In response, Dafydd scrutinized their surroundings and nudged his mount closer to hers. "Silly feelings have saved my life more than once."
They continued down the road in silence and Elena was relieved to see the fork in the road up ahead. When Dafydd looked to her for direction, she gestured with her chin to the western road. Elena decided that her "feeling" had indeed been a simple case of overwrought nerves. And yet…she sniffed the air. Something didn’t smell like home…
"There is a hill in front of us so we won't be able to see the house until we crest it," she explained. Dafydd nodded in response and they urged their horses to a faster pace. The short climb up the hill, which normally seemed to pass in a few seconds, seemed interminably long tonight and Elena attributed it to her exhaustion and earlier worries.
When they finally did reach the top of the shallow hill, she smiled and prepared to sigh in relief. There just ahead was the manor--or what should have been the manor. Instead lay a pile of rubble, smoke still pouring from recently burnt beams, scorched timbers cracking as they continued to tumble to the ground. The breath she had taken to sigh was caught in her throat and her eyes widened until they ached. "Father!" she screamed, except it came out as a cracked whisper. She kicked her sturdy horse as hard as she could and set off down the hill.
"Lady Elena!" Dafydd called out after her. "No!" He quickly caught up with her and grabbed the reins from his hands. "This was no doubt the work of Richard's men and they may still be about." He glanced quickly around and then urged his mount into the small orchard just off the road, dragging the reins to Elena's horse behind him. He quickly leapt off his horse and reached up to drag Elena down. She fell off her horse and into his arms.
"Father, my parents...I have to find them," she said.
"We will," Dafydd assured her. "But first we must make sure that Richard's men are not still here awaiting your return."
Elena nodded and tried to gain hold of her panic. Dafydd wrapped both sets of reins around a tree branch and said, "Wait here. I will go see if anyone is about."
"No!"
"What?"
"I will go with you."
"But--"
"Dafydd, if Sir Gareth were here right now, he would recognize my tone of voice as one which means I will not be refused." Just mentioning Gareth made Elena feel better and she stared at Dafydd meaningfully.
"Very well, Lady. I imagine Gareth could tell me quite a bit about knowing you."
Under normal circumstances, she would have been mightily offended at his meaning, but now she simply said, "Aye, and I only hope we all live that he may know me further."
Dafydd offered her his hand and she took it as he led the way through the trees. Even in the midst of the orchard, the acrid smell of smoke overpowered the sweetness of the apples that covered each tree in abundance. Elena choked down the bile that rose at the thought of her home destroyed and forced her mind to wonder where her parents were. Surely they were not dead! Surely they had escaped. Finding no relief in thoughts of her parents as they stumbled over tree roots, Elena instead turned to the men responsible for destruction. That they belonged to Richard, she had no doubt. She had oft enough in the last year seen Richard become so enraged as to lose his grasp on logic and order something which he later regretted. He could have easily fined her parent's heavily for her actions; or better yet, stripped the estate and all titles from them. Instead he had no doubt ordered a troop of men to ride their horses into the ground to reach her father's home so quickly, had ordered them to raze it to the ground.
The more she thought of the whole scenario and the more she choked on the smoke from her family home, the angrier she became. No, she thought, angry wasn't the ride word. Though she'd had little experience with her present emotion, she knew it to be rage. Rage that grew and tinted her vision red as she and Dafydd continued to push through the thick orchard. Rage that gave strength to her exhausted muscles and pushed her forward until she was leading Dafydd. Rage that did what her newly discovered pride in being Welsh could not: it made her turn firmly and wholeheartedly against Richard of York. No longer was she ambivalent to whoever wore the crown of England. Though she was but a young woman with, now, little or no wealth, she would do all in her power to drag him from throne. And if she discovered that he had found and killed Gareth, she would not rest until she had--
They had reached the moonlit clearing before the house. Dafydd insisted she remain in the protective cover of the trees and Elena did not argue. She watched as he silently crept across the ground, blending in with the shadows. He climbed over the rubble that had been the sturdy walls and disappeared amongst the blackened ruins of her home.
