Echoes of the slammed door vibrated in the dim closeness of the room. Rhys stalked across the floor and flung her to the bed in a smooth motion that made her bounce on the mattress like a child’s cloth doll. The hem of her skirts flew up and draped over her knees. She clutched at the sides of the bed with both hands, staring up at him as he stood over her. A fleeting glance toward the closed door only earned her a chiding murmur. He didn’t move, staring down at her until she looked away.
He smiled. “Come, flower. You’ve more spine than that. Tell me why you poisoned my men’s wine to make them sick, and perhaps I’ll just scold you and let you go.”
Sasha glared up at him with eyes spitting fury. “I’m not that big a fool. If you thought I’d put something in their wine—”
“I know you put something in their wine. What we’re discussing now is why.” He took a step toward the bed and she scuttled backward on the mattress like a mouse scurrying out of harm’s way, until her spine was pressed against the wall. Her chest rose and fell with quick, panting breaths. He wondered what she saw in his face to make her so afraid; she must see the rage he felt at being betrayed. Again. It wasn’t a new emotion but still held far too much power over him. Would he ever learn to accept a betrayal without this deep, churning sense of futility and frustration? Nay, he doubted it. If he’d not learned to by now, ’twas unlikely that he ever would learn to just shake his head and go on.
He leaned over her, fists pressing into the mattress on each side of her small form, his face a handbreadth from hers. “Tell me, flower … why?”
“I—” She looked away, tongue flicking out to wet her lips, eyes darting about the room as if searching for the answer. “I don’t know. No—wait.” She took in a deep breath, one hand up to halt his instinctive move forward. “It was to keep you here. Truly.”
“Ah. To keep me here.” He nodded thoughtfully. “I can believe that. It has the ring of truth. But tell me, flower, who wanted you to keep me here? Who sent you to delay me?”
“Who?” She licked her lips again, shaking her head in an excellent imitation of confusion. “No one sent me, my lord. I—I just wanted you to stay here another day.”
He smiled. “Sweet child. Of course you did.” Reaching out, he drew a finger lightly along the curve of her cheek, then over the tumble of her lower lip and down to her chin to grip it firmly between his thumb and fingers, holding her head still when she tried to twist away. “Now, tell me the truth. No maid would go to such lengths to keep me here unless sent to do so. I want to know who sent you. Was it an Englishman?” His grip tightened as she shrank away, “Or was it a Welshman?”
Her eyes widened. She shook her head as violently as was possible while he still held her so tightly. “I don’t know what you mean.…”
Swearing, he moved to kneel over her on the hard mattress, his hands crushing her shoulders against the wall, his expression fierce as he could make it without actually scaring her to death. She looked terrified already; but apparently not enough, for even when he threatened terrible things, drawing on imaginary and not so imaginary terrors, she only shook her head and gasped out that no one had told her to keep him there.
“It was … my idea …” she said in a half sob, shaking with fear and rage, her glances like poisoned arrows but her tears real enough, “my idea. I told you … why I did it … to keep you … here.…”
Releasing her with another oath, he sat back on his heels, staring at her in frustration. Whoever had sent her, had chosen well. She did not budge from her tale, from the ridiculous insistence that she’d wanted him to stay and fight for her victory. He couldn’t make out all the foolish story, for between her sobs and his shaking of her, it was hard to hear and harder to understand. Something about a prophecy and long quest—and him, of course. A griffyn. Brian must have told her who he was. He couldn’t recall giving her his name, just as he couldn’t recall her ever giving him hers. He’d had to overhear her servant call her by name just to discover it. And of course, it was probably not even her real name.
He stared at her thoughtfully. Short of torture, he couldn’t think of another way to make her tell him what he wanted to know. Unless …
He smiled, and her wet eyes narrowed with immediate suspicion. She’d already learned that particular smile, it seemed, for she stared at him warily as he caressed her face again.
“I wonder, would your servants tell me what I want to know, flower?” He caught her when she tried to twist from the bed, setting her back against the wall firmly. “Nay, do not try that again. My patience nears its limits. I’ve asked pleasantly and not so pleasantly. You’ve not given me the answer I want. So now I must use other methods to gain the proper reply. Perhaps you won’t answer to save your skin, but you might to save theirs.”
As he pushed away from her, moving to stand beside the bed, she threw herself forward and caught him by the hand, holding as tightly as a tenacious animal. “Nay, lord. Don’t do anything to them, I beg of you.”
