Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  “They came from Harlech. Robert Herbert, the lord there, has long tried to prove himself the heir of Owain Glyn Dwr, if not by blood than by deed. He hungers after all of the fortresses held by Owain, including Caerwyn.”

  Rosamunde frowned. “But how could he have known when to expect Rhys’ return?”

  “A runner came days passed, bringing a missive from Lady Adele’s sister,” Cradoc said. “She is an abbess near York.”

  “Miriam!” Madeline said and the sheriff nodded. “We were wed at her abbey, over her protest.”

  “But who is Lady Adele?” Vivienne asked.

  “She must be Rhys’ mother, the mistress of his father,” Madeline said.

  Cradoc nodded. “There are only the two women left at Caerwyn, Henry’s wife and his mistress. One of them must have sent word, perhaps even inadvertently, to Robert.”

  “They may all be imprisoned,” Rosamunde mused and the group looked as one at the crest of the road. They could not see Caerwyn but Madeline felt as if a shadow had slipped over her.

  “Surely no one will injure Rhys?” she said.

  “There is no heir to Caerwyn after him,” Cradoc said.

  Madeline barely kept her hand from stealing over her flat belly. Could she carry Rhys’ son already?

  Would Rhys be pleased if she did?

  Madeline dared not think of that. She turned to her aunt, needing to know the truth. “Rosamunde, I would ask you to recall my birth, if you could. Rhys said something most strange to me, and perhaps you can recall whether it is true.”

  “What is that?”

  “He thought me to be the child of his cousin Madeline...”

  “The daughter of Rhys’ uncle, Dafydd ap Dafydd, who wed Edmund Arundel and went to Northumberland,” Cradoc cried. At Madeline’s nod, he became more animated. “Any surviving child of that union could challenge Rhys’ suzerainty of Caerwyn, for Dafydd was the last lord and his other children have all died.”

  “Madeline Arundel died in childbirth with her first and only child,” Madeline said and Cradoc crossed himself with some sadness.

  “She must have been Catherine’s first choice to be your godmother,” Rosamunde said to Madeline. “I knew that I was your mother’s second choice, for her dearest friend had recently died, though I did not know more of that friend.”

  Madeline nodded, for this made sense. Rosamunde never asked for more detail on any matter than she was granted, perhaps because she herself tended to confess to others only what they needed to know. “Madeline’s husband, Edward, died five years later, in 1403. Rhys said that my mother took Madeline’s child back to Kinfairlie, for the child had been orphaned.”

  “And he thought you might be that child.” Rosamunde guessed, then shook her head. “It seems unlikely. I attended your christening, after all, and you were only days old.”

  “But you must recall Ellyn,” Alexander said with sudden urgency. His eyes were bright.

  Madeline turned to him, a ghost stirring in her memory. Ellyn. The utterance of that name made her vaguely recall another child, a quiet, small child.

  Rosamunde shook a finger at him, evidently remembering the matter as well. “That tiny child! She was so sickly, and of an age with Madeline. I teased Catherine that she had brought home a changeling, not a mortal child, and that the fairies would steal her back one night.” She shook her head. “I had forgotten all about poor little Ellyn.”

  Alexander grinned. “And she would never play with us, remember?” He nudged Madeline. “I probably granted her more attention than any other soul at Kinfairlie, so convinced was I that she should join our games. You were not even five summers of age, Madeline, and you, Vivienne were younger still. Malcolm was a babe.”

  “I do not recall her,” Vivienne said with a shrug.

  “I think that I do...” Madeline admitted.

  “You preferred to play with Vivienne,” Alexander reminded Madeline, then sobered. “It was only later that I understood that Ellyn did not play because she was ill.”

  “She died very shortly after her arrival at Kinfairlie,” Rosamunde said. “Hers was a short sad life.”

  Alexander nodded. “I remember Madeline Arundel, as well, for she and mother rounded at the same time and oft visited with each other.” He shook his head, seeming snared by some fond memory. “She was a kind woman. She always brought candied angelica because I loved it so and no one at Kinfairlie knew how to make it. She would feign surprise when I found it amongst her embroidery. I remember how Maman wept when she died.”

