by Lynn Kurland
That a meeting between Rhys and Patrick had actually taken place was a most disastrous turn of events. Patrick should have been planning his assault on the hill, not exchanging pleasantries with his niece’s son. It showed a serious lack of commitment on Patrick’s part, one Rollan was certain he would have to compensate for.
He fingered the crossbow and handful of quarrels he had brought with him for just such an emergency. If Patrick lacked the ballocks to slay Rhys, Rollan would do it in his stead.
He might even do Patrick in as well. Ayre was out of his grasp, but Sedgwick might be his as a reward for exposing to the king the clandestine activities of the de Piaget men.
He stiffened in anticipation as Rhys and Patrick came from the tent. He searched their bearings, hoping the torchlight would reveal whether anger or friendship was written there.
They weren’t laughing. But they weren’t snarling, either. And then he watched Rhys extend his hand. It wasn’t a friendly gesture, but it was one of agreement. Patrick took it.
And then he knew what he would have to do.
He loaded the crossbow and lifted it. He sighted down the arrow, allowing himself the time to relish the thought of ending the life of the man he had hated from the moment he’d clapped eyes on him and realized Rhys de Piaget was everything he himself would never be.
Rhys and Patrick stepped away from the tent. Rollan allowed it. It would be more of a challenge to put his arrow through Rhys’s heart without the light of the torches to aid him.
He watched Montgomery of Wyeth and the Fitzgerald brothers fall into step, saw Rhys’s grandfather take up his place on Rhys’s side, then saw a nun move to Rhys’s other side.
A nun?
The mystery of it was almost enough to make Rollan stop, for he wondered if that could possibly be Rhys’s mother. But so tall? Impossible.
It was a mystery he would have to leave unsolved. Rollan watched as another of Rhys’s followers stepped directly behind Rhys. Rollan snorted to himself. How had the man acquired such a following? Didn’t they realize that Rhys came from a long line of spies? Didn’t they realize that Rhys himself hadn’t had the courage to follow in his father’s spying footsteps? It had to have been a lack of courage—that and that annoying desire for chivalry.
It was best he rid the world of the fool. King John would likely thank him for the service. Rollan found himself smiling. He would gather Gwen up and take her to London. The king would be pleased to see her freed of de Piaget’s lecherous hands. Perhaps Rollan would find himself master of all her lands. It would be just recompense for having lost Ayre.
And then he would find himself master of Gwen herself.
The thought was enough to make his hand unsteady on the bow.
He clamped down upon his passions and took aim again. The little mercenary had stepped aside, leaving him a clear view of de Piaget’s back. He let out his breath, then held it as he depressed the trigger.
“Damn,” he said viciously.
The bloody mercenary had moved again behind Rhys’s back and taken the arrow himself. Rollan quickly cranked the bow back again and fitted another arrow to the string. Then he watched Rhys turn and bend, then heard a scream.
“Gwen!”
Rollan shook his head. Surely he was hearing things.
“Merciful saints above, ’tis Gwen!” Rhys cried out.
Rollan found himself moving toward the fallen mercenary. It couldn’t be. It was just a fool who had chosen to follow Rhys. It was just a boy, a dispensable soul who would likely have died in battle just the same.
Someone fetched a torch. The circle was parted enough that Rollan could see inside it.
He saw the arrow protruding from the dark cloak.
He saw the face of the mercenary as it lay turned on Rhys’s knee.
It was Gwen.
Rollan stumbled back. The quarrels fell from his hand to the ground. The sound seemed to explode in the night.
He looked up and found himself staring into Rhys’s tortured face. He met his enemy’s eyes and saw the tears there. And, to his great surprise, Rollan found that his own eyes were swimming with tears.
“I never meant—” he began, but he couldn’t finish.
He’d never meant to harm Gwen. He would have cared for her. He was certain he was the only one who loved her as she deserved.
And now he’d destroyed the one thing he ever could have loved.
