CHAPTER ONE
The Black Mountains, Wales 1084
The interior of the cottage was smoke-filled, the smell of tallow heavy, the light from low fire and smudged flame sufficient only to cast a dull glow upon the four faces within: father, child, robber and murderer. The scene was revealed to Gwen through the small shapes cut in the wooden shutters at the window. The father’s features were contorted with fear as the heavier of the intruders held a knife to his daughter’s pale throat.
‘Take what you will,’ he implored, ‘only leave her be!’
The taller man, the one with death cloaking his shoulders, savoured the distress of his victims. The child began to cry, her captor tightening his grip upon her hair. Her father moved forwards, the instinct of a parent to protect his child beyond thought or plan.
‘You think to try me?’ The murderer sliced the air with his blade, opening the man’s cheek, causing him to stagger backward.
Gwen pulled the hood of her cape lower over her brow and stepped to the front door. The thatch of the roof was low, the door frame demanding a bow uponentry, a gesture of gratitude, perhaps, for a place of shelter, of hearth, of love. A home. Now violated, soon to be turned to a slaughter house. Such cruelty and violenceset up their own singular tremors on the breeze. She could detect them as a hound finds a scent. They had led her to that humble dwelling, that solid door that had proved insufficient barrier against harm.
Gwen lifted her hand and rapped upon the door three times.
Within, a hush descended, and into it a hissed instruction from the killer to the inhabitant of the cottage.
‘Choose your words wisely if you wish your child to see the sun rise again.’
She heard his companion slip into the shadows still holding the girl. The bolt was drawn back and the door pulled cautiously open. The carter, for such she knew the inhabitant to be, regarded her slant, his wounded side turned away. On recognising her his surprise brought from him her name before he could think to withhold it. She sensed the men in the shadows behind him tense, their interest provoked, a possible new prize upon the threshold.
‘Dafydd, forgive my calling at such a late hour,’ she said, giving him one of the broad, pretty smiles for which she was known, wanting to reassure him and give nothing away to the intruders. ‘My father haswork for you. He has need of your cart at first light.’ When the carter found no voice Gwen went on. ‘I will trouble you but a moment. Let me step in and deliver the details of my father’s message.’ She smiled, again, letting it show in her voice. ‘I should dearly love to see little Bronwen.’
‘She sleeps,’ he said, too quickly.
‘Then we will speak softly so as not to wake her,’ she replied, moving forwards. His wish to protect her showed kindness but he could not bring himself to bar her way with his body; could not let the daughter of Lord Llewellyn of Cwmdu press up against him. He stepped back and she proceeded to the centre of the room.
In an instant, the murderous intruder slammed shut the door, pushing Dafydd to the floor. He stood grinning at her.
‘Fortune favours us this night,’ he laughed. ‘Nobility comes a-visiting, and in such pleasing form.’
The second rogue emerged into the light, tiring of his wriggling charge, holding her with more spite but less attention.
‘Sirs, I do not believe you to be welcome here. What is your business?’ Gwen asked, pushing back her hood. As a young, unmarried woman she wore her long blackhair braided but uncovered. She felt the unpleasant scrutiny of the men as they watched her.
’Tis true,’ said the man who now barred the door, ‘we have not been made welcome. Mayhap you can right that wrong.’
The second man gave a bark of laughter. ‘Mayhap we can teach a maid how she must welcome guests.’
She kept her eyes on the taller of the men, reasoning that he was the leader of the two. ‘Men who force their way unwanted into people’s homes and hold a knife to the throat of a child are deserving only of scorn.’ Beneath the cover of her cape her left hand sought out the hilt of the dagger at her waist. She found the cool silver, tracing its familiar pattern with her fingers, feeling the smooth stone set into it, gaining courage from the treasured gift her father had presented to her on her twelfth birthday.
‘They are men nonetheless,’ he said coldly. ‘And will take what men want.’
‘Then they are not worthy of being called men, but simple cowards.’
At this the rogue lunged towards her, as she knew he must. In seconds he had his hand about her throat, his fingers rough against her flesh. When she did not struggle he tightened his hold.
‘A maid should know her place,’ he said, ‘highborn or not.’ He increased the pressure, robbing her of air, thinking to have her fall faint at his feet. She saw the carter move and feared he would seek to come to her aid and pay a high price for his loyalty. She had to act swiftly. In a single movement she pulled her dagger from its sheath, turning it to stab upwards into the underside of her attacker’s forearm to force him to release her. He let go her throat but, in his shock and pain, made the error of pulling his arm back before she had withdrawn the blade. She felt it slice through the soft flesh, cutting deep, opening fast flowing veins, releasing hot blood. He shouted curses, staggering back, clutching at the wound.
‘Damn you, bitch!’ he cried.
His ally flung the child to the floor and launched himself at Gwen, his own knife raised. She sidestepped with startling speed, whipping up her cloak with her right arm, using it to obscure his vision and put him off balance. So stout and so blundering was he that he toppled away from her, carried forwards by his own weight and clumsiness, falling into the fire in the open hearth. He roared in rage and pain as he landed upon the hot embers, and in his desperation he clawed at the pot of bubblingcawlthat hung above the flames. The black cauldron upended, emptying the stew over hishead and face, bringing forth from him such a scream that Bronwen too cried out.
At last he staggered from the fire, stumbling to his friend. Gwen held her knife in front of her as the carter swept up his daughter in his arms and came to stand at her side. Both attackers faced her, an unnatural intensity to their expressions, and she braced herself for their onslaught. It did not come. In that moment, they looked into her eyes and what they saw there caused them to stay their hands, to halt their step. In their faces she witnessed fury replaced by fear, real and deep. Though she did not then understand it, she knew that it was something hidden in her that they had glimpsed and feared.
They made their choice. Turning on unsteady feet they wrenched open the door and ran out into the night. The carter set Bronwen down behind Gwen and charged after them, picking up his axe from the wood pile outside as he went, shouting dire warnings of the consequences should he ever set eyes upon either of them again. He quickly returned.
‘They are fled,’ he said, setting down the axe and barring the door.
