Mary Reed McCall (2 page)

Near Craeloch Castle, Western England
June, twelve years later

T
he nightmare had come again last night, choking him with how real it had seemed, how painful it had been to relive…the blue-faced devils attacking, Gwynne clinging to him in fear, her screams going on and on as the warriors swarmed into the clearing, their weapons held aloft—the arrow piercing his chest, and what came after…

Aidan rubbed the back of his neck, inhaling sharply of the early morning mist in an effort to shake the memories. ’Twas fitting, he supposed, that it had come again now; today of all days he needed to remember exactly why he was here. Of why he had vowed to spend the rest of his life, if need be, stopping the Welsh rebels from doing to anyone else what they’d done to him.

To him and Gwynne…

He leaned over his steed’s neck, the vapor of his breath mingling with the cool air as he awaited his prey. Any moment now the warrior the Welsh called the Dark Legend would emerge from the forest with his band of rebels to claim the rich prize he expected to find outside of Craeloch’s walls—payment in gold, offered in return for leaving the people in peace, their property and lands undisturbed.

The bastard would find naught but a trap.

Aidan shifted in his saddle, his muscles tense, his thoughts racing. It had been a long year hunting these Welsh outlaws and their powerful, elusive leader. A year during which the rebellious inhabitants of Wales had gathered in ever increasing numbers, rallying behind the Dark Legend in raid after raid against English barons and Marcher lords. Against King Henry himself.

They had to be stopped.

But the Dark Legend was no ordinary enemy. Nay, he was an opponent of the most deadly kind. A man who’d risen to mythic proportions in the minds and hearts of the people who followed him—for according to the bards who sang of him, he was no ordinary man. They claimed him to be none other than King Arthur, come back from his rest in Avalon. The Dark Legend of prophecy, returned to lead them to freedom from English rule.

Such dangerous fancy could not be allowed to continue. The man could be the devil himself, as far as Aidan was concerned; if all went as planned, this day would be his last.

“There,” Kevyn murmured next to him, nodding toward the glint of metal that shone through the trees across the clearing. “They approach.”

Aidan swung his gaze to the spot, honing in on his quarry. “Ready the men for attack,” he answered quietly, never losing sight of the edge of the forest. As he heard the
soft call of warning pass down the ranks, his hands tightened, anticipation thrumming through his blood with every beat of his heart. It was almost time for the battle to begin—the culmination of all he’d worked so hard to accomplish.

Almost time for another chance at redemption.

Suddenly, the chain mail of one of the rebel warriors caught the morning sun, throwing flashes of light as more than two dozen Welshmen rode from the wood and into the clearing, some of them wearing blue war paint, others helms. Their leader sat proudly atop his steed in front of them, clasping a magnificent golden shield with the emblem of the legendary Arthur—a red dragon, rampant—emblazoned on its front, going forth as if no one would dare to oppose his will. As if none possessed the right or the power to stop him. Aidan watched him, his gaze narrowing as he watched his progress across the field.

Strange
. He wasn’t as large as Aidan had imagined he’d be. Then again, the bard’s tales told not of a brawny man, but of a dark-haired youth, lean and tall. A mythic Arthur with sword skills that dazzled the mind and strange, otherworldly combat moves that froze his disbelieving opponents into dangerous immobility. Immobility that got them killed.

Tamping down that ridiculous notion, Aidan caressed the hilt of his sword; he needed to be patient. A few moments more and he would face the celebrated enemy himself. Move in for the kill. And then he would find out just how much was legend and how much was mere flesh and blood.

A feral smile edged Aidan’s lips. Aye, he relished the thought of crossing blades with this opponent. The Dark Legend was about to meet the Scourge of Wales, and he wagered the results would not be pretty.

Only a few more seconds—just a little longer and the
rebels would be far enough into the clearing that they’d not be able to flee back to the forest when he attacked.

Just a little longer…

“Now!”

Aidan’s command ripped through the silence, sending the full three score of his men hurtling onto the field. He led the solid wall of horseflesh and shouting warriors toward the Welsh, who reined their mounts in sharply at the explosive sound and movement of the attack.

Keeping his gaze trained on their leader, Aidan closed the gap, feeling a pang of disappointment when he realized that the man’s helmet with its concealing face-guard would undoubtedly mask his enemy’s expression of fear and surprise. ’Twas a look Aidan had long relished in his imagination.

But in the next instant the clash of battle overcame any idle thoughts. Instinct roared to life as Aidan slashed out at any Welsh warrior unfortunate enough to get between him and his prey. Bleeding from a fatal wound, one of the Welshmen fell off his mount, allowing Aidan to see a path through the writhing, battling forms of the warriors around him.

A path that led directly to the Dark Legend.

Kicking his destrier forward, Aidan charged at him, lifting his bloodied sword to begin the combat that would remove his enemy forever from the light of day. But as he approached, the Legend swung his steed around, and Aidan’s mount rammed into him, the force of impact knocking both men to the ground.

