Alexander glanced between them. “But where could she have gone?”
“She might be in the hall, or the kitchen,” Tynan suggested.
“Madeline never would descend alone to a hall full of men,” Alexander said.
“Not while they were awake, at least,” Rosamunde said. “She might well have fled. She is a woman of uncommon confidence, after all, and she had cause to be displeased with both of you last evening.”
“Fled?” Alexander stepped back. “She has never traveled alone! She has no weapons. She could be in peril!”
“If she is gone, we will pursue her, of course,” Rosamunde said.
“Begin a search of the entire keep,” Tynan instructed his castellan, who arrived just then. “My niece Madeline is not in her bed.” The castellan nodded and darted to his task.
“You will not find her.” Rosamunde cast off her robe as she crossed the chamber. The silk chemise clung lovingly to her curves, though her manner was far from seductive. “Tell this James to be prepared to ride within moments. I shall lead the hunt.”
“You?” Tynan asked.
She granted him a contemptuous glance that he knew he deserved. “Of course. You could not be expected to leave Ravensmuir.”
“But what about me?” Alexander demanded. “I will go! It would be my fault if any harm came to her.”
“You may come if you desire. I will pursue Madeline either way.” Rosamunde sat on the far side of the pillared bed and donned chausses that had been made for her in the manner of men’s garb. Few men though had chausses wrought of such fine leather as these.
“Perhaps you should go,” Tynan said, his thoughts upon Rosamunde’s safety as well. “You began this trouble, and it makes sense to me that the two of you should see it resolved. I will ensure Kinfairlie’s security in your absence.”
Alexander straightened. “We shall need fast horses.”
“We will have six black destriers, the finest stallions from Ravensmuir’s stables,” Rosamunde interjected crisply. She laced a fur-lined black tabard over her chemise, its surface graced with golden embroidery. She had donned her black boots and hefted her fur-lined cloak over her arm.
Tynan regarded her in astonishment at this command, no less when she smiled sadly.
“That is the price of being rid of me forever, Tynan, and we know you desire no less,” she said. She brushed past him without another word, without a parting caress, without a backward glance.
The stone in his chest became so heavy that it fairly took him to his knees. Tynan understood then that Rosamunde would never return to Ravensmuir, that she would never grace his bed or laugh in his hall again. Though he had demanded as much of her, the prospect was more grim than ever he might have imagined. He supposed that he would have years to grow accustomed to her absence.
“Is something amiss, uncle?” Alexander asked.
Tynan gripped the younger man’s shoulder. “Prepare yourself to ride, Alexander, for I doubt that Rosamunde will delay her departure for any man.”
In the end, they were six, upon those stallions Rosamunde had demanded. Rosamunde led the company, and was joined by the sole remaining man of her crew, one Padraig who wore a golden earring and said little. Alexander rode with them, as did James. Vivienne demanded that she be permitted to ensure the welfare of her closest sister—though Tynan suspected the girl wished solely to participate in a quest reminiscent of an old tale.
There remained but one steed without a rider when Elizabeth insisted that she be allowed to be the sixth. Tynan was inclined to deny her, though he had always had a weakness for the girl’s charm. He argued that she was too young, at only twelve summers.
Elizabeth flushed crimson but lifted her chin and informed him that she was old enough to be wedded and bear babes of her own, a detail he would have preferred to have lived without but one whose truth could not be denied. She also declared that the spriggan accompanied them, dangling as it did in the horses’ tails, and that she was the sole one who could see the creature.
Even Tynan could not find an argument against that, though he bade Alexander take great care with his sisters.
In a trice, the party was gone, the steeds fairly flying through Ravensmuir’s gates, their ebony tails flowing like dark banners. Tynan watched until the dust of the road swallowed their silhouettes, but his beloved never so much as glanced back.
In the same moment that Ravensmuir was roused to seek Madeline, she lay on the moor far to the south of that keep. The mercenary atop her did not move.
Indeed, Kerr did not make a sound.
