Medieval Master Swordsmen(9)

Rhys was done with his beef before she was, tossing the bone to the floor and watching the dogs fight over it. He glanced over at Elizabeau to see how she was faring and noticed she was only picking at her bread. She didn’t seem as hungry as she had earlier and his concern returned.

“Is something amiss, my lady?” he asked. “Is the bread not to your liking?”

She looked at him as if startled by his question. Quickly, she shook her head and lowered her gaze.

“It is fine,” she said.

Rhys looked at her as if he did not believe her. She seemed depressed and remote, not at all like the woman he had taken from Hyde House earlier in the evening. That woman had been full of confidence, spit and fire. He swallowed the bite in his mouth, trying to ascertain her disposition.

“Are you feeling poorly?” he probed politely. “It is well after midnight. We might be able to spare a few hours for you to sleep.”

Her head snapped up, the deep green eyes fixing on him. He could see the wheels of thought turning. “You are a duke’s son,” she said after a moment. “Why do you serve de Lohr as a common knight?”

He lifted a dark eyebrow at her. “I am not sure what you mean, my lady.”

“I mean that you are born to privilege. If your father is the Duke of Navarre, then he must be related to Philippe Auguste.”

Rhys’ gaze lingered on her. “He is the king’s cousin. His mother and the king’s father were cousins.”

“Then Phillip is your cousin.”

“Aye.”

She stared at him. Then she put the bread down. “Yet you serve an English earl? This makes no sense.”

“Why not?”

Her eyebrows flew up. “Why not? Well... well, just look at you. You’re a big knight with big weapons. You should be in France serving your father or ruling over your own lands.”

He sat back in his chair; for some reason, he was enjoying her confusion. A smile played on his smooth lips.

“Yet I am not. Who I serve, and why I serve, should be of no concern to you, my lady. You have greater problems of your own to think about.”

Elizabeau looked at him, realizing he was keeping a definitive wall up. He did not want her to know anything about him; that much was clear. He had been nothing but professional and calculating since she had met him. He was her escort and nothing more. Not that it mattered to her, but the man could at least show some measure of friendliness and answer her question. She was puzzled why the son of a duke should serve a mere English earl.

She returned her gaze to her bread, hunting for a knife and possibly some butter. If he did not want to speak of himself, so be it.

Rhys watched her as she busied herself with more food. He wasn’t hungry any longer, more interested in studying the lady at the moment. He’d not allowed himself to give her any regard other than professional treatment up until this moment; there hadn’t been the time or the focus. He had been trying to keep her alive. But now, at least for the time being, the situation was calm. The ale was relaxing his body as well as his tongue.

“I am not in succession for the duke’s title,” he said quietly, watching her look up from buttering her bread. “My mother was a lady in waiting for the duchess.”

She stopped buttering. “You’re a bastard?”

“Like you.”

Elizabeau began to understand his position somewhat. “Is that why you do not carry the duke’s name?”

He nodded. “De Foix is for the family of Navarre. I carry my grandmother’s surname on my father’s side.”

“Why do you not carry your mother’s name?”

He toyed with the cup in his hand, the brilliant blue eyes with their guard down for the first time since they’d met. He and the lady had common ground, something they both understood clearly being illegitimate offspring. He felt no humiliation in telling her.

“Because my father would not hear of it,” he said quietly. “Yet he did not want me to bear his name, either. So I am named after his mother’s side of the family.”

Elizabeau watched him play with the cup, finally pouring himself more ale. “But I bear my mother’s name,” she said.

“That was not possible in my case,” he replied. “Although my mother is of minor Welsh nobility, my father would not permit me to carry a Welsh name. It simply was not an option.”

Her lovely arched eyebrows lifted. “I should have seen it in you. You carry the darkness of the Welsh.”

He smiled wryly, the first such gesture she had ever seen from him. He had massive dimples carving through each cheek. “And you carry the fairness of the Norsemen.”