The Prince of Powys

by Cornelia Amiri

  The Prince of Powys

  By

  Cornelia Amiri

  Eternal Press

  A division of Damnation Books, LLC.

  P.O. Box 3931

  Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998

  www.eternalpress.biz

  The Prince of Powys

  by Cornelia Amiri

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-582-3

  Print ISBN: 978-1-61572-583-0

  Cover art by: Amanda Kelsey

  Edited by: Pamela Hopkins

  Copyedited by: Kim Richards

  Copyright 2012 Cornelia Amiri

  Printed in the United States of America

  Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights

  1st North American, Australian and UK Print Rights

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  I dedicate this book to Lindsay Elizabeth Fehr, a princess in her own right as she holds all the qualities and characteristics of majesty. This book is for you, Lindsay. I hope you like it.

  In acknowledgment of their dedication, consideration, hard work, and talent I want to thank the entire Eternal Press staff and my fantastic editor, Pamela Hopkins and the amazingly talented Cover Artist, Amanda Kelsey. This book wouldn’t be the same without them.

  Chapter One

  The Kingdom of Mercia, England, 756 AD

  The horse flexed and bunched its muscles beneath him. Nausea rose in Blaise’s throat at the stench of human blood. Mustering his resolve, he raised the oval shield, blocking an endless hail of arrows while he swung the long silver blade to and fro, cutting down Saxons.

  His father sent him to the border village to stop the bloodshed. Instead, he got caught up in the fury and led the charge against Mercia. Death surrounded him. “God’s teeth; get me out of this alive.”

  His eardrums rang with the staggering high-pitched squeal of his horse as he glanced at the black spear impaled in the collapsing steed’s chest. He tossed his long sword to the ground, then tucked his legs in and fell as he’d been trained. He hit the ground, tumbled forward and stood. His heart plummeted as he gazed upon the horse quivering in a death spasm. Blaise’s chest and belly clenched with a heavy sadness, but he didn’t have time to mourn the noble beast’s passing.

  Grabbing his sword off the ground, he pivoted, swinging hard at a blur of a man. A crimson puddle soaked the Saxon’s tunic as he slumped to the dirt with a hard thud.

  Blaise rushed forward sword his raised. His blade clashed with that of a Saxon, sparks flying. By sidestepping his foe’s swing, he moved in and made a clean stab through the chest. He withdrew his blade as the body fell. Fevered with bloodlust, he swung his sword with a mad fury. Suddenly, an arrow struck him.

  As he moaned and stumbled back from the impact, a ruthless pain sliced through his chest. His upper body was on fire. The pain tore his breath into jagged gasps. He grasped the arrow piercing his chest, pulling at it and breaking it off in his hand. The spade and half the shaft remained impaled in his flesh just a finger span from his heart.

  His insides turned over as wet blood seeped through his tunic, chilling him to the brink of quivering. With no time to tend his wound, he tightened his hold on the hilt of his sword and swung forward. Weakened, he lost his grip and the sword hit the ground. Blaise collapsed and crashed onto the scarlet-stained soil. Though conscious, he couldn’t lift his head to watch the battle or see anything.

  “God, don’t let me die.” He imagined his father’s face in the dirt. Two bright-blue eyes peeked out from bushy flame-red hair above a long mustache. Father, forgive me. You bade me prevent all this.

  What had he done? He felt like an addle-headed fool. He was supposed to calm the villagers. It wasn’t the right time for Powys to make a move against Mercia. This was the first, and sure to be the last, mission his father would send him on.

  Blaise twitched his nose at the acidic stench of blood clinging to the air. In a groggy state, dazed from his wound, he felt a tug at his neck. Someone turned him over. Easing his gaze into a narrow squint, he caught a blurred image of three Saxons peering down at him.

  “This one wears a torque.”

  “Ah, what have we here?”

  “It’s Elisedd’s son, it is.”

  “Bring him to King Ethelbald.”

