Fathers and Sons: A Collection of Medieval Romances

by Kathryn Le Veque

  She sounded very calm, very rational, and very wise. Rhys looked at her; she did not seem like the same lady he had met only a few hours ago, the spitfire who complained at every turn. She was serene and relaxed as she attempted to diffuse the situation. But the merchant was still rightly upset.

  “He should not have thrown me from my meal,” he said petulantly. “There were other tables.”

  “But yours was the closest.” Elizabeau’s grip tightened on Rhys’ wrist and she gently, firmly, forced him to lower his weapons. “You are correct, my lord; he should not have thrown you from your table. It was a mistake, but he was only acting in my best interest. He was not attempting to deliberately insult you. Please call off your men and I shall happily pay for your meal and for your men’s meal. Will you not accept my offer?”

  The merchant looked uncertain, then dubious. He looked to his men, who were now looking at him for further instructions. They could fight or not; it was all the same to them. They were paid to do what they were told. But the fact remained that the merchant had been insulted. He jabbed a fat finger at Rhys.

  “Your husband should show more manners,” he said to Elizabeau.

  Elizabeau nodded patiently. “Indeed he should.” She turned to Rhys, smiling sweetly, which caught him completely off-guard. “Lower your weapons, darling, and apologize to this man. Yours was an impetuous, rude act.”

  He stared at her for a moment. But in a flash, both swords were sheathed. Elizabeau continued to smile at him, wrapping her small, cold hands around his right arm.

  “Apologize, Rhys,” she repeated softly.

  He almost didn’t know what to say. He was so off-balance by her sweet voice and lovely smile that the words simply wouldn’t come. But when she nodded her head at him encouragingly, he cleared his throat softly and focused on the merchant.

  “My apologies, my lord,” he said in a low, deep voice. “My only thoughts at the moment were of my… my wife. She was cold and I would do whatever necessary to warm her.”

  The merchant gave in without another word. He waved a hand at his men, who backed away and sheathed their weapons without protest.

  “If she’s that cold, then go put her in a warm tub and a warm bed,” he was already walking past them, heading for his former table. “In fact, make love to her all night. That will warm her blood quick enough.”

  He laughed at his bawdy suggestion, resuming his seat at the table as the room gradually returned to normal. Those who fled were slowly returning to their seats, righting chairs and tables as they went. Rhys and Elizabeau stood in the middle of the room, watching the activity slowly resume. When Rhys finally looked at Elizabeau, she was staring up at him intently. He gave her a wry twist of the lips.

  “Well, my lady, it seems that you managed to negotiate my way out of a battle,” he said quietly. “But next time, you will not jeopardize yourself like that. You could have been gravely injured, or worse.”

  “And so I was not,” she shot back softly. “If I can negotiate you out of a battle, I will gladly do so. We’ve come this far. I would hate to see something happen to you after you have fought so hard to preserve my life.”

  He cocked an eyebrow, watching two of the soldiers who had been intent on attacking him quit the inn. The other two remained, just inside the door. His gaze returned to her. “Husband, am I?” he muttered. “What possessed you to make a foolish claim like that?”

  Her brow furrowed. “Because we are traveling alone together, you and I. What else would you have preferred I said? That you were my lover? My brother? Husband came to mind the quickest, so husband is what I said. It makes the most sense.”

  He was forced to agree. He turned back towards their table, now crowded with the merchant, taking her hand in his own in the process. He hissed when his big palm closed over her fingers.

  “Christ,” he breathed. “Your fingers are like ice. Come over here by the fire before you freeze to death.”

  Elizabeau allowed him to lead her back over to their table by the fire, where the merchant was now eating heartily of their dinner. Rhys propped her right up against the flames, taking the chair opposite the merchant and eyeing the man as he noisily slurped his food. The merchant glanced up, seeing the two of them. He gestured at Elizabeau.

  “The fire will do her no good,” he said, mouth full. “You must get her into dry clothes. She’s soaking.”

  Rhys glanced over his shoulder at her, noting that the merchant was correct. He was coming to think he was the most unobservant man on the face of the planet; other than her lovely face and her sweet voice, he’d noticed little more about her. He felt like an idiot.