Black spots blinded Aidan’s vision; his chest felt afire, but he knew he had little time to recover. Looking up, he saw the Dark Legend spring to his feet with uncanny ease, his growl of rage audible even through the din of fighting around them.

Ignoring the answering flash of apprehension that shot
down his spine, Aidan rolled to stand just in time to meet a savage thrust, his blade glancing off of his enemy’s sword with bone-jarring force. It deflected up to the man’s head, catching his helmet and sending it flying off at the same time that it knocked him sideways and onto one knee.

He was down.

As if in the slower motion of a dream, Aidan pulled back, preparing to deal the killing strike his king had commanded of him. But before he could commence the blow, the Dark Legend swung his head to glare at him, a snarl twisting his features as he locked gazes with Aidan for the first time.

And at that moment, Aidan felt like he’d been impaled right through the heart; he froze, unable to move a limb. If not for his own men flanking either side of him as they fought, he would surely have been killed by one of the Welsh. All the energy seemed to drain from his arms. They dropped to his sides, the tip of his blade gouging uselessly into the dirt of the field. Even knowing ’twas impossible, there was no mistaking what he saw.

A smooth, beardless face stared back at him. An oval face, topped by raven curls chopped short like a boy’s. But that didn’t mask the fact that this was no youthful King Arthur looking at him, grimacing in anger. Nay, Aidan would recognize those silver eyes anywhere. They belonged to a
woman
—a woman he’d loved long ago.

A woman named Gwynne ap Moran.

But before he could bring himself to voice her name, she leaped from her crouched position, moving so fast that she was almost a blur as she tucked and spun in a complete revolution before landing on her feet in front of him. Her gaze pierced him, her expression flat. Unknowing.

“You will regret this day, Englishman,” she muttered, her voice a husky growl as she lashed out at him with her weapon.

He managed to pull back and twist enough so that the blade missed his vitals, instead catching his upper arm. The flare of pain from the cut banished the last of the strange weakness that had dominated him since he first saw her face; angrily, he lunged back at her, but she’d already disappeared behind one of the riderless Welsh steeds. Swinging atop it, she wheeled around, flashing another hate-filled glare at him before looking away to shout a war cry of retreat to her men.

Then turning, she thundered from the field, leading her remaining warriors back into the forest—and leaving Aidan to stand there bleeding, more shaken than he’d been since that day twelve years ago when he’d thought he’d seen her die…

Vaguely, he heard his men gather around him, heard Kevyn’s anxious voice questioning him as if from afar as he examined the wound on his arm. But it blended into the background of his mind, twisting and turning with all manner of haunting images and agonizing scenes. With bloody, horrific memories.

He swallowed the bitter lump in his throat, only one thought managing to shine clear in the muddled mess of his brain; for he couldn’t help but acknowledge that the stories wafting down from the Welsh mountains had been right on one point, at least…

The dead, it seemed, had indeed risen to new life.

A
idan clenched his fists, staring into the woods into which Gwynne and her men had disappeared. His breath rasped heavy, his gaze suddenly narrowing to a pinprick of black—his vision obscured by the rush of images. By the unbearable memory from that day so long ago…

“Aidan! Christ, man, what is it?”

Aidan jolted to awareness as Kevyn growled the question again and shook his arm, the brutal vision receding again to the dark corners of his brain. He breathed deep and saw that he stood, still frozen, on the bloody field. Slowly, sound and life returned to his senses. He pulled his gaze away from the wood. Kevyn waited, staring at him anxiously, while nearby, Derik ordered some of the men to bring bandages from the supplies they’d hidden at the field’s edge; swinging his gaze further, Aidan saw that Cedric and Bryan tended to a fallen comrade not far off, backed by another four or five of his men who combed the field for survivors.

“Kev, it was her,” Aidan managed to say quietly, his mouth still stiff from shock.

“
Her
?” His friend stiffened at the word and then snapped, “Christ’s blood, Aidan, the Dark Legend just slipped our snare, and he was most definitely not a her.” He let out his breath in a whistle. “I knew that gash was more serious than you let on. It’s addled your brain. I’ll tell one of the men to bring some thread to stitch it.”

“Nay,” Aidan answered, shaking his head. “My wound is not the problem.” He saw young Cedric glance up from his position tending the injured man.

“’Twas Gwynne, Kev,” he said in a low voice.

“Gwynne is the Dark Legend.”

“Gwynne?” His friend looked confused for a moment before his face went slack. “You don’t mean—?”

Aidan nodded. “Aye. ’Twas her. I’ll not deny that she was different, but I’d recognize those eyes, that face, anywhere.”

“Impossible,” Kevyn scoffed. “For a woman to fight like that? ’Tis impossible. You need to sit in the shade for a while, my friend, then it will all seem clearer.”

“I’m not addled, Kev. She saved my life twelve years ago—I think I’d recognize her, disguise or nay.”

“The woman who saved you is dead. She broke her neck struggling against the bandits when they carried her away. You saw it with your own eyes, man! She is long gone—but the Dark Legend is very much alive, and we’re under orders from the king to bring him down. This is no time to let fantasies overthrow your reason.”