  Blaise could not hold back a blood-curdling scream as a Saxon reached down and yanked out the arrow. He trembled with pain as they squeezed a rag to his wound to stop the bleeding. After hearing the sound of ripped cloth, strips of someone’s torn tunic were wrapped around him tight to keep the makeshift bandage in place. They pulled him to his feet, but his knees gave way. Blaise gritted his teeth against the bone-jarring pain as he hit the ground. The clumsy attempts at making him stand caused his muscles and head to throb. Dragging him to a horse, they flung him upon it like a sack of grain. Each jolt of the trotting steed inflamed the painful sensation of fire and ice ravaging his chest.

  The Saxon reined his horse to a stop, dismounted and pulled Blaise to the ground. Gripping him by his shoulders, two Saxons dragged him into the great hall. He swore and cursed all the way but no one cared. They came to a sudden halt before the dais of King Ethelbald.

  The balding King of Mercia stepped forward and cupped Blaise’s chin as he stared at him with large pale-blue eyes. He bunched his gold brows together. “The great Elisedd sends his youngest son to battle me with naught but a band of villagers?”

  Blaise’s reckless actions were the reason for his capture and had nothing to do with his sire. To hide his shame, he scoffed, “A handful of Powys villagers are a fair match for a hundred well-armed Saxons, soft and lazy as you are.”

  Ethelbald eyes flickered with rage for a brief moment, and then he laughed heartily. “You are Elisedd’s son.” He withdrew his hand from Blaise’s face. “Your father wears a special crown, fashioned from links of twisted gold. Surely I, King of Mercia, have such a chain fitting for the adornment of a Welsh Prince.”

  The tall, stiff-muscled King turned to his guards. “Take him to the hearth where the other dogs lie. Wrap a chain around the end of his torque and fasten the other end to the wall of the hearth. That will keep the cur in his place.” Ethelbald swung his head back to Blaise and flashed a toothy grin. “I fear the links are not forged of gold but you will find them sturdy and well-made.”

  As the guards dragged Blaise to the hearth, they kicked aside one of the yapping hounds. Even with the arrow still in his chest, he was chained to the gray, soot-covered fireplace.

  God’s teeth, I should have listened to my father. He fixed a hard gaze upon Ethelbald. Blaise learned as a child in the practice yard of Dinas Bran to show no sign of pain or fear, lest his father scowl and his elder brother taunt him. He would not reveal that his gashed chest throbbed and his head reeled with grogginess.

  The Saxon King neared the hearth. “I want Elisedd of Powys. If you were merely kept hostage in a fashion of hospitality your sire would bide his time.” As he hovered about Blaise, the stench of his sour mead-breath weakened the Prince’s already queasy stomach.

  “When he hears I have chained you like a dog and will
not feed you, then he will come,” Ethelbald threatened with a baleful glare. “I will finally be able to fight on my terms, not in the green bogs of the marshland, nor that unbreachable castle of Dinas Bran. Here, in Mercia, I will put an end to Elisedd of Powys.”

  “You are not man enough to kill a Powys King,” Blaise challenged in a cold, steady tone.

  “Father?”

  Blaise glanced toward the sound of a sweet voice. Glistening flaxen hair framed a soft face, sparkling blue eyes and a small turned-up nose. Ethelbald’s daughter.

  She glided over to Blaise and laid her hand on his shoulder. “You are wounded.” Hands on hips, she turned to Ethelbald. “Sire, it’s my duty to tend his battle scars. In truth, when I am taken from Mercia, there will be no one to care for the wounded.”

  “Daughter, do not speak of this now,” Ethelbald warned in a sharp tone.

  After a dramatic toss of her head, she flashed Ethelbald a seething, tight-lipped glare. “Is he not a Prince of Powys?”

  “Yes, he’s Elisedd’s youngest get.”

  “Then I will tend him. Now.” She glanced at the prisoner. “What is your name?”

