Stuart, Elizabeth (30 page)

Giles
nodded in agreement. "A pity. I like him too."

Richard's
gaze shifted to the stairs where Elen had just disappeared. Yes, he'd talk to
the good Father, and then he'd see Elen. But he feared he hadn't the right
questions for one nor the necessary answers for the other.

A
half hour later, Richard found himself hesitating outside Elen's chamber. He
had questioned Father Dilwen, but the priest claimed no knowledge of any plot
against the English. He had sought only to find work for Welsh herdsmen, men
who had lost their living when thousands of sheep were slaughtered last year to
feed Edward's armies and starve out the Welsh.

Richard
frowned. He wasn't entirely convinced, but what could he do? Put a priest to
questioning with the knife? On this scanty evidence? Others would have done it
in the hell of these wars, but Richard's whole being revolted at the thought.
No, he would settle for having the man closely watched. If he proved a rebel,
he would be executed, Richard promised himself grimly.

He
nodded to one of the guards that once again stood to attention outside Elen's
chamber. He knocked, but there was no sound from within. Opening the door
quietly, he stepped over the threshold.

Elen
lay on the bed staring blindly at the canopy of cream and gold brocade above
her. A goblet of wine sat untouched on a coffer chest near the bed. He crossed
the room slowly, easing himself to a seat on the mattress at her side. Still,
she didn't move or speak a word.

Lifting
the wine, he took a steadying draught. "I've given orders the man's to
have a proper burial," he said at last. "You may go if you
wish."

"And
the other one?" she asked woodenly. "Is he dead as well?"

"No."
Richard placed the goblet deliberately on the coffer. "He got away in the
fog."

"I'm
glad."

"I
know."

Elen
shifted her head to look at him. "Gruffydd was not so many years older
than I. When I was a child, he used to carve blocks of wood into toys to amuse
me. And he played the harp and sang. He sang with a skill my father said could
make the holy angels weep for joy."

"And
he just tried to put a dagger in my back," Richard added sardonically.

Elen
simply stared at him, her slanted blue eyes twin pools of frozen grief.

"What
do you want of me, Elen?" Richard asked softly. "They came here to
kill me. Would you have me say I'm sorry they didn't succeed?"

She
shook her head. "They came here to free me, not to kill you. And now an
old friend lies dead because of me. One more," she added, turning
miserably away. "One more to mourn."

Richard
turned her back to face him. "Oh, they planned to free you all right, but
their goal was to kill me as well. I just encouraged them to show their hand
sooner than they intended." His voice hardened. "And two of my men
were slain out there in the mist by your gentle friends. Those men also have
friends and families who mourn."

Elen
sat up. "Richard, you don't understand. If you would just let me go, this
all would be ended!" She leaned toward him. "Richard, for the love of
God, let me go!"

Richard
caught her shoulders with both hands, his face scant inches from hers.
"Tell me, Elen. Make me understand." He gave her a rough shake, his
eyes searching hers. "Just how many lives are you worth? Rhys must value
you highly indeed to continue risking men on these raids to free you?" His
eyes narrowed suddenly, his fingers digging into her arms. "Just who are
you, Elen?" he asked harshly. "Are you his wife?"

"No!"
Her answer was sharp, almost panicky. Taking a deep breath, Elen closed her
eyes, seeking to lead the conversation away from such dangerous ground. "I
could never make you see, Richard. You English don't wish to understand us. You
never have." She opened her eyes, forcing herself to speak in a deliberate
tone. "Just let me go and this pointless bloodshed will be ended."

"You
know as well as I that would not end the bloodshed. And you are wrong, Elen.
Some of us do seek to understand you. I've been trying for weeks now,
sometimes, I think, successfully." Richard's grip on her shoulders eased,
his hands lifting to cup her face. "Besides," he added softly,
"I've no wish to let you go. Not now."

