Stuart, Elizabeth (28 page)

"What?
No kiss of thanks?" Richard asked cynically. "A small price for a
man's life, don't you think?"

Elen's
eyes rose to his in wordless appraisal. She had lived all her life in the
company of warriors. She knew the braggarts, the cowards, the honorable men.
And she knew beyond doubt which type stood before her. "You didn't decide
to let Owain live because of me, nor will my refusal now bring him harm,"
she remarked with a quiet assurance. "I am grateful, but that is all. That
is all there can ever be."

Richard
took a deep, slow breath, struggling to keep command of himself. He was angry,
unreasonably so—and he wished he were as certain of his reasons for sparing the
Welshman as Elen seemed to be. "I suppose I should go, then. I'd not
strain your gratitude," he said coolly. "Forgive me for troubling
you."

As
Richard strode from the room, an unexpected feeling of sadness swept Elen. She
took one impulsive step toward the door, then stopped, shaken by an urge
stronger than any she had ever known.

Merciful
God, she had almost called him back!

The
morning sky was filled with swirling mists and intermittent rain. Elen stared
down into the bailey, listening to the sonorous tolling of Gwenlyn's chapel
bells. Father Dilwen had been given permission to hold mass this morning. Giles
had told her the good news last evening when she had discovered her guards were
gone and had hesitantly ventured from her room.

She
had gone at once in search of the Welsh priest, but he was busy in the village
so she had yet to talk with him. Still, it had been enough just to be outside
her chamber, to take a turn in the garden and see the evening sky overhead...
to realize Richard had kept his word regarding her freedom to roam about
Gwenlyn.

Richard
Basset, Wolf of Kent, the man she had hated above all others. It had come as a
surprise these last weeks to learn he was a man of honor, a man it was growing
increasingly difficult to hate. Pactum Serva, Keep Troth, was the motto of
Edward, King of England—but Giles had told her Richard had taken it for his own
as well.

She
frowned thoughtfully. What would Richard do if he learned she and Owain were
living a lie? Oh, he would continue to treat them with proper English justice.
She didn't doubt that. But English justice was a terrifying matter if one were Welsh...
a deadly matter if one were the Welsh Fox.

Reaching
up to catch the shutters, Elen swung them in and locked them, shivering in a
sudden chill that had little to do with the weather. Richard was her enemy, she
reminded herself. Despite his kindness to an unimportant Welsh woman and her
kinsman, his mercy didn't extend to battlefields, or to rebels who continued
their fight against England.

Turning
away from the window, she moved toward the door. The church bells had ceased
their tolling. If she didn't hurry, she would be late for mass.

***

Richard
stared grimly over the carved oak balustrade of the balcony, watching the
movements of the priest as he began the familiar litany of the mass. Edward had
built the small withdrawing room so that the royal family might celebrate mass
without mingling with the castle folk. And today Richard was thankful for the
solitude.

He
scanned the crowd below thoughtfully. What was this black mood that had
overtaken him? There was no reason for it. The campaign in Wales was going
well. He had not yet captured the Welsh Fox, but Rhys's fierce depredations on
the English had ceased. Richard's men were pressing the rebels mercilessly and
they appeared to be scattered and disorganized. They had not attempted a raid
in weeks.

His
thoughts shifted to an inventory of more personal matters. Morale was high and
even Roland was in good spirits preparing for the journey home. The people of
Ruthlin were making headway in readying the fields for planting. One villager
had even spoken respectfully when Richard rode out yesterday with his bailiff
and two teams of oxen to aid them in preparing the soil. Yes, everything was
going well, so why this feeling of discontent?

His
eyes wandered slowly over the crowd of knights, soldiers and castle folk
gathered in the chapel below, finally coming to rest on a bright chestnut head.
His fingers tightened on the railing and he leaned forward slightly. If he were
honest, he would admit Elen was at the root of this feeling. But what made her
so different from the other women he had known? Was he grown so high in his own
conceit that one woman's scorn could thrust him into this black mood? The whole
idea was ridiculous! He should be laughing about the matter with Giles over a
flagon of choice wine. But he had seldom felt so little like laughing.

