by Lynn Kurland
“To my mother’s solar,” Alain commanded. “Fitzgeralds! Finish your duties, then put yourselves at the wench’s doorway and see she doesn’t go anywhere else.”
Gwen gaped at the two blond giants who stepped from the great hall and came down the steps as one. Admittedly she hadn’t been at Ayre but a pair of days, and she had pleaded pains in her head at every opportunity that she might miss the filth of the great hall, but she should have noticed the two before her.
Twins, they were; identical pillars of ruthlessness, and surely possessed by foul demons as well. Who knew what was left of the twisted soul who had been split to make its home in two bodies? Why hadn’t someone drowned them both while they could?
She bolted past them with a squeak. She slipped and slid across the rushes in the great hall but didn’t slow her pace. Once she reached the stairwell, she scraped the bottom of her filched boots on the lowest step, then climbed the steps as quickly as she dared. She gained the solar, then paused at the door to look back down the passageway and make certain the demons weren’t following her.
All clear, but she had no idea how long that would last. How many duties did they have? She entered the solar and closed the door behind her. She didn’t envy Rhys the besting of those two, for best them he would need to if they were to leave Ayre.
Perhaps she should take her courage in hand and find him before the devils sent to guard her could take up their posts outside her door. It would certainly save his strength. She suspected he had little enough of it at present to spare.
She thought on the possibilities for a goodly length of time. She had just decided that perhaps a brief journey to have speech with Rhys would have been a good thing when the door opened. Too late. She turned, steeling herself for the worst.
“Oh,” she said with a scowl as the other soul entered, “’tis only you.”
A lad of no more than fourteen summers made her low bow and then straightened, grinning. “You overwhelm me with your delight at my arrival.”
“I was expecting someone else,” she grumbled. “How did you manage to slip past my guards?”
“None there yet, though it wouldn’t have mattered. I would have told them Alain had sent me.”
That made sense enough, she supposed. John was Alain’s youngest brother and as much unlike Alain as she was. At least he didn’t look to have come out of the morning’s events any worse for the wear. He’d been the one to find clothes for her. He had also given her much advice on how to walk like a lad. Perhaps she had been too quick a student. If she’d looked more like a girl, Rhys perhaps might have recognized her more quickly and they both could have avoided their encounters with Alain’s temper.
“Sir Rhys is here,” John announced. “I saw him in the great hall.”
He was as enamored of the man as she was, she noted with another scowl. John had fostered with her father, then remained at Segrave at her mother’s request, leaving Gwen amply acquainted with John’s worship of the gallant Sir Rhys. John had the most amazing talent for ferreting out the most insignificant details about the man. Where he came by all his information was still something of a mystery, but she suspected he acquired most of it by eavesdropping either in the stables or the garrison hall. She hadn’t allowed herself to believe that John had exaggerated either Rhys’s fierceness or his skill. She was as ready to believe any and all tales of the man as Alain’s brother was.
Except, of course, for those rumors that he wanted no wife.
“You’ll not believe what has happened to me,” John said, fair frothing at the mouth. “Ask me what happened but moments before. Make haste and ask me.”
“Did you see Sir Rhys?”
John made a sound of impatience. “I told you I had. This is more glorious even than that. Ask me what could be more glorious than that.”
Gwen sighed. “What could be—”
“Well, as you know,” John interrupted, “your mother bid me remain by your side that I might report to her your antics—”
“John!” As if she wanted to be reminded that her mother had saddled her with a keeper!
“And once I realized you were to wed Alain so soon and knew I would be continuing on here at Ayre,” he continued animatedly, “I found myself at a loss as to what to do with myself. There was the thought of immediately earning my spurs, of course. ’Tisn’t unheard of at such a tender age. Sir Rhys himself had earned his at ten-and-four, and by King Phillip’s own hand you remember, though was against the wishes of my father, who was his master at the time, but who was he to argue with the king of France—”
“Who indeed?” she muttered as John drew another great breath for more speaking. She knew all of that, of course, but it never hurt to hear it all again. It helped remind her that Rhys was infinitely capable of extricating himself, and her as well, from any impossible situation.
