He had set his conditions. Only tollgates and tollhouses were to be destroyed. There was to be no damage to private property. There was to be no harm done to any person. No one was to be coerced into joining the rioters, as was happening in other areas. No one was to carry a gun. And one gate was to be exempt. There was a gate on Tegfan land, the Cilcoed gate, kept by an elderly woman, Mrs. Dilys Phillips. He had given her the word of the Earl of Wyvern that he would protect her from all harm.
And so he had a third identity. He was Geraint Penderyn and the Earl of Wyvern—and now Rebecca. He was to become Rebecca for the first time on Saturday night. His disguise had been found for him and was safely stowed away in a derelict gamekeeper’s hut at the northern tip of the park. He had studied the rituals that were always observed at a gate breaking. They were foolish rituals, perhaps, as was the whole idea of Rebecca and her daughters, but he knew that sometimes ritual had its function in giving form and orderliness to a situation that was fraught with dangers. He thought Saturday night would never come.
He found himself unable to settle to anything for the intervening days but wandered restlessly about the house and park. He found it difficult to eat. He found it almost impossible to sleep.
He was excited and afraid.
She was terribly afraid. Perhaps more afraid than she had ever been in her life. But, no, that was not true. She had been more afraid when Eurwyn had been out trying to destroy that weir. And her feelings at his trial and afterward had gone beyond fear. Fear was a dreadful emotion when it was accompanied by utter helplessness.
There was an element of excitement and exhilaration mingled with this fear. And this time she was not helpless. She was doing something. She was in control of her own destiny.
Her mother-in-law and grandmother always went to bed early. Sometimes Marged regretted the fact. Evenings could be long when they were spent alone. But tonight she was glad. She dressed quickly and quietly in the old breeches and jacket she had cut down from Eurwyn’s size to her own. She pulled a woolen cap over her head and then stooped down by the fire to blacken her face with some of the cooled ashes she had mixed with a little water.
Wet ashes. Her hand paused for a moment over the dish. But she would not think about him or about what she had done to his bed. She had not seen him for two weeks and she could not be happier. It seemed that the less than warm welcome he had received from them all and the “accidents” that had befallen him had had the desired effect. He had retreated into the house and park of Tegfan. Perhaps soon he would retreat all the way to London. Perhaps the riots that were to start tonight would drive him away.
She could not somehow imagine Geraint running from danger, though. But then she was remembering him as a daring urchin. She did not know anything now about the state of his courage. Except, she thought unwillingly, that it must have taken courage both to go to chapel and to go to Mrs. Howell’s birthday party. She had not thought of it that way before. And did not want to think it now. Or to think of him.
She slipped out of the house quietly, closing both the kitchen and the outside doors slowly, hoping that her absence would go unnoticed. She did not want the other two women involved in what she had decided to do. It would be unfair. They had suffered enough anxiety with Eurwyn.
She hoped she was not too late. She wanted desperately to be part of this first mass demonstration. She wanted to be a part of all of them, even though they would become progressively more dangerous as the authorities were alerted to trouble. It was a very dark night. Heavy clouds hid the moon and the stars. It was better so. And yet bounding downhill was not an easy thing to do. She hoped she would be in time.
She was. They were gathered at the river beyond Glynderi, perhaps twenty-five men, and more joined them within the next few minutes. They were all on foot except for the one figure on horseback, wearing a dark flowing robe and a dark woman’s wig. His face was blackened. Rebecca, Marged thought for a moment, and her heart beat faster. But he rode closer to her and looked down at her.
“Marged?” he said in Aled Rhoslyn’s voice. “You should not be here, girl. Go home now where it is safe, is it? It is enough that Eurwyn worked for the cause.”
It was Aled, of course, looking grotesque but somehow menacing as Charlotte. Rebecca was from somewhere else. And Rebecca, if tradition was being followed, would be clad recklessly in white.
She shook her head. “I am not going anywhere but with you, Aled,” she said. “You will not drive me away. Unfortunately it is gates we will pull down and not Tegfan, but Geraint will know after tonight that he has powerful enemies. I am one of those enemies and I will not cower at home.”
“We will be walking for many miles over the hills,” he said. “It will be a long, hard night, Marged.”
“And chapel in the morning?” she said, smiling broadly at him. “I will not have any of my choir missing, mind, and staying in their beds to catch up on sleep.”
“Well, then,” he said, wheeling his horse away from her, “don’t complain to me of blisters.”
He had not exaggerated. He led them straight into the hills and over the crest—and through valleys and over other hills. Miles and miles of walking. Most of the time he walked with them, leading his horse by the reins. There was not a great deal of talking. They picked up more men as they went and two more “daughters.” There must have been more than a hundred of them eventually, Marged guessed, all moving together and so quietly that no one standing close by who did not know of their presence would have suspected it.
And then suddenly it seemed that they were to join forces with another group at least as large and as close-packed and as quiet as their own. Marged, who was walking almost at the head of her own group, close to Aled, felt a thrill of excitement and fear again. At the head of the new group, seated on a large dark horse, was a figure dressed in a flowing white robe and a long blond wig. Even the face looked white—masked, Marged realized, rather than blackened.
Rebecca!
She sat motionless on the horse, appearing to tower over the crowd on foot and even over her mounted and darker daughters.
Who was he? Marged wondered, staring at him. He looked even more grotesque than Aled. And many times more magnificent. Aled rode forward with the other daughters from their group and they took up their positions to either side of Rebecca.
And finally she raised both arms upward and outward. White sleeves fell like wings from her wrists to her sides. It was an unnecessary gesture since there had been no noise to hush. But it was a commanding gesture. The silence became almost a tangible thing. Marged could almost hear the beating of her own heart.
“My daughters,” she said, “and my loyal children, welcome.”
It was a rich male voice, speaking Welsh. A voice that seemed not to be raised and yet spoke clearly enough to be heard by the farthest man in the crowd. It was a voice that sounded accustomed to command.
“I will lead you to a gate,” Rebecca said, “a gate that ought not to be there, taking as it does the freedom of passage away from my countrymen. You will destroy that gate, my daughters and my children, and the house of the gatekeeper. You will destroy them when I give the command. You will not harm the gatekeeper or abuse him with words. My followers are courteous people who perform a necessary service for their families and neighbors and friends. If anyone wishes to turn back, now is the time.”