Spectre of the Sword (45 page)

This day in March dawned
bright, if not chilly, just like any other. As garrison commander for Bellay
Castle,Rhys rose before dawn, donned his armor, dutifully kissed his wife, and
headed to the battlements. It was his routine. But the babies heard him
stirring from their chamber across the hall and they rose from their little
beds just about the time he quit the master bower. Five-year-old Geniver was
the fastest; she always met him first as he hit the corridor. But four-year-old
sister Rhiann was right behind her, squealing for her father to pick her up.
Smart, talkative Morgan was three years old and sucked her thumb sleepily as
she tugged at her father’s tunic. And the youngest, year-old William, yelled
loudly from his caged bed to be let free.

Rhys laughed softly at
the chaos at his feet; it was a morning the same as most others. He always had
a herd of children clamoring around him, smart little whips demanding his
attention. Picking up tiny little Morgan so she would not get stepped on,
he went into the babies’
chamber to release William from his barred bed.  Reaching down, he scooped up
his youngest son with his free arm and walked from the room with Geniver and
Rhiann skipping after him. When he hit the corridor, however, his twin sons,
ten-year-old Evan and Edward, grumbled and stumbled past him on their way to
the stairs.

“Why are they always so
loud?” Evan mumbled. “Why can’t they stay quiet so we can sleep?”

Rhys cocked an eyebrow.
“You are supposed to be up. You have work to do.”

“The sun is barely
risen, Da.  Why do we have to get up so early?”

“Wait until you go to
foster next month.  You’ll think these days to be those of luxury by
comparison.”

“Anything to get away
from these screaming brats.”

Rhys fought off a grin.
“I will remind you of that statement when I see you for the first time after
six months of fostering with Count de Visi. You’ll wish you were home again, I
guarantee.”

Evan grumbled something
unintelligible. Rhiann rushed to her big brother, who reached down to pick her
up purely out of habit. But he was grumpy and tired and in no mood for her
playfulness at such an early hour. Behind him, his brother almost tripped on
the stairs as he yawned for the tenth time in as many seconds.

“Edward,” Rhys snapped
softly. “Watch where you are going. If you break your neck, your mother will
kill me.”

Edward nodded sleepily
as he lumbered down the stairs with Geniver in tow.  The rule in the house was
that the older children always took the hand of a younger child when navigating
the steep stairs of Bellay’s keep. Elizabeau was adamant about it, terrified
that someone would break their neck.  Narrow stairs and too many children made
recipe for disaster.

The seven of them made
their way down the steps and into the great hall of the round keep.  Food was
already being set out and a nice blaze burned brightly in the hearth.  Rhys put
Morgan down at the table and handed William over to Edward to keep an eye on.
The fat old cook was already hovering over the children, putting porridge and
great hunks of bread on the table. Just as Rhys was preparing to leave the
hall, Elizabeau descended the stairs, dressed in a rich purple gown and looking
sweetly radiant.  Rhys paused to take his wife in his arms to kiss her good
morning for the second time.

“Where are you going?”
she murmured as she hugged him. “Why not spend a few moments with us before the
day begins?”

He gazed down into her
lovely face, hardly a line on it at thirty years of age.  The woman was
positively ageless.  “I suppose I could,” he said with a twinkle in his
brilliant blue eyes. “But I was trying to escape the admiring throng before
Morgan realized I was gone and started screaming.”

Elizabeau laughed
softly, running her hand through her husband’s dark hair, now graying slightly
at the temples. “Do you remember when Rory used to do that, too?” she reflected
on her eldest child, now fostering at Montrichard Castle.  “She would
positively howl when you left her sight.”

Rhys grunted as he
escorted his wife back into the hall. “She still does,” he said. “When I left
her at Montrichard, the count told me that she cried for a week.”

Elizabeau could see that
it hurt his feelings to remember that particular episode and she patted his
cheek gently even as Morgan climbed off the bench and raced to her father once
again.  He picked up the dark haired, green-eyed little girl and kissed her
loudly on the cheek. Elizabeau took William from Edward and settled down at the
table
between
her twins. Evan chewed his bread like an old cow, tired and unhappy about his
father’s work schedule, while Edward yawned and picked at his porridge. There
were a few moments of peace before a sentry entered the hall, his eyes
searching for his liege. Rhys saw him as he pulled apart a piece of bread for
Morgan and Rhiann.

“What is it?” he asked
the man.a

The soldier made his way
towards him. “Riders, my lord,” he said. “We cannot identify them.”

“Do they bear colors?”

“None we recognize.”

“What do you see?”

“Crimson and blue.”

Rhys looked up from the
piece he was feeding Morgan. “Crimson and blue?” he repeated.

The man nodded. “Aye, my
lord.”

“How many riders?”

“Three.”

Rhys took on a strange
look to his eyes. Setting Morgan down gently, he rose and followed the sergeant
fromthe hall. Elizabeau watched him curiously for a moment but her attention
was diverted as Morgan began crying and she refocused on her devastated
daughter. She always wept when her father left her and it was Mother’s job to
divert her attention. But Elizabeau hadn’t missed the odd look on Rhys’face
when he left the room; it made her curious about the incoming riders, too.

The eastern sky was soft
shades of pink and purple as Rhys ordered the portcullis of Bellay lifted.
Since their particular region was quiet for the moment, without threat of war,
he was not overly on his guard when it came to visitors. In fact, Bellay had
quite a few. But the crimson and blue had him slightly on edge, though he was
sure his uneasy feelings were for naught. No one knew he was here except for
David, and David would not have told a soul. Even after twelve years, he could
still feel the familiar fear of being discovered.