  “I fear that most of her clothing is wet,” he said, pouring himself another cup of ale in spite of his earlier vow not to do so. “The fire is the best I can do for her right now.”

  The merchant was slopping and burping as he ate. “I have something for her to wear,” he said. “I’ll send one of my men outside to my wagon. It will cost you, though.”

  Rhys looked at Elizabeau again; she was looking at the merchant. “How much?” she asked.

  The man noisily drank his ale. “Depends,” he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I am returning from a trip to Paris. I have all manner of pre-made surcoats and shifts to sell in Gloucester and the Marches. My goods are the latest rage of fashion, you know. I have some your size if you wish to see them.”

  “I do,” Elizabeau agreed readily. “What is your name, my lord? I fear we should become acquainted on more pleasant circumstances.”

  “Robinson Marchant,” the man replied without missing a beat, gnawing on his beef.

  Elizabeau waited for Rhys to introduce them, but he made no move to do so and she tapped him on the back so he got the hint. Rhys was very careful, and very reluctant, with any information he might give. But he had to say something.

  “Rhys de Foix,” he said softly, glancing over his shoulder at the lady behind him. “And my lady wife, Elizabeau.”

  Robinson’s gaze moved between them. “She’s a lovely woman,” he said to Rhys. “Such beauty is very rare. And she seems intelligent as well. Is her disposition as lovely?”

  Rhys lifted an eyebrow. When he didn’t answer right away, Elizabeau pinched him on the exposed hand that held the ale cup. It smarted and Rhys winced.

  “Of course,” he said dryly. “Can you not tell? She is an angel.”

  Robinson snorted. Then he laughed out loud. “I like her,” he announced, slurping his ale again. “She has spirit.”

  “Is that what it’s called?”

  Robinson was grinning, watching Elizabeau’s lovely profile in the firelight. “And she is very protective of you, I can tell. A truly loyal woman is hard to find.”

  Elizabeau looked strangely at Robinson before quickly looking away. She had no idea what to say to that statement, wondering if she had indeed come across as the fiercely loyal wife. All she had meant to do was diffuse the approaching battle. Anything else that was conveyed was incidental.

  “Where are you two traveling to?” Robinson asked as he crunched into a turnip.

  Unaware of Elizabeau’s reaction to the merchant’s faithful wife statement, Rhys replied to the question. “To the Marches.”

  Robinson wiped at his chin. “As I said, I am traveling that direction. I should like it if you two would travel with me. I am bored with only my stupid men to keep me company. They are horrific conversation. But with the two of you, we could keep each other entertained on a tedious journey.”

  Before Rhys could reply, Robinson turned to his two remaining men standing by the inn door and bellowed at them to bring in two of the trunks for the lady’s review. Rhys watched the men disappear into the howling night, suddenly realizing he was sitting on the fur cloak he had ripped from Robinson’s shoulders. He stood up, picked up the cloak, and held it out to the man.

  “I believe this is yours,” he said.

  Robinson waved him off, still eating. “Your wife needs it more. In
fact, if I were you, I’d take my advice. Order her a hot bath and get her into a warm bed. And then we shall leave at daybreak for the Marches.”

  Rhys looked at Elizabeau, standing damp by the fire and trying desperately to warm her frozen hands. He wasn’t sure they had time for a hot bath and a warm bed; he wasn’t sure when de Lohr would be upon them. But it was evident that she needed something to bring her some comfort. He’d been insensitive to her long enough.

  He snapped to the nearest serving wench and the girl went running for the barkeep, who hurried over to Rhys across the crowded room. The man didn’t have a room to spare, but he offered up his daughter’s simple chamber in the rear yard attached to the stable. Rhys didn’t argue with him for a better room; he simply paid the man and watched the flurry of activity as he set about bellowing for the big copper tub. When the wheels were in motion, one of the serving women came to escort Elizabeau to her waiting room.

  “Go with your wife,” Robinson told Rhys. “When my men bring the garments in, I’ll shall come and find you. We’ll find her something warm and dry to wear.”

