Daughter of Time: A Time Travel Romance

by Sarah Woodbury

  “Marged,” Llywelyn said. “Don’t do that.” His voice held a definite exasperation this time, but still, he nudged me aside and bent to the cradle. With a slight exhale of air, he lifted the trundle bed, his arms under the rockers, and carried it across the room.

  “Please put it there,” I said, pointing to a spot on the floor beside the bed. He set the cradle down and I climbed back under the covers. I reached out and found that the tips of my fingers could just touch the rail of her bed. I rocked her gently. Anna sighed and rolled onto her side. I looked up at Llywelyn. “Thank you.”

  He canted his head in acknowledgement, and despite my fears and uncertainties, I finally closed my eyes and slept.

  * * * * *

  “I must speak with the Prince!”

  I swam awake, fighting through a strange fog of half-remembered dreams and conversation from the night before. Someone was pounding on the bedroom door and shouting in a confused mix of French and Welsh. Or, at least confused to me since I couldn’t make out every word. The intent, however, was clear.

  Abruptly, the pounding stopped and a stern voice cut through the commotion on the other side of the door. “The Prince is . . . busy.”

  “Stand aside! I must speak with him! Wake him for me!”

  “My brother, Dafydd, is a bit intemperate.”

  My breath froze in my lungs. I turned my head and found myself looking into Llywelyn’s face. He was lying on the bed—and admittedly it was a big bed because he was at least three feet away—with his elbow on his pillow and his head propped up on one hand, looking at me, clear amusement in his eyes. He had an almost impish expression on his face that told me he was enjoying himself enormously.

  “What’s happening?”

  “It seems my brother seeks an audience with me. I suppose I ought to let him in before he wakes Anna.”

  Llywelyn’s chest was bare and as he threw back the cover, I sure hope he has something on his lower half! had barely passed through my head before he straightened, wearing—

  Oh dear God! Absolutely nothing!

  I must have squeaked because Llywelyn shot me a look of amused condescension. He reached for his breeches, which he’d left at the foot of the bed, and pulled them on. Didn’t medieval people wear underwear? And if they didn’t, did he have to make this whole thing so authentic?

  Stirrings and bangs came from the other side of the curtain and then Llywelyn appeared on my side of the bed, fully dressed, his finger to his lips. He tugged the curtain closed so it hid me. He left a little gap, however and through it, I could see Llywelyn stride to the door and open it to reveal an agitated man, his hair flattened to his head and his helmet under his arm. Despite that, he was extraordinarily handsome, younger than Llywelyn, shorter and not as lean.

  “My lord,” the man said. “Brother.” He bowed his head.

  “What is it, Dafydd?” Llywelyn said, in French. “I was sleeping.”

  The man dismissed his words with a shake of his head. “I’ve already breakfasted.”

  “Good for you,” Llywelyn said, his voice dry.

  “Not all of us are lay-a-beds,” Dafydd said. This was so patently unfair I wondered that Llywelyn didn’t correct his brother, but he didn’t, just let the silence drag out until Dafydd filled it with his news. “Clare is on the move. He knows that Gruffydd ap Rhys has returned from Ireland with your support, and that you have plans to give Senghenydd to him, along with Castell Morgraig. Clare has begun work on a new castle at Caerphilly.”

  “Damn the man!” Llywelyn said. “That is my land. He knows this will bring me out. Doesn’t he care?”

  “Perhaps that’s his plan. Perhaps he intends to thwart you with open battle or with treachery.”

  Llywelyn eyed his brother. “Thank you, Dafydd, for your news. I submit it could have waited until I was awake.”

  “Yes, brother,” he said, “but then I wouldn’t have had the chance to glimpse your lovely new lady.” His eyes met mine through the gap in the curtain and he smirked.

  “She’s mine, Dafydd. Do not forget it.”

  “Yes, brother.” Dafydd stepped back. Llywelyn shot a glance at me and then followed Dafydd into the hall, pulling the door closed behind him.

