Richard gazed at him pointedly. “Do you really think I would send Ryan to her death? Have more faith in me than that.” He moved away from the vizier and stood in front of his miserable officer. “I was there for her birth, Thomas. You permitted me to name her Ryan Elizabeth. And do you recall why I named her that?”
Richard was trying to draw the man out, but Thomas was unwilling to be comforted. “Because Ryan means ‘little king’ in Gaelic,” he muttered. “You called her Little King Elizabeth for years until she begged you not to.”
“Only when she grew to a woman,” Richard’s droopy eye was twinkling. “’Tis undignified for a young lady to be called by a childhood name in public.” He put a strong hand on Thomas’ shoulder. “Given that I am so fond of her, do you think I would lightly consider Dennis d’Vant’s proposal?”
Thomas had to shake his head. “I suppose not, my lord.”
It was the answer Richard sought. He left Thomas and went back to his desk. In front of him laid a partially unrolled vellum. He fingered it as he spoke.
“Dennis d’Vant seems to be different than his forefathers,” he said quietly. “There are more reasons than he has expressed. He proposes a marriage to end the hostilities once and for all. Why do you suppose he has done this?”
Thomas shrugged; he found he was fairly weak with the realization that the decision on his daughter’s future had already been made. “We heavily damaged St. Austell with our last siege. Perhaps he is simply tired of war.”
“A d’Vant tired of war?” Richard shook his head at the improbability. “How many times has St. Austell been rebuilt in the past year?”
“At least twice to some extent, but it seems as if there is always some sort of repair or building going on.”
“Enough to bankrupt them?”
A light went on in Thomas’ eyes. “You are suggesting they can no longer afford to keep their war efforts financed?”
“It would seem logical.”
“But what of St. Austell harbor? Surely it brings in heavy tariffs.”
“St. Austell Castle is enormous, as is her army. It would take a king’s ransom to keep them going.”
“But what of her tolls on the road to and from Penzance?”
“Not many people stray that far into the wilds of Cornwall with a battle going on between Launceston and St. Austell, and certainly not enough people to support a war machine of that size.” He smiled rather smugly. “What we could not accomplish with our constant sieges, Thomas, we can accomplish with an arraigned marriage. A hefty dowry would come with a royal bride.”
“But Ryan isn’t of royal blood.”
An odd flicker came to the earl’s eye, but it faded unnoticed. “She is of my choosing,” he said quietly. “And I shall supply her dowry. Therefore, she is a royal bride.”
Thomas thought a moment. “So d’Vant proposes peace and in exchange, he receives a wife and a sizable sum of money.”
Richard nodded firmly. “That is why I said Dennis seems different from his forefathers. He’s willing to play the political game in order to survive. Rodrick was either too stupid or too immersed in his legacy to realize that.”
Thomas felt marginally better. He did not know why he should, but he did. Now he had to break the news to his daughter. He knew she would not take it well. Wearily, he rose from his chair, noting from the light filtering in through the lancet window that the sun was setting. Through the gray cloud cover, it was difficult to tell. He felt as if his heart was gray and cloudy also.
“I suppose I should inform my daughter of her destiny,” he said quietly.
“Indeed.”
Thomas sighed in resignation; Christ, he wasn’t looking forward to this in the least. Moving through the door that led to the darkened halls of Launceston, he silently practiced the words he would use to describe to his daughter, explaining how crucial her role was in the peace of Cornwall. He truthfully did not think there were any words strong enough to convince her.
He was right.
*
“Thomas, I forbid it!” Richard was furious.
“We have no choice, my lord.”
“Of course we have! I forbid you to present Ryan in this… this state!”
Thomas sighed patiently. “You do not understand, my lord. If I untie her, she will run.”
“She will not!” Richard shrieked. “I forbid it!”
“She will, I assure you.”
“Then I shall make it a royal command!”
“She will defy you.”
It was the afternoon following the receipt of d’Vant’s proposal. Richard stormed about his solar, marching over the luxurious Persian rug that nearly covered the length of the room. He stomped around in fine slippers crafted in Assyria, a robe and tunic made in Italy, and hose that were made from the most amazing linen from Egypt. But the fury on his expression was pure Plantagenet.
