A Time for Love

  “Daughter,” Jean said, embracing her heartily. “You look to have survived the crossing well enough.”

  “Curiosity over my new daughter,” Rhys’s mother said. “Rhys, introduce me to your bride.”

  “Mother, Gwen. Gwen, my mother, Mary.” Rhys scowled at the both of them. “Why do you not remove yourselves to a safe place so I might return to the business of planning my war?”

  Gwen found her hands taken by Mary de Piaget. “God’s blessings upon you, daughter,” Mary said, leaning forward to brush Gwen’s cheek with her own. “I can only wish I had arrived at a more auspicious time. It would seem there is a bit of a misunderstanding to clear up on the plain before we can relax and chat in peace.”

  Gwen couldn’t help but smile. Rhys looked very little like his mother, but they shared the same smile.

  “Hopefully it won’t take long,” Gwen said. “And I fear I have little to offer you. We are a bit on the thin side here as far as our larder goes—”

  “Oh, by the saints,” Rhys exclaimed, “we’re at war!”

  “I’ll sit on the chest,” Mary said, promptly doing so, “and bide my time until you finish up with your business. Go ahead, Rhys, love. I’ll wait.”

  Gwen watched her husband gather his patience about him like a cloak. Then he very calmly turned to his grandsire and managed something akin to a smile. It looked more like a great baring of teeth, but Sir Jean seemed disinclined to quibble.

  “Grandpère,” Rhys began slowly, “you seemed to know what Sedgwick is about.”

  Mary stiffened. Rhys noted it immediately and turned to her.

  “What?” he demanded.

  The large nun came up behind Mary and put a hand on her shoulder. Mary looked at Sir Jean.

  “You didn’t tell me Sedgwick would be here.”

  Sir Jean shrugged. “Didn’t know it.”

  “What—” She took a deep breath and then spoke again more calmly. “What do they want?”

  “That,” Rhys said, through gritted teeth, “is what I am trying to ascertain if someone would just go down and find out!”

  There was silence. Gwen looked at those gathered in the small circle and wondered why no one seemed inclined to volunteer to go. Montgomery was still too busy gaping at Sir Jean, likely trying to decide if he looked the part of a spy. Sir Jean was shifting again, more uneasily this time, and looking anywhere but at Rhys. Mary sat on the chest of gold with her head bowed. And the very tall nun with the very large feet still rested a hand on Mary’s shoulder.

  It was, oddly enough, a very hairy hand.

  Gwen looked up and met that sister’s eyes.

  And she saw, to her complete astonishment, a pair of gray eyes peeping out at her from inside a hood, a pair of gray eyes that she had definitely seen somewhere before.

  Or, rather, a pair like them.

  She looked at Rhys. Nay, it couldn’t be.

  She looked the nun over and saw what could have been mistaken for the lump of a sword hilt hiding beneath the woman’s habit.

  Woman? Gwen shook her head. That was no woman. She wondered why she was the only one who had seen it.

  She looked at her husband. He had turned to look out toward the plain, his face scrunched up in a formidable scowl. Then she looked at Sir Jean only to find him staring at her. He shifted again.

  “I haven’t enough men,” Rhys said with another curse. “And I definitely haven’t got one willing to go down and find out what the bloody hell Sedgwick wants!”

  Gwen turned the puzzle over in her mind. Mary seemed somewhat overcome by the knowledge of who stood to attack them. She was comforted by one who could only be Rhys’s father—who even Rhys assumed was dead. But what had that to do with what was happening down upon the plain? It wasn’t as if those below would have known Mary and her husband were arriving.

  Did they?

  Nay, not even Rollan could be so clever—assuming Rollan was behind the mischief.

  Gwen looked at Sir Jean. Of any of them, he most likely knew what was behind the day’s events. It was obvious Rhys was having no answers from him. Gwen suspected she might be the best one to wring the truth from him, given that she had already intimidated the old man in the lists quite thoroughly.

  “Sir Jean,” she said clearly.

  He looked at her, apparently saw her intention in her eyes, and swallowed. Uncomfortably.

