Spectre of the Sword by Kathryn Le Veque

ears!”
    Elizabeau laid a hand on
the girl’s arm. “Have no fear. I would never tell on you.”
    Carys smiled sheepishly,
returning her attention to Elizabeau’s drying hair.  She resumed combing. “How
did you meet my brother? In London?”
    “Aye,” Elizabeau replied
truthfully.
    “Did he champion you?
Save you from a dastardly murderer?”
    Elizabeau thought on the
rough introduction she had to Rhys. “In fact, he did,” she replied with more
truth. “Your brother is a very brave and noble man.”
    Carys stopped combing,
looking at Elizabeau with such a dreamy expression that Elizabeau found herself
fighting off the giggles again.  It was a silly, romantic gaze.
    “He saved you?” Carys
sighed. “How chivalrous.”
    Elizabeau could see in
their short conversation that Carys was a naïve young girl with a mist of
romantic ideals fogging her mind.  Elizabeau thought back to the days when she
held such ideals.  But those days were long gone, and she was sorry. She
doubted she’d ever see those days again although there were times when Rhys
looked at her that she could imagine feeling such a thing once more.  But not
with him.
    “Aye, he is,” she
replied quietly, reaching for the wine decanter that Rhys’ mother had left for
her. “Now, would you mind finishing my hair so that I may dress? My sniffles
have abated for the moment and I would hate for them to return and ruin your
mother’s hard work.”
    Carys resumed her task
with a fury even though her thoughts lingered on her brave brother and his
chivalrous deeds.  She wished in her heart that some day, a knight would do the
same for her.  With a little furious combing and fluffing, Elizabeau’s golden
red hair was shiny and soft, falling straight to her buttocks with no curl to
it.  It was like a waterfall of golden-red.  But Elizabeau didn’t notice the
beauty of her hair reflected in the firelight, or pay attention as Carys
brushed the straight, glistening strands repeatedly. She drank her wine,
thinking on the chivalrous knight that was Rhys du Bois and feeling pangs of
disappointment such as she had never known.  The more she drank, the stronger
the pangs became.
     
     
     
    Elizabeau woke up in the
strange, dark room.  The fire in the heart was burning softly in the darkness
and the smell of smoke was heavy.  She lay there a moment, staring up at the
ceiling and trying to orient herself.  It took her several long, anxious
moments to remember that she was at Whitebrook and this was the chamber she had
bathed in.  Shifting slightly, she could see that she was still wrapped in the
large piece of drying linen.  She remembered drinking too much wine and
becoming very sleepy.  Somehow, she made it over to the bed and passed out.
    Rolling onto her side,
she felt a bit woozy and she realized she was still a bit drunk.  As she
gripped the side of the bed, she saw very large legs seated in a chair next to
her.  With a start, her head snapped up to see Rhys gazing down at her.
    “So you are awake,” he
said quietly. “I thought for certain you would sleep well into morning.”
    Her head was throbbing.
“Why… why would you say that?”
    He smiled faintly,
sitting forward so that his elbows were resting on his knees. “Because you’re
ill, we’ve been riding day and night for eight days, and,” he jerked his head
in the direction of the table, “because you drank as much wine as I can.”
    On her stomach, she
propped herself up on her elbows and put both hands on her forehead. “God’s
Bones,” she hissed. “What a mistake that was. I feel awful.”
    His grin widened. “At
least you are no longer sniffling.”
    As if it just occurred
to her, she wriggled her nose and sniffed for good measure. “Not much,” she
looked at him. “Amazing. I thought for sure I was going to die of the chill.”
    He shook his head,
rising from the chair beside the bed. “You still might if you do not put on
warmer clothing,” he indicated the