A Time for Love

by Lynn Kurland

  “He slapped the lady Gwennelyn.”

  The twins blinked at him.

  “I encountered her this morning,” Rhys explained. “I thought she was a he, and that he had stolen a horse. She tried to fight me for my mount.”

  Jared seemed to be trying to decide whether he approved or not. Connor continued to blink, as if such a thing were simply beyond his comprehension. Or perhaps it was the mere mention of a horse to send him into a stupor of such proportions.

  “Who bloodied your nose?” Connor asked, at length.

  Rhys gritted his teeth again. “She did.”

  Two jaws fell open in unison.

  “I was taken by surprise,” Rhys said defensively.

  Two sets of teeth clicked together as jaws were retrieved.

  “Well,” said Connor.

  “Well, indeed,” agreed Jared.

  Rhys squirmed at the bit of untruth he’d just told. Never mind that he had known what she had intended. That she had actually carried out the threat was surprising enough. Then again, this was Gwennelyn of Segrave. He should have known better.

  “I hadn’t expected to see her there,” Rhys added. “I didn’t recognize her.”

  “You had plenty of opportunity to go to Segrave to look at her,” Connor said. “Lord Bertram went often enough.”

  “You didn’t go, either,” Rhys pointed out. He’d been to Segrave twice, twice more than he likely should have gone.

  The twins paled as one. Then they began to shake their heads.

  “Couldn’t go.”

  “Best not to leave the keep.”

  “Lord Bertram needed us to stay.”

  “Important tasks for us to see to here.”

  Rhys knew the reason why they hadn’t left the keep and why they kept as much distance between themselves and anything that moved faster than their own two feet, but he chose not to say anything. There were things a body could torment the Fitzgeralds about, and then there were things one didn’t dare. Rhys knew very well where to draw the line.

  “A pity I recognized her too late,” Rhys said with a sigh. “The day might have ended differently otherwise.”

  Jared sighed as well. “Poor child. I fear we gave her quite a fright when she first saw us.”

  “How could we help it?” Connor asked. “You give me a fright, and I’ve looked on you all my life!”

  Rhys shook his head, wishing he could stave off the inevitable discussion of who they resembled more: their axe-wielding mother or their dualbroadsword-wielding sire. It was impossible and he knew he wouldn’t be noticed even if he tried to interrupt the argument, so he sidestepped them and limped through the hall to the kitchens. Gwen was in good hands. If Alain had sent the Fitzgeralds to watch over her, he had no intention of troubling her again that eve. If there were any bodies who could make the new lord of Ayre nervous, it was these two. They had been Bertram’s favorite guardsmen for precisely the effect they had on others.

  Rhys gingerly made his way down the stairs to the cellar, pausing often to catch his breath. Alain’s crop had taken more out of him than he cared to admit. Perhaps he had been too hasty in submitting to Alain’s display of displeasure.

  He came to a halt under a torch and leaned his head against the stone. Never had it crossed his mind that Alain would disobey his sire’s wishes, though he now wondered why he’d been so stupid. Of course Alain would wed with Gwen as quickly as possible. Her dowry was enormous.

  “Who are you mooning over now, or should I guess?”

  Rhys peered back upward into the gloom. Montgomery of Wyeth came down the steps, holding a cup of what Rhys assumed to be ale.

  Rhys looked at him in surprise. “You’re still here?”

  “Apparently so.”

  “I would have thought Alain would have buried you with his sire.”

  Montgomery raised his cup in salute. “It wasn’t for a lack of trying, believe me.”

  “Fortunately for you, you’re harder to do away with than that.”

  Montgomery only smiled. “Indeed I am. Now, what of you? It took you long enough to come back. Bertram had been anxious to see you.”

  Likely to give me the details of his command that I serve Alain, Rhys thought with a scowl. “Trust me, I was busy.”

  “I’ll wager you weren’t,” Montgomery said with a snort. “Just dawdling, as usual.”

