His actions are noble
But his eyes breathe fire
His words speak truth
But his lips imply his passion
The Lady wishes to feel his mouth upon hers
And wonders if he wishes the same
In his arms, she will find her salvation
CHAPTER SIX
The Paladin
Northwest of the city of Chester
Seat of the House of de Shera
The sun wasjust setting in the west, casting long beams of yellow and white light onto the landscape that was preparing for the coming night. Overlooking the estuary for the River Dee as it spilled out into the Irish Sea, a massive fortress stood like a sentinel, guarding the countryside against the darkness that approached.
It was a sentinel that had been guarding the land for centuries.
The Paladin was one of the oldest and most legendary castles in all of England. Chester had once been an ancient Roman stronghold and the enormous mound upon which The Paladin was built had been constructed by the Romans themselves. They’d built an artificial mountain and planted a stone temple atop it, dedicated to a god whose name had been lost to history, but it had been a magnificent structure built from blue stone all the way from Wales.
The Romans enslaved the indigenous population, as the Romans always did, and it had been those men who had gone into Wales for the fabled blue stones ofCarn Menyn, quarrying the stones and bringing them back to the north, up the estuary of the River Dee, before disembarking and rolling them a short distance over land to be used in building the temple.
For decades, the temple stood as a place of worship on the high ground, but the Romans eventually left, leaving their temples and forts to be overtaken by the indigenous peoples once again, and the old temple on the hill was left neglected over the centuries until the Normans came. The Normans, knowing a good thing when they saw it, and knowing the strategic importance of the location was crucial, took to restoring the enormous building.
But they did more than that. They created baileys and outbuildings and moats, all of it eventually given over to the Earl of Wolverhampton, Gaetan de Wolfe, who in turn gave it over to one of the native commanders who had sworn allegiance to him. Antillius Shericus, a descendant of a Roman legion that had never left Britannica, took command and changed his name to Antillius de Shera to suit his new Norman allies. The building that was known locally as theDaingneachfor centuries became something else–
The Paladin.
The name referred to a great knight, standing for grandeur and chivalry, a powerful beacon of Norman strength in the region. Butted up against the Welsh border, The Paladin was meant to intimidate, and intimidate it did. It could be seen for miles in any direction and the de Shera army was built up over the centuries to become the largest in the region. With its blue stone walls encased in a limestone arcade façade that the Normans had put on it, The Paladin was truly a sight to behold and grand beyond measure.
But it was a place of unrest these days.
Tatius de Shera stood in the great hall on the second level of the keep, watching the sun set through the great Norman arches that faced over the estuary and out to sea. He could see the last of the sunlight glimmering off of the waters of the estuary, a sight he’d seen thousands of times in his life. Usually, it brought him comfort, but tonight, all he could think of was the country across the estuary.
Wales was on the other side.
“Did you hear me?” Atilius de Shera, the second eldest brother, spoke. He held up a piece of folded parchment in his hand. “William Marshal has sent word that he has sent an escort to bring your bride to us. Truly, Tatius, I thought you would show more excitement.”
Tatius hated it when Atilius spoke to him like that. A big man, and a powerful knight, Atilius was ambitious and ruthless. He ruled the armies of The Paladin with an iron fist, and tried to rule everyone else the same way in great contrast to Tatius’ somewhat meeker and mild personality.
“What excitement would you like me to show?” Tatius finally asked, still looking over the sunset. “She is coming. We knew she would. There is nothing more to it.”
Atilius exhaled sharply and walked up to stand next to him, glaring at his older brother by three years. “Cadelyn of Vendotia will be here soon and everything we have discussed will finally come to fruition,” he said. “It is just as we were told. Cadelyn was in the possession of William Marshal and now she is coming. Once you marry her, you will be linked to the rebellion in Conwy, with those who seek independence from Llywelyn and the Princes of Gwynedd.”
He was speaking of a rebellion within a rebellion, the very reason Cadelyn of Vendotia was coming to them. Tatius was looking in the distance, across the estuary and into the darkgray hills of Wales on the horizon. It was in those hills that the unrest was simmering. Shaking his head, perhaps with regret, he turned to face his brothers.
They were all here; Atilius the Taskmaster and Fabius the Covetous. Antoninus, the youngest, was here, too, but he was different from the others. He was very young, only having seen sixteen years, but he was smart and cunning, and he wasn’t greedy like his middle brothers.
He was the voice of reason in the family.
While Atilius and Fabius saw the marriage to Cadelyn of Vendotia as a land grab in Wales, one that rebellion would provide them, Antoninus was quite the opposite. He felt that the marriage should be an alliance with the Welsh and not the beginning of a revolution with a band that called themselvesGwrthryfelwyr Rhos–the Rebels of Rhos. They were led by a woman named Nesta who claimed she was the mother of Cadelyn of Vendotia.
