Fathers and Sons: A Collection of Medieval Romances

by Kathryn Le Veque

  The woman gazing back at her in the mirror was older somehow, not the same girl she had known back in London. This woman had matured in a situation where she would not have survived had she not shown some measure of growth and resolve. She ran the comb through her hair until it was a glittering, silken mass that flowed gently down her back. Setting the comb aside, she dug through the drawer until she came across a few hair pins and a lovely butterfly ornamental comb. Braiding her hair, she wound it into a bun at the nape of her neck and inserted the hair pins. Then she put the butterfly comb in it.

  She may have looked better, but she did not feel any better. With a heavy sigh, she inspected her shoulders and collarbone in the mirror, running her fingers over the white flesh and wondering how she was going to allow another man to touch her as Rhys had. She wondered how she was ever going to live with a man she did not love, allowing him husbandly rights when the only man she wanted would not be permitted to touch her. It was going to kill her, she knew. Perhaps it was better if Rhys did not serve her in her new life. Perhaps the only way to survive this was to try and forget him.

  When Rhys returned later with pieces of older, battered armor and chain mail, she sat on the bench and watched him sort the mail and dress. She didn’t say a word as he donned the mail coat and latched on pieces of plate. He required her help when he reached the breast plate and the armor for his right arm, and she rose silently to his request and helped him finish the straps. Though the armor was old, it was somehow more imposing, like armor that had seen many a battle throughout the years. Rhys was a big man and armor made him appear larger than life. Elizabeau stood there and watched him in silence, afraid to speak, wallowing in sorrow.

  When he took the cloak that he had lain on the bed and swung it around her shoulders, she simply stood there and let him fasten it. He fussed with it like a father, making sure she was properly covered, before taking her hand and leading her from the room. Elizabeau followed dumbly, her cold hand in his warm one, as he took her down the spiral stairs to the second floor and finally out into the bailey. The entire time, she never said a word and neither did Rhys. They both knew the time was drawing near and they both knew what they must do.

  There was nothing more to say.

  CHAPTER TEN

  They stopped in the town near Caldicot Castle that night. It was a place called Highmoor Hills, sounding far more romantic than it looked. The truth was it was a dirty little town with an abundance of transient clientele thanks to the port on its shores that served both the sea and the mouth of the Severn River.

  It was very late when Rhys finally stopped at a small, inconspicuous tavern in the midst of the drunken little town. It did not even have a name. It was surprisingly lively for the time of night but stank to high heavens. Holding Elizabeau’s arm gently, Rhys took her inside, making way through the crowd of rough and edgy patrons to the barkeep on the opposite side of the room. Elizabeau was exhausted and said nothing as Rhys negotiated with the man for a room. When they finally settled on a price that was a sight high, a very dirty serving wench took them up the stairs and to the end of the hall where a small, crooked door was shoved open.

  It could hardly be called a room but it would have to suffice. There was a small bed, a table, a hearth and little else. It was tiny. The serving wench lit the kindling and was able to spark a small fire as Rhys set down the satchel and directed Elizabeau to sit on the bed. She did so, wearily, pulling off the hood of the cloak as Rhys instructed the woman to bring them a meal. The wench meandered out with a glance to Elizabeau and a lingering glance to Rhys. When the door was shut and bolted, Rhys fussed with the fire until it was satisfactorily blazing before finally turning to Elizabeau.

  They had not said a word to each other since leaving St. Briavels. He did not like the silence; it had his stomach in knots. Slowly, he removed his gloves, pretending to busy himself with the pieces of old armor that covered his arms. He unfastened the straps, setting them aside a piece at a time, feeling Elizabeau’s presence behind him like a heady weight. He was in the process of removing his hauberk when her soft voice floated up behind him.

  “So we find ourselves in an inn once again,” she murmured. “The last time we found ourselves in this situation it was a bit of an adventure. I wonder if tonight will see such excitement.”

