Medieval Master Swordsmen(10)

She blinked. “How would you know that?”

“I have served de Lohr for many years. There is not much I do not know about you or the rest of the Plantagenets.”

Elizabeau met his brilliant blue eyes a moment longer before returning to her buttered bread. She felt strangely akin to him, knowing they had a common lineage. Somehow, in their brief conversation, she did not feel quite so overwhelmed or unbalanced by her situation. She was with a knight who understood her background because his was the same. It was difficult to explain why she felt more relaxed now, but she did.

Rhys watched her lowered head, the way the firelight played off her golden red hair. She seemed curious and intelligent. He wondered what kind of queen she would make. Given their choice of monarchs at the moment, anything would be better than what they had. But he would never voice his opinion. He was a knight and knights did as they were told.

He drained his cup for the third time and decided that he’d had enough ale for the night. His face felt warm, a sure indication that he had imbibed enough. Any more would find him growing drunk. As he turned to look for the serving wench to order something more that would not dull his senses, the door to the inn suddenly slammed back on its hinges and the merchant he had thrown from the table bolted inside. He was followed by four soldiers, the thunder from the storm punctuating their arrival.

It was as if a door from Hell had opened wide and the noise and clashing associated with such a place poured through. The merchant’s gaze fell on Rhys and he jabbed a finger at him, pointing out the target to his men. The implication was obvious.

The room began to scatter with panic. Rhys stood up and moved away from the table; he did not want any fighting in the proximity of the lady. The four soldiers advanced on him, spreading out in a pattern of attack. Rhys noted the movement, understanding in that tactical move that they were experienced. They would not be caught in a bunch, instead, choosing to stalk their victim and maximize their advantage.

But Rhys was ready for them. He was calm, collected, as he unsheathed both of the swords still strapped to his back. He swung them with deadly precision, in concert, displaying not only his skill but his control. The metal sang through the warm, stale air with a chilling hum. As his senses reached out, tracking the movements of the men closest to him, Elizabeau was suddenly in his line of sight.

“My lord,” she was addressing the insulted merchant loudly. “Please call off your men. There is no need for fighting.”

Some of Rhys’ calm faltered; she was too close should any fighting start and he did not want her in the line of fire.

“My lady,” he hissed at her. “You will remove yourself at once.”

She held out a quelling hand to him, banking on the fact that the men threatening him would not lash out at a defenseless lady. She continued to move towards the merchant, passing in front of Rhys as she did so. A soft, white hand came to rest on his right wrist, gentle pressure requesting that he lower his weapons. Though her flesh was cold, it felt like a branding iron against his skin; Rhys almost forgot all else but her tender hand against him. It was difficult to stay focused.

“Please, my lord,” she was still in front of Rhys, still with a hand on his wrist. But her focus was on the merchant. “My… husband had but one thought, and that was to place me next to a warm fire. You see, we’ve been traveling all night and I am very wet, as you can see. Unfortunately, you happened to be in the way. He did not mean to insult to you; he only meant to help me. Will you please call your men off now?”

She sounded very calm, very rational, and very wise. Rhys looked at her; she did not seem like the same lady he had met only a few hours ago, the spitfire who complained at every turn. She was serene and relaxed as she attempted to diffuse the situation. But the merchant was still rightly upset.

“He should not have thrown me from my meal,” he said petulantly. “There were other tables.”

“But yours was the closest.” Elizabeau’s grip tightened on Rhys’ wrist and she gently, firmly, forced him to lower his weapons. “You are correct, my lord; he should not have thrown you from your table. It was a mistake, but he was only acting in my best interest. He was not attempting to deliberately insult you. Please call off your men and I shall happily pay for your meal and for your men’s meal. Will you not accept my offer?”

The merchant looked uncertain, then dubious. He looked to his men, who were now looking at him for further instructions. They could fight or not; it was all the same to them. They were paid to do what they were told. But the fact remained that the merchant had been insulted. He jabbed a fat finger at Rhys.