Stuart, Elizabeth (3 page)

Owain
cocked a graying eyebrow at her and smiled. " 'Tis your devious mind more
than my own battle plans that have given us success thus far, child. I can
almost believe Lord Aldwyn whispers in your ear from time to time."

Elen
stroked the fox fur lovingly, the laughter in her eyes dying out. "He
does, Owain. I hear his voice in my memories oft enough. Our Holy Lord be
praised, Father didn't think it amiss to teach his daughter the same as his
son." She smiled wryly. "To my own shame and that of my lady mother,
I fear I remember his lessons of battle and ambush far better than hers of
housewifery."

Owain's
muscular arm encircled her shoulders. Again he had read the thoughts she dared
not voice. "It's no matter, little one," he said softly. "The
Lady Gweneth is at peace now with Lord Aldwyn. The fears and troubles of this
world were not for one such as her."

Elen
nodded, and together they started up the shadowy path toward the camp. The damp
night air had grown increasingly cold, and she shivered despite the warmth of
the cloak.

"What
must we do next?" she asked, as they reached the open doorway of a hut set
well back in the trees away from the others. "You know Richard Basset
won't rest till he avenges your raid. He'll turn every rock in these mountains
upside down to find our winter camp."

"First
I'll build you a fire and we'll cook the hare I killed this evening,"
Owain said lightly, entering the hut behind her. "Fresh meat goes a long
way to strengthening the spirit."

He
sent her a frowning glance. "Then I must ride for Lywarch's camp. We must
plan a concerted attack. We can't allow Richard to garrison Gwenlyn Keep. If he
succeeds, it'll be the final step in overrunning these mountains. We've our
backs to the sea, Elen, and Edward controls the coast. We've nowhere else to
run. 'Tis here we make our stand."

Elen
felt another chill shiver through her. They would fight and more of her people
would die. And Owain would be in the thick of it. A sudden fear for him took
her breath. "Must you ride tonight?" she asked unsteadily.
"Can't it wait till morning?"

"It
must be tonight if I'm to be of any use." He tugged at the heavy chestnut
braid that hung over one shoulder halfway to her waist. "Don't fear for
me, Elen. There's a moon tonight and the ride is one I could make in my sleep.
If we can catch Richard in an ambush tomorrow, we will, but I fear he'll be too
cautious after yesterday. The real test of wits between us will probably have
to wait."

She
nodded. There was nothing else to say. They had to fight on. Catching up the
dead hare by its silky hind legs, she said, "I'll skin this blessed morsel
while you start the fire. But I must borrow your knife. Tangwen still has
mine."

Owain
slipped his knife from his belt in a practiced movement, offering it to her,
blade down. "I'll fetch your steel. But don't be so careless as to leave
it again," he warned. "I'd like to think this camp safe, but I'm not
such a fool. With the snows gone, 'tis only a matter of time till the foraging
English stumble closer. I pray the Holy Virgin every night our sentries give us
good warning. We must move higher into the mountains where that Satan's brood
dare not climb."

The
roasted hare was delicious and the first fresh meat Elen had tasted in more
than a week. Food had been scarce over the winter, and she had insisted Owain
see the fighting men and pregnant women and children have first choice. But now
with the warm breath of spring touching the hidden mountain valleys, game was
beginning to stir.

She
sucked greedily at the last bit of marrow in the leg bone. Owain was
right—fresh meat did strengthen the spirit. She allowed herself to hope.
Perhaps the worst was over. Perhaps they could send Edward's forces on their
way.

The
simple meal over, Owain began making preparations for his trip. Elen watched in
silence, finally rising to her feet to walk him to the doorway. Gripping her
shoulders with both hands, he brushed a fatherly kiss across her forehead.
"Now remember, Elen, if aught should go awry, young Gruffydd will see you
to Conwy and book you safe passage for France. The lad knows your true
identity, but he's trustworthy. He'd never betray you to the English no matter
the prize offered."

