Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Of course, no woman had control over her womb. Madeline could not choose when to become pregnant, let alone which gender of child she bore. It was scarce the same as choosing between red or green samite for a kirtle.

  And Rhys knew it, curse him. Madeline clenched her fists and drew a fortifying breath, the urge to murder this man growing stronger by the moment.

  “I would ask you to return the crucifix to its rightful place, husband,” she said with heat. “For I have need of a witness to my prayers.”

  “While you pray for that son?” It was as much a statement as a question. Apparently as untroubled by her mood as he could possibly be, Rhys retrieved the sculpture and hung it again.

  “Perhaps I mean to pray for widowhood,” Madeline said sweetly. “For that would solve all of the woes come to me this night.” She saw the flash of alarm in Rhys’ eyes, but she did not care. She fell to her knees and prayed with fervor, acknowledging her husband’s hovering presence no more.

  Let Rhys worry what she asked of the Almighty. He deserved no less than that measure of uncertainty.

  Rhys had always found women somewhat incomprehensible and a goodly amount of trouble. It was small consolation that his new wife proved his earlier conclusions to be valid.

  No less that she did so with such gusto.

  He watched her pray, well aware that she was deliberately ignoring him. He was certain her mood would pass, but the night retreated and Madeline did not rise from her knees. Her lips worked and her eyes remained closed, and he realized that she was no longer ignoring him.

  She was oblivious to his presence.

  And she prayed, as if expecting results.

  Rhys had never troubled overmuch with prayer. He was of the opinion—taught to him by his indomitable mother—that God aided to those who aided themselves. Anything he had ever desired, he had labored to make his own, instead of demanding divine intervention to see his desired fulfilled. Indeed, he was skeptical that God would even lend an ear to the prayers of a man like him: mortal men of power became deaf when bastards spoke, and he could see no reason why an immortal lord should be different.

  Madeline, however, appeared to have expectations. Was she accustomed to having her prayers answered? And if that were true, what might she ask of God?

  Surely she had jested about requesting widowhood?

  Rhys was not so certain. It was clear enough that Madeline might have regrets about the nuptial vows they had exchanged just the day before. It would have taken a less perceptive man than he to miss the fact that she had not taken well to his determination to have a son.

  The prospect of losing her troubled Rhys more than he would have liked to admit, though he knew his marriage was of strategic import alone. He was more concerned about losing Caerwyn than Madeline—or so he told himself as he watched her lips move silently in appeal.

  All the same, it would not have been all bad for matters to have remained amiable between them. Their mating had gone well enough, at least in his view, and he had been fairly certain she had been pleased as well. She knew he needed a son, so why did his determination to have one trouble her so much? Bastards were common in Wales and great lords commonly had concubines living openly alongside their wives.

  Perhaps matters were different in Scotland.

  Barbarian. Rhys had called many things in his days, worse things by far, but his new wife’s accusation had stung.

  Rhys shuffled his feet, but Madeline showed no awareness of his movement. He donned his cloak and noisily resettled his blades in their scabbards. She remained as immobile as a statue, except for her lips which worked in silent fury. He began to wonder what request would require such a protracted appeal and a new restlessness dawned upon him.

  It was then that a whisper carried through the small window. “Rhys!”

  It was Thomas, Rhys was certain of it.

  “Rhys, are you there?” The monk spoke in Welsh, which made Rhys’ blood quicken. Something was amiss.

  He hastened to the window and peered over the high sill. Thomas huddled beneath the window. That the monk tried to hide his bulk in the slim shadow there would have been amusing had his manner not been so troubled.

  “I am here, Thomas. Tell me what news you bring.”

  “They are coming for you, Rhys, six riders on great steeds.” Thomas glanced from the gate to Rhys repeatedly, his anxiety clear. “They ride directly for our gates. I will not be able to halt them, but they must not find you here.”

  Rhys clutched the sill. “Whose insignia do they wear?”

