Spectre of the Sword (25 page)

As his tongue licked her
into a frenzy, his hope that this would quench him were for naught.  He could
feel his lust building.  Even when he manipulated her taut little bud of
pleasure and felt her body convulse, it did nothing to sate him.  Everything
was growing worse. But he still knew, through the most powerful lust he had
ever experienced, that he could not take her. 
He could not take her!

As Elizabeau lay gasping
beneath him, he suddenly lifted himself up and straddled her torso. One big leg
was on either side of her body.  Placing his rock-hard manhood in the valley
between her full breasts, he took both of her hands and together, they pushed
her breasts together and created a soft, warm passage for his great organ. It
was a delightful tunnel of friction as he thrust powerfully between her breasts
and he closed his eyes to the sheer bliss of it.  There was such tender heat
surrounding him, a totally different sensation than being buried within her
body. But it was equally exciting. Through is haze, he could feel Elizabeau’s timid,
curious fingers touching the ruby-red tip of his phallus and it was enough to
throw him over the edge. With a groan of passion, of complete emotional
release, he spent his pleasure on the creamy skin of her beautiful breasts. 

He paused there for the
longest time, feeling her flesh wrapped around him, feeling more fulfillment
and dread than he ever imagined possible.  When he finally opened his eyes, he
looked down to see Elizabeau gazing up at him.

They just stared at each
other. Now that they had passed through the violent wake of their storm of
passion, Rhys wasn’t sure what to say to her.  All he knew was that he wasn’t
sorry in the least although he should have been.  He should have been begging
for her forgiveness.  But he wasn’t.

Silently, he climbed off
his straddled position over her and went to the table where a rag lay bunched
up on the food tray. Picking it up, he went back over and sat beside Elizabeau
on the bed, gently wiping his seed off her chest.  He never said a word and he
never looked her in the eye.  But he wiped her as gently as a father tending
child. Elizabeau watched him as he cleaned her up, threw the rag in the corner,
and finally lay back down beside her.

Without uttering sound,
he collected her warm, naked body up against him in a fiercely protective
position, tucked her head beneath his chin, and closed his eyes.   He was
snoring softly before Elizabeau even fell asleep.

***

“Answer the question and
I may spare your life,” David had the man by the throat. “Deny me my answer and
your death will continue to be as painful as possible.”          

Screams and moans
sounded throughout the east gatehouse of Ogmore’s massive structure.  The
gatehouse was large enough, and populated by enough soldiers, to be used as a
prison.  Christopher de Lohr and his men had been at Ogmore for three days;
yesterday, they had caught a known supporter of the king in the nearby town and
had promptly taken him to the castle for questioning.  Wherever there was one
supporter, there were usually more and with the princess due to arrive at the
castle any day, Christopher was understandably cautious.

While the earl stood
back and watched, his younger brother had proceeded with the interrogation. It
had been going on since the day before.  Since David was an older knight with a
good deal of experience, he also knew methods of torture that were designed to
cause more pain than actual death.  A dead spy was of no use to anyone. But a
spy persuaded with just the right amount of encouragement could be invaluable.

The particular method
being used against the prisoner was called ‘filet’.  It was, literally,
filleting the extremities.  Both the earl and his brother had spent years in
the Holy Land and had come by methods of torture used against the Christians by
the Muslims.  This one was more painful that it was actually deadly, although
death would eventually result if it went on.  At the moment, the man had the
skin of both feet sawed away from the bone. His toes were in tatters but for
all he screamed, nothing valuable had come forth. 

Christopher and two of
his knights, Edward de Wolfe and another by the name of Max Cornwallis, stood
in the shadows watching the exchange. They tended to be the more cunning and
interpretive of an enemy’s actions whereas David and Lawrence were
higher-strung and more intent on gaining the actual information.  Lawrence was
ferocious warrior that was sometimes more animal than man, especially in the
heat of battle, which was why he had no problem filleting the prisoner’s feet
as David asked the questions.  Lawrence was often called upon to the dirty work
because he was the one most capable of doing it.

But the prisoner was
surprisingly resilient.  He had so far resisted everything put to him and
screamed in frustration and agony in response to David’s question.

“I will say again that I
know nothing of what you ask,” he howled. “I was traveling home from France and
have not seen nor been in contact with the king for months!”

They had heard this
repeatedly.  David lifted an eyebrow.  “So you mean to tell me that you, the
Lord of Esgarraida, who has in the past supplied John with money and men, know
nothing of the latest turn of events? You know nothing of Arthur’s death?”

The bloodied man looked
up at him, his face pale with blood loss and pain. “I told you I knew of
Arthur’s death. Everyone knows of Arthur’s death.”

“I know you did. But
what we are trying to understand is why you are here, right now.  Why did the
king send you?”

Lawrence began to filet
the man’s heel and he screamed.  Half way through, he began to twitch and jerk.
“The king did not send me!” he howled. “I am returning from France!”

More screaming and blood
followed.  Christopher, having been watching this display for well over twelve
hours, finally broke from his stance in the darkness and made his way over to
the prisoner.  When Lawrence caught sight of him, he stopped what he was doing
and stepped back respectfully.   But Christopher’s focus was on the lord,
panting with pain and weakness.   For fourteen hours, the man had stuck to his
story without wavering; either he was very strong or he was telling the truth. 
Christopher was beginning to think it was the latter and decided it was time to
intervene.

“What do you know of
Arthur’s death?” he asked.

The Lord of Esgaraidda
looked at the baron with unnaturally bright eyes. “Nothing more than what I’ve
said. It was rumored everywhere. It was all people could speak of on the boat
over.”