“Thomas, you cannot present her to her husband like an animal on a leash,” he beseeched him. “What will d’Vant think? That I have saddled him with the wildest, most disobedient woman I could find?”
Thomas nodded calmly to the ravings. “I am aware of that, my lord. If you wish to speak with her one last time…”
The earl waved his hands irritably. “No, it would not do any good. She will only ignore me, or cry like she did the last time.” He shook his fist at his captain. “I swear, Thomas, if she wasn’t the loveliest thing on God’s good earth, I’d….”
He could not finish. Thomas wriggled his eyebrows in understanding. “That is about as far as I get before I cannot finish my sentence, as well.” He lifted his shoulders helplessly. “She is so much like her mother, in every way. I know I should be harsher with her, but…”
Richard was torn too. He had watched the Lady Ryan Elizabeth de Bretagne grow from a fat, beautiful baby into a woman of such magnificence that to gaze upon her literally took his breath away. Truly, she looked like an angel; hair of amber tumbled down her back in waves, and spectacular eyes of a golden-brown could cast a spell so strong that no man was resistant. In truth, the color of her eyes was like a brown cats-eye stone that Richard had set in a ring. It was a piece of jewelry that had come from the Holy Land with his uncle. The stone seemed to change color in the sunlight, going from a rich brown to a spectacular gold depending on the angle of the rays. Ryan’s eyes were like that, too; they changed with her mood accordingly.
And God only knew, she was moody. The earl’s men had called her a spitfire since she was small. She was also stubborn, willful, and extremely difficult at times, but she could also be the sweetest creature on the face of the earth. Truly, Lady Ryan was a paradox who now belonged to Sir Dennis d’Vant. God have mercy, Richard thought.
“Well,” the earl was calming, realizing that he was in a difficult situation and shouting wasn’t going to help. “It would seem she must be reasoned with not to run away if we untie the rope from her ankle. What about Lyla?”
Thomas shook his head. “Her cousin would more likely help Ryan than us. Hell, if we allow Lyla, she will untie the rope and they’ll both run off. We shall never find them!”
Richard grimaced. “Women,” he growled. “What to do, then?”
Thomas sighed thoughtfully. “Speak to her again, I suppose. Extract a promise that she will not run away if we untie the rope. Convince her how foolish she looks being presented to her future husband like a rabbit in a snare. Truthfully, I know naught else to do.”
Richard pondered that. Then he nodded firmly, as if coming to some sort of decision. “Indeed. I shall speak to her common sense, then.”
“She is only seventeen. She hasn’t much.”
“She has enough.”
“And if that does not work, my lord?”
Richard would not look at him. “Then we let d’Vant deal with her. Suppose we use that as a threat if she doesn’t behave?”
Thomas was both horrified and encouraged by the suggestion. “It might very well work, my lord.”
Before Richard could say another word, a shriek erupted from the corridor outside the solar. Servants were running about, howling, and Thomas stepped into the hall curiously. One woman, dressed in a severe wimple and soiled brown robes, nearly ran into him in her haste.
“My lord!” she screeched. “The lady has escaped us!”
“Damn!” Thomas pushed past the woman with Richard close on his heels.
The keep of Launceston was three stories in height, rather small and circular in shape. On the bottom floor were the kitchens and a chamber in which Thomas slept. The second floor held the great hall and Richard’s half-moon shaped solar. The third floor held the earl’s lavish bower, as well as a chamber where Ryan and her cousin, Lyla, slept. There were narrow spiral staircases running between floors, which made running up and down them difficult with armor and weapons. Thomas struggled to maneuver these stairs, made even more trying as harried servants attempted to descend, bumping into him and the earl. It seemed that the entire castle was in an uproar, and for good reason.
As he knew, Ryan’s chamber was empty. There were no signs of a struggle, not as if she had fought her way out of the rope that tied her ankle to the bed. In fact, both the rope and his daughter were missing and a light of understanding came to his eye just as Richard rushed up behind him.
