by Lynn Kurland
And the very thought of it was enough to make her want to retch again.
She tucked her clammy hands beneath her arms and leaned back against the stone wall. They’d spoken in snatches of how her freedom might be won. The only solution they could see was an annulment. Not that such a thing was possible now.
What was she to do, flee to France with Rhys, taking Alain’s heir with her? Or was she to leave the child behind? It hardly seemed possible that she carried so quickly, but there was no denying the strange illness that coursed through her. Perhaps she would feel nothing for the babe after it was born, but she suspected that wouldn’t be the case. She had been undone by every babe she’d ever held. Nay, she could not leave her babe behind, and she could hardly take him with her. She meant nothing to Alain and she suspected he might be somewhat relieved if she were to vanish, but his son?
He would comb the earth looking for him.
Nay, there would be no peace there.
She felt large, warm hands come to rest upon her knees and she opened her eyes. Rhys knelt before her, a small frown on his face.
“You are still feeling poorly?”
“Aye,” she managed.
He reached up and brushed away the tears she hadn’t realized were coursing down her cheeks.
“Ah, Gwen,” he whispered, reaching for her, “come here, my love.”
“Nay,” she said, with so violent a shake of her head that the entire chamber went spinning.
He blinked in surprise. “But—”
“Nay, Rhys. You cannot touch me.”
“I cannot touch you,” he repeated.
“Not even an innocent touch.”
“But Alain is leaving today. There will be no one here to see anything.” He looked at her, then frowned again. “I hardly see the harm in an innocent touch now and then. It isn’t as if I’m proposing a little adultery to pass the time.”
“I didn’t think you were. And it isn’t for them; it is for me.”
“For you?”
She nodded. “Aye. I cannot bear it.”
“You cannot bear it,” he repeated.
This wasn’t going at all well. She took his hands and gently pushed them away.
“We must forget what happened between us.”
“We must—” he spluttered.
“I cannot live in the same keep with you for the next pair of years and have your touch remind me of the night we shared!” she exclaimed, starting to feel rather exasperated that all he could do was repeat what she had said. “We’ll survive better if we put it behind us.”
That, at least, had seemingly rendered him silent.
“We’ll have speech together,” she said, feeling as if that might just be the thing to save them both. “You can sing to me, as do the knights in the chansons d’amor my mother’s minstrels performed.” She paused. “You can sing, can’t you?”
“Nary a note,” he growled.
“Ah,” she said, feeling slightly disappointed. “Well, then perhaps you could just relate to me the lays you have no doubt heard on your travels. You have heard lays, haven’t you?”
“More of them than I could stomach.”
She had the feeling he was less enthusiastic about her plan than she was. But she knew it was the only way, so she forged ahead, ignoring the formidable frown he was now wearing.
“’Tis how it is done,” she informed him. “The knight worships his lady from afar, riding off into battle with her favor on his arm, composing lays to her beauty and goodness, and doing all that he does in her name and for the glory of his love for her.”
“All from afar?”
“Aye. Or so I’ve heard.”
“And your favor?”
“I think you’ve already had it,” she said, feeling her cheeks grow warm. “And more than once, if memory serves.”
He only glared at her.
“’Tis the only way,” she pressed on, clutching her hands together to keep from reaching for him. “How can it be otherwise?” Then she had a flash of insight. “Perhaps ’twould be easier if we considered ourselves comrades-at-arms.”
His mouth fell open.
“John is at your side constantly and rejoices in it. If we were to attempt the same thing, always speaking of swords and such other knightly endeavors, perhaps it would go easier for us.”
“Swords and such,” he repeated. “Swords and such?” he said again, in a more enthusiastic tone.
At least she thought it was enthusiasm to prompt him to raise his voice in such a manner.
“See? Already you begin to appreciate the wisdom of my plan. We must put aside whatever passed between us and consider ourselves nothing but comrades from now on. It is a most reasonable scheme.”