  Thomas granted him a glance filled with concern. “They wear no markings, though their steeds are too impressive for their riders to be of no import at all. Great black destriers, they are, their coats gleaming like a raven’s plumage.”

  This was no good news.

  “I fear you speak aright, Thomas.” Rhys pivoted and found Madeline watching him with wide eyes. He cast her kirtle and her boots toward her and spoke so that she would understand. “Garb yourself with haste. We leave immediately.”

  She held her garments before herself. “But why? Where do we go?”

  “There is no time to speak of it now.” Rhys had no intent of telling his bride how closely the king’s men had come to capturing him when he last he had ventured out of Wales. He did not want to frighten her, and in truth, once they reached Caerwyn, he did not intend to leave those protective walls again soon. A trickle of dread slid down his spine, for he did not know what the king’s men would do to his new bride.

  He feared he could guess, though, for Madeline’s beauty could not be denied. His determination to escape was redoubled.

  “Make haste!” he said so harshly that she flinched.

  She did his bidding, though, at least for the moment.

  Rhys turned again to the window, just as the bells pealed from the gate, and spoke in Welsh again. “Thomas? Have you a scheme?”

  “Go through the kitchens, Rhys. There are few awake as yet. And linger in the shadows until this party is shown in to meet the abbess. I will ensure that your steeds are saddled so that you can flee while they await her hospitality.”

  “It will not give us much of a margin, but it is the sole one we will be granted,” Rhys agreed.

  “Godspeed to you, old friend, in case I have not the chance again to wish you well.”

  “And thank you for your aid, Thomas. I am again in your debt.”

  “You do not know yet what price that destrier will fetch,” Thomas teased, then he was gone.

  Rhys turned to Madeline again. To his relief, she was fully dressed and she was fastening the end of the plait in her hair.

  “I hear horses.” She regarded him with curiosity, her fingers working with haste. “Who comes that we must leave so quickly?”

  He recalled too well her intent to be rid of him and decided that honesty would have to be sacrificed until they were too far away for her to betray him. “Trouble for my aunt, no doubt,” he said. “She is one to pick battles and I have neither the time nor the inclination to become entangled in her woes. Come!”

  “But why such haste?”

  Rhys granted her a quelling glance—which had no discernible effect—then seized her hand instead. “There is no time for discussion. We must be silent.”

  Madeline held her ground. “I wish to know what is happening.”

  “Then I will answer your queries once we are away from here.” He drew her closer and held her gaze, feeling like a cur for what he had to do. “Trust me in this, Madeline.”

  The use of her name seemed to soften her resistance. Though her lips remained thin, she no longer fought his urging. He drew her hood over her hair and opened the portal.

  He looked to the left and to the right, saw no other soul, then ducked out into the hall. He decided that the kitchen was to the left, for he could smell bread rising and they had come from the right on the night before. He set a brisk pace, his wife fast behind him and blessedly quiet.

  Th
us far.

  Rhys already knew his lady wife well enough to realize that situation could not last.

  Chapter Nine

  Madeline remained silent—with an effort—until they reached the stables. Thomas was saddling Rhys’ dappled grey destrier. A chestnut palfrey stood beside the large stallion, its bright eye and tendency to fidget showing that it was ready to run. Rhys offered Madeline a hand to lift her into the palfrey’s saddle but she stepped away from him.

  “This is not Tarascon.”

  “Nay, it is not,” Rhys said, speaking through gritted teeth. “Nor is this steed injured.” He offered his hand again, with greater insistence, and his eyes snapped with impatience.

  “But I cannot leave without my horse!”

  “And you cannot thwart her healing by riding her hard so soon after that injury.”

  “Then I will not ride hard this day.”

  Rhys made an exasperated noise. Before he could argue, Madeline anxiously looked around the stable. She could not even spy Tarascon. She feared suddenly that the palfrey had been killed because of the injury and none had told her of it.

  She clutched Rhys’ arm. “What have you done to her? Where is she? How could you have her killed and not tell me of it?”

