Stuart, Elizabeth (60 page)

"Peace,
Will," Richard said softly. "If you noticed, the lad was shouting out
the most ridiculous commands I've ever heard in my lifetime."

Philip
grinned unexpectedly. "Ponsant went down early. When I charged by giving
orders, some of the foot soldiers were eager enough to follow a mounted knight,
especially one ordering them away from the thick of the fighting." He
glanced at Richard, his voice bitter with self-mockery. "Not being blessed
with your military genius, brother, it was all I could think to do in the press
of the moment."

"Holy
Jesus, Mary, and Saint Joseph!" William exploded. "You're not going
to believe this outlandish tale."

Richard
hadn't taken his eyes from his brother's face. "Think, Will," he
murmured. "Hugh de Veasy is many things, but he's no fool. Do you really
believe he'd send a man so easily identified with himself on a mission of
treason?" His gaze shifted to his friend. "After what we all
witnessed at Shrewsbury?"

William's
bearded face turned thoughtful.

"No,"
Richard continued. "He'd move heaven and earth to keep Philip from this
place, to keep from being implicated in such a way. It's the one thing I know
beyond all doubting."

He
rose to his feet, extending his hand to Philip. The boy took it hesitantly and
Richard swung him to his feet. "And since I can think of no other
reasonable cause for the lad to be here, I find I must, in truth, believe this
outlandish tale."

His
eyes were cool, still wary, but he held Philip's hand a moment longer than
necessary. "If I must question brotherly love from long habit, I do
believe self-interest—the Baron of Ravensgate's self-interest. Welcome to
Wales, Philip. You've service with me if you wish."

***

Elen
glanced up anxiously as Heffeydd Sele broke from the cover of the forest.
"They come," he announced in Welsh.

She
rose to her feet, reaching to clutch Owain's arm. Her heart was beating
painfully. "Richard...?"

"At
the head of his men. He took no hurt I could make out."

"God
be praised!"

Elen
leaned weakly against Owain, staring up at the sky through burning,
tear-blurred eyes. Of a sudden the vault above seemed bluer than ever she'd
seen it, the winter sunshine more brilliant, more warm. Joy flooded through her
like a draught of new wine, making her knees feel strangely shaky, her head
light as thistledown.

But
Owain's terse words were sobering. "Any sign of Dylan?"

Heffeydd
shook his head and the men exchanged looks. The Welsh leader hadn't been taken
prisoner. He was either dead or still free in the wood.

Elen
turned away. Richard was alive. He was coming back to her. She had thought that
her only concern, but the fact that Richard had prevailed meant her people had
lost. How long could she stand being torn in two like this? Richard had told
her she had made her choice, and she had. But she didn't have to like what it
meant.

She
glanced back at the two Welshmen, seeing the same grim thoughts writ deep on
their faces. Along with Father Dilwen, they were responsible for what had taken
place in that pass. And the knowledge didn't sit easy on any of them.

Moments
later one of the English sentries rushed into camp shouting of Richard's
coming, and a state of near hysterical rejoicing swept the men who'd been left.
Simon raced straight for Elen, catching her up in his arms and swinging her
around in a dizzying circle. "He did it!" the boy shouted exultantly.
"Was there ever such a knight!"

Richard
rode into view, and Elen found herself swept along with Simon and the rest of
Richard's men. Her mind registered the significance of the blood staining her
husband's chausses, the clean surcoat he had undoubtedly donned to hide the
worst of the damning evidence. But all at once the killing didn't matter,
nothing mattered when weighed against the precious gift of his life.

Richard
drew to a halt beside her, leaning down to lift her onto the saddle before him.
"I'm back as I promised," he said softly. "And as near midday as
I could make it."

His
eyes held hers, the intensity of his gaze telling her something of the hell of
the last few hours, of the question he feared to ask. She flung both arms about
his neck. "I don't care," she whispered in answer. "Whatever
happened, I don't care."

