Stuart, Elizabeth (25 page)

"Gwenwynwyn,"
she said, hastily grasping at the name of one of Enion's powerful friends.
"His name was Gwenwynwyn. He was a great man in Powys."

"I
know the name," Richard replied. "But to my knowledge, the man had no
daughter."

"He
was not married to my mother," Elen said, embroidering the tale.

"Oh."
Richard's arm tightened about her. So the girl was baseborn. He was suddenly
ashamed he had forced her admission. "I'm sorry. I'd no right to
pry."

"Bastardy
is no shame in Wales. 'Tis common enough and bastard children share equally in
inheritance with the lawful born," Elen remarked pointedly. "I took
my share in a swift mount in the confusion after Builth."

"This
is no horse for a woman, Elen. I'll find you another mount, but I have plans
for this devil. Your Moroedd is a war-horse. With a little more training he'll
be a suitable gift for a king. And Edward has a great liking for gray
horses."

It
took several moments for Richard's words to sink in. Elen swung to face him,
blue eyes blazing. "You would give my horse...
my horse
to Edward
of England? I would sooner see him dead than a gift to that spawn of Satan.
Holy Christ, I would take a knife and hamstring Moroedd myself!"

Richard's
tanned face went rigid. "You go beyond what even I will allow, Elen. I've
been patient with you in respect for your troubles, but you'll not speak of my
king in such a fashion." His voice dropped. "Remember that, Elen. If
you do so again, you'll be sorry."

Elen
was breathing heavily, every muscle tense with outrage. Yet something in
Richard's tone gave her pause. For once, she dared provoke him no further. He
meant what he said.

She
turned her back on him in an icy rage. "I beg pardon,
great lord,
for
daring to speak my thoughts. I keep forgetting my place. After all, you own my
land, my horse... even my life. And you've already slain most of the people I
know. Yes, I must thank God for your great patience and good will."

Richard
sighed heavily. "Did anyone ever tell you you've the tongue of a shrew,
Elen? I begin to see why at seventeen you're still unwed."

"It
was not from lack of offers," she snapped back. "I won a promise from
my father that I'd not be forced to wed until my seventeenth birthday. He
honored that pledge."

"Then
it wasn't a love match you were promised in?" Richard rejoined quickly.
"You didn't relish the man who died at Builth?"

Richard
heard her sharp intake of breath. "T—that's not true! I've loved him all
my life. When I heard he was dead, I wished my own life was ended. I—" She
broke off, as if the memory were too painful to contemplate. "It is not
fitting to discuss him with you," she added with a quiet dignity. "A
man such as you would never understand."

Richard
said nothing further and the silence stretched between them for nearly two
hours. They had been steadily climbing during that time and now they mounted
the final crest of the mountain pass into a last blaze of golden twilight.

Richard
drew rein, gazing down at the vast sweep of rugged, mountainous coast
stretching out below them. It was a breathtaking sight. In the distance, the
great fortress of Gwenlyn sat impregnable on a rocky cliff, her towering
curtain walls tinted pink by the brilliance of the dying sun. Above the castle,
all the colors of evening were painted across the sky, while far below the blue
haze of night crept silently over the mountain valleys.

Elen
shivered and Richard instinctively tightened his arms around her. "I
suppose that is Gwenlyn," she said in a voice curiously devoid of emotion.

He
bent his head. Elen was afraid, but he would not let on he sensed her fear. He
rested his cheek against her hair for the space of a heartbeat.
"Yes," he said softly. "That is Gwenlyn."

Richard
turned Moroedd up the last long hill toward Gwenlyn's gates, and Simon followed
close on his heels. The castle was obviously expecting him. Dozens of torches
flamed along the walls, and the messenger he had sent had already seen that his
banner hung over the heavily fortified stone gatehouse.