  “The steed is not dead,” Rhys said with such conviction that Madeline almost believed him. He shoved a hand through his hair, glanced to the courtyard, then paced to the end of the stables. His next words were more kindly uttered. “Look here, at this palfrey, and be quick about it.”

  He gestured to a mare of darker hue than Tarascon and lacking the familiar white star upon her brow. “That is not Tarascon!” Madeline had time to say before the beast nickered and came to bury its nose in her hand.

  She stared, astonished that this horse moved in so similar a manner to her own, and indeed, seemed to know her. She glanced up to find Rhys’ eyes twinkling.

  “Do you not recognize your own steed?” he asked, his words low with laughter. “She knows you well enough.”

  Madeline stared at the horse nuzzling her palm, then stroked her ears. It was Tarascon, albeit disguised. “But what happened to the star on her brow?”

  “Soot, my lady,” said Thomas. “It rid her of her socks, as well as darkening her hue. Only one who knew her and looked closely would know her now.”

  Indeed, even Madeline’s eye had passed over the beast.

  “She will be safe here, my lady, safer than we may be,” Rhys said with quiet vigor. “Come.”

  Even as she formed the question on her lips, voices carried from the bailey to their ears.

  Rhys’ manner changed immediately. “Now! We must begone.”

  Thomas peered through the stable doors. “They go into the abbey. This may be your sole chance, Rhys.”

  Rhys paused beside the palfrey and offered Madeline his hand again. She was torn between her loyalty to her lawful husband and to the steed she had known from its foaling.

  “But I cannot leave Tarascon!”

  “You must.”

  “I will ensure her good care, my lady,” Thomas interjected.

  “But she is my steed. I have ridden her for years. I cannot simply abandon her!” It was more than leaving the steed that she protested, and Madeline knew it well. Tarascon was her last link with Kinfairlie, with all that was familiar to her.

  “There is no time for such discussion.” Rhys spoke with such fierce precision that Madeline knew he was irked with her. “Mount this steed immediately, my lady, or I will cast you across the saddle with mine own hands and truss you there.”

  Madeline bristled. “That would hardly be appropriate. You may have the right to do as you will with me, but I do not have to endure it silently.”

  “I scarce imagine you could do so.”

  “Oh!”

  Thomas seemed to be fighting a smile and losing the battle. “How sweet it is to see two destined lovers seal their fates together for all eternity,” he murmured

  “I will thank you to keep your whimsy to yourself,” Rhys snapped, then reached for Madeline’s waist. His hands closed hard around her, despite her squeal of protest, and she was dropped into the saddle without further ceremony. Rhys glared up at her. “Must I truss you there, or can you be trusted not to leap from the saddle and injure yourself?”

  Madeline met his gaze with equal fury. “I am not so foolish as that.”

  Rhys seized the palfrey’s reins, sparing her only a dark glance that spoke volumes, and knotted the reins to the back of his saddle. “Our sole chance of safe departure lies in silence. I recommend you say nothing, my lady, or I will be compelled to gag you to ensure as much.”

  Madeline did not doubt that he would do it. She set her lips and sat straight in the saddle. She had learned once that fleeing this man could only grant her greater trouble. Though Rhys was crude and rough-spoken, he had never injured her.

  She supposed she would have to be content with that. No court in Christendom would annul her match, or cede her a divorce: their match was consummated and they shared no kinship. With the spill of her maidenhead, Madeline was tethered to Rhys FitzHenry for life, for better or for worse.

  Rhys swung into his own saddle, awaited Thomas' signal, then urged his horse into the bailey at a slow canter. Rhys’ dog appeared from some corner of the stables, a shaggy grey shadow that matched its pace to their own. Six steeds were tethered in the shadows on the far side of the bailey, but Madeline barely had a glimpse of them before Rhys hustled her onward.

  Thomas ran ahead opened the gate, the two men shaking hands as the pair of steeds passed the ostler. “Thank you, Thomas, yet again.” Rhys said.