His was a curious manner of assault. Madeline opened her eyes cautiously, for still she was trapped beneath him, cold mud against her cheek and chest. She listened, but Kerr did not seem to breathe.
Something warm trickled onto her throat. Madeline touched it and found vivid red blood smeared across her flesh. She yelped and recoiled and Kerr shifted. She glanced over her shoulder in fear of his retaliation.
Kerr’s eyes were wide open. He stared into the distance unblinkingly. There was a knife lodged in his throat, a knife clearly responsible for the blood that flowed over her.
Kerr had not assaulted her, because he was dead.
There was a dead man atop her, and it was his warm blood that flowed over her own skin.
Madeline’s composure abandoned her utterly. A horrible choking sound came from her throat. She struggled beneath the weight of the corpse in a panic, wanting only to flee as far as possible. She began to weep when she could not dislodge Kerr’s body from atop her, though her frenzy seemed only to embed her more deeply in the mud.
“Do not scream,” Rhys commanded. His words were so stern and her astonishment at his presence so complete that Madeline froze, trembling. “We shall never find the horses if you do, my lady. They are sufficiently frightened already.”
Madeline gasped as Kerr was hauled from her back. Rhys removed the knife from the man’s throat and matter-of-factly slit Kerr’s throat more thoroughly. He kicked the corpse aside, wiped his blade and replaced it in its scabbard, then offered Madeline his gloved hand. All of this he achieved with a familiar competence that Madeline found both reassuring and somewhat troubling.
She swallowed her scream with an effort, though she could barely summon a word to her lips in her shock. “You, you...”
“I can throw a knife well enough, it appears.” Rhys spoke so calmly that he might have been admitting an affection for ale. He reached down and seized her hand when she did not immediately accept his aid. He pulled her to her feet with a sure gesture and held her hands fast within his own.
He was dressed as afore all in garb of darkest midnight and his manner was stern. The leather of his gloves was thick but had softened with use and taken the shape of his hand, a strong hand that she could feel gripping her own. Madeline found herself grateful for his steady support.
Rhys gave her a hard look. “Are you injured?”
Madeline’s mouth worked, and she realized that she was quivering to her very marrow. She shook her head when words failed her and Rhys appeared to be relieved. She fought to compose herself.
Surely the man deserved no less for aiding her in such a timely fashion?
Her gaze fell upon the dead man, and she shuddered again even as she looked away. “How oft have you slit a man’s throat?”
Rhys gave her a hard look. “A man must do what must be done. Would you have preferred that I had let him live?”
Madeline’s knees shook with such vigor at the very prospect that she feared they would not hold her weight.
“Bear up, my lady.” Rhys held her hand with a firmer grip, though he did not touch her otherwise. He offered her a cloth to wipe the blood from her throat.
“He meant to rape me.” Madeline knew it was an unnecessary comment but she could not keep the words from spilling forth. She felt her color deepen. “I should never have trusted him. You must think me a fool.” She should never had left Ravensmuir, much less
with a man about whom she knew so little.
To her astonishment, Rhys simply held her hand more tightly, as if he understood his grip to be precisely what she needed. He was like a rock to which she clung as her terror subsided.
“I think you a woman of uncommon resource. It is a mark of your valor that he did not succeed so readily.” Rhys spoke with such resolve that she did not doubt he meant every word. “I applaud your quick thinking and your fortitude. Are you unscathed?”
“I am frightened, to be sure.” She took a deep breath and glanced over herself. Her gown was mired and ripped, and there were scratches aplenty upon her skin. She had torn three fingernails and was thoroughly adorned with mud. She realized with horror that her shredded kirtle hung open and her breasts were bared.
Madeline seized the torn fabric to clutch it closed and flushed crimson. Rhys, she noted, did not look below her face. His gallantry encouraged her to summon a tremulous smile. “But otherwise I am well enough, I suppose.”
“It is a rare woman who can stand upon her own feet after such an assault.” Rhys granted her a brief flicker of smile, the sight of which warmed Madeline’s heart. “In Wales, we have great regard for stalwart women. Have ever you heard of Gwenllian?”
