Elizabeau realized, very quickly, that she was happy and relieved to see Rhys. He appeared unharmed in spite of the vicious sword battle she had witnessed. His gaze fell on her as he moved towards her.
“Are you all right?” he asked quietly. “You weren’t injured in any way?”
She shook her head, resisting the urge to smile at him. “I am well,” she gestured at David, still sitting on the chair next to her. “But Sir David was injured. Sir Edward removed the arrow.”
Rhys peered more closely at David, attempting to gain a look at his wound, but David waved him off. “A scratch,” he declared irritably. “A tickle, in fact. But this old woman will not let me go about my business.”
He was referring to Edward, who merely lifted an eyebrow at him. “It needs to be sutured,” he said.
“Bah,” David stood up, hand over the wound as he timidly rotated the shoulder. “It is well enough. I’ll live.”
While David and Edward bickered, the earl moved to Elizabeau and Rhys. She could see by the look on his face that he was a man with a good deal on his mind.
“I suppose our most recent clash has indicated that John’s spies have located you once again,” he said quietly.
“Do you know that for sure, my lord?” Rhys asked.
“There can be no other alternative. Who else would have taken a shot at her?”
Rhys shrugged. “There are those who believe I am a wealthy baron. It could be robbers.” He looked around. “I see that our merchant friend has vanished. Perhaps he is behind the attack.”
Christopher lifted an eyebrow in thought. “It is possible, but we cannot take that chance. You will leave at once, ride south, then change direction and ride back north and west into Wales. Take refuge at your mother’s home without further delay. No more inns, no stopping. You must ride hard for safety. I will meet you when I can, either at your mother’s home or at Ogmore.”
Rhys was well aware that it would be a difficult trip for the lady. His mother’s home was at least four days away, and that was at a normal rate of travel. What the earl was asking him to do would tax the heartiest of men. Yet they had no choice.
“Aye, my lord,” he replied, taking the lady’s elbow. “I shall not fail.”
The earl clapped a big hand on Rhys’ shoulder but his eyes were fixed on Elizabeau. He regarded her carefully.
“You have done well so far, my lady,” he said quietly. “Pray continue to listen to Rhys and to do what he tells you. He will keep you safe.”
Elizabeau merely nodded, unsure what to say to him. She was coming to feel increasingly guilty that all of these men were risking their lives for her. She was a reluctant heiress at best; now she was wondering if she was worthy of this devotion. Before she could formulate a proper response, Rhys gently guided her back to their upturned table and collected the satchel with her new things.
In silence, he picked up the bag, made sure her cloak was fastened snuggly, and escorted her back to the door. Elizabeau kept watching his face, trying not to look him in the eye but wanting to just the same. Seeing him fight had been a revealing experience and oddly impressed her. Now she was coming to understand more about the man and remaining objective was increasingly difficult. He was an escort and nothing more; she had to keep reminding herself of that.
Before they went outside into the new morning, the earl sent several men out before them to make sure there were no assassins waiting. One of them was a broad knight with pale blue eyes and white-blond hair by the name of Lawrence de Beckett. He had fought side by side with Rhys and the earl throughout the melee but had remained largely silent; Elizabeau vaguely remembered seeing him at Hyde House and she averted her gaze when their eyes met; there was something about the man that was intimidating, frightening even. But Lawrence paid little attention to her as he led the earl’s men outside to scout for the enemy. Rhys and Christopher held Elizabeau at the door, their experienced eyes scanning the world beyond.
“My lord?”
It took Christopher a moment to realize that Elizabeau was addressing him. “My lady?”
She cleared her throat softly, seemingly grasping for words. “I just… well, I want to thank you for what you are doing,” she said after a moment. “You are risking your life for a woman you do not know and I find that a strange and noble sacrifice.”
Christopher’s sky-blue gaze moved over her before his bearded lips began to twitch with a hint of a smile. “I see much of your father in you,” he replied quietly. “And I see some of your grandfather in you as well. But what I see the most of is your grandmother, Eleanor.”
The gaze from her dark green eyes was like a vortex, consuming and intense. “How is that, my lord, when we are not even related by blood?”
He cocked his head, reflecting back on the woman he had known for many years. “You and Eleanor both have the same firm manner. Have you never met Eleanor of Aquitaine?”
Elizabeau shook her head. “Never, although I was told she was instrumental in my brother Arthur’s capture. I do not believe she likes her grandchildren very well, and me least of all.”
His smile broke through. “Why would you say that?”
“Because she hated my father.”
He lifted an eyebrow in concession. “You must realize, of course, that she has hated nearly all of her children and grandchildren at one time or another. I wouldn’t take it personally.” His amused gaze lingered on her. “She is still alive. Perhaps you may meet her yet.”
Elizabeau snorted, a most unladylike sound. “I doubt that, my lord,” she said with sarcasm. “She supports my Uncle John for the throne, so much so that she was instrumental in the abduction of her own grandson who threatened his reign. If anything, I should be fearful that the woman will raise an army against me. ’Tis Eleanor I fear more than Uncle John.”
Christopher laughed softly. “A wise woman you are. But have no fear; I have fought both for and against her. I know her tricks.”