She looked up to see Master Socrates bearing down on her with a steaming mug of something. She accepted it hesitantly, then sniffed. It smelled passing sweet, and there was a conspicuous lack of dark spots floating along the top, so she took her courage in hand and sipped.
“Very pleasant,” she said, smiling at the old man.
“Bland if you ask me,” he said with a sigh, “but a mama’s belly is nothing to trifle with.”
Gwen finished the brew, handed the cup back to the healer, and looked again at Rhys, who had not moved, nor had his expression of intense irritation changed.
“Come, my friend,” she said brightly, “and let us be away and leave the good man to his work. Perhaps you might help me improve my swordplay this afternoon. I’m feeling remarkably better all of the sudden.”
“My friend?” he repeated in a choked voice.
“Aye,” she said with a firm nod.
He looked as if he would have truly liked to throttle her. Gwen saw the idea come into his head, then watched as he contemplated the merits of it. He scowled most fiercely at her and rose to his great height.
“If you think,” he began in low, gravelly tones, “that what passed between us can be so easily forgotten—”
“I never said forgotten—”
“Dismissed then!” he hissed. “Set aside as a thing of naught.”
“I never said naught, either,” she managed as he drew a deep breath.
“I will not be your friend!” he roared. “Saints above, woman, what sort of man do you think me to be?”
“An honorable one surely,” a voice drawled from the doorway. “And one whose lord is preparing to depart for another keep. Perhaps you should be there to at least bid him farewell?”
Gwen looked around Rhys’s long legs to see Montgomery standing near the doorway wearing a most speculative glance. She rose carefully, found that her feet were steady beneath her, then looked up at Rhys.
“We’d best heed him. Alain will no doubt wish to see us appropriately heartbroken at his leave-taking.”
“You are bound for your bedchamber where you will rest,” Rhys growled. “And I’ll brook no argument from you on that score.”
It seemed a more appealing alternative than seeing her husband, so she nodded and moved past him. She thanked Master Socrates again, smiled at the child who stood by the cooking fire watching her, and then left the chamber.
She kept walking even though she was fair to dropping on the spot in a fit of weeping. Though she’d put a bright smile on her face and suggested the most sensible plan she could think of, she was more than a little miserable. By all the saints above, how was she to endure another pair of years with this man always at her side but ever out of her reach?
By thinking of him as a comrade, she reminded herself.
“Friend, my arse,” Rhys muttered from behind her.
Gwen almost smiled at that. He would agree with her in time, for she knew she was in the right. They would form their own garrison of two. He would teach her swordplay and other warriorly skills. She had little to offer him, but at least she could sing. And she could read. Perhaps she could teach him that in return for a few lessons with the blade. And perhaps with the dice.
Nay, she thought sharply, n
ot with the dice. It would only bring back other memories she simply couldn’t bear to think on anymore. But the other she could manage.
Aye, ’twas a most sensible plan.
18
It was the most ridiculous plan he’d ever heard.
Rhys deposited Gwen inside her bedchamber before he was tempted to give in to the overwhelming impulse that raged inside him—that of strangling her. As he’d tromped up the steps behind her, he’d managed to reacquire the rest of her guard. Said guard was now clustered around him as he stood outside Gwen’s door. He fixed John with a steely glare.
“Tend her.”
John’s expression fell. “Must I?”
“Aye, you must.”
“But where are you going?”
“To the lists,” he growled. “I’ve a need of sport to cool my temper.”
“I could stay behind as well,” Montgomery offered with a small smile.
Rhys considered the Fitzgeralds, how long it would take him to dispatch them and what there would remain of his irritation after that was done. He shook his head.
“I’ll have need of you later. You’ll come with me.”
Montgomery shook his head. “I think I would rather stay here.”
“Aye, he should stay,” John agreed, “and then I could go with you.”
“I assure you, John,” Rhys growled, “that you would be much safer guarding your sister by marriage.”
He motioned for the twins and Montgomery to follow him as he strode back along the passageway and down the steps to the great hall.
