Finding Peace - A Medieval Romance (The Sword of Glastonbury Series Book 2)

by Lisa Shea

  She drew in a deep breath. She knew how important this patronage was for Claire. If she could help be a part of making it happen, then she would do that. Besides, she was curious just what her father was up to. Hopefully by the end of the evening she could pry the details out of these two jokers and map out a counter-plan.

  “I am free,” she responded shortly, nodding to Claire.

  The twins’ eyes lit up with delight. “Perfect!” cried Ron, giving a sweeping bow to both women. “Just after sunset then? We shall see you soon!” They turned and raced each other to the stables. In a few minutes they were streaming out through the gates, calling out with their delighted enthusiasm.

  Claire turned her gaze to Elizabeth with bright curiosity. “Just what was that all about?”

  Elizabeth had a sense that she knew exactly what that was all about. She turned sharply, striding toward the straw dummy which hung limply to one side of the ring. She gave a swirl to her sword, loosening her wrist, and then she launched a high attack down at the creature’s shoulder blade.

  SNAP - she severed the arm, watched it fall into the mud, and a shaft of angry joy burst through her. That was for her father. She whirled the sword above her head, then landed the blade hard against the other shoulder, hacking her way through the shoulder, visualizing him … the fury building …

  “Does that help?” asked a calm voice by her side.

  She slammed her blade down into the shoulder, feeling it sink in half way, relishing the surge of anger and release and power cascade through her. “Yes,” she ground out gutturally, pulling the sword free, staring at the stray bits of straw and twine.

  “How does it make you feel?” he asked quietly, not judging.

  “Furious,” she snapped, spinning the sword high over her head, bringing it down with a gratifying thunk. Bits of straw spewed in a fountain.

  “And you want to feel furious?” he pursued.

  “No,” she retorted as if he was daft. She wound up again, slamming the blade down into the shoulder joint. She was nearly separating it now, nearly ripping the man apart.

  “When you are done dismembering this thing, what do you think you will feel then?”

  She spun to face him, annoyed with all the questions. She just wanted to destroy, to maim, to drive away the pain which throbbed through her. “I will be exhausted, and frustrated, and spent, and what the Hell is it that you want from me?”

  “Follow me,” he replied simply, then turned and began walking toward the main gate of the curtain wall.

  Elizabeth stared after him open mouthed, shaken out of her focus, and after a moment she found herself following behind him, half angry, half curious.

  Richard didn’t look back as he passed through the gate, made his way through the grassy tufts of a path which led along the outer wall and around toward the ocean side. He crested the small rise, and they were descending through the brush and sandy soil until they reached the quiet beach. The ocean waves rolled in, easing out, and a small group of shore birds were dancing at the water’s edge, their short legs moving in quick rhythm as they skittered along each wave, following the movement.

  Richard settled himself down in the sand, facing out at the ocean. Elizabeth looked at him in disbelief, but he did not say anything further. After a moment she felt foolish just standing there, so she slid her sword into its scabbard, then plunked herself roughly down beside him.

  “Now what,” she snapped grumpily.

  “Breathe in,” he suggested calmly.

  Elizabeth almost laughed. The man was clearly daft. She wanted to hurt, to destroy, to bash out her rage on innocent objects. And here he wanted her to breathe? Well, she would prove to him just how wrong he was. She glared at him and drew in an exaggerated long, deep breath, filling her lungs as fully as she could.

  The scent of rich salt air filled her, the tang of the sandy soil, the faint fragrance of the wild roses which edged the water. She heard more clearly the soft peep of the scattering birds as they followed the waves, their small feet moving in rapid steps, watching for small bugs to eat with apparent delight.

  “Now let it out,” came the soothing voice at her side.

  She released the air, feeling it ease out of her, feeling her shoulders relax, her spine ease, the muscles unclench as her body drew in on itself. The whoosh of the ocean waves filled her ears, and the soft sand beneath her cradled her gently.

  “Breathe in.”

