Stuart, Elizabeth (57 page)

She
rested her fingers lightly against her abdomen, wondering if a tiny babe were
nestled beneath them. The thought was comforting. She hummed the lilting tune
to a lullaby she could remember Tangwen singing. She missed her old nurse, but
the inquiries Owain had cautiously put about had met with little success. The
woman had been seen in various camps but none knew her whereabouts now and Elen
had long feared the worst.

Rising
gingerly to her feet, Elen called for Felice. She dressed hurriedly in the chill
room, thankful her nausea had subsided. After a hearty breakfast her maid
carried up, Elen sent for Simon. His shoulder hadn't looked bad yesterday, but
she did plan to check it again this morning.

But
before the boy could appear, Father Dilwen burst into her chamber. With a frown
at Felice, he flung back his dripping mantle. "I must speak with you,
Elen. Alone."

Elen
glanced at him in surprise. The priest was damp and disheveled, his gaunt face
chiseled in lines more than usually grave. "Very well." She nodded
toward the door and Felice obediently left, closing it softly behind her.

"Your
lord husband and his men are riding into a trap," he began bluntly.
"Dylan has gathered every rebel and malcontent in Wales for one last
effort. And they receive support from a most unexpected source...
England."

Elen
stared at him in bewilderment. "What?"

"Money
for arms and men has been flowing across the border for weeks. A force of
Gascon mercenaries has been quietly assembled. Dylan pays them and they'll
fight any foe he names."

Elen
felt as if the floor were breaking away from under her. "But that's
impossible!" she exclaimed. "Dylan has no money."

"England,"
Father Dilwen repeated softly. "The money comes from England."

"
De
Veasy!"
Elen spat the word with such venom, the priest was
momentarily silenced. "I would to heaven I'd killed that hellspawn at
Ambersly!" She glanced at Father Dilwen. "We must warn Richard. Have
you knowledge when this trap will be sprung?"

"Tomorrow...
or as soon as they reach the pass the English call Devil's Foot."

"Tomorrow?"
she echoed bleakly. "We'll never reach them in time. Richard will have two
full days' march on us!"

"I
know."

"Merciful
God!" Elen took a deep breath, fighting the suffocating panic that
threatened to engulf her. Richard would walk into an ambush in that mountain
pass, only there would be more than Welsh longbows awaiting him and his men.
When the English scattered for cover as they had finally learned to do in
waging Welsh warfare, the armor-clad mercenaries would sweep in to finish them
off.

She
closed her eyes, clenching her fists so tightly her nails dug into her palms.
If Dylan planned well, the men would never even have time to re-form their
ranks. They would be easy targets, could be picked off one by one. They had to
be warned!

She
glanced at the window, listening to the howling wind outside. There was a
trail, a little-known track over the mountains a man need be half mountain goat
to tread. It took a direct route east while the trail Richard traveled with
troops and supply carts meandered along a river course through several mountain
valleys.

But
would that path across the heights of Eryri be passable in this weather? And
could she even be sure she could find the way again? She had followed it only
once, once when she and her father had been Llywelyn's guests at his hunting
lodge near the coast. Word had come that the Lady Gweneth was taken ill, and
Lord Aldwyn had spared neither man nor horse nor even his own daughter to reach
his wife's side.

"There
is a way we might reach them in time," she began. "There's a trail I
know... perhaps someone at Ruthlin will know it as well. Fetch Owain and—"

She
broke off as Simon thrust his head through the doorway. "You said you'd
remove this foul-smelling poultice this morning," he said, extending his
arm with a grin. "Well, I'm here."

The
grin faded abruptly as he took in Elen's ashen face, the grave countenance of
the priest. "What's wrong?"

"It's
Richard. He's riding into an ambush tomorrow, and we've little time to give warning.
It's not just the Welsh, but a host of hired mercenaries as well." Elen's
eyes narrowed coldly. "Hugh de Veasy's work, I've no doubt! This is what
Dylan meant when he spoke of the devil's own jest. God, if only I'd made him
explain!"

