Another burst of laughter from the dark corner sounded, louder and showing evidence of ample drink. His hand tightened around a pewter cup of wine, delivered with a flourish by the innkeeper’s daughter. If the maid did not show soon, he might find himself reduced to replacing her with another, even one such as the saucy wench bending low over a nearby table to present a tankard of ale to one of his own knights. Sir Peter looked up, slyly sticking his hand into the loose neck of the wench’s tunic, fingers toying with the pale breasts so boldly displayed. Rhys looked away, uncomfortable and unsettled. Where the devil was the girl? Had she changed her mind, as maids were so oft prone to do?
He took an angry gulp of wine. Time was an inconstant thing, the shift from daylight to dark marked by a burning candle of hours counted by the priests, but otherwise a vague framework upon which to base events. Yet the candle must have burned past the vesper hour, for the bells had rung clearly from the priory next to St. Edward, and still she had not come.
Fire shadows danced across sooty walls, light and dark shapes flickering against wood and plaster like the gamboling elves of Brian’s lengthy tales, and just about as solid as the fey creatures. Fragments of fevered dreams, half-formed thoughts and vague ramblings, stories of elf queens, faeries, and love spells spewed from the Irishman most freely when the wine flowed. It had been Rhys’s misfortune to be treated to a prolonged story of Conle the Red Haired, who was beguiled by a love-struck faerie and invited to Faerie Hill, where there are no worries, no deaths, and lasting feasts to while away eternity. Being Irish, the tale had spun out endlessly but finished with the ominous recital of how Conle had allowed himself to be persuaded by the beautiful faerie’s entreaties and sailed away in a crystal boat, never to be seen again. A deaf man could have heard the blatant warning in Brian’s narration—performed with energetic gestures and pacing—but to be certain Rhys understood his meaning, the Irishman presented him with his most precious relic: the tooth of a saint.
“I sacrifice it . . . to keep ye . . . safe from . . . her spells, m’lor’,” he’d mumbled blearily, following this touching sentiment with a long, deep belch.
Appalled—not only by the separation of such a devoted believer from an object of great personal value, but the nature of his sacrifice—Rhys had politely declined to accept it. Whereupon Brian had collapsed into a blathering flood of dire predictions concerning what would befall them all if Rhys was spirited away by the Elf Queen. Thankfully, the wine soon soothed even those worries, and he’d left the Irishman snoring peacefully in the stable.
Now here he was, waiting for the mystical Elf Queen to grace him with her presence, he thought moodily. He should have persuaded her to yield in the meadow. Then he wouldn’t be watching his companions get drunk in a crowded inn, but be pleasantly submerged in a much more intoxicating haze. Rarely did he imbibe too freely, disliking the inevitable problems created by careless actions. There were problems enough in his world without inviting more.
Sir Peter staggered from the table, an arm thrown around the kitchen wench, bragging about his carnal accomplishments. Rhys briefly considered escorting his obviously drunk knight to a bed of hay with Brian, then changed his mind. It appeared the wench had no objections to leading the way to a more remote location and a test of Peter’s boasts.
A gust of wind pushed the door open as they reached it, and Sir Peter’s drunken efforts to catch it were futile to the point of ludicrous. His clumsy fumbles sent his companions into gales of laughter and advice on how best to capture the elusive slab of oak. Rhys watched with a faint smile. There was a flurry of activity around the entrance as other knights feigned sword-play with the deeply scarred oak door—evidently a veteran of many such encounters—and then a sudden shout shattered the laughter.
The difference in tone was instant, from laughing play to shock and anger. Rhys was already on his feet and striding to the source of trouble when he heard accented tones snarling in angry frustration. By the time he reached the seething knot of dissension, some of his men had seen his approach and already retreated, opening a path for him.
In the midst of the conflict stood a lean, dark young man clutching one of the most wicked daggers Rhys had ever seen, holding it in front of him as if he were quite capable of using it efficiently. He barely glanced at Rhys, even when the other men moved cautiously away with angry mutters. With his back to the scarred oak, the youth crouched in a position of defense, ready to shift to offense at the first sign of need.