  He glanced at her over his shoulder. “I hope not,” he said quietly. “I, for one, could use some sleep. I’ve no desire to sit up all night in order to protect you from stupid peasants who tunnel through walls.”

  She looked at him; his brilliant blue eyes were twinkling. It made her grin. “If one were to think on it, that was rather clever of him.”

  Rhys’ smile broke through as he finished pulling his hauberk off and tossed it aside. “I will congratulate him on his ingenuity, but it is foolish. If that woman’s father catches him, he’ll be lucky to survive.”

  Elizabeau laughed softly, feeling her mood lighten. She could not stand the silence between them, either. “Surely the man will have some pity. They are in love, after all.”

  Rhys shook his head as he shirked his mail coat. “It does not matter. Any father would protect his daughter to the death.”

  “Would you protect your daughter to the death?”

  His grin broadened. “Woe to the man who would as much as glance at my daughter.”

  Elizabeau watched him as he neatly stacked up the armor he had removed, studying the width of his enormous shoulders, feeling her heart grow warm and soft. She lay back on the bed, propping her head upon her hand on bended elbow.

  “For argument’s sake, suppose you and I were to have a daughter,” she watched him as he turned to look at her. “Suppose she was a beautiful girl with your brilliant eyes and my red hair. Suppose she was the most beautiful girl in all the land and she fell madly in love with a worthy and true lad. Would you chase him away and ruin her chances of happiness?”

  He pursed his lips. “You are too vague with your argument,” he said as he stood up and moved to the bed where she sat. “You do not state this lad’s standing. Is he a noble? A pauper?”

  She shrugged. “He is a knight.”

  Rhys put his hands on his hips and shook his head firmly. “ ’Twill never do. Our daughter would be of royal blood. She would have to marry much higher.”

  “But what if she loved him?”

  He scratched his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  She frowned. “You are too heartless. Why must one always marry for social standing? Why can she not marry for love?”

  He finished scratching his head and sat down on the bed at her feet. “Every father wants his daughter to marry for wealth and status. That way, he knows she will be well taken care of. Love is not the issue.”

  Elizabeau watched his expression, his body language, seeing for the first time just how weary he was. She sat up, looking him in the face. He met her gaze, brilliant blue to dark green.

  “Love is the greatest issue of all,” she said softly. “I would want my daughter to be happy. I would rather have her happy than rich and royal. I would rather be happy than rich and royal.”

  His good humor faded as he gazed into her magnificent eyes. He could feel himself weakening, much faster than he ever had before. It was frightening. His hands ached to touch her, his arms were pained to hold her. He knew exactly what she meant and it was becoming more difficult by the second to deny her.

  But there was still an ounce of strength in his body, a thread of resistance to the desires of his heart. He continued to gaze at her, struggling against his natural instincts to reach for her. He had to see reason; he had to become reason.

  “I want you to think very carefully about what it is you wish for,” he said hoarsely. “It would not be a world of utter happiness and contentment. It would be a world of stress and anxiety for the rest of our lives.”

  Her brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

  “Precisely that,” he said, shifting on the bed to gain a better look at he
r. “Let us say for the sake of argument that we do marry. Let’s say that we do it tomorrow. Now our future is sealed; I have broken my vows to my liege, destroyed my mission, and compromised the future of England. I cannot go back to de Lohr; everything I have worked for my entire life is destroyed in that one solitary moment. Now instead of the king’s assassins, I must fear de Lohr and de Burgh’s wrath. Now the entire country is hunting the two of us and there is no safe haven. So we must flee.”

  By this time, Elizabeau’s expression was darkening. Rhys continued. “But where do we go? We cannot return to Whitebrook; they will find us there. I will be thrown in the vault and probably executed for treason or thievery, and you will still be forced to marry your prince after I am dead and the marriage is annulled. However, if we do manage to escape, we will more than likely flee to France and, presumably, seek sanctuary with my father. But my father is a very old man and my eldest brother, set to inherit the title, wants nothing to do with me. So we cannot go to Navarre. Do you understand what I am saying so far?”

