Stuart, Elizabeth Read Online Free Page A

drawing rein as his friend Sir Giles Eversly cantered
up the path toward him. Drawing off his uncomfortable steel helmet, Richard
hooked it over his saddle and ran his hand through his thick golden hair.
    Giles
grinned at him as he drew alongside. "Better cover that head, my friend.
No sense telling our enemies we've the Wolf of Kent leading this small band.
That distinctive mane might as well be a beacon guiding the arrows of your
Welsh admirers straight to your throat."
    Richard
frowned at the use of his nickname. Wolves traveled in packs, bringing down the
old and sick, the young and helpless. It was a comparison he didn't appreciate.
"So you think we're being watched, do you, Giles?" he asked, obliging
his friend by slipping his helmet back in place. "I've had the feeling all
afternoon."
    Giles
shrugged his shoulders. "Even the trees have eyes in these forests. We're
on unfriendly ground and the men are wondering where we'll pass the night.
We'll never make Beaufort Keep."
    "I
know. I've wondered if that was the real purpose behind that raid yesterday. If
that handful of rebels hoped to drag us from the trail long enough for more men
to arrive." Richard's mouth twisted in the cynical smile that was rapidly
becoming his habitual expression. "If that's the case, we certainly fell
into the trap."
    "As
any soldier would have done under like circumstances," Giles said quietly.
"We don't leave comrades unavenged." His dark eyes searched Richard's
face. "What is your plan, if you don't mind my asking?"
    Richard
jerked his head in the direction of the road. "There's a village just a
mile or two ahead—if you can call anything in this godforsaken land a village.
It's naught but a few huts squatting along the roadside, but from what I've
been told, there's a burned-out keep nearby with the foundation wall still
standing. We'll not have a comfortable night there, but mayhap it'll be a safe
one."
    His
mailed fist slid to his sword hilt, and he glanced once more at the darkening
wood. "At least the walls will offer protection if we're forced into a
fight. At dawn we'll ride for Beaufort for supplies and what men Sir Thomas de
Waurin can muster, then back to search these valleys. I'll not ride on to
Gwenlyn till we find the Welsh camp." His eyes narrowed with
determination. "This miserable skirmishing must be ended and the raiders
punished, else all our forces will lose heart."
    Giles
nodded. "I'll pass the word among the men. They've seen bogarts under
every bush this hour past. Just knowing there's cover ahead'll settle
'em."
    Some
fifteen minutes later the weary band trotted into the village. Though a
half-dozen cooking fires spiraled lazily into the darkening sky, the tiny
settlement appeared deserted. No ragged children played about the doorways of
the huts; no dogs barked in questionable greeting. An unusual silence reigned
over all.
    Richard
felt the hair rise in warning on the back of his neck. Instinctively, his hand
tightened on the reins making Saladin, his big bay war-horse, quiver with
anticipation. He unsheathed his sword, holding it in readiness across his
muscular thigh as his horse sidestepped slowly past the row of scattered huts.
His men followed his example, moving forward cautiously, swords in hand.
    Reaching
the edge of the village, Richard drew rein. A dense forest of mingled oak and
beech began a few dozen yards away. Nothing moved along that dark line of
trees.
    A
warning sounded loudly in his brain. The Welsh were there; he could feel
them watching.
    Squinting
into the misty blackness beneath the trees, he caught a telltale flash of
movement. "Form up!" he ordered softly.
    His
men moved into fighting position, knights at the fore, men-at-arms just behind,
their shields held well forward. Richard continued to stare fixedly into the
gloom. Were trained warriors waiting in readiness beneath those trees? If so
how many? Enough to wipe them out? His own band of men was small, but it would
be better to meet the foe