by Lynn Kurland
“No need?” Gwen echoed. She pointed at Rhys with a shaking finger. “He leaves me alone for three years, then comes bounding up my steps as if he had every expectation of me falling right into his arms!”
Joanna sighed. “You see, Sir Rhys, it has been a bit of time since Gwen received—”
“Three years!” Gwen bellowed.
“Three years,” Joanna conceded, “since Gwen has had word from you. She was understandably worried.”
“I wasn’t worried,” Gwen corrected. “I was bloody furious!”
Joanna sat back, embracing Gwen’s daughter in her arms, and shrugged. She obviously had made her efforts toward peace and was now turning the matter over to him.
He sighed, said a quick prayer, and rose to his feet. Maybe if he blurted the truth out as quickly as possible, Gwen would actually hear him and forgive him before she cursed him any further.
Rhys held out the clutch of letters like an offering. “These are your letters to me. I was led to believe by them that you would be happy to see me.”
“Then you didn’t read very well what I wrote you,” she returned. “And I certainly have none of your letters to me to show for the past three years.”
“I wrote you every fortnight.”
“Then you didn’t send them.”
“But I did!”
“Too much of whatever you were doing for the past three years has obviously addled your wits, Sir Knight, for I received nothing.”
Rhys disentangled Gwen’s last letter to him and opened it. “ ‘Beloved, I await your return anxiously,’ ” he read. “ ‘I am pleased to know you will be returning to England in May. My arms ache to hold you once again.” He looked at her. “Your words.”
Gwen frowned. “I didn’t write that. In my last epistle I spent a great amount of ink likening you to a horse’s arse. And that was the pleasant part.”
Rhys pulled forth another letter and read to her from it. He stopped at the look of confusion on her face. “Not this one, either?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nay.”
Rhys looked down at his fistful of missives. “I believe, my lady,” he said, feeling a chill run through him, “that we have been deceived.”
“But my messengers were trusted men.” Gwen looked at her mother. “Were they not?”
Her mother looked as shocked as Rhys himself felt. “Aye, so I thought,” she said slowly. “But both sides of the correspondence were snatched. Who could manage such a thing?”
Rhys met Gwen’s eyes.
“Rollan,” they said together. There was no doubt in his mind and obviously no doubt in Gwen’s.
“Devious,” Joanna said quietly. “Aye, that I suspected of him. But to purposely set out to destroy your affection . . .”
“It would not surprise me,” Rhys said grimly.
“But how can you be sure?” Joanna asked. “It could have been anyone.”
“Who else would care?” Gwen asked. “Especially since we know what his true intentions are.”
Rhys looked at her. “What intentions?”
“It was shortly after you departed for France that I overheard Rollan conversing with himself at the ale kegs,” Gwen said. “It would seem that his plan is to become lord of Ayre with me as his bride.”
“A modest plan,” Rhys said dryly.
“Aye,” she agreed, “but an unpleasant one. I listened to him consider the merits of pushing everyone in his way down the stairs. I have no idea what he planned to do with you, but I’m certain ’twas equally as dire. Perhaps he planned to become both lord of Ayre and Wyckham.”
Lord of Wyckham. Rhys had become that when he reached a score and six, but somehow it had never seemed to mean anything to him—likely because there was a bloody army on his land, and it wasn’t as if he’d been able to take possession of it.
“How lovely that I am returned to oblige Rollan in the carrying out of his plans,” Rhys said with a snort. He looked at her with a frown. “You could have written me to tell me of what you’d learned.”
“I did,” she said shortly.
Rhys sighed. He had no answer for that, and no way to change what had transpired.
“Let us hope this is the extent of his treachery,” Joanna interrupted. “He hasn’t seemed bent on destruction while he has visited me.”
“He also had the Fitzgeralds to face at every turn,” Gwen said. “I doubt I would have tried anything with them about, either.”
Rhys looked at Gwen and frowned. “I wish I had known.”
“Would you have returned?”
