Elizabeau dared to look up at Rhys; he stood beside her, more than a foot and a half taller, gazing steadily at her with his brilliant blue eyes. He hadn’t said a word, nor had he changed expression. She was suddenly coming to feel the least bit guilty for her difficult behavior. A powerful chill raced through her and she pulled the cloak about her as tightly as it would go, averting her gaze at the same time.
“It is not my intention to be difficult,” she said quietly. “This… this has all been a bit overwhelming for me. I’ve never had men try to kill me before. I never knew I was going to be a queen before.”
David’s manner softened somewhat. He glanced at Rhys, who was looking at the lady’s lowered head. David cleared his throat quietly.
“We want you to be queen, else we would not be risking our lives so,” he said. “We are trying to help you achieve this, for all of England. Do you not understand this?”
“I do.”
“Then it would help our cause considerably if you would simply cooperate.”
She looked at him, then. After a moment, she sighed heavily and lowered her eyes again. “As you say.”
David simply nodded; he didn’t believe her for a moment but would not contradict her. Like his brother, he knew women somewhat, having a spirited wife of his own and her two equally spirited sisters that lived with them. He knew what it meant to contradict a woman when one was attempting to gain her compliance. He would have a battle on his hands.
He turned back to Rhys. “Get her to Hanwell. The inn is on the outskirts, called the Blond Gazelle. We’ll meet you there.”
With that, he pulled his mail hood back on and turned for his charger, now munching on wet grass. Rhys took the lady by the elbow again and led her back to their leafy haven.
His charger had cooled somewhat and was nibbling on the bushes he was tethered to. Rhys secured his shield and his crossbow and led the horse out of the foliage. He mounted Elizabeau without a word and leapt on behind her.
“Sir knight?” Elizabeau’s voice was soft.
“My lady?”
She turned slightly, gazing up into his strong face. “I do apologize if I have made this a miserable trek for you. It was not my intention.”
Rhys had been largely silent since the beginning of the foray. It was what it was, and she was the way she was. He accepted it.
“It is of no matter, my lady,” he said honestly.
“But it is,” she insisted. “I never meant to imply that I was ungrateful for your loyalty. It’s just that I have lived my entire life in relative peace, with a relatively normal routine, and suddenly two days ago I am told I am heir to the throne of England and my uncle, whom I have only met twice in my life, is out to murder me. It is all so difficult to believe.”
Rhys’ professional persona was wavering slightly. He wasn’t used to emotion or apologies, in any form, especially from a woman. In fact, he’d made it a practice in life to stay clear of women in general. They could topple a man faster than the mightiest enemy. He’d seen it before.
Now the firebrand was banking her heat and he had no idea how to deal with it. But he knew, instinctively, that he did not trust her. There had to be an ulterior motive to her kindness.
“Understood, my lady,” he said.
“I would wager that if I could only speak with my uncle, I am sure we could settle this issue. Perhaps this is all some horrible misunderstanding.”
“Impossible, my lady. It is my duty to keep you safe and I shall do so with my last breath.”
It wasn’t much of an answer. In fact, it was the generic knightly rhetoric. With a resigned wriggle of well-arched brows, Elizabeau returned her attention to the landscape before them. Even as he spurred the charger forward, her mind lingered on a final thought; what if these knights attempting to supplant John and place her on the throne were wrong? What if they were all wrong?
She wondered.
CHAPTER THREE
Hanwell was a town inundated by the driving rain. The streets were flooded and so were some of the houses. As Rhys and Elizabeau entered the outskirts of the berg, some of the residents were bailing water out of their homes. Doors were open and buckets were flying. Rhys steered his charger clear of more flying water as they made their way down Argyle Street toward the northwestern edge of town.
The Blond Gazelle wasn’t hard to find. It was a brightly lit place with several drunken patrons lingering by the open door, soaked to the skin but not caring. They were having a marvelous time. Rhys pulled the charger to a halt when he came to within several yards of the place, watching the activity for a moment before proceeding. He wanted to make sure there were no obvious signs of John’s assassins.
