Authors: The Knight of Rosecliffe
Rexanne Becnel (29 page)
The man snapped to attention. “He is that, Sir Jasper. Lord Rand says he is to—”
“Release him.”
“What?” The man stared at him in amazement. But Jasper continued down the stairs until he encountered the forged steel gate that prevented escape. The lock required no key, but the elaborate design prevented an inmate from freeing himself.
Rhys lay on a pallet, his back to the door. But at Jasper’s noisy approach, he sprang to his feet. His fist knotted and his posture tensed as he glared suspiciously at Jasper.
“But milord,” the guard protested when he caught up with Jasper. “Lord Rand will have my hide if I release this man. So will Sir Osborn. This one here, he’s a dangerous thug, he is.”
“I know that better than anyone,” Jasper answered the man. His eyes held with Rhys’s. “But Rhonwen is calling for him.”
Jasper saw the wariness in his nemesis’s expression turn to concern. “She calls for me?” Then he frowned. “Is this some sort of trick?”
Jasper threw up the latch that held the crossbar in place. “’Tis no trick. She hovers yet near death, but she speaks your name.” He flung the crossbar aside, then jerked the barred gate open. “I want her to live. Did she call for the devil himself, I would seek him out.”
“Huh,” the man-at-arms snorted. “That ’un’s verily the devil himself.” He held his sword at the ready, the tip pointed at Rhys’s chest. But Jasper did not bother with a weapon. He strode into Rhys’s prison cell and gestured for him to proceed.
Rhys was wary, though, and he did not immediately react. He stared at his lifelong enemy, not an arm’s length away. “Feeling guilty?”
Jasper met the boy’s belligerent stare. “Yes.”
It was obviously not the response the young Welshman expected, and the bald honesty of it left him speechless. Jasper pressed his advantage. “I want her to live. If you feel the same way, then come. There is no time to waste.” He grabbed Rhys’s elbow and propelled him toward the door.
But the boy shrugged off his hold. “I do this for her sake,” he snarled. “Hers, not yours.” Then he spit on the ground between them. “You and your kind despoil our fair land. You wreak havoc with your greed. You rape our women and kill our men—”
“Rhonwen was never raped,” Jasper swore. His teeth gritted in fury. “And you yet live.”
“But for how long?” the boy sneered.
In the furious silence, Jasper’s words came as both a threat and a reassurance. “So long as she wills it,” he answered.
The man-at-arms followed wide-eyed as the two avowed enemies made their way up the narrow stairwell to the hall. He stood in the low-ceilinged doorway and watched as they crossed the hall together. Everyone else in the hall ceased their work and did the same.
Jasper marched Rhys across the rush-strewn floor to the broad stairs that led to the upper chambers of the keep. Jasper carried no weapon, and from steward to kitchen drudge to lowly page, everyone gasped at the recklessness of his behavior.
Only one among them dared counter the obvious intentions of the grim-faced Jasper. Isolde saw the hated Rhys who’d held her hostage, and her anger flared with righteous fire. She grabbed the nearest page and gave him a hard pinch.
“Fetch my father,” she ordered. “Now!”
The boy dashed away at once while she watched Jasper and Rhys disappear up the stairs. Then she grabbed a fire poker and, though her heart hammered with fear, she hurried across the hall to follow them.
Rhonwen was no longer floating. She’d drifted down and seemed now to rest in some sort of bed. Not a hard pallet of reeds and sheepskins, nor a raised shelf alongside a rough wall. This was a well-stuffed mattress atop greased ropes and lifted high above the cold drafts along the floor.
It was a wonderful bed, warm and secure. Were it not, however, for the warm coverlet tucked so securely around her, she might easily have floated away again. Even now the temptation was great.
But the soft coverlet held her down and if she strained she could hear voices, voices she recognized. Then a hand curved around hers and, without realizing it, she smiled. Jasper was still here.
