Spectre of the Sword (5 page)

“If she’s that cold,
then go put her in a warm tub and a warm bed,” he was already walking past
them, heading for his former table. “In fact, make love to her all night. That
will warm her blood quick enough.”

He laughed at his bawdy
suggestion, resuming his seat at the table as the room gradually returned to
normal. Those who fled were slowly returning to their seats, righting chairs
and tables as they went.  Rhys and Elizabeau stood in the middle of the room,
watching the activity slowly resume.  When Rhys finally looked at Elizabeau,
she was staring up at him intently.  He gave her a wry twist of the lips.

“Well, my lady, it seems
that you managed to negotiate my way out of a battle,” he said quietly. “But
next time, you will not jeopardize yourself like that. You could have been
gravely injured, or worse.”

“And so I was not,” she
shot back softly. “If I can negotiate you out of a battle, I will gladly do so.
We’ve come this far. I would hate to see something happen to you after you have
fought so hard to preserve my life.”

He cocked an eyebrow,
watching two of the soldiers who had been intent on attacking him quit the inn.
The other two remained, just inside the door.  His gaze returned to her.
“Husband, am I?” he muttered. “What possessed you to make a foolish claim like
that?”

Her brow furrowed.
“Because we are traveling alone together, you and I. What else would you have
preferred I said? That you were my lover? My brother? Husband came to mind the
quickest, so husband is what I said. It makes the most sense.”

He was forced to agree. 
He turned back towards their table, now crowded with the merchant, taking her
hand in his own in the process. He hissed when his big palm closed over her
fingers.

“Christ,” he breathed.
“Your fingers are like ice. Come over here by the fire before you freeze to
death.”

Elizabeau allowed him to
lead her back over to their table by the fire, where the merchant was now
eating heartily of their dinner. Rhys propped her right up against the flames,
taking the chair opposite the merchant and eyeing the man as he noisily slurped
his food.  The merchant glanced up, seeing the two of them.  He gestured at
Elizabeau.

“The fire will do her no
good,” he said, mouth full. “You must get her into dry clothes. She’s soaking.”

Rhys glanced over his
shoulder at her, noting that the merchant was correct.  He was coming to think
he was the most unobservant man on the face of the planet; other than her
lovely face and her sweet voice, he’d noticed little more about her.  He felt
like an idiot.

“I fear that most of her
clothing is wet,” he said, pouring himself another cup of ale in spite of his
early vow not to do so. “The fire is the best I can do for her right now.”

The merchant was
slopping and burping as he ate. “I have something for her to wear,” he said.
“I’ll send one of my men outside to my wagon. It will cost you, though.”

Rhys looked at Elizabeau
again; she was looking at the merchant. “How much?” she asked.

The man noisily drank
his ale. “Depends,” he wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “I am returning from a
trip to Paris. I have all manner of pre-made surcoats and shifts to sell in
Gloucester and the Marches.  My goods are the latest rage of fashion, you
know.  I have some your size if you wish to see them.”

“I do,” Elizabeau agreed
readily.  “What is your name, my lord? I fear we should become acquainted on
more pleasant circumstances.”

“Robinson Marchant,” the
man replied without missing a beat, gnawing on his beef.

Elizabeau waited for
Rhys to introduce them, but he made no move to do so and she tapped him on the
back so he got the hint.  Rhys was very careful, and very reluctant, with any
information he might give.  But he had to say something.

“Rhys de Foix,” he said
softly, glancing over his shoulder at the lady behind him. “And my lady wife,
Elizabeau.”

Robinson’s gaze moved
between them. “She’s a lovely woman,” he said to Rhys. “Such beauty is very
rare. And she seems intelligent as well. Is her disposition as lovely?”

Rhys lifted an eyebrow.
When he didn’t answer right away, Elizabeau pinched him on the exposed hand
that held the ale cup. It smarted and Rhys winced.

“Of course,” he said
dryly. “Can you not tell? She is an angel.”

