Chapter 11
There was a small forge attached to the stable block of the house though it did not have a full-time blacksmith. When there was work to be done, the Glynderi smith was summoned.
Geraint sat in the forge one afternoon watching Aled shoeing one of the workhorses. They did not converse a great deal—the noise of the forge made conversation difficult—but the silence was companionable enough. Geraint relaxed into it. It must be good, he thought, to have a trade, a skill, something one did well and enjoyed doing, something that occupied most of one's time. He imagined that Aled was a happy man. He wondered, though, why his friend was not married. He was twenty-nine years old. But then Geraint was not married either and was only a year younger. His thoughts touched for a moment on Marged but veered firmly away again. He had spent a week avoiding thoughts of Marged—without a great deal of success.
Aled stretched, his work done. A groom led away the horse, the last of the day.
"I should have charged admission to the show," he said, grinning.
"I could sit and watch work all day," Geraint said, "and never grow tired. I can recommend it as a wonderfully useless occupation."
"You will have to go watch your cook making your dinner, then," Aled said. "I am done here."'
"Sit down and relax for a while,"' Geraint said. "I want to talk to you." He got up himself and strode to the adjoining door into the stables to call to a groom to fetch him two mugs of ale.
"And me a good chapel man," Aled said.
"It is a good restorative, man," Geraint told him. "Think of it as medicine."
Aled seated himself on a rough workbench. "At least you choose to talk to me today instead of fighting me," he said. "I see that Wales is civilizing you again, Ger."
"Again?" Geraint laughed. "I was a marvelously civilized little urchin, wasn't I? Do you remember the ghosts?"
They both laughed at the memories that came flooding back. Poaching at Tegfan had been so bad at one time that the gamekeepers had been put on night patrol. Geraint and Aled had played ghosts one night, dressed in two old nightgowns, one Aled's sister's and the other Marged's. They had wafted through trees, wailing horribly whenever they had spotted a gamekeeper, it had all been Geraint's idea, of course.
"I feel the hair stand on end at the back of my neck when I picture what would have happened if we had been caught," Aled said.
They talked and laughed, reminiscing, until their ale came. It felt almost like old times, Geraint thought. And although he could not be quite sure that they were friends, still he felt closer to Aled than he felt to any of his friends back in London. It was a surprising and rather disturbing thought.
"Aled," he said at last, and his friend's instantly wary expression showed that he understood the conversation was moving past the preliminaries. "I have given orders to have the salmon weir destroyed and the mantraps removed from my land. There will be other changes as time passes. But they will not be enough. Most people here have closed their minds against me. And even if we could make a little haven of this part of West Wales, the injustices and the suffering would go on elsewhere."
Aled drank his ale and avoided Geraint's eyes. He looked distinctly uncomfortable.
"Something drastic has to be done," Geraint said. He realized as he talked that the thoughts had been germinating in his mind for days. Now they were taking definite shape as he talked. "Something is being done in other areas. Rebecca Riots. Why are there none here?"
Aled looked at him then, amazement and anger mingled in his expression. "Is that what this is all about?" he said, indicating his glass of ale. "You are looking for an informer? How in hell would I know why there are no Rebecca Riots here? And what are Rebecca Riots, pray? I have a tidy walk home. I had better get started."
"No!" Geraint said. "Sit there, Aled. You have been like a bloody eel since I came home, wriggling and slippery to the grasp. If there are no Rebecca Riots here, there ought to be. I hate the thought of destruction as much as the next man, but there is no surer way of attracting outside attention, I believe. Any riot confined to one man's land will be seen as his problem. Any riot concerning the public roads will be taken far more seriously. And perhaps it will bring about change for the better."
"And perhaps it will lead men into a trap to their deaths or to hard labor half a world away," Aled said, his voice still tight with anger.
Geraint leaned forward and held his friend's eyes with his own. "A trap of my setting?" he said. "Come, man, you know me better than that."
"Do I?" Aled frowned. "You are a stranger I used to know, Geraint, a long time ago."
Geraint leaned back in his chair. "In one way I have changed," he said. "I have learned to read men's minds by listening to the tone of their voice as well as their words, and by watching the expression on their faces and the language of their bodies. There are plans in the making, aren't there? And you know about them. Are you one of the leaders, Aled? I would imagine you are, though you lack the fiery spirit to be the main leader, I believe. Are the plans very close to fruition?"
