Fathers and Sons: A Collection of Medieval Romances

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “But… how will you do this?” Christopher asked. “Will you give her something to make her sleep so she will not feel pain?”

  The little man shook his head. “I have nothing of that nature. But I will be swift about it, be assured.”

  Christopher’s eyes opened wide. “You are going to cut her open while she is conscious?”

  “If I do not, she will eventually die and the child with her. She is already weakening.”

  Christopher looked as if he was going to pass out. But he steeled himself, wiping a hand over his face as if that would help him make the correct decision. He looked at his brother, who was gazing back at him with great fear, and then to Edward. The dark-haired knight merely stared back without any outward reaction. But when Christopher’s gaze fell on Rhys, the unshaven, shaggy man nodded strongly at him.

  “Knock her unconscious with the butt of a blade, my lord,” he told him in a quiet, assured voice. “It is the merciful thing to do. She will awaken with a headache but no memory of being cut into.”

  The physic nodded in agreement. “If you have the courage to do it, then it would indeed be merciful. It will take me only a few minutes to make the incision and remove the child. But we must do it right away. You must make your decision.”

  Christopher drew in a sharp breath, raking his hand through his hair and struggling to make the right choice. If he refused, his wife would probably die and the child with her. But if he agreed, it would be the most horrific event he had ever experienced. Still, he could not lose her. Not when he had been given the choice to save her.

  “Very well,” he agreed hoarsely, moving for the stairs that led to the upper levels. “I will do it.”

  The little physic scooted after him, following the lumbering earl up the steps. David was still stunned, so he sat back at the table with Edward beside him while Rhys returned to the solar. The men were speaking quietly of the earl’s wife and he snapped his fingers to get their attention. Posting himself by the giant map table, he put his hands on his hips decisively.

  “We cannot control what happens with Lady Dustin, but we can control the events of this siege,” he said firmly. “Let us return our attention where it belongs. We are preparing to breach Ludlow and we must have a firm plan in place. I would spare no detail for this event, mostly because it is such an enormous place and, given the size of it, it multiplies the things that can go wrong. I do not want to lose anyone due to poor planning or stupidity. Agreed?”

  The men around the table, including Conrad and his retainers, nodded with varied degrees of enthusiasm. Rhys seemed to be shedding his somber persona by the second, becoming much more of the man that most of them remembered. Rod stood next to his brother, watching the change, hearing the words of self-assurance and wisdom coming forth from the man he had grown up idolizing.

  “We have sent word to most of those locally who oppose the king,” Rhys said with authority. “Our request is for manpower and materials and thus far we have received word from Hay Castle that de Braose is sending five hundred men. The trick is moving them past Clifford Castle, to the north of Hay, which is held by the king. If Walter Clifford sees de Braose troops moving northward, he could either engage or follow them. We clearly do not want that to happen. Additionally, de Braose is sending one hundred men from his holding of Knighton Castle to the north.”

  The knights in the room moved to huddle around the map, watching Rhys thump his knuckles at their general vicinity. He continued. “I have also sent word to Bronllys Castle to the south where my grandfather is constable. I have requested at least three hundred men and I am sure he will provide me with all that and potentially more. Furthermore,” he jabbed a finger at a dark spot on the map, “as we all know, the Welsh burned Clun Castle ten years ago so we can expect no help from FitzAlan. But Wigmore Castle to the south has a massive contingent of men, as the castle is being expanded and parts rebuilt, so we have sent a request for at least eight hundred men from Mortimer.”

  Rod studied the map and the distance between Ludlow and Wigmore. “How many men do we have now should we decide to move before all of the reinforcements arrive?”

  “The earl has nearly nine hundred men here at Lioncross.” Lawrence, standing on the other side of Rhys, answered his question. “De Braose’s five hundred should arrive sometime tomorrow, giving us a little over fourteen hundred men, more than enough to lay siege to Ludlow until the rest arrive.”

  Rod cast his brother a sidelong glance. “So we ride tomorrow for Ludlow?”

