by K. C. Helms
The steady beating of his heart drummed against her ear while he placed one kiss after another atop her head. A long, low groan sounding more akin to a growl rumbled from his chest. He caught her chin and lifted her face to his, planting another kiss on her quivering lips.
Within her, a burning ache sprang to life. His thigh nudged her hip. Her flesh prickled. His hauberk rubbed against her breasts, tormenting her, making her feel—urging her to—
What? What was this extraordinary sensation attacking her, filling her with hot, savage flames?
Rhys lifted her off her feet, molded her body to his. His desperate longing plumbed her depths, seared her to her core. She shivered, but she was not cold, and wrapped her arms about his neck once more. His lips were exquisite torture. Joyfully she tasted him through her salty tears. His tongue boldly probed the depths of her mouth, filled her with wonder, with sharp longing.
“Rhys!” Simon burst into the tent and skidded to a halt. “The devil,” he exclaimed in disgust, dancing past them. Diving into the nearest chest, tossing out weapons, he bellowed, “To arms!”
Rhys’s hold loosened. Sliding down his hauberk, Katherine all but fell on legs turned molten while he lunged for his sword.
“’Tis Sir Geoffrey! He attacks the king!” Simon clasped his sword to his hips and hefted up a long ugly looking knife, stuffing it into his belt.
Rhys swept up his scabbard and drew out his sword. He threw Katherine a grim look. “Might it be a ruse to distract us? Mayhap he seeks to seize our lady.”
She gasped in dismay at the terrifying thought.
“We needs secure Katherine before we attend the king,” he continued in a rush, catching in mid-air the knife Simon tossed to him. Not taking the time to strap it on properly, he shoved it into his boot, then flung his chain mail coif over his head. He caught Katherine’s arm. Propelling her along, he tore out of the tent and toward the castle hill.
“Sir Geoffrey has allies, else he would not dare attack,” he threw at Simon, racing along beside him. “We could be charging into a hornet’s nest.”
“’Twould seem so!” Simon leaped ahead of them. “Sir Geoffrey demanded the king’s ear following Lady Katherine’s audience.”
“God’s bones!” Rhys hissed in air through clenched teeth. “Mayhap Edward inadvertently provoked this attack.”
“’Tis common knowledge the king denied him Haughmond in favor of Sir Dafydd.”
Scowling at Simon, Rhys hefted his sword higher. “Don’t brew trouble, pup.”
“Don’t be so prickly.” The squire panted, dropping behind them with a sulky grimace.
They passed through the unguarded gate of the bailey. To their right, Bereford’s soldiers, with weapons in hand, poured out of the armory. Shouted commands rose above the clash of metal swords at the entrance to the stone keep on the far side of the bailey.
The pitch grew louder the closer they drew to the hall. Up the circular stone stairs they forged, heading for the upper most floor, with Rhys’s arm encircling Katherine’s waist, giving aid to her flight.
“Bolt your door securely,” commanded Rhys. “I don’t trust de Borne.”
“Aye!” came Simon’s fierce reply from behind. “Destruction makes a wide swathe behind that villain. Lady Katherine, you must see to your safety, and Lady Anne’s. If I could—”
Rhys vented an angry oath. “Cease your prattle.”
“But I’m as concerned for the ladies’ welfare.”
“Then see to the king!”
The squire stumbled to a halt while Rhys and she continued onward with flying feet, Rhys’s hand pressed firmly into her back.
Finally, they reached the top floor and burst into the wardrobe. Anne and another lady, standing on tiptoes to watch the fighting below, turned with startled cries.
Rhys took a moment to draw breath. “Hold fast within, Katherine. Keep the door barred at all costs. I’ll not have you at de Borne’s mercy.”
“Rhys!” She reached toward him before he dashed through the door. “I love you.”
His gaze locked with hers, he shook his head. “Would that I need not leave you here alone.”
“I am never alone if I have your love.”
With a bound, he was through the door, his shout filling the corridor. “You have it, my lady!”
Chapter Ten
“God wills it!”
