Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Rhys was fascinated by the sight of his wife. She was so impassioned, so determined to defend a man who could not have been a fitting match for her fiery nature.

  As he was. He rose to his feet in turn, unafraid to grant her a measure of the honesty she so admired.

  “Your betrothed died because he had not been prepared for what he had to do,” Rhys asserted. “All men must fight one day for what they would call their own, and it is a father’s duty to ensure that his sons are prepared for that duty. By granting your James his freedom from war for so long as he did, the father might as well have driven his own blade into his son’s chest.”

  “But not all men are suited to war!”

  “True enough. Some serve better as priests and monks.” Rhys watched for her response, knowing there would be one. “But that choice would scarcely have ensured the survival of James as your spouse.”

  A ruby flush rose from Madeline’s throat to suffuse her face. Her eyes gleamed angrily, their vivid hue akin to lightning, and her words were low and hot. “You go too far in this. You did not even know James, you never heard the magic he could wring from a lute, and you have no right to despoil my memories of him.”

  But Rhys was angry now, and he was fearful of Rosamunde’s intent. It seemed suddenly critical that Madeline face the truth that this James was an unsuitable match for her. “I shall wager that you wished to wed your betrothed afore his departure to France,” he said curtly. He rose and gathered together the remnants of their meal. “But your father forbade it.”

  All the color abandoned Madeline’s cheeks as she gaped at him. Her voice was almost inaudible. “How could you know this?”

  Rhys barely glanced at her, so irked was he that she failed to show her good sense in a matter of such import. “Because your father knew James, obviously, and must have known the truth of James’ lack of military ability. No man would willingly wed his daughter to a man who might not be able to ensure her safety. Your father undoubtedly reasoned that James would either die in France, or he would prove himself to be more of a warrior than he had been thus far.”

  Rhys shrugged. “You were better wedding him after that truth was known or not wedding him at all. Your father fulfilled his responsibility to you, as I will fulfill mine to our daughters, should we be blessed with any.”

  With that, Rhys began to pack their meal away with savage gestures. Madeline said nothing at all, though he could feel her dismayed gaze upon him. He had not meant to wound her heart, though he had no doubt he had done so. He would not, however, have the repute of the great saintly James thrust upon him each time he faltered in his wife’s expectations.

  Especially as that man was very likely in pursuit of them. He might not be able to avoid the prospect of Madeline choosing between them, but he would do his best to ensure that she had no illusions if ever she did so.

  He glanced back to find her pulling the bundled cloth from beneath her kirtle, her tears falling with such vigor that he felt a knave. She had loved this fool James, and he should not fault her for that.

  “Leave it, Madeline,” he said softly. “Your scheme is a good one.”

  She halted and stared at him, her face streaked with tears. “I love James and that will never change.”

  “I understand.” Rhys was contrite, for he had spoken too harshly to her. “I shall not speak of him again, out of respect for you. Indeed, I apologize that my temper was lost so much as it was.”

  “I will never love another,” she said, her voice hoarse.

  Rhys nodded once and turned away, understanding what she was telling him. There was a hollowness within him, a regret that Madeline could not offer him all that she had offered James, but Rhys was accustomed to making do with the remnants of others.

  He saddled the horses, then offered her his hand. “Come, my lady. It is time to ride again.”

  Rhys FitzHenry had no heart at all. Madeline was wed to a man who did not care that she would never love him. She decided that this revelation was not so surprising, after all. Was there not a saying that a woman wed once for duty and thence for love? She supposed she would have to survive Rhys to have a chance of such love in her second marriage.

  It seemed a thin prospect. They rode onward in grim silence, only the calls of birds and the occasional rustle in the undergrowth carrying to Madeline’s ears.

  At least they were not being pursued.

  And the weather was not as bad as it might have been.

  That seemed a sorry list of Fortune’s favor, but there was no changing it. Madeline watched Rhys and wondered about his hidden thoughts.

