somewhere else. And Rebecca, if tradition was being followed, would be clad recklessly in white.
She shook her head. “I am not going anywhere but with you, Aled,” she said. “You will not drive me away. Unfortunately it is gates we will pull down and not Tegfan, but Geraint will know after tonight that he has powerful enemies. I am one of those enemies and I will not cower at home.”
“We will be walking for many miles over the hills,” he said. “It will be a long, hard night, Marged.”
“And chapel in the morning?” she said, smiling broadly at him. “I will not have any of my choir missing, mind, and staying in their beds to catch up on sleep.”
“Well, then,” he said, wheeling his horse away from her, “don’t complain to me of blisters.”
He had not exaggerated. He led them straight into the hills and over the crest—and through valleys and over other hills. Miles and miles of walking. Most of the time he walked with them, leading his horse by the reins. There was not a great deal of talking. They picked up more men as they went and two more “daughters.” There must have been more than a hundred of them eventually, Marged guessed, all moving together and so quietly that no one standing close by who did not know of their presence would have suspected it.
And then suddenly it seemed that they were to join forces with another group at least as large and as close-packed and as quiet as their own. Marged, who was walking almost at the head of her own group, close to Aled, felt a thrill of excitement and fear again. At the head of the new group, seated on a large dark horse, was a figure dressed in a flowing white robe and a long blond wig. Even the face looked white—masked, Marged realized, rather than blackened.
Rebecca!
She sat motionless on the horse, appearing to tower over the crowd on foot and even over her mounted and darker daughters.
Who was he? Marged wondered, staring at him. He looked even more grotesque than Aled. And many times more magnificent. Aled rode forward with the other daughters from their group and they took up their positions to either side of Rebecca.
And finally she raised both arms upward and outward. White sleeves fell like wings from her wrists to her sides. It was an unnecessary gesture since there had been no noise to hush. But it was a commanding gesture. The silence became almost a tangible thing. Marged could almost hear the beating of her own heart.
“My daughters,” she said, “and my loyal children, welcome.”
It was a rich male voice, speaking Welsh. A voice that seemed not to be raised and yet spoke clearly enough to be heard by the farthest man in the crowd. It was a voice that sounded accustomed to command.
“I will lead you to a gate,” Rebecca said, “a gate that ought not to be there, taking as it does the freedom of passage away from my countrymen. You will destroy that gate, my daughters and my children, and the house of the gatekeeper. You will destroy them when I give the command. You will not harm the gatekeeper or abuse him with words. My followers are courteous people who perform a necessary service for their families and neighbors and friends. If anyone wishes to turn back, now is the time.”
No one moved. There were low murmurings of assent.
He was magnificent, Marged thought again. They were a rabble with destruction in mind. But he was converting them with very few words and in a very short span of time into an army with a noble purpose. He had them all eating out of his hand, herself included. She felt at that moment that she would follow him to hell and back if he asked it of her.
“Lead on, Mother,” Aled said.
“We will follow you, Mother,” a few of the other daughters said.
Marged found that her heart beat faster at the foolish ritual, which somehow at this moment did not seem foolish at all.
And then Rebecca lowered her arms, and they were all making their way down from the bleak hillside on which they had gathered. Down toward the road and a tollgate, though it was invisible in the darkness. In the darkness it was hard to see even the ground ahead of one’s feet. The horses ahead and the hundreds of men on either side were mere shadows in the darkness, felt