Spectre of the Sword (32 page)

“Chris,” he said, his
tone grim. “You’d better come. Dustin is feeling pains.”

Christopher bolted past
Conrad and Rhys, running through the snow to the massive keep of Lioncross
where his wife would soon be bearing their third child.  Rhys watched him go,
collecting himself and following after a moment.  Only Conrad was left to stand
with his silent general in the dark cold, his mind muddled with thoughts of
Carys as the snow fell silently.  He’d never been so miserable in his entire
life.

He couldn’t dare to hope
that he would ever see her again.

***

He had been her constant
companion for weeks and Elizabeau wanted nothing to do with him. Surrounded by
the luxury of Ludlow Castle in Herefordshire, she was in a beautiful place with
high walls and spacious quarters. The problem was that she was also a prisoner
and her jailor, a knight by the name of Sir Edward Radcliffe, never let her out
of his sight.  He was under strict orders to remain with the lady at all times
and he took those orders literally.

It had been almost three
months since she had been abducted from Cardiff.  Someone had hit her over the
head and she hadn’t regained consciousness for two days.  By that time, she had
been spirited back into England and she had spent the next few days traveling
to Clifford Castle.  After a few days stay there, she was moved to another
castle, whose name she had long forgotten. Then came another, and still
another. In the first month, she had been moved to seven different castles. 
She overheard some of her escort talking and she gathered, from their conversation,
that they were trying to throw de Lohr off the track should he be following. 
She knew that Rhys would stop at nothing to find her and she was disheartened
that her captors were trying to evade a rescue attempt. So at the end of the
second week, she attempted her first escape.

It had constituted
nothing more than just running away.  She had been easily caught and brought
back, then tied up for a day.  But Radcliffe had eventually untied her upon her
promise that she wouldn’t try again.  She didn’t feel bad lying to him since he
had kidnapped her in the first place, but by the fourth escape attempt,
Radcliffe was feeling some frustration with her.  And it was at that moment he
had become her constant companion.

Radcliffe wasn’t a tall
man; in fact, he was only a few inches taller than Elizabeau.  But he had
enormous shoulders, a big belly, big arms and big hands at the end of those
arms.  He had dark hair and non-descript blue eyes and wasn’t a particularly
bad looking man if one liked the sort, but he did have a rather dumb expression
on his face most of the time.  Elizabeau could tell from their first
conversation that he wasn’t a very bright man.  But he was as strong as a bull
and deeply, unquestionably obedient to Walter Clifford, his liege and a strong
supporter of the king.

Elizabeau had decided
she didn’t like him fairly early on.  She was as mean and nasty as she could
possibly be with him, mostly because she was terrified of her predicament.  She
wept for Rhys every night, wondering how he was dealing with her abduction and
knowing he was more than likely severely blaming himself.  She missed him so
badly that her entire body ached, for days on end, and nothing would ease the
ache.  The ache took away her appetite and eventually, whenever she tried to
eat, she would vomit it right back up again.  She began dropping weight over
the weeks, but strangely, her belly seemed to stay rounded and firm.  After two
months of vomiting and a belly that was beginning to grow, it eventually dawned
on her that she was pregnant.  That sweet, stolen morning so long ago had taken
root and the result was growing inside her womb.

Momentary shock had
turned to delirious delight.  She knew full well what it meant and how the
situation would turn horribly against both her and Rhys when the child was
discovered, but all she could think of was the fact that she would be bearing
the child of the man she was so desperately in love with.  She imagined a son
with his father’s handsome looks and brilliant blue eyes.  It was, in fact,
enough to soften her stand-offish nature and she and Radcliffe had become a
strange sort of friends.  She started being kind to him and he, dim-witted
brute that he was, became a slave to her needs.  It was an extremely odd
dynamic but one that strangely worked.

But she made certain
that Radcliffe did not know about her pregnancy.  As time passed and her belly
grew, she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep it from him.  Eventually,
he would figure it out for himself and then she would be in a bind; her child
would be seen as heir presumptive and a new set of worries began to settle.  
Threat to her was one thing, but threat to her child was totally another.   She
knew, more strongly than ever, that she had to get word to Rhys on her location
and condition.  She knew the man would move heaven and earth to save her.

On this snowy February
day, she was planted in the sitting room of the two room suite she occupied,
pretending to busy herself with paints. She was a talented artist but her mind
was not focused on the scene she was attempting to create.  It was on another
escape attempt because she knew, as her pregnancy progressed, that she would
eventually be unable to move with agility.  There would be a time she would
have to give it up for the safety of her child.   Radcliffe sat over in the
corner, sharpening a blade on a pumice stone, keeping busy as he kept watch
over the lady.   Elizabeau could feel him over her shoulder.

“Edward,” she said,
focused on her paints. “Can you please put more peat on the fire? I find that I
am cold today.”

He promptly set the
stone down and went to the enormous hearth, stoking it with enough peat to make
flames shoot up the chimney.  Then he stood there to watch the blaze, making
sure it would remain stable.  He turned to look at her.

“Do you want a blanket,
my lady?” he asked.

She shook her head,
wiping off her brush. “This garment is heavy enough. I just feel a chill.”

“Are you becoming ill?”

“I do not believe so.”

He was moving for the
door. “I will send someone for some warm broth.”

She turned to him. “Nay,
Edward, truly,” she insisted. “I am fine. Please go and sit down.”

He stood by the door,
his hound-sad face fixed on her. “But you have not eaten yet today. You must
eat something.”

“Maybe later.”

He made a face and moved
away from the door, looking dejected. Elizabeau felt herself relenting. “Oh,
very well,” she snapped softly, turning back to her paints. “Send someone for
broth is it pleases you.”

