A Time for Love

by Lynn Kurland

  “Foolish?” Rhys asked.

  “Aye,” Alain said. “Quite foolish.”

  “I think he looks sinister,” Gwen put in.

  Alain glared at her. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.” He turned back to Rhys. “And look at your hair. Unfashionably long.”

  “Oh, by the saints,” Rollan groaned.

  Alain turned a glare on his brother. “I’m doing well enough on my own, without your aid. I’ve just begun to point out his flaws.”

  Rhys folded his arms over his chest and tried to maintain a serious expression. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Are you trying to insult me?”

  “See?” Alain said smugly to his brother. “He caught on readily enough.”

  Rhys wasn’t sure if he should laugh or truly be offended that Alain couldn’t think up anything more clever. He shook his head.

  “Why would you want to offend me?”

  “So you’ll challenge me,” Alain answered promptly. He looked him over critically. “I suppose you’re just as weary from your travels as you would be from spending a fortnight in my wife’s bed.”

  Rhys shook his head, certain he was hearing things.

  Alain waited expectantly. “Well? Are you going to challenge me?”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  Alain looked at him as if Rhys had just lost his mind. “Surely several reasons would be readily apparent.”

  “Oh,” Rhys said, nodding. “The complete destruction of my land, perhaps?”

  “That would do for a start.”

  Rhys smiled. “Somehow I think I’ll leave our beloved monarch to take his revenge for that. He was none too pleased to learn of it.”

  “You told the king?” Alain demanded. “When?”

  “When I was in London on my way back from being ambushed in France.” Rhys smiled at Rollan. “Hire less greedy thugs the next time, my friend. These could hardly wait to get their hands on my gold.”

  Alain threw his crop at his brother. “Fool!” Then he looked down at his empty hand. “Damn,” he said, looking rather stunned. “Now what am I to use upon him?”

  Rollan sighed deeply and gently threw Alain’s crop back to him. “Here, my lord. Now you are fully prepared for the task at hand.”

  “Oh, by the saints!” Gwen exclaimed. “Will someone fetch me a chair of some kind that I might sit through the rest of this absurdity?”

  Rhys shared her sentiments fully.

  “Aye”—Alain nodded—“the challenge. Well, Sir Rhys, get on with it. A good thing you’ve already dismounted before you deliver it.”

  “Easier for you to wield your crop that way?” Rhys asked, amused.

  “Aye,” Alain said. “And then to finish you with a very dull blade.”

  “It doesn’t seem quite sporting, does it, for me to be on my feet and you on your horse?” Rhys asked. “Perhaps you should dismount as well.”

  Alain swung down, obviously before he realized what he was doing. He looked so appalled at his own actions, Rhys almost felt sorry for him. He could hardly believe he pitied the man who had caused him so much grief, but then again, Alain was only the figurehead. Rhys felt certain if he dragged the entire affair out long enough, Alain would reveal all of Rollan’s machinations.

  “So I am to challenge you,” Rhys said conversationally. “First for insulting me, then for Wyckham? Or is it the other way around?”

  Alain blinked in confusion, then suddenly nodded. “Aye,” he said, weighing the crop in his hand.

  “And then you’ll kill me.”

  “A knight doesn’t insult a lord and come away unscathed.”

  “Why do you care if I live or die?” Rhys asked. “Surely Wyckham isn’t that important to you.”

  “Isn’t Wyckham,” Alain said, waving off the guardsmen who had begun to cluster around him. “It’s all of her lands.”

  “All of them, hmmm?” Rhys asked, exchanging a pointed look with the captain of his mercenary company. Robin was safely taken care of by John and the rest of his men had taken up positions behind Gwen and Nicholas. His grandfather was sitting apart watching the proceedings with a smirk. Rhys shot him a warning look, but Sir Jean only lifted a shoulder in a half shrug as if to say he did not feel himself in any danger.

  “Aye, all her lands,” Alain said. “You see, if you live and manage to buy an annulment—”

  “Or a divorce,” Rollan interrupted.

