‘Chester?’ He stared at her blankly. ‘That’s a long way.’ His eyes had strayed from Rhonwen’s face to the bundle against which she was lying. ‘Especially for a lady such as yourself, alone.’
Rhonwen’s attention sharpened. ‘I became separated from my companions,’ she said quietly. ‘They cannot be far away. Once this accursed mist lifts they will find me.’
‘Indeed. I am glad to hear it. It’s dangerous to ride these roads alone. There are all manners of thieves and outlaws in the mountains. It is no place for an unescorted lady.’ He watched as his wife ladled the contents of the cooking pot into three wooden bowls. She reached into the crock for some coarse bread and, breaking it into pieces, gave Rhonwen her share.
‘My name is Annest,’ she said shyly. ‘And my man is Madoc.’
‘I am Rhonwen.’ The words were out before she could stop them, but her host gave no sign that the name meant anything to him. He was too busy pushing the stew from his bowl into his mouth. Rhonwen tasted hers. There was a heavy flavour of leek, and some kind of game bird – the grease floated on the thin stock in great shining gobbets – and it was very hot. After a moment’s hesitation, she began to eat it eagerly, feeling the warmth run through her veins.
They ate in silence, the small room lit only by the fire. Beyond the wall, she heard the animals moving about; caught the heavy smell of dung. Twice Madoc leaned forward to refill her bowl of mead and twice she found she had drained it. She put down her bowl and, the last of her bread eaten, lay back against her bundle.
The fire had died when she awoke, and the room had become very cold. Her head was aching violently. Her eyes still half shut, she groped for her cloak. It had dried by the fire and she pulled it over her, thankful for its heavy folds. She was almost asleep again when she heard someone whispering. She tensed, straining her ears, aware that her hosts were no longer by the fire with her. In the darkness she had not noticed that they were gone, but now she missed the staccato snoring of the drunken Madoc and the snuffling whimpers of his wife. They were outside, and she realised that the cold draught which had awakened her had come from the loosely flapping sacking across the doorway. They appeared to be arguing about something in hushed tight whispers. Again she strained her ears, but she could not make out what they were saying. Fully awake and every nerve tense, she edged herself into a sitting position, feeling for her precious bundle and pushing it behind her. Something was wrong. She had mistrusted Madoc from the first moment she set eyes on him; she should have obeyed her instincts. If only she had a knife. She had asked Senena for a weapon and the stupid woman had laughed: ‘Haven’t you done enough damage?’ she had said. She had given Rhonwen money, clothes and shoes, but no weapon.
There was a sound in the doorway and she held her breath. She heard the slither and drag of the bracken as the two figures crept back inside. It was pitch black, then a small flicker of light showed as Madoc squatted before the fire and pushed aside the turf covering. He paused, silhouetted against the faint glow, then turned towards her. She had half expected him to be holding a knife, but in his hand was a coil of rope.
Her heart thudding with fear, she had almost sat upright when her face was enveloped in a suffocating blackness. Annest, creeping around behind her, had dropped a length of sacking over her head. In seconds she felt the rope looped around her flailing hands, and moments later her ankles were bound as well. Only then was the sack removed. She had been left lying on her side, her ankles pulled up to her wrists so that she was trussed like a fowl ready for the spit.
Madoc kicked at the fire with a chuckle and sat down opposite her, his face illuminated by the flames. ‘So, my fine lady. When I spoke of outlaws in the mountains, little did I realise that I was entertaining one of them under my roof.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘See what she has in that bag she’s been guarding so carefully,
‘Go on, woman, she can’t hurt you!’ Madoc reached for his jug of mead and poured out the last measure. Shaking the jug regretfully upside down, he tossed it over his shoulder into the shadows. ‘She’s going to make us rich, this lady. The prince has offered a reward for her capture, and the family of Cenydd ap Maredudd want her dead or alive.’ He narrowed his eyes. ‘Maybe they will pay even more than the prince, who knows?’
In spite of herself, Rhonwen groaned. Her wrists and ankles hurt savagely and the wound in her leg was sending a knifing pain up to her knee. ‘Please. Let me at least sit up.’ She despised herself for the whimper in her voice.
Madoc ignored her. His eyes were on the bundle which Annest had pulled into the firelight.
