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Authors: The Knight of Rosecliffe

Rexanne Becnel (28 page)

BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
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Jasper smiled at her and wiped her wet cheek with his thumb. “That was a normal reaction, love. Anyone would have felt the same way. But you’re not the one at fault.”
I am.
The girl rubbed her eyes with the backs of her fists. “It’s that man. That Simon LaMonthe. That’s who Mama says is really to blame.”
Jasper nodded. “It was his sword that struck her down, though it was meant for me. She saved my life,” he added in a whisper.
“She did? Oh.” The little girl stared at him with round, serious eyes. Then she wound her arms around his neck and gave him a fierce kiss on the cheek. “Rhonwen must love you very, very much.”
Unsettled, Jasper untangled her arms and stood. If only it were true. “Rhonwen would have done the same for Rhys or your mother or anyone she cared for. That’s the sort of woman she is. Brave. Loyal.”
They stood there in silence for a long moment. Then Isolde took him by the hand. “Come along. I’ll help you wash yourself so that you may go in to see her.”
Jasper followed her, letting her mother him and test the role she would one day play in a household of her own. He removed his filthy tunic and chainse, and bathed his face and hands and arms. He donned the fresh garments she fetched for him, and combed his damp hair down. Then again, hand in hand, they returned to the second-floor chamber where Rhonwen lay.
At the door Isolde gave him an encouraging smile. “I’ll go in first.”
She went in, leaving him alone, and without the task of reassuring her, he fell quick prey to his own fears. What if Rhonwen did not recover? How could he live with the loss and the guilt? And if she lived, how could he bear to let her go? His stomach knotted until he felt like retching.
Then the door opened with its telltale creak and Josselyn beckoned him in. He hesitated, watching as Romney gathered up his instruments and powders and vials of dark liquids. The healer left with a silent shrug, and with a gesture from her mother, so did Isolde. Then it was only him and Josselyn and the still figure lying in the high bed.
“She is resting easily, Jasper. Her breathing is not too labored. Her heartbeat is not too weak.” She placed a hand on his elbow and urged him to enter farther into the dimly lit room. “I believe she will recover if she does not contract a fever. Your bindings around the wound kept it clean and closed. Come. Sit with her while I go refresh myself.”
“You’re leaving?” He couldn’t hide the panic in his voice.
“I’ll be back directly.”
“What if she … I don’t know. What if she needs you?”
“All she needs now is reassurance. Just give her that, Jasper.” She steered him nearer the bed. “Talk to her. ’Tis hard to know for certain, but perhaps she’ll hear you and respond.” Then she was gone and he was alone with Rhonwen, though in a manner he’d never considered.
He stared at her, searching for some sign of recovery. Color in her cheeks. A smile on her lips. A sparkle in her eyes. But there was nothing. Her face was pale, and her lowered lids but a smudge of bruised color. She was the lovely wood nymph that had turned his head, but the spirit that had captured his heart was not there. He touched her hand, so cool and limp. In desperation he smoothed his trembling palm over her brow.
“Rhonwen. Come back to me, love. Don’t abandon me now.” Then he bowed his head and kissed her, touching his lips tenderly to hers.
He expected her mouth to be cool—as cool as she appeared—but it was not. Her lips were warm and full, and as he lingered over her, they moved, as if in response.
He jerked away. Hopeful. Chagrined. Though she mumbled something unintelligible, her eyes remained closed. He, meanwhile, felt an undeniable rush of desire at her small, innocent reaction.
“Damn you for a selfish bastard,” he cursed himself out loud.
Her brow wrinkled slightly at his words, and he could have damned himself again. Then he recalled what Josselyn had instructed. Talk to her.
“Rhonwen?” he cautiously began. “Rhonwen, if you hear me, then I beg you to believe me. I need you to get better.” He clasped her two hands between his, marveling at their delicacy. Yet they were strong hands too. With God’s help they would be strong again.
“Rhonwen, we are all of us waiting for you to awaken. LaMonthe has been dealt with. You need never fear him again. And Rhys. He and I have buried our differences. We share the same goal now: We want you to recover and … and share in our joint victory.”