Silent, Rhys studied him until the youth finally dared a glance at him. He returned it coolly. The room had grown quiet, the only sound a dull clatter coming from the back, where the other patrons were oblivious to trouble. The youth breathed hard, his chest rising and falling quickly under a torn tunic. A scratch on one cheek welled with drops of blood.
“Why stir up my men, brat?” The abrupt question jerked the boy’s head around, and dark eyes glared at Rhys hotly.
“I have the bad habit of misliking knife cuts on my face,” he retorted. “‘Tis a failing others have tried to remedy and failed.”
Rhys’s appraisal took in all between his unruly thatch of black hair and laced boots, then returned to the now reddened face. “Is that so? Then you have come to the right place for a cure. Any one of these men would oblige you, as they are all seasoned knights fresh from the Crusades.”
“Seasoned with too much ale, it seems to me.” He gestured at the men with his dagger. “If these are the best of Richard’s knights, all of England will soon be speaking Arabic.”
Rhys swung up his arm to halt an enraged rush from one of his men, not taking his eyes from the wary predator against the door. “You speak boldly for a lone challenger. Do you have an army at your back?”
“If I did, would I be braced against the door like a trapped fox?” He shook his head. “Nay, signor. I am sent to deliver you a message and would do so before yon drunken knights decide to spit me on a lance for their amusement.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, Rhys nodded. “Deliver it, whelp, then begone before my men forget their manners.”
After a quick, dark glance at the grumbling knights, he looked back at Rhys and said, “My lady awaits you.”
Rhys stared at him. So she had not changed her mind. But how like a female to change the plans. It had been understood they were to meet here. Nothing had been said about moving the tryst to another location. He was not a man to trust sudden changes, having been nastily surprised too often.
When his silence stretched, the boy’s dark brow lifted with disdain. “I will tell her that you no longer wish to meet with her, signor.”
“Hold,” Rhys said when the youth half turned to move cautiously from the doorway. Curse it all, what was the maid’s name? He regretted not having asked. “Tell your lady that I wish to keep our meeting as arranged.”
A flash of emotion crossed the youth’s face, a dark flicker that was quickly gone, and he shrugged. “If you wish. I’ll take you to her.”
“Your lady was to come to me. I’ve made arrangements here. Go, and bring her back with you.”
“Nay, signor. She has made her own arrangements and bids you join her.” His expression altered, and he added slyly, “Unless you fear I will overpower you on the way.”
Even the drunkest of his knights did not move or speak. Rhys merely gazed at the youth until he took a tentative step backward. Then, with slow, measured words, he said, “I do not waste my time fearing the vain crowing of cockerels. Each man here now knows your face. If I am undone, there will be no place distant enough, deep enough, or high enough to hide you from them.”
Angry dismay suffused the boy’s features, but he gave a curt jerk of his chin in acknowledgment and stepped aside to clear the doorway for Rhys to pass. Torchlight wavered over the shallow stone stoop, and horn lamps were set atop a low wall to light the way for late travelers. Pinpricks o
f light glittered erratically beyond the limits of the inn’s courtyard, for a deep wood stretched into the hills behind the village.
Pausing to relight his lanthorn from one of the horn lamps atop the wall, the youth signaled silently for Rhys to follow. Rhys looked past him, frowning at the course the boy set. Erratic moonlight silvered the ground in vague, shifting shadows, but did not diminish the danger beyond the garden walls. One ambush a day was enough, and he had no wish to let desire overrule his head.
The slick metallic whisk of Rhys’s sword being drawn brought the youth around with a jerk, and the lanthorn he held high shook light over his startled face. Rhys shrugged. “I’ve no wish to be caught unawares.”
“Do you think me fool enough to come to a sword fight with only a dagger?” came the hissed question. “I may be young yet, signor, but I’ve enough sense to know better than that.”
