Stuart, Elizabeth (20 page)

The
searing pain arched through her, jerking her upright against Richard's bare
chest. Her nails dug into his shoulder as she fought back the scream of anguish
rising from her soul. The smell of burning flesh filled the room, and
mercifully, Elen fainted.

Time
passed slowly in a near-oblivion of nightmare days and nights, but Elen could
scarcely distinguish one from the other. Why was she so thirsty, and what was
this fierce, burning pain in her leg? She realized vaguely that a dark familiar
face bent over her from time to time, lifting her to ease some sweet drink
between her parched lips. But who was this man with the gentle, strangely
accented voice, and where was Papa? And by the mercy of all the saints, where
was Tangwen? Tangwen and Papa would make her feel better if only they would
come. She wanted them— she wanted them now!

By
the morning of the third day, Elen awoke from a restless sleep, still groggy
from the drugged wine she had taken so liberally. Her head ached and her throat
was dry and sore. Lifting herself up from the bed, she reached weakly for the
basin of water on a table near the bedside. Holding the dipper, she drank long
and deep, grateful to whoever had drawn the table within her reach.

But
where was she? The room spun dizzily before her eyes, and she eased herself
back down, trying desperately to remember where she was—what dreadful thing had
happened to make her feel so wretched?

Then
the memories came flooding back. Her father was dead and God alone knew where
Tangwen might be. And she was imprisoned in an English fortress at the mercy of
her enemy, Richard of Kent—a man she had just tried to kill.

With
a low groan, she rolled onto one side, slowly pushing herself back to a sitting
position. Raising her shift, she inspected the neat linen bandage around her
right thigh. There were no red streaks running from the wound, no stench of
dying flesh. She would live, if only so that she might be tortured to death for
her attack on an English knight.

But
Owain, was there any chance of saving Owain? Her head throbbed with a vengeance
as her fears came rushing back. Should she throw herself on Richard's mercy?
Try to bargain with him somehow? There must be some way to prevent him from
springing his trap. Merciful Father, how much time had she already wasted in
useless sleep?

Moments
later, a murmur of voices came to her from outside the door, and the surly
woman who brought Elen's meals stepped into the room. The woman carried a bowl
of steaming gruel and a pitcher of fresh water. With a disapproving frown, she
placed both on the bedside table.

Elen
stared at the woman hopefully. Her harsh-featured face was tightly framed by
the concealing folds of a dingy wimple, her thin mouth set in dour lines.
Surely the English woman couldn't be as forbidding as she appeared. Marshaling
her wits, Elen spoke first in French, asking the woman how long she had slept.

The
woman merely gave her a disdainful glance and began moving toward the door.

"Wait!
Please." In an intentionally halting performance of both English and
French, Elen thanked the woman for bringing her food, then asked her question
again.

The
woman held up the fingers of her right hand, then tapped them off. "Three
days it is now, you've been feverish. And lucky you be, Richard Basset didn't
leave you die as you deserved." Swinging open the door, she crossed
herself. "God protect him and us from you treacherous savages."

Three
days. Elen stared at the retreating woman in disbelief, scarcely hearing the
remainder of her words. How could it possibly have been that long? Carefully
unwinding the bandage around her thigh, she studied the knife wound. The flesh
was pink and tender but already showing signs of healing.
Three days. Dear
God, it must be true!

Easing
from the bed, Elen dragged herself to the south window, pulling herself up onto
the stool to gaze over the ledge. Beyond the palisade wall, the empty meadow
rolled away like a carpet of green velvet, dew-kissed and sparkling in the
golden morning sunlight. There were no knights or men-at-arms engaging in
warlike exercises in sight. She cocked her head and held her breath, listening
for the telltale sounds of soldiers and servants moving about Beaufort. But the
tiny fortress was eerily silent.

The
hours dragged by, and Elen strained her ears for the sound of Richard's voice,
for the noise of his footsteps outside her door. But few sounds of any kind
filtered up to the third-floor solar. By nightfall, she could no longer hide
from the truth. Richard had put his plan into action. He had taken the garrison
of Beaufort and gone after Owain.

Strangely
enough, she did not weep. She was beyond that comfort. She ate because she had
to and slept because her battered young body demanded it. And she spent hours
on her knees imploring the Holy Trinity and all the saints in heaven to spare
Owain's life.

Slowly
two days passed, then another faded into nightfall. By the afternoon of the
fourth day, just when she thought she must go mad with the waiting, the noise
of horses brought her to the boarded north window.

Breathlessly,
she listened for sounds rising from the bailey. She could hear horses, many
horses, and the rumbling noise of carts. In desperation she began struggling
with the stubborn wooden shutters covering the courtyard window. Owain might be
down there. She had to see what was happening!

But
the boards remained tightly in place. Gazing frantically around the room, she
noticed the stool standing in its accustomed place across the floor. Grabbing
it up, she wedged one leg beneath the edge of the window board, throwing her
weight against it. Nothing. She tried again, this time jamming the leg against
the window ledge for leverage and forcing it back with all her strength.

With
a protesting groan, one of the boards gave way, splintering noisily from its
iron bracket to fall to the floor with an alarming clatter. Elen beat the stool
against the remaining piece of board until it, too, fell to the floor. At the
noise, a nervous guard, one of Richard's men, rushed into the room, gesturing
for her to move away from the window.

Elen
ignored the man. Dropping the stool to the floor, she stepped onto its
now-wobbly surface and stared out. The narrow bailey was rapidly filling with
soldiers and horses, and one by one, the heavy, oxen-drawn supply carts were
rumbling through the wide wooden gate. Horses nickered and oxen lowed tiredly
for their stables. Men called to men and occasional laughter rang out.
Everything was turmoil, but it was the happy confusion of a victorious
campaign.

