Chapter 1
Snowdonia, Wales
“Father is home!” Gwen cried from her lookout.
Riders were fast approaching and she could just make out her father’s banner at their head.
She turned and ran past Alys, then down the long winding stairs to the entryway.
Father was home at last. Too long he’d been gone, fighting the English invaders.
Already, men and women rushed about in excitement, preparing for their lord’s arrival. Gwen halted in the shadowed entryway of the keep, pushing impatiently at a lock of hair that had fallen across her nose.
The men rode into the bailey, snow flying from beneath their sturdy ponies’ hooves as they skidded to a stop. Her father’s face was grim. She clutched the edge of her mantle with trembling fingers, her welcoming smile ebbing away.
Prince Llywelyn dismounted and handed his reins to a waiting groom. Einion, his seneschal, hurried to follow suit, his wrinkled face twisting in a grimace as he slid his old bones from the saddle.
“Llywelyn, you cannot surrender!” he hissed when he had caught up with the prince.
Llywelyn darted his gaze around furtively, then answered in a grinding whisper, “I will not wait for starvation to set in! ’Tis better to do it now while we still have our dignity.”
Gwen put a hand to her mouth to muffle her cry. The Prince of Wales surrendering to the English? ’Twas unthinkable!
The household continued about their frenzied tasks, heedless of the devastation they faced. Gwen ran headlong into her father’s arms, desperately needing his reassurances.
“You are home and safe!” she cried, hugging him tight. He stiffened and she loosened her grip to gaze up at him. Heavy lines creased his face, dark circles smudging the skin beneath his amber eyes.
“Aye, I am safe,” he said, patting her back briefly and clearing his throat.
Her heart ached, but she smiled and stepped back.
He was a good man, never harsh. For the most part, his people loved him, although he had caused great upheaval many years ago when he first came to the throne of Wales.
Defying tradition, he staked sole claim to the princedom, shutting his brothers out in a bloody civil war.
Some of the chieftains had never forgiven him. Neither had his brothers, only one of whom was still alive.
He was a great man. She knew it was because he always had so much to do, being the Prince of Wales, that he never seemed to have any time for her. He strode ahead, entering the ancient stronghold that had belonged to countless Welsh princes before him.
Einion winked, smiling weakly to cover his distress, and held out his arm. She took it and they followed Llywelyn’s lead.
“Are we truly surrendering, Einion?”
The old man stumbled. “Aye.”
“But we are Welsh, we cannot give up!”
He sighed. “I cannot talk him out of it. Your father has ruled Wales for thirty years and has gained more than any prince before him. He feels he must give in now to gain later.”
“Why? Why must he give up?” Her voice caught and she bit her lip to stifle her tears. It was not fair! Her father had worked so hard, gained so much, and now--now it was being wrung from him piece by precious piece.
“King Edward captured the mouth of the Conwy. He is building a castle to hold it.” Einion hesitated, then wet his lips before continuing, “Black Hawk de Claiborne blockaded Ynys Mon. Without the harvest, Gwynedd will starve.”
Gwen sucked in her breath. “Gwalchddu.”
Black Hawk. Northern Wales trembled at the name of the evil lord who controlled the borders with an iron fist. The court bards said he was ten feet tall and broad as an oak. His colors, like his legacy, were of blood and death, crimson and black.
She slammed a fist against her leg. “I hate the English! They are cruel and grasping. Unsatisfied with what they already have, they want Wales too!”
Einion patted her hand. “Aye, child, the Norman kings have been after us since William the Bastard conquered the Saxons. I am an old man now. I was but a youth when your great-grandfather was our leader, and I’ve watched Welsh princes struggle against an ever-tightening yoke.
If only Llywelyn could have put aside his pride and sworn homage to Edward on his coronation! ”
“But King Edward would not return Dafydd for punishment. Father could not swear fealty whilst the King harbored that traitor!”
“Aye. Your uncle’s defection was certainly the catalyst Edward needed.” He sighed heavily. “’Tis nearing the end, I am afraid. Edward is no hapless Henry or twisted John--he will succeed where they have failed, unless...”
“Unless what?”
Einion grasped her shoulders with sudden urgency.
“’Tis prophesied that a Llywelyn will drive the Normans out of England and wear the crown of King Arthur and be ruler of all of Britain.
Merlin made that prophecy. The bards say that your father is that Llywelyn.
” His faded brown eyes searched her face.
“You have the Sight, girl! Tell me, do you not see it?”
