A Time for Love

by Lynn Kurland

  But what were they to do now? She stood to marry Alain in the morning. She looked up at the twins.

  “Escape,” she said distinctly. “’Tis our only hope.”

  They only blinked at her.

  “He lied to distract Alain and Rollan,” she said, “so that we might escape.” Her heart lightened so greatly and so quickly, she thought she just might be able to fly from the keep. “I’ll find him, then we’ll flee,” she announced. She smiled up at the brothers and then parted them with ease. “My gratitude, twins. You’ve been a great deal of help to me.”

  She ran down the passageway and thumped down the circular stairs to the edge of the great hall. Alain would likely be engrossed in his plans for his hunt on the morrow. Rollan’s whereabouts were always a mystery, but with any luck she could avoid his notice as well. All she needed to do was find Rhys, tell him she understood his plan, and decide how they would accomplish their flight.

  And then she came to an abrupt halt.

  Every exit from the great hall was under heavy guard.

  She looked to the high table only to find Rollan sitting there with a goblet at his elbow. He smiled pleasantly and raised his cup in salute to her.

  And it was at that precise moment that she knew there was no hope of escape.

  She could not flee to the kitchen. She certainly couldn’t slip out the hall door. There was no other way from the keep besides leaping off the parapet into the moat, but she suspected she wouldn’t survive the trip down, and it wasn’t as if she could keep herself afloat in the water.

  She was doomed.

  Her breath came in gasps and she began to see faint specks of light all over the room. She stumbled back into the stairwell and leaned against the wall. There was no leaving Ayre. Not even had she been able to find Rhys and convince him she was for him would she have been able to sneak away from the keep. It was tempting to give in to the fancy that perhaps during the changing of Alain’s guard she might slip past them . . . but nay. If Alain had taken this kind of trouble now, he would surely take just as much trouble to ensure the changing of the watch went just as smoothly.

  She mounted the steps and walked slowly back to where the Fitzgerald brothers waited. She looked up at them and smiled sadly.

  “No escape.”

  They seemingly had no reply for that, so she entered her chamber and shut the door behind her. What else was she to do? She had no wings to fly off over the walls to freedom. She suspected that not even Rhys could single-handedly take on the entire garrison of Ayre, no matter his reputation. At present she would be of little help to him. There would be no evading her fate: she would marry Alain of Ayre whether she willed it or no.

  And after he wedded her, he would most certainly bed her, and she very much suspected that would not be a pleasant experience. She had given him one taste too many of her insolence. Aye, she would pay for her cheek.

  And that was enough to make her think that perhaps she should throw herself into the moat.

  She walked to the window and looked down. Saints, even the barbican was swarming with guardsmen. If she hadn’t been so panicked, she might have been flattered at the precautions Alain seemed to be taking to keep her safely within the keep.

  Now it only forced her to realize that there was indeed no escaping her fate.

  She would sacrifice herself on the morrow to a man who cared nothing at all for her when but a handful of paces away would stand a man who loved her enough to have denied himself his entire life that she might be the one he first took to his bed in truth. A pity she could not somehow find a way to switch bridegrooms at the altar. Or to switch herself. Perhaps there was more advantage to being a twin than she’d suspected at first, though she certainly wouldn’t have wished her fate on anyone else.

  The knock on the door startled her so badly she almost fainted. She put her hand over her heart to soothe its pounding and turned to the portal.

  “Aye?”

  The door opened. John stood there, looking as dejected as she felt.

  “He doesn’t want me now,” he said with a long, drawn-out sigh. “Says he has too much to brood about tonight.”

  “Sir Rhys?”

  “Who else?”

  Gwen refrained from informing John that while Rhys might not want him, he most certainly wanted her. Her straits were too narrow for such disparaging comments.

  “And Alain had no task for you?”

  “Too busy planning his hunt on the morrow.”

  “I’m happy to see he isn’t overly consumed with thoughts of his wedding.”

  John looked at her and she thought she might have detected the hint of tears in his eyes. “I wish you could wed with Rhys, Gwen. Even if he wants you just for your land. I think he might become fond of you eventually.”

  “With any luck,” she agreed, “he just might.”

  John sighed again and fingered the hem of his tunic. “I even put on clean clothes to present myself to him. And the new helm your mother gifted me. Just so he might see I was ready for battle at any moment.” He looked at her. “He was unimpressed.”

  “Poor lad,” she said, unable not to smile. It was difficult to have one’s idol take no notice of such efforts.

  And then, of a sudden, a flash of brilliance overcame her. She pulled John into her chamber, feeling more grateful than usual that Alain had chosen to put her in a solitary cell, and shut the door behind him.

  “I had wished for a twin,” she said, shoving aside the nagging thought that this was a very poor idea indeed, “but I think you’ll do just as well.”

  “Uh,” he grunted as she released him, “what are you��”

  “Strip.”

  “I beg your pardon!” he said, aghast.

