Spectre of the Sword (4 page)

Gloomy thoughts rolled
through her head as she stared into the fire with deep green orbs.  There was
sensuality to her eyes and unearthly beauty to her face, something no Plantagenet
possessed.  She was an exquisite example of female beauty from her mother’s
side, the bloodlines of the fair-skinned Norsemen running strong in her veins. 
She didn’t know if she was equipped for this life that was about to be thrust
upon her. She’d never prepared for it.  She wasn’t sure her sense of duty was
that strong.

There was food at her
elbow, a cooling knuckle of beef left by the merchant.  She was hungry and took
a bite.  A second bite quickly followed and then a third.  She hadn’t realized
how ravenous she was until the moment the meat touched her lips.   When Rhys
returned with a tray loaded with food, she was already well into the knuckle.

He tried to remove the
food to replace it with the hot meal but she refused, holding fast to the beef
she was enjoying.  He simply shrugged his shoulders and sat the hot tray next
to the cooling one.

“This meat is fresh, my
lady,” he pointed out. “Perhaps you would enjoy this more.”

She shook her head,
wiping at the juice on her chin. “This is fine.”

Rhys didn’t say
anything; he just watched her stuff her mouth, thinking yet again he had been
very negligent of her state as they had traveled.  He set a cup of ale beside
her right hand and then took a long, healthy drink from the second cup he had
procured for himself.  Smacking his lips, he took a moment to remove his helm
and set it at his feet. The crossbow went next to it.   Then he peeled his mail
hauberk off his damp head and went to work on his own knuckle of beef.

Elizabeau looked up from
her meal to see a man she didn’t recognize sitting across from her. She’d not
yet seen du Bois with out his helm or mail hood and, for a moment, she stopped
chewing as she stared at him; he had black hair, short and stiff with moisture.
But that wasn’t all; she could see his entire face, now unobstructed by the
helm, and it was a striking vision. He had black eyebrows, arched over his
brilliant blue eyes, a square jaw with a huge dimple in his chin.  Dark stubble
covered his cheeks and she watched the movements of his features as he chewed
heartily on the beef.  Her eyes raked over him, seeing the man in a different
light, wondering why her heart pounded so strangely at the sight of him. 
Confused over her reaction, she went back to her meat and hoped it would pass.

Rhys was done with his
beef before she was, tossing the bone to the floor and watching the dogs fight
over it.  He glanced over at Elizabeau to see how she was faring and noticed
she was only picking at her bread.  She didn’t seem as hungry as she had earlier
and his concern returned.

“Is something amiss, my
lady?” he asked. “Is the bread not to your liking?”

She looked at him as if
startled by his question.  Quickly, she shook her head and lowered her gaze.

“It is fine,” she said.

Rhys looked at her as if
he did not believe her.  She seemed depressed and remote, not at all like the
woman he had taken from Hyde House earlier in the evening.  That woman had been
full of confidence, spit and fire. He swallowed the bite in his mouth, trying
to ascertain her disposition.

“Are you feeling
poorly?” he probed politely. “It is well after mid-night. We might be able to
spare a few hours for you to sleep.”

Her head snapped up, the
deep green eyes fixing on him. He could see the wheels of thought turning. “You
are a duke’s son,” she said after a moment. “Why do you serve de Lohr as a
common knight?”

He lifted a dark eyebrow
at her. “I am not sure what you mean, my lady.”

“I mean that you are
born to privilege. If your father is the Duke of Navarre, then he must be
related to Philippe Auguste.”

Rhys’ gaze lingered on
her. “He is the king’s cousin. His mother and the king’s father were cousins.”

“Then Phillip is your
cousin.”

“Aye.”

She stared at him.  Then
she put the bread down. “Yet you serve an English earl? This makes no sense.”

“Why not?”

Her eyebrows flew up.
“Why not? Well... well, just look at you. You’re a big knight with big weapons.
You should be in France serving your father or ruling over your own lands.”

He sat back in his
chair; for some reason, he was enjoying her confusion.  A smile played on his
smooth lips.

“Yet I am not.  Who I
serve, and why I serve, should be of no concern to you, my lady. You have
greater problems of your own to think about.”

Elizabeau looked at him,
realizing he was keeping a definitive wall up.  He did not want her to know
anything about him; that much was clear. He had been nothing but professional
and calculating since she had met him.  He was her escort and nothing more. Not
that it mattered to her, but the man could at least show some measure of
friendliness and answer her question.  She was puzzled why the son of a duke
should serve a mere English earl.

She returned her gaze to
her bread, hunting for a knife and possibly some butter. If he did not want to
speak of himself, so be it. 

Rhys watched her as she
busied herself with more food.  He wasn’t hungry any longer, more interested in
studying the lady at the moment. He’d not allowed himself to give her any
regard other than professional treatment up until this moment; there hadn’t
been the time or the focus.  He had been trying to keep her alive. But now, at
least for the time being, the situation was calm.  The ale was relaxing his
body as well as his tongue.

“I am not in succession
for the duke’s title,” he said quietly, watching her look up from buttering her
bread. “My mother was a lady in waiting for the duchess.”

She stopped buttering.
“You’re a bastard?”

“Like you.”

Elizabeau began to
understand his position somewhat. “Is that why you do not carry the duke’s
name?”

He nodded. “De Foix is
for the family of Navarre.  I carry my grandmother’s surname on my father’s
side.”

“Why do you not carry
your mother’s name?”

He toyed with the cup in
his hand, the brilliant blue eyes with their guard down for the first time
since they’d met.  He and the lady had common ground, something they both
understood clearly being illegitimate offspring.  He felt no humiliation in
telling her.