Owain's
dark, troubled eyes frowned down at her as though he struggled with a problem
that had no answer. "Promise me you'll obey him and go this time. That
you'll not insist on staying. If Edward succeeds in taking you hostage..."
His words trailed off as if it were a fear he dared not voice.

Elen
nodded. Only the handful of people from Teifi knew she was Lord Aldwyn's
daughter. In her rough wool tunic and calfskin boots, she had easily passed
herself off as Owain's niece. And the rest of the camp had believed his tale
that the noblewomen of Teifi had escaped to France. "Gruffydd's a friend,
I trust him as I do Tangwen and the others who know I'm Lord Aldwyn's
daughter," she said slowly. "I'll go if he says I must."

Her
eyes narrowed in concentration, her perfectly arched dark brows almost meeting
above the bridge of her nose. "My concern is for you, Owain. With the
English pressing so close and promising outrageous sums for information about
your movements, I fear you may be taken."

Owain
shrugged. "What will be will be, and God alone plans our course. Heaven
knows, I'm naught but a simple soldier and this dark plotting is beyond me. I
can see only so far as the next fight." He smiled grimly. "But I'm
not so foolish I'll tempt my fate. Though my own cloak be not so warm as Lord
Aldwyn's, I'll not ride out as the Welsh Fox this night. With Richard nearby,
there's too much likelihood of prying eyes about."

With
a sinking heart, Elen stood in the doorway to watch Owain mount his nervously
shifting horse. "God go with you," she called as the animal pranced
out of the trees into the moonlit clearing several paces before the hut. Owain
lifted his hand in a gesture of farewell, and the shadows of night immediately
swallowed him up.

Dusk
crept slowly over the forested lower slopes of the brooding Welsh mountains.
Despite the three score armor-clad men at his back and the southern Welsh
allies acting as willing guides for his band, Richard of Kent rode uneasily,
his keen eyes constantly searching the wood for shadowy figures slipping
through the trees.

The
men behind him bunched as closely as their high-spirited horses would allow.
English stragglers met a harsh and speedy fate in this mountain fastness of
North Wales. None wished to repeat the mistake of yesterday when three knights
bringing up the rear had lost their lives. A screaming hoard of the mad Welsh
had sprung from the trees to hack down the great war-horses and finish off the
knights, clumsy in impeding armor, as they struggled to rise from the ground.

Richard's
fists clenched in angry remembrance. It was all over in the blink of an eye.
The Welsh had melted back into the gloomy, mist-shrouded forest in a dozen
different directions, and he and his badly shaken men had quickly lost their
trails. Even his own Welsh scouts had been loath to continue the search.

A
scowl of frustration marred his lean, high-cheekboned face, a scowl mirrored by
the unaccustomed bitterness in his eyes. Damn these stiff-necked northern
Welsh! They had been beaten fairly enough. King Edward had invested their
fortresses and set plans in motion for a string of stone castles to ring this
mountain stronghold of Gwynedd. The king had wrung submission from every
captured noble, and those who hadn't lost their heads had already sworn on
bended knee to accept Edward as overlord.

Trouble
was, this stubborn race refused to accept defeat. They didn't even
know
they'd
been beaten! Small bands continued to strike from their lair deep in these
mountains, roughly led by a canny warrior known as the Welsh Fox. Edward
himself had entrusted Richard with the task of stamping out the last coals of
rebellion. Nothing was left but to hunt the irregular armies down one by one,
to starve them into submission and make an example of their leaders.

It
was a task Richard had no stomach for. Give him a pitched fight in an open
field and he was any man's equal, as ferocious in battle as the cold-eyed king
he followed. But the ambush tactics of the Welsh and his own mission to destroy
a people fighting for their homeland sat ill in his gut.

"A
moment, Richard," a voice called out from down the line.

Richard
swung about in the saddle, drawing rein as his friend Sir Giles Eversly cantered
up the path toward him. Drawing off his uncomfortable steel helmet, Richard
hooked it over his saddle and ran his hand through his thick golden hair.

