In silence, he picked up the bag, made sure her cloak was fastened snuggly, and escorted her back to the door. Elizabeau kept watching his face, trying not to look him in the eye but wanting to just the same. Seeing him fight had been a revealing experience and oddly impressed her. Now she was coming to understand more about the man and remaining objective was increasingly difficult. He was an escort and nothing more; she had to keep reminding herself of that.
Before they went outside into the new morning, the earl sent several men out before them to make sure there were no assassins waiting. One of them was a broad knight with pale blue eyes and white-blond hair by the name of Lawrence de Beckett. He had fought side by side with Rhys and the earl throughout the melee but had remained largely silent; Elizabeau vaguely remembered seeing him at Hyde House and she averted her gaze when their eyes met; there was something about the man that was intimidating, frightening even. But Lawrence paid little attention to her as he led the earl’s men outside to scout for the enemy. Rhys and Christopher held Elizabeau at the door, their experienced eyes scanning the world beyond.
“My lord?”
It took Christopher a moment to realize that Elizabeau was addressing him. “My lady?”
She cleared her throat softly, seemingly grasping for words. “I just… well, I want to thank you for what you are doing,” she said after a moment. “You are risking your life for a woman you do not know and I find that a strange and noble sacrifice.”
Christopher’s sky-blue gaze moved over her before his bearded lips began to twitch with a hint of a smile. “I see much of your father in you,” he replied quietly. “And I see some of your grandfather in you as well. But what I see the most of is your grandmother, Eleanor.”
The gaze from her dark green eyes was like a vortex, consuming and intense. “How is that, my lord, when we are not even related by blood?”
He cocked his head, reflecting back on the woman he had known for many years. “You and Eleanor both have the same firm manner. Have you never met Eleanor of Aquitaine?”
Elizabeau shook her head. “Never, although I was told she was instrumental in my brother Arthur’s capture. I do not believe she likes her grandchildren very well, and me least of all.”
His smile broke through. “Why would you say that?”
“Because she hated my father.”
He lifted an eyebrow in concession. “You must realize, of course, that she has hated nearly all of her children and grandchildren at one time or another. I wouldn’t take it personally.” His amused gaze lingered on her. “She is still alive. Perhaps you may meet her yet.”
Elizabeau snorted, a most unladylike sound. “I doubt that, my lord,” she said with sarcasm. “She supports my Uncle John for the throne, so much so that she was instrumental in the abduction of her own grandson who threatened his rein. If anything, I should be fearful that the woman will raise an army against me. ‘Tis Eleanor I fear more than Uncle John.”
Christopher laughed softly. “A wise woman you are. But have no fear; I have fought both for and against her. I know her tricks.”
Elizabeau looked up at him and, seeing that he was smiling easily, could not help but smile in return. She felt confident with de Lohr’s mighty protection, a man who had served many years with the Plantagenet dynasty. He knew the players well.
One of de Lohr’s knights returned to indicate that the area seemed to be clear. Rhys’ charger had been brought around and he and Christopher escorted Elizabeau out into the growing morning. Rhys mounted and Christopher helped the lady up. As she settled herself on the hard armor of Rhys’ legs, de Lohr watched her carefully. After a moment, he spoke.
“Do not let yourself be troubled,” he murmured. “It is the strength of your grandfather that will see you through this. And you will need all of the strength that you can muster.”
There was something in the way he said the words that made her heart grow cold. There was much ahead of her; that much she knew. But she had no idea just how much strength it would take to survive it.
CHAPTER FIVE
Monmouthshire, Wales
Eight days later, the cold grey stones and verdant fields of Whitebrook came into view.
Rhys clutched Elizabeau against his chest; she was sleeping the sleep of the dead. Having been ill for the past several days, all she did was sleep and all he did was stay awake and try to remain alert. They had ridden as far south as Basingstoke before cutting their way north, traversing the cold, wet lands of England in an attempt to evade John’s assassins. The first two days into their journey, Elizabeau had been relatively silent but compliant. By the third day, she had been sneezing and sniffling enough so that Rhys diverted from his orders and found them a warm stable to spend the night in. She had slept on the straw, breathing heavily and shivering, before waking in the morning with a fever and sore throat.