Elena strained her eyes trying to see what had become of Dafydd, strained her ears trying to hear something other than the cracking of scorched timbers.
She whirled around at a rustling behind her but it was only Dafydd, returning through the woods.
“My parents. They are–“
”Come, my lady. Let us return to the village. I promised you would sleep in a bed tonight, did I not?”
“No! My–“
”They are dead, my lady,” Dafydd said as gently as he could.
Elena’s knees buckled and Dafydd caught her as she sank to the ground. “I am sorry, Elena,” he whispered.
Sometime later in the innkeeper’s cleanest room, her tears exhausted, Elena longed for Gareth, longed for his arms to comfort her, his shoulder to lean her weary head upon. Where was he tonight? Was he dead too? No! That she would not accept. She rolled onto her back and wiped the tears from her face. She did not know where Gareth was now, but she knew where he would be soon. He would be at the battle between Richard’s forces and Henry’s. Very well, then. So would she.
Chapter 34
On the outskirts of Lichfield, Elena and Dafydd stopped and made camp. They had traveled at a breakneck pace since hearing of Henry Tudor’s landing and subsequent march to the heart of England. They had spoken little during their journey, but had settled into a companionable kinship.
“Wait here until I determine who holds this town.”
Elena nodded but said nothing as he turned to leave. She unsaddled her horse and set about gathering firewood and lighting it. She stared into the small blaze and absently ran her hands through her cropped hair, mourning its loss only briefly. She felt as though she had aged a lifetime in the last week and the fact that she had needed to cut her beautiful hair to pass as a boy was of little consequence.
The idea had been hers. Dafydd had thought to deposit her in a convent for her own safety, for regardless of the outcome of the upcoming battle, the nuns would care for her. Elena decided not to tell him of the borderland abbess who’d quite calculatedly betrayed Gareth and his friends.
“No,” she said implacably. “I shall travel with you. You seek to join Henry Tudor’s army, do you not?”
“Yes, my lady, but that is no place—“
“Then I will accompany you.”
Seeking a different tack, he said, “But we will draw all manner of focus,” this with a gesture to her gown and jewels.
Elena fumbled at the clasp of her necklace, removing it and handing it to Dafydd. “Take this. Sell it and purchase me hose and a jerkin. A rough cloak.” Dafydd stared in horror at the necklace. “Oh, and food. Buy as much as the horses can carry.”
Looking a bit dazed, Dafydd finally took the necklace and made to leave the small room. “Dafydd,” she called out when he was at the door.
“Yes, my lady?” Trepidation filled his voice.
“Have you a dagger?”
He drew a blade from the sheath at his hip and handed it to her, hilt first.
“Thank you.”
It had taken Elena several tries, but she finally forced herself to saw through her thick chestnut-colored braid. She looked from it to the blade and saw that they were both shaking. Oh, she thought, it’s my hands. Carefully putting both down on the small table, she sat with clasped hands and awa
ited Dafydd’s return.
A brief rap heralded his entrance. He paused in the doorway, but said nothing. After a moment, he crossed the room and dropped a small bundle in her lap. “There’s a hood there as well. I thought it would hide…”
Her hair, she mentally finished, and smiled. Perhaps she should have thought more carefully before her rash act. And yet, she did not regret it. Cutting her hair—her pride, the envy of the other ladies at court, the object of many pretty compliments—was like severing herself from a past she no longer recognized.
They had travelled at a punishing pace, travelling in a roundabout path to stop at any town large enough to hear word of Henry Tudor’s landing, of King Richard’s movement. Always, their direction took them west, toward Wales. Elena was beyond tired. She had no idea what kept her in the saddle. She seemed to have discovered a hidden strength she’d never realized was a part of her. Or perhaps it was simply that her determination had settled on a different goal. Either way, they covered long stretches of England’s roads until finally they heard word at one busy pub of the upcoming battle.
Elena stirred the fire and brushed a short strand of hair out of her eyes.
Nearly an hour passed before the Welshman returned.
"Neither man holds Lichfield. They are gathering near Market Bosworth, halfway between here and Leicester. They will no doubt come to battle on the morrow.” Disappointment was evident in Dafydd’s voice. “There is no way we can arrive before the battle is over. The day is spent and they will surely fight come dawn's first rays."