Rhys didn’t move, but his men rose and started toward him. They could have been running. Their faces were full of rage and hate. Rollan couldn’t blame them.
But they moved slowly.
And he moved more quickly.
He turned the bow on himself.
And with one last look of agony at Rhys, he squeezed the trigger.
47
The child stood at the edge of what would in time be the great hall of Artane and looked on the tragedy.
Artane’s lady had been laid softly on a bed of hastily arranged cloaks. Those who loved her were gathered about her, some with tears on their cheeks, some with heads bowed in prayer.
“The arrow must come out, Rhys.”
The child looked up to find Lord Rhys’s mother standing next to her son with her hand laid lightly upon his arm.
“Shall I do it?” she asked gently.
The child looked to Lord Rhys.
“Nay,” he said hoarsely. “I will see to it.”
“Rhys, ’tis a less grievous wound than you fear.” This came from a nun who knelt at the lady Gwennelyn’s side—though the child surmised by the large feet and powerful hands that this was no sister of the cloth. It took no gift of seeing to mark that man as Lord Rhys’s father. The resemblance was uncanny.
“You’ll need a poultice,” Lord Rhys’s father said. The way he gently examined the injury convinced the child that he had much experience in the healing arts.
“Yarrow,” Lord Rhys said absently, his face full of grief and disbelief. “’Tis good for staunching wounds.”
“Aye, son,” his father said softly, “’tis good for that indeed.”
“Someone add to the fire,” the mother instructed. “She needs warmth.”
“Someone go see to the children,” the grandfather added. “Tell them ’tis but a simple wound that will heal quickly enough.”
The child listened to all the voices, caught up in grief and anger that filled them, and wished she had foreseen what had been about to befall her lady. Her gift was a fickle one for now, and again the future was dark to her.
She felt the weight of someone’s gaze upon her, and she looked up to find Lord Rhys staring at her. He beckoned and she approached the circle cautiously. She’d thought to have stood fully in the shadows so as not to disturb, but evidently he’d seen her just the same.
“Have y—” He cleared his throat and swallowed with difficulty. “Have you,” he said carefully, “any yarrow about you?”
The child nodded. She’d brought what was needful from her tent, that luxurious place where she lived blissfully amongst her grandfather’s things.
“And can you . . . can you . . .” He didn’t finish.
He didn’t need to. She knew what he asked. He wished her to ease his lady’s pain. She knelt down next to his lady and bent close so only he could hear. She took a deep breath, hoping that her mother’s gift might not fail her.
“Her pain I can ease,” she whispered. “But her life is in your hands.”
And so it was. There were many things beyond the power of her modest art. But she would do what she could.
The knight, now a lord, nodded with a jerky motion, then prepared to do what he must. The child grieved only for what he suffered, for she had seen the end of the night and knew what would transpire before dawn. But he would think her fanciful, so she kept what she’d seen close to her heart and gave him the aid he asked of her.
The lord put his hand on the arrow and made ready to pull. The child could feel the weight of the love and concern bear dow
n upon the lady of Artane and ease her, though she knew it not.
The lord pulled and the arrow came free.
The lady breathed out the smallest of sighs, and those about her wept.
But she did not open her eyes and she spoke no word.
The child knelt with her small hand covering her lady’s and did what she could with her modest art. But, as she had told her lord, there was only so much she could do.
The lady Gwennelyn’s life was in other hands besides hers.
She turned away to gather the things she had brought and be about the work of mixing her poultice.
Rhys sat with his head hanging between his knees, his hands dangling limp beside him. It occurred to him that he’d found himself in that position more than once over the past se’nnight. The first had been after realizing that his father lived still. He had yet to repay his father for the shock of that. He would have to do so eventually. Perhaps he would, when he could move himself from his present position. It had been four days since he’d last stirred himself to leave the tent, so the likelihood of moving in the future was rather slim.
“Rhys?”
