A Time for Love

  But now she had a very live, very brave champion to think on, and that was better than anyone from her imaginings.

  “He didn’t even have to use his sword,” Gwen said, relishing the moment yet again. “Just his reputation and the drawing of his blade was enough to set that Fenwyck demon to trembling.”

  “Aye, love.”

  “Would he have bloodied Geoffrey, do you think, Mama?”

  “Likely so, if he’d had to.”

  “Was he so serious then, think you, about avenging my bruised honor, Mama?”

  Her mother laughed and hugged her close. “I think he was very serious, my girl. But do you not think you earned a bit of Sir Geoffrey’s ire? You did lock him in the tower.”

  “He told me my ears were overlarge.”

  “Only after you pointed out to him that he has a gap in his teeth.”

  “He’s vain, Mama, and I couldn’t bear him swaggering about. Besides, he tweaked one of my plaits when your back was turned. Sir Rhys would never have done such a thing.”

  “Likely not.”

  “Is he not wonderful, Mama?”

  “Aye, my Gwen, he is. But do you not recall that you are betrothed to Alain of Ayre? As fine a lad as Sir Rhys may be, he will not be your husband. Perhaps you would do well not to think on him overmuch.”

  What Gwen didn’t want to give thought to was Alain, so she agreed quickly with her mother, turned away, and pretended to go to sleep.

  In truth, she dreamed with her eyes open of a gallant lad who had taken his life in his hands to challenge a man at least six years older than he. Gwen could still see the steadiness of Rhys’s hands as he rested them upon his sword hilt, telling all who watched that he had the courage of a score of Geoffreys of Fenwyck. She had no trouble recalling the fineness of his dark hair as it fell to his shoulders, or the noble tilt to his chin and the regal shape of his nose.

  And he had such marvelous ears.

  She sighed in pleasure before she could stop herself, then coughed, lest her mother think she was dreaming instead of sleeping.

  If only he could offer for her instead of that foul-tempered, lackwitted Alain of Ayre. Then would the truth of her life be as glorious as what she imagined up in her head.

  Was there a way? Rhys was but a knight, true, but would not his glorious deeds count for something? Could her father not be persuaded that Rhys was far more desirable as a son-in-law than Alain? She was discerning enough to know that land and alliances would decide whom she wed—indeed, such things had already decided the matter. But could that not be set aside this once? Her father denied her nothing. Perhaps he would continue the practice with this. She would ask him first thing.

  She yawned and closed her eyes, and then she dreamed in truth.

  Of a splendidly chivalrous young man with serious gray eyes and a bright, sharp sword.

  Rhys had watched the rest of the keep seek their beds, yet he found himself standing guard near his lord. He wasn’t in truth a member of Lord Ayre’s guard, but he volunteered for the duty willingly. Bertram had given him much; it seemed the least he could do in return. Being near his lord tonight was especially soothing, given the busy afternoon he’d had. He’d come away the victor, but it hadn’t been without price—namely his peace of mind.

  No sooner had Gwen washed her face and brushed the mud from her hair than she had reappeared, waiting for him to do something. Rhys had entertained one last hope that perhaps her mother might have talked her into reason, but he had found said mother sitting beside his championed lady, watching just as expectantly. His promise to avenge resting heavily on his shoulders, he had taken his cheek in hand and approached Geoffrey of Fenwyck with as much seriousness as he could muster.

  Fenwyck’s son had laughed at him at first. It had taken a great deal of courage to stand there and not flinch, but Rhys had done it. Then he’d drawn his sword and rested it point down in the rushes before him. It was but a borrowed sword, as Bertram had only recently ordered another to be fashioned for him, but a sword was a sword when it came to the finer matters of chivalric duty. Evidently Geoffrey had seen that the point was sharp enough and that Rhys’s determination was firmly fixed, for he had stopped laughing and started blustering about. His bluster had soon turned to uncomfortable silence when Rhys had invited the older lad to have a go in the lists. Uncomfortable for Geoffrey, that was. By that time Rhys had begun to feel that his reputation for fierceness on the battlefield might indeed serve him well.