Richard's
arms closed about her, nearly crushing the breath from her lungs. "I
didn't find him," he murmured, and she knew he was speaking of Dylan.
"In all that blood-soaked pass we never came together." His mouth
sought hers, the fierce kiss exorcising all suspicion, all anger, all hurt from
the past.

Elen
clung to Richard as Saladin sidled and fretted in the midst of the noisy
clamor. So Dylan lived still. She refused to think of the consequences, was
only thankful she need not mourn his loss.

Giles
and Philip rode past, and Elen choked off a surprised oath.

"Easy,
sweet," Richard murmured, following the direction of his wife's furious
glare. "I do owe Philip my life. We've made our peace, and I hope you will
do so as well."

"Your
life?" Elen echoed, her resentment of Philip paling beside her renewed
fear for Richard. "You're not hurt are you, Richard? This blood's not your
own?"

He
shook his head. "It's a strange story and I'll tell you all once we've a
moment to ourselves. But I fear the next hour belongs to my men."

Some
time later, Richard finished the hasty meal Tangwen had prepared for him and
Elen. He sat on a stool in his tent watching as his wife played a game with the
dark-haired child the wrinkled old Welshwoman had dragged into camp with her.

The
woman had walked boldly into camp two nights earlier, asking for food and
shelter in the Lady Elen's name. She was brought immediately before Richard,
and he realized she was the old servant his wife had been seeking. He had not
yet asked Elen the babe's identity, sensing she would tell him in her own time.

Simon
was hard at work caring for Richard's weapons and mail. The blood and dirt had
to be removed, each metal piece carefully cleaned and dried lest the gleaming
steel rust and become useless. "Simon."

The
boy glanced up.

"See
if Father Dilwen can be spared from tending the wounded. I would speak with
him."

Simon
rose with alacrity and was off on his quest for the priest.

Moments
later, the gaunt, black-robed figure ducked into the tent. Richard waved his
squire away. "You can guess why I've sent for you, Father," he began.
"I would know how you learned of this ambush."

"And
that is something I cannot tell you," Father Dilwen replied calmly.
"It is sufficient you were warned."

The
priest's cool insolence rankled. Richard fought to control his anger. He did,
in truth, owe his life to this man.

"I'm
sorry, Father, but that isn't enough." Richard fingered the hilt of his
dagger, noting the priest now wore a like weapon openly at his waist.
"It's my belief you are or were in league with the rebels. What have you
to say?"

Father
Dilwen didn't hesitate. "I was."

Richard
leaned back, his eyes narrowing coldly. He hadn't expected this open admission,
had only made the accusation in hopes of surprising some fleeting look of guilt
or indignation into that austere face. "So you were in on that plot to
slay me in Gwenlyn's hall. Yet when I questioned you then, you swore on holy
relics you knew naught of the plot. A priest who damns himself eternally?"

His
voice trailed off. He was struggling with the realization that no matter Father
Dilwen's crime, he couldn't reconcile executing a man who had just saved his
life. Doubtless the priest recognized that fact as well.

"I
knew naught of that plot," Father Dilwen replied. "By the time that
took place, I'd come to believe you were like to be Gwynedd's salvation rather
than the scourge we'd all believed. I tried to sway the others, agreed to get
Gruffydd and Dylan into the keep only so they might see for themselves that
Elen was well treated, that you dealt honestly with our people. I foolishly
believed them when they agreed to my terms."

"Did
you know then my wife's identity?"

"I
did."

At
the gasp from the back of the tent, Richard's eyes cut to Elen. This was
obviously news to her as well. He wasn't the only one stumbling about in the
dark.

"I'm
sorry, Elen. I regret not being able to tell you," the priest said softly.
"I knew and loved your lord father. I came to Gwenlyn for the express
purpose of helping to free you any way I could. Yet the longer I stayed, the
stronger became my belief it was better for you and for Wales that you remained
where you were." A wry smile lightened his dark countenance. "Our
Lord Savior does work in ways too deep for men to fathom. Besides... I always
knew I could get you out if the need arose."

