A Dishonorable Knight (31 page)

Perhaps they won't recognize me, he
prayed. They had been deeply in their cups that night. He turned to face them
but kept his head ducked.

"We're looking for a weaver's
shop, but we don't know the name. Be there one around here?" asked the
leader in English. Gareth shrugged his shoulders and shook his head to indicate
he didn't understand and then turned to leave, planning to make an escape
around the next corner and come back for Elena. He hadn't taken but a step when
a thick hand clamped down on his shoulder. Gareth twisted quickly, dislodging
the hand with ease and landing a solid blow the man's chin, but giving the rest
a clear view of his face.

"Say!" said one of the men
to the leader, "Isn't he--
"

"Yes!" shouted the leader
and lunged to grab Gareth who was already running up the street. As he searched
for an alley to duck down or a shop to hide in, he cursed his lack of
forethought in not bringing his weapon. Had he his wits about him, and
therefore his sword, he could have dispatched the three men to their maker and
had the corpses moved away before Elena left the bakery with her directions. As
he was about to round a corner in the cobbled street, he cast a glance down the
lane.
The ruffians were, thank God, clumsy and slow in
their pursuit. The man he had punched was still clutching his jaw. Gareth's
derisive grin faded as he thought of Elena coming out of the bakery while the
men were still on the street. So as not to discourage his pursuers until they
were out of this vicinity, he pretended to trip on a cobble stone and rolled to
the ground easily. As he had hoped, the men yelled triumphantly and redoubled
their efforts. He led them through a twisted maze of streets, praying he would
be able to find his way back to the bakery. Every few steps he had to slow his
pace so that he would not completely outdistance the rough soldiers behind him.
Ahead he saw a small square full of people crowded around a table. Gareth had
seen his father dole out justice and punishment often enough to recognize the
well-dressed man seated at the table as a magistrate. Pushing his way through
the throng of people, Gareth interrupted the proceedings, which seemed to
involve the owner of a chicken and a young boy.

"Your honor!" Gareth panted
in Welsh. "I am but a poor, honest
Cymraes
being pursued most unjustly by a group of English mercenaries who wish to do me
harm because I will not call myself Englishman. They claim there is no such
thing as a Welshman because we are all ruled by an English king!" Gareth
glanced over his shoulder and saw the soldiers at the outer edge of people,
trying to find him over the heads of the crowd. The crowd itself was humming
with outrage over Gareth's words and Gareth had to suppress a grin. To deny a
Welshman his heritage was nothing short of blasphemy.

The magistrate stood and smoothed his
coat over his round belly. "Who are these Englishmen?" he asked,
pronouncing "Englishmen" with the same emotion a priest infuses into
"spawn of Satan."

Pointing to the rough men, Gareth
said, "There they are!"

The magistrate ordered his guards to
seize the men, but the crowd descended upon them first, rounding them up with no
lack of roughness and dragging them forward. As the magistrate bellowed a
sermon on the antiquity of the Welsh culture to the cheers of the crowd, Gareth
casually made his way to the edge of the square and then down the street he had
just run up.

He reached the bakery just as Elena
was coming out, a sweet roll in hand.

"It's just two doors down. Elena
said after Gareth pulled back.

A confused look crossed his face as
he tried to catch his breath. "What is?"

"The seamstress, of
course," she said and took a large bite of roll.

"Oh. Of course." He stooped
to pick up the pile of cloth and then glanced over his shoulder."

"What are you looking for?"
she asked

"I just didn't want to get run
down in this busy thoroughfare," he said, deciding not to worry her with
his recent exploit.

Elena laughed. "A grave danger
indeed," she joked. "We are probably the only people to travel down
this street in a month!" She shifted the remnants of the roll to one hand,
and rested her other in the crook of his arm as they made their way down the
narrow street. They stopped in front of the only door that did not display a
sign overhead. As the entered the unmarked and dimly lit shop, Elena blinked,
trying to force her eyes to adjust after the brightness of the morning
sunlight.

Gareth leaned down and whispered in
her ear. "Are you sure this is the place?"

Elena looked
around
as her eyes finally grew accustomed to the dimness. The shop was
tiny, with scarce enough room for the rough-hewn wooden table and
empty shelves
that were pushed against opposite walls. A narrow doorway
was covered with a thin piece of cloth. There was nothing to indicate that this
was a seamstress's shop. Elena looked at Gareth and shrugged. "Why don't
you call out and see if anyone comes to answer."

"Hello?" Gareth yelled.
Almost instantly, a thin young woman threw back the curtain and scurried out to
meet them. "Are you a seamstress?" Gareth asked her.

The scrawny woman bobbed her head.
"Would you like me to sew something for you?" she asked in uncertain
Welsh.

"That depends on how good and
how fast you are," Elena said. "Do you have any samples of your work
we might investigate?"

The woman looked worried. "Only
what I am working on now. 'Tis a dress for my niece who's getting married
soon."

When the woman simply stood there,
Elena prodded her. "Will you show it to us?"

"Of course," the flustered
woman said. "Please follow me." She led them through the narrow
doorway and up an increasingly bright staircase. Once they reached the top,
Elena realized that the cause of the illumination was a high row of windows
that let light pour in on the spotlessly clean, if cluttered room. A child of
about four or five sat on the floor surrounded by wooden toys. He was
entertaining the inhabitant of a beautifully carved cradle. A large table
against the far wall was buried under a heap of dark blue cloth. To their right
was a small but tidy kitchen, a pot on the stove exuding delicious smells along
with copious amounts of steam. Overall, the rooms had
a
cheery
warmth about them that Elena had never experienced in any of the
immense and richly furnished, but cold and dark chambers of the stone castles
in which she had spent the last year.

