by Lynn Kurland
What a crafty old whoreson William of Segrave had been.
He looked to his right to see Gwen wearing a look of complete astonishment. It was the same look she had worn for the past three days, the three days during which they had traveled only partway over her land. She’d been certain they would arrive to find it nothing but wasteland. She had apologized in advance scores of times while they had made their preparations to come north. While Rhys had been organizing his men, Gwen had been interrogating her mother—with no success. Either Joanna had not been able or hadn’t wanted to divulge any details. Now Rhys understood why. What a surprise it had been, and an exceedingly pleasant one at that.
“You were so right,” Rhys drawled. “Pitiful, barren bit of soil this is.”
She looked at him, still gaping. “I had no idea!”
“I imagine your sire did,” Rhys said, feeling his smile turn into a grin. “By the saints, Gwen, the man had a fine instinct for a good jest.”
“It is enormous,” she managed.
“Aye,” he said in wonder, “such vastness I’ve never seen outside the Aquitaine. Not quite as lush, of course, but the soil seems workable enough.”
“We can only hope Alain went straight home and didn’t see this.”
“He wouldn’t have bothered.”
“Rollan might have made the effort.”
Rhys shook his head. “My scouts have seen nothing, and believe me they would love to capture him. And then Alain would have spent the rest of his life wondering what had happened to his brother, for he never would have seen him again.”
Gwen shuddered. “I wonder about the company you keep, Rhys. How does your mother feel about this?”
“She’s praying mightily for their souls and mine, believe me.”
“I don’t doubt it.” She looked toward the shore. “Shall we go up the hill and see the view?”
“Aye, gladly.”
It was a perfect place for a keep. Rhys had known it from the moment he’d seen the bluff, but setting foot on the crest of the hill reconfirmed it. The knoll stretched down to the sea in hills of sand that no army would be able to wade through with less than great difficulty. Behind them, a rocky cliff separated the top of the hill from the floor of the land. Beyond that was land that had lain fallow for the saints only knew how long. Rhys suspected it would yield plentifully when it was finally planted.
“Listen,” Gwen breathed.
At first it was hard to hear anything but Robin’s and Nicholas’s shouts of delight as they rolled themselves down the hillside. Rhys spared a brief moment to be glad that Joanna had kept Amanda behind. He had visions of cleaning sand out from behind her ears for days. At least the boys he could merely dunk in a barrel of rainwater and consider them washed.
Once the boys had rolled away far enough, Rhys found he could listen in peace. And it was then that he noticed the sound of the waves against the shore.
Gwen slipped her hand into his and stared out over the sea.
“Bliss,” she whispered. “Surely my father must have come here and known it would please me.”
“I suspect he did, my love,” Rhys said quietly. “And if not him, surely your mother knew.”
She looked up at him and her eyes were full of wonder. “Will you build us a keep here? Right on this spot where we may hear the sound of the sea?”
He smiled and reached over to push strands of hair back out of her face. “If you do not mind my building a castle on your land.”
“Count it as my dowry. That will soothe the wagging tongues on both sides of the sea. Think on your reputation should you marry me merely for love.”
“It would ruin me, certainly,” he agreed.
“Then will this suit?”
“Aye, love,” he said, “it will suit very well indeed.”
“Then let us wander our land a bit and plan where the keep should go. Two baileys, don’t you think? It should be much larger than Segrave, and we certainly should make Ayre look like a hovel. And then we must have a garden. I wonder what will grow this far north. We must needs question the friars at that abbey we passed on our way here.”
“Seakirk,” he supplied.
“Aye, there,” she said, pulling him along with her as she walked the top of the hill. “They will surely know what we can grow successfully in this wasteland.”
Rhys heard what she said and had to smile at her plots and schemes for growing this herb and that, but at the same time he could hardly concentrate. It was so much more than he had expected. By the saints, it made Wyckham seem as large as a modest abbey pleasure garden. To think this all belonged to Gwen. No matter if she held it in her name for the rest of her life. If she would just be kind enough not to flinch when he built the most modern keep England had ever seen on her soil, he would be content.
