by Lynn Kurland
“Without us?” Jared demanded, outraged.
“I know,” Connor agreed darkly. “Difficult to believe, but there you have it.”
“Such gratitude.”
“You’d think she would think of us—” Connor said.
“Or at least he might give us a bit of consideration—” Jared agreed.
“I say we take them both to the lists,” Connor said sternly, “and—”
“Oh, not our little Gwen,” Jared interrupted. “Never her. ’Tis likely all Rhys’s fault anyway. She would never think to leave without us. But he—”
“Very well, then, we’ll take him to the lists. Once we find him, that is—”
As their voices faded, Rhys was spared the knowledge of what the twins intended to do with him for his cheek. He suspected he was far better off not knowing, but there was something to be said for being prepared. He promised to remind himself to continue to carry both swords for the next little while.
Gwen leaned up suddenly and kissed him.
“What?” he whispered with a smile.
“We could sneak off,” she suggested, lifting her head from his shoulder. “No sense in disappointing the twins.”
“As if you could,” Rhys grumbled. “You, my love, are seemingly firmly ensconced in their good graces. Though I cannot blame them, for I am just as enamored.”
“Are you?”
“I am.”
“Perhaps you could show me,” Gwen said, resettling her head against his shoulder, “later. ’Tis too peaceful here right now to move.”
Rhys couldn’t have agreed more. He gathered his lady more closely and closed his eyes.
Bliss.
It was, however, bliss he never suspected would last overlong. His life had been too easy for the past few months, and he knew something would have to go awry sooner or later.
He rolled over and put his fist repeatedly into a stubborn clump of feathers. He could hardly believe he hadn’t bothered to check what sort of mattress Geoffrey had sent along as a wedding present. Obviously it had been his worst one. Rhys put that away in his mind as something he would have to repay Fenwyck for the next time he saw him.
Rhys looked at the woman lying so peacefully next to him. She didn’t look uncomfortable. He frowned. Was it possible that the mattress had been constructed so only his side was so lumpy?
Such a thing wouldn’t have surprised him in the slightest.
“Rhys?”
Rhys sat up at the sound of Montgomery’s voice. Then Montgomery himself put his head inside the tent.
“Did you not think you might be interrupting something?” Rhys asked with a scowl.
Montgomery’s teeth were a flash of white in the predawn gloom. “Your children are scattered all over you like puppies. And your lady was snoring.”
“I do not snore,” Gwen said distinctly as she burrowed deeper into the blankets.
“What is it?” Rhys asked, already rising. “Something I should see?”
“Nothing of import,” Montgomery said. “I was actually just looking for a bit of company on my watch.”
Liar, Rhys thought to himself as he kissed his lady and then watched Nicholas immediately gravitate into the warm spot he’d just vacated. He left the tent and walked several paces away with Montgomery.
“We have company,” Montgomery said bluntly, “and I daresay it isn’t company we want.”
“Your eyesight is not a blessing at times, is it?” Rhys asked.
“You can decide that,” Montgomery said, “once you’ve seen this for yourself.”
Rhys followed him to the outer walls, or what existed of the outer walls. And once he’d seen what was gathering below them on the plain, he wished the walls were finished. The keep sat on the only knoll for miles, true, but what good did it do them to sit perched up on a hill when they couldn’t defend the hill?
Especially against the number of men he was seeing camped on the ground below.
“I would guess they want us to know they’re there, else they would have just come up and attacked by now,” Montgomery mused. “What think you?”
Rhys nodded in agreement. “Any idea who our guests might be?”
Montgomery sniffed. “I smell Rollan. The stench is unmistakable.”
Rhys laughed in spite of himself. “Ah, but there is no love between the two of you, is there?”
“He killed my liege-lord, who was also a friend. Nay, there is no love between us.”
“Did he in truth?”
Montgomery shrugged, though the movement was far from indifferent. “I have no proof, but my heart tells me ’tis so. There was no need for Bertram to fail as he did. He wasted away as if from some inner poison. If that doesn’t describe his second son, I know not what does.”
“All the more reason to see him captured. Perhaps we should see him escorted to London, where the king might see to him at his leisure.”
Montgomery frowned. “I wonder where it is he acquired so many men.” He looked at Rhys. “And why does he need them?”
“To kill me?”
“Surely, but for what reason? He never does anything without a reason, especially a reason that leaves him looking pure and innocent.”
Rhys strove to count the number of tents spread out below, but he was the first to admit he had not Montgomery’s eyes. Obviously he had no choice but to wait and see what the daylight would show him.
“We should prepare the men just the same,” he said finally. “And place them as best we can to make up for our lack of numbers.”
“Our position is a boon,” Montgomery offered.
“At least this,” Rhys said with a wave at what lay before them, “is our only concern.”
Montgomery clasped his hands behind his back. “Care for a walk along the seaward wall?”
Rhys felt his heart sink. “You jest.”
Montgomery laughed. “I can do nothing but laugh, for our straits are dire indeed.”
“By sea as well?” Rhys asked incredulously.
“A single ship only, if that eases your mind any.”
Rhys clapped a hand to his forehead. “What else can this day bring?”
