Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Madeline clutched Rhys’ sleeve as she turned to face him. “Then why did you wed me?”

  He studied her, his expression wary. “You have wits enough to guess.”

  “You wed me because if I am that daughter, then I am the sole other claimant to Caerwyn. I would be the only person who could keep it from your hand.”

  Rhys inclined his head in agreement and anger roiled within Madeline. His motive was so cold, so calculated. She would have been more relieved to learn that he had wedded her out of lust.

  “So, you wed me for Caerwyn, no more and no less.”

  “That is true.”

  “Though you believe me to be your cousin’s child! Surely such a match is sinful!”

  Rhys shook his head. “Not where I was raised.”

  “Barbarian!” Madeline cried.

  Rhys turned to appeal to her, his very manner so guilty that she knew he did not even find himself so innocent as he would have her believe.

  That infuriated her as little else could have done. “You bought me, to ensure your claim to the keep you so love. And you would plant your seed in my belly solely to ensure that your legacy passes through your lineage.”

  Rhys sighed. “Madeline, not solely for that...”

  She had no desire to hear his excuses. “You need not try to soften the truth with pretty words, Rhys FitzHenry!” she might have stepped away, but Rhys claimed her hand.

  “Nay, I mean that this is not the worst of it.”

  Madeline clutched the rail, uncertain what else he might confess. “Tell me.”

  “I saw the party in pursuit of us in Moffat. Four people I recognize travel with Rosamunde, and one other whom I do not.”

  Madeline caught her breath.

  Rhys counted on his fingers. “There is Rosamunde, there is Alexander, there is Vivienne, there is your youngest sister who sees fairies...”

  “Elizabeth.”

  “There is another man I spied in Ravensmuir’s hall, a swarthy man who wears a gold earring.”

  “Padraig. He sails with Rosamunde.”

  “And there is another man.” Rhys’ expression turned somber, his gaze piercing. Madeline feared what he would say. “He is fair, his hair an uncommon blond, and he carries a lute upon his back.”

  Madeline raised her hands to her lips in astonishment. She could never have prepared herself for that revelation! “Do you know his name?”

  “I could guess.” Rhys’ tone was rueful. “Indeed, the return of your betrothed might explain why they pursue you with such haste.”

  James. James gave chase.

  James!

  Madeline raised a fist to her chest, shocked by what Rhys had told her and even more by his deception. “But you knew, you knew this and said nothing. You guessed that James gave chase since Moffat,” she said, not hiding her dismay.

  Rhys inclined his head in acknowledgement.

  The wretch had lied to her! She had trusted him, she had surrendered to him, she had done all she could to ensure that their match had a chance, and Rhys had lied to her.

  No less, he had lied to her about the one thing that might have changed her regard for him.

  “You guessed as much, and yet you continued to flee their pursuit,” she said, needing to hear the indictment from his own lips. “You kept me from my one true love, and you did it by choice.”

  Rhys nodded. “I did not say that I was proud of what I had done.”

  “You faithless knave!” Madeline stepped away from her husband, fury consuming her and choking the angry words that rose in her throat. Tears glazed her vision. She had wed the wrong man, and had lost her true love by but a day!

  “Madeline, I am sorry. I know that I erred...”

  “Do not try to explain your crime!”

  “In truth, I am not certain of the identity of the lutenist. We but guess, Madeline. Remember as much.”

  “It could be no other lutenist,” she insisted. “There would be no other reason for Rosamunde and the others to give chase.”

  Rhys grimaced at the truth of that. “I am sorry...”

  “No!” Madeline took a deep breath and spoke with a calm that surprised even herself. “An apology will not make this come aright. Words will not suffice.”

  “Then what would you have me do? Though it is belated, I grant you the honesty you desire.”

  “I believe there is but one thing you can do. You had best make haste in finding yourself a mistress,” Madeline straightened and held her husband’s gaze. “You will never be between my thighs again and I understand that you have need of a son.”

  “But...”

  Madeline interrupted him, her words as sharp as a well-honed blade. “I was prepared to wager with you, Rhys. I was prepared to make an arrangement that we could both find amenable. But you have lied to me and you have deceived me, and you even admit to all the wrongs that you have committed. You have ensured that an amiable marriage is no longer possible between us.”

  “But we are wed, and our match is consummated...”

  “And if I am your cousin’s daughter, then we are too closely related to be wed by the laws of the church. Our marriage can be annulled for cause of consanguinity.”

  Rhys looked so shocked that Madeline’s conviction wavered for a heartbeat. Could she do Rhys such injury?

  But surely he only deceived her anew. Surely he only meant to change her will to suit his own? Surely he had anticipated this protest from her?

  Surely he fought only for precious Caerwyn?

  “Not in Wales!” he insisted with rare anger. “We acknowledge no such injunction against consanguinity! A man cannot wed his sister or his mother, but his cousin is well enough, if the match suits.”