Madeline shook her head, even while the rest of her trembled.
“She was the mother of Lord Rhys, the last king of Wales. He rose in rebellion against the Normans in 1136. Gwenllian was his mother, and so great was her valor that she raised her own army, and led it against the enemy in aid of her son. Even when she witnessed one of her sons killed and another taken prisoner, she fought on so valiantly that still that field of battle, in Cydweli in Dyfed, bears her name in honor.”
While he spoke, Madeline found herself drawing vigor from his words and his grip. “I did not know. I had never heard of a woman leading an army to war.”
“And now you have.” Rhys became solemn again. “I apologize for the tardiness of my aid. There was no assistance I could grant while you were in the gorse, for I was not close enough to have a clear sight of the villain. Your attempt to flee offered me the necessary opportunity.”
“Had I not been such a fool, I would not have had need of it.” She drew a shuddering breath.
“Do not judge yourself so harshly.” A smile touched Rhys’ lips. “I understand that the prospect of wedding me must have been daunting for you to have taken such a risk.”
Madeline flushed. Not only had he perceived her fears but he must have anticipated her flight. How else could he have followed her and Kerr?
“My father employed Kerr’s services for years,” she said, needing to explain herself. “I trusted him because of that, though he clearly had a darker scheme than I realized.”
“I trust that you have learned something about using more caution in your choice of companions.” Rather than lingering upon his lesson, Rhys turned as soon as Madeline nodded. He released her hand and Madeline felt bereft.
Then he whistled. His destrier appeared, apparently having been hidden in the gorse, and trotted toward its master. It was a fine dapple grey beast, its mane and tail as dark as charcoal. A shaggy hound trotted beside the steed, and proved to be a dog of formidable size. It surveyed at Madeline with shrewd eyes and its tail wagged as it leaned against Rhys.
“This is Gelert,” he said, and gestured the dog toward Madeline. She reached out a hand, liking the hound’s friendly manner. Its tousled fur looked like shaggy silver brows over its eyes, and those brows moved most expressively. It sniffed her hand, then sat beside her, leaning heavily against her leg. Madeline sank her fingers into the thick warmth of fur at the scruff of the dog’s neck and found its presence reassuring. Indeed, the heat of it against her and its appearance made her want to smile.
“And this is Gwynt Arian,” Rhys said as he seized the destrier’s reins. The beast tossed its head and flared its nostrils, as if in recognition of its name.
“Is that a Welsh name?”
Rhys nodded as he rubbed the beast’s nose. “It means ‘silver wind’.”
“It is a fine name for a steed so regal as he,” Madeline said, taking comfort in their mundane conversation. “But you travel with no squire?”
Rhys shook his head. “These two bear witness, but tell no tales.”
Madeline wondered who had betrayed him in the past, but Rhys clearly had no interest in sharing confidences.
“Fasten your cloak tightly about yourself,” he advised as he led his horse closer.
Madeline complied with his instruction, grateful to have no need to make decisions herself for the moment. Rhys lifted her into his saddle with a single smooth gesture. He murmured to the steed, then rummaged in his saddlebag. Gelert stood diligently beside the stirrup, as if guarding Madeline.
Rhys offered a leather flask to Madeline along with a sharp glance. “Sip of this.”
“What is it?”
“Eau-de-vie.” Again that teasing smile curved his lips for just a heartbeat. Madeline wished Rhys would smile more often, for he was less fearsome then. “It will persuade you that you have not joined the dead as yet. Drink.”
Madeline sipped cautiously. The flask’s contents burned her throat like fire and forged a course to her innards. Her eyes watered and she choked as if she would cough up her very liver.
When her vision cleared, Rhys nodded, amusement in his eyes. “Take another.”
Madeline did as she was bidden, though the second draught was scarcely easier to down than the first.
“Better?”