"How
do you know this?"

She
glanced at the priest. "Father Dilwen learned of it."

Simon
was eyeing the man suspiciously.

"It
matters not how I learned of it, lad," the priest remarked coolly.
"What matters is getting a warning to your lord. Lady Elen knows a way we
might reach him in time, but we must leave now if we're to have any hope. Can
you fetch us horses?"

Simon
shook his head. "Not so fast. I'm not sure I believe this tale. Not even
Hugh de Veasy would join forces with Welsh rebels against an Englishman! And
the Lady Elen can't go anywhere. Richard let left orders she's not to stir past
the gates without Henry or myself." He hesitated, his expression
hardening. "And I think perhaps we'll keep you below until Richard
returns, Father. You'll have some explaining to do then, I'll be bound."

"Oh
Simon, don't be daft!" Elen exclaimed impatiently. "We're wasting
time. Your history and ours is riddled with English who sided with Welsh and
Welsh with English against common enemies. You know de Veasy, you know what
he's capable of doing. And Dylan hinted as much to me before he escaped."
She caught his shoulder. "Richard's life is at stake, Simon! We can't just
stand here arguing."

"I
can't trust you, not either of you!" Simon burst out. "I'll ride to
warn Richard, but the two of you remain here!"

"You
don't know the way," Father Dilwen reminded him, "nor do any of your
men. Elen is the only one who might be able to reach Richard in time." He
hesitated, then said softly, "You're a fool if you believe any thinking
Welshman wants Edward's favorite slain by Welsh treachery. Holy God, the
bloodbath would drown all Gwynedd! Your English king would leave not a man
alive were Richard Basset slain in such a manner."

"Simon,
listen to me," Elen said earnestly. "We must warn Richard or he,
Giles, William... all the men of Gwenlyn will die in that wretched ambush.
They'll be facing not only the Welsh, but the best soldiers the Baron of
Ravensgate can buy. Mercenaries, Simon, hardened mercenaries who care not a
damn who they fight for so long as they're paid!"

Simon
was obviously torn. He wanted to believe her. She could almost see him
calculating the chance she might be right, weighing it against the commands
Richard had given him. "Simon, I once heard Richard tell you a man must
sometimes disobey orders. Well, this is one of those times. If you don't trust
me, if you don't help me now, Richard may die. Henry will never believe me,
would never let me go. But you can easily fetch provisions and horses. We can
be gone before Henry even suspects."

Simon
drew a deep breath. She could read the decision in his eyes. He would help her
because he dare not do otherwise. "Very well, lady. I'll help. But if this
is another of your tricks...."

His
words trailed off, but the threat in his hard blue gaze was clear. Simon was no
longer a boy but a man, Elen told herself wryly. And he'd need to be for what
they might face.

***

A
short time later Simon and Elen were riding through the gates of Gwenlyn. But
once outside the castle's protective walls, they entered a world grown harsh
with winter. Heavy storm clouds boiled across the heavens, darkening the
morning and obscuring all but the lower slopes of the mountains in layers of
swirling mist. An icy wind bent nearby trees, scattering dead leaves before it
like a flock of sodden birds, whipping the manes and tails of the horses and
snatching at cloaks and hoods as if to deny the riders what meager comfort the
wraps provided.

Elen
gasped as the first force of the wind slapped her face. She dragged her cloak
closer, thankful for the woolen tunic and chausses she had borrowed from Simon.
She hunched her shoulders against the cold as they rode along the verge of the
rain-swept sea, past the village of Ruthlin and into the forest beyond.

Simon
was obviously ill at ease. He stared wordlessly ahead, fidgeting nervously with
his reins. And when three men broke from the cover of the dripping trees—Owain,
Father Dilwen, and Heffeydd Sele—the boy swung around, his sword half out of
its scabbard.