Quietly, he directed his charger behind the inn and lowered Elizabeau into a huge puddle of horse piss and rain. She sloshed her way out of it miserably as Rhys dismounted behind her and collected his weapons and saddlebags. A sleepy lad emerged from the small stable, rubbing his eyes and taking hold of the charger. Rhys gave the boy a few coins to care for the charger. Collecting the lady by the elbow, he took her around front and into the warm, loud establishment.
It was crowded inside. Rhys scanned the room for foe and ally alike before directing the lady towards the smoking fire. Elizabeau was so cold that her lips were blue and it took Rhys a few moments to realize that she was nearly frozen. Before this moment, he’d been so consumed with scouting threats that he hadn’t noticed. He suddenly felt somewhat guilty that he had not paid closer attention to his charge as he watched the blue lips quiver and the teeth chatter.
There was a man, probably a merchant, in a fur-lined cloak seated near the fire and enjoying a large meal. With the lady in hand, Rhys went to the man and ripped the cloak from his shoulders, pulling him to the floor in the process. The man coughed and bellowed, looking up to see a knight of enormous proportions hovering over him. Before the man could utter a word of protest, Rhys grabbed him by the neck and tossed him halfway across the room.
“The lady requires your seat,” he said as the man skidded across the floor.
Elizabeau watched with surprise as the wealthy merchant tumbled into a heap. But she did not have time to comment as Rhys literally picked her up and set her down in the chair the merchant had occupied. She was suddenly very close to the fire and any thoughts of the merchant died in her throat as the searing warmth enveloped her.
“You’re freezing,” Rhys said as he pulled the wet oilcloth off of her and replaced it with the merchant’s dry, fur-lined cloak. “Sit here and warm yourself. I shall return.”
He was gone, off across the crowded room and heading for the barkeep. Chilled, hungry, Elizabeau turned back to the fire and held her hands over it, feeling the heat like a thousand pin-pricks against her flesh. It was delightful. She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth on her face, thawing her. She’d not felt such comfort in days. Not since men from Hubert de Burgh’s ranks came to her mother’s home in South London and forcibly escorted her from its walls.
She opened her eyes, her mood growing somber as she thought of the turn her life had taken over the past two days. Until then, she had been blessed with a relatively privileged existence. Being the niece of the king, though illegitimate, had brought her that honor. In truth, she had seen her father only five times in her life and her Uncle John only twice. The royal family, for the most part, had left her alone as the bastard of Geoffrey. But that life of obscurity was apparently no longer.
Gloomy thoughts rolled through her head as she stared into the fire with deep green orbs. There was sensuality to her eyes and unearthly beauty to her face, something no Plantagenet possessed. She was an exquisite example of female beauty from her mother’s side, the bloodlines of the fair-skinned Norsemen running strong in her veins. She didn’t know if she was equipped for this life that was about to be thrust upon her. She’d never prepared for it. She wasn’t sure her sense of duty was that strong.
There was food at her elbow, a cooling knuckle of beef left by the
merchant. She was hungry and took a bite. A second bite quickly followed and then a third. She hadn’t realized how ravenous she was until the moment the meat touched her lips. When Rhys returned with a tray loaded with food, she was already well into the knuckle.
He tried to remove the food to replace it with the hot meal but she refused, holding fast to the beef she was enjoying. He simply shrugged his shoulders and sat the hot tray next to the cooling one.
“This meat is fresh, my lady,” he pointed out. “Perhaps you would enjoy this more.”
She shook her head, wiping at the juice on her chin. “This is fine.”
Rhys didn’t say anything; he just watched her stuff her mouth, thinking yet again he had been very negligent of her state as they had traveled. He set a cup of ale beside her right hand and then took a long, healthy drink from the second cup he had procured for himself. Smacking his lips, he took a moment to remove his helm and set it at his feet. The crossbow went next to it. Then he peeled his mail hauberk off his damp head and went to work on his own knuckle of beef.