As
they approached the castle drawbridge and the great iron portcullis of the
outer gate, Moroedd flung up his head, arching his neck and shying sideways in
mock fear. Richard curbed the stallion's playfulness, sending him plunging
across the echoing drawbridge and into the outer bailey where a milling crowd
of English men-at-arms had gathered to cheer them into the castle compound.

As
eager soldiers crowded around them, the stallion reared and lashed out, excited
by the noise and confusion of the crowd. Richard brought him down sharply,
amazed at the animal's spirit. No one attempting to control the beast now would
believe the weary miles he had traveled this day. Moroedd was truly a mount for
a king. He would be a fitting token of Richard's affection for his sovereign.

The
great horse eased into a tight turn and traversed the outer court, passing once
more through a tall stone gatehouse with raised portcullis and into the inner bailey.
Gwenlyn was one of the impregnable stone castles designed by James of St.
George, Edward's master of castle defense and construction. It was designed on
revolutionary new lines with double curtain walls and numerous self-contained
defensive towers at regular intervals along the walls.

Though
it might be taken by prolonged siege and starvation, Richard doubted an army
would ever breach Gwenlyn's vast walls. And the Welsh had neither the men nor
the time to mount such an assault.

But
the king was taking no chances. The stone castles he was building in North
Wales would spell the end to all hope of resistance.

Drawing
Moroedd to a halt in the center of the courtyard, Richard swung down, then
lifted Elen to the ground beside him. Simon immediately stepped forward to take
the stallion's reins.

"Richard!
Before God, I'm glad you're here! There's been skirmishing in the mountains and
I was beginning to count you lost."

Turning,
Richard moved across the cobblestones toward the deep, familiar voice. Sir
Roland Denbeigh, the knight who held Gwenlyn now, was an old battle companion
from years gone by. Richard grinned in response to the wide, welcoming smile
that split the older knight's craggy face. His arm shot out and the two clasped
hands. "And I was beginning to think you'd moved Gwenlyn five leagues west
just to spite me," Richard responded. "We'd no trouble save a cursed
rain that turned every inch of soil between here and Beaufort into a bog."

Roland
shook his head. "Aye, the rain. I feared it might be a hindrance. By the
Blessed Virgin, I've seen so much this past six-month I'm surprised I've not
webbed feet!" His gaze drifted past Richard, halting at Elen in surprise.
"But come, I forget my manners. Introduce me to that lovely creature
you've brought with you."

Richard
glanced back at Elen, his smile fading. "She's Welsh—the woman of Rhys ap
Iwan, the Welsh Fox. I took her in a raid."

Roland's
dark brows shot up and he gave a low whistle. "You strike your enemy a
painful blow, Richard." He glanced at the younger man with a grin.
"And find sweet solace for yourself too, eh?"

Richard
shook his head. "Don't be deceived by that angelic face. She's twice tried
to kill me... and damned near succeeded too. And you should know she speaks
English and French as well as Welsh."

Roland
spat disgustedly. "Bah! These Welsh are all alike. Damned treacherous
cutthroats, the lot of them. I work a few dozen in the castle by day, but won't
have 'em sneakin' about after nightfall. Any Welshman I find within the walls
after sundown I string up for a rebel." He paused, glancing over his
shoulder at the congested movement of ox carts and men through the crowded
courtyard. "Not that way, you fools!" he exploded. "Christ! If I
don't get them straightened out, we'll have overturned carts and the devil of a
mess. Excuse me, Richard."

As
Sir Roland moved away to direct his men in the bestowing of the wagons, Richard
frowned at his friend's harsh comment. Were the man's actions based on the true
temper of the countryside or his own personal feelings? Sir Roland had good
reason to hate the Welsh. He had lost both a brother and a promising young
nephew in an unexpected Welsh raid several years back. But Roland had ever been
an honest soldier, if sometimes harsh. Richard frowned again. He supposed he
would have to wait to judge the situation here for himself.

"So
you are Richard Basset, knight of Kent. The man we've all been hearing
about."

