Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Madeline spoke more heatedly than she had intended, and she doubted that the watchful man by her side had missed as much. She tried to smile with a great measure of resignation. “I can wed you, or I can await Alexander’s next scheme. My choices are few, and wedding you would seem to be the best of them.”

  “I would wager that all will look better on the morrow,” Rhys said with care. “You have endured much indignity this day, after all.”

  Sympathy was the last honor Madeline desired from this man. Indeed, the man softened her resistance with nigh every word he uttered and every deed he did! She had to be away from Ravensmuir afore they exchanged vows, afore she forgot the truth of his past.

  For any man could summon charm for a single night. Madeline desired more than one night’s consideration from whatever man she would wed.

  “Doubtless you speak aright,” she agreed, thinking that she would be far away indeed by then. “A sound night’s sleep reduces the most insurmountable challenge.”

  He fought that smile again, seemingly amused that she implied him to be such a challenge. Before Madeline could repair her error, Rhys lifted his cup and touched it to her own. “To our nuptials on the morrow, my lady. May they mark a new beginning for both of us.”

  Madeline drank to his toast, feeling more deceitful than she knew she should have done.

  The lady had a scheme.

  Rhys would have wagered his precious destrier upon it. It was beyond belief that the woman so outraged at her brother’s intent to auction her could have made her peace with her fate so readily as that. Indeed, she fought to hide that anger with every comment she made, her flashing eyes revealing that she was not demure in the least.

  Rhys knew his charms, such as they were, and knew his reputation well enough that he could be certain no woman would have been hasty to pledge herself to him for all eternity.

  Certainly not a woman of such splendid intellect as Madeline.

  Indeed, he found his lady even more intriguing for the fact that she tried to disarm him, to deceive him, to persuade him that he could not want her as his wife. Madeline was clever, and not accustomed to matching wits with another as clever as she.

  That bode well indeed for their match.

  Rhys waited and he watched, drinking little of the ale and finally feigning exhaustion. He was as wide awake as a cat upon the hunt, though there was no need for any other soul in Ravensmuir’s hall to guess as much.

  Eventually the company grew quiet, their yawns became more lengthy, and the fires burned down to glowing coals. The ladies retired to a chamber in the tower, and Rhys rose and claimed Madeline’s hand as she left the high table.

  She watched him for a moment, her eyes filled with shadows, then to his astonishment leaned closer. “Are you truly charged with treason against the king?” she whispered.

  Rhys wished he could have lied, for he knew that a falsehood alone would settle her fears. Instead he nodded. “I am.”

  He thought that he could hear the flutter of her heart then, reminding him again of that captive bird, then she spun and left his side. He knew that he did not imagine the fear that shone in her eyes.

  But there was not a man alive who could change his past deeds. Rhys reminded himself that it was more admirable to confess the truth, though his heart called him a fool. He noted how Madeline cast a last glance back over the hall as she climbed the stairs, and did not doubt that she believed she would never see him again.

  She would flee this night, and he would pursue her, and they would be wed all the same. He could have told her that it was not so easy to be rid of Rhys FitzHenry as that.

  Rhys noted that Reginald watched Madeline until she was out of sight, then saw that man’s lips thin with displeasure. Reginald cast a poisonous glance in Rhys’ direction. Rhys held the other man’s gaze steadily, daring him to make an issue of what had transpired.

  Reginald turned away, summoning his squires like a hen gathering chicks, insisting that proper arrangements be made for his slumber. Rhys quietly claimed a pallet and gathered his cloak about himself, taking a place where he could watch the stairs. Candles were snuffed and snores began to echo through the hall.

  Rhys settled onto his pallet, one eye half open, pretended to sleep and waited. He knew that Madeline’s last kiss at the board, and her unexpected surrender to his demanding embrace, would keep his blood simmering all the night.

  He did not have to wait long.

  Madeline could have respected Rhys’ honesty, had he told her a more reassuring truth. Traitors, she well knew, met fearsome fates; their spouses, children and property faring little better. Her very marrow still hummed from Rhys’ tempting kiss, and she knew that he would quickly overcome her good sense with his beguiling touch. Though she was afraid of fleeing alone in the night, she was more afraid of Rhys FitzHenry.

