Spectre of the Sword Read Online Free Page B

Rhys gave the
boy a few coins to care for the charger.  Collecting the lady by the elbow, he
took her around front and into the warm, loud establishment.
    It was crowded inside. 
Rhys scanned the room for foe and ally alike before directing the lady towards
the smoking fire.   Elizabeau was so cold that her lips were blue and it took
Rhys a few moments to realize that she was nearly frozen. Before this moment,
he’d been so consumed with scouting threats that he hadn’t noticed.  He
suddenly felt somewhat guilty that he had not paid closer attention to his
charge as he watched the blue lips quiver and the teeth chatter.
    There was a man,
probably a merchant, in a fur-lined cloak seated near the fire and enjoying a
large meal.  With the lady in hand, Rhys went to the man and ripped the cloak
from his shoulders, pulling him to the floor in the process.  The man coughed
and bellowed, looking up to see a knight of enormous proportions hovering over
him.  Before the man could utter a word of protest, Rhys grabbed him by the
neck and tossed him half-way across the room.
    “The lady requires your
seat,” he said as the man skidded across the floor.
    Elizabeau watched with
surprise as the wealthy merchant tumbled into a heap.  But she did not have
time to comment as Rhys literally picked her up and set her down in the chair
the merchant had occupied.  She was suddenly very close to the fire and any
thoughts of the merchant died in her throat as the searing warmth enveloped
her.
    “You’re freezing,” Rhys
said as he pulled the wet oilcloth off of her and replaced it with the
merchant’s dry, fur-lined cloak.  “Sit here and warm yourself. I shall return.”
    He was gone, off across
the crowded room and heading for the barkeep.  Chilled, hungry, Elizabeau
turned back to the fire and held her hands over it, feeling the heat like a
thousand pin-pricks against her flesh.  It was delightful.  She closed her
eyes, feeling the warmth on her face, thawing her. She’d not felt such comfort
in days.  Not since men from Hubert de Burgh’s ranks came to her mother’s home
in South London and forcibly escorted her from its walls. 
    She opened her eyes, her
mood growing somber as she thought of the turn her life had taken over the past
two days.  Until then, she had been blessed with a relatively privileged
existence. Being the niece of the king, though illegitimate, had brought her
that honor.  In truth, she had seen her father only five times in her life and
her Uncle John only twice.  The royal family, for the most part, had left her
alone as the bastard of Geoffrey.  But that life of obscurity was apparently no
longer.
    Gloomy thoughts rolled
through her head as she stared into the fire with deep green orbs.  There was
sensuality to her eyes and unearthly beauty to her face, something no Plantagenet
possessed.  She was an exquisite example of female beauty from her mother’s
side, the bloodlines of the fair-skinned Norsemen running strong in her veins. 
She didn’t know if she was equipped for this life that was about to be thrust
upon her. She’d never prepared for it.  She wasn’t sure her sense of duty was
that strong.
    There was food at her
elbow, a cooling knuckle of beef left by the merchant.  She was hungry and took
a bite.  A second bite quickly followed and then a third.  She hadn’t realized
how ravenous she was until the moment the meat touched her lips.   When Rhys
returned with a tray loaded with food, she was already well into the knuckle.
    He tried to remove the
food to replace it with the hot meal but she refused, holding fast to the beef
she was enjoying.  He simply shrugged his shoulders and sat the hot tray next
to the cooling one.
    “This meat is fresh, my
lady,” he pointed out. “Perhaps you would enjoy this more.”
    She shook her head,
wiping at the juice on her chin. “This is fine.”
    Rhys didn’t say
anything; he just watched her stuff her mouth, thinking yet again