Five Unforgettable Knights (5 Medieval Romance Novels)

by Tanya Anne Crosby

  Additionally, Elizabeth had fished it out of more than one stream and snatched it in the air when it had lost its grip upon one horse or the other. She felt responsible for its welfare, as she was the only one who could see it and she had brought it along, though it had done little to reward her efforts.

  At least she knew what it was and that its name was Darg. It talked to her sometimes, and told far better tales than any Elizabeth had ever heard.

  She sighed with exhaustion as Rosamunde and Alexander argued about Rhys’ intent and watched Darg consider the pottery ale cups on the board. The spriggan would do something, Elizabeth was certain of it, and she only hoped it would not take much effort to set matters aright. She yawned mightily, wanting only a pallet before the fire.

  “He means to trick us,” Alexander said, dropping his voice and leaning over the table. “He will leave in the night and ride south with all haste. We err in taking our slumber here, especially without knowing his destination within Dumbarton’s walls.”

  “I only hope that Madeline is well,” Vivienne said with some uncertainty. Vivienne sat opposite Elizabeth, looking as exhausted as Elizabeth felt. “Finding Kerr was horrible! Surely you do not think that Rhys would injure Madeline?”

  “I suspect he saved her from injury,” Rosamunde said tightly. “I never liked that mercenary Kerr and was glad when your father dispatched him.”

  “He did?” Alexander asked in dismay. “I did not know of this.”

  “You should have asked more questions before taking a man into your employ,” Rosamunde said firmly. “Tynan likely could have told you more.”

  Alexander frowned in consideration of this and looked so troubled that Rosamunde laid a hand upon his shoulder.

  “I know this has not been easy for you,” she said. “You will learn, Alexander, and years from now, you will laugh at your own uncertainties.”

  “I hope as much,” he said and drank grimly of his ale. “It seems all I do turns to disaster.”

  No one argued with that.

  “You could ensure that all ended as well as an old tale,” Elizabeth whispered to Darg.

  The spriggan laughed, then faced Elizabeth, hands on hips. “A sorry day it will then be, if I should aid a mortal like thee. Fate’s sharp needle is meant to prick, no mortal can avoid its nick.”

  A man at the next table granted Elizabeth a smile that she dared not return. She felt her color rise as she deliberately ignored him, knowing that he probably thought she talked to herself.

  She bent over the board, lifting a piece of bread to her lips that she might whisper to the spriggan without arousing curiosity. “You could ensure Madeline’s happiness. I saw what mischief you made with the ribbons. You have abilities that I do not.”

  Darg appeared to be shocked. “A uncommon mortal you might be, if Fate’s fine threads you can see.” She regarded Elizabeth with suspicion. “The ribbons twine for destined souls, tightly knotted like thorn and rose. Such pairs cannot be rent asunder, come hail or flood or dark or thunder.”

  It sounded perfect to Elizabeth and she leaned forward in her excitement. “Will you aid Madeline? Will you ensure that her ribbon and Rhys’ are properly joined? I liked him when we met and I think she did as well.” She refrained from glancing toward James.

  Darg grinned. “Her betrothed mortal will soon be, so close that she herself can see.” Darg looked pointedly at James then grimaced, not apparently liking the minstrel any more than Elizabeth did.

  James crooned to himself as he plucked his tune, nodding with satisfaction at what seemed a most simple and uninspired melody to Elizabeth’s ears. He seemed oblivious of the others at the table.

  “Dreadful manners,” Elizabeth muttered. “Maman would have boxed his ears.”

  “This mortal’s ears are wrought of tin, if he finds beauty in his din,” Darg said with disgust.

  “Exactly! Madeline cannot be forced to wed him,” Elizabeth insisted. “You could ensure that she is happy with Rhys!”

  “It is not for me to change her life, to choose for her either wealth or strife.”

  “That is not true! I saw you knot Rosamunde’s ribbons! I do not doubt that you caused the argument between her and Tynan.”

  Darg shrugged, though its expression was sly and it cast a glance toward Rosamunde that spoke volumes. “Every heart has its own key, the unlocking is not left to me.”