She closed her eyes. She had dreams sometimes, dreams that came true, but she had no control over when they occurred.
The first time was when she was a little girl and she dreamed of a horrible snowstorm that locked up the mountain passes until spring.
It was nothing significant, but when it came true, people began to whisper of her mother and the fairy gift of Sight.
How could she tell Einion it couldn’t be forced?
“Nay... I... cannot... see... anything...” she said, her voice barely a whisper.
Einion gulped in air like a drowning man. “’Tis our last hope.” His eyes misted over and he squeezed her fondly before turning to limp after Llywelyn.
Gwen stood in mute shock, oblivious to the commotion around her. Good, sturdy Einion had shown her a side of himself she’d never seen, a side that was afraid for his prince and his country. It shook her to the core.
Whenever it was attention she craved from Llywelyn, Einion had always been there to fill the gaps.
He had bounced her on his knee when she was a little girl, kissed her skinned elbows, and brought her presents of gold and silk and jewels.
His old face was always ready with a smile.
Never had he asked anything of her. Until now.
Brushing at the tears streaking her face, she ran to find Alys.
Alys would know what to do. The rosy-cheeked maid was more like the mother Gwen barely recalled having than a servant.
When she reached her chamber, she found Alys sitting calmly, nimble fingers working their magic on one of Gwen’s surcoats. The golden thread whipped in and out of the garment, a delicate bird beginning to take shape under her careful artistry.
Alys dropped the garment and got to her feet. “Whatever is the matter, Your Highness?”
“We are surrendering, Alys,” Gwen said, spilling the details in a rush. “’Tis the witch’s curse!”
Alys’s breath hissed sharply. “Your mother was not a witch! What tales have you been listening to?”
Gwen sank onto the bed and rubbed the back of her hand across her face. “Did he not meet her on the banks of Llyn Eleri in the twilight? She appeared out of the mist like a fey creature. She had no home, no clan. And she disappeared without a trace when I was but a babe.”
“Aye, but she was a fairy maiden, not a witch. Lady Eurwen was kind and beautiful. She loved your father! I do not believe she cursed him to a life of misfortune, no matter what tales the bards tell.”
“Then why did she leave?” Gwen asked miserably.
Alys sighed and picked up her work, plucking at a stitch. “I do not know, child. I do not know.”
An air of brooding hung over the great keep in the coming days. Warriors came and went, sometimes meeting with the Prince for many hours before the air erupted with angry shouts.
Nearly one by one, the chieftains who’d remained loyal to Llywelyn answered his summonses—and then stalked out.
When her father finally sent for her, Gwen ran all the way to his chamber. She was certain he would tell her it wasn’t true, that he really wasn’t surrendering to the King of England—and then life could be normal again.
The door was open and he stood with his back to her, his knuckles cracking softly.
“Father?”
He spun around. “Jesú, Gwenllian, you are as quiet as your mother was.”
Gwen smiled. It was unusual for him to mention her mother. It was also unusual for him to pay her this much attention. “You sent for me?”
“Aye.” His gaze darted away. “I am to surrender to the King at Rhuddlan castle. You will accompany me. We leave on the morrow.”
“You are really surrendering?” Her heart pounded with excitement and fear. He had never before taken her anywhere with him.
“I have no choice, lass.”
“Oh,” Gwen replied. “I am sorry.”
“I’m tired, lass. I do not wish to discuss this with you. Go and have Alys ready your trunk.”
“Aye... trunk? But why—?”
“Don’t ask questions, girl! Just do it,” he snapped.
“Aye, Father. Forgive me,” she mumbled, hastening from the room. Why did she always disappoint him?
Richard de Claiborne, third Earl of Dunsmore, and his company of knights thundered over the water-logged ground, galloping toward the king’s headquarters. The rain had changed to sleet and it slapped against his armor, the sound an almost musical ping.
The strong odor of sweat and leather rose from the stallion laboring beneath him. Though the pace had been hard, the animal still gnashed his teeth with coiled energy, his black ears pinned against his head savagely.
They rounded a bend in the road and suddenly before them rose Rhuddlan Castle, its new walls and high towers jutting out of the Welsh mist that clung to it like a ghostly wraith.
The tang of salt mixed with the sleet and the faint white bodies of gulls circled in the distance, their piercing cries carrying on the wind. Storm clouds, black and ominous, hung low over the Irish Sea.
Three golden lions on a blood-red background rippled over the turrets of Rhuddlan, proclaiming to all of Wales that King Edward Plantagenet was here to stay.