by Lynn Kurland
Rhys shook his head. “Nay.”
Montgomery frowned. “A go in the lists?”
Rhys shook his head again. “Nay.”
“Well, I’d like to go to the lists,” Montgomery grumbled. “I’m feeling passing edgy at the moment.”
“I’ll oblige you,” Connor said, fingering the hilt of one of his swords. “With my left, I think.”
Montgomery looked at him narrowly. “Think me to be easy sport, do you?”
Connor only shrugged and followed a cursing Montgomery down the passageway. Rhys almost smiled at that. If Montgomery only knew the left was Connor’s better hand and he only reserved it for his more challenging sparring partners. Rhys looked at Jared.
“Perhaps you’d best go keep watch. Wouldn’t want Connor to truly do him in.”
Jared nodded and took John by the neck. “Come, little one. Let us leave your master in peace.”
“But,” John protested, “he might need me.”
“What he needs is quiet,” Jared said, pulling him down the passageway. “If you stop digging in your heels, I might even give you a small lesson in swordplay.”
John’s heels abruptly stopped trying to find holds in the floor. “You taught my master, did you not?”
“Aye, lad. All his most deadly moves.”
John was now moving along quite willingly. “Think you you could teach me how to fight with two swords as Sir Rhys does?”
“Why don’t we begin with one, young John.”
Rhys watched them disappear into the stairwell, then leaned back against the door and closed his eyes. His men were happily engaged in their business. Alain and Rollan had no doubt descended to fill themselves full of drink. Gwen had likely fallen asleep peacefully again with her son.
And there he stood outside her door, acting the proper guardsman, when all he could think about was how badly he wanted to snatch her away.
He shook his head sharply. He couldn’t think on it. Alain would never give up his heir, and Gwen would never give up her son. Rhys knew he could never ask it of her. Whether he willed it or no, he would have to take the situation he faced and bear it.
Though how he could, he certainly did not know.
But he would have to. He would have to smile, look content, keep up a façade for Gwen’s sake. She would have more than enough to occupy her mind with the raising of her son. Perhaps she had it aright and they could truly think of each other as nothing more than comrades-at-arms. Rhys wasn’t sure he would manage it, but he knew he had little choice but to try to pretend it was so. At least for the next few months.
“By the saints,” he muttered, “I wish my father had been an actor instead of a knight!”
Fall
THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1202
21
Two years wasted. Two years of scheming lost. Rollan of Ayre prowled through the passageways in the cellar, seeking for something to soothe his foul humor. He tried a pull at one of the ale kegs. It was sour, almost as sour as his mood.
Saints, but his plans had gone awry. He’d suspected it before the birth of Gwen’s son, of course. He remembered well that spring. Spring was such a wonderful time, with all things springing to life. It was his favorite time to hatch plots. He’d spent a pair of months despoiling a pair of noblemen’s daughters, then joyfully wreaking some choice havoc at court. He’d looked forward, with his customary gleeful anticipation, to returning home to find Gwen and her captain wallowing in misery.
But, to his dismay, what had he found?
Gwen growing great with child, but still cheerful. Rhys seemingly concerned, understandably, but not frantic.
It had not boded well.
Rollan had been certain the birth of Gwen’s babe would be the thing to truly make the pair realize what they wanted yet could never have. He had looked forward to a rich bit of suffering to enjoy. Yet what had occurred?
Gwen had continued to smile.
Rhys had continued to look if not content, almost resigned.
And damn that bloody babe if he hadn’t grown into a strong little lad of an age to be walking and looking about as if he already owned Ayre and all in it.
Damnation, but it had been enough to turn Rollan to drink.
He had watched Gwen and Rhys together as often as he could manage since then, but had seen nothing that indicated they were more than lady and loyal knight. No touching. No lingering looks of love. Saints above, not even a stolen kiss to report to Alain. Rollan had been tempted to brew up a fabrication as large as his irritation to spew at Alain the moment his brother came up for air from all his wenching, but it had offended his finer sensibilities, so he had refrained.
And now the son, yet another soul who stood in the way of Rollan’s desire. A son, a doting mother, and a protector of both mother and child in the form of Rhys de Piaget. Events had certainly taken a decided turn for the worse since Alain’s marriage to Gwen.
Two years had not improved matters any.
Gwen wouldn’t flee the keep now, not with her son to consider. Rhys wouldn’t leave the keep because he wanted Wyckham and likely Gwen as well. Captain and lady together always and seemingly content with it. The situation Rollan had thought would drive the pair of them straight off the parapet had turned out to be something the two of them couldn’t have designed any more pleasingly if they’d been planning it themselves.
And now, most distressingly, Rollan found himself fresh out of ideas for further mayhem.
He stomped back up to the kitchens, latched onto a likely serving wench, and pulled her behind him up the stairs to his bedchamber. Perhaps a fortnight of wenching and drinking would restore his good humor and provide him with a few new ideas for making Rhys and Gwen miserable. It would take a cleverness that only he could muster, however. And he felt certain it would take something that would stretch even his considerable powers of imagination.