  Elizabeth grit her teeth and wondered what she could do to win the stubborn fairy’s aid.

  “Rhys surely must be planning to sail to Caerwyn,” Rosamunde said with conviction, unaware of Elizabeth’s conversation with the spriggan. “There is no other reason to have come to Dumbarton. He will not ride further, but arrange passage on a ship. We must keep a vigil and watch the vessels in the harbor.” She pointed at Padraig, who heaved a sigh.

  “Might I finish this cup of ale first?” that man asked. He looked longingly toward the hearth. “A hot meal would also be welcome, before I spend another night in the rain.”

  Rosamunde drummed her fingers on the table with impatience, even as Darg climbed to the lip of Elizabeth’s cup. The spriggan gave a shout of glee, then bent precariously and sipped of the ale. It drank like a hound, lapping from the surface, though the ale disappeared with astonishing speed.

  “I would have you take a count of the ships in the harbor, note their colors and the names of their captains, and then return for your meal. I apologize, Padraig, but we must not lose Madeline when we are so close.”

  Darg hooted and danced around the rim of the cup while Elizabeth watched. There had to be some way to persuade Darg to help, but Elizabeth could not think of what it was.

  Maybe she would be more clever in the morning, after she had slept.

  “As you wish.” Padraig stood, drained his ale, granted Rosamunde a dark glance, then left the tavern. He drew his cloak around himself, and a chilly gust of wind swirled around the ankles of all as he opened the portal.

  Elizabeth shivered, flicked Darg from the rim of her cup, and took another swig of the ale. It warmed her innards in a way that was not displeasing, and even the smell of the peat fire did not trouble her on this night.

  Darg meanwhile tumbled across the table, coming to an ungainly halt against Vivienne’s cup. The spriggan was on its back, legs askew, a vexed expression on its small sharp face.

  “But where is Caerwyn?” Vivienne asked Rosamunde. “Is it a castle with high towers?” The spriggan pulled itself up onto the rim of Vivienne’s cup, then drank heartily of that cup’s contents.

  Could fairies become drunk? Elizabeth was not certain.

  Rosamunde smiled. “It has a single tower and faces the sea. When Rhys and I crossed paths before, he was in service to his uncle, who is lord there. He undoubtedly has returned to that abode.”

  “But where is it?” Alexander asked. “It cannot be on the west of Scotland.”

  “It is in Wales, in the very shadow of Snowdonia.” Rosamunde sipped of her own ale, her gaze slipping over the other people gathered in the tavern as if she assessed a threat. Elizabeth supposed her aunt had become accustomed to always being observant of her surroundings.

  “Caerwyn was fortified by the English king Edward I. He defeated the Welsh prince, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, and made a statement of his suzerainty by building a ring of stone fortresses around Snowdonia and reinforcing the existing ones he captured. Rhys’ uncle and the Welsh rebel Owain Glyn Dwr captured Caerwyn and another keep, Harlech, from the English forces some years ago.”

  Vivienne picked up her cup and frowned, apparently surprised to find so little ale within it. The spriggan shook a fist at Vivienne for so rudely interrupting its drink, then strutted toward Alexander’s cup.

  “A fortress?” Alexander sat back and shoved a hand through his hair, leaving it in a dark tangle. “You do not suppose that we will be kept from seeing Madeline, if they reach there before us?”

  “Who can say?” Rosamunde spared a dissatisfied glance for James, who ha
d closed his eyes and thrown back his head to listen to his own music. “It would be best if we found them first, would you not say, James?”

  Rosamunde had to say his name twice more before James became aware of her voice. “What did you say?” he asked, then scowled at his stilled fingers. “I have forgotten my place in the tune, thanks to your interruption.”

  “Forgive me for reminding you of the reason for our journey,” Rosamunde said tartly. “I had thought you interested in finding Madeline.”

  Annoyance flickered across James’ features and was quickly gone, though not so quickly that the others did not note it. Elizabeth felt Alexander stiffen beside her and saw Vivienne’s lips thin. “Of course I am determined to find Madeline,” James said and summoned his most charming smile. “She is my betrothed and my beloved.”