  Rhys wasn’t about to let Elizabeau out of his sight, but accompanying her to her bath was an entirely different situation. Still, they’d backed themselves into a mistruth of stories and he had no choice but to go with her. A husband would have, after all. He only hoped de Lohr would understand.

  Without a word, he rose and followed Elizabeau and the serving wench back through the kitchen and out into the yard. The rain and wind were howling as they crossed the muddy yard and entered a small room adjoining the stable. It wasn’t particularly comfortable or clean, but it was warm and dry. Rhys stood aside, pulling Elizabeau with him, as a burly old man brought in the massive copper tub.

  It wasn’t so much a tub as it was a giant cooking pot used for baths and sometimes to feed the livestock. The young serving girl even mentioned they used it to boil down bones. The wench fled back into the stormy night and the burly old man reappeared with buckets of steaming water. The girl returned, too, carrying a linen sheet, some manner of soap and a scrub brush. She had also been thoughtful enough to bring Rhys more wine, which he took from her and moved to the corner of the room near the door. He poured himself a cup as he sat down, watching the burly old man with the long hair fill the copper pot to the rim.

  The old man finally gathered his buckets and shut the door to the room quietly behind him. The serving wench moved to help Elizabeau from her wet clothes, confused by her mistress’s extreme reluctance. Elizabeau wasn’t about to budge until Rhys turned his back, which he did by discreetly adjusting his chair and facing the window.

  Rhys drank his wine as Elizabeau quickly stripped her wet clothing from her body and plunged into the pot. It was deliciously hot and she sighed with contentment as her flesh began to warm. But just as relaxation set in, the wench picked up the soap and the brush and went to work. Within minutes, Elizabeau was positive the woman meant to strip the skin from her bones and she found herself gripping the side of the pot for support. From the top of her golden red hair to the bottom of her small feet, the wench did an admirable job of scrubbing her silly.

  When the woman’s job was done and Elizabeau was struggling against the heat of the pot and the near beating she had just received, the wench looked about for something to dress the lady in but shortly realized that the couple had no baggage. There was nothing to clothe the woman in but the damp dress recently stripped off of her. Slightly confused but resourceful, the wench asked for the lady’s patience and fled the room.

  The room was abruptly quiet with the wench gone and the activity quelled. Elizabeau sat in the warm pot, watching the back of Rhys’ dark head and listening to the storm outside. Realizing they were very much alone, and she was naked in a tub to boot, made her vastly uneasy. Not that she didn’t trust the man, but she was rather vulnerable.

  “Feeling better, my lady?” Rhys’ baritone voice broke the silence.

  Elizabeau started at the sound of it. “Aye,” she replied quickly, nervously. “But I will feel better still when I have my clothes back on.”

  Still facing the window, Rhys grinned and held up a hand. “I swear that I shall not turn from this window until you are appropriately dressed. But it would have looked rather odd had I not accompanied you to your bath, as your husband, though I do apologize for the uncomfortable situation.”

  The corners of her mouth twitched. “Why should you apologize? Is this not your duty? To hound my every move until I can be safely delivered to my betrothed?”

  Rhys’ grin faded as he thought of the perils that surely lay ahead; tonight had only been a foretaste. “Indeed,” he replied quietly, draining his cup. He’d had far too much wine but picked up the pitcher again. “Would you like some wine, my lady?”

  “I am not sure how you can hand it to me without turning away from the window.”

  “True enough.”

  Elizabeau watched him as he set the pitcher down, and the cup, and settled back in his chair, gazing at the storm outside. She was seeing him through slightly different eyes, more so as the hours passed, coming to know a man with whom she had a great deal in common. He was respectful, intelligent, and wildly handsome. Her gaze moved over his impossibly wide shoulders and to the enormous arms still covered with mail and armor. Her thoughts lingered heavily on the man with the royal sire and Welsh mother.

  “Rhys?” she leaned forward in the pot, her chin resting on the edge.

  “My lady?”

  “Are you married?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  She shrugged, her fingers toying with the edge of the pot. “No particular reason other than… other than I was just wondering what it was like, that’s all.”

  “How do you mean?”