  I lay there, feeling alternately horrified, sick, extremely vulnerable, and then angry. Why was this happening to me? Who were these lunatics and what were they going to do next?

  The door opened and Llywelyn stalked back into the room, headed towards me. He jerked open the curtain and leaned forward, his fists resting on the bed on either side of my hips, his face only inches from mine, just as we’d been the night before. This time, while he looked just as fierce, his eyes had a glint of something else—amusement again perhaps, or mischief.

  “I must meet with my counselors,” he said. “A maid will come with clothes for you and Anna. I journey south within the next two days. You must prepare, for I intend to take you with me.”

  “South?” I asked, feeling stupid again. “Where?”

  Llywelyn didn’t answer. Instead, he threaded his fingers through the hair at the back of my head, lifted me up and kissed me, hard, before letting me fall back onto the bed. “Remember what I told my brother.”

  Speechless again, all I could do was watch him go.

  Chapter Four

  Llywelyn

  I was in high good humor as I strode out of the bedroom. Still, I didn’t want to risk my luck with a backwards glance, knowing I might find Marged glaring after me, affronted at my impudence.

  Ha! The look on Marged’s face when I kissed her was priceless and I found myself grinning at the intelligence and fire in her. Then my smile faded as I remembered last night’s incident with the knife, and the fear plainly revealed on her face, that had driven her to attack me. She’d tried to flee, afraid I would hurt her. I’d told her who I was, and yet, my identity had meant little to her. What was behind that? I didn’t know; didn’t know enough of her to even ask the right questions.

  And then a worse thought: had she bewitched me? Was she from the devil? With the same instinct that had prompted me to keep her in my rooms, I dismissed the notion. The priests could spend their time questioning the nature of women. Females were different from men, clearly put here for a different purpose, but I had no interest in speculating beyond that.

  I fixed my thoughts on my more immediate problems, not the least of which was the very existence of my brother, Dafydd. Welsh royal brothers, my own father and uncle included, had a long history of enmity, backstabbing, and bitterness. Harmonious relations among brothers in my family were the exception, not the rule, and it was unlikely, given our past history and present course, that Dafydd and I would prove different.

  “My lord!” Tudur stopped me as I entered the great hall. He was hurrying, pulling on his cloak as intercepted me. “Your brother. . .”

  “He came to my room, Tudur. I’ve already seen him.”

  “I apologize, my lord, for allowing him to wake you.”

  “It is forgotten, Tudur. He can be very persistent.”

  Tudur bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.”

  I strode to the dais where Dafydd now sat, along with my friend, Goronwy, and Geraint, Tudur’s father. He’d aged much in the last few years and had reluctantly given up the stewardship—though not his service—in favor of his son. While the other men stood as I approached, Dafydd did not. I had a momentary urge to wipe the smirk off his face with my fist in his teeth but restrained myself. Perhaps he couldn’t help what he was. I only hoped he had a thought as to whom he might want to become.

  Ignoring him, I said to Goronwy and Geraint, “Please join me in my office as soon as possible. Dafydd brings unwelcome news.”

  The two men immediately fell into step beside me. Geraint spoke in my ear as we left the hall. “Dare I say ‘as always?’”

  “It appears that Dafydd has the unfortunate responsibility of being the bearer of bad tidings, nothing more. This is Clare’s action, not my brother’s. I
can’t imagine otherwise at this point.”

  “I can imagine it.” That was Goronwy, muttering under his breath. As he’d been my friend from boyhood, I let it pass.

  “Your brother has already been involved in two revolts against you, my lord,” Tudur said, “though he was the mastermind of neither. Do we allow him another opportunity?”

  “No, we do not, friend,” I said. “But he is my brother.” I led them back the way I’d come, up the stairs to my office, next door to where Marged and Anna still lay. I allowed myself a moment’s warmth at the thought and at Marged’s unexpected spirit, and then turned to my counselors.