She paused, quivering, and pressed her wet face against his hand. He felt a distinct self-disgust at the moment but reasoned that she had brought this upon herself. He laid his other hand atop her head, patting it as he would a small child’s. “Tell me what I need to know, flower. It’s not just for me, you understand. There are other lives in the balance, and I must know who betrays me.”
Looking up with drowned eyes, she sniffed. “I—I don’t know his name. No, wait, my lord—truly, he never told me. And I don’t know English from Welsh. You all look alike to me. But he was dark. With a thin face like—like a weasel. And huge, dark eyes like black flames … all burning and hot and terrifying.… He said if I didn’t keep you here, he’d kill us all. Boil us in oil. Skin us first, and use our hides as shoes.” She drew in a deep, hiccoughing breath. “And if I fail, he’ll hunt us down with dogs, find us wherever we go, then feed us to them in pieces. We’ll be hung from trees along the roads as a warning. Shot full of arrows as targets and—”
“Did it never occur to you,” Rhys interrupted dryly, “that there is only one time you can die? Never mind, flower. Whatever he said, it was obviously enough to convince you. Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”
She nodded, hair flying into her eyes in silky wisps. “Oh yes, my lord, for he looks like the devil. I expect that if you took off his boots, he’d have cloven hooves and a tail beneath his cape and horns beneath his helmet—”
“Cease. I take your meaning. Your imagination is vivid, flower. Let’s hope your memory is as excellent.”
He stepped away from her and moved to the small table beneath the window. He lifted the flagon of wine, sniffed at it cautiously, then poured some into a cup. After considering it a moment, he took it to Sasha. “Here. Taste this.”
She gave him a wary look, and he shrugged. “I’ve put nothing in it. If you haven’t either, then you’ll drink.”
She drained the cup and handed it back, wiped her mouth with her hand and gazed up at him defiantly. Amused, he shook his head. “It’s either pure, or you’ve chosen the coward’s way out, flower.”
“Are you quite through with me now, my lord? Have I satisfied your questions?” She crossed her arms over her chest, some of her former defiance and arrogance returning.
He poured another cup of wine, looking over at her to smile. “For the moment, I’m quite satisfied. I’ll be even more satisfied when we reach Wales and you identify the man who sent you to delay me. Or to slay me with poison, whichever it was.”
She’d been smoothing her gown over her legs, but now her head jerked up and she stared at him with wide, dark eyes. “What do you mean? Wales? Identify who?”
He walked over to her again, tracing a still-damp tear track over the slope of her cheek with his finger. “We leave in the morning for Wales, sweet flower, and you will be accompanying us.”
Wales. Wasn’t that somewhere at the edge of the earth? At the edge of an ocean that dropped off into the kingdom of dragons? Wales. Blinking blearily, Sasha flung a glance of acute loathing in Rhys’s direction. He ignored her. If he even noticed. Early morning mist surrounded them in eerie shreds, muffling forest noises, muffling even the thud of hooves on soft, muddy ground. The sound of her cart’s wheels was only a distant rattle somewhere far behind them.
At least Elspeth and Biagio had not been left behind, though they traveled at the tail end of the caravan, trailing so far back they would soon be out of sight. But it was a hard-won concession, purchased with pleading and groveling. She still wasn’t quite certain why Rhys had agreed but was relieved that he had.
Too bad she hadn’t seen either Elspeth or Biagio except at a distance, for Rhys had kept her away from them. If only they could hear her thoughts as she could hear theirs. She knew how worried they were, and knew that they’d heard enough of the story to understand they were being taken to Wales.
No doubt, that wretched tavern wench had run straight to Biagio with some pitiful excuse for her lies. Well, not exactly lies, but untimely truths. Lynn had seen them at the wine casks, and it was true enough they had put something in them. But she hadn’t really seen them do it. Stupid wench. If not for her—Sasha blew out a sigh. It didn’t matter. All that mattered now was the future, not the past.
While she was with Rhys—and likely to be with him for some time to come—it was not as she had envisioned. Not only had he not believed the prophecy, but he’d dismissed the entire thing as an invented excuse. Who knew if she’d ever be able to convince him now? And she’d had to make up that wild tale about some dark man with big, burning eyes and impossible threats just to keep him from doing something terrible to all of them. What would he do when they got to Wales and she couldn’t point out the man who had supposedly frightened her into keeping Rhys in England?
