“I feigned drunkenness to be ignored. A drunken mercenary is not remembered, my lady, not even by the ale-maker who takes the drunkard’s coin.”
His thinking made splendid sense. “You feign such a state so well that I was fooled,” Madeline said. “Should I fret that it is your own extensive practice that grants you such skill?”
Rhys’ grin flashed. “I have eyes in my head, no more than that.” He lashed the bag he carried behind his saddle. “I have brought food, but we shall have to eat later.” He fitted his hands around Madeline’s waist to lift her into her saddle and froze at the changed shape of her belly.
His grip tightened around her and he did not lift her higher, holding her so that their gazes were level. “You conceive with uncommon haste, my lady.”
Then he smiled a wolfish smile, one that set a thousand stars dancing in his eyes and awakened a fearsome tingle in Madeline’s belly. She was very aware of the heat of his chest fairly against her breasts, of their breath mingling between them, of his resolute grip upon her waist.
Madeline found herself flushing furiously. “I meant to follow you. I was concerned that you took so long, and it seemed good sense to disguise myself...”
Madeline could not finish her explanation, for Rhys kissed her with an enthusiasm that made her forget her own thoughts. Her hands found their own way around his neck, and he caught her close against his heat. They kissed hungrily and she knew that she was not the sole one relieved by his safe return.
“I like it well that you fret for me, anwylaf,” he whispered when he finally raised his head. “But I do not mean to die just yet.”
“And how bold is a man who believes that choice is his alone?” Madeline demanded sternly, unsettled by the happy gallop of her heart in this man’s presence.
Rhys held her gaze for a heady moment, as if he might make some sweet confession. Madeline held her breath, until Rhys shook his head and turned, leading their steeds back to the road. His manner was watchful and silent once more, and Madeline did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed that he had said no more.
He was safe by her side, and for the moment, that would suffice.
Chapter Ten
Madeline and Rhys spent precious hours winding a path back and forth around Moffat, trying to ensure that their destination appeared to be Carlisle when it was not. Rhys wanted to ensure that many souls saw them upon that road, and only when he was satisfied that there had been enough witnesses did he take to the concealed track that the farmer had mentioned.
“How do you know that he will not tell another what he told you?” Madeline demanded.
“He was drunken enough that he will be asleep himself by the time any other party catches up with him,” Rhys said grimly.
“And on the morrow?”
Rhys shrugged. “I doubt he will recall his own name, let alone the nameless mercenary who bought him ale.”
“How much ale did you buy for him?”
Rhys chuckled. “Enough to ensure as much, though he had an uncommon thirst.”
“You will be impoverished if you continue to waste your coin thus,” Madeline chided, having no idea how much coin Rhys possessed.
“Aye, I have dispensed a great deal of coin upon women and ale on this journey.” He cast her that beguiling smile. “Though I cannot call the expense a waste, in all fairness.”
She could not take offense, not when he looked at her thus. Indeed, her heart thumped with painful vigor beneath his smile, and she felt herself flush.
She would have to steel herself against her husband’s unexpected allure, lest she become fond of a man who had wed her solely for the fruit her womb might bear.
To Rhys’ relief, the path not only existed, but it was where the farmer had told him. It was also deserted, much as the one Kerr had taken across the moors. Ever cautious, Rhys only chose to halt after they were a goodly distance from Moffat. They dismounted in a small clearing that would be out of clear sight of a rider.
Madeline looked about herself. “You chose this place because you can see the path.”
“Without being readily seen ourselves,” Rhys agreed, appreciative of her perceptiveness. He laid out the results of his excursion, apologetic that there was so little. A noblewoman would be accustomed to finer fare than he could offer, not only on this day. “Apples and cheese, bread and ale. There was little other than that, as it was not market day.”
Madeline, however, seemed untroubled by the simple repast. “How long must it last?”
“Perhaps until Glasgow. Perhaps we shall risk another town before then.”
“But you would prefer not to be seen,” Madeline concluded, no censure in her town. She divided the food with quick efficiency, granting him a measure more than herself and putting a good bit back in the sack. “The bread will be hard by the morrow, so we shall eat it today, half now and half this evening. Be sparing with the cheese, for it will keep a good while with that good rind upon it. We shall each have an apple or two at each meal, at least until they are gone.”
As he stared at her, impressed by her pragmatism, she gave an elaborate shrug. “And the ale is clearly for me, as you must have had your fill of it already this day.” She granted him a glance of such mischief that he was tempted to forget the meal in favor of continuing their efforts to conceive a son.
Madeline must have guessed the direction of his thoughts, for she flushed scarlet, then sat down and busied herself with the meal. Her hands shook slightly and Rhys hesitated before joining her.
“Are you so afraid of me as that?” he asked.
She glanced up, her gaze clear. “Are you a traitor?”
“That depends upon who is asked.”
She frowned. “That is not an answer.”
Rhys shed his tabard and turned it around again, so that the red dragon of Wales was clearly emblazoned again upon his chest.
Madeline watched with interest. “There were those at Ravensmuir who said you tempted Fate by wearing that insignia so openly. Why?”