  The man had no shortage of them, it was clear.

  Sadly, his indifference to love was evident. Such tender feelings must not be of any import to a man of war such as himself. She had seen the glow in his eyes when he spoke of Caerwyn, and guessed that he loved that keep. Though she knew that she should not have been surprised that he cared only for property, she was deeply disappointed.

  Perhaps it was time that she prodded more of his carefully kept secrets into the open. She had precious little to lose.

  Madeline eyed her spouse, noting that he was more grim than usual, and urged her steed slightly closer to his. Rhys barely spared her a glance, his own gaze darting restlessly over the shadowed greenery on their every side. It was falling dark, a triumphant smear of pink staining the indigo of the western skies.

  “Who do you know in Glasgow?” Madeline asked.

  If anything, Rhys grew more grim. “It is of no import.”

  Madeline had not expected an easy confession from him. Indeed, she could be as stubborn as he was and it was time he confronted the truth of it. “How do you know of any soul in Glasgow? That town is far indeed from Wales.”

  “It is of no import.” Rhys led his destrier from the path and cut a course through the forest, making it impossible for Madeline to continue their conversation. She waited, albeit impatiently, until he halted in small clearing by a stream. He dismounted, moving with confidence in the shadows, then aided her to dismount.

  “Do you simply make a visit, or do you expect aid from this friend in Glasgow?” Madeline asked, keeping her tone deliberately bright. She won a hard look for her trouble, but lifted a finger before he could speak. “I think this is of import.”

  Rhys shrugged. “And I do not.” He unfastened his saddlebag, removed something, and strode into the woods. Gelert darted after Rhys, his tail waving like a bedraggled banner in his excitement.

  With half a dozen steps, he was gone. Half a dozen more and she could not even hear him.

  He had effectively abandoned Madeline to her own questions. Madeline shouted after her spouse, to no avail, and the sounds of the forest closed around her. The horses bent their heads to graze, swishing their tails and amiably bumping alongside each other.

  The man had the manners of a boar! Madeline shouted again, not truly expecting any reply. She did not receive one.

  Cur! Knave and ruffian! Rhys FitzHenry had the worst manners of any man who ever she had had the misfortune to meet. He yearned for a son, did he? Oh, he could count himself fortunate indeed if ever he found himself between her thighs again. He was welcome to keep a hundred whores, given his attitude.

  What manner of man left a woman alone in the forest at night? No man of merit, that was for certain!

  Madeline grit her teeth, then unfastened the saddlebags, casting them to the forest floor. He had no squire, so she must perform the duties of one, or see the steeds suffer.

  Wretched man. She unfurled the two blankets she found within Rhys’ bag. She could only manage to remove the palfrey’s saddle, for that of the destrier was not only too large, but the beast itself stood too tall. She dropped the reins over the horses’ heads and let them graze, then found the horse brush in one bag.

  Indeed, what need of Rhys of a squire when he had a wife? She brushed down the two horses with vigor, for it was not their fault that their master was a selfish cur. There was no m
erit in letting them fall ill from the chill of their own sweat.

  Madeline soundly cursed her husband’s irresponsibility as she worked. Once she was done, she set to gathering wood for a fire. She supposed that the presence of his destrier indicated that Rhys would return, though she would not have wagered her last denier upon it. She also would not rely upon his provision of a meal for both of them whenever he did return. For all she knew, he might have sniffed the ale of an inn in the distance, and hied himself off to warmth and a good meal.

  If he thought she would let herself freeze to death, or sulk at his absence, he was sorely mistaken. Fortunately, there was a good bit of dry kindling to be found. It must not have rained as diligently in these parts as it had further east.

  As her anger ran its course and faded, Madeline’s fear began to grow. She kept herself busy, painfully aware that she had never been alone in the forest before. She was accustomed to the security of high walls at night, and she recalled all too readily the tales of ravenous wolves that she had so often heard.

