by Lynn Kurland
That gave him at least another pair of hours to decide how he would keep Robin out of harm’s way. They hadn’t had any trouble thus far, but they’d also been riding hard since they’d landed. The saints only knew what they would find when they met his grandsire at Rhys’s mother’s abbey. Rhys couldn’t credit Alain with stirring up mischief in France, so that left Rollan. And Rhys knew he couldn’t put anything past Ayre’s younger brother.
Well, all they could do was make for Marechal, where he knew his grandfather currently loitered, and hope to find all well there.
Rhys took a final look about camp and, satisfied that all was going according to plan, took himself off for a walk in the woods. It wasn’t to say that he didn’t trust the men he paid so dearly for. He told himself he would ease through the surrounding forest simply because it soothed him to do so. He was a good scout, and three years of warring had certainly improved that skill. He’d never once been caught unawares, though he’d certainly run afoot of many others during their naps.
He waved off his guard and made his way carefully through the trees. After all, what need had he for someone to watch his back? He could watch it well enough himself.
He contemplated his well-earned prowess for perhaps another quarter hour. Aye, he was a fine tracker indeed.
And that was the last thought he had before his world unexpectedly went black.
“Ye fool, ye were supposed to wait till after the gold was fetched!”
“Ouch! Quit yer wackin’ of me!”
“Aye, leave off, François, before I takes to wackin’ the both of ye! We wasn’t supposed to touch the bugger a’tall!”
Rhys opened one eye a slit. He would have liked to believe it was because he was being stealthy, but in truth it was because of the blinding pain in his head. By the saints, what had they felled him with, a boulder?
“If Jean-Luc wasn’t so bloody greedy—”
“If François wasn’t so bloody violent—”
“And if the both of you wasn’t so bloody stupid, we wouldn’t find ourselves in this fix!”
Rhys opened both eyes, certain the argument was heating up enough that he wouldn’t be noticed. He found himself tied to a tree, watching three characters of less than sterling quality standing toe-to-toe, shouting and clouting each other. Taking in the dirty hands and faces, torn clothing, blackened eyes and teeth led him to one conclusion: Rollan was behind this.
That led him to another conclusion which was even more startling than the first: Rollan knew at least one of the secrets Rhys and his grandfather shared. And if he knew about their agreed-upon signals to be used in missives, what else did he know about?
The thought was enough to chill Rhys to the bone.
“We was just supposed to watch him,” the third of the group reminded the others. “And keep our ears open to his mama’s whereabouts.”
“Aye,” said François, giving who Rhys assumed was Jean-Luc another substantial blow to the side of the head. “That’s what we was supposed to do, idiot.”
Jean-Luc rubbed his ear in annoyance. “Pierre, tell him to stop a’cloutin’ me. I’m having pains in me head.”
Pierre, the obvious leader of the trio, rolled his eyes in exasperation. “François, leave off. We needs Jean-Luc to do the navigatin’ for us. Remember, he’s to remember where we’s been so we can tell Lord Rollan.”
The saints preserve you, Rollan, Rhys thought dryly, if this is the one you’ve put your trust in. Jean-Luc was still rubbing his ear and shaking his head. Perhaps he was afraid François had jarred something loose.
There was a crash in the undergrowth behind Rhys, and he quickly closed his eyes as all three swung about to look at him, their mouths agape.
“A beastie,” François whispered in horror.
“Aye, run!” Jean-Luc gasped. “Run for our lives!”
The sound of two forceful slaps echoed in the little clearing.
“Oof,” François said. “Thanks be to ye, Pierre.”
“Aye,” Jean-Luc agreed, “most needful. I’m feeling much better now.”
Rhys leaned his head back against the tree and listened to the three resume their discussion of just what it was they were supposed to have been doing. Other than capturing him, of course. It seemed to entail a great deal of instruction from their employer, the mighty Rollan of Ayre. Then they spent ample time discussing what he’d promised to do to them if they failed. The more they discussed that, the more panicked François and Jean-Luc became, which necessitated a handful of slaps which Rhys could only assume had been delivered by Pierre.
