by K. C. Helms
With her heart in her mouth, searching on tiptoe and craning her neck, Katherine frantically scanned the stream of departing knights. Where was Rhys?
By the time the crowd pushed into the hall, the prisoners were lined up below the king. ’Twas difficult for them to remain standing, but the soldiers and their sword tips made it so.
Edward, reclining in his chair on the dais, surveyed the motley crowd with keen interest.
“What did you hope to accomplish?” he demanded, snaring the bloodied captives in his piercing scowl.
“Your death, Longshanks!” came a surly reply.
Jests about the king’s height, acceptable from tested knights, were not so welcome from a defeated enemy. An angry murmur rippled through the crowd at the affront.
Edward focused on the Welshman in the midst of the throng, who bore a proud and defiant expression, but who was unable to stand without support from his comrade-in-arms.
“Alas, such disappointment you must needs endure, for ’twill not be this day,” Edward replied. His unwavering gaze did not match his sympathetic words, nor did his hard tone.
“Others will take up our cause.” The Welshman’s shout came with great effort.
“And they will rue the day they attacked me and mine.” The king snorted in derision.
“You can’t defeat us all!”
“But I can,” proclaimed Edward, his face clearing as he sat up in the chair and turned to his waiting libation. “And all of Wales with you.” He swept up the tankard of ale. “Consider the cost of your failed attack. You have leave to ponder your mistake. But only for a few hours.” Amid rowdy laughter from his men, he waved the prisoners away.
The enmity between England and Wales was long standing, but never had Katherine witnessed such raw hatred. The sight of gaunt and ragged prisoners being shoved and kicked toward the dungeon, with desperation and hopelessness in their faces, made her nauseous.
A hand slipped into hers. “Where is Simon?” Anne whispered, huddling against her.
Where is Rhys, she wanted to know.
“So touching.”
Spasms of alarm rolled down Katherine’s spine at the familiar voice behind them. She gasped aloud when Sir Geoffrey’s large palm settled on Anne’s shoulder.
“I see you have survived the attack,” he murmured.
Perspiration broke out on her forehead. They could not escape Sir Geoffrey. He plagued them like an evil stench.
“You would have been safer had you remained at Haughmond.” Sir Geoffrey clucked his tongue and leaned closer. “Thereto, your aunt would have had mourners at her burial. I dare say, the old lady sacrificed herself for naught?” He straightened and looked down his nose at them. “Forsooth, the king keeps you close, but ’tis impossible for the watch dog to be everywhere.”
Their stepfather’s threat was all too clear. Yanking her sister from his grasp, Katherine propelled them closer to where the king sat with his chin in his hand and a deep flush suffusing his long, dissatisfied face.
* * *
“Holy Mary!”
Rhys squinted at the approaching figure, recognizing Katherine’s stricken voice. A swollen face and sparks of white light flashing through his head, that made him want to spew up his guts, made vision a chore. Thanks be to God that Simon had had enough sense to search the dungeon. But a belated endeavor it was. Bruised and bloodied, he felt more dead than alive, and he couldn’t cease shivering. The cold, damp cell had sent chills seeping into his bones.
Katherine’s frantic words came to him through a haze of throbbing pain. Sharp and numbing pain stabbed through his shoulder with each stumbling step. The climb from the dungeon had been exhausting. Now, every muscle screamed in protest as Simon hoisted him along the corridor toward Katherine.
“What did the monsters do to you?” she exclaimed, rushing to him.
He detected the glitter of tears in her eyes and felt relief that he yet possessed some degree of vision. “Which monsters?” he muttered through parched lips. “The Welsh or the English?”
Soldiers from both sides had bestowed their ‘kind attentions’ upon him. The prisoners had lashed out at a hapless Englishman found in their midst, while the king’s men, responding to the loud melee that ensued, added to his misery, taking delight in bringing order to a dungeon filled with defeated fighters.
He winced in dread, as Katherine seemed wont to fling herself at him. Thankfully, Simon stopped her with a warning hand. “Nay, lady, my master is sore wounded. We needs get him to his bed right quickly.”