Her lips moved and Jasper’s heart soared. She made no sound, though, and he swallowed the piercing disappointment. But he would not let her down. Not this time.
He’d let her down before, but if he had to sit vigil all night, he would. If he had to hold her hand and exhort her—if he had to pray until there were no prayers left to wring from his soul—he would do it.
He would not let this most precious of women go without the fight of his life.
 
 
Rhys kept his own vigil. He’d climbed an ancient oak at the edge of the forest and perched in a fork that allowed him a view of the English castle. Now, as darkness crept on cat feet over the land, wrapping the world in a shroud of lavender dusk, he nursed a nearly empty wineskin and stared morosely at the crenellated fortress.
Did she live?
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the rough bark. How could he have abandoned her there? She was alone among their enemies. But she didn’t see them as enemies. Not like she used to. Jasper FitzHugh had turned her head, just as his brother had turned Josselyn’s.
A wave of self-pity washed over him, threatening to unman him. One by one he’d been abandoned by his own people, beginning with his mother.
And your father.
He scowled and, lifting the wineskin, drained the last bitter dregs. His father had died for his people. For his family and his son. And the brothers FitzHugh were to blame.
He crushed the leather wineskin in his fist, wishing it was Jasper FitzHugh’s neck. For a short while, in his concern for Rhonwen, he’d forgotten how much he despised the man.
If she died he’d have even greater cause to slay the unholy bastard.
And if she lived?
He stared blindly at the darkening sky. If she lived it changed nothing. She would never have been hurt had Jasper FitzHugh—scoundrel that he was—not hounded her to death.
No, whether Rhonwen lived or died, he owed FitzHugh nothing, except the sharp edge of his blade and the bitter taste of revenge.
 
Rand pressed on, eager to be home. Eager to see the light of welcome in Josselyn’s warm eyes. It had been a long, strange day. He and Osborn had been hard-pressed to calm the men during the fearsome dark at midday. Thank God it had not lasted long enough for a full panic to set in. Afterward there had been little talk—but many a silent prayer, he suspected.
They’d pushed themselves and their weary animals harder than ever, and now, with night closing in, they were but a league distant from their home. The next rise would give them a glimpse of the pennants and walls that marked the fortress he yet improved upon. With the threat of a war between Matilda and Stephen looming over the kingdom, it behooved him to increase the masons’ pace.
He was sunk in thoughts of the town wall and strategies to increase its defenses, when the forward rider halted and stood in his stirrups. At once the entire column of men reined in. Swords slithered from sheaths and the familiar forest turned ominous.
“A horse, fully rigged,” Osborn relayed the news to him.
“English or Welsh?”
“The saddle is Welsh; the bridle English. As for the animal, he’s finely bred. Probably English—but perhaps stolen.”
“And the rider?” Rand asked.
Osborn shrugged. “Nowhere to be seen.”
Rand stared through the forest and the rapidly waning light. A man led the horse toward him while three other searched the undergrowth. A riderless horse, and so near to Rosecliffe Castle. He’d received Jasper’s two messages—first that Isolde
had been taken by Rhys ap Owain, then that she’d been safely recovered. Had some further mishap occurred since?
“Probably due to that strange darkness earlier today,” Osborne muttered. “Mayhap the rider panicked and the beast threw him.”
“Mayhap.”
Then an owl hooted and Rand glanced up—and spied a booted foot dangling from the branch of an oak tree.
He nudged Osborn and pointed. In short order the men stealthily circled the tree. Three archers drew a bead on the body barely discernible above the foot. Then a nimble young man-at-arms scaled the sturdy tree.
The man in the tree was either asleep or dead, but Rand meant to take no chances. At his signal the climber gave a quick yank on the foot and the fellow toppled from his perch.
His startled cry proved he was alive, as did his quick grab for a slender branch, breaking his fall. That left the fellow in an even worse predicament, however, for he dangled now in plain view of all. One of Rand’s men lit a torch and held it up to illuminate the fellow.
He was big and young, and more than a little drunk, Rand surmised. He was also Welsh, and though a sensible man would be terrified by his situation, the brawny lad’s eyes blazed with anger, and hatred.
