“You may go home now, Idris,” he said. “Is it too much to ask that for once you stay there all night, where it is safe?”
He did not wait for an answer, but Idris grinned to himself. Yes, it was too much to ask. There was going to be too much to be observed tonight for him to waste the time sitting with his mam and his sisters or sleeping. He rose out of his hiding place and bounded down the hill in the direction of Tegfan.
It was amazing how inefficient and inept they were, he thought scornfully an hour later. It had obviously not entered any of their heads to check the gamekeeper’s hut to see that the bundle was still inside. Or to think that perhaps the earl would leave earlier than he needed for the supposed meeting with the man from London. Idris had been in hiding for some time before three constables took up their positions, ready to pounce on Rebecca when he emerged from the hut.
It was almost enough to make a person laugh, Idris thought. They all thought themselves so well hidden, and yet a herd of oxen could hardly have made more noise. Even without Idris’s warning the earl would have been perfectly safe. He would have detected their presence a mile off.
And then finally, along came Mr. Harley in a fine state of excitement, not even trying to keep quiet.
“He has gone already,” he announced when he was close to the hut, and all the constables came shuffling out of hiding. “That fool of a servant failed to inform me that he left early. Perhaps he planned another gate smashing before his appointment with Foster. But no matter. Vanity will take him there eventually—how could he resist having his name in the London papers? And there are four constables awaiting him and his right-hand man when they get there. But we are going to have to be doubly sure of bagging him now that the simple way of doing it has slipped through our fingers.”
Idris concentrated on not moving an eyelash.
“I have been sent a dozen more constables,” Harley said. “They are at the house now. Come back there with me and I will give you all your orders. I am going to station you all at various points around the park and a few of you about the smithy in Glynderi. If they escape capture elsewhere, they will be caught before they can reach home. This is the last night for Rebecca and her daughters, you may rest assured.”
The constables moved off behind the steward as he strode back downhill in the direction of the house. Some of them murmured complaints, though Idris did not listen to their exact words. His heart was beating up into his throat and almost deafening his ears. The earl was for it. And Mr. Rhoslyn. Even if they left their disguises up on the hill, somehow Mr. Harley and Sir Hector and the constables would not be thwarted this time. Somehow they would trump up damning evidence.
The trouble was, Idris thought, he could not decide what to do. There was no one to run to. The earl was gone and so was Mr. Rhoslyn. So were his dada and most of the other men. Probably Mrs. Evans too. Suddenly and unwillingly Idris realized how helpless he was as a child. He could run to the Cilcoed gate, he supposed, as he had done to that other gate, to warn everyone. But what were they to do if they could not return home? There was no one to turn to. Only women—and Idris never expected too much of women. And Mr. Williams, but he was so very far away and in the opposite direction from the Cilcoed gate.
There was only one person left that he could think of. And he disapproved of the rioting. And what could he do anyway? But at least he was adult and male and close by.
Idris wormed out of his hiding place and took to his heels as if he was being pursued by fleet-footed hounds.
The Reverend Meirion Llwyd was sitting at his desk in the small box of a room at the manse that passed for his study, writing his Sunday sermon. He was frowning in concentration over the exact wording, though the whole task was unnecessary, he knew. Once he started speaking from the pulpit and got launched into his text, the emotion of the moment always took him and provided him with both the ideas he was to expound upon and the words with which to do so.
His frown deepened when someone started hammering at his front door—with the sides of both fists, by the sound of it. One of these weeks he was going to be able to get his whole sermon prepared without interruption. He sighed and got to his feet, pushing his chair clear of the desk with the backs of his knees.
“Idris Parry,” he said when he had opened the door. The boy all but fell inside. “And what are you doing so far from home at this time of night?” It struck him that the child might have been poaching and was being pursued. And the Reverend Llwyd would hide him or provide him with an alibi, though he would be supplying the devil with one more coal for his fire by doing so.
The boy’s eyes were wild. “They have lured Rebecca and all the others out,” he said, gasping between words. “And they have set a trap for them when they return. They will never get home.”
The Reverend Llwyd had tried not even to think about Rebecca or the fact that almost every man from his congregation—and Marged, he suspected—followed the man, whoever he was. The Reverend Llwyd believed that vengeance was the Lord’s prerogative. But they were his people, the sheep of his flock—and one of them was his daughter, his own flesh and blood.
“Tell me quickly, boy,” he said. “Everything you know.”
Idris told—everything, even down to the identity of Rebecca. It seemed that the Earl of Wyvern was in grave danger even though he knew about the one trap that had been set for him and would probably get close to home safely. And Aled Rhoslyn was in equal danger. And perhaps all the men who lived in the village. Lurking constables would see them return home and would draw their own conclusions—especially if the men had blackened faces.
The Reverend Llwyd thought for a moment while Idris Parry hopped from foot to foot. But no longer than a moment—he would have wished his sermons came so easily if he had spared a thought to the matter.
“We must have a little while before the constables arrive in the village,” he said. “Quick, Idris. But listen carefully first. Go and find Gwilym Dirion and any other lad you can think of. Take them with you and fan them out so that between you you don’t miss one single man returning to Glynderi. Divert them. Send them up into the hills and around to Ninian Williams’s farm. That is where they are to come, all of them. Get them to clean up on the way.”
“Yes, sir.” Idris was at the door already.
“We are going to have a party,” the Reverend Llwyd announced. “I am going to hurry around to all the women and send them up with all the food they can gather together. Ninian Williams and his good wife are giving a party to celebrate the engagement of Ceris to Aled Rhoslyn. Now, on your way, is it?”
Idris exited the house so fast that the door was left swinging on its hinges.
The Reverend Llwyd grabbed his hat and his cloak and followed the boy outside, though he did take the time to close his door behind him. The shadows of little boys slunk past him as he hurried along the street, knocking on doors, issuing hurried commands. Most of the women, eyes wide with anxiety for men out with Rebecca, agreed to call at various farms on their way out to Ninian Williams’s so that there could be a proper community celebration when the men came home.
Before setting off for the party himself, the Reverend Llwyd returned home for his Bible. He set off on his way with it tucked under his arm. He paused twice in his walk along the village street to bid two strangers a good evening and to wish them God’s blessing.
Word had somehow been kept from Marged. The crowd was smaller than usual since only the men from the vicinity of Tegfan had been called out. It was easy to see that Marged was not of their number. It was a relief. Geraint did not know quite what danger they were facing. Perhaps they were being foolhardy. But no, they were not that. There was Mrs. Phillips to rescue. And a human life was worth any risk.
His spies could see no one lurking in the vicinity of the Cilcoed gate except Thomas Campbell Foster, who had been invited to come early and to stay late. But it was a great deal earlier than usual—not even quite dark. One felt strangely exposed to view when not enclosed by total darkness.
He led the way down onto the road as usual and proceeded along the road to the gate as usual, riding upright at the head of his men, in full view of whoever might be inside the tollhouse. His spies had said only Mrs. Phillips was there. But his flesh crawled as he neared the gate.
And then a little whirlwind came rushing out through the door brandishing a large club and swearing eloquently enough to put a navvy to the blush—in Welsh.