  Elizabeau’s face was dark with disappointment and fear. “De Lohr would execute you?”

  He shrugged faintly. “My marriage to you would be considered a very serious crime.”

  Her gaze lingered on him a moment before turning away. Something in his argument sounded so depressing and final. Deep down, perhaps she knew he was right. It was the first time she had entertained such thoughts. But so much of her wanted to deny the verity of his words.

  “It does not have to be that way,” she said softly. “We love each other, Rhys. There is nothing more important than that. Where there is a will, there is a way. We can find our own lives together and be happy. We do not need de Lohr or Navarre or even England to accomplish this. We simply need each other.”

  She wasn’t looking at him as she spoke, giving him his first clue that perhaps she was viewing a future with him in a less than romantic light. It was painful for him to think that something in what he had said had somehow planted a seed of reason. As much as that had been his goal, he was sorry he had apparently achieved it.

  “I wish that were true,” he murmured. “God knows, I wish it were the complete truth. We would spend the rest of our lives as fugitives, or in hiding. I suppose it could be done, but how much happiness would we really have knowing the history and turmoil we had left behind in our selfish desires? At what point would you grow to resent me and at what point would I grow to regret my lack of honor?”

  She did look at him, then. “You are the most honorable man I know,” she whispered, her dark green eyes boring into him. “It has never been my intention to strip you of that, not ever. But I cannot help what I feel.”

  His expression softened. “Nor can I,” he said. “But it is something we cannot give in to. I have been struggling for the better part of a week to convince you of this.”

  She closed her eyes briefly, tightly, before turning away once more. She simply stared at the floor and he watched her lovely profile, never more pained by anything in his life. He wanted to comfort her so badly but knew that would be a mistake. He couldn’t touch her; they had to work their way through this and it was not going to happen if he could not control his urge to feel her.

  Slowly, he stood up and went to the fire again, pretending to stoke it when it was already a roaring blaze. It was safer if he stayed away from her at the moment, at least until he got himself under control. As he poked at the fire, he began to hear the soft strain of painful sobs.

  “You are right,” she whispered, followed by a huge guffaw of agony. “God help me, you are right. I do not want you to be right but I know that you are.”

  He turned to look at her as she folded forward on the bed, her head buried in the dirty pillow. His heart shattered as he watched her sob, her slender body heaving with sorrow. His hand tightened on the poker and he turned back to the fire, shoving at the wood with increasingly harsh mannerisms. The more she wept, the sharper his movements became. He knew that if he let go of that poker, all would be lost. He would go to her and take her in his arms to soothe her and then he would not be able to control himself.

  “I am sorry, Rhys,” she was speaking to him as he struggled. “I am sorry I have asked you to compromise your honor. I am sorry I have pressured you and pushed you to accept something that you know is not right. Truly, I am sorry. You must think me a horrid woman.”

  He was gripping the poker so tightly that he was shaking. But he turned to look at her, a risky move. “I do not think you horrid,” he said softly. “You are brave in that you seek what you want. You do not surrender easily and that is a noble quality.”

  He was making her sound far more honorable than she knew she was. He was making excuses for her behavior and it made her love him all the more.

  “Nay,” she shook her head, looking away from him. “I am like Eve in the Garden of Eden. I have tried to tempt you into doing something wrong. Only there is no serpent involved. I am the serpent as well, evil and unkind. Forgive me.”

  His mounting resolve against her was weakening again. “There is nothing to forgive. You have done nothing wrong except follow your heart.”

  She turned to look at him again, studying the powerful lines of his face. It occurred to her that all of this truly had to end. After what he had just told her, the threat that would follow them the rest of their lives should they give in to temptation, she knew that she could no longer entertain any hope. And suddenly, it was if a flame just blew out. The light went out of her.

