“You have much to answer for, Leighton.”
“Not nearly enough, if you can still stand.”
“I am not speaking of myself.”
“An anointed knight does not answer to his inferior, mason.”
“You do today.”
A group of knights laughed. Guy grinned at them, then cocked his head while he considered Rhys. “You must know that you will die. And for what?”
“For my lady.”
“For that murdering bitch? She may have the blood, but her soul is that of a whore. I had her again, you know. Just this morning. She begged for it. She moaned for me.”
“You lie, but it is of no account. You are finished with her. Here, today, you will answer for all of it.”
Guy turned to the onlookers, and held out his arms. Like a player in a mystery pageant, he appealed to his delighted audience. “He is an odd champion, but the challenge is clear. He is not worthy of my efforts, and she not worthy of his sacrifice, but still he insists on forcing this. I have been generous in giving him the chance to remove himself, nay?”
The knights certainly thought so. Most of the servants agreed.
He ceremoniously removed his dagger and laid it at the feet of the knights. “I would not want it said that I had an unfair advantage.”
The gesture gave Joan scant comfort. He would not need a dagger against a man whom he had already beaten to unconsciousness just an hour ago.
Guy faced Rhys again—no longer angelic in his beauty, no more humor in his face. Excited expectation burned in his eyes, and anticipation transformed his expression.
“Then defend your lady's honor, mason. Let God's judgment show you the truth of it. Die knowing that whatever she told you was a lie to hide her guilt at how quickly, and how eagerly, she surrendered her virtue.”
The crowd did not know how battered Rhys already was, but Guy did. He paced forward with impunity, and swung.
Rhys took the blow. He staggered, but did not fall. Joan felt that fist land, heard its dull thump, and it knocked the breath out of her.
Cloaked figures slipped up the keep steps.
Rhys let three more blows fall, until the last of Edward's band was swallowed by the dark at the top of the stairs.
When Guy swung the next time, his fist met the implacable barrier of a hand that could break stone.
Guy stared in shock at the hand gripping his in its vise.Eyes alight with the fires of hell looked up. The fires of justice blazed back.
The crushing hand immobilized Guy. Pain broke in his expression, and his body buckled.
“I think that you should beg her forgiveness,” Rhys said.
“You are mad.”
“A madman is dangerous. He feels no pain, like a sensible man. He knows no restraint. Beg her forgiveness.”
“At the command of a stonecutter? The hell I will.”
Rhys smiled, and those crinkles formed. Not charming this time. Dangerous. His eyes appeared like polished steel reflecting the sky. “I am glad that you will not. Now this stonecutter has an excuse to break every bone in your body.”
He lifted Guy's arm until the man stretched, and swung a fist at his stomach. Had Guy been a statue, a large chunk of stone would have flown.
Another blow sent Guy sprawling in the dirt.
The crowd's silence broke. The real contest had begun. A din filled the yard as shouts urged it on. Somewhere in the keep, men moved through deserted chambers to a queen and a usurper whose commands would not be heard.
It seemed to go on forever. The fight was not all onesided. Guy was quick, and Rhys, for all of his madness, had been badly weakened during the night.
Rhys never went down. Joan's eyes filmed. Her sickening worry could not completely obscure her pride. He stayed standing for her. He had taken those first blows for the King's cause, but now he defended her. Protected her. He fought for her honor and her freedom and her life.
No knight in England could have shown more courage.
Guy flew again, and landed near her. Rhys staggered over, and lifted him by the neck of his tunic. He swung.Not a blow, but a hard slap to the face that made Guy's head snap back. “Moan for you, did she?” He slapped again. “I want you to moan, so that you learn to hear the difference between pleasure and despair.”
Guy had gone limp, and did not defend against the punishment. A movement on the edge of the crowd drew Joan's attention. Two knights broke away, and began to approach Rhys from behind.
A voice rang through the yard, instantly silencing the crowd. A firm command ordered the knights to stay back.
Addis and a young, tawny-haired man stood at the top of the steps. No cloaks covered their armor. The young man's surcoat bore the royal coat of arms.
It was Edward who had issued the command. His presence, and his armor and sword, announced what had occurred. Then, in an even tone of authority, his words did.
Shock spread through the crowd. Suddenly no one cared about the fight between a knight and a mason anymore.
Rhys still hovered over Guy. Joan walked over to them. She looked down on the man who had destroyed her life. She could not deny that she knew some satisfaction in seeing him humbled like this. The woman she was today did not need it, but the girl she had once been still did.
Rhys seemed not to have noticed that things had changed. She touched his shoulder, calling him back from the place he had gone to find his strength.
“It is over. Edward has taken Mortimer, and the guards know it. They are not resisting.”
He glared down at the half-conscious man in his grasp. He did not seem to hear her.
“It is done, Rhys. The gate is open again, and the men of Barrowburgh are entering to secure the castle.”
His attention did not waver from his enemy. The fury in his expression did not dim. She thought that he would hit Guy again.
A new presence warmed her side. Addis stepped into place beside her.
Rhys still gripped Guy.
