Chapter 15
Geraint was careful the next morning not to call on Aled first. He visited a few of the farms before going to the village and paid a few calls there before stopping at the smithy. This morning he was no longer the newly arrived earl, making an effort to get to know his people and even to show some friendliness toward them. This morning he was the stern, thin-lipped aristocrat, asking questions, issuing warnings, hinting of rewards.
The Reverend Llwyd surprised him.
"I will ask you to leave, my lord," he said, rising to his feet and speaking with great dignity when Geraint tried to enlist his help in encouraging informers to come forward. "Anyone who can ask that one man betray another in the name of law and justice is not welcome in this house. Both the one who can ask it and the one who betrays are an abomination in the sight of the Lord."
"Even when they would be helping to put an end to violence and destruction?" Geraint asked haughtily, getting to his feet too.
"I do not condone violence," the minister said. "Neither do I condone betrayal of a fellow mortal. And I do not condone the oppression of the poor by the rich, neither, mind, my lord. But it is the Lord God"—he shook his finger in the direction of the ceiling—"who sees sin in whatever form it shows itself. And it is the Lord God who will punish. 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.'"
Geraint left. The Reverend Llwyd had just won his deep respect. And yet every man has his blind spot, he thought. The minister obviously believed that some sins ought not to be left in the Lord's hands. Pregnant, unmarried women could be driven from the chapel and from the community and left to live or die by their own devices.
He went to the smithy next. Aled turned from the anvil, eyeing him warily as a customer sidled from the shop. He wiped his hands on his apron.
Geraint went through his litany for the benefit of the wide-eyed apprentice, who was cowering in a corner trying to make himself invisible. But finally Geraint looked significantly at his friend and nodded almost imperceptibly in the direction of the boy.
"Gwil," Aled said, "home for dinner now, is it? And tell your mam sorry you are a little early."
Gwilym took to his heels without further encouragement.
"There are letters on the way to London," Geraint said quickly. "And letters on the way to every landowner in the area, myself included."
Aled nodded. "You have been prompt," he said.
"It is to be Wednesday night, then, and two gates?" Geraint said. "We must make doubly sure that secrecy is maintained. This push for informers may bear fruit."
"I doubt it," Aled said. "You are insulting my countrymen, Ger."
"And my own." Geraint grinned briefly. "Aled, Rebecca has coffers of gold."
His friend looked at him blankly.
"Money has been sent from the coffers to the Penfro gatekeeper and his wife to compensate them for the loss of their home and livelihood," Geraint said. "The same thing will happen in future. And money has been sent or soon will be to people who are suffering badly from the way the Earl of Wyvern and other landowners treat them. Charlotte will doubtless be asked about it. I mention the existence of the coffers so that your jaw will not hang and make you look stupider than usual." He grinned again.
"Is it necessary, Ger?" Aled frowned. "None of the committee will be able to contribute."
"I have not asked for help," Geraint said. "They are the coffers of Rebecca and I am Rebecca. I must go, or anyone who is timing me will think I am flaying you alive. Wednesday, then."
Aled nodded curtly.
Marged was doing another backbreaking round of the field that would be sown to wheat soon. She had ignored some of the smaller stones during the first round, convincing herself that they were too small to matter. But with the larger stones gone, the smaller ones had suddenly looked bigger themselves and they had stared accusingly at her every time she was busy about something else in the farmyard.
So she was picking stones again. She had been at it since early in the morning. By early afternoon she was feeling hot and stiff and dirty. Dirt was encrusted under her fingernails, she saw with distaste. And the soil of the field must be on her face, rubbed there by the back of her hand, with which she frequently and ineffectually pushed back tendrils of hair that had worked themselves loose from her bun.
There was going to be a bath tonight despite the inconvenience of hauling and heating all that water. And clean clothes. And relaxation before the fire until bedtime. But tonight seemed a whole era away. She straightened up to look across the field, trying to convince herself that she was halfway.
And then she turned her head sharply toward the yard. Her nostrils flared. He looked so immaculate that she wondered if he did anything else at home but soak in a tub of hot water and send down his clothes for laundering and ironing. And of course he had just the sort of short curly hair that hardly moved in the wind. He probably did not know what sweat felt like. Or soil—though he had felt it constantly many years ago beneath his bare feet.
