Stuart, Elizabeth (15 page)

While
Simon warmed the towels by the fire, Richard submerged his head in the water,
scrubbing his hair vigorously with soap and rinsing it. Then he rose from the
water and took the heated cloth Simon held out to him.

Stepping
from the tub, he wrapped the towel about his dripping body. "There's one
more thing we should speak on, Simon," he added, frowning, "and it's
a difficult matter for a man to judge. Despite what I've told you, there are
times a man must consciously decide not to follow an order. Unfortunately,
there is no guide I can give for making that choice."

He
caught the boy's shoulder. "In your life you will serve under many leaders
and not all will be wise. In fact, some will be unbelievably foolish. It may be
necessary to choose not to obey. But I warn you, Simon, choose those occasions
with care for you will live with the consequences for the rest of your
life."

Simon
gazed up at him with a troubled look. "Have you ever disobeyed an order,
Richard?"

"Yes.
And on at least a half-dozen occasions it has saved my life and that of others
about me." Richard stared at him thoughtfully. "You will see some
men, Simon, who seldom obey anyone. They don't make good soldiers and most end
up outlaws. You will see others who always obey. They make good soldiers, but
rarely become leaders. The trick to it, lad, is in gaining the wisdom to know
when to do each."

He
gave the boy a gentle push toward the bed. "Help me dress now, and be
quick," he admonished fondly. "Even with the fire, it's damned cold
in here."

From
her place beside the hide-covered south window, Elen frowned thoughtfully.
Though the conversation between Richard and his squire had been in English, she
had followed it with ease and had been surprised to find herself unconsciously
comparing it with the gentle way her father had of correcting her and Rhodri.
Always careful of their pride, her father had yet kept them striving to please
him, for to fail to live up to Lord Aldwyn's high expectations was a fate
neither had cared to contemplate.

Troubled
by the unwanted comparison, she glanced over her shoulder at her enemy. So
Richard didn't plan to bed her, didn't bother the women of his enemies. She
frowned. The Wolf of Kent was a complex man and wise in many things other than
battle. And he was obviously capable of kindness. It was easy to see there was
real affection between Richard and Simon. Certainly there was trust. No, Richard
Basset was not the devil she had believed him to be, but his wisdom made him a
far more dangerous opponent than she had originally thought.

Her
intense study drew Richard's gaze. Across the distance of the room, questioning
green eyes met brooding blue ones. She had underestimated him before, but she
would not continue to do so, Elen decided. Richard of Kent would be a very
difficult enemy to defeat.

Elen
didn't have long to brood. Shortly after Richard and his squire took their
leave, the servants returned with buckets of fresh water to heat. After
draining the tub, then half filling it with fresh water, they too disappeared.

Sir
Thomas de Waurin must be planning a bath. There was no other man in the keep
who would demand such a luxury, she thought irritably. Now, she'd be forced to
stomach the prattle of another Englishman.

Moving
closer to the tub, she gazed longingly at the clean water. It had been months
since she'd had a real bath. Hot water and washing belonged to that other life
in Teifi that seemed so long ago. Bending over the rough wooden rim, she ran
one hand through the water. Richard was right about one thing. A hot bath would
be heaven.

Moments
later, a hesitant knock sounded against the wooden door of the solar. With a
protesting creak, it swung open a few inches and Richard's squire put his head
round the panel. "Pardon, lady. My lord sent me to see you had all you
desire."

Elen
stared at him, uncomprehending.

Simon
took a step into the room and closed the door. "Richard sent the water for
you," he explained in French, gesturing to the buckets heating beside the
fire. "Do you wish me to fill the tub?"

A
bath... for her? Elen stared at the boy suspiciously. What would it profit
Richard to send her such luxury? He must have some deep purpose in mind.
"Tell your master I am clean enough," she snapped. "I do not
choose to bathe."

Ignoring
her shrewish comment, Simon moved to the hearth and began filling the tub with
buckets of steaming water. "You need not fear the water," he said
over one shoulder. "Washing won't make you ill as some believe. At least
not if the room is warm and there's no danger of taking a chill," he
amended. He grinned engagingly. "But I don't guess you're afraid of water.
Not with that jump you made."

He
paused in the act of emptying the last bucket. "You don't seem to be
afraid of much. Richard's like that, too. My friend Sir Giles says it's like to
get him killed, but I notice he's always first to follow my lord into a tight
corner."

Elen
was suddenly aware that the boy admired her. Perhaps he could be useful if she
could gain his friendship. Not that he would knowingly betray his master, but
it might be possible to glean important information from his chatter. Besides,
he obviously thought she was pretty even in her present filthy, disheveled
state.

The
idea brought a smile. "How long have you been with your lord?" she
asked in a milder tone.

"Not
quite a year. I'm just turned fifteen, but already Richard says I'm the best
squire he's trained," Simon boasted. His elation dimmed suddenly as the
memory of the talk with Richard washed over him. Ducking his head, he fiddled
uncomfortably with the bucket. "Of course, I still make mistakes
sometimes," he added diffidently.

In
spite of her prejudice, Elen's heart went out to the boy. Somehow, she couldn't
see him as an enemy. He reminded her too much of the delightful young men of
good family who gathered at Teifi Keep when Lord Aldwyn held court. Proud and
boastful in the exuberance of youth, they became shame-faced and despondent
over any real or imagined failing as they strove above all else to rush
headlong into manhood.

"At
fifteen it's difficult always to know what is right," she remarked,
holding back a smile. "I'm sure your lord doesn't expect perfection. Each
year brings its own wisdom."

Simon
nodded. "That's what Richard says." He glanced eagerly up at her.
"How old are you?"

"Near
seventeen." She shrugged. "Perhaps I am already. I do not even know
what month it is."