  Alain shot him a look of displeasure, then turned back to Rhys. “If you have an annulment from the king,” Alain continued, “I might lose her lands. But if you’re dead, then she’ll have nowhere else to go.” He looked at Rollan and he frowned. “That can’t be right, for that leaves her still with me. How do I marry where I will if I’m still shackled to her?”

  “Perhaps you could divorce her,” Rhys suggested. “Consanguinity, or some other such rot.”

  Alain looked at him in surprise. “Aye, that would work well enough. And then surely the king would allow me to keep her soil.”

  “After your work at Wyckham?” Rhys asked doubtfully. “I wonder.”

  “’Twas Rollan’s idea,” Alain answered promptly. “I’ll tell that to John myself.”

  Rhys looked at Rollan to find him staring intently at his brother, as if he willed him to close his mouth. So, it was as they had suspected. Rollan was behind the treachery. Rhys spared Rollan a brief glance filled with promise of retribution, then turned back to Alain.

  “You realize,” Rhys said slowly, “that no matter whose idea it was, John will hold you responsible.”

  “He will not,” Alain disagreed.

  “Won’t he?” Rhys asked. “You are lord of Ayre, not Rollan, and he will surely blame the damage to Wyckham and Fenwyck upon you.” He looked at Alain thoughtfully. “I wonder what other ideas of Rollan’s John will hold you accountable for.”

  A look of panic began to descend on Alain’s features.

  “Indeed,” Rhys continued, “I suspect that might be Rollan’s plan.” He looked at Rollan to see his reaction to that statement. And if he’d been made of less stern stock, he might have stepped back a pace at the look of pure hatred Rollan was sending his way.

  “My lord,” Rollan said, still glaring at Rhys, “he spouts nonsense. You know my loyalties are to you—”

  Alain cut him off with an impatient motion of his hand. “I don’t think I understand,” Alain said to Rhys. “His plans only include you.”

  “Do they?” Rhys asked.

  “Aye. You are the one who wants all my land.”

  Rhys shook his head. “I don’t want your land. I want your wife.”

  Alain blinked, as if he wasn’t quite sure to what to do with such a blatant admission. “You must want the land.”

  “I have enough.”

  The lord of Ayre was obviously becoming more confused by the moment. “But I must kill you, or so Rollan says. And you must challenge me that I might kill you fairly. That is the only way to keep Gwen’s lands and rid myself of her as well.”

  “My lord,” Rollan put in.

  “Silence!” Alain commanded. He slapped his crop into his hand and frowned at Rhys. “I suppose if all you wanted was the wench, that would still be enough reason to challenge me.”

  “I would think it would just be easier for me to buy a divorce,” Rhys said, “but no doubt Rollan has other ideas about that as well. You might want to think on what those could be.”

  Rollan laughed, but even Rhys could tell it was somewhat strained. “He babbles foolishness, brother. Have at him and let us be done with this.”

  Alain fingered his crop nervously. “He doesn’t look all that weary to me. He was to be much wearier before I fought him.”

  “And even if I were,” Rhys added, “do you truly think you could best me?”

  “Boastful whoreson,” Rollan hissed. “Take him, Alain, and repay him for his cheek.”

  “Rollan knows you won’t come away the victor,” Rhys said. “I daresay he
expects you to suffer a fatal wound as well. I wonder just how long he’s been envisioning himself as lord of Ayre.”

  “’Tis a lie,” Rollan said. “I have no other purpose than to serve . . . my brother,” he finished with an audible swallow.

  Rhys could understand why. Perhaps the light had been slow in dawning on Alain, but apparently he’d finally seen it. He turned to his brother, his mouth hanging open.

  “You want what I have,” Alain said, sounding stunned.

  “Now, brother—”

  “You want my land!”

  “And your title,” Rhys suggested.

  “Gwen, too, I’d say,” Geoffrey interjected from behind Rhys. “I’ve seen the way he looks at her.”

  Alain strode over to where Rollan still sat atop his horse. “You intended to see me slain!” he roared, striking what he could reach of his brother with the riding crop.

  “Or at least out of favor with the king,” Rhys prodded. “That would likely be a worse fate—”

  “Aye, ’tis true,” Rollan spat, lashing out at Alain with his foot. “I wanted you dead.”

