Stuart, Elizabeth (8 page)

Dylan
frowned. "Owain will not like it."

"It
doesn't matter what he likes. We must throw this Richard off the scent. Above
all else, we must keep Owain's identity from them. He's our only hope."

"Very
well. I'll spread the tale about."

Elen
sighed with relief, the tightness in her chest easing slightly. "Good.
I'll see what can be done to find you a weapon."

Getting
the dagger was really far easier than she expected. The prisoners had all been
searched, but the dead had yet to be relieved of their weapons. As she hurried
across camp to refill a water flask, the first lifeless man Elen bent over
still wore his knife in his belt.

As
unobtrusively as possible, she slipped the dagger from beneath the body,
quickly shielding it with the water flask as she shoved it into her left
sleeve. Rolling the man over, she gazed at his face. Dyfed ap Cynan, a gentle
giant who had oft helped the women and children about the camp. "Thank
you, Dyfed," she whispered, gently closing the man's staring eyes.
"God have mercy on you... and on all of us."

Unexpectedly,
a strong hand closed about her right arm, jerking her roughly to her feet.
"How did you get loose?" Richard bit out. "I told Giles to keep
an eye on you!"

She
stared up into the furious gaze of the tall knight, speechless with dismay. Had
he seen her? Had he seen her take the knife?

"I
set her free to tend the wounded," Giles remarked, stepping forward from a
group of men several paces away. "She gave her word she wouldn't attempt to
escape, and I believed her. Besides, I've been watching."

Richard
snorted contemptuously. "You believed her? You think that after doing her
best to put a sword through my heart, she'll keep her word not to escape?"

"Yes."

Elen's
heart was beating so wildly she could scarcely breathe. Richard was holding her
right arm, but if either of the men touched her left arm, they would surely
feel the knife. She turned to Giles, doing her best to appear disdainful.
"If your lord fears my escape, tell him I am not such a coward. I will
stay of my own will so long as there are those who need me."

Giles
quickly translated, and Richard's painful grip on her arm eased. She stared up
into his grimy, blood-stained face, resisting the almost overwhelming
temptation to lunge at his unprotected midsection with the knife. A better time
would come, she cautioned herself. A time when she couldn't fail. If she had
her way, Richard of Kent wouldn't leave Gwynedd alive, but the important thing
now was to see that Dylan escaped.

Richard
released her and scowled down at the body. "This man is obviously beyond
her tender care. Get her back with the others where she can be watched."

Giles
translated again.

Elen's
gaze shifted to the ground. So they hadn't seen the knife. But would Richard
think to search Dyfed now for his weapon? She drew a deep breath to ease the
trembling deep inside her. "This man was a friend," she said, seeking
to cover her actions. "I but sought to speak a prayer over him."
Turning on her heel, she made a proud retreat toward the wounded, doing her
best to appear not to hurry.

Without
glancing to right or left, Elen made her way through the guards and back among
her people. "I saw Marared," she whispered to Dylan. "She
suckles your young Enid even as we speak. The babe seems healthy enough."

A
small smile lightened his features. "Good." He glanced at the ring of
guards standing with drawn swords several paces away. The smile disappeared.
"Did you manage the knife?"

"Yes.
When I bend over to tighten your bandage, reach into my left sleeve and slip it
out," she whispered, suiting her actions to the words.

His
rough hand moved over her wrist. She felt the chill of cold steel as the knife
slid along her arm and into his hand. She had pledged her honor she wouldn't
escape, but she hadn't said a word about not helping the others. "God
protect you, Dylan," she whispered, moving away without a backward glance.

***

The
moon had set, but the sun had not yet risen to lighten the shadowy recesses of
the valley. Darkness hung over the camp, though it was a misty, gray darkness
that heralded the coming day. Torches still smoked and flared. Several had gone
out, and the grumbling soldiers hadn't relit them as they stumbled about the
camp in exhaustion.

Elen
huddled on the ground in her place with the other women, shivering with cold
and fear. Though she was overwhelmingly weary, she couldn't doze as so many
did. Her muscles felt like coiled springs, and sweat stood out on her brow
despite the fierce cold of the early-morning air. Sometime soon Dylan would
make his escape!

Wrapping
her arms about her quaking shoulders, she forced herself to think. Dylan might
be killed in the attempted escape, but what else could she have done? She had
to get word to Owain to warn him away. At least with a knife, Dylan would have
a fighting chance. Besides, they might all be slain, or worse, if even a few of
the tales of English brutality she had heard were true.

Sudden
shouts rang out, and the section of the camp holding the prisoners erupted in
confusion. It was Dylan— it had to be! Leaping to her feet, Elen struggled
against the urge to rush past her guards in an attempt to see what was
happening. Please make it, please make it, Dylan, she begged.

Richard
sprinted across the ground toward the sounds of trouble, roundly cursing these
madmen of Wales. As he reached the circle of guards, his men fell back,
silently allowing him into the center of confusion.

The
sight that met his eyes was not what he had expected. One of the ragged
Welshmen clutched a knife at the throat of Sir William of Hereford, the knight
in charge of the guard detail. How in blazes had the man gotten a knife?

"Kill
him, Richard! Kill the bastard!" William spluttered, struggling furiously
against the Welshman's rigid death grip.

"Silence,
Will. Be still!" Richard called. "I believe your friend wishes to
bargain."

A
deathly quiet fell over the men. "Giles, ask him what he hopes to
accomplish by this mad act," Richard said evenly.

Giles
moved forward and repeated the question, then turned to Richard as the Welshman
shot back his answer. "He says he will slay your knight unless you allow
all the prisoners to leave."