  I had ignored their muttering, but didn’t need to hear their words to know what was in their minds. While Goronwy and Tudur were of an age with me, both forty now, Dafydd was ten years younger—a different generation entirely. He’d not been involved in any of the Welsh wars under the command of our Uncle Dafydd. He’d only been two years old in 1240 when my grandfather, Llywelyn Fawr, died and Uncle Dafydd took the throne.

  Nothing pleased an English king more than bickering Welsh royalty. Englishmen of the Marche—the disputed border territory between Wales and England—and of the English royal court had aided and abetted my brother Dafydd in both of his revolts against me as a matter of course, acts I could neither forgive nor forget, no matter how often the perpetrators spoke of trust and noble brotherhood.

  My grandfather had been a strong man, ruling all Wales like few Princes ever had. But the stability had crumbled with his death to the point that my Uncle Dafydd had imprisoned my father and brother here at Criccieth to contain their rebellions. My mother, Senana, had gone to Shrewsbury to beg King Henry of England to intervene on their behalf with Uncle Dafydd. Henry had agreed to their release, but betrayed their agreement. He turned around and threw my entire family in the Tower of London.

  Except for me.

  “You cannot go back, Llywelyn!”

  Goronwy grabbed my arm and pulled me around to face him. He’d come to meet me as I’d left the village for the causeway to the castle and now pulled me off the road and into the trees.

  “Why ever not?” I said. “What’s happened?”

  “Word came this morning. King Henry has finally agreed to intercede on your father’s behalf. Your family leaves for England within the hour.”

  I stared at him, my anger growing—not at him, but at the circumstances that had brought my family to this point. I’d never been to England and had no intention of finding refuge there. To my mind, it meant trading one captivity for another, even if my mother swore that wasn’t going to be the case.

  “Your mother believes King Henry will be true to his word,” Goronwy said, “but I . . .” He trailed off.

  “I don’t believe it either, Goronwy.”

  I gazed up at the castle, just visible through the branches of the trees that surrounded us. Men ran back in forth in front of the gatehouse—my uncle’s men for the most part, since he’d forced my father to send his away. Uncle Dafydd was the Prince of Wales, and my father might be a rightful heir, especially as the eldest son, but he was hot-tempered and injudicious, and had lost everything he owned in fighting his brother.

  I nodded, finally, at my friend. “You’re right. We can’t return or they’ll take me too. That wouldn’t serve either my father or my uncle, don’t you think?”

  “No, my lord. I reckon not.”

  I turned back to the village, Goronwy beside me. I wore a bow and quiver, and my new boots my mother had given me for my sixteenth birthday. Other than that, all I possessed was what I stood up in. Sometimes, finally facing what you most fear turns out to be no more difficult than putting one foot in front of the other.

  With Goronwy, I stumbled into Aber, my Uncle’s seat in Gwynedd on the shores of the Irish Sea. The day could not have been more opposite from today—sunny and hot, early September instead of January. Though I’d been a favorite of my grandfather, my Uncle Dafydd had been wary of me—and me of him. He had feared that I would lay claim to Gwynedd in the name of my father.

  Yet, even in my novice days, I knew to do so would be foolish; knew that I would have to earn the right to lead our people. I did learn, and learned well, everything he had to teach me, both good and ill. I was beside him when he died of that hideous, wasting disease, and was ready to stand in his stead from the moment he laid his hand in mine and passed his kingdom on to me—his father’s kingdom, along with his vision of a united Wales.

  In Wales, a boy legally becomes a man on his fourteenth birthday. Yet I knew, for me, it was the day I walked away, defying my parents, my Uncle Dafydd, and the King of England. Goronwy and I made our way to Aber and my uncle’s court, finally putting my feet on the path to destiny.

  As I faced my counselors in my office, the consequences of that day reverberated still, beyond my own thoughts and dreams. Because I’d refused imprisonment, it was I who stepped into my uncle’s shoes upon his death. And while it was Dafydd who’d been most harmed by my decision to abandon my family, it was I who’d paid the price for his resentment.

