Stuart, Elizabeth (14 page)

"And
if you can get naught from them about the Fox? I'll wager the girl above could
tell you much if you could persuade her." The older man grinned widely.
"And you might find the questioning more to your taste."

Richard
forced himself to gaze back evenly at his host. He had known men who enjoyed
knocking a woman about, but he had always considered them something less than
men. "The prisoners will talk," he said coolly, "but I'll
question the girl as well. In any case, she's valuable just as she is. I've
reason to believe the Fox will come for her. He'll come... or he's not the man
I believe him to be."

***

The
ominous noise of several pairs of tramping feet sounded from outside. Elen
swung toward the door, her heartbeat quickening despite the vow she had made to
remain calm. A key rattled in the latch and the door opened with a creak of
poorly oiled hinges.

Two
men entered, lugging a heavy wooden tub that had seen better days. Behind them,
several more servants filed in, carrying pails of water that were set at once
to heat on the hearth. A serving woman bent to put more peat on the fire,
stirring the coals until the flames began licking at it greedily. Obviously,
some great lord would have a bath.

Elen
studied the servants closely. They were English, every one of them. No hope for
her from that quarter. She could tell them not only by their features, but by
their stooped shoulders and blank subservient stare. In England, the lower
classes took their lowly status for granted, never even dreaming of being
treated decently.

Such
was not the case in Wales. There every man down to the poorest herdsman kept
his dignity, and even women had honor. They were not owned as sheep or goats
and could not be beaten or ill-used at some vicious husband's whim. They could
even divorce with good cause.

She
glanced miserably away. But the laws of England would change all that. If Wales
lost its struggle her countrymen would become lower than the meanest servants
in the eyes of their English masters. It was unthinkable that her people might
be forced to such a life!

She
thought of her beautiful home on the lush meadows along the Teifi River,
wondering how her people were faring under English rule. Though Teifi would
have belonged to her brother Rhodri, she had always nurtured a fierce
possessiveness toward it. It was a feeling so strong, she would have been loath
to leave her home even to become Enion's wife.

She
smiled now at the memory of the many lively discussions she'd had about the
matter with her father. She had begged and teased, flattered and cajoled until
she'd won from him the promise that she would not be forced to take a husband
until her seventeenth birthday—quite old for an unwed maiden.

Secretly
she knew she was the light of her father's heart, and it hadn't been so very
difficult to drag the promise from him. He hadn't wanted to give her up any
more than she'd wanted to leave—even though they'd both loved the man who would
be her husband. And they'd laughed together over her mother's dire prophecy
that "those who waited too long to sup often found the bowl empty and the
bone taken by another."

Her
mother had been right. Enion had been taken from her by a much more powerful
mistress. Death had stilled forever the flush of desire on his face, the sudden
narrowing of his dark eyes when he looked at her, the huskiness of his voice
when he spoke to her of love. She had held him off, changing the subject when
he talked to her of the strength of his feelings.

Not
that she was indifferent. She loved Enion desperately. He was every bit as dear
to her as Rhodri. It was just that life was good and she was enjoying herself
far too much to become a wife. And there was plenty of time. To the spoiled,
fourteen-year-old daughter of the most powerful prince in Mid Wales, there was
always plenty of time. But like the grains of sand in a glass, those carefree
moments had slipped away, and now she would never have the chance to make Enion
happy.

The
overwhelming pain of regret cut through Elen and she dropped to her knees.
"Oh, Enion, I'm sorry," she whispered, fighting the tears that rose,
quick and burning, to her eyes. "God, I'm so
sorry!"

If
only she could go back. She missed him—she missed all of her family so
desperately. At times it almost seemed those happy years growing up in Teifi
Keep had never been, as if the months of cold and hopelessness in the mountains
were the only reality and all else naught but a happy dream saved to relive
when the present became unbearable.

She
clasped her hands together, praying desperately for Enion's soul—for the souls
of all of her family. She had neglected her prayers of late, but she would do
better, pray harder. Perhaps the Holy Virgin would intercede. Perhaps the Queen
of Heaven would even have mercy on her.

So
intent was she on her prayers, Elen failed to hear the sound of approaching
footsteps. When the door swung open, she leaped to her feet in surprise,
whirling instinctively to place the tub between herself and the doorway.

Richard
took two steps into the room, then halted abruptly. The girl before him stared
back like a startled animal, poised to flee at his slightest movement. He
extended one hand reassuringly. "I see you approve of the idea of a
bath," he remarked with a smile.

Elen
glanced down at the water as if she were seeing it for the first time. For a
few moments at least, the pain of her memories had overcome her fear of the
present. She backed away uncertainly.

Richard
advanced into the room, Simon following at his heels with an armful of fresh
clothing. The girl was intrigued by the tub, Richard decided with another
glance in her direction. He guessed the Welsh, like the lower class English,
seldom bathed save for the occasional summer dip in river or stream. Perhaps
she could be encouraged to enjoy the refreshing novelty of a bath when he was
done.

"I'm
sorry to invade your sanctuary, but there's no place else to go for my
bath," he said easily. "I fear I've the accumulated filth of weeks of
living on the march." He smiled again. "And the vermin I've picked up
make life miserable for a man in armor. I confess, I've been looking forward to
the pleasure of a hot bath almost as much as that of a hot meal."

Elen
said nothing. The man before her would soon be looking for more than the
pleasure of a bath, she thought cynically.

Simon
stepped past her, placing his master's fresh clothing carefully on the bed.
Then the boy moved to the hearth and began transferring the steaming buckets of
water into the tub. After the last bucket was emptied, he knelt and began unwinding
Richard's leather crossgarters in preparation for removing his chausses.
"I'll see these are cleaned for you, my lord," he said, glancing up.