“What do you think?”
Rhys realized she had stopped and was looking to him for some kind of response.
“Ah,” he stalled, “very nice. Truly.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You were not attending me.”
“I was—”
“You were not. Roses, Rhys. We must see if roses will grow here. I’ve seen the ones brought back from the Crusades. Aye, I will have them here to please the eye as well as serve their medicinal purpose.”
And off she went again, listing in detail the herbs she would need planted and then the flowers she would have for their beauty alone. But all Rhys could think about was stone, and a great amount of it. He would construct walls so thick, they would never be torn down. Gwen would be safe here, safe from Alain and safe from Rollan.
Rhys wondered just how much William of Segrave had known about his future son-in-law’s character. Had he kept this whole plot of land secret for a specific purpose?
“—trees, don’t you think?”
Rhys blinked. Then he winced at her glare. “My apologies, lady. I was thinking of stone.”
“As in a wall around the garden? A fine idea, Rhys. You’ll see to it, won’t you?”
He bent his head and stole a brief kiss. “I’ll see to it all, my love.”
Gwen groaned suddenly. “Those lads will drive me daft. Robin! Nicholas! Do not go out into the sea thusly! Know you nothing of the beasties therein?” She stalked off to where she could no doubt be better heard bellowing her displeasure, casting an “I’ll be back presently” at Rhys.
He watched her go, then turned his attentions back to the soil under his feet and the vastness surrounding him. He could see for miles. No army would come upon him unawares. No ships could attack without him having marked them well in advance. It was, undoubtedly, the perfect place to build a keep, and Rhys could only shake his head in wonder that John had not appropriated the land for the crown already.
And if the land was to be inherited by Gwen only, perhaps Rhys could go down on both knees, kiss John’s crooked toes, and beg for fealty straight to the crown for it. As appealing as Wyckham was, it came with Alain as liege-lord, something Rhys was not relishing. Perhaps John would accept his sword, and his loyalty, for Artane and count himself fortunate to have someone trustworthy guarding his northern border.
Rhys stood with his feet firmly planted on goodly soil, heard the crash of the waves against the shore and the screaming of gulls as they wheeled in the air, and thought he just might weep from the wonder of it all.
This land could be his. And all he had to do to have it was win the one thing he wanted more than life itself.
Gwen.
And though there was no time like the present to begin, he found that he couldn’t force himself to go confer with his mercenaries quite yet. Nor could he chase after his lady and join in the scolding of the two very wet lads who cavorted happily along the shore. All he could do was stand where he was and breathe deeply of the salt air and listen to the rumbling roar of the sea.
Land.
And Gwen to share it with.
Now all he had to do was see that it happened.
They camped o
n top of the hill for two days. Rhys could have stayed there forever, and so could the boys if their moans of frustration at leaving were any indication. Well, perhaps calling it two sets of moans wasn’t exactly the way of it. Robin complained quite loudly. Nicholas bore up stoically under the burden of loss, though Rhys suspected he was every bit as disappointed as Robin was. As Rhys watched them have a final run down the hill, he vowed again that he would make certain Gwen kept her son.
Robin could be claimed as his. So could Nicholas. Considering that Gwen’s annulment would make Robin a bastard as well, what was the difference between the two lads? Besides, Gwen had taken a great liking to Nicholas, and Rhys had to admit that he was growing fond of the lad as well. A man could do worse than to acquire a bride and two sons at the same time.
They returned as quickly as the horses could manage. Rhys could have traveled more quickly with just his mercenaries, but he didn’t mind the slowness of the pace, for it gave him ample time to observe his surroundings and discover the lay of Gwen’s land.
But he was relieved nonetheless to see Fenwyck in the distance. The sooner Gwen was free, the sooner the keep could be started. Rhys knew there was a wedding that would take place also in that time, but he’d spent so many years not thinking about it that it had become a habit. He would give it some thought after he’d secured John’s and the archbishop’s blessing.
