riding across the hill, coming from the direction of Ty-Gwyn. Harley had concluded at the time that he had been coming from a tryst with Marged Evans. It was very likely that Marged was a Rebeccaite. Her husband had been trouble, and the constable who had been stationed outside the Williams farm had seen her—or a lad Harley suspected had been her— going down the hill at a late hour.
It was very possible that Marged and Rebecca were lovers.
And so Harley stationed himself in such a position on the hill that he could see both Ty-Gwyn above and Tegfan below and yet was himself hidden from anyone who did not actually ride or walk right on top of him. And yet for all he knew, he was on a fool’s errand. There were hours and hours of chilly boredom to live through and probably would be nothing for his pains at the end of it except a sleepless night and increased anger.
It was time to return home, he decided at last. Probably Wyvern had been tucked up in his bed at Tegfan for hours already. But not so. Before he could move his cramped limbs and show himself to an empty hillside, something caught at the corner of his vision despite the fact that it was still dark. Something light.
There was a horse with two riders outside the gate of Ty-Gwyn. One of the riders swung down from the saddle and lifted down the other. For a few moments their images merged, and then the smaller of the two, the one dressed in dark man’s clothes, opened the gate and disappeared from sight inside the farmyard. The other stayed where he was and watched and raised a hand in farewell a few moments later. Then he remounted his horse and turned it across the hill, in the direction of Tegfan.
The rider, Harley saw with mounting excitement, was all white. He wore a flowing white robe, a blond wig, and what looked to be a white mask. He was Rebecca, the same figure Harley had seen last watching the roadway from which the blacksmith was rescuing Ceris.
He must be Wyvern. Unless his path changed, he was riding toward the northern, uphill entrance to Tegfan. Harley wished he could follow him, but he was on foot. There was nowhere he could conveniently have hidden a horse. Besides, he could not have followed on horseback without being seen.
The man on the horse stopped and looked back when he had put some distance between himself and the farm. He must have ridden out of sight of the gate already. Harley watched, wide-eyed, as he pulled off first his wig and then his mask, which appeared to be some sort of cap that he had pulled over his whole head. Then the gown came off and all were bundled up quickly and wrapped in the cloak or blanket or whatever it was bundled behind the saddle. The rider resumed his journey.
Dawn had not yet broken and there was some distance between the rider and Harley. But Harley was left in no doubt at all about the identity of Rebecca. He was the Earl of Wyvern.
He almost laughed aloud in his excitement. He had him. By God, he had him. If only he had a gun or had brought one of the constables with him! He could have taken Sir Hector Webb a far more significant prisoner than Ceris had been. But there was no point in making his presence known since there was no way of effecting a capture tonight. But tomorrow morning early he would ride to Pantnewydd with his news and his eyewitness account of the transformation of Rebecca into the Earl of Wyvern.
He watched from his position on the hill until Wyvern turned into the northern entrance to the park and disappeared from view among the trees. He was tired, Harley thought, but he doubted that he would get any sleep for what remained of the night.
If only he could put the finger on the blacksmith too. He would like to see Ceris Williams suffering through a trial and a conviction and the transportation for life of her lover.
A convicted daughter of Rebecca would surely get life. Yes, he would like to see her suffer through that after what she had done to him.
Harley got to his feet at last, shook out stiff limbs, and started on the walk back home.