Part 22 (1/2)
”I guarded your secrets and aided you in your flight. I've even bled for you. What more do you want of me?”
She blinked back hot tears. Yea, he had offered everything she desired, yet he offered naught she could freely embrace. Had he meant for her to feel so conflicted? She swallowed down the unhappy thought.
”You romanced my heart and delighted my soul,” he whispered and offered her a tentative smile. ”All I ask in return is your love.”
”You ask too much.” Longing gripped her throat.
Rhys dropped his hands and stepped back, made a swift bow. ”Then I will not tarry. I give you good night.” With a growl, he swung toward the door.
Nay, she wanted to shout. She yearned to call after him, to keep him beside her. His words of love yet whispered to her heart, sweet affections not easily laid aside. Her sweating hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into the yet tender scar in her palm. She fought a gale of emotion and the fear she had lost him forever. Trying to keep from being riven like a newly hewn sapling, she bit her tongue and commanded herself not to call him back.
By the time Katherine found the strength to drag her weary body from the wooden tub and had dried herself, the bath water was cold. Thankfully, the tension in her neck and shoulders had disappeared. But her mind was not easy, not with Rhys ensconced under the same roof. She padded barefoot to the small hearth, where a bedrobe draped over a stool was warming. Shrugging into the woolen wrap, she picked up her silver comb and began to comb her wet hair, hoping she would escape her provocative musings.
Unbidden, the vision of what this night would be, had he been her wedded husband, drifted through her imagination-his touch, gentle and demanding by turns as he explored the length of her body, his lips claiming urgent kisses, his probing tongue caressing so enchantingly, the feel of his naked flesh settling over hers in the dark, their legs entwined, her own fingertips in delightful exploration of his brawny physique.
She had not forgotten the feel of him, nor his touch. Each recollection created a vivid picture in her thoughts. Yet each treasured memory undermined her resolve.
Gooseflesh erupted on her skin and she scrubbed at her arms. A flush of arousal flickered to life. Her heart skipped a beat. The sudden hot moisture betwixt her legs had naught to do with bath water. Horrified and breathing heavily, she recognized what it meant. Faith, she must subdue this mounting l.u.s.t.
Even as her heart raced, yet did it ache at the loss and the emptiness. It ensnared her in despair. Dear Saint Winifred, if Rhys were to materialize at this sensitive moment, she could not prevent whatever he might attempt, not with this need festering within her, this longing for his touch and for the press of his body against hers.
Soon, her husband would arrive and try to claim his rights. Defiantly, she clenched her fists. Mayhap she would not allow him access to the castle. Let him lay siege to Haughmond! Let him try to take his husbandly rights. He would find she was a strong woman, a worthy opponent. She would fight and would not give herself to a man she did loathe.
Her maid, Agnes, bustled past with a bucket of hot rocks. At the moment the woman's gray eyes were alight with happiness and the creases in her lined face were all the greater from her broad smile. The tirewoman lifted the thick coverlet Aunt Matilda had embroidered years agone and deposited the rocks in the center of the feather mattress.
”Ye could do with a warm caudle ye could, m'lady, ere ye retire. I'll fetch it right quick for yourself,” she said, hurrying back across the chamber, the empty bucket banging against her skirts.
”Nay, Agnes, you are weary.”
The servant gave a firm shake of her head and beamed at Katherine. ”'Tis what ye should be havin', m'lady, after such a hard journey. I'll not be but a moment.” She tugged open the door and disappeared into the corridor.
Anne rushed in. ”How could you send Rhys away with such grievous injuries?” she cried. ”He will not be able to defend himself in battle. Alas, he shall be killed. 'Twill be your fault!”
”Rhys has departed?” Fear constricted Katherine's throat. She raced to the window and flung open the shutter. The bailey was empty but she heard horses' hooves thudding over the drawbridge.
He had not bid her adieu. Tears welled up in her eyes and a lump filled her throat. She had not given him G.o.dspeed. Clenching her fists, she turned back to the room.
”If he dies, 'twill be your fault.”
Katherine nigh lost her breath at her sister's cutting accusation. Why must Anne heap more guilt upon her shoulders? Was her own not sufficient?
