‘No, you will be faster riding, just the two of you.’
His face was incredulous. ‘You cannot think I would leave you!’
‘No more than you can believe I would have you stay here to be slaughtered.’ When he thought to protest she went on. ‘I can detain them here a while, giving those at the house longer to prepare and for you to make good your escape. I am a nobleman’s daughter. They will not harm me. I am of more value to them alive. You they will kill. And Bronwen…’ She lowered her voice as she said her name, but the child was hanging on their every word, her eyes wide. Her father knew the truth of it. They both did. To be taken alive and sold into slavery would be the best outcome she could hope for. Gwen put her hand on Dafydd’s. ‘You told me you are in my debt. I call in that favour now. Do this for me. Save your child. Go!’
Uttering oaths he swung up behind his daughter. When he hesitated further Gwen smacked Dilly’s rump, sending her galloping from the village, Dafydd holding tight his daughter who still clutched the lamb. She watched them go, winding along the narrow pathaway from the house and up towards the safety of the mountains.
At last she was alone. She drew in a breath, tasted the sweet summer air, smoothed her skirts and walked to the centre of the village square to stand and face what was to come. Within moments a war-band of nearly thirty mounted soldiers arrived. They were well-armed and well-horsed. She noticed with a tightening heart that their swords were bloodied. Some of the men were knights, others sell-swords or men-at-arms. She heard them exchange a few words with each other as they took in the village and she understood nothing of what they said. Normans, then. She had heard tell of the Baron of Shrewsbury, however, and from what little she knew of the corpulent, elderly man, the soldier in command was not he. This man was youthful, his face almost boyish, even muddied as it was, his helmet finely worked with silver trim. This was no lowly military stand-in. Everything about this man spoke of privilege, of status, of power. She told herself that this at least might tie him to some code of morality and behaviour that could protect both herself and the innocent people up at the hall.
His second in command signalled for the village houses to be searched. Their commander removed his helmet to reveal abundant golden hair. He smiled downat Gwen with a disarmingly warm expression. She knew this could be the man who might, only minutes before, have sent her father on his way to God. No happy arrangement of features, no smile, could erase that picture from her mind.
Throwing his helmet to the nearest soldier, he slid from his horse. He stepped forward, two of his personal guards flanking him. When he nodded they took another step so that they were either side of her, not touching, but hemming her in, the low stone wall of the village well behind her, their leader in front. His chain mail was expensive, made of the finest links, skilfully worked. He wore Norman colours, though his sleeves were more blood red than they were blue.
‘Alone, mistress?’ His words were flavoured with an accent that spoke of distant shores. ‘It seems the rest of the village are in the fields at their work. Or mayhap they lie sleeping in the hay?’ This drew a polite chuckle from his men. ‘Hmm, or could it be, I wonder, that they heard death drawing near and…ran away?’He gave a little dismissive flick of his hand and his soldiers laughed all the more heartily. When she chose not to answer he continued. ‘Come now, do not be coy. Tell me how it is you come to stand here unguarded and friendless?’ He took a step nearer and she could smell sweat and blood and the rank odours of battlethat cloak a man who has taken the life of another in close combat.
‘You do in truth bring death here, sir,’ she told him. ‘It clings to you still.’
She saw his eyes flicker, an instant of doubt, a small flare of anger. He expected her to fear him, and yet she did not. He expected her to beg and plead for her virtue and her life, and yet already he could see that she would not.
‘If you hope for rescue I have to tell you, it will not come. Not, at least, from the sorry band of pitch-fork wielders and part-time soldiers who greeted us so warmly a little further down the valley.’ He waited but she would not react.
‘What is it that you seek here?’ she asked him, her voice level.
‘Oh, what is it that any man seeks? More land, a larger estate, greater wealth, good standing with his Liege…’ He bestowed upon her another bright smile. ‘The love and loyalty of a beautiful woman,’ he added. He moved forwards then, reaching out a hand. Despite her determination to hold her nerve she took a step back, so that she was against the wall of the well. There was nowhere left to run. No chance of escape. He touched her cheek. Was this the hand that killed her dear father, she wondered. Was this the last face he saw before he died? She recoiled from the man’s touch, which only served to amuse him. A curious thing then stirred within her another memory. There was something in the set of the men’s faces, in the cast of their gaze, in their wildness, that took her back to the men of violence she had encountered in Dafydd’s cottage. It was not only their brutality, it was more subtle; a pallor to their skin and purple shadows beneath their eyes.
‘My name is Lady Gwen, daughter of Llewelyn ap Ioreth Lord of Cwmdu and the Black Mountains,’ she said quickly.
