by Lynn Kurland
The saints be praised for that.
And if his hands trembled now and again when he touched her and he seemed not to know what to do with his knees or elbows on occasion, it did nothing but make her smile and clutch him to her the tighter.
He made her his with a positively mercenary-like laugh of triumphant possession.
And when he managed to breathe again, he rolled away with a groan. He sat up and gingerly planted his backside against the cold stone of the floor, rubbed his elbows and knees simultaneously as best he could, and smiled happily at her.
“That was exceedingly uncomfortable,” he said cheerfully.
Gwen was quite certain she would never walk quite as easily again, but she had to agree just as merrily. “I don’t know that I can manage that again here.”
He paused. “We could filch a few more garments and things from about the castle.”
“That would necessitate leaving the chamber. Dressing. Combing our hair.”
“Enduring a thorough teasing from my grandsire.”
She met his gaze and found herself nodding along with him.
“Best to stay here,” he stated.
“We might manage with what we have.”
And, unsurprisingly to either of them, they did.
39
Rollan of Ayre wished desperately he’d somehow managed to snatch Alain’s crop before he fled the keep. Merely kicking his stallion in the sides was not producing the desired speed.
He looked behind him, but saw no riders following. He knew that reprieve wouldn’t last long. They would send men after him, and then he would find himself languishing in some hellhole. He doubted that even he, with his superior charm, could talk himself out of such visible familial murder. John had never had much use for Alain, ’twas true, but the king would likely have preferred something a bit more subtle.
Where to go now? What to do? Whom to blame for his current condition?
The last was the easiest. This was de Piaget’s fault. Rollan had counted on the gallant Sir Rhys to slay Alain in defense of Gwen’s honor. Things would have been so much simpler that way. Rollan would have slain Rhys, then disposed of Robin and Amanda soon enough, and thereafter found himself lord of Ayre with a beautiful aqua-eyed bride at his side. Gwen would have found herself tamed in time. Indeed, he was certain she would have enjoyed the taming.
And now his scheme was completely ruined because of de Piaget’s wagging tongue.
He would have to pay for his words, of course.
Rollan found himself heading west. And once he realized where he was heading, he smiled. Perhaps his plans could be salvaged. He hadn’t killed Alain outright, had he? If anyone could it would be John who could understand the frustration of having an elder brother possess what should have rightfully come to him. Alain’s death was an accident, an accident precipitated by de Piaget’s rash goading of the former lord of Ayre.
Perhaps his schemes weren’t for naught after all. Rhys could be finished off. Robin could meet with an unfortunate accident. Lads were always dying of one thing or another.
And Gwen could be convinced in time that they had always been destined to be together.
But first the greatest obstacle must be removed. And Rollan knew just who would be most helpful in doing so. Rhys’s true parentage wasn’t widely known. Indeed, Rollan suspected that there were only two people on the entire island who knew of it—and Bertram of Ayre had carried the secret to his grave.
And Rollan of Ayre had held the knowledge close to his heart since the moment he’d overheard his sire discussing the matter with Rhys’s grandfather.
Ah, but eavesdropping was such a useful skill.
He altered his course and set his mind on his goal.
Sedgwick.
40
Rhys pulled the hall door shut behind him and was glad to do it. Though he had fond memories indeed of a certain tower chamber inside the keep, he would not be sorry never to see it again. He knew he would have to come to Ayre with Robin occasionally to assure himself that the lad’s holdings weren’t being overrun, but he was more than happy to be leaving the place behind him at present. He’d imagined up in his mind scores of times just how it might feel to walk through Ayre’s doors with Gwen as his.
The reality of it was almost more than he could bear.
His company was waiting for him in the courtyard. His mercenaries looked appropriately fierce, not hesitating to send Ayre’s guardsmen intimidating looks whenever possible. Rhys hadn’t yet decided what he would do with the lads. Perhaps he could be forgiven for having had more on his mind than their futures for the past few days. Matters hadn’t improved for his poor head—especially after having passed a long night of intimate deliberations with his beloved. Perhaps ’twas for the best that he keep them about for a bit longer until he could again concentrate on something besides thoughts of where and when he might have his lady alone again.
He gestured for the company to mount up. That much he could do with the small portion of his wits left him. He looked at Gwen and found that she was smiling shyly at him. He grinned back, then heard his grandfather begin to chuckle. A blush came from nowhere and applied itself industriously to his cheeks. He turned away before the entire company, and more particularly his grandfather, could see it and humiliate him with their teasing.
He turned to check the straps that held the Fitzgerald brothers to their mounts and gave them both an encouraging smile.
“One last time, my friends. I promise no more traveling.”
“The travails we go through for you,” Jared groaned. “Tending your hurts and sorrows—”
“Riding from one end of this barren wasteland to the other—” Connor added.
“Puking ’til there’s naught left to puke—”
“I ask you, brother,” Connor said, turning his head to look at his twin, “is this worth the pain?”
“Nay, it is not.”
“I say we let him go north on his own.”
“Aye, brother. You have that aright.”
“Too late,” Rhys said cheerfully, firmly cinching the rope that bound Jared to his horse.
“I’d rather walk,” Connor groused.