  “She was a kind woman,” Cradoc affirmed. “I remember her well. And such a laugh! She lightened hearts wheresoever she went.”

  “I think Maman was still round with you when we had word of Madeline Arundel’s death.” Alexander said. “I recall Papa arguing with our castellan about telling Maman some dire news so close to her time. He insisted that she must know, while the castellan said it would only do her injury.” He tapped a finger on Madeline’s shoulder. “You must have been named in memory of Maman’s friend.”

  Madeline liked the notion well, whether it was true or not. “But Ellyn died?”

  Alexander nodded, his manner sad. “There is a stone in the churchyard at Kinfairlie for her, a small one with a cherub upon it. Maman used to pray there in memory of her friend and little Ellyn, as well.”

  Cradoc shook his head. “Ah, I recall Madeline and Edwards’ nuptial feast. You never saw a happier pair. They were so smitten each with the other, so glad to face life together. It is sorry indeed that they had so few years together.”

  “Perhaps they savored each moment fully,” Madeline suggested softly and the others nodded at that prospect.

  The company stood in silence for a moment, grieving for the lost couple and their child. Madeline imagined that the wind even took a mournful tone. When next she was at Kinfairlie, Madeline resolved she would visit the stone laid in memory of Ellyn, the tiny quiet child she had almost forgotten, and she would say a prayer for all of them.

  Rhys’ captors were rough, but they did not do him much injury. He suspected that he was wanted alive, for some purpose, though he could not guess what it was.

  A good twenty mercenaries surrounded him and marched him through Caerwyn’s gates, which he supposed was a compliment to his fighting abilities. He was not surprised that he was forced down the ladder to Caerwyn’s dark dungeon, nor was he surprised that he was shoved into its one cold chamber. He was not surprised when the oaken door was slammed behind him, and the cell plunged into darkness as the key was turned in the lock.

  He was surprised when a voice cleared behind him.

  Rhys jumped and pivoted, his hand falling to his empty scabbard and closing upon no weapon at all.

  “Rhys?” His mother asked, her voice trembling. “Rhys, is that you?”

  “Mother!” Rhys stepped into the murky darkness, hands outstretched. His mother made a sound suspiciously akin to a sob, clutched his hands, then fell into his embrace. She was smaller than him, still soft and perfumed as always she had been.

  But she was shaking, shaking to her very marrow, and she wept as he had never heard or seen her weep before. Rhys held her tightly and said nothing, for there was little reassurance he could grant.

  Rhys knew this cell well enough to know that there was no escape from it, that the sole way out was through the portal, that the lock was doughty. He knew that they would remain here until it pleased their captor to release them, and he understood enough of people to guess that any release would not be a merry event for himself and his mother.

  The door would be unlocked because they were dead, or because they were to face their execution. His sole consolation was that Madeline had been spared this fate.

  Perhaps she would be happy with James.

  Perhaps he should not torment himself with such thoughts in what were likely to be his final hours.

  His mother, however, had other ideas. She straightened finally, sniffled, then poked him in the
chest with an imperious finger. “You were married! And I had to learn the truth of it from my sister!” Adele made a sound of disgust in her throat. “How could you have done this to me? You know how she loves to know all about everyone, how she savors holding some morsel of news that others have not yet heard. How could you have failed to send me a missive yourself?”

  “The matter was complicated,” Rhys said. “And it may not be of import, after all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Madeline seeks an annulment.” He felt his mother’s shock, could imagine her expression as she pulled back slightly.

  “This cannot be true! My son has not consummated his match?” Adele shook her head with such vigor that Rhys felt her gesture. “You are hale enough, Rhys, and you like women well enough. Surely there can be no reason for her to find fault.”

  “I suspect she is the daughter of Dafydd’s daughter, Madeline Arundel. That was why I wed her.”

  “You wed her to secure Caerwyn,” his mother guessed. “That was why I had no warning of it! You did not even tell me the nature of your quest when you left. Hmmm, Miriam does not know that detail.”

