Stuart, Elizabeth (41 page)

He
rose and paced to the window, staring grimly out. "You were put to a great
deal of trouble because of my lack of backbone. You've made no secret of the
fact you think me naught but a spoilt child. But I swear you'll soon find
different!"

"My
'trouble,' as you call it, matters little," Richard remarked. "What
you did caused anguish and hardship to a great many people and near destroyed
the trust I'd worked months building with the Welsh. But I'd say you've plenty
of backbone. You certainly took your punishment like a man. In that moment, if
not before, I was proud of you," he added.

Philip
glanced back in surprise, his eyes searching Richard's not daring to believe.
"But you said I sickened you."

"Your
actions and those of the men you were with did." Richard took a slow sip
of wine. "You're no spoilt boy now, Philip, but a man full grown. You've
yet to learn the ways of command but de Veasy's men would be a hard lot to
begin with. I was on my own at an age much younger than you. I had to learn or
die. And I learned some bitter lessons most painfully—something I would see you
spared."

Philip
gripped the window ledge, the old anger spilling out. "You make few
mistakes, brother. To our father, you're near perfect. I could never live up to
you... never!"

"I
make a great many mistakes," Richard said. "Some, to my shame, I made
with you. I was hard on you when we were boys—when our father wished me to
instruct you in use of arms. I'll tell you something now, Philip, something I
should have admitted long ago. I envied you then. You had the home I'd been
sent from, the love of a mother and father I'd been denied. I've no doubt now,
I took out my anger on you. I told myself I scorned you—it eased my hurt to
laugh. But it wasn't so. In truth, I was jealous. The problems between us were
likely as much my fault as yours."

Philip
didn't look at him. "Our father loved you best. He never said so, but I
knew he was disgusted by my lack of manly skills. Yet I was afraid... afraid I'd
not live up to you."

He
closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I longed to go off as you had, to
be squire to a fighting man. I used to dream of winning honor and glory and the
praise of other men. And the dreams always ended with my besting you on the
field."

Richard
smiled wryly. "And there was I wishing I might stay home."

"I
never knew."

"No,
we never talked."

Philip
tensed slightly, his eyes narrowing as he stared down into the bailey. When he
turned, his face was torn with a look of uncertainty that made Richard study
him in surprise.

"Sometimes,"
Philip began, "sometimes a man makes choices—choices he fears in his heart
aren't best. But once made, he's honor bound to see them through. You
understand that, I know."

He
glanced down uncomfortably. "There is much between us, Richard. I doubt
you'll ever forgive me, but I want you to know I regret the trouble I've
caused. And I warn you. After our father's death my mother plans to challenge
your rights as an elder son, to sue for a partial inheritance for me. I won't
interfere with you, though— that I promise."

Richard
nodded. "It's nothing I didn't expect."

Philip
studied him narrowly. "I'll give you no trouble over Waybridge no matter
my mother's plan. Just promise me she'll have a place there despite your anger
at me."

Richard
nodded. "She'll have a place there as will you if you wish. I'm little
more than a temporary castellan of Gwenlyn and will be off warring for Edward
many years yet, God willing." He smiled. "I'll have need of a
trustworthy man to keep Waybridge in good heart while I'm away. Between us, we
might just make the place pay."

He
rose to his feet, moving slowly toward his brother. "We've our
differences, Philip, but there's nothing between us that can't be mended.
You're welcome at Gwenlyn or any other keep I hold. Can you not stay and sup
this evening?"

Philip
glanced back down into the bailey. "No... my party already awaits me
below. It's late, Richard, much too late. I must tell you good-bye."

***

An
errant breeze drifted into the room, ruffling the parchment Elen held.
Painstakingly, she copied the last word from a page of Welsh law Richard had
requested she transcribe. When finished, the pages would be sent to King Edward
along with an explanation of the system of law Gwenlyn used. Though not
agreeing with all of Richard's arguments, she had to admit the new codes were
fair. And if the king approved, the system would be used throughout Edward's
newly created shires in Wales.

A
murmur of voices sounded unexpectedly from outside the door along with a
curious scuffling noise. Putting the parchment aside, she rose to her feet.

A
loud thump came to her along with a short, smothered cry. Her door burst open
and three priests lurched in carrying the body of her guard. With a startled
gasp, Elen hurried across the floor. "What's happened? Is he ill?"

Father
Edmund's well-fed face frowned up at her. "Ill? No child, not ill."

She
dropped to her knees beside the man's inert form, noting the large, swelling
lump across his forehead. Her eyes went to the staff one of the priests
carried. The man grinned.

Father
Edmund was already rising from his knees. He dragged a cowled priest's garment
from a dusty pack he carried. "Here, child, into these robes and be
quick!"

Elen
rose, gazing at him blankly. "But I don't understand."

"Bishop
Vespain has agreed to take you under his protection," he explained
hurriedly. "Archbishop Pecham must put your case to the Holy Father in
Rome, but Edward needs money now for mercenaries for the Scots border. Word has
it he's already negotiated your marriage settlement. He'll get the thing done
before Pecham can move." His eyes held hers. "If you hope to take the
veil, we must move now."

The
words registered. Elen jerked the robe from his hand, tugging it hastily over
her head and smoothing it into place. She gazed at the two priests who were
busily engaged in binding and gagging her guard. They looked uncommonly rough
for priests—no doubt soldiers in the hire of Bishop Vespain.

She
stared down at her unconscious guard. The man had been kind to her and she
didn't wish him to suffer for this. "Not so tight," she ordered.
"And place him there on the bed. I said, not so tight!"

One
of the men glanced up in exasperation, but Father Edmund only frowned, jerking
his head in silent agreement. "Listen to me, Elen," he said, turning
back to her. "Sir Richard returned unexpectedly, but he's being kept
occupied in another part of the castle. We've only a few moments to get you
through the hall and out to the waiting horses."

