Authors: Where Love Dwells
He
stood for a moment looking at her, a wave of unexpected tenderness sweeping
over him. In sleep she looked even younger than her probable thirteen or
fourteen years, and it was difficult to believe she had fought him so boldly
and had tried to take his life. But the girl was a conniving trickster, a thing
he despised, he reminded himself.
His
eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as another part of him leaped unexpectedly to her
defense. Elen was only what she had been raised to be, as all of the Welsh
were. Theirs was a country small and poor, yet they had kept the might of
England at bay for hundreds of years with a combination of fearlessness and cunning.
No,
he couldn't condone treachery, but he didn't blame the girl for fighting in the
only way she knew. Besides, what did women know of honor anyway? Giles had been
the fool to trust her in the first place. And they had been damned lucky Will
hadn't lost his life to the mistake.
He
knelt on one knee beside her, drawn by the radiance of her hair and skin in the
reflected glow of the nearby flames. She seemed so delicate he could break her
with one hand, yet she had endured that journey out of the mountains as well as
any man.
Touching
the tangled silk of her hair, lifting it away from her thin, high-cheekboned
face, he admitted he was intrigued by this girl, intrigued as he had not been
by any female in years. She was naught but a child, but she had faced him with
a man's courage, a man's determination.
He
tried again to estimate her age using his half-sister Isabel as a guide. It was
difficult. There had been that in her eyes this morning that spoke to him of a
maturity beyond the burgeoning womanhood of her half-starved body. Oh, she was
young still, but old enough to have learned a deep, festering hatred for all of
his race.
He
sighed heavily, wishing this futile war with Wales were ended. But there would
be more pain and killing, more hungry women and motherless boys before it was
done.
Catching
hold of the fox cloak, he eased it gently from the girl's grasp, wrapping its
warm folds about her slender body. "Sleep well, Elen," he whispered,
rising to his feet. "Sleep well and perhaps tomorrow you and I will come
to a better understanding."
Richard
awoke the next morning long after dawn to the rattling sound of the wind and
the rhythmic beat of rain driving against the wooden walls of the keep. He
rolled over with a muttered curse. The spell of good weather had finally
broken. He had known it couldn't last long in this land of rain and mists, but
had hoped to make Gwenlyn before bad weather set in again.
Sir
Thomas de Waurin and his men were already up and gone from the hall, so he rose
from his pallet with a muffled groan, stretching his stiff muscles. A serving
girl approached with a tankard of mead and Richard took it, smiling his thanks.
Raising
the cup to his lips, he took a deep draught of the sweet, smooth brew. Simon
still lay curled on his pallet a few feet to his left, sleeping deeply as only
an exhausted fifteen-year-old could do. There was no need to wake his squire,
Richard decided. He would fend for himself this morning.
Carefully
stepping around his sleeping knights and their squires, he made his way down
the hall toward the narrow doorway where one trestle table was set up. The
rough plank surface held the remains of a hasty meal: several rounds of cheese
and the crusty remainders of three loaves of bread. Sir Thomas had eaten a cold
breakfast to keep from awakening his exhausted guests.
Richard
took a hunk of cheese and the leftover bread, swallowing it down quickly to
quiet his grumbling stomach. He had been so tired the night before he had eaten
little, but the initial weariness blunted, he found he was ravenous.
The
urgent gnawing in his belly reminded him of the hungry women and children he
had seen in the Welsh village the day before yesterday. He had promised to send
food, and it was a vow he didn't take lightly. Sir Thomas might well think him
daft, but he would personally choose a healthy young heifer and a couple of
sheep to be delivered to the wrinkled old crone in the village. It was a small
enough payment to a boy for the loss of his mother, he told himself grimly.
With
that decision made, he turned to the more perplexing problem of disciplining
Simon. His squire had failed to obey his order yesterday, letting him sleep
three hours instead of the few minutes he had commanded. As it was, no harm had
resulted, but if the Welsh Fox had been in pursuit, that failure to obey could
have meant death to them all. He would speak to the boy as soon as he could
find a moment of privacy in this overcrowded keep. Simon must realize his
master's word was law, but a public raking down would be unjustly humiliating.