  She fed the fire to a tremendous blaze, hoping to dissuade any predators from coming close. Despite her efforts, night fell and a wolf howled in the distance. To her dismay, another answered from the other direction. They sounded close to her inexperienced ears, too close. Even the horses eased closer to each other, their ears flicking.

  Madeline told herself to ignore the gleam of watchful eyes in the forest around her—surely the sight of them was no more than her imagination. She wrapped her cloak tightly about herself, cursed her spouse once more, then sat and took a bite out of an apple. She would eat a meal, then she would sleep.

  Or at least she would try to do so.

  “I had thought you would desire a hot meal on this night,” Rhys said with humor.

  As usual, the man reappeared at sudden proximity, only his words revealing his presence. When Madeline pivoted to face him, she found him standing in the shadows, the dog fast by his side. He held a trio of fish aloft, as if that and his smile could compensate for his abrupt departure. The confidence in his manner was the last vexation that she needed on this night to lose her temper in truth.

  “You faithless wretch!” Madeline cried, more relieved by the sight of Rhys than she cared to admit. She cast her apple at her spouse with all the force she could muster, hoping only that the resulting bruise was large and lasting.

  Chapter Eleven

  To survive three teasing brothers, Madeline had learned to aim and throw, and she had learned to do it well.

  The apple hit Rhys square in the nose, so astonished was he by her assault. He yelped and jumped backward, dropping one fish, then cursing as he searched for it in the leaves.

  The apple meanwhile hit the ground and bounced. Gelert darted after it, tail wagging with delight when the apple was discovered. The dog trotted to Madeline, uncommonly proud of itself, apple held high, then laid at her feet to eat its prize.

  Rhys was not so happy. He regarded Madeline warily as he came closer, still shaking dried leaves from the retrieved fish. “You are annoyed,” he said, as if her response was inexplicable.

  “What splendid fortune to be wed to a perceptive man.”

  “Where did you think I had gone?”

  “Perhaps to hell.” Madeline folded her arms across her chest, intrigued despite her annoyance at his manner. Did Rhys truly not understand that she had been afraid?

  His gaze slipped over her features and she knew he missed no detail. “You cannot have thought that I had abandoned you,” he said, as evidently the prospect occurred to him.

  “What else was I to think?” Madeline spun to tend to the fire, fairly hearing Rhys think as he watched her.

  “I take care of what is mine own,” he said.

  Madeline snorted. “How welcome it is to know that you count me among your possessions. Like your saddle, or your knife. Perhaps your hound.” She jabbed a stick into the fire. “There is a sentiment to warm a woman’s heart.”

  She heard his steps just afore he seized her elbow and spun her to meet the fire in his eyes. “You make accusations without cause! There is a river. Can you not hear it?” He shook his head in irritation. “Could you not guess that I would provide a hot meal for us? You had to know that I would return.”

  “I knew no such thing.”

  “Then why did you build a fire?” He spared it a disapproving glance. “No less one as big as a pyre. Those who hunt us will find us without effort, if this continues to burn so high.”

  That he should criticize her resourcefulness in this moment was too much.

  “Then, perhaps they will find their prey roasted upon it!” Madeline kicked some of the wood out of the bonfire while Rhys regarded her with astonishment, then stamped upon the burning faggots.

  By the time she was done, the fire was much smaller, as was her irritation with Rhys. All the same, she spun to confront him and propped her hands upon her hips. “Does that suit you better, husband? You should leave more precise instructions in future, that I might do your bidding fully!”

  The air fairly crackled between them, then Rhys shook his head. “Surely you cannot have been afraid,” he said, frowning as he gutted the fish with decisive gestures. “You are too intrepid a woman to be fearful of shadows.”

  “It was the wolves and their appetites I feared, not the darkness.”

  Another one howled, as if to emphasize her argument. Rhys cocked a head to listen. “They are not coming closer,” he said with a confidence Madeline did not feel.

  “All the same, I will not sleep this night.”