He
drew the hood up about her face, frowning at the sight. "Keep your hands
folded within your sleeves and your head down as we move through the hall.
Whatever you do, don't look up." He frowned again. "You've not the
slightest look of any priest I know."

Elen
nodded, her heart racing nervously. At this time of the morning there would be
few men in the hall. But could she make it past the servants and the guards at
Gwenlyn's gate?

Her
thoughts flew to Richard. He would be furious when he learned of this but she
didn't want him to worry. She could at least leave a message telling him she
was safe.

She
moved quickly toward the table with its neat stack of parchment. "I would
leave Sir Richard word, else he'll fear for my safety."

The
priest caught her arm, his grip far rougher than she had expected.
"There's no time, child. We must be away else we'll all be seized."
He stared at her narrowly. "We've risked much to help you. I know you'd
not wish us to face punishment on your account."

"No,
of course not, Father." She bit her lip. "I... I suppose I could
write from Lanwort."

"Yes,
yes, of course. And don't fret. I'll see Sir Richard learns of your safety. Now
come, we've not a second to lose."

They
slipped out the door, moving quickly along the empty corridor downstairs to the
hall. Elen stared obediently at the floor, slowing her step to the solemn,
unhurried tread of the priest.

No
one spared a glance for the little bunch of dusty priests as they made their
way outside to the waiting horses. Elen mounted awkwardly in her robes, keeping
her chin tucked down as Father Edmund kept reminding under his breath.

Moments
later, Richard and Philip came out of the hall. Elen was surprised to see
Philip, and the fact that the boy was involved brought a new worry to mind.
Richard would bear the blame for her escape. He was already in disgrace and his
failure to hold her would only add more trouble. Naturally Philip would do all
in his power to help stir the pot.

She
shifted in the saddle, studying Richard anxiously. She hated leaving without
even a word, but she couldn't stay, not with the future Edward planned for her.
She'd not be sold to some greedy Englishman so the king could finance more
wars.

And
she could write Richard, she reminded herself. Perhaps he would even come to
Lanwort to see her.

Father
Edmund caught her reins, swinging her mount's head away from the door.
"Come," he hissed, "lest you be noticed. Move toward the gate
with the rest of us."

She
darted a worried glance back at Richard then obediently rode her horse toward
the gate. She would write Edward as well, explain that this was none of
Richard's fault. She didn't wish him disgraced on her account—not again.

No
shouted challenge stopped them as they passed under the first raised
portcullis. She ducked her head lower, holding her breath as they crossed the
outer bailey and trotted through the main gates.

Moments
later they were cantering along the north road. Once out of sight of Gwenlyn,
they lashed their animals into a gallop, putting the keep behind them as
quickly as possible.

Leaving
the road, the party cut westward through a dense wood of birch and aspen.
Branches snatched at Elen's face and robe as she rode through the trees toward
the sea. She could smell the freshening ocean breeze, hear the restless surge
of sea against land. But why were they hugging the coast?

She
followed Father Edmund's awkward, unwieldy figure, clinging to her reins as her
mount stumbled and slid down a steep embankment toward water. Armed men sprang
from a thicket near the small stretch of rocky beach. At Philip's curt order,
they dragged a longboat from beneath a tangle of driftwood and water weed.

Elen
reined in sharply, staring at the boat in surprise. "What's this?"

"Did
I not tell you? We'll cross first to Ireland to a place of safety for
you." Father Edmund pointed over the shallow inlet. A short distance
offshore, a small trading ship rode to her anchor. "Though the Church sees
only a woman determined to dedicate herself to God, many men would see you as a
valuable prize to be seized," he explained. "We must take care to
keep you safe until the Holy Father decides your case. Until Bishop Vespain can
take you personally into his protection, you'll be fair game to any
dishonorable knight who might seize you."

Ireland!
Elen
stared at him in dismay. "For how long?"

"Only
a short while, I assure you."

"The
bishop will join us there?"

Father
Edmund nodded. "He will join you soon if he is not there already."

"Oh."
Elen gazed uncertainly toward the ship. The words of the priest made sense. It
was just that this was all happening so quickly. She hadn't had time to think.
Still, she had prayed for a speedy answer to her troubles and perhaps this was
it. She only wished she could have discussed it with Father Dilwen.

Swinging
down from her mount, she watched with misgivings as a soldier came to lead the
sweating animal away. The boat was pushed into the water and, after begging her
pardon, a brawny seaman lifted her through the shallows and into the boat. The
men took their positions at the oars and shoved off. Father Edmund waved to
her. "Go with God, my child."

She
rose to her knees in surprise. "Aren't you coming?"

"No.
I must return to explain all to Sir Richard. You will be safe. These men have
orders to see you into the keeping of the bishop."

Elen
gripped the side of the boat in a sudden panic. "But you said you were
coming," she shouted. "Wait! I've no wish to go without you!"

The
seamen leaned into their oars, sending the little boat skimming forward across
the water. Father Edmund moved to stand beside Philip, his figure dwindling
rapidly with the distance. "The Baron of Ravensgate awaits you on
board," he called. "He will see to your safety until Bishop Vespain
arrives."

Elen's
heart began a wild, frightened beating. Sir Hugh de Veasy—Holy Mary, she'd been
a fool! She glanced down at the glittering water but knew she dared not jump.
These men would only haul her back in like some struggling fish.

She
stared in dismay at the rapidly receding coastline. Dear God in heaven, what
had she done? She had flown as foolishly into this trap as a bird into a net.
She had put herself hopelessly into the power of an unscrupulous man— the sworn
enemy of her people and of Richard as well.