Court of Foxes (19 page)

‘Well, we won’t trouble about her marital affairs. She has jewels, at least and must some day carry them to London; and next time won’t be so lucky. Dai Thomas, keep your ears open. And by this same token — no more of these narrow roads between the oak forests! In that matter of the Earl’s coach, there was no room to manoeuvre the ponies — as I saw for myself, being present on the spot — not like all these women, comfortably asleep at home. In future, we must move further down the valley, we’ll attack at the ford across the Cothi by Aberbranddu, where we’re not closed in by silly low-growing trees…’ Not but what a low-growing tree might have its advantages, she added, laughing, and described to them, perched there on the rock now, easy and unconcerned as a boy recounting an adventure in bird’s-nesting, her use of the bough that grew across the road, the leap on to the roof of the chaise: the upside-down meeting with Gareth y Cadno. And they laughed with her: and she knew that she had won them over and so, risking nothing further, rose and easily stretched herself and said that she had better go to rest now in preparation for their ride tonight, and strolled off towards the rock castle, leaving them to what discussion might ensue. But in a moment she turned back: ‘One thing: of all this — no word of my leadership must reach the ears of our prisoner!’ For after all, she said, laughing again, one day she too must be released to the outer world; and a fine thing if his lordship should spread abroad that she, a great lady of wealth and title — ‘such wealth as I have left, after you have robbed me of my ransom, wretches that you are!’ — had played such a part as this. She knew well enough that they had no intention of ever releasing her; that they accepted the present condition because they believed her likely to be for the rest of her days, their prisoner here and wife of their leader — as long as he cared to have her; but now she pleaded with them prettily, and they indulged her in it. ‘Not a word to his lordship — for him I’ll climb back into my petticoats and play the poor lady, as much at your mercy as he is…’ And she did a little caper, kicking up her heels in their masculine riding boots, over the tight-fitting breeches, and laughed and went off, swaggering. But her heart was in the boots as she went.

An hour at David’s bedside and she returned to her own room and lay down to catch what sleep she might before the ordeal — and she knew it to be the supreme test, which would make or mar her lover’s chances and her own — with the Black Toby.

They rode out at dusk with Dio and two other men — of similar character, she gathered, being called respectively John Jones Tomorrow and Ianto Next Week. They showed no evidence now of procrastination, however, alas! — but rode with her smartly up over the mountain, singing as they went, and down on to the high toby itself, the Llanwrda-Lampeter road. There, having been directed, she left them and rode off gaily with a joke on her lips and cold terror in her heart; and prayed to such gods as she knew to guide her in what she should do.

A ruined chapel stood by the wayside. If I slip in there, she thought, and hide when he goes by, this desperado need never discover me, and I can pretend to them that he never came. But then he’d be bound to have passed the men as they lay concealed by the roadside, and they would know that he could not but have caught up with her. On the other hand… She recollected now a little turning up into the mountains, just before the chapel. Let me hide and once he is gone I’ll ride back and up the lane and create some commotion — will they not believe that he turned off there and never reached me? And she slipped down from her pony and, leading him into the small copse beside the chapel, left him there, once again drowsing; and stepped in through the ruined doorway. It will prove nothing: neither my courage nor my cowardice, but at least it will seem no fault of mine, they must admire me for riding so boldly out to try…

It was chill in the chapel and eerie. Tonight the moonlight was cold as it had not been last night — last night when she had lain on the river bank and suffered the embraces of Gareth the Fox and this time, safe in her love for David, felt no shaming up-flare of passion, so that it must have been from without, not from within, that the night had been balmy and warm…

And clip-clop, clip-clop, hooves approached her along the narrow, rutted road that in Wales was the King’s High Road; clip-clop, clip-clop…

The farmer riding out from Lampeter to join his friends in Llanwrda. And the thought leapt to her heart: If I could jump out on him now, if I could anticipate the Black Toby — as they failed to do last night — and ride back with the gold, triumphant: might I not then tell any story I cared to, of a skirmish with this wretch they’re all so frightened of, a disarming, promises of good behaviour in the future, of leaving our territory, going back to England, anything I choose.

If the promises be not kept — is that my fault? And anyway, shall I not be free of the Cwrt and away, before the reckoning comes? She started to the door—

And clip-clop, clip-clop — from far, far away in the still, chill night, the sound of hooves coming in the other direction. The marauder, riding from Llanwrda as planned, to intercept his prey.

