The Long Betrothal Ch. 01

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A rejected suitor captures her castle.
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Part 1 of the 5 part series

Updated 06/08/2023
Created 05/14/2016
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SteffiOlsen
SteffiOlsen
1,041 Followers

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 The parts that had been replaced by stone, including the keep itself, looked solid enough, but several short sections of stone curtain had been erected outside the original wooden palisades,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 teulu, the body-men of every Welsh prince, heavily armed, heavily trained, and ready to die for their leader.

As he emerged from the barbican gate into the outer bailey below, Kerin got a better look at the new lord of Penrhyn Tywyll, and her stomach clenched.

Dear God.

Maxen was more handsome now, at twenty-seven, than he'd been when she threw him over five years ago, and God knows, he'd been handsome when first they met. At eighteen, he'd been all smiles and flattery, leaner and more open than the deep-chested, hard-eyed warrior Kerin saw riding up the hill today. The black hair and dark eyes were the same, but one look would tell anyone that the man beneath had changed. Whether he was better or worse, Kerin would never have the chance to learn.

She swallowed and stilled her face, descending the wooden beams embedded in the steep, sloping motte.

Maxen dismounted at the foot of the stairs and in two long strides, casually encompassing half a dozen stairs, he was before her.

Kerin curtsied deeply, "My lord Maxen."

Maxen didn't respond immediately, other than a slow nod she was compelled to accept in lieu of a bow. He was partially silhouetted by the sun, but even squinting, Kerin could see his teeth. The grin didn't appear to be a friendly one.

"Lady Kerin," he replied eventually, his tone neutral. "Shall we speak inside?"

It wasn't his place to ask, but Kerin inclined her head.

Actually, she reflected, climbing the terraced steps to the tall doors of the keep, in all but name, it was his place to issue invitations now. She had only to make the formal surrender and Maxen would be Lord of Penrhyn Tywyll, or King, or Baron, whichever he chose to style himself. Her father, Hemmet, had been "King Hemmet", but there'd been so many kings in Cumbria that "Prince" was becoming the favored term. She couldn't see the son of Dyfed Rhos caring about such minutiae, in any case, any more than she did. She'd been "Lady Kerin" since birth and had seen no point in assuming a different title after her father died. Calling her a queen would leave her no less poor.

Geralt and Milot followed behind, half a dozen of Maxen's men taking up the rear guard. None of them left their weapons at the door, as was required of guests.

Kerin gestured for drinks as she and Maxen took seats on opposite sides of the long table, leaving the large, elaborately carved chair at the head of the table empty. The others arrayed themselves down both sides, leaving a space between them and their masters, but not enough to give Kerin and Maxen any real privacy. It was the way things were done.

Maxen studied the woman before him, trying to find a hint of the girl he'd known nine years ago. The freckles were gone, as was the impish grin and the sense of energy barely contained, as though she wanted to laugh or skip or sing, and might, at any moment, break out into all three. Her skin was medium ivory, her eyes clear and direct-- the haughtiness gone, for now-- and her body blossomed into full womanhood. Beneath the loose surcoat, her waist was narrow and her hips lean, but her breasts were rounded and full, as though she'd already borne a babe. For a moment he wondered if she had, but his spies would surely have told him that.

The serving girl brought drinks.

Maxen drained half the contents of the stoneware mug in one long pull, but Kerin left hers on the table, her hands crossed calmly on her lap, awaiting his attention.

While the Lady Kerin was no longer the rambunctious child, neither was she the proud princess she'd been when next he'd seen her. Her clothing was of good quality, but plain and plainly worn, unlike the elaborate creations she'd donned back then. She wore no jewels, and the simple veil covering the braids wound about her head was secured by a plain gold band, not the jeweled silver circlet of years past, which had contributed to her air of royalty.

Finally, chafing under the intensity of Maxen's silent stare, Kerin relented and spoke first. "My lord, I beg leave to take a few foodstuffs with us when we depart-- not many, just enough--"

"No." He interrupted, having come to a decision in just the last few minutes.

She held herself still, he noted, but her shoulders curled slightly inward, as though she'd just taken a blow to the belly.

"You needn't leave."

Her eyes flew to his face, questioning. The words sounded merciful, but neither Maxen's expression nor his tone seconded the mild vocabulary.

"You were once my afianced wife, Lady Kerin. I've decided to renew our relationship. We'll be wed as soon as your cleric can be fetched."

For a moment, no one moved. Kerin blinked, trying to assimilate the order, Milot and Geralt barely drew breath, and Edon's eyes narrowed as he stared at Maxen, his stomach tensing. What the hell did he think he was doing?

Regaining her breath, Kerin answered softly. She didn't bother explaining that she could no longer afford to keep a chaplain in residence; she went straight to the more salient answer. "I-- I'm sorry, my lord, I cannot wed."

