“Nay, beau sire.” Her fingers tightened on the slender string lacing together the neck of his tunic. “There is more than just the night I seek.” He shifted with a slight tensing of muscles, his knuckles grazing against the bare skin above the neckline of her cotte.
She opened her mouth to say it quickly before she lost the courage she’d summoned, but a sudden clatter and yelp from just outside the tent drew his attention. He released the silk, and his hand went to the hilt of the sword always at his side.
The sound of quarreling split the air, Biagio’s and Elspeth’s voices loud with irritation as they burst into the tent. They both stopped and turned in unison, appealing to her.
“Sasha, tell this foolish boy that bread and cheese are not enough to break the fast of a hungry man—”
“Nay, ‘tis what we usually have,” Biagio retorted. “Why change now?”
Sasha narrowed her eyes at them. She wasn’t fooled for an instant. The interruption was as carefully planned and maneuvered as a dancer’s steps. “Bread and cheese are fine,” she snapped. “Bring it and go.”
No, my child, not and leave you alone with the hungry lion . . .
“I insist upon serving you,” Elspeth said aloud, a smile on her lips and determination gleaming in her eyes. “‘Tis my duty.”
“Your duty,” she said shortly, “is to obey my wishes. Leave the meal here and go on with your other tasks.”
“Our tasks are done, and we are at your pleasure, signorina,” Biagio said and reached outside the tent to produce his lute with a flourish. “Sweet music soothes the stomach and the air.” He crossed to the side of the tent and sat down cross-legged. “You won’t even know I’m here. Think of me as a little mouse in the corner.”
“I think of you as a big rat in the barrel,” she muttered, and Rhys laughed.
“Lady fair, I think we are being chaperoned. Do not disappoint them.” His hand moved to caress the nape of her neck, lifting red silk to allow his fingers access to her bare skin, making her shiver and Biagio glare at them. Rhys smiled and shifted his hand to rest on her shoulder, a silent statement of possession. Biagio made a choking sound, and Elspeth’s face paled. Sasha stood still, at a loss. His hand fell away after a moment, and he took a step to one side. “Though I appreciate the efforts on my behalf, I must decline your offer. There are other matters that command my attention for now.”
He turned, his eyes drawing her gaze so that she stared up at him. “It seems as if I will be in Edwardstowe longer than first thought, flower. Perhaps we will meet again.”
The message was quite clear. She managed a nod and a smile, a murmur of assent, and he was gone, striding past Elspeth’s disapproving countenance to duck out the tent and disappear down the footpath alongside the priory walls.
Nothing was said aloud for a long moment. Sasha had no intention of listening to the accusations and reproaches that she knew were imminent as soon as yon knight was far away. She tugged the shift from her neck and shoulders to fling it to the chair. Her gaze landed on the pouch she used to gather herbs. She turned in a swift motion, muttered her intention to gather some herbs before the morning sun wilted the best flowers, then was out the open flap of the tent before Elspeth or Biagio recovered enough to stop her.
She fairly flew over dew-damp grass, bells on her feet tinkling as she ran through the trees, light filtering down through overhead branches in shifting threads. It was best anyway. She had not thought he’d shake free of the poppy haze so early and wanted more time to plan her words. He would not take lightly her intention to hold him to his pledge and would most likely be angry at first. But he was an honorable knight, and in the end, he would keep his oath.
Flower, he called her. Sweet flower. Fair flower. Blossom. She stopped, fingers shaking slightly as she reached out to lift the weight of a hawthorn blossom in her hand. The pale white flower cupped delicate shades of yellow in its center, tiny fragile petals in trembling shades of color, sweetly scented white against dark green leaves. Children often ate the new leaves, savoring the nutty flavor. Flower . . . Echoes from the past, the fading, bittersweet memory of another man calling her flower. Her father, all wise and powerful, dark and handsome and smiling at her with indulgent affection, calling her zahra or zahrat saghira. Little flower.
