Spectre of the Sword (11 page)

Rhys’ mother was exactly
as he had said; she bustled in and out of the chamber, drying linen in her hand
or some manner of ointment to soothe the cough, or wine and cheese to ease the
stomach.  So in between bathing Elizabeau and washing her considerable mane,
she fed her, soothed her, and otherwise fussed over her.  Elizabeau had never
had so much attention in her life but was quickly coming to appreciate it. 
After the hell of the past ten days, she was very grateful for the comfort.

While Orlaith said
little other than inquiring about her general health or the temperature of the
water, Carys was another story.  She was a very pretty girl on the cusp of
womanhood, very curious about Elizabeau in every way.   She sat on a stool next
to the tub while her mother washed and tended the new arrival, watching every
movement, listening to every word.  Whenever their eyes would meet, Carys would
smile bashfully and look away.  Elizabeau didn’t sense any hostility or
standoffishness from her, but she came to wish the girl would say whatever she
was thinking.  All of the wide-eyed staring was making her uncomfortable.

Elizabeau had no idea
where Rhys was during all of this time.  She was terrified Orlaith would ask
her where or when they were married and she would not have the correct answer.
But Rhys’ mother remained silent on the subject as she gently ordered her
newest daughter out of the cooling tub and wrapped her in warmed linen. 
Seating the woman on a stool by the hearth, she set Carys to combing through
her wet hair to dry it in the warm air.  So as Carys combed and Elizabeau
struggled not to doze, Orlaith managed to stuff her with more cheese and wine.

The food only made the
sleepiness worse.  Elizabeau was having a difficult time keeping her eyes
opened and Carys continued to carefully comb and fluff her hair, drying it out
in the heat of the fire.   When Orlaith left the room in search of servants to
empty the tub water, Carys finally summoned her bravery.

“Where were you born, my
lady?” she asked softly.

Elizabeau had been close
to dozing; her eyes slowly opened, dreading the series of questions from the
young girl and not wanting to give her too much information.

“Cornwall,” she replied.
“And please… you may call me by my name. It seems rather formal for sisters to
speak to one another so formally.”

Running her fingers
through Elizabeau’s hair, Carys blushed at the request.  “Julianna is a pretty
name,” she said timidly. “I… I like it a great deal.”

Elizabeau had to smile;
the girl sounded very nervous. “Thank you,” she replied. “Now tell me; where
were you born?”

“Here, at Whitebrook,”
Carys replied. “I have lived here my whole life. I have never been anywhere
else.”

“Not even to London?”

“Oh, no,” Carys said
sincerely. “Mother will not allow it. She says it is a den of thieves,
murderers and gluttons. She fears for my safety there.”

Elizabeau struggled not
to giggle. “And she is correct. It is a wild place.”

Carys stopped combing;
she came around to look Elizabeau in the eye, her expression a mixture of awe
and curiosity. “Have you been there, then?”

“Aye.”

“Do… do women really
paint their faces and put holes in their ears in which to wear jewels?”

Elizabeau did chuckle,
then.  “I have seen such things. But they are women we do not speak of.”

Carys’ eyes widened.
“Whores?”

Elizabeau’s own eyes widened
at the blunt response. “Where did you hear such a word?”

Carys’ looked stricken.
“Do not tell my mother I said that; she’ll box my ears!”

Elizabeau laid a hand on
the girl’s arm. “Have no fear. I would never tell on you.”

Carys smiled sheepishly,
returning her attention to Elizabeau’s drying hair.  She resumed combing. “How
did you meet my brother? In London?”

“Aye,” Elizabeau replied
truthfully.

“Did he champion you?
Save you from a dastardly murderer?”

Elizabeau thought on the
rough introduction she had to Rhys. “In fact, he did,” she replied with more
truth. “Your brother is a very brave and noble man.”