  Madeline was surprised when Rosamunde tugged her sleeve, half persuaded that her perceptive aunt had guessed her intent.

  “Come with me for a moment,” Rosamunde said, her manner mysterious and her voice low. Madeline’s sisters continued to the ladies’ chamber, unaware that they were unattended.

  “No harm will come to them,” Rosamunde said when Madeline hesitated. “I would fulfill my pledge to your mother.”

  Madeline needed no more persuasion than that to follow her aunt. Rosamunde was garbed in a splendid kirtle of deep sapphire blue, its hem thick with golden embroidery, and its cut favoring the lithe curves of her figure. Her girdle was rich beyond belief and studded with gems; her hair hung loose to her hips like a cascade of rose gold. Although dressed in feminine splendor, there was a determination to Rosamunde’s stride that was unfitting for a lady.

  Rosamunde led Madeline to the laird’s solar with a familiarity unexpected. Madeline’s eyes widened, and she fought to hold her silence. She had heard rumors about the intimacy of the older pair, of course, but she had always believed such tales untrue.

  Rosamunde turned and smiled. “In here, we can be certain to be alone. This is a responsibility to be discharged in privacy.”

  Tynan’s chamber was richly adorned and a fire had already been kindled in the fireplace for his comfort. It blazed merrily, casting the chamber in a welcoming glow. Maiden and aunt made as one for the pair of stools set close to the hearth.

  Rosamunde shivered. “I shall never grow accustomed to the chill of this country,” she muttered, then pulled a velvet sack from her lavish skirts. “This is for you.” She smiled at Madeline as she placed the small bag in her hands.

  The sack was square, less in each dimension than the first two digits of her finger. Madeline could hide it easily in her palm and she marveled at the richness of its purple hue. It was embroidered in gold so richly that it was a treasure in itself, the gold thread making a radiant star against the velvet. A twisted golden cord fastened the small sack closed, the cord’s length sufficient that the sack could be hung around one’s neck like a gem. It was light, so light she assumed it empty.

  “Is this silken velvet?” Madeline asked with awe.

  Rosamunde laughed. “Doubtless, but this is a mere repository. The true gift is inside.”

  Madeline regarded her aunt for a moment, then loosed the cord.

  “Use care!” Rosamunde counseled and bent closer.

  Madeline tipped the small sack and a sphere the size of her fingernail spilled into her palm. It might have been a bead of water, but it was hard and gleamed in the firelight.

  “It is called the Tear of the Virgin,” Rosamunde breathed. “And said to have been shed by Mary at the crucifixion.”

  Madeline regarded the gem in wonder as her aunt spoke.

  “Though Mary knew that Jesus died to save all of mankind, he was yet her only son: she mourned him, as any mother would do. And it is said that God looked down upon this weak vessel of a woman, her tears shedding like gems, and he felt compassion that she endured such loss for the gain of her fellows. It is said that He turned four and twenty of her tears t
o gems, in tribute to her grief.”

  “There are more of these marvels?”

  Rosamunde shrugged. “I cannot say. This is only one I have ever seen, and I only heard the tale from your grandfather, Merlyn.”

  “But I thought Grandfather shunned the relics?”

  “He shunned the family trade in them, to be sure, but he had a reverence for those he thought to be genuine.” Rosamunde gestured to the gem in Madeline’s palm and smiled in recollection. “This was one for which he professed a fondness. Indeed, he gave it to your mother on the night before her nuptials.”

  Madeline glanced up in surprise, and Rosamunde nodded. “Merlyn told her, she said, that he would have given this to his daughter upon her wedding. Since he had no blood daughter, he hoped that Catherine would accept it. Merlyn and Ysabella considered your mother as their daughter, for she wed their son, Roland.”

