by Lynn Kurland
There was little warmth coming from Fenwyck, and Rhys understood why completely, as he had little to return. Geoffrey obviously still had very vivid memories of their last encounter. Rhys dismounted in the muddy courtyard and in the next heartbeat had Gwen’s hand disentangled from Geoffrey’s. He congratulated himself on limiting his actions to that when he would have rather been clouting the randy whoreson on the nose.
“I daresay the lady Gwennelyn needs a cup as well,” Rhys said, pointedly tucking Gwen’s hand into her own belt. “Long ride, you know.”
Geoffrey deftly untucked Gwen’s hand and slipped it into the crook of his arm. “How right you are, Sir Rhys.”
The emphasis was, of course, on Rhys’s lack of station. Rhys had to remind himself that he was indeed lord of Wyckham. Never mind that he was no baron as Geoffrey was with numerous holdings to his name. He was a lord and would inform Geoffrey of it at his earliest convenience. It would do little to impress Fenwyck, but Rhys suspected he himself would have his pride eased a bit.
“Here I have kept our lady outside when I could have been looking after her more carefully inside the house,” Geoffrey continued. He looked at Rhys coolly. “I’m certain you’ll want to take your ease in the garrison hall. After,” he added with a look at Gwen’s guard, “you see to your men.”
Rhys gritted his teeth. It wasn’t as if he was Fenwyck’s equal in station, but he was certainly above the garrison hall.
“Rhys,” Gwen began.
“Never fear, lady,” Geoffrey said smoothly. “I will see to you. And to your lovely mother. Lady Joanna, ’tis ever a pleasure to see you.”
“But—” Gwen protested.
“You will come to no harm in my care.”
Gwen was still spluttering as Geoffrey led her and her mother away.
“Montgomery!” Rhys shouted, spinning to look for his friend. The sooner his business was seen to, the sooner Gwen could be rescued. “Montgomery,” he said again, “see to the men!”
Montgomery had already swung down and seemed to be preparing to do just that. He stopped and stared at Rhys. “All but them,” he said, pointing to the Fitzgeralds. “I’m not going near that pair.”
Rhys supposed he couldn’t actually blame him. He wasn’t looking forward to it overmuch himself, but the twins would have to be tended eventually.
Rhys walked over to where the Fitzgeralds lay strapped to their horses, completely oblivious to their surroundings. He could only assume they were still exhausted from all the puking upon flora and fauna they’d done during the first few days of the journey.
The Fitzgeralds did not travel well by horse.
In fact, he suspected the Fitzgeralds did not travel well by any means other than their own two feet.
He approached Jared’s horse, then laid a hand on the man and shook him gently.
“Jared,” he called softly.
Jared lifted his head, moaned, then vomited down the front of Rhys’s tunic.
Well, at least one of them was awake. Rhys loosened the ropes binding Jared to his horse and made a token effort of catching the larger man as he fell face-first down into the mud. Satisfied Jared would eventually find his feet now said feet were on solid ground, Rhys turned his attentions to Connor. At least with this twin he managed to avoid finding himself in Connor’s sights, as it were. Connor fell off his horse into Rhys’s arms. Rhys let him slip down gently into the muck.
“I imagine there’s supper inside when you’re up to it,” he announced to both fallen warriors.
Groans were his only answer.
Rhys looked about him for his squire only to find John standing a healthy distance away. It was, to be sure, the first time the lad hadn’t been within arm’s length for years.
“See to their mounts and ours,” Rhys instructed.
“And them?” John asked, looking powerfully afraid he might be asked to act as nursemaid.
“You could help them up when you’ve tended their horseflesh. I’d leave them be until then.”
John didn’t have to hear that twice. He was heading toward the stables with four horses in tow before Rhys could give him any more instructions. Rhys turned back to his fallen comrades and wondered if he shouldn’t perhaps at least remain with them a bit longer. Then he noticed that Jared was feeling the mud tentatively with one hand. A bleary blue eye opened and stared at the soil closest to it with something akin to astonishment, as if the man couldn’t quite believe he was on the ground and it wasn’t moving. He gurgled something that Rhys could only assume was some sort of prayer of gratitude.
