Stuart, Elizabeth (5 page)

"I
hate ta disturb ye, m'lord," Henry said with a grin, "but there be a
woman at the gate askin' for ye."

"A
woman?" Richard repeated, scowling.

Henry
nodded. "She says she's got news ye'll be eager for." Henry grinned
again. "I suggest ye come quick, m'lord. She's young and clean, and the
men be, ah... interested."

Richard
rose to his feet, frowning with concern. He had removed his heavy steel
hauberk, but now he lifted it over his head, drawing it down to fit over his
chest in two practiced movements. "Tell the men to hold themselves in
readiness," he commanded. "This may be a trick."

Henry
nodded. "I've doubled the guard a'ready."

Richard
followed his man to the western doorway of the old keep. Sure enough, a
dark-cloaked woman stood stiff and anxious beside Giles, glancing nervously
over her shoulder in the direction of the village. He glanced at his friend.
"Tell her I am Richard."

The
woman threw back her hood, revealing thick blond hair and wide-set eyes of
fathomless brown. "I speak English, my lord," she said clearly.
"I am Margaret of Chester. As you may guess, I am of mixed blood."

Richard
gave Giles a nod of dismissal. Courteously holding out his hand, he gestured
for the woman to enter the gate. "You told my man you have news. What is
it you wish to say to me?"

She
moved toward him until she was so close he could feel the warmth of her body.
"I have news of the camp you seek," she murmured, "but it will
mean my death if any learn I have spoken to you."

Richard
schooled his features to hide his surge of eagerness. This was more likely a
trap than not, but perhaps, just perhaps, his luck was about to change.
"And what camp is that?"

"I'm
no fool, m'lord," she said sharply. "You seek the camp of the Red Fox
of Wales, and I tell you this night you lie within a few hours of the
prize."

He
studied her pleasing features. Her steady gaze didn't shift beneath his lengthy
perusal. Either the woman was in earnest or so practiced in deceit that she was
a master of the art. "How came you by this knowledge?"

"My
man rides with the Fox from time to time. I've had enough bits of information
from him to piece together the place."

The
woman was foolish to think he would take the bait so readily. "And why do
you bring this information to me?"

She
lifted her head proudly to meet his keen gaze. "Because my man has shamed
me before the village. He took his mistress into my house, casting me out
because of my English blood." She smiled bitterly. "What is shaming
to one people may bring victory to another, might it not, m'lord?"

Richard
studied the arrogant lines of the woman's face. "Your man was a
fool," he said softly, "but perhaps we may all profit by it. If your
information is true, there'll be a bag of coins for you. If false, you'll rue
the day you lied to me."

She
studied his face as shrewdly as he had just studied hers. "Oh, it's true,
my lord. I've nothing to fear from that. But how do I know you speak truth?
That you'll not cast me out or give me to your men when the raid is done?"

"I
give you my word as a knight of Edward of England. That is all the assurance I
can offer you now."

She
stared at him cynically. "And if that isn't enough?"

Richard's
gaze hardened. Many miserable months and countless lives might be saved if they
could take the main Welsh camp by surprise. And if he could only take the Fox,
his exile in this savage land would be ended. "You've told me you have
information. I'll have that information from you now... willingly or not. The
choice is yours."

"Then
my decision is easy, is it not, m'lord? The camp lies a few hours' ride to the
northeast at the foot of a little-known mountain pass. Here, I'll draw the way
on the ground."

***

Though
he strained his eyes to look into the darkness, Richard could see nothing in
the shadow of the tall cliff sheltering the trail to the Welsh camp.

Ahead
in the open glen, moonlight turned every frost-spangled bush and blade of grass
to shimmering silver, but the glen's inviting beauty was treacherous. He and
his men must cross that open ground to reach the safety of the wood beyond
where his enemy supposedly lay. And if this were a trick, they would be exposed
to the efficient fire of the deadly Welsh longbows for sufficient time to be
destroyed.

Easing
quietly from the saddle, Richard slipped his sword from the scabbard and
whispered the order for his men to do the same. They wore no armor for fear of
the noise, only the thick leather of protective jerkins. And every piece of
metal on saddle and bridle had been carefully wrapped with cloth to prevent the
possibility of jangling steel. If they planned to lay an ambush for the canny
Welsh, it must be laid carefully indeed.

Richard
sniffed the air, recognizing the smell of wood smoke on the chill night breeze.
At least one part of the woman's tale was true. The camp was definitely close
by.

He
longed to send one of his Welsh scouts forward to study the wood ahead, but his
man might be seen by the sentries he knew stood between himself and the camp.
Luckily, with nightfall, the guards would be few and posted in close. No one
would dream the English would come upon them in the dark—that is, if this
weren't a trap.

"Ready,
m'lord." The whispered words came back to him from down the line. His
squire stepped forward, taking the reins of his restive stallion. When the
fighting began, four of the lads would bring the mounts of the knights nearby
in case their masters had need of them, but Richard ordered Simon to remain
there to oversee the rest of the squires and horses.

Holding
his sword before him, Richard stepped boldly forward into the moonlight. His
men followed readily enough. They were well-trained soldiers and eager to come
at the Welsh in a real fight. It was the unexpected ambush from woodland and
mountain pass that so preyed on their spirits.

Keeping
low to the ground, Richard sprinted into the brightly lit meadow. His heart
thudded painfully in his chest as he raced for the sheltering trees. Now he
would learn if his gamble had paid off or was naught but a foolish mistake
costing the lives of himself and his men. Now he expected the hiss of feathered
death.
Now,
if he'd been wrong.