Addis unsheathed his sword and offered it. “Finish it, if you want. There will be no judgment on it. He is a dead man anyway, and this may be a mercy if he faces his lord's fate.”
Rhys turned his steely gaze on the sword. She expected him to reach for the hilt. She could tell that he wanted to.
He released his hold and Guy fell back into the dirt. “Let the executioner have him.”
His false strength deserted him at once. He began to sink. Joan hurried to offer herself as support. He leaned on her, and together they followed Addis and headed toward the steps.
Confusion surrounded them. The yard teemed with agitation. Word of Mortimer's downfall buzzed in the air. She heard it all, but felt no excitement or triumph. It seemed such a small thing suddenly. She only cared that Rhys was alive, and that his arm circled her shoulders, and that his steps fell beside hers.
A rush behind her. A surge of danger. Her instincts knew it before her senses.
Rhys knew, too. His arm pushed her forward, into Addis. She staggered and turned and saw Guy lunging, arm raised and dagger glinting.
It happened fast, too fast to see clearly. Her shock took in only bits of it. Fractured details loomed, precisely and slowly.
The dagger falling, toward her. Rhys catching the blade itself in the grip of his left hand, and hurtling his body into Guy. Blood streaming down his arm, and the dagger moving again. Another grab, a quick twist, and two men sprawled on the ground in a death struggle.
Then stillness. No movement at all. They both looked dead.
A soundless cry tore through her. Her breath would not come. She felt as though her heart had stopped beating.
Slowly, Rhys rolled off the body beneath him. The dagger lay so deeply imbedded in Guy's chest that only its hilt showed. Guy stared wide-eyed up at the sky. The fires died, and his eyes turned into violet ice.
Addis lifted Rhys out of the dirt and blood. He hoisted a limp arm around his neck, and began dragging his friend toward the keep. His voice boomed above the
confusion, ordering his men to send a surgeon at once.
CHAPTER 27
“ONE CAN NEVER TELL of course,” the surgeon said. “I have seen sword cuts like this that healed well enough for the hand to hold a weapon. If not, thank God it was not your right hand.”
Rhys did not speak, nor watch the new shroud take form. The few minutes of washing and anointment with balms had told him what he needed to know. Free of the wads of cloth and stitches, he had tested his hand's movement.
The surgeon appeared annoyed by his patient's lack of response. He did not realize that it was not indifference that kept Rhys silent.
He gathered up his bowls and ointments. As he left the chamber, Addis entered.
He gestured to the white bandage. “How is it? There is no corruption?”
“It looks and smells clean.”
“Thank God for that. That butcher wanted to take it off, but I said I would do to his head whatever he did to your hand, and he rethought it. Do not listen to the leeches and such. They are ignorant of these things. Let it heal and then see how it works. I was told once that I would never walk right again, but I did.”“Even if the damage is permanent, it is not so horrible. Edward will name me his principal builder today. I will have little time for the chisel anymore, and I will not starve for losing my craft.”
Addis pretended that was good news, but the expression in his eyes said that he understood the truth of it. Losing one's craft meant losing part of oneself.
Grieving over that would come later. A different sorrow waited today.
“Will you ride with us?”
“Nay. I will come and see her brother recognized, but when you take them home, I will not come.”
“Have you spoken with her about this?”
“I have seen little of her since Edward's queen arrived. Philippa has finally found a friend whom she can trust, and is jealous of Joan's time. A lady-in-waiting to the Queen of England does not desert her duties without explaining why, and I am not a suitable explanation. She slips away when she can, but I do not waste those moments by speaking of what awaits.”
Addis nodded vaguely. A silent sympathy cloaked him. He might not speak of it, but he understood what would soon be lost.
“Do you return to London, then?”
“I have been thinking that I will first visit the home of my youth. I have not been back in years, and as I lay here I found myself longing to see it again. My parents are dead, but I have kin there.”
“Then you head west. That makes it easier to ask a favor of you. I will bring my men with me when I escort Mark and Joan to their father's lands. Can you go to Barrowburgh on your way to the marches? Moira waits for word about me, and I do not want her growing anxious.”
“I will gladly bring her word of your safety, and of what has transpired.” It would give his journey some purpose. In truth he headed west mostly because he did not want to return to London yet. After today, he would need more time before he went back to that house.
Addis sat and they spoke of the last days' events. Mortimer had been sent to Westminster to await his execution, and Queen Isabella had been banished to Castle Rising. Guy Leighton had been buried, the only fatality of the action. Edward had sent a decree throughout the land, announcing that he had taken the reins of power, and barons had begun streaming into Nottingham to show support for their king. The first to arrive had been some loyal to the usurper, and Edward had been magnanimous in his forgiveness. A few select heads would roll, but there would be no new bloodbath.
The chapel bells tolled. Their conversation dried. Addis rose. “Let us see it finished, then. It is good and right that you will be there, for the loss in the doing was mostly yours.”
People of all degrees jammed the hall. A festive atmosphere filled the space, and tables of food waited. First, however, Edward would hold an audience, and favor those who had helped him, and listen to petitions as a good king should.