"Nonsense. We'll speak to the priest tonight and be married before the week is out." Maxen stood and turned to leave, his men following suit.

Kerin's men rose, too, as she flew to Maxen's side, resting her hand lightly on the leather gauntlet covering his forearm.

He stopped and stared down impassively.

"Lord Maxen, I cannot--"

He placed his hand over hers and answered almost kindly. "You will."

All semblance of gentleness fled as his hand turned to bracket her elbow in an iron clamp. Without another word, he started for the door, towing a resistant Kerin by his side.

When her men leapt to defend her, Maxen didn't even turn his head. "Take them," he ordered.

In less than a minute, it was done.

Gazing over her shoulder, Kerin screamed softly when she saw Geralt go down beneath a storm of blows. Milot was easier to disarm, and one punch from a gloved fist sent him hurtling after his larger companion, as Maxen hurried her into the light.

-- --o-- --

"Are you mad?" Edon growled, the only person who dared question Maxen when he was behaving like a wild boar with a bellyache.

Maxen stopped abruptly, causing a minor pile-up of soldiers in his wake. He waved a hand. "Secure the bailey. Ensure the horses are fed and find a place to bed down for the night. Tomorrow the real work begins."

His men scattered, leaving Maxen and Edon alone, save for the two silent teulu facing outward to watch for any hint of danger approaching their lord.

Maxen ran his hand through the sweaty black hair and shook his head.

"You're going to wed the woman who--" Edon stopped himself before Maxen's eyes met his, glittering dangerously. They both knew what his next words would have been-- he hardly needed to speak them aloud: the woman who'd ruined his life. In his private thoughts, Edon harbored other phrases, too. Lady Kerin had broken Maxen's heart, embittered him, left him prey to another faithless whore, turned him into a stone-bellied wretch, and changed the course of all their lives.

Edon often thought he hated Kerin far more fervently than Maxen, who had every right to despise the bitch.

When they'd turned north for home after Kerin treated his friend so rudely, Maxen was already ruined, Edon thought, but the next wife his father procured for him had sealed the coffin of his heart. Maxen hadn't loved her, but he'd done his best to be a good mate and to get a child on the woman for his father's sake, if nothing else. He'd been merely unhappy until the day he found Lady Agatha entangled in a sweating, naked heap with Maxen's second-best man, Lloyd, who was friend to Edon, also. Maxen had killed him, of course, though he lost some money in doing so-- fines Lloyd would have been obligated to pay as satisfaction for having seduced another man's wife. On the other hand, Maxen, as Lloyd's liege, had been entitled to the return of his lands. Instead, he'd purchased the land from Lloyd's widow so that she would have the means to live, one of the last signs of mercy he'd ever shown.

As for Agatha, he'd let his wife collect her clothing, but cast her out without any of her other belongings. He'd sent her ladies after her with two of his men as escorts, and enough food to get them away from his lands, but nothing more.

After that day, Maxen had become something else-- not merely hopeless, but mean and cold. His men still loved him-- he'd die alongside any of them in a fight-- but he no longer threw coins to beggars, and all the light had left his eyes. The last time Edon had seen Maxen smile was eighteen months before, when his estranged wife died in the bed of a minor noble, both of them killed by the man's lawful wife.

Until today. Maxen had smiled today, if you could call it that.

"Are you mad?" Edon repeated. "You mean to wed her?"

Again that baring of teeth which bore no resemblance to happiness. "Should the Normans succeed in seizing control, as they are ever wont to try, having hereditary right to the land can only strengthen my position so, yes, I mean to wed her. You object?"

Edon ground his teeth and said nothing while he got his emotions under control.

Maxen waited patiently.

"Why would you trust a woman who has already treated you so ill?"

Maxen raised one eyebrow and answered mildly. "Trust? I made no mention of trust, nor love, for that matter. I have no intention of trusting the woman, or serenading her, nor bedding her more often than the law requires. Kerin will order my household and decorate my hall, but I will get my heirs on a hardy village girl."

Edon ground his back teeth together. "Might I at least make inquiries about the lady's habits? Gather some information from her people before you commit to this folly?"

Maxen's eyes drifted beyond Edon, but eventually he nodded, a short, sharp drop of his chin. They turned in opposite directions when they parted.

-- --o-- --

Less than an hour after her impromptu engagement, Kerin was locked in her father's chamber with guards posted outside the door.

Maxen had announced the impending marriage to those gathered in the courtyard, then handed her over to one of his men. She hadn't seen him since.

All but one of Kerin's ladies had been sent to a lower level of the keep. Jonette was asleep on a pallet in the hall. She'd be allowed to help Kerin dress and bathe, but was otherwise forbidden from offering aid to her mistress.

Her men were imprisoned in the basement, both alive, Jonette whispered through the door before one of Maxen's guards shouted her away.

SteffiOlsen
SteffiOlsen
1,041 Followers
12