Stuart, Elizabeth (10 page)

The
boy made a quick, respectful bow. "Yes, my lord."

Richard
frowned at the lad's retreating back. It wasn't like Simon to leave him to the
ministrations of another. As personal squire to the commander of Edward's
northern forces, Simon held the place of honor in the complicated hierarchy of
squires. And he was jealous of his position as only a proud fifteen-year-old
could be. Yes, something was definitely wrong.

With
a weary sigh, Richard slipped his blade from its scabbard, placing it beside
him before he eased himself to the ground. Leaning back against the trunk of a
smooth-barked beech, he reached into a leather pouch inside his jerkin and
caught up a handful of the moldering grain he had seized from the scarce supplies
of the Welsh.

The
grain was foul and unpalatable, but he forced himself to chew and swallow the
two handfuls that were his portion. It was all he would have to quiet his
protesting stomach until he reached Beaufort Keep. Pray God his men could get
theirs down as well. They all needed the strength.

A
short time later, Simon came hurrying down the path toward him. The boy was
pale, but erect as he halted the correct two paces away.

"You
sent for me, my lord?"

"Yes,
Simon. It seems you and I have a problem between us."

The
boy went a trifle paler beneath the fringe of flaxen hair falling about his
face. Eyes of soft, light blue glanced painfully in his direction and then
away. Squaring his shoulders resolutely, the squire came to attention. "If
you would tell me in what manner I've failed to please you, my lord, I will
amend my ways," he said stiffly.

"Yes.
Well, as I've said, we have a problem between us," Richard repeated.
"You have the misfortune to have a master who is dull of wit and sharp of
tongue when his temper is sorely tried." His lips twitched slightly.
"And I carry the burden of a squire who refuses to speak up when I'm
behaving like an ass."

Simon
glanced at him in amazement. "Oh no, Ri—my lord," he protested.
"I'm sure it's me. I... I've done something wrong, failed in some way, I
know, but I can't decide what it is for the life of me!"

Richard
gazed up at the handsome boy, remembering his own days as a squire and his
acute misery on those few occasions he had failed his master. "You've done
nothing wrong, Simon," he said gently. "Though young, you bid well to
be the best squire I've trained. And I'd tell you that more often if I didn't
think it would swell your fair head so it wouldn't fit your helmet. Now sit
here beside me," he added with a smile. "You make my neck hurt with
the strain of gazing up at you. Don't you know you shouldn't frown down at your
betters, boy?"

Simon's
worried frown slid into a grin and he sank obediently onto the carpet of spring
grass at Richard's side. "I... I couldn't help wondering why you left me
in the wood with the younger boys last night," he said diffidently.
"You didn't take me with you when you attacked the camp. I... I thought
perhaps you didn't trust my swordplay, that you feared I might be a
hindrance," he added in a rush.

Richard
shook his head. One part of him hadn't wanted to expose the boy to the
possibility of ambush by the deadly Welsh bowmen, but that hadn't been the real
reason he had left his squire in the wood. "You're my squire, Simon, and
you share in some measure the responsibility I bear for this mission. I half
believed we were walking into a trap last night but felt it a risk worth taking
to snare the Fox," he explained.

Keen
green eyes bored into worshipful blue ones. "If anything had happened to
me last night, I needed someone on the other side of that glen who could see to
the safety of the other squires. Someone with the ability to elude the enemy
and get to Sir Thomas at Beaufort with news of what had happened. I would have
expected you to do that, Simon, if aught had gone amiss. Now do you understand
what I think of you, lad?"

The
boy was silent, obviously digesting Richard's words. "I'll do my best
never to fail you," he murmured after a moment. "I... I'll practice
even harder with my sword and lance, and I'll—"

"God
forbid I should have a perfect squire," Richard interrupted, holding up
one hand. "I'll go dart if I can find no cause to curse and beat you on
occasion."

The
boy's lips twitched. "You know you don't beat me, Richard."

"Hmm,
perhaps I should. Calling me by name... insolent whelp!" Richard grinned.
"I'd beat you here and now if I didn't owe you a debt for helping capture
our young prisoner. The girl would have escaped if not for your quick thinking,
lad. I'd have said something before, but I didn't know it was you until Giles
told me."

Simon
smiled but shrugged off the compliment. "It was really to no purpose,
though, was it, Richard? I thought to help corner the Fox, but all we got was a
cursed woman!"

"Quite
possibly an important woman, Simon. I believe her to be the mistress of the man
we seek." Richard took the near-empty wineskin from the boy and turned it
up for a last swallow. Finishing off the contents, he handed it back, his
shrewd green eyes deadly serious once more. "There's more than one way to
snare a fox, Simon. Do you care to help bait the trap?"

***

Elen
twisted her hands once again, gritting her teeth against the pain in her chafed
wrists. Despite the hours of struggle, there was still no loosening of the
leather thongs binding her.

Taking
no chances on another mishap, Richard had inspected the bonds himself before
lifting her onto her mount after their short rest. He had noticed the ugly, raw
places on her wrists at once. "You give yourself pain to no purpose, Elen
of Powys," he'd said with a frown. "I've no wish to harm you, but
neither will I let you escape. When your usefulness to me is ended, you'll be
set free. That's all I can promise you."

Now
she stared murderously at the broad back of the golden-haired knight riding so
tirelessly at the head of the column. Her
usefulness!

The
men about her had spoken openly, never dreaming she understood their tongue.
Their precious leader planned a trap for the Welsh Fox using her as bait. And
Owain would fall into it readily enough, she knew. He was always careless of
his own safety where hers was concerned.

She
bit back a groan of frustration, desperately trying to think of some way to
escape. She'd die before she'd let Richard use her to bring Owain down. But at
the moment, even that choice was denied her.