“To the wardrobe. ’Tis a better comfort than his cold campaign tent.”
She hurried ahead of the two men as they struggled up the narrow circular steps and pulled down the bed linens on the only bedstead within the chamber. “Lady Alma will give up her bed to a wounded knight.”
Katherine lent her assistance, offering her slight frame as support. He groaned, natheless, when he was lowered to the mattress, regretting the agonized sound. They had tried not to cause him discomfort, their faces reflecting their own dread. Finally, his ragged panting diminished as the mind-boggling pain ebbed into a dull ache.
“’Twas not the Welsh, but our own brethren who bestowed such tender care,” he murmured, licking his dry lips.
“The soldiers cast him into the oubliette, thinking he had provoked the fight,” Simon added, a catch in his voice.
He had begun to feel somewhat better when, moments later, the court physician arrived to poke and prod at him and bring back the pain.
Sent by the king himself, he declared the wounds more superficial than life threatening. He placed two avaricious leeches on Rhys’s lacerated shoulder. Pungent-smelling poultices applied to the tender wounds of his jaw and cheek made him wrinkle his nose, while a greasy ointment daubed on his split lip left a bitter taste on his tongue.
“If our worthy knight does as I have instructed, the evil humors will be expelled,” the royal healer declared with a nod of his head. “He should mend.”
Katherine made sure all instructions were followed with care.
Later, Simon returned to the chamber and related the dreary tale of burying Zeus. He’d placed the alan’s remains within a deep hole, over which he’d maneuvered a large stone to discourage marauding animals.
Rhys thanked him for his diligence and wearily closed his eyes. Try as he might, he could not contain his sorrow. Battle wounds diminished far quicker than a broken heart. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye, even as Katherine sat beside him holding his hand.
* * *
“It demonstrates my high esteem for my knights, that I attend so readily when summoned to the sick bed.” King Edward drew up a wooden stool and sat down beside Rhys with a look of concern.
Rhys did not find the royal attention surprising, for Edward ofttimes favored knights who showed their loyalty. The king had even been known to indulge odd whims from valiant warriors.
But this was no whim. He had overheard Welsh stratagems in the dungeon and now related them to his king. It took longer than normal, for his injuries beleaguered his tongue. But finally, he shared all he had heard in the dungeon.
Edward nodded grimly. “My thanks, good knight. We will guard the passes well and not follow the Welsh into their lairs. ’Twas an opportune moment that found you so well-placed, my friend.”
Rhys’s smile turned to a grimace of pain as his lip broke open again. “And well-placed cuts and bruises, my liege?”
Edward chuckled. “I’m mindful of your sacrifice, sir knight, but an excellent opportunity for England, natheless. We’ll not allow Llewyllen to draw us into their fastness. If they show themselves in the low country, we’ll send them back to their hovels with a quiver full of arrows in their arses, eh?” He rose. “Rest well, my faithful friend. Before long, England will have need of your sword.”
“Sire, there is another matter of which I would speak.” Rhys eyed the king with a skeptical frown and nervously licked his lip, ignoring the bitter oint
ment.
“’Twill keep. You need to rest.”
“But ’tis most pressing, my liege. It does concern the marriage of Lady Katherine.” He struggled to rise but fell back. His hand moved weakly, indicating a small leather pouch lying half-buried among the pelts at the foot of the bed. “You must be warned, sire. Pray, hand me yonder satchel that I might liberate you from impending peril.”
Chapter Twelve
“A joust! Thank God for a joust!”
At the high table, Edward roared with laughter. He felt his complexion growing ruddy. His eyes would be sparkling with amusement. Rhys of St. Quintin had tapped his romantic streak. Imagine plying him from a sick bed for Lady Katherine’s hand in marriage. The lad was incorrigible.
He chuckled to himself. ’Twas a worthy quest, true love overcoming all odds. He found the notion irresistible, for he and his queen shared a powerful bond. They had been together since their youth and he could not imagine life without her. Of all his father’s legacies, his marriage was the most excellent.