  He spared her a piercing glance. “Have you ever spent a night outside of a fortress walls?”

  “Only once,” Madeline admitted tightly. “A few nights past.”

  She thought at first that Rhys had not heard her, for he made no acknowledgement of her words. He methodically impaled the cleaned fish upon sticks that he must have peeled and sharpened while he waited for the fish to take his lure. He drove the sticks into the ground so that they made a tripod and ensured that the fish were angled over the flames.

  Only then did he apparently take note of her. “Will you watch that they do not burn? You can turn them readily, like this.” Rhys spun one stick to demonstrate and Madeline nodded grudgingly. He inclined his head so that she could see the twinkle in his eyes and for a moment she feared that he would mock her.

  Instead Rhys spoke gently. “I vow to return, after I leave word for the wolves to let my lady to slumber in peace this night.”

  He strode away and Madeline could not at first guess what he would do. She saw his shadow slide behind one tree and heard the splatter of liquid falling, and then she guessed.

  Rhys left a message for the wolves in a manner they would understand. He marked the perimeter of their camp with his urine, as wolves marked their territory.

  And he did so to reassure her. How could she stay angry with a man of such rough charm? Her brothers would never have done such a deed to reassure her—they would have simply teased her until she dared not express her fear any longer.

  Once again, Rhys had surprised her.

  Madeline blinked back unexpected tears and paid undue attention to the fish. She heard the rustle of Rhys’ footsteps as he moved all around the circle of their camp, pausing to leave a missive for the wolves every few feet.

  There was a pause, then she heard him splashing in the river that she had not noted earlier. Truly, she was not accustomed to heeding the sounds of the forest, for the river’s flow was readily discernible now that she listened for it.

  And her heart wrung again with the realization of what Rhys did. This exasperating man washed afore he shared a meal with her, as if he meant to show his bride that his manners were not entirely coarse. Madeline would never have expected him to be so concerned for her fears and expectations.

  But he was. Though he was not accustomed to sharing his every thought, though he did not always understand or anticipate her concerns, the man had made eff
orts to make their match a successful one. She owed him more than sniping better suited to an alewife. She watched the fish diligently, her empty stomach beginning to growl in complaint at the tempting smell of the roasting fish.

  Rhys returned with his hair wet and his tabard in his hands, his chemise untucked and clinging to his damp skin. Madeline could see the outline of his muscled chest through the wet cloth, and the dark tangle of hair upon his chest. Her mouth went dry, her appetite kindled for something other than roasted fish. Rhys shook the water out of his hair as he drew near to the fire, then checked the fish with an experienced eye.

  “They will go well with that bread,” was all he said but his tone was amiable. Madeline understood that he wanted their argument behind them.

  So did she, so she offered him a tentative smile. “You should stay near the fire, until you are dry. Let me fetch the bread.”

  He glanced at her smile, blinked, then frowned at the fish. “I did not mean to frighten you, but I confess that I think poorly with an empty belly.”

  Madeline nodded at his apology. “I understand that now. I apologize for my anger.”

  His frown deepened. “It was not undeserved. I am not accustomed to riding with another person, let alone with a noblewoman.”

  “Or a wife?”

  He smiled then, that smile that melted all her reservations. “Or a wife, anwylaf.”

  Perhaps they could make a good match out of this poor beginning. Perhaps their marriage was not fated to be merely endured. A son in her womb would resolve much of what stood between them.

  Madeline dared to hope.

  “It seems that we slowly come to understand each other, Rhys,” she said, brushing her fingertips across his arm. He impaled her with a glance that she used his name, and that dangerous heat within her was coaxed to a flame. She did not look away as her mouth went dry, nor did he.

  Then the fish began to smoke.

  Rhys shouted in dismay and Madeline hastened to fetch the bread. She held a slice of bread while Rhys removed each fish from the stake. He deftly removed its head and skin, leaving a steaming fillet upon each piece of bread.