Medieval Master Swordsmen(98)

“Exactly. He had a job to do there.”

“Is he the one who…?”

“That is what I was told.”

Lewis looked at the enormous swordsman through new eyes, understanding the implication. So it is true what they have said about Arthur, he thought to himself. “I see,” he muttered, rubbing his chin as his gaze returned to Edward. “How did he know that you were from Ludlow?”

Edward shook his head. “He did not,” he said. “We passed each other on the road and he asked me if he was taking the correct route to Ludlow. When I asked his business and he explained it, I thought it best to return with him.”

“Then I am to understand you did not make it to Clifford Castle?”

“I did not. I thought this more important.”

Lewis sighed faintly with displeasure but said nothing as he refocused on the vellum. It was yellowed and cracked, but the ink was fresh for the most part. To his eye, it looked legitimate. But when he took the missive that had been delivered a few days before bearing Lady Elizabeau’s death warrant and compared the signatures, both Edward and Rhys held their breath. It was the moment of truth, a critical point in time that could determine the course of the future for all of them.

It was a painful wait as Lewis inspected both signatures. After several seconds of delay, he suddenly tossed the death warrant aside.

“Very well,” Lewis said as he re-rolled the vellum. “It seems to be in order. What did you say your name was again?”

“Mon nom est Armand de Foix, mon seigneur,” Rhys said in perfect French. “Je suis venu compléter le roi ordre.”

Lewis held up a hand. “In English, please. My French is not very good. My Welsh is better. Do you speak Welsh?”

“Areithia cymraeg namyn Areithia Saesneg atat,” Rhys said in Welsh; I do speak Welsh but I will speak English. Then he said in perfect English: “I said that I am Armand de Foix and I am here to carry out the king’s execution order.”

Lewis’ gaze lingered on him a moment. “Your Welsh is perfect.”

“I work in many countries where it is necessary to know the language. Otherwise, the wrong head might be lopped off.”

The red-haired knight snorted and set the vellum aside on the desk; both Edward and Rhys watched it fall to the side, almost weak with relief that the man hadn’t challenged or questioned it. He had, in fact, been mildly disinterested in it, which was a surprise. Perhaps it was because he was simply glad he did not have to do the honors; the king had sent someone skilled in such tasks.

“The execution will take place tomorrow at dawn,” he told Rhys. “Be prepared to move quickly because when I lead her to the block, I do not want any delay. We must get it over with and send word back to the king that the deed has been completed. Is that understood?”

Rhys nodded his head. “Perfectly, my lord.”

Lewis moved around the table, eying him. “I hope you are good. I do not want this to be… messy. It’s simply not right with a woman involved.”

“I am good,” Rhys assured him. “I can promise that this will not be messy.”

Lewis nodded and turned away. “Show him where he will sleep for tonight,” he instructed Edward. “Then you will retreat to the lady’s room. I want her carefully watched until morning.”

Edward nodded, pulling Rhys along with him. Without a word, they headed to the upper floors of the keep.



***



It was very late, or very early, depending on one’s point of view. As Elizabeau sat near the fire when she should have been sleeping, she preferred to think of it as very late. To think of it as early morning would be to rush her appointment with the block and she was trying very hard to stay calm.

It would have helped considerably had Edward been with her. At least she would go to the block with someone familiar at her side. But Edward had left almost three days before, sent to take missives announcing her execution date. That was what Lewis had told her in a very non-emotional tone. The man wasn’t being cruel, but he wasn’t being of comfort, either. He was doing his duty as he saw it. He was serving the king and so was Edward.

So Elizabeau had spent a good deal of time alone over the past three days, thinking of her life, of what could have been, and rubbing her rounded belly to comfort the child within. She had already decided it was a boy and she had already decided to name him Rory, a strong Welsh name like his father’s. It gave her great delight to name the child even though he was barely making himself known. So she spoke to Rory by the hour and told the child how glad she would be to see him in heaven, which is where they would finally meet. It gave her a good deal of comfort knowing that she and her child would see each other soon. But it did not give her comfort knowing that Rhys would not meet his son for a very long time.