“Aye,” he said briskly. “I would have.”
“And lost your time to tourney,” Gwen said with a sigh. She looked at him. “At least I assume you were spending your time tourneying.”
“Tourneying, hiring out my sword to whoever would pay the most, warring.” He shrugged. “Whatever it took.”
“And you have earned what you need?”
He looked at her and attempted a smile. “Aye, and I can only hope there is still a need for what I’ve earned.”
She only returned his stare, but he thought he might have seen a softening begin around her mouth.
“I would have come home sooner,” he said again, “had I known what Rollan was plotting.”
She shook her head. “That wouldn’t have served us, Rhys, and no harm came of all Rollan’s chattering to himself. Well,” she added with a scowl, “no harm save three years of simmering irritation toward you.”
“Simmering?” Joanna echoed with a laugh.
Rhys thought it best to distract Gwen from thinking any more on how angry she’d been. At least she appeared to have cooled her temper a bit and was thinking kindly of him. “I did write you,” he said, thinking that such a thing could not be said enough times. “And I spent a great deal of gold seeing the missives sent,” he added, hoping that would impress her.
“Not gold well spent,” Gwen noted.
“Well, nay, it wasn’t.” He shook his head. “I thought you were perfectly content to wait for me.”
“And I thought you were bedding every noblewoman in Phillip’s household.”
He blinked. “Surely you jest.”
“You are the stuff of legends, Sir Rhys. In the bedchamber and on the battlefield.”
“You can rest assured half of those rumors are false.”
“Which ones?” she grumbled. “Tales of your swordly prowess?”
“Oh, nay,” he said, feeling as if he might now have a chance to at least apologize for the fact that he had overpaid his messengers, “those were no doubt greatly underexaggerated. My swordplay is much improved.”
She scowled at him. “And your other weapon?”
“Dusty from disuse, no doubt.”
Gwen’s mother laughed out loud. She rose with the girl in her arms. “I will see to some refreshment for our poor, neglected Sir Rhys. Take the babe, Gwen.”
Rhys watched Gwen accept the child and marveled again how much of a resemblance there was even at such a young age. Gwen held the child close and said nothing until her mother had left the solar.
“This is Amanda,” Gwen said, lifting her chin as if she dared him to say aught.
“I see,” he said, nodding. “A beautiful child.”
“She has two years,” Gwen added. “And three months. Alain was counting on another lad. He hasn’t much use for a girl.”
“Ah,” he said, merely because he could say nothing else.
“I would not trade her,” Gwen said fiercely.
Rhys took a few steps toward her, reached out, and trailed a dirty finger down Amanda’s cheek. “Of course you wouldn’t. Alain is very shortsighted not to prize her.”
He smiled at Amanda and received a sudden smile in return that smote him straight in the heart. Then, to his surprise, Amanda stretched out her arms to him. He took her, ignoring the tightness in his chest and the crumpling of letters in his hand.
This child could have been his, had things been different.
/> “And Robin you already know,” Gwen said, beckoning to her son. “Robin, give greeting to Sir Rhys. He’s been off in France these past years, fighting bravely against many knights.”
Rhys looked down into huge gray eyes which found home in a solemn little face.
“Robin, a greeting,” Gwen prompted.
“Good morrow, Sir Knight,” Robin said, ducking his head.
Rhys looked at Gwen. “He resembles you less than Amanda does.”
“He has my father’s features,” Gwen said. “And his eyes.” She clutched Robin closer. “I only have him until he’s seven,” she blurted out. “And then his sire intends to send him to foster at court.”
Rhys shook his head slowly. He hardly dared speak in front of the boy, but he vowed then that Robin would be in King John’s clutches over his own dead body.
“And he is now almost five years?” Rhys asked.
Gwen nodded, her eyes suddenly swimming with tears.
“Two years is a very long time, lady,” Rhys said softly. “And much can happen in that time.”
“Men always send their sons off to foster.”