She’d dreamed he’d stayed with her, anchoring her down, preventing her from drifting, and so, it seemed, he had. She struggled now to open her eyes and finally see him.
“ … Rhonwen? Can you hear me?”
His fingertips smoothed her brow, urging her to wake up. With an effort she opened her eyes, only it was not Jasper’s face she saw.
“Rhys …” She barely managed to croak. How could this be? She wanted Jasper, not Rhys. Jasper. Dismayed, she let her heavy eyelids close.
“Yes, Rhonwen, it’s Rhys. I’m here.” His hand tightened on hers. “Come, love. Open your eyes for me again. Come back to me, Rhonwen,” he pleaded. But she was too tired, and too disappointed.
“Try again,” another voice said. “Don’t give up on her now.”
Rhonwen frowned and struggled to sort out the muffled words.
“She’s hurt too grievous,” Rhys retorted. “To save your unworthy life she has forsaken her own!”
“Keep trying, damn you! Don’t give up on her.”
Rhonwen’s eyes struggled open again, easier this time. Was that Jasper she heard? But it was Rhys’s face that filled her line of vision. He bent over her, his brow furrowed, his black eyes anxious.
“Rhonwen. I’m here. I’m here and you are in good hands if you will just not give up.” One of his hands stroked her cheek.
She blinked. It was so bright. But slowly the room came into focus. High-beamed ceilings. Carefully fitted stone walls. The bed that cocooned her had deep green damask bedcurtains pulled back to admit the sunshine that streamed through a deep-set window.
It seemed so familiar, and yet she wasn’t sure. She tilted her head in the other direction. It hurt to move, but she forced herself. It all looked familiar. Then she gasped—and grimaced at the immediate pain in her side. She was at Rosecliffe Castle. She lay in Josselyn’s very own bed.
But Rhys was with her, not Jasper, and that made no sense at all. Her heart began to race in panic.
Sensing her distress, Rhys shifted nervously from one foot to the other. “Don’t worry. You’re going to be all right. You’re going to be all right.” He glanced across the bed and his worried expression turned angry. “The blame for her misery lies fully at your door!”
“Damnation, will you lower your voice? You’re supposed to be helping her.”
Rhonwen tossed her head back and forth. Jasper again.
Where was he? She heard him but could not see him. And she needed to see him.
Where was he? She heard him but could not see him. And she needed to see him.
“Jasper,” she whispered.
Her feeble call enraged Rhys. “You’re the one upsetting her,” he accused Jasper. “Every time you speak she becomes more distraught.”
“No,” she whimpered. “No.” But her voice was too weak to overcome Rhys’s rage. Then the door swung open with a sharp crack, and another voice raised high in anger.
“Get away from her. Get away!” a child cried.
Isolde. With her shrill words everything began to come back to Rhonwen. There had been a terrible battle. But Jasper had survived. Rhys had wanted to kill him, but he’d hesitated. So someone else … LaMonthe! She trembled to remember. Simon LaMonthe had assumed the task of killing Jasper. He’d lunged at Jasper … She frowned. After that she remembered nothing.
“I’ll kill you,” Isolde cried, breaking into Rhonwen’s gruesome memories.
“Get out of here, Isolde.” That was Jasper again.
Rhys pulled his hands away and turned toward the girl. “Begone from here, brat,” he snarled. Then another voice added to the confusion. An older man’s voice, deep and commanding.
She could not follow their argument, not and force herself up onto her elbows too. Once partially upright, however, she took in the entire scene, like watching the mummers’ play at Yuletide. Rhys had his back to her with his arms widespread as if to protect her from the others. Beyond him in the doorway stood a newcomer. When Josselyn came up behind him and caught him by the arm, Rhonwen realized it was Rand.
Then off to the side she spied Jasper, and her eyes stopped there. He had caught Isolde in an embrace and as Rhonwen watched, he removed a steel poker from her angry grip. It was plain the child had intended to attack Rhys with it.
