Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)
Page 99
“Why?”
Rhys braced himself to deceive her yet again. “I have a friend there, whom I would visit before returning home.”
She did not believe him, he saw as much immediately. Indeed, Rhys suspected that there was not another woman in Christendom whose thoughts could be read so easily in her eyes as those of his new wife.
But she did not challenge him upon this detail. Madeline bit her lip and scanned the hills on either side of them. To his relief, she asked no further questions, though it might simply have been that she doubted he would answer them.
“If Moffatt lies ahead,” she mused, “as I suspect it must, there is a road from there to Glasgow. It goes by Abington and Kirkmuirhill. I have heard my uncles speak of its smooth course.”
“Excellent.” Rhys cast her the reins. “It will be a long day, my lady. Tell me when you can endure it no longer.”
Madeline nodded, but a glint of resolve lit her eyes, a glint that told Rhys again that his lady wife was forged of stern steel. He could rely upon her to not be the weak link in their escape.
If that was the sole good news of this day, it was good enough. He gave his steed his spurs and the horses galloped down the narrow path, flinging mud from their hooves as the sun climbed over the horizon.
Madeline was relieved that Moffat had indeed proven to be ahead of them, and that they reached it afore the empty growl of her belly became too much to bear. The road coiled around a hill before approaching Moffat’s gates and Rhys indicated that they should hide themselves in the cluster of trees at the summit. They rode up the hill from the side opposite the village, so that the gatekeeper could not glimpse them.
Rhys tethered the horses there, pausing only to aid Madeline to dismount and to turn his tabard inside-out. The red dragon was hidden thus, the tabard plain black.
“Caerwyn,” he whispered. “Say it.”
“Caerwyn,” Madeline echoed, and he corrected her pronunciation.
He caught her chin between his finger and thumb and met her gaze steadily. “You are lady there, and let no man tell you otherwise. Go there, alone if you must, and tell them of this truth. Tell them that my son rides in your belly, whether it be true or not. None will dare to raise a hand against you.” He brushed his lips across her brow, his words making Madeline’s spirit quail.
He feared he might not return.
Before she could speak, Rhys was gone, retracing their steps with long strides. His dog sat vigil beside her, watching avidly as Rhys returned to the road, out of view of the gatekeeper, then strode toward the village as if he had been walking all the while. His kiss burned upon Madeline’s forehead and she wondered what he knew, what he suspected, what he anticipated would meet him within those walls.
Little good, that was for certain. Despite herself, despite her annoyance with her vexing new spouse, Madeline feared for him.
Rhys whistled as he walked, weapons tucked around the back of his belt and his cloak pulled against the wind. Without his horse, he looked like a mercenary betrayed by Fortune. He walked to the village gates, his dark figure growing ever smaller. He hailed the gatekeeper with a wave, paused to speak to the man, then disappeared into the village without a backward glance. The hound straightened, its unblinking gaze fixed upon the point where Rhys had disappeared.
Madeline knotted her hands together and was uncommonly glad that she had not prayed for widowhood. Gone were the high walls of Kinfairlie, the certain influence of father and uncles, the defense of armed men. The security she had known for all her days and nights was gone, as was her childish conviction that all must come aright, simply of necessity.
It was not long before Madeline was watching as anxiously as the hound for Rhys’ return. In his absence, her thoughts began to race. What if Rhys was a traitor? Guilty or not, what if he was apprehended?
She remembered all too well—and somewhat disconcertingly—the tale of Henry Hotspur, who had challenged the authority of Henry IV, the father of the current English king. Heir to the Percy earldom near Kinfairlie, Henry Hotspur had wrought a bargain with a Welshman and the Mortimer heir who had a competing claim to the English crown. All three had been condemned as traitors, though they had fought on in defense of their union.
