A Dishonorable Knight (56 page)

"Father, my parents...I have to
find them," she said.

"We will," Dafydd assured
her. "But first we must make sure that Richard's men are not still here
awaiting your return."

Elena nodded and tried to gain hold
of her panic. Dafydd wrapped both sets of reins around a tree branch and said,
"Wait here. I will go see if anyone is about."

"No!"

"What?"

"I will go with you."

"But--"

"Dafydd, if Sir Gareth were here
right now, he would recognize my tone of voice as one which means I will not be
refused." Just mentioning Gareth made Elena feel better and she stared at
Dafydd meaningfully.

"Very well, Lady. I imagine
Gareth could tell me quite a bit about knowing you."

Under normal circumstances, she would
have been mightily offended at his meaning, but now she simply said, "Aye,
and I only hope we all live that he may know me further."

Dafydd offered her his hand and she
took it as he led the way through the trees. Even in the midst of the orchard,
the acrid smell of smoke overpowered the sweetness of the apples that covered
each tree in abundance. Elena choked down the bile that rose at the thought of
her home destroyed and forced her mind to wonder where her parents were. Surely
they were not dead! Surely they had escaped. Finding no relief in thoughts of
her parents as they stumbled over tree roots, Elena instead turned to the men
responsible for destruction. That
they belonged to Richard
,
she had no doubt
. She had oft enough in the last year
seen Richard become so enraged as to lose his grasp on logic and order
something which he later regretted. He could have easily
fined
her parent's heavily for her actions; or better yet, stripped the estate and
all titles from them. Instead he had no doubt ordered a troop of men to ride
their horses into the ground to reach her father's home so quickly, had ordered
them to raze it to the ground.

The more she thought of the whole
scenario and the more she choked on the smoke from her family home, the angrier
she became. No, she thought, angry wasn't the ride word. Though she'd had
little experience with her present emotion, she knew it to be rage.
Rage that grew and tinted her vision red as she and Dafydd
continued to push through the thick orchard.
Rage that gave strength to
her exhausted muscles and pushed her forward until she was leading Dafydd. Rage
that did what her newly discovered pride in being Welsh could not: it made her
turn firmly and wholeheartedly against Richard of York. No longer was she
ambivalent to whoever wore the crown of England. Though she was but a young
woman with, now, little or no wealth, she would do all in her power to drag him
from throne. And if she discovered that he had found and killed Gareth, she
would not rest until she had--

They had reached the moonlit clearing
before the house. Dafydd insisted she remain in the protective cover of the
trees and Elena did not argue. She watched as he silently crept across the
ground, blending in with the shadows. He climbed over the rubble that had been
the sturdy walls and disappeared amongst the blackened ruins of her home.

Elena strained her eyes trying to see
what had become of Dafydd, strained her ears trying to hear something other
than the cracking of scorched timbers.

She whirled around at a rustling
behind her but it was only Dafydd, returning through the woods.

“My parents. They are–“

”Come, my lady. Let us return to the
village. I promised you would sleep in a bed tonight, did I not?”

“No! My–“

”They are dead, my lady,” Dafydd said
as gently as he could.

Elena’s knees buckled and Dafydd
caught her as she sank to the ground. “I am sorry, Elena,” he whispered.

Sometime later in the innkeeper’s
cleanest room, her tears exhausted, Elena longed for Gareth, longed for his
arms to comfort her, his shoulder to lean her weary head upon. Where was he
tonight? Was he dead too? No! That she would not accept. She rolled onto her
back and wiped the tears from her face. She did not know where Gareth was now,
but she knew where he would be soon. He would be at the battle between
Richard’s forces and Henry’s.
Very well, then.
So
would she.

On the outskirts of Lichfield, Elena
and Dafydd stopped and made camp. They had traveled at a breakneck pace since
hearing of Henry Tudor’s landing and subsequent march to the heart of England.
They had spoken little during their journey, but had settled into a
companionable kinship.

“Wait here until I determine who
holds this town.”

Elena nodded but said nothing as he
turned to leave. She unsaddled her horse and set about gathering firewood and
lighting it. She stared into the small blaze and absently ran her hands through
her cropped hair, mourning its loss only briefly. She felt as though she had
aged a lifetime in the last week and the fact that she had needed to cut her
beautiful hair to pass as a boy was of little consequence.

The idea had been hers. Dafydd had
thought to deposit her in a convent for her own safety, for regardless of the
outcome of the upcoming battle, the nuns would care for her. Elena decided not
to tell him of the borderland abbess who’d quite calculatedly betrayed Gareth and
his friends.

“No,” she said implacably. “I shall
travel with you. You seek to join Henry Tudor’s army, do you not?”

“Yes, my lady, but that is no
place—“

“Then I will accompany you.”

Seeking a different tack, he said,
“But we will draw all manner of focus,” this with a gesture to her gown and
jewels.

Elena fumbled at the clasp of her
necklace, removing it and handing it to Dafydd. “Take this. Sell it and
purchase me hose and a jerkin. A rough cloak.” Dafydd stared in horror at the
necklace. “Oh, and food. Buy as much as the horses can carry.”

Looking a bit dazed, Dafydd finally
took the necklace and made to leave the small room. “Dafydd,” she called out
when he was at the door.

“Yes, my lady?” Trepidation filled
his voice.

“Have you a dagger?”

He drew a blade from the sheath at
his hip and handed it to her, hilt first.

“Thank you.”

It had taken Elena several tries, but
she finally forced herself to saw through her thick chestnut-colored braid. She
looked from it to the blade and saw that they were both shaking. Oh, she
thought, it’s my hands. Carefully putting both down on the small table, she sat
with clasped hands and awaited Dafydd’s return.

