She was smiling, though her eyes were still sad. “That is the nicest, most loving thing you have ever said to me,” she said. “A precious gift. Let me give you one of equal value in return. I will marry you, Aled, and make your home comfortable and bear your little ones and love you dearly for the rest of my life. And if sometimes you do things that your conscience leads you to do, I will respect you even if I cannot agree. As I believe you will respect my values. You must go with Rebecca if you feel you must, and I will sit at home and pray for your safe return.”
They smiled warmly at each other before they moved into each other’s arms—Aled winced only slightly and she carefully avoided touching his wounded shoulder. They stood, silently embracing, for a few minutes before their attention was caught by loud and persistent coughing from the direction of the house.
Ninian Williams and his wife were standing side by side outside the door. Both looked pleased even though Ninian was trying to maintain his ferocious frown and Mrs. Williams had her apron up over her face again.
They were tramping up over the hills and down through valleys again. They had walked for what must be several miles already. There had been an unusually dry spell of weather. The grass felt dry and almost dusty underfoot.
They were going to a meeting tonight, Aled had said, and then perhaps on to a gate smashing. It was becoming more nerve-racking to leave home and make one’s way to the meeting place. The constables were still at Tegfan. One never knew quite where they were or quite whom they were watching. They had followed Ceris the last time even though Ceris had never marched with Rebecca. If they had followed Ceris all the way from her father’s house, perhaps they had seen two other people going down the hill too, Marged thought—Waldo Parry and herself.
She had been sorely tempted tonight to stay at home. But not just from fear, it had to be admitted. She was not sure she was ready to see Rebecca again. Part of her longed for him, for his closeness, for his lovemaking. But not just the physical lovemaking, though it was more deliriously wonderful with him than she had ever imagined it could be. There was the feeling of emotional closeness too, the feeling that they belonged together, that they were the best of friends even though she did not know his name and had never seen his face. She felt almost married to Rebecca. Almost but not quite.
She was still feeling dreadfully upset over her encounter with Geraint at Tegfan. And ashamed of what she had offered in exchange for Ceris’s freedom. Though she would have done it too, she knew, and would still do it if it were the only way to ensure Ceris’s continued freedom. How could she even have dreamed of offering such a thing when she was Rebecca’s? Would she be able to go back to Rebecca tonight if she really had given herself to Geraint? It was perhaps a foolish question she posed herself since in fact she had not been called upon to make any such sacrifice. But was not the intention as bad as the deed? She would have slept with him if he had asked it of her.
Marged stumbled against a stone on a hillside and muttered to herself while Dylan Owen steadied her and grinned at her. “One thing about it, Marged,” he said. “If you have sprained an ankle, you have only the one way to walk, unlike the rest of us. You will be riding home in style.”
They all knew, she thought, that she was Rebecca’s woman. Perhaps they even suspected that Rebecca was her lover. No one had said anything openly to her. They were a good sort, her neighbors and friends. But heaven help her if her father ever got wind of the fact.
“If I ride home tonight,” she said with an answering grin, “I will spare your corns a thought, Dylan. One single, brief thought.”
If she rode home tonight. She half hoped that tonight he would not single her out but would leave her to return home with her friends. She did not know quite how she was to face him. She loved him both tenderly and passionately, but she felt horribly as if she had been unfaithful to him. For not only had she been prepared to lie with Geraint, but also she had wanted to.
There. The thought was full-blown and verbal in her mind. The thought she had been tiptoeing guiltily about for two whole days. When she had touched Geraint and offered herself to him, there had been a stabbing of sexual desire for him in her womb and between her thighs. She had wanted him there, easing her pain and bringing her pleasure. She had wanted to do with him what she had done with Eurwyn and what she did with Rebecca.
There. She had called a spade a spade in her mind and she felt even more wretched than she had before. Not only with guilt but with confusion. How could she love one man and yet want to—to rut with another? Did sleeping with a man outside marriage make one suddenly and indiscriminately promiscuous? She knew what answer her father would give to that question. And it seemed he would be right.
But her thoughts were interrupted. They were meeting up with another group in the hollow between two hills, and in the middle of the group, on a slight rise of land, stood Rebecca. He was not on horseback, but he looked as tall and as commanding and as majestic as he always looked.
In one way her first sight of him tonight was reassuring. She felt a rush of love for him that was only partly physical. Looking at him, she was convinced that she loved only him. How could she have doubted even for a moment that her devotion was all his?