Elen
felt a sick dread spreading through her. Gripping the window ledge with a
white-knuckled fist, she strained her eyes for the sight of a golden knight,
taller than most men. A flash of red caught her eye as Simon swung down from
his gray gelding, still carefully holding Richard's banner proudly aloft.

The
boy moved in the direction of one of the carts and Elen's heart skipped a beat.
Richard was standing at the rear of the cart personally directing the removal
of the wounded. Several men moved forward, carefully lifting an inert form
wrapped closely in a bloodstained blanket.

Elen
closed her eyes and leaned against the wall for support. Owain... it was Owain
they had below in the bailey. And even from this distance she could see he
looked wounded unto death. Why had they even bothered bringing him back? Why
hadn't they just finished him off after the ambush?

The
memory of that midnight raid when she had been mistaken for the Welsh Fox
flashed before her. Edward of England wanted the Welsh Fox alive. He wanted to
make an example of the leader of this rebellion.

The
sickness in her gut intensified. She had to talk to Richard. She must find out
if he knew Owain was the Fox. She would deny it with her last breath, would
swear Owain was her uncle. Richard would believe her—he had to!

Drawing
a deep breath she rounded on the unsuspecting guard, still babbling on about
the broken shutter. "I have news for your master. News of great import. I
must see him at once!" she interrupted in English.

The
hulking soldier stared at her in amazement. "You... you speak our
tongue?"

Elen
nodded impatiently. "Take me to Sir Richard. I must speak to him."

The
soldier began to shake his head. "An I take you from this chamber, it's
lucky I'd be to get off with a hundred stripes for my back. My lord will see ta
you in his good time."

Elen
was used to dealing with servants. With stupid ones like this, fear was often
the best goad. "Fool!" she snapped. "Your lord will give you
worse than the lash when he learns you kept important information from him. If
you wish to save your tongue as well as your skin, you'd better take me to him
now!"

The
man shook his head again, but now he looked nervous. Richard of Kent was no man
to cross. "Mayhap you could give me this news. I'll see if m'lord be
interested."

Elen
glanced down into the bailey. The men were moving Owain's motionless body
toward the keep door. Time was of the essence. She gazed coldly back at the
soldier. "The words are not for your ears, but those of Sir Richard. If
you fear I might overpower you and escape, then fetch your lord here to me.
Only do so without delay."

The
man moved toward the door. "I'll see to it," he muttered sullenly.
"But don't be pullin' the place down about our ears. Sir Thomas won't be
pleased."

As
the man left, Elen stepped down from her stool to pace the floor in an agony of
apprehension. What if Richard knew about Owain? Her old friend would never
leave here alive. And Richard might even know her identity. There were a
handful of individuals who knew she was Elen of Teifi, but they could be
trusted. Of course, even the strongest man might break under torture.

The
minutes crawled by. Gradually the noise and confusion in the bailey subsided.
Elen tried not to think what might be happening to Owain. Even now his life
might be slipping away.

After
what seemed like hours, she recognized the sound of Richard's footsteps in the
corridor outside. Strange, she thought abstractedly, that one man's tread
should be so different from all others, that after even this short time, she
should know his step well.

Richard
swung open the door and moved a few paces into the room. He was dirty and
bloodstained and a scratch the width of three fingers marred his tanned cheek.
He had removed his hauberk and gauntlets, but it was obvious he had come to her
without bothering to wash.

Elen
searched his face for any sign of the gentleness she had seen a week ago, but
the search was in vain. Richard's mouth was compressed in a hard line, and his
eyes were dark and cold as the ice that forms in the deepest mountain pools
during the bitterest winters.

He
came to a halt in the center of the floor, arms crossed before him, legs half
spread as if bracing himself for battle. "I find you a woman of many
talents, Elen," he remarked coldly. "I wonder when I shall cease to
be amazed. Soldier, whore, and quite the consummate actress... oh, did I forget
to commend you on your most convincing performance last week? You were
magnificent. I almost believed you were as innocent as you pretended."

He
paused, his green eyes raking her contemptuously. "And now Hugh tells me
you speak English as one born to it. I wonder what might be so important you
reveal this secret now. What pressing news must you impart?" One hand
swung down to caress the hilt of his dagger. "Tell me, was last week not
enough, or did you lure me here to have another try?"

Elen
didn't flinch from the caustic bite of his words. She had to discover what
Richard knew. Only then would she know what to do... if there was anything left
to hope for. Ignoring his question, she motioned toward the window. "It
appears your trap was not successful. I see no sign of the notorious Welsh
Fox." She studied Richard carefully, searching for any flicker of emotion
betraying his thoughts. "Did you really think our Rhys would fall for such
a ploy? I warned you he was no such fool."

Richard
shrugged. "No, we didn't take the Fox. I believed he might think you worth
saving, but obviously he knew you better than I. You spoke the truth when you
said you were nothing to him." He turned and walked to the fire, bending
to stir up the dying coals. "But my men and I found good sport just the
same. We were attacked by a ragged bunch of Welshmen."

Straightening
to his full, commanding height, Richard turned back to her with a dark smile.
"Your people were a bit surprised, though, by the reception they received.
They say in my country that the only good Welshmen are corpses. If the words be
truth, we left many a good Welshman behind."

Elen
pressed her sweating palms against the rough wool of her tunic. God, how many
more of her friends were dead? She could well imagine that scene of carnage
after Owain's ambush, but she dared not allow herself to think of it now.
Richard obviously didn't know who Owain was, but he was enjoying baiting her.
She had roused his ire and he would probably see Owain dead now if only to spite
her. He would teach her the folly of her effort to best him and enjoy doing it.