He took her through the kitchens, past the panicked barkeep and his wife. When he reached the rear door, however, he held Elizabeau back and kicked the door open, charging out with both swords swinging. A man rushed at him and he cut him down within three strokes. Sheathing one of the swords again, he held out his hand to Elizabeau.
“Come on, angel,” he encouraged urgently. “We must run.”
Elizabeau bolted out of the tavern, taking Rhys’ hand in the process. Together they sprinted through the yard and into the barn. There was a leggy warmblood there, more than likely belonging to one of the patrons of the inn, and Rhys grabbed the nearest bridle. It was too big for the horse’s long and narrow head and he had to take valuable time to adjust it. Just as he had it on the horse, the fighting entered the yard between the tavern and the barn and he heard someone bellow his name loudly.
Rhys mounted the horse bareback, no mean feat without a saddle for ballast. Reaching down, he easily pulled Elizabeau up and seated her behind him.
“Hold on tight,” he patted the hands that were wrapped tightly around his waist. “Keep your head down.”
He spurred the horse forward but the animal was skittish and he almost lost his seat. But he kept firm, charging out through the open barn door and into a group of fighting men. But strangely, no one seemed to be fighting too much. In fact, he saw David standing with his sword leveled, staring off to the left. Rhys instinctively looked over his shoulder to see a soldier with a dagger to Rod’s neck.
Rod was battered and bruised; he had been ambushed before he had even cleared the town. Whoever had tracked them had been well aware of Rod’s movements. But their brilliant blue eyes met, brother on brother, and Rod bellowed at him.
“Get out of here!”
Rhys didn’t hesitate; he jammed his spurs into the side of the gelding and the horse tore off. The animal wasn’t as bulky or strong as a charger, but he was faster. Rhys drove the horse from the tavern and back into the center of town. Once near the main road, he headed straight for the wharf.
He had no idea if they were still being followed. He could not take the time to look behind him or the chance that they were. He could see the port in the near distance, the sea glistening as the morning sun rose in the sky. It looked peaceful and serene, with a few clouds far off on the horizon. There were several ships in port; he could count at least five. He drove the horse faster.
Rhys dodged in and out of alleys and between yards. If he was being pursued, he wanted to do his best to lose them. Erupting from a rear yard and onto a dirt street, he reined the horse sharply to the right and the animal slipped and fell, dumping both Rhys and Elizabeau into the dust. The horse scrambled to its feel and bolted off as Rhys picked Elizabeau up.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded, hand against her head. Truth was she had smacked it when the horse fell and was seeing stars, but she would not tell him that. He was worried enough without thinking she was injured.
Rhys took her hand and pulled her into another yard, this one being a metalworker. There was wood, peat and dung all over the yard for the hot fires. They slipped out the other side and ended up on the main wharf where three of the ships were docked. One of them was loading supplies and he could see lanky sailors in a line loading items onto the boat. Since it was the only ship with any activity, he assumed it was preparing to sail and made his way towards it.
There were two sailors on deck and another two on the dock. Two men stood on the gangway, helping load up supplies. With Elizabeau in hand, Rhys walked up to one of the two men on the dock.
“Is this ship leaving soon?” he asked.
The man looked at him, startled; his skin was darker from the constant exposure to the sun and salt and he had very dark, long hair. His gaze moved between Rhys and Elizabeau.
“Leave?” he repeated.
Rhys nodded. “Aye, leave. Sail. Go out to sea.” When he realized the man didn’t completely understand him, he made little wavy motions with his hand in the direction of the water.
The man understood what he was asking. “Vela, vela,” the man said. “Si, presto.”
Rhys didn’t understand the language. It was the native of Rome. “Do you understand my words?” he asked, disheartened.
“I do, sir,” said the second man on the dock, walking up to them and wiping off his hands. “What is it you want?”
Rhys focused on the short man with the very deep voice. “Where are you going?”
The man nodded out to sea. “First to the port of Bude in Cornwall and then on to Spain. Why?”
“My wife and I would like to gain passage to Bude. Would that be possible?”