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“Hurry up and be done, you swine!” He thrust his tongue into the painful socket of his tooth, which refused to let go.
“But, Brother, you are not in the true spirit of things.” Alonso’s eyes glittered in the lowering rays of the sun, and a new thought occurred to Raymond. Demons. It was the only explanation for Alonso’s extraordinary cruelty. Something evil must have slithered out of these woods and possessed him.
The shadows of the forest edge grew and touched the rim of the stone, even as ravens spiraled in to roost among the half-clad tree branches. The western sky glowed pink, but in the east lightning already flickered amidst rumbling, blue-black clouds. Night would bring new horrors to this place.
“Now, for the shedding of blood.” Alonso picked up his dagger and sighted down it, testing the edges with his thumb.
“You’ll be sorry you started this. I will come after you.” Raymond’s words belied the churning in his stomach. The rough stone scraped his cheek as Alonso rolled him onto his back, and his thigh muscles stretched to the point of pain. The skin of his throat was exposed to the cooling air.
Alonso breathed against Raymond’s cheek. “Father has not yet succeeded in drawing a single tear from your eyes, but mark me, it will come to pass. I have sworn to break you.” He straightened and laid his knifepoint at the soft hollow beneath Raymond’s jaw. “For what do we make this sacrifice, Brothers? Success in battle? Infidel’s gold? The power of kings? Or the guaranteed salvation of our souls, so we never have to sit through one of Father Brenner’s stupid catechisms again?”
Raymond’s heart thundered. The dagger-tip trembled against his skin, a deadly point of heat. Alonso hissed, “Perhaps to be rid of a damned sight of trouble in future?”
“Finish it, then,” Raymond growled.
“Nay!” Percy darted up and grabbed Alonso’s elbow.
The older boy jerked free of the little one’s grasp. The blade slipped into Raymond’s throat. Percy screamed.
Raymond swallowed his tooth. He gasped and howled out his rage until he choked, his mouth full of metallic-tasting blood. Seeping warmth coursed around his neck. Alonso’s gaze grew soft and liquid, as though he was charmed by the picture before him.
“We will leave him thus. ’Tis too perfect.”
Raymond burned, a hot, malevolent pool of hatred swirling within him. Percy’s cries grew into thin shrieks—high, piercing animal sounds that would not stop. Alonso wrapped one hand about his neck until the child was silent but for a few gurgling sobs. “Let us away.”
Hooves clattered against the rocky ground, then a shroud of silence settled upon Raymond. At first he could not believe his brothers had truly left him behind. But the twilight crept closer, winding chill, blue-gray fingers about the dolmen.
The darkening sky wheeled overhead, faster and faster, until nothing existed but his unvoiced scream. Soon the wolves would come, and he would die. Alone. An offering, a human sacrifice, meant to stay the heavenly wrath Alonso was surely accumulating.
Then, unbidden, like a gift from some ancient spirit of the dolmen, a cold blade of resolve cut through Raymond’s anguish. A new hardness permeated his heart, as if it were a piece of red-hot iron plunged into water. He welcomed the numbing calm, embraced its deadly resolution.
I will live. And one day, Alonso will not.
Chapter One
1196, sixteen years later, along the Marches
Already the battlefield reeked. Sir Raymond de Beauchamp wheeled his warhorse and arced his sword in a whistling blur of Spanish steel. The blade bit true and deep. He sucked in a great gulp of the stifling air within his helm, and watched the young Welshman topple from his small horse. The lordling died quietly, his blood streaming in bright contrast onto the spring verdure.
A hollow stab of regret pierced Raymond’s soul. The fellow had fought well. But, there was no time to reflect upon the valor of one already dead. Raymond surveyed the chaos around him. His knights galloped in a disordered frenzy over the field, attempting to hack their way through the steadfast Welsh.
Inwardly he groaned. As ever, the horsemen allowed their courage to outstrip their discipline, and for that they could lose the fight. Too many of the rebel Welsh were still in the safety of the forest beyond, firing deadly volleys from their formidable longbows. The dreadful hissing made Raymond’s gut clench even as he tried to calm his nervous horse. Neither his own mail, nor that covering the stallion would even begin to stop the penetration of a shaft loosed from one of those deceptively simple-looking weapons.
Raymond turned his head sharply at a sudden movement along the field’s edge. What he had taken to be a lifeless body jumped up and ran to the warrior he had just sent heavenward. A lad, barely old enough to be a squire, cradled the dead man’s head and wailed his grief. Raymond’s heart twisted in pity, despite his practiced detachment. So much blood, so many tears. The pitched energy he had summoned for the battle dissipated into a numbing weariness that spread through his limbs.