"Later,"
Richard replied, transferring his thoughts from the girl to his squire.
"Sit with me while I bathe, Simon. I've some questions to put to
you."

Simon
nodded obediently, moving to help his master remove the rest of his clothes.
Neither man paid any attention as Elen pointedly turned her back and moved past
the bed to the window alcove.

With
a deep groan of contentment, Richard eased himself into the steaming waters of
the tub. "Heaven," he sighed, gazing at his squire through
half-closed lids.

Simon
grinned at him impudently. "Better than a woman?"

Richard
sent an arc of water splashing playfully at the boy. "That depends on the
woman... and how long a man has been without."

"Without
what—a bath or a woman?"

Richard
chuckled and leaned back against the rim of the tub. "Perhaps I'll tell
you that someday when you're older and wiser. Or perhaps I'll let you tell me.
Now fetch me that soap before I lesson you for your laziness."

Handing
him the soap, Simon stared over his shoulder at the girl across the room.
"What of her, Richard? Do you think she's pretty?"

Richard
glanced sharply at the boy. Here was a problem he hadn't foreseen. Simon was a
handsome boy on the verge of manhood. But as far as Richard knew, the lad was
still innocent. Yet he and the girl were suitably close in age, and Simon was
staring at her now with a painful mixture of longing and suspicion struggling
for supremacy on his youthful face.

The
boy was obviously smitten and doing his best not to show it. He would have to
keep a close eye on Simon lest he be betrayed into doing something foolish on
the girl's behalf. The boy might be the elder in years, but if Richard was any
judge, Elen was far superior in knowledge of the ways of the world.

"Oh,
pretty enough," Richard responded in a casual tone. "But I've not
found many of the Welsh women pleasing to my taste. And take my word for it,
Simon, a willing, eager woman is much to be preferred over a kicking,
scratching enemy in your bed."

The
boy met his eyes evenly. "I don't mean that, Richard. I know that's not
your way."

"Nor
yours either, I hope."

The
faintest hint of a blush suffused the boy's face. "Of course not. I... I
just think she's pretty. That's all."

"I
approve your taste."

Simon
smiled self-consciously and dragged a stool near the tub. "You said you
had questions for me," he prompted, shifting into a more normal tone.

Richard
nodded. He often spent hours drilling his squire on armaments, battle
strategies and all manner of matters a full-fledged knight should know. And it
was a part of his duty to teach the boy all the knowledge of leadership he
could impart.

"Yes.
Today I need advice on matters of discipline among the men. If you were the
knight in charge, what would you do about the disagreement between Hugh of
Sussex and Ranulf de Presteigne?" he asked, slowly working the strong soap
across his grimy body.

The
boy thought for a few moments, then gave him a carefully worded opinion.
Richard nodded in agreement. It was exactly the action he had already decided
upon. The boy was learning his lessons well, and Richard felt a thrill of pride
in his protege.

They
talked on for some time, with Richard putting forward both real and imaginary
situations requiring the judgment and swift action of a firm leader. "So
you are agreed with me, are you not, Simon, that there can be only one leader
among a troop of men?" he said at last. "That his orders must be
obeyed unquestioningly for the good of all, and that the soldier who disobeys a
direct order must be punished severely."

Simon
nodded. "Anything less might result in confusion and loss of life,
especially during a battle or an unexpected ambush. Men must respond without
hesitation to their leader's command," he recited dutifully.

"And
do you think me a capable leader?"

Simon
grinned. "Of course."

"Then
why did you disobey my order yesterday?"

The
boy stared at him aghast. He hadn't suspected what Richard was working toward.
"I... I didn't... I was afraid," he floundered helplessly. "I
thought you might fall ill and—"

"But
it wasn't your duty to think, was it, Simon?" Richard interrupted
ruthlessly. "It was mine. My duty is to make decisions and give orders and
yours is to listen and obey. And you must obey without question, for there
won't always be time to explain. If the Welsh had been in pursuit, that long
delay you caused would have been disastrous. We'd have been killed to the man
because you failed to obey a simple order. And the Welsh seldom make death
easy. Would that have been a pleasant thought to take to your grave,
Simon?"

Simon
shook his head miserably but didn't drop his eyes from Richard's compelling
gaze. "The difference between tragedy and triumph is oft a small one,
Simon. I've seen the outcome of a battle turn on smaller mistakes than the one
you made yesterday. Were we in England, it would have been a small offense,
something we might have laughed about together. But we are in Wales, lad, in
enemy country! The land of an enemy is brutally unforgiving of small mistakes.
Learn that quickly so you will live."

Richard's
voice took on a firmer note. "Learn too that I demand absolute obedience
in the men I command... more than that from those I trust."

"I'm
sorry, Richard. I did wrong, I know, but Gi—" Simon bit off his words,
suddenly stiffening in his place on the stool. "I did wrong, I can see
that now. I'm ready for whatever punishment you order."

Richard
shook his head. "I'm not through discussing the matter, Simon. In your
defense, you were given a conflicting order by my second-in-command, an excuse
any other squire would plead." A faint smile crossed his face. "I'm
glad to see you did not. Rest assured, though, I've already spoken with Giles
on that subject. And to be truthful, I'm as much to blame as you, for I
shouldn't have fallen asleep in the first place."

"No,
the fault was mine. You trusted me to wake you as you ordered," Simon
repeated woodenly. "What is to be my punishment?"

Richard
sent him an appraising look. "Nothing save knowing your unthinking action
might have caused the death of all of us. Knowing you, I believe that to be
punishment enough... perhaps even too much." He smiled again. "Next
time, I know, you'll follow my orders even if Edward himself says you nay. Now
ready that towel, for the water grows chill. I'll be out in a moment."