Elen's
words came back to him. Gratitude... was that all she felt? Well, he'd show her
gratitude! He didn't need the gratitude of some half-savage Welsh bastard.

His
eyes narrowed angrily as he recalled the times she had spurned him. Had he no
pride? Why keep panting after a woman who had sworn to hate him with her last
breath?

But
did she still hate him? Recollections danced teasingly along the edges of his
memory: a gesture, a glance, a hint of desire on her face when he had bent to
kiss her yesterday. For just a moment, Elen had wanted that kiss as much as he.
So why her pretense?

Richard
frowned thoughtfully. In his world a man took a mistress, and it was an
honorable enough estate. Elen must know he wanted her, must know she would be
far better off in that position. She would have her freedom, a place of honor
at Gwenlyn, and whatever material possessions he had at his disposal. Any other
woman of her station would see the advantages to be gained and jump at the chance.

But
Elen wasn't any other woman, a small voice reminded. And if he understood
anything about her at all, it was that she was fiercely and passionately Welsh.
She might not be completely indifferent to him, but they were enemies and that
was enough. She would fight any developing relationship between them with every
weapon she could command. And if he wanted things differently, it was up to him
to make them so.

With
a start, Richard realized the mass was over and Father Dilwen was giving a
final blessing to the people. He swung on his heel and vaulted down the stairs,
hurrying to find Elen.

As
he reached the door to the hall, Henry Bloet caught up with him. "My
lord!" the man called out. "My lord, there be a persistent dog of a
Welshman outside a-askin' for ye." Henry paused to catch his breath.
"I told him ye was at mass, but he said as how ye'd best be hearin' him
out, the insolent scoundrel! That it'd not be him what'd suffer if ye
didn't."

Richard
nodded impatiently, intent on catching Elen before she left the hall.
"Yes, tell him to wait and I'll see him after breakfast. I've something
else pressing now."

***

Elen
walked slowly through the crowd of people leaving the chapel. She hated
returning to her chamber, but she had no reason to linger below. She felt an
outcast among the English. The servants treated her like a leper and save for
Simon, Giles and William, she didn't dare speak to Richard's men.

She
moved into the spacious hall, critically appraising the fine craftsmanship of
the stone walls, the great vaulted ceiling and carved stone fireplaces at
either end of the room. Above the lord's table, a canopy of crimson silk
embroidered with the leaping golden lions of Edward Plantagenet shifted
slightly in a draft, making the animals appear to flex and stretch in the
uneven light.

To
Elen the grandeur of the richly appointed keep seemed a deliberate contrast to
the relative poverty of even the greatest Welsh princes. She had thought her
lofty oak-beamed home at Teifi wonderfully built, but she couldn't help
thinking the arrogant English king would find the wooden keep a hovel.

Well,
let the English have their stone castles, she told herself defiantly. Owain and
Dylan would pull this magnificence down about their ears. And if she had her
way, it would be soon!

She
turned her back on the splendor, watching forlornly as servants scurried about
dodging well-dressed knights and common men-at-arms as they hurried to put away
sleeping pallets and set up trestle tables for the breakfast following mass.
Suddenly, her mind registered a familiar face beneath the lowered cap of a
struggling servant—a face that belonged to the mountain wilds of Wales. Her
eyes widened in astonishment as she watched the man lift a heavy plank across
its trestle. Dylan... by the love of heaven, what was the Welshman doing here?

He
caught her eye, then quickly glanced away. She stared intently at the man
working beside him. Dylan and Gruffydd! And if they were here, other friends
might be in Gwenlyn as well.

