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.”
