The Beauty Bride, page 11
Rhys gave her a hard look. “Are you injured?”
Madeline’s mouth worked, and she realized that she was quivering to her very marrow. She shook her head when words failed her and Rhys appeared to be relieved. She fought to compose herself.
Surely the man deserved no less for aiding her in such a timely fashion?
Her gaze fell upon the dead man, and she shuddered again even as she looked away. “How oft have you slit a man’s throat?”
Rhys gave her a hard look. “A man must do what must be done. Would you have preferred that I had let him live?”
Madeline’s knees shook with such vigor at the very prospect that she feared they would not hold her weight.
“Bear up, my lady.” Rhys held her hand with a firmer grip, though he did not touch her otherwise. He offered her a cloth to wipe the blood from her throat.
“He meant to rape me.” Madeline knew it was an unnecessary comment but she could not keep the words from spilling forth. She felt her color deepen. “I should never have trusted him. You must think me a fool.” She should never had left Ravensmuir, much less with a man about whom she knew so little.
To her astonishment, Rhys simply held her hand more tightly, as if he understood his grip to be precisely what she needed. He was like a rock to which she clung as her terror subsided.
“I think you a woman of uncommon resource. It is a mark of your valor that he did not succeed so readily.” Rhys spoke with such resolve that she did not doubt he meant every word. “I applaud your quick thinking and your fortitude. Are you unscathed?”
“I am frightened, to be sure.” She took a deep breath and glanced over herself. Her gown was mired and ripped, and there were scratches aplenty upon her skin. She had torn three fingernails and was thoroughly adorned with mud. She realized with horror that her shredded kirtle hung open and her breasts were bared.
Madeline seized the torn fabric to clutch it closed and flushed crimson. Rhys, she noted, did not look below her face. His gallantry encouraged her to summon a tremulous smile. “But otherwise I am well enough, I suppose.”
“It is a rare woman who can stand upon her own feet after such an assault.” Rhys granted her a brief flicker of smile, the sight of which warmed Madeline’s heart. “In Wales, we have great regard for stalwart women. Have ever you heard of Gwenllian?”
Madeline shook her head, even while the rest of her trembled.
“She was the mother of Lord Rhys, the last king of Wales. He rose in rebellion against the Normans in 1136. Gwenllian was his mother, and so great was her valor that she raised her own army, and led it against the enemy in aid of her son. Even when she witnessed one of her sons killed and another taken prisoner, she fought on so valiantly that still that field of battle, in Cydweli in Dyfed, bears her name in honor.”
While he spoke, Madeline found herself drawing vigor from his words and his grip. “I did not know. I had never heard of a woman leading an army to war.”
“And now you have.” Rhys became solemn again. “I apologize for the tardiness of my aid. There was no assistance I could grant while you were in the gorse, for I was not close enough to have a clear sight of the villain. Your attempt to flee offered me the necessary opportunity.”
“Had I not been such a fool, I would not have had need of it.” She drew a shuddering breath.
“Do not judge yourself so harshly.” A smile touched Rhys’ lips. “I understand that the prospect of wedding me must have been daunting for you to have taken such a risk.”
Madeline flushed. Not only had he perceived her fears but he must have anticipated her flight. How else could he have followed her and Kerr?
“My father employed Kerr’s services for years,” she said, needing to explain herself. “I trusted him because of that, though he clearly had a darker scheme than I realized.”
“I trust that you have learned something about using more caution in your choice of companions.” Rather than lingering upon his lesson, Rhys turned as soon as Madeline nodded. He released her hand and Madeline felt bereft.
Then he whistled. His destrier appeared, apparently having been hidden in the gorse, and trotted toward its master. It was a fine dapple grey beast, its mane and tail as dark as charcoal. A shaggy hound trotted beside the steed, and proved to be a dog of formidable size. It surveyed at Madeline with shrewd eyes and its tail wagged as it leaned against Rhys.