  “Aye?” he said, looking about him for some avenue of escape.

  Gwen put her hand on the hilt of her sword and gave Sir Jean a look of promise. “Where is your son buried?” she asked bluntly.

  “Ah . . .”

  “The location, good sir,” Gwen said. “Where exactly is the location of his grave?”

  “Ah . . .”

  “And is he in it?”

  Rhys turned around at that. He looked first at Gwen, then at his grandfather. Sir Jean looked supremely uncomfortable. Gwen sincerely hoped he was a better spy than that when he was facing those who weren’t his family.

  The large sister with the hairy hand had even shifted. Gwen decided that before they could plan their war, they needed to know at least who the players were upon the hilltop. She leaned up on her toes and pulled back the hood from, and this came as no surprise to her, Etienne de Piaget’s dark head.

  He was, she had to admit, a very handsome man still. It was no wonder Rhys was so pleasing to look at. She looked at her husband to find that his jaw had gone slack.

  “Father?” he whispered.

  Gwen pushed Montgomery out of the way and put her arm around Rhys’s waist to hold him up, lest he feel the need to faint.

  Etienne was seemingly as affected as his son was, so Gwen turned her attentions to other matters. Why was Mary so overcome by the thought of Patrick of Sedgwick lying in wait below them? Gwen had never cared much for anyone from Sedgwick, and she had suffered through a supper or two with Henry of Sedgwick at her father’s supper table. Not a pleasant man. The only thing noteworthy about him had been the rumor that his daughter had disappeared one night and no one had seen her thereafter.

  His daughter, Mary.

  And Henry had died not a year after that. Some said he had died of his grief. Others said he had died of wounds his brother’s knife impaling itself between his ribs had given him. However it had come about, he had left a daughter behind whose whereabouts were a mystery.

  Gwen looked at Mary and frowned. It couldn’t be. She transferred her gaze to Jean and found that he was, amazingly enough, licking his lips. As if he were nervous. She gave him the sternest look she could muster.

  “You know why Sedgwick is here, don’t you?” Gwen asked.

  “Ah,” Jean stalled.

  Gwen adjusted her husband’s weight. “Well,” she said impatiently, “tell Rhys. Tell him why Patrick of Sedgwick has come pounding on his gates.”

  “We don’t have any gates,” Rhys whispered, still gaping at his father.

  “Well,” Jean said, shifting uncomfortably again.

  Gwen sighed in exasperation. She opened her mouth to speak only to find Rhys’s mother had already begun to do so.

  “Henry of Sedgwick was my father,” Mary said, looking at Rhys wearily. “And that would make you, love,” she continued, “heir to Sedgwick and all that entails. And I suppose Patrick of Sedgwick has come pounding on gates you have yet to build so that you might not come pounding upon his.”

  Gwen felt Rhys stiffen, then begin to sway. And then she decided that perhaps there was more of him than she could hold up alone, so she didn’t protest when Sir Jean offered his aid. ’Twas the least he could do. She had the feeling it was the beginning of the favors he would be doing his grandson to make up for the startling revelations of the day.

  45

  Rhys found himself sitting upon a portion of his great hall wall with his head between his knees and his grandfather holding it there.

  “Breathe, whelp,” Jean said gruffly. “And keep your head down. No need to faint in front of your lady.”
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  Rhys didn’t want to faint, he wanted to retch. For the first time, he thought he might have sympathy for the Fitzgeralds and what they endured on horseback.

  “Father?” Rhys croaked.

  “Aye, son.”

  Rhys managed to lift his head far enough to look at the sister who had always guarded his mother’s dining hall.

  “You’re a nun,” he wheezed.

  Etienne smiled weakly. “When it suits me.”

  “I could kill you for this,” Rhys managed, “if I could just get to my bloody feet without puking.”

  “How could I tell you?” his father said softly. “I have too many enemies for that, Rhys. They thought I was dead and you ignorant of my doings. They would have killed you otherwise.”

  Rhys didn’t want to weep, though he was damned close to it. His father was alive. His mother had known. His grandfather had known.

