Stuart, Elizabeth (4 page)

Richard
smiled in grim satisfaction as a figure emerged from the thicket. A bent old
woman hobbled slowly toward him across the winter-cured grass. Was it a trick?
The Welsh were shrewd. He had learned long ago not to underestimate them.

The
woman paused a half-dozen yards from his horse. "What do you want of
us?" she asked haltingly in Norman French.

Richard
stared at her in surprise. These people never did what he expected.
"Nothing, save to know yon forest harbors no ambush," he replied in
the same cultured tongue. "Bring the rest of your villagers out. I give
you my word we mean you no harm."

"Your
word?"

Richard
recognized the cold contempt in her tone. "I am Richard of Kent, knight of
your sovereign lord, Edward of England," he snapped impatiently. "I
tell you we mean no harm. I've coins here to buy food if you've aught to
spare."

The
woman moved closer, gazing up at him with clear brown eyes devoid of fear.
"We know who you are. But Edward of England is none of ours. With Llywelyn
dead, we wait for another to lead us." She chuckled mirthlessly.
"You'd best beware the whelp of Aldwyn of Teifi. Another Llywelyn may yet
rise to claim the crown."

Richard
held his temper on a thin rein. Even the women of this accursed land flung
their defiance in his teeth. Edward had been furious when he learned that the
noblewomen of Lord Aldwyn's family escaped after Builth. It was said the women
had made sanctuary in France. "Have a care, old woman. You speak treason
and your years may not save you!" he growled.

With
a shrug of one stooped shoulder, she met his angry gaze with a bitter grin.
"I am an old woman, true enough, and what value my life and loyalty? You
and your kind will never make me claim an Englishman my king!"

She
glanced over her shoulder toward the woods. "We've women and children
there and a few men too old to draw a bowstring. None such as you need
fear." She turned back to him and spat disgustedly. "But unless you
relish a handful of moldy grain and a bit of leek soup, we've no food for you.
We lost seven to hunger this winter past."

Richard
nodded. Her gaunt frame and pasty skin gave the truth to her words. Truly she
was naught but a bag of bones. He frowned. He had seen more hungry women and
children in the last few months than he could wish in a lifetime. "Tell
your people to come out," he said gently, wishing he had more than a half
ration of salt pork and two small bags of tough beans for his own men.

The
woman turned her back on him and bit out several terse words in Welsh. Slowly a
stream of villagers began filtering through the trees. Richard relaxed, when
all seemed to be as the woman had said. Most of the people looked scarce strong
enough to lift a bow, much less fit an arrow and let it fly.

Suddenly
a shrill scream rang out, and the war cry of the dead Llywelyn quivered on the
evening air. Richard swung his mount toward the sound, raising his heavy shield
to fend off what he was sure must be an ambush. To his surprise no hoard of
fierce Welsh warriors swarmed from the trees. A single ragged woman lay
crumpled at the feet of one of his men.

Gripping
his sword, Richard spurred toward the scene, his young squire, Simon, following
hastily at his left shoulder. The woman lay in a widening pool of her own
blood, her head nearly cleft from her shoulders. The soldier had dismounted,
his bloody sword held in one shaking hand.

"Christ's
mercy! What's this?" Richard snarled.

The
soldier dropped to one knee. "My... my lord, I didn't see... in the
shadows, I didn't see! She came at me out of the bush with a staff and that
accursed cry. I swear I thought we were ambushed! I swear it, my lord."

Sheathing
his sword, Richard swung down from his horse. He couldn't blame John Picard,
for he had thought the same. Thrusting his reins into Simon's ready hand, he
knelt beside the body, but there was really little use. The woman's life had
ended the moment the blade touched her throat.

A
small boy of some six or seven years pushed through the gathering crowd. He
stared down at the woman, his anguished expression leaving little doubt of his
identity.

