She quickly returned her dagger to its sheath and got to her feet. An arrow grazed her hip as she rose, causing her to stumble. It was Ifan who grabbed her, preventing her from falling down the hill.
‘My Lady!’ he cried, pulling her to the safety of the rock. ‘I have no more arrows.’
Clearly the soldiers were better armed, as another arrow from the remaining archer punched into the ground beside them.
‘Sian!’ Rhiannon called to the girl. ‘Come away to safety now. You have done enough!’
But the child held her nerve, one dead soldier at her feet, her face impassive and determined as she drew back the string of her bow one last time and fired her final arrow. It hit its mark. The scream of the horse echoed around the mountain pass, the cry of the soldier who fell with it fading as the two plummeted towards the valley floor.
Rhiannon swung round, desperate to see what was happening to Tudor and little Glyn. The boy had been knocked unconscious from the fall and lay motionless on the path. Brynach was struggling with Stew-face, locked in a fight to the death with the man who had been his torturer and tormentor for so many months. Tudor was still fighting with de Chapelle. The baron’s impeccably trained horse moved to his unspoken commands with such grace and speed it seemed impossible he could ever be unseated or defeated.
The two remaining Normans were trading sword blows with Dafydd and Euan. As she watched, the carter faltered and received a heavy blow to his shoulder. He had no chain mail, and the makeshift padding of his jacket was no match for the swinging blade. With a groan he fell to the ground. Tudor lunged forwards to attack the man who would have put an end toDafydd. By doing so he saved his friend, but turned his back on the Baron, who was able to use his height advantage and strike him a terrible blow on his back. Euan was trying his utmost, using every tactic he had learned over years of fighting for Lord Llewellyn, but he was outmatched and outnumbered and one small mistake cost him a slice to the stomach, a deep cut to his side, another to his back, and, ultimately, his life.
The two soldiers turned their murderous intentions upon Tudor, who was staggering, winded and hurt from the wound to his upper back. The first jumped in close and low and scythed through the air the end of his sword ripping through Tudor’s calf, causing him to sink to one knee with a yell of pain. The other Norman tried to attack from behind, but even in his damaged state, Tudor was able to steady himself and swing his sword round to parry the blow. Rhiannon gasped, certain he would not be able to fight off both of them whilst trading blows with de Chapelle. She reached down and picked up her bow, grabbing one of the arrows that lay on the ground having fallen short of its target. It was meant for a cross bow and sat clumsily in her hand, making it difficult to load it securely. She steadied her breath, angling her body for the best line, and brought her bow arm down in line with where Tudor was fighting. With great care, she chose her mark.
Into that still, tense heartbeat came a cry. Without moving her arm, Rhiannon glanced to the left and saw that Brynach had lost his fight with the villainous Stew-face. The poor loyal thane lay slumped on the gritty path, his life blood flowing fast and unstoppable from the gaping wound in his side. Stew-face adjusted his grip on his bloody sword, moving to stand over Glyn, who still lay dazed from his fall. With Brynach unable to help him, he was defenceless.It was clear Stew-face meant to finish him.
She must choose.
Save the child, or save Tudor.
A noise like a river in full spate filled her head, her blood coursing through her veins wild and magnificent and surely loud enough for anyone standing close to hear. Above her, storm clouds appeared as if from nowhere, surging and billowing, the light of the day diminishing in seconds as the sun was blocked from view.
The string of her bow still taut, she must make her choice.
She heard Tudor shout and saw that de Chapelle had delivered a brutal blow, from the safety of his horse striking a second blow across his back. Despite his terrible wounds, he fought on, a swift upwards jab with his sword finding the soft flesh of the belly of thenearest soldier, who staggered away, shrieking. Behind him, the baron pirouetted his horse on the sharp stones, turning it so that he could aim his sword at Tudor’s back once again.
Rhiannon let out a cry. It was not the scream of a frightened woman. It was not the desperate shout of a lover who fears she is about to witness her man brought to his death. It was the fierce, raging battle cry of a witch of the White Shadow.
And with that cry came the power that had lain dormant within her. The gift of swiftness that she had not known she possessed but that she now used instinctively, masterfully, accepting her birthright and embracing her power in that one fleeting, charged moment. She loosed the arrow, and as it flew she leapt after it, springing from the flat rock, sending herself soaring over the rocks below. And as she jumped she passed over the body of one of the fallen soldiers and, reaching down a hand, she plucked the arrow from his chest and loaded it into her bow. And all the while, in this supernaturally stretched moment, the arrow continued on its course, and Rhiannon described an arc through the air behind it. Later, when this day was spoken of by the few who had lived through it, they would speak of how she jumped after that arrow. They would tell of how her body moved as if it weighednothing at all, and how time itself seemed to slow to allow her to pass through it as it pleased her. They would speak in hushed voices of how the witch of the White Shadow conquered nature and bent the very air to her will, so that before that first arrow found its end in the throat of the murderous Stew-face, she had loosed the second one and sent the last of the soldiers to meet his maker. They would tell in whispers how her great hound bounded after her, as if swept along by her wake, pulled with her in her defiant leap, so that the two landed together, beside the stricken knight.
Taran crouched close to Tudor, growling, defending him against any who would come again.
But the only Norman left was de Chapelle, still upon his foaming horse, still dangerous, his sword whirling, spitting vitriol, cursing the day his nemesis was born.
Rhiannon stood straight and tall, looking up into the face of her foe. She saw there something that struck within her the chord of a deep buried memory, for his features were not merely contorted with rage. They had about them a darkness, a blue cast, a curious bulging of the eyes and deepening of the cruel lines of his mouth that she had glimpsed before, long months ago, in the carter’s cottage.
‘Cymrubitch, do you not know when your time to die is at hand? he shouted.
Calmly, she put her hand on the knife at her belt and took hold of the hilt.
‘Do notyou? she asked simply, and as the words left her lips, with speed that defied the mortal eye, she snatched the knife from its scabbard and threw it at the baron.
De Chapelle’s face twisted further in that instant when the blade penetrated his throat. It seemed to Rhiannon, however, that as his blood came into contact with the ancient, sacred iron, the unnatural colour and demonic grimace eased and faded. Before ever the life left his body, it was as if his spirit was cleansed by that blade. She watched him finally fall from his horse, which, like the true knight’s horse that it was, at once ceased its spinning and trampling, its flanks heaving and nostrils flaring as it stood spent and quiet now over its fallen master.
Rhiannon fell to her knees beside Tudor.
‘My love! Oh, my love.’
He, too was kneeling, a pool of his own blood growing beneath him. He still held his sword, its point stuck in the ground in front of him, as he slumped over the hilt, his head bowed. When she called to him and laid her hand on his shoulder he gave no answer. She felt the life leaving his body.
‘My love, no!’ she cried.
Behind her, Dafydd had torn his shirt to bind his own injury. ‘He is grievously wounded, my Lady,’ he said gently.
‘Mamgi!’ she said suddenly. ‘She can save him. I must get him to Mamgi!’ She looked wildly about her and jumped up to grab the reins of de Chapelle’ horse. Now she saw poor Glyn, stirring, but wounded, and Brynach dead. As were Dai and Euan. For a moment she faltered, and Dafydd saw this.
‘Go, my Lady,’ he said, clenching his teeth against his own pain. ‘Take him and go. Send Rufus with a cart for us.’