That rough, low voice came from the door of the tent. Rhys managed to lift his head to stare at his grandfather. Even that effort was considerable. “Aye?” he croaked.
Jean entered the tent that had been hastily erected to shelter Gwen from the elements. “How fares our lady?”
“She breathes still, though she has not spoken,” Rhys whispered.
“Your mother prays for her,” Jean said, kneeling down beside Gwen and resting his hand against her cheek. “Her fever has abated at least.”
Rhys nodded, but found that a small comfort.
Jean smiled gravely. “Your sire’s skill continues in you.”
“For all the good that does my lady.”
“The little wench’s potions have not eased her?”
“Socrates’s granddaughter is a fine healer,” Rhys said with a sigh, “and I feel certain she has eased Gwen’s pain. But she can work no miracles. None of us can.”
His grandfather gently smoothed Gwen’s hair back from her face with his age-spotted hand. Rhys watched him continue to do so for several moments and knew that his grandfather had no answer for him. What could Jean tell him that he didn’t know already?
The arrow had struck bone and remained fixed there until Rhys had removed it. The only stroke of good fortune had been realizing that it hadn’t pierced heart or lung. Either Rollan was a poorer shot than they had thought, or he had been aiming for Rhys’s heart and the true-flying arrow had found Gwen’s shoulder in its way instead. Rhys suspected it was the latter, and he was relieved somewhat by the thought of it. At least Rollan had not been training his sights on Gwen’s back. How could he have known? Rhys remembered vividly the horror in Rollan’s eyes, horror he could only assume had come by virtue of whom he had struck.
Rhys pushed aside thoughts of that night. The only thing good to have come of the whole encounter was that Rollan had but wounded Gwen and not killed her. But even that bit of good fortune had not caused Gwen to open her eyes any sooner. Rhys could only pray that she would do so in time.
Jean cleared his throat. “The family is settled, if you’re curious.”
Rhys nodded, mute.
“Borrowed a few tents from Sedgwick,” Jean said, sounding as if such a thing would have amused him greatly another time. “Your mother and father are safely tucked away with your gold and your children. The men patrol your walls. Montgomery and your Viking keepers pace about with expressions of great concern upon their faces.”
“The children? How do they fare?”
“We’ve told them that Gwen merely rests. Seeing her sleeping has eased them, though I suspect Robin and Nicholas fear the worst. Amanda only knows she cannot have her mother, and I fear she finds Mary a poor substitute.”
“A pity we do not have Joanna with us,” Rhys said absently. “Amanda is very fond of her.” He looked at his grandfather. “Word should be sent to her, I suppose.”
“What word?” Jean asked in a sharp whisper. “That her daughter is recovering nicely?”
Rhys couldn’t answer. He didn’t dare. He was too afraid that when Gwen did wake in truth, she wouldn’t wake to herself. Her fever had been hard upon her, despite their best efforts. If he hadn’t known better, he might have suspected the arrow had been poisoned. Knowing Rollan, it likely had been.
“There is no need to tell Joanna that, not that I wouldn’t mind looking on her again. Let her come for a visit in a few weeks. Gwen can show her the scar herself then.”
Rhys nodded in agreement, simply because he could do nothing else. Please let her awake whole. We’ve had such a short time together.
Jean rose to his feet. “Do you need aught?”
Rhys shook his head. “Nay.”
“I could remain—”
“Nay,” Rhys interrupted. “I’ll stay.”
“You do her little good in this state—”
“I’ll stay,” Rhys repeated. He looked up at his grandfather and attempted a smile. His face was too stiff with worry for any success at it. “My thanks just the same.”
Jean nodded and rested his hand briefly on Rhys’s head before he ducked out of the tent.
Rhys was once again alone with his lady, with naught but his love and prayers to aid her. He could only hope it would be enough.
