She went to the window. The fields were all upturned earth, the sky was endless blue. There were hidden stars behind the daylight sky, just as there were hidden advantages to being a woman whose heart could be made stone.
“Mother, only think.” William was speaking urgently at her ear now. “If we can reach Edward quickly, we can use this circumstance well to–”
She held her hand up again, and knew by the look on him that it was the force of her anger more than the gesture that silenced him. Her son who she so little knew, who was so like her. Opportunity in strife, always finding a way to turn adversity to advantage – had she passed nothing else on to him? A forlorn regret swelled in her at the thought.
She touched her fingertips lightly to the side of his face. She had not touched him so since he was a child, and he looked down at her, rapt. Whatever she said now, he would remember it.
“The things we do out of hate, and those we do for love,” she told him. “They come back to us. One by one, they return to us in some form, some time.”
She turned back to the window and breathed the cool spring air. She gathered together everything she knew of the Mortimers, every last scrap she had hoarded while at court. She looked deep inside her heart, to assess its worth to her if Robert was not in it.
Around the blazing fire at her center, she let the cold seep into every part of her. Into the waiting silence, looking out dry-eyed across the lands she had so lately claimed, she spoke her command.
“I will have the twelve finest of our knights with me, mounted and armed. Send the marshal to me now, and make all haste,” she said as she swept past them, already halfway to the door. “I ride within the hour.”
It was easy enough to find the place when she asked the Welsh villagers in their own language about the woman with hair like sunset, whose sons were little lordlings. She had not thought to find both boys there, but took it as a stroke of luck. It would have been better luck still if the woman had been a little more stupid, but Eluned overcame her reticence by saying, “Come closer, and I will whisper a secret from your beloved.”
Instead she whispered that her knights could easily take the boys by force, and was it not easier to give them over peaceably? Then she turned to the boys and bent to say to them in a gentle voice, “There now, your mother will have your bags packed in a moment and then it will be only a day of travel. Just a short visit. Won’t that be a lovely surprise?”
They were intrepid little souls, who thrilled at the speed of the ride and thought it great fun to sleep under the open sky. When their party met up with the small host that waited among the trees a mile from Rowland, they were filled with questions about the longbows but did not ask why so many were assembled here to meet them. Eluned sent her chosen envoy with a message to the manor at Rowland, then dismounted and spoke to Sir Lucas, who held the command of these men.
“We stand ready, lady. Our scout saw Mortimer’s arrival only an hour ago. He came with a woman, who is described in every particular as his lady sister, and six men-at-arms.”
He told her about the low wall that ran across a field to the west of the manor house, and they made their way toward it as they waited for the envoy to return. All the while, he described the meager defenses here, how many more armed men made their way on foot from Dinwen, and the reported state of the roads between here and Ruardean.
“If I signal,” she told him when the envoy rode into view, “it is meant for Sir Alan, who has my instruction. When there is aught the greater host must do, you will hear it from my own lips. Heed me well and do not dare to defy me, for it is my lord husband’s life in the balance. And you see plainly what I am prepared to do in defense of that life.”
He bowed his head in agreement, and the envoy approached. It was Father Morgan, a Franciscan who was more than eager to play peacemaker, and pleased to tell her that Mortimer had agreed to a meeting. The strain in the priest’s smile told her that Mortimer had only agreed to it when he learned she came with a host of armed men. “I have seen your lord husband with my own eyes, Lady Eluned,” the priest assured her. “He is treated as an honored guest by this house and is very well, though his patience is sorely tested. He has sworn to me that he knows nothing of a plot to kill Lord Mortimer, of course.”
“Because he is entirely innocent,” she said, and watched the priest recoil from her vehemence.
She chose one knight to accompany her to the meeting place, and told him he would wait outside and only enter if she called for him. It was a little stone building not far from the trees, just barely within sight of the manor but in plain view of the wall where her soldiers waited. It was used by hunters, the priest babbled as they made their way, and the master of this manor was happy to offer it and wished for a quick and peaceful solution to the troubles that had landed at his door only because he called Roger Mortimer his liege lord.
She strode past the horses that were tied outside, past the man who had already collected an assortment of blades and demanded that her knight disarm if he was to enter, and into the room where Roger Mortimer stood with hands on hips and a thunderous expression. She did not hesitate or pause, but walked straight on, fury compelling her, feeling the drag and billow of her cloak behind her as she rounded the corner of a long table until she was inches from him. The fabric swirled at her ankles with the suddenness of her stop. She locked eyes with him and spoke with iron in her voice.
“Give me my husband.”
He opened his mouth a fraction, taking in air as preparation to a mocking laugh, but she had the satisfaction of watching the intention die in the face of her unwavering stare. There was a rustle beside her, a familiar voice saying her name, but she did not turn.
“Your husband is unharmed, as your priest has seen,” said Isabella, her voice taut.
“Give him to me,” repeated Eluned, never taking her eyes from Roger Mortimer, “or it will be war.”
Mortimer raised his brows. Now he was mocking. “War? A fine war you will wage with barely more than seventy men.”
