A Time for Love

by Lynn Kurland

  He stopped once they reached the great hall, sheathed his sword, and smiled at her. “Got him out of the tub, so now I might enter it. Shall we have a cup of ale first, do you think?”

  She could only stare at him, unsure if she should laugh or not.

  “You’ll come sit on the stool in the kitchen and keep the little wenches at bay for me as well, will you not?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye.

  “Well—”

  “Better yet, send your mother. A passing handsome woman, that one.”

  Gwen let him lead her over to the table. She hadn’t indulged in but half her cup before her husband arrived, dressed and grumbling. He spared his grandfather an irritated look before he tugged Gwen to her feet.

  “Come with me.”

  “Don’t forget your mother,” Jean called as Rhys dragged Gwen from the hall. “Send her to the kitchens.”

  “The saints preserve her,” Rhys muttered under his breath.

  Gwen laughed as he led her to the bedchamber Rhys had appropriated for them. He pulled her inside, shut the door, and shoved the bolt home.

  “You don’t think I should call my mother—”

  “I do not,” Rhys said, backing her up against the door.

  “But your grandfather—”

  “Can fend for himself. He’s been doing it for years. I, however, am perfectly helpless and will need much watching over for the rest of this day.”

  “You pitiful man,” she said, clucking her tongue sadly. “I suppose you’ll need my full attention?”

  “I fear that is the case.”

  Gwen wrapped her arms around his neck. “How have you managed all these years without me?”

  His mouth came down on hers. She suspected, as he soon lifted her up and carried her to the bed, that such a question was not one he cared to answer. Indeed, he seemed determined to make up for all the years that she hadn’t had him to watch over, if the tenacity with which he kept her in his bed was any indication.

  Evening fell and Gwen managed to escape long enough to light a candle or two. She returned to her husband’s arms and sighed in contentment as she rested her head against his shoulder. He ran callused fingers over her back, and she remembered idly the first time he had touched her hand and how even then such a touch had affected her. Things had not changed.

  “Gwen?”

  “Aye, love,” she said.

  “I wish this day would never end.”

  He sounded so wistful, she lifted her head and looked down at him. “We’ll have many more such days, surely.”

  He smiled, a pensive smile that touched her heart. “I hope so, my love. I do.”

  “We will,” she said. “I am convinced of it.”

  “Then convince me,” he asked. “And take your time at it.”

  She saw the twinkle in his eye and laughed.

  Then she bent her head and kissed him, determined to do just that.

  41

  “Have patience with an old man,” the old man said, “and explain to me once again why it is I shouldn’t run you through for interrupting my supper.”

  Rollan admired Patrick of Sedgwick’s callousness. Indeed, he understood it well and had no fears for the continuation of his head resting atop his neck. The old man was naught but bluster. Rollan knew he was intrigued, and he also knew Patrick would have slit his own throat before showing it. This was the kind of man he could reason with.

  It had taken him a fortnight to reach Sedgwick after his flight from Ayre, then another fortnight to manage to get himself inside the gates. These were not trusting souls.

  “I know where your niece is,” Rollan repeated. Or at least the general vicinity—that vicinity being the whole of France. There was no need for specifics with this man. “And I know who her son is.” There was no one else in the solar, so there was no need for secrecy anymore.

  Patrick snorted. “I have no niece. She was stolen by ruffians and murdered.”

  “She was snatched away by a wandering healer. She bore him a son before he was burned as a heretic in France.”

  Patrick regarded him narrowly. “Foolishness.”

  “The healer was Jean de Piaget’s son, Etienne,” Rollan pressed on. “Etienne met Mary of Sedgwick in this very hall and fled with her in the dead of night.”

  “She was snatched—”

  “She wanted to go,” Rollan corrected. “To escape a very violent household, or so I’ve heard.”