  She drew in the breath, longer than before. The air pressed out her chest, filled her soul. It was as if a cleansing force were drawing through her bones, scrubbing her clean, shaking loose the dirt and darkness that dwelled there. She took in air until she was completely full, and then she held it, almost floating up off the dense sand.

  “Breathe out.”

  She released, and her body eased, the toxins were swirling and departing, the stress was sliding from her muscles, and she was buoyant, cleansed. It was as if she were a child again, somersaulting with glee through a pile of autumn leaves, or sluicing through the fresh water of the fish pond on a glorious summer afternoon.

  “Breathe in.”

  His voice was barely a whisper now, a hum at the edge of her consciousness, and it blended in with the rolling susurration of the waves, with the gentle pressure of the sand beneath her, with the call of a seagull as it soared high above, changing direction with the barest movement of its wing tips. Each breath seemed longer than the last. Each seemed to latch onto hidden remnants of darkness and grime within her, to gather it up in a golden light, to release it with gentle understanding on the next exhale.

  The minutes drifted on, and she lost all sense of place and time. She was renewing, refreshing, restoring, the waves a constant presence. Richard’s warmth by her side was her steady rock, a sturdy promise that she would be safe. She was more alive than she had in years, more aware of all that was around her, more at peace with herself.

  Richard’s voice, gentle and low, drifted into her cocoon. “How do you feel?” he asked, almost tenderly.

  Elizabeth was at a loss for words. She was not sure she had ever felt like this before. She searched her mind for an appropriate response.

  “I feel … utterly content,” she finally offered, feeling that even that phrase could not adequately explain her frame of mind.

  He was standing, putting a hand down to her, and she accepted it, awash with the strength and sureness in his grasp as he easily lifted her to her feet. She found she could not draw her hand free once she was settled, that she was soothed by the texture of his fingers around hers, by the warmth, by the strength there. He smiled gently, and then he turned, leading her back toward the keep. She wrapped her fingers more tightly against his, remaining at his side.

  They came in through the gates, and he slowed as he neared the stables. She turned to gaze up at him, and was caught by the look in his eyes, a mixture of tenderness and pride and something gentler as well.

  “I will be back at twilight to escort you both to the keep,” he offered in a low voice.

  “As you wish,” agreed Elizabeth, a hitch twinging her heart at the thought of him leaving her now.

  He smiled then, lowering his head to her hand, pressing the softest of kisses against it. The sensation thrilled through her, coursed through her veins, sending sparks of delight into her fingers and toes. Then he was turning, striding into the stables, and a moment later he was heading out through the gates, fading into the distance.

  *

  Elizabeth smoothed down her deep purple dress for what must have been the eightieth time. It was the only other outfit she had brought with her on her departure, the one nice dress she owned. It had been made for her engagement party with Corwin, done in his favorite color. Her father, pleased with her long-awaited marriage, had spared no expense on its creation. It fit her curves perfectly, tracing its way along her hips and spreading out in soft waves around her ankles. A delicate constellation of embroidered wildflowers skimmed along her neckline an
d hem.

  She had been scrubbed, rinsed, brushed, and braided by the sisters who took great delight in the process. Now she stood alongside Michelle and Claire on the keep steps, watching as the streaks of orange drifted across the sky.

  Michelle’s eyes were alight in excitement. “You look beautiful,” she whispered. “I wish I could go with you.”

  Elizabeth glowed with the praise, and a skittering of nervous energy swirled in the pit of her stomach. So many times she had willfully pushed off any attempt to neaten her appearance. And here she was -

  There was a movement by the gates, and Richard trotted in on his steed, dressed in a dark brown tunic, his dense hair skimming his shoulders. A wave of pride and desire swept through her. His eyes came up to meet hers, and he drew in a long breath, his gaze fixed on hers, pulling on his reins absently, seeming to barely notice as his horse drew in to a stop. He dismounted, left the reins, and moved up to the trio, his eyes locked on Elizabeth’s.

