The Beauty Bride (The Jewels of Kinfairlie) (24 page)

Thomas
seemed to be fighting a smile and losing the battle. “How sweet it is to see
two destined lovers seal their fates together for all eternity,” he murmured

“I
will thank you to keep your whimsy to yourself,” Rhys snapped, then reached for
Madeline’s waist. His hands closed hard around her, despite her squeal of
protest, and she was dropped into the saddle without further ceremony. Rhys
glared up at her. “Must I truss you there, or can you be trusted not to leap
from the saddle and injure yourself?”

Madeline
met his gaze with equal fury. “I am not so foolish as that.”

Rhys
seized the palfrey’s reins, sparing her only a dark glance that spoke volumes,
and knotted the reins to the back of his saddle. “Our sole chance of safe
departure lies in silence. I recommend you say nothing, my lady, or I will be
compelled to gag you to ensure as much.”

Madeline
did not doubt that he would do it. She set her lips and sat straight in the
saddle. She had learned once that fleeing this man could only grant her greater
trouble. Though Rhys was crude and rough-spoken, he had never injured her.

She
supposed she would have to be content with that. No court in Christendom would
annul her match, or cede her a divorce: their match was consummated and they
shared no kinship. With the spill of her maidenhead, Madeline was tethered to
Rhys FitzHenry for life, for better or for worse.

Rhys
swung into his own saddle, awaited Thomas' signal, then urged his horse into
the bailey at a slow canter. Rhys’ dog appeared from some corner of the
stables, a shaggy grey shadow that matched its pace to their own. Six steeds
were tethered in the shadows on the far side of the bailey, but Madeline barely
had a glimpse of them before Rhys hustled her onward.

Thomas
ran ahead opened the gate, the two men shaking hands as the pair of steeds
passed the ostler. “Thank you, Thomas, yet again.” Rhys said.

“Ride,
my old friend, and ride swiftly,” Thomas said with a fervor that surprised
Madeline again. “Ride long and hard this day. I will keep them here as long as
I can, and I will pray for you.” The monk blinked with sudden vigor and his
words turned husky. “Be well, both of you, and know that you will always be
welcome at my gates.”

It
seemed a rather fulsome expression of friendship to Madeline and she peered at
her spouse with new interest. She doubted she would learn more of their shared
past from Rhys, and the sorry fact was that she might never see talkative
Thomas again.

Rhys
touched his spurs to his destrier’s flanks, and the beast needed little
encouragement to run. The sky was only faintly touched with the rosy hue of the
dawn, the dew heavy on the ground. Madeline pulled her cloak more tightly about
herself and held fast to the saddle, shivering slightly in the dampness. She
was glad to have the plain woolen garb from the abbey, for though the kirtle
was crudely cut, it was thick and warmer than the one she had worn the day
before.

The
abbey was left behind them with startling speed and only now, Madeline had the
chance to speculate upon those arrivals. She did not doubt that their presence
had driven Rhys to leave with such haste.

Was
it the king’s men who had come to capture Rhys as a traitor? That alone could
explain Rhys’ desire for haste and silence. Madeline glanced back at the
abbey, which looked serene and sleepy in the distance.

What
would happen to her, if Rhys was captured by the crown? Traitors seldom were
granted a fair trial or a kind death, that much she knew for certain. As much
as Madeline was loathe to admit it, her best protection might be in conceiving
that heir to her husband’s property.

She
studied Rhys’ back as he rode ahead of her, his back straight and
uncompromising. Madeline supposed she should become accustomed to not knowing
her husband’s thoughts, for he clearly preferred to hold them close, though she
doubted she was the nature of woman who could readily manage such a feat.

She
was simply too curious.

Perhaps
she should turn her intellect - which Rhys professed to admire - to the task of
uncovering her husband’s many secrets. She doubted that a woman could save her
husband from the charge of treason, as Vivienne had suggested, but it would not
hurt to know the truth of Rhys’ deeds and history. She might then be able to
protect her child, should she conceive one.

Or
even herself.

Madeline
smiled to herself, well pleased with the notion of challenging Rhys’
expectations of her. She suspected she might be able to learn much more than
her husband would prefer.