Gazing
at the boy in the twilight shadows, Richard experienced a sharp pain that went
far deeper than regret. Something about the lad's expression reminded him of
himself at just that age, watching in grieving disbelief as his lovely young
mother had been lowered into her grave. No hurt on earth had ever equaled that
pain.

With
a low snarl, the boy launched himself across the woman's body, beating his
small, impotent fists furiously against Richard's leather-clad thighs. Richard
caught his arms, holding the lad away from him. "Giles!" he shouted,
glancing around helplessly. "Giles..."

His
friend stepped forward immediately.

"Tell
him it was an accident. A mistake. Tell him we didn't mean this," Richard
ordered furiously.

Giles
sent him a long, thoughtful look. Squatting down beside the painfully thin
child, he began a soft-voiced explanation.

The
boy had stopped struggling. Richard released him and stepped back, chilled by
the hatred that gleamed up at him from the lad's brown eyes. He had seen that
look in the eyes of plenty of grown men, but in the face of an innocent child,
the look was unsettling.

"Do
you think soft words mean aught to the boy now?"

Richard
swung around, flushing angrily as he met the scornful gaze of the stooped old
woman who spoke.

"There's
naught else to be done," he said shortly. "The woman was a fool to
launch herself at a mailed soldier."

The
old woman's eyes shifted to the boy who was now struggling manfully not to cry.
"Perhaps. She lost her man at the battle of Builth, her daughter last
month for lack of food. Ride on, my lord. We can see you mean us no harm!"

Richard
met her contemptuous gaze, silently cursing this woman, the accident, and even
his absent king. "Is there anyone to take charge of the boy?" he
asked at last.

She
shook her head. "I will care for him such as I may."

Richard
reached into a pouch that hung at his belt. Grasping two silver pennies, he
thrust them into her bony hand. "See he's cared for," he snapped.
"I'll send food if it can be found."

The
woman stared down at the coins then back to Richard's set face in amazement. It
was more money than anyone in her village would see in a lifetime.

With
a last glance at the forlorn child huddling beside the body of his mother,
Richard seized his reins from his waiting squire. It was nearly nightfall, and
they must yet make a safe camp. He had lingered here overlong as it was, and
for what? One motherless boy who would wield a bow against England in a few
short years? "Mount up," he ordered, stepping stiffly into the
saddle. "We must be away."

As
the cavalcade of knights and men-at-arms trotted across the field, the sound of
a high-pitched childish voice followed them, screaming something in the
unintelligible Welsh tongue. Richard sent Giles an inquiring look. "What's
the little devil calling me?" he asked, forcing a light tone.

Giles
cocked his head slightly to one side and frowned. "My friend, it's best
you don't know."

Richard
tightened his jaw and closed his heart, spurring Saladin forward viciously.
God,
how he hated Wales!

***

A
half-dozen campfires flickered and danced amid the ruins of the old keep,
throwing ghostly shadows over the soot-blackened stone foundations. Richard sat
well back from the revealing glow of firelight, musing on the twisted fate that
had brought him to this place.

His
father, Sir John Basset, was naught but a minor vassal of Sir Gifford de Erley,
a knight holding lands from the powerful Earl of Kent. Richard's Saxon
ancestors had been dispossessed of vast lands by the conquering Norman knights
of William's time. Slowly the men of his family had won back their honor and a
small holding of land through service to Norman kings, but the Bassets were
poor and unimportant compared with the great Norman families of the land.

They
had been a happy family, though, until Richard's mother died of a winter fever
the castle leech couldn't break. Her death was a shattering blow to the
bewildered young boy, and when Sir John had remarried even before the proper
year of mourning was over—to "bring a woman's touch about the place
again," as he'd put it—Richard's life had been turned upside down.

Though
of good family, Jeanne of Lewes was a penniless bride and as spiteful and
selfish as she was beautiful. She had both disliked and feared Richard on
sight, seeing him as a constant reminder of her husband's first wife and as a
rival of the son she herself quickly bore. As a result, Richard was packed off
to become a page in the household of Gifford de Erley.