“‘Tis not your meager skill with a dagger that concerns me.” He indicated the trees and darkness with his sword point. “An entire army could be in those trees, and I would not know it until too late.”
“You flatter yourself if you think ‘twould take an army to defeat one knight,” he retorted.
Rhys didn’t reply. After giving him a scathing glare, the youth swung around and surged forward. Shadows shifted from gray to gold under the swaying lanthorn, then to deep black beyond the flame. The sharp scent of herbs filled the air, and an owl hooted softly in the nearby wood. Their footsteps crunched on rock, then grew muffled against the dirt of a wooden path. Here, the scent of whitethorn was strong and sweet.
At the edge of the wood, Rhys halted. “Does your lady lodge in a tree, whelp?”
“Nay, signor,” was the muttered reply. “But we prefer more civilized lodgings than those provided by yon hostel. When possible. I’ve not noted a surfeit of elegant quarters for poor travelers in England, and my lady oft desires that we have more than a rude pallet.”
He turned back to look at Rhys. The swaying light from the lanthorn wavered over his face in alternating shades of dark and light. There was a faint mocking smile on his mouth. “If you fear treachery, feel free to return to the inn. I will make your apologies to my lady.”
“While your offer is tempting, the lady is more so.” Rhys smiled at the quick darkening of the youth’s face. “Lead on, and remember—if there is treachery, yours will be the first throat I cut.”
Silent and glowering, the youth stomped ahead, making no effort to be quiet. It grew darker in the trees where pale moonlight could not reach. Leaves crunched underfoot. In the distance, a wolf howled, the sound shivering through the night like a warning. Pitch blackness loomed ahead, unbroken by anything but the brief flicker of the lanthorn. The bob of light whisked over a shimmer of color but faded so quickly, Rhys wasn’t certain he’d really seen it. When they drew several paces closer, the circle of light grew larger, and his suspicion was confirmed: A Saracen tent.
Silk walls and a pointed roof glowed with muted light, like a rare jewel in the midst of an English beech glade. A rainbow of red, blue, green, and yellow quivered at the press of wind, and the teasing fragrance of spices curled in the air. He expected at any moment to hear the liquid notes of a nightingale singing in the trees.
But the sounds he heard were from the mist-maid, who came to stand in the swagged entrance, a vision in silks and shimmering light. A changeling. No enveloping wool cloak, no rough tunic or peasant dress, but a living flame of crimson color. Dark beauty in radiant splendor. He felt, suddenly, as if a horse had kicked him in the belly.
“Good eventide, beau sire.” She smiled at him warmly. Her gaze flicked down to his drawn sword. “Has there been trouble?” She looked toward her servant, then made a small sound of dismay. “Biagio—you’ve been hurt. Were you set upon?”
“Yea, signorina.” A darted glance toward Rhys, then a shrug, and he added, “Outlaws. Ten of them. I fought free, managing to inflict great harm, but received a small cut in the battle.”
Amused by the blatant lie, Rhys was not moved to challenge it. If the young Italian preferred inventions to truth, it was his business. There were other, more important, matters on his mind this night. He sheathed his sword in a rasp of steel and waited.
After a brief pause, she murmured something in Italian to the youth, and he flung Rhys a quick glance and shrugged a reply. Rhys watched them, the two dark heads so close together.
Then she turned, a swift bright smile on her face, and moved toward him as lightly as she had that day in the weald, as if on winged feet. But no mist-maid this, no faerie to carry lovers away in crystal boats, but a real woman of flesh and blood. Almost too real. Sheer silk drifted from her shoulders to her feet, skimming a slender shape barely visible beneath the folds. A girdle of gold links rode her hips, and embroidered slippers fit her feet, trimmed with tiny brass bells that tinkled with every step. Silk was exotic, a luxury, yet she slept beneath a canopy of it.
Silk and jasmine, the true Eastern version of Brian’s imaginary crystal boats, a subtle allure to draw a man into the land of milk and honey for all eternity. But he was to have just one night. Having her this close, with the teasing scent of jasmine and her dark witching eyes, was enough to make him ache. And he was impatient to be alone with her. Impatient to be inside her.