Or so she hoped.
“So, I supposed that it was possible to be knighted so young, but to be sure I haven’t Sir Rhys’s skill as yet, though ’tisn’t because I haven’t worked very hard to acquire it, as you know from having watched me in the lists where I spend most of my time—”
“The event, John. The glorious and noteworthy event that just transpired!” Saints, but there were times the lad could babble on more expertly than the giddiest of serving girls.
John took a deep breath and with great ceremony announced his news. “I am to serve him.”
“Whom?”
“Sir Rhys,” he said, his joy fair exploding from him. “Can you believe my marvelous fortune?”
“And Alain said as much? In those words?” John had certainly wasted no time in realizing his desire. Would that she could do the same.
“He said, ‘I don’t care what you do, John. Serve the devil for all I care, just stay out from underfoot.’ I took that as permission.”
“And the chivalrous Sir Rhys? What did he have to say about this?”
For the first time since he’d burst in upon her, John looked the faintest bit unsure. “He seemed rather absorbed with downing a goodly quantity of ale, so I thought it wise to approach him with the glad tidings after supper.”
“A sensible choice.”
“I thought so, too.”
Gwen paced the short distance to her window, then turned and leaned back against it.
“Why is he here?” she asked. She knew the answer from Rhys’s own lips, of course, but there was no harm in hearing what tales John had heard.
“Sir Rhys? Why, my father sent for him. Likely to bid Sir Rhys farewell before he passed.”
“Perhaps your sire thought Rhys was finished with his business in France.”
“Oh, nay,” John disagreed. “I daresay Sir Rhys planned on another full year of tourneying, at least. He needs the gold, you see, to buy his land.”
His wife, Gwen corrected silently. She cleared her throat. “You told me several months ago that he had gone to France to make a name for himself.”
“Aye, and to earn gold to buy the land he wants. He has no title and to be sure his sire’s antics have done nothing to aid him in acquiring one by name alone.”
“Hmmm.” She nodded, as if she understood what John was talking about. This was a tale she knew nothing about. She’d heard rumors about Rhys’s sire coming to a bad end, but she had no idea what he’d done to arrive there.
“Why then,” she asked carefully, “doesn’t he spend his gold on a title for himself and then seek out a rich heiress to wed?” She realized with something of a start that while she was almost certain Rhys would have her or die in the attempt, she had no idea how he planned to accomplish the deed. ’Tis all in the details, my love, her mother always said. Gwen was beginning to understand what she’d meant by it.
“He’s given some thought to doing that,” John informed her, as if he’d been privy to Sir Rhys’s most intimate deliberations with himself. “Of course he’ll have a wife in time, but that isn’t what concerns him the most and it surely isn’t what concerns him
now. He needs land. Unless,” he said with a frown, “unless she came with a large dowry. Then he might be persuaded to burden himself with a bride. And I suppose only the richest would suffice.”
Gwen thought of her dowry and of the enormous estates it entailed. Aye, Rhys would not suffer by having her. But would he manage it?
As she stood in her small chamber, she began to wonder just what her worth to him might be if she came with just herself.
Nothing?
She shook her head sharply. He’d just bent himself under the rod for her sake. He’d promised her several years ago that he would find a way to have her. Surely he hadn’t lied about something so serious.
“I’m certain,” she said, prying a bit further, “that if he met the right woman, he would wed her despite her poverty.”
John looked at her as if she’d just sprouted horns. “Of course he wouldn’t,” he said promptly. “What good would she be to him then?”
There was no point in trying to explain to John the finer points of chivalry. He should have spent more time eavesdropping at her mother’s solar door.
