by Lynn Kurland
But, for all she knew, if Alain met with a mishap, the king would wed her to Rollan before she could get word to Rhys, and then she would find herself in an even more intolerable situation. At least Alain spent most of his time at Canfield, engaging in the saints only knew what kinds of activities with the lady Rachel. For all the time she had passed with him, her husband might have been such in name only. It suited her well enough—and much more satisfactorily than if she’d found herself facing Rollan of Ayre in front of a priest.
Perhaps she would send the Fitzgeralds back to Ayre just to protect Alain. They were to have come with her to Segrave in her own train, but they begged leave to come more slowly that they might scout the surroundings for enemies. One did not argue with such intimidating men, so she had left them to their own stratagem. They should have arrived several days before, but she hadn’t caught even a whiff of them as of yet. They could have walked from Ayre more swiftly than the pace they seemed to be traveling. Perhaps scouting was a more involved activity than she’d supposed.
“Gwen,” Joanna said, interrupting Gwen’s musings, “why do you not work some heroic design on a surcoat?”
Gwen shook her head. “He would not wear it, Mama.” She sighed and put aside her worries. It did her no good to try to divine what Rhys’s intentions were, for ’twas a certainty that he would do things in a way she wouldn’t have chosen. That much she had learned about men in her short lifetime.
“I think,” she said, looking about her for an appropriate amount of cloth, “that I will hem sheets.”
“Sheets?” Her mother sounded surprised, and rightly so. It had been the last thing Gwen had ever cared to do.
“Sheets,” Gwen said with a nod. “For a wedding bed.”
And she prayed she would find the desired man in it. Rhys had said a year, and she prayed she would pass that time without incident. She hoped the time would go quickly. There would be the babe to see to, and Robin to tend as well.
Aye, she could pass a year and not mind it. There would be missives exchanged. Perhaps in time she might even convince Rhys that he could express a sentiment or two and not suffer from it.
It was certainly preferable to reading about what he had been eating.
Winter
THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1206
25
January 1206
Letters, letters, ah, the joy of a well-received letter! A veritable hill of them lay on the rough wooden table. They had been read and reread scores of times, just for the sheer pleasure of seeing such words of love be put to paper. Indeed, what finer way could there be to pass an afternoon than perusing such correspondence with a flagon of ale at one’s elbow?
Said peruser put a finger to his lips, as if he contemplated which pile of missives to attend to first. The decision wasn’t truly a difficult one, as he had two new epistles to digest. It hardly mattered which he chose; each would be delicious in its own way. With a shrug, he reached for the missive nearest his cup of ale.
He read and smiled. It was truly astonishing how the passage of time had broken down the formality shown in the earlier letters.
Epiphany, 1206
Beloved Gwen,
The siege is at long last ended, and I have managed to frighten out of the count d’Auber more gold than he intended to spend, but he cost me six more months of my life than I’d intended he should. With it I daresay I have enough to satisfy even John’s greedy hands, with ample left over to send to Rome to sweeten the Pope’s humor. You will have your freedom and Robin as well, I am sure of it.
Look for me in late spring. I’m bringing a handful of lads home with me to secure Wyckham.
Ever your servant,
Rhys de Piaget
Sir Rhys’s letter was set aside carefully. Another sealed missive from a different author was placed atop the table. It bore no stains from hands of anyone but the author and the one messenger. The wax seal was perfectly intact.
But the seal crumbled under the pressure of opening the letter, for such opening was done with unseemly haste. But that was of no import. No one would ever know how carelessly it had been loosened, for the missive would travel no further.
The letter was read.
And the reader began to chuckle. In a few places the words were actually amusing enough to cause him to throw back his head and laugh. If nothing else, the author of this less than pleasant letter had studied her equine anatomy and had used such studies to her best advantage. Very inventive. A pity Sir Rhys would never read the like.
Still smiling, he set aside the letter and reached for a clean sheet of parchment. He sharpened his quill, dipped it into the ink, and tapped the feather a time or two against his forehead to start his thoughts rolling in the appropriate direction. Inspiration flowed through him and he prepared to write.
My beloved Rhys,
How I long for you! How I have lain awake nights dreaming of you and your strong, manly arms about me! Hurry, my love, and free me from this prison. I think of no one but you, I desire no one but you. Bring all your gold with you that you might bribe everyone in England to have me . . .
Rollan paused, pursed his lips, and realized with a curse that perhaps that was less subtle than he might have wished. Gwen wouldn’t have spoken of the gold. And he began to wonder also if she would have used the term “manly arms.”
Damn. He would have to start this one afresh.
With a sigh, he crumpled up what had been under his quill and tossed it into the fire. He took another piece of parchment and began again, doing his damndest to keep in the forefront of his thoughts just how he’d worded all the other missives he’d sent in Gwen’s name over the past three years. Imitating her fair hand had taken him a pair of months to perfect, but it was trying to second-guess how she would have gushed over the gallant Sir Rhys that had given him the most trouble.
