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.”