  “I hurried, but I’ve no time to tell you of it. I’m off to see Master Socrates for something useful. Care to come?”

  Montgomery shuddered. “Don’t like to watch him make his potions. I like the taste of them even less well.”

  “You’ve a weak stomach, my friend. They’re always very effective.”

  “Aye, they work simply because your poor form heals itself to avoid having to down any more of his brews.”

  Rhys laughed and the movement made him catch his breath.

  “Saints, Rhys, what befell you?”

  “An encounter with our new lord and his riding crop,” Rhys said, pausing to let the pain subside.

  “The lash and a fist in your face? You must have let your tongue run mightily free at his expense.”

  Rhys pursed his lips. “He only saw to my back. I earned the other mark from someone else.”

  “Brawling again, good Sir Rhys? I’m disappointed in you.”

  “It was Gwen,” Rhys muttered, feeling as disgruntled as he had the last time she’d clouted him on the nose and he’d been forced to explain to Montgomery just where he’d gotten the mark.

  “Again?” Montgomery asked with a laugh. “By the saints, lad, you’d think you would have been expecting it this time.”

  “She took me by surprise—”

  “I can see that.”

  “—and bloodied my nose while I was gaping at her, amazed to find the heiress of Segrave traipsing about the countryside pretending to be a mercenary,” Rhys finished darkly.

  Montgomery shook his head with a fond smile. “The girl has an imagination, I’ll give you that.”

  “And a ready fist,” Rhys agreed.

  Montgomery stared at him thoughtfully. Rhys wanted to squirm, but he was too old for squirming.

  “What?” he asked defensively,

  “I was just wondering what it is you keep doing to the girl that causes her to abuse your poor nose thusly.”

  “’Tis no affair of yours.”

  “And I was wondering how your tourneying went on the continent and what it was you intended to do with all that gold you no doubt earned.”

  “Again,” Rhys growled, “’tis no affair of yours.”

  Montgomery scratched the side of his face thoughtfully. “Was it a very large amount of gold you earned? Enough for, say, a bribe?”

  Rhys scowled at him.

  “And is it possible that he whom you intend to bribe is disposed to accepting your bribe?”

  “You think too much.”

  “Have you thought that perhaps your gold would serve you better in other ways?”

  Rhys had no answer for that. His only goal for the past four years had been to earn enough to buy Gwennelyn of Segrave. What other use for his gold could he have?

  “Your sword might buy you a better heiress than you think, especially if you could convince King John your allegiance ran more toward the English crown than the French.”

  As if John would give Gwen to him merely because of his skill with a sword! Rhys almost laughed out loud. “He is uninterested in a blade which has seen the clasp of a French king. Gold, however, could come from the devil himself and John wouldn’t care. Besides, he knows I want land here. And surely he knows it was hardly my fault Phillip knighted me.”

  Not that Rhys could have argued with the French king anyway. His father and grandfather had ties to the crown of France that Rhys certainly hadn’t been in a position to break. Even though he had chosen a different path than the other two men of his family, he was still a de Piaget.

  “England is my home,” Rhys continued. “What greater
display of loyalty could John ask of me than that?”

  “I daresay he still has fond memories of his brother wearing the English crown and keeping his feet mostly on French soil.”

  Rhys sighed as he dragged his hand through his hair. “I have few ties to France, Montgomery. My mother is there, true, but she has her own vocation and no interest in political intrigues. My grandsire is old and well past posing any threat to any king.” A small lie, but a necessary one. “The land I want is here. I’ve never kept that a secret.”

  “Ah, but you have kept secret just what little plot of ground it is you covet so fiercely.” Montgomery leaned forward conspiratorially. “Just a hint, Rhys. I vow I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Until you slip into your cups later this evening,” Rhys said dryly. “Then the entire keep will know.”

  “Your doubt cuts me to the very quick. For all you know I might be able to aid you in your quest.”

  Rhys pursed his lips. “The only thing that might help me in this quest is another few chests of gold.”

  Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to earn any more. What he had already would have to do.

