Geist wasn’t offended. “I am just as guilty as you in this,” he almost tripped in the grass but caught himself. “I will not betray this secret.”
“Not even Conrad must know.”
“You have my word. He will know only what you tell your brother.”
Bolting through the trees and finally onto the road leading south, David and Geist continued running until they were both thoroughly exhausted. They kept waiting for the king’s soldiers to come charging out of the castle at them, but so far, there was no hostile posse on their tail. When it finally became apparent that they were well out of range of the archers and out of eyesight of the castle, David slowed to a walk and the skinny Teutonic knight beside him. Breathing heavily, Geist cast him a long glance.
“You are a good man, Sir David,” he said, coughing for breath. “You have made my lord a very happy man and for that, I thank you.”
David nodded faintly, looking up to see a knight he recognized racing towards them on the dusty road. Rod de Titouan approached at a gallop, a big man on a silver charger, and David suddenly realized how news of his brother’s death would affect the man. Rod and Rhys were as close as David and Christopher were and he knew, without a doubt, how much his brother’s death would destroy him. As Rod drew closer, David realized that he was already about to break his vow. He knew there was one other person who would take the secret to the grave; the secret of Rhys and Elizabeau.
Rod wept when David told him.
EPILOGUE
Year of our lord 1215 AD
Savignac de Duras, France
Bellay Castle towered over the landscape of the Savignac region of Navarre, guarding the northern and western borders of the province. It was a big place, heavily manned and fortified since this particular region of France was much desired by the English. But since King John had died six months earlier and his young son now sat on the throne, the French stood down their vigilance yet watched the politics of England carefully. With a nine-year-old boy on the throne, anything could happen.
But that was not the concern of some members of the house and hold. In fact, it was all Elizabeau could do to keep herself from collapsing from sheer exhaustion as she tried to keep track of four very small children. She didn’t have the time or energy to worry about what had become of the throne she had once been slated to assume. Six years ago, she had sworn that her childbearing days were over. A daughter shortly after marriage followed quickly by twin boys had provided her and Rhys with a lovely little family. Her husband could not have been happier. But when the twins were almost six, Elizabeau found herself pregnant once again. And then again. She’d had three girls in succession followed by another boy. Now, with four children under six years of age, she had her hands full.
Which was why she left the worries of politics to her husband. She had enough on her mind with the children. Strange how they would run amuck all day until Rhys showed himself and then, suddenly, they were angels for their doting father. And, God knew, Rhys doted. He was enamored by his children and they adored him. Although she should have been more firm with Rhys when he spoiled the children, she didn’t have the heart. She knew, deep down, that he hurt deeply for the son he left behind in Wales and showed his love for Maddoc by lavishing attention on his other children. Somehow, loving and laughing with them eased the ache. But it never went completely away, not after all these years.
But they were, in truth, brilliantly happy. They had been for twelve years. Not a day went by that they did not profess their love for one another; it was well known, in fact, that Rhys was deeply devoted to his wife more than most husbands could ever hope to be. And she clearly adored him. So each day was better than the next, and each night they thanked God that they were together. It could have been completely different for them both and they were well aware. They took nothing for granted.
This day in March dawned bright, if not chilly, just like any other. As garrison commander for Bellay Castle, Rhys rose before dawn, donned his armor, dutifully kissed his wife, and headed to the battlements. It was his routine. But the babies heard him stirring from their chamber across the hall and they rose from their little beds just about the time he quit the master bower. Five-year-old Geniver was the fastest; she always met him first as he hit the corridor. But four-year-old sister Rhiann was right behind her, squealing for her father to pick her up. Smart, talkative Morgan was three years old and sucked her thumb sleepily as she tugged at her father’s tunic. And the youngest, one-year-old William Trevor, called Trevor, yelled loudly from his caged bed to be let free.
