My Rebellious Heart

by Samantha James

  One of the men stepped forward. "He's one of Lord Newbury's troops, milord. They had a skirmish with a band of raiders the eve before last—as did some of Sir Quentin's men. Lord Newbury thought we might be able to save him, but alas, the good Lord willed otherwise."

  Thorne clenched his jaw in anger and frustration, yet even as he stood there, an eerie foreboding prickled his skin. First blood had once again been drawn between England and Wales. He had the uneasy sensation the land would run crimson before peace reigned anew.

  ''Milady," Gryffen pleaded, " 'twould serve no purpose if you were to go to Castle Langley. I know 'tis vengeance you seek, but shouldn't such matters as this rest in the hands of your betrothed?"

  Shana's mind sped straight to Barris of Frydd, whose lands butted her father's to the west... her beloved, her betrothed. If only he were here, she thought, a yearning ache spreading throughout her breast, even as his image filled her mind. He was tall, with hair as black as ebony and eyes of gold, the handsomest man she'd ever laid eyes on. She knew an overwhelming urge to see him again, to seek comfort in the haven of his embrace against the pain of her loss. But perhaps it was a blessing after all that he was in Gwynedd, for what if Merwen's attackers had gone on to lay waste to Frydd as well?

  But even as she directed a fervent prayer heavenward that his people had been spared, a brittle determination sealed her heart.

  "Barris is in Gwynedd," she told the old knight.

  "He is not expected back until several days hence, mayhap more. And 'twas not his father who was slain, Gryffen. 'Twas mine." Shana's calm was deceiving; her eyes sparked with fire and fury. "The responsibility is mine ... nay, the duty is mine!"

  ''But milady, you cannot take on the whole of King Edward's army!" Gryffen thrust his hand through his iron-gray hair. In the space of just minutes, he seemed to have aged years.

  Her delicate chin tilted. "That is hardly my intent, Gryffen. But I will find the man who dared to attack Merwen."

  Gryffen rubbed a hand against his leathery cheek, clearly in a quandary. "Milady, I fear for you if they should discover you are Llywelyn's niece!"

  In truth, her uncle Llywelyn, named for his grandsire, was the reason her father had taken up residence here at Merwen those many years past. Though he seldom said so, Shana knew her father considered his elder brother domineering and stubborn. Kendal had wanted no part in the squabbles between his brothers; he harbored no hunger for land or power. Indeed, most of his people had known him only as Lord Kendal.

  But although Kendal had chosen to distance himself from his brothers, shunning his princely lineage and retreating to this mountain vale to live his life as he would, he loved his country and the Welsh people deeply. The blood of the Cymry flowed strong and swift in his veins.

  And he had passed on to Shana the same pride in their heritage, like her father, Shana had little tolerance for her uncles' pettiness.

  But mayhap it was time she joined the battle for her people.

  "We have kept to ourselves here at Merwen, Gryffen. Though my father saw me well-skilled in the English tongue, why, in all the years we've lived here, not once have we shared our table with an Englishman." Nor, she resolved darkly, would they ever.

  "Nay," she went on. "My identity is safe. Not a soul at Castle Langley knows me, and I'll not give myself away." With that, the matter was settled. Neither Gryffen nor the other knights could sway her, though they tried in earnest. Nor did they dare to stop her, for even as a child, their princess was ever staunch, ever decisive; she had grown to womanhood no less determined. They had also sworn to protect her ... and so they would.

  She left for Langley the next morning, with half a dozen of her father's men-at-arms as escort.

  Although the journey was not an easy one, neither was it grueling. The mountains gradually gave way to fold upon fold of lush rolling hillside. They passed through several villages, where they heard tales of English soldiers further north who "razed hill and vale, plundering and burning without mercy!"

  It was a solemn party indeed that forged a path toward Castle Langley. Late in the day, they crested a small rise. Below them, the land was smothered in thick green forest.

  Shana could not appreciate the beauty set out before her. Her gaze was bound by the massive gray structure that dominated the horizon. She scarce noticed the tiny village huddled in its shadow.

  Sir Gryffen came up alongside her mount. "Castle Langley," he said quietly. It was truly a sight to behold, with towers and turrets that swept high into the sky and crowned the treetops.