He prayed he had enough gold for the like.
After seeing to the men and spending a few moments in the garden submitting to young Anne of Fenwyck’s and Amanda’s demands that he serve as a horse for their pleasure, Rhys finally made his way into Fenwyck’s hall for a cold cup of ale and a bit of peace for thinking. He was unsurprised to see Fenwyck’s lord hovering over Gwen like a persistent cloud.
“What I wouldn’t give for a substantial gust of wind,” he muttered as he accepted a cup from a servant. He carried it to the high table and made Geoffrey a small bow. “If I may sit?” he asked.
Asking permission would be another thing he would be bloody happy never to do again.
Geoffrey looked at him with something akin to reluctance. “I suppose if you must.”
“Now, Geoffrey,” Joanna chided gently from where she sat on his left hand. “You’ve behaved so nicely the past fortnight.”
While I was away, Rhys noted wryly. He reached over and pulled Gwen’s hand from Geoffrey’s. No traces of spittle. So it would seem that Geoffrey of Fenwyck would keep his head for another few days.
Geoffrey tried to pull her hand back, but Rhys held on to it more firmly.
With a disgusted snort, Gwen retrieved both hands and tucked them under her arms.
“You would think I was a roast fowl,” she said.
“Give me your hand,” Geoffrey said, “and I’ll nibble it to see—”
“Do and your life will end.” Rhys couldn’t believe the words had come out of his own mouth, but there they were and there was no taking them back now. Perhaps he’d exhausted his store of patience more quickly than he’d thought.
Joanna laughed. “Oh, by the saints, cease.” It was the same exasperated tone Rhys had heard her use with Robin and Nicholas several times already that day. “If you cannot treat each other with kindness and respect, then please take yourselves out to the lists and solve your differences there.”
Gwen looked as disgusted as her mother sounded, and Rhys began to feel as immature as Robin himself. He felt somewhat better, however, when she turned the same look of disgust on Geoffrey.
“Harumph,” Rhys said. “Well, then.”
“Indeed,” Geoffrey said, sounding equally as disgruntled.
“Rhys,” Joanna said, leaning forward to look at him, “what are your plans now, love? Are we for Segrave, or will you have us remain here?”
Rhys felt, unaccountably, a rush of pleasure go through him. Never mind that he was not Gwen’s husband, nor Joanna’s son-in-law. That she should accord him such a courtesy despite his lack of rights was a sweet thing indeed.
“Well, my lady,” he said, “I plan to send a messenger to my grandfather today. I must needs travel to London to meet him there and grovel before the king, but I daresay ’tis best neither you nor my lady accompany me there.”
“In case you lose your head?” Gwen asked grimly.
He smiled briefly. “I will lose nothing and will instead come away the victor, you’ll see. All you must do is trust me.”
“And remain here?” Gwen shot Geoffrey a frown.
He held up his hands innocently. “I have said nothing to you, my lady Gwennelyn, neither about your ears or your height.”
“My height?” Gwen echoed. “What is amiss with my height?”
Geoffrey very quickly, and very wisely, took hold of a leg of roast fowl and began to chew industriously upon it.
Gwen turned to Rhys and glared. “Are you to leave me here then to face this?”
“I will travel more quickly alone,” Rhys offered.
“Best be quick about it,” Geoffrey said from behind his joint. “I may need a rescue.” He shook his head. “I cannot believe you intend to make off with this girl.”
“’Tis a family tradition,” Gwen said, “though you would have to admit that he’s been a failure at it so far.” She looked at Rhys with one eyebrow raised. “You said so yourself.”
“Do you hear me gainsaying you?” he groused. “My sire would be appalled. My grandsire was appalled. He snatched his lady as she was being garbed for a wedding to another. He thought I’d had more than ample opportunity to make off with you before you made your vows.”
“Did you remind him how many guardsmen filled Ayre’s courtyard?” she asked.
