A Lord for Haughmond (14 page)

     The glazed expression on Rhys’s face disappeared, replaced with a hardening determination.

     “Nay, Katherine.” His voice was low, firm. “The king will disallow it.” 

     Her hands slid down his shoulders, gripped the rock-hewed muscles of his arms. “You must petition him.”

     “I am unlanded.” His words were quiet but frustratingly resolute.

     “You wouldn’t be once we wed.” She drew a quick breath. “The king needs a strong knight at Haughmond.”

     “’Tis costly to garrison an army.” Rhys stepped back with a shake of his head. A golden curl fell onto his forehead. “I have no wealth, Katherine. ’Tis a hopeless prospect.”

     A gathering storm forged across his countenance, but Katherine chose to ignore it. “For my sake, could you not try? I love you.” She fought tears, but lost the unnerving battle. Her eyes brimmed to overflowing.

     Rhys’s gaze shifted away.

     The sliver of hope disappeared, replaced with a hollow emptiness. “Do you not love me?” She was not able to halt the pained question, nor could she quell the cascade of tears wetting her cheeks.

     “Love you!” Rhys’s gaze darted back. His expression softened. He gathered her to him once again. “Dear heart, I have loved you since we unearthed you from that filthy log.” He held her to him as though he were grasping at life itself. “But ’tis futile. The king sees me as a soldier of fortune. He will not entertain my plea.”

     Katherine flung her arms about his neck once more. “’Tis better to never have loved you than to lose you!” she cried.

     “Nay, Sweetling.” Rhys kissed her hair and cradled the back of her head in the palm of his hand. His strength flowed to her, even as her own wilted.

     A bevy of emotions swirled through her—joy, relief, frustration, anger. Should she laugh at the irony or weep at the pain? She did not know how to feel. Rhys loved her—yet he rejected her. “How do I live without you?” Agony tore through her as she clung to him.

     The steady beating of his heart drummed against her ear while he placed one kiss after another atop her head. A long, low groan sounding more akin to a growl rumbled from his chest. He caught her chin and lifted her face to his, planting another kiss on her quivering lips.

     Within her, a burning ache sprang to life. His thigh nudged her hip. Her flesh prickled. His hauberk rubbed against her breasts, tormenting her, making her feel—urging her to—

     What? What was this extraordinary sensation attacking her, filling her with hot, savage flames?

     Rhys lifted her off her feet, molded her body to his. His desperate longing plumbed her depths, seared her to her core. She shivered, but she was not cold, and wrapped her arms about his neck once more. His lips were exquisite torture. Joyfully she tasted him through her salty tears. His tongue boldly probed the depths of her mouth, filled her with wonder, with sharp longing.

     “Rhys!” Simon burst into the tent and skidded to a halt. “The devil,” he exclaimed in disgust, dancing past them. Diving into the nearest chest, tossing out weapons, he bellowed, “To arms!”

     Rhys’s hold loosened. Sliding down his hauberk, Katherine all but fell on legs turned molten while he lunged for his sword.

     “’Tis Sir Geoffrey! He attacks the king!” Simon clasped his sword to his hips and hefted up a long ugly looking knife, stuffing it into his belt.

     Rhys swept up his scabbard and drew out his sword. He threw Katherine a grim look. “Might it be a ruse to distract us? Mayhap he seeks to seize our lady.”

     She gasped in dismay at the terrifying thought. 

     “We needs secure Katherine before we attend the king,” he continued in a rush, catching in mid-air the knife Simon tossed to him. Not taking the time to strap it on properly, he shoved it into his boot, then flung his chain mail coif over his head. He caught Katherine’s arm. Propelling her along, he tore out of the tent and toward the castle hill.

     “Sir Geoffrey has allies, else he would not dare attack,” he threw at Simon, racing along beside him. “We could be charging into a hornet’s nest.”

     “’Twould seem so!” Simon leaped ahead of them. “Sir Geoffrey demanded the king’s ear following Lady Katherine’s audience.”

     “God’s bones!” Rhys hissed in air through clenched teeth. “Mayhap Edward inadvertently provoked this attack.”

     “’Tis common knowledge the king denied him Haughmond in favor of Sir Dafydd.”

     Scowling at Simon, Rhys hefted his sword higher. “Don’t brew trouble, pup.”

     “Don’t be so prickly.” The squire panted, dropping behind them with a sulky grimace.