“I hate him!” Isolde cried, still struggling against her uncle.
“He’ll hurt her. He hurts everyone! I wish … I wish he was dead!” she shrieked.
“Isolde, no.” Josselyn took her daughter from Jasper.
Rand’s hand moved threateningly to the dagger at his hip. “Why is he not in the dungeon?” Rand thundered at Jasper, though he glared at Rhys.
“No!” Rhonwen cried, though it came out as a weak gasp. “No. Don’t hurt him.”
It was Jasper who heard her. And Jasper who held his brother back.
“Rhonwen,” he said, his expression one of shock and, perhaps, gratitude. At once the others focused on her and the weight of their scrutiny was enough to make her collapse on the pillows again.
“Rhonwen!” Isolde broke free of her mother’s grasp and rushed to the side of the bed opposite Rhys. Josselyn hurried forward too. Rhys turned to her, but he kept a wary eye on Rand and Jasper.
“You must not try to sit up,” Josselyn ordered. But her stern words were softened by the relieved smile on her face. “You were gravely wounded, but your body has blessedly begun to mend. And now you are awakened.” Tears glistened in her eyes when she raised them to Rhys. “Thank you for drawing her back to the land of the living.”
Rhys looked momentarily nonplussed. Then his face returned to its habitual scowl. “I do not want your thanks. Only hers. Unless your thanks include the return of my freedom.”
Josselyn glanced pointedly at Rand. But his expression remained obstinant. “To have one Welsh rebel save the life of another Welsh rebel hardly warrants an Englishman’s reward,” he stated.
“But Rand—”
His raised hand stopped her. “We will discuss this matter later. You, come.” He signaled to Rhys. “The sickroom is the domain of women.”
“Rhonwen needs me to stay,” Rhys countered. He looked to her for confirmation. But Rhonwen had turned her face away. Through half-closed eyes she stared at Jasper, hoping he would say something to her.
Needing him to say something to her.
But although Jasper’s eyes were fixed upon her, he kept silent. He looked haggard and drawn, as if he’d just come from battle. How long had she been here? What had happened? Did he blame everything on her?
Then she recalled the black sky of midday and it was all too much. The end of the world, Newlin had said. The end of the world as she knew it.
She closed her eyes, but she could not prevent two tears from escaping. Her brief life at Rosecliffe was over.
“Mama, he’s making her cry. Papa,” Isolde implored, “send him away.”
Rand glared at Rhys. “Will you go peacefully, or will I be forced to drag you out?” His voice was as cold and unyielding as steel.
“He is here at my request,” Jasper spoke up at last. Rhonwen opened her eyes to see Jasper’s gaze fixed on his brother. “He came to her aid and has roused her with his presence. I would have him treated with respect, if for that reason only.”
“Spare me your respect,” Rhys sneered.
“No … no more,” Rhonwen muttered. The pain in her side throbbed fiercely. But it was nothing to the pain in her heart. Nothing had changed. She was still caught between loyalty to Rhys and love for Jasper. Only now she did not even have control of her body. The tears began in earnest and she could not stop them.
“You will settle this argument elsewhere,” Josselyn demanded.
She circled the bed and, grabbing Rhys by the hand, began to drag him toward the door. He planted his heels and looked at Rhonwen. But she shook her head. “Go. Just go,” she said in a voice that cracked.
He shook off Josselyn’s hold, but after a long glowering moment, he acquiesced. Rand’s dagger stayed in its sheath. Jasper shouldered between his brother and Rhys, and with angry strides, the three men left. When the door closed behind them, Josselyn leaned back against it with a relieved sigh. Then, spying Rhonwen’s tear-streaked face, she hurried to her side, a determined smile on her face.
“Men can be more than tiresome. Did they not occasionally exhibit some paltry example of their usefulness, we women could be well rid of them.” She ruffled Isolde’s hair, then pressed a hand to Rhonwen’s brow. “But since they are now and again of some use, I suppose we must suffer their foul tempers and unreasonable stubbornness. Dry your tears, Rhonwen. They will settle their differences without us. You need only to work at regaining your strength. You gave us a terrible scare,” she added in a voice that suddenly trembled.