“Rhys, my friend,” Montgomery said, putting his hand on Rhys’s shoulder and smiling, “that is not a question a man in your position asks.”
“At least I don’t have Fenwyck coming at me as well.” He paused and looked at Montgomery. “Do I?”
“It doesn’t appear so. You might perhaps wish for aid from him, though.”
“Aye, let us see if a message cannot be sent.” Rhys left Montgomery to see to the sending for aid and returned to his tent to rouse his lady. Already his mind was far ahead of his feet, wondering just where he might put those that were dearest to him that they might not be overrun. And he began to wonder if his troubles wouldn’t include two small boys who seemed to think their wooden swords were quite powerful indeed.
And the saints preserve him if Gwen took up her own blade. Damnation, but he knew he should have forgotten it at Fenwyck. He strode back through the predawn light, cursing under his breath.
Rollan had best pray he wasn’t behind this foolishness.
The saints alone could help him if he was.
43
Rollan stood in front of his tent and stared up at the half-finished walls silhouetted against the early-morning sky. He cursed heartily. Things were not working out as he had planned. He’d tried to convince Patrick to attack under cover of darkness, but Patrick had refused. Rollan suspected that Patrick was indulging in an old man’s curiosity to see his posterity in the flesh, never mind that Rhys was not his direct descendant.
A pity the king hadn’t been a likely one to choose for an ally. Rollan had contemplated it seriously, once he’d seen for himself that Patrick of Sedgwick was not the warrior he purported being. Attacking mid-morn. What kind of plan was that? By the saints, not even Alain would have attempted something so stupid.
The sky began to lighten and Rollan scowled
. He much preferred the darkness for his deeds, and ’twas obvious his own plans would have to be put off yet another day. It was best that Gwen not know he was nearby. He had told Patrick to keep silent about his whereabouts, though considering Sedgwick’s inability to hold a thought past the duration of a meal, Rollan did not hold out much hope that he would remain anonymous.
He put his shoulders back. Let them know he was near. It might make the game even more interesting. Sedgwick had brought many men with him. It was quite possible that de Piaget and his mercenaries would be overcome, but that would surely not be before night fell. If that came to pass, Rollan would snatch Gwen away before Patrick had the chance to lay eyes on her.
Of course, things could happen quite differently. Rollan was well acquainted—from a safe distance, of course—with de Piaget’s skill. And he’d had an eyeful of the mercenaries. It wasn’t inconceivable that Rhys could come away the victor, though Rollan suspected that, too, would not come before night had fallen. And while Rhys was about the long, unpleasant business of deciding by torchlight just who the dead were, Rollan would snatch Gwen away before Rhys had the chance to lay eyes on her again.
Either way, Rollan knew he would have Gwen before another dawn. He had lost Ayre, true, but he would have the true prize. He could earn bread enough through his wits, if not his sword. She would not starve. He would give her other children. He suspected, and this had troubled him at first, that he might even be happy with her at his side.
Unsettling a thought if ever there were one, but he’d become almost accustomed to the idea.
He saw Patrick sharpening his sword and rolled his eyes in disgust. Imbecile. One old fool leading a camp of younger fools to their deaths, no doubt.
Rollan pulled his cloak more closely about him and turned away, knowing he was doomed to spend another day waiting.
But when night fell . . .
44
He would need her to guard his back. Gwen had decided that the moment Rhys had ducked back into their tent. He hadn’t said aught, instead merely beckoned to her. She had known immediately that something was amiss.
She had stood shivering in the faint light of dawn and listened calmly as he’d told her what he’d seen. Men on the plain below them. A ship anchored off their coast. And only unfinished walls to protect them.
She hadn’t been surprised.
He’d told her where he intended for her and the children to shelter while he fought the battle. He’d reminded her that the twins would be standing guard. He had absolutely forbidden her to do aught but wait until the battle was won. But she wondered, as she’d heard him sigh as he turned away to plan his strategy, if he could possibly believe she would do as he’d asked.
She had immediately retrieved her blade and donned a concealing cloak. She’d been tempted to relieve Robin and Nicholas of their wooden swords, lest they think them adequate protection, then she’d thought better of it. They had knives to use, should worse come to worst and they stand in need of defending themselves. And the swords would make them feel more confident.
She’d pacified the twins with soothing words about her need to wear hose and a tunic just in case she needed to flee. Indeed, she had made such a long and thorough argument for the scheme that she almost convinced herself ’twas more sensible to wear hose than a gown. The Fitzgeralds had merely blinked at her, either overwhelmed by her logic or the sheer number of words she had spewed at them.
Now ’twas midday and the only thing that had come to pass was the discovery that the ship off their coast contained Rhys’s mother and a collection of nuns. There was no movement on the plain. The council of war, however, was proceeding in the center of what would eventually be the inner bailey. She approached confidently. Better that than slinking up and hoping to eavesdrop. Montgomery, Rhys, and Sir Jean were huddled together, obviously plotting their strategy.
“He wants to what?” Rhys was asking Montgomery incredulously.
“Who?” Gwen asked.
Montgomery ignored her. “He wants to parley. Says he has aught to discuss with you.”
