Stuart, Elizabeth (2 page)

Overhead,
the wind moaned through the shivering pine boughs with the tormented whisper of
restless spirits. Owain stared at Elen in surprise, half convinced it was Lord
Aldwyn's furious glare he faced. Shaking his head, he resisted the ridiculous
impulse to cross himself. "Nay, Elen, 'twould be foolish to end our lives
for a futile gesture."

His
eyes narrowed and he gazed at her intently. "Listen to me now, girl. We
must be wise, you and I. Wise enough to forgo this thirst for revenge for a
time. I have a better plan, a plan to make the English hurt, and hurt badly.
But I'll need your help."

Gwynedd, North Wales, April 1283

Aieyaa!

The
low groan of agony trembled on the chill evening air. Elen glanced nervously at
the mud-and-wattle hut a few yards away. Something had gone wrong with Enid's
birthing. Something had gone terribly wrong.

Rising
from her seat on a log, Elen resumed her anxious pacing. Tangwen's low,
encouraging voice drifted from the hut, but Elen couldn't make out what the
midwife was saying. She frowned. Until a few hours ago, she had been helping at
her friend's birthing, but just after midday Tang-wen had unexpectedly ordered
her out. And the midwife's sharp voice brooked no argument, not even from Elen.

All
at once Elen could stand the uncertainty no longer. She moved to the hut
entrance. "Tangwen. Tangwen!" she called softly.

The
midwife appeared in the doorway. In the last few hours her weary, wrinkled face
seemed to have aged another year. "Tangwen, Enid's been at this since
dawn," Elen whispered. "Surely you know some potion or spell to make
the babe come."

Tangwen
shook her graying head from side to side. "Enid's too weak for the
birthing. I've suspected it these two months past. The winter in these
mountains was too harsh, the dearth of food too much for such as her." The
old woman's dark eyes rested on Elen, assessing her. "This child will be
her death," she added softly. "She's lost more blood now than she can
stand."

Elen
stared at her old nurse in amazement. This was only the third time she had
helped the older women of the camp with a birthing. The first two had gone as
smooth as nature would allow, and she wasn't prepared for Tangwen's words.

A
sudden, helpless fear came near to choking her. Not Enid. She couldn't lose
Enid too! Except for Owain, the lively young woman and her man Dylan had become
the closest thing to family Elen had left. "She won't die. She
can't!" Elen burst out. "Do something. Surely there's
something!"

Tangwen
gazed at Elen pityingly. She had stood by her impetuous young mistress through
all the joys and sorrows of her sixteen summers. The girl was full young yet to
know such hurt, but many a woman died in childbirth under the best of
conditions. Running and hiding from the English in these northern mountains
certainly wasn't the best of conditions.

"She's
near gone now," Tangwen responded. "There's naught to do but try to
save the child."

"But..."

Another
muffled groan sounded from inside the hut, and Tangwen disappeared into the
smoky interior. Elen closed her eyes against the pain of Tangwen's words,
clenching her fists so tightly her nails bit into her palms. Dear God in
heaven, she was tired of the pain! So tired of the stench of blood and death,
of the festering wounds of the men and the bleak, hollow-eyed women and hungry
children who followed them in this hole-and-corner war they couldn't win. Perhaps
her mother had been right after all. Perhaps they should have given up, sailed
for France....

Her
mind shied away from the guilt that thought evoked. It was she who had insisted
on remaining in Wales after the crushing defeat at Irfon Bridge near Builth.
But her mother's frail health and broken spirit hadn't been equal to the harsh
conditions they had met. She had died of a wasting fever soon after the
harrowing flight from Teifi.

A
weak, mewling cry jerked Elen back to the present. Shoving the door aside, she
entered the torchlit hut. Two camp women were efficiently wiping down a
squalling, struggling infant. "A girl child," Tangwen said
matter-of-factly. Her eyes rested on Elen. "But I doubt she'll last
without her mother."

