Aled went very still and his face paled. “You’re mad, Ger,” he almost whispered. “I always said you were mad. I was right.”
“And I am right too, aren’t I?” Geraint said. “It is a Rebecca you are lacking. Look back in your memory, Aled. Who is more likely to relish such a position than I?”
Aled seemed to have forgotten that he knew nothing about Rebecca Riots. “It would be absurd,” he said. “The riots are a protest against landlords. You are one of the biggest landlords in Carmarthenshire.”
Geraint nodded. “And I grew up as one of the poorest of the poor,” he said. “I know both worlds, Aled. They should be able to coexist in peace and harmony but do not. I want them to do so but have been frustrated in my approaches to both worlds. I feel stuck firmly in the middle and impotent to change anything. But as Rebecca I could. I am accustomed to leading. I did it from instinct as a boy, and I have done it from training as a man. A rabble is not easy to lead or control. I could do both. And I know how to attract attention. As Rebecca I could write letters to the right people—to government figures, to Englishmen who are sympathetic to the poor and influential in Parliament, to certain newspapers.”
“Duw save us,” Aled said, still pale, “you are serious.”
“Yes.” Geraint nodded. “I am. But I need a bridge from one world to the other, Aled. There is an organization already in place, plans already made. There are, aren’t there? And you know about them and can bring me in.”
“You are mad,” Aled said again. “Do you think anyone would accept you as leader, Ger? You are the enemy.”
“No more than a few people need know,” Geraint said. “Who is making all the plans? A small group, at a guess. Some sort of committee? I imagine that if they are wise they emphasize secrecy at every turn. If there are informers it is as well to give them, as few people to inform against as possible. Rebecca’s identity would probably be kept from the rank and file, wouldn’t it?”
“This is your fairy tale,” Aled said. “You tell me.”
“What sort of disguise does Rebecca wear?” Geraint asked.
“From what I have heard,” Aled said, “of distant riots, you understand, she usually wears a flowing white robe and a long blond wig and she blackens her face.”
“Blackens her face.” Geraint thought for a moment. “Not a very good disguise for her followers who might be close enough to have a good look at her. A mask would be better, something to pull over the whole head beneath the wig.”
“You would be recognized anyway,” his friend said.
“I think not,” Geraint said. “The disguise is a good one for hiding form and figure. Everyone will assume that I am someone from another town or village, someone they have never met before. And who in his right mind would even dream that it might be me?”
“Your voice?” Aled said.
“You are the only one to whom I have spoken Welsh since my return,” Geraint said. “Do I speak it with an English accent?”
“No.” Aled frowned.
“Rebecca will speak only Welsh. And it is no problem to deepen my voice a little just in case,” Geraint said, doing just that. “No one will know. And no one would guess that I would disguise myself in order to lead my own people against me, would they?”
“Even those who knew you were mad as a boy would not realize that you are totally insane,” Aled said. “You are, Ger. I am surprised that someone has not chained you to the wall of one of your elegant London mansions before now.” Geraint grinned. He had not felt so vibrantly alive for—he could not remember for how long.
“In the meantime,” he said, “I am going to have to halt reform on my own land. I don’t want anyone to become confused and perhaps pity me. The destroyed weir and mantraps will have to do for now.”
Aled straightened up on his bench suddenly and looked wary again. “Oh, Duw, Ger,” he said, “you had me going there for a while. That was an amusing fairy tale.”
Geraint chuckled. “Too late, Aled,” he said. “I saw the truth in your face, and I saw the excitement in your eyes. You need a Rebecca and you know I am the perfect choice—perhaps the only choice. Are you on the