“No,” he said. He stooped to gather up the blanket and reached for her hand. He was not sure his answer was strictly true. “Come.”
There was no sign of movement beyond the trees. The night was darker than it had been earlier. He was both glad and sorry for it. Glad because he could not easily be seen and sorry because he could not easily see. He mounted his horse and reached down a hand to bring Marged up in front of him. She snuggled immediately against him, wrapping both arms about his waist. He headed cautiously for the bridge across the river.
“You must be careful,” she said. “Did you know that they are offering five hundred pounds for your capture?”
“Indeed?” he said. “I am worth that much?”
“No one will inform against you,” she said. “Besides, no one knows who you are. The only real danger is that you will be caught. And I have added to that danger.”
“No.” He kissed the top of her head, feeling with regret the barrier of his mask that prevented him from touching her hair.
“He called on everyone on Monday,” she said. “He even came to Ty-Gwyn.”
“He?” The bridge had been safely crossed. He turned his horse upward into the hills.
“The Earl of Wyvern,” she said. “He had the gall to help me with the stone picking on one of the fields. And then he questioned me and threatened me and hinted that I would be serving my people by informing against them.”
“That was not nicely done,” he said.
“I should have remained icily aloof,” she said. “But I was furious. I slapped his face. But I was not sorry afterward. I am not sorry now.”
“He was probably sorry,” he said.
“He just looked at me with those cold eyes of his,” she said. “He has changed so much. He used to be full of—oh, how do I describe it? A passion for living.”
“You used to like him?” he asked.
“I loved him,” she said. “He was a wonderful child. He lived in such dreadful poverty and yet his spirit was quite unbowed. He was cheerful, energetic, daring—oh, a hundred different things. And he used to sing, with the sweetest soprano voice. Such heavenly music from a ragged and impish little rogue.” She chuckled, though there was sadness in the sound. “I used to love him. I find it hard to believe that he is the same person. I would not wish to see you in his power. He is hard and ruthless. He does not show mercy. I do not like you riding in this area.”
“I will be careful.” They were riding up the last part of the slope between Ninian Williams’s farm and Ty-Gwyn. He could not talk easily. There was an ache in his throat. She had spoken of Geraint Penderyn, the child, with such wistful tenderness in her voice.
He did not speak again until he had lifted her to the ground outside the gate to the farmyard. He kissed her warmly.
“Marged,” he said, “you must be careful too. I would rather you did not come out again.”
“Would you?” She lowered her eyes. “I should not have looked back tonight, should I? You did not mean to spend time with me tonight, did you? I am sorry. But I did not go for that reason. I went because I had to. I will go again for the same reason. I will not come near you again. I am not trying to put an obligation on you merely because I have lain with you.”
“Marged.” He drew her close against him. “I may have got you with child. Have you thought of that?”
“Strangely, no,” she said. “I was married for five years and never conceived. I have always thought I was unable to.”
“If you are with child,” he said, “I will not leave you in disgrace. You must tell me. If all else fails, you can communicate with me through Aled Rhoslyn. But it would not be a good situation, Marged. It would not make you happy.”
He was trying desperately to be sensible. He was trying to force her to be sensible.
She looked up at him suddenly, smiling brightly. “I thought men were supposed to take their pleasure and feel no responsibility for their consequences,” she said. “You are tenderhearted, Rebecca. Go now. You must go. And be careful.”
He lowered his head to kiss her again, but she had turned away and was opening the gate. She hurried through it and closed it behind her. She was still smiling at him.
“Good night, Marged,” he said.
“Good night.” Her smile was too bright. “Cariad, ” she added, and turned to flee across the yard toward the house.
“Good night, cariad.” He formed the words with his lips, though he did not speak them aloud.
There were special constables in the area. They were staying, apparently, at Tegfan, four of them, housed in the servants’ quarters. But they had been seen walking about the park, deep in conversation with the Earl of Wyvern. And Glenys Owen had reported to her brothers that they had dined with him.
They called at almost every house in Glynderi and at almost every farm, asking questions, demanding that each man account for his whereabouts on the night when two tollgates and houses had been pulled down by Rebecca and her children. They offered immunity to anyone who would confess to having been there but who would give them the names of Rebecca and perhaps some of her daughters. No one could give them any assistance at all, of course. Every man had been in his bed, where he belonged at night, and every man’s wife would vouch for the fact.
Marged heard all about it from Ceris, who called at Ty-Gwyn two days after the attack. The constables had not been there themselves, having ascertained, no doubt, that there were no men living there. Ceris was pale and shaking and huddled inside a shawl, even though the weather had turned warm. Marged took her into the empty cow barn and they leaned against the partition between two stalls.
“It must stop now,” Ceris said. “Surely it will, Marged. Someone is going to get caught.”
“I don’t believe it will stop,” Marged said. “This is what we wanted, Ceris—to attract attention. There would be no point in doing what we have done if no one took any notice of us. We want the government to take notice. We want them to ask questions, to find out why it is happening. We want the gates down permanently, and we want the government to know that the gates are only one grievance out of many.”
Ceris put her hands over her face, and Marged heard her take a deep and ragged breath.
“At least it is not the Earl of Wyvern himself going around this time,” Marged said. “He must have been discouraged by the reception he had on Monday.”
But she could not whip up the appropriate anger against Geraint. And she could not get as excited as she ought about Ceris’s news. She was too selfishly wrapped up in her own emotions. It was selfish, she knew. The greater cause was all that mattered, and yet all she had been able to think about since Wednesday night was the fact that he did not really want her.
Her heart had felt so leaden for almost two days that she felt that she was dragging it about on the soles of her feet with every step she took.
If she was with child, he would not leave her in disgrace. She might communicate with him through Aled. She supposed he meant that he would marry her if she was pregnant. Only because she was pregnant. Not for any other reason.
It would not be a good situation, Marged. It would not make you happy.