Connor seemed to be making the same patting motions with his hand and Rhys relaxed. They would realize soon enough that they were no longer atop their steeds. As he was certain they hadn’t eaten in days, or rather they had but they hadn’t enjoyed the benefits of the food for days, there was no doubt they would be seeking Fenwyck’s table soon enough. All that remained was for him to put on less fragrant clothing and find his own place at Fenwyck’s table.
Sitting in between, of course, Fenwyck’s lord and his quarry.
“I need him alive,” Rhys repeated to himself as he crossed the courtyard. “Unmaimed. Coherent.”
He had the feeling he would be reminding himself of those things quite often in the near future.
It took him longer to clean himself up than he would have liked. At least an hour had passed before he entered the great hall, let his eyes adjust to the gloom, and saw what he’d feared he might.
Geoffrey sat between Gwen and her mother looking as smug as if he’d just, well, managed to seat himself between the two most beautiful women in the realm. Joanna was lovely, as always, and Gwen was so fair Rhys thought he might expire on the spot just from the sight of her. Expiring, however, seemed to be the last thing on Fenwyck’s mind. Fawning and petting seemed to be more in his thoughts. He had obviously matured when it came to how he chose to treat women. Rhys had liked him better before.
And he hadn’t liked him very much then.
“Swordplay?” Geoffrey’s gasp of surprise echoed in the great hall. “With these soft fingers? Lady, you jest with me! Lady Joanna, tell me your daughter—and I can hardly believe that she is actually your daughter, for you are far too young for such a thing to be true—”
Rhys rolled his eyes in disgust.
“Tell me that the lady Gwennelyn jests about wielding a blade. Such a delicate maid about such an ugly business!”
Rhys saw more finger fondleage than he would have liked as he looked at the table. He was half tempted to vault over it and land in Geoffrey’s lap. With any luck a weapon of some sort might come loose in the vaulting and Geoffrey would find himself accidentally, and surely regrettably, impaled in some strategic spot. Not a fatal wound, though. Rhys did have a use for the man eventually.
He cleared his throat purposefully as he approached the table.
Geoffrey looked up and a dark scowl came over his features. “I believe, Sir Knight, that you—”
“Were captain of my lady’s guard,” Rhys said as he rounded the end of the table, “and am now lord of Wyckham. If I am not welcome at your table, I will at least stand behind it and offer my lady the security of my presence.”
Geoffrey looked at him in surprise. “Wyckham?”
“As of his twenty-sixth year,” Joanna said smoothly, “which is a wonderful thing, is it not?”
Rhys suspected Geoffrey was thinking it to be anything but that.
“Surely he can sit with us,” Joanna said, giving Geoffrey a smile that would have knocked any breathing man to his knees, “don’t you think, my lord Fenwyck?”
Geoffrey was not unaffected. He blinked as if he’d been stunned by a sharp blow to the head. Rhys took the opportunity to slip into a chair next to Gwen before Geoffrey could gainsay him. Geoffrey finally roused himself from his stupor and turned back to Gwen. “Ah,” he said, “swords . . . wasn’t it?” he asked, blinking stupidly.
“She’s quite the swordsman,” Rhys said,
leaning over Gwen to look at Geoffrey. “Perhaps you would care to face her over blades.” And perhaps she will cut off something important, and it will distract you enough to keep your mind off licking her fingers for a bloody heartbeat or two!
“Tempting,” Geoffrey managed. He looked at Gwen and seemed to focus again on her. “What an afternoon that could turn out to be.”
Gwen was looking more tempted by the thought of skewering Geoffrey on her sword than was good for her, so Rhys distracted her by removing the trencher she was sharing with Geoffrey and placing it between himself and his lady. He took his own freshly dressed slab of bread and tossed it in front of Fenwyck’s lord.
“You look to have a hearty appetite,” Rhys said shortly.
“Aye, I do,” Geoffrey said, seemingly finding the energy to dredge up an appreciative glance for Gwen. “For many things.”
