A Time for Love

by Lynn Kurland

  She came to a stop before him. She couldn’t smile. She couldn’t even speak.

  Rhys, apparently, hadn’t much more to say than she did. He stared down at her, his expression grim and forbidding. He looked as if his most recently passed night had been more taxing than hers. His eyes were very red and his hair and tunic damp. She might have suspected that he’d drunk himself into a stupor and then stumbled into the moat, but he did not carry that stench with him. Perhaps he had spent the night pacing, then dunked his head into a rainbarrel to refresh himself.

  And then she had no time for speculation, for he straightened and pushed himself away from the wall. He folded his arms over his chest again. She had first thought that it was a posture he so often assumed because it intimidated. Now she thought he might be trying to protect his heart without realizing it.

  Rhys cleared his throat.

  “Did he h—”

  He cleared his throat again.

  “Did he hurt you?” he whispered hoarsely.

  Gwen shook her head, mute.

  “Then he lives another day.”

  She nodded. She believed him. She suspected that if she ever answered any other way, Alain’s time to linger in his mortal frame would be very short indeed.

  “It was very impersonal,” she began, then came to an abrupt halt as Rhys flung back his head as if she’d struck him.

  “I don’t want to hear of it,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Then we won’t speak of it,” she agreed. Nothing could have suited her better.

  Rhys unfolded his arms and started to reach for her, then he jerked his hands down by his sides. He glared at her instead.

  “You are mine,” he whispered harshly.

  “Rhys—”

  “You were mine before you were his.”

  “But now I am—”

  “You are still mine, and I will have you or die in the trying.”

  She shook her head and reached up to put her hand over his mouth. He backed away sharply, shaking his head.

  “I will have you.”

  And with that, he spun on his heel and walked swiftly away.

  “Fitzgeralds,” he barked over his shoulder, “come with me.”

  Gwen’s keepers trailed after him obediently. Connor’s hands were already caressing his sword hilts, so Gwen assumed he anticipated some sort of sport in the lists.

  She contemplated what her options were for tasks to keep her busy that day. She could have written to her mother to let her know that she should have been grateful that Hugh hadn’t allowed her to come to the wedding. He’d claimed there wasn’t enough room in the baggage wains, but Gwen suspected he’d wanted one less wedding guest to stand in the way of his ingesting the finest Ayre’s larder had to offer. But writing to her mother would only remind her of what she had lost, and that she couldn’t bear. Not even the thought of beginning to make Ayre habitable raised any sort of enthusiasm in her.

  All that was left was to make her way stealthily to the lists and see what the men were about. It looked to be a gray day outside. She could put on a cloak and remain unmarked. If nothing else, her day as a mercenary had prepared her for that much.

  Without any more thought, she returned to her chamber for her cloak, then made her way to the lists. She’d almost reached them when she ran bodily into Sir Montgomery. He made her a low bow.

  “My pardon, lady. I should have been watching for you.”

  She waved aside his apology. “The fault was mine. Think nothing of it.”

  “Oh, but I must think on it. I am a member of your personal guard now, and my captain would be mightily displeased to know I’d come close to plowing you over.”

  Gwen blinked. “But you were captain of Lord Bertram’s guard. How is it . . . ?”

  He smiled. “The fortunes of fate, my lady.”

  “Rhys possesses much cheek to think to order you about.”

  “He possesses more skill with the sword than cheek, and believe me when I say he has the latter in great abundance. Had he not bested me so thoroughly when we discussed the matter, I might not have been so willing to do his bidding.”

  “Well,” she began, unsure if she should feel sorry for him or not, “I am glad to have you, if that matters.”

  His smile was as sunny as ever. “It matters a great deal, lady, and I am happy to serve you. Where go you now? I will see you safely there.”

  “I thought to hug the walls of the lists and see the goings-on there.”

  He lifted one eyebrow. “Your husband is there. As well as Captain Rhys, of course.”

  “Fighting each other?”