He was standing by the gate into the field, watching her. There were two other women on this farm. If this was a social call, he might have knocked on the door of the house and entertained himself with Mam's conversation and Gran's for however long he had decided to favor them with his company. But oh, no, it was she he had to take from her work.
She rubbed her hands hard up and down her dirty apron and strode toward him. She could not have felt dirtier or scruffier or uglier if she had tried, she thought. And with every stride her anger mounted because it mattered to her that he was seeing her this way. It did not matter. She did not care how he saw her or what he thought of her.
"What on earth are you doing?'" he asked in that hateful cultured English voice.
"'You have caught me playing instead of working," she said tartly. "I am picking stones off the field when I could be doing some real work like feeding Nellie. What does it look as if I am doing?"
"Marged," he said, "this is man's work."
"Oh, of course." She smote her forehead with the heel of one hand. "How foolish of me. I shall go to the house without further delay and call out all the men who are sleeping in there or in the barn."
He stared at her with his cold blue eyes and impassive face. She did not care what he thought of her insolence or what he would do about it. And then he swung off his cloak and slung it over the rough wood of the gate. He hung his hat over the gatepost and pulled off his frock coat.
"What are you doing?" Her eyes widened.
His coat joined his cloak over the gate. He was undoing the buttons of his waistcoat. "It would seem," he said, "that there is only one man available to do the job."
Marged snapped her teeth together when she realized that she was gaping. "Oh, no," she said. "Oh, no, you don't. I don't want your help. Get off my land."
He looked at her coolly as he rolled up one immaculately white shirtsleeve above his elbow. "The last time I checked, Marged," he said, "it was my land."
"I have paid my rent on it," she said. "I was not even a day late."
But she had lost her audience. He was striding out into the field. His boots were so highly polished that he could probably see his face in them when he bent down, she thought. And he was walking into a bare field with them? His trousers were dark and obviously very expensive and hugged his legs well enough to show that they lacked nothing in shape or muscle. His shirt was flapping in the breeze but was anchored at his very slim waist, where it was tucked into his trousers. Even when the breeze died for a moment, the breadth of his back and shoulders prevented the shirt from collapsing about him. The hair on his arms was as dark as that on his head.
Marged caught the direction of her thoughts and snapped her teeth together once more. She strode after him. This was her farm and this was her job. But by the time she came up to him, he was already bending down and picking up stones and tossing them into the wagon that she would have the horse pull away when the task was done or when it was full. Well, she thought vengefully, leaning down beside him and resuming her work without a word, she hoped he would get filthy. She hoped that his back would get so sore from the unaccustomed manual labor that he would be unable to straighten up when he was finished. She hoped he would never come back, for fear that she would have some other heavy task awaiting him.
And damn him, he was moving faster than she. And he was picking up two stones with each hand, except for the larger ones, as Eurwyn had used to be able to do.
She could not believe how quickly they finished. They worked for perhaps a couple of hours, stopping only at the end of every second row to drink from the water jar she had brought out with her after luncheon, not speaking a word to each other. And it was done. She had expected to work until dark and even then perhaps not be quite finished.
And then, when they were back in the yard together, she watched as he prepared one of the horses and led it out to the field, hitched it to the wagon, and led it to the stone pile, which he must have seen for himself at one corner of the distant pasture. Eurwyn had used the stones to build some walls. His father before him had used them to build the pigpen.
Marged was tempted while he was gone to rush into the house to wash her hands and face, to comb her hair, and to change her apron. But she would be damned before she would do anything to make herself look more attractive in his eyes.
Besides, she thought, watching him in some satisfaction as he brought the horse back, he was not looking very immaculate himself any longer. His boots were dull with dust and caked with soil, his trousers looked gray rather than black, and his shirt was liberally stained with dirt. And there were circles of wetness beneath his arms. His face and hands looked grimy.
