Chapter Three
There was literally no way out of the tent.
Elle thought that she might be able to escape as Hereford went outside, but as it turned out, the sides of the tent were staked into the ground all the way around.
She knew because she had checked. It was staked like that to keep the wind from blowing up the flaps and quite possibly causing the tent to lift up and go airborne, but it also made it quite escape proof.
She was trapped.
God help her.
If there was a positive side to the situation, small as it was, it was that her belly was finally full.
Literally, the one positive thing about the entire situation, because other than that, she was still damp and cold and smelled of mildew.
Everything about her stank. There was a small brazier in the tent, situated below a hole in the tent roof, but there was very little warmth coming out of it.
Because of that, she’d yanked the coverlet off the cot nearby and wrapped it around her.
Huddled on the ground, she sat.
And waited.
She could hear voices outside the tent as men moved around.
Damnable Saesneg, she thought to herself.
Speaking in their Saesneg language. And she was expected to marry one of those bastards?
She was strongly opposed to it, even after Hereford’s argument.
The Welsh rebel in her thought the entire proposal was out of the question, but the reasonable side of her—the side that tended to be wise and calm—knew that she had no choice in the matter.
She took Hereford’s threats seriously—she didn’t want to end up in France or some other place far over the horizon, with no hope of returning home.
At least if she married a man of Henry’s choosing, she could stay in Wales.
Marriage didn’t mean she had to be loyal to her husband.
It simply meant she could remain.
And continue her fight.
She had to talk herself into it, however.
It was natural to rail against everything the English wanted, so she had to fight back her natural urges and convince herself that this was her best and only option, such as it was.
She’d been honest with Hereford and laid herself bare, so he knew everything about her.
There was nothing left for her to tell him.
There was also nowhere for her to hide. She seriously wondered what was going to happen when Gruffydd was released from the vault.
It had been a hell of a fight to get him there, and she’d had to betray him to do it, but she had honestly felt it was best for Brython and for the cause of her people.
Gruffydd was too much like her father, too pliable to the English.
She wasn’t going to make the same mistake.
But, then again, here she was.
Somewhere in the midst of her tumultuous reflections, she dozed off.
With the food, and particularly the wine, she’d become sleepy and hadn’t even realized it.
She didn’t know how long she’d been out when she heard something snap, like the flap of a banner when whipped by the breeze, and she snapped her head up, eyes open.
There was a very big man standing in the tent that she didn’t recognize.
For a moment, they simply stared at each other.
Elle’s attention was on his face, first and foremost, and she had to admit, almost immediately, that he wasn’t unhandsome.
He had piercing gray eyes and blond hair, cut short, and a trim beard of nearly the same color embraced his firm, square jaw.
In a world where male beauty was few and far between, he most definitely had been blessed with it. Even if he was English. But those eyes…
She had to admit that they’d give her a jolt.
A most confusing jolt.
But she tore her gaze away from his, moving down his positively enormous body and noticing the size of his hands. His fists must have been nearly as large as her head. He was covered in mail and protection, smeared with grime, and, as she studied him warily, he spoke.
“I see you are calm now,” he said in a deep voice that seemed to bubble up from his toes. “At least the tent is still intact.”
That voice.
She knew that voice. Instantly recognizing the man she’d hit on the top of the wall, she went into battle mode again. Her heart leapt into her throat and she tossed the coverlet off so her hands and feet would be free.
“So,” she hissed. “You’ve returned. I’m ready for you, Saesneg. Try your worst.”
He put his big hands up. “I’ve not come to do battle,” he said calmly. “Have no fear, lady. You’ll get no further fight from me.”
Elle was on her feet now, but she was crouched as if preparing to take a tackle from the man. But his words had her confused. Unsteady, even. She wasn’t convinced he was telling the truth.
“I am not stupid,” she said. “I know you do not mean it. Do not lie to me.”
“I do not lie.”
“Where are my commanders? My men?”