"Bloody hell,'' Aled said. "That is exactly where you have escaped from. You are the very devil. What kind of a story are you making up? And which magistrate are you going to take it to? Webb?"
Geraint was rocking on the back legs of his chair. He ignored Aled's words. His eyes were narrowed in speculation. "I wonder what the delay is," he said. "And I wonder if the pranks that were happening at Tegfan until they culminated in wet ashes in my bed last week were a result of the frustration of waiting. Marged was never very patient, was she? As soon as she had an idea she always had to carry it through now if not yesterday. I have realized that Marged must have been the mastermind—the mistress mind?— behind those accidents. But I suppose it would have to be a man to lead Rebecca Riots. The area would be larger and a larger number of men would be involved. A woman would not be accepted. Is that it, Aled? Are you all waiting for a leader? For a Rebecca?"
"Damn you," Aled said. "You had a lively imagination as a child. I see that by now you are creating fairy tales with it. Not truth, but fantasy."
Geraint held his eyes. The front legs of his chair had been returned to the floor. "You have one," he said. "You have a Rebecca. You are looking at her."
Aled went very still and his face paled. "You're mad, Ger," he almost whispered. "I always said you were mad. I was right."
"And I am right too, aren't I?" Geraint said. "It is a Rebecca you are lacking. Look back in your memory, Aled. Who is more likely to relish such a position than I?"
Aled seemed to have forgotten that he knew nothing about Rebecca Riots. "It would be absurd," he said. "The riots are a protest against landlords. You are one of the biggest landlords in Carmarthenshire."
Geraint nodded. "And I grew up as one of the poorest of the poor," he said. "I know both worlds, Aled. They should be able to coexist in peace and harmony but do not. I want them to do so but have been frustrated in my approaches to both worlds. I feel stuck firmly in the middle and impotent to change anything. But as Rebecca I could. I am accustomed to leading. I did it from instinct as a boy, and I have done it from training as a man. A rabble is not easy to lead or control. I could do both. And I know how to attract attention. As Rebecca I could write letters to the right people—to government figures, to Englishmen who are sympathetic to the poor and influential in Parliament, to certain newspapers."
"Duw save us," Aled said, still pale, "you are serious."
"Yes." Geraint nodded. "I am. But I need a bridge from one world to the other, Aled. There is an organization already in place, plans already made. There are, aren't there? And you know about them and can bring me in."
"You are mad," Aled said again. "Do you think anyone would accept you as leader, Ger? You are the enemy."
"No more than a few people need know," Geraint said. "Who is making all the plans? A small group, at a guess. Some sort of committee? I imagine that if they are wise they emphasize secrecy at every turn. If there are informers it is as well to give them as few people to inform against as possible. Rebecca's identity would probably be kept from the rank and file, wouldn't it?"
"This is your fairy tale," Aled said. "You tell me."
"What sort of disguise does Rebecca wear?" Geraint asked.
"From what I have heard," Aled said, "of distant riots, you understand, she usually wears a flowing white robe and a long blond wig and she blackens her face."
"Blackens her face." Geraint thought for a moment. "Not a very good disguise for her followers who might be close enough to have a good look at her. A mask would be better, something to pull over the whole head beneath the wig."
"You would be recognized anyway,"' his friend said.
"I think not." Geraint said. "The disguise is a good one for hiding form and figure. Everyone will assume that I am someone from another town or village, someone they have never met before. And who in his right mind would even dream that it might be me?"
"Your voice?" Aled said.
"You are the only one to whom I have spoken Welsh since my return," Geraint said. "Do I speak it with an English accent?"
"No." Aled frowned.
"Rebecca will speak only Welsh. And it is no problem to deepen my voice a little just in case."' Geraint said, doing just that. "No one will know. And no one would guess that I would disguise myself in order to lead my own people against me, would they?"
"Even those who knew you were mad as a boy would not realize that you are totally insane,'" Aled said. "You are, Ger. I am surprised that someone has not chained you to the wall of one of your elegant London mansions before now."
Geraint grinned. He had not felt so vibrantly alive for—he could not remember for how long.
"In the meantime," he said, "I am going to have to halt reform on my own land. I don't want anyone to become confused and perhaps pity me. The destroyed weir and mantraps will have to do for now."
