Kissing the Bride (Medieval 4)

“Perhaps he is grinding bones to make bread,” some wit murmured behind him.

“As long as they aren’t Raf’s bones,” Re

ynard replied bitterly, and there was an uneasy silence. More voices above—the mutterings of discontent? Mayhap. Reynard could not believe that all the souls in this place were happy with the way Baldessare ruled them. He had seen some miserable hovels on his way here, and some thin, starved faces. It did not seem as if Baldessare cared much for his villeins, but then Rhona had told him as much.

Rhona.

A part of his mind mocked and tried to make him believe she was watching him from behind these walls, laughing at him. That she had been a party to Raf’s kidnapping, and she was as evil as her father. Or mayhap not evil—just desperate to please him, even to the extent of destroying Lady Jenova, so that he would set her free.

No.

Reynard did not believe it. He had tried, on his ride here, but there was another, larger part of him that simply refused to accept it. The woman he had held in his arms would never do such things. She had suffered, aye, but she was good at heart. Something or someone had prevented her from coming to him at Uther’s Tower. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, he knew it. He knew it in his heart.

His Rhona was in trouble, and he was helpless to save her.

He should never have allowed her to return here; he should have taken her to Gunlinghorn when he’d had the chance, even if he would have had to kidnap her. Now ’twas possible he would never see her again.

“W-what is it you want?”

The voice came from above them, loud enough, but wavering up and down with fright. It was a voice Reynard knew. Lord Alfric’s. What was he doing there? Where was Baldessare?

Reynard looked up, shading his eyes against the glare of the torches, trying to see Alfric’s handsome face among those of the guards. But they all wore helmets and chain mail, and there was no way to tell them apart.

“I need to speak to your father, my lord,” he called back. “I am come on Lord Henry’s behalf and—”

“Is he afraid to come on his own?”

That got him a laugh. Alfric seemed to take courage from it, continuing in a more confident tone.

“My father does not want to speak to you. When he is ready, he will send word to Gunlinghorn. You will just have to wait.”

“You have Lady Jenova’s son.”

Alfric was silent a moment, and a hush fell over the wall.

“You are mistaken. There are no children here.”

“You lying swine! Let me speak to your father now!”

Then Alfric said something Reynard could hardly believe.

“Wait. You are obviously hard of hearing. I will come down and speak with you face-to-face.”

Reynard turned and looked at his men. They were gaping back at him. It was a trick. It had to be. But no, soon enough the gate was opening, and a number of soldiers stepped out, all wearing chain mail or leather tunics and helmets. One of them came forward cautiously, and it was indeed Lord Alfric. Beside him, a decidedly tubby soldier waddled along, struggling to keep pace. Warily, they halted several yards from Reynard and his men.

“Reynard? I-is that your name?” Alfric asked. “Come forward, I want to see you.”

“Don’t go!” one of his men warned, but Reynard decided that if Baldessare’s men had wanted to fire an arrow at him from the walls, they would have done it before now. He kicked his mount forward, tempted to run Alfric down. Except that that would solve nothing. Perhaps he could capture him and hold him for ransom? Although, having seen how Lord Baldessare treated his son, it was doubtful he would care.

Alfric was speaking in important tones, as if he were not saying the oddest things. “I have a man here, Reynard, who will go back with you to Gunlinghorn Castle. He will speak with Lord Henry in person and explain to him what we want in return for Lady Jenova’s brat. Do not harm him, for he is important in this matter. Do you understand me?”

Reynard nodded in bemusement.

Satisfied, Alfric flicked his fingers at the soldiers behind him. “Come here.”

The fat soldier waddled forward, puffing and panting. Beneath his helmet, his face was dark with grime and running with sweat. Alfric gave him a curiously gentle pat on the shoulder. “Do as we said and all will be well,” he instructed. “I-I am forever grateful. And do not fear for me. I believe I have finally found my courage.”

For a moment he seemed to waver, and then he quickly turned away, his men behind him, and the gate closed with a thump.