Stuart, Elizabeth (26 page)

Richard
studied his friend's closed face. It must be hard for the old knight to see a
young whelp he had helped guide through his first battles now take precedence
over him. "I hope you'll stay a while. I visited Gwenlyn with Edward only
once, and there is much I must learn from you concerning the castle's fortification."
He grinned in attempted lightness. "I've ever been better at attack than
defense, while you were always a wily dog at both arts."

The
man's expression thawed slightly. "I suppose I could stay a few days if
you've need of me."

Richard
put his hand on Roland's shoulder. "You know I need you. Besides, we've
lots of catching up to do. How is your Lady Blanche?" he asked prudently.

"I've
not seen her in near a six-month, but she's happy enough, I'll warrant, lording
it over those grandchildren of ours. We've seven now, Richard. Five fine, lusty
boys, and but two girl-children." Roland expanded visibly. "Come into
the hall. I've a choice Gascon wine I've been saving, and we'll get a hot meal
in your belly. We've plenty of time to talk without standing about out here in
the damp."

Richard
nodded. "That's all I could wish. But first, have you a room fitted up
where we might safely keep this woman?" He glanced at Elen, still waiting
impatiently beside Simon. "I'd see her comfortably bestowed before I relax
and sup with you. The room must be secure with a guard for the door. I can't
chance having her slip away."

"Certainly.
Bring her inside and I'll fetch a guard," Roland responded, hastening to
mount the stairs leading up to the keep.

Richard
glanced back at Elen, hoping she wouldn't choose this moment to defy him. He
was tired and hungry and growing unutterably weary of dealing with difficult
situations. But with Elen there was no telling. "Come," he said,
jerking his head toward the stairs.

Elen
moved across the space separating them, her chin lifting angrily. "Don't
you fear your friend may string me up?" she asked sarcastically.
"After all, it is after sundown and I am most assuredly Welsh!"

Richard
smiled. The girl was much like the gray stallion. Despite the damp and cold and
the long miserable hours they had traveled, she refused to be completely
subdued. And regardless of the trouble it caused him, he couldn't help admiring
her spirit.

Catching
her wrist, he drew her along up the stairs beside him and into the arched stone
doorway of Gwenlyn. "It's Welsh men Sir Roland despises," he leaned
down to remind her, his accent heavy on the word "men." "Knowing
Roland, I'm sure he has no argument with having a Welsh
woman
or two in
his keep after sundown."

***

A
mile from Gwenlyn in the narrow stinking streets that wound through the
impoverished harbor section of the village, a slender figure moved steadily
forward, the stiff sea wind whipping his long black robes about his wrists and
ankles. The man moved forward fearlessly, glancing neither right nor left as he
passed along the dangerous stretch outside the town wall where the dispossessed
Welsh crowded together in simmering resentment of their English neighbors
inside.

Making
his way past the dock, the man headed toward a ramshackle lean-to at the far
end of the muddy street. A shadowy figure stepped around the corner of the
building. "Well, what news? Have you seen him?"

The
man halted, the wooden crucifix he wore catching a sudden gleam of moonlight.
"Yes. I have seen him."

"What
say you, then? Are you with us?"

The
black-robed figure was silent for a moment. "It is too soon to know,"
he said at last. "I must see him again. But I pray all may still be as we
hope."

Grabbing
the reins, Richard vaulted lightly onto Saladin's back. The bay stallion sidled
fretfully in the cool morning air. "Easy, my lad, no need to show off for
me," Richard crooned. He nodded to Simon and the boy released the bridle,
stepping away from the animal's head.

Richard
held the impatient stallion in tightly while his squire swung onto his mount.
"Saladin's jealous," Simon remarked with a grin. "You've spent
too much time training that big gray. He must think he's about to be
replaced."

Richard
turned his mount toward the gate, and his armed guard hastily clattered into
position in his wake. "No chance of that," he called over his
shoulder. "Saladin's like his master—just impatient to get outside these
walls. I've studied food and weapon stores, maps and troop numbers with Sir
Roland till I'm near blind with eyestrain!"