It didn’t matter. She’d worry with that when it happened. There were other, more pressing matters to worry about. She flung Rhys another glance. He rode ahead of her, mounted on his destrier—who was no longer limping—and not even looking at her. She was flanked by two hard-faced men with cold eyes and the bad habit of lewd thoughts. She shuddered and huddled deeper into her cloak.
It had rained most of the night. A hard rain, rattling shutters and beating against the inn’s roof, making her shiver and shake in her hard pallet on the floor. Apparently, Rhys was so angry he didn’t even want to bed her again. Not that she was complaining. But he’d tied her to his wrist with a length of thick rope, and every time she moved in the night, he’d lifted up from his bed to stare at her, eyes glistening in the faint candle glow. She hadn’t slept much.
Just knowing he was there, only a short distance away, had kept her very much awake. She’d tossed and turned until he snarled at her to be still before he wrapped her neck with the rope, and then she lay so stiff that her muscles still ached from the strain. Her only consolation was that Brian was almost as appalled as she by the circumstances.
“Take her with us,” he’d exploded in horror. “But my lord, we can’t.”
There had been a short, low discussion, ending with Brian slamming angrily from the room, leaving her smiling with grim satisfaction. It had felt better then than it did now. Now, it had begun to rain again, a steady patter that made her miserable and didn’t seem to affect the mailed knights slogging through mud up to their horses’ hocks. She thought of the little wooden cart, and how it had a canopy over the back, and how Biagio would drive it until they found a spot under some trees to wait out a storm all cozy and dry. It was a nice cart, a sturdy cart, for all that the broken axle had caused them such a delay in Wytham.
That had been repaired very swiftly under Rhys’s orders, she’d learned, another lesson in how villagers were quite capable of taking advantage of travelers. She couldn’t imagine a wainwright telling Rhys it would take several days to repair. Her one glimpse of the cart had been evidence enough that it was repaired swiftly and efficiently. Biagio had been leaning against it, arms crossed over his chest, his face sullen. When he saw her, he’d glared, his mental direction so angry that she quickly threw up her barriers against him.
But not Elspeth. She’d waved, a brief flap of one hand and the mental assurance that they were fine and wouldn’t leave her. It had almost brought tears to her eyes. Not that she would be able to produce any more for weeks. Her entire supply had been spent on stammering denials and then pleading excuses. She flushed with shame to remember it.
Rhys had terrified her. There had been a ferocity in his expression and actions that had swept her from denials to mindless fear before she could blink. None of his usual humor and mockery had surfaced to replace the cold determination. Not until she’d said something that satisfied him, and that had been such a wild, improbable tale she still couldn’t believe that he’d accepted it.
Her horse stumbled, and she grabbed at the high pommel in front of her, holding tightly to the saddle as the animal regained its balance. Not a noble beast such as a destrier or her own sweet mare, but a baggage horse had been given her to ride. Still, it was a gentle-natured animal, with no malice and an accepting disposition. Duller than most, just as some people were slower of wit than others.
Looking up, she saw one of her guards watching her, his eyes narrowed and thoughtful. She didn’t like the direction of his thoughts, and said casually, “Your nose will turn black and drop off if you even try it.”
He stared at her, startled, and she smiled. It was enough to make him view her more carefully, and she settled back into the grueling pace with a sigh. Not even rain seemed to slow Rhys in his momentum. Before she knew it, they would be in Wales.
Slanting cloud-shadows crossed the deep green of fields on each side of the winding road that led into the Welsh vale. It was near the midday hour. Peasants tilling a field looked up, some of them leaning on their hoe handles to watch the band of armed men pass down the road.
From his vantage point atop the hilly crest, Rhys had an expansive view of the valley and rough hills beyond. A winding band of water, sun chipped and glittering bright enough to sting his eyes, cut across the vale. He blinked against the glare and glanced up at the sky. It was a vibrant blue, a huge bowl tufted with scudding white clouds that drifted lazily, like the windblown seeds of a thistle.
“The River Wye,” Brian commented, and Rhys nodded.
