Prologue
Castell Caergwrle
Wales
“Do they know I am coming?”
“Aye, Sire. They know.”
“Do they know I am coming now?”
“Aye, Sire. We sent word last night.”
It was a day of mist and rain in the mountains north of Wrexham.
Visibility was obscured by the fog as it hovered just above the ground, giving the landscape an otherworldly feel.
Surely Arwan, the king of the underworld, was waiting for a mortal to step inside his realm, just beyond the fog.
For certain, that was what it felt like.
Monsters waiting in the mist.
The road to Llanllyr Nunnery in Wales was not an easy one.
There were only four men in this escort because anything larger would have attracted too much attention.
It was a man of royal blood and three bodyguards, men who had been with his father and now served him.
Edward had been the King of England for several years now and every year seemed to grow more difficult, more complex.
This year had been the worst so far.
It wasn’t due to politics or the usual issues that go with the job when one reined over a vital kingdom.
This year, it had been a matter of the heart, something that even the strongest men were unable to escape.
Edward was a powerful king, but he was also a widower.
He had a family that made him proud for the most part.
Not always, but sometimes. What happened to him happened without provocation, something that closed in upon him and before he realized it, he was trapped.
Cursed.
In love.
The result of that love hadn’t been unexpected. He’d taken the beautiful Dera to his bed and he hadn’t regretted it. She was young and bright and had a way of making an old man laugh. That’s all he was—an old man to her youth. But he never saw age.
He only saw love.
Shocking that a man like him could even feel such a thing.
But he had.
Dera was one of the many daughters of Dafydd ap Gruffydd, the Welsh prince, and she was born of a liaison he had with an English noblewoman that no one could seem to name.
Whoever it was had been kept a mystery. Dafydd never spoke of her and no one else seemed to know, so her mother remained an enigma.
Once she had been born, she’d been raised in the Llanllyr Nunnery in Ceredigion.
Dafydd and his family had long been imprisoned and scattered, and in fact, Dafydd had long been dead when he first saw Dera.
She had been raised properly at that ancient nunnery and it had been by sheer coincidence that Edward had seen her whilst traveling in Wales.
That had been the day Edward’s heart had changed.
He was an older man now and he’d long thought his days of infatuation were over, but he had been wrong.
Very wrong. His time with Dera had been short, but it had been unusually passionate in nature.
When next he heard through a Welsh messenger from the nunnery, Dera was pregnant with his child.
Edward was the only one who knew it, but as the months passed, he found himself on edge, waiting for word that his child had been born.
He was already planning when next he would see Dera.
He simply couldn’t help himself.
In his mind, she had become something of a myth crossed with a fantasy.
His mind had created her into something ethereal and goddess-like.
He’d known her so short a time, and he’d loved her for so short a time, but she was the one thing in his life that gave him some happiness in a world where he’d had very little since the death of his wife.
Although he knew he couldn’t marry Dera, that didn’t stop him from dreaming about her.
From loving her.
But now, that love had turned into something fearful and anxious because the missive he received three weeks ago from Wales only one word. That was all he needed to get him moving in a way that didn’t require armies or a communal decision from his advisors.
Brysiwch.
Make haste.
He had.
Dear God, he had.
Now, they were nearing Llanllyr and the mist around him was as cold and genuine as the fear that clutched his heart.
The three knights shadowing him were of the highest order, elite knights that had evolved from his father’s personal guard, known as the Guard of Six.
Edward also had his own personal guard, including the man at his side.
He was a very big man, grandson of a knight who had served Edward’s grandfather.
He was a warrior from a long line of warriors and Edward relied on both the service and the advice of Rory de Lara who, even now, had his big arm in front of Edward, preventing him from moving forward, as another man in their group suddenly ran ahead to Llanllyr now that it had come into view.
“Nay, Sire,” Rory said quietly. “Wait. Let Henry ensure your way inside is secure.”
Now that he was in sight of the nunnery, Edward was having a difficult time controlling his urge to run to the door. He knew that de Lara was only doing his duty, to keep the king safe, but there was a woman in that nunnery that Edward desperately wanted to see. And hold.
Impatiently, he waited.
