Authors: The Mistress of Rosecliffe
Rexanne Becnel (28 page)
Isolde pressed the fingers of one hand to her temple. If only she understood. But she was reacting on instinct now, so she crossed the empty hall and mounted the stairs with a steady tread. Up past her old chamber. Up past Rhys’s chamber on the third level, the room that had been her parents’, until she reached the chamber that had, of late, become hers. The tower room.
It was darker in the close quarters than it had been minutes before. The storm blocked out the sun, and the unsettled clouds seemed to frown disapproval upon the foolish mortals beneath them. She stared at the mural she had begun. A splash of watery gray paint streaked across both dragon and wolf. Uniting them?
No.
Isolde turned away. It was doomed. All of it. The painting.
Her love. Her family. Her future. Outside the three men would kill one another, and in so doing, they would kill a part of her, as well. She could not stop them. Nor could she watch them.
Her love. Her family. Her future. Outside the three men would kill one another, and in so doing, they would kill a part of her, as well. She could not stop them. Nor could she watch them.
So she righted the overset paint pot. She retrieved her paintbrush from the floor, and though tears clouded her vision, she found a rag and began to mop up the spilled gray paint. But continue to paint? She could not. Despite her dread, she strained to hear the clang of steel weapons, but she was not reassured by the silence.
Then she pressed her finger into the wet gray paint and impulsively drew a cross in the space between the dragon and the wolf. “God protect them, Welsh and English. God protect them.”
RHYS FOCUSED ON JASPER FITZHUGH, THE MAN HE’D HATED longer than he could remember.
His hand clenched around the sword hilt. One enemy at a time. He knew from having faced innumerable foes, in tournaments, melees, and actual battlefields, that to think beyond the adversary at hand was to court disaster. Disable them one at a time. That was the surest path to victory. First he must kill the younger FitzHugh brother. Then, if Randulf FitzHugh was bent on fighting, he would face him, too.
And when will you face Isolde?
His hand shook at the thought. Just a tiny tremor, but it transmitted up the mighty longsword he held before him. He saw the razor-edged tip of his favorite weapon waver. So did Jasper FitzHugh.
“Do you hesitate?” the man asked. “Is that fear? Or is it, perhaps, doubt that causes your hand to shake? For mark my words, Rhys, they are not the same thing.”
Rhys’s grip tightened, and a wave of sharp pain immediately shot out from his sliced hand. But that was good, he told himself. The pain would galvanize his fury. He glared at the man. Jasper FitzHugh might be past his prime physically, but he had not gone to fat. He was big and strong, and he would comport himself well on the field of battle. He met the man’s stare without blinking. “I cannot fear a fight I have anticipated these twenty years gone by.”
“Ah, but the stakes are considerably higher now than they were before. Perhaps what you feel is doubt.”
“Nothing has changed.” Rhys swore, then he lunged forward. At once Jasper leaped back and their swords clashed. But it was only the tips of the blades, just the beginning of their confrontation.
Was Isolde watching?
Again Rhys’s hand trembled. The sword wavered.
“She must be in love with you,” Jasper said in a reasonable tone. “’Tis the only explanation I can see for my niece’s curious behavior. She must love you.”
“Not enough,” Rhys muttered. With a burst he attacked once more, and this time he beat Jasper back with the fury of his blows. He was dimly aware of the other men around them, of the dozens of people from the castle and village who had crept out to watch this fight between lifelong enemies. He knew that Randulf FitzHugh waited, eager to take his brother’s place when Jasper fell beneath his blade. And he would fall, Rhys vowed, pressing his attack.
But though Jasper gave ground, it was a strategic move, not a retreat, and Rhys was not foolish enough to interpret it otherwise.
“Think on why you fight me,” Jasper continued, slashing back now. “Your father died at my hand that day. But Josselyn was saved. He meant to kill her, to murder her. But I saved her life by killing him first. Do you think he deserves your loyalty? A man who would slay a woman? Do you think your father would have done as much for the Welsh people of these hills as she has? Healed them. Fed them. Kept the peace and made their lives better?”
“Save your breath for the fight. You will need it,” Rhys snarled. He did not want to hear any of this. He thrust forward but Jasper turned the cut aside. For a moment their blades locked together. They were close enough to touch. Close enough to glare into each other’s eyes.
How like Isolde’s eyes his were, Rhys saw with a shock. The same clear gray shade, somewhere between falling rain and the deep, luminous color of quartz.
“No!” With a surge of raw strength Rhys threw the man backward. He did not want to see Isolde’s eyes in his enemy’s face.
