His Captive Princess

by Sandra Jones

  “Fy mab, fy mab!” Gwrach y Rhibyn sobbed as she wrung her bony fingers. “Fy mab, fy mab!” My son, my son. A chill went up Eleri’s spine as she brushed the moisture from her eyes with the back of her hand. Nay. She must be wrong. Then as silent as death, the creature rose from the water in a beam of frosty blue light and vanished back into the black forest.

  Eleri let out her breath. Just once she would like to see the ugly woman appear and disappear without saying a word. But it was never to be. There was always a Cymreig victim.

  Yestereve, Gwrach had cried, “My husband, my husband,” leaving Eleri to only guess which of the married warriors would fall in their planned ambush, and no way to warn Iolo before he died. This time, Gwrach’s prediction left Eleri no doubt whose death had been foretold. There were no sons among her husband’s warriors. Only Lew. The youngest.

  Nay! Not Lew.

  The prince was alive and well, no sign of illness to kill him. Could he have somehow sealed this fate by allowing the death of the prisoner? The Norman was the last of his conroi. His fatal end at Lew’s hands would be noted by his king. Other soldiers would come to avenge the slaughter. The Council would then blame the mistake on her brother-in-law even though it wasn’t his idea. Ultimately, the prisoner’s death could bring Lew’s.

  Of course. That was it. Even if it wasn’t the reason, she couldn’t take any chances.

  Eleri broke into a run for the great hall, praying she wouldn’t be too late.

  Their captive must live.

  Chapter Two

  By Deheubarth law, as their dywysoges, or princess, Eleri could fight alongside her men, but she had no say in the meetings of the Council. She found the exclusion absurd, and had needed to remind herself that she wasn’t their kind.

  Born to the royal Aberffraw family of Gwynedd, she had been allowed to address her father’s court at home, with its mix of noble and baseborn men such as the leaders, lords and fighters of the Deheubarth. It rankled knowing that in her husband’s castell she was considered less than these men.

  With these venomous thoughts thrumming behind her temples, she charged through the heavy wooden doors of the great hall and pushed her way between the shoulders of the warriors to reach the table of the mighty lords.

  She stopped directly across from Lew’s chair and bowed with a formal air they never used in private. “Your Highness, forgive me.”

  Perhaps it was her father’s fault for raising her to think for herself. Or perhaps it was Owain’s. Sometimes she allowed her late husband’s resentment of some of his kin to sway to her opinion, clouding her judgment, but she couldn’t help thinking that had it not been for the arrogance and weakness of the Deheubarth, the kingdoms of Cymru would still be under the rule of their native people.

  Standing beside her, Lord Vaughn bristled. “Dywysoges, you should not be here.”

  He put a gloved hand on her arm and she wrenched away. His touch revolted her, along with his deep-set eyes that lingered on her longer than the offensive hand.

  “And you should not be addressing me.” While Owain was still warm in his grave, Vaughn, his cousin, had tried to coax his way into her bed. She snapped her gaze away from him, focusing on the more important matter at hand, and addressed Lew again. “Your Highness, I ask you to spare the prisoner’s life. He must not be killed.”

  Shocked silence followed as those in attendance stared at her in disbelief.

  “My Prince,” Owain’s most trusted advisor, Gareth ap Huw, interrupted from his chair, his silver hair creating a halo within the folds of his cloak’s hood, “this is a council matter. The princess cannot be allowed to speak.”

  Lew stared at Eleri, and she implored him silently. In front of his ruling council, the prince’s stony countenance gave no indication of his concern, but he leaned forward almost imperceptibly. “Have you news of our captive to share?”

  “Aye.” She glanced around the table at their audience. There was naught for it; she must talk openly of her vision. Yet there were those in the Council who thought Lew weak. An untried ruler, every move he made was measured and compared to men with more experience. Telling these untrustworthy snakes that the wraith had predicted Lew’s death might be a mistake. She chose a different explanation. “I saw the Ugly Woman, and she cried for…the Norman. She would not do that if his blood wasn’t Cymreig.” One by one, she met the eyes of each man around the circle as the lie soured on her tongue.