"You really should hang a sign
out. We weren't sure this was the right place," Elena said.

The woman nodded and, not meeting
their eyes, said, "They've taken the last two I put out."

"Who did?"

"The other seamstresses. I don't
think they want me on this street."

Elena was just about to tell the
woman that was ridiculous, that it was probably only prankster boys, when she
finally realized what was odd about the woman's speech. "You're not Welsh,
are you?"

The woman lifted frightened eyes.
"I'm sorry," she peeped.

"Why should you be? I'm not
either. Are you Scottish?"

The seamstress nodded. "My
husband was born here and he always wanted to move back, but I don't seem to
fit in too well."

"The thing I've learned about
these Welsh is that you must simply force them to accept you. They can be
exceedingly bullheaded sometimes but they'll back down and consider you one of
their own if you're persistent enough." Elena pointedly avoided looking at
Gareth for his reaction. Besides, she didn't care what he thought, what she'd
said had proven true enough with him, hadn't it? "Now tell us your name
and then show us your work. You may speak in English if that is easier."

The young seamstress appeared a bit
overwhelmed by Elena, but quickly stated that her name was Annie. Shaking out
the blue cloth, she said, "Here is the dress I am making for my niece.
I've only the hem left to finish."

Elena handed what was left of the
honeyed roll to the young boy and inspected the sleeves, the seams, and the
lacings up the back. "You do excellent work. How fast could you make my
dress?" Elena quickly explained the style of dress she wanted, completely
forgetting Gareth's presence as she discussed the cut, the position of the
waistline, and the fullness of the sleeves.

Annie swallowed nervously. "How
quickly do you need it?"

Elena turned to Gareth. "When
are we leaving?"

Startled out of his daze, Gareth
stared uncomprehendingly at Elena. She repeated her question and he said,
"Three days."

Annie's eyes bulged but she nodded.
"I can do it." She quoted a price and Elena accepted, not even
checking with Gareth to see if he had that much money. "Shall I measure
you right now?"

"Yes, that will be fine."

Annie gathered her measuring string
and looked uncertainly from Gareth to Elena. "And
your
..."

Elena immediately understood.
"My brother can occupy your son downstairs and head off your husband
should he come back."

"Oh he won't--he's a carpenter
and he's working on a ship that's preparing to sail. Here Oengus," she
said, picking up one of the wooden toys and handing it to her son. "Show
this gentleman how this toy works downstairs." Little Oengus grabbed the
wooden horse in one sticky hand and headed for the door, shouting "Come
on!" over his shoulder.

Gareth dumped the pile of cloth in
Elena's outstretched arms and whispered, "Brother?"

"It just popped into my
head," she responded with a wicked smile. Gareth rolled his eyes and
followed the young boy out of the room.

Nearly an hour later, Elena left
Annie who was already at work, measuring out the wool and planning to cut the
many pieces. She entered the small downstairs room to discover Gareth rolling
about the floor, wrestling with Oengus. The little boy squealed with delight as
Gareth allowed
himself
to be pushed over and pinned as
Oengus sat on his chest. "I won! I won!" he shouted.

Seeing Elena, Gareth plucked the
child off his chest and quickly scrambled to his feet, his face flushed with
exertion, his hair tumbled about his brow, the young boy clinging to his neck
and shoulders like a vine.

"Are you finished?"

Elena nodded, surveying his rumpled
appearance with amusement. "Are you?"

"I was just," Gareth
cleared his throat. "I was just keeping young Oengus here occupied so he
wouldn't disturb you."

Elena smiled wryly. "Thank
you."

Tilting his head back so he could see
Oengus's face, Gareth said, "Come, you young scalawag. Give Lady Elena a
kiss goodbye."

Elena shook her head and frowned
apprehensively. "No, no. That's alright," she began, but it was too
late, for Gareth was holding out the little boy who leaned forward obediently
and placed a wet and sticky kiss on her cheek. Elena rubbed at her cheek with
the back of her hand as the youngster wriggled to be put down and then
scampered up the stairs. Gareth straightened and looked sheepishly at Elena.
"I guess I'm still a boy at heart."

Never comfortable with children of
any age--even when she was one, Elena didn't know how to respond. She had spent
her entire life trying to act as mature and regal as possible and the thought
of wanting to be a child and romp around was foreign to her. On one hand, she
thought it very silly of Gareth to roll around on the floor acting like a fool,
and yet some part of her wondered what it would be like to abandon all
pretensions and cares of adulthood and simply laugh until her stomach hurt, or
tumble in a sweet grassy meadow, or run barefoot along the surf.

"What would you like to do
today?" Gareth asked.

Run on the beach
,
play in a meadow
.
"It doesn't matter," she said.

"Why don't we explore the city?
Da tells me there's a shop that has books around here somewhere."

"That would be fine.” All sense
of adventure aside, however, Elena was interested in the bookseller for they
were a rare and expensive commodity. Her father had indulged her literacy with
many expensive books, but in Richard's court, books were not at all the
thing
for ladies-in-waiting. Another urge stifled, she
thought, remembering those long, incredibly tedious winter nights that would
have passed so pleasantly had she only had a book or two to read.

As Gareth held the door open for her,
he said, "You don't care much for children, do you?"

"Hmm?" Elena said, still
thinking of the last book she had read with its glorious illumination. That had
been the most expensive book her father had ever purchased, costing more than
three new court dresses. At the time, Elena hadn't been sure the book had been
worth giving up the gowns, but she had managed to convince her doting father
that she needed the book and the clothes, so she had been happy.

Gareth repeated his question and she
turned her attention to him. She shrugged and said, "I don't see much point
in them."