And
truly, if Rhys FitzHenry had wanted a dutiful, obedient wife, he should have
bought himself one.

* * *

Their
best chance - at least to Rhys’ thinking - was to avoid the lands of the
English king, or of those barons pledged to serve him. For all Rhys knew, there
might now be a fat bounty upon his head.

And
he had a keen desire to survive somewhat longer.

Rhys
found a road that led southwest and wagered that this would be the road his
pursuers would anticipate he would follow. He took it, intending to turn aside
as soon as possible. Sadly, the hills rose steeply on either side of the path,
and the unbroken crest of the hills on either side indicated that they would
not be surmounted readily or quickly.

He
wanted to go west, or even northwest, but for the moment was compelled to
choose between riding back past the abbey, or continuing on southward with the
hope of not being overtaken.

Madeline
must have guessed his thoughts. “Rhys, give me the reins of my steed.”

He
glanced back, uncertain.

“We
will make better time without the horses hobbled together.” She smiled
slightly, perhaps at his surprise. “You need not fear for me keeping your pace.
I have ridden from the time I could reach the stirrup.”

“And
should I fear for your intent?”

Madeline
shrugged. “A live husband suits me better than one drawn and quartered as a
traitor.” He was not truly surprised that she had guessed the real reason for
their sudden departure, but he did not answer her.

Her
expression turned wry when he said nothing. “That is true for the moment, at
least. You would do well to not labor so stridently to change my thinking. It
occurs to me that you might have need of an ally other than Thomas.”

Rhys
found himself smiling in admiration of her forthright speech. “Fair enough. I
could endeavor to vex you less.” They shared a tentative smile, all the sweeter
for how little he had expected amity between them again. “But in this moment, I
have need of counsel. I would make for Glasgow.”

“Why?”

Rhys
braced himself to deceive her yet again. “I have a friend there, whom I would
visit before returning home.”

She
did not believe him, he saw as much immediately. Indeed, Rhys suspected that
there was not another woman in Christendom whose thoughts could be read so
easily in her eyes as those of his new wife.

But
she did not challenge him upon this detail. Madeline bit her lip and scanned
the hills on either side of them. To his relief, she asked no further
questions, though it might simply have been that she doubted he would answer
them.

“If
Moffatt lies ahead,” she mused, “as I suspect it must, there is a road from
there to Glasgow. It goes by Abington and Kirkmuirhill. I have heard my uncles
speak of its smooth course.”

“Excellent.”
Rhys cast her the reins. “It will be a long day, my lady. Tell me when you can
endure it no longer.”

Madeline
nodded, but a glint of resolve lit her eyes, a glint that told Rhys again that
his lady wife was forged of stern steel. He could rely upon her to not be the
weak link in their escape.

If
that was the sole good news of this day, it was good enough. He gave his steed
his spurs and the horses galloped down the narrow path, flinging mud from their
hooves as the sun climbed over the horizon.

* * *

Madeline
was relieved that Moffat had indeed proven to be ahead of them, and that they
reached it afore the empty growl of her belly became too much to bear. The road
coiled around a hill before approaching Moffat’s gates and Rhys indicated that
they should hide themselves in the cluster of trees at the summit. They rode up
the hill from the side opposite the village, so that the gatekeeper could not
glimpse them.

Rhys
tethered the horses there, pausing only to aid Madeline to dismount and to turn
his tabard inside-out. The red dragon was hidden thus, the tabard plain black.

“Caerwyn,”
he whispered. “Say it.”

“Caerwyn,”
Madeline echoed, and he corrected her pronunciation.

He
caught her chin between his finger and thumb and met her gaze steadily. “You
are lady there, and let no man tell you otherwise. Go there, alone if you must,
and tell them of this truth. Tell them that my son rides in your belly, whether
it be true or not. None will dare to raise a hand against you.” He brushed his
lips across her brow, his words making Madeline’s spirit quail.

He
feared he might not return.

Before
she could speak, Rhys was gone, retracing their steps with long strides. His
dog sat vigil beside her, watching avidly as Rhys returned to the road, out of
view of the gatekeeper, then strode toward the village as if he had been
walking all the while. His kiss burned upon Madeline’s forehead and she
wondered what he knew, what he suspected, what he anticipated would meet him
within those walls.