“Will you come with me, Sir Rhys?” she invited. He was startled to hear his name on her lips, then chagrined that he did not know hers.
“Most assuredly, lady fair,” he said, smiling, reaching out to take her outstretched hand.
He looked up to find Biagio staring at him narrowly, his arms crossed over his chest, brown eyes hard. Rhys held his gaze until the youth looked away, muttered something under his breath, and ducked into the tent.
The soft rustle of silk was broken by the sudden clatter of metal objects, and he felt the maid tense. She flung him a quick glance and another smile, then withdrew her hand and gestured to the tent.
“I would be honored for you to join me inside, beau sire.”
Rhys followed her into the tent, ducking under a crimson flap tied back with tassels. He couldn’t help a start of surprise. Thick carpets lined the silk floor. Brass lamps and braziers filled the enclosure with light and a musky fragrance. Plump cushions were scattered about the small area. His head grazed the draped ceiling as he stared at the Turkish setting.
Biagio picked up scattered cups and a tray from the carpet with short, jerky movements. He radiated dislike and resentment in his tension and the quick, dark glances thrown like daggers at Rhys.
He smiled. Biagio dropped the tray again, and a cup rolled across the carpet to stop against the toe of Rhys’s boot. He looked down, then lifted a brow at the youth. “‘Tis best for you that you are not one of my squires, for you would be lessoned well in the art of serving.”
Angry color flooded his face, and Biagio took an impetuous step forward, one hand clenched on the hilt of the dagger in his belt. “I would never serve as your squire, for—”
“Biagio,” the maid said quickly, stepping in front of the youth with a hand against his chest, her eyes fixed on his furious face, “after you’ve picked this up, please help Elspeth bring our meal. Then fetch your lute, for we would enjoy a melody with our dinner.”
It was on the tip of Rhys’s tongue to say that he cared nothing for appeasing that kind of hunger, but he didn’t want to appear too eager. In the wrong hands, lust could be a powerful weapon to use against a man. So he stood there, silent, his head brushing against the silk ceiling and the ache knotting inside him, waiting. All a prelude, a slow dance toward the inevitable climax of the evening that would be all the more savored for the anticipation.
“Please, beau sire,” she said with a glance at him, all smiles and gracious courtesy, “be seated, and we will have wine.”
He glanced around. No chairs, nothing but plump cushions in bright colors an
d patterns were visible. He had a sudden vision of sitting at her feet like a love-struck swain and shook his head.
“Nay, I will stand.”
She looked dismayed. “All night?”
A slow smile curved his mouth. He looked at her upturned face and said softly, “Not all night, no.”
Color flooded her exquisite features, and she gave a laugh that sounded a bit shaky. “Of course not, but—but you must sit to eat. I will have Biagio bring a chair.”
The chair was brought, an odd-looking thing of sturdy material and dark wood, held together with tiny brass hinges that allowed it to fold out. He looked at it dubiously, and she laughed.
“It will hold you, beau sire, I promise. It looks fragile, but ‘tis a strong chair, believe me. I got it from a man in Constantinople who was much heavier than you, and ‘twas his favorite chair.”
“If it was his favorite chair, why did he part with it?”
She looked up, blinking, then shrugged. “He wagered on a horse race with me and lost. I won the chair, and he had to explain to his wife. It was victory twice over for me, as he was a wretched braggart of a man. Perhaps because his wife was a shrew, although he should not have suffered it so meekly.”
Amused, he tested the chair’s stability with one hand, then moved to sit down. Surprisingly, it felt much sturdier than it looked. His sword stuck out at an awkward angle when he was seated, and he tried unsuccessfully to adjust it. She sat down on a cushion at his feet and watched quietly for a moment before suggesting he remove the weapon.
He shook his head. “I will wear it.”
“All night?” she teased, and he looked up at her with a lifted brow.
“There are swords, sweet flower, and there are swords. You will know when I am ready to trade one for another.”
The Magic Page 7
