Chapter 38 #2
But the English army was huge, unable to forage off the land and in need of a steady convoy of supplies. That was their greatest disadvantage, and one the Welsh intended to exploit.
Dafydd’s army moved swiftly, striking and retreating before the English could engage them. Richard, Andrew, and Owain, and the three other knights, were kept heavily guarded.
Dafydd had finally decided to send to the king for ransom, though he assured Richard he was going to kill him anyway.
The prisoners were bound hand and foot, linked to each other by a length of rope. They sat beneath an ancient oak, silent, each man caught up in his own thoughts as the shadows of late day cast phantom images across the camp.
“I am sorry, Richard,” Owain mumbled.
Richard sighed. Every day Owain apologized. Richard tried to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but the old man insisted on taking the blame for everything that had happened.
“’Tis not your fault, uncle,” he said wearily.
“Nay, ’tis. I should have gone after your lady myself, should have never let that whore Anne in the castle.”
“Forget about it,” Richard said more harshly than he intended. Owain fell silent. Richard laid his head against the tree and closed his eyes, cursing silently.
He did not want to talk about Gwen. God, all he did was think of her. She should have had the babe by now. His heart twisted every time he thought of her going though it without him.
He drove himself crazy wondering if she’d survived it. Somehow, deep down, he knew she must have. Wouldn’t he know if aught had befallen her? Wouldn’t part of him have died with her?
He heard someone approaching, then opened his eyes when the footsteps halted. Steffan untied him. “Dafydd wants you, Black Hawk. Mayhap he will kill you this time.”
Richard didn’t bother answering. Dafydd sent for him almost daily and Steffan always taunted him that maybe this was the day he would die.
Richard ducked inside the tent. It took some moments for his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Two men sat at the table, drinking mead.
“Ah, here is my honored guest,” Dafydd jested, saluting Richard with his cup. “You must tell my brother of the prize I have caught,” he told the other man.
Richard didn’t wait for the man to reply. “What do you want, Dafydd? Have you finally decided to kill me? Or do you just wish to amuse your guest?”
Dafydd laughed. “You see that? Even as a prisoner the man is arrogant beyond belief.”
The other man stood and walked toward Richard. Richard’s chest tightened as the man stopped in front of him. “Rhys ap Gawain.”
Rhys held Richard’s gaze. Over his shoulder, he asked, “What are you going to do with him?”
“Kill him,” Dafydd said simply.
Their gazes remained locked. Rhys didn’t speak. It was on the tip of Richard’s tongue to ask about Gwen, about his child. He clenched his jaw. He would not give Rhys the satisfaction of denying him an answer.
“She is well,” Rhys murmured.
Richard nodded briefly, his only lapse of control in the deep breath he drew. He wanted to ask more and he silently willed Rhys to tell him what he wanted to know.
But Rhys merely watched, offering nothing. Finally, he turned and went back to his seat.
Dafydd spoke. “I thought you might like to know Edward has suffered a major defeat. Luke de Tany and his men tried to surprise our forces at Bangor, but they were too hasty and did not count on the rising waters of the Strait. They were overwhelmed and the blockade destroyed.” Dafydd dangled his empty cup over one finger, his face cracking in a grin.
“So you see, we will have our harvest this winter.”
Richard stood very still, very silent. If Dafydd wanted a reaction, he wasn’t getting one. Goddamn that impatient De Tany! He’d tried to warn Edward, but it was too late now.
It would take much too long to get more ships into the Strait. If Edward didn’t get the Welsh into the open soon, the English army would find themselves entangled in a winter campaign.
“Jesú, Dunsmore, you are no fun,” Dafydd said. “’Tis just as well, for I think I’ve decided what to do with you. Edward is willing to pay ransom, but I am not willing to accept.”
His eyes gleamed as he leaned forward. “Being a Welshman yourself, you no doubt know the piercing strength of our longbow. Since I am in need of practice, I should like to use you as a target. I am a fairly good shot, but it might take me awhile to actually hit anything vital,” he said, smiling apologetically.
“Mayhap if you scream loud enough, I will let Rhys end it for you. He is an excellent shot.”