Rhys laughed softly at the chaos at his feet; it was a morning the same as most others. He always had a herd of children clamoring around him, smart little whips demanding his attention. Picking up tiny little Morgan so she would not get stepped on, he went into the babies’ chamber to release Trevor from his barred bed. Reaching down, he scooped up his youngest son with his free arm and walked from the room with Geniver and Rhiann skipping after him. When he hit the corridor, however, his twin sons, ten-year-old Evan and Edward, grumbled and stumbled past him on their way to the stairs.
“Why are they always so loud?” Evan mumbled. “Why can’t they stay quiet so we can sleep?”
Rhys cocked an eyebrow. “You are supposed to be up. You have work to do.”
“The sun is barely risen, Da. Why do we have to get up so early?”
“Wait until you go to foster next month. You’ll think these days to be those of luxury by comparison.”
“Anything to get away from these screaming brats.”
Rhys fought off a grin. “I will remind you of that statement when I see you for the first time after six months of fostering with Count de Visi. You’ll wish you were home again, I guarantee.”
Evan grumbled something unintelligible. Rhiann rushed to her big brother, who reached down to pick her up purely out of habit. But he was grumpy and tired and in no mood for her playfulness at such an early hour. Behind him, his brother almost tripped on the stairs as he yawned for the tenth time in as many seconds.
“Edward,” Rhys snapped softly. “Watch where you are going. If you break your neck, your mother will kill me.”
Edward nodded sleepily as he lumbered down the stairs with Geniver in tow. The rule in the house was that the older children always took the hand of a younger child when navigating the steep stairs of Bellay’s keep. Elizabeau was adamant about it, terrified that someone would break their neck. Narrow stairs and too many children made a recipe for disaster.
The seven of them made their way down the steps and into the great hall of the round keep. Food was already being set out and a nice blaze burned brightly in the hearth. Rhys put Morgan down at the table and handed Trevor over to Edward to keep an eye on. The fat old cook was already hovering over the children, putting porridge and great hunks of bread on the table. Just as Rhys was preparing to leave the hall, Elizabeau descended the stairs, dressed in a rich purple gown and looking sweetly radiant. Rhys paused to take his wife in his arms to kiss her good morning for the second time.
“Where are you going?” she murmured as she hugged him. “Why not spend a few moments with us before the day begins?”
He gazed down into her lovely face, hardly a line on it at thirty years of age. The woman was positively ageless. “I suppose I could,” he said with a twinkle in his brilliant blue eyes. “But I was trying to escape the admiring throng before Morgan realized I was gone and started screaming.”
Elizabeau laughed softly, running her hand through her husband’s dark hair, now graying slightly at the temples. “Do you remember when Rory used to do that, too?” she reflected on her eldest child, now fostering at Montrichard Castle. “She would positively howl when you left her sight.”
Rhys grunted as he escorted his wife back into the hall. “She still does,” he said. “When I left her at Montrichard, the count told me that she cried for a week.”
Elizabeau could see that it hurt his feelings to remember that par
ticular episode and she patted his cheek gently even as Morgan climbed off the bench and raced to her father once again. He picked up the dark-haired, green-eyed little girl and kissed her loudly on the cheek. Elizabeau took Trevor from Edward and settled down at the table between her twins. Evan chewed his bread like an old cow, tired and unhappy about his father’s work schedule, while Edward yawned and picked at his porridge. There were a few moments of peace before a sentry entered the hall, his eyes searching for his liege. Rhys saw him as he pulled apart a piece of bread for Morgan and Rhiann.
“What is it?” he asked the man.
The soldier made his way towards him. “Riders, my lord,” he said. “We cannot identify them.”
“Do they bear colors?”
“None we recognize.”
“What do you see?”
“Crimson and blue.”
Rhys looked up from the piece he was feeding Morgan. “Crimson and blue?” he repeated.
The man nodded. “Aye, my lord.”
“How many riders?”
“Three.”