  Oh, the finer sensibilities of a lad of ten-and-four. Gwen put her shoulders back and prepared to put forth her arguments for the scheme, which she was sure John would hardly agree with, for ’twould be his neck as well as hers in the noose if they were to be caught. Perhaps she would do well to clout him over the head before she left the chamber. At least that way he wouldn’t be completely responsible for her flight.

  “What do you want my clothes for?” he asked. “Are you thinking of escaping again?”

  “With Sir Rhys,” she admitted.

  “Not without me,” John said stubbornly. “You’ll not leave me behind this time.”

  This was going to be a problem. Maybe she’d have to do damage to him before she relieved him of his clothes. Either that or tell him a falsehood and make off with his garments.

  “Gwen . . .” he warned.

  Lying and stealing, she thought with resignation, were indeed vices determined to become part of her character.

  Not many minutes and the promise of a hefty bribe to John later, Gwen opened the door to her chamber and parted the Fitzgerald brothers in what she hoped was a John-like fashion. She spared no time in trivial speech with them, but immediately set off down the passageway. John had been soothed with the knowledge that he could indeed escape Ayre on his own more easily than she, as no one would likely mark him as he left the gates. Thusly appeased, he had informed her where Rhys was keeping himself and given her directions on how to reach the guardroom in the north tower.

  Gwen made her way down the passageway with a confident air. She would reach Rhys, convince him she knew the truth of his heart, then they would set off together for France.

  Unfortunately, her journey took her through the great hall once more. She couldn’t deny the number of men there, nor the completeness of their weaponry.

  No matter. She and Rhys would manage it.

  But by the time she’d managed to gain the stairs to the north tower, she was beginning to have her doubts. She had no sword. Would Rhys’s sword, lethal though it was, and his formidable skill be enough to win them their freedom?

  She hazarded another glance into the bailey on her way up the stairs. Even though the arrowloop was small, she had no trouble marking the number of men crowde
d into the inner bailey. She paused on a step, finding that more than doubts were assailing her now. They would not manage it, she was almost certain of that. As fierce as Rhys might have been, there was virtually no hope of him subduing all the men in the great hall and still having enough strength left over to see to the men outside.

  She leaned against the stone wall. There was no hope. She should have realized it before.

  She looked up the stairwell, defeated.

  And then a thought occurred to her.

  She might not be able to flee, but she wasn’t without a choice about one thing. After turning the idea over in her head a time or two, she nodded to herself. Perhaps Rhys would find the idea foolish, but then again, perhaps not.

  Alain, if he noticed, would be livid, but that was something she could face on the morrow.

  Heartened, she turned and marched purposefully up the stairs.

  13

  Rhys paced the confines of the small chamber and cursed the walls that surrounded him. And when that gave him no relief, he cursed the circumstances that surrounded him in just as unyielding a fashion. Gwen, or her land. That he was even faced with such a choice was enough to send him straight to the cellars to cozy up to a keg of ale for a fortnight.

  Wyckham.

  Or the most beautiful, courageous, perfect creature ever to set her dainty foot to English soil.

  By the saints, if he’d had but a grain of sense in his head, he would have recognized Gwen the moment he’d seen her, then fled with her then and there to France. Alain would have eventually decided that perhaps some foul fate had befallen her and gone on to wed with some other heiress. Hugh would have savored Gwen’s wealth for several more years. Rhys would have bought himself a little piece of ground in France, and he and Gwen would have lived out their lives in perfect bliss. But now where did he find himself ?

  In a tiny upper guardroom, staring at walls that would imprison him for another two years, and contemplating what tortures Alain and Rollan might invent for him during said two years.

  But it was not how his future would come about if he had anything to say about it. To be sure there were guards aplenty, but couldn’t he take them? Perhaps he and the Fitzgeralds could fight their way through the press, pulling Gwen along behind them. Even if he were forced to leave Gwen with his mother while he and the twins earned a bit more gold, it would be worth the sacrifice. To be sure, three such hired swords would be enough to set any lord’s tongue to lolling.

  Assuming, of course, he could convince Gwen her sword was better used as an ornament in the abbey. The saints preserve him if she insisted on guarding his back.

  He jerked open the door, ready to storm down the passageway and inform the Fitzgeralds of his plans, only to run bodily into a lithe form standing before him. He cursed silently. Saints, but this lad was persistent. Rhys couldn’t deny that he was somewhat flattered by John’s blatant worship, and then there was the added pleasure of knowing that at least one of the Ayre brothers held him in esteem and by so doing irritated the other two to no end, but now was not the time to begin the training of his new squire. He had men to slay.

  “John,” he said, mightily annoyed, “did I or did I not tell you I’ve no need of you this eve?”

  To his complete astonishment, John put his hand in the middle of Rhys’s chest and shoved him back inside the chamber. The lad followed him in, then shut the door behind him. Rhys was so shocked, all he could do was just stand there and gape at the lad’s cheek.

  “I should leave welts on your arse,” he exclaimed.

  “Wouldn’t if I were you,” John responded promptly. “It would put a mighty damper on the evening’s events, I’m sure.”

  And with that, John pulled off his helm and before Rhys’s very eyes appeared none other than Gwennelyn of Segrave dressed, of course, like a lad. Rhys felt his jaw slip downward.