  His eyes twinkled merrily. “Now, wouldn’t that be something to see. Nay, lady, I daresay Lord Alain has little desire to cross blades with any but those in his own personal guard.”

  She didn’t doubt it. None of them would dare best him.

  “But Rhys’s back is still not fully healed,” she said. And I would know.

  “Ah, but his mood is powerfully foul. That is more than enough to make up for what strength he lacks.”

  And likely more than enough reason for Alain to keep a safe distance. It was the first wise choice Gwen had seen the man make.

  Within moments she had chosen a handy rock to rest herself upon and turned her attentions to what went on before her. Alain was easily marked. He made more noise with his mouth than his sword, and his ridiculous boasts and comments about his own skill filled the air. Gwen wondered how his men stood training with him. Given the somewhat ineffective way he seemed to be puttering about with his sword, she suspected he didn’t spend all that much time in the lists.

  Not like the man at the other end of the field.

  Gwen watched Rhys facing the Fitzgeralds and wondered which one he intended to fight first. The twins each drew a sword. Rhys drew two himself.

  It was then she realized he intended to fight them both at the same time.

  Montgomery whistled low under his breath and laughed a huff of a laugh. “What cheek that boy has.”

  “He’ll never manage it.”

  Montgomery looked down at her and smiled. “Have you never seen him do it?”

  “I saw him fight at my sire’s keep, but that was several years ago.”

  “He’s improved since then. He must be powerfully irritated this morn. He doesn’t usually take them both on at once.”

  Gwen knew he was angry and she knew exactly why. And she wondered, as she watched Rhys take on those two enormous men, if Alain knew what sort of raging storm was brewing inside his keep. She turned to look for her husband only to find him staring at Rhys. She watched him watch her captain fight and suspected that Alain knew very well what lived beneath his roof. She also suspected he had no desire to admit as much.

  Rhys continued to keep the Fitzgeralds at bay. Alain turned back to his own exercise, raising the volume and the arrogance of his boasts.

  Rhys had said he would have her. As she watched him work, she decided that if anyone could make good on those words, it was he.

  She rose and walked back to the hall before she could think on it any longer. Going out to watch him had been a mistake. Better that she concentrate on something she could control, such as the filth in Alain’s keep. She would attack the piles of refuse and see them thrown far beyond the walls where they would trouble her no longer.

  A pity she couldn’t have done the same thing with the man to whom she now found herself wed.

  Rhys came in from his morning’s exercise the same way he had for the past two months. Silently. His anger unappeased. He’d worked the Fitzgeralds to the bone, driven Montgomery into the dust, and made his squire John weep with exhaustion.

  And yet still the sun rose.

  Alain breathed.

  Gwen was still wed.

  His only comfort was knowing that he was commanded to stay near her at all times. Taking the time to train was probably something he shouldn’t have done overmuch, but he felt no guilt over it for Gwen came to
the lists frequently to watch him. When she did not come, he left the Fitzgeralds to guard her door.

  John and Montgomery did not like those days.

  But that was how the days had been passed. He had trained. He had contemplated all the ways he could extricate Gwen from her marriage. He had spoken to her of trying to obtain an annulment.

  He had prayed for a miracle.

  None had come.

  Rhys glanced at the high table to see who was there. Alain reclined in his chair, obviously having enjoyed a fine meal already. Rhys pursed his lips. The current lord of Ayre never spent more time than necessary in the lists when it stood to interfere with his time at the table. Hugh would have been proud.

  Rollan sat in his accustomed place next to Alain, as close as possible to his brother. It was likely easier to whisper his venom into Alain’s ear thusly.

  Gwen sat on Alain’s other side, leaning as far out of her chair as she could. Rhys half wondered why she bothered. The one thing he could say for Alain was that the man was determined to ignore his wife. Rhys couldn’t have been happier about that. Now if he could just be counted on to ignore her at night as well.

