Rhys couldn’t give his family a second thought although his natural protective instincts were raging. He would have to trust Rod, Rhett and Renard to protect them adequately. With a silent prayer for their safety, he spurred Rod’s charger forward and through the doorway that was on the east side of the barn. From there, they could escape unseen from the road and on into the woods.
Bursting forth from the small door, he directed the charger to the northeast, straight into a heavy cluster of trees. Clinging to him, Elizabeau turned to catch a glimpse of the armed men as they closed in on the manse, terrified of their identity and praying they would not harm Rhys’ family in their determination to get to her. She knew what her uncle was capable of; she had been privy to it over the past two weeks. But the trees closed off her view and all she could see was foliage, so she turned back around and buried her face in Rhys’ back.
He was warm and solid and comforting. She could feel him breathing in her embrace. Closing her eyes, she began to pray fervently for the de Titouan family. God help them.
She’d been found.
*
Rod wasn’t quite sure what to make of them. They were Teutonic, that was for certain; they spoke Germanic and he could not understand a word of it. But two of them spoke his language, with a heavy accent, and it was those two he attempted to communicate with.
One man was short, broad, with a bushy mustache and the other was tall and slender with long blond hair. The taller and blonder of the pair was apparently in charge of the entire party, as he had commanded his group to a halt at the sight of Rod, Renard and Rhett standing in the bailey of Whitebrook, prepared for battle. In fact, the man had ordered the horses stopped at the road, dismounted with his stocky counterpart, and the two of them had walked the rest of the way to the manor. Rhett seemed to be willing to listen to them more than Rod was, but it soon became evident they merely wished to parley.
But Rod would not permit them in the manor. He had done as his brother had commanded and had his mother lock down the manor. While he, his uncle and his father scrutinized the incoming party, the strange men did the same of them.
They had tried to start a conversation but their language skills were very poor. At least in the language that Rod could understand. But one word was clear, or at least he thought so; Prinzessin. That word caused Rod to wield his broadsword in front of him in a striking position.
“We have no use for you,” he said, on edge. “Be gone with you.”
The two men were trying not to start a fight but the young knight was most threatening. They kept glancing back to their uncertain group as if looking for assistance. But the men in the group, at least most of them, gazed back with hesitation and some defiance.
“Jetzt machen was wir?” demanded the taller of the two men.
Most of the group lifted shoulders or looked at each other. It was apparent that the dark-haired knight was ready to tear into them. The men conferred with each other before somewhere, in the middle of the band, one of them dismounted.
He was young, perhaps no more than twenty, and he pushed his way through the war horses. He was tall and slender, with blond hair and an angular face. His skin was so pale that it was nearly translucent; he did not look particularly healthy.
Rod watched the young man approach warily. He never lowered his sword, even when the man came within just a few feet of him and quite obviously unarmed. Rod’s blue eyes were riveted to the man, waiting with anticipation, preparing to strike if necessary. But the man put up a hand in what was assumed to be a greeting.
“We mean no harm,” he said in a very heavy accent. “My name is Conrad.”
Rod still maintained his poised position. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“I have come for my lady,” he replied. When Rod didn’t move, Conrad lifted his eyebrows in emphasis. “Sich karamelisiert. My betrothed.”
Rod still had his sword up, but now he was joined by Rhett. The old man put a hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “The lady?” he repeated, evidently attempting to put the pieces together. “What lady?”
The young man fixed him in the eye. “My lady. Her name is Elizabeau.”
“Who is that?”
The young man blinked. “I was told she was here.”
“Who?”
“Elizabeau.”
Rhett shook his head. “I fear we have no one here by that name. Perhaps you have come to the wrong…”
Though the man might have been young, he was apparently used to command. He cut Rhett off firmly. “De Burgh sent me here. She is here.”
Rhett stared at the young man for a long time. “Tell me who you are. And tell me all of it.”
“Conrad Ebhardt von Brunswick, mein lehensherr. I have come for her.”
Rhett was becoming far clearer about the situation than Rod was and he motioned for his nephew to lower his sword.
“Your Grace,” Rhett bowed his head. “We were under the impression that you would meet the lady at Ogmore Castle.”
Conrad nodded. “I was. But my boat was pushed off course and we landed at Portsmouth. When we tried to sail again, we were chased by the king’s men. So we went to London and found de Burgh, and he told us where the lady was. I have been following her trail for weeks.”
Rhett understood a great deal in that heavily-accented explanation. Even Rod was coming to understand; he looked to Rhett, silently asking for direction, and the old uncle put his hand on his nephew’s sword and forced him to lower it completely.
“The king is trying to kill her,” Rhett said quietly. “Were you careful not to be followed?”
Conrad nodded. “We made sure of it. The king has tried to kill me, too.”
Rhett nodded in complete understanding, glancing to Rod and Renard to let them know that everything was all right. He suddenly felt just the slightest bit of sadness as the weight of the situation began to settle.
“We must shelter and feed the prince and his men,” he said to Rod, who immediately turned for the manse. Rhett looked to the prince and his escort. “If you will stable your horses, we will prepare food for you.”