     They passed through the unguarded gate of the bailey. To their right, Bereford’s soldiers, with weapons in hand, poured out of the armory. Shouted commands rose above the clash of metal swords at the entrance to the stone keep on the far side of the bailey.

      The pitch grew louder the closer they drew to the hall. Up the circular stone stairs they forged, heading for the upper most floor, with Rhys’s arm encircling Katherine’s waist, giving aid to her flight.

     “Bolt your door securely,” commanded Rhys. “I don’t trust de Borne.”

     “Aye!” came Simon’s fierce reply from behind. “Destruction makes a wide swathe behind that villain. Lady Katherine, you must see to your safety, and Lady Anne’s. If I could—”

     Rhys vented an angry oath. “Cease your prattle.”

     “But I’m as concerned for the ladies’ welfare.”

     “Then see to the king!”

     The squire stumbled to a halt while Rhys and she continued onward with flying feet, Rhys’s hand pressed firmly into her back.

     Finally, they reached the top floor and burst into the wardrobe. Anne and another lady, standing on tiptoes to watch the fighting below, turned with startled cries.

     Rhys took a moment to draw breath. “Hold fast within, Katherine. Keep the door barred at all costs. I’ll not have you at de Borne’s mercy.”

     “Rhys!” She reached toward him before he dashed through the door. “I love you.”

     His gaze locked with hers, he shook his head. “Would that I need not leave you here alone.”

     “I am never alone if I have your love.”

     With a bound, he was through the door, his shout filling the corridor. “You have it, my lady!” 

Chapter Ten

     “God wills it!”

     Rhys’s battle cry echoed up the stairwell, rising above the sounds of the fighting in the great hall. At the bottom of the circular stairs, he skidded to a halt, sliding on blood-soaked rushes. A man lay sprawled across the narrow corridor, his lifeblood gushing from a wound that had all but severed his arm. Vaulting past the dying man, Rhys dashed into the hall and into the din of battle.

     The chamber, crammed with knights and soldiers and all manner of fighting men, boasted no banners or colors. In alarm, he realized ’twas impossible to determine friend from foe.

     Who should he defend?

     Who should he run through?      

     Where was the king?

     A swift survey of the room and the numbered dead, he could only hope Geoffrey de Borne was among them. ’Twould relieve his avenging fervor and give his mother blessed relief from this undertaking she couldn’t abide.

     The chamber itself pulsed with the steady ring of metal. Swords clashed and howls of rage migrated from one corner to another. The rushing crescendo rolled in waves, resounding off the stonewalls. Familiar sounds, oft repeated in past warfare. Even the bellows of pain punctuating the air with regularity did not disturb him.

     Advancing into the hall, searching for the king, the number of fighters without swords surprised Rhys. ’Twas more a brawl than chivalrous combat, thugs engaged in bashing heads with any weaponry at hand. Sticks, wooden stools, even horn tankards crashed down ingloriously on unsuspecting heads.

     From out of the flood of fighters, a sword drove toward him. With a hurried backhanded cut, he thrust it aside.

     Sir Geoffrey struck again, armed with hard steel and cold hate. “Bloody bastard, you’ll not get Haughmond!”

     Rhys ducked, raising his sword to fend off the descending blade, retreating, he stomped on a large, shaggy paw. Zeus let out a whine. God’s bones, in his concern for Katherine, he’d forgotten Zeus.

     “Back, Zeus!”

     Sir Geoffrey’s lips twisted in a snarl. He slashed again, his formidable skill abetted by a fierce and determined expression.

     The blow smashed against Rhys’s sword arm. God be thanked, he yet wore his armor. But with a sinking heart, he realized Geoffrey’s intent, saw it in the knight’s eyes. ’Twas a fight to the death.

     Raw anger boiled up within him. Too long this villain had caused mayhem. ’Twas well past the time he paid for his evil.

     But Geoffrey de Borne had seized the advantage. A prickle of foreboding swept over Rhys. Where was Simon to guard his back? This attack, too vicious and resolute, was anything but happenstance. Had Sir Geoffrey discovered his plot for vengeance? Had he lost the advantage of surprise?               

     With all his might, Rhys slashed harder. He’d run Geoffrey de Borne through, would satisfy his blood lust. He’d banish this viper to hell. He wouldn’t waste this opportunity, he’d have his revenge.