“There is no sign of her,” the earl swore softly under his breath. “No one has seen her. What do you suppose…?”
Thomas put up a quelling hand before gesturing strongly towards the two lancet windows cut into the wall of the chamber. They were just big enough for a young lady to leap from. Before he could stop the earl, the man rushed to one of the windows and hung over the ledge, nearly pitching himself out in his haste.
“Damnation!” he roared. “There is a rope on the ground below!”
Thomas had suspected as much. He moved towards the other window, much more slowly than the earl had, and peered to the green slope below. “We should have put her in the vault,” he muttered. “’Twould have been safer.”
The earl grunted, running his fingers through his dark greasy hair, wondering aloud how he was going to explain this to Dennis d’Vant. But a distinct sound roused him from his thoughts, a rhythmic click splattering across the wooden floor, and the earl suddenly pitched forward onto the overstuffed bed.
“Damnation!” he roared, rubbing his arse where Ryan’s pet goat had charged him. “I am going to murder that devil of a goat, do you hear?”
Thomas scooped up the medium-sized white goat. The animal bleated, knowing Thomas, and did not struggle. Wearily, he plopped it back onto the little pile of rags, where the animal slept curled up like a pet cat directly next to his daughter’s bed. Bucephalus, her goat, expended his aggression and laid down obediently.
“We must find my daughter,” Thomas shook his head. “If we can.”
With Dennis d’Vant due to arrive within the hour, Thomas could feel panic nipping at his heels. He had to find Ryan before the entire peace process was ruined. And he had to convince her that running wasn’t going to absolve her of her destiny. Come what may, Ryan was to become the enemy’s wife.
*
“Faster, Lyla!” Ryan was panting. The affliction that had gripped her lungs since childhood often made physical exertion difficult, just as it was now. It was a struggle simply to breathe, but she was determined to ignore the discomfort. “We must make it to the abbey!”
Lady Lyla de Bretagne’s freckled cheeks were red, her silky auburn curls sticking to her damp, pretty face. “I am coming as fast as I can,” she huffed. “We have been running for miles!”
In truth, Ryan was glad that her cousin gave her an excuse to slow. It was becoming increasingly difficult to draw breath and she knew, from experience, that she had to rest if the tightening in her chest was to go away. So her pace slowed and she collapsed to her knees in the middle of the frozen meadow they had been traversing. Around them, winter held Cornwall in its grip and what was normally a green, lush landscape was now kissed with the dead of frost. The unfortunate thing was that Ryan’s escape from her bower had been so quick and foolhardy that she hadn’t taken anything of warmth with her. All she had been concerned with was sliding down the rope and trying not to break her neck in the process. Lyla had waited at the bottom, while a well-paid servant had secured the rope at the top. It hadn’t taken Ryan much coinage or charm to convince the poor maid to help her when no one else would.
So now she was free. But free for what? Running about a dead wilderness with her whining cousin in tow. And where were they going? To an abbey not far to the north, a tiny place called St. Perpetua. The nuns there would give her sanctuary; she knew it. She only hoped they would not make her do penance for disobeying her father and the earl.
Ryan’s golden-brown eyes drifted over the landscape, as her lungs sucked in much-needed air. Truly, she’d never been this far out of Launceston without an escort. But she wasn’t fearful; well, not really. No one, not even bandits, would be out in this foul weather. Clad in a rich gown of crimson wool with warm woolen undergarments, she wasn’t truly cold, yet, because of the running they had been doing. But she knew she would be soon, especially when the sun set. It was imperative they reach St. Perpetua’s Abbey before sundown.
“Ryan,” Lyla said, still struggling to catch her breath. “Your lips are blue. Perhaps we should….”
Ryan waved her off, though she was feeling faint and her hands were becoming numb. “I am fine,” she wheezed. “We can make it just a bit further.”