Elizabeau looked up from her meal to see a man she didn’t recognize sitting across from her. She’d not yet seen du Bois without his helm or mail hood and, for a moment, she stopped chewing as she stared at him; he had black hair, short and stiff with moisture. But that wasn’t all; she could see his entire face, now unobstructed by the helm, and it was a striking vision. He had black eyebrows, arched over his brilliant blue eyes, a square jaw with a huge dimple in his chin. Dark stubble covered his cheeks and she watched the movements of his features as he chewed heartily on the beef. Her eyes raked over him, seeing the man in a different light, wondering why her heart pounded so strangely at the sight of him. Confused over her reaction, she went back to her meat and hoped it would pass.
Rhys was done with his beef before she was, tossing the bone to the floor and watching the dogs fight over it. He glanced over at Elizabeau to see how she was faring and noticed she was only picking at her bread. She didn’t seem as hungry as she had earlier and his concern returned.
“Is something amiss, my lady?” he asked. “Is the bread not to your liking?”
She looked at him as if startled by his question. Quickly, she shook her head and lowered her gaze.
“It is fine,” she said.
Rhys looked at her as if he did not believe her. She seemed depressed and remote, not at all like the woman he had taken from Hyde House earlier in the evening. That woman had been full of confidence, spit and fire. He swallowed the bite in his mouth, trying to ascertain her disposition.
“Are you feeling poorly?” he probed politely. “It is well after midnight. We might be able to spare a few hours for you to sleep.”
Her head snapped up, the deep green eyes fixing on him. He could see the wheels of thought turning. “You are a duke’s son,” she said after a moment. “Why do you serve de Lohr as a common knight?”
He lifted a dark eyebrow at her. “I am not sure what you mean, my lady.”
“I mean that you are born to privilege. If your father is the Duke of Navarre, then he must be related to Philippe Auguste.”
Rhys’ gaze lingered on her. “He is the king’s cousin. His mother and the king’s father were cousins.”
“Then Phillip is your cousin.”
“Aye.”
She stared at him. Then she put the bread down. “Yet you serve an English earl? This makes no sense.”
“Why not?”
Her eyebrows flew up. “Why not? Well… well, just look at you. You’re a big knight with big weapons. You should be in France serving your father or ruling over your own lands.”
He sat back in his chair; for some reason, he was enjoying her confusion. A smile played on his smooth lips.
“Yet I am not. Who I serve, and why I serve, should be of no concern to you, my lady. You have greater problems of your own to think about.”
Elizabeau looked at him, realizing he was keeping a definitive wall up. He did not want her to know anything about him; that much was clear. He had been nothing but professional and calculating since she had met him. He was her escort and nothing more. Not that it mattered to her, but the man could at least show some measure of friendliness and answer her question. She was puzzled why the son of a duke should serve a mere English earl.
She returned her gaze to her bread, hunting for a knife and possibly some butter. If he did not want to speak of himself, so be it.
Rhys watched her as she busied herself with more food. He wasn’t hungry any longer, more interested in studying the lady at the moment. He’d not allowed himself to give her any regard other than professional treatment up until this moment; there hadn’t been the time or the focus. He had been trying to keep her alive. But now, at least for the time being, the situation was calm. The ale was relaxing his body as well as his tongue.
“I am not in succession for the duke’s title,” he said quietly, watching her look up from buttering her bread. “My mother was a lady-in-waiting for the duchess.”
She stopped buttering. “You’re a bastard?”
“Like you.”
Elizabeau began to understand his position somewhat. “Is that why you do not carry the duke’s name?”
He nodded. “De Foix is for the family of Navarre. I carry my grandmother’s surname on my father’s side.”
“Why do you not carry your mother’s name?”
He toyed with the cup in his hand, the brilliant blue eyes with their guard down for the first time since they’d met. He and the lady had common ground, something they both understood clearly being illegitimate offspring. He felt no humiliation in telling her.
