Stuart, Elizabeth (38 page)

"I
sent a servant to fetch him. I knew you'd need men if there was trouble."

Richard
sent the boy an approving glance. "Good lad." He shot out several
questions to the Welshman, but before the man had time to reply, the burly
guard captain and two dozen soldiers came clattering into the hall.

"What's
amiss, m'lord?"

Richard
sent his man a scowl. "This man tells me four English soldiers are tearing
up half of Ruthlin—the Welsh half. They've raped a girl and beaten her family.
And he says a fight broke out just as he came for me."

Henry
swore a vicious oath. "The bloody bastards'll be wishin' they'd not been
birthed when I'm done. Drunk, most like. I'll handle it, m'lord."

"No,
I'll handle it," Richard corrected coldly. "They've had orders making
that quarter off limits. This is exactly the kind of trouble we don't
need."

Henry
nodded. "Our mounts be ready."

Richard
started for the door. "Wake the rest of the garrison. There's always the
chance this is a trick."

"But
Richard, you haven't your armor," Simon protested.

"Then
fetch it to me at Ruthlin," Richard snapped. "I've no time to waste."

In
the wavering torchlight, the castle bailey was awash with dancing shadows.
Horses shifted nervously as men swung into their saddles. Richard rode Saladin
across the courtyard through the narrow front gate, kicking the stallion into a
dangerous gallop down the steep road.

But
something was wrong. He took a deep breath of the chill night air. The moon
rode high overhead so they carried no torch to light the roadway. They should
have left the odor of pine and tallow behind in the bailey, but the acrid smell
of burning hung heavy on the night wind.

"Holy
Christ!" Rising in his stirrups, Richard turned. "They've fired the
town," he shouted. "Send for the garrison and all the barrels you can
find!"

Shifting
low in the saddle, he touched his spurs to his stallion's sides. The animal
leaped forward, settling into a run. God help those men when he found them!

Moments
later, the party rounded a hill that had been blocking the village from sight
and the full horror of the scene burst upon them. Fully half the buildings in
the Welsh quarter were ablaze; their thatched roofs sent garish orange flames
leaping across the midnight heavens in a scene that could have come straight
from hell. Men dashed about in the streets, beating helplessly at the spreading
blaze, while great clouds of choking smoke billowed from the burning thatch,
making breathing an agony.

Saladin
reared, but Richard brought him under control, forcing him forward into the
smoke. The heat was intense in the narrow street and bits of burning rubble and
soot rained down like brimstone from heaven.

He
swung from the saddle, thrusting his reins into the hands of one of his men.
"Forget these buildings!" he shouted to the soldiers crowding around
him. "They're already gone. Try to save the rest!"

The
men leaped to obey the orders he snapped out, moving forward to assist the
rapidly tiring Welsh. He sent soldiers to help the hoard of women and children
slopping pails of water from the town stream, organizing them into an efficient
line to move water.

Hurrying
through the twisting street, he noticed a black-robed figure struggling with a
women in the doorway of a burning hut. The woman was heavy with child, but it
was obvious she was fighting to go back into the building. Richard darted
forward, catching her up in his arms and carrying her back from the structure.
"What is it, Father?" he shouted above the roar of the flames.

"Clothing
and blankets she'd made for the babe," Father Dilwen shouted back.
"Little enough, but all she owned."

Richard
set the woman on her feet. He tried to quiet her, but she was weeping
hysterically. "For God's sake, Father, tell her I'll replace the
loss," Richard promised recklessly. "Just don't let her near these
buildings. They'll go like straw in the wind!"

The
priest nodded and Richard hurried on. Ordering the Welsh to fall back to soak
the buildings not yet burning, he was amazed to find they obeyed him. But he
didn't stop to think—there wasn't time.

Suddenly,
there were soldiers everywhere. Teams of snorting, terrified horses drew carts
filled with barrels of water, and English and Welsh worked side by side,
soaking the smoldering thatch of the buildings adjacent to the ring of fire.
And slowly the spreading blaze came under control.

After
nearly an hour of the struggle, Richard paused to rest. The fire had burned
much of the Welsh quarter and had even laid waste a few of the English
buildings inside the wall. But now it was nigh out. He took a cooling drink
from a bucket Simon brought. It felt good to his parched throat. Cupping his
hands he splashed water over his face, easing his weariness and ridding himself
of his accumulated soot and sweat.

"My
lord, I must speak to you."

Richard
glanced up. Father Dilwen was standing a few paces away. He handed the bucket
to Simon. "What is it?"

"Something
you must see," the priest responded grimly.

Richard
motioned to his squire and they followed the priest to the doorway of a neat
structure of wattle and daub near the churchyard. "My home," Father
Dilwen murmured.

Richard
ducked through the low entrance. The room was bare of furnishings save two
stools and a rough-hewn table. A small fire burned in the center of the dirt
floor and a muffled female figure lay weeping softly on a pallet alongside it.

The
priest knelt beside the girl and spoke, but her answer was lost in a torrent of
fresh sobbing. Richard moved toward the figure, already sensing what he would
see.

The
priest eased the blanket back, exposing the girl's naked body. Richard felt the
gorge rise in his throat. She might have been lovely once, but the girl had
been used abominably by the men who had taken her. Her supple young body was
beaten and bloodied and a dozen angry red welts rose across the white flesh of
her buttocks.

Kneeling
beside her, Richard gently replaced the blanket. "Who did this?" he
ground out.

"We
have the soldiers," Father Dilwen said low. "They were taken in the
riot and are now in the church guarded by village men. It was all I could do to
prevent murder."

Richard
nodded. Turning back to the girl, he searched his mind for the proper Welsh
phrases, wishing the language came more easily. "You'll be taken to
Gwenlyn and cared for by the Lady Elen," he explained softly in Welsh.
"She's a woman of your race and knows much of healing. The men who did this
will be punished. I swear it."

