A Lord for Haughmond (8 page)

     Katherine’s frown disappeared and she laughed aloud. “That is your tale? Forsooth, ’tis rather brief by any measure, would you not agree?”

     “Mayhap,” he responded, thinking him chastised, yet fascinated by her shifting expressions. At the moment ’twas obvious she was trying to suspend her disbelief. Her eyes, full of suspicion, glittered like moonbeams in the dim light. Absolutely charming! “Know you the consequence of your complaint is that you needs tell a better tale,” he admonished with a good-natured chuckle.

     Katherine’s countenance changed yet again. Her incredulity transformed into alarm. “I know none,” she exclaimed. 

     Regretting that he’d aggrieved her, Rhys responded gently. “Fair lady, ’tis the penalty for fault-finding, do you know.”

     “Faith!” She let loose a groan. ’Twas a long moment before she spoke. “Once—once upon a time there was a princess—”

     “It must needs be a lovely princess, with long flowing dark locks,” he interrupted, flopping onto his side and grinning down at her, supporting his head on the heel of his hand.

     “Yea, if you wish it,” Katherine replied with a slow smile. “—who fell asleep in the forest. While she slept a magnificent unicorn, with a long white mane and a beautiful swirled horn upon its forehead, came and laid its head upon her breast—”

     He could well imagine the scene, with Katherine reclined upon a carpet of green moss and a dreamy look within the depths of her dark, trusting eyes. Clothed in her tresses alone, that flowed over her shoulders and curled about her naked breasts, she offered up a sweet and gentle smile, much like her present expression.

     A tremor shivered through him at the scintillating image.

     “Fortunate animal!” His breathy comment came out with a vengeance.

     She gave him a sharp look and hastily corrected herself, “—lay its head upon her gown.” 

     The picture shattered in his imagination. Disheartened, he conjured up a gown. ’Twas sewn of sheer linen and very scant and very short and displaying her long limbs to advantage. He knew precisely how they should appear. Long and slender, with the smallest curve beneath her knee that tapered to a delicate ankle, so dainty and refined he marveled at their sturdiness.   

     Yea, he knew precisely the shape of her limbs, and their length. ’Twas not an image he’d likely forget, for he’d been driven to distraction the entire day.

     Katherine’s low voice continued and he strove to pay attention. “The lovely princess with the long, flowing, brown locks awakened and spied the unicorn. She threw her arms about its neck. And—and so they lived happily thereafter.”

     Through the silence that followed, Rhys continued to stare at Katherine on her straw pallet, with her hair swirling about her. ’Twas easy, indeed, to imagine she lay naked upon forest mosses.

     God’s bones, she was more enchanting than he’d realized. How had it been possible he’d thought her a shrew? The fading firelight danced shadows across her small face, making her soft and desirable and bewitching.

     His gaze shifted to the shadows dancing across the wall, looking much like nuns on their way to prayer. That gave him pause. Out of necessity he should have resisted the urge to shoulder more responsibility.       

     “Must a scowl be permanently affixed to your brow?”      

     Katherine’s sharp query jolted him from his thoughts. “Was it?” He schooled his features. “I dare say I was not aware of it.”

     Her sad, hollow sigh filled the chamber. “Mayhap my storytelling was unworthy.”

     “’Twas a fine beginning, as was mine,” he hastened to reassure. “With greater thought, you can enlarge upon it. Practice on Anne. The two of you shall remain within this chamber. Entertain me when we retire on the morrow.” He laughed, quick and easy. “Though I must admit, betwixt storyteller and page, I prefer you in the latter role.”

     Katherine bestowed upon him a brilliant smile. “Then I shall endeavor to compose a better tale.”

     “Um-m," he replied, enjoying the tantalizing arrangement of her tresses, how they drifted over her shoulder and dipped low to follow the line of her waist, then flared again at the curve of her hip. ’Twas as fine a form as he’d ever beheld. “Truth to tell, ’tis my consideration you are already in possession of a very fine ‘tail.’”

     His waggling eyebrows must have given her the hint of his jest, though it took some moments for her disapproving frown to follow.