Influenced by his own marital bliss and obliged to Sir Rhys for his valuable report from the dungeon, yet having pledged his troth to Sir Dafydd, he’d proposed a joust to settle the matter of the lady’s future.
“I have wished for a diversion.” He laughed uproariously into his cup of ale. But soon he sobered. How fair a tourney could it be with an injured knight?
* * *
’Twas no laughing matter to Katherine. Simon had sat near the high table last eventide and related the king’s comment to Anne, who was seated far below the salt with the lesser folk. ’Twas she who informed Katherine of the impending event and the king’s mirth.
Though Rhys had urged her away, concerned for her reputation as a betrothed woman, she refused to leave the wardrobe while he recovered from his wounds. Different accommodations had been required for the other ladies and so they had the chamber to themselves. In the four days since the attack, she’d physicked him according to the royal leech’s instructions, quite ignoring her own weariness.
Clearly, Rhys’s suffering diminished with each new day. Dark angry bruises faded and his lip ceased its persistent bloody discharge. But her profound worry was his sword arm, which remained tender and weak.
’Twas a daunting task when first Rhys had been brought from the dungeon. She had never prayed so often, but could not regret the time spent on her knees asking for God’s healing grace. Owing to her constancy, had not Rhys regained his health? ’Twas a miracle the speed with which his wounds mended. God’s intersession, surely. Why, only this morn he returned to his own tent and the beckoning tiltyard, many days before the leech thought ’twould be so.
“Insufferable king!” Katherine yanked the soiled sheets off the bed. “His ideals of honor stretch beyond reason.” Tossing the linens onto the floor, she plumped the feather ticking and lamented, “Why must he disparage a most brave and loyal knight?”
Shaking her head in disgust, she bent to retrieve the linens, then straightened, clasping them to her breast. Inhaling their scent—Rhys’s scent—she heaved a forlorn sigh. Without him, the chamber was so very empty.
Yet in the next instant her heart soared with hope for the future. Rhys wished her to be his wife. He had petitioned the king. She buried her face in the linens. He would win her hand, he would defeat Sir Dafydd.
She inhaled Rhys’s scent once more and dismissed the thought of that other distasteful knight. ’Twas simple to dismiss Sir Dafydd, for she had yet to meet him, an omen to be sure.
* * *
A newly arrived knight exercised in the tiltyard, jousting with the wooden quintain, hitting the target shield squarely then veering away effortlessly on his huge destrier as the weighted bag pelted around. Beneath a shiny new helm, much of his face remained hidden by a goatee of dark whiskers and a long dark moustache.
A small crowd of women had gathered to delight in his easy, fluid motions. “’Tis the knight who will possess Haughmond!” The news swept through the spectators.
Anne, having divided her attention betwixt Simon, who also practiced in the tiltyard hewing the sturdy pel into splinters with his broad sword, and the newcomer, went running to Katherine with the news.
“He draws a crowd for good reason. ’Tis a stirring sight, come see,” she exclaimed, her face shining with enthusiasm, her brown eyes sparkling. She grabbed Katherine’s hand and wouldn’t let go.
Though she wished to protest, Katherine did not. How could she spoil her sister’s joy? Tarrying at Bereford had not brought Anne much peace. The Welsh attack had frightened her, made her sleep uneasy, and she had wept over the subsequent hangings.
Katherine allowed herself to be led to the edge of the yard where the women congregated, their excited whispers and giggles filling the air. Staring at Sir Dafydd, she silently decried their appalling chatter. This man was the embodiment of true knighthood? What a ridiculous thought!
Anne laughed along with the other ladies and clapped her hands likewise when the knight galloped past their position beside the field. “He goes to practice with the swiveling pole,” she gushed, craning her neck for a better view. “Look, Katherine! Not once is he clubbed from behind. He cuts a fine figure, do you not think?”
She did not think him a pleasing sight. The knight in flesh disturbed her peace. Nor was it palatable that her sister unabashedly sang the man’s praises.