  He wondered, idly, if that was more truth than Patrick wanted to hear. The man had begun to finger his sword hilt. No matter. Rollan knew Patrick was more than ready to listen now. He would live until the full tale was told, and hopefully by then he would have convinced Patrick of his further usefulness. After all, there were some details even he wasn’t prepared to share as of yet.

  “Go on,” Patrick growled.

  Rollan suppressed his smile. “Mary wed with Etienne and they returned to France.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “Etienne was not just a wandering healer and a sometime minstrel. He was a highly skilled knight with a gift for taking on the mores of many vocations. He had, as you might imagine, his share of enemies, and most of them were very powerful. One of them paid clergy to accuse him of heresy. Or perhaps he truly was in league with the devil.” Rollan shrugged. “His get certainly has prowess that might be seen as unnatural.”

  Rollan watched closely for Patrick’s reaction. His hand moved from his sword to rub distractedly at his knee. Old battle wound, Rollan surmised. A sure sign of some kind of discomfort.

  Interesting.

  “Etienne was put to death, or so the story goes.”

  “And their child? How would I know him?”

  Rollan wanted to roll his eyes. By the bloody saints, was he doomed to be surrounded by imbeciles?

  “De Piaget?” he prompted. “Rhys de Piaget?”

  “Oh.” Patrick’s mouth shaped the word, but no sound came out. The realization of just who stood to claim Sedgwick and all it entailed dawned, and it was followed hard on the heels by what appeared to be no small measure of consternation. Patrick only held Sedgwick by virtue of his brother having died without issue. That his brother’s daughter should have had a son, and such a son indeed . . . obviously Patrick had just divined who might come knocking at his gates, demanding his inheritance.

  “Now you see the necessity of paying him a small visit.”

  “Aye.”

  “He, oddly enough, knows nothing of his parentage, but who knows how long that might last?”

  Patrick didn’t seem to have any trouble understanding precisely what Rollan meant by that.

  “There is no sense taking the risk of him finding out,” Rollan continued.

  Patrick nodded.

  “His mother, however, is of no consequence.”

  Patrick nodded again, and Rollan heaved a silent sigh of relief. In truth there was little Mary de Piaget could do to wrest control of Sedgwick from her uncle, but it galled Rollan deeply that he could not discover her whereabouts. Much as he tried, he’d been unsuccessful in trying to wring that out of his father on his deathbed. He had no one but himself to blame for that. He’d been unskilled with poisons in those days. But how was he to have known too much too quickly would leave a man in agony, yet unable to voice it?

  “He will be going north,” Rollan continued. “Traveling with a woman and a lad. I will see to those two.”

  “And I will see to him,” Patrick said, standing up suddenly. “We’ll leave as soon as I can gather enough men for war.”

  “Unprovoked?” Rollan mused. “I wonder about the wisdom of that.”

  “You said he’s responsible for your brother’s death. That’s reason enough to see him repaid.”

  Rollan smiled faintly. He’d only implicated Rhys slightly in the deed, so he could hardly hold himself responsible for Patrick’s incorrect assumption. Besides, someone should pay for Alain’s untimely demise.

  Why not Rhys?


  42

  Rhys sat at the base of a partially completed wall and stared out over the sea. The stone was cold against his back, the sun was warm on his face, and the breeze smelled sharply of brine.

  He thought he just might die from the pleasure of it.

  The keep was progressing slowly, though he suspected that any progress that didn’t have his hall up and livable overnight would seem slow to him. They’d been at Artane for almost three months, and what they’d accomplished was truly remarkable.

  They had the beginnings of outer walls. The great hall and chapel already had foundation stones laid. The outbuildings and such were to be made of wood and some of them had already been started. Even winter grain had been planted in hopes that they actually might have something more to eat than what they’d brought with them from Fenwyck. Rhys didn’t relish having to spend the winter traveling from one of Gwen’s keeps to the next to avail themselves of the larders. Even though Gwen’s mother had returned to Segrave and offered to see things sent to them, Rhys had little wish to accept of her generosity. If they could finish enough of a temporary hall, they could winter there and keep working.

