Spectre of the Sword (22 page)

But Rod would not permit
them in the manor.  He had done as his brother had commanded and had his mother
lock down the manor.  While he, his uncle and his father scrutinized the
incoming party, the strange men did the same of them.

They had tried to start
a conversation but their language skills were very poor. At least in the
language that Rod could understand.   But one word was clear, or at least he
thought so; Prinzessin.  That word caused Rod to wield his broadsword in front
of him in a striking position.

“We have no use for
you,” he said, on edge. “Be gone with you.”

The two men were trying
not to start a fight but the young knight was most threatening.  They kept
glancing back to their uncertain group as if looking for assistance.  But the
men in the group, at least most of them, gazed back with hesitation and some
defiance.

“
Jetzt machen was wir
?”
demanded the taller of the two men.

Most of the group lifted
shoulders or looked at each other.  It was apparent that the dark-haired knight
was ready to tear into them. The men conferred with each other before
somewhere, in the middle of the band, one of them dismounted. 

He was young, perhaps no
more than twenty, and he pushed his way through the war horses.  He was tall
and slender, with blond hair and an angular face. His skin was so pale that it
was nearly translucent; he did not look particularly healthy.

Rod watched the young
man approach warily.  He never lowered his sword, even when the man came within
just a few feet of him and quite obviously unarmed. Rod’s blue eyes were
riveted to the man, waiting with anticipation, preparing to strike if
necessary.  But the man put up a hand in what was assumed to be a greeting.

“We mean no harm,” he
said in a very heavy accent. “My name is Conrad.”

Rod still maintained his
poised position. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“I have come for my
lady,” he replied.  When Rod didn’t move, Conrad lifted his eyebrows in
emphasis. “
Sich karamelisiert
. My betrothed.”

Rod still had his sword
up, but now he was joined by Rhett. The old man put a hand on his nephew’s
shoulder. “The lady?” he repeated, evidently attempting to put the pieces
together. “What lady?”

The young man fixed him
in the eye. “My lady.  Her name is Elizabeau.”

“Who is that?”

The young man blinked.
“I was told she was here.”

“Who?”

“Elizabeau.”

Rhett shook his head. “I
fear we have no one here by that name. Perhaps you have come to the wrong…”

Though the man might
have been young, he was apparently used to command. He cut Rhett off firmly.
“De Burgh sent me here.  She is here.”

Rhett stared at the
young man for a long time.  “Tell me who you are. And tell me all of it.”

 “Conrad Ebhardt von
Brunswick, mein lehensherr.  I have come for her.”

Rhett was becoming far
clearer about the situation than Rod was and he motioned for his nephew to
lower his sword.

“Your Grace,” Rhett
bowed his head. “We were under the impression that you would meet the lady at Ogmore
Castle.”

Conrad nodded.  “I was. 
But my boat was pushed off course and we landed at Portsmouth.  When we tried
to sail again, we were chased by the king’s men.  So we went to London and
found de Burgh, and he told us where the lady was.  I have been following her
trail for weeks.”

Rhett understood a great
deal in that heavily-accented explanation. Even Rod was coming to understand;
he looked to Rhett, silently asking for direction, and the old uncle put his
hand on his nephew’s sword and forced him to lower it completely.

“The king is trying to
kill her,” Rhett said quietly. “Were you careful not to be followed?”

Conrad nodded. “We made
sure of it.  The king has tried to kill me, too.”

Rhett nodded in complete
understanding, glancing to Rod and Renard to let them know that everything was
all right.  He suddenly felt just the slightest bit of sadness as the weight of
the situation began to settle.

 “We must shelter and
feed the prince and his men,” he said to Rod, who immediately turned for the
manse.  Rhett looked to the prince and his escort. “If you will stable your
horses, we will prepare food for you.”

Conrad nodded, motioning
to his men and saying something to them in their language that had them
dismounting their horses.  There was something of a strange, melancholy mood to
their air and the young prince was not sure why.  But he could see that the
grizzled old cripple was morose although his words were welcoming. 

“Is the princess here?”
Conrad asked the old man.

Rhett shook his head,
thinking of Rhys and Elizabeau and knowing their time together was even shorter
than they had imagined by this latest event.  He was very sad for them.

“She is not,” he
replied. “But I know where she is.  We will send for her.”

Conrad seemed satisfied,
following Rhett and Renard into the manse.  It was a slow walk, like a funeral
procession, and the young prince began to feel the depression like a weight. 
It was an odd sensation that he attributed to the danger of the situation. He
could account for nothing else.

The first face that
greeted him was of a young woman with bright red hair and pretty dark eyes. 
Carys smiled at Conrad before she dipped into a respectful curtsy. The prince’s
gaze lingered on the tall young girl, impressed by the color of her hair.  He
had no idea that the English were so colorful.  But, then again, he was in Wales.
Perhaps it was the Welsh that were colorful.  His gaze lingered on Carys even
as Rhett introduced the de Titouan family.

When the introduction
came to Carys, Conrad smiled back.

***

Elizabeau wasn’t sure
how long they had been riding.  She had kept her eyes tightly closed as she
clutched Rhys, the sounds and feel of thundering hooves vibrating through her
body.   She could feel the trees passing over head by the swooshing sounds of
their branches and she knew when they were racing through clearing by the open,
vacant sounds around her.  It seemed to go on for hours.

She was frightened, but
her panic faded the more Rhys put distance between them and Whitebrook.   She
had no idea where they were going but put her trust in Rhys that he would find
them a safe haven.   As the day progressed and they crossed the Wye River
heading east, she finally opened her eyes and began to watch their
surroundings.