“Against your six, and the two dozen that defend this manor,” she replied.
“They can hold this place against your force for the few days it will require to bring a hundred mounted knights. My men are well trained in dodging the arrows of Welsh longbows, I promise you, and even more experienced in killing ragged Welsh soldiers.”
She bit her tongue as the memory of her uncle’s blood-spattered face rose up in her, his lifeless hand in hers. She willed herself not to look away, not to rage at him and lunge at his smug face.
“The men of Ruardean are a fine match for them,” she said evenly. “My son rides to there now in preparation. I have only to say the word. And though their march is longer, the forces of Morency are not to be dismissed as ragged soldiers. Or did you forget that I am not alone?” She allowed herself the barest hint of a smile. “Our Welshmen from the north and west, Ruardean from the south, Morency from the east – and if it come to that, there are the de Lascaux men who will set sail from France when they hear their lord is threatened. You have heard how well they defended the Aquitaine against all the forces of Castile, yes? And how well my husband is loved by the king for that service?”
His eyes narrowed. She could almost hear him recalculating.
“The king loves me no less. He will not like to hear how nearly I was murdered by your husband’s design.”
“Fool.” With that one scathing word, she turned from him and addressed his sister. “You are not vain or empty-headed, Isabella. Tell me, then, why Robert would want your brother dead?”
Isabella sat and smoothed her hands over her knees, as though determined to discuss the matter civilly. “There are reasons aplenty to be guessed at, but we are little concerned with them. It is the evidence that has brought us to this.”
“Evidence? The word of a servant girl, no doubt given at knifepoint, and who had the name of de Lascaux at her lips only because of the ring I gave her, not my husband. It was a token i
n thanks because she served me well, no more than that, with my wishes for a happy marriage. And this you turn into a payment for murder.” She curled her lip in scorn. “Such weak reasoning is not worthy of you.”
Eluned turned back to Roger Mortimer, who did not seem in the least to be reconsidering his stance. Indeed he seemed only to grow angrier as she stared her hatred at him. She had forgotten Father Morgan, who now decided his intervention was called for.
“Surely with reflection and prayer, a compromise can be found that will prevent bloodshed,” he began in a soothing tone, but Eluned did not care to hear more.
“There is no compromise. You will release my husband. Today.”
“Do you think to command me?” Mortimer thundered, blood rising in his face, incensed by her imperious tone. “I am not ruled by shrewish women!”
“You are ruled by vile passions and greed and you will not imprison my husband for the wild fantasies in your head!” She heard Isabella leap to her feet in alarm. “I tell you it will come to war if you hold him one more hour, I swear it on my soul.”
“War! What know you of war? I have led the king’s army and won Wales. Think you that you can win against me?”
He was like a bull, a great wall of muscle staring her down and snorting his rage. She lifted her chin and considered him calmly.
“Haps not,” she said, and allowed the honest uncertainty to be heard in her voice. “I am not a soldier and I have fought in no wars. I am but a woman, with a woman’s weapons.” She walked to the window that was behind Isabella, which faced west. Far across a broad field there was the stone wall, her men ranged out behind it. She turned her head over her shoulder and beckoned. “Come you and see the weapon I have mastered.”
It was the priest who came first, standing at her shoulder and looking out across the field with her. He gestured to the others, who came closer. She could feel them at her back, the heat and bulk of the brother, the cool caution of the sister.
“What am I meant to see but these men you have brought?” Mortimer asked. “They are so far even their longbows cannot reach us.”
Eluned swallowed against the dryness in her throat, raised her hand, and waved it out the window. An answering wave came in return. A moment later, two boys were hoisted up to stand along the distant stone wall. The younger had strawberry blond hair that caught the afternoon sun and caused his aunt to gasp. It took Mortimer a fraction of a moment longer to realize.
“My sons.”
He whispered it as he stepped closer to the window, and she knew she had not miscalculated. He stood too close to her or else he would have struck her, she was sure. Instead he gripped her shoulders and pressed her to the wall. He had only begun to shake her, looking to smash her head against the stones, no doubt, when Isabella managed to wedge an arm between them. He roared, and his sister shouted frantically at him to stop.
“Listen to her!” Eluned spat the words at him. She smiled and thrust her chin upwards, not caring that she must seem mad, only knowing that she would not shrink before him, that she would die before she surrendered her will to brute strength again. She smiled a cold smile and pointed out the window. His eyes followed. The boys still stood on the wall, waving now, and one of the archers stood behind them with arrow poised.
“Release me, and the danger is removed.” His hands fell away from her and he stepped back. She raised a hand in signal, and the archer lowered his bow. “Release my husband and no harm will come to them.”
Mortimer stared out at the distant gleam of his son’s hair. She watched his jaw work, his fists clench. It was pride that kept him silent, the disbelief that he must concede defeat. It was a very fine thing, to watch him struggle to swallow it.
“You would not.” Isabella stood tall and cool and almost certain, blinking down at Eluned. “It is too cruel. You would not kill them.”