Rand urged his mount to a position just before the swaying fellow. “Well, well. We weren’t even hunting, and yet what game we’ve bagged. Who are you?”
The lad shot him a contemptuous look as he adjusted his handhold. “I’m a loyal son of these hills, which is more than can be said of you,” he spat in Welsh.
One of Rand’s men translated the words for those who were not fluent in the language, and a grim muttering arose. Rand stilled it with a single gesture. He was but a beardless youth, he showed no fear, and he understood English. At once Rand knew.
“Rhys ap Owain.” He chuckled. “You’ve grown, lad. But I see you still maintain a penchant for climbing trees.”
With a deft leap, Rhys landed nimbly on the ground. “And
I still have a hatred for Englishmen,” he snarled. He drew his sword out, then also his dagger, and faced the circle of Englishmen. “You’ll have to kill me, for I’ll not go any other way.”
“Take him,” Rand ordered without blinking. “But don’t kill him.”
It was violent but brief. Two swordsmen engaged him in battle, while a third man found a heavy oak branch. One well-aimed blow to the head and the lad went down.
Rand did not linger over the troublesome youth. “Tie him on his own horse,” he told Osborn. “And cast him in the dungeon. As for me, I’m in need of my wife’s comfort. It’s been a hell of a day.”
 
The morning mass was attended by everyone in the castle save Jasper, Rhonwen, and Rhys. The latter nursed an aching head in the dungeon, while Jasper nursed an aching heart in Rhonwen’s sickroom.
There was much to pray for, and both pleas and thanks rose in the castle’s small chapel dedicated to St. Valentine. Josselyn thanked God for Rand’s safe return and prayed he would be merciful to Rhys. Rand thanked God for protecting his family and prayed for an hour or two alone with his wife.
Isolde thanked God for bringing her beloved father home and prayed he would leave that awful Rhys locked in the dungeon until he rotted. Gavin prayed his foster household would include other boys his own age.
They all prayed for the recovery of those injured in the previous day’s melee, most especially for Rhonwen. But none prayed so fervently as Jasper. When Rand and Josselyn sought him out after the mass he was haggard and red-eyed, his clothes rumpled and his hair standing out around his face.
“You see?” Josselyn grasped Rand’s arm and whispered in his ear. “’Tis as I said.”
Rand frowned as if he could not credit such a change in his carefree brother. “How fares the patient?”
“Rhonwen,” Jasper said in raspy tones. “Her name is
Rhonwen. There is no change,” he added, his shoulders slumping.
“Maybe we should let Rhys visit her,” Josselyn mused out loud.
“He is here?” Jasper asked.
“I caught him last night, asleep in a tree, just beyond Newlin’s
domen
,” Rand explained. “Josselyn has informed me of all that has passed—LaMonthe’s treason, the battle, and Rhonwen’s injury. However, Rhys does not answer my question about his role with LaMonthe.”
“He conspired with LaMonthe to take Rosecliffe.” Jasper looked down at Rhonwen’s pale visage. “Two days ago a pair of LaMonthe’s men delivered a message here to you. But it was nothing, just an excuse to gain entrance to the castle. I suspect the true purpose of their visit was to pass a message to Rhonwen.”
He raised tortured eyes to his brother. “But yesterday Rhys called her a traitor. I don’t know if it was due to her defense of me then, or if there was more to it. I think …” He paused and his hand ran lightly along her arm, lying beneath the stitched-together marten skins that kept her warm. “I think that perhaps … perhaps she could not bring herself to conspire with him and LaMonthe. I think she ran away instead.”
“And you followed her,” his brother said.
In the silence that followed, it was Josselyn who spoke. “He did. Tell him why, Jasper.”
Jasper’s face was desperate. He thrust his hands through his unruly hair, standing it on end in uneven spikes. “I could not let her go.”
“And why is that?” she pressed him.
“Because … because …”
Rand circled Josselyn’s shoulders with one arm. “Enough, Josselyn. ’Tis plain enough for a fool to see.” He shook his head, scowling. “It must be a curse visited upon the FitzHughs. We may love no woman save she who is our avowed enemy.”