  “But if it is true, my Madeline and I are too closely related to be wed by the consanguinity laws of Rome.” Before his mother could scoff that such laws had no sway in Wales, Rhys laid a finger upon her shoulder. “We were wed in Miriam’s abbey, by a priest answerable to Canterbury and thence to Rome. She will gain this annulment with ease. I erred in forgetting the difference in ecclesiastical law, and now I will lose my wife.”

  “You must indeed have been blinded by love to have made such an error in your determination to be wed with haste. It is unlike you, Rhys, to omit any detail from a scheme.”

  Rhys felt his neck heat, for he had been a fool and could have done without his mother’s agreement on that point.

  Adele made a sound of disgust. “What use of you is a wife who does not see your merit?” She patted his shoulder. “Is the girl blind? Is she witless? You are a valiant warrior, you are easy to look upon, and you possess a holding that will see her fed...”

  “Mother, we are in the dungeon of that holding,” Rhys felt obliged to note. “It seems unlikely that I will ever be its lord in truth.”

  “It is unfair!”

  Rhys could feel his mother fuming at the injustice served to her only son. Indeed, her protectiveness made him smile, for it was not all bad to have some soul think well of him.

  “It is all the fault of that witch Nelwyna,” she said with vigor.

  “Father’s wife?” Rhys frowned. “She is responsible for this? I always thought her most amiable.”

  “Hardly that! Every soul in this keep thought her so sweet and kind, but I oft saw her looking at me with malice in her gaze. I never liked her, but I was polite for your father’s sake. He seemed to think her deserving of compassion, and here we stand, reaping the fruits of that compassion! He should have spurned her when she granted only daughters, he should have cast her out when my first two sons died...”

  “What first two sons?”

  “You had two older brothers, but they died young. One came dead from my womb, strangled by the cord. At the time, the midwife said something foul about Nelwyna being of no aid, but Henry bade her bite her tongue. And then the second boy died, while Nelwyna held him, just moments after he had come screaming from my womb. Even Henry could make no argument then, and he ensured she was not in the chamber when you were born.”

  “I had no knowledge of this,” Rhys said in astonishment.

  “No one was certain, no one but the midwife. Henry was cautious, and protective of you. I only believed the truth years later.” That finger rapped him on the chest again. “Do you recall when you were injured as a boy, when you fell from the saddle?”

  “Of course. It was of no import.”

  “Ha! That was what she wished all to think! There was a thorn beneath the saddle of the horse chosen for you to ride.” His mother tapped his chest again. “Do you recall being ill after we celebrated the victory of Owain and Dafydd, when first we gathered at Caerwyn and made it our home?”

  “I was young to drink so much ale,” Rhys noted. “Of course, I was ill.”

  “You were ill because you were given tainted ale! We discovered the truth only when you slept overlong and a woman in the kitchen confessed her part to Henry. She had thought she partook in a jest, and feared she would be party to a murder. She named Nelwyna, but Nelwyna denied all.”

  Adele fairly growled in her vexation. “And Dafydd said he could not act upon the testimony of a serving wench who had probably sampled too much of the ale herself. Nelwyna was known to be unkind to the women in the kitchens, and Dafydd thought this indictment an attempt at feminine vengeance.” She shook his tabard. “But again, you almost died! Praise be to God that you have the vigor of my family!”

  “Again, I knew nothing of this.”

  “Henry did not wish to poison your thoughts. It was the sole matter upon which we argued, for I felt you should be warned.” She tapped him on the chest once again. “Then there was the accident during your training, when that marshal used a real sword against you while yours was only wooden.”

  “I thought it a test.”

  “He had been bought,” Adele spat. “Though I dare not say with what. Dafydd forbade him to return to Caerwyn and had a discussion with Nelwyna. He also sent you away to fight with Owain Glyn Dwr, for finally the threat she posed was understood.”

  Rhys was astonished, for he had never guessed the peril that had faced him in his youth. “And Nelwyna is also responsible for our imprisonment?”