He
turned to the priest. "Simon will send round a cart. Take her to Gwenlyn
and bid Elen see to her."

"I've
a man outside who can carry her there. I'll stay with you," Father Dilwen
answered in an odd voice.

Richard
nodded again and rose to his feet. He led the way across the churchyard where
angry villagers were already gathering, his fury mounting with each step. He
had seen this before, of course—some men were animals—but that it could happen
to people under his protection was unthinkable!

When
they reached the church entrance, the priest stepped away. Richard pushed open
the heavy oak door and went in. Numerous pine torches flamed in rough brackets
along the walls and the smell of hate was near as strong as pitch. He moved
into the room, blinking in the sudden light. A solid wall of stocky Welshmen
blocked his path. All held clubs or tools, but he was too angry even to be
afraid.

Heffeydd
Sele stepped forward. "You once said we need not fear to ask justice of
you against an Englishman." His dark eyes gleamed dangerously. "Well,
Englishman, the time has come."

Richard
made an impatient movement of his hand and the men fell back. In the space
before the altar, three of de Veasy's soldiers sat bound hand and foot, but a
fourth was on his feet pacing nervously. The unbound man glanced up.
Philip....

It
took a moment for the sight to register. Then a wave of rage swept Richard that
left him near speechless. "You bastard!" he snarled. "I should
kill you where you stand!"

Philip
stumbled back a step. "I... I, we didn't mean to cause this trouble,"
he stammered. "We came down here for some sport, b-but it got out of
hand."

Richard
stalked forward into the torchlight. "Sport? Is that what you call what
you did to that girl?"

Philip
squirmed before his brother's obvious rage. "Well, for Christ's sake,
Richard, she's naught but a Welsh serf. She'll be no worse for it in a couple
of days."

Richard
struck the boy hard across the face, knocking him to his knees. "Did you
touch her? Did you?"

Philip
glanced up, fear replacing the feigned arrogance in his voice. "Yes. Yes,
I took her, Richard, but she was fine when I left. I didn't hurt her any. I
swear it!"

"When
you left?"

Philip
nodded miserably. "W-we'd been drinking and were out of ale. I went for
more. Richard, I swear on the surety of my soul, I didn't know what they were
doing!"

"You
left that girl alone with these wolves of de Veasy's? For Christ's sake,
Philip, when you unkennel a pack of dogs on the countryside you must at least
stay by to bring them to heel!"

Philip
was shaken but trying desperately to keep his composure. "We'd been
drinking and wanted a woman. I knew you'd be angry if we took any at the keep,
s-so we came here."

"And?"

Philip
took a deep breath. "We found the girl in the first hut we entered. I was
drunk, I admit. I used her, but I didn't hurt her any, Richard, I swear
it." He hesitated a moment. "Afterward, I was hot. I went outside to
find something to drink. By the time I got back, they were at her." He
shook his head miserably. "I... I didn't mean for that to happen."

"Oh?
I'm sure she'd be pleased to hear that," Richard remarked sardonically.
"And the fire? How did it start?"

"Someone
must have heard us and gone for help. Before we knew it a score of men with
clubs were trying to kill us. In the fighting, w-we torched a couple of
huts."

Richard
said nothing. For several long moments, no one moved. Finally, he grasped his
brother by the neck of his tunic, jerking him to his feet. "Do you realize
what you've done? In one thoughtless hour, you've destroyed everything I've
done here in months. And you've put an innocent girl through hell. By the
blessed rood, you sicken me," he added contemptuously. With a quick
movement of his hand, he jerked a chain of gold from about the boy's neck.
Turning, he held it out to the priest. "See this is given to the girl's
family. It's little enough."

A
murmur of surprise went round the room. The priest took the gold, the single
ornament more valuable than all the miserable huts that had burned.

"You
can't take that," Philip stormed. "It's mine!"

Richard
turned back to his brother. "Oh? I've a notion it was bought with my sweat
and blood—with coin sent to replenish the flocks at Waybridge. Besides, it may
just buy your life. I should leave you here, but I don't suppose I can condone
the killing of my brother, no matter how deserved."

"Half-brother,"
Philip snapped.

"Yes,
thank God!" Richard glanced at the waiting Welshmen and jerked his head
toward the prisoners. "Take them outside."

He
stalked out into the night. The air was heavy and acrid from the fires. His men
and the villagers waited quietly in the churchyard—waited to see what he would
do. "Hear me," he began loudly. "These men of violence came into
your village. They used one of your women and set fire to your town. They are
no men of mine, yet they are guests in my keep. Since they answer not to me, I
cannot deal with them as they deserve. Yet they will be punished."

He
turned to Henry Bloet. "Bind them to the church wall. They're to have
twenty lashes meted out by the kinsmen of the girl."

Philip
caught his arm. "A knight beaten by a peasant? Not even you would dare
that!" he sneered. "Besides, you can't put me to the lash like these
common soldiers. I'm a knight, for Christ's sake!"

"If
I had my way, your spurs would be hacked off this night. Take him,"
Richard ordered coldly.

"You
son of a Saxon bitch!" Philip hissed.

Richard
caught his brother by the throat. "One word... one more word, Philip, and
there'll not be enough of you left to put to the lash!"

Philip
held his tongue, but his dark, furious eyes spoke volumes. Richard released
him, watching as the struggling soldiers were stripped and bound to the wall.
Philip went quietly, holding himself erect as the fine clothing was torn from
his back.

The
whip snaked through the air—twenty lashes laid on with a vengeance. Richard
held himself rigid as he watched the knotted cords bite into his brother's
back. Philip didn't move or make a sound. At least he took his punishment like
a man.