“He remained quite unimpressed. Something about spending several se’nnights recovering from wounds inflicted by a score of sewing needles. Fair ruined his nuptials, or so he claimed.” Rhys grimaced. “I think my grandmère’s ladies were aiming for a most strategic target.”
“By the saints,” Geoffrey gasped, crossing his legs quickly. “I marvel at your grandsire’s courage.”
“Well, since you’re here sitting with us,” Gwen said to Rhys, “we can assume that he recovered.”
“Aye,” Joanna agreed, “and now tell us how it is you intend to proceed. It concerns me that you go to London with gold and no guard to speak of. Do you not fear John will take your offering and give you nothing in return?”
Rhys had very unpleasant memories of Hugh of Leyburn accepting his purse and then laughing in his face. Short of heaving a chest of gold at King John’s head and hoping it knocked the man so senseless he could do nothing but say aye to whatever question was put to him when he awoke, Rhys wasn’t sure how to proceed.
Rhys looked at Geoffrey. “You have the king’s ear.”
Geoffrey frowned. “From time to time.”
“Perhaps you might be persuaded somehow to suggest a few ways it could be bent my way.”
Geoffrey scowled. “Now, why would I want to do that? Especially when the one you intend to steal away is the one woman in all of England I would choose to wed were she free?”
Rhys turned over in his mind all the reasons why Geoffrey would want to help him, the most important being that if he didn’t, Rhys would do him bodily harm. Gwen saved him from having to admit that.
“You should do it because I love him,” Gwen said.
Geoffrey pursed his lips. “I suppose I can think of worse justifications for sedition.”
“Especially since I wouldn’t wed with you if you were the only male left in England,” Gwen muttered.
Rhys watched Geoffrey scowl at her, then return his attentions to his leg of fowl.
“Alain is a powerful man,” he said between chews.
“And you are no less powerful?” Joanna asked. “Come, my lord Fenwyck, you are too modest.”
Rhys would have snorted loudly at her flattery, but Geoffrey actually seemed to believe what she said. He sat back, not about to ruin the spell his lady’s mother was weaving.
Joanna spent a goodly amount of time pointing out to Geoffrey all his good points while at the same time listing all Alain’s bad points so thoroughly that even Rhys began to believe that perhaps Geoffrey could succeed where Alain never could have.
“So true, so true,” Geoffrey agreed finally when Joanna had seemingly exhausted a very deep well of flattery. He stretched like a satisfied cat. “I suppose that along with alerting the king to Alain’s damage to my land, I might also speak kindly of you, Rhys. I feel quite certain he will listen to me.”
Rhys felt nothing of the kind, but he supposed a little help was better than no help at all. Perhaps Geoffrey could distract John while Rhys snuck up behind him and clouted him over the head with several bags of gold. Perhaps the clouting would render the king’s reason a bit unusable, but not affect his hands so much that they couldn’t sign a handful of documents Rhys would have prepared.
“I’ll think on it more,” Geoffrey announced, “and let you know my plans within the se’nnight.”
Rhys sighed. It was longer than he wanted to wait, but when he’d already been waiting for Gwen half his lifetime, what was another week?
But as it happened, his decision was made for him much sooner than that. He and Gwen hadn’t been returned to Fenwyck but two days when a messenger came running across the lists to him, a missive clutched in his dirty hands. There was no seal, which aroused his suspicions immediately, but seals were certainly no guarantee of authenticity. If anyone would know that, it would be him. How many letters had he received under Gwen’s seal only to learn later that they were forgeries?
I, Jean de Piaget, write this by mine own hand this last day of June, the Year of Our Lord 1206, to Rhys de Piaget. Greetings to you, Grandson, and may the good graces of our Lord be upon you.
There is trouble afoot and I fear it travels to your mother’s doorstep. Meet me there, if you will, and come with all haste. You know the swiftest way there, though I would not think it strange if you were to pause in London and obtain some trinket to sweeten her humor. You know how foul-tempered she will be otherwise.