A Moment in Time

by Bertrice Small

  The day had waned while the two men fought, and now from out of the sunset-stained sky, a large black raven swept down, screaming his raucous cry as he dove directly at Brys of Cai's head and face. Startled, Brys was forced to drop his weapon in a vain attempt to defend himself from the huge bird. The creature, however, would not be deterred from his apparent purpose, which seemed to be Brys of Cai's destruction. Against the background of a flaming orange-gold sky, the great black raven deliberately forced Brys backward, all the while screaming fiercely, his sharp beak scoring several open, bloody wounds upon the handsome face and the hands which were raised to shield himself. The bird's large wing span beat upon his enemy. There was nowhere for Brys to go.

  In a shrieking final assault upon Brys of Cai, the great black bird drove his victim over the battlements of Castle Cai to a screaming finality below. The body landed with a loud, unpleasant thump upon the wooden drawbridge. It was spread-eagled and faceup, allowing those near it a glimpse of Brys's face, which was contorted in rage, surprise, and terror.

  "Madoc!" Wynne whispered as the raven flew up into the burning scarlet sky, cawing triumphantly. Then she whirled about and said fiercely to Harry, "Give me my child!"

  Without another word the man-at-arms thrust Arvel into his mother's care, and Wynne, her son clinging to her, climbed back down through the trapdoor and hurried down the stairs. She flew through Brys's chambers and down the next flight, back into the now empty hall. Her feet barely touching the ground, she raced out of Castle Cai, skirting Brys's dead body, and looked back up. Above her the great black bird flapped his wings noisily, still crying his triumph.

  Then to the horror of both Wynne and Nesta, a voice was heard to say, "Damned impudent bird!" and an arrow flew from somewhere within the ranks of the standing army to find its mark within the raven's chest. The bird plummeted to the ground. With a shriek Wynne pushed Arvel at Gytha and ran to where the raven had fallen. Kneeling upon the ground, she cradled the creature in her arms and heard his voice weakly saying, "Madoc is ainm dom. Madoc is aimn dom. Te… se… Madoc!"

  About them the startled soldiery drew back with a single gasp of surprise. " 'Tis the prince!" she heard them saying.

  "Oh, my dearest love," Wynne wept, the tears pouring down her pale cheeks. "What have you done that it should end like this?"

  "I have killed my brother," he said weakly, "but alas, dearling, there was, it seems, no other way."

  "Arvel is safe," she told him as a shudder ripped through his body.

  Madoc's smoky blue eyes grew bright for a brief moment and he whispered, "Show me my son!"

  "Gytha! Bring Arvel!" Wynne cried, and when Gytha hung back afraid, Nesta took her nephew from the Saxon girl's arms and brought him into Madoc's sight.

  Madoc's gaze feasted upon his son, and he said in a satisfied voice, "He is me. It is good, dearling." Then the light began to fade swiftly from his eyes, and Wynne cried out, seeing it.

  "Madoc! My lord and my love! Do not leave me!" She cradled him tightly, her dark hair, which had come loose in her pursuit of Brys, now falling about them like a curtain. Her tears, flowing copiously, wet both her tunic front and his kirtle.

  "You will survive, dearling," he said, his voice so weak that she was forced to bend even closer to hear him. "You must!" Then his soul pulled free of his body and he was gone from her.

  "Madoc! Madoc!" Wynne cried desperately. "Do not go my love! Do not go! You must get to know Arvel! And there is the other! I have not yet told you of the new child I am to bear you, the child now growing beneath my heart! The child created of our reunion! Madoc!"

  Nesta, having returned Arvel to Gytha, now bent and gently helped her sister-in-law to her feet. She, too, was weeping at the sight of her beloved brother's body. Rhys stumbled out onto the drawbridge, still half blinded with the grit his dishonorable opponent had thrown at him.

  "What has happened?" he demanded.

  "Did you not see it?" Wynne said tonelessly.

  "See what?" Rhys said. "I had Brys of Cai all but beaten when the dishonorable whoreson threw dirt in my face, and I was blinded for a time. All I could hear was the flapping of wings and a bird's cry. I saw nothing."