Rhys’s battle cry echoed up the stairwell, rising above the sounds of the fighting in the great hall. At the bottom of the circular stairs, he skidded to a halt, sliding on blood-soaked rushes. A man lay sprawled across the narrow corridor, his lifeblood gushing from a wound that had all but severed his arm. Vaulting past the dying man, Rhys dashed into the hall and into the din of battle.
The chamber, crammed with knights and soldiers and all manner of fighting men, boasted no banners or colors. In alarm, he realized ’twas impossible to determine friend from foe.
Who should he defend?
Who should he run through?
Where was the king?
A swift survey of the room and the numbered dead, he could only hope Geoffrey de Borne was among them. ’Twould relieve his avenging fervor and give his mother blessed relief from this undertaking she couldn’t abide.
The chamber itself pulsed with the steady ring of metal. Swords clashed and howls of rage migrated from one corner to another. The rushing crescendo rolled in waves, resounding off the stonewalls. Familiar sounds, oft repeated in past warfare. Even the bellows of pain punctuating the air with regularity did not disturb him.
Advancing into the hall, searching for the king, the number of fighters without swords surprised Rhys. ’Twas more a brawl than chivalrous combat, thugs engaged in bashing heads with any weaponry at hand. Sticks, wooden stools, even horn tankards crashed down ingloriously on unsuspecting heads.
From out of the flood of fighters, a sword drove toward him. With a hurried backhanded cut, he thrust it aside.
Sir Geoffrey struck again, armed with hard steel and cold hate. “Bloody bastard, you’ll not get Haughmond!”
Rhys ducked, raising his sword to fend off the descending blade, retreating, he stomped on a large, shaggy paw. Zeus let out a whine. God’s bones, in his concern for Katherine, he’d forgotten Zeus.
“Back, Zeus!”
Sir Geoffrey’s lips twisted in a snarl. He slashed again, his formidable skill abetted by a fierce and determined expression.
The blow smashed against Rhys’s sword arm. God be thanked, he yet wore his armor. But with a sinking heart, he realized Geoffrey’s intent, saw it in the knight’s eyes. ’Twas a fight to the death.
Raw anger boiled up within him. Too long this villain had caused mayhem. ’Twas well past the time he paid for his evil.
But Geoffrey de Borne had seized the advantage. A prickle of foreboding swept over Rhys. Where was Simon to guard his back? This attack, too vicious and resolute, was anything but happenstance. Had Sir Geoffrey discovered his plot for vengeance? Had he lost the advantage of surprise?
With all his might, Rhys slashed harder. He’d run Geoffrey de Borne through, would satisfy his blood lust. He’d banish this viper to hell. He wouldn’t waste this opportunity, he’d have his revenge.
Geoffrey sprang back with a snarl, his sword slicing the air, then lunged again with increasing fury.
Rhys met each barrage, parrying effortlessly, sidestepping nimbly. The strikes grew less forceful. He pressed his own attack, stalwart thrusts connecting hard and swift, his sword arm rising and falling with relentless regularity, determined to slay this beast.
Thrusting, Geoffrey missed and grimaced at the blunder.
Rhys swung again but Geoffrey deflected it. They collided, shoulder-to-shoulder, as the weapons drove against each other above their heads. A fist smashed into Rhys’s cheekbone. Rearing back from the blow and the sharp sting of split flesh, he shoved at his attacker, but Geoffrey caught hold of his chain mail hood, twisting it, yanking him off balance.
Fr
om close at hand came a savage snarl and Sir Geoffrey’s stranglehold loosened.
He stumbled free in time to see Sir Geoffrey’s sword flash in a downward arc.
Rhys’s howl of helplessness could not hide the brief but pitiful yelp from Zeus.
The sword slashed again. Entrails poured out, bloody and hot, steaming in the cold air. Without another sound, Zeus fell to the rushes.
His war cry rang out again, even as potent rage surged through Rhys, even as his stomach heaved. With heart pounding in his head, he leaped at Geoffrey, slashing and striking, thrusting and slicing as though he were the last knight defending the king. Hammering mindlessly with his sword, so stunned was he by the loss he barely noticed the subtle change in his opponent.
Sir Geoffrey stumbled past two knights bent on killing each other. Death, and its scent, drifted on the smoke-tinged air.