  “You are a vision,” he breathed out, and Elizabeth was not sure if he realized that he had spoken the words aloud.

  Elizabeth reached her hand toward him, and he took it gently, bringing his head down to meet it, pressing his lips. Warmth spread through her, along with a sense of joy, of completion.

  Claire’s voice was low at her side. “Michelle, why not go bring our horses out.” In a moment the girl was scampering toward the stables. Elizabeth barely noticed the movement. Richard was drawing her down the stairs, and she went alongside him, her hand still in his, breathing in his rich scent as the sky drifted into reds and crimsons.

  “That dress,” he offered in a low voice. “The color … it is stunning on you.”

  Elizabeth flushed brightly, and she turned away, grateful that Michelle had arrived with the steeds, giving her something to focus on. He was at her side, helping her up into her saddle, and then the three of them were mounted, heading out together through the gates.

  Claire’s voice slid into her awareness. “I think I will ride ahead of you two, so you can keep an eye on me,” she offered. With a gentle prod her horse was soon in the lead, and Elizabeth and Richard were riding side by side, their horses ambling through the approaching dusk.

  Richard’s gaze was warm on her, and his eyes slid down her dress, pausing as they looked at her saddle. “The leatherwork on your saddle is exquisite,” he commented. “There are wildflowers there, too. Did you have the saddle made to match the dress?”

  Elizabeth chuckled softly. “The other way around,” she conceded. “This is the only fine dress I own, while I made this saddle years ago.”

  His eyes came back to meet hers, widening in surprise. “You made your saddle?”

  “Not the whole thing,” amended Elizabeth promptly. “I designed the leatherwork part of it. A craftsman at my father’s keep handled the basic construction, but I did the carving and imprinting to shape it, sew it, and work the design into it.”

  “That is an exceptional talent,” offered Richard in a rich voice.

  Elizabeth blushed again. “Most men would say that embroidery was more fitting for a female to take on. But I always wanted to do whatever my brother did. He was my idol; I absolutely worshiped him.”

  Richard’s eyes were tender. “Tell me about your brother,” he encouraged.

  Warmth eased through her as she thought of Jeffrey. “He was five years my senior, and the most amazing man in the world,” she reminisced. “He was my guardian angel, mentor, playmate, and so much more. The minute he picked up a sword, I wanted to have one as well. When he took on an apprenticeship with the leather worker, I was at his side every minute, working with the scraps they would drop. It did not matter what he was doing. I wanted to be there with him.”

  “He sounds like a paragon of a brother,” murmured Richard.

  Time slipped away from her, and she was young again, basking in the warmth of Jeffrey’s love, feeling his sure hand holding hers. “He was always there to defend me from my father, always quick to speak up in my defense,” she murmured. “If I was feeling hurt, or sad, just one look at those moss green eyes of his and I knew everything would be all right. I was blissfully happy, until -”

  The shaft of pain pierced her heart as if his death had happened just yesterday. The dense blackness closed in, and Richard rode at her side, not prodding, not asking, simply lending her strength with his presence.

  Finally Elizabeth felt able to continue. “I had just turned thirteen, and my father was becoming more insistent that I leave off with my swordplay and other interests so I could focus on cultivating more marriageable skills. He told me it was my duty as his daughter.

  Her mouth quirked up in a wry grin. “My brother defended me, of course. He blocked my father’s efforts at every turn.”

  Her throat grew tight. “My father had finally had enough of this. My father sneered at Jeffrey; told my brother he was wrapped around my finger and that he needed to become a man. He forced my brother to volunteer in the King’s guard. My father sent him off packing with a group which was heading through France.”

  Her eyes welled, and she forced the tears away. “I still remember the day Jeffrey rode out. He made me promise to stay true to my heart and to pursue the dreams I held within me. He promised to come home to me soon. Then he moved out through our main gates, and he was gone.”

  The dusk was drifting into darkness, and the deep, inky night wrapped into a thick blanket around her, muffling her.