“Not all men,” Rhys assured her. “If I had a son, I daresay I would keep him home until he had at least twelve summers. ’Tis only then that a lad truly appreciates the adventure of making his own way. I daresay until that time he is better served by learning his craft under his father’s hand. Wouldn’t you agree?”
She held Robin even more closely to her. “Can it be done?”
He smiled. “I have several chests of gold in France which would agree that it could.”
And then before he knew what would come next, Gwen had put her arm around his waist and buried her face against his chest. Rhys had barely the wits about him to put his free arm about her and draw her close before she burst into tears.
Well, a drenching was better than a sticking. Or another fist in his nose.
Or so he thought until Amanda saw her mother’s violent weeping and set up a howl of her own. And then Robin began to use quite effective little fists to pummel him about his hips and waist.
“Oof,” Rhys gasped as Robin made rather forceful contact with a tender part of his frame. “By the saints, lad, I’m friend, not foe!”
“You’ve made Mama weep,” Robin said with marked disapproval. He did, however, leave off with his assault.
“Well, she bloodied my nose,” Rhys offered.
Robin looked up and seemed to be weighing the sight of that against the sight of his sobbing mother.
“I think she’s weeping because she’s happy to see me,” Rhys added, wondering what sort of logic would sway a five-year-old child.
Robin frowned. “How can that be when she struck you?”
“Ah, well, there was something of a misunderstanding between us, lad,” Rhys said. “She was telling me of her displeasure, I’d say. I think she’s forgiven me now.”
Robin appeared to be taking this into account. Rhys had the most ridiculous urge to squirm. By the saints, this lad was too old for his modest years. Perhaps he’d seen more of Alain’s mistreatment of his mother than was good for young eyes. His gaze was far too assessing.
“You aren’t my sire,” Robin announced.
“Nay, lad, I’m not,” Rhys said, wishing mightily that he were. “But I was at one time the captain of your mother’s guard.”
Robin nodded thoughtfully. “The Fitzgerald brothers told me tales of you,” he said finally.
“Good ones?”
“Aye,” Robin said, starting to look just a bit more interested. “They said you’ve a ruby the size of an egg in the hilt of your sword.”
“I do.”
“And that you’ve taken so many knights for ransom that you’ve lost count of the gold you’ve earned.”
Lost count? Rhys smiled to himself. Saints, but he was intimately acquainted with every piece of gold he’d laid hands on the past three years.
“I’ve had my share of successes,” he conceded modestly.
“All right, then,” Robin said, seemingly approving of Rhys’s person.
Gwen drew away, dragging her sleeve across her face.
“Sir Rhys is a very dear friend,” she said, smoothing her hand over her son’s hair, “and I’ve missed him sorely these past years.”
Robin looked slightly confused. “But you called him ‘unfeeling oaf’ and ‘blighted whoreso—”
“Robin!”
The insults had rolled off Robin’s tongue so easily, Rhys could only assume he’d heard them enough to have mastered them. Gwen turned a rather alarming shade of red and put her hand over her son’s mouth.
“Aye, lad, I called him those and more,” she said. “But there was this misunderstanding—”
“And you bloodied his nose for it,” Robin said, escaping her silencing fingers. “But all is well now?”
“Aye, son.”
Rhys felt the full impact of Robin’s interest then.
“You’ll show me your sword?” Robin asked. “And teach me swordplay? I have a wooden sword, you know. I give the twins splinters all the time with it.”
“Better that than wounds that need to be sewn,” Rhys said, smiling down at the boy before turning to his mother. “Connor seems to be missing pieces of himself.”
“Very distractable, that one,” Gwen said with a slight frown. “Set him to boasting of his skill and his guard slips completely.”
Rhys found his sleeve being tugged on and looked down at the tugger.
“A lesson in swordplay?” Robin asked. “Now?”
“Grandmother has prepared something for him to eat,” Gwen said. “And then he will likely want a rest. He’s no doubt done many heroic deeds on his way back from France and is weary from them. Perhaps tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.” Robin sighed, as if the time required to reach such a place was simply too great for him to fathom.