Hoofbeats thundered across the chopped turf of the meadow. It was his lieutenant, Giles. The boy would be cut to pieces and joining his master in a matter of moments. “Hold, Giles!” His friend could not hear him above the cries of fighting men and the keening of the lad. Raymond urged his mount forward and cut in front of Giles’s horse at a run.
The boy stared openmouthed as the galloping chargers bore down upon him. Raymond leaned low and grabbed the scruff of the lad’s tunic, throwing him across his horse’s neck. He swerved to avoid trampling the slain Welshman and nearly collided with Giles’s stallion. Even as Raymond improved his grip on the shrieking boy, a piercing, red-hot pain struck him. His prized destrier emitted a huffing groan and bolted, veering sideways. It took all his strength and skill to control the animal without letting go of the child, especially since he could not move his left leg. Searing torment flourished and spread with every movement. He clenched his jaw and broke into a sweat.
Then he looked down. An arrow had penetrated his thigh, his saddle, and mayhap even his horse. “Jesu—nay…” Raymond’s voice faded as the sharp agony wormed deeper. He fought to hold onto his struggling burden as they cantered toward safety. Giles already pounded away in useless pursuit of the hidden archer, a blood-curdling roar echoing after him.
A fresh assault began, this time to Raymond’s right leg. The boy, hanging upside down over the shoulder of the horse, swung his arm rhythmically with each stride of the animal, stabbing at his rescuer with a small dagger.
Raymond brought his knee up and gave the lad’s head a solid knock. The jabbing ceased. Pulling his horse to a rough halt in the shelter of a hillock, he threw the boy to the ground. The ungrateful whelp landed hard, gasping for breath.
Raymond tried to slow the wild thudding of his heart. He relaxed methodically to combat the pain, and spoke softly to his trembling, sweating mount. It would be an ordeal worthy of an inquisitor to get free of the arrow. All because he had succumbed to pity. Always a mistake.
The boy began to push himself up from the ground.
“Halt.” The curt order froze the lad, and Raymond stared.
Smooth cheeks beneath the mud, blood and tears. Long-lashed green eyes. A trembling body within a suspiciously full upper tunic. Holy Mary, if this was a boy, then he himself was a silkie from the sea. The horse took a deep breath and snorted. Raymond gritted his teeth against the jolt of fire that shot from hip to knee. “Take off that hood, damn you.”
Tangles of wavy black hair spilled down about a charming, oval face. Raymond caught his breath. He was right. A girl, typically Welsh, and heart stopping in her fragile beauty. Except for the loathing that seethed from her eyes. He was used to hate-filled stares from his enemies, but this chit could not be more than fifteen years of age, the same as Meribel, his own beloved lady-wife.
The thought of a young woman on a battlefield fanned his anger as well as his longing to be away from this outlandish place. Welsh women were famous for the atrocious battle-harvests they reaped from fallen enemies. His leg throbbed as his destrier pawed at the soft earth.
“Idiot wench, what were you about? Be glad I do not beat you for my trouble.” He forgot not to move in his saddle, and ground his teeth as the pain surged. A steady patter dripped from the underside of his stirrup.
“Just you try! Lord Talyessin’s archer has pinned you to your horse quite perfectly,” she said, grim triumph in her voice. “As you well deserve. I hope you die. Slowly.”
Pretending to ignore her, he scanned the battlefield. The girl scrambled to her feet, her weapon still in her raised fist. Raymond turned his horse and a nudge of the destrier’s shoulder knocked her flat once again. His mount shivered beneath him, and pain assailed his leg with unrelenting ferocity. Hot fury leaped in his chest at the maid’s audacity. A girl-child gone to war. Hell and damnation.
Perhaps his lord-brother Alonso was right. These people were mad. Bereft of reason. He shook his head at the sight of the girl, sprawled in the grass, one delicate hand clutching her knife as though it were a talisman against him and his kind.
Her eyes filled with tears. “You misbegotten Norman bastard! You’ve killed Owain. Murderer!”
Raymond regarded her in silence. Sympathy crept up on his pain and anger, but he swallowed the will-sapping emotion. He had already suffered a crippling wound on her behalf. “I am a misbegotten English bastard,” he growled. “And I would be your ally if your prince had any sense. Your friend Owain need not have died if you Welsh had the wits to capitulate.” With an effort, Raymond softened his voice. “Let us go home. You to yours, and I to mine. Do you understand, Cymraes?”