“I’d rather stay here,” Jared complained.
“You would miss me overmuch,” Rhys assured them. “Courage, friends. The journey will be swift.”
He walked away before more Viking curses could be heaped upon his head.
Gwen was mounted already, as was Nicholas. Rhys looked to find Robin holding Rhys’s mount’s reins. He looked sick with apprehension. Rhys walked over and ruffled his hair.
“Not to worry.”
“But what if the king comes after us?”
Rhys squatted down and looked at Robin seriously.
“Think you I would let you go?”
“But the king—”
“Will be perfectly happy for me to claim you when the time comes. He values my sword, Robin, just as he will value yours in time—should he manage not to eat himself to death. I daresay he would rather keep us here on the isle than see us all go to France.”
“But we’ve properties there, haven’t we?” Robin asked anxiously. “Just in case?”
Rhys threw his grandfather a dark look. “Aye, and they’re large enough to keep us traveling over them for quite some time.”
“Perhaps we should go to France and look at them,” Robin suggested, sounding as if he would have sold his soul to do the like. “Then we won’t lose our heads.”
Rhys smiled. “We won’t lose our heads anyway, Robin. We’ll hasten north and begin the building of our keep.”
And with luck what you won’t see is your soon-to-be-adopted father’s head on a pike outside those yet-to-be-built gates, Rhys thought to himself.
“Besides, your uncle John has been pressed into service as keeper of Ayre until such time as we return to visit your inheritance. He will be the one to face the king’s wrath.”
Said keeper was none too happy
about the duty, but Rhys had promised to return and knight him before the new year. John was nothing if not practical about such things.
Of course, there would be a great amount of groveling on his own part in the future, but hopefully by then the king would see the wisdom of what Rhys had done. He would be there to keep watch over the northern borders. With any luck, John wouldn’t become so angry that he reappropriated Gwen’s lands for the crown’s pleasure. In his wildest dreams Rhys had never dreamed he would be lord over so much. He was loth to give any of it up.
Though if it came to that, he would take Gwen and the children and hasten to France. It wasn’t as if they couldn’t have lived quite comfortably there as well.
But all that would come later. First would come a swift journey north, then preparations for building. He could at least start the construction with the gold he had left. He would manage to finish it somehow. All he knew for a certainty was that the fashioning of his home couldn’t happen quickly enough.
He could almost see his banner, flying merrily in the breeze.
And what a beautiful sight it was.
The child stood on the side of the road and watched the company pass by her. She would have to go north with them, that much she knew. But her grief was still heavy upon her, and that made it hard to muster up the courage to stop one of the knight’s fierce companions and beg for a ride.
Her tears had finally blinded her completely when she felt rather than saw a horse stop. A man dismounted and soon she found herself staring into pale gray eyes.
“Chérie,” the knight said, “what do you here, dressed for travel? Where is your grandsire?”
“He’s gone,” she whispered.
Then she wept in earnest.
The knight drew her into his arms and cradled her close. The child then felt the hands of the knight’s new lady wife and found herself soon sheltered in soft arms.
“Rhys,” the lady said, “we must take her with us if she will come. She cannot remain here.”
“Chérie,” the knight said, laying his hand atop the child’s head gently, “will you come?”
The child nodded, unable to speak.
“And your grandfather’s things. Surely you should bring them along?”
The child patted the manuscript that she had bound to her small self with strips of cloth. It was the most important thing, and her grandfather had labored long over the scribbling of his potions. But having his pots and pouches would be a comfort as well.
“I’ll see to it,” the knight said, and then he walked away, calling out orders as he went.
The child soon found herself riding in her knight’s company behind an old man who reminded her not at all of her grandsire, but who had a gentle smile just the same. It was enough to ease her.
She clutched her pieces of glass in her hand and rode into her future, dry-eyed.
Gwen thought bathing just might be a fatal activity—for the five girls ignoring their work in the kitchens, that was. She sat on a stool near the tub and glared at the daughters of Fenwyck’s cook. They took no notice of her. They had even ceased their chopping, mixing, and stirring to admire the man who currently tarried in the water, seemingly oblivious to the commotion he was causing.
Rhys was, unfortunately, too large to fit into the tub, so his arms were dangling over the sides, and his knees bent over the sides as well. There was far too much of him exposed for her peace of mind.
She suspected, as she threw the handful of drooling wenches another warning look they paid no heed to, that she was even less enthusiastic about this visit to Fenwyck than she had been about the last one.
Though even she had to admit that loitering in bed with her love was much more pleasant when they had a goosefeather mattress beneath them. Said goosefeather mattress of Geoffrey’s had been relinquished promptly after Rhys had invited Fenwyck’s lord to decide the matter in the lists. Geoffrey’s attachment to his bed had been clearly shown by his willingness even to set foot on the dirt. Unfortunately for him, said attachment had been summarily severed. He’d gulped most audibly when Rhys had drawn two swords, then snarled out a curse straight from his bruised pride when Rhys put one of the blades away with mock dismay over Geoffrey’s agitated state.
Matters had not improved much from there for the lord of Fenwyck.