Richard
scowled at a memory that even now sent his insides churning. He had hated
Jeanne for driving him from his home and for making his few holidays there
times of misery. And yet indirectly it had all worked to his good.

Bereft
of the love of both mother and father, he had turned to pleasing de Erley with
a fierce passion that quickly made him a favorite in the household. And at a
time when roistering Norman knights still strung men up for the
"crime" of being English, it was Richard whom de Erley had taken as
squire when he joined Prince Edward on crusade.

There
in the sweltering camps of Acre, Richard conceived what almost amounted to a
worship of Edward Plantagenet. The tall, dashing prince was a man to love and
die for, the impressionable young Richard had decided, and he would do all in
his power to become worthy of serving his prince.

Fortunately
the crusade hadn't lasted long, and as Edward crossed into Sicily, news came
that King Henry was dead and Edward himself proclaimed king. Later, at the
infamous tournament of Burgundy against the Count of Chalons, Richard first
came to his sovereign's notice.

As
the friendly joust turned into a bloody melee, more akin to a battle than a
honorable game among allies, it was Richard who unexpectedly came to his king's
defense. He had stood at the edge of the field, anxiously straining his eyes
amidst the dusty combatants, vainly striving to keep both master and king in
sight. As he watched, three fresh Burgundian knights converged on Edward just
as the king's lance splintered against an opponent's shield.

Without
thought to his own danger, Richard grabbed up a fresh lance and dashed onto the
field, ducking and diving amid the deadly, plunging hooves of the destriers to
reach his king. For the fraction of a second, Edward's flashing blue gaze had
held Richard's in grateful surprise. Then he had caught up the lance and gone
on to unhorse all three opponents with a skill the passionate boy had burned to
emulate.

Richard
leaned back against the wall at his back, a rueful smile touching his face as
he recalled what had happened the following day. Far from forgetting the
incident, Edward had searched throughout camp until he came across the ardent
young squire who had rushed to his defense. "You have done me great
service, Richard of Kent," Edward had stated in a suitably grave tone.
"What do you ask of me?"

Richard
could still remember dropping to his knees and staring up at Edward in
starry-eyed admiration. The King of England was actually speaking to him!
"Only that I may be worthy to serve you, Your Grace," he had managed
to choke out.

Edward
had laughed and tousled his hair like an indulgent uncle. "And so you
shall, young Richard of Kent, for your response pleases me well. Gifford, I
envy you this lad," he said, turning to de Erley. "See you train him
well, for I will be watching his progress."

And
strangely enough, Edward had continued to take notice of Richard, personally
knighting him and attaching him to the royal service when his years as a squire
were ended. And Richard's strength and skill in battle were rewarded as he rose
higher and higher in Edward's regard, though he had not yet won the riches he
knew his family hoped to gain from the arrangement.

Richard
shook his head and chewed the last piece of stringy salt pork that had made up
his meal. He served Edward because the man was one he could follow for love and
loyalty, not because he hoped for gain. Unlike England's preceding sovereigns,
Henry and John, Edward was a king who treated men fairly be they English or
Norman, who gave his word and kept it, who swore to hold the peace of a
strife-torn England at the point of his sword if necessary.

Richard
grinned wryly. And this cursed action in Wales wasn't one to gain any man
riches and glory. It was more likely to get him kicked out of the royal favor
if he didn't quickly succeed in bringing the Welsh Fox to earth for his
impatient sovereign. There were plenty of ready tongues at court whispering
against him, plenty of men jealous of his standing with Edward. Though Richard
had no wealth and little power, it was rapidly becoming known he had something even
more valuable—the ear of the king.

"My
lord."

Richard
glanced up. Henry Bloet, the master of his men-at-arms, was standing
respectfully a few paces away. "What is it, man?"