Alain and Rollan stood near the fire, dressed for travel. That boded well.
“Godspeed, my lord,” Rhys said to Alain as he passed him.
“Remember your duties,” Alain said.
“And remind him not to add to them, brother,” Rollan replied.
Rhys made Alain a low bow, then walked briskly for the door. The last thing he wanted was to listen to Rollan’s gall by way of Alain’s mouth.
He made his way quickly to the lists, trailed by the three members of Gwen’s guard. He paused, then contemplated who would give him the least trouble and the most pleasure to dispatch first. Montgomery would be a fine choice if he’d wanted nothing but to stretch his muscles, but he would be of no use in cooling the white-hot irritation that flowed so strongly through his veins. Perhaps he would save Montgomery for later, as a sort of sweet to be enjoyed after a full, hearty meal.
He looked at the twins and decided on Jared first. Connor was smiling, never a good sign, and fingering a pair of swords. Rhys would need to do a bit of warming up before he took on those flashing blades.
Not to say Jared was any less the swordsman than his brother was. Indeed Rhys had to admit, as he fended off Jared’s sudden attack, that he couldn’t have had two better masters when it came to swordplay. They were overly large, uncommonly strong, and wily as two foxes. But it was also not without reason that Rhys had held over a hundred knights for ransom on the continent. It took a bit of effort, but the time soon came that Jared cried peace. Rhys had but a moment to reach out and take Montgomery’s sword, then pull it from the sheath before Connor was coming at him, still smiling.
Saints, but it was enough to give a man the chills.
Connor certainly seemed to be enjoying the two-handed sport, for his smile soon turned into a grin. As he caught Rhys with an especially wicked backhand, he actually chortled. The blades flashed in the sunlight, and Rhys found himself hard-pressed to keep the larger man at bay. It wasn’t an everyday occurrence to fight with swords in both hands against a man who wielded either with like skill.
“Come now, my little friend,” Connor chided, “surely you have more to show me than that.”
My little friend. Well, at least Gwen hadn’t added the little. But the reminder of just what she had called him brought to the fore a fresh surge of annoyance. He wasn’t about to become her comrade-at-arms. That she would no doubt get either herself or him killed with her swordplay was beside the point. He didn’t want her as a comrade, he wanted her as a . . .
Montgomery’s sword went flying from Rhys’s hand. Rhys looked at his empty fingers in surprise, then looked at Connor who had chortled yet again.
This was not good.
Rhys put aside his uncomfortable thoughts of just what he wanted from Gwennelyn of Ayre and concentrated on finding a way of either ridding Connor of his second sword or regaining Montgomery’s that Connor seemed determined to keep under his heel.
It was the beginning of a very long, unpleasant morning.
By the time Rhys had finally beaten Connor back, it was past noon. Rhys was dripping with sweat and wished for nothing more than several mugs of cold ale.
“My turn,” Montgomery said brightly. “Come, Rhys, and let me see what you have yet in reserve for me.”
“Go to the devil,” Rhys wheezed.
“Before you have a go at me? Surely not.”
Jared clapped Rhys on the shoulder. “I’ll fetch you something cold, lad. You deserve it.”
“Deserve it?” Connor echoed. “What did he do to deserve ale? I had him the whole time. If he just hadn’t avoided my lethal jab above the knees with both blades.”
“You’ll note,” Jared said, “that he used my defense against just such a womanly move. ’Twas my training that won the day for him.”
“Your training? Bah, ’tis a wonder he can lift a sword after what you taught him!”
Rhys suppressed the urge to stick his fingers in his ears until the argument was over. Fortunately, Connor seemed as inclined for something cold as his brother did, and he and Jared made straightway for the great hall, still arguing about who had taught whom what. Rhys leaned on his sword and sucked in great gulps of air.
“If it will soothe you, I doubt I could have stood against them,” Montgomery offered. He shuddered. “That Connor frightens me.”