She released the tight clump of hawthorn blossoms, careful not to touch the wicked thorns along the stalk. Enough of that. All that was left of her former life was Elspeth. And the prophecy that had promised her sweet vengeance and redemption. It burned inside her, a constant reminder, a determined objective. It would be done, and the knight of the gryffin would be her champion, as the prophecy had promised.
A fierce warrior will come upon you in a wood, a gryffin that is half eagle, half lion, and this man will restore to you that which has been lost.
Yea, he was the one. She would hold him to his oath, and it would be as prophesied.
RHYS SWORE SOFTLY. He was beset with ill fortune. Nothing had gone right since his return to England. Perhaps he should have stayed in Palestine with Richard, dodging Greek fire and arrows and having a generally fine time. It was certainly less dangerous.
“Grant pardon, m’lord,” Sir Robert said with a pained glance, “but I knew you must be told.”
“Yea. Out of the new men, how many are dead or disabled?”
“Near a score. The messenger awaits in the tavern, should you wish to ask him more questions. He was weary, and I bade him take meat and drink while I searched you out, m’lord.”
His head still hurt. And his stomach had not yet settled from the night’s abuse. Even his skin itched, and his mood was going from merely ill-tempered, to savagely uncomfortable. But it was not Sir Robert’s fault that Rhys drank so much wine even his eyelashes hurt. He nodded briefly.
“I’ll search him out, Sir Robert. Go rest. You do not look well. I don’t need you to come down with the same sickness as the others.”
If planned by an enemy, things could not have gone much worse. If he were as Brian, fearful of elves and faeries, he’d probably be wearing the tooth of a saint and the shinbone of the pope to keep away evil spells. But the misfortunes that had befallen him were too ordinary to blame on anything but fate and villains. Outlaws were commonplace on English roads, and the scourge that afflicted his men was found all too often in armies. And now, the men he’d hired in London to join his forces in Glynllew had courted disaster. Less than a score had arrived.
“M’lord,” the messenger mumbled around a mouth filled with beef and bread, stumbling to his feet when Rhys approached the table. “Grant pardon . . .”
Rhys waved him back down. “Be seated. You’ve ridden hard and swift to find me and should finish your meal. There’s time enough to hear the bad news.” He was in no hurry. With a lame horse and sick soldiers, he’d be able to do little even if trouble rode directly into the village after him.
The man quickly finished, wiped a sleeve across his mouth and swallowed a gulp of ale, then nodded grimly. “Hertford sent me, my lord.”
Hertford—Richard de Clare was a powerful Norman baron, heir to vast lands in England and Wales. They had met at Windsor, in attendance to Prince John. He nodded at the messenger. “Go on.”
“I am to tell you there’s more than the attack on hired men, m’lord. It has to do with Lord Rhys, Prince of Deheubarth, and the Marcher laws. There is a dispute, brought to the Welsh prince against the lands of Glynllew. It has earned Prince John’s attention.”
Rhys stared at the man a moment, striving for calm, so his voice was quiet. “Tell me of the dispute.”
Clearing his throat, the messenger looked as if he wished to be anywhere else as he said, “There is a dispute as to your right to claim your father’s lands, m’lord. As you have not lived in Wales these past score years, a complaint has been brought that you are not rightful lord.”
/> As his words trailed into awkward silence, Rhys stared at him in the smoky gloom. He shouldn’t be surprised. He’d never thought he would inherit at all, and if not for his father’s and brothers’ deaths, he would not have. The political climate of Wales was changing, influenced as always by the English. He was not ignorant of it, though he’d never thought to return to Wales, so had not closely studied the situation. Hadn’t let himself dwell too long on things Welsh when he’d left that life behind.
Now, all was changing. In his life as in Wales. Even the names of the ruling groups had evolved, changing from the old royalty, to be replaced by a new set of minor rulers. Yea, he was well aware of it, well aware that the Welsh sense of unity with the Britons under King Henry II had evolved into the concept of Welsh separation of tribes. Now, Welshmen were more isolated, blending tribal and pastoral tenants under many tribal lords who fought with each other, battling over scraps of land, cattle, and possessions. But there was a new movement afoot, a move to consolidate the lords under the leadership of Gwynedd, prince of Snowdonia in north Wales—a Welshman, not an English ruler. If not for Lord Rhys of Deheubarth in the south, there would be violent civil war in the land. It was a delicate balance, and the least shift in either direction could swing England and Wales into full-scale war.