The girl stared, apparently startled at his use of her language. Welshwoman. Perhaps he had mispronounced it. The little witch need not glare at him like that. Raymond bit his lip to stifle the moan that threatened as his restless horse shifted. Black spots floated before his eyes.
“I do, Sais,” she said quietly. “And you understand this: I shall come for you one day, when you least expect it.”
Raymond felt the blood rise in his neck and was grateful for the helm that hid his face. Sais. Saxon. Anyone the Welsh considered beneath contempt, they designated as Sais. Coming from a Welsh mouth the word was synonymous with “pagan brute.” She could have offered no worse insult. “So you will come for me. How do you plan to find me? Do you know who I am?”
The girl raised her small chin defiantly. “It makes no difference—you are all the same. Filthy, two-faced marauders who bleed our borders in the name of the English king. I will find you. I will follow the carrion crows to your lord’s keep.”
Raymond’s helm muffled his humorless laugh. It was absurd to argue with this creature while he bled to death. “Bon chance to you then, my lady.” He looked up as Giles crested the hill. The big knight’s horse bounced to a stiff-legged stop before them, and Raymond blinked hard as his own destrier jigged.
“My lord, ’tis over. Talyessin’s men are slinking back to their holes. Come away from this vermin and let me see to your wounds.” Giles glanced briefly at the figure on the ground, then his steel-encased head swiveled back. “Merde, a lass? A bit bold for a camp-follower, methinks!”
“Meet my newest enemy, Giles. Sworn to see my bitter demise. Make certain she returns safely to her people. Oh, and find that pig-sticker she is hiding beneath her tunic. I would do it myself, but I am somewhat indisposed at the moment.” Without a backward glance, Raymond turned his horse and rode away.
Chapter Two
1200, four years later, southern Wales
Ceridwen paced before her father. Plain rushes crunched beneath her feet, not fine herbs or lavender. Lord Morgan’s hall at Llyn y Gareg Wen remained free of luxury. Firelight leaped on the stone walls, reflecting the gleam of lances, swords, and longbows, hung ready for retrieval at a moment’s notice.
“Nay, Da, I will not be your bait. God intervened when I was but a lass to spare me marriage to a Beauchamp. Now you wish again to make alliance with those soulless wolves?”
Morgan gently set his goblet on the scarred oak table. That he did not bang it down warned Ceridwen just how angry he was. “Be quiet and sit, child.” He turned his dark, sharp gaze full upon her. “For once you will do as you are told. You have disobeyed me in many things, but this shall not be one of them.” His leather-bottomed chair creaked as he rose and took over the pacing where she left off.
Ceridwen flung herself onto a seat opposite her elder brother, Rhys. Her half-dozen siblings watched with great interest, from nearly every available perch in the hall. Little Dafydd climbed into her lap. She stroked his dark hair and held him close. The wee ones needed her more than ever now that Mam was gone. She gulped back the lump in her throat and tried to concentrate on what her father was saying.
Morgan paused before the hearth and stared into the flames. “Old baron Beauchamp was wise to offer us peace once, through his youngest son, Parsifal. And as you say, Parsifal’s death was the result of intervention, divine or otherwise. But the remaining Beauchamp sons no longer have the counsel of their father. They harry us without mercy, and I cannot keep up this resistance forever.”
“But—”
Her father silenced her with a severe look. “The next eldest Beauchamp, Raymond, has a few more brains in his head than the others. That aside, he is land-hungry. He had to sell his late wife’s domains to fund the defense of his keep at Rookhaven. He chafes against the yoke his lord brother Alonso has placed round his neck.”
“And you wish me to act as the balm to soothe him?”
“I do!” Morgan’s fierce tone punctured her show of bravery. “Baron Alonso wields a vast fist of power. And Sir Raymond is the well-honed dagger within that fist. Alonso suspects Raymond is near the breaking point. He has promised me, if I do not find a way to thwart Raymond’s revolt, I, and all who are dear to me will suffer for it. And Alonso is a master of understatement.”
Her father smiled in a way that sent chills down Ceridwen’s spine. She hugged Daffyd until he squirmed out of her arms. Morgan’s gaze followed his youngest child’s search for a more comfortable female lap, then he continued. “What Alonso does not know is that I will control his brother by making an alliance with him. Alonso will be held at bay by the threat of both Raymond and the Talyessin, and we will have Raymond under our watchful eye. Your eye.” Morgan took his seat once again.