  It had certainly earned him a look of worship from Gwen after the deed had been done.

  By the saints, but it was enough to make him believe there was something to Bertram’s lectures on chivalry after all.

  William rose, startling Rhys from his reverie. He waited until Lord Bertram had risen as well before he fell in behind them. He stopped outside Segrave’s solar and stood with his back to the partially open door. And much as he tried not to, he couldn’t avoid hearing the conversation going on inside.

  “You missed the excitement this afternoon, my friend,” William said. “While you were napping, your foster son was going about correcting injustices.”

  Bertram laughed uneasily. “He didn’t challenge your entire guard, did he?”

  “It wasn’t my guard he was taking on, ’twas that rascal who locked my Gwen in the piggery.”

  “Young Fenwyck?”

  “Who else? The boy’s a menace.”

  Bertram whistled softly. “A full score of years he has, yet he’s still causing the maids to weep. It doesn’t surprise me that Rhys took him on.”

  “Indeed he did. He swaggered up to Fenwyck’s get just as boldly as you please and told Geoffrey he’d throw him into the piggery if he didn’t apologize to Gwen. He added that he would escort him there by way of the lists if necessary.”

  “Ah, that’s my lad,” Bertram said, his voice full of pride. “I take it young Fenwyck did as he was bid?”

  “Ungraciously, but aye. Young Rhys’s reputation is the stuff of legends already.”

  Rhys stood straighter. He couldn’t help himself. That William of Segrave should compliment him was something indeed. He fingered the ribbon he wore on his arm. His first favor, and from a lord’s daughter no less. He had lived up not only to her expectations, but her father’s as well. ’Twas something to be proud of.

  “He’ll be a fine man,” Bertram said quietly.

  “Aye,” William agreed. “A pity he’ll have no land. He would make a good husband and lord.”

  There was silence for a goodly while. Then Bertram spoke.

  “He would make a fine husband just the same. Especially to a girl whose antics would terrify the bravest of men.”

  “Bertram,” William said with a half laugh, “you insult my sweet Gwen. She’s merely adventurous.”

  “You told me yourself that just a se’nnight ago you found her preparing to scale the outer wall to assure herself that your defenses against such a thing were what they should be. The girl thinks far too much for her own good!”

  William’s chuckle was enough to make Rhys begin to sweat. If he found that bit of mischief amusing, what other things was Gwen about that he indulged? Saints, the girl would kill herself before she reached a score of years.

  And he found, unsurprisingly, that the thought was deeply distressing to him, the saints pity him for an impractical fool. As if anyone would care that he felt the sudden compulsion to make sure she didn’t dash her dainty toes against a sharp rock.

  “William, she deserves someone who will appreciate that.”

  “One would think, my friend, that you would rather me give Gwen to him than your son.”

  “Rhys has many things Alain lacks.”

  “And he lacks what Alain has, which will be a barony in time. I cannot wed my daughter to a simple knight, Bertram.”

  Bertram sighed heavily. “I know, William. I know.”

  And that, it seemed, was that.

  Rhys swallowed with difficulty, surprised by ho
w much such simple words pained him. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t had the same words hurled at him all his life, and by those with certainly purposefully crueler tongues than Segrave’s. He should have been used to the sting by now, but he wasn’t. For a moment he had actually believed that he might be looked on as more than just a knight.

  He should have known better than to allow himself to hope that he might have a baron’s daughter, or any other woman of such exalted station. He’d heard the truth of the matter and straight from William’s lips.

  Rhys sensed eyes upon him and looked up to find Sir Montgomery watching him. He stiffened.

  “How long have you been there?” he demanded.

  “Long enough,” Montgomery said quietly.

  “Must you always lurk in dark corners?” Rhys snarled. Montgomery only clapped a hand on Rhys’s shoulder and urged him down the passageway.

  “I’ll remain,” he said, and the tone of his voice warned Rhys that he would accept no argument. “Go sleep. You’ll want to be in the lists early.”