“This is Gelert,” he said, and gestured the dog toward Madeline. She reached out a hand, liking the hound’s friendly manner. Its tousled fur looked like shaggy silver brows over its eyes, and those brows moved most expressively. It sniffed her hand, then sat beside her, leaning heavily against her leg. Madeline sank her fingers into the thick warmth of fur at the scruff of the dog’s neck and found its presence reassuring. Indeed, the heat of it against her and its appearance made her want to smile.
“And this is Gwynt Arian,” Rhys said as he seized the destrier’s reins. The beast tossed its head and flared its nostrils, as if in recognition of its name.
“Is that a Welsh name?”
Rhys nodded as he rubbed the beast’s nose. “It means ‘silver wind’.”
“It is a fine name for a steed so regal as he,” Madeline said, taking comfort in their mundane conversation. “But you travel with no squire?”
Rhys shook his head. “These two bear witness, but tell no tales.”
Madeline wondered who had betrayed him in the past, but Rhys clearly had no interest in sharing confidences.
“Fasten your cloak tightly about yourself,” he advised as he led his horse closer.
Madeline complied with his instruction, grateful to have no need to make decisions herself for the moment. Rhys lifted her into his saddle with a single smooth gesture. He murmured to the steed, then rummaged in his saddlebag. Gelert stood diligently beside the stirrup, as if guarding Madeline.
Rhys offered a leather flask to Madeline along with a sharp glance. “Sip of this.”
“What is it?”
“Eau-de-vie.” Again that teasing smile curved his lips for just a heartbeat. Madeline wished Rhys would smile more often, for he was less fearsome then. “It will persuade you that you have not joined the dead as yet. Drink.”
Madeline sipped cautiously. The flask’s contents burned her throat like fire and forged a course to her innards. Her eyes watered and she choked as if she would cough up her very liver.
When her vision cleared, Rhys nodded, amusement in his eyes. “Take another.”
Madeline did as she was bidden, though the second draught was scarcely easier to down than the first.
“Better?”
To her astonishment, Madeline did feel better. The liquid had awakened a heat in her flesh and driven the shivers away. She nodded, and Rhys lifted the flask from her hand. Their fingers brushed in the transaction, reminding Madeline of his possessive kisses and awakening another warmth within her.
“Two small draughts is a sufficient measure for a lady,” he said, then took a long draught himself. For the first time, Madeline wondered whether he had been troubled by Kerr’s assault.
Rhys seemed so unconcerned, as if he routinely aided women attacked upon the moors, as if he often killed mercenaries for the greater good. His desire for the eau-de-vie hinted that he might have shared at least a measure of her fear.
Madeline shook her head, certain she saw a vulnerability in this warrior that was not there. Undoubtedly, he felt a responsibility toward her.
He had bought her, after all.
Perhaps he was a man who protected all of his possessions with such vigor. Madeline did not know, but she was clever enough to admit herself glad in this moment of his sense of obligation.
Rhys winced at the liquor’s vigor but did not cough. He turned to scan the moors with narrowed eyes, then nodded at the distant silhouette of a palfrey. “Your steed?”
Madeline nodded. “Tarascon. Kerr cut her flank to make her run away from us. I do not know the depth of her injury.” Her fingers tightened on the pommel. “I hope she is not sorely wounded.”
“She runs yet, so it cannot be so dire a wound.” Rhys spoke such good sense that Madeline wished she had realized as much herself. She seemed fated to show herself poorly in this man’s presence.
Rhys took the reins and led the destrier toward the mare. He whistled softly. Tarascon turned to watch their progress, her ears twitching nervously.
“The blood will have frightened her,” Rhys said, the very tone of his voice reassuring. “Do you ride her often?”
“Almost daily.”
“Then she will have smelled your fear, as well, and been troubled by that.”
“I can call her. She always comes to me.” The palfrey took but one step closer when Madeline called, then retreated four paces, her tail swishing nervously.
“Does she then?” There was humor in Rhys’ tone.
Madeline sat straighter, wishing she could do something right in this man’s company. “Usually she does.”