  She shrugged again, moving away from the edge of the pot and flicking away at the soapy bubbles that lingered on the surface of the water. “I mean just that. What is it like? How do you behave with someone you are married to? Are you and your wife friendly to each other or do you simply tolerate one another? If you make a decision, does she support you? Or do you simply make a decision with no care to what she might think?”

  Rhys turned his head slightly; he was no longer looking out of the window but staring at the door; Elizabeau could see his perfect profile. “You are assuming that I am married, my lady,” he said quietly.

  “I was not assuming anything; I guess my question was simply a general query. I am thinking aloud, I suppose.”

  He was silent a moment, still gazing at the darkened door. “It is different for everyone, I would think,” he said quietly. “I was married, once. My wife and I had known each other for a short time and were already acquainted upon our marriage. I was not home enough to truly be a part of any decision-making process; she ran the household as she saw fit.”

  Elizabeau’s big eyes were upon him. “I do not understand. You were married once?”

  He nodded his head faintly. “She died a few years ago giving birth to my son.”

  Elizabeau closed her eyes briefly, with sorrow. “I am sorry, Rhys. I did not mean to pry. Please accept my sympathies.”

  He shook his head as if snapping himself out of that particular train of thought. Rising swiftly, he moved to the hearth where the linen sheet lay warming before the fire. He held it up to her.

  “Get out,” he commanded softly. “You’ll catch chill if you’re in there any longer.”

  Elizabeau gazed up at him, realizing their line of conversation had taken him back to the cold, walled-up knight she had known for the bulk of their association. She further realized she was very sorry; he had proven something of a good conversationalist and she was disappointed that her line of questioning had shut him off again.

  “Rhys,” she said softly, sincerely. “I am very sorry if I upset you with my question about your wife. I did not mean to stir up sorrowful memories.”

  “You did not, my lady,” he said, though his tone was cold. He shook the sheet slightly.
“Come along, now. Get out of the tub and dry yourself.”

  It was apparent he had no intention of either delving into anything more about his wife or accepting her apology. With a heavy sigh, Elizabeau reached out and pulled the sheet from his hand.

  “Turn around,” she instructed him. “You promised not to look and I see that you have already partially broken that promise.”

  She had meant it in jest, one last hope that he would loosen to her humor. But he turned away without a word and went back to the window. Elizabeau watched his stiff back a moment before climbing from the tub and wrapping herself tightly in the sheet. There was a small stool next to the hearth; she pulled it away from the wall and sat directly in front of the fire to warm up and dry out.

  She wasn’t surprised when he quit the room without a word and disappeared into the stormy night.

  *

  Elizabeau wasn’t sure how long she’d been asleep on the small, lumpy bed. The fire in the hearth had died somewhat and the room was chilly when she heard the door open again. Startled, she rolled over to see Rhys locking the door behind him. She also noticed that he had an armful of material.

  Rubbing her eyes, she sat up with the linen sheet still wrapped tightly around her body. It was dark in the room and difficult to see just what, exactly, he had.

  “What have you got there?” she demanded sleepily. “Where did you go?”

  He moved to the bed with some kind of garment in his hands. He held it up to her, nearly striking her in the face with it.

  “I went to see our fat friend,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind that I selected your garments. You were in no condition to select them yourself, being that you only had a sheet to wear, so I selected them for you. I hope you are pleased.”

  “Good lord,” she muttered, eyeing him in the weak light. But she dutifully fingered the garment he was offering to her, inspecting it as she tried to blink the sleep from her eyes. Upon closer inspection, it was a lovely wine-colored damask with exquisite craftsmanship.

  She took the garment from him and padded over to the hearth where the light was better. It was a finely made surcoat of a ruby-rich fabric, lined in soft pink wool, with a square neckline and long, draping sleeves. The sleeves from the elbow down were made from the same colored brocade, giving the garment a delightfully detailed look. It was, in fact, very beautiful. Curiosity made her wander over to the chair where he had draped the other garments and she inspected her way through surcoats of cloud-soft yellow lamb’s wool, light blue Perse fabric that was similar to very soft linen, and pale green broadcloth. Upon further notice, she came across a soft leather girdle, two delicate shifts, a pair of soft woolen hose, a pair of doeskin gloves, a bleached wool cloak and a pair of bright red silk pantalets.