“Dead or dying or captured.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You would have me believe that?”
He lifted an eyebrow. “Let us establish something from the start,” he said.
“My name is Sir Curtis de Lohr. My father is the Earl of Hereford and Worcester, and upon his death, I will become the Earl of Hereford and Worcester. I am his heir and, as such, hold the courtesy title of Earl of Leominster and Baron Ivington. Do you understand me so far?”
Elle struggled against further bewilderment. “I understand,” she said. “But it means nothing to me.”
“It should,” Curtis said. “It should tell you that I am a knight of the highest order, a propertied warlord, and son of a man who has one of the greatest reputations for honor in England. I, too, share that reputation, so know from the onset that I do not lie. Ever. If I mean to attack you, you will know it. And if I mean to call a truce, I will say so. In this case, I would like to call a truce. Will you accept?”
The more he spoke, the more puzzled she became. “Why?”
He snorted ironically. “Because there is no longer any reason to fight,” he said. “Because I no longer wish to fight. Will you accept this?”
She had no idea what to say to him, but she came out of her protective stance. She just stood there, head lowered and brow furrowed, feeling confused and strangely lost. So very lost. After a moment, she lifted her gaze to him.
“What of my castle?” she asked. “What has happened to it?”
Seeing that she no longer looked as if she was preparing for an offensive, he went over to the table to see the remnants of the meal. There was still wine in the pitcher, and he poured himself a cup.
“It belongs to me now,” he said. “Your men are prisoners. Now, we begin the damage assessment and plan the repairs.”
He sounded as if it was the most normal situation in the world. Casual, even. Elle watched him drain the cup of wine, feeling more despair sweep her.
“Where… where are my men?” she asked.
Curtis poured himself another cup of the watered wine. “I told you,” he said. “Dead or dying or captured. Those that are captured are being held in the encampment.”
“What will you do with them?”
He looked at her. “What would you have me do with them?”
She wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or if it was a genuine question. “I hope you will treat them fairly,” she said, forcing her bravery. “They are good men, loyal to their people.”
“That may be, but they have tried to kill me and mine,” he said. “I will ask you again—what do you want me to do with them?”
“Are you asking that question to be cruel? Because you do not truly wish for my guidance on the matter.”
“I am asking for your guidance on the matter.”
Now, her puzzlement was being overtaken by surprise. She stared at the man, studying him closely, looking for any hint that he was trying to demean her or betray her somehow. Because she couldn’t answer right away, he spoke again.
“Let me ask you a question, my lady,” he said. “Let us look at the situation from your perspective. If you were the victor and had three hundred English soldiers as your prisoners, what would you do with them?”
She hesitated. “Put them in the vault.”
“All of them?”
“What else should I do?” she said. “Send them home so they can rise up against me again?”
He shrugged. “Mayhap you should simply kill them and be done with it.”
She shook her head slowly. “Nay,” she said quietly. “Because more would rise up in their place.”
“And more would rise up in their place if you put them in the vault.”
The argument was becoming circular, and he was making good points, which was starting to frustrate her. “Then what should I do?” she said. “You seem to have all the answers. You tell me.”
Curtis had to lower his head so she wouldn’t see that he was struggling not to smile at her annoyance.
“Would mercy not be the right course of action?” he said.
“Show mercy and send them home. They will remember that if, and when, they are in a conflict against you again. They will know you are a woman of mercy, and they will behave kindly toward you.”
“Not kindly enough not to take up arms against me again.”
He shrugged. “That is the nature of the situation we find ourselves in,” he said, pouring himself a third cup of watered wine, now with the dregs at the bottom of his cup.
“The English and the Welsh find themselves in a battle cycle. It has not always been this way, and it will not always be this way, but for now, it is the way of things. We will continue to fight until someone shows wisdom and bravery and decides to negotiate a truce against the enemy rather than a show of force. I do not think there is any man, or woman, alive that would rather fight than live in peace.”