Simon
stared at her incredulously. "Seventeen!"

Elen
could no longer hold back her smile. "Yes, old by your standards, I'm
sure. My birth month is Ebrill... your April," she added.

"B—but
you're so...so thin," he stammered. "And Richard said you were naught
but thirteen or fourteen."

A
flush of annoyance warmed Elen's face. So Richard didn't even think her a
woman. "If I am thin and weak, it is because I do not dine so well as
you," she snapped. "You English sit out the winter in our keeps, warm
yourselves with our furs, dine on our grain, slaughter our herds." She
paused, the bitterness and resentment of the conquered for the conqueror
spilling into her voice, making it throb with passion. "You will not see a
fat Welshman, boy, unless he be a traitor!"

Simon
straightened indignantly. "You Welsh started this. We didn't! By Christ's
bones, it was Llywelyn himself who slunk down in the dead of night and
massacred the men at Rhuddlan and Flint. And on Palm Sunday, for God's
sake!"

"It
was not Llywelyn!" Elen corrected vehemently. "It was his brother
Dafydd. And he only did what he'd learned in league with his precious English
allies a few years earlier. Your men suffered only what they taught by example!
I've not enough fingers and toes to mark the times you've slaughtered men,
women and children in such attacks."

"That
only shows how little you know about it," Simon responded, belatedly
recalling the cool dignity befitting the squire of so important a personage as
Sir Richard Basset. He put down the bucket he was brandishing in one hand.
"Bathe or not as you will, woman. It matters little to me."

Elen
watched the flaxen-haired boy stalk through the door and slam it resoundingly
behind him. She bit her lip in frustration. She had certainly not made the most
of that encounter. Richard's squire was the only one in this whole place
disposed to think well of her, and now she had alienated him in an argument
neither could win.

And
the truth was, they were both right. There had been countless acts of cruelty
and betrayal on both sides of the border, and doubtless it would continue. And
if she hoped to be alive and free to see any of it, she had better keep her
wits about her and come up with a way to escape.

Moving
to the tub, she ran her fingers through the water. Its silken warmth slid
across her hand and up her arm, sending a shiver of pleasure along her spine.
There was nothing she could do to improve her situation at the moment. And
merciful heaven, it would feel good to be clean again even if Richard of Kent
had suggested it.

Dragging
the worn, dirty tunic over her head, she tossed it on the floor. God send all
Englishmen to the devil, she thought defiantly. She would have a bath!

***

Richard
moved carefully along the wet, slippery path through the bailey. The morning
storm had spent its fury, leaving heavy clouds and lingering mists hovering
dismally above the rain-darkened tower of Beaufort. He lifted his face to the
mizzling damp, willing it to cleanse him of the clammy feel of the earthen
dungeon below.

He
had done his duty, he reminded himself now. Despite his own feelings, he had
wrung what information he could from his enemies. But such work always left a
sick churning in his gut.

He
passed an arm across his forehead, taking a deep breath to steady himself. Cold
as it was, he was sweating profusely. He was ashamed of this womanish weakness,
yet he drove himself to be present whenever prisoners were questioned, both to
protect the men from a too-eager jailer and in the hope he would become
hardened to the necessary task. He had never discussed his feelings with another
soul, yet he knew Giles understood his problem—even shared his feelings
somewhat.

Fortunately
the Welsh had talked more readily today than in times past. The long weary
march and the hours in the tomblike blackness below ground must have broken
their spirits. Praise God, he had learned what little they could tell him
fairly easily.

Richard
frowned thoughtfully. Though the Welsh Fox remained a mystery, now at least he
had a name to put to the man. A name and a vague description—Rhys ap Iwan of
Gwynedd, a dark-haired man of thirty or so, an enemy of cunning and
determination who seldom revealed his plans even to his own men. And of the
womenfolk of Teifi, he had discovered little beyond what Edward already knew.
Nothing had been seen of them since Builth. It was believed they were safe in
France.

He
had also learned the locations of two Welsh camps, though he suspected the
information was worthless. Past experience had taught him the camps would be
deserted by now. The Welsh always moved out whenever any location was
discovered or prisoners taken.

Would
Elen know more? He paused on the first step of the narrow stairs to the keep
entrance. Exactly what did the girl know? Not a girl, but a woman, he corrected
himself. Simon had indignantly repeated the argument with their prisoner,
including the surprising information that she was older than he had guessed.

Seventeen.
He had been far off the mark, fooled by the girl's starved body and the grimy,
ill-fitting rags she wore.

There
was something more, he admitted. For once in his life he had let his feelings
get in the way of his judgment. Something about the girl had attracted him from
the start, something beyond her wild, youthful beauty and the fascinating
appeal of her slanted, sapphire eyes.

But
she was his enemy and he had consciously chosen not to respond to that
attraction, making the decision easier by telling himself she was too young for
such thoughts. He had always preferred older, more experienced mistresses, and
by linking the girl in his mind with Isabel, he had almost convinced himself
she was naught but a child to protect. But now he knew without doubt she was a
woman—his enemy's woman—and the thought was strangely unsettling.

Entering
the keep, he searched in vain for Giles. He had already laid his plans to trap
the Fox, but he wanted to discuss the ambush with his knight before he went
over the final details with Sir Thomas.

His
gaze took in the stairs at the back of the hall. The room above was the only
place he would be able to speak without fear of being overheard. There were a
few Welsh servants about and it never hurt to be careful. Until he decided what
information his enemy should hear, he would keep his plans among those he could
trust. Besides, he still needed to discover what Elen could tell him.

After
sending Simon in search of Giles, he climbed the stairs to the third-floor
solar. What information could the girl give him and, more importantly, how
could he trick her into divulging it? Still pondering the problem, he swung
open the door and stepped inside.