Rhys wondered if his mercenaries were clustered about in the underbrush, stuffing their cloaks in their mouths to stifle their giggles.
He had just determined to open his eyes to see if that were the case when he felt the ropes binding his hands begin to be sawed asunder. Once that was accomplished, the hilt of a knife was pressed into his palm. And immediately after that, a small body launched itself into the clearing and dived for Rhys’s sword.
Rhys watched in horror as Robin drew the blade and brandished it. He came close to severing Pierre’s arm off above the elbow.
Like mother, like son, Rhys supposed.
Fortunately the three in the clearing were so appalled by the sight of a small boy waving about a blade he obviously couldn’t control, they could only stand there and gape, which gave Rhys time to get to his feet, clear his head, and take the sword from Robin. He glared at his captors.
François and Jean-Luc dropped to their knees and clasped their hands before them.
“Nay,” Jean-Luc pleaded, “don’t take me life, Sir Rhys!”
“Aye,” François said, bobbing his head in agreement. “We’ve heard tales of ye!”
“Fierce.”
“Merciless.”
“And do ye know,” Jean-Luc said, turning to François suddenly, “that he bathes quite regular. Heard the rumor meself at that inn near Conyers—”
A muffled laugh or two from the trees made Rhys grit his teeth. Once his head stopped paining him thusly, he would knock a few other heads together for their trouble.
“Yield!” Robin shouted suddenly to Pierre, brandishing his own wooden sword as if it were a mighty weapon of death.
Pierre clutched his bloody forearm and glared down at Robin. “I should cut ye to ribbons, ye little demon—”
Well, there was no excuse for that kind of talk. Rhys leaned over and planted his fist in Pierre’s face. Pierre crumpled like a handful of fine silk.
“I could have taken him,” Robin pointed out.
“You had him, lad,” Rhys assured him. “Distracted him very well. Kind of you to allow me to finish him off.”
“Harumph,” Robin said, resheathing his own sword with gusto. “Perhaps my mama will make up a tale about it.”
“I’ll be certain to relate to her all the important points,” Rhys said. “Now, let’s tie up these other two and see what kind of tidings we can have further from them. I daresay you’ll want to remain for the questioning.”
“Of course,” Robin said, folding his arms over his chest and looking at the two culprits. “Perhaps we could use worms. Or a handful of spiders down their tunics.”
Almost six summers. Rhys suppressed his smile as he did the honors of securing Robin’s prisoners. So Rollan was spying on him to ascertain his mother’s whereabouts. Interesting. Rhys could hardly see what good that would do the man, short of a kidnapping. Did he have no idea of Rhys’s mother’s secure haven? Or the lengths to which her women would go to see her protected? There was surely some benefit to being Jean de Piaget’s daughter-in-law, and, no doubt, another soul following in the de Piaget tradition of spying for the king. Nay, there had to be more to the tale than was being told.
And he would have it all, just as soon as he’d discovered which of his men had been lurking in the bushes, chuckling. After they’d been properly rewarded for their humor, he would turn his mind to the other riddle. He hoped it didn’t hav
e as poor an ending as he suspected it might.
With Rollan of Ayre, one could just never be sure.
35
It had been four days. Four days was long enough to wait. And it wasn’t just that to annoy him. He’d been loitering about the countryside for well over a month before that, waiting for the effects of his work to come to the fore. The missives had been sent and the journeys begun. Now the time for action had come and where did he find himself?
Waiting for his brother. For four days, no less. Rollan grumbled under his breath as he mounted the steps, narrowly missing being trampled by a pair of foul-smelling knights on their way down to the great hall. Had he not been so adept at hugging walls while eavesdropping, he likely would have tumbled to his death.
By the saints, he hated Canfield. He couldn’t understand how Alain bore the place. Rachel wasn’t even in attendance, but that hadn’t stopped Alain from being entertained nonetheless. Why Alain couldn’t have entertained himself thusly at home, Rollan didn’t know. What he did know was that he himself had been mightily inconvenienced, and he was less than happy about it.
