Stuart, Elizabeth (52 page)

Elen
swung around, staring at the men in horror. A handful of soldiers who had
remained at Gwenlyn were crowded eagerly around the end of the trestle table
where one man was holding forth. "Aye, York got a quarter, Chester a
quarter, and Northampton a quarter, though we left afore 'twas decided where
the last bit of him would go." The man took a gulp of ale. "Naturally
the traitor's head'll grace a pike on London Tower."

Elen
felt her gorge rising. They were speaking of a man... a Welshman. She moved
slowly toward the high table where several of Richard's knights still sat.
Unbelievably, their talk ran on much the same lines. Everywhere men were
gleefully discussing the execution of Llywelyn's brother, Dafydd ap Gruffudd.

Her
heart hammered against her ribs, her pulses throbbing painfully in her head.
Richard had been there—Richard had been at Shrewsbury. She moved woodenly
toward Giles, seeking someone to tell her this tale wasn't so, that Richard
hadn't been part of it.

Sir
William of Hereford was loudly explaining things to a man on his left.
"...and Edward called the council to vote. Every knight voted death. I
tell you, men'll think twice before raising a hand against our king!"

"And
did Richard vote, William? Did your lord urge death for my kinsman?"

Elen's
cold, brittle voice silenced the group immediately. Sir William swung around,
the look of dismay on his face almost ludicrous. "Lady Elen. I... we
didn't see you, m'lady."

"Did
he vote?" she snapped, her fists clenched at her sides. "Tell
me!"

Giles
took one look at her ashen face and rose from the table. "Elen, come with
me," he said gently. "I'll explain—"

"Did...
he... vote?"

"Yes.
But the council voted only on Dafydd's guilt or innocence, Elen," Giles
said quickly. "Not the execution of the sentence."

His
words barely registered. Richard had sent her kinsman to a horrible death, then
ridden back here and taken her to bed as calmly as you please. And she had been
foolishly eager for it. She hadn't even minded that every inhabitant of Gwenlyn
knew what they were doing.

"I
want the hall cleared, Giles," she said coldly. "I want every English
bastard out of here now!"

The
men gazed at her in dismay. "Now!" she snarled. "Do you hear
me?"

The
men glanced at each other sheepishly, then began rising from the table. Giles
leaned down to Simon. "Fetch Richard here," he said tersely.
"Hurry!"

Elen's
order rippled slowly through the room, sending an uneasy wave of quiet sweeping
the hall. Men began to rise and edge uncomfortably toward the door.

Finally
Elen stood alone beside Giles. "Elen," he tried again, "you
know—"

"Get
out!"

Giles
gave her a long look. "Very well."

Elen
watched Giles leave the room, hating him in that instant, hating all the
English in Wales, her husband included. She gazed at the lofty grandeur of the
empty hall, thinking of Dafydd's massive Castel Y Bere, Llywelyn's beautiful palace
at Aber, her own home at Teifi... all now in English hands.

Drawing
her dagger from her girdle, she moved purposefully toward the canopied seat of
the lord. She climbed onto the table, slashing down the scarlet cloth, ripping
Edward's golden lions from the frame. Throwing them to the floor, she ground
them viciously underfoot.

Hot
tears began to flow unchecked. The English, the greedy, grasping English! They
took what they wanted, her husband included. And they didn't care what pain
they inflicted in the process. No, she corrected herself, from what she'd heard
just now, they reveled in it!

She
stared at the scarlet and gold ruin at her feet as if only now realizing what
she'd done. The dagger slipped from her hand and she turned away, moving
blindly toward the chapel.

It
was there Richard found her, huddled miserably on the steps below the altar. He
hesitated a moment as if uncertain how to approach her. "Elen..."

"Don't
speak to me!"

He
began walking slowly up the aisle. "I didn't like it any more than
you."

"No?"
She glanced up at him, her eyes swollen, her face streaked with tears.
"But you spoke for it. Giles said so."