There was a stranger standing quite close to him. Most of the men here were strangers to her, of course. But this man was without disguise and he was dressed in clothes that looked both fashionable and expensive. He was looking about him with frank interest.
Aled dismounted and joined the other daughters on the mound with Rebecca. The stranger was there too and another man, disguised like everyone else but not as a daughter. His role became clear when the meeting began. He was an interpreter, translating what Rebecca said into English, though interestingly enough he did not translate what was said in English back into Welsh for Rebecca’s comprehension.
Marged did not know why Rebecca chose not to speak in English. Almost everyone she knew spoke the language to a certain extent, and Rebecca was an intelligent man and seemed to be an educated one. And obviously he understood perfectly well what was said to him. But for some reason he chose to speak through an interpreter.
The stranger was an Englishman from London. He wrote for a London newspaper and was gathering information about the Rebecca Riots and the grievances that had led to them. He had spoken with all the landowners in the area and now wished to hear from Rebecca herself and from the people who followed her. If they could convince him that they had good reason to riot and if he could draw the attention of the English to their plight, perhaps he could do them some good. Already the government was talking about sending commissioners to West Wales to do much what he was doing but in a more official way.
It was an exciting idea, that they had already achieved their objective of attracting attention to their cause and that this man had come, willing to listen to their side of the story as well as that of the landowners. Perhaps after all the skeptics would be proved wrong. Perhaps after all good would come out of the necessary evil they had instituted. Perhaps after all Rebecca would become a national hero. It seemed that it was a letter from Rebecca that had brought the reporter from The Times to Wales.
Was he capable of writing a letter that could have that powerful an effect, then? Marged fixed her eyes on him. She was becoming so accustomed to the long gown, the wig, and the mask that they were beginning to seem almost normal to her. But for a moment again she felt an intense curiosity about the man behind the mask. What did he look like? What sort of life did he lead? It seemed somehow bizarre that she had no answers to those questions and yet knew him with greater physical intimacy than she had known with Eurwyn even in five years of marriage.
The meeting lasted a whole hour and might have lasted several more if Rebecca had not brought it to an end when the complaints voiced to Mr. Foster of The Times began to become repetitive. Many of them had spoken. She had spoken up herself and had told briefly of the injustice Eurwyn had tried to put right and the fate that had befallen him as a result.
Mr. Foster had talked to all the landowners, she remembered. He would have spoken with Geraint. Would Geraint have mentioned the salmon weir to him and the fact that he had had it destroyed soon after his arrival at Tegfan? Would he have convinced Mr. Foster that he was not guilty of the oppression that had existed on his estate for years? She felt angry that his lies might have been believed.
And yet he had destroyed the weir. And he had had all the mantraps removed. Why? She did not want to be reminded of that old question. He certainly had not instituted any reforms since then.
Except that he had prevented Sir Hector Webb from striking Ceris and had opposed taking Ceris away for questioning after Mr. Harley had given her an alibi. And except that he had pretended to believe that the confession she, Marged, had made to him was a lie and had let her go free.
Why had he let her go? She had thought at the time that perhaps he had allowed her that favor so that he could pursue her and make it very difficult for her to order him out of her sight. But she had not set eyes on him for two days.
She hated the fact that Geraint Penderyn, Earl of Wyvern, somehow defied all labels. She wanted so much to be able to dismiss him as an unadulterated villain.
Rebecca was talking to them and Marged’s full attention was drawn to him again. He had his arms raised, the sure sign that he was leading them on a new mission. And sure enough, they were to destroy the gate and makeshift house that had been reerected near Penfro—their first mission. Mr. Foster was to accompany them.
Part of her attention was on Mr. Foster throughout the destruction of the gate. Destruction was such a negative thing. She wondered if he was quite repelled or if he was at all impressed by the discipline of their actions, by the courtesy shown the new gatekeeper, though he swore the air blue. As usual, he was given time to remove his personal belongings from the house and to get himself safely away. As usual, they had all been instructed to offer the man no violence, either of word or deed. No one replied to his tirade with even a mild oath. She wondered if Mr. Foster was impressed by the total control Rebecca exercised over his followers without ever having to raise his voice.
Surely Mr. Foster could not fail to be impressed and to realize that they were not a mob with simple destruction on their minds. Surely he could and would help them.