The
party picked its way through the peaceful beauty of greening forests, then down
through another winding mountain pass. Since her horse was led by one of her
guards, Elen had nothing to do but hold to her saddle and search her mind for a
way of escape.

With
every mile they traveled, she grew more desperate. Though armed soldiers rode
on each side, she continued her futile effort to work free. If she once ceased
to work and plan, she knew she would be beaten. Unwilling to face the fact that
there was little she might accomplish, even if she did get her hands free, she
nursed her hatred for the renewing strength it brought.

Gradually
the rocky path narrowed. Brooding cliffs of slate reared up about them and the
distant roar of rushing water echoed through the chasm. Single file now, the
column of English soldiers moved along a rocky ledge high above the churning
waters of a mountain river, swollen to a rushing torrent by recent rains and
the melting snows further up.

Elen
gazed up longingly at the narrow ribbon of sky still visible beyond the steep
mountain walls. She hated this dark cut in the mountains, hated the feeling of
being shut away from the sun and sky in so melancholy a place. An apprehensive
chill ran through her and she wondered if she would soon be locked away in a
stone prison somewhere.

High
above her a mountain eagle soared across the narrow slice of cloudless blue and
she envied both his freedom and his flight. Her throat constricted suddenly and
the fear she had held at bay so long came near to choking her. She couldn't
stand being shut up. Dear God, if only she could fly!

Merciful
heaven, her desperation was stealing her reason. Of course she couldn't fly!
Shaking off the panicked thought, she stared down at the churning gray waters
in the shadowy depths of the gorge, a daring thought taking shape in her head.
She couldn't take the wings of the eagle and fly upward, but she could go down.
It was a chance, perhaps her only chance.

She
had traveled this dim trail on a half-dozen occasions and knew it passed close
to the head of the cascading falls she could hear just ahead. The tumbling
white spray fell nearly a hundred feet to a deep quiet pool of green-black
water. No cowardly Englishman would follow her over that cliff.

She
straightened in the saddle, trying to think. She knew the trail widened as it
came abreast of the falls and her guards would be able to ride alongside her
again. But she couldn't jump too soon, for the pool was deepest near the
pounding waters of the falls.

Could
she make that dive and swim to safety with her hands still bound? It would take
Richard and his men at least a half hour to find the trail and descend to the
base of the cliffs. Her breathing quickened with excitement and fear. With
Owain's life in the balance, there was really little choice. If she didn't take
the chance, he might die because of her. If she didn't make it... well, either
way Richard of Kent would be deprived of a useful tool.

A
useful tool.
Her lips thinned to a bitter smile. Let him find out just how useful she
was willing to be!

Rounding
an outcropping of rock, they came within sight of the falls. Silver-green water
spun downward in liquid threads, while far below small black birds danced in
and out of the sparkling spray. To Elen, the sound of rushing water seemed to
shake the stones beneath her, the roar deafening in the dark gorge.

She
studied the guard ahead. He was urging his horse along the ledge with heels and
hand, dragging her reluctant mount forward, the reins wrapped firmly about his
fist. Glancing over her shoulder, she noted the man behind was fully occupied
nursing his own nervous steed along the narrow trail. Neither was paying her
any attention.

Catching
the saddle with both hands, she swung herself down from her mount and ran
across the trail in two bounds. For the space of a heartbeat, she stood poised
on the edge. The swirling mists wet her face; the noise of rushing water
drowned all sounds but its roar. She didn't dare look down.

Closing
her eyes, she drew a deep breath and thrust herself out... out into
nothingness.

***

As
the trail widened, Richard drew Saladin to one side. Holding the stallion
quiet, he watched his men edge along the cliff face. It was a dangerous
stretch, and a nervous horse might easily spook, carrying his rider to his
death. But the falls were a breathtaking sight. Grudgingly Richard admitted
England had naught to match the beauty of this savage land.

His
gaze came to rest on his lovely young prisoner riding so stiffly erect in the
saddle. She was staring fixedly at the churning white water. He felt a moment's
regret he hadn't taken her up on the saddle before him. She was obviously
afraid of the roaring falls.

But
even as he watched, she swung herself from her mount and leaped to the edge of
the precipice. Before he could lift an arm or shout an order, she had flung
herself from the rocks.

No!
Christ's
mercy, no!
Richard raced back along the trail, ripping off his sword belt
and his leather jerkin as he ran. The girl's hands were still bound. She
wouldn't be able to save herself even if she did know how to swim!

The
homespun shirt he wore under his mail followed his jerkin to the ground as he
frantically searched the dark, frothing water below for the girl's head to
resurface. Dragging off his boots, he moved to the very edge of the cliff, his
heart hammering wildly with anger or fear, he couldn't determine which.

Sir
William caught his shoulder, forcibly holding him from the edge. "Don't be
a fool, man," Will shouted above the roar. "You'll be dead of the
fall alone!"

Richard
jerked himself out of his friend's hands. "See to your prisoners and leave
me be. There... there she is!"

He
gritted his teeth, not sure why he placed such value on the girl. But she
wouldn't escape. By God, he wouldn't let another prisoner escape! Without
daring to think, he flung himself out and away in a long, arching dive.
These
Welsh
were mad. All mad...

Down,
down, down, he felt himself falling. He sent up a hasty prayer the pool was as
deep as it looked. He would rather drown than be smashed to death on the rocks.

Then
the shock of icy water drove all prayers from his mind. He couldn't think,
couldn't move as the pain closed over him like a giant, tightening fist
crushing out his breath.

Hazily
aware that he was floating upward in the dark, freezing void, he kicked feebly
with legs that were becoming numb. His arms worked sluggishly, too slow for the
command of his screaming brain.
Drowning...
was drowning in this
godforsaken country because of a damned woman! Elen...