A Dishonorable Knight(82)

"Why don't you ask in here," Elena suggested, gesturing to the bakery they had stopped in front of. "Then you can buy me a sweet bun."

"You just ate."

"A bit of dry bread and a lump of cheese is not enough to break my fast."

"Would you have preferred some dried beef?"

Elena leveled her sourest glare at him to no effect. "Are you going to ask where it is or not?"

"Why? We'll find it. Maybe it's down a little farther."

"Oh Gareth! Here, give me some money and I'll go ask."

"You're going to pay someone for directions?"

"No, I'm going to ask for directions and then buy something to eat."

Gareth rolled his eyes but pulled out the small pouch of coins. "Here. Gorge yourself."

"Hmph."

Elena disappeared into the dim recess of the bakery and Gareth leaned against the shadowed wall. He looked up and down the narrow street, unable to quell the feeling that this was a dangerous spot. Shifting the heavy bulk of fabric to his other arm, he decided that a little dust would not harm the heavy wool and he carefully set the load down on the baker's stoop, shaking his arms to return circulation to them. Wishing Elena would hurry, he looked down the street once again and froze. Coming up the cobbled lane were three of the rough soldiers he and Elena had stumbled upon in the forest mists. What were they doing here? His sword hand automatically grasped at his hip, but there was no hilt to meet it. Damn! What on earth possessed him to leave this morning without his weapon? Hoping they hadn't seen him, he reached for the handle to the bakery door, hoping to duck inside unnoticed, but his hopes were dashed as he heard, "Ho there! Yes you! Wait a moment."

Perhaps they won't recognize me, he prayed. They had been deeply in their cups that night. He turned to face them but kept his head ducked.

"We're looking for a weaver's shop, but we don't know the name. Be there one around here?" asked the leader in English. Gareth shrugged his shoulders and shook his head to indicate he didn't understand and then turned to leave, planning to make an escape around the next corner and come back for Elena. He hadn't taken but a step when a thick hand clamped down on his shoulder. Gareth twisted quickly, dislodging the hand with ease and landing a solid blow the man's chin, but giving the rest a clear view of his face.

"Say!" said one of the men to the leader, "Isn't he--"

"Yes!" shouted the leader and lunged to grab Gareth who was already running up the street. As he searched for an alley to duck down or a shop to hide in, he cursed his lack of forethought in not bringing his weapon. Had he his wits about him, and therefore his sword, he could have dispatched the three men to their maker and had the corpses moved away before Elena left the bakery with her directions. As he was about to round a corner in the cobbled street, he cast a glance down the lane. The ruffians were, thank God, clumsy and slow in their pursuit. The man he had punched was still clutching his jaw. Gareth's derisive grin faded as he thought of Elena coming out of the bakery while the men were still on the street. So as not to discourage his pursuers until they were out of this vicinity, he pretended to trip on a cobble stone and rolled to the ground easily. As he had hoped, the men yelled triumphantly and redoubled their efforts. He led them through a twisted maze of streets, praying he would be able to find his way back to the bakery. Every few steps he had to slow his pace so that he would not completely outdistance the rough soldiers behind him. Ahead he saw a small square full of people crowded around a table. Gareth had seen his father dole out justice and punishment often enough to recognize the well-dressed man seated at the table as a magistrate. Pushing his way through the throng of people, Gareth interrupted the proceedings, which seemed to involve the owner of a chicken and a young boy.

"Your honor!" Gareth panted in Welsh. "I am but a poor, honest Cymraes being pursued most unjustly by a group of English mercenaries who wish to do me harm because I will not call myself Englishman. They claim there is no such thing as a Welshman because we are all ruled by an English king!" Gareth glanced over his shoulder and saw the soldiers at the outer edge of people, trying to find him over the heads of the crowd. The crowd itself was humming with outrage over Gareth's words and Gareth had to suppress a grin. To deny a Welshman his heritage was nothing short of blasphemy.

The magistrate stood and smoothed his coat over his round belly. "Who are these Englishmen?" he asked, pronouncing "Englishmen" with the same emotion a priest infuses into "spawn of Satan."