  To Shana, it was naught but a jutting pile of cold gray stone, a loathsome symbol of the English stranglehold upon Wales.

  No one spoke a word as they forged onward.

  They had nearly breached the edge of the forest when Shana called a halt in the midst of a small clearing. She turned to the group and bid them listen.

  "Mark this spot well, for 'tis here I will return come nightfall."

  A low murmur went up. "Milady, you cannot think to enter Langley alone!"

  "I must," was all she said.

  "Milady, 'tis too dangerous! At least take one of us!"

  Shana was adamant. "With two there is twice the risk. We've lost enough lives as it is. I'll not chance any more. Should trouble befall me ..."

  " 'Tis exactly what we fear!" Sir Gryffen's countenance was like a thundercloud. He dismounted and stood at her side, glowering up at her beneath shaggy gray brows, much as he had when she'd misbehaved as a child.

  She sighed. "You, of all people, should know I'm hardly a meek and helpless maiden. You forget, Gryffen, that you yourself taught me to hunt and ride and shoot. And 'twas you who boasted to Father's knights that my aim with an arrow was as straight and true as any of theirs!"

  Gryffen muttered under his breath. Only now did he wish he'd kept such lofty pride to himself; never had he thought his young charge would toss his boast back at him so. For all that Shana played the role of great lady with dignity and aplomb, as a child she'd been a hell-raiser. Lord Kendal had not been pleased that Gryffen had so indulged his only daughter in such an unseemly sport. It wasn't that Shana had been so damnably insistent, though in truth she had ... nay, it was more that he'd never been able to resist a tearful plea from those huge silver eyes. Were he her father he'd have said her nay and that would be the end of this foolishness. But alas, he was only her servant and proud to be so honored.

  Still, Gryffen could not keep his silence. "I wonder," he said slowly, "how well milady has thought this through." He paused. "You may well gain entrance to Langley and find the man you seek. But what then, milady, what then?"

  A faint smile graced her lips. "I have a plan, Gryffen, a simple one, I admit, but one that should be most effective."

  'I'd be more heartened if I knew what this plan was."

  "Very well then, I will tell you. The English seek the man called the Dragon—the villagers we spoke with today confirmed this. And so," she said lightly, "I shall give them what they want."

  "What!" A cry went up among the men. "But you don't know who he is, nor do you know where he is!"

  "Nay," a laugh spilled out, as sweet and pure as the tinkling of a chime, "but they don't know that, do they?"

  A moment later, she bid them farewell. "Let us meet here again at nightfall. If I am to be delayed, I will try to send word."

  "What if you've not returned by nightfall on the morrow?" someone asked worriedly.

  Shana hesitated. "Then you must return to Merwen." Her voice rang out low but clear. "Under no circumstances are you to storm Langley, either now or later. I'll have no more bloodshed."

  With that she touched her heels to her mount. Not a sound was heard as she disappeared from sight. Fear for their mistress thrust a weighty burden on their shoulders. It was madness to think that she, a princess of Wales, would seek entrance to Castle Langley without fear of discovery!

  That was exactly what she did.

  Chapter 2

 
Shana found there was little need to attempt to conceal herself. Carts of hay weaved across the drawbridge. Tugging the drape of her hood forward ever so slightly, Shana guided her mount around them. Chin high, eyes cast forward, she trotted her horse briskly through the gates as though she'd done so every day of her life. Her heart was pounding so that she could scarcely think, but she'd done it! She was inside Castle Langley!

  Inside the bailey, she slid from the saddle. Soldiers and horses and servants milled about. Across the way, servants hurried to and from the kitchens, great platters of food on their shoulders in preparation for the evening meal.

  A young groom darted over. "I'll stable your horse, milady."

  Shana pressed the reins into his hands with a murmur of thanks, then set about her business. Ignoring the curious glances thrown her way, her gaze restlessly scanned her surroundings. High above the main watchtower, the Langley flag fluttered in the breeze—white with ornate lettering emblazoned in the center. Her eyes flitted to a building across from the well, soldiers' quarters judging from the look of it. It was there she spied a triangular pennon, bright purple with a crouching lion, and behind it another . . . Saints be praised, there it was, the one her father had described—blood red with a fiercesome, two-headed creature of the deep!