  Rhys fixed him in the eye. “I ride tomorrow for Ludlow,” he said, making sure each man was focused on what he was about to say. “You will remain here for at least another day because I intend to ride ahead and find a way to plant myself inside of Ludlow. From the interior, I can do what is necessary to ensure that Ludlow falls to our forces. I can also get to Elizabeau before they either kill her or move her. I fear that once we lay siege, her life is forfeit.”

  Rod’s brow furrowed. “And how do you plan to gain entry? There are those who will know you on sight.”

  Rhys gazed back at his brother, his brilliant blue eyes glimmering with the first flicker of life that Rod had seen from him in three months. “Rod, look at me,” he said quietly. “If you did not know who I was, would you recognize me?”

  Rod stared at him a moment before shaking his head. “Nay, I would not.”

  “Neither would anyone else. I’ve been banking on it for some time.”

  Those around the table began to look very strangely at him. “What in the hell are you saying?” Rod asked.

  “Think about it. Think very hard.”

  Rod did. Then his eyebrows rose as an idea dawned. “Are you saying that the hair, the beard, is to make you unrecognizable to the enemy? That it is a… a disguise?”

  Rhys shrugged. “I assumed at some point we would discover her location and I have every intention of gaining entry to her prison, no matter where or what it is, and personally claim her. I cannot do that if I look like myself. I seem to be fairly recognizable and I need to be able to slip in, wherever she is being held, unnoticed. And now that we know it is Ludlow, I can also help orchestrate the fall of the castle from my position inside.”

  Rod’s jaw dropped. Beside him, the knights surrounding the table were in various stages of confusion and understanding. An unexpected scheme was unfolding, born from the brilliance of Rhys’ cunning mind. The man hadn’t been mad for the past three months, simply biding his time.

  Even Lawrence, ever the shrewd and dangerous warrior, nodded his approval; he had known Rhys almost longer than any of them and suddenly, it all made a good deal of sense.

  “Excellent,” he commented quietly.

  But Rod ignored the remark; he was still gaping at his brother. “Is that why you stopped cutting your hair and shaving?” he demanded.

  Rhys grinned. “You are catching on, little brother. You are most definitely catching on.”

  No one doubted for a moment that Rhys’ appearance had been a cleverly crafted scheme. His mood and manners were still another matter, but suddenly, the majority of his behavior made sense. The man before them was the Rhys of old; calm, collected and analytical. With the earl and his brother focused on family issues, the burden of command had, for the moment, fallen on Rhys. He’d had a plan in mind from the beginning, anticipating what he might have to do, because the stakes of this venture would be higher than any he had ever faced.

  The stakes were Elizabeau.

  *

  She was so sick that she could barely move. Elizabeau had stayed in bed most of the morning because any movement made her vomit. Since she had eaten so little over the past few days, there was nothing in her stomach and she ended up dry heaving. It was a miserable condition. Edward tried to coax broth and bits of bread down her, but she refused to touch anything. She would not even drink water.

  So she dozed on and off into the morning, hearing sounds of a blustery snow storm outside. Towards noon, she a
woke and, oddly, felt better, at least enough to sit up without vomiting. She even managed to sip at Edward’s beef broth. But after two little sips, she’d had enough and she was determined to get out of bed.

  She looked about for her robe, which was draped over a frame by the hearth where Edward had put it to warm it. One of the ironies of her captivity was that she had collected clothing from every castle she had been held captive at; not having anything but the clothes on her back when she was abducted, her captors took on a peculiar benefactor role by providing her with beautiful clothing, shoes, cloaks, robes, and in one case, even jewels. Everyone wanted to bestow gifts on Henry’s granddaughter to say that had done something kind for her. As a result, she had a glorious wardrobe.

