The Beauty Bride (The Jewels of Kinfairlie) (26 page)

Rhys
sat down beside her and bit into an apple as he considered where to begin.
“Eons past, there was a king of Wales who decided to build his court upon a
hill in Gwynedd.”

“Where
is Gwynedd?”

“It
is the ancient heart of Wales, the territory within which one finds Eryri, the
mountain known as Snowdonia in English. It is there that the oldest seat of
Welsh authority lies, the hill of Dinas Emrys, and it was upon this hill that
King Gwrtheyrn vowed to build his hall.”

Rhys
bit into his apple with vigor, taking his time with the tale. “But something
was amiss, for each night whatsoever had been constructed that day disappeared
before the sun rose again. The stones were swallowed by the earth, so fully did
they disappear, and the king was vexed that so little progress was made.”

Madeline
listened, rapt. Her hands stilled over the bread.

“And
so it was that the king called for a seer to tell him what had gone awry. He
summoned Myrddin, a young sorcerer who would be known by the English as Merlin,
who conjured a dream. After his dreaming, Myrddin counseled the king to dig
beneath the hill, to dig until he found a lake. And beside that lake would be a
tent, and within that tent would be two dragons, one red and one white. And so
it was done, upon the bidding of the sorcerer’s dream.”

“And
what did they find?”

“It
was as Myrddin had predicted, but as the king and his men watched, the dragons
awakened. The pair fought a vicious battle, through the tent and into the lake,
then disappeared. And Myrddin said that it will always be thus, that this pair
would battle again and again for all eternity. He said that the white dragon was
England and the red was Cymru -”

“Cymru?”

“Wales.”
Rhys chewed his apple and stared over the hills, savoring that Madeline’s
attention did not waver. “And he counseled the king to build his abode
elsewhere.”

“Why?”

“So
long as Dinas Emrys remains a wooded hill, the red dragon lives on, to wage war
against the white. So long as the hill is unfettered, the red dragon will do
battle.” Rhys met Madeline’s gaze, letting her see his determination. “He will
fight to his dying breath, each and every night for all eternity if need be,
until the red dragon is ultimately triumphant over the white.”

They
stared at each other for a potent moment, and Rhys recalled the silk of her
skin beneath his hand, the way she gasped when she found her pleasure. Desire
stirred within him and he thought of bedding her here, upon this cloth, without
regard to whosoever pursued them.

He
was startled by the appeal of the notion, a notion that could result in his own
demise. What power had this woman over him? And how had she conjured it in so
few days? Rhys had the wits to be afraid.

Madeline
looked down at the bread in her hands, breaking the heated gaze that had bound
them together. “You can tell a tale, husband.”

“I
am Welsh,” Rhys said and looked away from the temptation she offered.

She
cleared her throat. “No wonder your insignia was thought to be provocative.”

Rhys
considered this for a moment. “My insignia declares me to be who I am, which is
the task of an insignia. I am not the manner of man to pretend that I am other
than I am.”

“Except
in Moffat.”

He
smiled at that and let her think what she would. There was more to consider
than his own sorry hide, at least until they reached Caerwyn.

“Will
you tell me why the king charged you with treason?”

“Nay,”
Rhys said firmly. He took another apple and bit into it, noting that she was
irked with him again. To be sure, the lady was bewitching when her eyes flashed
with such vigor. He stared at the road and willed the enthusiasm in his
chausses to abandon him.

“Then
I shall have to learn the tale from someone else,” she said tartly. “You may be
certain that there are others who know about the charges against you, Rhys, and
they may not be so interested in granting you a fair hearing as you might be.”

“Then
you should not seek the tale from others,” he said, determined to end her
curiosity. “It is not comely for a lady to seek gossip, after all.” Madeline
gasped in indignation but before she could make another demand, he made one of
his own. “What of this man who captured your heart? Do you mean to tell me of
him?”

Her
eyes widened in surprise. “James?”

“If
that was his name.” Rhys shrugged, trying to give the impression that he was
less interested than he knew himself to be. “Your betrothed, who died.”

“James.”
Her lips tightened and she sighed, looking suddenly despondent. She seemed both
intent upon cutting her apple with her knife and disinterested in whatsoever
she did.

Rhys
stretched out in the grass, much happier asking questions than answering them.
He watched Madeline, seeking the answers she would not express in words. “What
manner of man was he?”

She
sighed and a sweet smile touched her lips. That such a smile had nothing to do
with him - and never would - tore Rhys’ heart with surprising force.

“James
was a kind and gentle man. He was filled with such goodness, and he could sing
as if he were an angel.”

Rhys
snorted. “Then they shall be glad of him in their chorus.”

Madeline
glared at him. “James was a well-mannered and elegant man. He was good and kind
and gentle and...”

“Your
point being that I am as unlike James as ever a man could be.”

Her
gaze swept over him, and she sniffed. “I would never be so rude as to say as
much.” Madeline turned her attention to her apple again, twin spots of color
burning in her cheeks. “He could play the lute with such skill.”

“The
lute?” Rhys straightened. “He was a musician?”

Madeline
nodded, oblivious to how avid Rhys had become. “He wrote some verse and sang
many more composed by others. He played the lute with great cunning.”

A
poet and lutenist! Rhys looked away, alarmed as he seldom was. The apple was as
sawdust in his mouth, for he guessed well enough who the musician was who
traveled with Rosamunde, why that party had pursued him from Ravensmuir and
what they wanted with him.

How
perfect for Rosamunde that she could readily condemn Rhys, and thus ensure that
Madeline was widowed. And Madeline could wed the man she vowed to love.

Rhys
cast the core into the undergrowth with force, not caring that he had not
finished the flesh, and realized that Madeline watched him warily.

