Stuart, Elizabeth (53 page)

Elen
glanced around. Richard was nowhere in sight.

"He's
already gone above."

Her
eyes widened in alarm. "Is it bad?"

"Not
now. But it wants tending."

She
gave Simon's fingers a quick squeeze. "My thanks."

When
she reached their chamber Richard was stretched out on the bed. She eased
quietly inside and shut the door.

He
rose on one elbow. "I'm awake."

She
moved toward the bed, anxiously searching his face for any sign of fever. Her
father had been just such a fool. He had never wanted notice taken of his
hurts.

Richard
smiled wryly and sat up. "I see Simon's mentioned the cut I took. 'Tis
nothing to look so fearful about."

"Why
didn't you tell me? I'd have seen to you at once." She frowned. "Even
small wounds can poison and kill. You know that."

Richard
had removed his surcoat and hauberk. He bent now to unwind his crossgarters.
"And would you care so greatly?"

Elen
dropped to her knees, quickly performing the task for him. The question hurt.
"You know that I would."

"Elen..."

She
glanced up.

He
caught her shoulders, lifting her into his arms. She held him tightly. "Oh
Richard," she whispered, "how can you ask such a thing?"

He
rained gentle kisses on her face and throat. "I'm sorry, love, but I had
to. I saw the look on your face when you watched the prisoners this afternoon.
First Dafydd, now this. I greatly feared I'd gone beyond what you could
bear."

"I
don't know what I can bear, Richard. I pray I don't find out."

"I
love you."

She
stared up at him. "Richard, could you not—"

His
lips moved over hers, gently silencing the request before she could put it to
words. "Don't ask, Elen," he finally murmured. "Please don't
ask."

He
drew her down into his arms, shifting until he had her beneath him. She would
think about Dylan later, Elen promised herself. She would think of some way to
save him... later.

She
threaded her fingers through Richard's thick hair, giving herself up to the
sweet pain of loving him. For now there was only Richard.

***

"I
can't let this go on, Elen. I've no choice."

Elen
stared into Owain's grim face. Sweet Mary, how she had come to hate those
words! "Of course you have a choice," she snapped. "It's
ridiculous for you to admit being the Welsh Fox. They'll only kill you
both!"

Owain
dragged a hand through his graying hair. "Yes, but I can't let Dylan face
the death they've planned for me. Edward wants the Fox alive. You know what
that means, Elen." He glanced up, his eyes meeting hers. "What they
did to Dafydd will be child's play in comparison."

Elen
caught his hand across the width of the table, searching for any argument that
might sway him. "Think what you're saying. With both you and Dylan dead
there'll be none left to lead us. The resistance will be finished, Owain. You
and Dylan are the end of all our hopes."

"The
resistance is finished," he remarked wearily. "There are too many
English and they've horses and armor, weapons of finest steel and castles of
stone. We can't fight that, Elen."

"Yes
we can! We just need time."

He
shook his head. "Wales has run out of time."

A
servant moved purposefully toward them. "The lord will see you now,"
he said, pausing at the table. Owain drained the last of his ale as the man
moved away. "I must speak to Richard on this matter of the village
butchering day. We've not enough salt for the meats." He rose to his feet
with a sigh. "Holy Christ, butchering day, indeed!"

"Owain,
listen to me," Elen said desperately. "Swear to me you'll do nothing
foolish yet. I... I'll speak to Richard again about Dylan. I'll make him
listen!"

"Elen,
Richard is a soldier. He'll not listen to you in this."

She
glanced up at him. "You would."

He
smiled and raised his hand, moving his fingers slowly over her cheek in a rough
caress. "Aye, but I'm an old fool, snared by your wiles when you were
naught but a babe seeking the world on all fours." His eyes suddenly
misted. "Don't cry for me, little one. I've had a good life."

Elen's
throat closed up and she fought back tears, tears that seemed to come so easily
these days. She caught his hand, holding it against her cheek. "Give me
another day. Swear to me you'll not speak to him of this for at least one more
day!"

Owain
began to shake his head.

"Swear
it!" she snapped, the ache in her throat making her voice unexpectedly
harsh. "I order it so!"

Owain
smiled in spite of himself. "Very well, my lady. I'll wait another day.
Now release me," he remarked, gently disengaging his hand. "Your lord
has made time to discuss the needs of Ruthlin."

Elen
watched him move away across the hall, her vision blurred. She had begged and
pleaded with Richard in every way imaginable. They had argued, been reconciled,
and argued again. And he had forbidden her to bring up the subject of the Welsh
Fox. She had no idea what she could do, but she would have to think of
something.

Elen
struggled with the problem all morning, finally coming up with a plan so simple
it might work. But the scheme was a hateful one, the idea of putting it into
practice nearly breaking her resolve. It would take Richard a long time to
forgive her... if ever he could.

She
would speak to him again, she told herself resolutely. She would make him
listen. He had to.

***

When
the master of Gwenlyn finished his afternoon conference with the bailiff, Elen
was waiting for him in the corridor. "Richard, may I speak with you?"

He
took one look at her face. "Not if it concerns your friend below," he
remarked, still walking.

Elen
matched her stride to his. "Tell me something. What does Edward plan for
the Fox?"

"I
don't know."

"Does
he call the man traitor?"

Richard
frowned. "You know that he does."

"And
did you not say this hellish drawing and quartering is now meant for
traitors?"

Richard
kept walking. "Yes."

His
voice was stern, unyielding, offering little hope. "You can't mean to go
through with this," she said desperately. "I must."

Elen
stopped abruptly. "You would do this? You would have a man I care for sent
to such a death? You would do this knowing how I feel?"