She turned him around by the shoulders and pointed him toward the door. “Adieu, little lad. Go nip at your new master’s heels.”
“He wouldn’t wed a woman with nothing, Gwen. He has to have land. He speaks of nothing else—”
She pushed John out the door and shut it behind him. He couldn’t be right. After all, what else would Rhys say? That he only wanted to wed for love?
He’d said as much to her. The size of her dowry was something she had no control over. She wouldn’t begrudge him the wanting of it. He had no land of his own. Why not have hers?
They would have to have speech together, and the sooner the better. Perhaps she would do well to have a small wash and become presentable. Her hair was a detriment in its shorn state, especially given how much of her ears it revealed, but she could unearth a wimple from the bottom of her traveling trunk. Surely there would be a clean one lurking there.
Then again, perhaps the tidying of herself could wait yet awhile. The events of the day had caught up with her, and she felt a sudden weariness descend. She sat down on a stool near the window and closed her eyes, giving herself over to contemplation of her gallant champion. It was better to first shore up her courage by imagining how it would be when she and Rhys actually managed to flee from Ayre. She propped her elbow on the edge of the window, rested her chin on her closed fists, and concentrated her considerable powers of imagination on the memory of his kiss.
And to think it could quite possibly happen within hours.
Perhaps her destiny had taken a turn for the better that day.
8
Rhys finished his ale and helped himself to another cup. It was quenching his thirst but hardly dulling the pain in his back. Not even his thoughts, absorbing as they were, were enough to distract him completely from the discomfort. But at least giving them his attention was more interesting than concentrating on the throbbing.
He could hardly believe Bertram of Ayre was dead. Had it been a natural death? He could believe many things of Alain, but murder was not one of them. His lust for the title was not so great. But there was always Rollan to consider. With Rollan, anything was possible.
Rhys frowned. Perhaps he should have left France sooner. Once Bertram’s messenger had found him at the tourney, Rhys had collected his ransoms, gathered up the rest of his gold, and deposited it with his mother for safe-keeping. That had taken him a se’nnight, then he’d wasted another se’nnight traveling to the shore. After that he’d sacrificed a fortnight to pass through London and leave a bottle of costly claret with the king’s steward. He hadn’t even paused for a bit of bathing along the way, not that such a thing was fashionable in England. He scratched his cheek in annoyance. Shaving would be the very first thing he would do once his back was seen to.
He sighed. A pity he hadn’t known Bertram’s true condition, else he would have made more haste. He vowed to discover the truth behind Bertram’s demise in time. For now, all he could do was assume Bertram had known he was failing quickly and had called Rhys to his side to inform him how he would exact Rhys’s final year of service.
Rhys scowled and took another mighty pull from his cup. By the saints, the very last thing he wanted to do was stand at Alain of Ayre’s elbow and steady him before he made a fool of himself. And it was something he wouldn’t be doing if he had his way. Bertram might look down upon him from heaven and forgive him the lapse. Far better that Gwen should be out of Alain’s sights than Rhys fulfill a vow of service to one who was dead and perhaps wouldn’t know the difference. In this instance his honor could be damned for all the heed he would pay it.
He put his shoulders back and flinched at the movement. The time for seeking out Ayre’s healer had come. He rose carefully and turned, then found his way blocked by two expansive chests with beefy arms folded over them. Rhys looked up, no small feat given his own formidable height, and met the gazes of two men who were even taller than he.
Despite their advanced age of at least five-and-thirty winters, the identical features were as smooth as marble, and just that unyielding. Long blond hair flowed over impossibly broad shoulders and great paws of hands were tucked under arms, hands that easily could have snapped a back in two without any effort.
The Fitzgerald brothers returned his stare with those great, unblinking eyes of theirs and not a flicker of emotion on their faces. Rhys folded his own arms over his chest and stared back at them. It would take a warrior of the most courageous mettle, the surest hand, and the stoutest heart to face these two and come away the victor. Rhys quickly took stock of his weapons and the damage already done to his poor form that day. He cursed silently. Besting these two would only come at great cost, but it might very well turn out to be something he couldn’t avoid—
“Told you he wouldn’t write.”