He entered with his young queen. She had brought his crown and robes with her, and they walked to the chairs set forth to serve as their thrones. To the shouting joy of the barons, the King finally took his rightful place.
Rhys barely heard the rest. Even when he was called forth, and given the King's favor, he did not fully listen.His attention had become absorbed by a woman amidst the ladies who had trailed Philippa into the chamber.
Joan.
She looked incredibly beautiful. The Queen had decked out her new friend in the finest garments. A gown as blue as sapphires flowed like water down her narrow body, and its bejewelled decorations dipped along her breasts and hips. He realized that he had never seen her in a garment that fit before. Her blond hair had been worked into an intricate roll around her crown, and another roll, of precious blue silk and golden threads, rested atop it beneath a transparent golden veil. More silk wove through the long braid hanging down her back.
She had been transformed, turned into someone precious and noble and more valuable than pearls. A woman of beauty and dignity to be desired from afar by many. A prize to be won only at the table of alliance and politics.
She appeared a little sad. Her expression brightened only when he approached to receive his new position. He did not remain near her long, however. For all of Edward's gratitude, a mason was a minor matter, and more important things waited.
The petitions began, and Addis stepped forward. He called Mark to join him. Hand on the youth's shoulder, he explained the story that Edward already knew, but which the other barons must hear. He asked Edward to return the lands of Brecon to the son of a man who had done nothing wrong, but had only obeyed his oath as he understood it.
The King gestured Mark forward. Fewer than three years in age separated them. For a moment it was a youth looking at a youth, and not a King examining a petitioner. Edward offered his hand in friendship before he positioned it in a demand for fealty.
Mark rose after the oath, and held out his arm toward the ladies-in-waiting. “This is my sister, my lord. I beg your blessing on us both.”
Joan came forward, to finally reclaim her life. Elegant. Breathlessly beautiful. Something painful and proud swelled in Rhys's chest. He glanced around at the barons and knights. Every male eye settled on her.
It had begun. But then, Philippa had probably planned that, and made the display more magnificent with that intention. A queen's generosity demanded such efforts for a friend. Influencing alliances by arranging marriages was the most important power that she wielded.
Edward broke into a boyish grin. “I welcome you, lady. And I find myself half dazed by you. After my queen, you are the most lovely lady in the chamber today.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Is your husband here with you?”
She hesitated. Mark answered for her. “Her betrothed died.”
“Recently? I sense a melancholy in you.”
Again, Mark had to answer. “Three years ago, but she still mourns all that was lost.”
Comprehension entered Edward's eyes. “Well, that is over now. Your brother will sit in your father's chair soon, Lady Joan. And you will sit beside a lord of our choosing. Beauty such as yours should not be wasted in grief.”
Again she hesitated. Rhys could see only her lithe, shapely back. Finally her voice spoke clearly and firmly, with more resolve than gratitude. “Thank you, my lord.”
Edward said something else, but Rhys did not listen. He turned away, and angled through the people toward the door.
It was finished. Joan Tiler was completely gone, and the daughter of Marcus de Brecon had been resurrected, in all her glory.
He walked down to the yard. He leaned against the keep wall, and took deep breaths of the crisp air. The ache in his chest did not come only from his healing wounds. It was finished, but it was not over yet.
Philippa would not leave Joan alone. The Queen was a sweet girl, but too grateful to find a friend who had been separate from the suspicions and deceptions of the last few years. The quick bond had b
ecome invasive.
Joan suffered the continuous introductions to lords and knights. Time and again she tried to ease away, only to have Philippa beckon another man forth.
She kept searching the milling crowd for Rhys. She needed to see him. Mark had said that Rhys would not accompany them west when they left today, and she had to convince him to change his mind.
It could not end now, like this. She had sat by his bed those first days while he began to heal, but since the Queen had arrived, there had been only snatched minutes drenched with the horrible awareness that she had lost control over her future.
Another man. Another introduction, and another courteous bow. Another appreciative inspection, and another flowery flattery.
She could not bear it. Soon, too soon, she would deal with the life that these suitors represented. Right now she wanted to cling to another man's attention, and a different life's memories.
An ache wedged in her, deep and low beneath her heart. She was losing her hold on what had been. She had felt it slipping away since Mortimer fell, despite her clutching grasp. It had lost its solidity. It flowed away like the finest sand finding paths through her fingers.
The meal was ending. The dancing had stopped.Outside, horses and wagons waited. They were due to leave as soon as the festivities were over.
She needed to find Rhys. Speak to him. Bask in his presence, just the two of them alone together, for a few moments at least. She needed to beg him to come with her, for a few days at least. She needed to hold him one last time, for one more night at least. She needed …
Another man. Not a suitor. Addis de Valence stood in front of her. Flowery words flowed from his mouth, but not for her. He addressed the Queen.
He glanced to Joan, and then to the door, and she understood. He was not a man given to courtly games, but he could play them if he chose. He chose to now, to distract Philippa. He soon had the Queen giggling and blushing.
Joan quietly slid away.
She ran through the hall, and out to the stairs. Below in the yard the men of Barrowburgh waited. The procession that would take her home prepared to depart.
By Design Page 30