     Amused once more by her transformation, Rhys chuckled. “I’ll leave you to your disgust, Lady Katherine. Good eventide.” Rubbing at his scratchy chin, he rolled over and pulled the coverlet up around his shoulders. He tried to sleep, but a lively and very precise imagination of limbs and tresses wrecked that ambition and plagued him far into the night.

*  *  *

     Sequestered within the small chamber, the hours dragged. Yet ’twas welcome respite after fear and flight, and far easier on Katherine’s hand than hefting unwieldy baggage. Her wound did not smart as greatly as yester day. She found the creation of a newly fledged tale less problematic than she’d supposed, and ’twas easy to charm Anne with her version of a crusading knight returned home to find his castle occupied by a neighboring knight. But he’d brought with him a magical elixir that, when drunk, turned him into a ferocious dragon. She made sure this was one story wherein the poor dragon won the fight. And so her assigned task was accomplished before the castle residents had been dismissed from morning mass, leaving the remainder of the day. Anne and she sought to entertain themselves, but even singing songs they recalled and humming those they’d forgot could not diminish the monotony. She was grateful when dusk drew nigh.

     With lamp lit and fire stoked against the evening chill, they snuggled together beneath the thick coverlet on Rhys’s narrow bed and listened longingly to the music and singing and loud merrymaking drifting up from the evening feast in the great hall below. Would Rhys never return?

     Finally, his pounding fist and command to open brought blessed relief to their weary day.

     Katherine flung aside the coverlet and hurried to the stout door, lifting away the bar. But the moment he and Simon entered, she knew something was amiss. Worry etched both men’s features.

     Rhys carefully closed the door and bolted it before turning and speaking to them. “The king is delayed. He broke his journey at Amesbury, to pray with the queen dowager during Eastertide,” he explained in a low voice. “Now he is postponed by a fortnight, as the Earl of Bereford claims his time.”     

     Dread rose within her. “’Tis naught the whole of it!” she exclaimed, spying the wary glance the two men exchanged, sensing their tension.    

     Rhys shifted his gaze to her. “Sir Geoffrey has arrived at Warwick,” he said.

     “Oh, sweet Jesu, protect us,” Anne gasped, clasping her cheeks.

     “He took longer to arrive than I reckoned.”

     Katherine frowned at Rhys’s offhand comment.

     The knight tilted his head and threw her a meaningful look seeming surprised she didn’t understand. “He searches for you, else he’d be long past this shire.”

     “He’s found us,” cried Anne, tears sprouting in her eyes.

     “Nay, but he does use his journey to Edward as a pretext to conceal his search,” the knight replied before stomping to the warmth of the fire. He threw more coals into the grate. “The cagey devil, he says naught on the matter, merely that he’s bound for the king’s court.”

     “To petition the king for Haughmond!” Katherine drilled the knight’s back with all her fear.

     He turned to face her. “’Tis likely. Thus we remain at Warwick ’til he departs.”

     “Nay, we must gain King Edward’s audience first, else the king does grant that evil man’s request!"

     Rhys shook his head. “We cannot be abroad, Katherine, and have Sir Geoffrey overtake us on the road. ’Tis safer to remain hereat.”

     Simon stepped closer. “Think you he’ll attempt an ambush if he travels in advance of us?” 

     “Methinks he’ll try to reach the king with all haste, hoping to be the first to bend his ear.”

     “’Tis so," groaned Katherine, her despair threatening to undo her. She clasped her arms about herself. What became of Anne should Sir Geoffrey succeed? A chill coursed down her spine. What became of them both? Would they yet remain beneath Sir Geoffrey’s clutches? Fear slammed into her stomach. Everything Aunt Matilda had predicted was coming to pass. She caught her trembling lip betwixt chattering teeth.

     “Brace your heart, Katherine. We will bide our time within these walls before we venture to the king and plead your case.”

     She opened her mouth, but Rhys’s raised hand silenced her. “Keep troth. The king is a fair man. He will deal with Haughmond without bias.”

     “’Tis easy for you to say,” she managed. “’Tis not your life or future.”

     “Would that it could be. Ill luck can cast its miserable shadow on any of us at any moment.” Rhys stepped to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I would not see you so strained, my lady. You must contain your fears.” His fingers lifting her chin gave Katherine no choice but to meet his gaze. “I have declared I will own your cause. Have I not already proven that troth sufficiently to ease your worries?” 

