The Beauty Bride (The Jewels of Kinfairlie) (17 page)

Rhys
dismounted, then seized the rope beside the gate and pulled it. A sonorous
pealing echoed behind the walls, the sound prompting Madeline to smile. It was
a merry sequence of notes, a glorious ringing that made her heart soar. The
music was sufficient that she almost forgot what she had endured this day.

“How
delightful!” she whispered. Tears clouded her vision, for she recalled all too
keenly how music had bound her and James together. She remembered him bent over
his lute, composing a ballad. She recalled the play of light on his fair hair,
and grief caught her by the throat.

Surely
he could not be dead?

Surely
she would have known if the man she loved with all her heart and soul had died?

Yet
if were James alive, surely he would have sent word to her in ten long months?
Madeline brushed aside her tears, wishing she were bold enough to ask for more
of the eau-de-vie.

Rhys
was watching her, and his expression had become wary once again.

Madeline
did not care what he thought of her in this moment. “Could you ring it once
more?” she asked, her words uneven. “It is so joyous a sound, as if angels
themselves announce our arrival.”

Rhys
said nothing. He pulled the cord again, his expression impassive.

Madeline
listened, eyes closed, hands clasped together as the healing balm of the
pealing bells rolled over her. The sound was so beautiful that the ache of her
loss diminished slightly. She felt the fullness of her lost love while the
bells sounded and it shook her to realize how much her life had changed.

Only
when the bells fell silent did Madeline become aware that Rhys had watched her,
transfixed, all the while.

“It
is a community of women,” he said roughly, pivoting to stare at the wooden
gate. “Although there are several priests who live separately and offer the
sacraments, as well as an excellent ostler.”

Madeline
was surprised by his manner. Perhaps she had offended him, taking pleasure from
something so inconsequential when he had granted her more considerable aid. She
leaned forward and touched Rhys’ arm, knowing she owed him a heartfelt thanks.
He jumped at her touch but did not look at her.

He
was irked, then.

Before
Madeline could try again to ease his mood with gratitude, a small portal in the
gate was opened. She glimpsed a face peering through the grill. “Who comes to
our gate?”

Gelert
barked joyously and leapt at the gate, apparently recognizing the monk’s voice
and anxious to make his acquaintance again.

“Brother
Thomas, it is Rhys FitzHenry.” Rhys straightened and took a step closer to the
gate that he might be seen. “I regret that I must beg your hospitality yet
again.”

“Rhys!
You old dog!” The portal was flung open with a creak of its ancient hinges.
Thomas proved to be a burly monk whose girth was too great for his robe. The
garment was tight around his ample belly and thus rode short in the front,
revealing his hairy shins and sturdy sandals. “And you, Gelert!” He bent to pat
the dog, which leapt with happiness and licked his ears. “I wager I can find a
soup bone for you.”

“No
wonder the beast loves you more than life itself,” Rhys grumbled amiably.

“You
could feed the creature once in a while, and you might earn such affection for
yourself,” Thomas retorted, and the two men grinned at each other.

The
monk’s joy at seeing Rhys was unmistakable, for he caught the reluctant warrior
in a tight hug of welcome. Madeline was surprised, both at the warmth of the
monk’s greeting and the fact that Rhys endured it.

Finally,
the monk stood back and gave Rhys a friendly cuff on the shoulder. “You old
sinner. Are you in need of sanctuary again so soon? Is there no end to your
wickedness?”

This
charge was made without malice, as if the pair commonly jested about such
things. It reminded Madeline of how her brothers teased each other, though she
was fascinated that any soul would tease Rhys FitzHenry.

And
curious as to what he would do about the matter.

The
color rose on the back of Rhys’ neck, and his manner became even more stern
than usual. “It is the lady in need of your aid on this day. I only accompany
her.”

“A
lady!” Thomas sobered and straightened, tugging futilely at the front of his
robe as he turned to Madeline. “Good day, my lady, and welcome to our humble
gates.” He bowed, the effort such that the bald top of his head framed by his
tonsure turned crimson.

