Stuart, Elizabeth (6 page)

The
stallion's abrupt stop flung Elen onto his neck. She grabbed for a handhold in
his thick mane but found herself grasping at air. Landing on the ground with an
impact that pushed the breath from her lungs, Elen rolled instinctively away
from beneath the stallion's flailing hooves. She was on her feet in an instant,
but to no avail. With a nervous snorting of flared nostrils, Moroedd galloped
away. And in that moment, the English were upon her.

Elen
scrambled desperately for her sword, her quick mind grasping for any
possibility of escape. She knew these woods like the back of her hand. If she
could fight her way into their concealing shadows, perhaps she could win free.

The
unexpected sound of English voices came from behind her. There were more men
there in the trees; bobbing torches told of their movements. She swung back to
the knights rushing to encircle her. God have mercy, she was trapped!

Grasping
her sword tightly in one sweating hand, Elen straightened herself proudly to
face her attackers. One tall knight advanced slowly from the ring of enemies,
his gleaming broadsword held high. Moonlight shimmered over a head of straight
blond hair, making it glow like spun silver.

A
realization washed over her, strengthening her—it was Richard of Kent she faced
across her sword, Richard of Kent, the man who had slain Enion! A sudden rage
burned through her, a rage so powerful, so elemental it left no room for fear.
Her prayers were answered, her most fervent desire granted, if she had but the
strength and wit to see it through. She might kill the Wolf of Kent...
with
her own hand!

"Lay
down your sword," Richard ordered tersely, coming to a halt three blade
lengths away. "You are taken."

Elen
understood French clearly enough. Her father had fought bravely to keep his
homeland free but had wisely planned for the possibility of defeat by a more
powerful enemy. She had learned French as well as the hated English along with
all the members of her family.

"He
doesn't understand our speech, Richard," one of the knights called out
gleefully. "Bark at him like a dog. Mayhap he'll recognize his own
cowardly tongue!"

Richard
didn't move a muscle as the men about him continued their laughter and vicious
jibes at their enemy. He despised this reviling of a brave man, but he couldn't
blame his men for their hatred. All had lost comrades in this accursed war.
"You are taken, sir," he tried again in English. "I order you in
King Edward's name to throw down your arms."

In
those few seconds, Elen made her plan. She knew the strength of her arm would
be as nothing to the battle-hardened knight standing before her, but she was
light and quick, quicker than most men.

Though
Owain had insisted on keeping her far from his raids, he had continued to
engage her in the sword practice that had once been merely a pleasant pastime,
teaching her many a trick to enhance what strength she possessed. And the hours
of practice had paid off. Once, when a band of English men-at-arms stumbled
upon her party, she had engaged and slain an attacking soldier.

Yes,
she could kill a man, she reminded herself now. And it would be a pleasure to
kill this one. Her lips thinned to a tight, determined line. God in heaven
strengthen and direct her aim!

Catching
up the trailing hem of her cloak, she swung it over her left arm and edged
forward a step, lightly saluting Richard's blade with the tip of her own steel.
Then she backed away a few paces into the shadowy tree line. She must keep out
of the betraying moonlight. The great Wolf of Kent would scorn to fight a
woman.

"So
you would fight me, would you," Richard said softly, "I think not,
friend Fox. My king wishes for your hide undamaged by my steel."

"Coward!
Base coward!" She hurled the insult in a guttural snarl of Norman French,
shrewdly guessing the knights encircling them would hear and understand.

The
men's laughter died abruptly. Richard stiffened. "Is that what you think,
friend Fox? Then perhaps I should instruct you."

"Richard,
don't be a fool!" Giles snapped, swinging down from his horse. "You
don't even wear armor, for God's sake. Don't risk it!"

"He
doesn't wear armor either," Richard pointed out. He followed Elen's
backing figure slowly into the trees. "I'd say we're matched evenly
enough."