  “By the saints, lady” he managed, “you don’t wear gowns all that much, do you?”

  “I’m in disguise,” she confided.

  “Can I assume John is left in your solar in skirts?”

  “And none too happy about it, I assure you.”

  “Well,” he said, completely at a loss. “Well,” he tried again, wishing that the chamber contained more than just a pair of chairs and a table, for he wished desperately for a bed on which to put himself until his head ceased spinning.

  “I couldn’t agree more,” she said.

  Rhys felt for a chair and lowered himself into it, then realized what he had within his grasp. He leaped up and reached for her arm.

  “Come,” he commanded. “We’ll fetch the Fitzgeralds and cut our way from the great hall. The stablemaster will saddle our mounts for us, for he has little love of Alain. You’ll ride behind me, aye?”

  “But—”

  “I know you want your own mount, but ’tis safer this way. I’ll teach you what you need to know to have your own once we reach France. I have gold enough to at least see us passage across.”

  “But—”

  He reached for the door, but she put her hand on the wood and shook her head. He shook his head as well, uncomprehending.

  “Haste, lady,” he informed her, “is of the essence at the moment.”

  “Have you peeked into the great hall of late and seen the number of men?”

  “Perhaps you have had a recent lapse of memory regarding my reputation,” he said pointedly. “I can take them.”

  “I didn’t doubt you could as well after I gave it some thought,” she agreed, “but then I saw the courtyard filled with the rest of the garrison. I think even you might be outnumbered there.”

  It occurred to him that she just might be right. And then something else occurred to him.

  She had obviously seen through what he’d said in the solar.

  “You would come?” he asked.

  She leaned back against the door and smiled up at him. “Despite the fact that you want nothing but my land?”

  “’Tis good land,” he reminded her.

  “The best, I should think.”

  “Without land I am nothing,” he reminded himself.

  She smiled. “That’s a matter of opinion, but ’tis a manly thought and one I can understand.”

  He sighed. “I’ve gold enough to buy us a poor bit of soil in France.”

  “Rhys de Piaget, keeper of a small vineyard?” she mused. She shook her head. “It seems a waste somehow.”

  “Then we’ll travel the world living off my sword.”

  “Nay, not just your sword. I could learn—”

  “My sword,” he interrupted.

  “But—”

  “Trust me. I am capable of protecting us.”

  “I could be a very dangerous mercenary,” she informed him archly.

  “Aye,” he agreed, with feeling. Dangerous to him, but he didn’t dare say as much. She’d planted her hands on her hips, and there was the beginnings of a glare forming on her face.

  And then just as suddenly she shook her head and leaned back against the door. Her arms came around her waist, as if she sought to comfort herself.

  “Nay, Rhys, ’tis not possible.”

  “I could take them all,” he said desperately.

  She looked at him and shook her head again. “There are too many. Besides, ’tis what Alain expects. Either you would finish on the gibbet or in his dungeon, and neither of those things could I bear.”

  “We have no choice.”

  “Aye, but we do. I will wed with Alain. You will give him your two years and have your heart’s desire.”

  “The land be damned,” he growled. “You know that isn’t what matters the most to me.”

  “But it does matter.”

  “Of course it does,” he retorted sharply, “but only because I need somewhere to build a keep. How will I protect you without walls? How will I protect our children without men to man those walls? I need a place to take you!”

  She didn’t answer. She merely moved away from
the door, slipped her arms around his waist, and gathered herself close. She laid her cheek against his chest.

  “Rhys, we cannot leave. It is not possible.”

  He put his arms around her and rested his chin on the top of her head. It had to be possible. He would accept nothing less. Much as he wanted Wyckham, he wanted Gwen more.

  “At least,” Gwen said, pulling back, “there is one thing I will not give Alain.”

  “There are several things you will not give Alain,” he managed. It was the most rational thing he could say as the sensation of having Gwennelyn of Segrave in his arms was as distracting as it had been the last time he’d held her. It had taken him almost four years to recover from that. He put his arms around her, lest she think better of her action and try to pull away. She only leaned against him and nestled closer. “You won’t give him your hand in marriage, for instance,” he said.

  “I cannot escape it.”

  “I’ll see that you do—”

  “Nay, Rhys.” She pulled back only far enough to look up at him. “The land should be yours. The saints only know you will have earned it by then.”

  “I’ll not have it at the expense of you.”

  “Go carefully, Sir Rhys, for you lead me to believe that perhaps you might begin to value me for something besides my dowry.”

  He scowled at her. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

  She only laughed softly and laid her head back against his chest. Rhys closed his eyes and wished with all his heart that the castle would fall down upon him at that very moment. He would have gone to his grave a perfectly contented man.

  “Nay,” she continued, “Alain will have my hand and you will have your soil. But he will never have what I intend to give you this night.”

  Rhys felt a frown begin. He looked up at the ceiling for an answer to her riddle, but saw nothing but cobwebs. No aid from that quarter.

  “Well,” she said, pulling back to look at him. “Will you have it?”