A Lord for Haughmond (16 page)

     Edward nodded grimly. “My thanks, good knight. We will guard the passes well and not follow the Welsh into their lairs. ’Twas an opportune moment that found you so well-placed, my friend.”

     Rhys’s smile turned to a grimace of pain as his lip broke open again. “And well-placed cuts and bruises, my liege?”

     Edward chuckled. “I’m mindful of your sacrifice, sir knight, but an excellent opportunity for England, natheless. We’ll not allow Llewyllen to draw us into their fastness. If they show themselves in the low country, we’ll send them back to their hovels with a quiver full of arrows in their arses, eh?” He rose. “Rest well, my faithful friend. Before long, England will have need of your sword.”

     “Sire, there is another matter of which I would speak.” Rhys eyed the king with a skeptical frown and nervously licked his lip, ignoring the bitter ointment.

     “’Twill keep. You need to rest.”

     “But ’tis most pressing, my liege. It does concern the marriage of Lady Katherine.” He struggled to rise but fell back. His hand moved weakly, indicating a small leather pouch lying half-buried among the pelts at the foot of the bed. “You must be warned, sire. Pray, hand me yonder satchel that I might liberate you from impending peril.”

Chapter Twelve

     “A joust! Thank God for a joust!”

     At the high table, Edward roared with laughter. He felt his complexion growing ruddy. His eyes would be sparkling with amusement. Rhys of St. Quintin had tapped his romantic streak. Imagine plying him from a sick bed for Lady Katherine’s hand in marriage. The lad was incorrigible.

     He chuckled to himself. ’Twas a worthy quest, true love overcoming all odds. He found the notion irresistible, for he and his queen shared a powerful bond. They had been together since their youth and he could not imagine life without her. Of all his father’s legacies, his marriage was the most excellent.

     Influenced by his own marital bliss and obliged to Sir Rhys for his valuable report from the dungeon, yet having pledged his troth to Sir Dafydd, he’d proposed a joust to settle the matter of the lady’s future.

      “I have wished for a diversion.” He laughed uproariously into his cup of ale. But soon he sobered. How fair a tourney could it be with an injured knight?

*  *  *

     ’Twas no laughing matter to Katherine. Simon had sat near the high table last eventide and related the king’s comment to Anne, who was seated far below the salt with the lesser folk. ’Twas she who informed Katherine of the impending event and the king’s mirth. 

     Though Rhys had urged her away, concerned for her reputation as a betrothed woman, she refused to leave the wardrobe while he recovered from his wounds. Different accommodations had been required for the other ladies and so they had the chamber to themselves. In the four days since the attack, she’d physicked him according to the royal leech’s instructions, quite ignoring her own weariness.

     Clearly, Rhys’s suffering diminished with each new day. Dark angry bruises faded and his lip ceased its persistent bloody discharge. But her profound worry was his sword arm, which remained tender and weak.

     ’Twas a daunting task when first Rhys had been brought from the dungeon. She had never prayed so often, but could not regret the time spent on her knees asking for God’s healing grace. Owing to her constancy, had not Rhys regained his health? ’Twas a miracle the speed with which his wounds mended. God’s intersession, surely. Why, only this morn he returned to his own tent and the beckoning tiltyard, many days before the leech thought ’twould be so.

     “Insufferable king!” Katherine yanked the soiled sheets off the bed. “His ideals of honor stretch beyond reason.” Tossing the linens onto the floor, she plumped the feather ticking and lamented, “Why must he disparage a most brave and loyal knight?”      

     Shaking her head in disgust, she bent to retrieve the linens, then straightened, clasping them to her breast. Inhaling their scent—Rhys’s scent—she heaved a forlorn sigh. Without him, the chamber was so very empty.

     Yet in the next instant her heart soared with hope for the future. Rhys wished her to be his wife. He had petitioned the king. She buried her face in the linens. He would win her hand, he would defeat Sir Dafydd.

     She inhaled Rhys’s scent once more and dismissed the thought of that other distasteful knight. ’Twas simple to dismiss Sir Dafydd, for she had yet to meet him, an omen to be sure.

*  *  *

     A newly arrived knight exercised in the tiltyard, jousting with the wooden quintain, hitting the target shield squarely then veering away effortlessly on his huge destrier as the weighted bag pelted around. Beneath a shiny new helm, much of his face remained hidden by a goatee of dark whiskers and a long dark moustache.