  “You do not seem overly concerned with her welfare,” Alexander said.

  “You do not seem fearful that she has been injured, or that she might be unhappy,” Vivienne charged.

  “Indeed, you seem more besotted with your lute than your betrothed,” Elizabeth concluded.

  “Me?” James looked between the three of them with astonishment. “I only compose a love song, that I might salute my lost lady appropriately when we are united again.” He placed his hand over his heart. “My days have been dark since we parted and I can think of nothing else but seeing her sweet countenance again.”

  Vivienne snorted. “Then why did you let her believe you dead for the better part of a year? That is no kindness to inflict upon a beloved.”

  “I thought she knew! I never would have granted her a moment’s anguish, had I guessed she did not know the truth!”

  “How would she have learned the truth,” Alexander asked carefully. “Since every man who fought at Rougemont was killed, but you?”

  James colored and averted his gaze. “Oh, I was not the only one. You have heard an exaggeration, to be sure.”

  Alexander snorted and refrained from saying more, though it was clear he had more to say.

  Elizabeth did not believe James, not at all. She wondered if he had even been at Rougemont. She gave Darg a stern glance, but the spriggan defiantly climbed the lip of James’ cup. Darg was somewhat less steady on its feet now as it danced around the rim and chortled over the merits of mortal ale.

  Alexander picked up his cup, frowned that it was empty, then put it down heavily on the board. “When did you return home from France?” he asked, his annoyance barely disguised. “Where have you been since the battle at Rougemont?”

  “Listening to music!” James cried, his eyes alight for the first time. “I heard the music in the cathedrals in France and it was so wondrous that I had to learn more. Madeline will be appreciative of this, I know for certain, for the love of music is a bond she and I share. Listen!” He lifted his lute and plucked his tune again.

  Darg put its fingers in its ears and grimaced at the sound. Elizabeth stifled a laugh at the spriggan’s antics, for she shared its view. Vivienne and Alexander exchanged a rueful glance.

  The spriggan finished James’ ale, then mimicked his crooning manner as it eased closer to Rosamunde’s cup. It considered the woman for so long that Elizabeth feared its scheme. She could do little, though, when it climbed to the rim of the cup, then dangled its feet in the ale.

  The spriggan kicked its feet with vigor. A spray of ale rose from the cup and drenched the front of Rosamunde’s tabard. “What is this?” that woman demanded, unable to discern why the ale was flying. She leapt to her feet, wiping the ale from the rich embroidery. “My garb will be ruined!”

  Darg laughed with wicked glee. Vivienne leapt to her feet and wiped at the ale with her napkin, even as Rosamunde tried to brush the wetness away with her hands.

  “There must be an insect in the cup!” Alexander cried and reached for the cup. Darg leapt with unexpected agility to the lip of the jug as Alexander lifted Rosamunde’s cup, shook it and poured its contents into his own.

  James halted his playing and regarded them with irritation. “I beg you heed my song. It is a compelling and beauteous tune that only a barbarian would not appreciate.”

  Darg laughed so hard and so raucously at this assertion that Elizabeth was shocked none could hear it. The spriggan threw back its head and crooned in perfect mimicry of the lutenist, laughed again, then fell backwards into the jug of ale.

  The splash made all at the table jump. “Perhaps it is a rat!” Vivienne cried.

  “It is in the ale!” Alexander agreed.

  “What piteous accommodation you have chosen for us,” James said to Rosamunde with a sneer. “Rats in the ale! I have never heard the like of it.”

  “Then you are welcome to slumber elsewhere,” Rosamunde snarled. “I have paid for your bed and bought your food and endured your dreadful music for long enough.”

  The pair leapt to their feet to argue heatedly about James’ manner and Rosamunde’s demands. Elizabeth snatched for the jug of ale, then poured it on the floor to better reveal the rat. The spriggan fell to the floor with a splat, then coughed and gasped with vigor.

  “There is nothing there,” Vivienne said, staring at the spilled ale with astonishment.

  “It must have leapt out again,” Alexander said, peering around the floor of the tavern.

  “What manner of heathens are you to cast good ale upon the floor?” the tavern keeper demanded.