Elen
smiled in triumph. It was easy to goad these arrogant fools into a fight. But
the next part of her plan would be more difficult, and she must keep all her
wits about her if she was to be successful.

"Boy!
Bring torches," Giles shouted to a hovering squire. Immediately the glow
of torchlight ringed the space beneath the trees.

Abruptly,
Elen halted, her raised blade forcing Richard to do likewise. As he shifted
forward to test the strength of her arm, she ducked beneath his blade, circling
to one side in a maneuver that almost won under his guard.

He
followed swiftly, his heavy broadsword a flash of deadly silver in the
uncertain light. But Elen's guard was quicker yet, and his blade met hers with
a resounding clash.

She
danced sideways, shaken from the force of his blow. She must end the fight
quickly. She was no match for this man, even for a moment. No wonder Enion had
fallen before him.

She
backed away, the thought of Enion giving deadly purpose to her movements. Again
Richard followed as she circled warily. Unlike so many big men, her enemy was
quick and easy on his feet. But she would be quicker.

Panting
slightly from excitement and exertion, Elen engaged his blade several times in
quick succession, always shifting away before Richard could bring his full
weight behind the staggering blow of his sword.

He
followed with an oath. "Stand and fight," he snarled. "You've
not the strength of a woman!"

She
repeated the maneuver, this time allowing him to press down against her steel.
Stumbling back in feigned retreat, she darted close in as Richard followed,
thrusting upward with a lightning stroke just as Richard recognized the ploy
and jerked sideways.

Her
blade missed his heart by a wide margin, sliding harmlessly along the inside of
his left arm instead. She heard him curse in pained fury as the tip of her
sword caught living flesh.

Jerking
back, she steeled herself for the onslaught that would surely follow, almost
weeping in mingled rage and frustration. She had come close, so close, but she
had missed her chance. This man wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

Richard
glared at the muffled figure, seething with rage at the base trickery that
might have cost him his life. Was this cowardly specimen the man he'd spent the
last four months freezing and hungering for? Was this the best his enemy had to
offer? Why, the creature wouldn't even stand and fight! Somehow he had expected
more of his enemy.

Lunging
forward, he met the determined thrust of the Welshman's sword, sending it
downward and away with the force of a shattering blow. His momentum carried him
into his opponent, and the two went down heavily onto the frosty grass.

Richard
held his panting adversary easily, his knee forced into the man's heaving
stomach while he quickly jerked a dagger from the man's belt, pressing it
against a slender throat. His shouting knights clustered round like a pack of
ravening dogs gathering to tear at a wounded animal. "Light... bring me a
torch!" Richard shouted irritably.

Two
squires scuttled hastily forward. Richard turned to the man he'd so easily
defeated, jerking back the fox hood still shadowing his face. Delicate features
of an undeniably feminine cast met his astonished gaze.

"God's
death!" he swore in utter disbelief. Throwing down the knife in disgust,
he swung to his feet. "It's a woman! Christ's mercy, 'tis naught but a
woman!
While we lingered here with this foolish ploy, the real Fox of Wales has
escaped us!"

Elen
lay on her back, staring up into the ring of angry, hostile faces as she fought
to get her breath. They would kill her now, no doubt most horribly. But she
didn't care; hatred took her beyond fear. And her diversion might have helped
some of her people escape. That knowledge would sustain her through whatever
pain was to come.

Slowly,
she eased herself to a sitting position, her eyes warily following the
movements of her golden-haired enemy as he paced forward and back, obviously
struggling for control. His stride was long and purposeful, his chest and
forearms broad and well muscled from endless hours of carrying shield and
sword—against her people, she reminded herself.

He
swung about, abruptly halting before her. "The Fox has fled, has he
not?" he bit out, his words icy with smothered rage.

She
returned his stare with unwavering contempt, delighted at causing such fury.