 “Because my father
would not hear of it,” he said quietly. “Yet he did not want me to bear his
name, either. So I am named after his mother’s side of the family.”

Elizabeau watched him
play with the cup, finally pouring himself more ale. “But I bear my mother’s
name,” she said.

“That was not possible
in my case,” he replied. “Although my mother is of minor Welsh nobility, my
father would not permit me to carry a Welsh name.  It simply was not an
option.”

Her lovely arched
eyebrows lifted. “I should have seen it in you. You carry the darkness of the
Welsh.”

He smiled wryly, the
first such gesture she had ever seen from him.  He had massive dimples carving
through each cheek.  “And you carry the fairness of the Norsemen.”

She blinked. “How would
you know that?”

“I have served de Lohr
for many years. There is not much I do not know about you or the rest of the
Plantagenets.”

Elizabeau met his
brilliant blue eyes a moment longer before returning to her buttered bread. She
felt strangely akin to him, knowing they had a common lineage.  Somehow, in
their brief conversation, she did not feel quite so overwhelmed or unbalanced
by her situation. She was with a knight who understood her background because
his was the same. It was difficult to explain why she felt more relaxed now,
but she did.

Rhys watched her lowered
head, the way the firelight played off her golden red hair. She seemed curious
and intelligent.  He wondered what kind of queen she would make.  Given their
choice of monarchs at the moment, anything would be better than what they had.
But he would never voice his opinion.  He was a knight and knights did as they
were told. 

He drained his cup for
the third time and decided that he’d had enough ale for the night.  His face
felt warm, a sure indication that he had imbibed enough.  Any more would find
him growing drunk.  As he turned to look for the serving wench to order
something more that would not dull his senses, the door to the inn suddenly
slammed back on its hinges and the merchant he had thrown from the table bolted
inside.  He was followed by four soldiers, the thunder from the storm
punctuating their arrival. 

It was as if a door from
Hell had opened wide and the noise and clashing associated with such a place
poured through. The merchant’s gaze fell on Rhys and he jabbed a finger at him,
pointing out the target to his men.  The implication was obvious.

The room began to
scatter with panic. Rhys stood up and moved away from the table; he did not
want any fighting in proximity of the lady. The four soldiers advanced on him,
spreading out in a pattern of attack.  Rhys noted the movement, understanding
in that tactical move that they were experienced. They would not be caught in a
bunch, instead, choosing to stalk their victim and maximize their advantage.

But Rhys was ready for
them.  He was calm, collected, as he unsheathed both of the swords still
strapped to his back. He swung them with deadly precision, in concert,
displaying not on his skill but his control.   The metal sang through the warm,
stale air with a chilling hum.  As his senses reached out, tracking the
movements of the men closest to him, Elizabeau was suddenly in his line of
sight.

“My lord,” she was
addressing the insulted merchant loudly. “Please call off your men.  There is
no need for fighting.”

Some of Rhys’ calm
faltered; she was too close should any fighting start and he did not want her
in the line of fire.

“My lady,” he hissed at
her. “You will remove yourself at once.”

She held out a quelling
hand to him, banking on the fact that the men threatening him would not lash
out at a defenseless lady.  She continued to move towards the merchant, passing
in front of Rhys as she did so.  A soft, white hand came to rest on his right
wrist, gentle pressure requesting that he lower his weapons.  Though her flesh
was cold, it felt like a branding iron against his skin; Rhys almost forgot all
else but her tender hand against him. It was difficult to stay focused.

“Please, my lord,” she
was still in front of Rhys, still with a hand on his wrist.  But her focus was
on the merchant. “My… husband had but one thought, and that was to place me
next to a warm fire. You see, we’ve been traveling all night and I am very wet,
as you can see. Unfortunately, you happened to be in the way. He did not mean
to insult to you; he only meant to help me.  Will you please call your men off
now?”

She sounded very calm, very
rational, and very wise. Rhys looked at her; she did not seem like the same
lady he had met only a few hours ago, the spitfire who complained at every
turn.  She was serene and relaxed as she attempted to diffuse the situation.
But the merchant was still rightly upset.

“He should not have
thrown me from my meal,” he said petulantly. “There were other tables.”

“But yours was the
closest.” Elizabeau’s grip tightened on Rhys’ wrist and she gently, firmly,
forced him to lower his weapons. “You are correct, my lord; he should not have
thrown you from your table. It was a mistake, but he was only acting in my best
interest. He was not attempting to deliberately insult you.  Please call off
your men and I shall happily pay for your meal and for your men’s meal. Will
you not accept my offer?”

The merchant looked
uncertain, then dubious. He looked to his men, who were now looking at him for
further instructions.  They could fight or not; it was all the same to them.
They were paid to do what they were told.  But the fact remained that the
merchant had been insulted. He jabbed a fat finger at Rhys.

“Your husband should
show more manners,” he said to Elizabeau.

Elizabeau nodded
patiently. “Indeed he should.” She turned to Rhys, smiling sweetly, which
caught him completely off-guard. “Lower your weapons, darling, and apologize to
this man. Yours was an impetuous, rude act.”

He stared at her for a
moment. But in a flash, both swords were sheathed. Elizabeau continued to smile
at him, wrapping her small, cold hands around his right arm. 

“Apologize, Rhys,” she
repeated softly.

He almost didn’t know
what to say. He was so off-balance by her sweet voice and lovely smile that the
words simply wouldn’t come. But when she nodded her head at him encouragingly,
he cleared his throat softly and focused on the merchant.

“My apologies, my lord,”
he said in a low, deep voice. “My only thoughts at the moment were of my… my
wife. She was cold and I would do whatever necessary to warm her.”

The merchant gave in
without another word. He waved a hand at his men, who backed away and sheathed
their weapons without protest.