Geraint’s eyebrows rose again. “And so we sit back and allow ourselves to be made fools of?” he asked, his voice cold and haughty. “And will it be our hayricks and our stables and our houses next? I think not, Hector.”
“I am thankful to see that you are as outraged as we are, Wyvern,” Lady Stella said. “From the way you have been talking about tolls and tithes and rents, we wondered if you would be sympathetic to the mob.”
“It is one thing to give some favor freely, Aunt,” he said. “It is another to have it taken by force. We can allow no such thing. What measures are to be taken, Hector? Has the army been summoned?”
“I have talked with others since this morning,” Sir Hector said. “We will request that soldiers be sent, of course. In the meanwhile we will have special constables sent to the area. But it will not be easy. We will rely heavily on informers. We will offer a reward for the capture of anyone who takes part in the riots—fifty pounds is one suggestion, with one hundred for one of the leaders, or daughters as they are foolishly called, and five hundred for Rebecca. What do you think, Wyvern? Are you willing to pay your share of the cost?”
“It is a great deal of money,” Geraint said.
“You can afford it.” His aunt made no attempt to hide the contempt in her voice.
“I meant that it should not be long before we round up the ringleaders and put an end to this insanity,” Geraint said. “Surely informers will flock to claim their reward.”
“It is obvious you have not been in this part of the world for a long time,” Sir Hector said. “They are a foolish and stubborn people, the Welsh peasantry. And as closemouthed as clams. They would prefer to protect one another than to make their lives a little more comfortable with blood money.”
“Someone will surely talk,” Geraint said. “It will take only one.”
“Or one caught red-handed,” his uncle said. “A man might trade information for the assurance that he will not spend the next seven or so years of his life at hard labor in a foreign land.”
“I will do my part, certainly,” Geraint said. “By this time tomorrow my people will know that it would be wiser to let the Penfro gate be the first and the last they will ever attack. I thought I was prepared to take a closer look at rents and to take a more lenient view of tithes. I thought I was prepared to see a lowering of the tolls to help my farmers. But they have just alienated my sympathy.”
“Well,” Lady Stella said, “that is something, at least.”
Sir Hector cleared his throat. “Far be it from me to criticize, Wyvern,” he said, “but I predicted this as soon as I heard about your salmon weir and the gamekeeper’s traps. It never does to show even a hint of weakness to these people.”
“I can see that now,” Geraint said humbly. “But it will not happen again, you may rest assured. It does not amuse me to be spat upon.” He turned to Lady Stella as he rose to his feet and approached the bellpull. “You will be ready for tea, Aunt.”
Chapter 15
GERAINT was careful the next morning not to call on Aled first. He visited a few of the farms before going to the village and paid a few calls there before stopping at the smithy. This morning he was no longer the newly arrived earl, making an effort to get to know his people and even to show some friendliness toward them. This morning he was the stern, thin-lipped aristocrat, asking questions, issuing warnings, hinting of rewards.
The Reverend Llwyd surprised him.
“I will ask you to leave, my lord,” he said, rising to his feet and speaking with great dignity when Geraint tried to enlist his help in encouraging informers to come forward. “Anyone who can ask that one man betray another in the name of law and justice is not welcome in this house. Both the one who can ask it and the one who betrays are an abomination in the sight of the Lord.”
“Even when they would be helping to put an end to violence and destruction?” Geraint asked haughtily, getting to his feet too.
“I do not condone violence,” the minister said. “Neither do I condone betrayal of a fellow mortal. And I do not condone the oppression of the poor by the rich, neither, mind, my lord. But it is the Lord God”—he shook his finger in the direction of the ceiling—“who sees sin in whatever form it shows itself. And it is the Lord God who will punish. ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.’ ”
Geraint left. The Reverend Llwyd had just won his deep respect. And yet every man has his blind spot, he thought. The minister obviously believed that some sins ought not to be left in the Lord’s hands. Pregnant, unmarried women could be driven from the chapel and from the community and left to live or die by their own devices.
He went to the smithy next. Aled turned from the anvil, eyeing him warily as a customer sidled from the shop. He wiped his hands on his apron.
Geraint went through his litany for the benefit of the wide-eyed apprentice, who was cowering in a corner trying to make himself invisible. But finally Geraint looked significantly at his friend and nodded almost imperceptibly in the direction of the boy.
“Gwil,” Aled said, “home for dinner now, is it? And tell your mam sorry you are a little early.”
Gwilym took to his heels without further encouragement.
“There are letters on the way to London,” Geraint said quickly. “And letters on the way to every landowner in the area, myself included.”
Aled nodded. “You have been prompt,” he said.
“It is to be Wednesday night, then, and two gates?” Geraint said. “We must make doubly sure that secrecy is maintained. This push for informers may bear fruit.”
“I doubt it,” Aled said. “You are insulting my countrymen, Ger.”
“And my own.” Geraint grinned briefly. “Aled, Rebecca has coffers of gold.”
His friend looked at him blankly.
“Money has been sent from the coffers to the Penfro gatekeeper and his wife to compensate them for the loss of their home and livelihood,” Geraint said. “The same thing will happen in future. And money has been sent or soon will be to people who are suffering badly from the way the Earl of Wyvern and other landowners treat them. Charlotte will doubtless be asked about it. I mention the existence of the coffers so that your jaw will not hang and make you look stupider than usual.” He grinned again.
“Is it necessary, Ger?” Aled frowned. “None of the committee will be able to contribute.”
“I have not asked for help,” Geraint said. “They are the coffers of Rebecca and I am Rebecca. I must go, or anyone who is timing me will think I am flaying you alive. Wednesday, then.”
Aled nodded curtly.
Marged was doing another backbreaking round of the field that would be sown to wheat soon. She had ignored some of the smaller stones during the first round, convincing herself that they were too small to matter. But with the larger stones gone, the smaller ones had suddenly looked bigger themselves and they had stared accusingly at her every time she was busy about something else in the farmyard.
So she was picking stones again. She had been at it since early in the morning. By early afternoon she was feeling hot and stiff and dirty. Dirt was encrusted under her fingernails, she saw with distaste. And the soil of the field must be on her face, rubbed there by the back of her hand, with which she frequently and ineffectually pushed back tendrils of hair that had worked themselves loose from her bun.