by Sandra Jones
“You’re still not eating enough, Eleri.” Her dark eyes flashed with censure. “I watched you in the hall last night, picking at your food, and now…you’ll be lucky if you can draw your own bow.”
“I can!”
“Not from back here, behind these fools. They’ll scare all the game away first.”
“I trow I’ll take the largest animal. I’d love to see the look on Vaughn’s face!”
“So would I. Now you sound more like my dywysoges.” Nest grinned, and Eleri felt her heart lighten a bit, witnessing such a rarity.
Leaving her friend, she urged her horse over the thicket, charging west of the others. The woods grew closer, the forest more dense. No wolfhounds could manage the thorny scrub where she was headed, which made it ideal for fleeing deer.
As she guided her mount over fallen trees, sailing high above the guelder rose with its branches full of ripe berries, she made her form small against the horse. Listening to the forest, she ignored the sounds of the winded animal and the far-away hunters. This was how alert she should’ve been when she’d come upon the wounded boar. Pushing Warren firmly out of her thoughts, she became part of the woods.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the flare of a stag’s tail. Her heart took flight, and she set chase. The gorgeous red deer bounded over obstacle after obstacle. She chastised herself inwardly; if she’d been less melancholy and obstinate, she would’ve taken a few of the hounds for herself and cornered the animal easily. As it was, she could only aim her arrows and hope for the best.
Guiding her horse with her legs, she selected an arrow from her quiver, pulled back the string and froze—
A pure white hart wandered into the clearing ahead, oblivious to the first stag disappearing deeper into the woods. It turned its massive antlered head, capturing Eleri in its stare.
The ethereal moment seemed to suspend time. She pulled up, stilling her mount as her breath caught in awe and admiration. The beast could’ve been made of marble, pristine. Glaring at her as if seeing into her soul, the hart lifted his snout, and promptly sniffed with disdain. Then as suddenly as it had appeared, it lumbered on its way.
What was the story her mother had once told her? A white stag meant something…
Oh, aye! In the Mabinogion tale when Pwyll trespassed on Arawn’s hunting grounds, the white deer symbolized stepping beyond one’s bounds.
But she had never done so. Had she not always followed the portents, carrying out the actions Mother Goddess chose for her? Well…all but for sparing Lew and then later, Warren.
Their passionate nights had been a taboo worth breaking.
“You should’ve made the shot,” Vaughn called, riding up beside her.
Eleri wheeled around to face him, notching her arrow reflexively.
He made a half-smile, but his gaze followed her weapon. “Not at me. The stag. Such a trophy, especially for a woman.”
Eleri relaxed, letting her weapon rest in her lap. At least with Nest nearby, she had only to shout for help. She shouldn’t have to fend off his groping hands.
“He’s not for killing, my lord. Too rare. You wouldn’t risk it, either.”
“Ah, the legend. Right.” He rolled his shoulders, looking more confident now that she’d put her bow down. “And you would never do anything that contradicts the Ancients, would you? I can’t say as I’d blame you. The elders in Deheubarth are probably quaking with worry now that you’re away. You’re their closest link to the Otherworld. How will they know when to make war or when disease is amongst them? Lew is pissing himself by now.”
He edged closer, leaning over to snatch the strap of her quiver in his gloved hand. Her horse, sensing the shifting of her weight, sidestepped in Vaughn’s direction as he tugged her toward him, and the tightening of the leather against her shoulder brought her far too close to his repugnant, smiling face.
“Let go, Vaughn.” She pulled against his grasp, but failed to free herself.
“Eleri, marry me. Together we’ll rule Deheubarth and one day all of Cymru.” His leg brushed hers as their jittery horses tried to move apart. Undeterred, he angled his mouth toward hers. The tight space rendered her bow useless, so she dropped the arrow, palming the dagger on her hip instead and bringing it to bear on his neck.
Beneath her blade, Vaughn’s throat moved, but he continued to leer. “Come now, Princess. You know Lew is an ineffective ruler. He had not the ballocks to lead our ambush of the Norman conroi. The Council barely listens to him. But the two of us”—his gaze crawled over her breasts and stomach—“would make the child who would become High King.”