     Geoffrey sprang back with a snarl, his sword slicing the air, then lunged again with increasing fury.

     Rhys met each barrage, parrying effortlessly, sidestepping nimbly. The strikes grew less forceful. He pressed his own attack, stalwart thrusts connecting hard and swift, his sword arm rising and falling with relentless regularity, determined to slay this beast.

     Thrusting, Geoffrey missed and grimaced at the blunder.

     Rhys swung again but Geoffrey deflected it. They collided, shoulder-to-shoulder, as the weapons drove against each other above their heads. A fist smashed into Rhys’s cheekbone. Rearing back from the blow and the sharp sting of split flesh, he shoved at his attacker, but Geoffrey caught hold of his chain mail hood, twisting it, yanking him off balance.

     From close at hand came a savage snarl and Sir Geoffrey’s stranglehold loosened.

     He stumbled free in time to see Sir Geoffrey’s sword flash in a downward arc.

     Rhys’s howl of helplessness could not hide the brief but pitiful yelp from Zeus.

     The sword slashed again. Entrails poured out, bloody and hot, steaming in the cold air. Without another sound, Zeus fell to the rushes.

     His war cry rang out again, even as potent rage surged through Rhys, even as his stomach heaved. With heart pounding in his head, he leaped at Geoffrey, slashing and striking, thrusting and slicing as though he were the last knight defending the king. Hammering mindlessly with his sword, so stunned was he by the loss he barely noticed the subtle change in his opponent.

     Sir Geoffrey stumbled past two knights bent on killing each other. Death, and its scent, drifted on the smoke-tinged air.

     A blow to the back of his head sent Rhys spinning. Where in God’s name was Simon?

     Pivoting to face the new attacker, he ducked instinctively, barely avoiding a heavy mace hurtling toward his face.

     Geoffrey leapt forward, thrusting his sword with renewed vigor, his look of alarm turning to spiteful glee. ’Twas evident he had found an ally.

     Rhys deflected the blow, slicing sideways, aiming for Geoffrey’s midsection, but he had to dance quickly to elude the spiked club that swung again from the new opponent.

     Geoffrey’s sword flashed.

     Grimly, Rhys fought back, but ’twas merely a matter of time before two opponents outmaneuvered his lone blade.

     Anger burst within him. Another reason to stoke his furor against Geoffrey de Borne.

     Fear coiled around his backbone and settled in the pit of his stomach. Luck and faith were bound up with strength and skill. Would luck hold this day?

     Shouts swelled the air. From atop the raised dais, the king came into view. Plain to see, standing a head taller than the other men, he swung his sword lustily.

     “The king, we needs get to the king!” shouted Sir Geoffrey.

     “Nay!” Rhys bellowed, thrusting his sword with more fury. He backhanded the hilt into the head of his second opponent, but the hearty knight barely paused.

     Onward the two knights came, striking at Rhys with sword and mace.

     “I’ll see you with your maker!” de Borne’s ruthless words came close, while his mighty broadsword fell closer, whistling beside Rhys’s ear. 

     Rhys deflected the strike so vigorously, the blade slammed upward, nicking his jaw. Hot blood flowed into the neck of his leather hauberk. Smarting from the pain, shaking off the sudden lightheadedness that rocked his equilibrium, he swung his sword again.

     “The king! The king!” A chorus of frenzied voices swept the chamber.

     “Finish the bastard,” Sir Geoffrey shouted to his companion. “I’m for the king.”

     A sword came at Rhys. He parried it aside. But he couldn’t evade the swinging mace. With a stunning blow its deadly weight crashed down on his shoulder, sent him to one knee. Pain ripped along the length of his arm, speared fire into his hand. He struggled to rise, knew he was lost if he did not. The club struck again, its sharp spikes penetrating his armor, this time tearing the flesh of his shoulder.

     With clenched teeth, he staggered to his feet and swung wildly. By luck, his sword connected with the attacker’s forearm.

     The knight yelled and lunged forward, forcing Rhys back past the unmoving form of Zeus.

     “Leave this one to us,” shouted a new combatant. “Get to the king!”

      Rhys raised his sword, but too late saw the fist. Lights flashed in his head. His knees buckled. The sound of battle disappeared. 

*  *  *

     Near daybreak a loud pounding shattered the silence of the crowded wardrobe.