Conrad nodded, motioning to his men and saying something to them in their language that had them dismounting their horses. There was something of a strange, melancholy mood to their air and the young prince was not sure why. But he could see that the grizzled old cripple was morose although his words were welcoming.
“Is the princess here?” Conrad asked the old man.
Rhett shook his head, thinking of Rhys and Elizabeau and knowing their time together was even shorter than they had imagined by this latest event. He was very sad for them.
“She is not,” he replied. “But I know where she is. We will send for her.”
Conrad seemed satisfied, following Rhett and Renard into the manse. It was a slow walk, like a funeral procession, and the young prince began to feel the depression like a weight. It was an odd sensation that he attributed to the danger of the situation. He could account for nothing else.
The first face that greeted him was of a young woman with bright red hair and pretty dark eyes. Carys smiled at Conrad before she dipped into a respectful curtsy. The prince’s gaze lingered on the tall young girl, impressed by the color of her hair. He had no idea that the English were so colorful. But, then again, he was in Wales. Perhaps it was the Welsh that were colorful. His gaze lingered on Carys even as Rhett introduced the de Titouan family.
When the introduction came to Carys, Conrad smiled back.
*
Elizabeau wasn’t sure how long they had been riding. She had kept her eyes tightly closed as she clutched Rhys, the sounds and feel of thundering hooves vibrating through her body. She could feel the trees passing overhead by the swooshing sounds of their branches and she knew when they were racing through a clearing by the open, vacant sounds around her. It seemed to go on for hours.
She was frightened, but her panic faded the more Rhys put distance between them and Whitebrook. She had no id
ea where they were going but put her trust in Rhys that he would find them a safe haven. As the day progressed and they crossed the Wye River heading east, she finally opened her eyes and began to watch their surroundings.
Rhys took them through a series of woods and fields. To the south, she could see farms and a small town and, at times, people in the distance. But Rhys was focused on where he was going and spared no attention to the town to the south. It was therefore a surprise to Elizabeau when a castle, dark-stoned and ominous, suddenly appeared before them.
It came out of the trees, looming in the fading daylight like a dark sentinel. It wasn’t particularly large, but it had two large gatehouse towers and a portcullis between them. Rhys charged right up to the portcullis and demanded entry.
He dismounted, waiting impatiently for the portcullis to lift. Several moments passed before a small old man with wild white hair poked his head out from the porter’s lodge, a room built into the gatehouse walls for the sentries. Taking one look at Rhys, he began muttering to himself and disappeared back inside. They could hear bickering going on inside the gatehouse before the iron-fanged grate slowly began to lift.
Elizabeau sat atop the charger, watching the portcullis slowly grind upwards. She looked at Rhys, who appeared strained and distracted. His jaw was ticking faintly, unusual for the usually emotionless and professional man. She continued to watch him, knowing he had a good deal on his mind.
“Rhys,” she said softly. “Where are we?”
He glanced at her, the brilliant blue eyes intense. “St. Briavels. I need to collect some things before we continue.”
So they were at the mysterious castle that belonged to Rhys through a disillusioned marriage. Elizabeau took a second look at the bastion, her gaze skimming the battlements above, noting how close the trees came to it. In fact, the castle was almost completely surrounded by the forest that came up to the edge of its narrow moat. It was well concealed in the dim light of the forest.
When the portcullis was raised enough to allow them to pass under it, Rhys led the charger into the passage and they passed beneath two more lifted portcullises before emerging into the small, odd-shaped bailey. Elizabeau looked around, noting there was not much else to the castle other than the enormous gatehouse and a massive hall built into the east wall. There was a stairway leading up to the second floor entry of the gatehouse.
Rhys silently extended his arms to her and she slid into his grasp. He lowered her to the ground and he took her to the stairway that led up into the gatehouse. Before they disappeared inside, he made sure to instruct the gatekeeper to close all three portcullises and maintain a vigilant watch. The old man with the unruly white hair vehemently agreed.
Once inside the second floor of the gatehouse, it was cool and dark. It was also one enormous room with pulleys and slits in the floor for the portcullises. There were a few men about, not in armor, and she assumed they were servants. They looked at her suspiciously. Rhys took her arm and led her to a narrow spiral stair that led to the third floor of the gatehouse, which was divided into two large rooms. Both rooms were furnished, though it looked as if they had been sitting unoccupied for some time. There were dust and cobwebs draping the furniture.
He took her into the larger of the two rooms and went for a large wardrobe butted up against the interior wall. Elizabeau stood just inside the entry, watching him as he opened the wardrobe and began to pull things out of it. She noticed a satchel and garments of all kinds ended up on the dusty floor.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
He pulled out an old cloak, inspecting it to see if it was serviceable. “To Ogmore,” he replied. “But we must have a few things with us for our journey. You cannot travel day and night in just one gown, and I need my armor.”
She watched as he pulled out what she saw, after a moment, was a surcoat. “Is that your wife’s?” she asked softly.
His intense blue eyes moved to her and he lowered the garment, tossing it over onto the bed. Averting his gaze, he looked back into the wardrobe.
“Aye,” he said quietly.