  Again Richard did not ask, did not push, simply remained by her side, patient to wait while she took in long, deep breaths.

  “It was two months later when the message arrived at the house. I was out sparring with one of the guards when my father strode into the courtyard, his face mottled with fury. He grabbed up the quarter staff that one of the men was holding, drew down on me, and swung it with all his might at my right arm. The bone snapped as he hit. The ground came up to slam into my body, but I think the shock of it held off the pain. I could only stare up at him in confusion.”

  She could still feel the stunned paralysis that enveloped her. “He screamed down at me that it was my fault, that I had better become the best fighter in the land, because now it was all up to me. His rage and disbelief and fury were all focused down on me. It was as if he were drilling a hole through my skull, sending a stream of venom directly into my heart.”

  Elizabeth could still hear the echoes of her father’s harsh words, but was no longer surprised by the way they rang ceaselessly in her ears.

  You killed my Jeffrey.

  She could only whisper the words now, and even so her eyes welled with tears. She shuddered with how the four words had slammed into her with the force of a stampeding bull. The pain in her arm had throbbed into fury. She had begun screaming, screaming, her world crashing to a halt around her. Amidst it all her father had turned, stalked off, leaving her writhing on the courtyard floor, utterly alone.

  A hand was twining into hers, and she realized that tears were streaming down her face. She brushed them away with her sleeve, feeling the warmth of his fingers, drawing strength from his presence.

  Finally she was able to bring her breathing under control. “After that, there was no question about my swordplay,” she offered. “He pushed me every day to perfect my skills, and personally oversaw some of the sessions. My arm was barely healed when he fractured my calf, and then it was a twisted ankle, a dislocated shoulder blade. He pushed me ever harder, never letting up. The best I could hope for was a slight abatement of his fury, a gentler hit when I had performed to his satisfaction.”

  “You came to find his attacks were the only form of attention you would receive,” mused Richard, his voice rough.

  “I suppose so,” agreed Elizabeth. “There was no one else left. My mother had died in childbirth when I was barely able to walk, and I had no one else to turn to. My whole life became a vain quest to meet his exorbitant expectations.”

  She looked out into the inky blackness ahead. �
�When I came of age, he decided I was ready to be courted. He seemed surprised at first that men were upset by my skills with a sword, and his fury turned on me, redoubled. He felt I was not good enough; that they were upset because I was still inadequate in my abilities. He trebled the pressure on me, pushing me morning, noon, and night to improve.”

  She drew in a long breath. “He entered me in tournaments to prove to the world that I was a prize worth capturing. Even when Corwin had agreed to his terms, he did not feel satisfied. He felt the May Day tournament was necessary to prove I was the ultimate catch.”

  Richard’s voice was low. “You did come in second,” he offered.

  Elizabeth’s heart dropped into a black chasm. Her jaw ached with the power of her father’s fist; her ribs throbbed with the slam of the ground into her body. “Second,” she echoed, her voice hollow.

  Richard’s hand was warm on hers, and she was bolstered by the strength flowing through it. His voice was low but sure. “Coming in second in a field of seasoned soldiers is a feat to be proud of.”

  She turned then, bringing her gaze to meet his eyes, and she was lost in their depths. There was a distant thawing in her core, the tenuous melting of an inner reserve.

  A row of torches came into view, and she looked away, bringing herself back to reality.

  Soon they were moving beneath the keep’s outer wall, drawing to a halt, and a trio of servants came forward to take their reins, help them down. Then they were making their way up the steps and into the main hall. It was more sedate than the last time, with perhaps half the tables occupied by staff and soldiers. Ron and John were waiting at the head table and waved the group over with excited delight.

  “There you are,” called out Ron. “You are right on time. Come, join us!”

  The two brothers seated Claire between them at the head table, placing Elizabeth immediately opposite them. Richard sat himself to her right, and in a moment servants bustled to and fro, setting down mugs of mead, baskets of rosy apples, wooden platters of steaming duck.