Nodding, Sir Robert agreed. It was plain they were left to recover Glynllew on their own with no assistance from the crown. The king regarded England and Wales as sources of revenue, not as his kingdom. Even knowing that, Rhys admired Richard as a warrior, if not as a monarch.
Morgan approached, bringing clean armor and weapons; Malik was saddled and waiting. The squire helped buckle Rhys into his mail, and the small band he had chosen to accompany him gathered at the edge of the camp. Sir Brian had not yet returned.
They had planned late into the night, but now that Sasha was gone, perhaps knowing of their plans, all had changed. He would not risk losing men to betrayal. Six knights and two dozen soldiers were not enough to take a fortified keep. If he armed all the squires he would still not have enough. Assaulting Raglan’s keep would be suicidal. Glynllew presented a challenge, but he had the advantage of familiarity of the keep as reported by Ranald.
“Do you have the herbs?” he asked Sir Robert, and the knight nodded.
“Aye, in my pack. I pray we earn the chance to use them.”
Abandoning the closest route, they traveled parallel to the River Wye, reaching a rise that looked down on Tintern Abbey. “It has changed also,” he murmured, and Sir Robert nodded.
“You have been gone a long time, my lord.”
“Aye. A lifetime.”
“A rider, my lord,” one of the soldiers said, and weapons were readied until the horseman drew close enough to recognize.
Brian reined his blowing mount to a halt near Rhys, and the black-haired youth slid from the back to the ground in a lithe motion. His hands were bound, but his tongue was free to mouth Italian obscenities. Rhys caught only a few phrases, but enough to know the boy was furious.
“Speak English if you wish to be heard,” he said, regarding him in amusement.
“Bah! A clumsy language, near as ugly as Welsh,” he snarled. “Yon knight has pig slop for brains. I told him to follow the trail, but he would not.”
“Did you find her?”
Brian pulled a small shoe from the pouch attached to his waist. “The brat says ‘tis hers.”
He held it out, and Rhys took it. It was battered, muddy, but unmistakably a woman’s shoe. Tiny bells had adorned it, crushed now, and flattened. “Where did you find it?”
“A half-league from where you found her pouch,” Brian replied. “There had been men and horses there. The ground was cut up and not yet dry.”
Sweat streaked Brian’s face, dampened the hair beneath his helmet, and his lathered horse blew noisily. It was warm in the sunlight, when it had still been cool in the trees. Below, the abbey sat quietly, laymen toiling in the gardens, the scent of baking bread on the wind. Rhys considered for a moment before deciding his next action.
He looked down at Biagio. “The road below passes by the abbey and leads to Glynllew. If soldiers have passed with a woman, they may have been seen. It is better if a traveler makes the inquiry than more soldiers.”
Biagio squinted against the sun’s glare, looking up at him. “You trust me to do it?”
“I trust you to find news of the maid.”
Brian expelled a gust of air. “He cannot be trusted, my lord. He’s more like to call down the enemy than to—”
“Sir Brian, if he can find the maid, let him do it.”
“And if she went willingly?”
“Then we’ll know that soon enough.”
Biagio held up his hands, bound at the wrists with stout rope. “Release me, if I am to be a poor sojourner to the abbey. What is it called?”
“Abaty Tyndyrn—Tintern Abbey. It matters not if you know the right name, as you are a stranger to this land. They will know that at once. Do not pretend to be anything but a wayfarer who seeks his missing sister.”
“Grazia,” Biagio muttered when Rhys slit the ropes at his wrists. Rubbing at his chafed skin he added, “I need a weapon.”
“No weapon. Not even an eating knife. I trust you only so far. Now go. We will watch for you from here.”
As they watched the youth descend the narrow road down the hill, disappearing behind trees and then reappearing, Brian said, “We shall never see that one again.”
“He’ll return. I think of all of us, he may want to find her the most.”
Brian turned to look at him. “If she has betrayed us, they will both disappear.”
“And leave the old woman?” Rhys shook his head. “Nay, they will not abandon her.”