He found himself speaking to her before he realized what he was about. He reminded her of all the reasons she had for remaining by his side. He told her of his visions of a magnificent keep to shelter her and her children from elements and enemies alike. He reminded her of the sounds of the sea and the sea birds, of the smell of the air and the chill of the wind. He spoke of his parents and how they currently both prayed for her recovery. He knew he babbled, but he could do nothing but continue, recalling for her every scratch and bruise Nicholas had earned while finding himself caught up in Robin’s mischief, every tear and stomping of feet Amanda had indulged in thanks to worms and snakes down her dress.
And when he had exhausted that list, and it was a very long list indeed, he spoke of his love for her, of how he had spent so many hours over the course of his long life dreaming of her, longing for her, hoping that one day she would be his. When that provoked no response, he reminded her that she had said on more than one occasion that they would have a long and happy life together.
But still she spoke no word, gave no sign that she had heard any of his heart poured out so fully.
Rhys bent his head again upon his knees and let his hands rest limply at his sides. Perhaps they had been too confident that merely removing the arrow and packing the wound would be enough to cure her.
Perhaps he would spend the rest of his days with only her children to remind him of her. Much as he loved them, the very thought of that was almost enough to break his heart.
So many dreams yet to be grasped and turned into life. Rhys would have wept, had he the energy for it. They could not end thusly, those dreams that they had dreamed. They could not end on a barren rock on the northern coast with the wind howling and the waves crashing against the shore. Rhys simply could not bring himself to believe that their chance was already past and that his life would stretch out before him with Gwen not in it.
Nay, he would not even allow himself to think it. Gwen would awaken in time. She had to.
He knew he would not survive if she did not.
He felt something skitter across his foot and he cursed. That was all he needed, rats now to plague him.
The rat was bold enough to try again, and Rhys seized it by the tail.
Only it was no tail he held. It was a finger.
He whipped his head up. The motion almost sent him toppling forward onto his lady. It might have, had she not tightened her grip upon his hand.
“Rhys,” she whispered, stretching, then catching her breath at the pain. “The arrow?”
He almost shuddered with relief. She was
speaking. She remembered what had befallen her.
“The arrow is out, my love,” he said, feeling the tears stream down his face.
She smiled and the sight of it broke what heart he had left.
“I’ve been . . . napping?” She yawned, as if she’d been doing nothing more than just that. She looked at him and frowned. “You need . . . one.”
“A rest? Aye, my love, I suppose I could.”
She shifted, but flinched at the movement of her injured shoulder. “It pains me.”
Rhys stretched himself out and carefully placed his arm over his lady. “Rest then, my love,” he said. “I’ll not leave your side.”
“Pleasant dreams,” she whispered.
“If you only knew,” he said with feeling. That they would have another chance to dream was not a gift he would take lightly.
He waited until his lady had drifted back off to sleep before he allowed himself to relax. She held his hand still and her grip was strong and sure. He knew he would have to rise soon and inform those without that Gwen had awoken, seemingly sound of mind and body, but for the moment he could do nothing but lie beside her and fair drown in the wave of gratitude that washed over him.
Gwen stirred, murmured his name, then slept again.
Rhys closed his own eyes and sighed in relief.
48
Six months later . . .
Gwen worked steadily upon the parchment, copying carefully the ingredients and amounts she had been given And once she was finished, she sat back and smiled at the child standing next to her chair.
“There,” she said, satisfied. “A proper addition to your grandsire’s manuscript.” She smiled at the girl. “This is a potion of your own making, is it not?”
“Aye, my lady,” the child answered.
“’Tis very palatable,” Gwen said with a smile. “And I should know as I have ingested enough of it over the past few fortnights.”
The child blushed and Gwen smiled. The girl was never boastful of her skill, but Gwen knew from her own experience that it was great. They were blessed to have such a healer there with them. And, most important, the child could brew a potion that contained no specks of unmentionable substances—or at least none that Gwen could see. That was enough to convince her that this was a healer they would wish to keep about them as long as they could.