He snagged a second wench as he walked down the passageway.
It was going to be that kind of fortnight, he could just tell.
The child stood at her grandfather’s elbow and watched as he scratched upon the parchment with his quill dipped in ink. It was easier to see the strange marks now that she had passed almost another pair of years on the earth and was a bit taller, but easier to see did not necessarily mean easier to read. Her grandfather had taught her a few letters, but those few she recognized were so hopelessly intertwined with the others that she couldn’t make sense of any of it.
She could, however, make sense of the pots and pouches littering her grandsire’s worktable. Indeed, he had always told her that her gift lay more in the making of potions than in the writing down of them. And so she had trained her nose and her eyes and her hands to weave together things that would heal, and she hoped that would be enough skill for the tasks life would send her way.
But still there was a part of her that wished, wistfully, that she, too, could make those graceful sweeping lines on paper.
Her grandfather sat back on his tall stool and smiled in satisfaction. The child peered at the page.
“Very beautiful,” she said admiringly.
“Aye,” he agreed. “Much like life has been of late, aye, granddaughter?”
He spoke truly. Though they still lived in the damp cellars, a few comforts had come their way, borne of course by souls who swore not to know the identity of the senders. The child knew, but she chose to say nothing.
Sir Rhys visited frequently, as did the lady of the keep. The child still rarely dared speak to the lady, for her beauty was almost painful to look upon, and the child’s own lack shamed her. But the lady was gentle and kind and came often bearing little gifts for her alone. With the added joy of a baby to tickle and laugh with from time to time, life was indeed very sweet.
“This page is much like life,” her grandsire began. He made a sweeping gesture, the one he always made when telling her something very important.
Only this time his sleeve caught his pot of ink and sent it splashing o
ver his finely wrought words.
The child cried out in distress and used the sleeve of her dress to try to stem the tide. It was, unfortunately, hopeless. The page was ruined, the letters covered by a wash of dark ink.
Her grandfather sighed and looked at her.
“As with life, little one, sometimes one must begin the page again.”
The child thought this a very wise, if not exactly pleasant, observation. So much work and patience, all undone with one chance gesture.
How like life indeed.
22
Gwen transferred her squirming son to her other hip and glared at her collection of keepers.
“How am I to eavesdrop with young Robin in tow?” she demanded.
To a man, well, and John of course, the souls facing her gave no answer. They did, however, wear almost identical looks of panic.
“Oh, by the saints, you are the most useless group of warriors I’ve ever encountered,” she groused. “Afeared of such a small lad. You’d think the child was fierce enough to subdue you all with nothing more than a glance.”
There was no change in their expressions, unless it was absolute certainty that such a thing was indeed possible.
Obviously humiliation was not going to work, either. There seemed to be no other choice but to take a drastic measure.
Gwen gave Robin a last cuddle, then turned him about and thrust him at the man nearest her. Jared, the soul so selected by default, held up his hands as if to ward off certain doom. Instead of avoiding his fate, he found himself with his hands full of a squirming lad of nigh onto sixteen months of life. Jared held the boy at arm’s length as gingerly as he might have a striking snake. Gwen took one last look at her son who, though likely slightly uncomfortable at his precarious position, seemed to find Jared’s features to his liking, for he merely stared at the man with as unblinking a stare as Jared possessed. Then he popped his thumb into his mouth and settled back for a substantial contemplation. Satisfied that both would survive the next few moments, Gwen slipped away and hied herself to her husband’s solar.
It was only moments later that she stood with her ear pressed against the wood of the door, struggling to hear even the faintest sounds of conversation going on inside. That all was deathly silent could only mean one of two things: Alain was gloating and Rhys had chosen to remain stoic, or Alain had betrayed her captain and Rhys had slain every soul inside the chamber. The latter wouldn’t have surprised her overmuch. Rhys was near the breaking point.
How they had managed to survive this long she surely didn’t know. She told him often that it was because her powers of imagination were certainly more well exercised than his—she spent a good deal of time pretending that she was living one of her mother’s bard’s tales. It was far easier to think of Rhys as an unrequited suitor who worshipped her from afar. Of course that was more difficult than she’d anticipated given that he spent so much time at her side. But he’d been true to his word. He hadn’t touched her. He hadn’t spoken to her of love. He’d treated her with the same comradely affection that he used with John, Montgomery, and the Fitzgeralds.
Damn him anyway.
Only once had she suggested that perhaps even if he didn’t commit the acts in truth, giving her an indication that he might have wished deep inside himself to touch her hand or perhaps kiss her fingers wouldn’t be such a poor thing.
The look he’d given her had been enough to make her regret her suggestion most sincerely.
And so she had distracted herself with other things. She’d practiced swordplay. Rhys had had a sword fashioned for her and somewhere procured a jewel for the hilt which perfectly matched her eyes. The edges of the blade, however, were most distressingly blunted. And damn the man if he hadn’t threatened every blacksmith within a ten-mile radius with death if the blade had any killing powers placed upon it. Gwen might have tried to sharpen it herself but the steel was beautiful as it was, and she feared to mar it with her clumsy attempts. Besides that, it was something Rhys had given her, and she treasured it for that reason alone, despite its lack of ability to do damage to any foe.