“Then let us travel all night.”
Dafydd shook his head. “No. You are exhausted. My humble presence will not determine the course of the battle one way or the other. We will leave at first light.”
Elena ignored him and rose to saddle her horse. “We leave now.”
“My lady,” Dafydd said with a chuckle. “Sir Gareth is either the strongest-willed man alive or the most hen-pecked!”
“I’m sure he would say both,” Elena said with her first smile in days.
***
The dawn broke brilliant and clear over the horizon. Elena and her escort rode unmolested into the Tudor camp after one of the Welsh sentries recognized Dafydd. Dafydd left her with the pages and squires who were too young to fight.
“For your own safety, my lady, please stay here. I would not wish to face your Sir Gareth should aught happen to you.”
“Good luck, Dafydd. And…have a care,” Elena replied, though she had no intention of obeying him. She must find Gareth, must see him before he took the field in case this battle was–no, she would not consider his death.
Elena took off in the direction Dafydd had taken. Surely he sought the Welsh troops. She could just see his head bobbing as his loping gait carried him through the somber men who prepared for battle. Though the morn was clear and sweet, there was a heaviness in the air that prevented the usual morning banter and laughter. Men would die today, Elena thought. Perhaps these very men. Elena crossed herself. So long as it was not Gareth!
A troop of squires leading their knight’s warhorses crossed between her and Dafydd. She jumped to keep sight of his head, but all she saw were muscled withers and flanks, streaming manes and tails.
When the horses had passed, Elena ran to catch up with Dafydd, but he was nowhere to be seen. Frustrated, she tugged at her cropped hair. Where could he be?
“You there, boy!” A large hand grabbed her shoulder and swung her around. “Do you not heed your master’s call?” A slender blonde man scowled at her. He was long of chin and broad of brow, but handsome nonetheless. But for his helm he was fully armored.
“You are clearly too young to be fighting. You are not trying to sneak onto the field are you? Where is your knight?”
“Sire,” a man panted as he ran up to the blonde man. “Lord Stanley yet awaits with his troops. He did not heed your summons, but neither does he join Richard’s men.”
The blonde man’s mouth twisted wryly. “He no doubt waits to judge who will emerge victorious before committing himself. Send word to him that we will await his leisure amongst the bodies of Richard’s men.”
The messenger appeared confused, but obeyed. “Yes, Your Grace.”
As the blonde man turned back to Elena, she suddenly realized who he was and sank into a curtsey. Belatedly realizing that young boys did not curtsey, she continued down to the ground, affecting a faint.
“Hold, there,” Henry Tudor said as he bent to help her up. “Are you ill?”
“Nay, sire. Only...only hungry. ‘Tis been a while since I’ve eaten.”
Henry frowned. “You’ve not eaten and you wander unarmored through the ranks. I will have words for your knight. Who is master of your household, boy?”
Elena thought frantically. She was about to name Gareth’s father, but did not want to gain him trouble from the would-be king. “I belong to no household, sire. I only sought to...to help Your Grace in any way possible.”
Henry rumpled her hair and smiled indulgently. “‘Tis very brave of you, if foolhardy. You’ll do no good if you collapse from hunger.” He glanced up as his trumpeters called his men into formation. His squire waited at his elbow to hand him his helm. “You can help me most now by staying alive. Should I emerge victorious this day, I will need such devoted men as you. Join my pages with the baggage. You will be safe there.”
“Yes, your grace,” Elena said, bowing and backing away as quickly as possible. There was no way she would be able to find Gareth now, with thousands of men moving toward the battlefield. She began to make her way to the back of the lines but was swept forward by the rush of troops.
“Let me through!” she cried, but her plea was lost in the battle cry of thousands of men. She made small headway before being swept forward again. Without knowing how, she found herself at the crest of the hill. She glanced down and gasped.
The battle had begun. The archers were exchanging volley after volley of arrows, the Welsh easily discernible with their longbows, which wreaked havoc in the enemy’s line. The man beside her was struck in the throat by a stray, lucky shot. Elena screamed and redoubled her efforts to push her way through the line. “Let me through, I say. By order of his grace, Henry Tudor.”