“Ydi,” he said, the slip back into Welsh easier than he’d thought it would be. The closer they drew to Glenlyon, the sharper the memories were. Yellow charlock mantled the dipping ground, catching sunlight in the tiny golden blooms. Butter-colored blossoms of bird’s-foot clover dotted tall grasses. Since reaching the banks of the Wye, he’d begun to remember: Twilight games played among the willows crowding the green banks of the river, practicing with small blunt-tipped arrows and his bow, cracking a flimsy wooden sword against his eldest brother’s head and being soundly trounced for it—so long ago, as if it had been another life, another lad who had laughed and romped and lived among the beautiful Welsh valley and hills.
But there were other memories as well, less peaceful and infinitely more grim. Armed warriors streaming over these same placid hills, brandishing swords and spears and screaming for blood as they stormed fortified walls. Welsh against Welsh, English against Welsh, there had always been enemies waiting like vultures to seize the rich lands of Wales. And it was no different now, only the names of the enemies had changed.
Halting only one league from Glenlyon, Rhys signaled a rest. They would wait for the scouts he’d sent ahead to return and report. He dismounted beneath the spreading shade of a birch tree. A sparrow perching in the branches above twittered and hopped, erratic and noisy.
Rhys looked down the line of mounted men and saw Sasha dismount with a sprightly bounce. She’d kept up with them, enduring the grueling pace with only a few complaints, and most of those directed at the men and not the hard ride. He smiled faintly. She was as noisy as a sparrow, chittering protests at everything but what should matter most. Despite his anger at her faithless trick, he couldn’t help an odd twinge of occasional sentiment that was certainly misplaced. It was his own fault for being witless enough to allow himself to be charmed by her. He should have listened to Brian, though not for the reasons he’d given.
But Rhys had had no trouble keeping his distance from her, even if the memory of that first night was still an annoying distraction at times. The images would come to him at the most inconvenient moments, vague memories of her golden body and the curtain of silky black hair, the feel of her soft thighs around him … it was enough to arouse him if he let it. But he was a grown man and not a youth incapable of harnessing his passions, and he had no intention of allowing her to incite him to more foolishness. Nay, he would keep her at a distance. There were other, more important matters to capture his attention.
Sasha looked up suddenly, a quick flash of dark eyes and red mouth beneath a cloud of loose hair, staring at him; Rhys was arrested by the swift change of her expression, the softening that looked almost like vulnerability. But he knew better. She was a changeling, melding from woman to child to sorceress like the shift of the wind. He deliberately turned away.
As the day wore on and the scouts did not return, Rhys grew impatient with the delay. “We ride for Glenlyon,” he said, slapping his gauntlets across an open palm. He stood on a high crest, staring toward the keep that was still hidden from sight. “Choose twenty men to go with us.”
“Should we not wait on the scouts to return?” Sir Robert asked hesitantly, and Rhys shook his head.
“Our previous scouts reported none of Raglan’s men in the area, nor other enemies. No troops sighted, nor siege engines hidden in the woods.”
“I don’t like it that the men we sent out this morning have not come back,” Brian muttered. “Nor have we seen the messenger we sent to Glenlyon to tell Owain of your arrival. Your father’s steward should have replied. I don’t like this.”
“Brian, I don’t intend to attempt an assault on the keep now. It was in Owain’s hands a week ago. I want to know if it still is. We are enough men to resist any attack by a small band. If there was a large Raglan force we’d have heard reports of them by now. It’s not easy to hide a vast body of troops for long.” Reaching for his reins, he vaulted into Turk’s saddle and pulled on his gauntlets. “We ride for Glenlyon.”
Glenlyon itself he remembered as a rough motte-and-bailey structure mostly of wood and half-hidden by surrounding forest. Time had changed it. For leagues around, trees had been felled to provide timber for construction, leaving the hills strewn with stumps. When they rode around a sharp bend in the road, high stone towers soared upward like dragon’s teeth, seeming to graze the clouds. A banner fluttered from atop a tower, waving scarlet and gold against the rose and purple sky. A familiar standard. The griffyn still flew.
Glenlyon.
It was so different, yet somehow unchanged, grander than his memories, but unmistakable: The glitter of the river, the green hills and the impressive high spur on the riverbanks still commanded an ancient crossing over the river. It was the structure that had changed most; the steep stone walls and towers that overlooked the village had been built since last he played here as a child. But it was still home.…
The village of Cwnllew huddled not far from the foot of the high spur on the banks of the Wye. The streets were empty save for an occasional dog or chicken, doors and windows shut tight. Cottages were strung out along the twisting band of water, but no kine or sheep could be seen in fields or behind fences. A warning of imminent invasion must have been sounded sending the people running to hide themselves and their goods. Cwnllew was deserted. Their approach had been duly noted.