  The room exploded in grumbles of denial. “The Norman has Cymreig blood?” “Impossible!”

  “How is it impossible?” She exhaled angrily, hoping to hide her anxiousness for Lew with her notorious temper. And anyway, it wasn’t a farfetched lie. Seventy years ago, William of Normandy had spread his barons throughout the land, encouraging his kind to marry royal Cymreig daughters.

  Gareth traced his chin thoughtfully. “It’s no more impossible than a princess of Gwynedd marrying a prince of Deheubarth.”

  “Or a Norman raping a Cymreig woman, and stealing the by-blow to raise as one of theirs,” Vaughn declared. “And if that be the case, the bastard isn’t worthy of our mercy.”

  “You must never ignore the wraith’s omens. Remember the others…” Gareth glanced meaningfully at the wooden walls of the hall, where the images of past battles had been preserved in fine tapestries. Kings, princes, noblemen, children and paupers—all those from the Tywi valley who’d fought and died. According to legend, the Ugly Woman had foretold many of the losses, and each generation had at least one visionary whom she visited.

  Eleri wouldn’t wish her so-called visitor upon her greatest foe. What person wanted to be told when a neighbor, friend or family member would die?

  “What were her exact words?” Lew asked, his hands tightening around the oak armrests of his chair.

  Eleri wiped her clammy hands on her tunic and glanced around at her audience again. Prickles ran down her back, but she had no other course of action but to lie. “‘My husband…’”

  Vaughn huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “And this is what tells you it’s the Norman? It could be any of a number of married warriors—”

  “No.” Eleri shook her head emphatically. “No one is sick. No one is heading into battle. Unless one of our men is about to be murdered, the only soul in danger is the Norman’s.”

  Some of the men murmured to each other. She strained to hear, but couldn’t make out their words.

  Lew’s gaze never wavered from her and the gravity of the situation shone in his pale gray eyes. He nodded slowly. “As you say, Princess Eleri. The vision is yours to interpret. The Norman will live and remain as our prisoner.”

  “My wife says he has a strong body. He’ll make a good slave,” Simon, the bard, agreed. His wife had been the healer who’d removed the arrow from the man.

  “Keeping him alive would bring us closer to death. He could escape and take word back to his people. We killed unarmed men. What do you think his king will do when he hears of this?” Vaughn snarled.

  Privately she’d advised Lew not to ambush the Normans, but his Council had been adamant. Then upon finding the invaders’ numbers much smaller than they’d been told—a party of four men against the men of the entire Cantref Mawr—she’d urged them to desist.

  But this time Vaughn had a point. Eleri shuffled her feet irritably. “Mayhap his mission was one of treaty, and if that’s true, he could easily be a nobleman. Do we want to kill a man we might use to trade for those of our men captured at Cardigan?” She was grasping for excuses, but these thick-headed men would know no different.

  Ewen, one of Vaughn’s men, slapped a meaty hand on the table. “I say we kill him now. Are we being led by a female, as well as a boy?”

  Lew shoved his chair back from the table. “Would you have spoken to Owain thusly?” Thrusting back his shoulders, the young prince regarded Eleri again. “He will live.”


  Eleri released her breath and fought the impulse to smile.

  Gareth cleared his throat. “But if he’s not a nobleman, his king may storm our walls, caring not in the least if the prisoner dies.”

  Vaughn hovered behind her. She could feel his hot, sour breath on her neck. “Your people make use of slaves, Princess. My men will take him to Gwynedd. If he makes the journey alive, the Normans will have to deal with them for his return. It would not be our problem in Deheubarth.”

  A murmur of approval rumbled around the table along the bobbing heads of the elders.

  A journey such as that was difficult for even the healthiest men. A wounded man in the hands of Vaughn’s vicious curs, who detested all Norman scourge? He would be dead in no time at all, and his passing would bring Lew’s as the old wraith had foretold.

  Poor Lew could still be overthrown as an ineffective ruler if the matter wasn’t handled carefully.