“What if I cannot bear the sight of this man, nor the uncouth sound of his language, nor his rabid touch? What would you have me do, when Owain’s blood is still unavenged?” Her handsome, fey Owain, both warrior and soothsayer. Ceridwen balled her hands into fists, digging her nails into her palms.
She remembered the day of his death with agonizing clarity. Owain had lain in the meadow as if asleep, but there was so much blood—she could still see the evil gleam from the eyes of the killer, within his shadowed helm. A knight under the Beauchamp banner had called her Cymraes, as though he thought her worthless and crude. And now she was being told to marry one of the monsters! Everyone knew what the English were like. They roasted their enemies over slow fires and ate them alive.
Ceridwen narrowed her eyes and searched her father’s face for a sign he might relent. Finding none, she felt for her ivory flute, stuck through the belt at her waist. She twisted the warm cylinder in her hands and wished her mother were still alive. There were questions she could not ask Da, and even Mam had never fully explained the intimate details of what marriage meant for a woman. Now at nineteen—old enough to have borne several babes—she was mortified to admit her ignorance to anyone else.
Ceridwen caught the look her father exchanged with Rhys, who lounged in a confident sprawl on a bench near the fire. Her brother’s head moved in a small negative shake. They always had secrets, those two. And kept them from her with great success.
Morgan casually unsheathed his dagger and picked up a whet-stone from the table. “You think me heartless, Ceri, but I have not forgotten Owain. I believe Alonso would rather eliminate Raymond altogether than have him as an outright enemy. Once you are at Rookhaven, there will be many opportunities for you to set brother against brother. And if some unfortunate incident should result in Raymond’s death—well, you are but a woman, and cannot be held responsible for your untoward passions.” Spitting upon the stone, Morgan began to grind the knife blade against it in tight circles.
“Oh, Da!” How could he think her capable of cold-blooded murder? But a tiny part of Ceridwen wondered how far she would go to be free of the terrible ache that consumed her whenever she thought of Owain, dead in her arms. But it was no use bemoaning her fate. Whatever her feelings, her duty was clear.
Morgan paused in his sharpening and smiled at his daughter. “An innocent lass, yet woe unto anyone who crosses you. I doubt even the formidable Raymond will give a beauty like Ceridwen much trouble, eh, Rhys?” He looked at his eldest son, who merely raised his brows and shrugged.
Ceridwen shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench and scuffed her bare foot on the rough wooden floor. Da always said she looked like her mother. She had the same shining, raven hair, the same eyes that changed color with her moods. But Ceridwen ignored her father’s compliments. Beauty and innocence were their own kind of trouble. And Da was a shameless flatterer when the need arose.
“Has Sir Raymond agreed to this union?” she demanded.
Her father stroked his sleek, black moustaches. Chuckling, he winked at Rhys. “He will, sweet. He will.”
“You like dogs, do you not, Ceri?” Rhys gifted her with a mischievous smile, showing his even, white teeth. “Sir Raymond loves his wolfhound better than he does any woman. Be kind to the creature, and I’ll wager the master will leave you alone.”
Ceridwen scowled at her brother. “This is more shame than I can bear, to be held in lower esteem than a beast. How will I live with myself?” She covered her face with her hands.
Impatience flickered in her father’s tone. “You will live with him, and stop thinking of yourself, girl. This is important to me, to the prince, and to the Cymraeg. Raymond is not one to take lightly. When he makes a promise—or a threat—he fulfills it. But once you have charmed him, he may learn sympathy for our cause. Perhaps some of his violence can be used to our ends. Or another solution may become necessary.”
Morgan’s voice grew smooth, and Ceridwen recognized the cunning, silky inflection. “I have every confidence in you, Ceridwen. After all, you are of my blood, and I am ever victorious. One way or another.” He grinned, flashing the beguiling smile each of his children had inherited. Then he tested his honed dagger on a piece of leather. The blade slid through the skin in effortless silence.
Ceridwen’s heart wrenched into a familiar knot. You are of my blood. Da had shed a great deal of it, keeping them alive. His own and English, too. She shuddered. The very thought made her feel faint. Peace was the only solution. Vengeance might be sweet, but it had no place in this situation. She paused at the expectant gazes of her young brothers and sisters. In truth she was no substitute for Mam. The best thing she could do for them would be to help keep the Beauchamps at bay, regardless of the personal cost. Ceridwen sat up straight. “Right, Da. If it pleases you and saves even one Welsh life, I will go to him.”