     A small crowd of women had gathered to delight in his easy, fluid motions. “’Tis the knight who will possess Haughmond!” The news swept through the spectators.

     Anne, having divided her attention betwixt Simon, who also practiced in the tiltyard hewing the sturdy pel into splinters with his broad sword, and the newcomer, went running to Katherine with the news.

     “He draws a crowd for good reason. ’Tis a stirring sight, come see,” she exclaimed, her face shining with enthusiasm, her brown eyes sparkling. She grabbed Katherine’s hand and wouldn’t let go.  

     Though she wished to protest, Katherine did not. How could she spoil her sister’s joy? Tarrying at Bereford had not brought Anne much peace. The Welsh attack had frightened her, made her sleep uneasy, and she had wept over the subsequent hangings.

      Katherine allowed herself to be led to the edge of the yard where the women congregated, their excited whispers and giggles filling the air. Staring at Sir Dafydd, she silently decried their appalling chatter. This man was the embodiment of true knighthood? What a ridiculous thought!

     Anne laughed along with the other ladies and clapped her hands likewise when the knight galloped past their position beside the field. “He goes to practice with the swiveling pole,” she gushed, craning her neck for a better view. “Look, Katherine! Not once is he clubbed from behind. He cuts a fine figure, do you not think?”

     She did not think him a pleasing sight. The knight in flesh disturbed her peace. Nor was it palatable that her sister unabashedly sang the man’s praises. 

     But she wouldn’t quibble, not publicly, not before spectators who made way for her and who watched her every move. ’Twas obvious from their cunning stares she had become an object of interest. In grim silence, she hurried from the tiltyard.      

     ’Twas another sector of the castle she would avoid. 

     Already she detoured around the town gate, where the Welshmen had met their end, dying for a lost cause, their necks broken by deadly slipknots. The ropes were all that remained of the king’s swift and unforgiving justice. Following the hangings, the heads had been severed and carted off to London to be displayed above the ramparts of The White Tower. All would see and know the power of the king. What was left of the corpses had been sent to Wales. Katherine was sure such actions would only serve to inflame the Welsh.

     But ’twas the king’s policy.

     Evidently, ’twas also his policy to disparage his knights. Had anyone of lesser stature insulted him so baldly, Rhys would have thrown down his gauntlet. A knight’s honor was his reputation.     

     Insufferable king!

     But Rhys seemed oblivious to the cruel royal laughter.

     Thereto, she feared his sword arm was not sufficiently strong for combat. The joust was nigh upon them, two days hence. How could he overpower an opponent in his weakened condition?

     The nagging fears persisted through the day as Katherine sat in the solar with the queen and her attending ladies. In quiet despair she reworked the untidy stitches of her embroidery.

*  *  *

     Sir Rhys of St. Quintin was
not
going to carry the day. ’Twas a joust he could
not
win—and he knew it.

     “Simon, I will be able to endure no more than one pass before I am unseated,” he admitted, rubbing his tender arm.

     The younger man surged to his feet with an angry glare. “Why are ye set on defeat? Desist from this foolery. Think of Lady Katherine.”

     Rhys nodded. “I do think of the lady. She will not suffer it long. You are fully aware Katherine needs to wed Sir Dafydd, not me.”

     “Yea, and by God’s thigh, ye’ll pay mightily for it.”

     He settled a dark stare upon his squire. “What choice have I? ’Twould have been different had she met me under other circumstances. I needs be humiliated. ’Twill ease her pain and make bowing to the king’s command more tolerable.”

     “Aye, ta be sure. But ’twill draw her anger,” Simon scoffed. “What do ye then?”

     Shrugging, he winced when a dull pain attended the gesture. He was stronger, without a doubt, but he should not triumph in a contest of endurance. “Your moral judgment does not move me.”

     “Ye deal far better with men than with women,” Simon accused, flinging down the linen shirt he was mending.

     Rhys, examining a bruised rib in a small tin mirror, threw him a quizzical look. “What is not needful is you telling me—”

     “Naught shall be as before.” A darkening of his face showed Simon’s inner fury. “Think ye she’ll accept this betrayal? She’s a woman with womanly feelings. She’ll not let it pass.”

     Rhys straightened. “I will do penance.”

