A Dishonorable Knight - By Morrison, Michelle Page 0,168

you.”

Seeking a different tack, he said, “But we will draw all manner of focus,” this with a gesture to her gown and jewels.

Elena fumbled at the clasp of her necklace, removing it and handing it to Dafydd. “Take this. Sell it and purchase me hose and a jerkin. A rough cloak.” Dafydd stared in horror at the necklace. “Oh, and food. Buy as much as the horses can carry.”

Looking a bit dazed, Dafydd finally took the necklace and made to leave the small room. “Dafydd,” she called out when he was at the door.

“Yes, my lady?” Trepidation filled his voice.

“Have you a dagger?”

He drew a blade from the sheath at his hip and handed it to her, hilt first.

“Thank you.”

It had taken Elena several tries, but she finally forced herself to saw through her thick chestnut-colored braid. She looked from it to the blade and saw that they were both shaking. Oh, she thought, it’s my hands. Carefully putting both down on the small table, she sat with clasped hands and awaited Dafydd’s return.

A brief rap heralded his entrance. He paused in the doorway, but said nothing. After a moment, he crossed the room and dropped a small bundle in her lap. “There’s a hood there as well. I thought it would hide…”

Her hair, she mentally finished, and smiled. Perhaps she should have thought more carefully before her rash act. And yet, she did not regret it. Cutting her hair—her pride, the envy of the other ladies at court, the object of many pretty compliments—was like severing herself from a past she no longer recognized.

They had travelled at a punishing pace, travelling in a roundabout path to stop at any town large enough to hear word of Henry Tudor’s landing, of King Richard’s movement. Always, their direction took them west, toward Wales. Elena was beyond tired. She had no idea what kept her in the saddle. She seemed to have discovered a hidden strength she’d never realized was a part of her. Or perhaps it was simply that her determination had settled on a different goal. Either way, they covered long stretches of England’s roads until finally they heard word at one busy pub of the upcoming battle.

Elena stirred the fire and brushed a short strand of hair out of her eyes.

Nearly an hour passed before the Welshman returned.

"Neither man holds Lichfield. They are gathering near Market Bosworth, halfway between here and Leicester. They will no doubt come to battle on the morrow.” Disappointment was evident in Dafydd’s voice. “There is no way we can arrive before the battle is over. The day is spent and they will surely fight come dawn's first rays."

“Then let us travel all night.”

Dafydd shook his head. “No. You are exhausted. My humble presence will not determine the course of the battle one way or the other. We will leave at first light.”

Elena ignored him and rose to saddle her horse. “We leave now.”

“My lady,” Dafydd said with a chuckle. “Sir Gareth is either the strongest-willed man alive or the most hen-pecked!”

“I’m sure he would say both,” Elena said with her first smile in days.

***

The dawn broke brilliant and clear over the horizon. Elena and her escort rode unmolested into the Tudor camp after one of the Welsh sentries recognized Dafydd. Dafydd left her with the pages and squires who were too young to fight.

“For your own safety, my lady, please stay here. I would not wish to face your Sir Gareth should aught happen to you.”

“Good luck, Dafydd. And…have a care,” Elena replied, though she had no intention of obeying him. She must find Gareth, must see him before he took the field in case this battle was–no, she would not consider his death.

Elena took off in the direction Dafydd had taken. Surely he sought the Welsh troops. She could just see his head bobbing as his loping gait carried him through the somber men who prepared for battle. Though the morn was clear and sweet, there was a heaviness in the air that prevented the usual morning banter and laughter. Men would die today, Elena thought. Perhaps these very men. Elena crossed herself. So long as it was not Gareth!

A troop of squires leading their knight’s warhorses crossed between her and Dafydd. She jumped to keep sight of his head, but all she saw were muscled withers and flanks, streaming manes and tails.

When the horses had passed, Elena ran to catch up with Dafydd, but he was nowhere to be seen. Frustrated, she