Eluned kept her eyes on Roger, who swung around at his sister’s words. He looked at Isabella, then back to Eluned. He studied her closely through narrowed eyes.
“In faith, haps my sister has the right of it.” He glanced out the window again, then back at her, trying to see whether she dissembled. “It is a hard heart that would murder innocents.”
Eluned tilted her head quizzically. “How hard was the second King Henry’s heart when he plucked the eyes from twenty-two Welshmen he held hostage? My grandmother’s grandfather was one of those he blinded. We remember.”
“The second King Henry!” he scoffed. “A hundred years ago at the least–”
“And then there was your King John,” she continued, her voice rising, “who murdered twenty-eight Welsh boys, hostages whose safety he claimed to hold sacred until he hanged them from the walls of Nottingham castle. Boys as young as your sons, all of them. One was my father’s uncle. We remember.”
“What has this to–”
“And the Welsh princes in your care, sons of Powys, last of their line.” She was shouting now, the blood rushing in her ears. “They were kin to my mother, did you know it? Two innocent little boys and they were drowned and we remember.” She took a ragged breath, listening to the echo of her voice ringing off the stones in the small room. “Do not think me incapable of cruelty toward innocents. I have learned it from masters of the art.”
“And do you kill my sons, lady, then I shall kill your husband and that is the end of it!”
“Think you I will stop there? Nay, my lord, for I prefer the flavor of a wound well salted. War, I have said, and also…” She looked to Isabella and said, “There is a place called Northop, and a man named Robert de Hastang there. Three men who are loyal to me lie in wait. At my word he will be captured.” The blood drained from Isabella’s face. “What think you I will do to him, if I am made mad with grief for my husband?”
There was no pleasure in it for Eluned. There was only the mirror of the fear and helplessness that lived in her own breast. Certainty came over the other woman’s face as Eluned watched. She did not have to ask Isabella what she would do to protect the man she loved. They both already knew.
“She will do it, Roger,” Isabella said tonelessly. She was looking at Eluned, her eyes clear. “If you would have your sons safe, end this now.”
A long, silent moment, and then the air in the room changed, and she knew she had won. Roger Mortimer nodded. Eluned turned and swept past the priest she had utterly forgotten, until she reached the door. She turned back in afterthought.
“Two boys are fairly exchanged for two hostages in kind. Does the serving girl who confessed live?”
“Aye,” said Mortimer with a shrug. “Is only her betrothed I killed, then I brought her here to give evidence.”
As though he had planned a fair trial. But at least Nan was here, and it was easy enough to guess why her betrothed – or anyone who cared for her – would want Mortimer dead. She was Eluned’s responsibility now.
“I will have her from you too, with my husband. You shall have your sons. And then let this business between us be over.”
The priest walked between the hostages as they came out of the manor, and Eluned allowed herself to look away from the distant figure of Roger Mortimer to rake her eyes over Robert. He was perfectly well – unhurt, slightly rumpled, a bemused look on his face – and then she spared a glance for Nan, who was not well at all. But she did not let her gaze linger, preferring instead to keep Mortimer in her sights until they were well away.
To the boys, she said, “Your father is anxious to see you, and your auntie too. Go now to Father Morgan and he will bring you to them.” She took Nan onto her own mount while Robert was given a horse, and they rode off immediately, with no time for any words, before even the boys had reached the doors of the manor house where their father waited.
They traveled until night fell and were half way to home when they stopped and made camp for the night. Eluned had little experience with comforting overwrought women, and little patience for them, but she did not want to push Nan away. The girl cringed and shook
, but only wept if she tried to speak. Her face was purple with a large bruise, but when Eluned asked if she was otherwise hurt, she shook her head.
“Nan,” she whispered as the men lit a cook fire. “You need not fear my anger. There is no blame to you. You did well. You did exactly as I told you.” Only the certainty that her own tears would distress the girl more kept Eluned from weeping. She felt Robert’s presence at her shoulder and looked up to see him there.
“Nor do I blame you,” he said to the girl. He did not look at Eluned, and she felt the force of the words he did not speak. All his attention was on the shivering servant girl. “Rest easy, Nan. You are safe now.” His eyes turned to Eluned and his look softened. “You are under my wife’s protection, and she will let no evil befall any who are in her care.”
Nan clung to her all night, and he kept his distance. Only once, as the men sat around the fire talking, did he look to her. The man who had wielded the bow that threatened the captive boys was asked by one of his fellows if he suffered pangs of conscience for the act. “Nay,” scoffed the bowman, “for I did not even nock the arrow. My lady gave only the signal for a show, not action.”
Robert’s face was unreadable in the little firelight, his eyes shadowed but fixed on her. She held his gaze and wondered what he thought until he turned away.
They reached Dinwen the next day, just as the sky turned to twilight. After giving instruction for messages to be sent to Ruardean and Morency, she took the time to give Nan over to the keeping of an old Welsh woman who worked in the kitchens and possessed a practical sort of kindness. The woman wrapped a length of wool around the girl, thrust a hot drink into her hands, and then went about her work, narrating her every action in an unbroken murmur of Welsh that seemed to soothe Nan.
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