“’Twould be a pleasure,” Rhys said evenly.
“Very good. Tomorrow morning then, Dunsmore? If you are available, of course.”
“Certes. I can think of nothing I would rather do,” Richard replied coolly as his guard came forward.
Steffan grinned, humming a lively tune the entire way back to the other prisoners.
Llywelyn looked up as his daughter entered the room. His eyes strayed to her middle. She did not look well lately and she was more than a fortnight overdue. His insides clenched when he thought of his Elinor, beautiful and glowing, then suddenly dead.
“Einion said you are leaving again, Father.”
He nodded. “Aye. Some of the local chieftains are caving in to Marcher pressure. I must re-engage them. We cannot afford to let up now that we have Edward on the run. I will return in a few days.”
She smiled, but the corners of her mouth quivered. “I understand. You must keep the forces together.”
Llywelyn stood and took her hand. It was so small and delicate, just like her mother’s.
He wondered, not for the first time, how a man with the reputation Richard de Claiborne had could manage to be so gentle with her.
He would never have believed it if he hadn’t seen it for himself, though he’d not been too cognizant at the time.
“Einion will be here with you, lass. He is too old for campaigning, though you must not tell him I said that.”
She laughed. “Nay, I would not.”
Llywelyn touched her stomach. “’Tis the next Prince of Wales,” he said quietly.
“But you can still—”
“Nay, I cannot. I am too old to begin again. I’ll not sire a son of my own, I know that now.” He sighed, then banished it with a smile. “Hurry up and give me my grandson so I can teach him all he needs to know, the way my grandfather taught me.”
“He will be here when you return. I will make sure of it.”
Llywelyn kissed her on the forehead. “You have never disappointed me. Remember that always.”
He grabbed his jerkin and left her in the solar.
Gwen hugged herself as a shiver of apprehension slid down her spine. Each time he rode out, she thought of her dream, and prayed it was just that—a dream.
Richard sat with his knees drawn up and his head resting on his folded arms. Night sounds spilled across the camp—men talking and laughing, women giggling and shrieking, lovers mating. Behind it all, the chorus of crickets, nightowls, and wolves rose in natural splendor, cloaking him in melancholy.
“Dunsmore.”
Richard looked up. “Ah, Rhys,” he said. “Come to see the chained beast?”
Rhys stooped in front of him, glancing at the other men sleeping soundly. “You did not tell them?”
“Nay, why should I? They will know soon enough, I think.”
“Aye.”
“What do you want of me? A clear conscience, mayhap?” Richard snapped, his patience stretched beyond endurance. “Do you wish me to give you my blessing to make my wife yours?”
Rhys ignored him. “I will end it before ’tis gone too far.” He touched Richard’s chest. “Straight through the heart. ’Twill kill you instantly.”
“Don’t do me any favors!”
Rhys stood. “’Tis not for you I do it. ’Tis for Gwen.”
He was almost out of earshot when Richard called to him. “And will you tell her what you did for her? Will you tell her it was your arrow that so mercifully rid her of a husband, allowing you to finally have her?”
Rhys did not turn, though Richard knew he had to have heard. He sighed and leaned against the tree. Soon, it would no longer matter.
Rhys couldn’t sleep. His pallet seemed unmercifully hard and cold this night. Camp noises faded and died, and still he did not slip into the peace of slumber.
It was Gwen, of course. He did not like Richard de Claiborne, could care less what happened to the man. Certes, ’twould be a blessing to be rid of him, no matter how it was done.
But there would still be Gwen, looking at him with her seagreen eyes, those innocent eyes that had trusted him for as long as he could remember.
Rhys flipped over and jerked the blanket up. Why hadn’t Dafydd just killed the man before he’d arrived? Why was it thrust in his lap of a sudden?
Rhys lay a while longer, hoping if he remained still enough his relentless mind would leave him be. Finally, he threw back the cover and bolted upright.
It was no use.
There was only one thing he could do, only one way he could ever have peace. He slipped into his boots, then belted on his knife and crept from the tent.
The answer was simple: it had to end before it ever began.