Her stomach twisted with disgust at the thought of his touch. “You think far too highly of your—”
“Dywysoges!” Nest called, her courser bounding over the brush. “The hunt is over. Your father is calling a council meeting.” Her eyes narrowed as she took in Vaughn’s hold on her mistress.
He released Eleri and backed away.
She took a small breath, sending up a quick prayer of thanks for her fierce friend. “Right now?”
“Aye,” Nest panted, presumably from hurrying to catch up with her. She ignored Vaughn as she moved closer. “Sayer is back with news of a new revolt in the south. You’ve been asked to attend the council, Your Highness.”
Shortly after the party returned to the castell, the atmosphere of the Council hall was rife with nervous expectation. Seated at the table in her father’s court, Eleri nodded at Sayer in greeting as he entered the hall. He’d been gone three sennights or more, the longest she’d ever been parted from her guardian in her life. He looked haggard, his eyes red and skin burnished from riding the open moorland in full summer sunshine.
Her father’s marshal made introductions. Then, looking tense and uncomfortable, Sayer returned greetings from the esteemed elders seated around the table, which included the lords of Anglesey, Gwynedd and the prince of the neighboring Powys—some of who were still dressed in hunting garb, like Lord Vaughn and herself.
“Ye have news of our men in Gower and Cardigan. Tell the rest of us how our rebels have fared against the Norman strongholds.” Her father rested against the arm of his chair, his brow stern, but otherwise he appeared unruffled.
At least she didn’t have to worry about Warren’s safety in the rebellion. Even if he was at his king’s mercy in stocks, ’twould be better than standing in the way of her father’s archers.
“Well, my lords,” his gaze circled the room, resting briefly on Eleri with an apologetic curve to his mouth, “er, and my princess, I came immediately from Deheubarth once I heard word. Our revolts have been thwarted in both strikes. We’ve failed to take either camp.”
“We sent a vast host to both Norman keeps!” Vaughn growled. “More than enough to storm their defenses.”
“They’ve increased their numbers and have…anticipated all our moves so far.” Sayer straightened, lifting his chin a notch.
Her old friend had never uttered his opinions on either of the clans’ positions against the Normans, but she detected a trace of relief that the Welsh hadn’t been successful in their attempts to regain the stolen land. Still, she’d known Sayer long enough that she could tell when he resented something—usually something she’d said or done in a burst of impulse.
Since when had her faithful servant sided with the enemy?
“And Deheubarth? How go the negotiations between Prince Lew and England?” Her sire’s gaze flicked to hers briefly as he spoke her brother-in-law’s name. “Has our revolt had any impact on our friends in the south?”
Sayer shook his head. “They were still awaiting the king’s envoy. Prince Lew sends his assurances that no matter the offer, he will fight with Gwynedd when the time comes. He says you need only say the word, my liege, and he’ll offer his best men, as well as himself—truce with King Stephen be damned.”
Gruffydd nodd
ed, and she recognized a spark of satisfaction in her father’s ancient eyes. “We will send them more men, then. The settlements I made with England years ago dissolved the instant Henry Beauclerc died and that usurper took his throne. ’Tis time for Cymru to return to the rule of the royal Aberffraw.”
Vaughn grinned, shifting in his seat with shared excitement.
Feeling queasy, she rubbed her temple. More war meant more losses. Her father had been successful in his dealings with King Henry in his younger days, but he was getting older now. He hadn’t left his court in Bangor in years to know how harried his people were or how many Normans now colonized the south, and how peacefully some coexisted with the newcomers, as she’d seen while staying in the abbey.
Nor how intelligent and cunning a good man, like Warren, could be. Pride in him and a sense of great loss conspired to prick her eyes with fresh tears. She blinked them away.
“What requests do the Deheubarth make for this pact with Gwynedd?” One of the lords of Powys asked Sayer.