Lyla stared at her cousin, having long since realized that helping her escape had not been such a wise thing. She could not believe she had let Ryan talk her into it. Firstly, Uncle Thomas and the earl would not be pleased. Secondly, Dennis d’Vant would not be pleased. And thirdly, her cousin’s health wasn’t very good, especially in the winter months. She was prone to attacks of wheezing, which the earl’s physic treated with great care. But the physic was back at Launceston, and Ryan’s wheezing appeared to be getting worse. Lyla began to feel a great deal of fear for her cousin’s health, enough to risk the wrath of her uncle upon returning home to seek help.
“It’s cold,” she said. “Ryan, we should not have run off. We should go back so the physic can…”
Ryan rose unsteadily to her feet. Her head swam and her chest tightened like a vise as she struggled across the meadow towards the distant trees. “I am not going back,” she said between gasps. “The nuns at the abbey can take care of me. I will be in no better place to be healed than in the House of God.”
Lyla ran up beside her, noticing how sickly pale Ryan was in spite of her flushed cheeks. Her golden-brown eyes were unnaturally bright, and the luscious amber hair, normally so combed and cared for, hung wildly about her face. It was straggling in her eyes and Ryan did not even bother to push it away. It would seem that Ryan’s determination to reach sanctuary simply to avoid marriage to Dennis d’Vant had no limits. But, then again, Ryan’s stubbornness and determination was legendary.
“Please, Ryan,” Lyla begged softly. “We should go back. We should simply apologize to the earl and your father, and all will be well, I promise.”
Ryan did not look at her. “If you are so cowardly, then you may go home. I shall not hold a grudge.”
“I am not cowardly,” Lyla insisted, stung. “But you are growing ill. What if the nuns cannot take care of you?”
The world was dimming in Ryan’s vision, but she ignored it. She wasn’t going to let her foolish health deter her from what she had to do. But with every step, her breathing became tighter and her vision darkened. She had to make it to the abbey. She had to make it!
It was her last coherent thought before the world suddenly slipped away and she felt something very cold on her face. She had no idea that she had fallen forward, striking her face on the frozen dead grass. She could hear Lyla calling to her and thought she might have felt her cousin trying to shake her, but she could not be sure. All she knew was that her chest wa
s dangerously tight, and she could not breathe. It was an effort not to surrender to the comfort of not breathing, to give into the deadly consequences that threatened. A few more seconds and the world went completely black.
*
There was a figure dressed in a green gown stumbling towards them across the frozen tundra of Cornwall. The knights of the House of d’Vant gazed at the distant figure, watching it run, fall, pick itself up, and then run some more. It was a strange sight. Plodding along on the northern road at the head of a fifty-man escort, the knights watched the sight with mounting curiosity.
“What in the hell is that?” The knight’s name was Riston de Titouan. He was a striking man with dark hair, blue eyes, and a sarcastic wit. He sneered as he watched the figure flail about. “Some sort of a lunatic?”
“I could not begin to guess.” The warrior riding to his right chewed his lip; he always chewed his lip. Sir Clive de Camville removed a mail glove and picked at the skin on the inside of his mouth. “Kill it. Whatever it is, it brings a bad omen. I can feel it.”
“Omen,” Riston snorted. “Everything is a bad omen to you.”
Clive spit a bloody wad onto the ground below and replaced his gauntlet. “Of course. If you had half a brain, you’d understand this.”
Riston rolled his eyes. “You are as skittish as a woman.”
As the two knights embarked on an insult-filled conversation, the third knight watched the approaching figure with the gaze of a hawk sighting prey. His eyes were gray, the color of the angry sky above, and wisps of fine blond hair escaped from beneath his helm to tickle his forehead. He did not keep with the Norman custom of fine-shaving his face, instead choosing to cultivate a well-manicured beard. In fact, the thick hedge of blond whiskers only served to enhance his square jaw and masculine face. He was an enormous man, standing several inches over six feet and sporting arms the size of oak branches.
“It’s a woman,” the massive knight said, his voice rumbling like the distant thunder.
“How can you tell, Dennis?”
“She has long hair.”
Riston squinted. His sight was poor at long distances. “I thought it was a scarf around her head.”