“These are uncommon circumstances, my lady. Do not take her uncertainty to heart. Wait until we are closer and she can be certain that it is you.”
“She might flee afore then.” Madeline called again, then watched in horror as her horse danced in the opposite direction.
Rhys halted and still Tarascon fled another trio of steps. She was anxious as Madeline had never seen her, though she could not blame the mare for her fear of men.
“Look in the saddlebag,” Rhys said softly. “See if a pair of apples are yet there.”
Madeline was glad to comply and to be of aid. The apples were there, but Tarascon was not as readily tempted by the treat as she might have been just hours before.
* * *
The sun was approaching midheaven by the time they coaxed the palfrey to let them approach her. Madeline was impressed by the gentle persistence Rhys showed in pursuing the frightened steed. They had steadily drawn closer to Tarascon, Rhys’ murmur obviously calming the horse’s fears.
That Gelert had finally run behind the palfrey at Rhys’ signal and barked aggressively, urging her toward Rhys, also had not hurt.
Madeline held the palfrey’s reins once Rhys had captured her, spoke to the horse softly and stroked her nose. Meanwhile, Rhys examined the creature’s wound with careful fingers. There was kindness in this man, though much else that Madeline could not name. The horse fidgeted but Madeline whispered to her, trusting Rhys to give good counsel.
“Mercifully, it is not as brutal as it might have been. I believe that the damage will heal readily enough,” he said as he straightened. “I would have like to have a better ostler than myself look upon it to be sure.”
“We could return to Ravensmuir.”
Rhys granted Madeline a steady glance and she could not guess his thoughts. “I think it too far for your mare,” he said with care. “There is an abbey to the north of here that we could reach by mid-afternoon, if you are willing. They have granted me aid in the past, for my aunt is abbess there.”
Madeline’s heart quailed that they would have to ride together, for her mare was too injured to bear her weight. She could not imagine being pressed against any man’s heat on this day, much less Rhys who kindled that unfamiliar fire within her. Their gazes caught and held, an awareness crackling between them that frightened Madeline to her core.
Rhys turned away before she could protest and methodically tied Tarascon’s reins to the back of the saddle. He whispered to his steed then strode away, with nary a word of explanation. Gelert sat beside her, as bidden. Puzzled, Madeline watched Rhys disappear into the gorse.
Was he leaving her here?
Did he prepare for whatever reward he would demand of her? She knew he desired her, she had tasted as much in his kisses. In his absence, Madeline’s suspicions seemed to feed upon themselves and multiply. Though Rhys had been kind, Kerr had been kind until he thought she had no hope of summoning aid.
Had she leapt from the fat to the fire?
Had she only delayed her rape? What would compel a man of such dangerous repute as Rhys to treat her with honor, now that they were alone upon the moors?
This might well be her sole chance to escape! Madeline dug her heels into the destrier’s sides, urging it onward.
The beast did not so much as flinch, let alone move. It nibbled at a wildflower, supremely indifferent to Madeline’s attempt to flee. The dog spared her a glance, as if chiding her, then returned to its vigil.
Madeline panicked. Had Rhys himself not advised her to choose her companions with care? She whispered to the horse, commanded it, patted its flank, pulled the reins. She did everything she could think of doing to persuade it to take a step.
All to no avail. The feet of the beast might have taken root. She might have tried to encourage a stone to move with better results. She made to dismount and run, just as Rhys’ voice carried to her ears.
“Arian heeds none but me, my lady.” He was striding from the gorse toward her, leading Kerr’s destrier. Again, he seemed amused but unsurprised.
Madeline felt a twinge of irritation. Did nothing astonish the man? Was Rhys never taken unawares?
“Truly?” she replied as if she had not discovered the very same fact herself. “It is uncommon to find a steed so loyal.”
“Indeed it is. A man can count himself fortunate to have any soul serve him with such loyalty, be it man or beast.”
Madeline watched him, curious despite herself. He made yet another reference to betrayal. What had happened to Rhys? And what was at root of the king’s charge against him?
