Medieval Master Swordsmen(3)

“Then I apologize,” she said, though it was not directed at anyone in particular. “But I simply do not understand why I am not kept here, under guard. Surely it will be much more difficult to kill me if I am locked up in a fortress.”

De Lohr was finished discussing the subject. He snapped his fingers at Rhys, who began walking again. “I will meet you in Ealing,” he told du Bois, eyeing more knights racing from the front of the house and through the kitchens. “For now, I will hold back the pursuers. But I cannot guarantee that you will not be followed. You will have to be vigilant.”

Rhys nodded sharply. “Understood, my lord.”

Elizabeau opened her mouth to protest but Rhys jerked her through the kitchen door and silenced whatever words she had been preparing to spout. De Burgh and de Lohr followed.

It was pouring rain as he led the lady out into the elements. The kitchen yard was full of mud, horses and armed men as Rhys leaned over and swept the lady into his arms, lifting her up onto his destrier. He did not handle her gently and she glared at him as he roughly settled her. But he ignored her as he mounted behind her, adjusting his stirrups to account for his altered position in the saddle. The lady tightened her cloak against the weather.

“Lady Elizabeau,” de Burgh was standing next to her left leg, watching her fuss with her hood. “Please understand that we are doing this for your own good. You must make your rendezvous with your betrothed and du Bois is ordered to escort you there. This marriage must take place if England is to survive. You must survive.”

Most of the fire went out of Elizabeau. The concept was still mind-boggling; she hadn’t known of her brother Arthur’s death until two days ago and was subsequently informed that she had been named his heir. But that was providing she marry the prince of the Holy Roman Empire, a man with a name she didn’t even know. All of this to create an alliance that her Uncle John and his ally Phillip could never break. It was a maelstrom of politics and she was caught up in the eye of the storm.

Gazing down into the faces of the most powerful men in England, she knew it was a destiny that she could not refuse, as much as she wanted to.

Du Bois dug his spurs into his charger just as the high-pitched screech of an arrow penetrated the muffled noise of the rain. De Lohr and du Burgh scattered, the earl finding cover behind a kitchen wall as the old justiciar scampered back into the house. Rhys put his massive arm over Elizabeau, pulling her into a crushing embrace against his armored chest as they fled the confines of the yard. She could hear the sounds of more arrows behind her, of de Lohr’s men shouting and scrambling.

They were the sounds of war.





CHAPTER TWO





The destrier was so exhausted that huge flecks of foam kept flying back and smacking her on the arm or in the chest, and Elizabeau had to turn her head on more than one occasion to keep from being hit in the face. But the big black beast pounded onward into the torrential night, sheets of water pouring from the sky and entire cities of lightning filling the clouds.

Rhys had taken them away from the main road almost immediately. They had entered woods so black that she could scarcely see a foot in front of her face, never mind the terrain. After the first few harrowing minutes, Elizabeau finally closed her eyes and lowered her head, praying fervently that she wasn’t about to break her neck when the horse made a bad step and threw her off. But so far, the charger remained surefooted and Rhys directed the horse through the black grove of trees.

There was a small row of homes and an equally small avenue once they exited the woods. Rhys plowed through someone’s side yard, into the avenue, and back out through another row of thatched-roof huts. There was a field on the other side and the horse raced wildly into it, leaping over a stream and continuing on into the next cluster of trees.

They rode for hours the same way. Eventually, the small villages surrounding London came to an end and they found themselves in open territory. Twice Rhys had backtracked and crossed his own path so if there was anyone following, the tracks would be muddled. With his clever path, and the continuing rain, he was confident he could lose anyone in pursuit that had managed to escape de Lohr’s defenses.

But it was exhausting work. The horse was hearty and responded eagerly to Rhys’ commands, but even the beast would eventually have to rest. Elizabeau simply held on to the pommel of the saddle and kept her mouth shut, miserable with the circumstances but knowing this was being done to save her life.

The rocky road was swamped with water and mud that flew from the charger’s hooves as the animal grunted down the path. The land around them was pounding with rain. Though wrapped tightly in an oiled cloth cloak, her feet had been uncovered by the wind and wild ride and were soaked through. Yet she did not complain; at this point, her exhaustion had set in and the fight had momentarily left her. She was simply looking forward to the point when the horse would stop and she would be able to sit on something that wasn’t moving.