"A
knight should never cut short his study of important details," Simon
intoned in a pious voice.

The
grin Richard sent his squire was one of a schoolboy kicking over his traces
rather than that of a seasoned commander. He touched his spurs lightly to
Saladin's side and the animal leaped forward across the drawbridge onto the
springy green turf along the roadside.

It
was good to be out in the warm sunshine. Despite the uncomfortable scene with
Sir Roland the night of his arrival, Richard had managed to salvage something
of the old relationship with his friend. And other than a few hours spent in
slumber and a few in working the mettlesome gray stallion, he had passed most
of the last three days learning all the facts about Gwenlyn the old campaigner
could teach.

And
he had studiously avoided Elen; it was best that way, he decided. Giles
reported on her uncle's improving condition and had even fetched Elen some
female clothing Richard and Sir Roland had unearthed in a storeroom. Roland had
grinned at Richard's extravagance, but for pity's sake, Elen's brown tunic was
so tattered it was indecent!

Richard
frowned, recalling his thoughts when they opened the heavy chest. A garment of
a rich golden silk had caught his eye, and though experience told him it was
out of fashion for court wear, his mind had leaped ahead to thoughts of Elen
clothed in the becoming fabric seated beside him at Edward's court.

His
frown deepened. The girl was in his thoughts entirely too much. He had even
feared her influence on his decision to spare the Welshman. But Richard's own
instincts spoke for Owain as well. The man was a natural leader, would be a
powerful ally if his loyalty could be won. The task would take time and
wouldn't be easy, but it might well be worth the effort in the end. And he
doubted Owain would be going anywhere. The Welshman wouldn't be anxious to
escape so long as Richard held Elen.

"Did
you wish to take a look at Ruthlin today?" Simon asked.

"What?"
Richard shook himself out of his absorption. "Oh, the village. Yes, we
might as well see it. Roland assures me we've a good harbor to receive supplies
from the granaries on the isle of Anglesey and additional troops from Edward's
castle of Rhuddlan should they be needed. There's even a growing population of
tradesmen transplanted here from the settlements along the English coast.
Edward granted them land and tax concessions for braving the hardship of living
in this godforsaken place." He gazed out over the rugged countryside.
"But first we'll check on the spring planting. Roland says it's not gone
forward as it should."

"Sir
Roland says the Welsh are lazy."

Richard
glanced at his squire. "Do you believe that?"

"By
God's grace, I see no sign of laziness when they fight us," Simon replied
with a grin.

"Keep
that in mind," Richard responded dryly.

Bypassing
the road, the party made its way across country, swinging south beyond the
village to assess the narrow rocky tracts of farmland outside. But what they
saw was even worse than Richard had expected. There were few fields either in
the common village tract or the portion set aside for the use of the English
keep that had been readied for planting. And fallow fields now would mean
starvation for them all come winter.

Richard
completed his survey in less than an hour. Guiding Saladin along the imposing
town wall built to protect the English settlers from the Welsh, he led his men
slowly down the muddy road past the scattered makeshift buildings that huddled
outside the wall.

A
small crowd was gathering before a squat stone building that doubled as village
warehouse and Welsh church. At sight of Richard and his men, the people shifted
about, muttering angrily in Welsh. A few fists were raised in threatening
gestures.

In
the center of the crowd, Richard could see a score of men from Gwenlyn's
garrison. Their swords were drawn. He pushed Saladin toward the soldiers but
didn't dismount. Though well armed and in mail, he would be foolhardy to be
afoot if the ugly mood of the crowd turned to violence. "I am Richard
Basset. What trouble is this?" he called out.

The
knight in command strode forward. "I am Sir Gifford de Bay, and we've no
trouble, my lord. 'Tis naught but two poachers in need of punishment."

