Daughter of Time: A Time Travel Romance

by Sarah Woodbury

  Llywelyn closed Geraint’s eyes, then cleared his throat. “Others aren’t as bad off.”

  “Yes, Llywelyn,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Llywelyn straightened and stared down at his friend, long lines drawn in his face. How old is he? I didn’t know; didn’t even know what year this was. Llywelyn helped me to my feet just as Goronwy reached us, having slowed to walking pace at the sight of us. We didn’t need to tell him the news.

  “Here,” he said, handing me a flask. “Others have need of it.”

  Llywelyn led me to a young man who sat on a stump a few feet off the road. He hung his head and his right hand pressed on his left forearm as blood seeped between his fingers. I knelt in front of him and gently nudged his hand away to see his wound. Thankfully, a sword hadn’t slashed through a vein at his wrist, but across the top of his forearm—more like a laceration than a cut.

  “My bracers protected my arms,” the boy said, “but the blow was so strong I can’t even feel my hand.”

  “Brifo, Cadoc,” Llywelyn said, his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “This is going to hurt.”

  I struggled to control the shaking in my hands as I mopped at the blood with a wet cloth. I poured a small measure of the woody-scented alcohol on the wound, grimacing for the boy as I did so. He jerked as the first drop hit, and swore, but then the only indication of pain was the slow tears leaking from his eyes. I wrapped the wound in strips of cloth and tied it, then looked for Llywelyn again. He must have been watching me, at least part of the time, because he broke off his conversation with Hywel and came over.

  “If he gets the cloth dirty or he changes the bandages, he needs to put more alcohol on the wound,” I said in French, my entire Welsh vocabulary having apparently evaporated from my brain. “Otherwise it will get infected. It still might.”

  “What’s this, ‘infected’?” Llywelyn asked.

  I searched for the proper word. “Festering?” I suggested. “Full of evil vapors?”

  Llywelyn nodded as if that explained anything and he sent me to the next man. All told, I worked on five men like Cadoc, each one with a wound caused by the hacking of a sword at limbs that should never have been near a sharp object in the first place.

  “I thought armor was supposed to prevent this kind of damage,” I said as I tied the last knot on the last man.

  Llywelyn glanced at me, surprise showing on his face. “If not for the armor, they would have lost their limbs entirely. These are minor wounds compared to what they would have experienced unprotected.”

  And that was certainly something I should have known, if I were a thirteenth century woman. I put a hand to my head and bent forward, feeling all of a sudden the dizziness that I’d been holding back for the last hour as I worked on the men.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  Llywelyn put his hand on the back of my neck and pushed me down, so that my head rested on my knees. “Breathe,” he said. “You’ve done very well.” He called something in Welsh that I didn’t understand and could barely hear anyway as the rushing in my ears was so loud. Then a new pair of boots appeared by my knee. It was Goronwy.

  “My lady,” he said, “Can I help?”

  I shook my head, just trying to regain control. This always happened to me once the danger was over. I just hoped I wouldn’t pass out. After a few minutes, breathing came more easily and I looked up. Llywelyn had left me to confer with someone whose name I didn’t know. In the time I’d been working on the wounded, order had set in. The dead enemy had been stacked in the ditch on the far side of the road and our dead had been wrapped in blankets, laid out in a line near where Llywelyn stood. Several men helped to heave the bodies onto horse’s backs for the rest of the journey to the manor.

  “Your color returns,” Goronwy said. “If you can ride, we need to move. The sun will fall behind the trees at any moment.”

  He helped me up. Though I swayed, I managed to stay on my feet.

  “Do we know what happened?” I asked him. “We left Castell Criccieth on very short notice. Someone must have been working very quickly to ambush us here.”

  Goronwy’s face grew more grim. “It’s someone we trust,” he said. “Someone knew that we might come, had men ready for that possibility, and sent word ahead. A rider alone could have arrived here before us easily. The question is who that rider was. I recognize some of the men we killed, but no faces leap out as having been at Criccieth. Most were men of Powys, Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn’s men.”

