Prologue
Many Generations Before Our Story Begins…
Night would be falling soon, without doubt.
The shadows were lengthening, darkening, and the sounds of the forest shifting from whimsical birdsong to the rustle of night creatures awakening beneath the dense thickets of ferns and bracken.
Lady Jeanne Molyneux and her manservant Alun rode along the grassy path, each aware that they drew nearer their destination with every passing minute. And each aware that it might be dark before they arrived.
“Would ye risk a faster pace, m’Lady?”
Alun’s voice caught Jeanne by surprise, so focussed was she on keeping her mount to the narrow path.
“Would that we could,” she replied, shaking her head. “I dare not, Alun. Should Bertina lose her footing…”
“Aye, m’lady. You’re right indeed. But…” he hesitated. “His Lordship will worry.”
“I know. We’ll be making the last part of our journey in the dark. But it cannot be helped. I must get home as soon as possible.” She shrugged. “My husband survived his Crusade, thank God. I’m sure he’ll not worry himself to a shadow if we’re a little late.”
“Very well, ma’am. If you’d like me to ride in front…”
She shook her head. “I feel much safer with you at my back, Alun. You know what they say about these woods…”
“Aye, Mistress, that I do.” His sigh was audible. “’Tis risky, indeed.”
Jeanne smiled. Alun was Welsh through and through. And he believed in the tales of mystery and magic that swirled aroundthis part of the country like soft clouds of fog rising from the ground at sunrise.
The tales of this wood, for example, and the alleged inhabitants who were more magic than substance.
Jeanne had grown up with the Welsh tales of mysterious beings, had listened intently to her nurse as she told endless stories about the little ones, Ellyllon she called them. Welsh elves.
Even though Jeanne was now a woman, and wed to a practical Welsh lord, she still found herself intrigued by those charming fables, and a smile curved her lips as she wondered if tonight might be the night she met one.
Then Bertina, her favourite mare, slowed slightly as the path roughened and rocks thrust up at irregular intervals. Jeanne clutched the reins and settled herself as comfortably as she could on her saddle, dismissing all thoughts of magical creatures as tales told to children.
The woods fell quiet as the two riders moved along a shadowed path—tall fir trees mixed with gigantic oaks formed a ceiling above them, and the only sound was the thud of the horses’ hooves on the turf.
Jeanne’s heart beat faster, despite her common sense. These were magic woods, after all.
She could see little, but her senses were wide awake, and for a moment…there… “Alun, wait…” She drew Bertina up and held her still, as Alun came alongside.
“What is it?” he whispered.
“I don’t know,” she frowned. “Something…I heard something from over there, I think?” She pointed a little way off to the left.
“I don’t hear…”
“There. There it is again.” Jeanne handed him the reins and worked her way off the horse, landing softly on the grass. “It’s a cry. Someone is in trouble, or maybe it’s a wounded creature. I cannot ignore it.”
“My Lady,” whispered Alun. “Please get back on your horse for the sake ofDewi Sant…”
She ignored his plea. “I’m sure any saint would encourage me to offer aid to the needy, Alun. Stay here. I’ll call if I need you.” Passing him the reins to her mount, she smiled reassuringly. “It is probably nothing, but I’d never forgive myself if I ignored a cry for help.”
Without waiting for a reply, she eased into the hedgerow, finding places where the undergrowth was thin and walking easy. The sound, whatever it was, had come from this area, she knew, so every step was cautious, and she stopped frequently to listen.
And soon her diligence was rewarded. But what she saw shocked her almost out of her riding boots.
A clearing, quite small and ringed with mushrooms, lay half in darkness and half in the dying light of day.
