Stuart, Elizabeth (7 page)

Turning
away, he called for his horse. He jerked several leather thongs from his saddle
and pitched them to Giles. "Here, bind her wrists and ankles and hand her
up to me," he ordered, swinging onto his horse. "Not so tight as to
hurt her, but tight enough she can't get free. I've a purpose in mind for this
lovely warrior."

Giles
quickly followed his command, and the girl was trussed and lifted up across
Richard's lap. She didn't struggle, but held herself straight and proud in his
arms.

He
thought of his own half-sister, Isabel, not so very much younger than this
girl. Isabel was fragile and lovely as a spring violet and trusting as a newborn
lamb. She would have been fainting in his arms if subjected to even half of
what this girl had been through tonight.

But
the sorrows of Wales bred strong children. "You've nothing to fear from me
or my men," he said softly in French. "We mean you no harm."

The
girl didn't speak. She probably didn't really understand the court language,
had probably learned only a few choice insults for appropriate moments. Richard
sighed heavily and turned his mount across the meadow.

This
strange night was near done. The moon would be setting in less than an hour,
and he still had wounded men and prisoners to see to. Though he had been
tricked into losing the Welsh Fox, all was not lost. He'd ferreted out and
taken a major Welsh camp and captured or killed a great many of the enemy. And
the girl he held might yet be turned to good purpose.

"Come,
gentlemen, we must see to our prisoners," he called out to his men.
"And pray God our comrades didn't find many more wildcats like this
one!"

The
confused fighting in the Welsh camp was ended. As Richard's bay stallion picked
his way through the scene of destruction, Elen held her breath against the
powerful urge to retch. Everywhere, bloodied bodies lay sprawled in grotesque
angles on the ground, while silent, stone-faced women knelt over their dead or
held weeping children away from the sight. The attack had been short, but
violent, the outnumbered English soldiers winning easily with the aid of their
allies, darkness and surprise.

At
the sight of their leader, Richard's men sent up a shout. A stocky,
square-faced soldier broke away from a group guarding the prisoners and hurried
across the ground. "You got 'im? You caught the cursed Fox?" he
called eagerly.

Seeing
the woman held tightly in Richard's arms, he drew up in dismay. "What's
this, m'lord?"

"A
long story, Henry," Richard responded grimly. His arms tightened around
Elen as he drew rein. "Tell me, how did we fare?"

The
guard captain stood gazing up at Elen in bewilderment. He came to himself
abruptly. "Uh... naught but three dead, m'lord, and some six others badly
wounded. Over a score dead among the enemy and some eight or ten others be hurt
bad from what I can tell."

His
gaze dropped sheepishly from Richard's to study the ground with an absorbed
concentration. "Near the same number prisoners taken, m'lord. Some of the
beggars got away into the trees when that devil-gray horse came a-gallopin'
through the midst of us!"

"It's
all right, Henry. I'm afraid I, too, was fooled. While this enterprising young
lady masqueraded as the Fox, the real Fox slipped away from us."

Henry
glanced back up, his expression turning into a fierce scowl. "Never you
fear, m'lord, we'll get 'im. We'll get 'im next time!"

"Yes,
Henry, we'll get him. He and I have something to settle between us now."

With
a heavy sigh, Richard swung down, catching Elen's stiff body and lifting her
down easily beside him. "Keep a close guard on the prisoners," he
ordered. "I'll want to question some of them. And do whatever you can for
the wounded. Theirs as well as ours."

"Yes,
m'lord."

As
Richard stared at the bodies scattered on the blood-soaked ground about him,
his features hardened into the unfeeling mask he had cultivated for moments
such as this. A waste, what a profane waste of brave men—on both sides.
"Whom did we lose, Henry?"

"Beorn,
Walter Seward, and John of Shrewsbury."

Richard
nodded grimly. They were all good men and he would miss them, but he had really
been incredibly lucky. This near foolhardy scheme to attack the enemy camp
after stumbling along a moonlit trail in the middle of the night might well
have been the end of all of them.

"What
do you plan to do with her, Richard?"

Richard
turned to his knights who had dismounted behind him. Giles stood regarding
their young prisoner curiously.

With
a challenging look, Richard shoved the lovely renegade into his friend's arms.
"I don't plan to do anything with her at the moment. But you're going to
make sure she doesn't brew further mischief. Keep an eye on her, Giles."
He grinned. "Both eyes. If she gets away, I'll take it out of your
hide!"

Giles's
dark eyes met his. "Me?"

"Naturally.
You speak that gibberish better than anyone else. Perhaps you can convince her
to give us the information we want without resorting to any of the time-honored
methods."

"But
Richard..."

Ignoring
his friend's imploring cry, Richard strode away to see to his wounded men.

Elen
watched the enemy commander move across the camp, her heart almost bursting
with grief and despair. Though she had seen men die violently, had even killed
one of the enemy herself, she had never before been exposed to a scene of such
carnage.

She
stared about in horror. How, how could people do this to each other, she wanted
to scream. Easily enough, came the ready answer. They hated in a way that made
killing a pleasure, a way she was quickly coming to know.

She
stared at a headless corpse, an armless torso. It was difficult even to put
names to some of her friends. Was this how her father had looked, his carefree
laughter stilled forever on bloodied lips? Was this how Enion and Rhodri had
been slain? Owain had sworn they'd died bravely in battle, but somehow she
hadn't imagined this!

"Come,
lady. This is not a place for you," Giles said softly.

She
stared at him, wild-eyed, despairing. "So many are dead," she
whispered in a strangled voice. "So many..."

He
nodded curtly. "It is war. There's little enough of honor and glory now.
The broadsword and mace do their jobs pitifully well."

She
swallowed back the bitter sickness rising inside, vowing not to show such a
disgusting form of weakness. "May I help with the wounded?"