“Such a curse,” Josselyn chided him. She kissed him on the cheek. Then she returned her gaze to Jasper and grew
serious once more. “Tell her your true feelings, Jasper. Tell her. Mayhap that will bring her out of this heavy sleep that holds her in its grip.”
Jasper stared at her, doubt etched in his eyes. “What if it is Rhys she loves?”
Rand looked down at his wife too, and Josselyn pursed her lips. “I do not believe it is so. She cares for him, but in a different way. Perhaps you should speak with him.”
Jasper shook his head. “He despises us too much to be honest. He will say whatever he believes will cause the greatest amount of pain, and gain him the greatest advantage.”
They could not argue with that, and after soliciting Jasper’s promise to eat something, they left. Alone with Rhonwen, Jasper once again scrubbed his hands across his face. He was so weary. His eyes burned; his hands trembled. Yet he was afraid to sleep, afraid her fragile life force would slip away if he did not remain diligent. But he was so tired.
On impulse he lay beside her, curving his arms around her as if he might ward off any evil, most especially the angel of death. She stirred and shifted in his arms, and he held his breath.
“Rhonwen?” The curls at her temple moved with his breath. “Wake up, Rhonwen. Please wake up. We … I need you. I … I love you, sweetheart.” His voice broke. “Please Rhonwen. I love you.”
Rhonwen was so cold, and yet she felt the hard warmth beside her. It was so quiet, and yet she heard the soft words of entreaty and felt the sweet breath of life in her ear. She shifted, then moaned at the slicing pain of that brief movement. What was it?
In the fog that held her down, she saw Rhys’s face, so angry. And then the blade, sharp and deadly, aimed at Jasper’s heart.
‘No. No
,
Rhys!’
she screamed.
Jasper’s face went white at Rhonwen’s faint moan. Rhys. She had called for Rhys, not for him.
But at least she spoke, he consoled himself. She spoke and that in itself seemed like a miracle. She called for Rhys, and he would make sure her call was answered. “All right, Rhonwen.
Rhys will soon be with you. I’ll see to it.”
His heart ached, though, and he could not stop himself from holding her a little tighter. But she flinched away from his touch. “No,” she moaned again. “No.”
Jasper never cried, not since his mother had died when he was a lad. But tears stung his eyes as he eased from the bed. For too long he’d been a thickheaded fool, unable to accept the truth. He must accept it now, though. He took a deep breath and then another. He must accept the fact that Rhonwen was not meant to be his. She’d saved his life—once as a child, and then again now. But that did not mean she loved him.
He owed her his life, though, and he would do whatever he must to preserve hers.
As he stared down at her, her eyes opened. They closed again, without really focusing on anything. But a faint frown marked her brow and once again she shifted.
On impulse he bent down and kissed her brow. He should have stopped at that. But he could not. He kissed one cheek, and then the other as well. Then he paused over her lips.
One last time. One last kiss to wish her well, and to always remember how sweet it might have been had she loved him as he loved her.
He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her. Like a friend might kiss a friend, he told himself. But her lips moved under his and though it was madness, he could not prevent himself from pressing a little more. Her mouth was warm and supple. And welcoming. She sighed and parted her lips, and he could not pull away.
He bent over her stiff-armed, wanting her so fiercely he hurt. But he held back, all except for his mouth. He fitted his lips to hers and tasted her with his tongue, and wanted to take her up in his arms.
Rhonwen. Rhonwen!
His mind pleaded with her to love him. To be his.
Then she sighed and he pulled away, and their last kiss was done. He backed away from the bed, stricken. It would have been less painful had she allowed LaMonthe’s sword to pierce his heart.
He had his emotions under control by the time he reached the main hall. To the servant who had started up to the sickroom with a pewter tray of bread and pot cheese, he said, “Bring another tray like this and an ewer of wine.” He didn’t pause, however, but strode to the narrow stairs that led to the lower levels. Halfway down he encountered a guard. “Is Rhys ap Owain held here?” he barked.
BOOK: Rexanne Becnel
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