By Design (41 page)

“Have you spoken with her about this?”

“I have seen little of her since Edward's queen arrived. Philippa has finally found a friend whom she can trust, and is jealous of Joan's time. A lady-in-waiting to the Queen of England does not desert her duties without explaining why, and I am not a suitable explanation. She slips away when she can, but I do not waste those moments by speaking of what awaits.”

Addis nodded vaguely. A silent sympathy cloaked him. He might not speak of it, but he understood what would soon be lost.

“Do you return to London, then?”

“I have been thinking that I will first visit the home of my youth. I have not been back in years, and as I lay here I found myself longing to see it again. My parents are dead, but I have kin there.”

“Then you head west. That makes it easier to ask a favor of you. I will bring my men with me when I escort Mark and Joan to their father's lands. Can you go to
Barrowburgh on your way to the marches? Moira waits for word about me, and I do not want her growing anxious.”

“I will gladly bring her word of your safety, and of what has transpired.” It would give his journey some purpose. In truth he headed west mostly because he did not want to return to London yet. After today, he would need more time before he went back to that house.

Addis sat and they spoke of the last days' events. Mortimer had been sent to Westminster to await his execution, and Queen Isabella had been banished to Castle Rising. Guy Leighton had been buried, the only fatality of the action. Edward had sent a decree throughout the land, announcing that he had taken the reins of power, and barons had begun streaming into Nottingham to show support for their king. The first to arrive had been some loyal to the usurper, and Edward had been magnanimous in his forgiveness. A few select heads would roll, but there would be no new bloodbath.

The chapel bells tolled. Their conversation dried. Addis rose. “Let us see it finished, then. It is good and right that you will be there, for the loss in the doing was mostly yours.”

People of all degrees jammed the hall. A festive atmosphere filled the space, and tables of food waited. First, however, Edward would hold an audience, and favor those who had helped him, and listen to petitions as a good king should.

He entered with his young queen. She had brought his crown and robes with her, and they walked to the chairs set forth to serve as their thrones. To the shouting joy of the barons, the King finally took his rightful place.

Rhys barely heard the rest. Even when he was called forth, and given the King's favor, he did not fully listen.
His attention had become absorbed by a woman amidst the ladies who had trailed Philippa into the chamber.

Joan.

She looked incredibly beautiful. The Queen had decked out her new friend in the finest garments. A gown as blue as sapphires flowed like water down her narrow body, and its bejewelled decorations dipped along her breasts and hips. He realized that he had never seen her in a garment that fit before. Her blond hair had been worked into an intricate roll around her crown, and another roll, of precious blue silk and golden threads, rested atop it beneath a transparent golden veil. More silk wove through the long braid hanging down her back.

She had been transformed, turned into someone precious and noble and more valuable than pearls. A woman of beauty and dignity to be desired from afar by many. A prize to be won only at the table of alliance and politics.

She appeared a little sad. Her expression brightened only when he approached to receive his new position. He did not remain near her long, however. For all of Edward's gratitude, a mason was a minor matter, and more important things waited.

The petitions began, and Addis stepped forward. He called Mark to join him. Hand on the youth's shoulder, he explained the story that Edward already knew, but which the other barons must hear. He asked Edward to return the lands of Brecon to the son of a man who had done nothing wrong, but had only obeyed his oath as he understood it.

The King gestured Mark forward. Fewer than three years in age separated them. For a moment it was a youth looking at a youth, and not a King examining a petitioner. Edward offered his hand in friendship before he positioned it in a demand for fealty.

Mark rose after the oath, and held out his arm toward
the ladies-in-waiting. “This is my sister, my lord. I beg your blessing on us both.”

Joan came forward, to finally reclaim her life. Elegant. Breathlessly beautiful. Something painful and proud swelled in Rhys's chest. He glanced around at the barons and knights. Every male eye settled on her.

It had begun. But then, Philippa had probably planned that, and made the display more magnificent with that intention. A queen's generosity demanded such efforts for a friend. Influencing alliances by arranging marriages was the most important power that she wielded.

Edward broke into a boyish grin. “I welcome you, lady. And I find myself half dazed by you. After my queen, you are the most lovely lady in the chamber today.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“Is your husband here with you?”

She hesitated. Mark answered for her. “Her betrothed died.”

“Recently? I sense a melancholy in you.”

Again, Mark had to answer. “Three years ago, but she still mourns all that was lost.”

Comprehension entered Edward's eyes. “Well, that is over now. Your brother will sit in your father's chair soon, Lady Joan. And you will sit beside a lord of our choosing. Beauty such as yours should not be wasted in grief.”

Again she hesitated. Rhys could see only her lithe, shapely back. Finally her voice spoke clearly and firmly, with more resolve than gratitude. “Thank you, my lord.”

Edward said something else, but Rhys did not listen. He turned away, and angled through the people toward the door.

It was finished. Joan Tiler was completely gone, and the daughter of Marcus de Brecon had been resurrected, in all her glory.

He walked down to the yard. He leaned against the
keep wall, and took deep breaths of the crisp air. The ache in his chest did not come only from his healing wounds. It was finished, but it was not over yet.

Philippa would not leave Joan alone. The Queen was a sweet girl, but too grateful to find a friend who had been separate from the suspicions and deceptions of the last few years. The quick bond had become invasive.

Joan suffered the continuous introductions to lords and knights. Time and again she tried to ease away, only to have Philippa beckon another man forth.

She kept searching the milling crowd for Rhys. She needed to see him. Mark had said that Rhys would not accompany them west when they left today, and she had to convince him to change his mind.