Richard
refilled his tankard from a pitcher left on the table. He needed to talk with
Giles, too, about countermanding his orders. Giles Eversly had been his friend
since they were both squires on Edward's aborted crusade in the Holy Land, and
Giles was an excellent second-in-command on this campaign. But there could be
only one leader on an expedition.
In
his years as a fighting knight, slowly rising to prominence in Edward's army,
Richard had seen more than one promising campaign destroyed for lack of
discipline. He had sworn it would never happen to a troop in his command, and
so it wouldn't—even if both Giles and Simon had thought themselves acting for
his good. He had worked too hard to win this chance to prove himself, too hard
to win the respect of his men and not a few of the powerful barons surrounding
the king.
Edward
trusted him to break North Wales and it was a commission Richard took more
seriously than any other in his twenty-six years. Several of the great, landed
barons had been furious when he had been given this command. Who was this
Richard Basset to receive such favor? A nobody from Kent whose only
recommendation was skill with a sword. He had no wealth or land, no powerful
family backing him up. And by the Blessed Rood, he was English, for God's sake,
the barons had exclaimed, looking down their long Norman noses at Richard,
sitting at Edward's left hand with an air of forced calm.
A
soft smile curled Richard's full, sensual mouth at the memory of that day. The
taste of triumph had truly been sweet. Edward had glanced about the table at
several of his fuming lords. "And I am an English king," he had
reminded them softly in the tongue he had caused to be spoken at court at least
as often as the more fashionable Norman French. "And do any of you have
more to say on the matter, you may take it up with me later." His cold
blue eyes had flashed dangerously. "If you still care to."
Richard
drained the last of his mead, rose from the table, and moved across the rush-strewn
floor to a chilly window embrasure. Stepping into the alcove, he gazed out the
window at the heavy storm-whipped clouds scudding before the wind. The narrow
slit in the wall was only a few inches across, but the hall's second-floor
vantage point gave him a clear view over the wooden palisades of the wall into
the soggy meadow and mist-shrouded woodland beyond.
Edward
was a careful ruler, Richard reminded himself as he stared out into the wild
day. The king seldom showed favoritism or created new peerages even for those
who, like himself, were steadfastly loyal. He had seen his nation torn by a
bloody civil war and nearly wrested from his father over such capricious
actions, and no doubt he had learned the lesson well. He trusted few people,
realizing most swarmed about him for the benefits they hoped to receive. But if
he had earned a reputation for being a cold and calculating sovereign, Richard
knew better. He had glimpsed a side of his king few men ever saw.
A
small puff of wind sent a gust of rain buffeting through the window to spatter
against his face. The clean fresh scent of damp moss and bracken, of
low-growing bilberry bushes swept over him with the refreshing wetness of the
rain, and he drew a deep breath of the moist Welsh air. Edward had given him a
rare chance to distinguish himself and Richard wouldn't let it slip through his
fingers, he swore. He would fight this land, its people, and even this accursed
weather until he broke the resistance in North Wales. And he would take the
Welsh Fox no matter the cost.
Behind
him the door to the hall swung open and Richard heard the stamping and clatter
of men entering the room. Leaving the chilly alcove, he moved out of the
shadows.
Thomas
de Waurin threw off his wet cloak and smiled in greeting. "So, you're
awake. I expected you to sleep till mid-afternoon at least."
Richard
shook his head. "I usually rise early, Thomas. I've already wasted too
much of the day as it is."
"And
a foul day it is to be about," Thomas remarked, shoving his dripping hair
out of his eyes. "Take my word for it, Richard, we're much better off in
here by a cozy fire. I doubt even the damned, sneaking Welsh will be skulking
about the forest on a day like this one."
