Medieval Master Swordsmen(90)

“Lady Elizabeau,” he bowed shortly. “A messenger has just arrived. I am here to inform you that we have received a communication from the king.”

“Oh?” Elizabeau responded, remembering the soldier she had seen ride in a short while earlier. “What did it say?”

Lewis cleared his throat. “Perhaps you would like to sit, my lady.”

Elizabeau shook her head. “No need,” she passed a glance at Radcliffe, noticing he would not meet her eye, and the first inkling of concern sprouted in her chest. “Please tell me what the king has to say to me.”

Lewis looked uncomfortable for a second but quickly recovered. “As you know, Walter de Lacy is in London with the king and I have command of the castle,” he said. “It is therefore my duty to carry out any orders that come forth from the king.”

Elizabeau stared at him, the feeling of concern in her breast suddenly blooming to epidemic proportions. There was something in the way he had said it, it is therefore my duty to carry out any orders. Orders from the king where they pertained to her could not be a good thing and she struggled to maintain her calm. It was then that she noticed that Lewis held something in his hand.

“I see,” she said, hoping her voice did not reflect the tremble in her body. “What did the king order?”

Lewis lifted the parchment in his hand and focused on the text. As Elizabeau watched him, it occurred to her that she already knew what it said. God help her, she already knew. It could be nothing else. Had it been anything other than an execution order, Radcliffe would be able to look her in the eye. But he could not; he continued to stare at the floor. Elizabeau struggled not to lose her composure as the older knight began to read. I am to be executed like my brother, Arthur, she thought. It has finally come.

Lewis cleared his throat before he spoke in a loud, firm voice. “’That Elizabeau Treveighan, daughter of Geoffrey of Brittany, is guilty of a most heinous and detestable act of treason against our most sovereign and omnipotent King John is hereby ordered to stand to execution by the block on February twenty-fifth, Year of our Lord 1204. It is further ordered that the condemned’s body shall be quartered upon death to be made example of to those who would betray the most sovereign and omnipotent King John. Such is the fate of traitors to king and country. Written by order of the King, the first of February, Year of our lord 1204.’”

When his voice abruptly stopped, the chamber was as quiet as a tomb. The only sound was of that from the crackling hearth and the snow blowing outside. Elizabeau wasn’t even sure she heard anything at all; the message was ringing inside her head until she was deaf and dumb to all else. She stared at Lewis as if frozen, unable to move or speak. She just stared. The red-headed knight gazed back at her impassively.

“I am further commanded to send notice to allies of the king that are located within a three day ride of Ludlow,” he said evenly. “The king wishes for them to be witness if they so desire.”

It was too much to take but Elizabeau steeled herself admirably. In fact, she seemed rather dull to it. It was too shocking, too macabre, and her mind was beginning to shut down as if refusing to believe what she had just heard. Maybe if she ignored it, it would all go away. The nightmare would fade and she would wake up in a warm bed snuggled next to Rhys. He would be there to ease her fears, to protect her and to comfort her. He would be there to love her.

Lewis continued to stand there as if waiting for a reaction. With none forthcoming, he re-rolled the parchment.

“You have three days to make peace with God, my lady,” he said quietly. “For on the third day, I will lead you to the block myself.”

With that, he quit the chamber in relative silence. Elizabeau continued to stand in the center of the room, staring into nothingness, frozen in place as her mind turned into a dark, muddled mass of shock. She could not comprehend what would be her fate in three days. The block was a horrific enough thought, but to be quartered afterwards and made example of was more than she could bear. Every hope she had for the future, for the life growing inside of her, and her love for Rhys would be at an end at the sharp edge of an axe in three days. It was too ghastly to comprehend.

Woodenly, she turned away from the fire and somehow ended up near the lancet windows. The blustery wind was lifting the oilcloth, sending freezing gusts into the chamber. She could feel them on her face but she was already numb. It didn’t matter.

“My lady,” Radcliffe’s voice sounded strangled. “May… may I do anything for you? Anything at all?”

Elizabeau pulled back the oilcloth and let the freezing air hit her in the face. She was beyond tears, beyond hysteria. She realized she wasn’t so much worried for herself as she was for Rhys and the child she carried. All of her ache was reserved for them; Rhys would never know of the baby she carried. The son with his father’s good looks would never grow to adulthood, would never know his own life. And Rhys would surely blame himself for her death. She couldn’t imagine what effect that would have on the man, but she could guess, and the knowledge tore her apart.