  “We have to train if we want to earn our spurs. And to train together we both have to be knights.”

  “But, Robin—”

  “Don’t you want to be a knight?”

  Rhys heard the voices coming from the other side of the wall and found that he was somewhat grateful that at least this part of the defenses had been built up far enough to hide him. Robin had seemed pleased enough with his new home, but one never truly knew what went on in that young lad’s head. No sense in not knowing what was going on. Whatever scheme Robin was about, Nicholas was sure to be dragged into. Nicholas had turned out to be too much the peacemaker to go against Robin’s wishes. Poor lad. He would have to find his own footing eventually, or find himself in scrapes he no doubt would have preferred to avoid.

  “I would be a better mercenary,” Nicholas offered hesitantly. “Much better than a knight.”

  “You can’t be a mercenary,” Robin insisted. “We both have to be knights, good knights. He expects it.”

  Nicholas was quiet for so long, Rhys was tempted to peek over the wall and see what was going on.

  “He doesn’t expect it of me,” Nicholas said finally. “I’m not really—”

  “Of course you are,” Robin interrupted.

  “He’s just being kind—”

  “A proper knightly virtue,” Robin said promptly.

  “But he didn’t really mean—”

  “A knight never lies. He said he wanted you, and he wouldn’t lie about it.”

  “But my blood isn’t noble.”

  Rhys wondered if Robin’s ensuing sigh hadn’t blown Nicholas over. He found himself smiling in spite of his faint dismay. Hadn’t he claimed both boys before the envoy King John had sent north? By the saints, he’d done nothing but congratulate himself for the se’nnight following for the cheek he’d displayed. The envoy had expressed in few, but pointed, words the king’s displeasure. Rhys had responded calmly and clearly, stating his position and enlightening the envoy as to why the king should leave him be—with Gwen and her children. He hadn’t mentioned Nicholas then, but Gwen had elbowed him firmly later when he’d put his wishes down on paper. Robin, Nicholas, and Amanda. She would accept nothing less.

  “Nicholas, he claimed us both before the king,” Robin said, seemingly trying to muster up the patience to go through something he obviously had said before. “Maybe we aren’t his in truth, but he’s acting as if we are. He wouldn’t do it if he didn’t mean it.”

  There was another lengthy silence. Then Nicholas spoke.

  “If you’re sure,” he began.

  “I’m sure,” Robin said firmly. “And we’ll prove to him that he didn’t choose poorly. Now, are you going to be a knight, or not?”

  “All right,” came the answer.

  “I’ll wager I reach the lists first!” was Robin’s enthusiastic reply.

  Rhys managed to heave himself to his feet and peek over the wall in time to see Robin and Nicholas racing to what would eventually be the lists. ’Twas a good place for them. At least there Robin could work no trouble for Nicholas to follow him into.

  That left him with only the three girl children in his care to wonder about. Amanda had acquired a foster sister in the person of Anne of Fenwyck, and the two were forever trying to escape some piece of Robin’s mischief. Geoffrey had seemingly sent his daughter to Artane with a sense of relief. Rhys wondered if Geoffrey thought himself unskilled with women unless they were over a score in years. Whatever the case, it had provided Amanda with a companion, and Rhys was pleased about that.

  The other little one he seemed to have acquired was Socrates’s granddaughter. The child had ridden north with them yet asked nothing in return. Gwen had fussed over the girl and tried to include her in the family, but the girl had accepted only a small tent of her own where she could live amongst her grandfather’s pots and pouches. The only other thing she had accepted from Gwen was the promise that Gwen would teach her how to read, that the girl might finish her grandfather’s book of potion recipes. Rhys could not deny her skill as a healer, despite her tender years. He was glad to have her about for as long as she contented herself to remain with them.

  Rhys saw a movement to his left and realized then that his lady was coming toward him. And, as he usually found himself doing, he sighed in sheer relief that she was his. He leaned his elbows gingerly on the uneven wall and waited for her to arrive. By the saints, he did not deserve this boon, but he wasn’t about to refuse it.