It could not end now, like this. She had sat by his bed those first days while he began to heal, but since the Queen had arrived, there had been only snatched minutes drenched with the horrible awareness that she had lost control over her future.

Another man. Another introduction, and another courteous bow. Another appreciative inspection, and another flowery flattery.

She could not bear it. Soon, too soon, she would deal with the life that these suitors represented. Right now she wanted to cling to another man's attention, and a different life's memories.

An ache wedged in her, deep and low beneath her heart. She was losing her hold on what had been. She had felt it slipping away since Mortimer fell, despite her clutching grasp. It had lost its solidity. It flowed away like the finest sand finding paths through her fingers.

The meal was ending. The dancing had stopped.
Outside, horses and wagons waited. They were due to leave as soon as the festivities were over.

She needed to find Rhys. Speak to him. Bask in his presence, just the two of them alone together, for a few moments at least. She needed to beg him to come with her, for a few days at least. She needed to hold him one last time, for one more night at least. She needed …

Another man. Not a suitor. Addis de Valence stood in front of her. Flowery words flowed from his mouth, but not for her. He addressed the Queen.

He glanced to Joan, and then to the door, and she understood. He was not a man given to courtly games, but he could play them if he chose. He chose to now, to distract Philippa. He soon had the Queen giggling and blushing.

Joan quietly slid away.

She ran through the hall, and out to the stairs. Below in the yard the men of Barrowburgh waited. The procession that would take her home prepared to depart.

She scanned the yard, and found Rhys. He stood against the wall, his arms crossed and his bound hand propped against his chest. He had spoken lightly of that wound, but she knew that it pained him.

She ran down the steps, praying that Philippa would keep Addis a very long time. Hours. Days.

Forever.

He saw her coming, and opened his arms to her. She sank into his warmth and strength, and savored every bit of his touch as it gently caressed her back.

He set her away, and looked her over. More than a man's appreciation showed in his eyes. “Edward lied. You were the most beautiful woman in the hall, and no queen surpassed you.”

She fingered the blue silk. For some reason, she felt
very embarrassed by its luxury. “It is her gown, fitted to me by her seamstresses. I do not like it so much.”

He gently touched the crown of silk and gold, and the veil. “You belong in a tapestry, pretty dove. One where gallant knights woo their ladies, and angels sing in the sky, and banners and bedecked horses announce the coming of the best blood.”

He spoke of who she was, and where she was going. He smiled, but a cloud of sorrow descended on them both.

His intense eyes gazed into hers. Knowing. Accepting. He was stronger than she would ever be.

“The King and his wife favor you and your brother. All will be well now.”

“How can it be well if you are not with me? Please come with us. A day only. It can do no harm.”

“A day only. Then another day. And another. Parting will get no easier for the delay.”

He spoke gently, but with finality. Her heart became heavy, as though it absorbed a grief that would never relent.

She would not have him severed from her. She could not. The pain of it would kill her. Already she felt a suffocating anguish that left her struggling to breathe.

Tears brimmed, and she could not hold them in. “I will not go. I have fulfilled my oath to my father's memory. We have it all back, and Mark has his place. I will stay with you. We will return to London and live together and know happiness again.”

He brushed his lips against her, silencing her gush of words. “Your brother is still young, and he needs your guidance. He will badly need the alliance that Edward plans for him. Your duties can not be thrown off so easily, and we both know it.”

“They can, if I will it. I need only decide, and choose freedom with you.”

“It is not so simple, love. Not only duty calls you. For three years, regaining your life is all that sustained you. It is a part of your soul and your heart, even if you do not acknowledge it now. You can not turn your back on the goal now that it is in hand.”

She clung to his chest, and wept into his tunic. The notion that this would be the last time that she held him ripped her composure to pieces. “I
can
turn my back on it. I do not care about it. I do not want it. I hate this gown and veil. I hate those lords inside the hall.”

He nestled his face against her head. “Do you hate your brother? Can you turn your back on him? On your family's honor, and your place in it? That is what you speak of. He is here now, not far behind you. Turn and see him.”

Slowly, she looked over her shoulder. Mark stood by the horses, impatient to be off. He did not watch them, but she could tell that he had seen their embrace in the shadow of the wall.

We will reclaim our home as we left it, hand in hand
.

Rhys brushed some tears away, but they kept flowing. “You can not abandon him, nor the rest of it. You will not be whole if you deny it now. You must go home. You must reclaim it all, and stand in triumph where you were defeated. Once you do, you will know that you belong there, as I know it already.”

Sounds behind her. Movements. She heard Addis's voice, calling the men to mount.

She pressed against Rhys, and ran her palms over his shoulders and arms, feeling his solidity with desperate intensity. Images of him, carving in the garden, standing below the stocks, looking down on her in love, filled her head. The tears could not come fast enough. They backed up into her throat and then her heart, scalding her with their unspent power.

He kissed her. A last kiss. One to taste for a lifetime. “Go now.”

She could not. He had to push her away from him.

She could not move. She resented the waiting duty. If she took one step, all of the others would follow, and their path led away from this man who had saved her in so many ways.

His expression tightened and his eyes filmed. “Go, pretty dove, before I start weeping with you. I will always remember the private vows that we made. We will be together forever in the ways that matter.”

He turned her shoulders, so that she faced Mark.

She stood immobilized, tearing in two.

Her brother watched and waited. His hard expression softened. He extended his hand to her.

She looked back, for a final decision.

It was denied her. Rhys had left.

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