“Tame as a bunny once you know where to scratch,” Rhys panted. “Distract him with a compliment on his swordplay and he’s yours.”
“Don’t think I want him, thanks just the same. Now, tell me what it is that has you in such a temper. It can’t be the thought of seeing the last of Alain until he tires of his mistress at Canfield.”
“As I’m certain he’ll move on from there,” Rhys said, “I doubt we’ll need endure him again before the babe is born.”
“Ah,” Montgomery said, looking at him closely, “then ’tis the babe that troubles you?”
“Now why would Alain having an heir trouble me?”
“Ah, Rhys, I am not so great a fool as you think. I know where your heart lies.”
Rhys glared at him. “As I always say—you think too much.”
“Ah, but when thinking yields such delicious insights, how am I to help myself ?”
Rhys would have cut off Montgomery’s head to stop him from babbling the more, but he found he was simply too weary to lift his sword at the moment.
“I wonder just what it was you and our sweet Gwen were discussing in the healer’s hovel,” Montgomery mused. “So many hints, but so few details.”
“Eavesdropping is a very unattractive fault, Montgomery.”
Montgomery only smiled. “You wound me. I was merely shadowing my captain. Is that not one of my duties?”
“Why do I have the feeling I’ll live to regret having asked you to be a part of this foolishness?”
“Come now, Rhys,” Montgomery chided. “You chose me for Gwen’s guard, which kept me from Alain’s clutches, and I am most grateful. I can only assume it was as a reward for past service to you.”
“Past service?” Rhys asked. “What past service have you ever done me besides your efforts to corrupt my sweet soul?”
Montgomery waved aside the accusation. “Stretch yourself to remember, Rhys. Who was it who fed you tales of Gwennelyn of Segrave all those years when you wouldn’t travel with us to her keep, hmmm? Who was it who laced descriptions of her soil with equally as interesting descriptions of her
person as she grew into the beauty she is today?”
Rhys only scowled at him.
“And these are the thanks I receive for such heavy labors? All those hours of being forced to observe her at close range, just so I could bring you tidings of the girl?”
Rhys felt his fingers begin to flex of their own accord.
“Hour upon hour of following after her with my eyes, marking her every movement, seeing how her hair moved as she walked, how the sunlight turned those pale eyes of hers to something the shores of southern France would envy, watching her bloom from a girl into a beautiful, pleasingly proportioned wom—”
Rhys wasn’t at all surprised at how well his fingers about Montgomery’s throat silenced the man to mere gurgling. He contented himself with but a mere shake or two, for after all, Montgomery had provided him with visions of Gwen he’d been too cowardly to go and obtain for himself. That alone was likely worth sparing the wretch any further punishment.
Montgomery only knocked Rhys’s hands away and backed up a pace, grinning like the empty-headed fool he was.
“Saints, lad, but you are smitten.”
“As if it served me!”
Montgomery shrugged. “You never know what the future holds—Ah, my lord Ayre,” he said, putting on a less open expression, “a pleasant journey to you.”
Rhys turned and saw that Alain and Rollan had begun to make their way to the stables. He bowed along with Montgomery and hoped his relief at seeing them gone wasn’t as obvious as he feared it was. He had no doubts Alain would have his spies everywhere marking his and Gwen’s every move, but that could be borne.
Then he shook his head in wonder at his own conceit. Could Alain possibly care what either of them did? It wasn’t as if Alain had any intention of holding to his marriage vows. Canfield was the home of Rachel, Lord Edward of Graundyn’s sister. She was unwed and likely to stay that way, for her brother was very loth to give up her lands. She did manage, however, to warm her bed with any number of men, married or not. That Alain believed himself to be the only one loitering there between the sheets merely proved the extent of the man’s stupidity. The saints only knew what Rollan would be about for the next while, but Rhys contented himself with knowing he would be about his business in some other keep. At least he and Gwen would have peace from that pair of prying eyes. Though what there would be to see, he surely didn’t know.