  “Whose men?” I’d never heard such a bizarre name, even in Welsh.

  Goronwy glanced at me, a hint of a smile on his face. “Gwenwynwyn. He and Prince Llywelyn are at peace, but in the past, Gruffydd has been a staunch ally of Prince Dafydd, Lord Llywelyn’s brother, and of King Henry. I’m disappointed to think that he is involved in this attack. Regardless, neither he nor any of his men were at Criccieth.”

  “So who’s the traitor?” I asked. “Does Llywelyn suspect his brother? I’m not sure that I liked him very much.”

  For the first time since I’d met him, Goronwy looked amused. “The Prince has asked that we don’t speak of him for now. He will not countenance unfounded suspicions. If Prince Dafydd has betrayed his brother, his actions would be unforgivable.”

  I wasn’t too sure about that. Our library hadn’t carried any Welsh history books to speak of, but Mom loved to tell stories. Growing up, it was Mom’s stories that gave me a sense of Wales, but I wasn’t sure how many of them were myth and how many were true.

  But one thing I did remember: Dafydd never got punished much for anything he did. He’d even tried to assassinate Llywelyn once. He’d fled to England afterwards and the King of England took him in—and then later forced Llywelyn to take him back. It looked to me like a classic case of a coddled rich boy who’d gotten as far as he had on some innate intelligence, good looks, and charm. That’s certainly how Dafydd had acted with me.

  The sun disappeared and the men lit torches. Rhodri reappeared with Anna, who seemed no worse for wear. “Look, Mommy,” she said, as she came up to me. “We collected leaves!”

  I bent to admire them, marveling at how simple life could be if only we could live it. “They’re pretty sweetheart,” I said.

  “She’s very curious,” Rhodri said. “I taught her some Welsh and she was able to repeat them back to me.”

  “Diolch,” I said. Thank you.

  Llywelyn finally returned and handed me a wet cloth to wipe my hands. I took it, noticing for the first time the blood on my clothing. I turned towards him, shocked. “Llywelyn,” I breathed. “Anna shouldn’t see me like this.”

  He leaned down so his mouth was only inches from my ear. “She won’t notice if you don’t call attention to it. She’s only a child and will see what she expects to see.”

  He put his hands around my waist and boosted me onto my horse. Rhodri then bent to pick up Anna and handed her to me. I bundled her underneath the cloak, wincing at the blood again, but Llywelyn was right. It had dried and blended in with the blackness of my cloak.

  Rhodri took the reins from me and pulled the horse forward, leading us. “Is your horse . . .” I stopped, afraid to ask anything more.

  “He’s alive,” he said. “We’ve lost too many, though, and a dead companion rides him instead of me.”

  I nodded and it was a somber company that traveled the last three miles to Llywelyn’s manor in the forest.

  By the time we reached it, Anna had fallen asleep and I was numb from head to toe, physically and mentally. I found myself reliving the fight and its aftermath over and over again. I didn’t know what Llywelyn would find when he questioned one of his prisoners, but I know what I saw, and would never forget . . .

  I couldn’t imagine living another day in this world. I wanted to go home.

  Chapter Eight

  Llywelyn

  I poked my nose into my bedroom. Marged slept on the big bed, curled around Anna, whose raven locks I could just make out
above the blankets they’d pulled nearly over their heads. I can appreciate that. A day like today makes me want to hide too. I had many questions for Marged but at least I’d settled the most important one. Whatever her origins, I would no longer consider the notion that she was a spy.

  Her face, when she looked at me over the body of Geraint, had been so full of pity and understanding that I’d come close to weeping. She’d seen that too, seen the effort to contain it and saved me by speaking to Goronwy herself to give me a chance to find composure.

  We lost, and lost, and lost again, and I could never find my heart so hard that it didn’t rip me apart inside with each death. At least Geraint had been an old man, bent with years of age and care. He died knowing he’d left his lands and lord—his life’s work—in the capable hands of his son, Tudur. The others we’d lost had been young, one only sixteen, and we could only raise our fists and curse at the utter, bloody waste of it.