"I
must see to my men and our prisoners. I'll need to question some of them as
soon as possible," Richard stated, frowning at the thought of the ordeal
ahead. He hated to resort to torture, but it was often necessary to get
information from the stubborn Welsh. And information concerning the leader of
the Welsh rebellion was necessary to save English lives. He pursed his lips
determinedly. "It's time we learned more about this elusive Welsh
Fox."
Thomas
nodded in agreement. "I've already been to check on your men and found
them still sleeping. I left a servant to fetch food as soon as they wake. And
I've taken a look in on the prisoners, too. One died in the night of his
wounds, but the rest are like to remain alive, more's the pity."
"I'm
surprised we didn't lose more," Richard stated bluntly. "That was a
killing march. I wonder if I could have made it wounded and on foot." He
shook his head. "One thing you must give our enemies, Thomas, they're a
damned hardy lot—hardy and determined. If they had money for horses and weapons
and were even a few thousand more in number, I wonder just how well we'd
fare."
"They're
savages," Thomas scoffed, "unable to think as we do, and fit only to
serve us. I haven't run across a man of them I've found suitable for aught save
the lowest servant's tasks."
Richard
grinned. "That's because the fit ones are still hiding out planning to
slit our throats! It's only the old and crippled they allow us to see. The men
I faced two nights ago certainly weren't lacking in skill or energy."
"You
may be right. God be praised, we've seen none of their fighting men here at
Beaufort."
Richard's
grin widened. "Think how mortifying if it took us this long to subdue
naught but a few cripples and old women. I'd not dare show my face again at
court."
Thomas
chuckled appreciatively. "I didn't say they weren't fighters, Richard. But
I don't hold with the treacherous, heathen way they conduct their raids. A man
who waits in ambush and won't fight in the open isn't much of a man in my
eyes." He glanced at Richard, eyeing him thoughtfully. "You met
Llywelyn once, didn't you? Some say he was a noble prince despite the rabble he
led."
Richard
nodded. "I was at Worcester when his marriage to Eleanor de Montfort took
place. He brought several allies to court, Aldwyn of Teifi, Cledwyn of Powys...
a half-dozen others."
Richard
frowned, staring at the floor, almost as if he could see that happier time when
Llywelyn was a powerful vassal of England. "They're all dead now," he
said slowly. "God, what a waste of men! Even Edward mourned the loss. He'd
hoped to talk the northern Welsh princes into becoming allies as several in the
south had already done."
He
sent Thomas a rueful smile. "I don't think you'd have thought the Welsh
savages if you'd seen those haughty lords at court, Thomas. If you ask me, they
could have given a few of our own civilized nobles a lesson or two."
Thomas
glanced around and motioned for a female servant who was standing nearby.
"We're speaking of civilized men and I've yet to offer you aught to break
your fast, Richard. You must be half starved."
Richard
shook his head. "I ate the remains of your breakfast. It will suffice for
now, but I could do with something more substantial later."
Thomas
nodded. "I'll see to it. And what else may I offer you? I've not had
visitors since taking command of this cursed place and I'm afraid my
hospitality is rusty. Do you wish for a bath? I'll send Lyna here up to help
you."
The
thought of a hot bath after several weeks in the countryside was heaven. What's
more, it would give him an opportunity to speak privately with Simon. "It
would be good to be rid of the dirt and vermin I've accumulated," Richard
replied. "But I'll not need the girl. My squire can do all I
require."
"See
water is carried above and a bath made ready for Sir Richard," Thomas
ordered the girl. He turned back with a questioning look. "Do you wish for
a woman afterward? There are several about who are young and fairly
clean."
The
vivid memory of Elen's bare body pressed against him, of her long slender limbs
tangling with his suddenly intruded upon Richard's thoughts. Yesterday his
desire had been sharp, and his host's offer would have been a welcome
distraction. But today the thought of bedding some strange serving woman was
vaguely distasteful. "I've no time for pleasuring today, Thomas. I'm
anxious to learn what I may from our prisoners."