“Such as why the hell he’s chosen to encamp his men under my keep?” Rhys asked in exasperation. “What is this old fool about?”
“Who?” Gwen asked again.
“Patrick of Sedgwick,” Rhys answered, then realized who had asked the question. Gwen felt the intense heat of his glare, but she ignored it. It was best she know what he was up against so she knew how best to defend him.
She looked at Sir Jean, who had shifted. He didn’t look uncomfortable. He didn’t even look afraid. He had merely shifted his weight from one foot to another, but she had never seen him do that before. She contemplated his action and wondered if it indicated something she should be aware of.
Rhys shot his grandfather a look of irritation. “Do you know aught of this you haven’t cared to share with me as of yet?”
“What would he know?” Montgomery asked.
“Aye,” Gwen put in, “what would your grandfather know?”
Sir Jean looked about him as if he searched for something else to stare at besides his companions. Then he smiled suddenly. “Oh, look, Rhys. There’s your mother finally arrived off her little boat. Isn’t it a relief to know that ’twas her come to visit and not Johnny?” He pointed right before Rhys’s nose, giving his grandson no alternative than to look where he indicated. “And it would appear she has brought aid with her.”
Gwen looked over her shoulder to see a woman who was obviously a nun of some sort coming their way. She was followed by several more nuns of varying shapes and sizes. There was, however, a sister of such great height that Gwen almost winced. What trouble they must have had fitting her with the proper garments.
“Aid?” Rhys snorted, looking thoroughly displeased to see his mother. “She brought herself, a herd of helpless women, and no doubt a great amount of my gold. Why should I consider this aid? What I need is aid from Fenwyck, who has not bothered to show his sorry face in my hall yet!”
Sir Jean looked unimpressed by Rhys’s outburst. “Your good mother can care for herself.”
“Grandfather, she may spy well enough for Phillip, but she cannot wield a sword, and what I need at the moment is swordsmen, not nuns!”
Gwen looked at Rhys in surprise. “Your mother is a spy?”
“As is my grandfather,” Rhys said shortly, “which is why I am wondering what he is doing standing here instead of loitering with the lads below, discovering their true intentions.”
“Your grandfather is a spy?” Gwen looked at Sir Jean, who only smiled uncomfortably and shrugged. Then Gwen looked at Montgomery, who looked as surprised as she did. Then she finally fixed her gaze upon her husband and frowned. “And you could not see fit to trust me with this?”
“Well—” Rhys began.
“For whom does he work?” Gwen demanded.
“Ah,” Sir Jean said slowly, “well, love, that would take a great deal of explaining—”
“Phillip,” Rhys said briskly. “Phillip of France, to whom I am a great disappointment, for I have no lust for subterfuge. All I want”—and he encompassed them all with his glare—“is to know what in the bloody hell Patrick of Sedgwick wants from me so badly that he’s willing to march his men across the whole of England to have it!”
Gwen wished she had something to sit down upon. Jean was a spy for the French king? Rhys’s mother was a spy as well? Somehow it made the fact that Rhys’s father had been burned as a heretic seem a mild thing indeed. Gwen couldn’t decide if she should be horrified by the family she’d married into, or incensed by the fact that Rhys hadn’t trusted her with the truth. She decided on the latter, as the former was not something she could change.
“You could have told me,” she said to her husband, hoping it had come out as coldly as she’d intended.
“I’ve been trying to forget it,” Rhys said with a sigh. He looked at her and attempted a smile. “It isn’t much, truly.”
“It isn’t muc
h?” she echoed. She found herself with the intense urge to throttle him. “It isn’t much?” she said again, much louder this time. “Your family is full of spies!”
“Good ones,” Jean offered, “if that matters.”
“And you couldn’t tell me?” Gwen bellowed. She was tempted to draw her sword and use it not on the men below, but on the man across from her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think—”
“Obviously!”
“Gwen . . .”
She folded her arms over her chest and glared at him. “What else haven’t you told me?”
“Nothing,” he began slowly. “You know it all.”
“Do I?”
“You do.”
“She doesn’t,” Sir Jean said.
Gwen looked at Sir Jean. So did Rhys, for that matter. She caught sight of her husband’s face and found that his glare was much more intimidating than hers. She would have to work to improve her expression, for ’twas a certainty that she would have need of it if the day’s events were any indication of events to come. It would be very handy to have the skill of causing the kind of trembles in others that Rhys did.
There was a thunk to Gwen’s right. That overly large sister had set down a chest. Rhys’s mother, and Gwen could only assume that such was she, stepped around the chest and gave Rhys a kiss.
“Sorry we’re a bit behind, love,” she said, smiling. “You likely could have used your gold to aid you in your little war.”
“Mother,” Rhys said shortly, “I do not remember asking you to come.”
She reached up and patted his cheek. “Once I heard you had begun work on your keep, I knew you would want the rest of your funds. I made as much haste as possible.”
“Many thanks,” Rhys grumbled.
“Now, love”—his mother laughed—“no need to be so ill-tempered.” She patted him again on the cheek, then turned to Sir Jean and leaned up to kiss his wrinkled cheek as well. “Father.”