That had some effect and Elena was roughly pushed to the back of the lines. Bruised and feeling as though she had fought a battle, she collapsed on the trampled ground to catch her breath.
She returned to the baggage line where the pages were pretending to be busy organize the packs, bundled tents, and spare weapons.
Several of the pages tried to get her to join them, but Elena refused, curling up on the ground beneath a cart. She prayed with a devotion she had never felt as the minutes slowly crept by.
To her surprise, she awoke some time later. Terrified that she had missed something, she scrambled out from her hiding place.
“I tell you, the battle is over!” said one of the pages.
“Our orders are to remain here,” argued another.
“And miss our share of the bounty? I think not!” the first boy said, and left with a small group for the ridge. Elena hurried to keep up with them and thus had her first view of the aftermath of the battle.
In a small field that would have barely held a flock of sheep, ten thousand men had met in fierce combat. There was not an inch of ground that had not been trampled, turned, or bloodied. The lush grass was flattened and torn to a matted pulp on which the dead and wounded cushioned their heads. Everywhere she looked, one gruesome sight or another met her eyes. Bodies were hacked beyond recognition, laying haphazardly where they fell, some on their backs where they gazed sightlessly at the bright blue sky overhead, others face down in the trampled dirt which a ceaseless flow of blood had turned to mud. Moans of tortuous pain reached her and she saw trembling hands lifted, voices begging for help. Oh the battle was definitely over, she thought a bit wildly as she choked down the bile that rose at the sights and smells assailing her. But who had won? Sh
e saw men held prisoner in small groups by soldiers with pikes and swords, but whose men were they?
A shout drew her attention across the small valley she saw a man pulling something from a cluster of bushes. Elena squinted and saw the light reflect off the objects shiny surface. The crown of England! she thought. Wide eyed, she watched as the man strode towards a small group of men in the center of the field. The man approached the group and bowed as a tall blond man stepped away from the crowd. The blond man took the crown and held it in the air so that all could see it before he set it firmly on his head. Elena exhaled with relief. That was not Richard, but Henry Tudor, now King of England. So intrigued was she with what was going on below her that she shrieked in fear when a man on horseback rode up to her.
"Sweet Mary, but you frightened me!"
The man laughed and gestured with his chin to the center of the field. "And you frightened our new king with that scream."
Elena turned and saw Henry shaking his head and laughing with the men around him. He gestured for her to join him.
“Well lad, it seems you did not obey my orders to stay with the baggage.”
Elena’s eyes widened. Had she truly crossed the king? “Forgive me, your grace, but I seek a friend.”
“Am I not your friend?” he joked with the intense joy of one who had gambled everything and won.
“Of–of course sire...” Elena did not know what to say.
“Go on then and seek your friend.” Elena turned to leave. “Boy!” Henry called and something in the way he said it made her realize he knew she was not a boy. She turned around, but Henry only winked at her.
She felt her face warm but her embarrassment was quickly forgotten as she resumed her search for Gareth. She had no idea how she would locate him and pushed down a surge of panic.
Destiny, fate, or pure blind luck came to her assistance. Twenty paces beyond the king, crouched on the ground were Gareth and Bryant. "Gareth!" she called as she pushed past a small group of men and began running towards him. Gareth lifted his head wearily, but when he saw her, he quickly pushed himself to his feet and lifted her off the ground as she flung herself at him. His arms crushed her body to him and she reveled in their strength. He was alive and unharmed! Her heart sang with the news and as soon as he lowered her to the ground, she grabbed his head and forced it to hers so that she might see his face. What she saw astounded her. Gone was the boyishness that had been present even in their most intimate and most dangerous times. That unruly lock of hair that was forever getting in his eyes was held off his forehead with clotted blood. Sweat and grime drew harsh lines around his eyes and mouth and his eyes looked weary beyond his years. Elena's heart constricted with grief and worry for him. As he turned and led her to where Bryant was still crouched on the ground, she realized the cause behind his inexplicable sorrow.
A Dishonorable Knight Page 39