Of course those four days had given him ample time to contemplate his finest bit of mischief. He’d spent several cups savoring the fact that he had actually sent Rhys to France thanks to a perfectly crafted forgery using the password known only to Sir Jean and Rhys himself.
Or so they thought.
Then he’d enjoyed the knowledge that Gwen had gone dashing off from Fenwyck after she’d received the other forgery Rollan had so carefully concocted. And bless the girl if she didn’t do just as Rollan suspected she would by sending messengers to both Dover and London to instruct Rhys to come straightway to Ayre upon his return to England.
Rollan couldn’t have planned that better himself if he’d been the one to do so.
Which, of course, he had.
Now the last task that lay before him was to convince Alain that returning to Ayre as quickly as possible was the only course of action left to him. Rollan could almost envision the scene that he was certain would greet his eyes eventually. Alain, comfortable at home and determined to act on the thoughts Rollan had placed in his head. Gwen full of fervor, determined to rescue Rhys’s gold. And Rhys himself, likely purple with rage over having been duped.
It could, Rollan conceded modestly, quite possibly be the most ingenious scheme he had ever set in motion.
Now to see to Alain’s part in it. Rollan walked down the passageway to the chamber he knew his brother occupied during all his stays here and threw open the door. He was hardly surprised by the sight that greeted him, so he walked to the footpost of the bed and looked down at his brother who lay sprawled in a tangle of sheets.
“Perhaps you didn’t receive the messages I sent up,” Rollan said.
Alain looked at him blankly. “Messages?”
“I’ve been waiting to speak to you for several days, brother,” Rollan said, dredging up what little patience he still possessed after days of drinking the swill that passed for ale at this keep. To think he might have been dining so deliciously at Segrave. Gwen and Rhys were no longer there to see him denied entrance. Even though Joanna also had gone with them, her seneschal wasn’t overly opposed to Rollan. Rollan was, after all, the one who kept Alain far from their doors. Surely that would have earned him a meal or two.
Alain frowned. “What about?”
“I have tidings I’m certain you’ll be interested in.”
Alain waved with a kingly gesture. “Give them to me now.”
Rollan would have preferred to speak to his brother in private, but ’twas obvious Alain had no intention of moving.
“Very well,” Rollan began slowly, wanting to make sure his brother didn’t miss anything. “It would seem that the lady Gwennelyn is returning to Ayre.”
“Thought she was still in the north. Likely trying to get the stench of smoke out of her clothes.” Alain smiled widely, obviously waiting for some response to his cleverness.
Rollan would have preferred also to have their activities at Wyckham remain secret, but it wasn’t as if a simple castle whore or two would have made sense of it. Rollan laughed to soothe his brother’s ego, then recaptured his sober look.
“Gwen is returning to meet Sir Rhys.”
Alain looked more perplexed than usual. He sat up and rearranged a pillow or two behind his back. “Meet him at Ayre? I thought they were together at Fenwyck.”
“Our gallant Sir Rhys has been in France, collecting his gold.”
“He’ll need it,” Alain said. “It will take every last bloody piece to rebuild Wyckham.”
“I daresay he doesn’t intend to rebuild it,” Rollan corrected. “He intends to use it to buy Gwen’s freedom.”
Alain looked as if he’d been plowed over by a team of horses. “Her freedom? From me?”
Rollan suppressed the urge to clap his hand to his forehead and groan. Truly, the depths of his brother’s stupidity amazed even him at times, and he’d lived with the fool his entire life.
“A new scheme,” Rollan lied. “I just learned of it myself.”
“But how?” Alain asked. “Divorce?”
Rollan shook his head. “More likely an annulment.”
“But,” Alain protested, “that would say that I had never bedded her.”
“But we know you have,” Rollan said.
“But others would think I hadn’t!”
“You have two children, Alain.”
Alain thumped the pillow in frustration. “What does that matter? An annulment means I have not bedded her!”
Rollan sighed lightly. “A blow to your pride, of course.”