Rhys took them through a
series of woods and fields.  To the south, she could see farms and a small town
and, at times, people in the distance.   But Rhys was focused on where he was
going and spared no attention to the town to the south.   It was therefore a
surprise to Elizabeau when a castle, dark-stoned and ominous, suddenly appeared
before them.

It came out of the
trees, looming in the fading daylight like a dark sentinel.   It wasn’t
particularly large, but it had two large gatehouse towers and a portcullis
between them.  Rhys charged right up to the portcullis and demanded entry.

He dismounted, waiting
impatiently for the portcullis to lift.   Several moments passed before a small
old man with wild white hair poked his head out from the porter’s lodge, a room
built into the gatehouse walls for the sentries.  Taking one look at Rhys, he
began muttering to himself and disappeared back inside.    They could hear
bickering going on inside the gatehouse before the iron-fanged grate slowly
began to lift.

Elizabeau sat atop the
charger, watching the portcullis slowly grind upwards.  She looked at Rhys, who
appeared strained and distracted.  His jaw was ticking faintly, unusual for the
usually emotionless and professional man.   She continued to watch him, knowing
he had a good deal on his mind.

“Rhys,” she said softly.
“Where are we?”

He glanced at her, the
brilliant blue eyes intense. “St. Briavels.  I need to collect some things
before we continue.”

So they were at the
mysterious castle that belonged to Rhys through a disillusioned marriage. 
Elizabeau took a second look at the bastion, her gaze skimming the battlements
above, noting how close the trees came to it.  In fact, the castle was almost
completely surrounded by the forest that came up to the edge of its narrow
moat.  It was well concealed in the dim light of the forest.

When the portcullis was
raised enough to allow them to pass under it, Rhys led the charger into the
passage and they passed beneath two more lifted portcullises before emerging
into the small, odd-shaped bailey.   Elizabeau looked around, noting there was
not much else to the castle other than the enormous gatehouse and a massive
hall built into the east wall.   There was a stairway leading up to the second
floor entry of the gatehouse.

Rhys silently extended
his arms to her and she slid into his grasp.  He lowered her to the ground and
he took her to the stairway that led up into the gatehouse.   Before they
disappeared inside, he made sure to instruct the gatekeeper to close all three
portcullises and maintain a vigilant watch.  The old man with the unruly white
hair vehemently agreed.

Once inside the second
floor of the gatehouse, it was cool and dark.  It was also one enormous room
with pulleys and slits in the floor for the portcullises.  There were a few men
about, not in armor, and she assumed they were servants.  They looked at her
suspiciously. Rhys took her arm and led her to a narrow spiral stair that led
to the third floor of the gatehouse, which was divided into two large rooms.
Both rooms were furnished, though it looked as if they had been sitting
unoccupied for some time.  There were dust and cobwebs draping the furniture.

He took her into the
larger of the two rooms and went for a large wardrobe butted up against the
interior wall.  Elizabeau stood just inside the entry, watching him as he
opened the wardrobe and began to pull things out of it.  She noticed a satchel
and garments of all kinds ended up on the dusty floor.

“Where are we going?”
she asked.

He pulled out an old
cloak, inspecting it to see if it was serviceable. “To Ogmore,” he replied.
“But we must have a few things with us for our journey.  You cannot travel day
and night in just one gown, and I need my armor.”

She watched as he pulled
out what she saw, after a moment, was a surcoat.  “Is that your wife’s?” she
asked softly.

His intense blue eyes
moved to her and he lowered the garment, tossing it over onto the bed. Averting
his gaze, he looked back into the wardrobe.

“Aye,” he said quietly.

Elizabeau watched the
manner in which his mood changed when she mentioned the elusive Gwyneth; it was
like watching a curtain fall.  All of the light went out of his face.  She
glanced over at the garments on the bed, thinking she did not want to wear the
clothes of a woman who had caused him so much grief.  With a shake of the head,
she began to back away.

“I will not wear it,”
she said quietly.

His eyes were still on
the wardrobe.  “You have no choice. You cannot travel over miles of rough and
weathered lands in what you are wearing.”

She shook her head
firmly. “I will not,” she repeated. “I will not wear something that belonged to
your dead wife.”

Her tone made him look
at her; he could see she was nearly at the door, eyeing the clothes on the bed
as if they were going to jump up and bite her.

“Do not be foolish,” he
muttered, picking up the satchel on the floor and moving it to the bed.

She took another step
back, to the door.  “I will not wear something that belonged to a woman you
hated.  It will remind you of her every time you look at me and I will not do
it.”

He stopped stuffing
things into the satchel and looked at her, his expression softening somewhat. 
He knew what thoughts of Gwyneth did to him, the hatred and resentment they
stirred up. In fact, the entire castle brought about those feelings.  He knew
his manner reflected it and he made a conscious effort to ease up.

“Angel, I would dearly
love to spare the time to purchase more new things for you, but I cannot,” he
said, more gently. “These are just clothes. They do not remind me of her.”

She blinked furiously as
tears filled her eyes. “We have so little time left,” she whispered. “I do not
want anything to ruin it, not even the clothes of a woman who hated you, for I,
clearly, do not hate you.”

He stopped packing and
went to her, putting his arm around her and pulling her back into the room. 
“Come on,” he kissed her forehead. “Sit down.  You have had a tempestuous day
and you are exhausted.  We will leave here and find a comfortable tavern to
spend the night in.”

She sniffled, wiping at
her eyes as he set her down. “But is that wise considering we are being
chased?”

He gazed down at her,
calming now that they were safe for the moment.  “Our flight from London was
very hard on you,” he said quietly, sitting down beside her. “I was singularly
focused on evading the king’s assassins.  Whether or not it is wise to stop the
night in a tavern, I am inclined to do so anyway simply for your comfort.  I’ve
not shown you much on this adventure and I am sorry.”