He
struggled to keep his tone idle, though his interest in his wife’s answer was
far from idle. “Did you kiss James as you kiss me?” He heard that his effort
failed, that he sounded as if he sought an argument.

He
found one.

Madeline’s
glance was positively lethal. “James was too much of a nobleman to force his
embrace upon me.”

Rhys
recalled all too well that she had called him a barbarian. And no wonder, for
bards were men of considerable abilities. They were marked for their destiny
early, they were granted the best schooling, they were clever and talented and
the most exalted men in Welsh society. No wonder she found Rhys a poor
substitute for this James. He would have to remember not to sing in her
presence, lest that comparison serve him poorly as well.

“Which
means that you did not.” Rhys pushed to his feet, disturbed beyond expectation
by the impressive credentials of this lost suitor. “So, how did he die? Did he
argue a case that he could not win, and thus meet the anger of the losing
side?”

Madeline
looked up, her bewilderment clear. “I do not understand.”

Rhys
spoke roughly in his annoyance. “You said he was a poet and a musician, so he
must have also been a lawyer. The best poets are lawyers, as well. Do you tell
me that he was incompetent as a musician?”

She
laughed, the sound bursting from her lips in her surprise. “What madness is
this? Poets as lawyers! Surely you jest?”

“Surely
I do not!” Her attitude irked Rhys as little else could have done. “It requires
eloquence to argue a legal case, and the ability to cast a spell over one’s
audience. A lawyer is an orator, as is a poet. Any person of sense can see the
connection.” Madeline blinked, but Rhys could not halt himself. “Bards are well
accustomed to remembering long passages of verse, not dissimilar to remembering
passages of law. And poets, finally, are clever beyond belief, for they must
not only master the ancient twenty-four meters of rhyming verse, but be able to
make such compositions as they sing.”

“I
did not realize...”

Rhys
shoved a hand through his hair, agitated by his competitor’s skills, no less
that Madeline did not appear to appreciate them. How galling that he had to
explain the other man’s copious talents! “Few realize the complexity of the
metered verse. In Welsh, we call such harmony
cynghanedd
and it is not easily learned. The syllables must be
of the same number within each line of the verse, and each word of each line
must begin with the same sound, and the first word of each line must ally with
first words in all the other lines, and the last consonant of each line must
allude to the first word of the next!” Rhys flung out his hands and roared. “It
is not a pursuit for the simple of intellect, I assure you!”

Madeline
simply stared at him, so great was her astonishment.

Rhys
exhaled heavily and forced his voice to return to its usual timbre. “Thus, in
my uncle’s court, the poet who possessed such fearsome abilities was also the
man who knew and argued the law.”

“I
have never heard the like of that.” Madeline heaved a sigh in her turn. “James
simply could pluck a pretty tune.”

Rhys
gaped at her. “He could not compose in meter?”

She
shook her head.

“Are
you certain that he simply did not burden you with the fullness of his
abilities?”

Madeline
chuckled. “I am certain. He was almost untutored, for his father had no
interest in music. He composed little himself and I heartily doubt that he knew
near as much of law as you expect. His charm lay in other traits.” She smiled
at Rhys with bemusement as she peeled an apple with her knife. “You Welshmen
are a whimsical lot indeed. Poets as lawyers!”

Though
Rhys was relieved that James was not as formidable a foe as he had feared, his
mood was not improved by Madeline responding to good sense as if he were mad. He
glared at her. “So, how did this esteemed musician of so few talents die? Did
he cut his white fingers upon lute strings drawn too taut?”

Madeline
cast aside the skin of her apple with annoyance. “His father fairly had him
killed.”

“Then
perhaps this James was not so kind and gentle of a man, if he so enraged his
father. Perhaps he was not so clever as you believe.”

“His
father was not enraged,” Madeline asserted with force. “He was simply blind to
the manner of man his son was. I told you that he had no interest in music or
its merit. He dispatched James to the war in France, despite James’ protests.”

“Why
did this James not defy his father? It can be done.” Rhys considered his piece
of bread and decided to risk provoking her again. “Unless, of course, one does
not want to threaten one’s inheritance.”

“Oh!
You are quick to cast aspersions on those you have not known!” Madeline’s eyes
flashed. “His father was cruel and unfair! He had James imprisoned in their own
keep until James agreed to go to war. And then he sent James with his own
warriors, with the command that they were to ensure that James served his
father’s interests well in France. He ensured that James could not escape, that
he had to fight. And so James died. It was wicked and utterly unfitting for a
father to treat his son in such a manner.”

“He
was killed in battle?”

Madeline
nodded once. “James was not a man wrought for war. His father should never have
sent him to France when he did!”

“You
speak aright,” Rhys acknowledged. “Had he been a good father, he would have
sent him to war sooner.”

Madeline
dropped knife and apple, outrage taking her to her feet. “What madness is this?
No decent father would see his son killed for no good reason!”

Rhys
was fascinated by the sight of his wife. She was so impassioned, so determined
to defend a man who could not have been a fitting match for her fiery nature.

As
he was. He rose to his feet in turn, unafraid to grant her a measure of the
honesty she so admired.

“Your
betrothed died because he had not been prepared for what he had to do,” Rhys
asserted. “All men must fight one day for what they would call their own, and
it is a father’s duty to ensure that his sons are prepared for that duty. By
granting your James his freedom from war for so long as he did, the father
might as well have driven his own blade into his son’s chest.”

“But
not all men are suited to war!”

“True
enough. Some serve better as priests and monks.” Rhys watched for her response,
knowing there would be one. “But that choice would scarcely have ensured the
survival of James as your spouse.”