”Mercy.” Her voice came out in a whisper. ”You are out of humor.” Only belatedly did she see the tears glistening Anne's eyes.
”You deserve every harsh reproach that's hurled at you,” Anne retorted.
Katherine paused in consternation. What had caused this outburst? ”It does seem strange to me that at this late hour you should display so prodigious a concern for Rhys's health.”
”What becomes of Simon should his master perish on the battlefield?” Anne lamented, wringing her hands.
Ah, the true measure of her sister's concern was finally known. Katherine sighed, realizing Anne's love drove her fears. She tried to be patient. ”Take heart, G.o.d will safeguard him.”
”And who will succor us if He does not?”
”You must have faith.” She put emphasis into her voice and bestowed a disapproving look on Anne, tried to believe her own advice. ”Your tongue does need to learn discretion.”
”'Tis as your own, sister! Do you practice discretion?”
The marrow of her soul had already been picked clean by Rhys's unexpected departure. Anne's savage rebuke was too stunning to tolerate. Backing away from her sister, unshed tears burning the back of her eyes, she turned and ran down the stairs, seeking refuge in the chapel.
Dropping to her knees at her mother's tomb, she let the tears fall. ”I have not the strength to fight him, Mother mine, yet I fear he will not return from Wales. I cannot have him, but I cannot live without him.” With hands clasped tightly together, she prayed with all the force of her despair.
Why could Rhys not have been her husband?
A pox on the king! To secure Haughmond, she had dutifully married-and lost her soul. To her dying day, she would love Rhys of St. Quintin. What could Edward do or say that would be worse?
What did it matter, a mere king's edict?
Chapter Twenty.
Rhys swept off his helm and ducked inside the tent behind the king's aide-de-camp, not waiting to be announced. His spurs jangled with each determined step. Edward was not going to send him away, sight unseen, not after he and Simon had ridden at breakneck speed to intercept the army before it decamped for Worchester. In the wake of the set down bestowed on him at Bereford, the royal ire must not be allowed to fester.
”I came as quickly as I was able, your majesty.” Tucking his helm beneath his arm, he made a swift bow.
King Edward, seated at a folding table in the midst of the campaign tent, never glanced up from the stack of parchments that absorbed his attention. Like Rhys, he wore full armor. His helm rested within easy reach, as did his steel sword, ready against attack. The remains of a half-eaten meal languished on a gold plate beside him. Sweeping up a matching cup of gold, he took a generous gulp of wine and continued to examine his letters.
Rhys clenched his jaw. Plainly, he was to await the king's pleasure. His hopes for a cordial audience dashed, he swallowed down his trepidation at the deliberate insult from a yet angry sovereign.
A chaplain was keeping vigil in the near corner, his eyes closed, his hands clasped, his lips forming silent words of intercession. Likely the queen had requested his services. Beside him, a tall lad with the long, st.u.r.dy legs of a royal messenger, awaited letters for the box slung across his chest.
All stood silent while the king scratched his signature on a parchment. At a side table, a royal chamberlain wrote briskly, dipping his quill into the horn inkwell with regularity. He leaned forward to jot figures in the two ledgers for debits and credits, then handed a new doc.u.ment to the clerk, who presented it to Edward.
”Your order of 200,000 crossbow bolts to St. Briavel's, sire.”
With a quick flourish, the parchment was signed. ”Have you contacted the Italian merchants?” the king demanded, handing the doc.u.ments back. ”If they desire business with England, they can be persuaded to lend me the 3,000 pounds I require.”
”They are reluctant, sire,” the chamberlain murmured, his tone at once soothing.
Edward growled. ”I am not their overlord and cannot command them, well they know it. But, should they consent, I will see their profits are enhanced. Relate this to them, but be subtle. I do not want it rumored abroad that I am desperate.”
Another missive was handed to him, and he sneered, reading a portion of it aloud, ”The king being in great need of money- ” With an angry oath, he bent to sign it. ”You make me sound the beggar!” He flung down his quill with an angry oath and rose abruptly.
Finally, his attention settled upon Rhys. The blistering glare revealed the depth of his wroth.