  The mood of all the men was dark, taking out the despair at death with anger at the men who’d done this. But as much as I wanted to start pulling out our prisoners’ fingernails, I refrained. Now if I had Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn under my nose, Goronwy would be hard pressed to hold me back. Too bad he hid behind King Henry’s skirts where I couldn’t touch him.

  I closed the door to the bedroom and turned toward the stairs that led to the kitchens. Even though it was nearly midnight, servants were still awake, preparing food and drink for those of my men who couldn’t sleep after the day’s work. The morning would come all too soon for everyone. I pushed open the door to the courtyard and strode towards the stables where Goronwy had put our two surviving prisoners.

  “One’s no older than my man-at-arms who’d died,” Goronwy said in an undertone as I walked in. “Perhaps like him too, this was his first mission for his lord.”

  “He will be the one you break first,” I said.

  “His face is white and he’s near in tears,” Goronwy said. “Third stall from the right.”

  “Not much longer now, my lord,” Hywel said.

  He leaned back in a straight-back chair, his giant feet up on a trough. Lanterns blazed from hooks along the walls, sending light into the darkest corners. The stables had room for more than fifty horses, as was necessary given the number of men I often brought with me in my travels or for a day’s hunting in the forest. The manor house itself barely deserved the name, however. It had a large hall and rear kitchen, but only three rooms above stairs. And no dungeons, which is why Goronwy was using two stalls for our prisoners instead of the usual horses.

  I scuffed at the floor with my boot, glad to see that attention to detail of the stable boys, even in my absence. With only fire for light, even protected within a lantern, they had to be constantly vigilant about loose hay tracked across the floor.

  “Shall I bring him out, my lord?” Goronwy said.

  “It’s your decision, Goronwy,” I said. “I stand by your assessment.”

  Goronwy signaled to the two guards who stood on either side of the boy’s stall. One of the guards was the man, Bevyn, whose charge it had been to care for Marged. She told me she’d ordered him to leave her, but I wasn’t satisfied, even if he’d saved Goronwy’s life. It was my orders that he needed to obey; neither his nor Marged’s judgment had yet been proved, even if today’s escapade had ended well for them. It might not have.

  The guards disappeared inside the stall and came out leading the boy, his hands tied behind his back. Bevyn pushed him to his knees in front of Goronwy. The boy was older than Goronwy had implied, nearer to twenty than fifteen, of middle height and thin, with reddish hair and a pointed beak of a nose.

  “Your name,” Goronwy said.

  The boy squared his shoulders, raising his chin in a manner that matched the fine cut of his cloak. “Humphrey de Bohun, Lord of Brecon and the Marche!”

  “Ho!” Goronwy said. “Not quite yet, I don’t think.”

  “I grant your family has held lands in the Marche since your ancestors came to Wales,” I said, “but Brecon Castle belongs to me, unless you have further unwelcome news?”

  “No, sir,” Humphrey said. “I do not.”

  I had to admire his courage and panache. He could have denied his antecedents, but then he was probably hoping I’d ransom him, as was customary among the nobility, rather than kill him, as he might have deserved. The boy didn’t appear as close to breaking as Goronwy and Hywel had thought, but then, they hadn’t known who he was before either.

  “Your grandfather lives?” Goronwy said, keeping to the main point. Humphrey’s grandfather was also Humphrey de Bohun, the Earl of Hereford and one of my most formidable opponents in controlling the Marche. Humphrey’s father had died at Evesham fighting for my ally, Simon de Montfort, against King Henry. The shifting loyalties of the English nobility were often hard to keep straight.

  Humphrey nodded. “He is well. He will pay for my release.”

  “I bet he will,” Hywel said.

  The boy’s directed a sharp look at Hywel, who gazed back at him, his face blank.

  “His Welsh is better than I would have expected,” Goronwy said, in aside to me, “but perhaps it would be better to speak in French.”

