Daughters of Rebecca by Iris Gower

wanting to cling to him, to beg him to stay. But a hard knot of anger stopped her. ‘Goodbye, then, Watt,’ she said lightly, to his retreating back, ‘and good luck.’
    She closed the door and leaned against it. Suddenly it was as if the light had gone out of her world.
    â€˜We need to fight our cause with actions as well as words.’ Dafydd Buchan stood in Madame Isabelle’s parlour, fired with enthusiasm. ‘We must stamp out the tyranny, abolish the impossible charges put on the gates. All we’re after is justice.’
    Shanni sat listening quietly to Dafydd. She was intrigued by him: he was well dressed and spoke in cultured tones but he really cared about the poor.
    â€˜The tolls are monstrously unjust! A farmer pays more to pass through the gates than he does for the lime he transports.’
    Madame Isabelle spoke in well-modulated tones: ‘And what are we going to do about it, Dafydd?’
    â€˜We have already attacked some of the gates where the tolls are excessive and we must continue to do so. We’ll burn them to the ground and the toll-houses with them. We’ll teach thetraitors working for the idle rich where their loyalty lies!’
    â€˜But that was tried in ’thirty-four without a great deal of success,’ Madame Isabelle said reasonably. ‘I don’t know that violence achieves anything in the end.’
    â€˜Eighteen thirty-four was a different matter.’ Dafydd sounded impatient. ‘The men protested against the Poor Law then, not the tolls, and they were without leaders, without weapons. Now we are better prepared. We can fight to the death if necessary.’ His eyes were shining with zeal.
    â€˜I don’t know.’ Madame Isabelle seemed unconvinced, and Shanni watched her covertly.
    â€˜We have organized bands of men,’ Dafydd went on talking, ‘men not armed with pitchforks but with pistols. We have drawn up our plans and we are ready.’
    Shanni was suddenly afraid. She thought of the
Ceffyl Pren
, of the rough justice that could so easily turn to violence and even death. The police and the yeomanry would turn out, better armed and in greater numbers than the rebels.
    Shanni had been a small child when the men of Swansea had been sent to Brecon to stamp out the rioting, but she had heard the lurid tales of the conflict many times. Men had been killed, women beaten and all to no avail. The laws had been reinforced and the people left worse off than ever before.
    â€˜We have to strike at the oppressors before they become too powerful,’ Dafydd was saying. ‘We let them get away with a rise in tolls this time, andwithin a few months the price of passing through the gates will rise again. We must stand and fight or all is lost.’
    â€˜For that to happen we need money to buy more arms.’ Another man spoke up roughly. ‘Are you trying to tell us that we few can beat the might of the police and the militia with one or two pistols? They’ll shoot us down without mercy, man, and hang a few of us, no doubt!’
    â€˜With that attitude, Thomas Carpenter, you are asking to be exploited,’ Dafydd said cuttingly. His shoulders were tense. He was a man capable of great anger.
    Shanni glanced at Madame Isabelle, who looked worried. She watched as Madame smoothed back her elegant hair and, as if on an impulse, rose to her feet.
    â€˜I suggest we all relax and have a drink to celebrate our unity.’ She rang for the maid, and Shanni knew that the offer of refreshment was a ploy to take the heat out of the argument.
    Shanni felt the tension ease as Dafydd sat down and loosened the buttons on his coat. He glanced across the room at her but it was as if he did not see her. His eyes were hot with anger and Shanni shivered.
    Glasses of wine were carried in on a tray and the maid handed the drinks around, bobbing curtsies to the men. A tray of comfits was produced, and the talk became