Chapter 40
May, 1177
Hawarden Castle, Gwynedd
Roger of Haworth stared after Ralph de Vire with narrowed eyes. He didn’t like this latest addition to the earl’s entourage, who had shown up on the doorstep a fortnight ago with a dramatic tale of being unceremoniously cast out of the Bastard’s service. At first Haworth had been as eager as Hugh to welcome the young man because the story he brought with him was proof that the plot Hugh and the Welsh chief Rhirid ap Maelgwn had concocted had actually succeeded but the allure quickly wore off when Haworth began to wonder at the length of time de Vire spent with the earl. In his opinion, it was excessive.
Haworth, unimaginative at the best of times, started to complain about de Vire to Hugh and then tried to insinuate that the Bastard had devised a counter-plot which involved sending de Vire to the earl with a bogus story about Lady Teleri’s abduction. Hugh’s initial response had been amusement but as the days passed and Haworth’s complaints and allegations grew more strident, he became testy and finally snapped at his captain to get off that tired subject. Haworth was offended and withdrew into a surly silence but if his intention had been to shame Hugh into an apology, it did not succeed. Instead, Haworth’s absences seemed to give the earl an excuse to be with Ralph de Vire.
Haworth had been slow to see betrayal in the Robert Bolsover affair and since then he’d kept his eyes wide open. If Hugh so much as looked twice at a brawny laborer on the castle walls or a handsome man-at-arms, Haworth immediately found a way to put the former to work clearing a road in the forest and to send the latter to another one of the earl’s properties. He wondered once if he was overreacting because Hugh never appeared to notice the sudden absences of the men he’d admired, but reassured himself with the thought that it was better to be safe than to be sorry. He had lost Hugh once before and the result had been disastrous to the earl’s health. He had sworn not to lose him a second time.
It seemed that this personal oath was about to be tested. Aside from his pale, blonde looks to which the earl was annoyingly vulnerable, de Vire had one edge over Haworth in the battle for Hugh’s affections and that was in the matter of the Bastard. In de Vire, Hugh discovered a person with as large a grudge against the Bastard as himself. He told Haworth that de Vire was providing him with details of Longsword’s management of Rhuddlan; his security precautions and the like. When Haworth questioned the need for this information—“It’s not likely that we’re planning to storm the gates of the castle, is it?” he asked with an unaccustomed touch of sarcasm—Hugh retorted angrily that such an attitude was undesirable in the person who was responsible for his army.
Haworth believed that his master had never quite forgiven him for trying to dissuade him from a plan of vengeance against the Bastard upon their return from Rhuddlan. Indeed, despite the apparent success of the plan, Haworth was still far more interested in expanding Hugh’s influence in southern Gwynedd than in hounding the king’s son into war. Yet Hugh was like a dog worrying a bone: he could not stop thinking about the Bastard. And now they were waiting for the Welshman to send them the whore of Richard Delamere because Hugh had the strange idea that he would be justified before the king in this abduction. If the Bastard chose to retaliate on his friend’s behalf (as Hugh hoped), then Hugh would be well within his rights in defending himself. And this time, unlike Dol, Hugh intended to win.
“There you are!”
An arm landed around Haworth’s neck. He turned his head away from de Vire’s retreating figure and smiled at Hugh. “My lord.”
“Beautiful day, isn’t it, Roger?” The earl sounded happy and relaxed.
Haworth glanced up, surprised. He rarely noticed the weather. But it was true: the midmorning sun was high and bright in a clear sky and the air was pleasantly warm. Then he looked down into the bailey and immediately spotted Ralph de Vire’s shining head among the crowd of people there, and his pleasure at seeing Hugh and feeling the weight of his arm on his shoulder vanished.
“Good weather means only one thing, my lord,” he said stiffly. “Good traveling—and we’re not going anywhere.”
Hugh’s arm slipped away. “Good hunting, I suppose you mean,” he said in a displeased voice. “Do you never think of anything other than Gruffudd?”
“I’m interested only in your good fortune, my lord.”
“Well, you’ll be sympathetic to my appeal, then. I’m asking you not to come to my chambers tonight, Roger. I’m having Eleanor brought down. And perhaps in nine months, I’ll reap some of that good fortune.”
“All night, my lord? Surely it won’t take—”
“I can’t say how long it will take, Roger!” Hugh snapped. “That’s why it’s better if you make other arrangements tonight.”
Haworth struggled to maintain his composure. Since their return from Rhuddlan, he’d spent every night with Hugh—he’d even had the oak chest which contained all his worldly goods moved into Hugh’s bedchamber—and now he felt slighted. But he knew the earl needed a male heir and he supposed Hugh might as well get it over with as soon as was possible. “Of course, my lord,” he answered finally, with a small bow.
Hugh grinned and slapped his back. He seemed to have forgotten Haworth’s unfortunate reference to Gruffudd and querulous question and was once again in a highly genial mood. “I knew you’d understand, Roger! It’s just something that’s got to be done, isn’t it?” He gave Haworth an uncharacteristic wink. “Be thankful it’s not you who’s got to do it!”
He walked away, leaving Haworth to stare after him in puzzlement. For someone contemplating such an undesirable task, the earl was certainly in high spirits. Haworth was almost jealous of Eleanor. Not for a moment did he imagine that he inspired a similar mood in his lover, although it was his most fervent wish. Hugh was unfailingly considerate but Haworth knew the blaze of emotion which had marked their early relationship was now nearly extinguished, despite his strenuous efforts to breathe life into it. He blamed Robert Bolsover; Hugh may have expressed an interest in other men every now and again but nothing had ever come of it and they were all forgotten within days but his affair with Robert Bolsover seemed to have given him a restless spirit. Haworth didn’t think he was merely being overly suspicious; he felt strongly that Hugh was bored with him and yearned for someone else. Perversely, the idea made him cling all the more to the earl but it was a desperate clutch and he quite often heard the impatience in Hugh’s voice or saw the disdain in his eyes.
Robert Bolsover—it was his fault, Haworth thought angrily as he returned to the wall and his study of the back of Ralph de Vire’s golden head. Robert Bolsover—five years dead and still coming between him and the earl.
“What’s wrong?”
“What did you tell him?”
“Sir Roger?” Hugh laughed. “That I was spending the night with my wife. Why are you so nervous? If anyone sees you enter my chamber and if Sir Roger asks me about it, I will tell him that you were the one I sent to fetch Eleanor. So? Nothing to be nervous about.”
Ralph de Vire looked unconvinced. “I was there when he fought Alan d’Arques, my lord. I don’t think I’d last half as long.”
Hugh poured out two cups of wine. “You’re too modest, Sir Ralph,” he said, handing one to the other man. “Besides, Roger is my creature. He may look fierce, he may growl, but he loves me beyond comprehension and if I tell him it’s for his own good that he believes I sent you to fetch my wife, he will believe it. The last thing he wants to do is provoke an argument which might end in his dismissal from my service.”
As he spoke, he watched de Vire and his heart began throbbing in his chest. The younger man was so much like Robert Bolsover in appearance it was uncanny—and thrilling.
He watched de Vire and knew, despite Haworth’s gloomy opinion, that his decision to revenge himself upon the Bastard had been right. The proof he had was standing before him. De Vire was like a gift from heaven, as close a physical reincarnation of Robert Bolsover as he could ever hope to f
ind, and the direct result of his and Rhirid’s plan to snatch away the Bastard’s wife. After all, he reasoned, if revenge wasn’t right, then the plan would have failed.
Hugh had received precious few gifts in his life. He meant to enjoy this one to the fullest.
He raised his cup to de Vire and smiled at him. “Drink up!”