Little
good, that was for certain. Despite herself, despite her annoyance with her
vexing new spouse, Madeline feared for him.

Rhys
whistled as he walked, weapons tucked around the back of his belt and his cloak
pulled against the wind. Without his horse, he looked like a mercenary betrayed
by Fortune. He walked to the village gates, his dark figure growing ever
smaller. He hailed the gatekeeper with a wave, paused to speak to the man, then
disappeared into the village without a backward glance. The hound straightened,
its unblinking gaze fixed upon the point where Rhys had disappeared.

Madeline
knotted her hands together and was uncommonly glad that she had not prayed for
widowhood. Gone were the high walls of Kinfairlie, the certain influence of
father and uncles, the defense of armed men. The security she had known for all
her days and nights was gone, as was her childish conviction that all must come
aright, simply of necessity.

It
was not long before Madeline was watching as anxiously as the hound for Rhys’
return. In his absence, her thoughts began to race. What if Rhys was a traitor?
Guilty or not, what if he was apprehended?

She
remembered all too well - and somewhat disconcertingly - the tale of Henry
Hotspur, who had challenged the authority of Henry IV, the father of the
current English king. Heir to the Percy earldom near Kinfairlie, Henry Hotspur
had wrought a bargain with a Welshman and the Mortimer heir who had a competing
claim to the English crown. All three had been condemned as traitors, though
they had fought on in defense of their union.

Henry
Hotspur had been killed in battle and his corpse had been sent home to his
grieving wife and father. After his funeral, his body had been exhumed and
decapitated, at the command of Henry IV, who intended to wring a lesson from
the demise of one of his enemies. Hotspur’s head had been displayed at York;
his body quartered and displayed at London, Newcastle, Bristol and Chester. It
had been left hanging for a year, as a warning to would-be traitors throughout
the king’s lands.

Madeline
shivered. No man deserved such an indignity, regardless of his deeds. Rhys
could not deserve such a fate.

But
if his course had been anticipated, and he was seized in Moffat, how would she
know? She doubted that Rhys would betray her presence to another living soul,
no matter what was done to him.

He
was protective of her, if nothing else.

Madeline
watched, more concerned for Rhys with every additional moment he was gone. She
recalled now that the Neville clan quibbled over suzerainty of Moffat, the same
Neville family so burdened with children to wed, the same Neville family so
adept at making fortuitous matches. The same Neville family had been granted
stewardship of the western Marches by the English king. They would sell a
traitor to the king with nary a second thought.

And
their darling son, Reginald Neville, would not beg clemency for the man who had
embarrassed him at Ravensmuir’s auction.

Madeline
bit her lip in trepidation. The sun rose higher, drying the dew and heating the
stones. Its golden warmth seemed to coax spring’s tendrils to unfurl, but
Madeline stared fixedly at the town. The horses grazed behind her, peeling
young shoots from the trees, but Madeline spared them no attention.

The
sound of approaching hoof beats made her heart race. She dared not be
discovered! She urged Rhys’ steed deeper into the forest and held her hand over
his dog’s snout as she tried to count the steeds. She could see nothing through
the dense undergrowth of the forest, though that meant that none could see her.
She dared not venture closer to the edge of the forest for a better look.

For
there were a number of horses passing her hiding place. At least six. They were
large, as large as destriers, for their hoof beats fell with force. And they
made uncommon haste.

Could
they be the steeds from the abbey? Her heart fairly stopped at the prospect.

Surely
they would not seize Rhys at Moffat?

Surely
she could not lose him so soon?

* * *

There
were voices at Moffat’s gate.

Rhys
ducked into an alley in the nick of time, his purchases held fast against his
chest. He listened and was startled to hear the sound of a woman’s voice.

No
less, a familiar woman’s voice.

“I
seek a young woman,” that woman said, her tone authoritative. “She has dark
hair and blue eyes, and is fair indeed to look upon. She might travel with a
man garbed as a mercenary.”

Rhys
stifled the urge to peek with difficulty, for he could not believe his own
ears. Rosamunde led the party in pursuit of Madeline?