  Satisfied that there was no mischief afoot, Rhys retreated to one of the lower tables and sat down to what was left there. He’d had worse. Indeed, there had been times during his first few months in France when he’d gone to earn his gold that he’d had none at all. But he’d definitely had better. Try as she might, Gwen had been unable to improve the kitchens at Ayre. She’d seen the hall and the bailey rid of most of its filth, but she’d been unable to remove Alain’s cook from his post, or encourage him to produce better fare. Rhys indulged in a fond memory or two of the meals he’d eaten at Segrave. Well worth the journey. Hopefully he could convince Gwen that a trip home would be good for her. He could use something tasty to eat.

  “There’s nothing wrong with the fare.”

  Rhys looked up to see Alain glaring at Gwen. She only blinked at him, obviously surprised at his outburst.

  “The fare?” she echoed.

  “This is the first time you’ve managed to stir yourself to come down for a meal in days. You’ll not shame me by refusing my food!” he shouted as he shoved back his chair and leaped to his feet.

  Rhys didn’t think; he leaped. How he managed to cross all that space and clear the high table in so short a time, he couldn’t have said. All he knew was Alain’s hand was coming toward Gwen’s face, and he would be there to stop it.

  “Forbearance, my lord,” Rhys said, pulling Gwen behind him.

  “Insolent cur, stand aside! I’ll beat her where all can watch. Perhaps ’twill cure her once and for all of her disobedience.”

  “I will suffer in her stead,” Rhys began, but Gwen poked him sharply in the back.

  “Beat me if you will,” she said, looking around Rhys’s arm and glaring at her husband, “and lose your child in the process.”

  Rhys turned to look at her. “A babe?”

  “A son?” Alain asked, as if the child he’d just learned of could be nothing else.

  “Aye, a babe,” Gwen said, pushing past Rhys to stand toe-to-toe with her husband. “And you’ll drive it right from my body if you take a hand to me.”

  Alain looked her over critically. “I suppose you could be breeding. You haven’t had your courses yet, and we’ve been wed nigh onto four fortnights.”

  Rhys looked at Alain and, for the first time ever, saw him smile.

  It was, somehow, not a very pretty sight.

  “Well,” he said, smiling a bit more, “now that’s done, I can see to other things. De Piaget, see that she cares for herself well, else you’ll answer to me. I’m for Canfield this afternoon. Long overdue for a visit there. I think I’ll have a bit of a hunt before I go. Aye, I’ve missed that.”

  He walked away, continuing to enlighten those around him as to his immediate plans for the future.

  Rhys turned back to Gwen in time to find her nigh onto slipping down to the floor. He caught her by the arms and lowered her into her chair.

  “You’re feeling poorly?” he asked, bending to peer into her face.

  She waved him back. “Not so close.”

  He straightened, wondering if he should feel as offended as he wanted to.

  “Your breath,” she said, waving her hand in front of her nose.

  Now he was truly offended.

  “All manner of smells,” she continued. “I can scarce bear them.”

  Well, that left him feeling a bit better.

  “I think I can find someone to aid you,” he offered. “If you like.”

  She looked up at him, and he could see something in her eyes. He wasn’t sure if it was pain or embarrassment.

  “I’m going to bear him a child,” she said quietly.

  He nodded.

  “Now there can be no—”

  Annulment, he knew she meant to say, and he coughed loudly to cover it up. He hoped Rollan hadn’t seen her mouth move.

  “Off to Master Socrates,” he said, reaching for her hand and pulling her to her feet. He looked at Rollan and inclined his head. “If you will permit us, my lord?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer. He pulled Gwen along behind him, felt rather than saw the Fitzgeralds fall into step behind her, and managed to collect Montgomery and John as well as he passed through the kitchens. And all the while he tried not to think about what he’d just learned.

  A child.

  Aye, there would be no annulment now. Their chance for a miracle had just passed. If he managed to free her, it would be through his own sweat. He wondered if he had enough of it for the deed.

  He kept walking because there was nothing else he could do.