Giles
grinned at him as he drew alongside. "Better cover that head, my friend.
No sense telling our enemies we've the Wolf of Kent leading this small band.
That distinctive mane might as well be a beacon guiding the arrows of your
Welsh admirers straight to your throat."

Richard
frowned at the use of his nickname. Wolves traveled in packs, bringing down the
old and sick, the young and helpless. It was a comparison he didn't appreciate.
"So you think we're being watched, do you, Giles?" he asked, obliging
his friend by slipping his helmet back in place. "I've had the feeling all
afternoon."

Giles
shrugged his shoulders. "Even the trees have eyes in these forests. We're
on unfriendly ground and the men are wondering where we'll pass the night.
We'll never make Beaufort Keep."

"I
know. I've wondered if that was the real purpose behind that raid yesterday. If
that handful of rebels hoped to drag us from the trail long enough for more men
to arrive." Richard's mouth twisted in the cynical smile that was rapidly
becoming his habitual expression. "If that's the case, we certainly fell
into the trap."

"As
any soldier would have done under like circumstances," Giles said quietly.
"We don't leave comrades unavenged." His dark eyes searched Richard's
face. "What is your plan, if you don't mind my asking?"

Richard
jerked his head in the direction of the road. "There's a village just a
mile or two ahead—if you can call anything in this godforsaken land a village.
It's naught but a few huts squatting along the roadside, but from what I've
been told, there's a burned-out keep nearby with the foundation wall still
standing. We'll not have a comfortable night there, but mayhap it'll be a safe
one."

His
mailed fist slid to his sword hilt, and he glanced once more at the darkening
wood. "At least the walls will offer protection if we're forced into a
fight. At dawn we'll ride for Beaufort for supplies and what men Sir Thomas de
Waurin can muster, then back to search these valleys. I'll not ride on to
Gwenlyn till we find the Welsh camp." His eyes narrowed with
determination. "This miserable skirmishing must be ended and the raiders
punished, else all our forces will lose heart."

Giles
nodded. "I'll pass the word among the men. They've seen bogarts under
every bush this hour past. Just knowing there's cover ahead'll settle
'em."

Some
fifteen minutes later the weary band trotted into the village. Though a
half-dozen cooking fires spiraled lazily into the darkening sky, the tiny
settlement appeared deserted. No ragged children played about the doorways of
the huts; no dogs barked in questionable greeting. An unusual silence reigned
over all.

Richard
felt the hair rise in warning on the back of his neck. Instinctively, his hand
tightened on the reins making Saladin, his big bay war-horse, quiver with
anticipation. He unsheathed his sword, holding it in readiness across his
muscular thigh as his horse sidestepped slowly past the row of scattered huts.
His men followed his example, moving forward cautiously, swords in hand.

Reaching
the edge of the village, Richard drew rein. A dense forest of mingled oak and
beech began a few dozen yards away. Nothing moved along that dark line of
trees.

A
warning sounded loudly in his brain.
The Welsh were there; he could feel
them watching.

Squinting
into the misty blackness beneath the trees, he caught a telltale flash of
movement. "Form up!" he ordered softly.

His
men moved into fighting position, knights at the fore, men-at-arms just behind,
their shields held well forward. Richard continued to stare fixedly into the
gloom. Were trained warriors waiting in readiness beneath those trees? If so
how many? Enough to wipe them out? His own band of men was small, but it would
be better to meet the foe head-on than be ambushed in the dark hours of the
night when the Welsh preferred to strike.

"Giles,"
he hissed.

"Here,
Richard." The voice came from close behind his right shoulder.

"Order
them to come out. Tell them we mean no harm if they're innocent villagers, but
that we take no chances. Tell them if they don't come out at once, we'll charge
in and slaughter all we find, then destroy the village."

Giles
nodded his dark head and immediately began translating loudly in the sing-song
Welsh tongue.

For
several long, heart-straining moments there was silence. Then, with a whir of
wings, a startled flock of sparrows broke from the brush along Richard's left
side. His men jerked nervously toward the sound, raising gleaming swords as if
to fend off a blow.