She did not imagine that Rhys would answer her questions. Indeed, he frowned in concentration as he removed Kerr’s saddlebag. He solemnly sifted through its contents and ultimately removed only the coins from the dead man’s purse. Rhys then flung the saddlebag and the rest of its contents across the moor.
Madeline regarded him with surprise.
“Any who find his corpse will think he was attacked by bandits,” Rhys said simply, then swung into the other steed’s saddle. He lifted the reins of his destrier from Madeline’s numb fingertips. “Shall we go to the ostler, then?”
Madeline only nodded, and Rhys studied her for a moment before he urged the horse to a walk. “You look to have need of a tale,” he said. “And I know the very one.”
Madeline thought she needed many things in this moment, the last of which would have been a tale, but it seemed rude to say as much. She let him lead the horse and resigned herself to listen.
She did not expect to be entertained, no less to be charmed, but she was quickly proven wrong.
* * *
Rhys cleared his throat. “There is a place in Wales known as Pen Dinas, a place where it is said by those who know such things that the fairies hold their high court. Pen Dinas is a high flat rock near a river and its summit is uncommonly level. The turf there is a rich green, beyond the hue of any other place, as if it has been blessed by the feet of many magical dancers.”
Madeline found the tightness easing in her shoulders. Rhys’ voice was easy to attend and indeed, the unfamiliar rhythm of his speech was beguiling. This reminded her of the tales her father would tell the family when she and her siblings had been very small, and it was reassuring for that.
“So it was that a boy came there to hide. It is said that his name was Elidorus, but that is no Welsh name. Let us call him Llewelyn ap Alan.”
Madeline laughed despite herself. His substitution was so different that it caught her by surprise, and it was such an uncommon name. “You cannot say that name a dozen times quickly!”
Rhys granted her a wry glance and did precisely that, making it sound like music as he did so. She wondered whether she imagined the mischievous twinkle in his eye, so abruptly did he sober and resume his tale.
“So it was that Llewelyn ap Alan decided to flee his tutor, for he did not like to learn his meter, and he liked less to be chided for his inattention.”
“His meter?”
“The meter of poetry. It is what a boy learns from a tutor, how the rhymes must be made and the repetitions be calculated.”
Madeline knew nothing of this, but she nodded as if she understood. She was loathe to interrupt Rhys’ tale, and he thought the matter of meter so obvious that she did not want him to think her simple.
“So Llewelyn ap Alan hid himself near this very place, Pen Dinas, so that none might find him. That very night, when the moon waxed round and bright, he heard music. As slovenly as Llewelyn ap Alan might have been, he was no fool. He knew to avoid the music of the fairies and never to join them in their circles, lest he be lost to the mortal world for a hundred years. He put his fingers in his ears and he stayed hidden until the morning came and the fairy music ceased.
“Yet in the early light of dawn, when he might have allowed himself to sleep, Llewelyn ap Alan was confronted by two small men. They invited him to their abode, to show him marvels, and after having their pledge that he would be allowed to leave at his very request, the curious boy accompanied them.
“They led him to a secret passage, one cleverly concealed behind a trio of stones, and into a kingdom hidden beneath the hill of Pen Dinas. Although it was cloudy there, for no sun shone under the hill, the land was beautiful and the people yet more so. Every one of them was blessed with hair as fair as his own was dark, every one of them seemed on the verge of laughter. They had wealth beyond measure - goblets of gold and gems upon every finger. Their horses were swift and lovely, their hounds were graceful. It was a veritable paradise.
“Llewelyn ap Alan was greeted by the king himself. The king explained the manners of his people, and bade Llewelyn ap Alan not to demand a pledge again. The fairies made few vows, far fewer than men, for they would keep each and every one of them to the letter. The king told Llewelyn ap Alan that he and his people despised deception and faithlessness beyond all.”
Madeline watched her companion, noting again a reference to betrayal. She was beginning to have a good measure of curiosity about this man, though she suspected it was a dangerous inquisitiveness.