“Because my father would not hear of it,” he said quietly. “Yet he did not want me to bear his name, either. So I am named after his mother’s side of the family.”
Elizabeau watched him play with the cup, finally pouring himself more ale. “But I bear my mother’s name,” she said.
“That was not possible in my case,” he replied. “Although my mother is of minor Welsh nobility, my father would not permit me to carry a Welsh name. It simply was not an option.”
Her lovely arched eyebrows lifted. “I should have seen it in you. You carry the darkness of the Welsh.”
He smiled wryly, the first such gesture she had ever seen from him. He had massive dimples carving through each cheek. “And you carry the fairness of the Norsemen.”
She blinked. “How would you know that?”
“I have served de Lohr for many years. There is not much I do not know about you or the rest of the Plantagenets.”
Elizabeau met his brilliant blue eyes a moment longer before returning to her buttered bread. She felt strangely akin to him, knowing they had a common lineage. Somehow, in their brief conversation, she did not feel quite so overwhelmed or unbalanced by her situation. She was with a knight who understood her background because his were the same. It was difficult to explain why she felt more relaxed now, but she did.
Rhys watched her lowered head, the way the firelight played off her golden red hair. She seemed curious and intelligent. He wondered what kind of queen she would make. Given their choice of monarchs at the moment, anything would be better than what they had. But he would never voice his opinion. He was a knight and knights did as they were told.
He drained his cup for the third time and decided that he’d had enough ale for the night. His face felt warm, a sure indication that he had imbibed enough. Anymore would find him growing drunk. As he turned to look for the serving wench to order something more that would not dull his senses, the door to the inn suddenly slammed back on its hinges and the merchant he had thrown from the table bolted inside. He was followed by four soldiers, the thunder from the storm punctuating their arrival.
It was as if a door from Hell had opened wide and the noise and clashing associated with such a place poured through. The merchant’s gaze fell on Rhys and he jabbed a finger at him, pointing out the target to his men. The implication was obviou
s.
The room began to scatter with panic. Rhys stood up and moved away from the table; he did not want any fighting in the proximity of the lady. The four soldiers advanced on him, spreading out in a pattern of attack. Rhys noted the movement, understanding in that tactical move that they were experienced. They would not be caught in a bunch, instead, choosing to stalk their victim and maximize their advantage.
But Rhys was ready for them. He was calm, collected, as he unsheathed both of the swords still strapped to his back. He swung them with deadly precision, in concert, displaying not only his skill but his control. The metal sang through the warm, stale air with a chilling hum. As his senses reached out, tracking the movements of the men closest to him, Elizabeau was suddenly in his line of sight.
“My lord,” she was addressing the insulted merchant loudly. “Please call off your men. There is no need for fighting.”
Some of Rhys’ calm faltered; she was too close should any fighting start and he did not want her in the line of fire.
“My lady,” he hissed at her. “You will remove yourself at once.”
She held out a quelling hand to him, banking on the fact that the men threatening him would not lash out at a defenseless lady. She continued to move towards the merchant, passing in front of Rhys as she did so. A soft, white hand came to rest on his right wrist, gentle pressure requesting that he lower his weapons. Though her flesh was cold, it felt like a branding iron against his skin; Rhys almost forgot all else but her tender hand against him. It was difficult to stay focused.
“Please, my lord,” she was still in front of Rhys, still with a hand on his wrist. But her focus was on the merchant. “My… husband had but one thought, and that was to place me next to a warm fire. You see, we’ve been traveling all night and I am very wet, as you can see. Unfortunately, you happened to be in the way. He did not mean to insult to you; he only meant to help me. Will you please call your men off now?”
She sounded very calm, very rational, and very wise. Rhys looked at her; she did not seem like the same lady he had met only a few hours ago, the spitfire who complained at every turn. She was serene and relaxed as she attempted to diffuse the situation. But the merchant was still rightly upset.
Fathers and Sons Page 3