Shaking his head, Brian took his horse’s reins to cool him, walking the steed under the trees that lined the road in places. Rhys stayed mounted, watching as Biagio appeared at the abbey gates. Drystone walls had been built as fences, but wooden gates and buildings formed the majority of the abbey. It looked as if building had begun on a new chapel, with masons working and the sound of hammers tap-tapping in the distance. Built in the curve of the River Wye, the abbey promised peace and sanctuary to weary travelers. It had grown since he last saw it, from mud and wattle huts to a large compound; a small port lay on the river for boats.
As the sun rose higher in the sky and Biagio did not return, Brian suggested they go down to the abbey. “He could have left through another gate, or be hiding in a boat to go upriver.”
Rhys glanced at him. “I saw him go into the kitchens.”
It could be Brian was right. Biagio could slip away unseen and find Sasha on his own, or abandon them all. Yet his distress had been genuine. It had been a risk, but one he thought worth taking if it would gain information on the maid or the soldiers’ identity.
“Here he comes,” Sir Robert said suddenly, and Rhys looked down at the road.
Biagio trudged back up the hill, holding what looked to be a loaf of bread in the crook of his arm. By the time he reached them, half the loaf was gone, and crumbs dusted his tunic and mouth. “Soldiers have her,” he said, flopping down in the shade of an alder tree. “One of the lay monks heard them arguing over whether to take her back to Glynllew or drown her as a witch. It was not the favorite choice to deliver her to the constable at the keep, but their leader prevailed.”
Rhys couldn’t help a smile when Biagio added, “I confess, I have ofttimes considered a similar solution when she is particularly obstinate, although not as final.”
“I have no doubt of that,” Brian muttered.
“Let him ride in the rear with a soldier or walk with the archers, but guard him well,” Rhys said, and Brian nodded.
It was a relief to learn who had her, although he did not trust his cousin not to do harm to her once he learned she had been found in his camp. Sasha was now a hostage, and he had seen the fate of hostages too often. King Richard had executed over two thousand Muslim hostages when he didn’t want to be bothered with them before the Battle of Arsuf.
“My lord,” Biagio said, “I have a few talents that may be of use to you, should you care to trust me again.”
Ignoring Brian’s soft oath, Rhys studied the boy. “What would those be?”
“I am adept at going unnoticed when required. I blend in well with peasants or squires. I have sharp ears. ‘Tis well-known Italians are expert at adapting to murderous situations, my lord. It is a requirement for survival in Verona. If you allow it, I have a plan.”
Amused, Rhys considered it for a moment. “I will have to hear the plan . . .”
“WELCOME TO GLYNLLEW, demoiselle.” The fluent French phrase came from a man seated in a tall-backed chair on the dais at the far end of the great hall. Light filtered through high windows in hazy patches. He beckoned her closer. “Come forward, so I may see you better.”
A guard roughly pushed her forward. Sasha curled her fingers into tight fists at her sides, ignoring the curious gazes directed at her as she was escorted to the dais. Tiny bells on the shoe she had left tinkled with every step, muf
fled slightly by foul-smelling rushes on the stone floor. The guard stopped her at the foot of the dais. Heavy tapestries hung on the walls, fluttering in numerous drafts. Candles guttered and smoked; armed guards ranged the sides of the hall.
She was aware of it all without staring, blocking out the unfamiliar language of those around her, allowing in only a few voices and impressions. She saw herself as she appeared to the guard at her side; tangled hair and muddy feet, cotte rent in places, her cloak dirty and leaf-strewn. Her eyes lifted to meet the intent gaze of the man who had spoken; he expected her to be afraid, to cower. She drew in a deep breath and replied in French, “This is a poor welcome.”
“I am devastated to hear it, demoiselle. We hoped to extend a more courteous invitation, but I am told you were not willing to accept.”
“Who are you, and why have I been brought here?”
Stroking his beard with one hand, he smiled. “Gareth, Lord of Glynllew. While I cannot promise we will meet your every need while you are here, my accommodations are adequate, I assure you.”