“You did not, perchance,
have a hand in it?”

The man shook his head.
“I am not so high powered,” he breathed. “Rumor has it Eleanor orchestrated it
to protect John.  That is what everyone seems to believe.”

Christopher didn’t look
at his brother, but he could feel David’s gaze on him. “Eleanor?” he repeated,
thinking that it made a good deal of sense considering the old woman had
undoubted captured the lad.  One more death by her command would not be unheard
of. “But no one knows for sure?”

“Not that I know,” the
man hung his head, exhausted and in agony. “That is all I can tell you. If you
are going to kill me, then be done with it. I am of no more use to you.”

Christopher gazed at him
a moment longer before shooting his brother a knowing look.  David followed him
several feet away to a private conference.

“What is it?” David
whispered.

Christopher crossed his
arms in a thoughtful gesture. “Esgaraidda is not one of John’s more powerful
barons.   He holds a small fiefdom in Central Wales and is not usually in the
heat of things.  I am coming to think he is telling the truth.”

David nodded, not
feeling the least bit remorseful for tearing the man’s flesh apart. “If that is
your thought.”

“It is. But I believe
this episode provided something of value.”

“How is that?”

“He has implicated
Eleanor in not only the abduction of Arthur, but his death.”

“We already have
information that she was behind his kidnapping.”

“Aye, but not his
murder.  Everyone knows how underhanded she is, especially against her
husband’s bastards.  She will do anything to protect her sole surviving son and
his throne.”

David wasn’t following
him. “What are you saying?”

Christopher stared at
Esgaraidda, his mind working, before replying. “I am thinking that perhaps we
have overlooked the obvious. Certainly John wants Lady Elizabeau dead; that is
no secret. But what of Eleanor? What if she not only abducted Arthur but killed
him as well? She would think nothing of murdering another relation, and
particularly an illegitimate one, who is a threat to her son.”

David caught on with a
look of disgust. “You are right. We have been foolish not to worry about her,
also.”

Christopher nodded with
reluctant resignation. “I fear we’ve been blind not to realize that she was
more a threat than John.  And we must get word to Rhys.  He would not know
otherwise if Eleanor sent assassins poised as envoys.  We have him focused on
avoiding the king, not his mother.”

David sighed heavily.
“Jesus,” he hissed. “Then someone needs to ride back for Whitebrook and warn
him.”

“If he’s even still
there. He should be on his way here.”

Christopher shrugged his
big shoulders decisively. “Send someone to find him, and do it quickly. There
is no time to waste if Eleanor is sincerely after the lady.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Carys stood in the yard
behind the manse, feeding the great flock of fowl that had seemed to intimidate
Elizabeau so much.   But Carys had been raised around the animals and was very
comfortable with them.  As she fed, Dylan and Maddoc would run through the
flock and scatter the birds, laughing with delight as they did so.  Carys would
frown at them and resume her feeding only to have the boys do it again.   But
the birds were resilient and would return to gobble down feed every time. 

“Mama!” she turned to
call towards the house. “Tell Dylan to behave. He’s frightening the birds!”

“Dylan?” Orlaith
dutifully yelled from the house. “If those birds stop laying eggs because
you’ve frightened them too badly, your father will have something to say about
it.”

Dylan made a face at his
mother, who couldn’t see it, and to his sister who could.  Carys stuck her
tongue out at him and resumed feeding.  With the birds to no longer harass,
Dylan took Maddoc and went in search of bigger game to harry, more than likely
Renard.   Dylan’s father was in the shed to the north of the manse cleaning
some of Rod’s armor and the younger boys headed straight for him.  He was their
next target.

Carys was only glad that
they left her alone.  Renard was bigger and could swat them if they became too
annoying, where she could not.  Moreover, she wanted to finish her chores so
that she could beg her father to take her into town.   She had heard there was
a new vendor from Ireland with the most marvelous materials and she wanted to
go and see them before all of the women in the area bought them up.   She was
nearing the end of her grain when a shadow suddenly fell across her path. 
Looking up, she saw that it was Conrad. 

Immediately, her cheeks
flushed scarlet.  Conrad smiled timidly; he had been watching her over the past
two days, a pretty slip of a girl with glorious hair.  He was infatuated with
her hair.   He was not very good at speaking her language but he had been
practicing.  He hoped it was enough.

“Good morning, my lady,”
he said in his very heavy accent. “It is a fine day.”

She was blushing so hard
that she was beginning to sweat. “Aye, it is,” she nodded, keeping her focus on
the birds.

Conrad could see she was
either embarrassed or wanted nothing to do with him. But he would not give up
so easily. “This country… it is not like mine.”

Carys looked up at him,
then. “Oh? What is so different?”

He shrugged, looking
around the landscape. “Where I come from, there are great mountains. I see only
hills here.”

Carys pointed to the
north. “There are great mountains that way. And snow, too. Do you have snow?”

He nodded. “We do.  Do
you like snow?”

She nodded, gradually
becoming more at ease. “I love it. We play in it in the winter. My father
lashes boards together and we use it to slide down the hills.”

Conrad grinned.  “Me,
too,” he said and the conversation died. He kicked at the ground nervously,
thinking of something more to say. “Your brother… the big man? Have you heard
any word from him?”

Carys shook her head.
“Nay,” she said. “Rod has not sent word if he has found Rhys and the lady. And
if you think Rod is big, wait until you see Rhys. He’s enormous!”

“I see,” Conrad looked
out over the lush Welsh landscape but his gaze kept coming back to Carys. “Do
you think it will be long before Rod sends word?”