by C. C. Wiley
Dedication
I couldn’t have written this story without my darling husband’s love and support. My family almost always understood that when I was writing, they needed to give me room to create. They cheered me on, even in the tough times. Thank you, my sweet family.
I want to thank my writing friends in the Solvang Writing Group. In particular, my heartfelt thanks goes to Cynthia who brings laughter wherever she goes; to Janie, whose brilliance with the English language keeps us sane; and to Trudy, whose spirit lights up the room and warms our hearts.
Many thanks to my critique partner and friend, Kimberley Troutte, who always reminds me to breathe while I hyperventilate over changes. And to my fabulous editor, Deborah Nemeth, I thank you for helping make this story shine.
Lastly, thank you, God, for hearing my whispered prayer and bringing it to reality. I am forever grateful.
Chapter One
Valley Wye, Wales, 1409
All day, Terrwyn tried to peel away the ache that burrowed deep into her young bones. In spite of her efforts, the heavy residue from last eve’s dream weighed on her mind. She had hoped the mountains and rugged Welsh countryside would clear her thoughts. Even the four gray rabbits, bound and hanging from her saddle, were not enough to lift her spirits. Instead, her thoughts dashed back to worry her even more.
Her nursemaid had called her dreams the gift of night visions. Terrwyn remained unclear whether the gift was a blessing or a curse.
A flash of movement caught her eye. Her brother rode toward her on his little pony, his legs dangling over its round belly. Had their father still been lord of the valley, Drem would have already traveled to another household. There his duties as squire of the body would teach him all that was required of a knight. One day, his skill with sword and arrows might have earned the king’s favor.
That opportunity had been lost when the rebel Owain Glyndwr attempted to take the Welsh throne by force from England’s own Prince of Wales.
She wished for a way to share her night vision, her fears for her brother. But her pride remained bruised from the last time he scoffed at her warnings.
Reining in her mount, she called out, “We dare not travel farther. The English soldiers may be near.”
Although one year younger than she, Drem sat taller on his mount. He leaned down to yank a strand of her hair. “Afraid, are you?”
Terrwyn shook her head. “You know I’m not. But Mam and Father will wonder where we are.”
He pulled a face and frowned. “Not likely. Too busy crooning over red-faced babies.”
“Drem,” Terrwyn scolded, “the twins require their attention.”
“They near killed our mam,” he grumbled. “They aren’t even boys. At least then it would be but a few years until they lend a hand with the lambing—instead of being yet another burden.”
“Burden, is it?” The terse words barely hissed through her teeth. Squaring her shoulders, she edged her pony away. “I’ll be sure to relay your sentiments to Catrin.”
“What do you mean?”
“When the cold mountain air cuts against your bare skin, you’ll be wishing our sister does not know you count her darning skill among the burdens.” With a quick snap of the reins, she pointed the pony’s head down the hill. “Since you fill the valley with your importance, I find it too crowded for my taste. I shall leave you to yourself.”
Drem grabbed the halter and coaxed her pony close.
“Terrwyn, I didn’t mean to hurt your wee feelings. Nor do I close my eyes to Catrin’s skill with a needle. Thank the saints I have at least one sister who can sew a straight line. Mayhap the others will find a skill that will bring a blessing to our door.”
“Think you I’ve no skill to offer?”
That same question had burned often enough in her heart. Lacking the talent of plying needle to cloth was certainly a nuisance at times. However, the inability to stir up something edible in a cook pot was swiftly becoming a festering thorn in her pride.
After great thought, he gave his answer with a shrug. “None which adds value to a female.”
“You, a young boy of ten and two years, counts himself an authority on the fairer sex?”
Drem’s lips curled into a smirk. “I’ve more knowledge of fair damsels than you could ever imagine.”
Terrwyn swatted at his hand with the little riding whip she kept tucked in her boot. It whistled through the air, missing his knuckles by a faerie’s hair. Hearing him utter a curse under his breath, she crowed with glee. “Ha-ha! Instead of cabbage and broth, it will be your words you eat tonight.”