‘Go on. Open it.’
She did so and dragged out the spare gown – a soft rich red wool – a fine linen chemise, the pair of leather shoes and the small bag of coins. Taking the purse into her hand, Annest tossed it up and down on her palm. Madoc’s eyes glinted at the sound of the coins.
‘Empty it!’ he hissed. She fumbled with the thongs which bound the mouth of the bag and with an exclamation of impatience he reached into his belt and tossed her his dagger. ‘Cut it, you stupid bitch! Cut it.’
The girl’s hands were shaking as she inserted the blade beneath the leather thong and snicked it. A small pile of shining coins spilled on to the bakestone. Welsh silver pennies with the cross of the Rhuddlan mint lay gleaming in the light of the fire. Madoc licked his lips. ‘So. You carry a fortune with you, Lady Rhonwen. To buy your way across Wales, no doubt.’ He hiccuped morosely. ‘Did you not realise that your name has been cried from every market, from every pulpit, from every mouth, from every passing eagle?’ He snatched a new flagon of mead from his wife, who had produced it from the back of the room without being asked. Drawing the stopper with his teeth, he tipped the bottle and drank deeply, wiping the sticky residue from his lips with the back of his hand before he lay back on his elbow and stared reflectively at the coins. ‘Beautiful,’ he said dreamily, ‘beautiful.’
‘What are you going to do with me?’ Rhonwen asked at last. She was still trying to ease her position.
Madoc stared at her, bleary-eyed. ‘I haven’t decided. Maybe I’ll let them haggle over you like a mare at the horse sales!’ He gave a contented smile and belched. ‘Perhaps we should fatten you up a bit, eh? Get a better price for you that way. In foal!’ He let his eye run insolently over her body.
Rhonwen felt herself shudder with loathing. The hatred she felt for this man was greater than anything she had felt in her life. She could feel it burning through her like fire; like vitriol, corroding her veins. She was almost surprised not to see the ropes which bound her falling away from her limbs, smoking. Her dazedness had gone, and her brain was working as clearly and keenly as a honed knife. He was not going to kill her, that much was clear. She had time to work out how to escape. She eased herself again, feeling a new ache in her back from the awkward curled position in which she lay. She tried to ease her wrists apart, but he had tied the ropes cruelly tight. She heard a quiet chuckle from across the fire, and saw that he was watching her. ‘Trussed like a fowl, you are, my beauty, you’ll not escape,’ he said smugly. He lifted the flagon again, and she watched his Adam’s apple jumping up and down as he swallowed, the shadows from the fire playing across his weathered skin. Behind her Annest sat down quietly and pulled her cloak around her, shivering. She had not touched a drop of the drink.
The fire had burned low again before the jug was at last empty and Madoc lay snoring on the bracken, his mouth open. Rhonwen saw the dagger back in his belt. The bag of coins, carefully gathered again, lay beneath his hand.
‘Annest!’ She could not see the girl from where she lay. ‘Annest, are you there?’
She heard a rustle in the bracken, but there was no answer. ‘Annest, please, my leg hurts so much. Could you not loosen the ropes a little?’ Again there was no answer, but she could hear the silence of the girl holding her breath. ‘Please. You helped me; you bathed my feet and gave me hospitality; you tended my wound. All I am asking is that you loosen the rope around my ankles. He would never know.’ The pain in her voice was real.
Annest sat up and pushed the hair out of her eyes. She said nothing.
‘Please, Annest.’
‘I don’t dare,’ the girl whispered.
Rhonwen gave a small smile – Annest had answered; her will was weakening.
‘Please help me, Annest, I am in such pain.’
There was another slight rustle as Annest crawled towards her. In the dying firelight it was almost dark, but Rhonwen could see the girl’s long flaxen hair hanging forward over the shoulders of her gown.
‘If I loosen the ropes, you won’t do anything?’
‘No, of course I won’t do anything.’ Rhonwen bit her lip as another wave of agony swept up her leg.
Annest touched Rhonwen’s ankles. The rope was very tight, strapping her wrists to her feet, pulling her head almost down to her knees. Her flesh was so bruised and numb she could barely feel Annest’s cold fingers groping their way around the knots.