A blow to the back of his head sent Rhys spinning. Where in God’s name was Simon?
Pivoting to face the new attacker, he ducked instinctively, barely avoiding a heavy mace hurtling toward his face.
Geoffrey leapt forward, thrusting his sword with renewed vigor, his look of alarm turning to spiteful glee. ’Twas evident he had found an ally.
Rhys deflected the blow, slicing sideways, aiming for Geoffrey’s midsection, but he had to dance quickly to elude the spiked club that swung again from the new opponent.
Geoffrey’s sword flashed.
Grimly, Rhys fought back, but ’twas merely a matter of time before two opponents outmaneuvered his lone blade.
Anger burst within him. Another reason to stoke his furor against Geoffrey de Borne.
Fear coiled around his backbone and settled in the pit of his stomach. Luck and faith were bound up with strength and skill. Would luck hold this day?
Shouts swelled the air. From atop the raised dais, the king came into view. Plain to see, standing a head taller than the other men, he swung his sword lustily.
“The king, we needs get to the king!” shouted Sir Geoffrey.
“Nay!” Rhys bellowed, thrusting his sword with more fury. He backhanded the hilt into the head of his second opponent, but the hearty knight barely paused.
Onward the two knights came, striking at Rhys with sword and mace.
“I’ll see you with your maker!” de Borne’s ruthless words came close, while his mighty broadsword fell closer, whistling beside Rhys’s ear.
Rhys deflected the strike so vigorously, the blade slammed upward, nicking his jaw. Hot blood flowed into the neck of his leather hauberk. Smarting from the pain, shaking off the sudden lightheadedness that rocked his equilibrium, he swung his sword again.
“The king! The king!” A chorus of frenzied voices swept the chamber.
“Finish the bastard,” Sir Geoffrey shouted to his companion. “I’m for the king.”
A sword came at Rhys. He parried it aside. But he couldn’t evade the swinging mace. With a stunning blow its deadly weight crashed down on his shoulder, sent him to one knee. Pain ripped along the length of his arm, speared fire into his hand. He struggled to rise, knew he was lost if he did not. The club struck again, its sharp spikes penetrating his armor, this time tearing the flesh of his shoulder.
With clenched teeth, he staggered to his feet and swung wildly. By luck, his sword connected with the attacker’s forearm.
The knight yelled and lunged forward, forcing Rhys back past the unmoving form of Zeus.
“Leave this one to us,” shouted a new combatant. “Get to the king!”
Rhys raised his sword, but too late saw the fist. Lights flashed in his head. His knees buckled. The sound of battle disappeared.
* * *
Near daybreak a loud pounding shattered the silence of the crowded wardrobe.
“Anne, are you well?”
Katherine leapt out of the chair where she’d been fighting sleep. The other ladies, jolted awake, scrambled from their straw pallets in alarm. The long night had been a strain on them all.
“Simon?” Anne flew to the portal.
“Yea, my lady,” came the squire’s muffled reply. “’Tis safe to open up.”
Together the sisters heaved the unwieldy bar from the metal braces. Simon rushed inside to clasp Anne’s hands.
“Praise the Blessed Mother for your deliverance, dear Simon,” she burst out.
“You and Rhys are well?”
Katherine was sure Simon hadn’t heard her query. He never looked in her direction but drilled Anne with all the joy a man could possibly possess.
Her sister’s inane grin set her on edge. “I see you’re in good health,” she said sharply. “How fares Rhys?”
With relief lighting his face, Simon continued to stare at Anne with relief lighting his countenance, but he did make reply, “In pursuit of the attackers, no doubt. The revolt’s crushed. He wasn’t among the dead or wounded and ’twasn’t Sir Geoffrey as we feared. A handful of Llewelyn’s outlaws were pretending ta be knights. They breached the wall with a knotted rope.” He snorted in disgust and finally slanted a brief glance toward Katherine. “Most were killed or taken prisoner. They couldn’t rally their force, once we divided ’em. A few escaped over the wall, but Rhys will fetch them back, right quickly.”
“’Twas not Sir Geoffrey?” Katherine’s fears were not so easily set aside after her terrifying nightlong vigil.