It was quiet as they drew nearer the keep, with no sign of struggle or siege, no mark of recent battle or indication of what they would find inside the stones looming high against the Welsh sky above the village. “I cannot like this, milord,” Brian muttered uneasily. “’Tis too calm. No one is about.”
“It’s obvious our messenger delivered his message,” Rhys said wryly, “for the peasants have fled. You know the saying—when two noblemen quarrel, ’tis the peasant’s roof that burns.”
Echoes of hoofbeats on empty streets were strangely loud. Brian gripped his sword hilt tightly. “Do you think the keep has been taken?”
Rhys frowned. “The griffyn flies, not Raglan’s banner. Owain might just be cautious, as Sir Niclas already attempted an assault. And Owain must know by now of Gavin’s petition to take Glenlyon by legal means. With all that, he may not trust my banner until he sees proof. Whatever, I’ll have an answer before long.”
The winding street led up from the village, skirting a deep ditch that curved around the base of the keep, ending at a drawbridge and the tower gates. Rhys rode to the closed gates and demanded entry.
“Pwy dod?” came the sentry’s challenge in thick English-accented Welsh.
Unaccustomed as he was to the Welsh tongue, even Rhys could detect the English accent. He exchanged a wary glance with Brian, then shrugged.
“Fy enw yw Rhys ap Griffyn,” he shouted up, “Lord of Glenlyon. Grant entry.”
“Lord of Glenlyon?” A broad, flat-featured face appeared in the lancet window, then withdrew. After a time, the sentry reappeared to announce, “The old lord of Glenlyon is dead.”
Rhys swept his helmet off so that the fading sunlight would shine on his face and hair, and summoned his standard bearer. As the pennon shook free, the gold griffyn on scarlet unfurled, glittering in the afternoon sun. Rhys looked up at the sentry. “As you can see, I am the new lord of Glenlyon. Open the gates.”
“I’ve had no orders to open for a new lord. Now go, before I summon archers to drive you away.”
So that was the way it was to be. Rhys curbed his anger with an effort, and demanded an audience with the bailiff. There was another brief discussion before the sentry returned to the slotted window to say that the bailiff would speak with him if he entered the keep alone.
“Nay. Send the bailiff out.” Rhys waited, his shield reflecting sunlight, his patience waning, then finally agreed to meet the bailiff in the middle of the drawbridge.
Brian’s protest was alarmed. “My lord, do not go in—”
“Do you think me fool enough to ride into the keep alone?” Rhys retorted. “I go as far as the bridge unless I am convinced otherwise.”
With his destrier snorting restlessly, Rhys waited on the banks of the moat, staring across shallow green water at the stone walls of Glenlyon. Frogs croaked a gruff melody. In the lengthening shadows cast by high stone walls, insects emerged to bite and sting, buzzing around him as he waited. The sun was still in the sky, yet it was growing dark where he stood in the shadow of the keep. It was an impressive fortress, and one that would not fall easily to assault.
When the signal was given to lower the drawbridge, Brian fretted that it was a trap. “You’re being reckless, Rhys. I fear dishonesty.”
“Yea, as do I. Put a few of our good Welsh bowmen behind me. And make them visible, so those inside will know we’re not completely trusting fools.”
“Let me pretend to be you,” Brian broke in quickly. “An entire army could be in that keep. If I’m taken, ’tis no great loss.”
“It would be to me.” Rhys met Brian’s eyes and smiled. “We don’t know for certain this is a trap. We’re here now. If Owain no longer holds the keep for me, I need to know.” He glanced toward the lowering drawbridge, listened to grating chains haul the iron gate slowly upward. Every instinct screamed a warning. Any cautious steward would meet him at the postern gate, thus guarding castle defenses while still allowing him in. Why lower the bridge for only one man and risk an assault?
Brian was right, of course. Despite the bailiff’s promise of a safe conduct, there was the real possibility of mounted knights waiting inside to surge across the bridge toward him. But there was no reason for such an event save one. He’d brought no huge force with him, posed no serious threat to a well-fortified keep. So there was no swifter way to find out if there was treachery afoot than this.