Richard
sighed. "I agreed Dafydd was a traitor—the punishment for that is death.
But before God, I'd no idea what the manner of it would be." He glanced
away. "It's a new method of execution some devil dreamed up. They call it
drawing and quartering."

Elen's
hands clenched against her skirt. Her breathing was short and shallow.
"Why... why didn't you tell me?"

"I
was going to."

"When?
After you'd had your pleasure again?" She stared up at him bitterly.
"Did you fear I'd not be so eager knowing another kinsman's blood stained
your hands?"

Richard
had the grace to look embarrassed. "I should have told you," he
admitted. "But I'd not seen you in over two weeks. I knew you'd be angry.
I didn't want our reunion beginning like that." He eased to a seat beside
her. "I meant to tell you afterward, only I... I fell asleep."

He
reached to take her hand.

She
jerked away. "Don't touch me now, Richard. I can't stand it!"

His
hand fell back to his side. "Elen, I was wrong not to tell you. I'd not
have had you find out this way. But you know as well as I Dafydd was a
traitor—to both your people and mine. He deserved to die, though I'd not see
any man go like that."

"I
didn't care for Dafydd—no one who loved Llywelyn could. But this will inflame
all of Wales. Even Welshmen who despised Dafydd for his treachery will be
outraged by this. He'll be a martyr," she added slowly.

"I
know."

"There's
no hope for us, is there?"

He
gazed at her in surprise. "Of course there is. This changes nothing
between us."

"You
don't understand, do you, Richard? You really don't."

"Understand
what?"

"Who
I am."

He
frowned. "You're my wife, Elen. You're Lady Basset of Gwenlyn."

She
stared at him, hearing the haunting echo of Owain's words. "Yes, but I am
also Elen of Teifi. And I've yet to learn to reconcile the two."

"Richard..."

They
both glanced up. Simon stood in the doorway, his face pale beneath its tan.
"What is it?" Richard asked sharply.

The
boy moved toward them, visibly shaken. "A rider... a rider from Beaufort.
The Welsh burned the place to the ground. Every last man, woman, and child
slaughtered—even the servants." He swallowed. "And Sir Thomas was
butchered like an ox for roasting, the parts of his body wrapped in..."—he
hesitated—"in the pelt of a red fox."

Richard
sat unmoving. "God save us," he murmured after a long moment. He
swung to his feet, his face emotionless. "Send Henry to Ruthlin. See if
the Welshman called Owain can be found."

Owain,
he wanted Owain. Elen scrambled to her feet, Dafydd's hideous fate forgotten.
"W-what will you do?" she asked unsteadily.

"Do?"
he repeated. "Why, I must take the Welsh Fox, Elen. Do you doubt it?"

She
stared at Richard, the strength draining from her limbs. He
knew. Before
God, he knew!

She
grasped his arm. "Richard, don't go! Please. Let this be. Rest a day at
least."

"Wait?
After this?" He turned back to Simon, his answer in the curt orders he
clipped out. "Have the men prepare to ride. Send to the stables to see if
horses can be found fresh enough to carry us. Spread the word we travel light
and fast. Go now."

"Richard,
please..."

He
glanced sharply at her. "Don't ask it, Elen."

"I'll
never forgive you if you hurt him, Richard," she cried out.
"Never!"

His
eyes softened, his hand moving slowly over her face as if to memorize her
features. "I've no choice," he said softly. With one last searching
look, he began walking up the aisle.

"Richard..."

He
glanced back.

Elen
stared at him, her heart breaking. "Have a care, Richard," she
whispered. "Have a care to yourself."

Wales
was aflame with autumn. The high, wild hillsides ran golden with bracken, red
and yellow with leaves of oak and ash and beech. Elen rode out often, seeking
escape from her worry in the freedom of the hills, in the sweet sigh of wind in
the spruce and the vast sweep of countryside spread out below her.

