Stuart, Elizabeth (9 page)

And
what of her? What would Richard do to her? She stared blindly at her
leather-bound wrists, remembering the crude words of Richard's men. They
obviously thought her a common camp follower. But that was the way she must
keep it no matter the price.

In
those first terrible weeks after the flight from Teifi, Owain had told her
again and again of her importance to her countrymen. She hadn't really believed
him at first. How could one lone woman not yet seventeen be of any importance
in this cursed war?

Yet
the English were searching high and low for the wife and daughter of Aldwyn of
Teifi. They had already seized the dead Llywelyn's daughter, a babe of only a
few months whose English mother, Eleanor de Montfort, had died in childbirth.
And Llywelyn's treacherous brother, Dafydd, had been deserted by his own men—a
fitting reward for one who had betrayed both his brother and the powerful king
of England. It was only a matter of time until he too was caught in Edward's
tightening net.

She
alone was left of the great warrior families her countrymen might look to, and
the mighty Edward was determined to have her in his power. For so long as she
lived and was believed to be free, her people might yet rally.

Edward
had yet no legal claim to her lands. It was the English king's own laws that
tied his hands, she reminded herself with a grim smile. By Welsh custom a woman
could not inherit, but Edward had forced the hated English laws upon them after
the failure of Llywelyn's revolt.

It
was the king's one weakness. He would do everything according to his laws. In
her case, however, it would be most convenient to his purposes if he could
seize her and put one of his own knights to rule the lands of Teifi legally in
her name.

But
even more importantly, if allowed to remain free she might marry and breed
sons—sons to claim the crown of Wales that Edward swore to wear, sons to lead
future rebellions in pursuit of their stolen birthright. Yes, so long as she
remained free, a lone woman could be important in a war!

She
smiled grimly, promising herself Richard of Kent wouldn't learn who he held.
And if he did, he would die. "Mount up."

The
cry spread quickly throughout the camp. The English swung into their saddles,
driving their prisoners before them on foot. Elen watched the men go by. The
wounded weren't among them.

No
one had spoken to her since Richard ordered her hands bound nearly an hour ago,
and she had no way of knowing what he planned for his hostages. A sick feeling
settled in her gut. He would kill them. What else could she expect from the
Wolf of Kent?

As
her guard tried to lift her onto a nearby horse, she twisted away. She couldn't
just turn her back and ride out. Not without knowing what would happen to the
women and children, the wounded men left behind.

"Now
see here... none'a that!" the man exclaimed, jerking her roughly back
toward the horse. Catching her about the waist, he swung her up toward the
saddle, but she twisted in his arms, catching him in the groin with a
well-placed kick.

With
a violent oath, the man released her, dropping forward on all fours. Elen
turned, searching desperately for the dark, compassionate face of the knight
who'd helped her before. She hadn't taken two steps in his direction when the
guard behind her set up a cry of alarm.

Richard
glanced up from the instructions he was giving his knights. "God's mercy,
what now?"

Seeing
the chestnut-haired virago moving purposefully toward the wounded prisoners, he
uttered an impatient oath and sprinted forward into her path. "What now?
Do you think to arm them all against us?" he asked irritably.

Elen
halted abruptly as Richard stepped before her. Staring up into his furious
face, she searched for something, anything to turn him from his purpose. In the
full light of morning, she could see his hair was the rich golden color of
ripened wheat, and his eyes were incredibly green. Against the tanned skin of
his lean face, his eyes gleamed the brilliant color of new spring grass.

Her
own eyes widened in surprise. He wasn't what she had expected. He looked too
young for so noted a commander, probably considerably less than one score and
ten. And even in a rage he hadn't the look of a man who enjoyed killing. Yet
his battle exploits were legend, and appearances were oft deceiving.

Turning
from his angry glare, she gestured to the wounded men seated or lying about
beneath a tall oak. "What will you do with them?" she asked in
perfect French.

Richard
bit back the sharp order he was about to snap out. So the girl did speak the
language. He wouldn't need Giles to communicate with her after all. The thought
was oddly pleasing.

His
gaze followed hers, lingering on the prisoners. At his studied silence, she
turned, lifting cool blue eyes to his. "I am sound of limb and have
traveled many weary miles before this. I can walk. Give my mount to two of
these who can't."

Richard's
impatient anger melted away. The girl obviously thought he meant to kill his
prisoners and was offering her mount to save whom she might. He had seen
English knights who would not do the like for their own wounded men. Her words
reawakened a grudging respect. "There's no need," he said.
"These men will not be harmed."

A
flash of anger kindled in her eyes, bringing an enhancing flush of color to her
pale cheeks. "I'm no fool, sir!" she hissed. "Do you think to
lead us all meekly away, then slay these men when none are by to see?"

Richard
lifted one tawny eyebrow. "I think," he murmured provocatively,
"that you have little choice in the matter."

Contempt
flickered openly in her blue eyes. "Then the tales we've heard are true.
You're no better than the animal for which you're named." She hesitated,
her expressive eyes narrowing coldly. "But even wolves don't kill the
helpless for sport."

Her
contemptuous words touched him on the raw. His heavy lids dropped down, quickly
hiding his irritation. "Perhaps not. But then perhaps you wish to save a
man or two among them from the maw of the Wolf?"

"At
what cost?" she asked, her chin lifting a fraction.

"Oh,
a piece of information well and truly given."

For
a moment they studied each other in strained silence. The girl looked as
pinched and weary as he felt, Richard realized suddenly. Only her eyes were
alert and watchful, clear blue as the restless western sea above the smudges of
exhaustion beneath them.

"And
what is this information you seek?" she asked at last.

A
smile stole over his face. "You may recall from last night. I wish to know
your name."

