Stuart, Elizabeth (22 page)

Slowly
Elen's sobs spent themselves. She stared up at the low-beamed ceiling, heavily
blackened by years of smoke from the hearth and burning rushlights. Was there
anything left to hope for, anything even to try?

Where
there was life there was hope. The saying was a favorite of Owain's, and
comforting somehow. He had repeated it to her on so many occasions when her
spirits were lagging and victory seemed impossible. As she shoved the damp hair
out of her eyes, her thoughts went back to Richard. He held Owain's life in his
hand—but just what had Richard said about his prisoner? He had been
surprisingly gentle after her tears, but had he left her any hope? She tried to
remember.

Suddenly
she sat bolt upright. Had she told Richard too much? Had she said aught in that
frightened, furious tirade that could betray Owain or herself? Was that the
reason Richard had grown so thoughtful, so kind? Jesu forbid! The last thing
she wanted was to fall into Edward's hands. Even Richard of Kent was preferable
to the King of England. Holy Mary, Mother of God, help her guard her foolish
tongue!

The
realization that she preferred Richard to Edward was staggering. Richard of
Kent was her most hated enemy— Enion's murderer. She had even sworn a blood
oath to see him destroyed. So why should she now think of him as any less a
devil than Edward?

Because
he was just.

Just?
She could expect no justice from an Englishman, she told herself furiously.
Richard led a force of foreign invaders bent on conquering Welsh soil for the
simple reason that they were strong enough to do it. They burned and
slaughtered without remorse, without quarter. And Richard had just bragged
about it, she reminded herself. He had told her he had no apology to make for
Builth.

But
he had not slain his helpless prisoners as most men would have done. And he had
not punished her, even though she so richly deserved it, a small nagging voice
reminded.

Footsteps
sounded outside. Elen dashed a hand across her eyes and slid from the bed.

The
door swung open and the dark knight called Giles stepped into the room. Three
men filed in behind him, supporting Owain's unconscious form. Elen's eyes
widened in disbelief. A miracle!

***

Richard
sank wearily onto his narrow cot in Beaufort's great hall. The fire in the
raised central fireplace had already been banked for the night, and all about
him, men were making ready for bed or were already slumped on straw pallets in
exhaustion.

"Richard,
hand me your sword and I'll give it a quick cleaning. I fear it grew damp when
you were out this afternoon."

Richard
glanced up at his squire. Simon was a good lad, scrupulous in his duties. And
the boy was right. Steel rusted quickly in this wretched climate.

Richard
slid his sword from its leather sheath, staring narrowly at the cold,
glittering steel. The sight reminded him of Elen and her furious accusations
this afternoon. Just how many men had he slain in the last twelve years? He had
no idea.

He
turned the sword in his hands, watching the play of firelight on fine metal.
This blade had served him well, and he felt no real regret. He had lived his
life as honorably as he was able, allowing his enemy quarter when he could—
bringing the end swiftly when he could not. And even the worst of his
detractors at court admitted he was a fair man... sometimes foolishly so.

He
pursed his lips thoughtfully. But now Elen had reminded him that corpses were
men. They had mothers and sweethearts who grieved, wives and children left
alone and unprotected by their deaths—dangerous thoughts for a fighting man to
dwell on.

Recalling
his actions at Builth, he sought to conjure up the hoard of faceless enemies he
had fought. Which had been the one dear to the girl, and how in God's name did
she know it was he who had taken the man's life? Surely she had not been
present at that scene of destruction.

The
battle had been bloody, for of all England's enemies, the Welsh were the
fiercest. And even Edward's usually sleeping Plantagenet temper had been roused
by Llywelyn's unprovoked rebellion. After the battle, when the head of the
fallen Welsh prince had been brought before him, Edward had coolly ordered the
grisly prize planted on a pike to frown down at the English from the Tower of
London. A crown of ivy had been placed upon the bloody head, further mockery of
the ancient prophecy that a Llywelyn would wear the crown of all Britain.