Richard
turned quickly toward the deep, lilting Welsh voice. A black-robed priest moved
out of the shadows, halting a few paces before him. Eyes so dark they shone
black in the torchlight regarded him intently from a sharply angular wedge of a
face. "I've long pondered how you would be," the man continued in
flawless French, "but I'd not dreamed you'd be so young."

Richard's
eyes swept down the man, identifying him as one of the Welsh clergy. He was
dressed in worn sandals and a tattered, much-mended robe with a crudely carved
wooden crucifix hanging about his neck. His dark hair fell shaggy and uneven
about his ears, yet for all his air of poverty, the man held himself proudly,
commanding instant respect. "I cannot know what you've heard of me,
Father, but I am the man," Richard replied.

"Oh,
I've heard much." The priest's austere expression lightened somewhat, and
his thin lips turned upward in a smile, crinkling the deep lines about the
corners of his eyes. "But I promise I've disregarded at least two-thirds
of it."

Richard
shifted uneasily. Something about the man's intense scrutiny made him feel he
was being judged. And no telling what a Welsh priest had heard of him!

"You!
You, man, what are you doing here? I know I've thrown you out at least once
today!"

Richard
glanced up in surprise as Sir Roland stalked toward them.

The
priest didn't flinch. "I told you I would see Richard Basset," he
said quietly. "And so I am here."

"Well,
not for long. Walter! John! Take this pesty priest beyond the walls and see he
doesn't return," Roland directed. "And you've my leave to be as
convincing as you like!"

Two
burly guards stepped forward, laying rough hands on the priest.
"Hold!" Richard turned to Sir Roland in disbelief. "You would
treat a priest so violently? I fear you go too far, my friend."

"Humph!
If he is a priest," Roland scoffed. "'Twould not be the first time
these devils have donned priestly garb to mount a spying expedition. And what
matter even if he is. Half the Welsh clergy took up arms in this last revolt.
You know the Archbishop of Canterbury has defrocked a vast lot of these
un-Christian beggars."

"Do
you know that he is a rebel?"

"No,
of course not. How could I know that?" Roland responded irritably.
"But it's of little matter one way or the other. I've already written the
Bishop of St. David's requesting an English priest be sent here as quickly as
possible. And I'll not have this man inciting the rabble in the village. We've
enough trouble here without that!"

Richard
turned back to the priest. "Are you a churchman in good standing?"

The
man's dark eyes held his unwaveringly. "Yes."

Richard
nodded in satisfaction. "Then you may sleep here tonight if you will,
Father. A room will be made ready."

The
priest shook his head. "I would sow no discord between you and your
friend. Besides, I'm sore needed among my people. There are plenty of roofs
eager to house me down by the docks." His eyes suddenly narrowed and he
took a step toward Richard. "But I would seek audience with you as soon as
possible. And I ask leave to visit among the prisoners you've brought."

Roland
snorted in protest and, in the wavering torchlight, Richard searched the
priest's gaunt face suspiciously. After all, blasphemous as his old friend's
actions appeared, Roland could be right. This dark, earnest-looking man could
easily be a Welsh patriot. "I will see you as soon as possible, but for
now my prisoners will see no one save their guards." He hesitated a
moment, still seeking to judge the man's intentions. "And where can you be
found when my duties allow?"

"Put
it about you've time for Father Dilwen." A narrow smile touched the
priest's face. "And I will find you." Without waiting for Richard's
reply, the priest moved away, losing himself quickly in the milling crowd of
soldiers and servants.

Richard
watched the dark-cowled figure disappear before turning back to Sir Roland. His
friend's lean face was stormy with anger. Richard let out his breath in a long
sigh. "Forgive me, Roland, but I couldn't let you imperil your soul and
mine by attacking a priest. Sweet Jesu, I've not the silver for buying such an
indulgence as that!"

Roland
nodded stiffly. "You were within your rights. After all, you're in command
here now, not I. I'll be leaving in a few days to return to England, praise
God, a land of civilized people who aren't seeking to cut a man's throat every
moment!"