Medieval Master Swordsmen(88)
The knights in the room moved to huddle around the map, watching Rhys thump his knuckles at their general vicinity. He continued. “I have also sent word to Bronllys Castle to the south where my grandfather is constable. I have requested at least three hundred men and I am sure he will provide me with all that and potentially more. Furthermore,” he jabbed a finger at a dark spot on the map, “as we all know, the Welsh burned Clun Castle ten years ago so we can expect no help from FitzAlan. But Wigmore Castle to the south has a massive contingent of men, as the castle is being expanded and parts rebuilt, so we have sent a request for at least eight hundred men from Mortimer.”
Rod studied the map and the distance between Ludlow and Wigmore. “How many men do we have now should we decide to move before all of the reinforcements arrive?”
“The earl has nearly nine hundred men here at Lioncross,” Lawrence, standing on the other side of Rhys, answered his question. “De Braose’s five hundred should arrive sometime tomorrow, giving us a little over fourteen hundred men, more than enough to lay siege to Ludlow until the rest arrive.”
Rod cast his brother a sidelong glance. “So we ride tomorrow for Ludlow?”
Rhys fixed him in the eye. “I ride tomorrow for Ludlow,” he said, making sure each man was focused on what he was about to say. “You will remain here for at least another day because I intend to ride ahead and find a way to plant myself inside of Ludlow. From the interior, I can do what is necessary to ensure that Ludlow falls to our forces. I can also get to Elizabeau before they either kill her or move her. I fear that once we lay siege, her life is forfeit.”
Rod’s brow furrowed. “And how do you plan to gain entry? There are those who will know you on sight.”
Rhys gazed back at his brother, his brilliant blue eyes glimmering with the first flicker of life that Rod had seen from him in three months. “Rod, look at me,” he said quietly. “If you did not know who I was, would you recognize me?”
Rod stared at him a moment before shaking his head. “Nay, I would not.”
“Neither would anyone else. I’ve been banking on it for some time.”
Those around the table began to look very strangely at him. “What in the hell are you saying?” Rod asked.
“Think about it. Think very hard.”
Rod did. Then his eyebrows rose as an idea dawned. “Are you saying that the hair, the beard, is to make you unrecognizable to the enemy? That it is a… a disguise?”
Rhys shrugged. “I assumed at some point we would discover her location and I have every intention of gaining entry to her prison, no matter where or what it is, and personally claim her. I cannot do that if I look like myself. I seem to be fairly recognizable and I need to be able to slip in, wherever she is being held, unnoticed. And now that we know it is Ludlow, I can also help orchestrate the fall of the castle from my position inside.”
Rod’s jaw dropped. Beside him, the knights surrounding the table were in various stages of confusion and understanding. An unexpected scheme was unfolding, born from the brilliance of Rhys’ cunning mind. The man hadn’t been mad for the past three months, simply biding his time.
Even Lawrence, ever the shrewd and dangerous warrior, nodded his approval; he had known Rhys almost longer than any of them and suddenly, it all made a good deal of sense.
“Excellent,” he commented quietly.
But Rod ignored the remark; he was still gaping at his brother. “Is that why you stopped cutting your hair and shaving?” he demanded.
Rhys grinned. “You are catching on, little brother. You are most definitely catching on.”
No one doubted for a moment that Rhys’ appearance had been a cleverly crafted scheme. His mood and manners were still another matter, but suddenly, the majority of his behavior made sense. The man before them was the Rhys of old; calm, collected and analytical. With the earl and his brother focused on family issues, the burden of command had, for the moment, fallen on Rhys. He’d had a plan in mind from the beginning, anticipating what he might have to do, because the stakes of this venture would be higher than any he had ever faced.
The stakes were Elizabeau.
***
She was so sick that she could barely move. Elizabeau had stayed in bed most of the morning because any movement made her vomit. Since she had eaten so little over the past few days, there was nothing in her stomach and she ended up dry heaving. It was a miserable condition. Edward tried to coax broth and bits of bread down her, but she refused to touch anything. She would not even drink water.
So she dozed on and off into the morning, hearing sounds of a blustery snow storm outside. Towards noon, she awoke and, oddly, felt better, at least enough to sit up without vomiting. She even managed to sip at Edward’s beef broth. But after two little sips, she’d had enough and she was determined to get out of bed.