He toyed with her. It was a show, a performance such as those she had given in halls and palaces from Persia to Paris. He waited for her to play the part of a pleading supplicant, to kneel at his feet and beg for her life and liberty. It would not alter his intention, but it would please him to see her weeping. So she chose to play her own part, not pander to his vanity.
Lifting her brow, she said haughtily, “It seems we have very different notions of what are adequate accommodations. I have dined with princes and danced with kings, and I see nothing here to recommend comparison.”
He regarded her for a long moment, his silent language incomprehensible to her but the images far too clear. While not an ill-favored man, with dark hair and piercing dark eyes, a strong jaw and neatly-trimmed beard, his lips pursed petulantly under a nose that jutted out like an eagle’s beak.
“You speak boldly, demoiselle,” he said at last. “I did not realize we entertain royalty.”
Several people laughed, and the guard at her side said something in Welsh that brought more laughter. Sasha kept her chin high, and the lessons of her childhood returned to lend her resolve. She had been born a princess, and her father had been a prince, and she dredged up all the icy reserve she could summon.
“It is well that you realize it now. I expect to be released immediately.”
“Yet I must disappoint you,” he said curtly. “I find it most difficult to believe royalty is in the habit of wandering alone in the woods.”
The guard laughed coarsely, spoke again in Welsh, and she said imperiously, “I was not alone. I became separated from my guard.”
For a moment, he hesitated, and she felt his uncertainty. If she was indeed royalty and he had taken her prisoner, it could cause him a great deal of trouble. But she knew this man would not be impressed with her lineage. Not when his king and overlord fought in the Crusades; he would regard her as a heathen enemy. She had quickly learned to hide her birth from others once she had left Shirvan behind, and years of playing the part of a fortune teller, acrobat, dancer, or whatever the situation required, had kept her alive. If she deviated from it now, she may well find herself undone.
A diversion, she required a diversion. . . .
It came in the form of a dog. Up on the dais lay an Alaunt, such as those dogs that had guarded sheep at her childhood home. With its large head, short white hair, and muscular body, it had a formidable reputation. She concentrated on the animal, and it lifted its great head from atop its paws to look toward her. Curiosity stirred in the dog, and she tapped her foot against the stone floor so that the tiny bells tinkled. Ears pricked toward her, the dog sat up.
Gareth leaned forward. “It is possible I have been misinformed. Your name, demoiselle?”
“Elfreda of Darkenwald,” she replied, silently asking her mother’s forgiveness. Her foot tapped against the floor again, and the Alaunt rose from its haunches, intent upon the sound, riveted by her wordless call to action.
“I am unfamiliar with Darkenwald—an English shire?”
“You have never heard of Darkenwald?” she repeated in an incredulous tone, and jerked her foot to one side. Bells vibrated shrilly, sound bouncing off the stone floor.
The Alaunt pounced, as if spying a hare or weasel beneath her cape. It leaped from the dais in a single graceful motion, landing right in front of her. She did not move, but her guard let out an oath and lurched away from her as if to flee. Immediately, the dog’s attention went to this new prey, and she silently encouraged the animal to investigate. The Alaunt stuck its nose in the guard’s crotch, huge jaws snapping.
Chaos ensued as the guard shrieked, and the dog snarled when he slapped at him, and Gareth stood, bellowing orders for the dog to be brought to heel.
“Do not dare put a sword to him, for the dog is worth ten of you,” Gareth roared in French, following with Welsh she did not understand.
Sasha stepped back, searching for escape. She might have succeeded, but another soldier appeared at her side and took her arm.
“Do not attempt flight,” he said coldly in Norman French, and she glanced up at him. Icy blue eyes met hers; he had been the first to chase her in the woods, and she had threatened to turn him into a rabbit if he didn’t release her. An empty threat of course, but it often worked on credulous, superstitious men. It had not worked on him. While it had frightened some of the others, he was not fooled and ignored her resistance, dragging her roughly to a horse and tying her hands with a length of cord.