“Better my words than your cooking.” Ducking another swat, he moved his mount out of reach and yelped.
“Enough of this foolery,” Terrwyn said. “It will soon rain and I don’t want to be caught in the downpour. Let’s find the last lamb and be on our way home.”
Straightening in his saddle, he scoured the horizon with an intense scrutiny worthy of a sheepherder’s hound. “Look. Over there.” He pointed to the shelf of rocks jutting out from the hillside.
Terrwyn let the hood of her cloak fall back and leaned into the raised leather ridge of her saddle. Even if she squinted, she barely made out a movement. Trusting in her younger brother’s keen eye, she nodded in agreement. Letting him lead the way, she followed as he edged the pony around the patch of wide stone.
Drem dropped from his mount. Crouching low, he moved into the ravine. Moments later, he crawled out. His face was white as the craggy tops of a mountain in winter. A sheen of tears glittered from his eyes. He motioned for her to move down the hill.
“Where is the lamb?” Terrwyn asked.
“It didn’t make it,” Drem choked out. “Too little to live through the chill in the air.”
“That makes two lambs this day.”
She did not have to say what was on both their minds and would soon be on the minds of the villagers. It was an omen of bad things to come. Someone was bound to point a finger to their newly arrived twin sisters and announce they were the harbingers of more evil to befall their tiny village.
The heaviness from last night’s dream resurfaced. “We best return home,” she said.
Drem gave a quick nod and moved his mount next to hers. He pulled out his finely made bow of dwarf elm and carefully readied the arrow in the notch.
“What is it, Drem? What do you see?”
“Mounted riders.”
The guilt of her silence pressed down. She should have made him listen to what she saw in her dream. The single word rushed out in a whisper. “English.”
“Warn the village.” Drem whacked the back of her mount with the flat of his hand.
“Nay!” she cried out.
The pony’s rump twitched before it set off down the hill. Heart beating in her throat, Terrwyn gripped the reins as she righted her seat. Gaining control of the mountain pony, she ignored her brother’s orders and whirled around to race back to his side.
The little pony trembled under her thighs. The ground shook with the pounding of hooves as the English soldiers raced after Drem. The air echoed with the sound of heavy leather and metal slapping against horseflesh. The glint of swords flashed in the daylight.
Her eyes widened. The men raced toward her brother just as they had in her dream. Unable to leave him behind, Terrwyn pulled out her bow. Bracing her heels in the wooden stirrups, she stood up from the saddle. The arrow placed in the notch, she aimed at the advancing men. The feather-quilled weapon screamed into the air.
She heard the horse’s panicked whinny, the soldiers’ angry shouts. Her aim had succeeded in turning them from Drem. The soldiers reined in and brought their mounts about. Relief for her brother’s safety flooded through her. It would not be long until he left the slab o
f stone and circled around for her. She prayed he did not take his merry time.
She looked toward the sound of hoof beats thundering nearer.
Her little pony pranced and blew out a nervous breath. Its muscles bunched and flinched. Terrwyn swung the bow over her shoulder. Dropping into the well of the saddle, she slapped at her pony’s flank with the riding crop. Her fingers tightened on the reins as the pony shot off down the hill toward the wooded glen.
The limp rabbits beat against her thigh, leaving streaks of bloodied fur upon her skirt. Green leaves of the great oaks blurred as she dashed past. She ducked under a low branch and narrowly missed taking off the top of her head. Mouth dry, her breath came in a ragged draw. She gripped the reins with one hand and leaned forward, stretching over the pommel of her saddle.
“Come on!” she urged the pony. “A few more steps. We’ll lose them by the falls.”
She needed only to round the bend to see the waterfall straightaway. The water would shield her from the men until Drem joined her. Reining in, she slowed her pace and maneuvered around a felled tree. She looked over her shoulder to scan the tree line, then heard the hiss of an arrow.
A frantic whinny erupted as her pony shied to one side. Its footing wavered. Terrwyn’s seat began to shift. Kicking out of the stirrup, she rolled away from flailing legs, narrowly dodging a sharp hoof. The pony grunted and fell to the ground. Its ragged breaths filled the glen.