Brian was of the same mind. “I’ll watch the walls,” he muttered as Rhys donned his helmet and made ready, “but at first sign of treachery, I’ll be at your back.”
Rhys looked up and grinned. “That I know well enough. Never have you failed me.” Reining his mount around, he waited while Turk pranced impatiently, huge hooves churning up well-traveled dirt and mud.
The bridge lowered with a final solid crack against the ground, and Rhys swung his shield to the front, firmly gripping the leather strap that secured it. His sword was at the ready, his blood running hot. There was always this familiar surge of eager anticipation before a battle. Despite the fact that it was to be only a meeting, his instincts prepared for a fight.
Inside the gates a man rode to the edge of the drawbridge, pausing beneath dark shadows. Rhys could not see him clearly. He wore mail and helmet, but at a distance, his face was only a blur. Would he even recognize Owain? It had been so long, and he only a lad when last he’d seen his father’s steward. All Rhys had known of him through the years was sprawling penmanship and the familiar signet on sealed letters, for Lord Griffyn had no lettering skills and Owain had penned the infrequent letters.
Rhys kneed Turk forward at a steady pace, keeping his gaze trained on the approaching man. He heard the loud pop of his pennon in the wind, the jangle of curb chain and bridle bits, his destrier’s rasping breath, and the creak of saddle leather. Hooves sounded loud on the thick boards of the bridge. When they neared the middle, Turk began to toss his head and snort. Rhys turned his attention to the agitated animal, and a motion just above and behind the bailiff caught his eye. It was only a tiny flicker, not much more than the briefest flutter of a sleeve and glint of fading light on metal, but enough to give him warning.
He leaned to one side, and heard the whistling sound of an arrow pass by. A knot of armed men appeared behind the bailiff, who was now pounding across the bridge at a run. There was no going back. He dug his spurs into Turk, though there was no need. The uneasy war-horse had sensed the danger long before him and had already braced for action.
Rhys bent over the horse’s neck, and swung his sword up and out as he clashed with the bailiff. Armed knights rushed across the drawbridge toward him in an effort to surround him. The jarring shocks of sword meeting sword sent a jolt through his arm and fierce pleasure coursing through his veins. This was familiar, reflexive: thrust and parry and turn, using knees to guide Turk and at the same time choosing his next opening in the flashing glitter of lethal blades. In front of him, an arrow sank deep into a man’s chest, driving him backward from his mount. There was a scream, then a splash as the man fell into the moat. His bowmen. They were among the best, and Rhys was glad to have them at his back.
Brian’s familiar whoop sounded at his elbow. They were outnumbered, but the space on the bridge was limited. The clash of blades was loud, mingling with grunts of pain and the screams of horses, the sound of hooves clattering on the wood, and the angry shouts of his men at such treachery.
In a short time, the skirmish was over. The surviving attackers retreated across the drawbridge and under the safety of the porte coleïce. The heavy gate was already being lowered, chains shrieking with strain. Wheeling his mount, Rhys ordered his men from the drawbridge as it began to shudder and creak beneath them. They barely made it onto firm soil before the planks lifted clear of the ground.
“I’d like to go after them,” Brian growled as they trotted out of arrow range. Rhys shook his head.
“Now who’s being reckless? There will be another time. For now, we’ll wait.” He turned to look at his friend. “At least we have an answer.”
It was full dark by the time they made it back to the camp tucked deep into the thick Welsh woods. Rhys was quiet. He’d half expected such a reception. But he’d recognized the colors worn by those on the bridge as belonging to Sir Niclas. Raglan was formidable, with a strong fortress to the southwest. It would take a long, hard struggle to wrest his lands from that worthy lord.
Moving to the fire, he stared into the orange and yellow blaze as he peeled off his gauntlets. The leather beneath the mail was wet, and there was a sharp stinging on his palm that he knew must be a sword cut. He rubbed at it absently until Brian noticed.
“I’ll tend it,” he said, frowning, “or you risk losing the hand.”
A faint smile curled Rhys’s mouth. It was obvious Brian preferred his own ministrations to those of the faerie queen’s. He looked up at him. “You’ve become as protective as a woman, Brian.”
“Devil take you, Rhys. Lose the cursed hand then. A lot of good you’ll be as a one-armed knight. Will you like sitting at the castle walls begging for bread?”