He did his best, then reread his latest offering. Satisfied it oozed enough sentiment, he brushed sand over the ink to hasten the drying. He rolled the parchment, tipped his candle to drip upon the edges of the letter, and then pressed a perfect copy of Gwen’s seal into the warm wax. He rose and left the inn’s best chamber, found his messenger, and sent the lad on his way with a small bag of gold. The sum did not trouble him, as it came directly from Alain’s coffers. Rollan smiled pleasantly. His brother was such a trusting soul.
Intercepting the correspondence from both parties had been difficult, what with Gwen having spent so much time with her mother at Segrave, but Rollan had considered that nothing but an added challenge. Where gold hadn’t been convincing enough, Rollan had used other means. Every man had his weakness. Susceptibility to bribery, wenches . . . poison. The list, he had discovered, was very long indeed.
He returned to his chamber followed by a serving wench bearing a heaping tray of their best fare. It was, unsurprisingly, better than what he would have found at Ayre. That was Alain’s fault. One did not bed the cook’s daughter under the cook’s nose without finding some sort of retribution in one’s bread from that point on. Rollan shook his head as he sat back down at his table. Discretion had never been his brother’s strongest characteristic.
Rollan flipped the girl a coin and she scurried from the chamber. He’d been momentarily tempted to have her stay, then discarded the idea. He wanted to savor the final chapter of his finest scheme and such savoring needed to be done alone.
By now surely Gwen’s feelings for Rhys had cooled past the point of rekindling. After all, she hadn’t heard from the man in almost three years. What would she do when he arrived at the keep with his heart in his hands?
Fell him with an arrow, if Rollan’s luck was running true.
He leaned back in his chair and smiled. And there he would be, ready to step in and comfort her.
Ah, but life was indeed very good.
Summer
THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1206
26
June 1206
Segrave
She needed a change.
Gwen stared at the linen under her needle and cursed as she realized she was going to have to unpick half of what she’d done that morn. The pattern had become fouled hours ago, but she hadn’t noticed. It was something for her wedding bed, a casing for a goosefeather pillow worked with all manner of flowers and beautiful stitchery. She did not even feel any guilt over not stitching for Ayre’s beds. She suspected that if she ever returned to her husband’s keep, linens would be the least of her worries. She shuddered to think on how the filth had multiplied in the three years since she’d set foot inside the gates.
It was hard to believe so much time had passed. Three years of stitching. Three years of waiting for word from a certain man. Three years of going from worried to hurt to angry. Nay, not angry.
Bloody furious.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t heard of Rhys’s escapades. She had, in somewhat surprising detail and from the most unlikely of sources. Every time Rollan paused in his mischief-making to visit Segrave, he seemed to have a new adventure of Rhys’s to relate to her. Where he came by his stories she didn’t know, but she hardly doubted the truth of them. Rhys was certainly capable of holding scores of knights for ransom in tournaments all across the continent. He was certainly skilled enough to be sought after by any number of French lords to fight their battles for them. He was more than clever enough to spend ample time at the French court wooing whatever nobles found themselves there.
Or their ladies, if Rollan’s gossip was to be believed.
What Gwen couldn’t understand was why, with all his other skills, Rhys couldn’t seem to find the ability to put ink on parchment and tell her of his successes himself. Was it because he was too busy on the battlefield? Or was he too busy in the bedchamber?
Or had he thought better of entangling himself further in the hopeless-ness of her situation?
She threw her stitchery into the basket at her feet and left her mother’s solar, abandoning her mother and her ladies. A pity she couldn’t have convinced Master Socrates and his granddaughter to come with her to Segrave. Perhaps she could have spent more time at their cooking fire and learned something of healing. Instead, they remained at Ayre and she was loitering at Segrave, wishing for a mighty change.
Not even her children were awake for her to amuse. Robin was asleep on her mother’s bed, having exhausted himself thoroughly by a great deal of parrying that morn with Jared and Connor. The twins seemed convinced the lad couldn’t help but profit from beginning his training so early. Gwen had been dubious until she had seen the great care the two men took of her son. Perhaps foisting the lad upon them so often while he was a babe so she could eavesdrop on Alain’s conversations had been a boon. Surely there weren’t two souls in the keep more willing and able to tend the boy than the Fitzgeralds.
She sighed and made her way down to the great hall. It was empty and that was tempting enough to entice her to stay and appreciate the quiet. But it wouldn’t be enough. She needed the feeling of fresh air and perhaps a bit of sunshine.
The moment she opened the door, though, she could see something was amiss. Segrave was a calm place usually, filled with loyal knights who went about their business with a confident air. But now the inner bailey looked as if it were filled with an entire coopful of frantic hens.
Gwen ran merely because everyone else was running and she feared she might be trod asunder otherwise. She dodged mailed knights, half-mailed knights, and knights patting themselves frantically as if they wanted to assure themselves they were carrying all the weaponry they possibly could.