Terrwyn sucked back the pain that threatened to break apart her chest. Anger burned in her throat. Her darling pony lay next to her. Gently sliding a palm over its velvet nose, she felt the soft blows of air, each breath coming slower, shallower. Until finally they diminished and Terrwyn knew its life lingered no more.
Flattening her body into the loam of the forest, she dug her fingers into the earth and did her best to squash the fear leaping in her throat. Her mind was a hive of questions. How close were the English? Had they seen the spot where she fell? Where was Drem?
Before she moved, she had her first answer.
The toe of a thick wooden-soled boot caught her in the ribs and rolled her over. Terrwyn clamped her lips together and kept from crying out. She stared openly at the ugly pale-skinned men and their long faces, weak chins, pale blue eyes and hair the color of gruel.
A great brute bent over her and poked at her chest. “Here now! What do we have?” He moved the veil of dark hair from her face with the tip of his sword. “She’s small enough to be a woodland faerie.”
The other soldier dismounted and spoke over her as if she had no mind. “Don’t touch her,” he warned as he shoved the brute aside. “Me mum did say, if you had a taste of faerie, then your fella would fall off.”
Terrwyn stared at the mottled sky overhead. Tears burned her eyelids and her ears still rang from when she hit the ground. Her stomach twisted with concern for Drem. If he had escaped their trap, then he would have been there by now. She feared her ruse had not been enough to draw all the soldiers away from him.
She heard the creak of leather accepting the shift of weight. A horse nickered softly, mouthing the bit with its tongue. The sound of twigs crushed under heavy footsteps drew near. She blinked. An English soldier towered over her.
His scowling visage was flushed red with anger. “I don’t fear the Welsh tales,” he said as he pushed the men out of the way.
Grabbed by her tunic, Terrwyn was lifted from the ground. Her back slammed against the base of a large oak. The palm of his hand pressed against her shoulder, grinding her flesh into a ridge of rough bark.
“Be this your errant arrow?” The bloodied shaft he held under her nose was tipped by a wedge of dull gray iron just as any arrowhead might be. She shook her head.
Squinting, the cow-faced man looked as if he did not believe her. “You there,” he ordered one of the men, “bring that quiver to me.”
He poured out the contents on the ground and crushed her bow with his heel. Upon hearing her hushed gasp a smile of satisfaction lifted his lips.
“I knew I would find a lying Welshman. Just not a wench, young and tender as this one.” He licked his big lips and trapped her against the tree with a ham-sized hand on each side of her head. He moved closer, grinding his groin into her hip. “Aye, you’ll thank me for what I’m about to give ya.”
Unable to stand the sight and smell of the soldier, she turned her head. She squashed the whimper that threatened to bubble in her throat and gripped the tree, her nails digging into the bark. Her eyes squeezed tight, she began to whisper a prayer to the saints. As she ended her prayer, a yelp rang out.
Terrwyn opened her eyes to see why the soldier was now howling like an injured cur. A familiar arrow, its shaft marked with colored thread, impaled his hand. A volley of arrows shot through the air. Two more soldiers hit the ground, burrowing their stomachs into the leaves.
Attempting to drop to the ground, Terrwyn found her cloak gripped by the impaled soldier. She kicked out at his knees and felt the impact of her heel against his flesh right before she fell to the ground. His weight against the tree, the man cursed as another shaft narrowly missed his wrist, striking his sleeve instead.
“Do as I say this time,” Drem called out. “Run while I hold them here.”
Eager to put distance between herself and the soldiers, Terrwyn moved to do as she was told.
Her steps faltered. There, in the trees, the English soldiers stood behind her beloved brother. An uncontrolled shiver ran through her body as she reluctantly bent her knee and knelt on the ground.
One of the soldiers grabbed Drem, trapping his arms. Another soldier bound his wrists together. They ignored Drem’s thrashing legs and twisting body, lifted him up onto the destrier’s wide saddle and shackled his legs under the beast’s belly.