  “But to do so would condemn us both,” she murmured, wiping at the remaining tears on her face. “I could not do that to you. I do not, in fact, care what happens to me, but I could not do that to you. I could not destroy who you are. Please forgive me for unreasonably tempting you. I had no right.”

  He saw something die in her eyes as she said it and something went out of him, too. But he realized that he did not want it to die, this powerful emotion that had consumed him. He had spent the better part of a week trying to reason his way out of it, discouraging her from feeling the same. Now that it was leaving, he didn’t want it to go. He was not sure what, exactly, he wanted, or where this could truthfully end up, but he did not want it to die. It was far too precious.

  “You did not unreasonably tempt me,” he stood up, poker still in hand. “For everything you are feeling, you must realize that I am feeling it too.”

  She nodded her head slightly, then shrugged. It was a weary gesture. “Let us speak no more of it. If we are ever to forget this, then we must ignore it.”

  He sighed heavily and leaned the poker against the wall. Before he could reply, there was a knock at the door and he opened it. The serving wench entered with a tray of food; brown bread, crumbly white cheese, cheap wine and some kind of cold meat. She set it all on the small table and left the room with another seductive glance at Rhys; he wasn’t even looking at her. He shut the door so fast that he smacked her in the bottom with it. Then he threw the bolt.

  “I am sure I cannot vouch for the quality of this food, but at least it is something,” he said, going to the table and pouring two cups of wine. He extended one to her. “Here.”

  She shook her head and lay down, rolling onto her side so that she was facing away from him. “Thank you, I am not hungry.”

  He watched her cozy up against the far wall, rolling into a ball. “You have not eaten since this morning,” he said. “You must have something.”

  “I am not hungry,” she repeated. “But please do not beg off. You must eat.”

  He gazed at her a moment before reluctantly lowering the cup. After a moment of debate whether or not he should force her, he finally lifted the cup to his own lips and drained the contents. He poured himself two more cups and drained them also before he devoured most of the bread, half the cheese, and all of the meat. Then he drained the rest of the wine.

  Rhys could drink ale from sundown to sunrise and hardly feel a thing, but wine affected him strangely. It made him g
iddy, which is why he rarely drank it. But he drank it this night, wondering if it would ease the ache in his heart somehow. For a man perpetually in control of his emotions, he was ashamed that he needed something more to help him contain himself this night. Perhaps the wine would do it. Or perhaps it would just make things worse.

  Elizabeau remained silent and still as she lay on the edge of the bed against the wall. Long after the wine was drained, Rhys sat and stared at her for the longest time. Though she was wrapped in Gwyneth’s old cloak, he stared at her as if he could see right through the fabric. He found himself remembering her tender white skin, the taste of her breasts against his tongue. The woman was sweet, humorous and intelligent, something he found more attractive almost than her beauty. He found himself wishing fervently he had met her under different circumstances, perhaps just a woman of nobility, a daughter of a friend, and he realized he would have wasted no time in marrying her. A wife such as her would have made him feel complete and he would have experienced good fortune as few men do. He would have experienced love.

  The wine was magnifying his exhaustion and he realized how sleepy he was. Pulling off his boots, he moved across the small room and very carefully, quietly, lowered himself onto the dirty mattress. He made great effort not to jostle Elizabeau but the bed was barely big enough for a man his size much less two people. He should have slept on the floor but he did not want to. He wanted to feel her warm body next to him. But the very moment he stretched out next to her, Elizabeau rolled over and snuggled into him.

  His left arm went around her instinctively, holding her into the curve of his torso. Waves of satisfaction and warmth rolled over him as he clutched her against him, feeling the rhythmic rise and fall of slumber. When she twitched in her sleep, he put his massive hand over her head, gently soothing her until she quieted. It was an amazingly wonderful and amazingly painful predicament, and he could feel himself warming to it. His common sense was dissolving. Rolling onto his left side, he wrapped both arms around her and pulled her fiercely against him.