  Madeline’s hand closed over the gem, seemingly of its own will, so precious was any link to her mother. She fought against her own tears, so potent were the presences of her grandparents and parents in this chamber. She knew that Merlyn and Ysabella had rebuilt Ravensmuir and occupied this chamber themselves for many years. She knew that it had been granted to her parents for their nuptial night and that Merlyn had oft jested that his grandson, Alexander, had been wrought in his own bed.

  She swallowed with an effort, feeling the embrace of ghosts around her. “And now you grant it to me afore my own wedding,” she said, her voice husky.

  “Your mother desired as much.” Rosamunde settled back and stared into the flames. “You will not recall this, for little has been said of it of late, but I was one of your godmothers.”

  “You were?” Madeline was surprised yet again, though the merriment in Rosamunde’s eyes made her believe the tale.

  “Against all expectation!” Rosamunde chuckled. “Though I was not your mother’s first choice, and I was not granted the task alone, even then, I am the last of your godmothers surviving.” She sobered. “Indeed, I am the last of all women charged with your upbringing to survive.”

  Madeline glanced away, feeling her mother’s absence keenly.

  Rosamunde’s hand fell over her own, its warmth a comfort. Madeline wondered whether she imagined that her aunt’s voice was suddenly hoarse. “I have always had a fondness for you, Madeline. Perhaps your mother saw into my own heart when she granted me this precious duty.” Rosamunde gave Madeline’s hand a minute squeeze. “But the fact remains that at your christening, your mother entrusted this gem to my care. She asked me to grant it to you on the eve afore your nuptials, just as Merlyn had granted it to her, and to tell of the gem. It was the sole duty she expected of me, this she said, and thus I fulfill it in her honor.”

  Madeline swallowed and looked back at her aunt. “What of the gem?”

  “It is said to possess a kind of power, though I cannot vouch for the truth of it. Your mother confided only the tale to me, that I might deliver it to you with the gem. It is said that the Tear feels the weight of sorrow, in keeping with its origins, and that it will change hue to warn its bearer of ill tidings. Perhaps it is Mary herself who would warn the bearer. I cannot say.”

  Madeline feared then that her intent to escape Ravensmuir and avoid her wedding ceremony was evident to her perceptive aunt, and that Rosamunde meant to dissuade her.

  But Rosamunde frowned at Madeline’s closed fist. “It is said that the stone will turn black when ill fortune lies ahead for its bearer, and that it will shine when all will be well.”

  “Do you believe as much?”

  Rosamunde smiled. “There are many things that make little sense to us, many mysteries that may never be solved. Perhaps this is one of them; perhaps it is but a pretty quartz gem with a tale. Either way, you hold a token of goodwill from your mother in your hand, an heirloom passed through your family, and that is of no small merit.”

  Madeline caressed the gem in her grip. “Am I to grant it to my first daughter on the eve of her wedding?”

  Rosamunde smiled. “I would wager that Merlyn would approve of that.”

  Madeline glanced away as she blinked back her tears and fingered the cord. “Did Maman wear it?”

  Rosamunde nodded. “Catherine wore the gem on her breast on her wedding day. Though I was not here, it was said that the Tear shone with a radiance to rival the sun.”

  “Then perhaps its power is genuine.” Madeline’s fingers fairly itched to open and reveal the hue of the stone, but she wanted to view it alone.

  “Perhaps. Your parents did possess a great love for each other, one that only grew as the years passed. Remember them merry, Madeline. It is the best remembrance you can grant.”

  The women sat in silence for a moment as Madeline struggled to do as she was bidden. Their deaths were so recent that she had not begun to remember her mother’s joyful laugh, or the way her father’s eyes had twinkled when he teased any one of them.

  Rosamunde cleared her throat. “Catherine also wrought this sack for the gem, with her own needle, to ensure its safety. Hidden or displayed, she wore it night and day until you were born.” Rosamunde pushed to her feet, her eyes shining with unshed tears. “Then she entrusted it to me, though I never imagined I would deliver it without her beside me.”

  “Rosamunde, you were the sole person in the hall who admitted to knowing Rhys FitzHenry,” Madeline said softly.

  Rosamunde nodded, and waited, eyes bright.

  “Alexander said he was not invited.”