To her astonishment, Madeline did feel better. The liquid had awakened a heat in her flesh and driven the shivers away. She nodded, and Rhys lifted the flask from her hand. Their fingers brushed in the transaction, reminding Madeline of his possessive kisses and awakening another warmth within her.
“Two small draughts is a sufficient measure for a lady,” he said, then took a long draught himself. For the first time, Madeline wondered whether he had been troubled by Kerr’s assault.
Rhys seemed so unconcerned, as if he routinely aided women attacked upon the moors, as if he often killed mercenaries for the greater good. His desire for the eau-de-vie hinted that he might have shared at least a measure of her fear.
Madeline shook her head, certain she saw a vulnerability in this warrior that was not there. Undoubtedly, he felt a responsibility toward her.
He had bought her, after all.
Perhaps he was a man who protected all of his possessions with such vigor. Madeline did not know, but she was clever enough to admit herself glad in this moment of his sense of obligation.
Rhys winced at the liquor’s vigor but did not cough. He turned to scan the moors with narrowed eyes, then nodded at the distant silhouette of a palfrey. “Your steed?”
Madeline nodded. “Tarascon. Kerr cut her flank to make her run away from us. I do not know the depth of her injury.” Her fingers tightened on the pommel. “I hope she is not sorely wounded.”
“She runs yet, so it cannot be so dire a wound.” Rhys spoke such good sense that Madeline wished she had realized as much herself. She seemed fated to show herself poorly in this man’s presence.
Rhys took the reins and led the destrier toward the mare. He whistled softly. Tarascon turned to watch their progress, her ears twitching nervously.
“The blood will have frightened her,” Rhys said, the very tone of his voice reassuring. “Do you ride her often?”
“Almost daily.”
“Then she will have smelled your fear, as well, and been troubled by that.”
“I can call her. She always comes to me.” The palfrey took but one step closer when Madeline called, then retreated four paces, her tail swishing nervously.
“Does she then?” There was humor in Rhys’ tone.
Madeline sat straighter, wishing she could do something right in this man’s company. “Usually she does.”
“These are uncommon circumstances, my lady. Do not take her uncertainty to heart. Wait until we are
closer and she can be certain that it is you.”
“She might flee afore then.” Madeline called again, then watched in horror as her horse danced in the opposite direction.
Rhys halted and still Tarascon fled another trio of steps. She was anxious as Madeline had never seen her, though she could not blame the mare for her fear of men.
“Look in the saddlebag,” Rhys said softly. “See if a pair of apples are yet there.”
Madeline was glad to comply and to be of aid. The apples were there, but Tarascon was not as readily tempted by the treat as she might have been just hours before.
The sun was approaching midheaven by the time they coaxed the palfrey to let them approach her. Madeline was impressed by the gentle persistence Rhys showed in pursuing the frightened steed. They had steadily drawn closer to Tarascon, Rhys’ murmur obviously calming the horse’s fears.
That Gelert had finally run behind the palfrey at Rhys’ signal and barked aggressively, urging her toward Rhys, also had not hurt.
Madeline held the palfrey’s reins once Rhys had captured her, spoke to the horse softly and stroked her nose. Meanwhile, Rhys examined the creature’s wound with careful fingers. There was kindness in this man, though much else that Madeline could not name. The horse fidgeted but Madeline whispered to her, trusting Rhys to give good counsel.
“Mercifully, it is not as brutal as it might have been. I believe that the damage will heal readily enough,” he said as he straightened. “I would have like to have a better ostler than myself look upon it to be sure.”
“We could return to Ravensmuir.”
Rhys granted Madeline a steady glance and she could not guess his thoughts. “I think it too far for your mare,” he said with care. “There is an abbey to the north of here that we could reach by mid-afternoon, if you are willing. They have granted me aid in the past, for my aunt is abbess there.”
Madeline’s heart quailed that they would have to ride together, for her mare was too injured to bear her weight. She could not imagine being pressed against any man’s heat on this day, much less Rhys who kindled that unfamiliar fire within her. Their gazes caught and held, an awareness crackling between them that frightened Madeline to her core.
Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels) Page 92