By the saints, were they under attack? She had wanted a change; she hadn’t wanted a siege.
She wished desperately that she’d thought to dress more sensibly and perhaps belt her sword about her waist. Not even a knife resided up her sleeve. At least she had a pair of sewing needles in the purse at her belt. They would have to do.
She hastened to the barbican and ran up the steps. She burst out onto the small circular roof only to find Sir Montgomery leaning lazily against the parapet wall. He, at least, seemed none too worried about the goings-on.
��Well?” she demanded. “What by all the saints is the commotion about?”
Montgomery pointed off across the fields. Gwen followed his finger and squinted to make out what he evidently saw so clearly.
“Merchants,” she guessed. “I can see the gleam of gems from here.”
“What you see, my lady, is not the gleam of gems, ’tis the gleam of sunlight on armor.”
She pursed her lips. “You imagine that.”
“Think you?”
Indeed, she suspected he likely spoke the truth, for Montgomery had very keen sight. If he said he saw armor, then armor he had seen.
“Friend or foe?” she asked.
“That would be for you to decide.”
She frowned at him. “I’ve no head for riddles today. Is it Alain?”
“He’s still in London, or so I’ve heard.”
“Bending the king’s ear and bedding the queen’s ladies, no doubt,” Gwen muttered.
“No doubt.”
Gwen shielded her eyes from the sun with her hand and continued to watch the progress of the small group that came over her fields.
“They’ve a fair amount of haste,” she noted.
“Aye, I’d imagine they would.”
Gwen wondered where she could stick him to do the most damage. Montgomery only held up his hands in surrender.
“I had nothing to do with this.”
“With what?”
“With the arrival of these lads today.”
“Which lads?” she demanded.
He blinked. “Why, Rhys’s lads, of course.”
She wouldn’t have been more surprised if he’d announced Saint George had come down to sit at her table and show her his knobby knees himself.
“Impossible,” she whispered.
“Nay, ’tis him in truth.”
“You can see him?”
“Aye,” Montgomery said, backing carefully out of her reach. He smiled cautiously. “I daresay you’re pleased by this.”
“Pleased?” she gasped. “Pleased?” She spun away from him and leaned over to jerk open the door to the stairwell. “Down with the portcullis!” she bellowed. “Raise the drawbridge!”
“My lady!” Montgomery gasped.
She turned and pointed her finger at him threateningly. “You be silent!” she commanded. She turned back to the stairwell. “Well?” she demanded of its interior. “I don’t hear any gears grinding!”
All movement in the barbican seemed to have stopped. Slowly a head peeked around the curve of the stairs and wide eyes peered up at her from inside a helm.
“But, my lady,” a guardsman ventured, “’tis Rhys de P—”
“I know bloody well who it is!” she exclaimed. “Now, do as I bid and secure the damned castle!”
The guardsman’s mouth began to work silently. Gwen rolled her eyes. Was the man coming toward them going to have this affect on every blessed soul in the keep?
“I’ll do it myself,” she snapped, taking hold of her skirts and setting her foot to the top stair.
“Don’t know that you’ll make it in time,” Montgomery said from behind her. “They’ve suddenly picked up their pace.”
Gwen ran back to the wall and peered into the distance. Unfortunately, even she could see that the company was indeed coming toward the castle at a gallop.
“Oh, by the saints!” she exclaimed.
Montgomery had resumed his indifferent pose and was regarding her with an amused smile.
“No gate will keep him out,” Montgomery said.
“This one will,” she said confidently.
“Nor any drawbridge, I should think,” Montgomery went on thoughtfully, as if he pondered some great truth. “I’ve heard tell he can scale an outer wall with his bare hands.”
Gwen snorted the most derisive snort she could muster.
“And look how he’s gone to
the trouble of bringing his army with him.” Montgomery smiled at her with wide, innocent eyes. “By the saints, lady, there must be something in this keep he wants very much. It would appear that he’s come prepared to battle for it.”
“What he wants he cannot have,” she snapped, feeling the hideous sting of tears begin behind her eyes. “He’s too bloody late. Three years too bloody late.”
She slammed the door behind her and thumped down the stairs as quickly as she dared. She made her orders clear to the gate guards, then hurried across the courtyard to the keep. The bailey was still a veritable hive of frantic knightly activity. Perhaps the men scurried to make themselves presentable.
Or perhaps they were seeking a hiding place so Rhys didn’t run them through should they find themselves in his path.
Gwen gained the great hall, then turned and pushed the huge door to. Well, almost to. There were several pairs of hands preventing her from doing so. Gwen looked around the door and glared at half a dozen of Segrave’s more sturdy guardsmen.
“Stand aside,” she commanded.
They were all squirming. One brave one spoke up.
“No sense in barring his way, my lady.”
“You fool, you would leave me at his mercy?” she demanded. “By the saints, I am your lady!”
“And he is Rhys de Piaget,” another said in awe, as if he spoke of Saint Michael himself.
“All the more reason to lock him out. Now, stand aside!”