Henry Hotspur had been killed in battle and his corpse had been sent home to his grieving wife and father. After his funeral, his body had been exhumed and decapitated, at the command of Henry IV, who intended to wring a lesson from the demise of one of his enemies. Hotspur’s head had been displayed at York; his body quartered and displayed at London, Newcastle, Bristol and Chester. It had been left hanging for a year, as a warning to would-be traitors throughout the king’s lands.
Madeline shivered. No man deserved such an indignity, regardless of his deeds. Rhys could not deserve such a fate.
But if his course had been anticipated, and he was seized in Moffat, how would she know? She doubted that Rhys would betray her presence to another living soul, no matter what was done to him.
He was protective of her, if nothing else.
Madeline watched, more concerned for Rhys with every additional moment he was gone. She recalled now that the Neville clan quibbled over suzerainty of Moffat, the same Neville family so burdened with children to wed, the same Neville family so adept at making fortuitous matches. The same Neville family had been granted stewardship of the western Marches by the English king. They would sell a traitor to the king with nary a second thought.
And their darling son, Reginald Neville, would not beg clemency for the man who had embarrassed him at Ravensmuir’s auction.
Madeline bit her lip in trepidation. The sun rose higher, drying the dew and heating the stones. Its golden warmth seemed to coax spring’s tendrils to unfurl, but Madeline stared fixedly at the town. The horses grazed behind her, peeling young shoots from the trees, but Madeline spared them no attention.
The sound of approaching hoof beats made her heart race. She dared not be discovered! She urged Rhys’ steed deeper into the forest and held her hand over his dog’s snout as she tried to count the steeds. She could see nothing through the dense undergrowth of the forest, though that meant that none could see her. She dared not venture closer to the edge of the forest for a better look.
For there were a number of horses passing her hiding place. At least six. They were large, as large as destriers, for their hoof beats fell with force. And they made uncommon haste.
Could they be the steeds from the abbey? Her heart fairly stopped at the prospect.
Surely they would not seize Rhys at Moffat?
Surely she could not lose him so soon?
There were voices at Moffat’s gate.
Rhys ducked into an alley in the nick of time, his purchases held fast against his chest. He listened and was startled to hear the sound of a woman’s voice.
No less, a familiar woman’s voice.
“I seek a young woman,” that woman said, her tone authoritative. “She has dark hair and blue eyes, and is fair indeed to look upon. She might travel with a man garbed as a mercenary.”
Rhys stifled the urge to peek with difficulty, for he could not believe his own ears. Rosamunde led the party in pursuit of Madeline?
Rhys frowned at this conclusion, unable to understand why this might be. It had been Rosamunde who had ensured that he could join the auction. What had changed her thinking? What had happened at Ravensmuir after their departure?
“I have seen no such woman,” the gatekeeper said gruffly.
“And the man?”
Rhys caught his breath and flattened himself into the shadow of the wall.
The gatekeeper scoffed. “Who can say? Men come and men go—I do not note them, particularly the mercenaries. If they mean no harm and intend to be gone by sunset, they are welcome to leave coin in our coffers.”
“You cannot be so poor of sight and memory as this!” Rosamunde said.
“I cannot be expected to confess all I know to a stranger!” the gatekeeper ret
orted. “Especially one so oddly garbed and bold a wench as you.”
“Let us pass!” Rosamunde said imperiously. “We will make our own search.”
“You will surrender your weapons here, for I do not trust you to be peaceful within these walls.”
Rosamunde argued with the gatekeeper but made no progress. Rhys listened as she surrendered her weapons in poor humor, then commanded her company to do the same.
Those six black destriers strode past his hiding place, their tails flicking and their nostrils flaring. Madeline’s brother Alexander was within the company. The heir to Kinfairlie looked more a man already, not only because of his armor but because of his somber expression. Beside him rode two of Madeline’s sisters, the next eldest who had plagued him with questions at Ravensmuir’s board and the youngest, so smitten with fairies.