  In her eagerness she took an involuntary step forward; a slight weight stumbled against her. Shana glanced down just in time to see she'd tripped a small boy. He sprawled flat on his belly even as she watched.

  "Oh, pray forgive me!" she gasped. "I did not mean to trip you." Without a second thought she reached down and grasped the boy's elbow, pulling him to his feet.

  He didn't bother to dust himself off. Warm brown eyes flashed up at her. "No harm done," the boy said with a shrug. "I wasn't watchin' where I was goin'."

  She smiled. "Nor was I."

  The boy was young, no more than eleven or twelve. Dirt smeared his cheeks and his tunic was torn and ragged, ripped at both shoulders. Strips of linen bound his feet. With a faint tug on her heart, she realized he was probably a poor youngster from the village.

  It gave her a start to realize his own appraisal of her was no less curious, but far more frank. "I haven't seen you here before, have I?" he asked.

  Shana shook her head.

  "You're a lady, aren't you? I mean, a ... a real lady."

  She laughed. "I suppose you might say that." She bobbed in a tiny curtsy. "You may call me Lady Shana, if you like."

  "And you may call me Will—Will Tyler." He swept her an exaggerated bow. When he straightened, the grin had reappeared, quite audacious this time. Urchin or no, there was something quite endearing about this boy.

  "I wonder if you might help me, Will."

  'If I can," he stated promptly.

  She gestured toward the blood-red pennon. "That pennon, Will, the one with the two-headed creature. Whose pennon is it, do you know?"

  " 'Course I do. 'Tis the Earl of Weston's." He eyed her as if she were the strange creature from beneath the sea, then half turned. "That's him yonder, there near the entrance to the stable, with Sir Geoffrey. The earl's the one with the black mantle."

  Shana's gaze cleaved sharply toward the stable. Sure enough, there were two men, one with hair as gold as a field of ripened wheat, the other with hair as dark as the midnight hour.

  A simmering fury stoked her ire. So this was Edward's mighty earl, the sword of England. Ah, but he would be the one brought low, she vowed. She'd bring the Earl of Weston to his knees if it were the last thing she did.

  "You haven't heard of the earl, have ye?" demanded the boy.

  She shook her head. "I've been ... away in Ireland for a number of years and am only just now returning to my home." The excuse was a lame one but all she could think to say.

  "The earl first caught the king's eye when Edward went on crusade in the Holy Land—he was a groom for one of the lords who fought with Edward there," Will went on. " 'Course, Edward was only a prince then, and the earl only a boy, why, not much older than me. And when his lord was struck down, the earl took up his sword and fought as well as any of Edward's royal troops! 'Twas then that Edward decided to take the earl as his own squire. And not a year later, 'twas the earl who slaved the assassin who sought to put an end to the king ... Why, if it weren't for Thorne de Wilde, King Edward wouldn't even be here. It's no wonder he's such a hero!"

  The earl was still deep in conversation with his companion. From the corner of her eye, Shana watched as he pivoted, one arm sweeping high aloft in some grand gesture. Ah, these swaggering English and their egos! she thought scathingly. He postured himself as one whose opinion of himself far exceeded his true worth.

  It was all she could do to keep the bite from her tone. "I trust the king rewarded him amply."

  Will chuckled. "That he did, milady. He granted him an earldom! And now the king has chosen the earl to lead his forces here!"

  Shana silently scoffed. Hero, was he? Why, Thorne de Wilde, Earl of Weston, was naught but the king's puppet!

  But to hear the boy tell it, the Earl of Weston was the stuff of which tales were made. According to him, children gaped when he rode by. Men and women alike strained to catch the merest glimpse of him.

  "... fond of the ladies, if you know what I mean. But not half as much as the ladies like him, so they say."

  So he had an eye for a lusty maid, did he? Shana's opinion of the earl sank ever lower.

  "They all swoon for the chance to be his chosen one. Why, it don't matter none at all that he's ..." His words were lost in the clatter of hooves. Shana stepped quickly aside, pulling the boy back with a hand on his shoulder. A frown marred the smoothness of her brow, for beneath her hand, he was naught but skin and bones.