In
the second before Richard's mouth covered hers, Elen knew she should stop
him... knew but didn't care. His arms slid around her, drawing her into an
embrace so warm, so comforting, it released the frozen grief inside, bringing
tears to her eyes in a way the earlier horror she had witnessed had not. She
was tired of bearing it all alone and Richard offered strong arms and a warm
shoulder, an instinctive understanding that both pleased and surprised her.

His
lips moved over hers, gentle, compelling. There was no pain this time, no
punishment in his embrace. There was no sense of mastery or subjection, only
the reassurance of no longer being alone, of being swept along on a turbulent
course she had no will or wish to change.

Her
lips parted beneath the pressure of his, her face turned up to accommodate the
sensual movement of his mouth over hers. Her fists opened against his
shoulders, wrapping around his neck, losing themselves in the thick golden hair
that curled over his tunic.

"This
is only the second time I've seen you cry," Richard murmured, brushing a
tear from her cheek with his thumb. "I regret it always seems to be my
doing."

Elen
dashed the back of her hand across her eyes, her heart aching with the
knowledge that Richard had almost been killed—and that she was thankful he
hadn't. But Gruffydd... how could she be thankful Richard lived when Gruffydd
did not?

"Elen,"
Richard began earnestly. "I'm as tired of the bloodshed as you—"

A
sudden, frantic pounding sounded against the chamber door. Richard glanced up
in irritation. "Yes?"

Simon
swung into the room, out of breath and a little nonplussed by the intimate
scene he'd stumbled upon. "Richard, t-there's a messenger arrived from
Edward," he stammered. "He calls you to a conference at Chepstow. He
says he's been delayed by weather and we'd best make haste!"

Richard
released Elen and slid to his feet. "Has he letters?"

The
boy nodded.

"Then
have him wait in my chamber. Ask Giles to stay close—I'll need to leave orders.
Tell the grooms to ready the horses and see to my packing."

Simon
nodded. He was used to Richard's rapid commands.

Richard
turned back to Elen. "And tell the messenger I'll join him in a
moment."

The
soft noise of a door closing echoed in the silent chamber. Richard touched
Elen's hair, tracing one finger gently along her cheek. "I must go
now," he said softly. His hand fell back to his side. "You'll be safe
here, and I'll return as soon as I'm able."

He
waited, but she didn't speak. She turned her head away, the moment of intimacy
between them obviously gone. With a heavy sigh, Richard moved toward the door,
silently cursing the luck that called him away just now.

He
hesitated on the threshold; the picture Elen made in the middle of the great
curtained bed was one he would keep for the long ride to Chepstow. There was so
much he wanted to say, but she wasn't ready to hear it now. And besides, there
wasn't time. Edward had called.

He
forced a light smile. "Be a good girl and don't slay any Englishmen while
I'm away."

And
with that he was gone.

A
small fire burning quietly in the hearth made soft comforting sounds, adding to
the peaceful atmosphere in the cozy chamber. Richard lifted the silver goblet
in his hand and took a swallow of fine Bordeaux wine. He gazed at his queen, an
amused smile tugging at his lips. "Now, tell me true, Your Grace. Why did
you bring me here? This nonsense about my opinion of a new jeweled chaplet is
ridiculous. You know I've little sense in such matters."

Eleanor
of Castile's dark eyes twinkled up at him, and she lifted the circlet of
cunningly wrought topaz and gilt leaves to rest against the snowy linen of her
wimple. "Well, don't you think it's becoming? I'm sure I shall set a
fashion."

"You
could wear blacksmith's iron and set a fashion, Your Grace, as you know
well," Richard said dryly.

"Oh
pish, Richard, you can do better than that!" Eleanor's eyebrows lifted
provocatively. "My ladies tell me you can be extremely gallant when you
choose. And from the rumors, some should know."

Richard
grinned. "I'm sure—like their mistress—your ladies talk a great deal of
nonsense."

Eleanor
settled into a velvet-cushioned chair with a muffled rustle of silk, gesturing
for Richard to seat himself on a nearby stool. "Well, they do gossip a
bit," she conceded. "And I admit, I've encouraged them to talk on you
of late." She leaned toward him, her face suddenly serious. "Tell me,
Richard, has no woman caught your fancy enough for you to think of taking a
wife?"