The farmer’s horse was suddenly reined in, for a moment all was still save for that far distant clip-clop: she could imagine the frightened man sitting his pony listening, listening… Then the sound of his hooves began again, rapidly, slowed when he neared the chapel, were still again. There was the clatter of a man dismounting, the sound of quick footsteps. Dear God, she thought, he’s coming in here!

A small gallery ran across one end, of which a few pillars still stood and a tumbled stairway. It would hold no greater weight than her own, but it might yet hold hers. She crept up the broken steps and was there to peer, like a mouse, over the gallery edge as the farmer entered. She watched him dart across to a heap of hay tumbled into a corner, thrust something in and, hastily covering it over, rush back out of the chapel again. A moment later the sound of his pony’s hooves once more clattered on their way.

She crouched and listened; deduced that as one set of hooves receded the other advanced; both paused an appreciable while — she imagined the hold-up, the blank denials, the pockets and saddle-bags turned inside-out and proved to be empty. The farmer’s hooves clattered off joyfully, the highwayman’s came slowly on, disappointed.

So again — what to do? If she were to let him go on, pass the chapel, ride on, then nip down and possess herself of the bag hidden by the farmer — why, could she not tell the same tale as she had planned in her then hopes of robbing the farmer himself? (She wondered if the men would have heard the hooves also, and could be induced to interpret them to uphold her story.) Or — to encounter him? — to bribe him with the farmer’s gold and go back to her men without it, but at least with a promise…

Her distractions were settled by forces outside her control. The sound of hooves ceased as before they had ceased; for the second time footsteps approached — and a very different man entered the chapel.

A tall man: a very tall man, dressed all in black, wearing a black mask through which, however, his eyes shone with a steely brilliance of glittering blue. A mouth cut hard and straight across a firm jaw: a brave man, a ruthless man, a man of sheer braggadocian daring who rode the high toby for love of the game, who rode it alone because he liked his own company and none other; a man who would not sleep safe in a bed if he could… He strode into the little room, the moonlight flooding through the broken windows and roof on to a face devoid of anything but a cool, uncaring purpose; glanced about him, began with a casual toe to turn over the heap of hay, as the most obvious hiding place for a man in haste… Found the small bag of gold, lifted it, hefted it in his hand, brushed away the dust — and turned to see a pistol’s eye pointing down at him from the low gallery; to hear a trembling voice pipe out: ‘Your money or your life!’

In one movement the bag of gold was in his left hand, a firearm in his right. He stood, long legs astride, and called up: ‘What boy hides there?’

She kept her bright head low, the pistol, still poking over the gallery’s edge. ‘One whose arm keeps you covered, sir!’ And she cried out again, trying to keep her voice hard and low: ‘Your money or your life! Throw down the bag of gold!’

He let out a great roar of laughter. ‘Keeps me covered! Why, child, you see nothing while you crouch so low; this toy of yours wavers with the trembling of your hand, pointing anywhere but at me.’ And he almost coaxed: ‘Come, no more of this nonsense; down the stairs with you — first throwing down your firearm, however, for who knows what mistakes that shaking hand of yours may not make?’ She crouched there not daring to move and he repeated: ‘Throw the gun down over the balcony’s edge; and follow it — but by way of the steps.’ He added: ‘Or shall I come up and get you?’

She popped up her head, triumphant. ‘You couldn’t! The stairs would not take your weight,’ and popped down again.

His hand fell to his side. He stood staring up at her. ‘By all the saints!’ he said. ‘A woman!’

She came to him: slowly creeping down the stair with her gun held steadily pointing at him, though his own hung forgotten while with his left hand he slowly pulled away the mask and stood gazing, the steely blue eyes alight with incredulous, amused delight. ‘A woman! And a beauty at that for all the man’s breeches! For God’s sake — what in the wide world, Madam, are you doing here?’

Since he disdained to trouble with his firearm, she lowered her own. She said, coolly: ‘Why — I came to meet
you
.’

‘To meet me? Do you know who I am?’

‘You’re the Englishman who calls himself the Black Toby. I am the wife of the Welshman, Gareth y Cadno. And I want to know why an Englishman rides in Wales.’

‘The wife of Y Cadno?
You’re
no highwayman’s wife! And yet I remember now that Y Cadno is reputed a son of the old Earl, Tregaron, of these parts, who brought him up something different from the usual run of a nobleman’s bastards, begot in a village hamlet. Well, well!’ He stood gazing down at her, admiring, indulgent, totally indifferent to any thought of danger from her. ‘But is not Y Cadno on the run now? — after the killing of the son, the old man’s heir. In what circumstances does he send his wife upon such errands? — and, if it come to it, such a wife.’