"Just
how many rebels do I harbor in my household?" Richard snapped. "How
many met set to do your bidding instead of my own?"

"None.
Let us just say that you harbor men of conscience, men who seek what is best
for Wales amid the wreckage of Llywelyn's dream."

Richard
frowned. "You speak eloquently, Father, but I'm afraid that won't do for
me. What if their conscience and my orders diverge? I must know I have their
loyalty."

"We
Welsh are different," the priest said slowly. "We are not bred to
blind loyalty like you English. We do not follow any lord because of his title
or birth. Treat us fairly and you will be treated fairly in return. And
loyalty? That comes with love, the kind of love the people of Teifi had for
Lord Aldwyn, that all Gwynedd had for Llywelyn, the kind that makes men willing
to die... for a man or a dream."

He
sent Richard a sharp, appraising look. "You will not see that kind of
loyalty for an Englishman in our lifetime, my lord, but you will see trust and
respect. You've reaped their fruits already. They are the very reason you will
watch the sun set this day."

He
gestured to the child tumbling about Elen's knees. "And perhaps in her
lifetime such loyalty between a Welshman and an Englishmen will be possible.
That is for the future and your children and children's children to
decide."

Elen
sat young Enid on a pillow, giving Dylan's curious daughter Richard's empty
scabbard to explore. Elen had listened to the priest in silence, fearing
Richard might resent any interference from her. Now she moved to her husband's
side, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her people were different. Why was that
so difficult for Englishmen to understand? "I fear he's right,
Richard," she said slowly. "The people of Gwenlyn have come to
believe you mean what you say, that your word can be trusted. Don't destroy
that trust by seeking out for punishment men who once sought to best you."
She squeezed his shoulder. "People change— loyalties can as well. We've
both learned that."

Richard
raked a hand through his hair distractedly. "Enemies who are allies,
countrymen who are adversaries, priests who are rebel spies—Holy God, I suppose
this is Wales!" He jerked to his feet in exasperation, picking up a flagon
of wine to pour a generous measure into his cup. "You force me to a
difficult decision, Father."

"As
you have forced me on several occasions, my son."

Richard
took a long drink. "Let it be known, then, that the rebels who lay down
their arms and swear to live peaceably will be pardoned." He scowled down
at the wine. "Even those who participated in the bloodbath this day. I
suppose you've ways to do that," he added, directing a hard look at the
priest.

Father
Dilwen returned the look. "Yes. I've ways."

Richard
nodded curtly. "Then do so."

The
priest took his leave and Elen moved to stand beside her husband. Taking the
earthenware cup from his hand, she drank deep, then handed it back. "Let's
go home," she said softly. "Let's go home to Gwenlyn."

Weeks
passed and the anniversary of Builth came and went. Richard ordered a day of
mourning on that occasion and Father Dilwen performed a mass in honor of the
dead of both sides. Yet the people of Gwenlyn's demesne seemed eager to put the
memory of war behind them. They had had enough of sorrow, enough of bitterness
and hate. There was an almost frenzied need to put their thoughts and energies
into plans for the approaching Yuletide season, and Richard, sensing the
sentiment, planned for a far more elaborate Christmas than he could well
afford.

Guests
had been invited, both English knights and Welsh of good standing in Gwynedd.
People thronged in and out of Gwenlyn's open gates and the castle kitchens
labored night and day to keep up with the increasing hoard of hungry mouths
gathering to be fed. Players, minstrels and jugglers strolled about within the
walls, plying their craft and taking their wages in whatever manner they
could—a coin now and again, or a free meal and a warm corner of the stable in
which to sleep.

The
great hall was adorned with sweet-smelling evergreen boughs, and mistletoe was
placed strategically in window alcoves and doorways throughout the castle. Even
the weather conspired to bedazzle the eye, for a fine, powdery snow had fallen,
blanketing the countryside with a carpet of glistening white, spangling
rooftops and naked trees with nature's shimmering, ice-encrusted ornamentation.