Richard
frowned. The man couldn't possibly expect him to agree to such terms.
"Tell him that is impossible, Giles. Tell him unless he frees Sir William
at once, I will kill not only him, but every man I hold in this circle."

Giles
sent Richard a questioning glance, then obediently began translating his words.

The
Welshman bit out a few brief words and began to back toward the woods, dragging
Sir William with him.

"His
own life for the life of the English dog," Giles repeated quickly.

Richard
nodded. "His life for William's. We won't follow him into the trees. But
tell him if he spills one drop of William's blood, every hostage I hold will
die before the sun lifts over this mountain!"

Once
again Giles translated.

Richard
held his breath as the two men disappeared into the misty tree line. The
middle-aged William was not only a good warrior, but a stalwart friend as well,
and there were upward of thirty hostages in this camp, counting women and
children. Richard spoke the most horrible threat that came to his mind, and he
didn't want to think of the consequences if the desperate Welshman called his
bluff.

About
him, the men shifted uncomfortably, gripping their swords in impotent rage.
They glanced at the dark forest, then back to him, nervously awaiting orders.

Richard
stared intently at the wood, willing his eyes to pierce the dark pall. What in
God's name was happening?

His
nerves stretched as tautly as the silence. He couldn't send his men into the
trees. The wily Welsh were probably just waiting to fall upon a few lone
soldiers struggling through an unknown wood.

Then
a familiar outraged bellow rang out. "Richard. God's death, don't you dare
let this beggar get away! I can see where he's gone. Richard... I say,
Richard!"

Richard
gestured a handful of men toward the trees. "Bring him to the forest line,
but don't venture into the wood," he ordered sharply. Drawing a quick
breath of relief, he cupped his hands to his mouth. "William, get back here,"
he shouted, knowing full well the headstrong knight might take off after the
Welshman.
"Now,
William!"

Moments
later, the dark-bearded knight and several men-at-arms came toward him across
the short space of open ground. "By the Holy Cross, Richard, you should
hack off my spurs!" William exclaimed disgustedly. "To be taken like
a downy-cheeked youth—a man with my experience!"

William
shook his dark head in a fury. "You shouldn't have let the black bastard
get away, but I'll wager he won't go far, wounded as he is. Give me six men,
just six, and I'll bring him back. Or what's left of him!"

Despite
his anger at what had occurred, Richard felt a grin tugging at his lips.
William looked like nothing so much as an outraged bear. "Your life is too
valuable for me to waste in such a fashion, Will." He lifted one tawny
eyebrow. "Who could I beat at chess with such regularity?"

William's
black scowl lightened considerably. "I'm damnably sorry, Richard! I swear
the prisoners were all thoroughly searched and none left with weapons. I can't
understand how it happened."

Richard
frowned. "See they're searched again. And have every man, save the most
seriously wounded, bound with his hands behind him."

William
nodded. "And the women?"

"Leave
them here. We'll move too fast to drag a herd of weeping women along."

"What
of the men—those too wounded to keep the pace? Shall I have them slain,
Richard?"

Richard's
frown deepened. He could kill his enemy with ease in the heat of battle, but
wantonly slaying an injured man helpless in his power was a thing he couldn't
countenance. Yet his force was far too small to leave a band here guarding the
wounded.

He
closed his eyes, feeling the gritty dryness of too many hours without sleep.
"No. Leave the dying."

When
he opened his eyes again, William was staring at him, bushy eyebrows half
lifted in surprise. The men would think him grown soft.

Richard
gritted his teeth. Well, let them! They'd soon learn differently. But even this
savage country wouldn't turn him into a barbarian!

Turning
on his heel, he made his way toward the hut where he had set up headquarters,
signaling for Giles to follow. His men needed to eat and sleep a few hours
before they moved out. But did he dare keep them here?

As
he moved past the women, his eye caught that of the girl who had tricked him
earlier. A knowing smile curled her full, pouting mouth and, in the pale dawn
light, eyes of a surprising blue stared back at him triumphantly. He'd wager
she knew how that man had gotten a knife... he'd wager his last farthing she
knew exactly how it had been accomplished!

Richard
halted so abruptly, Giles stumbled into his back. His fists clenched in
frustration and his whole body heated with a deep, explosive rage. That girl
was the embodiment of the treachery and defiance of this whole accursed land.
Never in his life had he taken his hand to a woman, but now he ached to force
that smile from her face.

Turning
on Giles with a glare that had made brave men quail, he pointed to the girl.
"Tell her not to look so damned pleased with herself till she learns her
own fate!" he snarled. "She rides with us." He glanced up at the
lightening sky. "On the hour!"

The
brilliance of dawn broke over brooding mountain peaks, sending golden waves of
light down the mountainside to the shadowy valley below. The morning air was
crisp and still. In the Welsh camp, men beat their arms together to warm
chilled limbs, and horses pranced and snorted, their warm breath sending plumes
of steam rising into the frosty air.

Elen
gazed at the frantic preparations for departure, trying desperately to keep her
gnawing fears at bay. Richard of Kent was furious and taking no pains to hide
the fact. As he strode about the camp, men leaped to nervous action at his low,
clipped orders, while his green eyes blazed with an anger more terrifying for
its icy restraint.

He
knew! He knew she had given Dylan the knife. She swallowed nervously, wondering
just what price he would exact for her deception. The Wolf of Kent was no fool,
nor was he a man to be toyed with. She wasn't afraid, she assured herself
hastily, but God forbid he take out his rancor on his helpless hostages.

A
new and terrible thought crossed her mind. The wounded—what would he do with
them? Her people were poor and had few horses, not nearly enough for all to
ride.

The
answer came with a sickening realization that near brought her to her knees.
Kill them if they couldn't keep the pace.