  “Go see Socrates,” Montgomery said, retreating back toward the stairs. “I’ll find you later and pry more of the truth out of you.”

  Rhys pushed away from the wall and continued down the passageway. Gwen’s guardian was a greedy man. Perhaps he could be convinced to hold off the wedding for another pair of months until Rhys could return to London and convince John fully that he intended to remain on English soil, loyal to the English crown. Rhys smiled grimly. Perhaps he would even be able to convince the king that he wasn’t interested in following in his father’s footsteps.

  Or perhaps he would merely snatch Gwen away during the night and flee.

  It was tempting, but that would leave them no choice but to go to France. England was her home. England was where he wanted to dwell. He would just do as he intended from the beginning and settle for bribery. And he would see to it first thing in the morning before Alain could do anything else to foul up Rhys’s plans.

  “Let the gold be enough,” he muttered under his breath as he made his way to the healer’s chamber.

  It would have to be.

  He had no other choice.

  9

  The child sat on a stool near the cooking fire and watched the contents of the kettle boil frantically.

  “Nay, not that,” a wizened old man muttered to himself, stooping over to peer into the recesses of his collection of pots. He shoved aside what he didn’t want and reached in with bony fingers to pull out a leather pouch of some moldering substance. He opened the pouch, sniffed carefully, then smiled in triumph. “Knew I had a bit more left,” he said, turning back to the pot. “Keep stirring, child.”

  “Aye, Grandfather,” the child replied, giving the bubbling brew a hearty stir. She watched as the old man dropped a pinch of something into the thick potion. It disappeared under her awkward strokes into a rather unappetizing mass of greenish paste.

  “Mmm, something smells wonderful,” a voice said from the doorway.

  The child looked up without surprise. She’d known the knight would come home today. She’d seen it, though she hadn’t said as much to anyone else. Her grandfather would have thought her fanciful, but she knew better. It was a gift she had, this seeing.

  “Ah, Sir Rhys,” her grandfather said, drawing the young man into the tiny chamber, “you’ve returned safely! And not a moment too soon, I’d say. Terrible things afoot in the keep, terrible indeed! Knew you’d come put an end to them as quick as you could.”

  “Master Socrates, your faith in me is, as usual, greater than I deserve.”

  “Not at all, lad. Here, come and sit. I’ve something especially tasty on the fire.”

  “I could smell that from fifty paces, despite the foul odors from the kitchen. How is it you find yourself in this hellhole instead of near the weaver’s shed where I left you?” He paused and smiled down at her. “Good to see you as well, ma petite.”

  The child found her hair ruffled gently as the tall knight moved past her to sit himself down with a wince on the stool near the fire. She didn’t understand the little words he always called her, but she liked how they sounded against her ear and she knew by his tone that they were good words. Her heart warmed within her as she continued to stir diligently, stopping only long enough for her grandfather to ladle out a cup full of his current combination. It smelled not at all tasty, but the knight sipped, then complimented her grandsire lavishly on not only the strength and texture but the unique flavorings of his brew. When her grandfather turned his back to putter amongst his things, his face aflame with the pleasure of the compliment, the knight winked at her and put a finger to his lips. She nodded, her heart full of love and appreciation. There was not another soul in the keep who tried to save her grandsire’s pride.

  “I wonder, Master Socrates,” the knight said politely, “if you might have something for the soothing of cuts and bruises? I seem to have run afoul of a few stripes this morn.”

  The knight’s back was soon bared to view, and the child watched as her grandfather ran his gnarled fingers over the lash marks. He clucked his tongue in grave disapproval, then turned away to prepare his poultice.

  The child stood against the wall and watched the knight. He was digging in the pouch attached to his belt for something, and she wondered if he might be searching for something to rid his mouth of the less than pleasant taste that no doubt lingered there. She loved her grandfather, true, but she would be the first to admit he was not a very skilled cook.

  The knight beckoned to her. “I’ve something for you, chérie. They called your name when I saw them.”