“Perhaps a short lesson this afternoon,” Rhys said. “And then your mother and I have much to discuss.”
He disentangled his clutch of letters from Amanda’s hands, not exactly sure how they’d gotten there to begin with and thereupon realizing that children took more watching than he’d suspected, and handed them to Gwen.
“You might find these interesting,” he said.
“I daresay I would,” she agreed. “I only wish I had like number to show you.”
He looked down at her and wished greatly that a pair of gray eyes would find something more appealing to observe than him so he could kiss Gwen properly. Painfully conscious of Robin’s regard, he could only smile grimly at Gwen.
“I did write.”
“I believe you.”
Rhys wanted more than life and breath to draw her into his arms and never let her from them again. He had spent three years aching for her, dreaming of her, contenting himself with the thought that she would in the end be his. Every moment apart, every moment of thinking of her as Alain’s wife would only add to the sweetness of her being his when he could manage it. He was tired of warring, tired of racking his pitiful brain for ways to see her freed from her marriage to Ayre, to see that she took her son with her, to appease whatever clergy and royalty necessary to see his ends accomplished.
And now he stood a hand’s breadth from the creature he’d dreamed about every waking moment for three years, and all he could do was hold on to her daughter and submit to her son’s investigation of his person for possible warriorly accoutrements.
And look at the woman he loved more than life itself.
“Food now?” Robin prompted.
Rhys felt Robin slip his hand into his and Amanda’s arm tighten around his neck.
“Aye,” he managed, “food first. Then speech.”
And he vowed in that moment to never let these three go.
No matter the cost.
28
Gwen wondered, as she chewed thoughtfully on a bit of roasted fowl, how it was that she could be so angry with a man one moment, then have such a
rush of friendly feelings for him not a pair of hours later.
Such, she supposed, was the course of true love.
They sat together at her mother’s table, sharing a trencher and a goblet. It had been her mother’s doing to seat them thusly, and Gwen wasn’t sure if she should be grateful for it or not. She’d wanted time to think on what she’d learned that afternoon. The thought of Rollan having possibly read all her missives left her torn between wanting to blush and wanting to murder him. Along with anger and embarrassment, she felt a chill. That Rollan should go to such great lengths to cool her feelings for Rhys only spoke of his determination and cunning. She had underestimated him.
How could she have been so blind? Rollan had visited Segrave many times over the past three years, and though Gwen had made certain never to be without a goodly portion of her mother’s household nearby, she had never once suspected that he might be doing something so calculating. She had been waiting for him to push someone down the stairs, and he had instead been reading her letters. Always he came from a direction she didn’t suspect. She would do well to be more on her guard. Perhaps with her and Rhys both watching him, he would succeed in making no more mischief.
“Shall we retire again to my solar?” Joanna asked, leaning in front of Rhys to look at Gwen. “We would be more comfortable resting there.”
Gwen looked at Rhys. “Does that suit, or would you rather have speech with my guard?”
“To find out just how it is you damaged the Fitzgeralds so thoroughly?” he asked with a smile. He threw a look at the lower table, where Montgomery and the twins sat with John, indulging the young man by listening politely to his stirring retelling of his adventures. Either that, or John was retelling Rhys’s glorious adventures. He shook his head. “I’m better off not knowing. And I would imagine that John would be slow to forgive me for robbing him of his audience.”
Gwen nodded to her mother. “Aye, Mother. We’ll be along presently.”
Rhys looked at Gwen as her mother rose and made her way to the stairs. “Her will is still followed here?”
“Aye, my father commanded it.”
“And Alain agreed to this?”
“We have, if you can stomach it, Rollan to thank for it,” Gwen admitted grudgingly. “Whatever else his faults, he knows how to appreciate a fine meal. I imagine he feared Alain would offend the cook somehow, so he managed to convince his brother that Segrave was better left to itself.”