Medieval Master Swordsmen(50)

Every step she took began to build anxiety in her chest. She could feel all of the anguish and disappointment surfacing and she felt the extreme urge to run, run far away and as fast as she could until she could be free of this agony that was consuming her. Fifteen days ago, men had come to her mother’s house in London to inform her that her brother Arthur had been assassinated and she was now heiress. She’d had no choice; they’d simply whisked her away to Hyde House to await escort to her new husband and, presumably, a new life as ruler of England. But her escort, a massive knight with brilliant blue eyes, had somehow become more than just an escort. They had been thrown together in a critical situation and when the dust had settled somewhat, she was in love with him and he with her. She had never wanted the blessing of a throne in the first place. Those men, de Burgh and de Lohr, had made her take it. They were still making her take it. And their ambition had conveniently caged Rhys up and turned his sweet heart into something professional and unfeeling.

I will not marry you.

She could still hear those words in her head. Hearing them over and over again made the tears come to her eyes. Hours before, he had told her he loved her. But de Lohr came and ruined all of that. She hated de Lohr and she hated Rhys for being too weak to stand behind his convictions.

She didn’t want any of it now. She would not let Rhys force her into a marriage with a stranger. She wanted to return to London and resume her quiet life and let the world go on around her. She wanted to bury her head in the ground and ignore everything. She didn’t want to feel any longer.

Elizabeau’s tears blinded her to the path she had taken. She had moved beyond the vegetable garden and was plowing through some trees. It was very green around her, the foliage lush with the November moisture and a chill heavy in the air. But she didn’t particularly notice. She was weeping heavily now, oblivious to her surroundings.

There was a wall in front of her, created from stone and mossy with growth. Sobbing, she vaulted over it and kept walking, having no idea where she was going but only knowing that she had to get away. Cows were suddenly around her, black and white things that continued munching on grass even as she walked through them. They hardly gave her any notice. A young calf watched her approach and skittered away to its mother when she came too close. Still, Elizabeau kept walking. She was willing to walk forever if it would only clear Rhys du Bois out of her raging mind.

A river lay before her at the edge of the field, a slender ribbon of greenish blue that glittered under the November sun. She headed towards it, her crying increasing, and suddenly she was running towards it at full speed. The river. Mayhap she could drown herself and be done with the pain. Or perhaps she could swim across it and continue into England, walking and walking until she could walk no more. At the moment, her mind was as muddled as her heart. She no longer cared what happened to her, so long as she could find relief from the anguish that consumed her.

The river drew closer, beckoning her into the deep bluish waters. Behind her, she heard the cows as they began to moo loudly. Some of them yelped as if startled. Suddenly she heard footfalls to match her own, confusing her for the moment, but she kept running with the sole focus of reaching the calm waters beyond. But the footfalls bore down directly behind her and she was hit from behind, crashing her down to the soft green earth. A massive body was atop her, enormously warm arms going about her slender body. She knew who it was before she even saw the face. She could hear Rhys in her ear.

“Where are you going?” he hissed.

Elizabeau exploded. “For the love of God, let me go,” she began to twist underneath him, clawing at the earth as she tried to get out from underneath him. “Leave me to my misery, du Bois. Let me go or I swear I will kill you.”

Rhys held on tightly, his face buried in her neck as he held on tight. It was like trying to wrestle a wild horse; he knew he had to ride out the storm. If he lost his grip on her, it would be worse the second time he caught her.

“Calm yourself, angel,” he murmured, taking a righteous pounding to the right side of his head and neck. “All will be well, I swear it.”

“Nay!” she screamed, twisting violently in his arms. “I hate you; do you hear me? I hate you! Let me go!”

She had managed to box his right ear quite soundly; the drum was ringing with the shock. He tucked his head in and shifted his grip, trying to move away from her flailing arms.

“Elizabeau,” he was calm, trying to break through her haze of fury. “I will not let you go, not now, not ever. I am sorry you are so hurt. I never meant to hurt you. You must believe me.”