The Beauty Bride (The Jewels of Kinfairlie) (37 page)

He
rapped upon the door, though Madeline did not answer.

Rhys
had not truly expected her to do so. He thought he could discern the sniffle of
tears, and cursed himself for granting his lady such injury that she wept.

It
was his duty to see her smile again, if nothing more. He braced his feet
against the rolling deck and cleared his throat, for he knew just the tale to
recount to her.

“Once
there was a man, whom all believed to be blessed with keen wits. His wife
thought him the most clever man in all their valley, though soon she was to be
proven wrong.”

Rhys
heard a little sniff of laughter from behind the door, which was better than
the tearful sniffle he had heard earlier. He dared to be encouraged.

“This
man was not only clever - at least in the estimation of his friends and
neighbors - but he dearly loved to see others merry. So, his heart was good, if
his wits were soon shown to be somewhat less so. This man befriended a group of
fairies, who lived beneath a hill near his home. It is told that he had done
them some favor, though I do not know its nature. Suffice to say that the
fairies felt inclined to indulge him and offered him his heart’s desire.”

The
ship was obviously struck by a swell, Rhys lost his footing slightly, and some
of the stew went over the lip of the bowl. The pain where it landed upon his
hand reassured Rhys that the meal was not yet cold, though he winced until the
burn’s sting subsided.

He
knew that Madeline would be afraid of the ship’s motion, and he continued his
tale with haste, hoping to distract her from her fears.

“And
so, this man thought about his friends and neighbors, and how much he liked to
see them merry, and he asked the fairies for a harp that would play of its own
accord. Those who loved to dance in his valley had long complained of musicians
who grew tired before they did, and he thought this a fitting gift that would
make all merry. He was sufficiently good of heart to wish to share his good
fortune.

“The
fairies bade him go home, and when the man awakened the next morning, he found
a harp beside his hearth. He knew from a single glimpse that this was no mortal
harp - it was wrought of gold and the strings shimmered even when they were
still - and he was delighted. That very night, his friends and neighbors
gathered to see the marvel, and the man laid his hand upon it. No sooner had he
touched the strings than the harp began to play a merry tune. Every soul gathered
there could do naught else but dance.”

Rhys
juggled his burden again, hoping that Madeline was listening to him, and
further that she would find favor with his tale. “The music from the harp was
so merry that the people danced with uncommon vigor. They leapt and spun, they
stamped their feet and clapped their hands, they danced until they swore they
could dance no longer. But they could not halt, not so long as the harp played.
Their feet were enchanted by the music, so they danced and danced and danced.

“When
they cried that they could dance no longer, the man lifted his hand from the
harp. It fell silent, then and only then, and all agreed that it was a marvel.
The wife thought that her spouse was a rare prize, for not only had he won his
heart’s desire, but his desire had been one to make more merry than simply
himself.

“And
so it went that the friends and neighbors came calling when they had need of a
dance, and the man brought his enchanted harp to every gathering in the valley.
All enjoyed the music, all benefited from this gift of the fairies, all danced
as they had never danced before. All thought the man wondrous, but slowly, he
began to doubt that he was invited to join festivities for his own sake. He
began to believe that people asked him only so that he would bring his harp. He
began to think that his friends only feigned friendship, that their true
affection was for the fairies’ gift. He began to think his friends and
neighbors unappreciative that he had shared his good fortune. This shadow
seized hold of him and would not relinquish its grip.

“And
so one night, he laid his hand upon the harp strings as so many times he had
before. His friends and neighbors danced, for they could do nothing else, and
they danced and they danced and they danced. But when time came that they were
tired, and they called out to him to halt, the man pretended that he had not
heard them.

“The
man let the harp play on and on, he coaxed it on without remorse, he compelled
his friends and neighbors to dance endlessly. So deep was his conviction that
they invited him solely for their own pleasure that he resolved to grant them
their fill of dancing. The older and the weaker began to collapse in
exhaustion, but the man did not heed them. Even the virile began to weep that
they could endure no more, but the man only laid his hand more firmly across
the strings. When the dawn touched the sky, the man finally let the harp fall
silent.

“He
looked up, seeking his vindication. To his horror, his friends and neighbors
had not only fallen to the floor, but some of them were dead. Many more were
nearly so. There were holes in the leather of their shoes from the force of
their dancing, and even those who were alive could scarce move. His wife was
among those who had died in the mad dance.

“The
man was sickened by the folly of his deed, his heart weighted like a stone.”
Rhys paused to lick his lips and juggle the bowls again. He could hear
Madeline’s breath beyond the door, as if she anxiously awaited his next words.

“And
the following morn, the morn of his wife’s funeral, when the man awakened,
there was no golden harp upon his hearth. He never saw the harp again, and he
never had the chance to aid the fairies again. He had no friends after that
trick, and his neighbors distrusted him. Not a one of those who had danced on
that fateful night ever danced again.

“The
man was alone. He missed his wife sorely, far more than he missed the harp. He
lived very long, though he did not prosper. Too late he learned that he was
neither so clever nor so good as his wife had believed him to be, too late he
learned that his heart’s desire had been his all along.”

Rhys
finished his tale and considered the stew. It was cooling, the steam no longer
rising from the bowls with such enthusiasm. There was silence behind him, a
silence that told him that he had failed in his first attempt to soften
Madeline’s anger with him.

Then
she opened the portal. Her eyelids were puffed and reddened, her lips tight.
Her lashes were dark spikes, still wet with tears. Her flesh was pale, a
reminder of the posset that had so weakened her and her distrust of ships, and
her fingers seemed to tremble upon the door. Rhys was certain that she was the
most beauteous woman that ever he had seen. He knew himself a knave for having
so deceived her and knew his tale to be a poor offering.