Gwen was beginning to look as nauseated as the Fitzgerald brothers.
“I do as well,” Rhys said. “But since the lady Gwennelyn is in my care, I am careful not to overindulge. I would suggest, my lord, that perhaps you follow my example.”
Fenwyck looked at him and apparently finally realized Rhys had taken a place at the table. He glared. “I think I can choose my own meal well enough, friend.”
“In this instance, I think you would be wise to take my advice on the matter.”
“And who are you—”
“I am her—”
“Oh, by the saints,” Gwen exclaimed, “will you both cease!”
“Please do,” Joanna agreed.
“We need him alive and unirritated,” Gwen muttered under her breath. “The saints help me remember it!”
“I think you both should keep yourselves to your own trenchers,” Joanna continued, obviously striving for a lighter tone. “Perhaps Gwen and I would be safer eating directly off the table.”
“Best wash that hand first, Gwen,” Rhys grumbled.
Fenwyck scowled. “Our good Sir Rhys is powerfully protective for being just the captain of your guard, my lady Gwennelyn.”
“As I said before, I am no longer captain of her guard,” Rhys said, resurrecting thoughts of a sharp weapon through some part of Geoffrey’s form.
“Then what interest do you have in the girl?” Geoffrey demanded. “A simple knight does not—”
Gwen slapped her hand down on the table so forcefully that Rhys, as well as Geoffrey, jumped. She glared at Geoffrey.
“He is my love,” she began angrily.
“Your what?” Geoffrey gasped.
Rhys watched as Gwen reached for his hand and clasped it between both her own. At least ’twas better that both her hands rest there than be free to be captured by Geoffrey’s.
“I love him,” Gwen said distinctly, “and he loves me.”
Geoffrey’s mouth worked, but no sound issued forth. Rhys thought, however, that Geoffrey’s eyes might fall from his head at any moment.
“We plan to wed.”
“You plan to wed,” Geoffrey echoed in disbelief.
“And then we’ll likely need your aid, though I’ve no mind to beg you for it. Perhaps Rhys isn’t a baron with your lands and power, but he is a good man . . .”
Rhys listened to her list his virtues and watched the realizations enter Geoffrey’s eyes. Rhys was now, whether he liked it or not, the lord of land that bordered Fenwyck. Rhys would be, whether Geoffrey cared for it or not, Gwen’s husband.
Geoffrey seemed to be having a great deal of trouble swallowing it all.
“And you would actually have this,” Geoffrey pointed at Rhys and looked at Gwen in disbelief, “this . . .”
Later Rhys knew that if Fenwyck had finished that thought, he would have been recovering from a potentially fatal wound, but the man was spared by a commotion at the door. Rhys turned his attentions there, fully expecting to see the Fitzgerald twins stumbling inside, perhaps covering others with the contents of their poor bellies.
Instead what he saw was a man so exhausted, Rhys marveled that he was still moving. The man fell to his knees in the rushes, panting. Rhys found himself on his feet and walking around the table almost before the thought of doing so took shape in his mind. Geoffrey had obviously had the same idea, for they collided on their way to the door. Rhys growled at Fenwyck, received a growl in return, then continued on his way, Geoffrey keeping pace with him. They approached the man together.
“My lord,” the man said, panting, “there is a fire. Was a fire.”
“Fire?” Geoffrey demanded. “Where?”
The man bowed his head and continued to suck in great gulps of air. “A fire,” he gasped. “Too great to stem.”
“Where?” Geoffrey asked again. “Fenwyck?”
“Aye,” the man rasped, “there, too.”
“Damnation!” Geoffrey bellowed.
“The rain quenched it,” the man wheezed, “but not before it burned a field or two of yours, my lord. I saw the fires from a distance and rode to see. A great amount of smoke.”
“Aye, well, that’s a fire for you,” Geoffrey said impatiently. “Who set the bloody blaze?”
“Didn’t recognize them,” the man answered. “But there were a handful of them riding hard away from the keep. There’s nothing left of that now.”
Geoffrey frowned. “The keep? What keep?”
“Nothing left of any of the fields surrounding the castle, either,” the man continued. “The fire burned itself out there.”