  "Madoc saved you," Wynne told him. "Although he had sworn never to use his shape-changer's powers again, he did so in order to defeat Brys and save you, Rhys. Now he is dead! Shot through with an arrow by one of our men." Her tears flowed briefly and hotly for a moment, and then she said, "Come, my lord. I must prepare an herbal wash for your poor eyes. I doubt there is any serious damage to your sight, but your eyes are most likely scratched and will need my attention. Nesta, take your husband into the castle."

  "She is so cold of heart," Rhys said to his wife as they reentered Cai. "Her husband is dead, and she weeps but a moment, and then says she will treat my wounds. Thank God I have you, my angel!"

  "Dearest Rhys," Nesta told him gently, "you have never understood Wynne of Gwernach. She loved my brother with every fiber of her being. She will mourn him until she dies, and she will never, I promise you, remarry. She will raise her son Arvel, and this new child she is to bear, to know their father as if he were there with them and not just a memory. Her grief will always be a private grief, as her love for Madoc was a private love. She is not cold of heart. Indeed, her heart is broken; but she will go on as Madoc wanted her to go on, and she will survive to raise her children to man- and womanhood. Madoc will always be in her heart, and in her mind and in her daily thoughts. What they have, have had, and will one day have again, is a love that time cannot destroy. Dearest Rhys, my darling lord! I love you so very much!" And Nesta of Powys flung her arms about her husband and kissed him passionately. "I shall never be able to thank Madoc," she said, and Rhys knew exactly what she meant. Madoc had saved his life.

  Gently he disengaged himself from his beautiful wife's embrace. "We must help Wynne," he told her.

  "You must offer to help, but let her have the decision whether to accept or not," she told him, and he nodded his agreement.

  Outside, Brys of Cai's body had been lifted from the drawbridge.

  "What shall we do with it, lady?" the captain of the guard asked her helplessly, there being no other authority in his sight.

  "Lay him out upon the high board in his hall," Wynne instructed. "After I have treated the lord of St. Bride's eyes, we will leave here. Before we do, fire this castle. It must be totally destroyed."

  "But the night is upon us, lady," the captain protested.

  "Would you seek shelter here?" Wynne demanded of him, and he shook his head.

  "And my lord Madoc?" the captain asked nervously.

  "We will take my lord back to Raven's Rock," she answered. "Prepare a litter for his body that it may be carried with the honor and the dignity it deserves."

  "Shall I look for the archer, my lady?"

  Wynne's green eyes looked bleakly at the soldier. " Why? He knew not what he was doing. I want no one punished. I forgive the archer, whoever he was. I never want to know!" She turned away from the captain and reentered the hall to minister to Rhys's eyes.

  Her wishes were immediately carried out. When she had finished treating the lord of St. Bride's, Brys had been placed upon his high board, cold and stiff. They piled furniture and other combustibles about him. On the floors above, flaming brands had already been placed in each nook and cranny of the castle. Now Wynne took a torch and lit Brys's funeral pyre. The scarlet flames leapt upward, casting dark dancing shadows on the walls. Wynne stood for several minutes watching, unable to leave until she saw the fire beginning to consume Brys's body. Then finally at a touch of Rhys's hand on her arm, she turned and walked slowly from the Great Hall of Castle Cai. Outside, and on the other side of the drawbridge, she paused and again stood watching as the castle, now fully engulfed in flames, burned. It stood as a beacon against the dark night sky, yet Wynne felt not the warmth of the fire.

  Madoc was dead. The words burnt into her consciousness like a brand. She had lost him a
gain even as their reunion had allowed her to believe that their difficulties were behind them, and that they would be together forever. Yet the choice had been Madoc's. He had not, of course, chosen to relinquish his life; but he had simply been unable to allow his friend to do so. Rhys, whose own sense of honor would not permit Madoc to destroy Brys, now owed his very existence to the prince's great sacrifice. And Madoc's actions had certainly included her and Arvel as well, Wynne thought sadly. Whatever sins he had committed against them in that other time and place had been surely expiated by the unselfish surrender of his own life in this time and place. It was a bitter comfort, but she understood.