Elizabeau watched the manner in which his mood changed when she mentioned the elusive Gwyneth; it was like watching a curtain fall. All of the light went out of his face. She glanced over at the garments on the bed, thinking she did not want to wear the clothes of a woman who had caused him so much grief. With a shake of the head, she began to back away.
“I will not wear it,” she said quietly.
His eyes were still on the wardrobe. “You have no choice. You cannot travel over miles of rough and weathered lands in what you are wearing.”
She shook her head firmly. “I will not,” she repeated. “I will not wear something that belonged to your dead wife.”
Her tone made him look at her; he could see she was nearly at the door, eyeing the clothes on the bed as if they were going to jump up and bite her.
“Do not be foolish,” he muttered, picking up the satchel on the floor and moving it to the bed.
She took another step back, to the door. “I will not wear something that belonged to a woman you hated. It will remind you of her every time you look at me and I will not do it.”
He stopped stuffing things into the satchel and looked at her, his expression softening somewhat. He knew what thoughts of Gwyneth did to him, the hatred and resentment they stirred up. In fact, the entire castle brought about those feelings. He knew his manner reflected it and he made a conscious effort to ease up.
“Angel, I would dearly love to spare the time to purchase more new things for you, but I cannot,” he said, more gently. “These are just clothes. They do not remind me of her.”
She blinked furiously as tears filled her eyes. “We have so little time left,” she whispered. “I do not want anything to ruin it, not even the clothes of a woman who hated you, for I, clearly, do not hate you.”
He stopped packing and went to her, putting his arm around her and pulling her back into the room. “Come on,” he kissed her forehead. “Sit down. You have had a tempestuous day and you are exhausted. We will leave here and find a comfortable tavern to spend the night in.”
She sniffled, wiping at her eyes as he set her down. “But is that wise considering we are being chased?”
He gazed down at her, calming now that they were safe for the moment. “Our flight from London was very hard on you,” he said quietly, sitting down beside her. “I was singularly focused on evading the king’s assassins. Whether or not it is wise to stop for the night in a tavern, I am inclined to do so anyway simply for your comfort. I’ve not shown you much on this adventure and I am sorry.”
She smiled faintly. “You were doing what needed to be done.”
He returned her smile. “You are exceptionally tolerant.”
They gazed at each other, brilliant blue on dark green. When Elizabeau reached out to touch his cheek, he kissed her palm and stood back up, resuming his packing. She watched him cram heavy garments deep into the satchel, the strong lines of his face and the way his dark hair tickled his forehead. She reached out and took one of his hands, drawing it away from the cloak he was attempting to pack and laying it on her cheek. When he looked at her curiously, she smiled sweetly.
“Could we not stay here?” she asked quietly. “Surely we are safer here than in a tavern somewhere.”
He looked down at her, feeling himself growing more and more entrenched with her by the moment. With every hour that passed, she was embedding herself deeper and deeper into his heart and he was growing increasingly afraid. She did not want to marry her prince; she had made that very clear. He was increasingly terrified that he would grant her wish were she to beg him again. He should have had Rod take her, but he had not. His uncle had been the wiser when he had recommended it. Now, he was close to destroying his mission and disobeying his liege. He knew that could not happen but he was at a loss to know how to stop it.
“If the king has figured out that you are with me, there are those who kno
w I am lord of St. Briavels,” his fingers began to caress her silken skin. “I have only a few men here to man it as an outpost, certainly not enough to fight off an army.”
“But we saw no army,” she insisted. “Just a few men. They could not breach this place.”
He averted his gaze and shook his head. “Nay,” he muttered. “It would not be a wise decision to stay here. We must move on. I must get you to Ogmore.”
His words were like a slap in the face. She knew that was where they were traveling but to hear him speak it with such determination was like a stab to her heart. She turned away from him, pained and weary.
“Of course,” she murmured. “I am your mission. That is all I can ever be.”
Rhys looked at her, hearing the pain in her voice and feeling pain of his own. But he could not give in to it. With his last thread of willpower, he focused on his task and finished packing the satchel. He kept his gaze averted from Elizabeau, terrified that if he looked at her, he would crumble. He was second-guessing his mission and the thought sickened him.
His old armor was on the floor below them, stored in a small room off the main floor. He needed to retrieve it. Sealing up the satchel, he looked at Elizabeau as she sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the floor. He felt stabs of pity but he fought them.
“I must get my armor,” he said quietly. “Will you be all right here for a few moments?”
She nodded weakly and he left the room without another word. Elizabeau continued to sit, staring at the floor and feeling her grief. The grief was a constant companion and she could never be rid of it, she knew, but that did not prevent her from trying to move past it. In an attempt to distract herself, she began looking around the dusty room, noting the furnishing, the tables and chairs. There was what looked to be a dressing table near the lancet window and she rose from the bed to inspect it.
It was curiosity and nothing more. She sat down on the bench and noted her appearance in the polished bronze mirror; she examined her face, thinking she looked very tired. There were two drawers in the table and she pulled them open, inspecting the combs and hair ornaments that were there. She knew they were Gwyneth’s but it did not bother her; she pulled out the comb and began to drag it through her golden red hair.
Fathers and Sons: A Collection of Medieval Romances Page 16