Her guard glanced at her again with a slight frown on his brow, and a ripple of apprehension ran through her.
“Prince Lew wants independence as much as the rest of us. He sends only his wish that the princess return to his court and her husband’s people. He also, ahem,” he dropped his gaze to the table, lifting one shoulder as if trying to shake an offending fly from his back, “wishes my liege to know both these latest thwarted attacks were met by the same throng of Norman knights, led by the same merciless commander.”
The invaders didn’t scare her. She would return, of course. She’d expected Lew’s summons to come eventually and dreaded it. She no longer felt at home in Deheubarth.
“Aye, we’ve heard of a new leader.” Gruffydd nodded, as did a few of the men in the circle. “Maurice of London, lord of the district—”
“Nay.” Sayer lifted his bleak face to stare directly at her. “The name on the lips of the routed men—those who survived—was Warren de Tracy.”
Nest had been right. She hadn’t been eating enough.
Settling into a slow canter behind Lord Vaughn and the other Gwynedd warriors in their riding party, Eleri held one slender hand before her eyes. Her fingers shook, looking more pale than usual.
Swearing under her breath, she wiped the sweat from her brow and exhaled softly, determined not to let Sayer and Nest see her in such a state.
Her gaze took in the familiar forest of Cantref Mawr, the woods that had long been the hiding place of the Deheubarth, providing protection and camouflage for their rebel attacks.
The further south they’d come, the harder her heart beat against her ribs knowing Warren might be in Deheubarth even now. Ignoring the sign of the white stag in the woods and whatever taboo she might be transgressing, she had to find Warren and warn him to leave the district and had to…apologize.
“We shouldn’t fall back, my lady.” Sayer’s courser trotted nervously on her right side.
“She’s ill. Leave her be,” Nest groused, slowing to match her speed as she took her left side. “We should’ve waited another fortnight.”
She forced warmth into her voice. “Sayer had naught to do with my decision to leave, Nest. ’Twas my idea to come with Vaughn. Not his.” Spying a tall clump of blooming mugwort, she reached down from her saddle and took a handful of the herb. Pinching a bite of the heady leaves for a chew to relieve her fatigue, she continued to explain, “I would prefer to reach the prince before Vaughn does. Who knows what that oaf might convince poor Lew to do if no one is there to stop him.”
Nest grunted. “We have a while before we reach the castell. Imagine if Lord Vaughn took a fall in the woods.” She gestured at the backs of the courtiers riding far ahead of them. “Would anyone mourn him?”
Although Nest’s expression was serious, Eleri chuckled as she slipped the extra mugwort into her tunic for later. “Don’t put those evil thoughts in my mind.”
“Dywysoges!”
Sayer’s warning call had her whirling toward him, but too late. Four Norman soldiers emerged from the brush, arrows aimed at Sayer.
Eleri swung left, urging Nest to do the same, but another group of soldiers in mail blocked their exit.
Nest called for help, but a knight rushed her, putting the edge of his sword to her throat. Her friend’s hand curled around the knife on her hip.
“Don’t, Nest!” Eleri cried frantically. There were too many men against the three of them. She yelled to the offending group, “What do you want?”
One of the soldiers came forward. Mounted on a tall black horse and wearing a tunic emblazoned with three green dragons, he looked at her, then Nest, scanning them from head to toe. Unlike the others, he’d left his mail hood pushed back, exposing wavy dark hair threaded with silver which also seasoned his beard. Nevertheless, he looked youthful despite the gray. His flint-colored eyes flicked back and forth between the women as if making some decision.
Nest brushed her captor’s mount aside, riding out to meet this man who was no doubt the commander. “Take what you will. You’ll be in the grave before the morrow.” Her dagger was out in the blink of an eye, aimed at the leader.
An arrow whizzed over her shoulder, barely missing her.
“Nay!” Eleri cried, launching her courser at the archer. Another soldier cut her off, the movement too quick for her horse to recover from. The beast reared on its hind legs. She couldn’t hold on with her thighs. Her muscles were too weak. She grasped for the saddle, but she was too slow. She tumbled backward to the ground, landing sideways, hitting her cheek on a rock.