It seemed like hours. Dawn was approaching and the moisture in the air was heavy.
His clothing, his shoes, were wet from it and his breath hung in misty clouds every time he exhaled.
De Lara had long since dropped his arm, confident the monarch wouldn’t go charging across the road and straight into the nunnery before the path was officially cleared by Henry de Nerra, another legacy knight whose family had served the crown for centuries.
Edward leaned against a tree, watching the nunnery door, waiting for some movement.
Anything that would indicate Dera would be the next thing he saw.
Finally, there was a sign.
De Nerra emerged from the side of the nunnery, but not the entrance he went into.
He came around the side of the building, through the graveyard, and he was bearing a torch against the darkness as he headed in their direction.
De Lara, and the forth member of their party, a knight by the name of Ansel de Titouan, began to move towards him.
Edward naturally followed and, in fact, ended up leading the pack as they met de Nerra on the road that was between them and the nunnery.
“Well?” Edward demanded, his words forming as fog in the icy air. “Will you take me to her?”
De Nerra was a big man with a handsome face and dark blond hair. But that face seemed tense and de Lara immediately sensed that something was off.
“What is it, Ansel?” he asked quietly. “You know something.”
De Nerra nodded, glancing at Rory, but his focus quickly returned to Edward. “Sire, there is no gentle way to tell you, so I will be quick about it,” he said. “The lady you seek—Lady Dera—perished in childbirth after the missive you received was sent.”
De Lara and de Titouan immediately looked at Edward for the man’s reaction, but all they could see was an older man who had become accustomed to grief in his life.
Too much grief. He accepted the news with composure, but still, he seemed to slump a little.
The light went out of his eyes as he accepted the will of God.
“God help me,” he muttered. “And the child?”
“Alive, Sire,” he said. “A fine son.”
That somehow seemed to upset Edward further. He visibly flinched as if struck by an unseen hand. “I see,” he finally said. “A lad. A lad from my beautiful lady. Did she see him?”
“I do not know, Sire.”
“Will you take me to the child, then?”
De Nerra nodded, motioning for them to follow.
They went around the side of the nunnery, through the wet graveyard, through the trees, and finally in through a side entrance.
Once they arrived, there were several nuns waiting for them, hovering by the door as if preparing to defend it with their lives.
There was uncertainty in the air as four tall men closed in on them.
De Nerra indicated Edward.
“Your king,” he told the women in a quiet voice. “He wishes to see the child.”
The women hissed at one another, shaking their heads, pointing, pushing, until one nun stepped forward. She fixed on Edward, who was dressed in a heavy cloak with a hood covering his head, and scrutinized him.
“Show thyself, Edward,” she finally said, her voice low and raspy, like pebbles wrapped in silk. “Let me see that it is thou, for certain.”
Edward didn’t hesitate. He removed his hood, his faded blond hair revealed in the torchlight. His dark eyes glittered at the old woman.
“Mother Therese,” he greeted. “Only you can give me such a command.”
The old nun eyed him a moment before snorting softly. “Thou are in need of much discipline and commands from those who know better than thee,” she said. “For truth, we should not be having this conversation.”
The warmth in Edward’s eyes faded. “I know,” he said, sounding sad and defeated. “But you know I loved her. I do not regret that.”
“I did not think so.”
It was a rebuke, but it was also a statement of fact. Edward took no offense to either, but he did want to know one thing.
“What happened to her?” he asked.
Mother Therese shrugged. “That which has happened to so many other women,” she said. “She was not the first and will not be the last. Her fragile body simply could not bear the strain.”
Edward sighed faintly. “Was she brave?”
“Braver than thou has ever been, Edward.”
He had expected that reply and both comforted him and devastated him. “She was a brave woman,” he said quietly. “I wish… I wish I had been able to see her.”
“She loved thee until the end,” Mother Therese said, lifting her faded eyebrows. “Thee has a son from this brave woman, Edward. A child of Welsh and English heritage. He bears royal blood on both sides and should be kept safe.”
Reminded of his new son, a hint of hope came to his face. “A son,” he repeated. “He is in good health?”
“He is.”
“Where is he?”