  The robe that Edward placed on her shoulders was an emerald brocade with gray rabbit fur lining. It was big and heavy and warm. He helped her put her arms through the thick sleeves and even tied the sash around her waist. He fussed over her and she let him. He couldn’t seem to figure out why the sash wasn’t sitting correctly around her waist and Elizabeau bit her lip, wondering if he would realize it was because her belly was swollen. But he made no such mention of her rounded belly and when he was finally finished adjusting the bow, their eyes met and she smiled wanly.

  “Thank you,” she said, making her way stiffly over to a massive dressing table that held combs and pins. With a few strokes of a brush, she plaited her long hair into a single braid that draped over her shoulder and secured it with a leather tie.

  Being caged in a room for weeks on end was not a particularly pleasant thing. One of Elizabeau’s favorite activities during this time had been standing at the window, watching the activity of Ludlow three stories below. It was an enormous place and there was always something going on, but in this snow, she saw few people in the bailey. In fact, the soldiers were hardly on the walls, mostly huddled in their guardhouses or in shelter away from the heavy weather.

  The gates of Ludlow were open and a few people trickled in and out, although she could not imagine who they were or what they were doing traveling in such horrible weather. One man, evidently a soldier from his clothing, charged in and headed straight for the keep. More politic intrigue and business, she supposed, as Ludlow was full of it. But as she watched the sporadic influx, it occurred to her that, without an abundance of men to watch the gates of Ludlow, it might be the perfect time for another escape attempt. If she could only get a horse, she could make a break for the open gates. Once into the countryside, she had every confidence she could escape back to Wales. She didn’t know where else Rhys would be looking for her. Wales, and Whitebrook, seemed the most logical destination.

  But she would have to plan carefully. In weather like this, she did not want to chance freezing to death, which was a very real possibility. She would have to swath herself in warm clothing and hope she didn’t look too obvious about it. There was also the matter of her nervous stomach these days; she wasn’t feeling well these days and was consequently weak. She would need food, and to fortify herself, before making the break. And there was also the matter of Edward.

  He didn’t seem too inclined to help her. He was a knight and he was obeying orders. She understood that, but she was also sorry. He had become her friend, but the truth was, he was simply her jailor. She realized that the man was, in truth, her enemy. The fact that she felt some compassion or identification with him was simply a result of her captivity. In the real world, Edward would kill her if he was ordered to. She did not want to give him that target.

  She stood there for some time, lost to her thoughts, before finally realizing that snow was coming in the window and she secured the cloth, returning to the fireplace that Radcliffe had once again stoked into a bonfire. Her hands were cold and she held them up to the blaze as she pondered another escape attempt. But there was a knock on the door that distracted her and Radcliffe went to see who it was. One of de Lacy’s men pulled Edward out into the hall for private conversation and Elizabeau suddenly found herself alone in the room.

  She came away from the hearth quickly, making her way back over to the lancet windows again. Ripping away the oil cloth, she looked for a possible escape route; a ledge, a roof edge, anything that she might be able to jump to. By the time she hit the fourth window, Edward came back into the chamber and she quickly moved away from the window again. She didn’t want him to pick up on what she was planning. He’d already been duped by four escape attempts and she was afraid he would catch on to the fifth.

  But Edward wasn’t looking at her. In fact, he was followed by de Lacy’s knight, a man who, from what she gathered, had command of the castle defenses. His name was Lewis but beyond that, she knew nothing more. He was older with receding red hair. He fixed her in the eye as he came to rest just inside the door.

  “Lady Elizabeau,” he bowed shortly. “A messenger has just arrived. I am here to inform you that we have received a communication from the king.”

  “Oh?” Elizabeau responded, remembering the soldier she had seen ride in a short while earlier. “What did it say?”

  Lewis cleared his throat. “Perhaps you would like to sit, my lady.”

  Elizabeau shook her head. “No need,” she passed a glance at Radcliffe, noticing he would not meet her eye, and the first inkling of concern sprouted in her chest. “Please tell me what the king has to say to me.”

  Lewis looked uncomfortable for a second but quickly recovered. “As you know, Walter de Lacy is in London with the king, and I have command of the castle,” he said. “It is therefore my duty to carry out any orders that come forth from the king.”