  Suddenly a small hand slipped into her cold one, and she heard her son's voice saying, "Where is my uncle, Mama?"

  Wynne looked down at him. "Your uncle is dead, Arvel," she told the little boy. "He will never hurt you again."

  Arvel nodded at her with Madoc's look, and Wynne's heart contracted most painfully. "Can we go home, Mama?"

  "Aye, my lord prince," she told him.

  Arvel's smoky blue eyes widened at her words. "Am I a prince?"

  "You are the prince of Powys-Wenwynwyn, Arvel ap Madoc," his mother told him.

  "My home is not at Aelfdene?" Arvel was suddenly possessed by a new awareness.

  "Nay, my lord prince," she answered.

  "Where is my home, Mama?"

  "You are the lord of Raven's Rock, my son," she told him.

  Rhys came and said, "Whatever you want, Wynne of Gwernach. Whatever help you need, ever. It is yours in return for a debt I can never repay, as well as for the kinship between us."

  She nodded. "I thank you, my lord," she answered him, and then she said to Arvel, "This is your uncle, my son. He is Rhys, the lord of St. Bride's."

  Rhys bowed solemnly to the little child, saying, "I am always and ever at your service, my lord prince. Is there any way in which I can now serve you?"

  "Take me upon your horse, uncle," the little boy answered. When they were all mounted, Arvel commanded Rhys to the head of the line of soldiers. "I would go home now," he said. "I would go home to Raven's Rock."

  They moved away from the burning castle, the little boy upon his uncle's great horse leading them. Behind, the bearers surrounded by men-at-arms carrying lighted torches bore the body of Madoc of Powys-Wenwynwyn. They were followed by the women and the small army as they wended their way into the forest. Above them the night sky was lit by a bright, full moon now. Wynne looked up at the moon. It shone pure and white against the blackness.

  Then suddenly the pristine beauty was marred a moment by the shadow of a raven as it flew across the moon. Wynne thought that perhaps she might even hear the bird's cry, but had she, it would have been a different cry. Madoc was dead. Once again they had been separated by a cruel moment in time. That they would be reunited again one day she had not a single doubt; and next time… oh, next time, it would be even better!

  She was unaware of the tears that were flowing quickly down her beautiful face; unaware that her mouth had turned itself into a secret, small smile at her thoughts. Nothing mattered now but the children. Arvel, and Averel, and the new child growing within her. The children, and Raven's Rock, and her memories. Aye! Her memories. And what memories they were!

  EPILOGUE

  WALES, 1805

  Forget not that I shall come back to you. A little while, and my longing shall gather dust and foam for another body. A little while, a moment of rest upon the wind, and another woman shall bear me.

  Kahlil Gibran

  The Prophet

  "I am not certain; no indeed, I am not certain at all that we were wise to allow our young people to go off without a proper chaperone," Lady Marcella Bowen fretted to no one in particular. A large, handsome woman in her mid-forties, she wore a purple gauze scarf wrapped in turban fashion about her graying locks that bobbed with her uncertainty as she peered myopically after the departing riders.

  "Nonsense, m'dear," her portly husband, Sir Rumford Bowen, replied jovially. "Summertime… informality here in the country, y'know… not to worry."

  "Yes, indeed!" echoed Sir Rumford's good friend, Sir William Thorley. "Informality quite the order of the day here at Tretower Wells."

  "We should have gone to Bath," muttered Lady Marcella.

  " Bath is out of fashion now, m'dear. Brummel himself has said so, and the ton is quite scattered this summer," Sir Rum-ford told his spouse.

  She glowered at him and said acidly, "And to what purpose, I should like to know, sir? Every eligible male of good breeding in London is God only knows where, instead of in one central place, Bath, where they may be properly inspected and assessed by the families of young ladies of equal breeding. Mr. Brummel has rendered the natural order of things into chaos. If he were a decent man he would be quite repentant. Knowing him, however, I expect he finds all of this quite amusing, the wretch! How shall we ever find a husband for Honoria, I should like to know?"

  "Now, now, m'dear," Sir Rumford attempted to soothe his wife, "there are several fine young men here at the spa, and others expected as the summer passes."