And she had doted on her son. Alain had never mentioned again his intent to carry the boy off to some other keep and she had eventually given up sleeping with a blade in her hand and her other arm wrapped around Robin. She had no doubts Robin would be sent away the very hour he reached seven years, but until that time she had the full keeping of him. Alain rarely found himself at home, and even when he did, he never troubled her at night. Even Rollan spent little time at Ayre stirring up mischief. Gwen raised her son in peace, practiced her swordplay, and spent the rest of her time at her tapestry frame.
And she told herself she was content with her life, for she knew no other choice was left to her.
Which made her wonder what she was doing standing pressed against Alain’s door like a lover, straining to hear the faintest sound of speech inside. More disturbing was what she hoped to hear. That Rhys had indeed obtained his land as Alain had promised?
Which meant he would be leaving Ayre no doubt as quickly as he could.
The door opened with such suddenness that she almost fell face-first into Alain’s solar. She jerked herself back upright, hoping no one had noticed her. Rhys came out of the solar so quickly, she liked to believe no one had.
He slammed the door shut behind him. He glared down at her. “We spoke of Wyckham.”
“Of course,” she said. It wasn’t something she was overly glad to hear about, for it spelled the end of his time there. She had the feeling, however, that things had not gone as well as he might have liked. The fact that he looked fair murderous was a good indication.
“He told me, and I’ll repeat exactly what I heard, ‘Take it from under my troops if you want it.’ ”
Gwen blinked. “He said what?”
“You heard me,” Rhys snarled. “He’s bloody encamped his men on it! If I want it, I’ll have to take it by force!”
“How many men?”
“Too bloody many to do in myself!” he roared. “Damn the man to hell!”
She sensed a logical conversation about Rhys’s options would not be appreciated. She also suspected that bidding him to stop shouting lest her husband hear his words would also not be received well. So she folded her hands sedately in front of her and tried to look soothing.
“Well?” Rhys demanded.
“Well what?” she asked, lifting one eyebrow. “I daresay you don’t want any of my suggestions.”
He pursed his lips. “I might.”
She shrugged. “You could turn your back on the land.”
“Turn my back on the land?” he mouthed, but no sound came out. His face turned a rather bright shade of red, and he began to make inarticulate sounds of fury.
“Not an option,” Gwen noted. “Then you could perhaps make a visit to court and petition the king.”
“Petition the king, my arse!” he exclaimed. He shook his head sharply. “I like neither of those.”
“You could stay with me,” she said.
His lips tightened. “As what? Captain of your guard?”
“You needn’t make it sound as if it has been that great a burden.”
“It has,” he said shortly.
Gwen felt as if he’d slapped her. “I see.”
“Do you?” he demanded. “Do you indeed?”
“I see that it has been a place you would have rather not taken,” she said stiffly. “I regret the trouble it has caused you.”
“Merde,” he snarled under his breath.
Gwen found her hand captured in a grip that obviously wasn’t going to be broken any time soon.
“Rhys, nay,” she attempted.
He ignored her and pulled her along behind him down the passageway, leaving her no choice but to run to keep up with him.
She thought to wonder why no one seemed to glance at them more than once, then she caught sight of the expression on his face and the mystery was solved. Never before had she seen
him so angry.
“This isn’t my fault,” she said.
He ignored her. He strode down the passageway to her solar. He threw open the door and swept her ladies with a look Gwen surmised by their expressions she had been glad not to be the recipient of.
“Out.”
One word sent every woman there scurrying for the door. Gwen would have scurried right along with them, but her wrist was still prisoner in his hand. The women rushed past her, then Gwen found herself propelled into the chamber. The door slammed with a resounding bang.
“Do not begin patting yourself for potential weapons,” he growled at her.
Gwen realized she had been doing just that, so she clasped her hands behind her back.
“As you wish,” she said.
“As I wish,” he repeated. “Do you have any idea what it is I wish?”
“To throttle me?” She tried a teasing smile.
“Nay.” He did not smile in return.
“Then I vow I have little idea, for one would think by the expression on your face that a throttling appealed to you most.”
He gritted his teeth and resorted to merely glaring at her.
Gwen searched frantically for something to say that would cajole him from his foul mood. But what could she say? Enjoy your land, you’ve certainly earned it? Find yourself an army and take the soil by force? Leave me behind and never give me another thought?
It was the last she found that troubled her the most.
She took a deep breath.
“You could stay,” she said. She’d said it before, but it was a sentiment that bore repeating.
He lifted one eyebrow, but said nothing.
“You make a fine champion,” she pressed on. “It has been tolerable, has it not? Reading together, walking in the garden together, having speech together. Could we not go on as before?”
“Nay, we cannot,” he bit out.
“But why—”
“Why?” he interrupted. “Why?”
He looked as if throttling her had suddenly become a very appealing idea, so she took a pace backward.