Drem aimed his elbow at his captor’s face. With a gruff warning, the soldier made a point to look toward Terrwyn. Satisfied she understood his threat, the soldier swung up behind Drem and motioned to his companions to prepare to leave.
Terrwyn stared intently, memorizing what she could. The stocky young brown-haired man spoke tersely to the men. The soldiers did not seem to notice their orders came from one so young. Her stomach knotted. When he turned his mount, she saw a mottled scar running along the left side of his nose and cheek. Could this be Henry of Monmouth, England’s Prince of Wales?
A young man about the same age as the prince rode up on a fine warhorse. Though he wore a soldier’s garb of leather jerkin and padded leggings, the badge on his chest displayed the red Lancaster rose. He tipped his head to show respect to the royal sitting beside him. Given leave to speak his mind, he leaned forward, resting his forearm on the pommel of his saddle.
Though Terrwyn could not hear his comments, she knew their conversation did not go well when the prince shook his head in denial at the lanky soldier’s request. The Prince of Wales’s unyielding visage darkened. Their conversation came to a swift end when the prince nudged his mount and rode away.
The young man’s perfect posture remained rigid as his stallion pranced under his grip. He swept the chain-mail hood off his head. Two red splotches colored his high cheekbones as he tugged his long fingers through his coal black hair.
Terrwyn wondered at his bravery. Perhaps madness. No matter, she thought dejectedly, whatever his objections, they were lost on closed ears.
As the small band of men rode past, their leather boots blurred in front of her face. She blinked away remnants of dust and tears. Despite her struggle, hope slipped through her fingers as if it were silk from a milk thistle.
“You cannot do this,” she cried out. “He is but a child.”
The dark-haired soldier stopped his mount in front of her. He held out his hand.
Terrwyn stared at the simple chain-link gauntlet and could not force herself to rise. She lifted her head, fixing her eyes on his face. “Please. Release my brother.”
His eyes shimmered with concern before he shamefully turned his face away and rode on.
&nbs
p; Drem’s mount drew near enough that Terrwyn thought she might reach out and touch his leg. His face was pale. Anger bloomed over his cheeks.
He shook his head violently when he saw she meant to go to him. “Nay,” he hissed. “’Tis naught you can do.”
She gripped the soldier’s boot and pleaded through tears. “Stop! I beg you.”
“Listen to the lad.” The cow-faced soldier tapped her shoulder with the flat of his blade. “Mind you, you’d have no troubles if not for Owain Glyndwr’s band of mischief makers.”
Drem looked back once more and shook his head. Helpless, Terrwyn watched the soldiers leave the glen. She swallowed her tears and vowed her first bitter taste of defeat would be her last.
Chapter Two
Southeast Wales, a small village near Abergavenny (Aber-uh-vennie) Spring, 1415
Terrwyn slapped the cleaning rag on the trestle table and scrubbed at the congealed oats and puddles of stale ale. Tonight the Sheep’s Glen was nearly bursting. The villagers had crowded into the tavern when word came that strangers rode the hillside. Fear, swift as the river Usk, poured through the smoke-filled room.
“We know how the English soldiers work,” one of the men shouted.
“Aye,” agreed Smithy, a barrel-chested man. “They already took everything of value. What have they come for this time?” He turned toward the crowd of villeins, pumping his fist in the air. “I say we meet them with force, turn them away before they set foot in our village.”
Her father, Dafydd ap Hew, once lord of the lands, stood beside the great hearth, weariness on his face. The upheaval of hearth and home had marked his shoulder-length hair with gray streaks, and the salting of gray brows and beard heightened the depth of his solemn dark eyes. His stature bent with the weight of responsibility, belying his thirty-eight years. He raised his arm to gain their attention. His voiced boomed over the heated voices. “Good people, we’ve known one day the English king would send his soldiers again to us.”
“What do you intend to do?” yelled Smithy. “Drop your chausses and bend over as you did six years ago?” Encouraged by a few sniggers, he continued, “Do you aim to stand by and let the English king have his way again?”