  “Lazing about again?” she asked when she reached the opposite side of the wall.

  “What else?” he asked.

  “Your grandfather is searching the lists for you.”

  “I don’t doubt it. You would think I’d never lifted a sword with the way he is ever nagging at me about it.”

  She smiled and leaned over to kiss him firmly on the mouth. “He’s trying to make up for all the years he was unable to watch you work.”

  Rhys only snorted.

  “He is,” she insisted. “I pried the truth out of him.”

  “Did you resort to torture?”

  “Nay, I had a go at him myself in the lists,” Gwen said.

  Rhys felt his mouth fall open. “You did? When?”

  “When you were off with Montgomery, scouting out the borders. Your grandfather was endeavoring to induce me to reveal all my secrets, so I thought to distract him with a bit of swordplay.”

  “Leave any scars?”

  She reached out and tugged sharply on his ear. “I did not—and what little faith you have in my skill. Perhaps ’tis just as well I never offered myself to you as a mercenary.”

  “It would have been the end of me,” he said, with fervor, then reached out and managed to snag a bit of her sleeve before she had, in her irritation, pulled completely out of his reach. “Not for any lack on your part, of course.”

  She paused and waited. “Aye?”

  “I would not have managed to concentrate on anything save you,” he said.

  “Well,” she said, sounding somewhat appeased. “That sheds a different light upon the matter.”

  He smiled, then held out his hand. “Care to join me?”

  “Are you surveying your domain?”

  He shook his head with another smile. “Staring out over the ocean and dreaming of glorious things in the future.”

  “Your keep?” she asked.

  “You naked for the afternoon?” he suggested.

  She laughed and didn’t argue when he invited her to step over the wall and join him. He resumed his perch with his lady sitting next to him. He put his arm around her and drew her close to his side.

  “Do I dream,” he asked, “or are you really mine?”

  She nestled more closely to him. “I can scarce believe it myself.”

  He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the
stone. He’d thought, when he made his lady his, that he could not be more content, nor more satisfied with his life. He’d imagined, after they’d reached Fenwyck without having the king come after them, that his life could not be any better. When the work was begun on his keep and he saw the walls even outlined in stone, he was certain he could not be happier.

  But as he sat with his lady and enjoyed both the chill of the breeze and the warmth of the sunshine, he began to realize that thinking his life had reached its crowning moment was futile. He suspected that things could only improve.

  Assuming, of course, that the king did not choose to travel to Artane, sever Rhys’s head from his shoulders, and carry his head back to London without the rest of his form.

  “I am certain, Connor, that I saw her come this way.”

  “And I tell you, Jared, that there is nothing save a steep descent to the sea on the other side of this wall. Why would she heave herself over it?”

  Rhys sighed. It looked as if his moment of reflection was passed. At least the twins couldn’t see him. Perhaps they would tire of speculating about Gwen’s whereabouts and be on their way shortly.

  “You don’t think,” Jared began slowly, “that she heaved herself over the wall apurpose. Do you?”

  Connor’s gasp of horror was clearly audible. “Whyever for?”

  “Perhaps young Rhys—”

  “Impossible.”

  “The children then—”

  “Fling herself over the wall to escape them?” Connor demanded. “Have you lost your wits, brother?”

  There was a long bit of silence during which time Rhys exchanged a look of amusement with Gwen.

  “You look,” Jared whispered.

  “I will not,” Connor returned. “You look.”

  “I will not. For all I know you’d heave me over the side!”

  “Me? I wouldn’t. But I wouldn’t trust you not to do the same.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Jared protested. He paused, then cleared his throat. “We could both look at the same time. Then there would be no heaving of either of us.”

  “Save our stomachs,” Connor groused, “and I’ve no mind for any more of that. For all we know, they’ve snuck off the other side of the hill where ’tis less steep and gone off for a bit of—” He paused, then coughed. “Well, you know.”