And then which side would he choose?
Rhys took a deep breath. “Sir Nicolas of Raglan lays claims to my lands, I presume, but by what authority?”
Shaking his head, the messenger looked around uneasily, as if searching for an escape route. “Nay, m’lord. ‘Tis not Sir Nicolas.”
“No? Then who? I was told Sir Nicolas besieged Glynllew—”
“‘Tis true, m’lord. But at the command of Prince John. Gareth of Glamorgan petitions for title to Glynllew. He claims there is no legitimate lord present, and you are in default.”
Gareth. His mouth set in a hard line. Gareth, his own cousin, would steal Glynllew before he could reach Wales to claim his lands.
“Is there more?” he asked after a moment, and the messenger shook his head.
“Nay, lord. Only that the prince has taken his petition under advisement.”
“My gratitude to Hertford for his warning. I will be prepared.”
Rising from the bench, Rhys dug silver coins from his belt, paid the messenger, and then strode from the tavern toward the stables. He wouldn’t meet the king’s herald. If he did not reach Glynllew soon, it was likely to belong to another man. All these years adrift as a landless knight, selling strength of arms to the highest bidder, belonging to no one and no place, and the promise of stability was tantalizingly close. Yet he may still end his days a nameless hedge knight.
“I was told we lost some of the new men, my lord,” Brian said when Rhys reached the stables. He gestured to the men scattered about on straw pallets and in dusty corners. “But by the morrow, these should be able to ride.”
Rhys nodded, gazing at the men rolled up in blankets; the stench of sickness hung in the air, mingling with the pungent scent of horse droppings and musty hay. “Nearly a score I hired have arrived. I met Sir Clyde outside. He leads them and has promised the rest will follow.”
“These are the routiers who fight for coin?”
“Yea. Morgan tells me my horse is not healed. I must choose between leaving them both here to follow later, or delay. It may be dangerous to delay past the morrow.” He met Brian’s gaze. “There is more to it than you know. My cousin has petitioned the Prince of Deheubarth for title to Glynllew. I’ve been sent on too many errands all over England. I may lose it by default.”
Dismay clouded Brian’s pale eyes, and he shook his head. “Then is Gareth in league with Sir Nicolas? Was it Gareth who set Raglan to besiege your keep, mayhap attack the men you hired to meet us at Glynllew? Or was it Prince John?”
“All seems possible.” Anger stirred, mixed with frustration and a sense of betrayal. He held hard to his temper, schooling body and mind to acceptance, a trick he had learned from an old man taken captive after a particularly brutal battle. Amin’s serenity in the face of disaster had been impressive, but it was difficult to achieve and maintain. He drew in a deep breath.
“Before God, Brian, but if Gareth thinks to steal my birthright, he will have a fight on his hands. I remember him from our childhood, always filching from others.”
“You knew him well, Rhys?” Brian murmured, leaning close, his big shoulder against the heavy oak post.
Rhys nodded. “Yea. In those days, Welsh chieftains roamed about from summer pasture to summer pasture, living in a lightly built hafod that we could easily abandon. Winters, we returned to the milder valleys and hendref, more substantially built homes. Our cattle shared pasture land. Clan members often passed the time together.”
He paused, remembering sunlight, meadows, wooden swords, and mock fights with his brothers and cousins. So long ago. Another lifetime. Another life. His life then had been a transient, pleasant time occasionally disrupted by war, but otherwise fairly tranquil. Or, those were his memories of it. A host of peaceful images, dissected by that shattering moment when his father had called him to the council fire and informed him that he had been promised to the English.
He was a chieftain’s son. Even at eight he’d known better than to wail or protest. So he’d stood there, rigid and disbelieving, listening to his world fall apart around him, barely aware of his mother’s soft cry of anguish or his brothers’ solemn stares of sympathy. There had been no time for lengthy farewells, little time for explanation. The light of the next morning had seen him off, as he was escorted from Wales by the king’s envoy. He’d not seen any of them again, his mother dead of a fever within a year, his father and brothers so recently slain.