Rhys blinked. One of the statues had spoken.
“Young ones never do,” the other grumbled.
“That is the thanks we get for all our tender care of him,” the first added, a small pucker of irritation beginning to form between his eyebrows. “Looking after him when he was a wee lad.”
“Tending his cuts and bruises.”
“Making sure he ate as he should.”
“Spinning yarns of Viking splendor for him every night so he would have glorious dreams of war and bloodshed.”
The first’s expression had turned very unpleasant. “I vow, Connor, ’tis enough to make a man rethink his desire for seed to carry his sword after he’s gone.”
“Aye, Jared, you have it aright. Children. Bah.”
Rhys smiled weakly. “I was busy,” he offered.
“Too busy for a handful of words on a scrap of parchment?” Connor demanded.
“Or scrap of skin,” Jared suggested. “I would have been well satisfied with that.”
“I was much consumed with traveling about earning the gold I need,” Rhys said.
The twins were seemingly unimpressed. Connor’s scowl was formidable. By the thoughtful look on Jared’s face, Rhys suspected he was still contemplating the possibilities of skin as a missive instrument.
“I was never bested with the sword,” Rhys continued. “And I held over a hundred souls for ransom—”
“And the lance?” Connor barked.
Rhys gritted his teeth. “Bested once.”
“Once?” Connor fair shouted “Saints above, boy, did I teach you nothing?”
“It was once, Connor—”
“Once?” Connor repeated, in much the same tone. “Once is one time too many! Kill, or slink off in shame. Vanquish, or don a hairshirt for a full year. Humiliate, or forgo the pleasures of the flesh for two years—”
Rhys wanted to put his hands over his ears and disappear under a handy table. “I know, I know,” he groaned. “Saints, but I’ve heard the list for what feels like every day of my life! I’ve too much to see to today for the listening to it yet aga
in.”
“See?” Connor grumbled to his brother. “These young ones are always in haste. Never time to sit and speak of their travels to those less fortunate.”
“Aye,” Jared agreed sadly. “Or to quaff a companionable cup or two with the aged and infirm—”
“Oh, by all the bloody saints!” Rhys exclaimed. “I traveled, I humiliated, I vanquished. Satisfied?”
Connor’s expression darkened considerably. “Should I cuff his ears, brother?”
“Turn him over your knee and leave welts on his arse,” Jared advised. “Such cheek and disrespect from a little lad deserves no less.”
“I’m a score-and-four, if you’ll remember,” Rhys growled. “And if you’ll also remember, you haven’t executed either of those threats on my poor form for the last twelve years. Since I was ten and two,” he added as he watched Jared begin to count surreptitiously on his fingers. “Not since the day I bested you both, one with each hand.”
“Aye, and the proudest day of my life it was,” Jared said, reaching up to dab away a bit of moisture from the corner of his eye. “Me with your right and Connor with your left.”
“Aye,” Connor said, beaming with paternal pride, “and using all my own stratagem on me. That little feint to the left—”
“The forward thrust—”
“The graceful backhand sweep aiming for the knees—”
“The dodge and disembowel parry—”
“The delicate slice across the throat—”
Rhys knew just how long the list was, so he endeavored to refocus his former nursemaids’ attentions on the present moment.
“If you’ll excuse me, I’ve a need for Master Socrates.”
“In the cellar,” Jared said. “Lost his place near the weaver’s shed. You can imagine why.”
Rhys could. It only made sense that Alain would go through the keep and do his best to make everyone as miserable as possible.
Connor looked at Rhys critically. “You’re wobbling.”
“An encounter with Ayre’s strips of leather.”
“Ah,” Connor said wisely. “Couldn’t guard your tongue, eh?”