"I
fear not. Richard would have my head if you escaped."

She
studied her captor closely for the first time. His features were clean and bold
with the fierce aggressiveness of a falcon, the lines of his face hard from the
numerous battles he had fought. Yet compassion glowed warmly in his dark eyes.

"I
give you my word I'll make no attempt to escape so long as I tend the
wounded," she promised, and swallowed against the tight constriction in
her throat. "I know something of healing. Mayhap my skill can keep others
from dying."

He
shook his head.

Drawing
a deep breath, she bit her lip. "Please."

He
stared at her in surprise. Such a word came at great cost. "You pledge
your honor you won't escape? I have your word?"

She
nodded, still holding his measuring gaze.

With
one easy movement he drew his dagger, bending to slice through the thongs
binding her ankles.

Now
it was her turn to be surprised. "You take the word of a Welsh woman?
You've not heard we're a treacherous race? A people little better than
animals?" she asked bitterly.

He
straightened, quickly untying her hands. "My father is vassal to the Lord
of Clare. I grew up on the Welsh Marches dealing with your race. Like any other
people, some are to be trusted and some are not. There are good and bad in all
nations." He paused, gazing at her narrowly. "I'll be close beside
you as you tend your people. Do not seek to prove me a fool."

With
a curt nod, Elen turned away, refusing to look at the bodies in her path as she
made her way to the line of English soldiers guarding their Welsh prisoners. To
her relief, she saw Tangwen already moving among the injured, binding up wounds
and distributing cooling draughts of water from a leather flash she carried.
"Tangwen, thank God you're alive!" she exclaimed, stepping forward to
catch the woman's arm.

"Of
course I'm alive. What sport to kill a worthless old hag like myself?" she
asked dryly.

Elen
clung to her bony arm, feeling of a sudden like laughing and crying at the same
time. "Yes, we're both alive, though I fear to what purpose."

The
old nurse squeezed her hand. "Tis truly a dark hour, child. But God will
reveal his purpose in his good time. For now we must do what we might to help
these poor souls. Here, take this flask and see to the cleaning of Dylan's
shoulder wound. I must go beg yon English dog to allow me to fetch my healing
potions."

Elen
glanced toward the shadowy shape Tangwen indicated. So her friend Dylan was
alive. Thank the merciful Virgin Enid had been spared this night of torment.
Enid. Had it really been only this afternoon she'd died? It seemed like years
ago instead. And the babe—had that tiny, helpless babe survived the night?

Kneeling
in the dirt, Elen put a hand on Dylan's arm. "How badly are you hurt, my
friend?"

"Not
so bad I won't take a few more of those devils with me before I die!"

Peeling
back the coarse homespun of his rent tunic, Elen inspected the ragged wound on
his arm where he'd caught a glancing blow. It would heal, she decided.

Gently
she began cleansing the wound. "Dylan... I've been trying to think what
best to do," she whispered. "Owain must be found and warned against
trying anything foolish to aid my escape. I'm afraid what he might do when he
hears the events of this night."

She
studied his set face in the wavering torchlight. He had the dark, handsome
coloring of so many of their race, yet his features were distorted with a
bitter hatred visible in every line. "Dylan, do you think if I managed to
get you a knife, you could escape from here and find Owain?"

His
hand gripped her arm so tightly she winced. "Get me a knife and I'll do
better than that!" he promised grimly.

"No!
There's more at stake than the lives of the one or two Englishmen you might
take before you died. Can't you see, Dylan? We must live to outwit them.
They're too strong and too many for us now, but surely we can find a way to
best them. Owain will think of something, and until he does, every live Welsh
fighting man is a hundred times more important than one or two Englishmen
killed for revenge!"

He
sighed heavily. "You speak the truth. Help me win free and I'll gather the
men hiding in the wood and together we'll find Owain." He glanced up, his
eyes narrowing angrily. "But what of you? Your lot won't be pleasant with
the Wolf and his men."

Elen
dropped her gaze uneasily, remembering the ugly comments of the English knights
with disgust and fear. "I don't think they'll kill me," she said
shortly, "and they will pay soon enough. Tell Owain I'll find a way to
escape. They cannot watch me every moment."

He
nodded. "Have a care, Elen. I would not see you dead as my Enid, though
the dogs will pay for that before I'm much older. They killed her," he
added bitterly, "they killed her with hunger and cold as sure as the men
lying there were slain by the sword!"

Elen
touched his shoulder in a brief gesture of comfort. She had spent time with him
earlier in the evening, and Dylan's grieving had been intense, painful to look
upon. "I'll try to find Marared and see that your daughter is still
well," she murmured. "The woman can suckle both yours and her own wee
one."

"I've
named the babe Enid," he said softly. "For her mother."

Elen
bound up his arm, closing her mind to thoughts of the lovely young woman who had
died that afternoon, and to all the dead lying scattered around them. She would
survive, she promised herself fiercely. She had to, if only to see the one
responsible for this nightmare made to pay. "Enid would have liked
that," she said only.

Finished
with her rough handiwork, Elen rose to her feet. "Now, you must do
something for me, Dylan. You must see the prisoners all tell Richard the same
tale when questioned... but none too readily."

He
nodded. "The devils would be suspicious if they got information from us
without torture."

"They
are to hear the Welsh Fox is dark of hair and not much older than Richard of
Kent. That he goes by the name of Rhys. That he is believed to be from Gwynedd,
but none knows for sure," she continued. "And tell them he spends his
time among the various camps in these mountains. That he trusts no one with
news of his comings and goings."

She
smiled grimly. "They already believe I'm his woman, so that fact may be
given to lend credence to the tale. And tell the men to add aught else they
wish to sound convincing."