If he’d thought leaving Wales hard, his arrival in Henry’s court had been worse. Much worse. Scorned for his Welsh ways and dress, called a savage and a barbarian, shamed for his lack of manners and his wildness, he’d reacted with defiance and anger. He’d often wondered how he would have fared if not for a kind-hearted Englishman who’d taken him under his wing. But now Rhys knew that King Henry had directed that kindness, had foreseen the future of Wales and planned for it by turning Welsh hostages into English knights.
All he had left of Wales was his squire Morgan, and a few memories. And now Glynllew.
He looked up. Brian watched him, and a current of understanding flowed between them that needed no words. The Irish knew much about loss and betrayal. Rhys shrugged.
“The morrow must see us gone from here, Brian. Do you think all the men will be able?”
“Yea, lord. We have only to decide about your horse. He favors his foreleg greatly.” Brian shook his head. “We’ve done all we know. It will most like take time or a miracle.”
“Or a maid who claims knowledge of healing horses.” Rhys smiled slightly when Brian gave him a sharp glance. “Yea, ‘tis the dark maid I mean. I heard her called Sasha, and you will find her in a Saracen’s tent not far behind the priory walls. Bid her bring herbs and skill with her, for I favor Malik to any other mount and would prefer riding him to take back Glynllew.”
Brian’s reluctance was evident, but he nodded. “Yea, lord. I’ll bring her. If she doesn’t turn me into a toad first.”
Rhys laughed. “Send Sir Robert in your stead. He already looks like a toad. And he has no fear of faeries or elf queens.”
“Nay, and no charms to ward off evil. I’ll go. I’ve enough chants and charms to keep her at bay. So I hope,” Brian added darkly.
“Be more wary of her servant than any spells,” Rhys warned. “He’s more likely to do you harm than she is.”
“In league with her, no doubt.” Brian shook his head and tightened his sword belt a notch. “I would fain face mortal danger than magic any day.”
“The chance of a sharp dagger is greater, I’d say. Watch your back.”
Brian turned back to stare hard at him, blue eyes dark with worry. “And you, Rhys, watch that you do not fall under her spell. I wish you would take the charm I bought for you to carry.”
“I need no charm to protect me from enchantment. I have all I need—a strong arm, good sword, noble steed, and wise friend—no man needs more.”
“There are times nothing earthly guards against magic.”
Rhys mused about the warning as Brian left, wondering if there was truth to magic and otherworldly creatures. He had been wrong before. But in his journeys he had seen men create illusions that appeared real, conjuring up birds from seemingly thin air, tame deadly snakes with a flute, ropes that rose unsupported toward the sky and hung suspended for a boy to climb up and disappear, only to fall, die, and come back to life. It seemed that all life was an illusion, but he knew better. Life was only too real.
Chapter Seven
SUNLIGHT CAUGHT in the depths of a harebell, glowing a rich, deep blue. Sasha touched the blossom lightly, and a dewdrop trickled down a petal to land on her fingertip. A light wind sprang up, teasing blades of grass; slender poles of hazel trees with branches that rose in clusters of bony fingers from the ground clacked together. She looked up. Clouds rolled across the sky, promising rain. She’d best go back to help Elspeth and Biagio take down the tent.
By now, the worst of their anger should be faded, though she still faced certain recriminations from Elspeth. Biagio would he sulking most likely, still smarting from their argument earlier. Why did he hate Rhys so? The dislike had been almost instant. Biagio had been against him from that first moment in the weald, when they’d peered through the hawthorn branches and oak leaves and seen him riding at the head of his men, a mocking blond knight with more than enough arrogance.
Biagio’s resentment was part of the reason she’d not wanted to tell them Rhys was a lord. It was distressing that he’d found out. He and Elspeth would only use that as an excuse to prove that Rhys was not the man of the prophecy, that he was just a brash English lord with no interest in becoming a powerful champion.
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