"It's
all right, Simon," Elen put in quickly. "They're with us." She
exchanged a few terse sentences with the men in Welsh, then turned back to
explain, "Heffeydd Sele has traveled the first half of our route before.
There are others in Ruthlin who know it much better, but Father Dilwen feared
to trust them with our plan."

Simon
glanced uneasily at the three silent Welshmen, his hand still hovering near his
sword.

"You're
free to turn back if you wish," she remarked. "This ride will be a
hard one."

He
shoved his sword back into its scabbard. "I've already let you out of
Gwenlyn," he muttered. "Richard would have my head if I left you now.
Ride on."

Elen
smiled grimly and nudged her horse into a brisk trot. "We must make time
while we can," she called back over her shoulder. "We'll soon reach
places where even walking will be an effort."

As
the morning wore on the trail became steeper and far more treacherous. They
were forced to dismount and walk almost as much as they rode, dragging their
reluctant mounts up some rocky incline or edging along the narrow rock shelves
that hung suspended halfway betwixt man and God. And for the first time Simon
could see why the Welsh so often traveled on foot. In this type of country, a
horse was a deuced nuisance.

The
air grew colder. Icy rain still fell intermittently but now occasional sleet
stung their faces, rattling against the few gaunt trees they passed and
glancing off the rain-darkened slate of the mountainside.

Elen
fretted openly each time the rugged terrain slowed their passage, but she knew
they dared not travel faster. The track was slick with wet, occasionally icy;
the horses were nervous, their riders ill at ease. It would do Richard little
good if they slipped and went crashing down the mountainside.

They
paused to eat with nothing for shelter save the dark arc of sky overhead. They
had only their own weariness and hunger to gauge the passing time, for with the
sun obscured, it was impossible to judge. But for a certainty, the night would
come early.

And
Elen had a new fear to drive her. The dull aching that had begun in her back
hours ago had now spread to her groin. It was possible this ride to warn
Richard might cost her her child. But she couldn't stop to rest—she didn't
dare.

Gradually
they began moving lower. Woods of spruce, ash, and oak again darkened the
landscape, and Simon pointed to a distant glimpse of silver curling through the
valley below. "Look, there's the river. Richard should be camped somewhere
nearby."

Elen
glanced anxiously at the darkening sky. "We'd better hurry or it will be
too dark to travel. There'll be no moon tonight and we dare not risk lighting a
torch for fear of Dylan's scouts."

The
party hurried on through the twilight world beneath the dripping trees. Elen
felt so miserable it was all she could do to sit upright. The pain swept over
her in waves, each grown worse than the last. She fought to block out the hurt,
praying earnestly to the Holy Virgin for the life of her child... for the life
of its father.

The
wood continued to darken, and Owain finally dismounted to lead Elen's mount and
lessen the possibility of her falling. Just as she began to doubt they could
stumble on much farther, a shouted challenge echoed out of the brush. "Who
goes there? Stop now, or we'll cut ye in two."

The
words were English, a blessed sound. "Lady Basset of Gwenlyn," she
called back. "We've urgent news for Lord Richard."

Two
men tumbled from the shelter of the bushes, staring at her as if she had sprung
up by witchcraft. But after a hurried conference with Simon, they waved the party
on. Richard's camp was only a few hundred yards ahead. They would make it after
all.

Their
entrance into the English camp was as spectacular as even Simon could have
hoped. Men began gathering from all sides of the camp as the riders pushed
through the ranks toward a tent sporting the rampaging boars of Richard's
banner.

Elen
held herself erect with the last of her strength. The pain in her side was
continuous now, the pounding in her head making thinking nigh impossible. One
of the men would have to explain, she told herself. She had finally reached her
limit. She had done all she could.

Richard
threw up the flap of his tent and stepped out. His blazing eyes cut from his
wife to his squire. "You'd best have a damned good explanation for this,
Simon! Before God, I'll see you whipped from Gwenlyn to London and back again
if you don't!"