  Elizabeau stared at him, the feeling of concern in her breast suddenly blooming to epidemic proportions. There was something in the way he had said it, it is therefore my duty to carry out any orders. Orders from the king where they pertained to her could not be a good thing and she struggled to maintain her calm. It was then that she noticed that Lewis held something in his hand.

  “I see,” she said, hoping her voice did not reflect the tremble in her body. “What did the king order?”

  Lewis lifted the parchment in his hand and focused on the text. As Elizabeau watched him, it occurred to her that she already knew what it said. God help her, she already knew. It could be nothing else. Had it been anything other than an execution order, Radcliffe would be able to look her in the eye. But he could not; he continued to stare at the floor. Elizabeau struggled not to lose her composure as the older knight began to read. I am to be executed like my brother, Arthur, she thought. It has finally come.

  Lewis cleared his throat before he spoke in a loud, firm voice. “‘That Elizabeau Treveighan, daughter of Geoffrey of Brittany, is guilty of a most heinous and detestable act of treason against our most sovereign and omnipotent King John is hereby ordered to stand to execution by the block on February twenty-fifth, Year of our Lord 1204. It is further ordered that the condemned’s body shall be quartered upon death to be made example of to those who would betray the most sovereign and omnipotent King John. Such is the fate of traitors to king and country. Written by order of the King, the first of February, Year of our lord 1204.’”

  When his voice abruptly stopped, the chamber was as quiet as a tomb. The only sound was of that from the crackling hearth and the snow blowing outside. Elizabeau wasn’t even sure she heard anything at all; the message was ringing inside her head until she was deaf and dumb to all else. She stared at Lewis as if frozen, unable to move or speak. She just stared. The red-headed knight gazed back at her impassively.

  “I am further commanded to send notice to allies of the king that are located within a three day ride of Ludlow,” he said evenly. “The king wishes for them to be witness if they so desire.”

  It was too much to take but Elizabeau steeled herself admirably. In fact, she seemed rather dull to it. It was too shocking, too macabre, and her mind was beginning to shut down as if refusing to believe what she had just heard. Maybe if she ignored it, it would all go away. The
nightmare would fade and she would wake up in a warm bed snuggled next to Rhys. He would be there to ease her fears, to protect her and to comfort her. He would be there to love her.

  Lewis continued to stand there as if waiting for a reaction. With none forthcoming, he re-rolled the parchment.

  “You have three days to make peace with God, my lady,” he said quietly. “For on the third day, I will lead you to the block myself.”

  With that, he quit the chamber in relative silence. Elizabeau continued to stand in the center of the room, staring into nothingness, frozen in place as her mind turned into a dark, muddled mass of shock. She could not comprehend what would be her fate in three days. The block was a horrific enough thought, but to be quartered afterwards and made example of was more than she could bear. Every hope she had for the future, for the life growing inside of her, and her love for Rhys would be at an end at the sharp edge of an axe in three days. It was too ghastly to comprehend.

  Woodenly, she turned away from the fire and somehow ended up near the lancet windows. The blustery wind was lifting the oilcloth, sending freezing gusts into the chamber. She could feel them on her face but she was already numb. It didn’t matter.

  “My lady,” Radcliffe’s voice sounded strangled. “May… may I do anything for you? Anything at all?”

  Elizabeau pulled back the oilcloth and let the freezing air hit her in the face. She was beyond tears, beyond hysteria. She realized she wasn’t so much worried for herself as she was for Rhys and the child she carried. All of her ache was reserved for them; Rhys would never know of the baby she carried. The son with his father’s good looks would never grow to adulthood, would never know his own life. And Rhys would surely blame himself for her death. She couldn’t imagine what effect that would have on the man, but she could guess, and the knowledge tore her apart.

  But Radcliffe’s question still lingered in the air. She thought of an answer. “Aye,” she murmured. “I will not ask you to help me to escape, not now. If you did, you would sign your own death warrant and I could not bear it. But I will ask a favor of you.”