  Madeline stepped away, for if he touched her, she knew she would be lost. She was too susceptible to his potent caress. “We were not wed in Wales, Rhys. We were wed by the priest in your aunt’s convent, a priest who answers to the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

  Rhys seemed to be stunned by this prospect, but Madeline warned herself to not trust whatever appearance he gave. “But that cannot matter...” he said, doubt in his tone for the first time since Madeline had met him. He spun and considered the horizon, his brow furrowed. “But you would not annul our match,” he insisted, his gaze searching hers. “You could not do so.”

  Madeline smiled tightly. “Why would I remain? What reason have you granted to me, Rhys FitzHenry, to find myself gladdened to be your wife?”

  His mouth worked for a moment, and she feared that he truly was surprised. “We meet well abed.”

  “Marriage must be more than that, especially as you already vowed to me that I could not rely upon you to be faithful to me alone. You may have need of sons, but I am not certain that I have need of a spouse. Find yourself a whore, Rhys, and she may keep you content.”

  Leaving her husband staring at her in annoyance and astonishment—and fuming more than a good bit herself—Madeline marched away from him. Her fears of the ship were forgotten for the moment, so severe was her anger.

  How could Rhys have so betrayed her trust?

  Madeline made her way back to the cabin, her tears only spilling when Gelert welcomed her with such enthusiasm. She sat with the dog and tried to summon her memory of James’ beloved face.

  To her horror, Madeline could not remember what James looked like. Indeed, another man’s grim visage filled her thoughts. Madeline tried to recall the sweet magic of James’ voice.

  She could not hear him, not in her memory. Instead, she heard the lilt of a deeper voice, one that recounted a tale with humor and passion.

  Madeline desperately sought some recollection of her beloved James, her fear easing only when she envisioned his slender fingers upon the strings of his lute. She smiled and closed her eyes, knowing all would come aright. James would come to her at Caerwyn, for Rosamunde knew Rhys’ destination. Rhys himself had supplied the detail Madeline needed to have their marriage annulled.

  Something twi
sted deep within her, for Madeline knew she had become fond of Rhys. But he himself had sworn that he had no intent to love his spouse. He desired Caerwyn and sons, no more and no less. His wife would be a vessel, no more and no less.

  James was the man for her, Madeline knew it well.

  They would be united soon, and they would be together for all eternity. Rhys, she suspected, would not even miss her. Against all odds, Madeline’s sole desire would be her own.

  How curious then that her heart did not sing in anticipation. Madeline remembered the gift from her mother, then, and her fingers shook as she unfastened the velvet pouch around her neck. She poured the Tear into her hand and was reassured by the sight of the gem.

  A fierce light burned deep within the stone, brighter than the glimmer she had seen before. It was a golden light, a vigorous glow that told her that all finally came aright.

  Her tears must be tears of joy, and only fell with such enthusiasm because of her hunger. Madeline told herself as much, time and again, and stared at the bright star in the stone.

  But she could not believe it and she did not know why.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rhys had little to lose. At this point, he told himself, his marriage with Madeline could only improve.

  Unless, of course, it ended.

  Rhys was not quite prepared to face that prospect, not without fighting for the lady’s favor. In his view, he had the duration of this journey to win her heart, and he had no intent of losing a moment granted to him.

  How could he have forgotten the differences in consanguinity laws between the Welsh church and the Roman one? How could he have erred so soundly? How could he have wed Madeline within a chapel that answered to Canterbury and never seen the flaw in his choice?

  He was losing his wits in the presence of this woman.

  And worse, he did not want to be without her, at any price.

  Rhys fetched two bowls of the stew the sailors had made with salted cod, two tankards of ale and a loaf of bread. When a man tried to take issue with Rhys’ portion of bread—of which there would be no more before they reached another port—Rhys gave him such a glare that the man slunk away like a whipped hound.

  Rhys marched down the lurching corridor, carefully balancing his burden, and acknowledged that he was more fearful of what he might face in the small cabin ahead than any battle he had faced in all his days.

  He rapped upon the door, though Madeline did not answer.

  Rhys had not truly expected her to do so. He thought he could discern the sniffle of tears, and cursed himself for granting his lady such injury that she wept.

  It was his duty to see her smile again, if nothing more. He braced his feet against the rolling deck and cleared his throat, for he knew just the tale to recount to her.

  “Once there was a man, whom all believed to be blessed with keen wits. His wife thought him the most clever man in all their valley, though soon she was to be proven wrong.”

  Rhys heard a little sniff of laughter from behind the door, which was better than the tearful sniffle he had heard earlier. He dared to be encouraged.

  “This man was not only clever—at least in the estimation of his friends and neighbors—but he dearly loved to see others merry. So, his heart was good, if his wits were soon shown to be somewhat less so. This man befriended a group of fairies, who lived beneath a hill near his home. It is told that he had done them some favor, though I do not know its nature. Suffice to say that the fairies felt inclined to indulge him and offered him his heart’s desire.”

  The ship was obviously struck by a swell, Rhys lost his footing slightly, and some of the stew went over the lip of the bowl. The pain where it landed upon his hand reassured Rhys that the meal was not yet cold, though he winced until the burn’s sting subsided.

  He knew that Madeline would be afraid of the ship’s motion, and he continued his tale with haste, hoping to distract her from her fears.