‘He hasn’t sent me,’ she said. ‘I come myself. I lead the gang now, in his absence; and as leader, I must tell you, sir, that I tolerate no invaders of our territory. I’ll have no Englishmen.’

‘You don’t tolerate—!’ He went off into roars of laughter again. ‘I’m not to ride here because forsooth, it is your terrain — and you come out here to tell me so, yourself, alone…?’ But at that his muscles suddenly grew taut, he glanced about him, his face grew wary and keen. ‘Alone? Are you in fact alone? Is this some ambush? Why should you come alone? — you have a large gang, they wouldn’t send you out without escort.’

‘Of course not,’ she said. ‘I have but to fire two pistol shots…’ Her voice faltered. Fool! she said to herself, you have given it all away.

And indeed he missed nothing. ‘Ah-ha! Two shots: so they are not near, my dear, or why not just cry out? Hidden somewhere back along the road, I daresay, and sent you on to parley with the Black Toby — is that it? Or to rob him, perhaps?’ He laughed again, looking down at the bag of gold.

‘Not to rob,’ she said. ‘Though by that token, I took the money first; it’s you that robs me.’

‘The farmer was
my
prey; I had tracked him down, he was mine.’

‘I know nothing of the farmer. He came in here where I was hidden awaiting the chance to speak to you if you should ride this way. I challenged him, held him up at pistol point, though he made a great struggle and outcry, nearly had me worsted: a fat man and strong. But gave up his treasure at last and rode on his way. So, hearing your horse approach—’

‘You lie,’ he said. ‘I listened for the sound of his horse; heard it check once and then once again for just so long as would take the man to rush in here, fling the gold beneath the hay and be on his way again. Finding him empty-handed, as I after that expected, I estimated the distance and so came to this place. You watched from your eyrie while he hid it, my dear, and nothing more. Come out with it — is it not so?’

He had the better of her and she knew it. Her lip began to tremble. ‘Must I go back then and — tell my men that you won’t heed my request, you won’t stay away from my preserves? Must I creep back without even gold to show them?’

‘It’s very sad,’ he said, ‘but I fear you must.’

‘But… It’s true, after all, that this is no domain of yours?’ pleaded Gilda. ‘There’s not enough for those of us who are already here. If you would but go back to England — which surely is richer by far—’

‘But which for the moment I like not so well. I find Wales very agreeable; the scenery is beautiful, and seeing so much of it as one is obliged to do, riding the roads…’ He shrugged. ‘The country suits me. Why should I go elsewhere, just for you?’

‘If you knew what it meant to me, I think you would,’ she said. She stood before him, very small, very slight and frail in comparison with his tall frame, the marvellous hair, escaped a little from its neat black bow at the nape of her neck, shining in the light from the tumbled window: the flower-face innocent of coquetry, absorbed in its own private troubles, looking up into his. ‘Unless they take me as their leader in my husband’s absence, great misfortunes will result to innocent people, who have nothing to do with — with you or with the gang. But they won’t take me as their leader; not until I prove myself. And — I boasted to them that I would — remove you; and they’ve taken me at my word. And this is my test…’

He stood looking down at her, laughing. ‘In which test, Jack-the-Giant-Killer, I fear you must fail. For to be frank with you, there are reasons even better than the scenery which for the moment prompt me to remain out of England.’

‘There are other parts of Wales,’ she said. ‘I don’t insist upon England.’

He laughed even more, looking down at her from his great height. ‘Oh, you don’t insist? That, I confess, is very good of you. But you see, I don’t care for your other parts of Wales. I find it very pleasant here, there are good communications with London, where in fact I belong, I have a neat hideaway, a couple of complaisant ladies in the neighbouring farmhouses…’ He stooped and picked up the bag of gold and swung it in his hand. ‘Come, there’s more here than I’d hoped. I’ll divide it with you so that at least you go back not empty-handed.’ He unwrapped the string round the mouth of the bag and tipped into each pocket of her coat a small handful of coins. ‘And so,’ he said, tying up the bag again, hefting it away into his own pocket, ‘we may go our ways. And my ways, I fear, my pretty one, must continue for a little while at least, to lie upon these chosen paths.’