“They have done what?” Raymond leaped to his feet. The bench crashed to the floor behind him, sending an echo through the cold solar. He leaned over the trestle table and grabbed the front of his lieutenant’s linen surcoat with both fists. He’d spent the third day in a row combing the woods for his wolfhound and was in no mood for Giles’s usual sideways approach to bad news.
“My lord, be easy. ’Tis a simple matter to get Hamfast back. All you need do is—”
“A simple matter! These Welshmen hold my dog hostage and you say ’tis simple? What if they don’t feed him properly? What if he bites one of them, and they abuse him for it?”
Raymond took a deep breath to banish the painful image of his huge, noble hound in the hands of fierce Welshmen. He smoothed the creases he’d made in Giles’s attire, then gave his friend’s broad chest a thump to indicate he’d finished mauling him. “Where exactly do they have him?”
“At a deserted tower in Trefynwy.” Giles dropped the joint he’d been gnawing, and it fell into his trencher with a sodden plop. He licked his fingers, one by one. For all his knightly virtues, Giles’s table manners were abominable.
Raymond looked to his empty bed, where Hamfast usually slept. “They seek to draw me in, well beyond the border, and play me some trick. What ransom have they demanded?”
Giles cleared his throat. “Only you, my lord.”
“Do not jest. Tell me truly.”
“But I do. Lord Morgan has a comely daughter, one overripe for marriage. In fact, she was once promised to Parsifal, was she not?” Giles reached for his goblet and took a gulp of wine.
Raymond closed his eyes briefly at the stab of sorrow his long-dead brother’s name still evoked. Percy, a brave knight of tender years and tender heart. Would that he had come home from the crusade and taken this Welsh maiden. Another marriage, be it to Helen of Troy, was a dread prospect for himself. “Nay. I will simply storm their defenses and retrieve Hamfast.” Ever restless, Raymond fumed and paced, his hands clasped behind his back. Still, for the good of his people, he had to at least consider the idea. “What does Morgan expect to gain? How will Rookhaven benefit?”
Giles belched and carefully wiped the corners of his mouth with the pad of his thumb. “We are like lame wolves in a herd of wily sheep. Always hungry and never satisfied, worn out with constant moving from uprising to uprising. So, if there is peace between you, both will benefit. And the dowry she brings contains the crossroads of Llanmadog.”
Raymond paused to consider. He had needed control of that area for years. With it in his possession, his western borders would enjoy security. He could better conserve his strength for the final push against Alonso—if it wasn’t already too late. But there was no room in his life, nor in his heart, for any woman, much less a wife. He glanced at Giles. The handsome knight had tied back his thick, dark hair with a leather thong. He seemed able to accommodate any number of women, and his heart never became entangled with any of them.
Whereas with himself and Meribel…never had a lady been better loved, or caused more grief. Raymond pinched the bridge of his nose. “What does this overripe girl look like?”
“She is beautiful, of course.”
It was as well Giles’s hair was pulled back, for a hint of red crept into the curves of his ears. He was hiding something. Raymond crossed his arms. “Is that so? What good fortune. Tell me the color of her eyes.”
“I did not get that close.” The knight’s cheeks pinked.
“Her hair, then?”
Giles bloomed a vivid, rosy hue and said nothing.
“You missed that, too?” Raymond’s impatience waxed. “Is she short, tall, plump? Let me guess. You rode up to their gates and conducted the entire farce as a shouting match without ever dismounting. You saw no proof that Hamfast still lives!”
“I have it on good authority that the maiden resembles nothing so much as an angel, in both form and disposition,” Giles said indignantly. “She is fond of dogs,” he added, “and would never countenance him coming to harm.”
“Whose authority? A shepherdess on her back with her skirts up to her waist, no doubt.”
“Well, I…”
Raymond shook his head. “Giles, you will never change. We both know where your brains reside.”
“Aye. How long has it been, Raymond? Is that why your temper is so short?” Giles speared a piece of meat and eyed it as though it were a tantalizing morsel of peacock, instead of tough, cold mutton.
Raymond stared at his friend. From habit his fingers tightened around his dagger hilt. Giles could needle him like no one else. Except perhaps Alonso. “Methinks you know me not at all, sir. Shall I bemoan my sad lack of romantic exploits and accept the offers of your leftovers? Or should we parley with these barbarians and rescue my hound in proper form?”
“I believe the latter would be for the best, my lord,” Giles said with surprising primness. He actually sniffed, giving Raymond some small satisfaction.