Gwen had watched Rhys enough in the lists that she knew when he was toying with an opponent and when he wasn’t. She could hardly believe her eyes when she saw that Rhys was dragging the entire affair out much longer than he needed to, but then she supposed that since it was Geoffrey’s finest mattress that she would be sleeping upon for a pair of fortnights, saving what was left of Geoffrey’s pride was the least Rhys could do.
“By the saints, you are a lazy pup, Grandson.”
Gwen shifted on her small stool that she might have a better look at Rhys’s grandsire. Rhys didn’t even open his eyes.
“I’ve earned the rest, Grandpère,” Rhys said, sounding just as lazy as his grandfather claimed he was. “An exhausting fortnight, to be sure.”
Sir Jean looked appraisingly at Gwen, and she found herself blushing in spite of her best efforts to look indifferent. Then he turned his attentions to the kitchen’s maids and gave them a stern look from beneath his bushy eyebrows.
“Someone stands to lose fingers,” he said pointedly, “if she does not attend better to what she is doing.”
Evidently the wenches were better impressed with Sir Jean’s growls than they had been with Gwen’s glares, for they turned back to their work promptly.
Sir Jean pulled up a stool and sat next to Gwen. “Guarding your treasure, lady?”
“I thought it wise.”
He laughed at her, and Gwen saw where Rhys had come by some of his charm. Never mind that the man was old enough to be—oddly enough—her grandsire, he was exceedingly charming. She found herself returning his smile and feeling as if she had known him far longer than a month.
“Was he worth the wait?” Jean asked, inclining his head toward Rhys.
Gwen found that even Rhys had opened one eye to see her answer.
“Aye,” she said. “Well worth it.”
“A good lover then?”
“Grandpère!” That at least seemingly had Rhys fully awake.
Jean only shrugged. “Want to make certain you aren’t tainting your name.” He looked at Gwen and winked. “Fine lovers, all those de Piaget men are.”
“And how would you know?” Rhys asked with a scowl. “It isn’t as if you’ve been with scores of women for them to tell you.”
“I had my share before I met your grandmother.”
“And after she died?” Rhys prodded.
“I have a very fine memory of former praise,” Jean said haughtily. “And who are you, whelp, to question my prowess?”
“You questioned mine,” Rhys replied.
Sir Jean began to finger his sword hilt. “I daresay I should plan on seeing you in the lists shortly. You’re far too cheeky for my taste.”
Gwen suspected, and she had the feeling she had it aright, that Sir Jean would have used any reason to face his grandson over blades. They didn’t cross swords a single time that the man wasn’t grinning madly, as if he’d been the one to teach Rhys everything he knew about swordplay. Such was a grandfather’s pride, she supposed.
“Later,” Rhys said, leaning his head back and closing his eyes again. “Perhaps tomorrow.”
Jean shook his head. “Lazy,” he said, clucking his tongue. “Lazy and soft. Your sire would be appalled were he here to see this.”
“I am newly wed but a pair of fortnights,” Rhys said, sounding not at all troubled by his idleness.
“You should be wielding your sword daily,” Sir Jean instructed, “and that does not—forgive me Gwen for saying so for only a fool would rather be in the lists than with you—that does not mean the sword you wield in bed!”
Rhys opened one eye and looked balefully at his grandfather. “When do I appear in
the lists?”
“Just after sunrise.”
“And leave them when?”
Sir Jean chewed on the inside of his cheek before he pursed his lips and answered. “Late in the day.”
“And then spend my time how?”
“Plotting and scheming how to leave the table early,” Sir Jean groused.
“Today is the first day of leisure I’ve taken, and you’ll not goad me into being sorry for it. For all you know, I’ll crawl from this tub and pass the rest of my day in bed.”
Gwen jumped at the frown Sir Jean threw her way. “Disobedient pup. Did you teach him that?”
She held up her hands in surrender. “It wasn’t me. He was already grown by the time I had the keeping of him.”
“Things are progressing as they should,” Rhys assured his grandfather. “I’ve sent to Mother for the rest of my gold, and you know ’twas one of your own men who is seeing to the message. Montgomery is readying the men for our journey on the morrow to Artane. The children are tearing Fenwyck’s hall to bits without my having to encourage them, and Lady Joanna—”
“Ah,” Sir Jean said, stroking his chin, “now there is a handsome enough woman.” He looked at Gwen. “Would she want me, do you think?”
“Well. . .”
Rhys threw a handful of water at his grandsire. “She has no interest in a lover your age.”
“I’ll have you know my sword is as mighty as it always was—”
“No doubt—” Rhys interrupted dryly.
“And I’ve still a pleasing visage—”
“Never said you didn’t. . . .”
Sir Jean jumped to his feet and drew his sword with relish, sending most of the kitchen maids and lads scurrying for cover. “Out to the lists with you, insolent whelp!” he bellowed. “I’ll not be disparaged thusly!” He took Gwen by the arm and pulled her from the kitchen. “You’ll come with me and judge the victor. And bring your mother.”
Gwen looked over her shoulder to find Rhys crawling from the tub with a resigned sigh. Half a dozen young women hastened to help him dry himself off, which was almost enough to make Gwen reach for Sir Jean’s sword.