  At my nod, Goronwy pointed his chin at the boy. “Français, then?”

  A look of relief passed through Humphrey’s eyes before he mastered it. “Thank you,” he said. “I expect you to return me to my grandfather’s house immediately.”

  Hywel snorted. I smiled at that and shook my head. Goronwy needed to break through Humphrey’s upright equanimity. However much I distrusted the boy’s grandsire, I respected him, and could see his training in the grandson.

  “What in the name of heaven were you doing at Coedwig Gap, involved in such a cowardly and ill-favored venture?” I said.

  Humphrey’s chin quivered. Then he visibly steeled himself. The look was one I’d seen before, most recently in Marged’s eyes. Did he expect a backhand across the face? I found my temper growing hot at the thought that any man had hit her. I forced it down. Humphrey was not Marged.

  “For the time being, it seems you are my guest,” I said, “provided you explain your participation in the events of today.”

  “May I stand?” Humphrey asked.

  “I think not,” Goronwy said. “The quicker you talk, the sooner you can get off your knees. I’m sure they’ve started to ache on this hard floor.”

  No torture indeed. I smirked, remembering my Latin master forcing me to recite verbs on my knees over and over again until I got them right. The pain certainly sharpened my mind. We’d see what it did for Humphrey.

  Humphrey swallowed hard. “It started out as a lark, really. Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn’s son, Owain, proposed venturing into Gwynedd to probe your defenses and see how far we could penetrate. It was easy; the roads are nearly deserted this time of year and the snowpack sparse, even in the mountains. Two days ago, Owain received a message that called him away. He left me in charge of the men. We had camped at the foot of Rhobell Fawr when one of the men who’d left with Owain returned to camp with word that you had left Castell Criccieth.”

  “So you prepared the ambush?” Goronwy said.

  “Owain left the rider with instructions as to what to do.”

  “And the village?” Goronwy said.

  I nodded. I’d not forgotten the odd absence of people there, and our uncertainty as to their fate.

  “If they’re dead, it wasn’t our doing!” Humphrey said. “We came upon the empty village the day before Owain left. In his note, Owain suggested burning the village as a distraction. We did not kill anyone.”

  “Just my men,” Hywel said.

  “As to that,” Humphrey said, “from our end, it was worth the cost if we could take you, my lord Prince, as a prize. Our intent was not to kill you. Owain said that you would be a valuable hostage.”

  Goronwy glanced at me. I raised my eyebrows, willing to take the boy at his word, for now. If the villagers had left of their own a
ccord, we didn’t need to add their deaths to his list of crimes.

  But Goronwy wasn’t done. “Owain said? Why is that all that I have heard from your mouth? What Bohun hides behind another man, no matter who he is, unable to think for himself? I would have expected more from you. So would your grandfather.”

  Humphrey blinked. His face was impassive still, but a bit of doubt had crept into his eyes.

  “And where is Owain now?” I said. “Obviously not here.”

  “No,” Humphrey said, his voice curt. “He is not.”

  “He found it convenient to have you do his dirty work,” Hywel said.

  “And how do you feel about that ignoble fact?” Goronwy said. “To your grandfather, a man is one who stands up for all his actions, whether for good or ill. It is why you chose not to lie about who you are, isn’t it. You’ve learned something from your grandfather anyway.”

  And why the boy might become a formidable enemy for me when he came into his inheritance. “Does your grandfather know where you are?” I said.

  Humphrey didn’t answer at first. He stared at Goronwy, and then me, his jaw clenched and stiff. Then the fight went out of him. His shoulders sagged. “No. You could kill me now and put out that I fell in the battle. None would be the wiser.”

  “Is that what Owain would do?” Goronwy said, not willing to make this easy on him.

  Humphrey looked down at the ground, shifting uncomfortably. “I think he would.”

  “One measure of a man,” Hywel said, “is with whom he associates. You might consider your choices more closely in future.”

  “Are you going to kill me?” Humphrey squared his shoulders, aiming for an authority and manhood he’d just discovered he hadn’t quite achieved.