poverty; she was, in fact, poor. If she'd been wealthy, she would have an army and would not now be standing in the courtyard preparing to surrender everything she owned to Maxen ap Dyfed.
Why him, God?
It wasn't a surprise: Maxen's victory had been the expected outcome of the battle, which barely lasted two days, but she couldn't help the pangs of regret shooting through the tension in her belly. She could have depended on either of the other combatants--Tegvan or Warburton-- to give her every courtesy, maybe even extend an invitation for her to stay in some capacity. Not Maxen ap Dyfed, though. Maxen would offer neither courtesy nor succor. Kerin would have to make do with mercy, which he could hardly fail to show. Her status as the daughter of a king virtually guaranteed it, because the last thing anyone wanted to do was draw the attention of the English by executing an innocent noblewoman. If Maxen expected to consolidate their lands and keep peace, too, he'd avoid attracting that kind of notice.
So, they'd be cast out, but Kerin and her ladies would be left alone, not raped or enslaved as was common in these situations. After that, they'd be at the mercy of fate. If she could take a few small goods and some food with her, she could probably make it to her cousin's house. He wasn't titled, but her cousin had a large household, and mayhap could make room for Kerin and one or two of her maids. Milot and Geralt would have to fend for themselves, but there was always work for soldiers, thank God.
And if Kerin's cousin didn't take her in... well, she'd have to face that eventuality when it arose.
At the doors of the keep, Milot and Geralt waited, lending support for the ordeal which surely awaited her below.
-- --o-- --
Kerin stood just outside the tall, heavy doors of the keep itself to watch a band of cavalry soldiers climb the curved path to the gates of Penrhyn Tywyll. Clad in red tunics and ring mail, topped with heavy steel helms, and armed with everything from javelins to maces, Maxen's cavalry was an impressive sight. Kerin knew the thirty or so mounted warriors were probably less than half of the fighting force he'd brought, and that less than half of his personal guard. The men with him would be