“I may be doing that anyway if I don’t drive Sir Niclas from my keep.” Rhys shook his head, weary, angry, and puzzled. “Never did my father suffer assault from Raglan. They were once friends. It was even suggested that one day his daughter would wed my brother. Now my father is hardly cold in his grave and Raglan seeks to destroy the house of Glenlyon. What makes a man turn so quickly?”
Brian shrugged. “Greed, mayhaps. I don’t know. It’s a bad business, Rhys. Bad business.”
“Yea, it is that. So now I am caught between two forces, one ranging the countryside, the other secure in my keep.” He frowned, deliberating.
“My lord, perhaps we should rid ourselves of Raglan at his source—his own keep. If his forces are divided, they won’t be as strong. We can besiege Raglan instead of Glenlyon, so he’ll be forced to return to defend his castle and we can—”
“Brian, you’re brilliant.” He smiled when Brian looked surprised and pleased. “That’s just what Raglan wants us to do. Divide our forces between his keep and mine. He must know I don’t have enough men to take a keep as strong as Glenlyon, but don’t dare leave it. Yea, I see it better now.”
“I’m glad you do.” Brian shook his head. “Intrigues make my head hurt. I like a good, honest fight, not all this yea and nay and mayhaps. If Raglan wants your keep, he should have challenged you directly, not sent men to occupy it and harry us when we get here. A bold challenge, yea, that’s what I like.”
“Odd, once I thought Raglan of the same mind. From all I heard, he wasn’t a man to lend himself to sly methods, but spoke his mind forthright. It never occurred to me he would be so devious.”
“You can’t trust some people, my lord. Let me see your hand. The cut is deep. I’ll need to sear it with my knife.… After all this time and trouble, now we get here and find Glenlyon occupied. Mayhaps it’s not meant to be. I think it’s a curse. It’s the only thing that makes sense. We’ve been cursed …”
Despair filled Brian’s voice, a melancholy that could infect the others and doom their morale. Rhys didn’t want this. Discouraged men were never at their best when fighting.
He laughed softly. “Your thoughts usually stray more in the direction of willing village maids than the bloody business of assaulting unwary keeps, Brian. Do they not?”
Brian had knelt by the fire to heat the blade of his dagger, and he looked up now with a smile. “Whenever possible. I do my best to brighten the lonely hours of winsome maidens everywhere. In Coventry, while you were sitting in a church and watching candles burn, I met a wee kitchen lass with bonny brown hair and a sweet smile, and—”
A shout rang out from one of the posted guards, and both men turned. Idle conversation was forgotten as a rider approached through the dark night. “Make way, make way! ’Tis Sir Wallis!” Exhausted and bloody, the returning scout slid from his lathered mount to his feet, then sprawled on the ground near the fire.
Gasping for breath, Sir Wallis panted out, “Glenlyon … is held … by an enemy.…”
“Yea,” Rhys said grimly, “we learned that earlier. Easy now, man, and take another sip of wine before you try to say more. That’s right.” He began giving orders. “Morgan, fetch salves and bandages for his wounds. Brian, clear the area. What he will say should be for our ears alone.” He looked back down at the scout. “Now, Sir Wallis, can you go on?”
“Yea … lord … Glenlyon was taken … near four month ago …”
“Four months,” Brian exclaimed. “Impossible. Did you not just meet with Owain’s messenger in Coventry, Rhys?”
“Yea, let him speak, Brian. Go on, Sir Wallis, tell me what you’ve learned.”
As he listened, confusion was slowly replaced by a deep, burning rage. Rhys curled his hand into such a tight fist that blood spurted anew from the sword cut. Wallis finished his story. Rhys gave orders for him to be cared for, then straightened slowly and turned to Brian.
When they were alone by the fire, Brian gestured at his hand. “I’ll reheat my dagger. The hot blade should seal it. So now we know it’s not Sir Niclas who assaulted the keep.”
“Nay.” Rhys shook his head. He stared down at his hand without really seeing it. Blood dripped to the ground. “My own cousin. ’Tis my own cousin who has stolen my lands and my name.”
Brian was silent for a moment. “Do you think ’twas your cousin that killed your father?”
“God help him if he is.” Rhys looked up at Brian, surprised at the cold certainty in his own tone. “He’ll wish for death long before it comes if he’s the man responsible for the deaths of my father and brothers.”