Spectre of the Sword (23 page)

She smiled faintly. “You
were doing what needed to be done.”

He returned her smile.
“You are exceptionally tolerant.”

They gazed at each
other, brilliant blue on dark green.   When Elizabeau reached out to touch his
cheek, he kissed her palm and stood back up, resuming his packing.  She watched
him cram heavy garments deep into the satchel, the strong lines of his face and
the way his dark hair tickled his forehead.  She reached out and took one of
his hands, drawing it away from the cloak he was attempting to pack and laying
it on her cheek.  When he looked at her curiously, she smiled sweetly.

“Could we not stay
here?” she asked quietly. “Surely we are safer here than in a tavern
somewhere.”

He looked down at her,
feeling himself growing more and more entrenched with her by the moment.  With
every hour that passed, she was embedding herself deeper and deeper into his
heart and he was growing increasingly afraid.  She did not want to marry her
prince; she had made that very clear.  He was increasingly terrified that he
would grant her wish were she to beg him again.  He should have had Rod take
her, but he had not.  His uncle had been the wiser when he had recommended it. 
Now, he was close to destroying his mission and disobeying his liege.   He knew
that could not happen but he was at a loss to know how to stop it.

“If the king has figured
out that you are with me, there are those who know I am lord of St. Briavels,”
his fingers began to caress her silken skin. “I have only a few men here to man
it as an outpost, certainly not enough to fight off an army.”

“But we saw no army,”
she insisted. “Just a few men.  They could not breach this place.”

He averted his gaze and
shook his head. “Nay,” he muttered. “It would not be a wise decision to stay
here. We must move on. I must get you to Ogmore.”

His words were like a
slap in the face.  She knew that was where they were traveling but to hear him
speak it with such determination was like a stab to her heart.  She turned away
from him, pained and weary.

“Of course,” she
murmured. “I am your mission. That is all I can ever be.”

Rhys looked at her,
hearing the pain in her voice and feeling pain of his own.  But he could not
give in to it.  With his last thread of willpower, he focused on his task and
finished packing the satchel.  He kept his gaze averted from Elizabeau,
terrified that if he looked at her, he would crumble.  He was second-guessing
his mission and the thought sickened him.

His old armor was on the
floor below them, stored in a small room off the main floor.  He needed to
retrieve it.  Sealing up the satchel, he looked at Elizabeau as she sat on the
edge of the bed and stared at the floor.  He felt stabs of pity but he fought
them.

“I must get my armor,”
he said quietly. “Will you be all right here for a few moments?”

She nodded weakly and he
left the room without another word.   Elizabeau continued to sit, staring at
the floor and feeling her grief.  The grief was a constant companion and she
could never be rid of it, she knew, but that did not prevent her from trying to
move past it. In an attempt to distract herself, she began looking around the
dusty room, noting the furnishing, the tables and chairs. There was what looked
to be a dressing table near the lancet window and she rose from the bed to
inspect it.

It was curiosity and
nothing more.  She sat down on the bench and noted her appearance in the
polished bronze mirror; she examined her face, thinking she looked very tired. 
There were two drawers in the table and she pulled them open, inspecting the
combs and hair ornaments that were there.  She knew they were Gwyneth’s but it
did not bother her; she pulled out the comb and began to drag it through her
golden red hair.

The woman gazing back at
her in the mirror was older somehow, not the same girl she had known back in
London.  This woman had matured in a situation where she would not have
survived had she not shown some measure of growth and resolve. She ran the comb
through her hair until it was a glittering, silken mass that flowed gently down
her back.  Setting the comb aside, she dug through the drawer until she came
across a few hair pins and a lovely butterfly ornamental comb.  Braiding her
hair, she wound it into a bun at the nape of her neck and inserted the hair
pins.  Then she put the butterfly comb in it.  

She may have looked
better, but she did not feel any better.  With a heavy sigh, she inspected her
shoulders and collarbone in the mirror, running her fingers over the white
flesh and wondering how she was going to allow another man to touch her as Rhys
had.  She wondered how she was ever going to live with a man she did not love,
allowing him husbandly rights when the only man she wanted would not be
permitted to touch her.  It was going to kill her, she knew.   Perhaps it was
better if Rhys did not serve her in her new life. Perhaps the only way to
survive this was to try and forget him.

When Rhys returned later
with pieces of older, battered armor and chain mail, she sat on the bench and
watched him sort the mail and dress.  She didn’t say a word as he donned the
mail coat and latched on pieces of plate.  He required her help when he reached
the breast plate and the armor for his right arm, and she rose silently to his
request and helped him finish the straps. Though the armor was old, it was
somehow more imposing, like armor that had seen many a battle throughout the
years. Rhys was a big man and armor made him appear larger than life. 
Elizabeau stood there and watched him in silence, afraid to speak, wallowing in
sorrow.  

When he took the cloak
that he had lain on the bed and swung it around her shoulders, she simply stood
there and let him fasten it. He fussed with it like a father, making sure she
was properly covered, before taking her hand and leading her from the room.
Elizabeau followed dumbly, her cold hand in his warm one, as he took her down
the spiral stairs to the second floor and finally out into the bailey.  The
entire time, she never said a word and neither did Rhys.  They both knew the
time was drawing near and they both knew what they must do.

There was nothing more
to say.

CHAPTER TEN

They stopped in the town
near Caldicot Castle that night.  It was a place called Highmoor Hills,
sounding far more romantic than it looked.  The truth was it was a dirty little
town with an abundance of transient clientele thanks to the port on its shores
that served both the sea and the mouth of the Severn River.  