Her
heart began a wild, excited throbbing, but she maintained enough presence of
mind not to stare. That would be sure to draw attention to the men. Perhaps she
could manage to whisper a message if she walked by.

Her
mind began to churn with possible plans, but the sight of Richard moving across
the floor toward her caught her up short. Damnation! She'd forgotten their
bargain. She had given her word she'd make no effort to escape and Richard
trusted her.

But
freedom was precious, too precious to hang on her oath to an enemy. If a chance
came, she should take it— anything else would be foolish beyond belief.

"Good
morning, Elen," Richard said, coming to a halt beside her. "I trust
you enjoyed the day's mass."

She
nodded, forcing herself to speak calmly, to appear unconcerned. "Yes. It's
been months since I've heard mass. It was kind of you to allow me to go."

"I
would have you attend anytime you wish. And I would have you take your meals
with us here in the hall." He gestured toward the high table. "My
knights grow weary of their own company. If you would consent to join us, we
would be honored."

She
glanced toward the table in surprise. Richard's men were already gathering.
"Oh, Richard, I don't think—"

"You've
but two days of freedom," he interrupted, his eyes holding hers.
"Let's make the most of it." Taking her hand, he lifted it briefly to
his lips, then tucked it into the curve of his arm. "Shall we... my
lady?"

Not
wishing to make a scene with every eye in the hall upon them, Elen allowed
Richard to lead her across the rush-strewn floor and up the three steps to the
table. Simon stepped from behind Richard's chair to seat her, his well-trained
face betraying no hint of surprise at the altered arrangements this morning.
And though there were many curious glances, Richard's knights stood courteously
while she was seated and served. The lord of Gwenlyn was treating her as a lady
and they could do no less.

Elen
felt more than a few pangs of guilt. By according her such courtesy before his
household, Richard had set a pattern for the way she would be treated. And he
would look more than a little foolish when she and Owain escaped. She frowned
into her ale cup. Dylan would think her a fool when she told him they must
wait—but she had been called worse before. After all, she had given her word.

They
were halfway through breakfast when Henry Bloet thrust open the side door and
moved quickly toward Richard. "My lord," he exploded, coming to a
halt before the table. "I must speak with ye."

Richard
shot his man a sharp glance, but he knew Henry wouldn't disturb him for a
trivial matter. Dipping his fingers in a basin Simon held, he wiped them on his
napkin and rose to his feet. "Very well." He nodded his apology to
Elen, then caught Giles's eye.

The
two knights joined Henry at one side of the hall. "That dog of a Welshman
outside be still insisting on speech with'y, m'lord," Henry spluttered.
"He said if ye didn't come at once, he'd not be believin' any more 'a yer
fine promises... and a great deal more besides."

He
glanced sharply at Richard. "He'd give no name, but said his words are for
your ears alone. I don't like it, sir. Let me come with ye at least."

Richard
was staring at the floor, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "Never mind, Henry.
I think I know who it is. Where have you got the man, and what precautions have
been taken?"

"Near
the garden wall in the outer court. I'd let the scoundrel nary a step
further," Henry growled. "I've sent young Walt to bring up a second
guard on the battlements. The least sign of trouble an' they're to rain arrows on
any bastard hintin' at mischief. Be sure ye keep close to cover."

Richard
nodded in satisfaction. "No cause for alarm, but I'd like some men ready
as a precaution." He glanced at his friend. "Giles, stay close to
Elen. This Welshman could be the bait sent to lure me from the hall. Our friend
Rhys may be getting a bit impatient for my blood."

"Certainly,
Richard. Rhys could come with my good will."

Richard
smiled coolly. "And mine as well. I'm growing most anxious to meet our
Fox."

With
another low-voiced order, Richard was out of the hall and moving across the
bailey into the outer court. The rain had stopped, but the drifting fog curled
wet, clammy fingers about his body, dampening his face and shrouding the far
corners of the bailey in white obscurity. He frowned. It was a good day for
treachery.