He stood just inside the
massive portcullis, watching the three riders approach. They were moving slowly,
in no great hurry, which afforded Rhys the opportunity to study them as they
drew near. The men were in armor; one of them was very large and not seated particularly
well atop the horse. The more Rhys watched, the more uneasiness he began to
feel. This time he knew it was not his imagination. There was something about
the larger rider that he recognized.

He began to walk, moving
through the open portcullis and across the narrow bridge that crossed Bellay’s moat.
He realized that his heart was pounding in his ears as he continued down the
road, watching the riders loom nearer and nearer. When they were several yards
away, one of them dismounted and threw his helm off. Rhys nearly collapsed when
he recognized the face.

“Rod!”

Rod was walking towards
his brother very rapidly, then running. Before Rhys could say another word, Rod
swarmed on the man and threw his arms around him, hugging him so fiercely that
he lifted him off the ground. It was some time before Rhys realized he was
laughing as his younger brother squeezed him within an inch of his life. Then
Rod tried to throw him to the ground, but Rhys was still the bigger, stronger
brother. He tossed his brother onto his back and landed atop him.

“My God, Rhys,” Rod
grunted as Rhys pounded him in the chest once or twice. “Is it really you? I
still think I am seeing a ghost.”

Rhys grabbed him around
the neck and shook him. “Rod,” he loosened his grip, unwilling to commence with
the usual rough-housing. He was still astonished and bewildered by the man’s
appearance. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

Rod sat up as Rhys
pulled. In little time he was back on his feet, beaming at his brother. He just
stared at him, unable to answer for a moment. He still couldn’t believe it.

“I had to come,” he said
simply. “I had to see you.”

Rhys’ brilliant blue
eyes were warm with emotion, but he was still rightly dazed. “Why?” he demanded
weakly.

“More importantly, how
did you find me?”

Rod’s hands were on his
brother’s arms, touching him as if fearful he was indeed an apparition. “David,”
he said. “He told me where you were.”

Rhys shook his head. “I
do not understand,” he muttered. “I sent David a missive several years ago
telling him very cryptically that we were safe, but he was not supposed to… I
did not tell him to.…”

Rod put up a hand to
silence him. “I’ve known since the beginning what happened. There were only
three of us who knew - David, myself, and the Teutonic general. But the general
went to his grave not long ago, so I was told, which means that David and I are
the only ones who know that you and Elizabeau did not perish at Ludlow those
years ago.”

Rhys understood somewhat
now. He patted his brother on the arm, on the head, looking remorseful and grateful
at the same time. “I’m so glad you knew,” he breathed.
“I wanted to communicate
with you, many times, but I could not take the chance that the message would be
intercepted. Sending that missive years ago to David was risky enough but I
felt as if I had to. He had to know that we were safe.”

Rod sobered as he
watched the struggle play across his brother’s face; it was Rhys’ features that
he remembered, just a little older and grayer.  But the man had lost none of
his size or strength.

“You do not have to
explain your reasons,” he said quietly. “I understand why you did what you did
and I always agreed. But the hardest part was watching Mother grieve for you. I
wanted to tell her many times but I swore to David that I would not. Too much
was at stake for even Mother to know.”

Rhys looked particularly
pained at the thought; even after all these years, he still missed his mother a
great deal. “How is she?”

“Fine,” Rod nodded. “We
lost my father a few years ago, however. It has been difficult for her but she
manages.”

Rhys thought of Renard,
the man who had raised him, and his heart hurt. “How did he die?”

“His heart gave out.”

Rhys nodded, thinking on
the man who had treated him as a son. It was a sad and sobering realization to
know he had passed. “I shall say a prayer for him,” he murmured. “What about
the rest of the family? Dylan? Is he well?”

Rod grinned. “Well and
knighted. He serves me at Bronllys.  I swear that you would not recognize him.
He has grown into quite a man.”

“No doubt,” he thought
on his youngest brother with a smile. “And Carys? Did she marry Conrad?”

Rod nodded. “They live
in Saxony.  Three children, all boys.”

Rhys smiled weakly at
the thought of his sister with children of her own. “And she is happy?”

“Radiant. I have only
seen her once since that time, but she was very happy.” He eyed his brother
expectantly. “And you? Did you marry Elizabeau?”

Rod’s smile broadened.
“Of course. She is my angel.”

“Children?”

“Seven. Three boys, four
girls.”

Rod’s eyebrows lifted.
“Seven children?” he repeated. “Good lord, Rhys, must you always outshine us?”

Rhys laughed softly,
turning his attention to his brother’s mounted companions for the first time. To
his right, the large figure he thought he recognized had removed his helm and
he found himself staring into Uncle Rhett’s very old, very tired, face.  Rhys’
astonishment returned.

“Uncle Rhett,” he made
his way over to the very old man, reaching up to grab the outstretched hand.
“My God, ‘tis a miracle to see you. I thought for sure you would be dead by
now.”

Rhett was indeed very
old, and exceedingly weary from his long trip. He had not the energy at the
moment to dismount his horse.

“Rhys,” he squeezed his
nephew’s hand, tears in his old eyes. “The miracle is seeing you, lad. Up until
six months ago, I thought you were dead.”

Rhys could feel tears of
his own as he gazed up at his beloved uncle. “I’ve missed you,” he said softly.

“And I have missed you.”

Rhys just held on to his
hand a moment, swallowing away the lump in his throat. He looked at Rod. “You
told him?”

Rod nodded, standing
next to his brother and putting a hand on his shoulder. “When John died and
young Henry assumed the throne, I saw no reason to keep the secret from Rhett. 
In fact, there is really no reason to keep the secret at all.  Elizabeau’s time
has passed and we are in the era of a new king.”

Rhys looked seriously at
him. “You haven’t told anyone else, have you? David could be in a great deal of
trouble if it was known that he allowed Elizabeau and I to escape and then lied
to cover our tracks.”