A brief rap heralded his entrance. He
paused in the doorway, but said nothing. After a moment, he crossed the room and
dropped a small bundle in her lap. “There’s a hood there as well. I thought it
would hide…”

Her hair, she mentally finished, and
smiled. Perhaps she should have thought more carefully before her rash act. And
yet, she did not regret it. Cutting her hair—her pride, the envy of the
other ladies at court, the object of many pretty compliments—was like
severing herself from a past she no longer recognized.

They had travelled at a punishing
pace, travelling in a roundabout path to stop at any town large enough to hear
word of Henry Tudor’s landing, of King Richard’s movement. Always, their
direction took them west, toward Wales. Elena was beyond tired. She had no idea
what kept her in the saddle. She seemed to have discovered a hidden strength
she’d never realized was a part of her. Or perhaps it was simply that her
determination had settled on a different goal. Either way, they covered long
stretches of England’s roads until finally they heard word at one busy pub of
the upcoming battle.

Elena stirred the fire and brushed a
short strand of hair out of her eyes.

Nearly an hour passed before the
Welshman returned.

"Neither man holds Lichfield.
They are gathering near Market Bosworth, halfway between here and Leicester.
They will no doubt come to battle on the morrow.” Disappointment was evident in
Dafydd’s voice. “There is no way we can arrive before the battle is over. The
day is spent and they will surely fight come dawn's first rays."

“Then let us travel all night.”

Dafydd shook his head. “No. You are
exhausted. My humble presence will not determine the course of the battle
one way
or the other. We will leave at first light.”

Elena ignored him and rose to saddle
her horse. “We leave now.”

“My lady,” Dafydd said with a
chuckle. “Sir Gareth is either the strongest-willed man alive or the most
hen-pecked!”

“I’m sure he would say both,” Elena
said with her first smile in days.

***

The dawn broke brilliant and clear
over the horizon. Elena and her escort rode unmolested into the Tudor camp
after one of the Welsh sentries recognized Dafydd. Dafydd left her with the
pages and squires who were too young to fight.

“For your own safety, my lady, please
stay here. I would not wish to face your Sir Gareth should aught happen to
you.”

“Good luck, Dafydd. And…have a care,”
Elena replied, though she had no intention of obeying him. She must find
Gareth, must see him before he took the field in case this battle was–no,
she would not consider his death.

Elena took off in the direction
Dafydd had taken. Surely he sought the Welsh troops. She could just see his
head bobbing as his loping gait carried him through the somber men who prepared
for battle. Though the morn was clear and sweet, there was
a
heaviness
in the air that prevented the usual morning banter and
laughter. Men would die today, Elena thought.
Perhaps these
very men.
Elena crossed herself. So long as it was not Gareth!

A troop of squires leading their
knight’s warhorses crossed between her and Dafydd. She jumped to keep sight of
his head, but all she saw were muscled withers and flanks, streaming manes and
tails.

When the horses had passed, Elena ran
to catch up with Dafydd, but he was nowhere to be seen. Frustrated, she tugged
at her cropped hair. Where could he be?

“You there, boy!” A large hand
grabbed her shoulder and swung her around. “Do you not heed your master’s
call?” A slender blonde man scowled at her. He was long of chin and broad of
brow, but handsome nonetheless. But for his helm he was fully armored.

“You are clearly too young to be
fighting. You are not trying to sneak onto the field are you? Where is your
knight?”

“Sire,” a man panted as he ran up to
the blonde man. “Lord Stanley yet awaits with his troops. He did not heed your
summons, but neither does he join Richard’s men.”

The blonde man’s mouth twisted wryly.
“He no doubt waits to judge who will emerge victorious before committing
himself. Send word to him that we will await his leisure amongst the bodies of
Richard’s men.”

The messenger appeared confused, but
obeyed. “Yes, Your Grace.”

As the blonde man turned back to
Elena, she suddenly realized who he was and sank into a curtsey. Belatedly
realizing that young boys did not curtsey, she continued down to the ground,
affecting a faint.

“Hold, there,” Henry Tudor said as he
bent to help her up. “Are you ill?”

“Nay, sire.
Only...only
hungry.
‘Tis been a while since I’ve eaten.”

Henry frowned. “You’ve not eaten and
you wander unarmored through the ranks. I will have words for your knight. Who
is master of your household, boy?”

Elena thought frantically. She was
about to name Gareth’s father, but did not want to gain him trouble from the
would-be king. “I belong to no household, sire. I only sought to...to help Your
Grace in any way possible.”

Henry rumpled her hair and smiled
indulgently. “‘Tis very brave of you, if foolhardy. You’ll do no good if you
collapse from hunger.” He glanced up as his trumpeters called his men into
formation. His squire waited at his elbow to hand him his helm. “You can help
me most now by staying alive. Should I emerge victorious this day, I will need
such devoted men as you. Join my pages with the baggage. You will be safe
there.”

“Yes, your grace,” Elena said, bowing
and backing away as quickly as possible. There was no way she would be able to
find Gareth now, with thousands of men moving toward the battlefield. She began
to make her way to the back of the lines but was swept forward by the rush of
troops.

“Let me through!” she cried, but her
plea was lost in the battle cry of thousands of men. She made small headway
before being swept forward again. Without knowing how, she found herself at the
crest of the hill. She glanced down and gasped.

The battle had begun. The archers
were exchanging volley after volley of arrows, the Welsh easily discernible
with their longbows, which wreaked havoc in the enemy’s line. The man beside
her was struck in the throat by a stray, lucky shot. Elena screamed and
redoubled her efforts to push her way through the line. “Let me through, I say.
By order of his grace, Henry Tudor.”