Elizabeau looked up at him and, seeing that he was smiling easily, could not help but smile in return. She felt confident with de Lohr’s mighty protection, a man who had served many years with the Plantagenet dynasty. He knew the players well.
One of de Lohr’s knights returned to indicate that the area seemed to be clear. Rhys’ charger had been brought around and he and Christopher escorted Elizabeau out into the growing morning. Rhys mounted and Christopher helped the lady up. As she settled herself on the hard armor of Rhys’ legs, de Lohr watched her carefully. After a moment, he spoke.
“Do not let yourself be troubled,” he murmured. “It is the strength of your grandfather that will see you through this. And you will need all of the strength that you can muster.”
There was something in the way he said the words that made her heart grow cold. There was much ahead of her; that much she knew. But she had no idea just how much strength it would take to survive it.
CHAPTER FIVE
Monmouthshire, Wales
Eight days later, the cold grey stones and verdant fields of Whitebrook came into view.
Rhys clutched Elizabeau against his chest; she was sleeping the sleep of the dead. Having been ill for the past several days, all she did was sleep and all he did was stay awake and try to remain alert. They had ridden as far south as Basingstoke before cutting their way north, traversing the cold, wet lands of England in an attempt to evade John’s assassins. The first two days into their journey, Elizabeau had been relatively silent but compliant. By the third day, she had been sneezing and sniffling enough so that Rhys diverted from his orders and found them a warm stable to spend the night in. She had slept on the straw, breathing heavily and shivering, before waking in the morning with a fever and sore throat.
Rhys was concerned and although he knew they should remain where they were so she could recover somewhat, his instincts and his orders told him to keep going. He had to get the lady to safety and any manner of delay, no matter what the reason, could mean trouble. So he had bundl
ed the lady up in her bleached woolen cloak with the rabbit lining, stolen a heavy horse blanket and wrapped her up tightly in it, and continued with their journey. He had to make it to his mother’s manor as soon as possible; the lady’s illness simply added another element of urgency.
As the lush valley of the Wye River came into view and his mother’s stone manor of Whitebrook in the distance, Rhys felt a distinct sense of relief. He knew his mother would take very good care of the lady and he was eager to get her into a decent bed and warm shelter. In spite of her illness, she had never mentioned a word of complaint and that both impressed him and caused him extreme guilt. He almost would have felt better had she complained the entire way; it would have caused him aggravation that he could have rationalized. But a silent, enduring ward caused him waves of remorse because he knew she was enduring far more than she should have. Elizabeau was, if nothing else, proving herself to be a strong woman.
The road upon which they had been riding descended into a valley that had seen a good deal of rain the past few months. But today was relatively sunny and the vibrant green was all around them. It was mid-morning and the birds were out in force, flying overhead and chattering loudly. A family of rabbits scurried across the road, causing his exhausted charger to start. Rhys clucked to the horse, soothing him as they continued along their way, as Elizabeau suddenly awoke in his arms.
His first indication that she was lucid was when she groaned slightly. The second was when she sat bolt upright and smacked him in the chin. He grunted as she gasped.
“God’s Bones,” she said hoarsely, peering at his chin where she hit it. “Are you all right? I did not mean to strike you.”
He rubbed his chin and flexed his jaw. “No harm done,” he said, then pointed in front of them. “Look; we have finally arrived. Welcome to Whitebrook, my lady.”
Elizabeau turned around, her gaze searching out the green valley before her. But then a sneeze overtook her and she covered her nose with the kerchief that had been her closest companion for days. She had sneezed and coughed innumerable times into the soft linen fabric. Her nose was red because of it.
“ ’Tis lovely,” she sniffled, feeling weak and achy and collapsing back against him. “And thank God for it.”
He smiled faintly, listening to her cough and sniffle. “No worries, my lady. My mother will have you well again in no time.”
She had learned over the course of the past eight days which was the most comfortable position against Rhys and his armor. She shifted slightly so she was wedged against his torso almost into his right armpit. He let her get settled before pulling the rough horse blanket about her and gathering her close with his right arm.
“My mother likes to make a fuss, so be warned,” he said, attempting to distract her from her misery. “The woman had three boys and a daughter, and somehow my sister always seemed to be her favorite. She coddles her as if no other girl in the world exists.”
Elizabeau sneezed into her hand, feeling miserable and stuffy. Though she was glad to finally have reached their destination, she realized she was sorry that it meant she and Rhys would no longer have time like this together. In spite of her illness, she had enjoyed the past several days. Rhys had been quiet, respectful, and humorous at times and she had come to like and respect him a great deal.
“Tell me about your family,” she asked, her words muffled by her kerchief.
Rhys held the charger tight as a dove suddenly shot into the sky a few feet in front of the beast. “Not much to tell, really,” he said. “My mother married her husband shortly before I was born and my brother Rod was born two years later. My sister Carys followed twelve years later, followed two years later by my brother, Dylan. He is the youngest. Oh, and my uncle lives at Whitebrook also, brother to the Steward of Bronllys. He was a great knight back in his day, but age and disease have rendered him almost invalid.”
“Do you get on with your mother’s husband?”