De
Bay gestured to a soldier who had forced two unfortunate Welshmen to their
knees in the dirt. "They were caught with snares and two dead hares
between them," he continued, giving one of the men a shove with his foot.
"As Sir Roland's forester, I've decided punishment according to English
law. The thieves will lose both hands. With these two as examples, perhaps the
rest of these beggars won't be so quick to go hunting. I warrant we'll miss
little more of Gwenlyn's game."

Richard
leaned over Saladin's neck, gazing down at the two Welshmen. Their hands were
tightly bound and they bore the marks of a vicious beating. The sight made his
insides tighten with anger. "I didn't know Edward had extended his forest
law to Wales," he remarked coldly, "nor that he had granted a charter
of private chase to Sir Roland. But if that is the case, these men must be
tried and punished by a royal forest eyre as established by the Forest
Charter." He glanced at the knight, adding sarcastically, "Certainly
as Sir Roland's forester you are aware of the law, de Bay."

The
knight shifted uneasily. "We've no actual charter as yet nor any real
officials. But as Gwenlyn is a royal keep, I thought—"

"Then
I'd say you've no real authority to punish these men," Richard said,
swinging down from his horse. He bent over one of the prisoners, and lifted the
man to his feet. The Welshman gazed back at him with hatred, though one eye was
so swollen from the beating it would scarcely open.

Richard
swore under his breath. What could Roland be thinking to order forest law here?
Even loyal Englishmen hated the law declaring huge tracts of forest land off
limits for hunting save to those assigned by the king. And Richard knew for a
certainty Edward had no intention of enforcing the bitterly contested law among
the starving populace of Wales.

He
touched the man's bleeding cheek gingerly then turned to de Bay. "You and
your men have been most zealous in your duty, but I fear I must take a hand.
You'll seek out no more poachers while I am lord of Gwenlyn."

"But
my lord," the knight protested, "Sir Roland let it be known no game
was to be hunted. Yet these men were caught in open defiance of that order.
What would you have us do? Let them go free?"

Drawing
his knife, Richard cut the thongs binding the battered prisoner's hands.
"Did you take game from Gwenlyn's forest?" he asked.

The
prisoner stared up at him sullenly, a flicker of comprehension in his eye
telling Richard the man had understood. "As you value your life, answer
me," Richard ordered.

"My
crops was burned last year, my sheep and pigs slaughtered or run off by
soldiers," the man replied in broken French. "My folk live by what
bits I glean from yon wood." He nodded about the circle of faces then
turned the full force of his hatred on Richard. "Me an the rest here eat
what we find. Now kill me for that if you will, Englishman," he snarled.
"An God curse your black soul!"

Instead
of the swift blow the man obviously expected, Richard ignored his outburst,
moving to cut the other prisoner free of his bonds. He turned to regard the angry
crowd. "Hear me now," he said loudly in French. "I am Richard
Basset, he you call the Wolf of Kent. I tell you there are no forest laws in
Wales, nor will there be while I rule here."

A
few in the crowd must have understood his words. They shifted in surprise and
began to whisper among their neighbors. "I hold Gwenlyn for Edward, King
of England, and so long as I am here, no man will be killed or maimed for
taking game to feed his family," Richard repeated, hoping to make them
understand.

A
few feet to Richard's rear, the surly prisoner began a halting translation of
his words into Welsh. The muttering of the crowd increased in volume, then
subsided as the people waited for him to continue.

Richard
studied the ring of pinched, suspicious faces. These people were starving and
didn't really believe conditions would get better. "You may hunt where you
will, both deer and small game. You may take what fish you can from river and
sea. But I tell you this, no man will be idle. Your fields are barren now when
they should be sprouting spring crops. Tomorrow I expect to see them being
readied for planting."

"We've
no grain for eatin' much less plantin'," the prisoner interrupted.
"Them what had a bit of seed put back had it taken from 'em by our new
neighbors." He spat disgustedly on the ground, inches from Richard's feet.
"Have a Welshman complain about the thievin' ways of an Englishman an see
where it gets 'im."