Jasper stumbled back and his heel caught on a stone. Tilted
suddenly off balance, he went down on one knee. He was up in an instant, before the gasp from the onlookers had dissipated in the air. Still, it was enough time for Rhys to make his move.
suddenly off balance, he went down on one knee. He was up in an instant, before the gasp from the onlookers had dissipated in the air. Still, it was enough time for Rhys to make his move.
But he did not.
He hesitated, then when it was too late, he cursed himself for a fool. Would he forfeit his life for a pair of gray eyes? For a woman who would never put him ahead of the rest of her family?
“
Uffern dan!
” he swore, and attacked with renewed zeal, slashing, thrusting, pushing FitzHugh farther back, and forcing the man to defend himself.
Uffern dan!
” he swore, and attacked with renewed zeal, slashing, thrusting, pushing FitzHugh farther back, and forcing the man to defend himself.
Neither of them had a spare breath to speak or taunt; they probed and parried and tried to make no misstep on the cold, slippery ground, soaked from the melted snow and earlier rains. Dimly Rhys heard the threatening roll of thunder. He heard the shouts and grunts of encouragement.
“You have ’em, lad”
“That’s it. That’s it.”
“Careful. Take your time.”
Sweat streaked down Rhys’s face and arms, and stung his healing wounds. His muscles clenched and stretched as he hacked at the other man’s defenses. He was operating on instinct, the smooth connection between his brain and his body that had brought him safely through a hundred such battles. A thousand, it seemed. Although he had a worthy opponent in Jasper FitzHugh, Rhys knew he was younger and more fit. Eventually he would prevail.
Sure enough, as the fight wore on he began to sense the oncoming victory. It showed in little ways. Jasper FitzHugh was tiring. His arm was slower to raise the heavy longsword. His thrusts were not as sure, nor as powerful. He was a canny fighter; Rhys would grant him that. But he was older and therein lay the difference. Jasper had but to endure a little longer.
Then without warning a shriek of light rent the air. A violent jolt of sound and light. Like a giant fist from the sky, thunder crashed over them. It seemed to roll right through them. The combatants both fell back at the abrupt onslaught. Horses reared and bolted, and screams of alarm sounded faintly in Rhys’s deafened ears.
The hairs stood up on his arms and the back of his neck, and the air smelled fiery and rank. “Holy Jesu!” he exclaimed, momentarily stunned. What had happened? But he knew at once. Lightning had struck very near, and around him everyone scrambled for cover. Even his opponent was disoriented. FitzHugh had staggered back and he held a hand over one of his ears.
Rhys shook his head, trying to clear his senses. Now was his chance! Jasper’s guard was down. His sword tip had fallen enough to allow Rhys a clean thrust to the man’s chest.
Rhys steeled himself. It was no dishonor to take advantage of the confusion occasioned by the lightning strike. Had FitzHugh recovered first, he would do the same.
So Rhys tensed to strike. He focused on the vulnerable spot between the man’s neck and shoulder, where the protection of the mail was weakest. Twenty years, he reminded himself. Twenty years of plotting revenge, of hating this man and all his kin.
Twenty years.
Jasper frowned and rubbed his ear. He still could not hear, Rhys realized. Rhys’s own hearing was returning, though. He heard screams from somewhere beyond and the maddened snorts of horses and other cattle. But Jasper was still deaf.
Strike now. Now! the voice of revenge demanded—a voice that sounded suspiciously like his father’s, hard and cruel and demanding. But Rhys hesitated and he could not say why. He raised the sword. He had but to swing it down and his revenge would be complete.
Then he heard it. A thin cry, yet shrill and piercing. “Fire. The tower, it’s on fire!”
It carried over the din of panic and utter confusion, and it froze Rhys with his weapon upraised to deliver the killing blow.
“Fire in the tower. Fire!”
The tower. Isolde was in the tower.
A fear like nothing he’d ever known turned Rhys’s blood to ice. Isolde! He spun around to face the castle and, horrified, saw the unreal glow of fire high up against the leaden sky. Had Isolde fled to the tower as she’d said she would? Was she up there now inside the burning top story?
Rhys forgot his revenge. He forgot his adversaries, both of them still partially deaf from the lightning strike. He even forgot the sword he yet held as he turned and sprinted for the castle. For him there was but one thought: if Isolde was in the tower, he must get her out.
He must get her out!
He tore across the clearing, over the bridge, and beneath the gatehouse. Around him utter pandemonium reigned, dogs barked, people screamed, staring, pointing in the directon of the tower. The place to which Isolde retreated.
He fought his way up the steps of the great hall, pushing past those fleeing the fire. Across the hall to the stairs, with the grim reek of the conflagration growing stronger in his nostrils.