  17

  Gwen followed Rhys through the kitchen, trying to hold her breath as best she could. Damn Alain’s cook for being so stubborn. Gwen suspected she likely would have felt better if she’d been able to install someone with a bit more skill and a great deal more tidiness.

  “Where are we going?” she managed.

  “Master Socrates. Lord Bertram’s healer. Out of favor with the current lord, of course, and therefore consigned to the cellars, but a fairly skilled maker of potions just the same.”

  Anything to settle her stomach. But the closer they drew to their destination, the more certain Gwen was that she wouldn’t keep down even the crust of bread she’d managed to ingest that morn, much less any potion.

  Her guardsmen wouldn’t even come down the passageway with her. She left them loitering by the ale kegs and walked with Rhys into a tiny chamber. She put her hand over her mouth as a precaution. A wizened old man stood over a kettle, stirring intently. A girl-child stood nearby, watching just as intently.

  “Master Socrates,” Rhys began, “the lady Gwennelyn is feeling poorly this day. Perhaps you have something to help?”

  The old man looked up at her from under bushy eyebrows and frowned. “Feeling poorly? Perhaps ’twas something she put in her belly. Sour wine? Overrotted eel?”

  “’Tis the babe,” the child whispered.

  Gwen looked at the girl in surprise. It wasn’t as if she’d announced her tidings to anyone as of yet.

  “A babe, eh? Then come in, my lady, and I’ll fetch you a cup of what’s on the fire at present. ’Tis a concoction of my own making with several things that perhaps another might not think of combining.”

  Gwen came closer, holding her hand even more tightly over her mouth. Then she abruptly used her fingers to pinch her nose closed.

  “What are the black spots?” she managed.

  “Flakes of dried vermin. Adds a bit of unexpected flavor—”

  As did, subsequently, the contents of her stomach. Gwen knew she should have felt more remorse than she did, but there was only one pot to retch into, and it was right there before her.

  She heaved until she had no more strength, then felt herself turned around and gathered into strong arms.

  “Ah, chérie,” Rhys whispered, stroking her
back gently, “don’t you know you should never ask a healer what he puts into his potions?”

  “I know it now,” she croaked, clutching the front of his tunic to keep herself upright.

  “Perhaps a brew of soothing herbs, Master Socrates,” Rhys suggested.

  “Oh, um, aye,” the healer said.

  Gwen looked over her shoulder to see him peering down into his kettle with a look of intense regret.

  “I suppose I could do that,” he said slowly. “I have some extra things I could add to it—”

  “Perhaps but a simple herb or two,” Rhys interrupted gently.

  Master Socrates looked ready to argue, then he looked at Gwen.

  “But one or two?” he asked, fingering his wooden spoon.

  Gwen belched miserably before she could help herself.

  “Just one,” Master Socrates said with a sigh.

  Gwen soon found herself deposited on a stool with her back against a chilly wall. She wasn’t sure what helped her more, the cold or the sitting. Or perhaps it was knowing that Alain would leave the keep and the oppressiveness of his presence would be lifted.

  Then perhaps she could see a bit more of Rhys. It wasn’t in the best interest of her poor heart, but she could hardly stop herself from wanting the like.

  She looked at him as he squatted down before the little girl and spoke to her with soft words and gentle smiles. Envy seized her. Even the luxury of such effortless speech with the man was something she couldn’t enjoy. Never mind that he was near her so much of the day. There wasn’t a moment that passed that she didn’t guard against a gaze that might linger too long upon him, or a smile that might soften overmuch and alert those around her as to her true feelings.

  If only she’d had the chance to perfect her mercenary skills, subterfuge would have come much more easily to her and she would have been able to outwit her husband. It wasn’t that such a thing required a great deal of effort, but there was always Rollan shadowing his elder brother, pointing out to him what Alain himself missed. Would Alain leave Rollan behind to report on her activities, or would he trust Rhys to do as he was bid and keep his own memories of her behavior? But if not Rollan, then a score of others who would take great pleasure in marking and relating every glance, every smile, every manifestation of her affection for the man not five paces from her.