Medieval Master Swordsmen(8)

Quietly, he directed his charger behind the inn and lowered Elizabeau into a huge puddle of horse piss and rain. She sloshed her way out of it miserably as Rhys dismounted behind her and collected his weapons and saddlebags. A sleepy lad emerged from the small stable, rubbing his eyes and taking hold of the charger. Rhys gave the boy a few coins to care for the charger. Collecting the lady by the elbow, he took her around front and into the warm, loud establishment.

It was crowded inside. Rhys scanned the room for foe and ally alike before directing the lady towards the smoking fire. Elizabeau was so cold that her lips were blue and it took Rhys a few moments to realize that she was nearly frozen. Before this moment, he’d been so consumed with scouting threats that he hadn’t noticed. He suddenly felt somewhat guilty that he had not paid closer attention to his charge as he watched the blue lips quiver and the teeth chatter.

There was a man, probably a merchant, in a fur-lined cloak seated near the fire and enjoying a large meal. With the lady in hand, Rhys went to the man and ripped the cloak from his shoulders, pulling him to the floor in the process. The man coughed and bellowed, looking up to see a knight of enormous proportions hovering over him. Before the man could utter a word of protest, Rhys grabbed him by the neck and tossed him halfway across the room.

“The lady requires your seat,” he said as the man skidded across the floor.

Elizabeau watched with surprise as the wealthy merchant tumbled into a heap. But she did not have time to comment as Rhys literally picked her up and set her down in the chair the merchant had occupied. She was suddenly very close to the fire and any thoughts of the merchant died in her throat as the searing warmth enveloped her.

“You’re freezing,” Rhys said as he pulled the wet oilcloth off of her and replaced it with the merchant’s dry, fur-lined cloak. “Sit here and warm yourself. I shall return.”

He was gone, off across the crowded room and heading for the barkeep. Chilled, hungry, Elizabeau turned back to the fire and held her hands over it, feeling the heat like a thousand pin-pricks against her flesh. It was delightful. She closed her eyes, feeling the warmth on her face, thawing her. She’d not felt such comfort in days. Not since men from Hubert de Burgh’s ranks came to her mother’s home in South London and forcibly escorted her from its walls.

She opened her eyes, her mood growing somber as she thought of the turn her life had taken over the past two days. Until then, she had been blessed with a relatively privileged existence. Being the niece of the king, though illegitimate, had brought her that honor. In truth, she had seen her father only five times in her life and her Uncle John only twice. The royal family, for the most part, had left her alone as the bastard of Geoffrey. But that life of obscurity was apparently no longer.

Gloomy thoughts rolled through her head as she stared into the fire with deep green orbs. There was sensuality to her eyes and unearthly beauty to her face, something no Plantagenet possessed. She was an exquisite example of female beauty from her mother’s side, the bloodlines of the fair-skinned Norsemen running strong in her veins. She didn’t know if she was equipped for this life that was about to be thrust upon her. She’d never prepared for it. She wasn’t sure her sense of duty was that strong.

There was food at her elbow, a cooling knuckle of beef left by the merchant. She was hungry and took a bite. A second bite quickly followed and then a third. She hadn’t realized how ravenous she was until the moment the meat touched her lips. When Rhys returned with a tray loaded with food, she was already well into the knuckle.

He tried to remove the food to replace it with the hot meal but she refused, holding fast to the beef she was enjoying. He simply shrugged his shoulders and sat the hot tray next to the cooling one.

“This meat is fresh, my lady,” he pointed out. “Perhaps you would enjoy this more.”

She shook her head, wiping at the juice on her chin. “This is fine.”

Rhys didn’t say anything; he just watched her stuff her mouth, thinking yet again he had been very negligent of her state as they had traveled. He set a cup of ale beside her right hand and then took a long, healthy drink from the second cup he had procured for himself. Smacking his lips, he took a moment to remove his helm and set it at his feet. The crossbow went next to it. Then he peeled his mail hauberk off his damp head and went to work on his own knuckle of beef.

Elizabeau looked up from her meal to see a man she didn’t recognize sitting across from her. She’d not yet seen du Bois without his helm or mail hood and, for a moment, she stopped chewing as she stared at him; he had black hair, short and stiff with moisture. But that wasn’t all; she could see his entire face, now unobstructed by the helm, and it was a striking vision. He had black eyebrows, arched over his brilliant blue eyes, a square jaw with a huge dimple in his chin. Dark stubble covered his cheeks and she watched the movements of his features as he chewed heartily on the beef. Her eyes raked over him, seeing the man in a different light, wondering why her heart pounded so strangely at the sight of him. Confused over her reaction, she went back to her meat and hoped it would pass.