  “And so, this man thought about his friends and neighbors, and how much he liked to see them merry, and he asked the fairies for a harp that would play of its own accord. Those who loved to dance in his valley had long complained of musicians who grew tired before they did, and he thought this a fitting gift that would make all merry. He was sufficiently good of heart to wish to share his good fortune.

  “The fairies bade him go home, and when the man awakened the next morning, he found a harp beside his hearth. He knew from a single glimpse that this was no mortal harp—it was wrought of gold and the strings shimmered even when they were still—and he was delighted. That very night, his friends and neighbors gathered to see the marvel, and the man laid his hand upon it. No sooner had he touched the strings than the harp began to play a merry tune. Every soul gathered there could do naught else but dance.”

  Rhys juggled his burden again, hoping that Madeline was listening to him, and further that she would find favor with his tale. “The music from the harp was so merry that the people danced with uncommon vigor. They leapt and spun, they stamped their feet and clapped their hands, they danced until they swore they could dance no longer. But they could not halt, not so long as the harp played. Their feet were enchanted by the music, so they danced and danced and danced.

  “When they cried that they could dance no longer, the man lifted his hand from the harp. It fell silent, then and only then, and all agreed that it was a marvel. The wife thought that her spouse was a rare prize, for not only had he won his heart’s desire, but his desire had been one to make more merry than simply himself.

  “And so it went that the friends and neighbors came calling when they had need of a dance, and the man brought his enchanted harp to every gathering in the valley. All enjoyed the music, all benefited from this gift of the fairies, all danced as they had never danced before. All thought the man wondrous, but slowly, he began to doubt that he was invited to join festivities for his own sake. He began to believe that people asked him only so that he would bring his harp. He began to think that his friends only feigned friendship, that their true affection was for the fairies’ gift. He began to think his friends and neighbors unappreciative that he had shared his good fortune. This shadow seized hold of him and would not relinquish its grip.

  “And so one night, he laid his hand upon the harp strings as so many times he had before. His friends and neighbors danced, for they could do nothing else, and they danced and they danced and they danced. But when time came that they were tired, and they called out to him to halt, the man pretended that he had not heard them.

  “The man let the harp play on and on, he coaxed it on without remorse, he compelled his friends and neighbors to dance endlessly. So deep was his conviction that they invited him solely for their own pleasure that he resolved to grant them their fill of dancing. The older and the weaker began to collapse in exhaustion, but the man did not heed them. Even the virile began to weep that they could endure no more, but the man only laid his hand more firmly across the strings. When the dawn touched the sky, the man finally let the harp fall silent.

  “He looked up, seeking his vindication. To his horror, his friends and neighbors had not only fallen to the floor, but some of them were dead. Many more were nearly so. There were holes in the leather of their shoes from the force of their dancing, and even those who were alive could scarce move. His wife was among those who had died in the mad dance.

  “The man was sickened by the folly of his deed, his heart weighted like a stone.” Rhys paused to lick his lips and juggle the bowls again. He could hear Madeline’s breath beyond the door, as if she anxiously awaited his next words.

  “And the following morn, the morn of his wife’s funeral, when the man awakened, there was no golden harp upon his hearth. He never saw the harp again, and he never had the chance to aid the fairies again. He had no friends after that trick, and his neighbors distrusted him. Not a one of those who had danced on that fateful night ever danced again.

  “The man was alone. He missed his wife sorely,
far more than he missed the harp. He lived very long, though he did not prosper. Too late he learned that he was neither so clever nor so good as his wife had believed him to be, too late he learned that his heart’s desire had been his all along.”

  Rhys finished his tale and considered the stew. It was cooling, the steam no longer rising from the bowls with such enthusiasm. There was silence behind him, a silence that told him that he had failed in his first attempt to soften Madeline’s anger with him.

  Then she opened the portal. Her eyelids were puffed and reddened, her lips tight. Her lashes were dark spikes, still wet with tears. Her flesh was pale, a reminder of the posset that had so weakened her and her distrust of ships, and her fingers seemed to tremble upon the door. Rhys was certain that she was the most beauteous woman that ever he had seen. He knew himself a knave for having so deceived her and knew his tale to be a poor offering.

  It was the only one he had, beyond himself and he knew Madeline could not desire so little as that.

  “Is that by way of an apology?” she asked.

  “It is meant to be but a start,” he said, hardly daring to hope.

  Madeline studied him, though Rhys could not guess her thoughts. “You tell many tales of people losing all they hold dear. Do you think then that no good fortune can endure?”

  Rhys frowned, for current evidence seemed to confirm that possibility. “I have oft believed as much, for that has been my experience.”

  “But?”

  “Perhaps the lesson is that one should savor whatsoever one is granted, for one cannot say how long any goodness will last.”

  She smiled then, though her smile was sad, and she rubbed the hound’s ears as if only Gelert could grant her solace. “Can a person not hope for better, instead of fear that matters must become worse?” Her eyes were bright and she watched him, as if anxious to know his answer.

  Rhys licked his lips, uncertain what she wanted him to say, wishing desperately that he knew the correct answer. “That would be a fine skill to learn.”