“Isolde!” he screamed. “Isolde!”
But his only answer was the echo of her last words to him, just minutes before. “Do not come to me if you spill the blood of my uncle or father.” And earlier she had pleaded so fervently with him. “Choose me over revenge.”
But he had not. He had not.
God in heaven, was this his punishment for being a fool? A blind and heartless fool? “Save her,” he prayed out loud as he took the steep winding steps three at a time. “God, I beg you, do not use her to punish me. Of us all, she is the only one innoçent of wrongdoing. Save her. Save her.”
Isolde heard a roaring sound. She felt heavy and her head hurt. But she was warm. She had not been this warm since … since when? Despite the pounding in her head and the oddest pressure in her ears, she smiled. She had not been this warm since she and Rhys had lain together, entwined in his big bed—
Rhys.
With a painful rush Isolde’s memory returned. At this very moment he did battle with her uncle Jasper, and he meant to fight her father, as well. She gasped, then nearly choked on smoke.
What was happening?
She struggled to push herself upright and opened her bleary eyes, yet still she could not at first comprehend what she saw. Above her part of the roof had collapsed, while other parts of
it were on fire. In places the flames leaped high above the roof, up into the sky. But how could that be?
it were on fire. In places the flames leaped high above the roof, up into the sky. But how could that be?
Then she remembered an unholy sound, a streak of light and the unearthly crash when it struck the tower. Lightning! Lightning had struck Rosecliffe. Suddenly terrified, Isolde sat all the way up. The air was hot and thick with smoke, and she blinked back the burning sting of tears. She must get out!
But a shaft of pain shot down her back and into one leg, and sitting upright made her head spin. She stared around, disoriented. One wall of the tower had caved in. She could see the sky beyond and feel the wind. She pressed a hand to her head to stop the spinning. Where was the door? Where were the stairs?
She started blindly to crawl over rock rubble and splintered wood. Burning embers rained down on her. Ashes and charred wood. It was a nightmarish vision of hell, so hideous and terrifying that panic nearly overwhelmed her.
“Rhys!” she called out as she slapped at a smoking spot on her sleeve. “Rhys, help me,” she cried, hardly aware of her words. She coughed and swiped at her eyes. Where was the door? Again she coughed, then lowered her face to the floor. The smoke was not so thick there, and she greedily gulped the blessedly cool air. As long as she could breathe, she could keep her wits about her.
But where was the door? Half-hidden by the rubble of the collapsed wall, she saw at last. And the top portion of it was already engulfed in flames!
In the castle yard one form of panic gave way to another. The castle folk fled the bailey, seeking respite from the angry God who saw fit to destroy Rosecliffe Castle rather than allow the claimants to battle for it. But others poured into the yard: the FitzHugh brothers and their men. And also their wives.
A still dazed Jasper FitzHugh managed to start a water brigade, shouting orders and grabbing men to do his bidding. His brother, Randulf, meanwhile frantically scanned the bailey, searching hopefully for the sight of his daughter.
“Where could she be? Surely not up there,” Josselyn cried, running to catch him. “Rand, we must find her!” When she
spied Newlin, however, she abruptly changed direction. “Newlin, help us. Help us! We must find Isolde!”
spied Newlin, however, she abruptly changed direction. “Newlin, help us. Help us! We must find Isolde!”
. “He has gone for her,” the bard answered in a calming tone. “Rhys ap Owain has gone for her. His will is strong, you know, and I had feared for him. But now it is come,” he said with a glance at Tillo. “The third prediction is upon us.”
The third prediction. Josselyn blinked at that sudden revelation. Of course. Winter’s heat. And Rhys had gone to save Isolde. Did that mean this madness would finally end?
She spun about and dashed over to Rand, who had started toward the hall. She grabbed his arm. “’When winter’s heat shall cold defeat.’ That is what this fire is. When it ends—”
“It will only end only when Rhys ap Owain is rendered powerless. But first I’ve got to find Isolde.”
“She’s in the tower, Rand, and Rhys has gone to save her. Don’t you see?” she exclaimed as she followed him up the steps. “He could have killed Jasper, but Isolde’s safety mattered more to him than revenge!”
His face was grim as smoke swirled around the hall he’d constructed with such care. “He is our enemy and I cannot underestimate him. I’ll find Isolde.” He caught her by the arm and shoved her back toward the door. “Get you to the yard. Organize our people and save what you can.”
Josselyn started to protest. She started to say that she needed to find her child herself, and hold her in her arms. She wanted also to prevent her husband from reacting in anger when he found Rhys, for she was convinced he loved Isolde. He must.
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