“Nay, he guarded the king’s back, fighting as fiercely as the next man.”
A murmur of approval and relief rippled from the knot of hovering women.
But an unsettled feeling filled Katherine. Something was amiss. It took a moment to realize ’twas Simon’s choice of words. “What mean you, ‘no doubt’?”
“I assume Rhys is with the king.”
“Assume?” Katherine snapped, alarm making her tone needle-sharp.
Simon swung around to face her. At last she had his attention.
“Were you not with him in battle?” she demanded.
The squire shook his head.
“You did not guard his back?” Her voice rose with her panic. “Who had his back?”
Simon gave a quick shrug of his shoulders.
“’Tis your bounden duty to guard your master.”
“He sent me away, do you recall. His temper was provoked.”
“You blame Rhys for shirking your duty?”
A flash of anger crossed Simon’s face. “I did not shirk my duty. He sent me to the king.”
Katherine stepped close to the squire and thrust her face beneath his chin, stabbing his hauberk with a shaking forefinger. “He has not returned to see to our welfare. Do you not think that strange?”
“All the injured are accounted for. Rhys rides with the king. Where else could he be?”
“’Tis a query I’d like answered right quickly.” Her voice shook with emotion. “Go find your master!”
Chapter Eleven
So this was life with a warring husband.
Sitting on a bench beside Anne not far from the queen’s ladies, Katherine blinked in surprise. What an uncommon thought!
All the day they had awaited word from the king. With her ladies-in-waiting thronging about her, displaying a calmness Katherine was far from feeling, the queen sat by the warmth of the large stone fireplace and concentrated on her embroidery. Yet when the young acrobats, who usually performed for her, cart wheeled across the floor, she cut them short with an abrupt wave of dismissal.
Katherine’s insides churned and threatened to burst apart. She had no husband, certainly none awarring. But once she married, this would be her existence. Would she respond appropriately when her husband went off to battle? Could she feel as much anguish for another man as she felt for Rhys? Or as much love? His image flickered to life in her imagination. Indeed, could she bestow affection on another knight?
The king demanded it. Haughmond’s future required it.
But surely her heart would break without Rhys as her wedded husband. These hours of uncertainty, not knowing his fate,
had brought her to a trembling standstill. ’Twould be easy to unhinge her sanity were he wounded—or killed. How could she abide without the man she loved? The harrowing thought made her heart pound and her hands shake.
’Twas late in the day when the trumpet finally blared and the castle roared to life. The bailey filled to overflowing, as everyone, from the queen down to the meanest serf, endeavored to be present for the king’s arrival.
Overhead, banners snapped in the breeze and soldiers lined the ramparts. On the road from the west, hooves beat a steady tempo. Wedged betwixt a lord and a young squire, Katherine shivered in the cold March air. She hadn’t taken time to don a cloak in her rush.
The garrison archers stood poised on the wall walk, their bows notched and aimed at the approaching riders. Shouted commands bridged the high walls betwixt uneasy men-at-arms, who shifted their weight restlessly from one foot to the other. Finally, the castle’s captain was reassured the large party closing in on Bereford through the rising mist was, indeed, the king and his knights. Then came his shouted order and the heavy portcullis, amid scraping metal and groaning gears, lifted into the upper reaches of the gatehouse.
Edward swept through the barbican. The bailey teemed with his knights astride their great war horses. Spurred by success, they shouted in celebration.
At the end of the procession came the pitiful prisoners lashed together, gasping for breath, having run the distance or risk being trampled by the warriors riding behind them. The column came to a halt and the defeated fighters collapsed to the ground in exhaustion. A horde of pages and squires raced through the mud to assist their dismounting masters and to take charge of the mounts, while the spectators swept forward in an eager, raucous wave.
Standing in his stirrups, Edward surveyed the Welshmen sprawled on the ground, then shook his mail-coifed head in disgust. “This miserable rabble is not worth the loss of a single foot soldier,” he said, his voice full of scorn. Stripping off his gauntlets, smacking them against his thigh none too gently, he dismounted and entered the great hall. His knights made haste to follow.