  “I am Bleheris map Elisedd map Gwylog.” He peered at her creamy skin, impish nose and sparkling eyes. “They call me Blaise.”

  She cocked her head toward her father. “It’s my duty as the Lady of Mercia to heal him. If not, the Prince of Powys will die and fetch you nary a coin as a hostage.”

  Her tone was almost a dare to her sire. Even in his groggy state, it was clear to Blaise she was angry at the King. Whatever it was about, Ethelbald didn’t want to speak of it.

  The King of Mercia waved his large, ring-covered fingers airily. “Yes, Branda; tend his wounds, but feed him nothing and do not loosen his chains.”

  “I cannot heal him properly if he is not fed.” She rolled her large azure eyes. “It is not just, Father.” She shook her blonde head.

  “Daughter, do as I say.”

  “Well, it will not be my fault if he is slow to mend.”

  Blaise couldn’t tear his gaze away from the maiden. Comely she was, and she stood up to Ethelbald. No, she was a Mercian Princess. His enemy. He may have to kill her one day so he could not develop a fondness for her, but how could he not?

  She turned toward a servant. “Bring mead.” She looked at Blaise. “Drink to lessen the pain.”

  “Pull it now,” Blaise commanded, for the pain bolstered his courage.

  “No. You will drink first.” Her crisp tone showed she was used to giving commands. She held a goblet brimming with mead to his lips.

  He gulped the sweet, heady brew down to the last drop.

  She unwrapped the bandage and gently pulled out the rag. She called for another goblet and poured some of the ale on his wound. He gritted his teeth to keep from cringing at the sting.

  “I know it hurts.” Her tone was tender.

  “No,” he answered curtly. “It does not hurt!”

  She shook her head at him, then took a hot poker from the fire and set it against the flames.

  Two guards held him down by his arms, his neck still chained to the wall.

  She took a deep breath. “Ready?”

  He nodded. He would not yell out, yet he could not stop his eyes watering from the pain. Branda laid the hot poker against the wound to stop the bleeding. The burning scent of his own flesh turned his stomach, and he closed his eyes, shutting his gaze from her for the first time.

  A servant brought another goblet of golden mead, which Blaise drank. As he handed the empty cup to the Princess, he peered once more into her large blue eyes. That was the last thing he saw before he passed out.

  * * * *

  The next day he awoke to a dog licking his face. He pushed himself up and kicked at the cur. “Be gone!”

  The hounds paced about the hearth. It was their home and now his as well. His stomach felt hollow and he craved food, but Ethelbald ordered that he not be fed.

  “I want water.” Cool water for his lips and his face. He turned his head. The hall was empty save for one young guard. “I need a damp cloth and a cup of water.”

  “I am not to leave my post. I am here to guard you.”

  At that moment, the Princess walked in. She nodded to the Saxon. “Good morn, Scan. How fares the hostage?”

  “He needs a damp cloth and a cup of water.”

  Branda looked at Blaise and smiled. “I will have the servants fetch it.”

  She went to the kitchen and returned with a servant holding a rag and a cup. Branda held two shiny red apples. Blaise looked up at her as she placed the rag on his forehead with a feathery-soft touch. Her eyes were as bright as a full moon. They glistened and he could not look away.

  She held the brim to his lips. “Sip slowly.”

  When he finished, she handed him one of the apples and gave the other to Scan.

  Blaise bit into the ripe fruit. The gold apples of Avalon could not have tasted better. He devoured core and all in the blink of an eye.

  “I shall bring you more food this eve. Take care not to anger my father and it may go better for you.” She turned with poise and strolled away.

  Blaise wiped the juice off his chin with the back of his hand. “Your Princess seems kind.”

  The lean guard shrugged. “It’s her duty to tend the wounded.”

  “You think she sees me more as a wounded solider than a hostage?”

  “Yes.” Scan lifted his chin in the air. “As lady of the manor, she has nothing to do with hostages but she is in charge of the wounded.”