  Rhys would have gone to the lists then if he could have, to relieve the feelings of shame that coursed through him. Of course he’d known he could never have someone like Gwennelyn of Segrave. Hadn’t he told himself as much as he rode through the gates that morning? He wouldn’t have her and he wouldn’t have her land. Instead they would be given to Alain of Ayre, a young man whose thoughts ran no deeper than to which falcon to choose for his day’s hunt. Gwen’s soil would turn into a wasteland under his care. For all Rhys knew, Gwen herself would turn into the same with Alain as her mate. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do to amend either.

  A pity that he wanted to.

  By the saints, desire was a bloody awful thing.

  He set off down the passageway, and as he did so, the ribbon she had given him fluttered with the movement of his striding. He fumbled at it, then found that he couldn’t release the knot. By the saints, who had taught the girl to tie things so securely? He worked at it with frantic intensity. He pulled, then yanked, cursing the favor and its giver. Finally it came loose and he cast it to the ground, the stinging in his eyes blinding him to where it had fallen. He walked away, leaving it behind him in the passageway.

  He cursed the day he’d ever gazed into those aqua eyes and prayed the day would never come when he had to look in them again.

  It was very much past the wee hours of the morn when Rhys crept back up the steps. The torch had burned low and the passageway was empty. Rhys inched his way along the wall, stopping at the place he thought he’d been before.

  The ribbon was no longer there.

  He leaned back against the wall and swore softly. Then he gathered his wits about him. It had been a foolish idea, just as foolish as all the hopes he had entertained that day. He made his way back down the great hall to return to his sleeping place. On the morrow he would rise before dawn and train. He felt confident in the lists, secure in his abilities and proud of his performance. He was safe there. It was a far safer place to be than anywhere near Gwennelyn of Segrave.

  Aye, deciding to keep as much distance from her as possible might be the most rational decision he’d made all day.

  It would likely serve him just as well in the future.

  4

  England, 1196

  Gwen peered into her mother’s polished silver goblet, trying to see if the wimple sat properly on her head. Upon closer inspection, she discovered a pair of smudges on the white fabric near her ears.

  “By all the bloody saints,” she exclaimed, “who dirtied this?”

  “Gwen,” her mother chided, “such unattractive words to come from your mouth.”

  “My finest wimple is ruined.”

  “Perhaps if you wore them more often,” Joanna said, “you might become more acquainted with their state of cleanliness, or lack thereof.”

  “I am endeavoring, Mother,” Gwen said with as much patience as she could muster, “to make a good impression.”

  “On Lord Bertram?”

  “Who else?” Gwen lied. Her future father-in-law could have seen her covered in leavings from the cesspit and she wouldn’t have cared. Nay, there was only one whose good opinion she craved.

  And the bloody lout hadn’t looked at her once since he’d arrived.

  She couldn’t understand it. He had departed the keep with Lord Bertram the day after he’d challenged Geoffrey of Fenwyck those six years ago, which was unexpected, but she had assumed he’d done it not to cause Fenwyck’s son further embarrassment. That was far more than Geoffrey deserved, the wretch.

  She had been at the gates to watch Rhys ride away. She’d exchanged no words with him, but certainly a good long look. His eyes had been clear and bright and his jaw set strongly as if he sallied forth to do more heroic deeds to delight her. She’d recognized the look that hid all emotion. All fine champions did so, lest prying eyes discover the innermost feelings of their hearts. It was a ruse they put into play, and Gwen had been greatly cheered to know Rhys was doing the like. It could only mean he had given his heart into her keeping. She had nodded to him gravely, then escaped to her mother’s solar to imprint upon her memory her last sight of the man she was certain she loved.

  It had troubled her occasionally to find Lord Bertram arriving without Rhys in the ensuing years. It had troubled her even more to see Alain arrive with his father from time to time, but she had comforted herself with the knowledge that one day Rhys would come for her and claim her as his own. That made enduring Alain’s poor manners and feebleminded conversation less difficult than it would have been otherwise.

  And then today had dawned. She’d been loitering on the battlements, observing her father’s archers and wondering how difficult it would be to filch a bow from one of them to learn their skills, when what had she seen but Ayre’s banner coming toward them. She’d groaned at the sight of it, but remained on her perch that she might see if she were to be burdened with her betrothed’s presence or not.