  “You traitor!”

  “You imbecile!” Rollan returned. “Saints, Alain, you’ve not even a pair of wits to mate and produce enough intelligence to govern Ayre! Who do you think has seen to everything until now? You?”

  “Traitor,” Alain said, continuing to beat at his brother with the crop. “You liar! You led me to believe you wanted naught but my glory!”

  Rhys watched as Rollan’s mount began to buck, having received the brunt of perhaps one too many of Alain’s blows. Rollan fought to maintain his seat, jerking back on the reins to try to control his stallion. The more the beast reared, the closer in Alain moved. Rhys would have called out a warning, but it was obvious the current lord of Ayre was beyond reason. He seemed to be viewing the mount as an extension of his brother, for he lashed it savagely.

  And then whether by fortune or design, Rollan caught his brother in the head with his foot and sent him down to his knees. Before any in the company could move to pull Alain out of the way, the stallion had taken his own revenge with his hooves, slashing and then stamping until Alain was no longer moving. It was only then that Rollan regained control of his horse and urged him away a few paces.

  “Merciful saints above,” Gwen whispered from behind Rhys. “Is he dead?”

  “Only if he’s fortunate,” Rhys said quietly. There wasn’t enough left intact of Alain for life to have been a possibility. Rhys looked up at Rollan.

  Rollan looked more shocked than Rhys had ever seen him. He stared in horror at his brother, then looked about him at the gathered company.

  “I never meant—” he began, his hands fumbling nervously with the reins. “I mean, I never meant to be the one—”

  “Seize him!” Geoffrey exclaimed.

  Rollan seemed to gather his wits about him. “Nay,” he shouted suddenly, gesturing furiously at Rhys, “seize him!” He looked for the captain of Alain’s guard. “He is the one who has caused this tragedy!”

  Rhys felt his mouth drop open. “Me?” he gasped.

  “Aye,” Rollan said, recapturing his coolness. “Captain, bind him and put him into the dungeon. I will see to the lady Gwennelyn until the king can be told—”

  Alain’s captain, Osbert, did not need to be told more than once that he could have a go at Rhys. Rhys had faced the man numerous times in the lists, merely as exercise of course, but even so the encounters had never been friendly. Rhys suspected Osbert was relishing the thought of doing him harm with a clear conscience.

  Rhys held up his hand. “Osbert, you saw with your own eyes—”

  “—You goading my lord,” Osbert finished with a snarl, drawing his blade with a flourish. “’Tis as Lord Rollan says. All your fault.”

  Rhys groaned silently. Alain’s captain was no brighter than Alain himself had been. There was no point in trying to reason with the man, especially since Osbert’s blade was already coming his way with a goodly amount of enthusiasm.

  At least Osbert was the only one of Alain’s guard who had drawn his weapon. Perhaps the afternoon’s events could be sorted out sooner than Rhys had hoped.

  And then he found himself with no choice but to draw his own blade and concentrate on the man who came at him, salivating at the prospect of doing him in. It took three strokes to disarm Alain’s captain and a fist under the chin to send him slumping to the ground, senseless. Rhys looked at the rest of Alain’s guard. Not a one moved. Indeed, they seemed to be finding many things more interesting than him to look at.

  Such as the rump of Rollan of Ayre’s horse as it galloped out the gates.

  “Someone should go after him!” Geoffrey exclaimed.

  Rhys shook his head. “Let him go. We’ll send word to John and let him see to the matter. Perhaps ’tis best that Rollan live with what he’s done for a bit.”

  “A fine new lord of Ayre in that one,” Geoffrey muttered. “Escaping across the countryside.”

  “The title is Robin’s, my lord,” Rhys said with a sigh, “as you would realize if you thought about it long enough. We can only be grateful Gwen’s lands will go to someone with the sense to see to them.”

  “Why, thank you so very much,” John said, lowering Robin to the ground. “I could have taken them over. And I daresay I would have dowered my sister-in-law very well that she might make a fine match of some nobleman.”

  Rhys shot his squire a dark look, then turned to look at the freshly made widow of Alain of Ayre.