At
the sudden shift in conversation, Richard glanced up in surprise. "A wife?
No." He searched for something to keep the moment light. "The only
woman I've interest in is already wed." He lifted his shoulders
helplessly. "And alas, I fear, I've little to offer the Queen of
England."

Eleanor
sent him an exasperated glance. "Yes, and the Queen of England is old
enough to be your mother and has borne her lord a quiverful of children
besides. Now be serious, Richard, do. You're of an age to be well married.
Edward and I'd been wed ten years by the time he was your age."

"Yes,
and he had a great deal to offer you too." Richard met her frowning gaze
calmly. "I'm a soldier, Your Grace, making my living with my sword. I've
little to offer any woman of rank. You know my situation. Without part of my
pay, Waybridge would scarcely support my father, much less any family I might
take. And I dare not wed some sweet child and leave her with my stepmother
while I go off soldiering. What would become of her if aught should happen to
me? No, Eleanor, I've no thought of marriage, at least at present. Besides,"
he added with a wry smile, "who would have me?"

"Any
woman of sense," Eleanor snapped. She lifted her chin and pursed her lips
thoughtfully. "Any woman of sense," she repeated, "especially if
she already has such wealth that your lack doesn't signify." She lifted
the jeweled chaplet in her hands, twisting it absently between her ringed
fingers. "Do you remember my goddaughter, Alicia de Borgh?"

Richard
searched his mind for a face to go with the well-known de Borgh name. He had a
faint memory of a summer two years ago when Edward had summoned him to Leeds
castle. He had spent several hours amusing a lovely blond waif while he waited
for Edward. "I remember the girl," he said after a moment, "but
surely she's no more than a child."

"She's
fourteen and has finished her training with the nuns at St. Mary's. And she has
fond memories of you, Richard." Eleanor's eyes narrowed reflectively.
"Her parents are looking about for a desirable husband for the girl.
They've an inordinate wish for her hap—"

"Your
Grace, don't even think it!" Richard interrupted, the thought of marriage
oddly distasteful. "Ranulff de Borgh would drive me away from his gates
with a whip if ever I mentioned such a notion. And what's more, I wouldn't
blame him. The idea is preposterous!"

"Not
if Edward backed your suit."

Richard
shook his head. "Edward has more important matters to attend. Besides, it
would create dissatisfaction among a host of powerful families I could name.
And the King doesn't need that just now. I know you mean well by me, but I beg
you not speak of the matter."

"But
you know very well you're one of Edward's favorites." Eleanor smiled
indulgently. "Even though he claims not to have them."

Richard
shook his head. "No, Your Grace."

"Don't
say no to your queen, my man," Eleanor ordered, lifting her expressive
brows with feigned haughtiness. "Are you forgetting I was with him after
Acre? I saw what you did at the tournament and I shall never forget it!"

"I
did nothing any other Englishman wouldn't have done. By Our Lady, your lord
husband is the King of England. He owes me naught for being a loyal
subject."

"Humph!
Some Englishmen don't give a fig for loyalty, Richard. But that's not the
point. I know Edward wishes to do something to advance your fortunes."

"He
already has. He's raised me higher than I ever thought to climb. Now forget
this idea. It's impossible."

Eleanor
tapped her slender finger impatiently against her chin. "Oh, very well.
But tell me this. Have you a fancy for any particular woman? Is your heart
taken?"

Richard
hesitated. A sudden image of a fiery chestnut beauty bloomed in his mind, but
he thrust the memory aside. That wasn't the type of fancy Eleanor meant.
"No, Your Grace. Of course not."

"Good,
then I can—"

The
queen broke off. Richard glanced over his shoulder, following her gaze. Edward
had entered the solar. In the outer chamber, the queen's ladies leaped to their
feet, then dropped into low curtsies. Richard and Eleanor rose as well.