Two other men comprised the rest of the party, one of whom Rhys had noted at Ravensmuir. He was as flamboyantly garbed as Rosamunde and must have been her comrade. The last man was a stranger. He might have been the same age as Alexander and Rhys studied him with curiosity. He carried a lute slung across his back, and was wrought slender with pale skin and fair hair.
Something pricked at Rhys’ memory, though he could not name it in this moment. To be sure, he could not fathom why Rosamunde would bring a musician with her, unless she meant to keep him in her company. Perhaps this one was uncommonly gifted.
Much to Rhys’ annoyance, Rosamunde left the musician to guard the gates while she led the others toward the town square.
“We will find hay and water for the horses,” she instructed. “Then ale and a hot meal for ourselves. Doubtless there will be a tavern in the main square, and with a full belly, we will search more effectively for Madeline.”
Rhys retreated further into the shadows to think. Why did they seek Madeline? This family had auctioned Madeline’s hand, so slender was their concern for her, yet within a day, they dispatched a company riding in pursuit. It made little sense.
It made even less sense that Rosamunde led the search. Rhys knew Rosamunde’s nature enough to guess that she saw some advantage in this mission to herself, and that she would think little of betraying anyone to serve her own ends. She alone might have the audacity to threaten to deliver Rhys to the king to ensure her terms—whatever they might be.
Even knowing what he knew now, even seeing the concern of Madeline’s siblings, Rhys was not anxious to make acquaintance with the daring adventuress Rosamunde just yet. Let her pursue him to Caerwyn, where he had the choice of whether the raise the portcullis or not.
A woman cleared her throat and Rhys jumped, then pretended to have been relieving himself in the alley. She rolled her eyes as he fumbled with his chausses.
“Is there another tavern?” he asked of her, slurring his speech as if besotted. Additionally, such speech would disguise his unfamiliar accent. He gestured toward the town square. “That one would beggar a common man.”
“There,” she said, pointing in the opposite direction as if glad to be rid of his presence. “Around the corner and to the left is Old Man McGillivray’s house. He will sell you a cup of his ale, though I doubt you have much need of another.”
“I thank you, good woman!” Rhys bowed, then pretended to lose his balance. He gripped the wall and waved after the woman, thanking her profusely as she made haste to get away from him.
Then he turned in the direction she had indicated, drawing his hood over his head. He dared not be seen, yet he could not attempt to pass through the gates just yet.
The musician needed time to become bored with his task.
And Rhys needed to find some soul who could unwittingly provide him with the means to pass the gates unnoted.
It was nearly midday and still there was no sign of Rhys. How long could it take the man to buy bread and apples?
The horses had disappeared into the town and Madeline had returned cautiously to her earlier place. She had seen precious few men come and go from the town since Rhys had disappeared. Moffat’s gates seemed to swallow souls and not allow them to depart. She would go mad if she stood vigil, fretting, any longer.
With a start, she realized that she could walk into the town, just as Rhys had done.
Madeline surveyed herself. Her garb was dirty enough and austere enough that none would grant her a second look—not unless she rode a fine horse and drew every eye to herself. She would leave the horses here, as Rhys had done.
She could pretend to be a farmer’s wife. No, she knew no one locally and that alone would prompt suspicion. She must concoct a fitting tale of who she was and how she came to be in Moffat alone.
She could pretend to be the wife of a mercenary seeking news of her lost spouse. Aha! It was unfortunate that she was not round with Rhys’ child, as yet. A pregnancy would elicit sympathy as well as ensure that she was not assaulted by some fiend like Kerr.
The thought was too good to abandon. Madeline rummaged in Rhys’ saddlebag, feeling like a thief for no good reason, and claimed a pair of his rumpled chemises. They smelled of Rhys and she impulsively buried her nose in them for a moment, breathing deeply of the scent of his flesh, curiously as reassured as if he stood beside her.
She could have done worse for a spouse, that much was certain. Rhys was no courtier, but she fancied that his heart was good.