Rhys sat down beside her and bit into an apple as he considered where to begin. “Eons past, there was a king of Wales who decided to build his court upon a hill in Gwynedd.”
“Where is Gwynedd?”
“It is the ancient heart of Wales, the territory within which one finds Eryri, the mountain known as Snowdonia in English. It is there that the oldest seat of Welsh authority lies, the hill of Dinas Emrys, and it was upon this hill that King Gwrtheyrn vowed to build his hall.”
Rhys bit into his apple with vigor, taking his time with the tale. “But something was amiss, for each night whatsoever had been constructed that day disappeared before the sun rose again. The stones were swallowed by the earth, so fully did they disappear, and the king was vexed that so little progress was made.”
Madeline listened, rapt. Her hands stilled over the bread.
“And so it was that the king called for a seer to tell him what had gone awry. He summoned Myrddin, a young sorcerer who would be known by the English as Merlin, who conjured a dream. After his dreaming, Myrddin counseled the king to dig beneath the hill, to dig until he found a lake. And beside that lake would be a tent, and within that tent would be two dragons, one red and one white. And so it was done, upon the bidding of the sorcerer’s dream.”
“And what did they find?”
“It was as Myrddin had predicted, but as the king and his men watched, the dragons awakened. The pair fought a vicious battle, through the tent and into the lake, then disappeared. And Myrddin said that it will always be thus, that this pair would battle again and again for all eternity. He said that the white dragon was England and the red was Cymru -”
“Cymru?”
“Wales.” Rhys chewed his apple and stared over the hills, savoring that Madeline’s attention did not waver. “And he counseled the king to build his abode elsewhere.”
“Why?”
“So long as Dinas Emrys remains a wooded hill, the red dragon lives on, to
wage war against the white. So long as the hill is unfettered, the red dragon will do battle.” Rhys met Madeline’s gaze, letting her see his determination. “He will fight to his dying breath, each and every night for all eternity if need be, until the red dragon is ultimately triumphant over the white.”
They stared at each other for a potent moment, and Rhys recalled the silk of her skin beneath his hand, the way she gasped when she found her pleasure. Desire stirred within him and he thought of bedding her here, upon this cloth, without regard to whosoever pursued them.
He was startled by the appeal of the notion, a notion that could result in his own demise. What power had this woman over him? And how had she conjured it in so few days? Rhys had the wits to be afraid.
Madeline looked down at the bread in her hands, breaking the heated gaze that had bound them together. “You can tell a tale, husband.”
“I am Welsh,” Rhys said and looked away from the temptation she offered.
She cleared her throat. “No wonder your insignia was thought to be provocative.”
Rhys considered this for a moment. “My insignia declares me to be who I am, which is the task of an insignia. I am not the manner of man to pretend that I am other than I am.”
“Except in Moffat.”
He smiled at that and let her think what she would. There was more to consider than his own sorry hide, at least until they reached Caerwyn.
“Will you tell me why the king charged you with treason?”
“Nay,” Rhys said firmly. He took another apple and bit into it, noting that she was irked with him again. To be sure, the lady was bewitching when her eyes flashed with such vigor. He stared at the road and willed the enthusiasm in his chausses to abandon him.
“Then I shall have to learn the tale from someone else,” she said tartly. “You may be certain that there are others who know about the charges against you, Rhys, and they may not be so interested in granting you a fair hearing as you might be.”
“Then you should not seek the tale from others,” he said, determined to end her curiosity. “It is not comely for a lady to seek gossip, after all.” Madeline gasped in indignation but before she could make another demand, he made one of his own. “What of this man who captured your heart? Do you mean to tell me of him?”
Her eyes widened in surprise. “James?”
“If that was his name.” Rhys shrugged, trying to give the impression that he was less interested than he knew himself to be. “Your betrothed, who died.”
“James.” Her lips tightened and she sighed, looking suddenly despondent. She seemed both intent upon cutting her apple with her knife and disinterested in whatsoever she did.
Rhys stretched out in the grass, much happier asking questions than answering them. He watched Madeline, seeking the answers she would not express in words. “What manner of man was he?”
She sighed and a sweet smile touched her lips. That such a smile had nothing to do with him—and never would—tore Rhys’ heart with surprising force.
“James was a kind and gentle man. He was filled with such goodness, and he could sing as if he were an angel.”
Rhys snorted. “Then they shall be glad of him in their chorus.”
Madeline glared at him. “James was a well-mannered and elegant man. He was good and kind and gentle and...”
“Your point being that I am as unlike James as ever a man could be.”
Her gaze swept over him, and she sniffed. “I would never be so rude as to say as much.” Madeline turned her attention to her apple again, twin spots of color burning in her cheeks. “He could play the lute with such skill.”
“The lute?” Rhys straightened. “He was a musician?”
Madeline nodded, oblivious to how avid Rhys had become. “He wrote some verse and sang many more composed by others. He played the lute with great cunning.”