Aled straightened up on his bench suddenly and looked wary again. "Oh, Duw, Ger," he said, "you had me going there for a while. That was an amusing fairy tale."
Geraint chuckled. "Too late, Aled," he said. "I saw the truth in your face, and I saw the excitement in your eyes. You need a Rebecca and you know I am the perfect choice—perhaps the only choice. Are you on the committee? And don't ask what committee."
Aled stared at him.
"Take me to them," Geraint said. "They can all hide behind disguises if they wish. You can keep the location a secret from me. You can even blindfold me. But let me talk to them."
He watched as Aled closed his eyes and paled again.
"Aled," he said, "why would I be setting a trap for you? You are the only thing I have resembling a friend here. Marged hates me bitterly and I understand why now. You can go and see for yourself that the salmon weir has gone. Is that not proof enough for you that I mean well? Will you not trust me?"
Aled was looking at him again, his eyes troubled. "I dare not trust you," he said. "There are too many people dependent upon my judgment." He grimaced. "But I suppose those very words show that I am wavering. Damn you, Ger, why did you not stay in England where you belong?"
"I think I came because you need a Rebecca," Geraint said quietly. "Do you believe in fate, Aled? Seemingly insignificant events can be enormously significant in retrospect. Two men passed me on the street in London, talking Welsh. One of them was saying something about missing the hills. And here I am. For almost three weeks I have thought that perhaps it was a dreadful mistake to come. Certainly my return has brought me no happiness. But now I know why I was made to pass those men and overhear a snippet of their conversation. I was sent here to be Rebecca."
"By Satan," Aled said.
"Perhaps." Geraint looked steadily back at him. Silence stretched between them. "Well?"
"You used to talk me into trespassing for the sake of trespassing," Aled said. "You talked me into playing ghosts that one night. You talked Marged and me into hiding you in that cupboard in the schoolroom one Sunday afternoon before Sunday school. You talked me into participating in every mad scheme you ever dreamed up, Ger. Why not this one too?" There was no amusement in his voice, only a sort of irritated frustration.
"Where? When?" Geraint jumped to his feet.
"Soon." Aled got more slowly to his. "I'll let you know, Ger. But I wouldn't get my hopes too high if I were you. You will not find the other members of the committee quite as gullible as I am."
"Aled." Geraint held out his right hand, as serious as his friend. "You will not regret trusting me, man. I'll not let you down."
"I'll fight you to the death if you do," Aled said quite seriously. "Assuming I am free to fight, of course."
They clasped right hands.
Matthew Harley paid an afternoon visit to Pantnewydd. He called at the office of Sir Hector Webb's steward, but as usual he soon found himself walking outside in company with Sir Hector himself. The two men had a mutual respect for each other, and Harley had always realized that Sir Hector—and through him, Lady Stella—used him in order to gain news of Wyvern in England and in order to oversee the estate that would perhaps be his wife's one day. It had always seemed to Harley that Sir Hector was more his employer than the Earl of Wyvern.
"He ordered me to have the salmon weir destroyed," he explained to Sir Hector when they were well launched into the topic they had come together to discuss. "And he has had Tegid take away all the mantraps."
"Fool!" Sir Hector said viciously. "Does he expect to be better respected for it? Does he not realize he will be merely laughed at and seen as a weak man?"
"With all due respect, sir," Harley said, "I do not believe he fully understands the situation. He is trying to be popular. He has attended their chapel and a birthday party for an elderly lady on one of the farms."
"Fool!" Sir Hector said again.
"I suppose it is understandable," Harley said. "He was, after all, one of them as a child. It must be difficult—"
"My brother-in-law was a greater fool than his son!" Sir Hector's voice had lost none of its viciousness. "But that is not the point now. He must be controlled, Harley. Once these Welsh farmers have spotted a weakness, they will exploit it. Before we know it, we will be having Rebecca Riots in this part of the country as well as in others. And it will all be Wyvern's fault."
"Perhaps," Harley said, "he will take warning from all the accidents that have been happening at Tegfan lately. He must have realized by now that they are not really accidents at all."
They had been strolling along beside the hedge surrounding the sheep pasture. But Sir Hector stopped and looked inquiringly at Tegfan's steward. He laughed shortly when he had heard the account of the "accidents."