He had seen her earlier with Rhys and witnessed her escape, for the memory lingered in his mind. Satisfied that she would make a suitable hostage, he had no interest in her fate, only in his reward. She had contented herself with thoroughly terrifying the soldiers closest to her on the brutal ride to Glynllew, unnerving them by knowing their thoughts, but this man had remained unmoved. He represented a far greater threat to her than even Gareth, for his lack of concern for her life or death was inflexible.
When the dog was back on the dais, leashed, and rewarded with bread and meat, Gareth looked down at her. “You importune me,” he said. A faint smile curled his mouth. “You will remain my guest until I am ready to release you, Princess Elfreda.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, her voice steadier than she felt. “One can count on the sun to rise and set and the moon to stay in the heavens, but mankind can count on little else as a certainty.”
Gareth’s eyes narrowed. “Do you hope for rescue? I assure you, I hope for an attempt as well, for my cousin will be met with an unpleasant greeting.”
“I depend on no man to do what I can do myself,” she said softly and was rewarded with a faint expression of surprise and frenzy of thoughts in French and Welsh: fragmented sentences, desperation, jealousy, hatred—All the waiting while he earned glory and riches . . . naught, all for naught if I do not kill Rhys. . . I’ll see the skin flayed from his bones and his heart taken still beating . . . plague take King Richard . . . Sa i’n gwybod . . .
When he shifted into Welsh she lost the language, but the visions of violent death stayed to haunt her. He left no doubt that she was the lure to the eagle, and both would die at his hands.
Beckoning to one of the soldiers who had escorted her into the hall, Gareth demanded, “I would hear how you found our guest wandering and alone, Bowen.”
The soldier glanced at her with a flash of regret in his eyes and mind, but obeyed. “We came across her deep in the wood near by their camp. As her cloak is purple and of fine wool, we assumed her to accompany your cousin and thought it best to bring her to you for questioning.” And silently, Ah, a bitter task. Curse this traitor who would be lord . . . but what else can I do?
An ally. Perhaps one of the old lord’s loyal guard. Mayhap not all in the keep followed Gareth; some might be loyal to Rhys, as the old lord’s son and hei
r. It could be useful.
“You saw her with Rhys ap Griffyn?” Gareth questioned.
“Nay, not I, my lord.” He indicated the soldier next to her. “‘Twas Vachel who caught her and said she was with your cousin.”
“And you, Vachel? You saw Rhys ap Griffyn?”
“Aye, my lord. He dallied with this woman in the wood, but she was unwilling so kicked him in the stones and escaped.”
Gareth laughed. His gaze returned to Sasha and lingered. “You are a dangerous princess, I perceive. I shall take care with you.” He signaled to Vachel. “See that she is kept safely in a chamber suitable for her royal status.” A contemptuous smile as he emphasized the last words conveyed just the opposite meaning, and her guard took his point.
“Yea, my lord,” Vachel replied and took her arm ungently in his grasp to steer her from the hall. Conversation rose in a babble of voices, laughter, curiosity as she was escorted from the hall. It was chilling to realize that Vachel thought only of the moment, his mind reflecting none but the passages they traversed, the steep stone steps that led down into darkness illuminated by random torches that spit sparks and wavery light. Most people thought of family, or hopes, or at least their dinner and griping belly, but Vachel’s mind saw only stone walls, shadows, torches. Did he suspect her Gift and deliberately block her? Or was he one of those her mother had told her to be’ware, a dark soul and vast emptiness where nothing mattered but the moment. Even the wild animals had emotions, fleeting though they lingered, but some people were repositories of such unformed malevolence they were more akin to a bored tiger on the hunt. Less honest, but just as dangerous.
Stone steps were cold and clammy beneath her bare foot as they descended; tiny bells on her remaining shoe protested every step into the dark unknown. Fetid air curled through shadows and pools of torchlight, almost palpable. A shadow detached from the wall and stepped into light, startling her so that she drew in a deep breath that tasted of decay. A soldier loomed, blinking in the shift from dark to light as Vachel jerked a torch from the iron holder. Muscled and stolid, the soldier moved slowly to unhook a ring of keys from his belt.
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