“This
is Lady Madeline of Kinfairlie.” Rhys spoke with care and Madeline guessed that
he meant to present a slightly altered version of their adventure. She held his
gaze, willing him to understand that she would not deny his tale. “She was
beset upon the road by bandits. Mercifully, I arrived in time to be of aid.”

“God
in Heaven!” Thomas crossed himself. “What times we live in! How fortunate that
you came upon her and recognized her plight.”

“Not
so fortunate as that, old friend.” Rhys smiled slightly and Madeline felt
suddenly warm beneath his gaze. “The lady and I are betrothed, and I thought I
recognized her steed at a distance.”

“Merciful
heavens! God is great indeed that he granted you such keen vision!” Thomas
looked between the pair of them with astonishment. “But why did we not know of
your betrothal sooner, Rhys? That you of all men should take a bride is a tale
worth hearing, and you were here but a fortnight past.”

Madeline
blinked. She had only heard of Ravensmuir’s auction a fortnight past. Rhys must
have ridden from Wales for some other purpose - what might it have been? And
why had he chosen to attend the auction, no less to buy her hand?

Rhys
cleared his throat pointedly. “I did not share this news, for I thought you
unconcerned with the ways of the mortal world.”

Thomas
flushed and grinned. “That does not mean that we have no interest in gossip.
Rhys FitzHenry to be wed!” He laughed and shook a finger at Madeline. “You must
be an intrepid lady to take such a ruffian as this to your side!”

“Thomas...”
Rhys growled, but the monk ignored him.

Thomas
leaned closer to Madeline, his manner conspiratorial. “Or are you, Lady
Madeline, that uncommon manner of woman who sees the gold that the careless eye
will perceive as dross?” Thomas winked mischievously and Madeline fought a
smile, even as she considered Rhys anew.

What
did the monk mean?

“There
is little of merit in this world that reveals all of its value to a cursory
glance,” she said.

Thomas
hooted with delight. “Indeed, indeed! I should have known that Rhys would be
unafraid to wed a woman with her wits about her.”

“He
told me a fine tale while we rode here, and I am much appreciative of his
kindness.”

“A
tale? Where did you find such a glib tongue, Rhys?” Thomas nudged Rhys, then
said something that Madeline did not understand. He winked at her puzzled
glance. “An old Welsh proverb, it was. ‘The best Welshman is the one away from
home.’ That fits you well enough, does it not Rhys? It is not often that you
loose a measure of your meager charm.”

Rhys
glared at his friend and seemed at a loss for words.

Thomas
leaned closer to Madeline, his manner that of a man practiced in selling goods
to those who have no need or desire of them. “Truly, Lady Madeline, this one
has tales of his own to tell, though he never does. Discretion is the second
name of our Rhys...”

“As
opposed to your own second name, which is garrulous,” Rhys muttered.

Madeline
laughed, for their banter lightened her heart.

Thomas
huffed, though his eyes yet sparkled. “Well, there is not a soul alive who will
mistake me for a man struck to stone, as you are pretending to be this day.”

“Much
less a man struck dumb,” Rhys retorted. “I thought you offered hospitality at
these gates to those in need of it.”

“Indeed,
indeed.” Thomas threw up his hands and laughed. “Forgive me! Come, Lady
Madeline, come within the circle of our gates.” Thomas claimed the reins of
Rhys’ destrier and spoke to it.

The
creature immediately followed his bidding.

“How
curious,” Madeline said. “I thought Arian followed only Rhys’ bidding.”

Rhys
said nothing, though his lips seemed to tighten.

“Is
that the tale you were told?” Thomas demanded with glee. “What nonsense!” He
gave Rhys a playful shove, then strode onward.

“How
delightful it is to know when a man’s word can be trusted,” Madeline said, her
voice so low that only Rhys heard her.

