Finally they came, large groups from the east and the north, a smaller one from the west. But at least as many men as on Saturday night and perhaps more. It seemed that they had not been scared away by the warnings or the knowledge that there were constables in the area. He felt a wave of pride for his people. His daughters rode up beside him, all of them silent. Apart from Aled, he did not know the identities of any of the others, just as they did not know his. It was better so. Only the members of the committee knew who he was.
And Idris Parry, an inner voice reminded him.
Apart from one sweep of his head from right to left, he kept his head high and his eyes forward. It had been impossible to tell from that one glance if Marged was in the crowd. But he would bet a fortune that she was. It would be a matter of pride with Marged to go wherever the men went. And to strike every possible blow against the Earl of Wyvern.
He raised his arms slowly and waited for all the murmurings to die away. He knew from his education and experience not to yell over the noise, muted as it was, and so lessen the sense of power and authority he sought to project. He waited for total silence.
“My children,” he said, using the voice skills that he knew carried the sound a great distance without the necessity of yelling. “Your mother welcomes you and thanks you for coming to give her your help. There are two gates that disturb me and that must come down this night. You will remove them, my children, when I give the signal.”
There was a murmuring of assent.
“Lead the way, Mother,” Charlotte said.
“We will follow,” another daughter added.
He lowered his arms when the murmuring had died away again, and rode forward, Aled on his right, another of his daughters on his left.
It should have been easier tonight, he thought when they came down to the road and turned left toward the tollgate already visible in the distance. Tonight he knew that he could control his followers and that they could accomplish what had to be done quickly and efficiently. But his heart pounded like a jackhammer in his chest. And perhaps it was just as well, he thought. Perhaps the night he was relaxed and confident would be the very night when danger would strike and he would not be ready for it.
At the first gate there was a gatekeeper with a wife and an infant. The woman was hysterical, the child loudly crying, and the man terrified and sniveling. Geraint had to direct that four of his followers help remove the family’s belongings and set them far enough away from the house that they would not be damaged. This was the worst part, he thought as he sat motionless facing the gate, his arms aching from being raised for so long. He did not enjoy creating terror in innocent people. He did not enjoy making them homeless in the middle of the night even though he knew that tomorrow they would be well compensated from the coffers of Rebecca.
But finally the personal belongings were safe and the family had disappeared and he was able to bring his arms sweeping down and to watch as his followers destroyed one of the symbols of their oppression.
Marged, he saw, was working on the gate as she had the last time, wielding blow for blow with the men on either side of her. She did not look up at him.
At the second gate there was only one elderly man as gatekeeper. He neither sniveled nor raged, and he had so few personal belongings to fetch from the house that Geraint felt a stabbing of pity for him. He went limping off into the darkness, his bundle over his shoulder, before Rebecca brought down her arms and his home was destroyed within a few minutes.
Geraint felt slightly less exhilaration tonight. And perhaps that was as well too. This was not a game he played. He was not a boy any longer. He was a man. And it was serious business he was involved in. Unfortunately, in serious business there were always people who suffered. He did not like causing suffering. He did it only because it seemed necessary, but he would not allow any more than he must.
“My children.” He raised his arms and waited for silence. He had thought that first night that he might not achieve it since the men’s blood was up after such destruction. But he had found that the raised arms and the firm expectation of obedience to his will had brought it. It happened again.
“My children,” he said, “you have done good work tonight. Rebecca is proud of you. Go home now but be careful. We have enemies. Your mother will call you out again soon and you will come to her assistance.”
He held his horse still in the middle of the road as he had done the last time while the men dispersed and went their several ways. Marged went with the men from Glynderi. He watched her go. Their eyes had not once met tonight. He had made no attempt to ride close to her or to single her out for attention. He was not sure it would be wise to try to repeat what had happened on Saturday night. He did not want to tempt fate. And she might have had time to realize since Saturday that it was not wise to pursue any sort of flirtation with a stranger. He did not want to approach her and be rejected. Being rejected as both Geraint Penderyn and Rebecca might be just too much for him.
And yet he watched her go with regret and wondered if he should go after her.
A little farther along the road her group turned upward into the hills. She stopped for a moment to look back at him. The moment stretched and she half lifted a hand in a gesture of farewell.
He raised his own arm upward, palm in, and moved it slowly toward himself—a slight gesture of beckoning that she could interpret as she would.
She stood where she was a moment longer and then came walking back toward him. He did not know if she had said anything to the others, but they kept walking upward after a couple of them had stopped briefly to look down at her.
She stopped beside his horse and looked up at him.
It was too late to send her back. And he knew in his heart of hearts that he did not want to. But he felt the difference between tonight and Saturday. There was very definitely a difference.
He reached down a hand for hers and looked into her eyes, shadowed beneath the brim of her cap. “Come,” he said.
She looked at his hand for a few moments before placing her own in it and her foot on his boot. She felt it too, then. She knew this was different. But like him, she knew it was too late to go back. And perhaps like him, she did not really want to.
She sat before him on the horse’s back. Without turning her head to look at him, she took off the cap and stuffed it in a pocket of her jacket while she shook her hair free. She took a handkerchief from the same pocket and scrubbed at her face with it. Unwise moves, both. She was making herself beautiful for him.
Ah, Marged.
Then, still without looking at him or saying a word, she leaned sideways against him and burrowed her head into his shoulder.
He gave his horse the signal to move.