     “God’s mercy, what a thought.” Simon gaped at him in disbelief.

     Wanting none of his squire’s condemnation, he gingerly bent to rescue the shirt from the muddy grass.

     “Why are ye bein’ so willful?”

     Rhys crushed the garment within his fist. Simon had no right to be judgmental. “Think you ’tis easy to hurt Katherine? It tears me asunder! She restored me to health and I repay her thus?” He whirled away, fervently trying to hold fast to his self-control. Without much effort, his conscience would plunge him into despondency. “Had I not begun this vendetta against Geoffrey de Borne, I would not be standing in this misery or listening to your preaching. You prattle on like a friar.”

     “I’ll not pity ye. ’Twas yerself who put the idea ta the king, an’ it’s yerself ye can thank when ye lose the joust and the Lady Katherine.” Simon shook his head in disgust. “Ye won’t mind when she repudiates you?”

     “I welcome it.” 

     Simon’s blue eyes widened. “That’s not very sensible.”

     Meeting his squire’s gaze, he realized Simon’s question wasn't from anger, but from confusion. He lifted his own hands in a helpless gesture. “I have other intentions which require my time, which out of necessity, come ahead of Katherine. I made a vow before God, if you do remember.”

     “Is Sir Geoffrey worth this torture?”

     “Nay, but how can I break my vow to God?” His voice held all his frustration.

     “So ye’re torn,” Simon observed, his tone unsympathetic.

     Rhys nodded. The depth of his misery nigh choked him. “I find myself in love with Lady Katherine— ”

     “A reckonin’ ye didn’t calculate.”

     “A most grave miscalculation,” he agreed, his voice breaking. “’Tis impossible for me to claim that sweet lady’s hand.”

     “Ye wooed her, natheless, gave her false hope.”

     ’Twas a blow to Rhys’s midsection. He nodded, breathing heavily. “It does complicate our mission.”

     “Yer mission, Rhys,
not
mine,” Simon corrected sharply.

     “What maggot do you chew on?” He threw an exasperated scowl at the younger man.

     “If ye but realized how much ye lose with this vow for vengeance, ye’d reconsider yer wicked plan.”

     Taken aback by Simon’s condemnation, Rhys responded with his own anger. “Quit speaking in riddles, pup! You mean I will lose Haughmond?”

     “Nay, stupid man, ye’ll secure Haughmond.” Simon rolled his eyes in disgust. “But ye’ll lose the good will of Lady Katherine when the truth be known. Ye don’t understand her. I pity her. She’s plannin’ ta bestow her favor upon ye at the joust, did ye know, even though she’s betrothed to yer opponent? What becomes of her when she learns she’s been insulted apurpose?”

     Sweat dampened Rhys’s palms. ’Twas a question he’d asked himself and had found no answer. 

     “Another miscalculation ye hadn’t considered?” Simon stared him down. “She’ll go ta Sir Dafydd 'cause she must. But she'll hate him. And when she discovers what ye’ve done ta her, her hate will grow. ’Twill be yer fault when she’s twisted into a bitter woman.”

     “Silence your maw!” Rhys clenched his jaw, his patience evaporating.

     “Plotting evil deeds.” Simon appeared unaffected by the castigation. His eyes narrowed. “How like Sir Geoffrey ye become.”

     “You dare to compare us? I am not as that cockatrice!” Rhys’s fist struck out before he reconsidered, smashing Simon squarely in the face. With a growl, he yanked his arm back. Bright red blood dripped from the squire’s nose “Begone with you. You don’t seek favor with such talk.”

     Simon swiped the back of his hand across his nose, smearing a streak of red up his cheek. With a dark glower, he stomped from the tent.

     “And speak proper English as you were instructed,” Rhys shouted after him. “Or I’ll fetch you back to the gutter where I found you!”

*  *  *

     A caravan arrived from St. Werburgh in Chester, bearing a group of Benedictine nuns. ’Twas rumored the good sisters had come to put Sir Dafydd’s banner to rights, a kind gesture from an obliging kinswoman.

     At supper, Simon pointed out the knight from across the hall and Katherine had a fleeting view of a tall muscular man with a dark drooping moustache and goatee. Had she given him more consideration, she might have found him handsome. But her mind rebelled against such thoughts. The prospect of being wed to anyone but Rhys devastated her.