Chapter Two
1200, four years later, southern Wales
Ceridwen paced before her father. Plain rushes crunched beneath her feet, not fine herbs or lavender. Lord Morgan’s hall at Llyn y Gareg Wen remained free of luxury. Firelight leaped on the stone walls, reflecting the gleam of lances, swords, and longbows, hung ready for retrieval at a moment’s notice.
“Nay, Da, I will not be your bait. God intervened when I was but a lass to spare me marriage to a Beauchamp. Now you wish again to make alliance with those soulless wolves?”
Morgan gently set his goblet on the scarred oak table. That he did not bang it down warned Ceridwen just how angry he was. “Be quiet and sit, child.” He turned his dark, sharp gaze full upon her. “For once you will do as you are told. You have disobeyed me in many things, but this shall not be one of them.” His leather-bottomed chair creaked as he rose and took over the pacing where she left off.
Ceridwen flung herself onto a seat opposite her elder brother, Rhys. Her half-dozen siblings watched with great interest, from nearly every available perch in the hall. Little Dafydd climbed into her lap. She stroked his dark hair and held him close. The wee ones needed her more than ever now that Mam was gone. She gulped back the lump in her throat and tried to concentrate on what her father was saying.
Morgan paused before the hearth and stared into the flames. “Old baron Beauchamp was wise to offer us peace once, through his youngest son, Parsifal. And as you say, Parsifal’s death was the result of intervention, divine or otherwise. But the remaining Beauchamp sons no longer have the counsel of their father. They harry us without mercy, and I cannot keep up this resistance forever.”
“But—”
Her father silenced her with a severe look. “The next eldest Beauchamp, Raymond, has a few more brains in his head than the others. That aside, he is land-hungry. He had to sell his late wife’s domains to fund the defense of his keep at Rookhaven. He chafes against the yoke his lord brother Alonso has placed round his neck.”
“And you wish me to act as the balm to soothe him?”
“I do!” Morgan’s fierce tone punctured her show of bravery. “Baron Alonso wields a vast fist of power. And Sir Raymond is the well-honed dagger within that fist. Alonso suspects Raymond is near the breaking point. He has promised me, if I do not find a way to thwart Raymond’s revolt, I, and all who are dear to me will suffer for it. And Alonso is a master of understatement.”
Her father smiled in a way that sent chills down Ceridwen’s spine. She hugged Daffyd until he squirmed out of her arms. Morgan’s gaze followed his youngest child’s search for a more comfortable female lap, then he continued. “What Alonso does not know is that I will control his brother by making an alliance with him. Alonso will be held at bay by the threat of both Raymond and the Talyessin, and we will have Raymond under our watchful eye. Your eye.” Morgan took his seat once again.
“What if I cannot bear the sight of this man, nor the uncouth sound of his language, nor his rabid touch? What would you have me do, when Owain’s blood is still unavenged?” Her handsome, fey Owain, both warrior and soothsayer. Ceridwen balled her hands into fists, digging her nails into her palms.
She remembered the day of his death with agonizing clarity. Owain had lain in the meadow as if asleep, but there was so much blood—she could still see the evil gleam from the eyes of the killer, within his shadowed helm. A knight under the Beauchamp banner had called her Cymraes, as though he thought her worthless and crude. And now she was being told to marry one of the monsters! Everyone knew what the English were like. They roasted their enemies over slow fires and ate them alive.
Ceridwen narrowed her eyes and searched her father’s face for a sign he might relent. Finding none, she felt for her ivory flute, stuck through the belt at her waist. She twisted the warm cylinder in her hands and wished her mother were still alive. There were questions she could not ask Da, and even Mam had never fully explained the intimate details of what marriage meant for a woman. Now at nineteen—old enough to have borne several babes—she was mortified to admit her ignorance to anyone else.
Ceridwen caught the look her father exchanged with Rhys, who lounged in a confident sprawl on a bench near the fire. Her brother’s head moved in a small negative shake. They always had secrets, those two. And kept them from her with great success.
Morgan casually unsheathed his dagger and picked up a whet-stone from the table. “You think me heartless, Ceri, but I have not forgotten Owain. I believe Alonso would rather eliminate Raymond altogether than have him as an outright enemy. Once you are at Rookhaven, there will be many opportunities for you to set brother against brother. And if some unfortunate incident should result in Raymond’s death—well, you are but a woman, and cannot be held responsible for your untoward passions.” Spitting upon the stone, Morgan began to grind the knife blade against it in tight circles.
“Oh, Da!” How could he think her capable of cold-blooded murder? But a tiny part of Ceridwen wondered how far she would go to be free of the terrible ache that consumed her whenever she thought of Owain, dead in her arms. But it was no use bemoaning her fate. Whatever her feelings, her duty was clear.
Morgan paused in his sharpening and smiled at his daughter. “An innocent lass, yet woe unto anyone who crosses you. I doubt even the formidable Raymond will give a beauty like Ceridwen much trouble, eh, Rhys?” He looked at his eldest son, who merely raised his brows and shrugged.
Ceridwen shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench and scuffed her bare foot on the rough wooden floor. Da always said she looked like her mother. She had the same shining, raven hair, the same eyes that changed color with her moods. But Ceridwen ignored her father’s compliments. Beauty and innocence were their own kind of trouble. And Da was a shameless flatterer when the need arose.
“Has Sir Raymond agreed to this union?” she demanded.
Her father stroked his sleek, black moustaches. Chuckling, he winked at Rhys. “He will, sweet. He will.”
“You like dogs, do you not, Ceri?” Rhys gifted her with a mischievous smile, showing his even, white teeth. “Sir Raymond loves his wolfhound better than he does any woman. Be kind to the creature, and I’ll wager the master will leave you alone.”
Ceridwen scowled at her brother. “This is more shame than I can bear, to be held in lower esteem than a beast. How will I live with myself?” She covered her face with her hands.
Impatience flickered in her father’s tone. “You will live with him, and stop thinking of yourself, girl. This is important to me, to the prince, and to the Cymraeg. Raymond is not one to take lightly. When he makes a promise—or a threat—he fulfills it. But once you have charmed him, he may learn sympathy for our cause. Perhaps some of his violence can be used to our ends. Or another solution may become necessary.”
Morgan’s voice grew smooth, and Ceridwen recognized the cunning, silky inflection. “I have every confidence in you, Ceridwen. After all, you are of my blood, and I am ever victorious. One way or another.” He grinned, flashing the beguiling smile each of his children had inherited. Then he tested his honed dagger on a piece of leather. The blade slid through the skin in effortless silence.
Ceridwen’s heart wrenched into a familiar knot. You are of my blood. Da had shed a great deal of it, keeping them alive. His own and English, too. She shuddered. The very thought made her feel faint. Peace was the only solution. Vengeance might be sweet, but it had no place in this situation. She paused at the expectant gazes of her young brothers and sisters. In truth she was no substitute for Mam. The best thing she could do for them would be to help keep the Beauchamps at bay, regardless of the personal cost. Ceridwen sat up straight. “Right, Da. If it pleases you and saves even one Welsh life, I will go to him.”
“They have done