  Perhaps what irked me more than anything else was that Dafydd, as it stood now, was my heir. No matter how strongly I held the reins of Wales, no matter how great my power, no woman had given me a child—any child. Every hour of every day I faced the fact that my line died with me if I was unable to sire a son. I clenched my fists but then relaxed them, noting the look of curiosity on Goronwy’s face. He, of all my companions, knew me best—and himself had articulated our mutual fear.

  But I was only forty years old—true, most of my people died before the age of forty, but I was still vibrant and strong, my hair as dark as it had ever been, my back straight. True, I didn’t look forward to sleeping on the ground amongst my men as much as in my younger days, but I could do it.

  “Dafydd aside,” I said, “I would like to hear your thoughts on the news he brings. I’ve never met this young heir to the Clare line, but I’ve heard that he has ambitious plans for himself. What kind of threat does he bring to us?”

  “He wears his earldom well,” Goronwy said. “Why do you think King Henry tried to keep it from him for so long?”

  Tudur slapped his fist into his palm. He had little patience for those who couldn’t keep up with his fast brain and faster tongue. “We can’t allow him to build a new castle. It violates our agreement with King Henry and puts your entire rule into question. If one Marcher lord can do it, any of them can.”

  “They all will try,” Goronwy said. “You know they will.”

  “It is much as it was with your uncle,” Geraint added. “The moment your back is turned, each man looks to himself and his own patrimony, with no thought for the future of Wales.”

  “The Marcher lords have never concerned themselves with anything but their own power,” Tudur said. “They are unlikely to start now.”

  I paced to the chair behind my desk and threw myself into it. “Gilbert de Clare assails me in the south, Humphrey de Bohun and his whelp of a grandson in Brecon, and Roger Mortimer at Montgomery. They will maintain a constant pressure, exerting just as much force as they can get away with without open war.”

  “Clare risks that with this castle at Caerphilly,” Goronwy said.

  “Henry has made it clear to all his barons long since that they can keep what they take, both from our Prince and from each other, as long as it doesn’t affect him,” Tudur said. “This castle is in disputed territory—territory that is only Prince Llywelyn’s as long as he can hold it.”

  “Which I’m not doing now!” I said. “I can’t be everywhere at once, can’t maintain a standing army along the whole of the Marche!”

  “The men of Brecon chose you as their lord,” Goronwy said. “Bohun couldn’t lead them now, even if he held the land. The men of Senghennydd will follow a similar course. They will fight for you and not Clare, just as in Brecon.”

  “We can’t leave it to chance,” Geraint said. “And we can’t send Gruffydd ap Rhys the
re by himself. He wasn’t able to stand up to Clare the first time; I fear he will back down the second time as well.”

  “He’s stronger than that,” Goronwy said. “The fire in him is lit. No man can be picked off like a daisy and banished from his lands without finding out where his spine is.”

  “Or isn’t,” Tudur said.

  I shook my head. “Gruffydd will stand strong. With my help and the support of my men, we can put him back where he belongs. Send word to him at Dinas Bran to meet me in Brecon.”

  “So we go?” Tudur said.

  “Yes, of course we go.” I sat forward to finger the map in front of me. “We will ride south along the coast road, swinging east to come into Brecon. From there we will reconnoiter Senghennydd.”

  “What if Dafydd brings false news for some devious purpose of his own?” Tudur said.

  I looked at him, and I could feel the mutual holding-of-breath among the other men. Tudur refused to back down and instead met my eyes. “Let it go, Tudur,” I said. “This news from Clare isn’t surprising. I admit Dafydd took a certain glee in its report, but I have no reason to think it false.”

  “And the woman?” Tudur said, pressing further.

  “Excuse me?”

  The three men exchanged glances. It was obvious that they had discussed this on their own before tackling me with it.

  “Ahem.” Tudur cleared his throat, suddenly nervous under my glare where before he’d been defiant. “Has it occurred to you that the woman arriving as she did might be part of a plot, whether Welsh or English? A spy in our midst if you will?”