She knotted his chemises into a round bundle. She tore her own chemise and secured the bundle beneath her skirts as if she was indeed ripe with child. She patted the lump, well pleased with her efforts, and ensured that the horses were well tethered.
“Stay,” she bade the hound, which watched her so warily that she could not be certain it would obey.
A farmer’s wagon, drawn by a weary plough horse, came through the town gates just as Madeline made to step out of her hiding place. She impatiently settled back into the shadows as she waited for the wagon to pass. It would not do for the horses to be stolen while she retrieved Rhys. She dared not be spied as she left this place, and would have preferred to have no contact with any soul upon the road.
The wagon was cursedly slow, as if its driver meant specifically to try her patience. The farmer seemed merry enough and was obviously chatting with his boy who rode behind him. Madeline heaved a sigh, certain they had savored the ale in town overmuch, for they sang loudly and tunelessly. She wished they would hasten themselves home. The hound watched them as keenly as did Madeline. They rounded the hill, laughing like fools, and she knew she was nearly rid of them.
To her dismay, the wagon halted at the base of the hill on the far side from the village. The boy, who proved to be large enough to a man, rolled out of the back. He tripped over his own feet, the drunken lout, and landed face-down beside the road. The farmer laughed so hard that his state could hardly be better.
Madeline was less amused, for she knew that dark tabard and dark tousle of hair all too well.
Here she had stood worrying, while Rhys had been drinking himself into a stupor! Her cursed spouse stumbled drunkenly to the woods on the other side of the road. Madeline looked away in disgust as he fumbled with the lacing on his chausses. He tripped anew, fell harder, and did not move again.
Here she had been fearful for the man’s very survival! The prospect of throttling him herself grew mightily in appeal.
Madeline simmered, even as she watched the farmer stagger to Rhys’ side. The older man gave Rhys a poke in the shoulder, but Rhys did not move. The hound growled at Madeline’s feet and she put a hand upon its collar.
The farmer punched Rhys harder, and Rhys took a drunken swing at the other man, rolled to his back and began to snore.
The farmer found this so amusing that he had to sit down on a stone until his laughter subsided.
Oh, Alexander had done well, in finding Madeline a husband not only charged with treason, but rough of manner and unable to resist the allure of ale! What need of an auction? He could have abandoned her at the nearest tavern to find such a rare prize of a spouse.
The farmer wiped his brow, gave his drinking partner one last salute, then climbed into his cart and whistled to his ancient horse. The cart creaked as it began to move and the farmer started to sing a drunken ditty. Rhys did not move, so deep was his stupor.
Madeline should leave him there to rot! He deserved no less for such selfish folly.
But the sorry fact was that Rhys was little good to her drunk in a ditch. He was her husband: Madeline had pledged herself to him. Though this was worse than she had expected, she was not a woman to forget her pledges.
What to do? She could not carry the man, nor even drag him to his steed. She supposed she should go to him, like the sweet dutiful wife she was not, and see just how badly he was impaired.
And if he was not in pain, she could ensure that he was.
The prospect of such vengeance made Madeline smile despite herself. She knew she could never injure Rhys, so much larger and stronger was he. Still, she could have a word with him. It would not do for him to drink with such gusto with any frequency.
She peered after the wagon, which was well and truly gone, then made to stride down to the road.
But when she turned, Rhys was racing up the hill toward her, looking no more besotted than she.
“We ride!” he declared even as she gaped at him. He pointed across the road. “There is a path that cuts through the hills and joins the road you spoke of...”
“But you are not drunk!”
“Of course not.” Rhys’ glance was scathing. “Only a man of no merit whatsoever drinks himself to a stupor this early in the day. What manner of men are your brothers?”
That they should agree so vehemently on this matter was somewhat astonishing. Rhys did not wait for a reply, which was fortuitous as Madeline could not summon a word to her lips.