  “She tends well to the wounded.” Blaise paused. “Is she betrothed?” Now, why did he ask that?

  “King Ethelbald means to use her for an alliance with Cuthred of Wessex, but she says she won’t marry the brute.”

  So, that was why the Princess was mad at her sire. “Cuthred is a barbarian. Why does Ethelbald give his daughter to such a man?”

  “The King means to make peace. Aside from Powys, Wessex is our greatest enemy.”

  “So, he ordered the Princess to wed Cuthred. She seems more likely to give orders than to take them.”

  Scan turned the corner of his mouth upward into a lopsided grin. “She was always bossy, even as a child. She is the King’s daughter, and the only noble lady at the royal manor. People do what she says, and Ethelbald spends little time with her. This is the first and only order he ever gave her.”

  The Prince’s spirits suddenly lifted. “It sounds like you know her well.”

  “She is my friend.”

  Blaise had to bite back his laughter. The Princess? His friend? This know-nothing guard was too friendly with the King’s daughter and with enemies of the court. The fool would say anything. Blaise could get all the information he needed by just asking, then he could make his escape when the time was right.

  Chapter Two

  Blaise rested his head against the soot-covered wall of the hearth. His neck stung where the heavy chain bit into his flesh. The heat of the flames, weakness from his wound and the never-ending haze of smoke lulled him into a half-sleep state. He focused his mind on the image of the hill fort of Dinas Bran on top a lush green mountain overlooking the verdant valley and the winding Dee River. Home.

  He was startled out of the daze by snarling dogs. Two beasts—poised for attack—stared each other down, growling fierce warnings.

  “Fighting again?” he asked the dogs. The beasts continued their brawl without a glance at him. “Huh; I ignored my sire’s call to peace and look where I am,” he said dryly. His mouth tasted of ashes. He coughed.

  He noticed the Princess entered the hall when he wasn’t looking. He latched his gaze onto her. The Princess’s body tensed as she spoke rapidly to her sire, hounding him into the hall. Blaise glanced at the heart
h and knew he would come upon a way to use the flames of the fire, or the heart of the Princess, to make his escape. He preferred using the Princess.

  Branda lifted her chin. “Father, you must unchain him so he can lie in a proper bed and heal his wounds. You can’t treat a Prince like this.”

  “He is a Prince of Powys.” Ethelbald folded his arms across his chest. “I treat him better than I should. I could simply kill him.”

  With an abrupt turn of her head, Branda tossed her hair across her shoulder and stomped off.

  Blaise stared at Ethelbald but said nothing. He must show no fear, no weakness.

  “You eat tonight, Prince. I will order my men to throw you and the other dogs the leftover bones. What you can take from the hounds will be yours to gnaw on.”

  Ethelbald was true to his word. As the King supped, Blaise grabbed at bits of tough meat tossed into the soot-covered hearth. The hounds bit into him, claiming every scrap as their own. Blaise yanked his hand away from the dogs’ fangs time and time again. His eyes watered from the stench of their breath, and he batted at them trying to lure them away from the scraps. They snarled all the more. He ducked the large joint-bones greasy-faced guards threw at him and managed to steal a piece of meat from one of the meeker hounds by pounding the cur with his fist until the animal simpered and gave up the saliva-soaked scrap. With their bellies full, the Saxons left the hall and a servant banked the fire.

  Blaise lay down on the hard hearth. His flesh stung from the bites of the hounds, and his bruised body ached from the bones thrown at him. He finally drifted off to sleep. When he awoke the next morning, every pore of his body throbbed with a dull ache, while the intense, sharp pain from his arrow-wound pierced his chest.

  He felt less than human, as useless as the soot that covered him. The Princess had not yet come. She was as golden as honey and he lived for the sight of her. Had Ethelbald ordered her from the hall? Would that monster take away the one person who bought him pleasure by her very presence?