But she wouldn’t quibble, not publicly, not before spectators who made way for her and who watched her every move. ’Twas obvious from their cunning stares she had become an object of interest. In grim silence, she hurried from the tiltyard.
’Twas another sector of the castle she would avoid.
Already she detoured around the town gate, where the Welshmen had met their end, dying for a lost cause, their necks broken by deadly slipknots. The ropes were all that remained of the king’s swift and unforgiving justice. Following the hangings, the heads had been severed and carted off to London to be displayed above the ramparts of The White Tower. All would see and know the power of the king. What was left of the corpses had been sent to Wales. Katherine was sure such actions would only serve to inflame the Welsh.
But ’twas the king’s policy.
Evidently, ’twas also his policy to disparage his knights. Had anyone of lesser stature insulted him so baldly, Rhys would have thrown down his gauntlet. A knight’s honor was his reputation.
Insufferable king!
But Rhys seemed oblivious to the cruel royal laughter.
Thereto, she feared his sword arm was not sufficiently strong for combat. The joust was nigh upon them, two days hence. How could he overpower an opponent in his weakened condition?
The nagging fears persisted through the day as Katherine sat in the solar with the queen and her attending ladies. In quiet despair she reworked the untidy stitches of her embroidery.
* * *
Sir Rhys of St. Quintin was not going to carry the day. ’Twas a joust he could not win—and he knew it.
“Simon, I will be able to endure no more than one pass before I am unseated,” he admitted, rubbing his tender arm.
The younger man surged to his feet with an angry glare. “Why are ye set on defeat? Desist from this foolery. Think of Lady Katherine.”
Rhys nodded. “I do think of the lady. She will not suffer it long. You are fully aware Katherine needs to wed Sir Dafydd, not me.”
“Yea, and by God’s thigh, ye’ll pay mightily for it.”
He settled a dark stare upon his squire. “What choice have I? ’Twould have been different had she met me under other circumstances. I needs be humiliated. ’Twill ease her pain and make bowing to the king’s command more tolerable.”
“Aye, ta be sure. But ’twill draw her anger,” Simon scoffed. “What do ye then?”
Shrugging, he winced when a dull pain attended the gesture. He was stronger, without a doubt, but he should not triumph in a contest of endurance. “Your moral judgment does not move me.”
&nb
sp; “Ye deal far better with men than with women,” Simon accused, flinging down the linen shirt he was mending.
Rhys, examining a bruised rib in a small tin mirror, threw him a quizzical look. “What is not needful is you telling me—”
“Naught shall be as before.” A darkening of his face showed Simon’s inner fury. “Think ye she’ll accept this betrayal? She’s a woman with womanly feelings. She’ll not let it pass.”
Rhys straightened. “I will do penance.”
“God’s mercy, what a thought.” Simon gaped at him in disbelief.
Wanting none of his squire’s condemnation, he gingerly bent to rescue the shirt from the muddy grass.
“Why are ye bein’ so willful?”
Rhys crushed the garment within his fist. Simon had no right to be judgmental. “Think you ’tis easy to hurt Katherine? It tears me asunder! She restored me to health and I repay her thus?” He whirled away, fervently trying to hold fast to his self-control. Without much effort, his conscience would plunge him into despondency. “Had I not begun this vendetta against Geoffrey de Borne, I would not be standing in this misery or listening to your preaching. You prattle on like a friar.”
“I’ll not pity ye. ’Twas yerself who put the idea ta the king, an’ it’s yerself ye can thank when ye lose the joust and the Lady Katherine.” Simon shook his head in disgust. “Ye won’t mind when she repudiates you?”
“I welcome it.”
Simon’s blue eyes widened. “That’s not very sensible.”
Meeting his squire’s gaze, he realized Simon’s question wasn't from anger, but from confusion. He lifted his own hands in a helpless gesture. “I have other intentions which require my time, which out of necessity, come ahead of Katherine. I made a vow before God, if you do remember.”
“Is Sir Geoffrey worth this torture?”
“Nay, but how can I break my vow to God?” His voice held all his frustration.