He immediately
brightened and went to the door, snapping orders to one of the soldiers
guarding the hall.  Elizabeau watched him from the corner of her eye, his
mannerisms and mood.  It occurred to her not long ago that there was a good
reason Radcliffe had been assigned to her; the way the man mothered and fussed
over her, she was coming to think that he was either a eunuch or he was not
physically attracted to women. He seemed to relate to them more than any man
she had ever seen and, for a knight, that was a very peculiar quality. 
Certainly, he was a powerful man and undoubtedly an accomplished warrior, but
he was also rather effeminate.  And with that knowledge, a strange kinship and
compassion developed for him.  He was oddly placed in this world they found
themselves in.

“Beef broth only,
Edward,” she reminded him. “If it is anything else, I shall vomit.”

He nodded patiently. “I
know, my lady. I have asked them to bring you some bread as well.”

She shrugged.  “I do not
think I can eat it.”

“You must try.”

She pursed her lips but
refrained from replying.  Dipping her brush into her red pot, she began to
carefully stroke the petals of a rose.  She could hear Edward shuffling around
behind her.

“Edward,” she said,
concentrating on the flower. “Am I to be moved again any time soon?”

He reached down to pick
up his pumice stone. “What do you mean, my lady?”

She looked over her
shoulder at him. “I am asking if I am to be moved to another location. This is
the seventh castle I have been housed at and the longest. I have been here for
three weeks.”

Edward resumed his stool
in the corner. “I have not been informed of any changes, my lady.”

She watched him as he
spoke; he wasn’t looking at her, which made her think he knew more than he was
telling her.  Being the sharp woman that she was, she couldn’t resist asking
more questions.

“They killed my brother,
Arthur, you know,” she said, watching his head come up to look at her. “And my
sister Eleanor is imprisoned at Corfe Castle. For all I know, they have killed
her, too.  I wonder what will happen when they ask you to kill me?”

His features tightened.
“I do not know anything of your brother or sister.  And I do not believe they
intend to kill you.”

She set the brush down.
“But how do you know? How do I know that you will not come to me some night and
put a pillow over my face? Would you truly do such a thing?”

He lifted an eyebrow and
looked back at his pumice stone. Slowly, he resumed sharpening his dagger.
“Clifford would not order such a thing.”

“Then what is the king
going to do with me?” she stood up, her dark green eyes fixed on him. “Edward,
they have already killed my brother. Do you not understand? I am heir apparent
from Richard’s line. They are going to kill me; I know it.”

His head came up again,
fixed on her as she walked towards him. “I have no such knowledge.”

“Will you defend me?”

He stopped sharpening,
agitation in his features. “I am sworn to Clifford.”

“And if he orders you to
kill me?”

“If he orders it, I must
obey.”

She looked at him with
wide eyes.  Then, she backed away from him, turning around completely and
making way for the lancet windows on the opposite side of the room. Peeling the
oilcloth back, she was hit with the freezing air as she gazed into the
white-covered bailey below. Her line of questioning against Radcliffe had
backfired and now she was verging on frightened tears. Then she heard him
behind her.

“I am sorry, my lady,”
he said softly. “I did not mean to upset you.”

She blinked and tears
spattered on her cheeks; she wasn’t afraid for herself but for the life growing
inside of her.  It meant everything to her to ensure the survival of the child.

“The order will come,”
she wept softly. “It came for Arthur and it will come for me.“

He wasn’t sure what to
say.  All Radcliffe knew was that he felt very badly for the lady. He’d tried
so hard to be both jailor and caretaker.  He had developed a very brotherly
attachment to her simply because they had spent so much time together.  But he
knew, as did she, if the orders came down to execute her that he would be
duty-bound to obey.

“I am sorry,” he said again.
“It is not that I wish to do it, but if….”

She turned to him,
wiping the tears from her eyes. “Edward, listen to me. Help me escape and I
promise that you will have a great position and lands, all that I can give you,
for your troubles.  You are a good man; too good to serve someone as vile as my
uncle.  Do you not see this?”

He stared at her,
something cold invading his expression. “I cannot be bribed, Lady Elizabeau,”
he said flatly.  “I would be a man without honor if I could.” 

“Untrue,” she countered
softly. “You would be a man of conviction if you helped me. You know the king
is evil and you know that what he does is not right.  There is no honor in
serving a snake.”

Radcliffe’s eyes
flickered with uncertainty.  “My father was sworn to John and his father Henry
before him. I am always destined to serve the king and his retainers.”

She put a hand on his
meaty arm. “But I have been named Richard’s heir. ‘Tis I who carry the
bloodlines of the true throne. Henry was my grandfather.”

Radcliffe looked anxious
as he gazed back at her.  “But John is the king. And I serve the king.”

“But he should not be
the king. He is destroying England with his greed and evil ways.”

Radcliffe didn’t know
what to say and lowered his head, trying to turn away. But she held him fast.

“Edward,” she said in a
less pleading, more firm tone. “May I ask you something?”

He shrugged, still not
looking at her. “Go ahead, my lady.”

Her grip on his arm
tightened. “Has serving Clifford been a good experience for you?”

He did look at her,
then. “What do you mean?”

“Are your associates
kind to you? Are you well treated?”

He had no idea what she
meant. “They… they treat me as a knight, my lady.”

“Have they ever been
mean or harsh to you? Do they… mock you?”

He was truly puzzled but
she could see, in his eyes, a disturbing flicker. Like a child remembering bad
memories he had buried away. H
H
e jerked his
arm from her grip and lumbered back over to his stool and pumice stone. 
Elizabeau watched him sit heavily.