His brilliant blue gaze trailed over the vibrant green landscape. “Aye,” he replied. “He was a knight who had served my father. When my mother became pregnant, the duchess threatened to kill her and my father ordered his knight to return her to Wales. During the journey, they fell in love and were married. When they reached Wales, the knight never returned to France. He’s stayed here, with my mother, and they have had a good life together.”
She sat up, looking at him with her red-rimmed eyes and red-tipped nose. “What a remarkable story,” she said softly. “It would take a very strong man to overlook the indiscretions of a woman carrying another man’s child. Did he raise you as his own, then?”
Rhys nodded. “He’s never treated me any differently than my brothers.”
“Did you always know he was not your father?”
“Ever since I was old enough to understand.”
“What do you call him, then?”
“By his name; Renard.”
“And your mother’s name?”
“Orlaith.” He paused a moment. “And it was not her indiscretions that Renard overlooked. The Duke forced himself upon her and she had no choice.”
It was a slight rebuke but she was not offended; he was simply explaining the situation so she would not look upon his mother as a used mistress, or worse. Elizabeau sniffled again into her kerchief, slouching back against him once more as her attention focused on the approaching gray-stoned structure. She felt his arm tighten around her and she struggled to ignore the warm feeling it provoked, warm feelings she had been fighting against for the past several days. They were inappropriate and unreasonable as she reminded herself, but as she became angry and miserable the more, and stronger, they persisted.
“You have much more of a family than I have,” she said quietly, distracting herself. “At least you have brothers and sisters and uncles to depend on. I only have my mother. We are the last of a dying house, my mother and I.”
Rhys glanced down at the top of her golden-red head. “A noble house, however. The House of Treveighan is one of the oldest in Cornwall. Your lineage goes back to the days of Arthur, so I’m told.”
She sat up, grinning at him. “How would you know that?”
He met her gaze, the corners of his mouth twitching. “De Lohr told me.”
“And how would he know?”
“He knows everything.”
She smirked at him, suddenly sneezing into her hand but losing none of her mirth. “My mother’s husband died before I was born, you know. She was considered a very wealthy and prestigious widow until Geoffrey of Brittany saw her in London and had his way with her. Then she became pregnant with me and all of her decent marriage prospects fled. Who would want to marry a woman who carries a royal bastard?” She eyed him. “Unless your name is Renard, of course.”
He laughed softly, displaying his big white teeth. His smile was so bright that Elizabeau swore it glowed. She had only come to see his full-on smile a day ago, when she had commented on something he found humorous. She had been entranced by his deep chuckle and straight teeth; his face changed radically when he smiled. Now she seemed to have made it her subconscious mission to make him show his teeth often. She liked the feel of her quivering heart when he did so.
“Renard is a unique man,” he agreed. “He is quiet, not particularly bright, but a good man nonetheless. And he loves my mother, a rare thing in this day.”
Her gaze lingered on him a moment before refocusing her attention on the looming manor house. It was big, shaped like a “U”, with a protected courtyard. But as they came upon it, Elizabeau noticed that there was much more to it than that; she could see stone walls covered with moss that penned chickens, horses, a few cows, goats, geese and various other animals. On the opposite side of the dirt road were what seemed like miles of gardens with all manner of vines, vegetables and other growing plants with carefully planted rows upon rows of growth and as they drew near to the manor, dogs rushed out and started barking. The charger snapped its jaws but the dogs were unafraid. Rhys
whistled at them between his teeth and they seemed to run off towards the manor again, barking as dogs do.
Suddenly, the heavy oak door of the manor creaked open and a tall, pale girl with bright red hair stood in the doorway. She took a few steps, shielding her eyes from the sun, as Rhys and Elizabeau drew closer. Then, recognition dawned; the girl dropped her hand from her eyes and shrieked so loud that the destrier started.
“Rhys!” she squealed. “You’re home, you’re home!”
Elizabeau couldn’t help but smile at the young girl as she rushed the horse, jumping up and down. Rhys reined the charger to a halt and gently lowered Elizabeau to the ground before dismounting himself. The flame-haired girl threw herself into his massive arms.
“It’s been so long!” the girl gushed, pushing herself out of his enormous embrace. “Let me look at you; you’re as big as an ox! Did you bring me any presents?”
Rhys lifted an eyebrow at her. “The first words out of your mouth are of greed and selfishness.” He kissed her on her pale cheek. “You grow lovelier by the day, Carys. So how many suitors have you had since I’ve been away, eh? How many young men will I have to chase off?”
Carys de Titouan blushed furiously. “I’ve not had that many.” Her gaze inevitably moved to Elizabeau, standing in polite silence a few feet away, and her face lit up with a smile. “A wife! You’ve finally married again!” She threw her arms around her brother’s neck before he could reply. “Oh, Rhys, I’m so happy for you! You swore you never would again but I knew it wasn’t true. I knew it!”
Elizabeau’s expression went slack as she looked to Rhys beseechingly. Rhys gazed back, helplessly, as his sister squeezed the life out of his neck before releasing him and running towards the house screaming. As they watched her run, Elizabeau made her way over to him.
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