Carys stopped combing,
looking at Elizabeau with such a dreamy expression that Elizabeau found herself
fighting off the giggles again.  It was a silly, romantic gaze.

“He saved you?” Carys
sighed. “How chivalrous.”

Elizabeau could see in
their short conversation that Carys was a naïve young girl with a mist of
romantic ideals fogging her mind.  Elizabeau thought back to the days when she
held such ideals.  But those days were long gone, and she was sorry. She
doubted she’d ever see those days again although there were times when Rhys
looked at her that she could imagine feeling such a thing once more.  But not
with him.

“Aye, he is,” she
replied quietly, reaching for the wine decanter that Rhys’ mother had left for
her. “Now, would you mind finishing my hair so that I may dress? My sniffles
have abated for the moment and I would hate for them to return and ruin your
mother’s hard work.”

Carys resumed her task
with a fury even though her thoughts lingered on her brave brother and his
chivalrous deeds.  She wished in her heart that some day, a knight would do the
same for her.  With a little furious combing and fluffing, Elizabeau’s golden
red hair was shiny and soft, falling straight to her buttocks with no curl to
it.  It was like a waterfall of golden-red.  But Elizabeau didn’t notice the
beauty of her hair reflected in the firelight, or pay attention as Carys
brushed the straight, glistening strands repeatedly. She drank her wine,
thinking on the chivalrous knight that was Rhys du Bois and feeling pangs of
disappointment such as she had never known.  The more she drank, the stronger
the pangs became.

Elizabeau woke up in the
strange, dark room.  The fire in the heart was burning softly in the darkness
and the smell of smoke was heavy.  She lay there a moment, staring up at the
ceiling and trying to orient herself.  It took her several long, anxious
moments to remember that she was at Whitebrook and this was the chamber she had
bathed in.  Shifting slightly, she could see that she was still wrapped in the
large piece of drying linen.  She remembered drinking too much wine and
becoming very sleepy.  Somehow, she made it over to the bed and passed out.

Rolling onto her side,
she felt a bit woozy and she realized she was still a bit drunk.  As she
gripped the side of the bed, she saw very large legs seated in a chair next to
her.  With a start, her head snapped up to see Rhys gazing down at her.

“So you are awake,” he
said quietly. “I thought for certain you would sleep well into morning.”

Her head was throbbing.
“Why… why would you say that?”

He smiled faintly,
sitting forward so that his elbows were resting on his knees. “Because you’re
ill, we’ve been riding day and night for eight days, and,” he jerked his head
in the direction of the table, “because you drank as much wine as I can.”

On her stomach, she
propped herself up on her elbows and put both hands on her forehead. “God’s
Bones,” she hissed. “What a mistake that was. I feel awful.”

His grin widened. “At
least you are no longer sniffling.”

As if it just occurred
to her, she wriggled her nose and sniffed for good measure. “Not much,” she
looked at him. “Amazing. I thought for sure I was going to die of the chill.”

He shook his head,
rising from the chair beside the bed. “You still might if you do not put on
warmer clothing,” he indicated the fact that she was still wrapped in a sheet.
“My mother wanted to wake you and put you in something warmer, but I stopped
her. I told her to let you sleep.”

Elizabeau looked down at
herself again, grunted, and shifted to an uneasy sitting position. “I find
myself in this situation all too often when you are around, wrapped in towels
and without my shift.” She looked up at him as he chuckled softly. “What are
you doing here, anyway? And where did you go earlier? I was terrified your
mother was going to ask me about our wedding and I would not have the correct
answer.”

He went to the wine
pitcher, swirling it around to see that there were only dregs left. “I am here
because we are married and married people normally sleep in the same chamber,”
he replied. “As for where I went earlier, I was visiting with my son whom I’ve
not seen in six months.”

“Oh,” she scratched her
scalp, looking around for the familiar satchel that carried her clothes. She
spied it over by the hearth and rose on unsteady legs to retrieve it. “Did you
tell your mother anything more about our wedding? She did not ask me a thing.”