A poet and lutenist! Rhys looked away, alarmed as he seldom was. The apple was as sawdust in his mouth, for he guessed well enough who the musician was who traveled with Rosamunde, why that party had pursued him from Ravensmuir and what they wanted with him.
How perfect for Rosamunde that she could readily condemn Rhys, and thus ensure that Madeline was widowed. And Madeline could wed the man she vowed to love.
Rhys cast the core into the undergrowth with force, not caring that he had not finished the flesh, and realized that Madeline watched him warily.
He struggled to keep his tone idle, though his interest in his wife’s answer was far from idle. “Did you kiss James as you kiss me?” He heard that his effort failed, that he sounded as if he sought an argument.
He found one.
Madeline’s glance was positively lethal. “James was too much of a nobleman to force his embrace upon me.”
Rhys recalled all too well that she had called him a barbarian. And no wonder, for bards were men of considerable abilities. They were marked for their destiny early, they were granted the best schooling, they were clever and talented and the most exalted men in Welsh society. No wonder she found Rhys a poor substitute for this James. He would have to remember not to sing in her presence, lest that comparison serve him poorly as well.
“Which means that you did not.” Rhys pushed to his feet, disturbed beyond expectation by the impressive credentials of this lost suitor. “So, how did he die? Did he argue a case that he could not win, and thus meet the anger of the losing side?”
Madeline looked up, her bewilderment clear. “I do not understand.”
Rhys spoke roughly in his annoyance. “You said he was a poet and a musician, so he must have also been a lawyer. The best poets are lawyers, as well. Do you tell me that he was incompetent as a musician?”
She laughed, the sound bursting from her lips in her surprise. “What madness is this? Poets as lawyers! Surely you jest?”
“Surely I do not!” Her attitude irked Rhys as little else could have done. “It requires eloquence to argue a legal case, and the ability to cast a spell over one’s audience. A lawyer is an orator, as is a poet. Any person of sense can see the connection.” Madeline blinked, but Rhys could not halt himself. “Bards are well accustomed to remembering long passages of verse, not dissimilar to remembering passages of law. And poets, finally, are clever beyond belief, for they must not only master the ancient twenty-four meters of rhyming verse, but be able to make such compositions as they sing.”
“I did not realize...”
Rhys shoved a hand through his hair, agitated by his competitor’s skills, no less that Madeline did not appear to appreciate them. How galling that he had to explain the other man’s copious talents! “Few realize the complexity of the metered verse. In Welsh, we call such harmony cynghanedd and it is not easily learned. The syllables must be of the same number within each line of the verse, and each word of each line must begin with the same sound, and the first word of each line must ally with first words in all the other lines, and the last consonant of each line must allude to the first word of the next!” Rhys flung out his hands and roared. “It is not a pursuit for the simple of intellect, I assure you!”
Madeline simply stared at him, so great was her astonishment.
Rhys exhaled heavily and forced his voice to return to its usual timbre. “Thus, in my uncle’s court, the poet who possessed such fearsome abilities was also the man who knew and argued the law.”
“I have never heard the like of that.” Madeline heaved a sigh in her turn. “James simply could pluck a pretty tune.”
Rhys gaped at her. “He could not compose in meter?”
She shook her head.
“Are you certain that he simply did not burden you with the fullness of his abilities?”
Madeline chuckled. “I am certain. He was almost untutored, for his father had no interest in music. He composed little himself and I heartily doubt that he knew near as much of law as you expect. His charm lay in other traits.” She smiled at Rhys with bemusement as she peeled an apple with her knife. “You Welshmen are
a whimsical lot indeed. Poets as lawyers!”
Though Rhys was relieved that James was not as formidable a foe as he had feared, his mood was not improved by Madeline responding to good sense as if he were mad. He glared at her. “So, how did this esteemed musician of so few talents die? Did he cut his white fingers upon lute strings drawn too taut?”
Madeline cast aside the skin of her apple with annoyance. “His father fairly had him killed.”
“Then perhaps this James was not so kind and gentle of a man, if he so enraged his father. Perhaps he was not so clever as you believe.”
“His father was not enraged,” Madeline asserted with force. “He was simply blind to the manner of man his son was. I told you that he had no interest in music or its merit. He dispatched James to the war in France, despite James’ protests.”
“Why did this James not defy his father? It can be done.” Rhys considered his piece of bread and decided to risk provoking her again. “Unless, of course, one does not want to threaten one’s inheritance.”
“Oh! You are quick to cast aspersions on those you have not known!” Madeline’s eyes flashed. “His father was cruel and unfair! He had James imprisoned in their own keep until James agreed to go to war. And then he sent James with his own warriors, with the command that they were to ensure that James served his father’s interests well in France. He ensured that James could not escape, that he had to fight. And so James died. It was wicked and utterly unfitting for a father to treat his son in such a manner.”
“He was killed in battle?”
Madeline nodded once. “James was not a man wrought for war. His father should never have sent him to France when he did!”
“You speak aright,” Rhys acknowledged. “Had he been a good father, he would have sent him to war sooner.”
Madeline dropped knife and apple, outrage taking her to her feet. “What madness is this? No decent father would see his son killed for no good reason!”
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