  Lady Marcella sighed with the air of one martyred. How did one explain to a man about these things? Tretower Wells was not Bath. It could not even compare to Bath. It was a new watering spot, just opened to guests this summer, in which her husband, Sir William, and several other gentlemen whose wealth and titles stemmed from their success in trade, had invested. With Brummel's declaration that Bath was passe, these gentlemen and their families had all nocked to Tretower Wells, much to the distress of their ladies.

  The wives of the investors were all of one mind. That their sons and daughters marry young women and gentlemen higher up on the social ladder, not each other. What good was money if it could not buy you what you most desired? Now, alas, months of careful planning was gone awry, for Tretower Wells, in the Black Mountains of Wales, was hardly a hub of society. Indeed, it was quite at the ends of the earth.

  "Thank God Olympia is already betrothed or we should completely be ruined," Lady Marcella declared. "Honoria is, after all, only seventeen, and we have at least another year before I must really worry."

  "You need never worry about Honoria where men are concerned," her husband remarked wryly. "She attracts them like bees to a flower."

  "Do you not also have the responsibility of your orphaned niece, Miss Katherine?" ventured Sir William's mousy wife, Lady Dorothea.

  "Honoria must be considered first," Lady Marcella replied firmly with maternal interest. "Dear Kitty is an heiress, after all, and despite the fact she is an American, a most desirable catch for any young man of good breeding. Actually," Lady Marcella continued archly, leaning over to confide in Lady Dorothea, "I am considering her as a possible partie for our eldest son, George. Perhaps, however, I should seek a wife with English wealth for George. He and Kitty do not seem particularly enamored of each other."

  "Do they not like each other?" queried Lady Dorothea, eager for a bit of juicy gossip.

  "Oh, indeed they do, for cousins," Lady Marcella said, "but I am not certain they would make a good match as a husband and wife."

  "What about matching her with one of your younger sons?" asked Sir William, getting into the spirit of things. He and his wife were childless, but they took a great interest in the Bowen children.

  "Impossible!" Lady Marcella replied. "AnsCom is studying for the church. It will be some time before he can take a wife. Darius is in the army. His regiment is to be posted to India soon. An American wife would not do for Darius at all. As for Nestor, his career with His Majesty's navy almost precludes his having a wife, although he may someday take one; but he is several years younger than dear Kitty. No, it will be either George or some other acceptable gentleman, but alas, we are not at Bath. There are no acceptable gentlemen I might consider for either Honoria or Kitty." She sent her husband a black look. "I vow they will wither on the vine here this summer, poor dears!"

  "It appears to me that none of the
m are withering at all," Sir Rumford replied spiritedly. "They were, in fact, quite looking forward to their outing."

  "Where are they off to?" Lady Dorothea inquired curiously.

  "Up the mountain," he told her. "There is some sort of local legend about a ruined castle atop the ridge, and they are to meet up with several of George's friends from Oxford who have been riding about the countryside. They will return with the children later for a stay of several weeks here at Tretower Wells. Quite nice young fellows, they are. Olympia 's betrothed, Sir Halsey Halstead, and two others, Sir Frederick Galton and Sir Thomas Small. Perfectly eligible, both of them, m'dear, or had you forgotten?" he grinned at his wife.

  "They are indeed eligible! You are correct, Rumford! I had quite forgotten that Freddie Galton and Tom Small were coming to Tretower Wells." Lady Marcella had brightened considerably.

  "Sir Thomas Small? Isn't he Baron Lindell? Why, he came into his money when he was just five years old. Raised by a spinster aunt. I went to school with Emily Small," Lady Dorothea said excitedly. "He's fabulously wealthy, y'know! Has properties in India and the Americas as well. The money comes from tea, and furs, I'm told, not to mention huge holdings in land."

  "Indeed?" Lady Marcella said, almost purring, her blue eyes dancing with interest. "We have only met him twice. Once at Oxford, and once when George brought him home between terms. He is a handsome young man, rather dramatically so, I thought. I was not aware of his most excellent background, my dear Dorothea. How kind of you to enlighten me. He is certainly a very possible match for our Honoria. He is not betrothed, is he?" she asked anxiously.