She had wondered at one time whether he would look so splendid if he were not dressed so immaculately. She had her answer, she thought grudgingly. Geraint would be beautiful even if he still lived up on the moors, scratching a living mainly from poaching. But she was glad he was dirty and sweaty. She hoped that he felt uncomfortable. She hoped that tomorrow he would be too stiff to move.
He came and stood in front of her, rolling down his shirtsleeves as he did so. And he spoke for the first time in hours. "What do you know about the destruction of the Penfro gate on Saturday night?" he asked.
Her heart skipped a beat, but she had prepared herself for this.
"The Penfro gate?" She raised her eyebrows.
"Rebecca brought glorious destruction to it," he said. "But I suppose you know no more about it than anyone else in Glynderi or on any of the farms?"
"No," she said.
He nodded curtly. "I thought not," he said. "I would have you know, Marged, that the men who join Rebecca play a dangerous game."
"But there are no men here," she said. "What does this have to do with me?"
He was buttoning his waistcoat with dirty hands over a dirty shirt. And it looked so deliciously expensive.
"And it will become more dangerous," he said, "as more players are added. Special constables. Soldiers. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes," she said. "You are issuing a warning that I am to carry to the men living about here." She looked directly back into his eyes. She would not allow him to play cat and mouse with her.
"Anyone who is caught," he said, "will be dealt with harshly. You know all about that, Marged."
She breathed in very slowly through her nose. Oh, yes. And there would be no mercy. She knew all about that too. His eyes were icy cold.
"Anyone who is willing to put an end to it," he said, "would be doing everyone else a favor. And would be compensated for any—unpopularity he might have to endure. Or she."
She was not quite sure she was hearing him correctly. But oh, yes, she was. "An informer?" she whispered. "You are looking for an informer?"
"Shall we call him—or her—a friend of the people?" he asked.
She should have looked back at him as coldly as he was looking at her. She realized that afterward, when it was too late. But then she would not have denied herself the satisfaction of what she actually did, though it was less wise. Before she could think, before he could know what she was about to do, her hand whipped across his face, turning it sharply to one side, and causing him to lose his impassivity and wince quite noticeably.
"Get away from here!" she cried. "Get out."
He picked up his frock coat, drew it on, and buttoned it, watching her all the while. His cloak followed. And then he picked up his hat. She watched, fascinated, as one of his cheeks reddened into a scarlet hand. And she thought of Rebecca as he had been at the Penfro gate, both arms raised, holding a few hundred impatient men in check while he talked courteously to the gatekeeper and his wife and gave them time to remove all their personal belongings from the house and make their way to safety. She thought of him bringing her home. And kissing her.
And yet this man, cold and arrogant and cruel, and others like him were prepared to use their wealth and their power to persuade someone to inform on him. It would take only one. She understood then why Rebecca had refused to tell her who he was or where he lived and why he had refused to remove his mask even in the darkness. Torture would not drag the information from her, but he was wise to trust no one.
The Earl of Wyvern turned to leave without another word to her. She watched him go. But she could not let him disappear without saying the words that stuck in her throat but must be spoken if she was to retain her self-respect.
"Geraint," she called, and realized too late that she had used his given name.
He turned.
"Thank you," she said, tossing back her head. "Thank you for the help." She was pleased to hear that she sounded more as if she were telling him to go to hell.
He nodded and touched his hat to her and was on his way.
He felt dirty. He looked down at his grimy hands and grimaced at the sight of ten blackened fingernails. His shirt felt uncomfortably wet under the arms. He could smell himself. His boots—he looked down at them and winced— might well be irredeemable. His cheek was still stinging.
One thing was clear. He could not pay any more calls today.
But he grinned unexpectedly. He felt rather wonderful. He had enjoyed the morning visits, much as he had expected them to be distasteful. It had given him a perverse sort of pleasure to tyrannize all the people who had expected him to by a tyrant and who had repulsed all his efforts to be otherwise. And it had amused him to look into blank, stupid faces—only Marged had offered any variation on that theme—and to remember many of the same faces blackened for disguise and the arms belonging to the faces smashing a gate and a house.
It seemed so long since there had been any real excitement in his life. This suited him perfectly, this playing a dual role.