  The child approached, stunned that he should think of so small and insignificant a personage as herself while on his travels. She held out her hand and blinked at the sight of the pieces of colored sea and sky he laid there.

  “I happened upon a glassmaker putting in a chapel window,” the knight explained. “He assured me these colors were pleasing together, but I’ve no eye for such things. I thought you might make use of them somehow.”

  The child ventured only a peep at the three smooth pieces of glass, green, azure, and yellow, but already she saw more in them than she ever had in the still water of her grandfather’s wooden cup. She closed her small fist about them and looked at the knight. She could scarce see him for her tears, and she could find no words to express her gratitude.

  The knight only laughed softly. “Ah, if only others were so well pleased by so little.” Then he turned his face away and sighed. “If only I were so satisfied with so little.”

  The child watched as the knight bowed his head. She wondered if it might be the wounds he bore that grieved him so, then thought better of it. Though she knew little of men and their sorrows, she suspected this gallant soul was carrying a heavy burden indeed.

  She waited until her grandfather had applied his healing salve and turned back to his brew before she approached. Her mother had warned her to use her gifts sparingly, for men would not understand them, but also to use them generously when called upon. If ever there were a time to be unselfish with what little good she could do, now was the time.

  The child stepped up to the knight carefully and touched his back with her small hand. Though she could not ease his heart, perhaps she could ease his body.

  The knight stiffened in surprise, then looked over his shoulder at her, his eyes wide.

  “In return for your gift,” she said, lowering her eyes and pulling away.

  She saw the knight stretch. She chanced a look in time to see him appear mightily surprised at his pains being taken from him. Then he lifted his hand and ran it over her head gently. “Little one, ’tis I who should thank you, I think.” He looked at her grandfather’s back, then shook his head as he arose as if he just wasn’t sure what had eased him—her touch or her grandfather’s brew.

  Her grandfather turned and looked a
t the knight expectantly. “Are you soothed, Sir Rhys?”

  “Aye,” the knight said with a faintly bemused smile. “’Tis nothing short of a miracle.”

  “Ah, good,” her grandfather said, looking very pleased. “A new recipe, but obviously a good one!”

  The knight stretched again as he redonned his tunic, then looked at the child with another glance of wonder. He shook his head with a small smile, bid her grandfather farewell, and then left the chamber.

  The child waited until her grandfather had turned back to his pots before she opened her hand and stared down at the glass pieces there. They were so much clearer than the water in her grandfather’s cup.

  And she told no one of what she saw.

  10

  Rollan of Ayre was smiling as he sat at the lord’s table in the great hall and nursed a cup of ale. It had been a particularly interesting day, what with all the excitement over Gwen’s escape and recapture, and that savory flogging of Rhys de Piaget. Rollan had wondered, as he’d wandered about the keep, just what could happen to possibly improve on the day’s events.

  To his surprise and delight, the day had indeed improved. After returning to the keep, he’d descended to the cellars to visit his favorite ale spigot. He’d just settled down for a fine afternoon of imbibing when he’d heard Rhys and Montgomery begin to speak together. He’d slipped back into the shadows immediately. Uncomfortable, aye, but the rewards had been well worth the trouble. He’d ignored the rats and spiders crawling about him and listened raptly to the discussion going on just in front of him.

  Rollan had eavesdropped until he thought he couldn’t bear any more. The pair had parted ways with Montgomery ascending the steps and Rhys continuing on to Ayre’s pitiful excuse for a healer. Then, feeling as full and satisfied as if he’d just spent hours at the king’s table, Rollan made his way back up to the great hall where he could watch the goings-on and give thought to what he’d learned. He’d relished the idea of spending a full evening pondering just what the ever truthful Sir Rhys was about. With Alain still raging in his solar over Gwen’s short-lived flight as violently as a pricked boar, Rollan had had ample time to turn over in his mind the possibilities. Never in his most vivid imaginings would he have suspected such a devious notion as bribery of his father’s beloved foster son.