  And they had let him suffer anyway.

  “It was better that way,” Etienne said firmly. “You were safe, Rhys, and that was worth any price.” He smiled. “Besides, I’ve watched you over the years when I could manage it.”

  “That eases me greatly,” Rhys snapped. “It would have been a comfort to have watched you!”

  “You did often enough.”

  “In skirts!”

  Etienne shrugged. “One does what one must.”

  Rhys managed to sit up straight. He realized Gwen was standing nearby, and he jerked her onto his lap and wrapped his arms around her.

  “Forgive me, my love,” he said, “for not telling you what kind of family you stood to ally yourself with. Allow me to make proper introductions. That is my grandfather, the spy. That is my mother, the abbess and sometime spy. And this is my father, the sister of the cloth.”

  Rhys watched his father take Gwen’s hand, bend low over it, and kiss it politely. “How fortunate my son is to have wed a woman who is beautiful and yet deadly. I understand you have a wicked manner with a blade.”

  Rhys had no idea where his father had heard such drivel, but it certainly served him well, for Gwen immediately seemed to soften toward his father.

  And Rhys found he wished he could do the same. But, by the saints, he’d been a lad of seven when he’d last seen his sire! How could he be happy when he was so bloody furious?

  Etienne reached out and ruffled Rhys’s hair as if he’d been that lad of such tender years. “We’ll talk, my son. I will do what I can to make recompense for the years we’ve lost. But now we must decide what you will do about your uncle.”

  “I’ve acquired an entirely new family this day,” Rhys said in disgust, “and I’ve yet to decide if it pleases me or not. I knew I should have stayed abed this morn!”

  “At least Patrick wishes to talk,” Sir Jean said calmly. “He could merely wish to stick you.”

  “And you think he does not?” Etienne laughed. “Father, you’ve obviously led too comfortable a life the past month and it has softened you. Of course he wishes to slay Rhys. Patrick has no desire to lose his keep.”

  “Why would young Rhys want it?” Jean returned. “Pitiful place.”

  “Whether or not Rhys wants it matters little,” Etienne said firmly.

  “I know,” Jean grumbled. “’Tis that Rhys could come take it from him if he chose. I’m not so old as all that, whelp,” he said, with a glare thrown his son’s way, “that I cannot divine that.”

  Rhys looked at Gwen. She at least was no longer grumbling at him, or about him. In fact, he thought he just might have detected a bit of softness in her expression.

  “How fair you look today, my love,” he said, tucking her hair behind her ears. She had ears made for just such a thing, but he chose not to tell her as much. “Shall we go for a walk along the shore later?”

  She smiled and put her arms around his neck. “I love you.”

  “As do I,” he returned. He kissed her, then pushed her gently to her feet. “Well, let us be about our business and have an end to it. Then perhaps we can return our lives to something somewhat normal.”

  Then he looked about him and sighed.

  His wife was dressed as a mercenary, his father was in skirts, and his mother sat upon a fat chest of gold as if she were a chicken determined to defend her eggs to the death.

  Rhys sighed again and put his arm around his wife. “You stay here.”

  She agreed far too readily, but he could do nothing about it. He looked at his grandfather.

  “You come with me.”

  He nodded. “Of course.”

  Rhys looked at his father, opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again and shook his head. “You do what you like.”

  “I always do.”

  “So I see,” Rhys said. “Since I cannot seem to find anyone willing to see just what it is Sedgwick wants, I suppose I’ll have to go myself.”

  By the saints, the day could just not worsen from there. He was sure of it.

  Gwen pulled the hood of her cloak close around her face, grateful for the darkening sky and arrival of more inclement weather. The hood also kept her from having to smudge soot on her face to complete her disguise, for which she was most thankful. She would have less to explain if Rhys were to catch her. He thought her safely tucked away up on the hill, being protected along with the children, his mother, and his chest of gold.