"If we are fortunate, Harley," he said, "his feelings will be hurt and he will crawl back to England and allow his estate to be run by those who know how to run it. If we are fortunate. In the meanwhile we need to keep a careful eye on the situation. The people are restless and word travels. There are gates being pulled down in Pembrokeshire and Cardiganshire and even in this county. Do you have any informants?"
"I have never needed any," Harley said.
"Then it is time you did." Sir Hector began to walk again back in the direction of the house. "They are not difficult to come by. Someone who is in your debt. Someone who has a grudge against his neighbors." He looked assessingiy at the other man. "Some woman. You are a fine enough young fellow, Harley. Get some woman panting over you. Women are loose-tongued as any man could wish when they fancy themselves in love."
Harley thought of Ceris Williams, whom he was officially courting. He had found himself unexpectedly hot for her during the last couple of weeks. In addition to being pretty and sweet-natured, she seemed taken with him. She held his hand when they walked and listened attentively to what he said. She returned his kisses. She had even allowed him last night to fondle her breasts through the fabric of her dress, though she had pushed his hands away at first.
He did not doubt that he could use her as an informer. But the problem was—did he want to? He did not like the idea of mixing business with pleasure, and Ceris Williams was definitely pleasure. He even thought he might be falling a little in love with her. But then business—his position, the power he had enjoyed—had always been more important to him than any pleasure. And both were threatened at the moment, threatened by the presence of his employer at Tegfan and by the tense situation with the farmers.
Sir Hector Webb chuckled. "That silenced you," he said. "Thinking of all the Welsh maidens you can tumble and milk for information, are you, Harley?"
"I will keep a close eye on the situation, sir," he said. "I'll keep you informed."
"Good man." Sir Hector slapped a hand on his shoulder. "These London beaux are all the same, you know. They know nothing about anything and think they know everything about everything. I'll not forget who really runs Tegfan and has kept it such a prosperous estate. And Lady Webb will not forget, either."
"Thank you, sir," Harley said.
Marged had kept herself busy for almost two weeks. She had let the cattle out to pasture and had cleaned the barn with such thoroughness that her mother-in-law declared it was as clean as the kitchen. She had prepared the plow for the seeding and she had wandered slowly back and forth across the field, picking up the heavy stones that never failed to accumulate as if by magic every spring. It was heavy and backbreaking work that had used to exhaust even Eurwyn. He had never allowed her to help. Now she did it almost alone except for a little uninvited help from young Idris Parry, who spent a whole afternoon keeping up to her pace so that he could chat nonstop. So much like Geraint as he had used to be! She gave him some food to take up to his family and offered a few coins she could ill afford. He refused them.
She worked harder than she needed to. At first she was driven by fear. He had thought perhaps that she was a mere onlooker rather than a participant in the accidents that had been happening. But if he had seen her on that slope, the chances were good that he had seen her come from the direction of the house. Once he returned home and saw his bed, he would know. And perhaps he would guess that she was the leader he had asked her to identify.
She did not believe he would have her arrested. He would make himself look too foolish. But telling herself that with her mind and convincing her body that it was so were two quite different matters. She feared prison with an icy fear. She feared the hulks. She feared a foreign land and slave labor—perhaps chains, perhaps whips.
She lived with terror night and day and despised herself and held herself so stonily calm and aloof that even Gran noticed and asked her if she was feeling ill.
After several days the fear subsided. But in its place came a loathing even stronger than she had felt before. She could not bear to see him ever again. She could not bear to see him alive and handsome and—yes, and suffocatingly attractive while Eurwyn was long in his grave. Though he was not even there. She did not even have the comfort of a grave to attend. Eurwyn's remains were somewhere on the ocean floor. She could not bear to see the Earl of Wyvern and remember that she had wanted him the night he had taken her home and kissed her palms.
She even avoided chapel on the first Sunday, persuading her mother-in-law to go for a change instead. Someone had to stay at home with Gran. It was a convenient excuse. She did go on the second Sunday, but shrinking inside with dread. He did not come.
And she went to choir practice on the Thursday following. It was unlikely she would encounter him between Ty-Gwyn and the chapel. She had heard that he had had the salmon weir removed from his land. Perversely, she did not want to believe it. Or she did not want to believe it had anything to do with her or Eurwyn. She did not want him to do her any kindness. Anyway, it had come two years too late. It would not bring Eurwyn back.