“By all the sweet saints above,” Rhys exclaimed, unable to help himself. “Where is the bloody fire?”
The man looked at him and blinked.
“Why, Wyckham, of course.”
31
Wyckham.
Gwen heard the man’s words, saw Rhys reel as if he’d been struck, then watched as he began to weave. She thought he just might faint.
“Wyckham?” he repeated, but the man didn’t answer him. He turned to look around him, as if he searched for aid. His gaze fell upon Gwen. “Wyckham?” he asked again, as if he simply could not take in what he’d heard.
Geoffrey waved him aside. “Your problem, friend, not mine. Now, Edlred, what is this of damage to my fields?”
Rhys stumbled toward the door. Gwen leaped up from the table and rushed after him. Geoffrey caught her by the arm and stopped her.
“I daresay it may rain again, lady. Perhaps you would be better served—”
“Let me go,” she said, jerking her arm from his. “He’s going to go see the ruin. I can’t let him go alone.”
“Of course you can—”
“You fool, that is his land!”
“I know, but—”
“The fire was purposely set. The saints only know who has been left behind to harm him!”
“Now, Lady Gwennelyn . . .” Geoffrey began.
“Mother,” Gwen called, “please rescue me from this imbecile! I must go after Rhys.”
She managed to get out the door and into the courtyard before Geoffrey caught up with her again. Gwen ignored him and looked about her for the stables. She watched in consternation as Rhys ran from the stables, pulling his mount along behind him. He vaulted into the saddle and spurred his horse through the gates. It took her no time at all to confirm her decision. He couldn’t go alone. If he did, the saints only knew what might happen to him.
Gwen ran across the courtyard and was almost plowed over by John, who didn’t wait to leave the stables before he had mounted his own horse. She caught her breath, then made her way down to the proper stall. Fortunately three years at Segrave had done more than just provide her with sheets for another marriage bed. Though the twins had been of no use when it came to equine endeavors—and now she understood why—Montgomery had been susceptible to bullying and had therefore taught her a great deal about horses. She’d even come to the point of being able to saddle one with moderate skill.
She put all her skills to good use now. It took her longer than she would have liked, but Geoffrey was of no help—not th
at she would have asked him anyway. He was far too busy ordering his lads to see to the saddling of mounts for himself and several guardsmen. The only thing that remotely cheered her was the sight of Montgomery retrieving his horse. At least she would have companionship she could bear.
“How far is Wyckham still, do you think?” she asked him as they left the stables together.
“A good day’s ride,” Montgomery said grimly. “Far enough that we should take along provisions.”
Gwen found her way blocked again by Geoffrey. He frowned at her.
“This is very ill-advised, lady,” he said. “He will likely collect his mercenaries on his way, and I think it imprudent that you be amongst such company.”
“And yours is any safer?” she demanded.
He seemed to be searching for some return for that. Gwen was certain it would take more time than she had at her disposal, so she tried to push him aside.
“Out of my way,” she commanded. “I’ve things to do.”
He remained stubbornly in front of her. “I don’t understand how the land came to be his,” he said.
“It was my sire’s,” Gwen said shortly. “It became Alain’s upon my marriage to him. Alain’s father Bertram commanded that Alain give it to Rhys upon Rhys’s twenty-sixth year as reward for his faithful service.”
Geoffrey grunted. “Then I suppose ’tis more than simply Sir Rhys boasting to impress you.”
“Get out of my way,” she said distinctly, “lest you force me to draw my blade and use it upon your sorry form.”
“The saints preserve me from that,” he said as he hastily stepped aside. He cleared his throat. “I’ll come as well.”
She paused and looked at him. She didn’t want to converse any more with him, but she would be the first to admit that he was, after all, a powerful man with many knights at his disposal. And she had promised Rhys she would be agreeable to the wretch.
“Why would you come?” she asked reluctantly.
“I’ll need to see what’s been done to my fields.”
Of course. It wasn’t as if he would come along to help Rhys. “Do as you like,” Gwen said, tugging on her horse. “I could not care less.”