  “It is settled.” The prince squeezed his pale hand in a fist. “We will give him three days to heal, then send him with Lord Vaughn’s men.”

  Eleri lowered her eyes. Vaughn wanted the Gorthwr’s blood on his hands, wanted Lew’s blood on his hands. But most of all, Vaughn wanted her.

  With Owain gone and Lew deposed, he would have everything he desired.

  Warren’s resolve crumbled. The persistent tickle on his nose demanded to be scratched, and no matter how much pain the movement cost him, he would quell it.

  Twisting in his rope bonds with his hands tied high above his head, he rubbed his nose against his forearm. The rope scalded his wrists where his skin had rubbed raw. Alas, his bare arms gave him no relief.

  Mayhap he would go mad in captivity with these barbarians. Mayhap he had already.

  The tight timbers of the cell’s windowless walls prevented him from seeing whether it was night or day. Only the drop in temperature and the lack of visitors told him it was night. The tribe’s healer hinted that he would be leaving soon, though not in any words he understood. None of his visitors had spoken in his language since the day he’d been captured. He’d pieced together the fact he was being moved when the old woman had fed him that night, washed and returned his clothing, and had even placed a decorative brace of an iron bull in his fire—the pagan symbol he recognized for virility.

  Why would they want me healthy?

  The question had kept him awake for what seemed like ages as he stared into the slowly dying embers.

  Being released was the worst that could befall him. To be found alive by his king equated to treason by his liege’s thinking. Even though Warren had outwardly shunned his half-sister, Empress Matilda, in her quest to take the crown from King Stephen, his loyalty was still in doubt. Gladly he would cast in his die with Matilda, the true heir named by King Henry himself, if doing so wouldn’t put his family in jeopardy. Warren had done all he could to protect them. His dying would finally make them blameless and wealthy to boot. The perfect answer to all their woes.

  “Be still, Gorthwr,” a cool female voice uttered from the shadows.

  He twisted toward the source. “Par le sang Dieu, how did you—”

  “Shhhh.”

  He felt weight press the bed beside him. Turning his head, his cheek rested against soft leather stretched tight across what might’ve been a woman’s thigh if he guessed correctly.

  The idea warmed him immensely. He chuckled. “Ah, so you’ve kept me alive to come have your way with me, Mademoiselle Roux?” At least he hoped it was she and not her unpleasant companion, the one called Nest.

  “You must not speak to the Dywysoges!” a man growled.

  A sharp dagger’s tip pinched against Warren’s throat, punctuating the order. Warren could make out the outlines of the pair hovering over him. He wished he could see the sultry sprite’s expression and read her thoughts on the subject. If he wasn’t mistaken the male was the one who’d beaten him within an inch of his life.

  What was the meaning of this word “dywysoges” they kept calling her?

  “Well if I may, perhaps I could address you then?” Warren softened his tone to the measure he used with his varlet back at home in England. “Pierce the jugular, if you would. It’s quicker that way. I could direct you if you’re not familiar.”

  “I assure you, Norman, I know many ways to kill a man.” Nevertheless, the rebel took the knife away. He whispered to the woman, “Your Highness, the prisoner would be easier to transport if he was dead. Would you like me to—”

  “No, Sayer. You know you cannot,” she murmured.

  “‘Your Highness’?” Warren jerked in astonishment, pulling against his bonds. The ropes chafed his raw skin, sending a fresh wave of pain down his arms. “You’re of royal blood?”

  She leaned over him, reaching for his bonds. “Hush! In addition to your arrow wound, I trow your tongue has healed as well these past days. It would behoove you to use it less and just be grateful you’re alive.”

  Her breasts hovered inches above his face. In fact, if he lifted his head, he could bury his face between them. What would she do, this spirited wench, if he chose to do so? He would’ve enjoyed finding out if circumstances had been different. “I’d rather be dead than be a prisoner. But first…I’ll kiss your feet if you’d scratch my nose.”

  She made a choking noise in her throat that almost sounded like amusement.