Robinson snorted. Then
he laughed out loud.  “I like her,” he announced, slurping his ale again. “She
has spirit.”

“Is that what it’s
called?”

Robinson was grinning,
watching Elizabeau’s lovely profile in the firelight. “And she is very
protective of you, I can tell. A truly loyal woman is hard to find.”

Elizabeau looked
strangely at Robinson before quickly looking away. She had no idea what to say
to that statement, wondering if she had indeed come across as the fiercely
loyal wife.  All she had meant to do was diffuse the approaching battle. 
Anything else that was conveyed was incidental.

“Where are you two
traveling to?” Robinson asked as he crunched into a turnip.

Unaware of Elizabeau’s
reaction to the merchant’s faithful wife statement, Rhys replied to the
question. “To the Marches.”

Robinson wiped at his
chin. “As I said, I am traveling that direction. I should like it if you two
would travel with me. I am bored with only my stupid men to keep me company.
They are horrific conversation. But with the two of you, we could keep each
other entertained on a tedious journey.”

Before Rhys could reply,
Robinson turned to his two remaining men standing by the inn door and bellowed
at them to bring in two of the trunks for the lady’s review.  Rhys watched the
men disappear into the howling night, suddenly realizing he was sitting on the
fur cloak he had ripped from Robinson’s shoulders.  He stood up, picked up the
cloak, and held it out to the man.

“I believe this is
yours,” he said.

Robinson waved him off,
still eating. “Your wife needs it more. In fact, if I were you, I’d take my
advice.  Order her a hot bath and get her into a warm bed. And then we shall
leave at daybreak for the Marches.”

Rhys looked at
Elizabeau, standing damp by the fire and trying desperately to warm her frozen
hands. He wasn’t sure they had time for a hot bath and a warm bed; he wasn’t
sure when de Lohr would be upon them.  But it was evident that she needed
something to bring her some comfort. He’d been insensitive to her long enough.

He snapped to the nearest
serving wench and the girl went running for the barkeep, who hurried over to
Rhys across the crowded room.  The man didn’t have a room to spare, but he
offered up his daughter’s simple chamber in the rear yard attached to the
stable.  Rhys didn’t argue with him for a better room; he simply paid the man
and watched the flurry of activity as he set about bellowing for the big copper
tub.  When the wheels were in motion, one of the serving women came to escort
Elizabeau to her waiting room.

“Go with your wife,”
Robinson told Rhys. “When my men bring the garments in, I’ll shall come and
find you. We’ll find her something warm and dry to wear.”

Rhys wasn’t about to let
Elizabeau out of his sight, but accompanying her to her bath was an entirely
different situation. Still, they’d backed themselves into a mistruth of stories
and he had no choice but to go with her. A husband would have, after all.  He
only hoped de Lohr would understand.

Without a word, he rose
and followed Elizabeau and the serving wench back through the kitchen and out
into the yard.  The rain and wind were howling as they crossed the muddy yard
and entered a small room adjoining the stable.  It wasn’t particularly
comfortable or clean, but it was warm and dry.   Rhys stood aside, pulling Elizabeau
with him, as a burly old man brought in the massive copper tub.

It wasn’t so much a tub
as it was a giant cooking pot used for baths and sometimes to feed the
livestock.  The young serving girl even mentioned they used it to boil down
bones.  The wench fled back into the stormy night and the burly old man
reappeared with buckets of steaming water.  The girl returned, too, carrying a
linen sheet, some manner of soap and a scrub brush. She had also been
thoughtful enough to bring Rhys more wine, which he took from her and moved to
the corner of the room near the door.  He poured himself a cup as he sat down,
watching the burly old man with the long hair full the copper pot to the rim.

The old man finally
gathered his buckets and shut the door to the room quietly behind him.   The
serving wench moved to help Elizabeau from her wet clothes, confused by her
mistress’s extreme reluctance.  Elizabeau wasn’t about to budge until Rhys
turned his back, which he did by discreetly adjusting his chair and facing the
window.