  “I thought her improved since Henry’s death, for always I believed that jealousy of my time with him was at root. But then Miriam sent her letter, and when I awakened from my afternoon sleep, it was not where I had left it. I guessed that she had read it, for she shares Miriam’s love of gossip.”

  Adele sighed. “I did not guess that there was greater import than that, not until Robert Herbert and his knights arrived at our gates.” Adele swallowed. “And she welcomed him, with open arms and open thighs.” She spat into the corner of the cell. “And she calls me the whore!”

  Rhys mused over this revelation. “It makes some sense. Herbert has always desired Caerwyn. She must have told him that if he acted in haste, it could be his own.”

  “And she has always wished to be Lady of Caerwyn, so she told me when I was imprisoned here. They have made a bargain, those two villains, and to see their ambition achieved, you must die.” Adele clutched Rhys’ tabard again, and her fear echoed in her voice. “But we will not die, will we, Rhys?”

  Rhys held his mother more tightly, for he dared not lie to her. He could not see how they could avoid dying, not without aid, and he could not guess who might aid them now.

  His mother understood the import of his silence, and he whispered nonsense to her as she began to weep anew. Never had he felt so powerless before. Never had he faced such despair.

  The sole consolation was that Madeline had not been captured, as well. By spurning him, she had saved her own hide from Nelwyna’s ambition, and for the first time, Rhys was glad that Madeline had chosen to pursue that annulment.

  It seemed he would not have long to mourn her absence, after all.

  “What care have we of these people’s woes?” James said with sudden impatience, then claimed Madeline’s hand. “Caerwyn and Rhys FitzHenry are not our concern, not any longer.”

  “Rhys is Madeline’s husband!” Vivienne reminded the other man with impatience.

  “I am her betrothed.” Curiously, James' claim awakened no response in Madeline.

  Cradoc snorted, there obviously being no doubt in his thinking which role had superior claim.

  “You never contacted Madeline to tell her that you were yet alive,” Elizabeth said, then put her nose in the air. “I cannot even see your ribbon and Darg has just spat upon you. You are fortunate that my manners are rather better.”

&n
bsp; James gave the girl an odd glance, then smiled at Madeline. “You are rid of a husband this way, Madeline. Our fate lies north, in my father’s abode.”

  “In your father’s abode?”

  “He has promised me a stipend, upon wedding you.” James winked. “He likes you well, and I like the notion of an annual stipend even better.” He laughed, but no one shared his jest.

  “But what will you do?” Madeline asked with care.

  “I will create music.” James smiled a winning smile.

  Madeline considered him, recalling Rhys’ assertion that every man must fight one day to protect what is his own. She was beginning to understand the impulse of her heart, to see clearly what she should have guessed long ago. “Surely you learned to do battle in France, and have some hunger to continue to do so?” she asked politely.

  James laughed merrily. “Me? I managed to evade my father’s men, at the earliest opportunity. I spent my time in France in the churches, listening to their heavenly music.”

  “Then you were not even at Rougemont,” Alexander said, his voice cold with accusation.

  “Why else do you imagine that I yet breathe?” James asked, his manner scathing. “I am not in such haste to die for coin and land.”

  “Though you welcome the assets brought by both,” Madeline said quietly. James granted her a sharp glance and she straightened. “And what shall I do in your father’s abode? Your mother has enough ladies-in-waiting and daughters underfoot.”

  James seized her hand as if he would lead her into a dance. “You shall sit and be beauteous. You shall smile upon the company, and all shall bask in the splendor of your beauty. You shall inspire me. You shall receive odes and poems from me, and if you feel such necessity, you will embroider some frippery or another.” He waved his hand dismissively, then smiled anew. “You, Madeline, will be my muse.”

  It seemed a rather thin prospect, compared to Rhys’ dream of building prosperity for those beneath his hand, for ensuring that all had justice and sufficient food in their bellies. Madeline was certain that his wife would have greater responsibilities than choosing a piece of cloth for embroidery.