No,
Richard didn't blame the girl and her people for hating him and all his
countrymen. In some perverse way, he respected her for it. If their positions
had been reversed, she would have fought for Edward with the same dogged
determination. Elen's loyalties were those of a soldier for his lord—something
Richard understood well. But it was the first time he had happened upon such
sentiments in a woman. Save for Edward's queen, Eleanor, Richard's experience
of females had led him to believe the weaker sex had few such noble sentiments.

"Richard?"

He
glanced up at Simon in surprise. He'd almost forgotten the boy. "Sorry,
lad. I was just... thinking."

Simon
nodded and reached for the proffered sword, his blue eyes filled with concern.
"I'll just be a minute. I'll put it back here by your side when I'm done.
Don't wait. Go on to sleep now."

A
wry grin lightened Richard's face. "I look as bad as that, eh? Well, don't
be long. I'll wager you could use some sleep as well."

Simon
headed across the hall, and Richard lay back in exhaustion. He couldn't remember
ever being so tired—in body or spirit. No doubt that was the reason Elen's
words bothered him so. He was sorry for the pain he'd brought her, but what
matter the feelings of one insignificant woman? England would conquer
Wales—Christ's blood, had already! And he would finish the task he was sworn
to, no matter his growing sympathy for a beaten people who refused to admit
defeat.

Closing
his eyes, he forced himself to relax, slowly releasing the tension from days of
constant battle alert. The sooner he ended the Welsh resistance, the better, he
reminded himself. Once this rebellion was over, a lasting peace might grow
between the countries. Edward promised to do well by his enemies who put down
their swords. He was not a vindictive ruler save when his temper was roused.
And for all their mutual hatred, his country and Elen's might someday be at
peace. Yes, he decided, even in the midst of war, a warrior might hope for
peace.

With
the thought, sleep claimed him.

***

"M'lord."

Richard
was instantly awake and grabbing for his sword. The man touched his arm.
"No cause for alarm. Tis only myself, sir."

Richard
stared up at his burly guard captain in dawning recognition. For a moment he
had thought himself under Welsh attack. He drew a steadying breath and glanced around
the room. It was dark in the hall, but the faint gray light sifting through the
narrow window slits and the sound of servants stirring behind the pantry screen
told him day was dawning.

Henry
Bloet cleared his throat. "Pardon, sir, for wakin' ye, but I dared delay
no further. Robert of Sherbourne"— he jerked his head toward the
stair—"de Waurin's man above, says the girl's been askin' for ye this hour
past."

Richard
rubbed the sleep from his eyes with a clumsy fist. "I suppose the Welshman
died in the night. I thought he'd not last."

Henry
shook his head. "The man lives still. Leastways he did near an hour ago
when Robert woke me."

Richard
glanced up in surprise. Why would Elen send for him? After yesterday, he'd have
thought she'd leave him be.

"I...
I hated ta wake ye, sir, seein' the sleep was on ye so heavy," the older
man continued apologetically. "I told Robert I'd see to it at first light
and no sooner. And I'd not be disturbin' ye now if I'd not heard Sir Giles say
ye had interest in the prisoner."

"It's
all right, Henry. I've slept enough. But fetch me a mug of ale from the
buttery."

Henry
nodded and moved away, threading a careful path through the maze of sleeping
knights and squires toward the partition screening the darkened pantry and
buttery at one end of the great hall. Richard reached for his boots, then
buckled his sword into place.

"What's
afoot?" Giles asked softly.

Richard
glanced down at his friend. Giles had raised himself from his pallet on one
elbow, but in the dim light Richard couldn't make out his face.

"Elen
wishes to speak to me. I suppose I should go."

Giles
sat up and reached for his sword. "Then I'm coming too."

"If
I need you, I'll call. For Christ's sake, Giles, get another hour of sleep
while you can."

Giles
frowned. "Richard, on the Marches we speak of Welsh blood feuds. Have you
heard of them?"

Richard
nodded.