  “There was a rat within it!” James shouted.

  “There are no rats in my abode,” the tavern keeper retorted and when James might have argued, he ensured the lutenist’s silence with his fist. James fell backward into the rushes on the floor, and did not rise.

  The other patrons applauded.

  “He is besotted!” the tavern keeper cried to his guests. “There is a man unable to hold his ale, for it is early to be seeing rats that are not there.”

  The company laughed and resumed their conversations. Rosamunde picked up the lute and set to removing its strings with savage gestures. “At least we will not have to endure his music any longer,” she said at Alexander’s inquiring glance. She smiled at Vivienne. “Fear not, I would not destroy an instrument of such value. I shall return the strings once he is reunited with Madeline.” Then she dropped her voice to a growl. “May we have the good fortune that that should occur soon. I would be certain that my goddaughter fares well.”

  Elizabeth bent and picked up the spriggan when no one was looking. She hid it in her lap, struck it on the back while it coughed out the last of the ale, then wrapped it in her napkin when it shivered. It sighed and leaned against her hand, then prodded her with its long nose.

  “A boon is owed, that much is clear, from me to you for another held dear. To your sister’s aid I soon will come, though none can be certain what Fate will see done.”

  Elizabeth smiled in triumph, at the same moment that the man at the next table caught her eye. She flushed anew, and looked down at her cup, but he did not look away again.

  She did not doubt that he was enamored of her wretchedly large breasts and no more than that. Perhaps Darg’s spells could be of aid in ridding her of these unwanted curves!

  But first matters first. Madeline’s plight was more dire, to be certain.

  Madeline dreams of a thick fog pressing against the walls of the inn, a fog so thick that it cannot be natural. The fog pours through the shutters and fills the chamber like so much wool. It cannot be halted, but comes at a fearsome pace, growing ever deeper and deeper.

  And Rhys sleeps like a dead man, despite her efforts to rouse him.

  She closes the shutters, to no avail. She opens the portal, but it flows in from the corridor, as well. She turns back and finds Rhys lost to the fog, which now rises to her waist. It surrounds her, too, engulfing her to the hips, and as it rises higher and higher, she is less capable of raising a finger against it.

  A curious indifference seems to fill her. She feels boneless, weightless, and wonders if this floating sensation means that s
he is dead.

  Madeline does not want to be dead. She is too young to die. She wants to bear Rhys his sons, she wants to hear her husband laugh in truth. She forces her eyes open, battling against the relentless press of the fog.

  Rhys stands at the window, looking over the town. He is no longer swallowed by the fog, no longer sleeping, no longer abed beside her. His eyes are cold, and silver in hue when they should be dark, as if he has been filled with the fog. The town beyond the window looks different, too, more ethereal, though whether it is simply that Dumbarton lies in darkness or whether they are in another town, Madeline cannot tell.

  The night sky is as unnatural as the fog. It is a wondrous indigo, a dark blue that looks darker because of the swirling silver fog, now only as deep as Rhys’ knees. The midnight sky silhouettes her husband’s figure, hundreds of stars twinkling in its darkness. They seem to dance around Rhys, as if the very heavens mean to draw her gaze to this man alone.

  She might have married worse, to be sure.

  Rhys is dressed as he had been that first night at Ravensmuir. Madeline sees the red dragon of Wales upon his tabard. Its eyes gleam at her, it glows upon his dark tabard, as if wrought of flame not the thread of a clever woman’s needle.

  Rhys smiles the little smile that heats Madeline’s blood and she is reassured that he is not changed after all. When he smiles at her, when he caresses her, when he regards her with wonder, Madeline has no doubts of the merit of their match.

  She frowns that his cloak is tossed over his shoulders. Was it so before? She cannot recall.

  “Sleep with me,” she says, the words thick and unfamiliar on her tongue.

  “I have been abed,” he says gently.

  She remembers then, she remembers Rhys’ hand upon her breast. She tingles in recollection of the slow caress of his thumb across her nipple. She pats the pallet in invitation.

  He shakes his head. “You have slept the night and all the day.”

  What whimsy! “I never sleep that long,” she says, surprised to hear her words slurring together.