     Though she stared into the depths of the knight’s intense gaze, she could not find the surety to make a reply.

     Rhys tipped his head and looked closer into her face. “I know the king, Katherine. He will listen to our plea and treat you with fairness. You must bear this setback with patience and fortitude. Pray, depend on me.”

     Could she? Should she? ’Twas frightful how truly she and Anne depended upon the charity of this knight. And upon the might of his sword arm. Rhys exhibited a youth that could well portend their ruination, should he not vanquish Sir Geoffrey. Had he been tested in battle? Verily, she knew not this knight’s worth, had only his brave words for comfort. But she knew Sir Geoffrey’s worth, knew he had never lost a joust, knew he took advantage of others’ weaknesses. 

     Was Rhys worthy? Her palms broke into a sweat and her mouth went dry. What if he were not? But what choice had she?

     She sighed, a broken sound that lay bare her vulnerability. “I have no one else to trust,” she whispered, resting her forehead against his hard chest.

     The knight’s arms, strong and reassuring, gathered her close. His scent of spiced soap and leather jolted her senses, made her uneasy. Yet when he pressed her cheek to his chest, his warm hand resting gently against her skin, she felt comforted, her wilting courage fortified by a new hope and a renewed strength.

     She heaved a sigh of relief.

     Anne sidled close and Rhys included her within his embrace. “Should the king not arrive in good time, we will journey to Bereford. Fear not, Simon and I will protect you both,” he murmured against Katherine’s hair. 

     Simon shook his head. “Or die in the attempt!” 

Chapter Six

     Had the Earl of Bereford not boasted there was no better hunting forest in all of England than his own, the king wouldn’t have tarried to indulge his whim for hawking when the boast, indeed, proved accurate. He was late for Warwick, but Warwick would await his pleasure. 

     ’Twas an added boon that his queen found, in the countess, a kindred connoisseur of tapestries. The two women spent many hours examining the castle’s collection and discussing weaving techniques. In turn, Queen Eleanor displayed her own textiles from Castile, the bright and cheerful hues which enlivened a dismal English winter, and which accompanied her everywhere she traveled.

     The population of the Gloucestershire town swelled with royal retainers and those seeking the king’s attention. Tents too numerous to count, of every festive shade and stripe, surrounded the indomitable red sandstone curtain wall beside the rushing tributary of the Thames River. Carts littered the castle grounds, providing cover for the menial servants and the horde of men-at-arms who arrived late. 

     Within the walls of Bereford Castle utter chaos reigned. Knights and their squires, grooms, butlers, cooks, a legion of pages—even washer women—crowded into the outer ward, jostling each other and getting in each other’s way as they went about their tasks of ministering to the royal court. The court itself, with its chamberlains and treasurers, stewards and clerks, was in daily touch with London. Couriers, accompanied by parties of knights for protection, created a steady stream of traffic on the highway, as did the endless procession of subjects within the hall, who petitioned the king on one complaint or another.

     ’Twas Edward’s daily course in the ten years since he had inherited the throne from his father, and he thrived on it. Attending to matters of state came after morning prayers, while he reserved the hours following midday for hunting or hawking, depending on the queen’s whim. 

     At the moment, he was buried beneath royal duties.

     “Letters, sire, for your immediate attention. Gascony awaits a reply,” murmured the royal chamberlain hovering at his elbow.

     Seated on the dais at one end of the great hall, in the grandest chair the earl possessed, Edward scarcely contained his boundless energy. A new hawk awaited him in the mews and he was impatient to test its skills.

     Shoving up the sleeve of his blue woolen cotte, he held out his hand for the parchments. One after another, the missives were placed into his palm. The lords of Gascony were again arguing over boundary lines. King Philip threatened to take matters into his own hands if the problem wasn’t resolved. King Alfonso, the queen’s kinsman, sent his greetings. Charles of Salerno inquired as to when Edward would be stopping on his way to the Holy Land.

     “Holy Land,” Edward exclaimed in exasperation, frowning at the parchment. “He assures me ’twould be noble to take up the cross once more. But I avow ’twould be a hopeless venture.”