Rhys took on a strange look to his eyes. Setting Morgan down gently, he rose and followed the sergeant from the hall. Elizabeau watched him curiously for a moment but her attention was diverted as Morgan began crying and she refocused on her devastated daughter. She always wept when her father left her and it was Mother’s job to divert her attention. But Elizabeau hadn’t missed the odd look on Rhys’ face when he left the room; it made her curious about the incoming riders, too.
The eastern sky was soft shades of pink and purple as Rhys ordered the portcullis of Bellay lifted. Since their particular region was quiet for the moment, without threat of war, he was not overly on his guard when it came to visitors. In fact, Bellay had quite a few. But the crimson and blue had him slightly on edge, though he was sure his uneasy feelings were for naught. No one knew he was here except for David, and David would not have told a soul. Even after twelve years, he could still feel the familiar fear of being discovered.
He stood just inside the massive portcullis, watching the three riders approach. They were moving slowly, in no great hurry, which afforded Rhys the opportunity to study them as they drew near. The men were in armor; one of them was very large and not seated particularly well atop the horse. The more Rhys watched, the more uneasiness he began to feel. This time he knew it was not his imagination. There was something about the larger rider that he recognized.
He began to walk, moving through the open portcullis and across the narrow bridge that crossed Bellay’s moat. He realized that his heart was pounding in his ears as he continued down the road, watching the riders loom nearer and nearer. When they were several yards away, one of them dismounted and threw his helm off. Rhys nearly collapsed when he recognized the face.
“Rod!”
Rod was walking towards his brother very rapidly, then running. Before Rhys could say another word, Rod swarmed on the man and threw his arms around him, hugging him so fiercely that he lifted him off the ground. It was some time before Rhys realized he was laughing as his younger brother squeezed him within an inch of his life. Then Rod tried to throw him to the ground, but Rhys was still the bigger, stronger brother. He tossed his brother onto his back and landed atop him.
“My God, Rhys,” Rod grunted as Rhys pounded him in the chest once or twice. “Is it really you? I still think I am seeing a ghost.”
Rhys grabbed him around the neck and shook him. “Rod,” he loosened his grip, unwilling to commence with the usual rough-housing. He was still astonished and bewildered by the man’s appearance. “What in the hell are you doing here?”
Rod sat up as Rhys pulled. In little time he was back on his feet, beaming at his brother. He just stared at him, unable to answer for a moment. He still couldn’t believe it.
“I had to come,” he said simply. “I had to see you.”
Rhys’ brilliant blue eyes were warm with emotion, but he was still rightly dazed. “Why?” he demanded weakly.
“More importantly, how did you find me?”
Rod’s hands were on his brother’s arms, touching him as if fearful he was indeed an apparition. “David,” he said. “He told me where you were.”
Rhys shook his head. “I do not understand,” he muttered. “I sent David a missive several years ago telling him very cryptically that we were safe, but he was not supposed to… I did not tell him to.…”
Rod put up a hand to silence him. “I’ve known since the beginning what happened. There were only three of us who knew – David, myself, and the Teutonic general. But the general went to his grave not long ago, so I was told, which means that David and I are the only ones who know that you and Elizabeau did not perish at Ludlow those years ago.”
Rhys understood somewhat now. He patted his brother on the arm, on the head, looking remorseful and grateful at the same time. “I’m so glad you knew,” he breathed. “I wanted to communicate with you, many times, but I could not take the chance that the message would be intercepted. Sending that missive years ago to David was risky enough but I felt as if I had to. He had to know that we were safe.”
Rod sobered as he watched the struggle play across his brother’s face; it was Rhys’ features that he remembered, just a little older and grayer. But the man had lost none of his size or strength.
“You do not have to explain your reasons,” he said quietly. “I understand why you did what you did and I always agreed. But the hardest part was watching Mother grieve for you. I wanted to tell her many times but I swore to David that I would not. Too much was at stake for even Mother to know.”
Rhys looked particularly pained at the thought; even after all these years, he still missed his mother a great deal. “How is she?”