It
was the only one he had, beyond himself and he knew Madeline could not desire
so little as that.

“Is
that by way of an apology?” she asked.

“It
is meant to be but a start,” he said, hardly daring to hope.

Madeline
studied him, though Rhys could not guess her thoughts. “You tell many tales of
people losing all they hold dear. Do you think then that no good fortune can
endure?”

Rhys
frowned, for current evidence seemed to confirm that possibility. “I have oft
believed as much, for that has been my experience.”

“But?”

“Perhaps
the lesson is that one should savor whatsoever one is granted, for one cannot
say how long any goodness will last.”

She
smiled then, though her smile was sad, and she rubbed the hound’s ears as if
only Gelert could grant her solace. “Can a person not hope for better, instead
of fear that matters must become worse?” Her eyes were bright and she watched
him, as if anxious to know his answer.

Rhys
licked his lips, uncertain what she wanted him to say, wishing desperately that
he knew the correct answer. “That would be a fine skill to learn.”

She
tilted her head. “What have you endured, Rhys, that you hope for so little?”

“No
more than most,” he said with a shrug.

Tears
filled Madeline’s eyes then and she averted her gaze. Rhys feared that she
would close the portal and he spoke before he could consider the wisdom of what
he offered.

“I
will confess to you what you have asked of me time and again,” he said
abruptly, making a pledge to her before he could swallow the impulse. Madeline
met his gaze, her own eyes bright. “I will tell you why I was named a traitor.”

She
said nothing, though her eyes widened. Rhys could not understand her mood and
he feared that he would err again if he said more.

Perhaps
she did not wish to know his tale any longer.

Perhaps
she did not care.

Perhaps
he deserved no less for the wound he had granted her.

“Are
you hungry?” Rhys offered the stew and ale, the bread being tucked beneath his
elbow, and the hound stretched to its toes to sniff the food. “It is humble
fare, but it is yet a little warm.”

Madeline’s
glanced at the bowls of stew. “I am hungry, as must you be. We had best eat it,
afore the hound finds all of it upon the floor.” She studied him with rare
intensity. “And then I will have your tale, if you are still inclined to share
it.”

Rhys
nodded, words abandoning him utterly for the moment. Madeline smiled then, a
sight to warm him to his toes. She stood back and let him enter the small
chamber, and Rhys’ heart thundered fit to burst.

The
lady granted him a chance, and he meant to ensure that she never had cause to
regret it.

* * *

Rhys
FitzHenry had vowed to confide in her. Madeline could scarce believe it. She
would have more readily believed that this was another man, one who resembled
Rhys in appearance only. It was so unlike Rhys to share his own tales, no less
to volunteer to do so.

Madeline
wondered why he felt so compelled. She was curious, though. She barely tasted
the stew he had brought, though it put a satisfying heat in her belly. Madeline
was not so annoyed that she could not admit herself glad of Rhys’ company. She
felt safer with him beside her, for even if the ship foundered, Madeline
believed that Rhys would not abandon her.

There
was much to be said for a man who could be relied upon.

They
ate in a companionable silence, the hound glancing up when Rhys ran the last
bit of the bread around the inside of his bowl.

“I
thank you for bringing the food,” Madeline said. “I was more hungry than I had
believed and I feel much better.”

Rhys
nodded. “One’s fears are always less when one’s belly is full.”

“I
suppose that is true enough.” Madeline said no more, merely waited, for she was
not truly convinced that Rhys would keep his promise. It was as much against
his nature to share such secrets as it was a part of his character to keep his
vows.

If
he did confide in her, she wanted it to be because he chose to do so, not
because she had entreated him.

So,
she sat in silence, showing a patience she had not known she possessed.

* * *

It
took him some moments to compose his thoughts, then Rhys lifted a finger. His
own memories were entangled in the greater history and he wanted to recount a
coherent tale. “You must know already Owain Glyn Dwr, and his dream of Welsh
sovereignty.”

Madeline
nodded at his sidelong glance. “Hotspur was allied with him, and thus named a
traitor.”

“Indeed,”
Rhys agreed, appreciating that his wife was not witless. “Owain Glyn Dwr and
his allies meant to replace Henry IV with Edmund Mortimer as King of England.
Further, they intended to divide England between them - Scotland and the north
to the Earl of Northumberland, Wales and the west to Owain Glyn Dwr, and the
rest to Mortimer. The scheme failed, of course, for it was too bold and Henry
IV was too wily.”

“It
is bold to try to unseat the king.”

Rhys
chuckled. “Though Henry IV had done much the same. He himself deposed Richard
III in his own favor.”

“If
one succeeds, there is no charge of treason.”

Rhys
nodded and sobered. “At any rate, Owain Glyn Dwr came oft to my uncle’s abode,
filling the air with his dreams of what Wales might be, for they had fought
side by each and were old comrades. Owain knew all the history of our people,
he could recount all the old tales. He had a rare charisma and a resonant
voice, and people listened to his words.

“There
is a tale that Arthur and his knights are but sleeping within Eryri, and that
they will awaken to aid the true prince of Wales. It was said in those days
that Owain was that one, the man chosen to reclaim Welsh independence. It was
whispered that he was a sorcerer, so potent was the spell that he cast over his
audience. He cast a potent spell over me, to be sure.”

Rhys
paused for a moment, then frowned at his own memories. “Owain was no sorcerer,
though he was a man who knew how best to say what people wished to hear. They
loved him for it. They followed him, they fought for him, and many of them died
for him.”