Catching
her arm, he jerked her roughly to her feet. In the reddish glow of torchlight,
two determined gazes met and clashed as dangerously as their swords had
earlier. Richard's eyes narrowed in surprise. This woman was no coarse-featured
peasant. Even in the uncertain light he could see she was a beauty, no doubt
the leman of the man he pursued. How else would she have come by that fox cloak
and a horse of such value, especially in the confusion of the unexpected raid?
She had to be sharing the man's bed.

Suddenly,
he smiled in cynical appreciation of the trick that had duped him. "Good
Christ, what a jest," he murmured. "And more what I should have
expected from your canny Welsh Fox. Tricked by the master trickster of them
all!"

Releasing
the woman, he turned to his friend. "Giles, come and tend my arm. The
invincible Richard has been wounded in battle by a woman. Our Edward is like to
die laughing at the joke!"

Giles
moved closer to cut away the blood-soaked material encasing Richard's forearm.
Motioning the torchbearer nearer, he inspected the wound. "A deep scratch,
but clean cut," he informed his leader. "You were lucky, Richard. Her
thrust was so quick, I scarce saw it myself."

"Yes,
it was, wasn't it?"

Richard's
gaze strayed to the woman, who watched him with such a blaze of hatred in her
heavily lashed eyes. Of a sudden, he wondered what color they were. It was
impossible to tell aught but dark and light in the wash of torchlight. "My
compliments, lady," he said mockingly as Giles bound up his arm. "I
trust you found me a worthy opponent?"

The
woman didn't blink an eyelash. Of course none of this savage brood understood
good Saxon English. He released a weary sigh. "Speak to her, Giles,"
he said, nodding at the woman. "Ask her what she's called. I've a strange
desire to know the name of those who seek to skewer me."

Giles
moved a few steps nearer the woman, quickly repeating the question in her
native tongue. The beauty maintained a scornful silence.

Turning
back to Richard, Giles ran a hand through his curly black hair. "She's
probably frightened out of her wits thinking we'll torture her for her attack
on you, Richard. May I tell her you mean her no harm?"

"She
doesn't look frightened to me, Giles," Richard responded with a wry grin.
"She looks more apt to take that sword to the lot of us." He moved
nearer, once more caught by the perfect symmetry of the woman's features.
"Lord, the man must be a fool to have risked this prize," he
muttered.

Without
considering the consequences, he lifted a hand to catch the dark, heavy braid
that hung over the woman's shoulder. Immediately, she lunged at him, curved
fingers reaching for his eyes.

Flinging
up a protective arm, he warded off her attack as two of his men leaped forward,
roughly restraining her. "God's blood, it'd be a man's death to mount this
one," one of the men remarked with a crude laugh. Two others then joined
in with explicit suggestions as to how the difficult task might be
accomplished.

Richard
ignored the ribald comments. The woman didn't seem to understand them, and his
men were disciplined enough to realize the folly of doing aught without his
permission. Early in his command he had strung up a half-dozen soldiers for
savaging the people of a harmless village. He allowed his men none of the
brutal liberties taken by Hugh de Veasy's troops in the south. Edward would
have difficulty enough ruling this hardy race without deliberately inflaming
them to greater resistance.

Catching
the woman's chin, he tilted her face toward him in the torchlight. She was
young, far younger than he'd first thought, but she showed no fear. Her large
almond-shaped eyes gleamed back at him with hatred— the same hatred that had
flamed in the gaze of a small, starving boy this afternoon. "Christ's wound,
this people must be suckled on hatred!" he exclaimed.

"For
their own kind, no," Giles responded. "But for us it's true, and oft
with good cause, I'm afraid. If you'd grown up in the border lands of the Welsh
Marches you'd have learned that fact early and well."

Richard
glanced at his friend, then back down into the lovely, defiant face before him.
God's truth, he'd fought and almost slain a child, a beautiful, half-wild
child. Pity stirred in his heart, pity and something more—admiration. The girl
had fought damned well. "Tell her I mean her no harm," he said,
dropping his hand. "I don't make war on women and children."