  Evening shadows had fallen and with them had come a face-to-face meeting with Patrick of Sedgwick. Gwen had wondered at the wisdom of it, but Rhys hadn’t hesitated. He had taken with him his father, grandfather, Montgomery, and the Fitzgerald brothers. Evidently he considered them protection enough.

  She didn’t.

  Hence her intention to take up her position outside the tent that contained her husband and his uncle.

  She swaggered her way toward the appropriate tent, her hand on the hilt of her sword. Obviously she had improved her mercenary mien, for no one stopped her to question her having business in the area. She came to a stop near the tent and sat down casually, as if this had been her goal all the while. With one last look about her to make sure she wasn’t being overly observed, she put her ear to the cloth and strained to hear the voices inside.

  And she heard nothing. This was not helping her in her cause. With a curse, she rose to her feet and looked about her for a better solution. She walked around the tent, only to find the entrance under heavy guard. The Fitzgerald brothers stood to one side of the flap with Montgomery pacing in front of them, while the other side was guarded by men she did not recognize. She pulled back, but not before Montgomery had caught sight of her.

  Obviously her disguise needed more work.

  “Well, lad,” he said, coming around the tent and looking at her pointedly, “don’t you have duties that require you to remain atop the hill?”

  She scowled at him and remained silent.

  “I’d be about them were I you,” he warned.

  She shooed him away with her hand, but he only folded his arms over his chest and frowned at her. With a sigh she turned and walked back behind the tent, hoping he would think she had relented and returned to the keep. Obviously, she would have to make do with her current position. She stretched out on the ground and lifted the bottom edge of the tent a fraction. With any luck, in the dark, anyone who passed by would just think she had imbibed too much, and leave her in peace.

  “Let me understand this,” a deep voice said. “My niece is an abbess?”

  “Aye,” Rhys answered, “and very happily engaged in her vocation.”

  With her husband standing guard at her door, Gwen thought to herself. She wondered in the back of her mind if Mary and Etienne still lived as husband and wife.

  Patrick grunted.

  “No intention of returning to England?” Patrick asked sharply.

  “None,” Rhys assured him. “And, more particularly, no intention of returning to Sedgwick.”

  “And what of you?” Patrick demanded.

  “Well,” Rhys drawled, “I suppose that depends.” r />
  “Upon what?”

  “Upon whether or not you remove your men from my land before sun-down tomorrow.”

  “And if I do?”

  “Then you may remain upon my inheritance,” Rhys said pleasantly.

  Patrick gasped in outrage. “Why, you insolent pup—”

  “Insolent and fully capable of lopping off your head where you sit,” Rhys assured him. “And if you think I will not do it, think again.”

  “And I am to remain there by your good graces?” Patrick was, by the sound of him, not happy at all with the idea.

  “You should be grateful that I allow you to remain at all,” Rhys retorted. “You and your heirs may have the keeping of Sedgwick, but you will have it as my vassals. If this is not acceptable, you are free to find yourself another keep to inhabit.”

  Gwen wished desperately that she could have seen Patrick’s face. There was a great amount of snorting and swearing, as if Patrick strove to reconcile himself to his fate. Then there was the sound of a final, hearty curse.

  “Damn you,” Patrick snarled. “I don’t want to do this.”

  “Nor do you wish to move your bed,” Rhys finished dryly. “I accept your fealty.”

  There was the sound of more cursing from Patrick, but no further threats. She could have sworn she heard Patrick grumble something about Rollan and his foolish ideas, but then again she might have been imagining it. She put the tent flap back down and crawled to her feet, feeling somewhat relieved.

  She started to walk back toward the path up the hill, then paused. The feeling she’d had of needing to protect her husband had not dissipated. Patrick’s words might have been well-spoken, but that didn’t guarantee that his men felt the same way. And who knew how many men Rollan had been able to sway to his twisted way of thinking.

  She had her sword. There was no reason not to shadow her husband and be prepared to use it.

  46

  Rollan stood a safe distance away from Patrick’s tent and waited for the outcome of the meeting. It had taken all the daylight hours for the negotiations to reach the point where a face-to-face meeting had happened. At least now Rollan had the cover of darkness under which to work.