And Marged. He fingered his cheek rather ruefully for a moment. He had given up feeling guilty for bringing her home and holding her close on Saturday night. And even for kissing her. If she was going to be reckless enough to follow Rebecca and then to ride home with a stranger and allow him to kiss her—and even kiss him back—then she must bear the consequences. Far from feeling continued guilt, he had enjoyed just now looking into her eyes, keeping his own cold, and imagining the look on her face if she knew that it was he, Geraint Penderyn, Earl of Wyvern, who had kissed her.
Probably at this moment he would have two stinging cheeks instead of one, plus two black eyes and a smashed nose. He could remember once when he had persuaded her to sneak into Tegfan park with him and he had been surprised by a mantrap that had been moved to a new location and had almost caught his leg in its steel jaws. She had hauled him away, and though it was he who had almost been hurt, not her, she had pummeled him with her fists and kicked his shins with her shod feet—and then cried all over him.
He grinned once more. He was feeling more and more like that boy again.
And then his little reincarnation suddenly appeared, tripping along at his side. Idris Parry. Geraint looked down at him in some surprise. He would have expected the child to keep his distance after their encounter in the park.
"Idris," he said, "how are you?"
"I am to have new boots," the child said.
"Are you?" Geraint glanced down at the pitiful shreds of boots the boy wore. It was amazing that they stayed on his feet. "That will be pleasant."
"And my sisters are to have new dresses," the child said.
"Very nice," Geraint said.
"My dada has money," Idris said. "And I know why. And I know where it came from."
"Oh?" Geraint made his voice chilly. He hoped the father had not been that indiscreet. All they needed was to have a blabbing child in Glynderi.
"My dada has money because he went with Rebecca," Idris said while Geraint closed his eyes briefly. "And the money came from Rebecca."
Geraint stopped walking and gazed sternly down at the child. He clasped his hands at his back and found himself hoping that his face was not too noticeably dirty.
"What is this, Idris?" he said. "Do you realize what you are saying and to whom? Do you realize that you could get your father into serious trouble if I believed you? Do you realize that he could be sent away for a long, long time and you would be left with only your mother and your sisters?"
"I wanted to go too," the child said, "but Dada would not let me. He told me he would take the strap to me if I followed him."
Geraint took a deep breath and stooped down on his haunches. "I should think so too," he said. "Now listen to me, Idris. I do not want to hear you telling such stories about your father again. And I do not want to hear of you telling them to anyone else. If I do, I might be tempted to take a strap to you myself for lying. And I have big muscles and a heavy hand. I will pretend I have not heard you today. Do you understand me?"
"But I did go out," Idris said. "And I saw her."
"Her?"
"Rebecca," the child said. "I saw her."
God damn it all to hell! "She probably looked very frightening," he said. "In future you will know to stay safe in your bed at nights, Idris." What were the parents about, allowing the child to wander at night? And yet he remembered that he had done it himself, eluding his mother while she slept.
"I want to help her," Idris said. "I want to help her because she helps us to fight against the bad men. And because she gives money to people who are poor. And because she is not what she seems to be." He was looking directly into Geraint's eyes, his own wide and guileless.
And dear God in heaven, what was this?
"I want to help her if I can," the child said again. For the first time he looked almost frightened. His next words were whispered. "I know who she is."
Dear Lord God!
"Then it were best that you kept the knowledge to yourself, lad," he said. "Go home to your mam now. It looks as if it might rain." It did not.
"Yes." Idris nodded. "But I want to help her. If there is anything I can do."
Geraint rested his hand lightly on the boy's head. He was not sure what kind of communication was passing between them. Not sure at all. Or perhaps he just did not want to know.
"Go home now," he said quietly.
But before he straightened up, he did something that took him quite by surprise. He wrapped his arms around the thin and ragged little figure and hugged him close.
"Life can be dangerous for little boys," he said, "even when they are very brave little boys. Wait until you grow up, lad, and then you can show the world your mettle."
He felt almost embarrassed when he finally stood up. But the little urchin did not linger. He was off up the hill again, bounding along with all the energy of childhood.
But before he did so, he gave Geraint one wide-eyed look that could surely not be misinterpreted. It was a look of pure devotion.
Hell and a million damnations!