With gentle hands she pulled back the bed linens and began carefully to probe the dressing on Rhonwen’s side. “Now let us see how you fare,” she said, returning to her efficient manner. “Isolde, fetch the lamp nearer.”
No one visited Rhonwen for three days, save the women of the castle. Even Romney, the healer, left the ministering to Josselyn, who had an able assistant in Isolde. But neither Jasper nor Rhys came to see her. And when Rhonwen inquired about them, she was told only that Rhys was well treated and Jasper was out hunting.
“Papa brought back a pair of breeding falcons with him,” Isolde told her as she rummaged through one of her mother’s cupboards. “The falcon master will only be here a fortnight, so Papa and Jasper must learn all they can of falconry.”
The girl paused and stared out the widow to the bright spring day. “You should see how fine the two birds are, Rhonwen. Their eyes are so brilliant and they stare at you as if they understand your every word. Gavin is mad for them,” she added, resuming her search. “Oh, here it is.” She held up a pale green kirtle, simple in design yet made of the softest kersey wool. “You will look lovely in this one.”
Rhonwen could not rise to the girl’s level of enthusiasm. She was to dine in the hall today, her first venture from the sickroom. Isolde had helped her wash her hair, then combed it until it was dry. It lay now, clean and sweet-smelling, shiny and loose across her shoulders.
But to what purpose? Why take such care with her appearance
when the one person she wanted to impress cared so little he would not even climb the stairs to see her?
when the one person she wanted to impress cared so little he would not even climb the stairs to see her?
Not that she should want to impress him. But the truth was impossible to deny. She wanted to see appreciation in Jasper’s eyes when she descended the stairs, just like before. But this time she would take care not to tumble down the last two steps like a fool. Except that he probably did not appreciate her charms anymore—not now that he’d had a sufficient taste of them. Not since she’d proven herself to be a traitor.
She steeled herself against any show of despair. “I will wear my own garments. They are clean, and you mended both the kirtle and my mantle. I saw you do it.”
Isolde laid the apple-green gown in Rhonwen’s lap. “Feel how soft it is, how nicely made.”
“It’s too long for me,” Rhonwen countered, pushing it aside. She threw off the coverlet and, with a grimace, swung her legs around. Her side hurt nearly as much today as it had on the first day she’d revived. But she was stronger now, and better able to bear it.
“You’re not supposed to get out of bed without someone to assist you.”
“Then assist me,” Rhonwen retorted. At Isolde’s look of consternation, she sighed. “Forgive me, Isolde. I am an ungrateful wretch, I know. But this idleness chafes me so. And I worry about …”
When she hesitated Isolde prompted her. “You worry about whom?” Her mouth curved in a coy smile. “Jasper?”
Rhonwen set her jaw. Isolde had become unrelenting on the subject of Jasper, rhapsodizing about how Jasper had carried Rhonwen away from the battleground. In the child’s mind, that made Rhonwen and Jasper lovers of epic proportions. Rhonwen knew better, for if she’d not lured Jasper to follow her, neither of them would have been in any danger. But as often as Rhonwen tried to correct the story, Isolde simply would not let it go. Several of the chambermaids seemed equally smitten—more the fools, they.
“Why should I worry about Jasper?” She pushed to her
feet, stifling a groan, and held on to the bedpost for support. “’Tis Rhys’s well-being that troubles me.”
feet, stifling a groan, and held on to the bedpost for support. “’Tis Rhys’s well-being that troubles me.”
As always, mention of the man held in Rosecliffe’s dungeon brought a scowl to Isolde’s face. “Well, you’ve no need to worry on his account,” she muttered. “He should have long ago been hung. Any other outlaw of such foul reputation and unrepentant nature would have been.”
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