  She was staring at Alain as if she could hardly believe her eyes. Then she walked over, took off her mercenary’s cloak, and covered him with it. She turned to look at Rhys.

  “This isn’t how I would have had it finish.”

  He nodded grimly. “Nor I. But ’tis done and we must make the best of it. The king will have to be informed.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Geoffrey volunteered.

  “Later, if you will. I have need of you presently.”

  Geoffrey looked a bit surprised at Rhys’s tone, but Rhys didn’t spare that much thought. He had two things to accomplish, and the sooner they were done, the better he would like it.

  And once those were done, they would ride like demons for Artane and pray John was too lazy to come after them. Rhys hadn’t spared Rollan out of the goodness of his heart. A good chase would keep the king busy, and Rhys could only hope a murderer would interest the king more than a disobedient vassal.

  For he fully intended to do exactly what the king had expressly forbidden him.

  He looked at his lady and fingered the hilt of his sword. “We have business together, lady.”

  And it was business best seen to while they still had the freedom to do so.

  38

  Gwen wondered if Rhys now planned to use his sword on her. The way he’d said business had left her wondering just what he intended. With the severity of his frown, it could have been anything from a lengthy kiss to an encounter in the lists. She took a firm grasp on the hilt of her sword and pointed the blade at him.

  “I don’t know that I care for your tone,” she said, mustering up all the haughtiness she could.

  “We don’t have time to argue about it,” he said shortly. He thrust out his hand. “Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  He looked at her as if she’d lost all sense. “Well, to the priest, of course.”

  “Priest?”

  “So we can be wed,” he said impatiently. “Saints, Gwen, why else would we need one?”

  “To bury Alain?”

  “He’s not going anywhere. My head, however, will be if we don’t get on with this business before something else disastrous happens—such as the king arriving and finding out what I’m about.”

  Gwen found her hand in his and her feet trotting to keep up with him as he strode across the courtyard to the tiny chapel. He hadn’t bothered to sheath his sword, and she hadn’t had the time. She looked at Alain’s priest and watch
ed his eyes roll back in his head at their approach. Unfortunately they didn’t approach quickly enough to catch him before he slumped to the ground.

  “Damnation,” Rhys grumbled. “What else can happen to us this day?”

  “A visit from the king?” John asked from behind them.

  “A downpour?” Montgomery suggested.

  “Ahem,” Geoffrey said, trying to insert himself bodily between Gwen and her love, “I believe now that Alain—may his dim soul rest in peace—is gone, I should be the one to care for Gwen and what is hers. I am, after all, a powerful baron in my own right—”

  Gwen watched as Rhys elbowed Geoffrey out of the way and took a firmer grip on her arm.

  “Montgomery,” Rhys said shortly, “rouse the priest. And find my grandsire, would you?”

  “I am here, Rhys lad,” came the crusty response. “Rude you are, young one, not to take into consideration an old man’s sore knees.” He clucked his tongue. “Such unseemly haste.”

  Gwen looked to her left to find Rhys’s grandfather standing there. He looked anything but decrepit, and she could tell by the twinkle in his eye that he mightily enjoyed giving his grandson as much grief as possible. She found her chin grasped in surprisingly gentle fingers.

  “Let me have a look at the girl,” he said. He turned Gwen’s face this way and that. “Aye, she’ll do.”

  “Thank you,” Gwen said dryly.

  “Nicely fashioned ears,” Sir Jean added, lifting her hair to peer at the appendages in question.

  “Your grandfather, Rhys,” Gwen said, never taking her gaze from Sir Jean’s, “is a man of discriminating taste.”

  “He’s as blind as a bat if you ask me,” Geoffrey grumbled from behind her. “Not even a wimple of the stiffest fabric could pin those enormous flaps to the sides of her hea—”

  Sir Jean threw him a steely look that had no doubt quelled many a braver soul. Geoffrey apparently found other things to do besides speak, for he said no more. Gwen’s affection for Sir Jean grew tenfold.

  “We need the priest propped up,” Rhys interrupted. “John, go over and help Montgomery.”