It was very late when
Rhys finally stopped at a small, inconspicuous tavern in the midst of the
drunken little town.  It did not even have a name.  It was surprisingly lively
for the time of night but stank to high heavens.  Holding Elizabeau’s arm
gently, Rhys took her inside, making way through the crowd of rough and edgy
patrons to the barkeep on the opposite side of the room.  Elizabeau was
exhausted and said nothing as Rhys negotiated with the man for a room.  When
they finally settled on a price that was a sight high, a very dirty serving
wench took them up the stairs and to the end of the hall where a small, crooked
door was shoved open.

It could hardly be
called a room but it would have to suffice.  There was a small bed, a table, a
hearth and little else.  It was tiny.  The serving wench lit the kindling and
was able to spark a small fire as Rhys set down the satchel and directed
Elizabeau to sit on the bed.  She did so, wearily, pulling off the hood of the
cloak as Rhys instructed the woman to bring them a meal. The wench meandered
out with a glance to Elizabeau and a lingering glance to Rhys.  When the door
was shut and bolted, Rhys fussed with the fire until it was satisfactorily
blazing before finally turning to Elizabeau.

They had not said a word
to each other since leaving St. Briavels.  He did not like the silence; it had
his stomach in knots. Slowly, he removed his gloves, pretending to busy himself
with the pieces of old armor that covered his arms.  He unfastened the straps,
setting them aside a piece at a time, feeling Elizabeau’s presence behind him
like a heady weight.  He was in the process of removing his hauberk when her
soft voice floated up behind him.

“So we find ourselves in
an inn once again,” she murmured. “The last time we found ourselves in this
situation it was a bit of an adventure.  I wonder if tonight will see such
excitement.”

He glanced at her over
his shoulder. “I hope not,” he said quietly. “I, for one, could use some sleep.
I’ve no desire to sit up all night in order to protect you from stupid peasants
who tunnel through walls.”

She looked at him; his
brilliant blue eyes were twinkling. It made her grin. “If one were to think on
it, that
was
rather clever of him.”

Rhys’ smile broke
through as he finished pulling his hauberk off and tossed it aside. “I will
congratulate him on his ingenuity, but it is foolish.  If that woman’s father
catches him, he’ll be lucky to survive.”

Elizabeau laughed
softly, feeling her mood lighten. She could not stand the silence between them,
either. “Surely the man will have some pity. They are in love, after all.”

Rhys shook his head as
he shirked his mail coat. “It does not matter.  Any father would protect his
daughter to the death.”

“Would you protect your
daughter to the death?”

His grin broadened. “Woe
to the man who would as much as glance at my daughter.”

Elizabeau watched him as
he neatly stacked up the armor he had removed, studying the width of his
enormous shoulders, feeling her heart grow warm and soft.  She lay back on the
bed, propping her head upon her hand on bended elbow.

“For argument’s sake,
suppose you and I were to have a daughter,” she watched him as he turned to
look at her. “Suppose she was a beautiful girl with your brilliant eyes and my
red hair.  Suppose she was the most beautiful girl in all the land and she fell
madly in love with a worthy and true lad.  Would you chase him away and ruin
her chances of happiness?”

He pursed his lips. “You
are too vague with your argument,” he said as he stood up and moved to the bed
where she sat. “You do not state this lad’s standing. Is he a noble? A pauper?”

She shrugged. “He is a
knight.”

Rhys put his hands on
his hips and shook his head firmly. “’Twill never do.  Our daughter would be of
royal blood. She would have to marry much higher.”

“But what if she loved
him?”

He scratched his head.
“It doesn’t matter.”

She frowned. “You are
too heartless. Why must one always marry for social standing? Why can she not
marry for love?”

He finished scratching
his head and sat down on the bed at her feet. “Every father wants his daughter
to marry for wealth and status. That way, he knows she will be well taken care
of.  Love is not the issue.”

Elizabeau watched his
expression, his body language, seeing for the first time just how weary he
was.  She sat up, looking him in the face.  He met her gaze, brilliant blue to
dark green.

“Love is the greatest
issue of all,” she said softly. “I would want my daughter to be happy.  I would
rather have her happy than rich and royal.  I would rather be happy than rich
and royal.”

His good humor faded as
he gazed into her magnificent eyes.  He could feel himself weakening, much
faster than he ever had before. It was frightening. His hands ached to touch
her, his arms were pained to hold her. He knew exactly what she meant and it
was becoming more difficult by the second to deny her.

But there was still an
ounce of strength in his body, a thread of resistance to the desires of his
heart.  He continued to gaze at her, struggling against his natural instincts
to reach for her.  He had to see reason; he had to become reason.

“I want you to think
very carefully about what it is you wish for,” he said hoarsely. “It would not
be a world of utter happiness and contentment. It would be a world of stress
and anxiety for the rest of our lives.”

Her brow furrowed. “What
do you mean?”

“Precisely that,” he
said, shifting on the bed to gain a better look at her.  “Let us say for the
sake of argument that we do marry. Let’s say that we do it tomorrow.  Now our
future is sealed; I have broken my vows to my liege, destroyed my mission, and
compromised the future of England.  I cannot go back to de Lohr; everything I
have worked for my entire life is destroyed in that one solitary moment.  Now
instead of the king’s assassins, I must fear de Lohr and de Burgh’s wrath.  Now
the entire country is hunting the two of us and there is no safe haven. So we
must flee.”

By this time,
Elizabeau’s expression was darkening. Rhys continued. “But where do we go? We
cannot return to Whitebrook; they will find us there. I will be thrown in the
vault and probably executed for treason or thievery, and you will still be
forced to marry your prince after I am dead and the marriage is annulled. 
However, if we do manage to escape, we will more than likely flee to France
and, presumably, seek sanctuary with my father.  But my father is a very old
man and my eldest brother, set to inherit the title, wants nothing to do with
me. So we cannot go to Navarre.  Do you understand what I am saying so far?”