11gainst his ear. "Say it," he hissed. "Say it, or by Christ I'll damned well break your arm!"Mo No, never. Did he say that aloud? Someone was gasping, no. rrv " Surely no*h's v°ice- "Welshmen are . . . thieves . . ." No, not him."Again . . louder this time.""Enough, Walter! It was different when we did not know who he as But Philip and I want no part of this. You do what you want with him, but we're going home ... and straightaway!"The pain in his arm subsided so slowly that Llewelyn did not at once realize he was free. Time passed. He was alone in the meadows now, but he did not move, not until he felt a wet muzzle on the back of his neck. It was Sul, nuzzling his tunic, playing their favorite game, seeking out hidden apple slices. Only then did tears well in Llewelyn's eyes. He welcomed them, needing to cry, but it was not to be; this was a hurt beyond tears, and they trickled into the blood smearing his cheek, dried swiftly in the dying heat of the setting sun.Priding himself on his horsemanship, Llewelyn had never felt the lack of a saddle before. Now, with his right arm all but useless, with no saddle pommel to grip, the once-simple act of mounting was suddenly beyond his capabilities.Again and again he grasped Sul's mane, struggling to pull himself up onto the gelding's back. Again and again he slid back, defeated. But Sul's placid temperament stood him in good stead; the chestnut did no more than roll its eyes sideways, as if seeking to understand this queer new game Llewelyn was set upon playing, and at last, sobbing with frustration, Llewelyn was able to pull himself up onto Sul's withers. He was promptly sick, clinging to Sul's mane while his stomach heaved and the sky whirled dizzily overhead, a surging tide of sunset colors spinning round and round like a child's pinwheel, until the very horizon seemed atilt and all the world out of focus.He headed the gelding back toward Caus Castle; he had nowhere else to go.Village life ceased at dusk, for only the wealthy could afford the luxury of candles and rushlight, and the little hamlets were deserted, his passage heralded only by the barking of dogs. It was well past nightfall by the time he approached Westbury. He had a hazy, halftormed hope that he might somehow sneak unseen into the castle bailey, and then up into the keep, to the upper chamber where Robert orbet's three young sons slept. How he was to accomplish this mirac°us feat, he had no idea, and it was rendered irrelevant now by the sudden appearance of a small body of horsemen.Llewelyn drew rein, for he'd recognized the lead rider. Hugh CorDet his mother's new husband.
32"Llewelyn! Where in the name of Jesus have you been, boy? YOU mother's frantic and little wonder. We've been out looking for you sinc Vespers!"The search party carried lanterns, and as Hugh reined in beside Llewelyn, a glimmer of light fell across the boy's face, only a flicker of illumination, but enough. Hugh drew in his breath sharply. "My God lad, what happened to you?"THERE was some talk of summoning a doctor from Shrewsbury, but it was finally decided that Llewelyn's need was not so great as that. As the lady of the manor, Emma Corbet was, of necessity, a skilled apothecary, as adroit in stitching up wounds, applying poultices, and brewing healing herbs as any physician. It was she who applied a salve of mutton fat and resin toLlewelyn's bruised ribs, bathed his swollen eye in rosewater, and washed the blood and dirt from his face.No, his shoulder was not dislocated, she said soothingly. If it were, he'd be unable to move the arm at all. She did feel certain, though, that his wrist was sprained; see how it was swelling? She'd need cold cornpresses for the eye, hot towels for the wrist, and her cache of herbs, she directed, and her maids speedily departed the bedchamber, leaving Llewelyn alone with Emma andMarared, his mother.Voices sounded beyond the door. Llewelyn recognized one as his stepfather's;the other belonged to Robert Corbet, Hugh's elder brother. "Do you not think you're making too much of this, Hugh? Boys will get into squabbles. Look at my torn, how he""You have not seen him yet, Rob," Hugh said grimly, and pushed the door back.Robert Corbet, Baron of Caus, was only twenty-eight, but he was decisive by nature and long accustomed to the exercise of authority. At sight of Llewelyn, his face hardened. Kneeling by the boy, he said, "Who