He nodded, watching her
rummage about the bag. “We were married in London ten days ago. We met one
month prior at marketplace near the Tower that is held every Thursday. It is
when the nobles do their shopping so they will not be bothered by the rabble.”

She nodded, memorizing the
lie.  Pulling forth the one of the two shifts she owned, she cast Rhys a long
glance.

“Turn around.  I’m not
your wife and you cannot watch me dress.”

Dutifully, he turned
about, but not before he muttered under his breath. “Pity.”

“What was that?”

“I said, of course, my
lady.”

She looked at him as if
she did not believe him, but quickly dropped the towel and pulled the shift
over her head.  Then she fussed about in the bag.

“Oohhh,” she groaned in
frustration. “I do not have a sleeping shift or anything appropriate to sleep
in. I do not want to wear one of my dresses.”

He crossed his enormous
arms, listening to her shuffle around behind him. “Sleep in the shift tonight.
Tomorrow I shall go into Llandogo and purchase something for you to sleep in.”

“Can’t I go?”

“No. We cannot take the
chance that you will be sighted.”

She frowned. “You stand
out more than I do. You’re a gigantic mountain of a man with black hair and
blue eyes that glow.  You could not blend in to a crowd if you tried.”

He snorted. “Be that as
it may, you cannot go. And arguing with me isn’t going to magically cause me to
change my mind.” He turned around to look at her as she stood in her shift
beside her satchel. “Now, get back into bed and go to sleep. I am exhausted as
well and would like to catch a bit of sleep before the sun rises.”

Her lips stuck out in a
pout. “But this is my good shift. And it’s not nearly warm enough.”

“Get in bed.”

It was not a request.
Elizabeau’s eyebrows rose and she glared at him for a few long moments, hoping
to scowl him into submission. But the brilliant blue eyes remained strong
against her.  With a heavy sigh, she threw the surcoat she was holding back
into the satchel and grumbled all the way back over to the bed.  It was a small
bed with a heavy coverlet and she tossed it back, revealing the soft bed linens
underneath. The moment she climbed in, she howled.

“’Tis freezing!” she
gasped, her teeth chattering. “The bed linens are like ice!”

With a heavy sigh of his
own, Rhys gave her a shove and she fell down into the covers.  As she squealed
in protest, he pulled the heavy coverlet over her, tucked it in tightly enough
to strangle, and threw himself down beside her. When Elizabeau realized what he
was doing, her mouth flew open with outrage and Rhys had a fight on his hands.

“What do you think you
are doing?” she demanded.

He shoved her down again
when she tried to get up, being rewarded with an elbow to his gut for his
trouble. “I am going to sleep,” he rolled her over onto her side, her back to
his chest, and threw her into a bear hug. “I am exhausted, you are cold, and I
grow weary of this foolishness. You’ve slept against me for eight days,
Elizabeau Treveighan, so your protests at this stage are empty and foolish.
This is the same as it was on horseback when you were cold and I used my body
heat to warm you.  Now, shut your mouth and go to sleep.”

She tried to move but he
had her too tightly.  “That was different,” she grunted. “I had no choice. But
we are no longer traveling and this is improper to say the least.”

“If my mother and family
are to think we are married, then it is more than proper.”

“What would de Lohr
say?”

“He would congratulate
me for my ingenuity. Now, are you going to argue with me all night?”

Truth was, she wanted
to. She should have. But his body radiated more heat than a roaring fire and
already she could feel it seeping through the coverlet, warming her chilly
flesh.  She should demand he remove himself immediately, but the warmer she
became, the more her protests died on her lips.

“Is that what I can
expect every night while we stay here?”

“That would be a fair
assessment.”

She sighed sharply,
hating herself for giving into the warmth of his body but enjoying it just the
same.  But it was more than that; she was enjoying the sheer comfort of his
closeness.