Rhys
frowned at this conclusion, unable to understand why this might be. It had been
Rosamunde who had ensured that he could join the auction. What had changed her
thinking? What had happened at Ravensmuir after their departure?

“I
have seen no such woman,” the gatekeeper said gruffly.

“And
the man?”

Rhys
caught his breath and flattened himself into the shadow of the wall.

The
gatekeeper scoffed. “Who can say? Men come and men go - I do not note them,
particularly the mercenaries. If they mean no harm and intend to be gone by
sunset, they are welcome to leave coin in our coffers.”

“You
cannot be so poor of sight and memory as this!” Rosamunde said.

“I cannot be expected to confess all I know to a stranger!” the gatekeeper
retorted. “Especially one so oddly garbed and bold a wench as you.”

“Let
us pass!” Rosamunde said imperiously. “We will make our own search.”

“You
will surrender your weapons here, for I do not trust you to be peaceful within
these walls.”

Rosamunde
argued with the gatekeeper but made no progress. Rhys listened as she
surrendered her weapons in poor humor, then commanded her company to do the
same.

Those
six black destriers strode past his hiding place, their tails flicking and
their nostrils flaring. Madeline’s brother Alexander was within the company.
The heir to Kinfairlie looked more a man already, not only because of his armor
but because of his somber expression. Beside him rode two of Madeline’s
sisters, the next eldest who had plagued him with questions at Ravensmuir’s
board and the youngest, so smitten with fairies.

Two
other men comprised the rest of the party, one of whom Rhys had noted at Ravensmuir.
He was as flamboyantly garbed as Rosamunde and must have been her comrade. The
last man was a stranger. He might have been the same age as Alexander and Rhys
studied him with curiosity. He carried a lute slung across his back, and was
wrought slender with pale skin and fair hair.

Something
pricked at Rhys’ memory, though he could not name it in this moment. To be
sure, he could not fathom why Rosamunde would bring a musician with her, unless
she meant to keep him in her company. Perhaps this one was uncommonly gifted.

Much
to Rhys’ annoyance, Rosamunde left the musician to guard the gates while she
led the others toward the town square.

“We
will find hay and water for the horses,” she instructed. “Then ale and a hot
meal for ourselves. Doubtless there will be a tavern in the main square, and
with a full belly, we will search more effectively for Madeline.”

Rhys
retreated further into the shadows to think. Why did they seek Madeline? This
family had auctioned Madeline’s hand, so slender was their concern for her, yet
within a day, they dispatched a company riding in pursuit. It made little
sense.

It
made even less sense that Rosamunde led the search. Rhys knew Rosamunde’s
nature enough to guess that she saw some advantage in this mission to herself,
and that she would think little of betraying anyone to serve her own ends. She
alone might have the audacity to threaten to deliver Rhys to the king to ensure
her terms - whatever they might be.

Even
knowing what he knew now, even seeing the concern of Madeline’s siblings, Rhys
was not anxious to make acquaintance with the daring adventuress Rosamunde just
yet. Let her pursue him to Caerwyn, where he had the choice of whether the
raise the portcullis or not.

A
woman cleared her throat and Rhys jumped, then pretended to have been relieving
himself in the alley. She rolled her eyes as he fumbled with his chausses.

“Is
there another tavern?” he asked of her, slurring his speech as if besotted.
Additionally, such speech would disguise his unfamiliar accent. He gestured
toward the town square. “That one would beggar a common man.”

“There,”
she said, pointing in the opposite direction as if glad to be rid of his
presence. “Around the corner and to the left is Old Man McGillivray’s house. He
will sell you a cup of his ale, though I doubt you have much need of another.”

“I
thank you, good woman!” Rhys bowed, then pretended to lose his balance. He
gripped the wall and waved after the woman, thanking her profusely as she made
haste to get away from him.

Then
he turned in the direction she had indicated, drawing his hood over his head.
He dared not be seen, yet he could not attempt to pass through the gates just
yet.

The
musician needed time to become bored with his task.

And
Rhys needed to find some soul who could unwittingly provide him with the means
to pass the gates unnoted.