Elen
didn't speak. For a moment, she stared at Enid's lifeless form, keeping the
tears at bay by sheer force of will. How often had her father told her? A Welsh
princess didn't cry.

Her
thoughts began to spin in a jumble of recent memories. Dylan riding out on a
raid with Owain yesterday, so excited about the coming child he had forgotten
his knife and had had to return for it. Enid laughing with her over a sparse
dinner last night. Now, just a few hours later, Enid was dead. And there wasn't
a priest to bless her grave. There hadn't even been one for her mother.

Whirling
through the doorway, Elen stumbled from the hut without a backward glance. She
moved blindly between the thick trees and scattered huts, instinctively heading
toward the camp stream. She was tired of acting brave and too bitter to keep up
the pretense any longer. She would return to pray for Enid's immortal soul. But
not now. Now she was overwhelmed by the unfairness of it all. And what good
would it do, anyway? God obviously didn't hear his Welsh children.

Reaching
the rocky embankment, Elen flung herself down on a soft mattress of moss. The
stream cut a dancing path from high in the gaunt, dark mountains of Eryri. Its
water was clear and cold, earth-dark, as wild and unfettered in its tumble down
the mountainside as the eagles that soared above the cliffs.

Turning
onto her belly, Elen plunged both hands deep into the stream, welcoming the
sting of cold water that had so recently been ice. She held her breath against
the ache, and submerged both arms to the elbows, wishing she dared fling
herself bodily into the stream for a thorough purging.

Slowly,
the sharp ache dulled to a tingling numbness. Her arms felt curiously
weightless—unattached. They wavered helplessly in the swift-rushing current,
tugging at her as if to pull her downward into the stream.

With
an effort, she drew them from the water. Was that how death crept upon one?
First the pain of an unexpected sword thrust, a burning fever, a childbirth
gone awry, then the welcoming numbness that drained the fight from its victims.

Enid
had looked peaceful in death, so too had her own mother. Elen stared hopelessly
into the dark water. Her reflection, wavering unsteadily across the shivering
surface of the pool, revealed a hard-faced young woman she scarcely recognized
gazing back at her. Perhaps it was the living who were most to be pitied, she
mused. After all, it was they who bore the cold and hunger, the deaths of the
others... the living who had still to face another day.

Rolling
onto her back, she stared thoughtfully at the darkening sky through the bare,
twisted branches above her. This bitterness and despair were new to her and not
to be indulged in. They weakened the arm and destroyed the spirit, Owain had
told her often enough.

But
why did she thrive and grow strong on their pitiful rations? The pangs of cold
and hunger only strengthened her hatred for the English; hardened her resolve
to fight on.

The
image of her older brother Rhodri flashed before her eyes. If Rhodri were
alive, he would laugh and say it was the devil of perversity in her soul,
evidenced, as he'd oft pointed out, by the cursed red in her gleaming chestnut
hair. That devil-red crowning the face of an angel, was the way Enion had
described it, long before he had asked Lord Aldwyn for her hand.

Oh,
Enion...
Enion...

An
uncontrollable wave of pain and homesickness washed over her for a place and
time that would never come again. She and Rhodri and Enion, laughing, carefree
children racing their surefooted ponies along the river Teifi or dueling furiously
with wooden swords, mimicking Lord Aldwyn and his men.

And
Lord Aldwyn, her magnificent father, the most powerful lord in Mid Wales and a
distant kinsman to Llywelyn himself. Holy Mary, how she missed him! How she
longed for his comforting strength. At the surge of memories, she fought back
tears, tears she had thought conquered months ago. Her father had never
slighted her for a girl child but had proudly encouraged her to play at war
games with Enion and Rhodri—the war games so essential to the survival of their
race.

The
three Teifi youngsters had been inseparable, even after Elen's disapproving
mother had forced her to give up the freedom of her short tunic and boots for
the long confining skirts of a maiden's cotte, even after she had turned her
hand to stitchery instead of the light sword her over-indulgent father had had
specially made... even after Enion had wanted her for his woman.