  And then she’d seen who rode in Lord Bertram’s company.

  She’d almost fallen off the walkway in surprise.

  Her mother had kept her busy in the solar for the whole of the day. Gwen had sewn tunic sleeves shut, hemmed sheets too short, and stitched a three-footed falcon onto her father’s finest surcoat. Her mother had finally put her to playing the lute to entertain Segrave’s ladies, but even that had proved too taxing a duty. Gwen couldn’t for the life of her remember her notes.

  He was below.

  She could hardly breathe for the excitement that coursed through her.

  Then she’d finally been allowed to go to the great hall and partake of a meal. It had been a very long meal, and Rhys had sat at the table below her father’s for a very long time.

  Ignoring her.

  If she’d dared, she would have walked up to him and demanded an explanation. Concealing his feelings was one thing, yet even that demanded the occasional stolen glance filled with love. What had she had from the champion of her heart?

  Not a bloody nod. Nary a wink. Not even a twitch of an eyebrow when she’d accidentally knocked a pitcher of wine over into Lord Bertram’s lap.

  Events were not progressing as she had planned.

  Which was why she found herself on this, the second morning of Sir Rhys’s stay in her keep, digging through her trunk for a suitable wimple to cover her ears. Perhaps he had thought better of wanting to champion her because he had spent too much time dwelling on the state of filthiness she’d found herself in the last time they’d met. Not so this time. She fully intended to show him that she could keep her clothes clean, her demeanor demure, and her ears covered. He couldn’t fail to be impressed by that.

  Only now her plans were dashed by the discovery of dirt on her finest wimple. How was she to make a good impression with a filthy headcovering? She was in mid-contemplation of a selection of curses when she felt her mother’s hands on her head.

  “Here, my love,” Joanna said gently, removing the
soiled cloth, “you’ll wear one of mine.”

  “Nay,” Gwen protested, “you know I’ll only ruin it.”

  “For such a tidy girl, you do manage to wear a great deal of dirt,” Joanna agreed placidly.

  Gwen didn’t bother to argue. She did find herself smudged quite often, but it came from the places she went and the things she investigated. She needed fodder for her own tales and ’twas a certainty she wouldn’t find it in her mother’s solar. Women’s gossip, no matter how entertaining, was not interesting enough for the elaborate lays she wrote out in her head. But her father’s armory was. Never mind that she had never hefted a sword in her life. She needed no hefting for creation.

  She stood still as her mother fussed with tying the wimple under her chin and tucking her hair under the cloth. And she found it very difficult to meet her mother’s eyes, lest she see the plots and schemes lurking therein.

  “Gwen.”

  Gwen looked at her mother reluctantly. “Aye?”

  “Your course is set before you, my girl.”

  “Would that I could alter it,” Gwen muttered.

  “I had no choice in the wedding of your father,” Joanna reminded her, “and see you how well that has turned out?”

  Ah, but her sire was a far different man than the volatile, selfish Alain of Ayre. That his temper was matched only by his stupidity made him a very disagreeable prospect indeed.

  But with any luck, he would be searching for a new bride very soon. Sir Rhys would see to that. Gwen had faith in him.

  Now, if she could just convince him to agree with her.

  “I must go down,” Gwen said, feeling the need to escape from her mother’s assessing glance. “It will show Lord Bertram that I will be a good chatelaine if I am there to tend to our guests.”

  Her mother sighed. “Be careful, Gwen.”

  Gwen fled before she had to hear any more. She had the feeling what her mother didn’t know, she’d guessed. Had she been so obvious then, over the past six years? She’d lived for every scrap of news about Sir Rhys and made any bearer of such tidings repeat over and over again what they’d heard. She’d reminded her parents that she was composing heroic lays as a tribute to Queen Eleanor’s fondness of them, and it only served her to hear of the gallant Sir Rhys’s remarkable adventures. He had gone on many errands for Lord Bertram and somehow always managed to extricate himself in the most glorious of ways from impossible situations, using his sword and his wits with equal skill.