"It's
warfare on a different level from ours—something the Welsh take quite
seriously. When a kinsman is slain, it's up to a family member to avenge the
death. I've seen them wait years, generations even, to exact their revenge. But
they always do, Richard, they always do—even after seeming to live in peace
with the enemy for lengthy periods." Giles rose from his pallet.
"From what you told me earlier, Elen holds you responsible for the deaths
of her family. And that's something you'd best think on."

Richard
slipped his dagger into his belt. "Would you have me afraid of a
woman?" he snapped irritably.

"No,
but I'd have you remember who she is." Giles hesitated a moment, then
stared at Richard pointedly. "With a woman like that it's too easy for a
man to forget."

"I
won't forget. To my sorrow, I've already learned that particular lesson."
Richard turned thankfully from his friend to take the mug of ale Henry had
returned with. He drank it down in a few swallows, then handed the mug back.
Without another word, he moved to the open hearth and grabbed up a stubby
tallow candle. Lighting it in the sluggish fire, he made his way across the
hall and into the darkness of the stairway.

When
Richard reached the upstairs solar, he hesitated, then swung open the door and
moved inside. The room was well lit by the blazing fire in the fireplace and a
pair of rushlights burning near the bed. Elen had dragged the single heavy
chair to the bedside and was slumped against its back, her forehead resting on
her hands, her chestnut hair a shimmering silken curtain reaching to the floor.
At his entrance, she rose to her feet.

Richard
blew out his candle and moved stiffly across the floor. "I was told you
wanted to speak to me."

"I...
I didn't think you'd come," she said softly. "I asked for you hours
ago."

"My
men are overzealous of my welfare. They only now awakened me."

"Oh."
Elen turned back to the bed, her eyes anxiously tracing the features of the
unconscious man before her. "Without the proper care, my uncle will die...
perhaps even with care," she began hesitantly. "He's lost much blood
and the wounds fester. I need herbs and roots, certain potions I can mix to
draw the poison from his body and help him rest. But I've little with which to
work."

Richard
stared down at the wounded man lying so pale and still on the great bed. The
man, Owain, was beyond help, but Elen refused to acknowledge it. Despite
Richard's effort to remain untouched, he felt a stirring of pity. The man had
been a valiant fighter and was obviously dear to the girl. But perhaps it was
best this way after all. At least the Welshman would die a warrior's death
rather than pine away in some hellhole of a dungeon. "I doubt there is
aught anyone can do to save him now, Elen," he said gently, "but I
will send up the leech if you desire it."

She
swung around to face him, her blue eyes desperate, beseeching. "But it
might not be too late, Richard! With the right care, Owain may yet live. I've
skill with healing— more so than your leech. Give me leave to fetch what I need
outside the wall. I can gather what I require in the nearby woodland and marsh
in scarce an hour or two. I'll even use my skill to care for your wounded if
you wish it."

Richard
frowned and shook his head. Elen must think him little wiser than a babe. She
knew the man was dying and thought to use this ruse to escape. There must be
little sincere feeling in all her treacherous heart, yet how convincing she
appeared. "You've tricked me before, but don't think to do so again,"
he said curtly. "You'll not leave Beaufort until I allow it, so think no
more on ways to best me."

Elen
stared up at him, her eyes wide and earnest in the pale oval of her face.
"This is no trick, Richard, I swear it on my father's honor. I need rock
moss and sage, leaves of rowan, and another half-dozen ingredients if I can
find them. If I thought your people would fetch the right thing, I would ask
that you send them. As it is, I must go myself. But come with me if you suspect
a trick," she added desperately. "Bring the whole garrison if you
wish! Only give me leave to save the only kinsman I have left."

Staring
down at the girl, Richard felt a ridiculous urge to give in to her pleading.
The Welshman would probably die no matter their efforts, but at least he could
feel he had done all in his power to treat the girl fairly. And he could
accompany her to make certain she didn't simply disappear. "I put little
faith in your father's honor, even less in your own protestations," he
said dryly. "But I do have men who might benefit from your care—if your
promise to help can be believed." He gestured to the coffer. "Fetch
your cloak. It'll be chilly outside at this hour."