She
drew rein on a hilltop overlooking the pass into the mountains. Sometimes she
sat there for hours watching for any sign of Richard. He had been gone over a
fortnight, and she worried that his men might return without him... or that he
might return with so much blood on his hands she could never forgive him.

Her
worst nightmare hadn't been realized. During the raid on Beaufort, Owain had
been working diligently at his post in Ruthlin. But it was obvious Richard had
suspected him, that he had even had the Welshman watched.

Elen
could scarcely conceal her fear, but Owain had merely shrugged his shoulders.
What would be would be, and he was interested more in who had claimed his
notoriety. Both he and Elen suspected Dylan was the man.

The
plaintive cry of a curlew sounded from the heather-covered slopes below, its
mournful call sinking Elen's spirits even lower. What would she do when Richard
returned? Despite their differences, she loved him. She had never doubted that.
But given their conflicting worlds, would that be enough?

Suddenly
her mare's ears pricked forward. A puff of dust rose near the road's farthest
bend. Elen squinted against the light. She could just make out a flash of
red—Richard's banner. Touching her reins to Ceiri's shoulder, she sent the mare
careening down the rocky hillside, easing into a smooth canter along the grassy
verge of the roadway.

Richard
must have seen her. Reining Saladin out of the column of men and horses, he
waited for her to one side of the road.

She
drew her mount to a halt, her heart hammering painfully. What had happened
these last weeks? She was almost afraid to learn. But at least Richard was
safe. There was no hint of injury in the straight, proud way he sat his horse.
She searched his face. It was cold and impassive, his green eyes as wary as
hers. "I'm glad I see you well," she murmured stiffly.

"And
I you, Elen."

She
sent a questioning glance down the column of men filing past. "Were you...
successful?"

"Yes."

Her
eyes flew to his. They were shuttered, remote, giving nothing away. "You
took the Fox?"

"You
tell me."

Elen
nudged her mount forward, passing the English soldiers quickly in her effort to
see the prisoners trudging behind Richard's men. Dylan walked at the head of
the group, heavily bound and guarded. Her eyes widened in recognition, her
stomach churning sickly at sight of this once-proud man brought low.

"You
know him, I see," Richard remarked, watching her intently. "Some say
he's the Welsh Fox."

Elen
didn't respond. She stared at the men moving past, a dull ache growing to fill
every part of her. Just as she and Owain had suspected—Dylan led the Welsh
rebellion. Or at least he had.

"Come,"
Richard said heavily when she made no effort to speak. He caught her reins,
swinging both mounts around. "We've wounded to see to... yours and
mine."

Some
time later, Elen finished stitching up the last of Richard's men. The Welsh had
been
caught by surprise as they lay in camp and the fighting had been
vicious. Simon had taken an ugly gash in his shoulder and even Henry Bloet had
been wounded in the struggle to overcome Dylan and his men.

But
Richard's soldiers were being carefully restrained in Elen's presence. They had
learned their lesson. None were discussing the fight or boasting of the number
of Welsh they'd dispatched. And if she hadn't felt so much like weeping, she
was sure she would have laughed at their courteous restraint.

With
a heavy heart, she put away her bone needles and salves. She'd had but a moment
to speak to Dylan, a moment to tell him she would do what she could. She
wondered now what that might be. She dreaded facing Richard with this between
them, but she knew they must reach some compromise. She couldn't let Dylan be
put to death. He had long been a friend and he and Gruffydd had risked their
lives for her.

Quickly
instructing her maids on the proper use of Saracen's root to dress one man's
fractured arm, Elen gave another maid a quantity of sicklewort in the event
Simon's wound began bleeding again. She checked Richard's squire one last time
before going in search of her husband.

Simon
caught her hand as she rose to leave. He motioned the maid away. "See to
Richard," he said softly. "He's a wound in his right thigh but wanted
none to know."