While the horses moved in a chaotic swirl above her, a soldier dismounted. Grabbing her elbow, he roughly pulled her to stand. Her face throbbed from the blow, but her trembling fingers found only a scratch as she brushed the grit from her cheek.
Still held in the Norman’s grasp, she stood her ground as the leader dismounted.
Tall and self-assured, he strode forward. His men parted like the Red Sea before him.
“Bon sang.” Stopping, the commander spat on the boots of the soldier who’d caused her to fall. Then turning on Nest, who fought the clutches of two knights, he ground out, “Which of you women is the Princess of Deheubarth?”
Eleri caught Nest’s movement from the corner of her eye. Her guardian would lie to protect her identity, possibly risking death. Before Nest could say anything, she blurted out, “I am.”
The leader stepped closer to Eleri and towered over her. His lips twisted in a grimace as he surveyed her more thoughtfully. Then his black eyes darkened as they fastened on her wounded cheek. “I see. A damned pity, your fall. Well,” he sighed, slipping his hand under his tunic as he fished for something, “this is for you then.”
He reached out to grip her chin, making Eleri flinch, but his lackey held her in place. “I am Domenic de Tracy,” he announced. “My sister and brother send their regards.” He let go, and in one quick motion, pulled a hood over her head.
Chapter Twelve
Poisoned.
The word formed in her murky thoughts after she tried to lift her head but found it was too heavy. Images and sounds floated through her mind in obscure forms as if she were trying to see through the morning fog on the River Tywi. Something had laced something she’d drunk, making her sleep.
What did I drink? Wine. Only a sip, along with a tasty bite of bread. Was I traveling to Castell Dinefwr?
Nay, she’d not been taken to Lew’s stronghold. She wasn’t lying on her stiff, straw-filled bed in Owain’s royal chamber, too near the kitchen to be comfortable in the summer. The feather mattress beneath her was soft with luxurious fabric, while cool air surrounded her. She could almost return to sleep right now, but something on the edge of her mind teased her.
She turned her head to snuggle into the feather pillow, when her cheek sparked with pain. A flood of memories rushed back: Normans
surrounding her, falling from her horse, and a very long ride wearing a hood over her head. Then, her yelling endlessly at the leader who ignored her while he rode ahead.
Domenic, or Dom as she recalled Warren calling him, would likely know where his brother was. Mayhap the brother had even brought her to him. Her spirit soared at the idea of seeing Warren again.
Yet if he hadn’t come to greet her himself, could he be ill? Or he hated her. His opinion of her suddenly meant the world. A cold sweat sprang to her brow as she pieced together the remaining bits of her recollections.
If Warren had led the defenses against her father’s revolt as Sayer’s sources reported, Warren was presently an enemy.
And one with a grudge.
Keenly aware of the seriousness of her situation, she struggled to sit upright, but something prevented her. She forced her eyelids open, though the blinding daylight assaulted her senses.
Goddess, her head clanged! She pulled her hands but they were held firmly in place. Twisting her wrists, she felt silken cords, tight yet not painful, rendering her hands useless. Not only poisoned, but trussed up like a pheasant.
She blinked again, focusing on her bonds. Getting free wouldn’t be easy.
Belting out a curse at the top of her lungs, she yanked against the knots.
“By the gods. She wakes!” A woman she hadn’t noticed before muttered in Welsh from somewhere in the blurry room. Seated by the wall, she jumped up and scurried out the door like a startled brown mouse.
Eleri called out to her, begging for help. When no one answered, she tugged repeatedly at the ropes, making the wooden frame of the bed scrape the floor, but the binding only seemed to get tighter.
She studied her options, or rather, her lack of them. Her legs were free, but she could only flail on the bed like a fish. No one would likely come close enough to let her kick them. Without her hands or her weapons, she had only her wits to protect her. And if she ate more of the tainted food the Normans offered her, she wouldn’t even have them.