  “Ride, my old friend, and ride swiftly,” Thomas said with a fervor that surprised Madeline again. “Ride long and hard this day. I will keep them here as long as I can, and I will pray for you.” The monk blinked with sudden vigor and his words turned husky. “Be well, both of you, and know that you will always be welcome at my gates.”

  It seemed a rather fulsome expression of friendship to Madeline and she peered at her spouse with new interest. She doubted she would learn more of their shared past from Rhys, and the sorry fact was that she might never see talkative Thomas again.

  Rhys touched his spurs to his destrier’s flanks, and the beast needed little encouragement to run. The sky was only faintly touched with the rosy hue of the dawn, the dew heavy on the ground. Madeline pulled her cloak more tightly about herself and held fast to the saddle, shivering slightly in the dampness. She was glad to have the plain woolen garb from the abbey, for though the kirtle was crudely cut, it was thick and warmer than the one she had worn the day before.

  The abbey was left behind them with startling speed and only now, Madeline had the chance to speculate upon those arrivals. She did not doubt that their presence had driven Rhys to leave with such haste.

  Was it the king’s men who had come to capture Rhys as a traitor? That alone could explain Rhys’ desire for haste and silence. Madeline glanced back at the abbey, which looked serene and sleepy in the distance.

  What would happen to her, if Rhys was captured by the crown? Traitors seldom were granted a fair trial or a kind death, that much she knew for certain. As much as Madeline was loathe to admit it, her best protection might be in conceiving that heir to her husband’s property.

  She studied Rhys’ back as he rode ahead of her, his back straight and uncompromising. Madeline supposed she should become accustomed to not knowing her husband’s thoughts, for he clearly preferred to hold them close, though she doubted she was the nature of woman who could readily manage such a feat.

  She was simply too curious.

  Perhaps she should turn her intellect—which Rhys professed to admire—to the task of uncovering her husband’s many secrets. She doubted that a woman could save her husband from the charge of treason, as Vivienne had suggested, but it would not hurt to know the truth of Rhys’ deeds and history. She might then be able to protect her child, should she conceive one.

/>   Or even herself.

  Madeline smiled to herself, well pleased with the notion of challenging Rhys’ expectations of her. She suspected she might be able to learn much more than her husband would prefer.

  And truly, if Rhys FitzHenry had wanted a dutiful, obedient wife, he should have bought himself one.

  Their best chance—at least to Rhys’ thinking—was to avoid the lands of the English king, or of those barons pledged to serve him. For all Rhys knew, there might now be a fat bounty upon his head.

  And he had a keen desire to survive somewhat longer.

  Rhys found a road that led southwest and wagered that this would be the road his pursuers would anticipate he would follow. He took it, intending to turn aside as soon as possible. Sadly, the hills rose steeply on either side of the path, and the unbroken crest of the hills on either side indicated that they would not be surmounted readily or quickly.

  He wanted to go west, or even northwest, but for the moment was compelled to choose between riding back past the abbey, or continuing on southward with the hope of not being overtaken.

  Madeline must have guessed his thoughts. “Rhys, give me the reins of my steed.”

  He glanced back, uncertain.

  “We will make better time without the horses hobbled together.” She smiled slightly, perhaps at his surprise. “You need not fear for me keeping your pace. I have ridden from the time I could reach the stirrup.”

  “And should I fear for your intent?”

  Madeline shrugged. “A live husband suits me better than one drawn and quartered as a traitor.” He was not truly surprised that she had guessed the real reason for their sudden departure, but he did not answer her.

  Her expression turned wry when he said nothing. “That is true for the moment, at least. You would do well to not labor so stridently to change my thinking. It occurs to me that you might have need of an ally other than Thomas.”

  Rhys found himself smiling in admiration of her forthright speech. “Fair enough. I could endeavor to vex you less.” They shared a tentative smile, all the sweeter for how little he had expected amity between them again. “But in this moment, I have need of counsel. I would make for Glasgow.”