They
reached the woods without mishap. A wild exhilaration sang through his veins;
the enemy was just ahead! A few scattered fires glimmered in the darkness of
the trees like winking fireflies. From somewhere close by, the laughing whisper
of rushing water came to him, but all else in the wood was deathly silence.

A
sudden furious cry of alarm rang out from just to his right, and a dark shape
lunged from behind the thick trunk of a tree. The sword of Henry Bloet flashed
briefly before it was buried in the heart of the Welsh sentry.

The
alarm was raised. Ahead lay the Welsh Fox and the end of this miserable war.
Lifting his sword above his head, Richard dashed forward into the camp.

"Edward
and England!" he bellowed at the top of his lungs.

The
men behind him took up the savage roar.
"Edward and England! Edward and
England!"

Elen
shifted her head drowsily on her sweet-scented pallet of pine boughs, but the
roaring in her ears wouldn't go away. Opening her eyes, she glanced sleepily
toward the feebly glowing coals of the dying fire. A nightmare, she must be
having a nightmare.

The
surging roar formed itself into words.
England...
England!

Throwing
back Owain's warm fox fur, she sat bolt upright, recognizing the clash of
steel, the screams of pain and confusion signifying a battle. Leaping to her
feet, she stumbled to the doorway and peered out.

In
the flickering light of several pine torches held aloft, shadowy figures raced
back and forth among the scattered huts. Before her disbelieving eyes, women
and children were dragged from their shelters while men struggled against their
attackers with swords, firewood, anything they could lay to hand.

A
nightmare,
her worst nightmare. But she was living it!

For
a moment, she couldn't think. Sheer terror washed over her, leaving her
helpless, unable to move. Owain... sweet, blessed Virgin! What would Owain do?

As
she glanced about the hut in a panic, her gaze came to rest on his fur cloak.
Owain would do something to save his people, and he would expect her to do the
same.

The
thought steadied her. Grabbing up her sword, she buckled it on, and reached for
the fur cloak. At the door, she gazed out once again, but this time with a
determination so strong it smothered her fear.

The
hut she shared as Owain's avowed niece was away from the others, located in a
dense stand of trees for both warmth and safety. It might be several minutes
yet till her enemies discovered it.

Slipping
through the doorway, she raced around back where her horse was kept tethered
for just such an emergency. Owain had been wise. She could never have caught a
mount in the maddening scene near the camp's center.

The
big gray stallion sidled away at her approach, backing his ears and shaking his
head in nervous excitement at the nearby sounds of battle. "Easy, boy.
Easy, Moroedd," she whispered, groping for his bridle in the darkness and
getting it over his nervously bobbing head with difficulty.

The
animal was no mount for a lady, but it had been her father's boast that his
slender daughter could bestride any horse in his stable—a boast she'd nearly
killed herself to make truth. In the panicked flight after his death at Builth,
it had seemed wise to take the strongest and fleetest of his horses. And the
great beast had never yet failed her, carrying her miles over rough terrain
without seeming to feel the pace. The English would never catch her on this
devil.

The
fox cloak thrown over her shoulders, she wrapped the reins securely around one
hand and led the impatient stallion away a few paces to a log that served as
her mounting block. There was no time to waste in saddling the beast. The
unmistakable sound of soldiers charging into her hut confirmed her instincts;
she hadn't a second to lose!

Moroedd
sidled away from the log and she brought him back into position. The men would
be on her in a moment. "Stand, Moroedd. Please stand!" she whispered
desperately.

Flinging
up his great head, the stallion hesitated, staring back through the trees at
the flickering torches near the camp's center. It was now or never. Grasping a
fistful of heavy black mane, Elen launched herself from the log, scarcely
getting a leg across the stallion's back before he lunged forward, almost
unseating her.

Using
all the strength of her wiry body, she checked his headlong dash into the
forest. But to her dismay, controlling the beast without the aid of a saddle
was a feat scarcely within her skill. Determinedly, she worked him back toward
the scene of noise and confusion. Her people were putting up a valiant fight.
If she could create a diversion, perhaps some could escape.

At
the edge of the trees, she drew rein and pulled the cloak's concealing hood up
about her face. Edward of England wanted the Welsh Fox. If the Englishmen
thought her the man, they would leave all to pursue her.

Elen
held her sword before her, struggling to manage her fidgeting mount. Then, with
a low growl of hatred, she dug her heels into Moroedd's sides. The animal
leaped forward from the sheltering wood directly into a small cluster of
English soldiers, scattering them in all directions. The men glanced up in
confusion at the flash of red fur atop a huge gray beast of a horse. They set
up a shout at once.
"The Fox! The Fox!"

Elen
bent low over Moroedd's neck, clinging to his slippery sides as he dashed
through the ranks of struggling men. She felt the thud of impact as his
flashing hooves connected with a body. She didn't dare look back. God grant it
was an Englishman.

At
the sound of hoofbeats, Richard glanced up. "Christ's blood! Our quarry
flies!" With a shout at Giles, he swung out of the bloody melee in which
he was involved, and leaped on a horse a squire held. With another shouted
order, four of his knights followed suit.

Elen
broke from the trees on the far side of the camp, sawing back on the reins in
an attempt to slow Moroedd's flight across the moonlit meadow. She wanted her
enemies close by when she entered the mountain pass. Mayhap a few would break
their necks in a tumble.

Daring
a glance over her shoulder, she saw the riders gallop into the meadow behind
her. Now! She swung Moroedd toward the pass, kicking him to full speed while
her enemies streamed out several lengths to, the rear.

She
almost made it. A few more paces and the shielding darkness of the trees
hugging the pass would make freedom a certainty. Suddenly, out of the blackness
ahead, a blazing torch swung up, dazzling her with its unexpected brilliance.
Moroedd lurched to a halt, rearing in fear as the flare twirled about him.