Elen
choked back a sob, squeezing her eyes tight shut as if to block out the
memories.
Why, God? Why?

A
light
footstep sounded in the nearby rotting leaves, instantly banishing the vision
of the three men Elen had loved more than life. She jumped to her feet,
reaching instinctively for her sword even as she realized it lay sheathed in
its leather scabbard on the floor back at the hut.

"Easy,
child. 'Tis I, Owain."

A
breath of relief hissed between her clenched teeth. "Owain. Thank
God!" She glanced to her empty belt where both knife and sword usually
rode. "I've been careless," she admitted contritely. "I fear I
left Tangwen's hut without thinking. Enid's dead."

"I
know. I followed you after Tangwen told me. I knew you'd come here."

The
simple words were full of a warm comfort that somehow steadied her. She stared
at Owain, struggling to read his gray eyes in the deepening twilight. He knew
what she was thinking—he always did. From the day she was three years old and
he had sat her astride her first pony, Owain had been her special friend and
protector. Despite her royal blood and his position as a leader of her father's
men, there was no gulf between them. Bound together by a mutual worship of Lord
Aldwyn, the impetuous child and the stern-faced warrior had become fast
friends.

Staring
at him, Elen found something infinitely reassuring about Owain's solid bulk.
Thank God, he had returned safely from the raid. For now, at least, heaven was
merciful.

She
took a step toward him, her mind settling back to its accustomed practicality.
"What news, Owain?"

She
saw the white flash of his teeth in the dim light as he smiled. "News to
your liking, I'll wager. Richard of Kent rides west for Gwenlyn Keep." He
chuckled softly. "But he rides three knights the less. Your plan worked
perfectly, Elen."

Elen
grinned, barely suppressing the surge of exhilaration flooding through her. For
she had hatched the plot to kill the armored knights by hamstringing the great
destriers as they rode them. And no matter how badly her impoverished people
needed horses, she allowed herself no remorse for the loss of the valuable
animals—killing English knights was far more important to their cause. "So
the Wolf of Kent loses some of his pack," she remarked easily. "Too
bad Sir Richard Basset came not under your sword."

Owain
shook his head. "God was not so generous today. But perhaps soon."
Moving to her side, he placed his hand on her shoulder in a comradely gesture.
"What's this?" he snapped. "You're wet through and shivering fit
to scramble your wits! What do you mean, staying out in this cold without a
cloak?"

She
shrugged off his hand. "I was damp with sweat from running and now the air
has grown chill. 'Tis nothing."

"And
I suppose you'll think it nothing when you lie on your deathbed of a
fever," he scolded. Quickly untying his heavy fox cloak, he settled it
snugly around her shoulders. "Have a care, Elen. You are the last of your
line. Your life is precious enough to me, but more valuable still for the hope
it gives our countrymen."

Elen
tucked her chin into the welcome warmth of the silky red fur. The costly cloak
had once belonged to Lord Aldwyn and had been her gift to Owain during those
first nightmare days after their escape from Teifi. In the bleak months that
followed, the cloak had given rise to a foolish legend among the English.

Wherever
the red fox cloak was seen, the lightning raids of the Welsh were sure to be
successful. Foraging parties sent out by the English failed to return and
supply trains were attacked and carried off into the mountains. Even
well-garrisoned camps were struck.

But
the success had been brief. As English soldiers poured north, the raiding Welsh
were forced to fall back ever deeper into the Eryri mountains of Gwynedd. As
King Edward's men cut great swathes through the dense forest for roadways,
successful ambush became difficult. As his knights garrisoned Welsh fortresses,
they easily controlled the lands around them. And as Richard Basset, nicknamed
the Wolf of Kent, drew the king's forces inward in an ever-tightening circle
about Gwynedd, he began nipping dangerously close to the heels of the Red Fox
of Wales.

Elen
glanced at Owain, mischievous lights twinkling in her blue eyes. "Would
you make me the Welsh Fox? I doubt I'd sleep as sound nights knowing the price
in English silver on my head."