“Edward,” Rhys snapped softly. “Watch where you are going. If you break your neck, your mother will kill me.”
Edward nodded sleepily as he lumbered down the stairs with Geniver in tow. The rule in the house was that the older children always took the hand of a younger child when navigating the steep stairs of Bellay’s keep. Elizabeau was adamant about it, terrified that someone would break their neck. Narrow stairs and too many children made a recipe for disaster.
The seven of them made their way down the steps and into the great hall of the round keep. Food was already being set out and a nice blaze burned brightly in the hearth. Rhys put Morgan down at the table and handed William over to Edward to keep an eye on. The fat old cook was already hovering over the children, putting porridge and great hunks of bread on the table. Just as Rhys was preparing to leave the hall, Elizabeau descended the stairs, dressed in a rich purple gown and looking sweetly radiant. Rhys paused to take his wife in his arms to kiss her good morning for the second time.
“Where are you going?” she murmured as she hugged him. “Why not spend a few moments with us before the day begins?”
He gazed down into her lovely face, hardly a line on it at thirty years of age. The woman was positively ageless. “I suppose I could,” he said with a twinkle in his brilliant blue eyes. “But I was trying to escape the admiring throng before Morgan realized I was gone and started screaming.”
Elizabeau laughed softly, running her hand through her husband’s dark hair, now graying slightly at the temples. “Do you remember when Rory used to do that, too?” she reflected on her eldest child, now fostering at Montrichard Castle. “She would positively howl when you left her sight.”
Rhys grunted as he escorted his wife back into the hall. “She still does,” he said. “When I left her at Montrichard, the count told me that she cried for a week.”
Elizabeau could see that it hurt his feelings to remember that particular episode and she patted his cheek gently even as Morgan climbed off the bench and raced to her father once again. He picked up the dark haired, green-eyed little girl and kissed her loudly on the cheek. Elizabeau took William from Edward and settled down at the table between her twins. Evan chewed his bread like an old cow, tired and unhappy about his father’s work schedule, while Edward yawned and picked at his porridge. There were a few moments of peace before a sentry entered the hall, his eyes searching for his liege. Rhys saw him as he pulled apart a piece of bread for Morgan and Rhiann.
“What is it?” he asked the man.
The soldier made his way towards him. “Riders, my lord,” he said. “We cannot identify them.”
“Do they bear colors?”
“None we recognize.”
“What do you see?”
“Crimson and blue.”
Rhys looked up from the piece he was feeding Morgan. “Crimson and blue?” he repeated.
The man nodded. “Aye, my lord.”
“How many riders?”
“Three.”
Rhys took on a strange look to his eyes. Setting Morgan down gently, he rose and followed the sergeant from the hall. Elizabeau watched him curiously for a moment but her attention was diverted as Morgan began crying and she refocused on her devastated daughter. She always wept when her father left her and it was Mother’s job to divert her attention. But Elizabeau hadn’t missed the odd look on Rhys’ face when he left the room; it made her curious about the incoming riders, too.
The eastern sky was soft shades of pink and purple as Rhys ordered the portcullis of Bellay lifted. Since their particular region was quiet for the moment, without threat of war, he was not overly on his guard when it came to visitors. In fact, Bellay had quite a few. But the crimson and blue had him slightly on edge, though he was sure his uneasy feelings were for naught. No one knew he was here except for David, and David would not have told a soul. Even after twelve years, he could still feel the familiar fear of being discovered.
He stood just inside the massive portcullis, watching the three riders approach. They were moving slowly, in no great hurry, which afforded Rhys the opportunity to study them as they drew near. The men were in armor; one of them was very large and not seated particularly well atop the horse. The more Rhys watched, the more uneasiness he began to feel. This time he knew it was not his imagination. There was something about the larger rider that he recognized.
He began to walk, moving through the open portcullis and across the narrow bridge that crossed Bellay’s moat. He realized that his heart was pounding in his ears as he continued down the road, watching the riders loom nearer and nearer. When they were several yards away, one of them dismounted and threw his helm off. Rhys nearly collapsed when he recognized the face.