Richard
swung around. His face was set, his eyes bleak but determined. "I've no
choice, Elen. We've been over this a hundred times. I've no wish to see this
happen. I'd kill the man straight and clean were it up to me—a damn sight
easier death than what your Rhys gave de Waurin! Now peace... I'll discuss it
no further."

Elen
stared at him. No, she didn't suppose Richard had any choice. But neither had
she. "Richard." She hesitated as he glanced up in irritation. "I
love you," she said softly.

***

That
night at supper, Elen was unusually quiet. The light meal she had eaten shifted
uneasily in her stomach as she gazed at Richard's men, trying to decide which
to use in her plan. The most logical to ask was Simon, but the boy would never
forgive her for forcing him to betray Richard. And during these months since
her marriage she'd come to look on him like a brother. It wouldn't work to
pretend she might do him harm, he would know she was bluffing at the outset.

Her
eye fell on Henry Bloet. Yes, Henry might do. He trusted her, but she suspected
he stood a bit in awe of her as well. Yes, Henry would be the one.

She
rose from the table, moving quietly to fetch the salves and herbs she used in
healing. She made the rounds of the hall, seeing to the individuals in her
care, unhurriedly checking wounds, speaking a word or two of encouragement to
each man. Belatedly, she had come to realize that men were alike whether Welsh
or English. It was difficult to hate a man when you dressed his wounds, asked
after his wife, spoke of his children. It would be painful to hear any of these
men had been lost in battle.

Finally
she came to Henry. His arm was healing. "Have you a few moments to spare
me, Henry?" she inquired, giving his bandage a tug to ease the bind.
"There are prisoners below whose wounds need checking as well. I'd not
bother you but Richard insisted I take a dependable man when going below."
She gazed at him with a show of concern. "If you don't feel equal to it,
just tell me. I'll ask someone else."

Henry
bristled. "A'course I'm equal to it. Happy ta take ye below, m'lady."

Elen
dropped her eyes. How she hated this. Henry would be furious and Richard might
never forgive her. She swallowed hard, willing herself not to think of
Richard's rage. Of course he would forgive her... eventually. But she would
never forgive herself if she lost both Owain and Dylan, knowing she might have
prevented their deaths.

They
trudged down the stairs into the dreary dungeon block. Elen nodded to the guard
on duty at the landing. The man's name was Roger. He had a wife and two small
sons back home in Sussex. She didn't want them orphaned. "I'll be down
here an hour or more," she said, turning to Henry. "With you here,
Roger might as well go above for his meal."

The
soldier glanced hopefully at Henry.

"Go
on, lad. But see you're back and no dawdling."

Elen
glanced away uncomfortably. It was easier than she'd dared hope. The men
trusted her and she was about to make fools of them. And Richard would look the
greatest fool of all.

Her
hands began to tremble as she hurriedly checked the wounded Welshmen. She tried
to speak lightly to them as she worked. She dared not let this visit appear any
different than the others she had made. "One more," she said to Henry
at last. "The man Richard calls the Welsh Fox needs his bandage changed as
well."

Henry
frowned. "Lady, I dare not."

Elen
gazed straight into his eyes with the lie. "Richard has given permission.
Send above to ask if you don't trust my word."

Henry
shifted uncertainly. Of course, she couldn't let him actually ask. "Come
into the cell with us if you don't trust me, Henry. I've no secrets to tell
him. I'll promise to speak only English if you wish."

Henry
gave a relieved sigh. "I'd breathe a sight easier if ye would, m'lady. Not
that I don't trust ye," he added respectfully.

His
words were a lash. Dear, loyal, unsuspecting Henry... merciful Father, don't
let him force her hand!

Henry
unlocked Dylan's cell and they moved together into the tiny room. A faint gray
light filtered in through the iron grate in the ceiling. Elen's eyes met the
Welshman's and she sent him a warning look. Placing her bag of salves on the
floor, she moved forward to stoop beside him.

Dylan
snapped out a question in Welsh, but she shook her head, touching her lips and
pointing back to Henry. She motioned to his arm, as if trying to convey the
fact that she was here only to see to his bandage.

Dylan
watched her narrowly. She peeled the bandage back, sending him another sidelong
look. Rising to her feet, she crossed the floor to her bag of medicines, her
heart pounding so heavily she wondered the men didn't hear.

She
opened the bag, slipping out the knife she'd placed there earlier. The narrow
length of steel gleamed wickedly in the light. She swallowed hard and glanced
back at Henry. He was watching Dylan suspiciously, his back toward her.

She
caught up the knife and moved behind him, steadying herself for the task at
hand. She no longer had the stomach for killing, especially not Henry. Dear
God, she prayed, don't let him be foolishly brave.

And
then she moved. Seizing Henry's square chin in one hand, she pressed the knife
tight to his throat with the other. "Drop the sword," she ordered
coldly.

Henry
growled an oath. He lurched forward, but Elen moved with him, trying
desperately to keep the knife from severing the veins in his throat. She felt
the slick warmth of blood coat her palm, but it wasn't the spurting gush she
had feared.

"You
fool! Another hairsbreadth and you'd be breathing your last," she
threatened him. "Don't force me, Henry. I've no wish to see you dead. Now
drop the blade!"

He
snarled out some English words she'd never learned. Something highly
uncomplimentary, she'd wager. "You're stronger than I, Henry, but that
matters little." She shifted the blade against his throat to give him the
idea. "Drop your sword."

For
several tense seconds the man didn't move. His muscles were coiled, ready for
action. Elen's heart was in her throat, her stomach churning. Then the sword
fell to the floor with a muffled clatter.

She
drew a deep, shaky breath. "Good. Now kneel here in the straw. For the
love of God, do as I say! Richard needs you."