Elen's
thoughts whirled frantically. He was toying with her, of course. But did she
dare tell him the truth? The name Elen was common enough in Wales. Impossible for
him to suspect she was Elen of Teifi in her filthy, bedraggled state. Besides,
he'd already questioned several of his prisoners. Might he not already know her
name and be seeking to trap her in a lie?

"Elen.
Elen of Powys," she replied at last, hastily appropriating Enion's land.

He
nodded. "Elen. Thank God it's not one of those impossible Welsh names my
English tongue can't form."

He
turned from her and gestured for her shame-faced guard, nervously holding two
horses several paces away. "Is that all?" she asked incredulously,
unable to believe the Wolf so easily appeased.

He
glanced back. All trace of the smile was gone, and his face was suddenly so
hard she decided she had only imagined it. "For now, yes. But I'll not
have any of my men struck again or you'll suffer for it. One more bit of
trouble from you, Elen, and you'll not only walk out of these mountains, you'll
walk bound in chains all the way to meet Edward at Westminster!"

Her
gaze never wavered. "And these men?"

"I
told you before—they'll come to no harm. Believe me or not, as you will,"
he said impatiently. "There's nothing you can do in any case."

With
a sharp warning to her guard to keep a firm hand on her mount, Richard was
gone. Elen stood staring after him, scarcely daring to believe his words. Yet
he was right. There was really nothing she could do, anyway.

***

"My
lord, hold up a moment!"

Richard
turned in the saddle as Giles cantered up alongside. His friend had ridden in
the rear of the column for the last two hours, helping Sir William prod the
weary prisoners along the trail.

Giles
leaned nearer, his voice dropping so low only Richard might hear. "I know
you're in a hurry to reach Beaufort before that damned Fox can ambush us. But
if we keep this pace there are those who won't make it." He glanced down
the line of men. "And not only among the enemy."

With
the experienced eye of a commander, Richard looked over the column of his
men-at-arms. Several reeled in the saddle like drunkards, while all slumped
heavily in exhaustion. His men had been too long without sufficient food and
sleep, and many were too proud to complain of painful wounds obtained in the
vicious fighting last night. They needed a rest. With the rush of battle
excitement long ended, he felt weary unto death himself. Besides, his own
wounded arm ached with a vengeance.

"We'll
stop a few moments then, Giles. Pass the word. This is as good a place as
any." He glanced up. "Oh, and Giles, have Simon unpack the wineskins
he carries in my baggage. See they're distributed among the men. I've been
saving them for a moment such as this."

"Wine?"
A grin stretched itself across Giles's haggard face. "Richard, I'd kiss
your feet if I thought I could get down without falling on my face."

Richard
gave a weary chuckle. "Pray don't, then. I'd be honor bound to pick you
up, and I'm afraid we'd both end up in the dirt."

Giles
glanced around. "Where is the lad?"

"Somewhere
back to the rear of the train. I told him I wished to carry my own shield, and
it offended his dignity so greatly he's scarce speaking to me. And I'm afraid I
was a bit sharp with him this morning," Richard added sheepishly.
"God's mercy, I was sharp with everyone when I learned the Fox had escaped
me."

"Yes,
but you snapped everyone's nose off, not just his. Simon knows you well enough
to realize you don't mean what you say in a rage." As Giles stared at his
friend, his dark eyes were thoughtful. "But you might think about speaking
to the lad if you can spare a moment, Richard. I know you've more important
tasks, but the boy worships you. It won't do to have him mooning about camp
like a kicked puppy. By the way, did you know it was he who raced into the path
of that gray beast last night and swung the torch?"

Giles
smiled at the surprised shake of Richard's head. "The squires are all
abuzz with their own importance this morning. It seems it's Simon we owe for
the capture of that young woman you seem to prize so highly. And the boys
managed to get her gray stallion back, too. He strutted into camp this morning
looking for his mares. That animal alone is prize enough to justify the
raid."

"I
wonder Simon didn't tell me himself," Richard remarked, puzzled.

Giles
swung his black gelding away. "Mayhap you weren't in the mood to be told
anything," he called as a parting shot.

Turning
to the first soldiers in the column, Richard gave the order to rest. As
exhausted men fell out along the trail, he edged Saladin toward the rear of the
train. He wanted to see for himself how the prisoners were holding up... and
the girl called Elen.

When
he first caught sight of her, the girl was leaning slightly forward over the
pommel of her saddle, eyes half closed in weariness. But as the men about her
leaped to attention at his approach, her eyes flashed open and she straightened
stiffly to meet his gaze.

Pride.
He knew her damned Welsh pride would keep her erect in the saddle if it killed
her. "Help her down," he ordered, as he rode by. "Simon will
bring wine for you all, but I want no less than two men guarding this prisoner
at all times."

Reaching
the end of the train, he dismounted, giving his horse to a young squire who
raced to assist him. The boy offered up a cup of wine. Richard seized it and
drank deep, welcoming the strengthening bite of the rich liquid.

Wiping
his mouth against the sleeve of his leather jerkin, he gazed at the nervous boy
in speculation, searching his memory for a name to go with the mop of reddish
curls. The boy looked young to be a squire, but he remembered that William had
taken in the twelve-year-old son of a kinsman. "Adam, isn't it?"

At
the boy's pleased nod, he handed the cup back. "I thank you for your aid,
Adam, you were quick to see my need. Now I have something further I wish you to
do," he remarked with suitable gravity. "There is a lady near where
Sir William's chestnut gelding stands. Take this cup and offer her wine. Don't
be surprised if she refuses at first, but be patient with her. She's weary and
frightened."

He
smiled at the boy and was rewarded by seeing a grin brighten the youth's face
in return. "And if you see Simon, pray send him to me."