“Fine,” Rod nodded. “We lost my father a few years ago, however. It has been difficult for her but she manages.”
Rhys thought of Renard, the man who had raised him, and his heart hurt. “How did he die?”
“His heart gave out.”
Rhys nodded, thinking on the man who had treated him as a son. It was a sad and sobering realization to know he had passed. “I shall say a prayer for him,” he murmured. “What about the rest of the family? Dylan? Is he well?”
Rod grinned. “Well and knighted. He serves me at Bronllys. I swear that you would not recognize him. He has grown into quite a man.”
“No doubt,” he thought on his youngest brother with a smile. “And Carys? Did she marry Conrad?”
Rod nodded. “They live in Saxony. Three children, all boys.”
Rhys smiled weakly at the thought of his sister with children of her own. “And she is happy?”
“Radiant. I have only seen her once since that time, but she was very happy.” He eyed his brother expectantly. “And you? Did you marry Elizabeau?”
Rod’s smile broadened. “Of course. She is my angel.”
“Children?”
“Seven. Three boys, four girls.”
Rod’s eyebrows lifted. “Seven children?” he repeated. “Good lord, Rhys, must you always outshine us?”
Rhys laughed softly, turning his attention to his brother’s mounted companions for the first time. To his right, the large figure he thought he recognized had removed his helm and he found himself staring into Uncle Rhett’s very old, very tired, face. Rhys’ astonishment returned.
“Uncle Rhett,” he made his way over to the very old man, reaching up to grab the outstretched hand. “My God, ’tis a miracle to see you. I thought for sure you would be dead by now.”
Rhett was indeed very old, and exceedingly weary from his long trip. He had not the energy at the moment to dismount his horse.
“Rhys,” he squeezed his nephew’s hand, tears in his old eyes. “The miracle is seeing you, lad. Up until six months ago, I thought you were dead.”
Rhys could feel tears of his own as he gazed up at his beloved uncle. “I’ve missed you,” he said softly.
“And I have missed you.”
; Rhys just held on to his hand a moment, swallowing away the lump in his throat. He looked at Rod. “You told him?”
Rod nodded, standing next to his brother and putting a hand on his shoulder. “When John died and young Henry assumed the throne, I saw no reason to keep the secret from Rhett. In fact, there is really no reason to keep the secret at all. Elizabeau’s time has passed and we are in the era of a new king.”
Rhys looked seriously at him. “You haven’t told anyone else, have you? David could be in a great deal of trouble if it was known that he allowed Elizabeau and I to escape and then lied to cover our tracks.”
Rod waved him off. “It’s not like that, I assure you. I had David’s permission to tell Rhett. And someone else.”
Rhys cocked an eyebrow. “Someone else? Who else?”
“Me.”
The third member of the party made himself known. Rhys turned to see the man remove his helm and he was struck by the dark hair and brilliant blue eyes facing him. It was a young man, no more than seventeen, very handsome, and Rhys suddenly felt his knees go weak. The lump in his throat returned full force. He stared at the young man, knowing him on sight. Twelve years could not erase the memory of that little face he had left behind, now grown and strong before him.
“Greetings, Father,” the young man said quietly. “Do you remember me?”
Rhys couldn’t help it; he put his hand over his heart, hearing his son’s voice for the first time in twelve years. Tears sprang to his eyes as he moved to the young man, gazing up into his handsome face.
“Of course I remember you,” he said hoarsely. “I have seen you every night in my dreams for twelve years.”
Maddoc du Bois smiled timidly at the man he barely remembered, but there was no mistaking the emotion that flowed between them. His father had been something of an icon to him his entire life. Setting his helm on the pommel of the saddle, he dismounted the horse and realized, when he came to stand, that he was slightly taller than his father. His smile grew; so did Rhys’. After a few moments’ hesitation, they threw their arms around each other.
Fathers and Sons: A Collection of Medieval Romances Page 32