  She glanced at the deep violet fringe of twilight that had begun to gather to the west. "The village isn't far, Will, but you should be on your way before it begins to grow dark. Your mother is probably waiting your supper."

  To her surprise, he hesitated. "I don't live in the village, milady," he said at last. "And my mother passed on when I was but a lad."

  And what did he think he was now? The comment nearly slipped out before she could stop it. Shana heeded her tongue just in the nick of time, for Will's thin shoulders had gone rigid with what could only be called pride. She dared not ask after his father, for she suspected she already knew the answer.

  "Have you no guardian, Will?"

  Her tone was sharper than she intended. She knew it when flashing eyes rose to appraise her. "Got no one but me," he stated clearly, "and that's all I need, milady."

  "Where do you sleep—and eat?"

  "I get scraps from the kitchen sometimes. And there's a lady in the village gives me meat pies whenever her husband butchers. And I sleep wherever I can find a place to lay my head." He gestured toward the stable. "Most times the stablemaster lets me sleep in an empty stall."

  A helpless indignation rose inside her, she who had known only coddling and indulgence every day of her life. Why had fate blessed her with so much, yet chosen to be so cruel—to one so young yet? This was no life for a child, no life at all!

  "You needn't look at me like that, milady. I get along better 'n most."

  Shana did not argue, for it was clear Will neither wanted nor expected pity. Instead she untied the pouch at her waist and held it toward him. "Here, Will. Here's bread and cheese, enough for your supper and to break the morning fast. And when that's finished you'll be able to buy more with the coin inside."

  His pointed little chin went up a notch. "I only beg when I've need to, milady," he said stiffly.

  "You did not beg," she stated crisply. "And now there will be no need to."

  The pouch dangled between them. He stared at it, brushing the shaggy hair from his eyes, but he made no effort to take it.

  Shana's lips pressed together. "Take it, Will. Call it a gift, or a payment if you would. You've enlightened me greatly, and for that I thank you." Her tone was just as stubborn as his. She seized his ha
nd and dropped the pouch into it, curling his fingers around the leather tie with her own.

  For the longest moment she feared he would refuse yet again. She sensed he wanted to say something, for his unsmiling regard meshed with hers endlessly, oddly piercing for one so young. Then, ever so slowly, he began to inch back, retaining his hold on the pouch. At last he wheeled and darted away.

  Shana's hand slipped back to her side. She watched him lunge across the bailey ... straight toward the Earl of Weston. With no more ado the boy grabbed a fistful of his mantle and tugged insistently. With a horrified inevitability, Shana realized Will had snared the earl's attention. The boy said something and gestured.

  Then he pointed directly to her.

  Geoffrey had no regrets about turning his affection to matters other than war, especially one as lovely as this. He let a broad smile snare his lips. "Sweet Jesus, but she looks to be a beauty, eh, Thorne? I don't recall seeing her when we arrived. How about you?"

  Thorne had turned as well. Nay, he thought, for he'd have remembered a woman such as this one. She was elegant of stature, tall and slender, clad from head to toe in folds of deep green velvet. She was too far away for her features to be presented in detail, but the lovely profile she portrayed promised beauty untold.

  "The boy was right," said Geoffrey. "She must be passing through for the night."

  Thorne raised a brow. "She could be wife to one of the men here."

  "Saints forbid!" Geoffrey's laugh was low and suggestive. "But I'm about to find out. If it's a bed for the night she's after, I'll gladly share mine."

  Thorne shook his head as Geoffrey crossed the bailey. The woman was no camp follower, that was for certain. Even from here, he had no trouble discerning the richness of her clothing. And she carried herself like a woman accustomed to having others do her bidding. But Geoffrey was a man of the times. He loved fighting, hunting, drinking, and wenching ... but at least when his pursuits ran to the latter, he never forgot he was a gentleman.

  "Milady, it seems someone has neglected their duty." Geoffrey blessed her with his most dashing smile. "I am Sir Geoffrey of Fairhaven, and I apologize that none has greeted you before this."