“Annulment,” Alain said in disbelief, as if he hadn’t heard anything Rollan had said. “I can hardly believe it.”
“Seeking to obtain such a thing would be gold wasted if you ask me,” Rollan said. “I thought perhaps you might find a better use for it than seeing it wind up in some London coffer.”
“Always could use more,” Alain conceded.
“My thought as well,” Rollan said. “Which is why I suspected you would want to make for Ayre as soon as possible. They should be there together by the time you reach the keep. Catching one’s wife in the act of adultery should surely be enough to see her disgraced.”
Alain blinked. “Will I lose her lands?”
“With the love the king bears you?” Rollan said soothingly. “Surely not, my lord. And think on this: you would be free to wed where you will.” Rollan looked at the three very voluptuous serving wenches curled up in Alain’s bed like so many puppies and smiled faintly. “Or perhaps not. You have an heir. You would simply be ridding yourself of an annoying wife.”
“Rid myself of Gwen,” Alain said, obviously finding the idea to his liking. He smiled brightly. “I’ll do it.”
“Now?” one of the women complained.
Alain frowned, distracted by the ample flesh on display. “Hmmm,” he said, scratching his head thoughtfully, “perhaps later.”
“Ah, but it must be now,” Rollan interjected. “Immediately. Before de Piaget and the lady Gwennelyn flee the keep. Why, they could be romping betwixt the sheets even as we speak. You’ll want to catch them at it.”
Alain shuddered. “Don’t know why he’d want the acid-tongued wench.”
“Who can explain a man’s tastes?” Rollan asked pointedly.
“Who indeed. Let’s be off,” Alain said as he threw off the sheets, scattering his collection of bedmates. “The sooner, the better.”
Rollan leaned against the footpost and watched his brother dress.
“You’ll want to insult de Piaget, of course,” Rollan remarked casually. “Enough to make him challenge you.”
Alain froze. “Challenge me?”
“Can you not see the wisdom in it? A mere knight attacking a lord of the realm?”
“Ah,” Alain said, nodding. Then he frowned. “But he will best me.”
Rollan laughed softly. “Brother, you give you
rself too little credit. The tales of his prowess are greatly exaggerated. Besides, you’ll catch him fully sated from being abed with your wife. I daresay he’ll have little strength to stand against you.”
“You’ve quite the head for strategy,” Alain said.
“That I do.”
Alain paused. “Should I have my sword sharpened before we go?”
“Use the crop instead,” Rollan advised. “Then finish him with a dull blade. More entertaining that way.”
“I believe you’re right, brother.”
Rollan turned away and left the chamber before he had to watch his brother give very thorough kisses of parting to his afternoon’s entertainment. Alain did not deserve Gwennelyn of Ayre. Rollan suspected that he should be very grateful that his brother had found her so unpalatable. The thought of anyone touching her set his teeth on edge.
He descended the steps to the great hall and contemplated the feelings coursing through him. He was surprised to find that amid the rage, there was actually a bit of something soft. He thought again about Gwen and the softness increased.
By all the bloody saints above, could that be love?
He came to a halt, fair frozen in place by the horror of the thought. He’d felt many things over the course of his life for Gwennelyn of Ayre, but love had certainly never been among them. He put his hand to his head. He wasn’t feverish. He’d just celebrated the anniversary of his birth, so ’twas possible that the aftereffects of that celebration had wrought this unpleasant change in him.
“Murder,” he said, rolling the word on his tongue. “Mayhem. Mutilation.” His three favorites.
Ah, there were the stirrings of ruthlessness he felt so comfortable with. That softness had been but a moment’s weakness. He would have Gwen, to be sure. And he would find ways to make her suffer while he took her. After all, she had spurned him once, leaving her bloody needle marks in his belly. She should pay for that.
But first Alain. The current lord of Ayre should surely make a stand at his own keep—the keep should have been his, Rollan of Ayre’s, by birth. It would be his by death. If that death happened to be his brother’s, what could he do but grieve over the deed?