He gasped, pretending to be both surprised and impressed, though he was likely neither. ‘Oh, we are in the presence of Welsh nobility? Forgive me, my lady, I am remiss.’ He bowed low and slow, mocking her, before announcing his own name. ‘I am Hubert de Chapelle, Baron of La Roche, soon to be Baron of Brycheiniog, if this day continues so very well. Indeed I may add the title of Lord of Cwmdu to my tally, for I fear your poor father has no more need of it.’ And still he smiled.
Gwen felt the blood surge through her body and struggled to maintain her composure. She would not let him see her broken. Yet it was not only sorrow that fuelled her then, for she felt rage, and a curious strength, such as she had felt once before; that night inDafydd’s cottage when she had seen off the intruders. In that moment the Baron turned to speak to one of his soldiers. Gwen did not wait to hear what instruction he would give, for she knew it would not be to her liking. Here was not a man of honour but a savage warmonger, his blood still hot from battle, his interest not in the welfare of irksome prisoners. She whipped her knife from her belt and in one swift movement thrust it into the neck of the soldier to her right, whose fatal mistake had been to pay attention to his ally not his enemy. As shock rattled through the three men she sliced at the soldier to her left, but her blade skidded over his chain mail, not properly finding its mark. She had but one move left to make. She flung herself forwards. Such was the speed of her action, the Norman noble was too surprised to reach for his sword. There were shouts. Other soldiers leapt forwards to protect their master, but they moved as if drugged when compared to the whip-fast movements of Gwen’s blade, for she was possessed of a new and powerful talent and this time her knife found its mark. With a twisted cutting motion she sliced through the nose of the French killer who stood before her, removing its tip, leaving him bloodied and bellowing. A blow from a mighty fist knocked her down. Boots kicked at her. Rough hands grasped her. Her knife fell from her grip. She heard theircommander shout at them to hold her fast. They stood her up.
De Chapelle was over the shock of the injury and the instant of pain and had now time to understand how permanent and ridiculous his disfigurement would be. Fury took hold of him, even as he clutched at his face, his blood spilling between his fingers. Stooping, he snatched up Gwen’s knife.
‘Die hard and slow,Cymrybitch!’ he spat, plunging the blade into her belly.
The men held her on her feet or she would have fallen to her knees, the pain taking the breath from her. Instinctively she clutched at the hilt of the dagger.
Her assailant watched for a moment and then tired of doing so. He turned on his heel without so much as once more looking back. He was finished with her; she was dismissed. Or so she thought.
A soldier ran to help him, offering a cloth for his wound. The Baron took it from him, holding it to his ruined face, and then shrugged him off, heaving himself back into his saddle. Still without once looking at Gwen he turned his horse on its haunches, calling back as he rode away towards the house.
‘Throw her into the well so that her poison blood might blight the water forever!’
His henchmen did not hesitate. She was too light to give them any trouble, so that they easily lifted her, tipping her backwards over the worn stones of the well wall.
As Gwen fell, still holding the knife hilt at her belly, she was aware of the long drop into darkness, the grazing scrape of the stones against the side of her head as she plummeted, the searing pain in her stomach, the smell of moss and pennywort and sweet water, the dwindling sounds of the horses’ hooves as the soldiers left the village, and then, mercifully, nothing.
London 2019
When the circus arrived Tudor stood back and waited, knowing there would be a reckoning. The performers moved with practiced ease; paramedics running despite McAllen no longer being in a hurry to get anywhere; officers sprinting through the building in search of non-existent accomplices; meticulous forensic evidence being gathered ignoring the fact that the killer was at the scene and a little too dead to stand trial. Best effortswould be made.Within an hour the area was festooned in yellow tape with all the crime scene protocols that went with it, the bodies had been photographed, examined and wheeled away on gurneys, the murdered and the murderer all reduced to the same thing. Bodies in bags, tags on toes. Except that the elderly couple had lived their lives. Granted, it was unlikely old man Salinger had ever done anything to deserve what he got, and who knew what demons had driven his unhinged wife that night, but at least they’d reached the ease of old age. The hapless security guard had still been puffing his way through the daily round and the common task. No retirement for him. No years of dandling grandchildren on his knee. No more anniversary celebrations. No more Christmases. And it had been a brutal end. Tudor hadn’t known the man and doubted he would have liked him much, but he pitied him, regretted his passing, not least because he felt partly responsible. He had been right there, the one with the gun, and he hadn’t been able to save him. Sometimes his new job felt no less shitty than his old one.
He had accepted that he would be viewed with deep suspicion by the investigating officers. He had anticipated the removal of his gun, the taking of his particulars, the invitation to accompany the senior officer to the station for an interview. He had, after all, just shotan old woman dead in her own home. Beyond the killings, he had provided the police with a sideshow, in which he himself had star billing. Questions had to be asked and satisfactory answers provided. What he hadn’t expected, was Detective Inspector Deborah Chowdhury.
‘My God, Rhys Tudor! What in hell’s name are you doing here?’
‘Nice to see you again too, Debs.’
‘DI Chowdhury to you.’