  He felt a tug at his ropes and the friction of a knife. By the saints, she was freeing him. He couldn’t allow it.

  Air stung his raw skin as soon as one of his wrists came loose. With his one arm still useless in its restraints, he shot out his free hand and clutched her forearm. Using all his strength, he turned her over beneath him, wedging her between his torso and the bed. Nose to nose, he could make out her eyes gone wide with shock in the darkness. “No!” he growled. “Do not let me leave here alive.”

  Suddenly, her warrior was upon him and his knife back against Warren’s throat. “Get off the princess, you cur!”

  The woman’s blade touched his chest plate. She could dispatch him with ease. Her arms were strong and lean. Her body was far from frail, and he recalled her skillful defeat of his conroi. She twisted beneath his pelvis defensively, and the grinding of her soft mound awoke his sex. Shame heated his cheeks at his sudden need and dark desires. This one time, he would allow himself to speak his mind. “If you release me, Princess, I’ll go to Kidwelly and inform my commanders what has befallen my five men at the hands of you and your people. The king will strike at the subjects of Cantref Mawr with vengeance such as you’ve never known.”

  Her expression shifted from stark panic to slow derision as her saucy lips curved up at one corner. “You think I don’t know what you’re capable of?” Her eyes flashed downward meaningfully, and he knew she’d noted the turn of his wicked thoughts. “You want to have your way with me. To tear my clothing from my body and part my legs. But you know nothing of my people, Norman. You haven’t even bothered to learn the language—” she broke off, slurring in Welsh at her vassal.

  The burly guard grabbed Warren’s bandaged shoulder, twisting it back until bile climbed in his throat. “Umpff!” While he convulsed in pain, the woman slipped loose and turned him on his back, pinning his groin beneath two very sharp knees. He hissed through his teeth, “Par les saints!”

  If he’d been successful in his mission, this devil-wench would’ve been his bride?

  “You are my prisoner, knight.” She planted the flat of her hand against his neck, leaving no doubt of her desire for domination as her angry pulse drummed against his skin. “I am the Princess of Deheubarth, widow of Prince Owain ap Daffyd, murdered by your Norman peers. It will be my pleasure keeping you alive. We’re taking you to those who will do with you what they will. I care not. Until then, you are my dog. My captive. My slave. And you will obey!”

  Chapter Three

  Eleri stared
over the campfire at the Norman’s profile as she ground fresh mint into the rest of the paste with a wooden spoon. After a grueling night and day of travel on foot while leading the horses through the thorny scrub, they sat resting as Nest watched the path they’d taken in case Vaughn or his men had followed. Sayer gathered kindling in the forest for the cold night’s fire, leaving Eleri alone guarding the captive. Meanwhile the gravity of her actions sank in.

  They’d stolen the prisoner to deliver him alive to her father, and there would likely be outrage at her decision.

  Oddly, the Norman formed a proud figure from the side, sitting in the weeds with his broad shoulders back, head high and hands relaxed even in the tight bonds Nest had gleefully cinched around his raw wrists behind him. Despite the leather hood they’d used to blind him, he had the perfect posture and bearing of a nobleman at court.

  The possibility of his royal birthright had grown more likely in Eleri’s mind ever since they’d slipped from the castell at nightfall, unnoticed. He hadn’t complained much about his circumstances, hadn’t even tried to barter for his freedom. If he was a member of the Norman king’s family, he should at least ask for a ransom price.

  Unless he wasn’t the idiot Eleri had first thought. Perhaps he realized they weren’t interested in his money.

  The prisoner’s calm demeanor might be more of his trickery. She wouldn’t put it past him. He was no doubt waiting for them to make a mistake, then he would attempt escape. His promise for retaliation lingered in her thoughts…along with the things she’d claimed he wanted to do to her.

  Though it had been hours ago, she still felt the heat of his breath on her neck, his long legs of iron tangled with hers and the alarming hardening of his body—something not even Owain had shown her in their short time together when he’d come to their marriage bed. The stranger’s touch had brought back longings and desire she’d hoped to keep forgotten.

  Made her wish for things she would never have.