Rhys drank his wine as
Elizabeau quickly stripped her wet clothing from her body and plunged into the
pot.  It was deliciously hot and she sighed with contentment as her flesh began
to warm. But just as relaxation set in, the wench picked up the soap and the
brush and went to work. Within minutes, Elizabeau was positive the woman meant
to strip the skin from her bones and she found herself gripping the side of the
pot for support.  From the top of her golden red hair to the bottom of her
small feet, the wench did an admirable job of scrubbing her silly.

When the woman’s job was
done and Elizabeau was struggling against the heat of the pot and the
near-beating she had just received, the wench looked about for something to
dress the lady in but shortly realized that the couple had no baggage.  There
was nothing to clothe the woman in but the damp dress recently stripped off of
her.  Slightly confused but resourceful, the wench asked for the lady’s
patience and fled the room.

The room was abruptly quiet
with the wench gone and the activity quelled. Elizabeau sat in the warm pot,
watching the back of Rhys’ dark head and listening to the storm outside.
Realizing they were very much alone, and she was naked in a tub to boot, made
her vastly uneasy. Not that she didn’t trust the man, but she was rather
vulnerable.

“Feeling better, my
lady?” Rhys’ baritone voice broke the silence.

Elizabeau started at the
sound of it. “Aye,” she replied quickly, nervously. “But I will feel better
still when I have my clothes back on.”

Still facing the window,
Rhys grinned and held up a hand. “I swear that I shall not turn from this
window until you are appropriately dressed. But it would have looked rather odd
had I not accompanied you to your bath, as your husband, though I do apologize
for the uncomfortable situation.”

The corners of her mouth
twitched. “Why should you apologize? Is this not your duty? To hound my every
move until I can be safely delivered to my betrothed?”

Rhys’ grin faded as he
thought of the perils that surely lay ahead; tonight had only been a foretaste.
“Indeed,” he replied quietly, draining his cup. He’d had far too much wine but
picked up the pitcher again. “Would you like some wine, my lady?”

“I am not sure how you
can hand it to me without turning away from the window.”

“True enough.

Elizabeau watched him as
he set the pitcher down, and the cup, and settled back in his chair, gazing at
the storm outside. She was seeing him through slightly different eyes, more so
as the hours passed, coming to know a man with whom she had a great deal in
common.  He was respectful, intelligent, and wildly handsome.  Her gaze moved
over his impossibly wide shoulders and to the enormous arms still covered with
mail and armor.  Her thoughts lingered heavily on the man with the royal sire
and Welsh mother.

“Rhys?” she leaned
forward in the pot, her chin resting on the edge.

“My lady?”

“Are you married?”

“Why do you ask?”

She shrugged, her
fingers toying with the edge of the pot. “No particular reason other than…
other than I was just wondering what it was like, that’s all.”

 “How do you mean?”

She shrugged again,
moving away from the edge of the pot and flicking away at the soapy bubbles
that lingered on the surface of the water. “I mean just that. What is it like?
How do you behave with someone you are married to? Are you and your wife
friendly to each other or do you simply tolerate one another? If you make a
decision, does she support you? Or do you simply make a decision with no care
to what she might think?”

Rhys turned his head
slightly; he was no longer looking out of the window but staring at the door;
Elizabeau could see his perfect profile.  “You are assuming that I am married,
my lady,” he said quietly.

“I was not assuming
anything; I guess my question was simply a general query.  I am thinking aloud,
I suppose.”

He was silent a moment,
still gazing at the darkened door.  “It is different for everyone, I would
think,” he said quietly. “I was married, once. My wife and I had known each
other for a short time and were already acquainted upon our marriage. I was not
home enough to truly be a part of any decision making process; she ran the
household as she saw fit.”

Elizabeau’s big eyes
were upon him. “I do not understand. You were married once?”