To
her satisfaction, he seemed to avoid her gaze and the back of his neck turned
ruddy. “The fiends even attacked her palfrey,” he said to Thomas, indicating
Tarascon’s wound.

“Ah!
Such wickedness!” Thomas was immediately concerned with the horse, talking to
her and stroking her back as he murmured.

“Thomas
is the ostler I mentioned,” Rhys said to Madeline without glancing her way.
“His talent is widely reputed.”

Thomas
led the palfrey toward the stables, his focus on the steed so complete that he
might have forgotten the rest of the party. Tarascon seemed to understand that
she had encountered one who would care for her. Her ears flicked less
vigorously as Thomas spoke to her, and one last ripple passed over her flesh as
she settled.

His
seemed so uncommon an ability in such a place that Madeline could not hold her
tongue. Indeed, there was not another horse to be seen, or any sign of one, in
the abbey’s courtyard. “But surely an abbey has little coin for the expense of
horses?”

Rhys’
smile flashed, the sight making Madeline’s heart leap. “Our Thomas was a horse
thief afore he took his vows.”

“And
you knew him then?”

Rhys
nodded, his attention upon the other man. “We wasted our youths together, it is
true.”

Madeline
was intrigued by the affection in his tone. She might have asked for more
detail, but Rhys raised his voice. “There are more of us, Thomas, than simply
one steed,” he called. “And I do not think that wound so grievous.”

Thomas
jumped with guilt. “It is her fear which is the greater injury,” he agreed. He
smiled reassuringly for Madeline. “In a week or so, my lady, she will be hale
again.”

“I
thank you for your assistance. She is a faithful steed and I was much
distressed to see her injured, let alone so willfully.”

“You
speak aright, my lady. It is a wicked man who can inflict a wound upon a
horse.” Thomas called for a boy to aid him. That boy continued to stroke
Tarascon as he led her toward the small empty stable.

The
palfrey favored her leg, but her terror had been dismissed. Madeline realized
that her own fears were similarly gone. She considered Rhys, as he watched the
palfrey being led away, and admitted herself intrigued.

It
might not be so foul a fate to wed so protective and competent a man as Rhys
FitzHenry.

Or
was that precisely what he wished her to believe?

* * *

Satisfied
with the boy’s efforts, Thomas turned his gaze upon the rest of the party. He
frowned at the other destrier. “But what of this other steed? What need have
you of a second stallion, Rhys?” Thomas asked, his hand landing upon Kerr’s
destrier. “I have never seen this beast before.”

Madeline
said nothing, for she was uncertain what Rhys meant to do about the beast. He
clearly had a scheme for he stood more stiffly, his manner more alert. Had
Thomas noted the difference in Rhys’ posture?

Rhys
shrugged, feigning indifference. “No need, to be sure.”

“You
did not buy it?”

Rhys
shook his head. “It must have belonged to one of the bandits. We found it
wandering where the lady was assaulted.”

Madeline
shivered. “That villain will have no need of it any longer.”

“And
I would not leave the beast to wander the moor, lest it become fodder for
wolves.”

Thomas
nodded in understanding and ran his hands over the horse. “It is not a bad
steed. Not poorly tended or fed.” He granted Rhys a shrewd look over the
steed’s back. “A bit of a rich mount for a bandit, one would think. A destrier
is a better mount for a warrior than a thief, given the thief’s need for
speed.”

Madeline
straightened, certain the truth would out, but Rhys did not so much blink. “He
must have stolen it from another victim then.”

“Indeed.”
Thomas watched Rhys, his eyes bright. “Do you mean to keep it?”

Rhys
shook his head. “I owe you a boon, Thomas, for this visit and the last one. Sell
it and put the coin in your community’s coffers.”

Madeline
was astonished by his act of generosity. A destrier was worth a considerable
measure of coin.

Thomas
pursed his lips. “We could keep it for the abbess. She has a fondness for a
good mount.”