  “Not by Alexander. He arrived earlier on a mission of his own, and summoned me. He asked for the reason of the gathering, and when I told him of it, admitted to curiosity.” Rosamunde shrugged. “And so I saw him admitted, with no realization that he too had need of a wife. Rhys has always been most solitary.”

  “But you did not forbid him from participating.”

  Rosamunde smiled. “It seemed to me, Madeline, that you might die of boredom wed to a man of Alexander’s choosing.”

  “Will I die of some other malady wed to this traitor?”

  Rosamunde laughed beneath her breath, a most odd reaction in Madeline’s thinking. “A man’s repute is not the same as his truth, Madeline.” She rose and smoothed her skirts, which surely were in need of no smoothing, then cleared her throat. “I must attend your sisters. With the hall full of men with their bellies full of drink, I would ensure that they are all maidens on the morrow.”

  “I would sit here for a moment.” Madeline raised her fist, tightened around the gem, to her lips. The Tear seemed to throb within her grasp.

  Rosamunde touched her shoulder with affection. “Do not put too much stock in old tales, Madeline. A marriage is what man and wife make of it, and Rhys has spent sufficient coin that his attentiveness should be assured.”

  It was not the most reassuring thing Rosamunde might have said, but she departed in a swirl of silk afore Madeline could ask for more details of Rhys.

  Not that it mattered overmuch. Madeline would be gone before the morrow, gone before her nuptials, gone before Rhys could claim her hand forevermore. First she would look into the gem, though, and hope for some assurance. She held her breath, unfurled her fingers and let the firelight touch the gem within her hand.

  The Tear might have been wrought of obsidian, so dark was it. The gem was black to its very core, with nary a flicker of light within its depths. Madeline’s heart froze, then raced. She pushed the stone back into the small velvet sack with shaking fingers, secured it, then looped the cord around her neck.

  She had to flee. She had chosen aright, for even the stone forecast an ill fate if she remained at Ravensmuir and wed Rhys FitzHenry.

  Chapter Four

  Ravensmuir was silent, save for the snores of men and hounds. Madeline could hear the patter of rain upon the stones, and the lap of the sea against the shore. The wind had died down, though still it rained mightily.

  Her sisters slept deeply, their pallets surrounding her own. The younger girls had been
particularly excited this night at the prospect of a wedding, and had taken cursedly long to settle onto their pallets. Elizabeth in particular had insisted upon talking to herself, as if she was truly talking to the invisible fairy. Madeline had been certain that the girl would never fall asleep.

  But now, in the quiet of the night, the sole obstacle to Madeline’s departure was her aunt Rosamunde, who had declared herself sentry over them all.

  Madeline rolled over and peered through her lashes in the direction of her aunt. That woman sat on a bench by the portal. Rosamunde yawned fully, then folded her arms across her chest, her eyes gleaming in the darkness.

  Madeline bit her lip, considering her course.

  Neither of them saw the spriggan Darg, who danced around Rosamunde with vengeful delight. Neither of them saw Darg snarl and knot and tangle the golden ribbon emanating from Rosamunde—which neither of them saw either—and neither of them heard the fairy’s spiteful little song.

  Perhaps it was just as well. Darg did not have a melodious voice.

  Madeline had just decided to lie to her aunt, and claim that she had to go to the privy, when there was a light knock upon the portal. It was so faint a sound that Madeline barely heard it. She saw her aunt turn, saw the heavy wood door open slightly.

  “Surely you do not mean to sit here sleepless all the night long?” someone asked in a soft whisper. It was a man’s voice, though Madeline could not see who spoke. She watched Rosamunde smile and knew she had seen that smile afore.

  It was Uncle Tynan, Madeline would wager.

  Unobserved by all of the mortals present, Darg pounced upon Tynan’s silver ribbon and began to shred it, as well as put knots in it worthy of a rat’s nest.

  “And what else would I do?” Rosamunde murmured, her tone mischievous. “I have no other way to fill the hours of the night.”

  “How tragic,” Tynan mused. “I would be a poor host to not offer better circumstance to a guest.”