Aidan clenched his jaw and stalked from the field toward his steed. “I’m telling you, ’twas her, Kev—and like it or not, I’m going after her.”

“Going after—?” Kevyn sputtered, coming to a dead halt before he was forced to scramble to catch up to Aidan. “You can’t mean to track the rebels into Welsh ter
ritory? The bastards have traps set all over the bloody mountains!”

“You said it yourself—’tis the king’s orders.” Aidan reached up to check his steed’s bridle strap. “I am to defeat the Dark Legend by death or by capture. Our trap here failed, so I will follow her to her camp and stop her there.”

“Oh, aye, ’tis as simple as that.”

“I’d have had her on the field today had I not been so surprised at seeing her.”

Kevyn scowled, arms crossed over his massive chest. “You’re insane, do you know that? The Dark Legend is a man, Aidan, not a woman. A
man
. He most certainly was not Gwynne ap Moran.”

When Aidan didn’t offer anything more, Kevyn rolled his eyes. “Fine. Let us say for the sake of argument that by some miracle it was Gwynne, and you
do
manage to track her to her stronghold. What then?”

Aidan saw the question in his friend’s gaze, the same question that had been pounding through his own skull since that moment on the battlefield. How far would he go to stop her? It was a question for which he had no answer. Not yet, anyway.

“I’ll do my duty,” Aidan said finally, steeling himself against the burning memories that slashed again through his mind. “How remains to be seen, but I’ll fulfill my vow to defeat the Welsh rebels.”

“Aye, but this particular rebel is what inspired your vow in the first place.”

“She wasn’t one of them twelve years ago, Kev.” Aidan looked away, jabbing his hand through his hair. “She’s changed, that much is obvious. On the field she stared at me with a look to chill the blood in my veins. I don’t think she even knew me.”

“All the more reason to be careful,” Kevyn said, gesturing to the bloody gash on his arm. “If ’tis her and you
hunt her down, you’d be wise to remember what she’s capable of.”

Aidan’s jaw tightened, but he remained silent, and Kevyn finally sighed. “All right. Whether the Dark Legend is a man or a woman doesn’t seem to matter much right now. Your mind is obviously made up, so I suppose I might as well hear it sooner rather than later. When exactly do you plan to attempt this foray into Welsh territory?”

“Within the hour.”

His friend let go a colorful stream of curses. “I should have known it. Blast it, but you don’t believe in patience, do you? I’ll need to start right away if I’m to ready the men and mounts in time.”

Aidan just raised his brow and smiled, and Kevyn gave him a good-natured shove and another curse before shaking his head and stalking off to complete his task.

But exactly three quarters of an hour later, they were all ready to go. Aidan gave the signal to ride, and Kevyn, Cedric, Bryan, and more than a score of his loyal warriors set out into the perilous mountain climes. They rode, resolute and committed, as he knew they would; to the last man they’d spill their blood for his sake, and he would for theirs.

But as he led them into the thickening forest, Aidan’s nagging thoughts of what to do with Gwynne once he found her returned with a vengeance. Neither of the two most obvious choices—killing her or capturing her—seemed possible. Taking her life, even in battle, was out of the question. No matter what had happened to her in the last twelve years, she was still a woman—a woman he’d loved, and who, in return, had once loved him enough to save him from a brutal death.

And as for capturing her…

After what he’d seen of her fighting skills and the abilities of her men, he’d wager that outcome stood the
same chance as the king’s prize pear trees bearing fruit in January.

He shook his head, focusing his attention on the trail. There had to be another way. He only prayed that their journey would be long enough for him to figure out what the devil it was.

Gwynne hunched over Damon’s body, her arms aching as she pressed against the gaping wound on his side. Her hands slipped, and she cursed under her breath. Using her shoulder, she tried to clear her eyes, but ’twas useless. The slick heat of blood was everywhere, pumped out by the fading force of Damon’s heart. She blinked, willing the sting away.

’Twas so hard to concentrate.

She cursed more loudly this time before closing her eyes and breathing in again. She bade the power to form, the heat to spread through her and swell from her palms—struggled to make it surge forth and seal his gash.

Nothing.

Damn, damn, damn
…

“
Chwedl
,” one of her men murmured. “Let him go. ’Tis over now. He is gone.”

“Nay.” She gritted her teeth and kept pressing against Damon’s side. She wouldn’t give up. Her powers had worked before. Healed the dying, stopped the bleeding.

Work, damn it, work!

He was so young. Only sixteen and on his first mission, one that should have been safe. She’d been sure ’twould be safe. A simple gathering of tribute to keep her people clothed and fed for a few more months.

Her men clustered around her, silent in the shade of the copse where they’d been forced to stop after Damon fell from his mount. The foolish lad had hidden the wound he’d received battling the English; he’d ridden high into
the mountain forest behind her, trying to be strong, wanting to return to camp with the rest of his warrior comrades and
Chwedl
, their legend.

With a growl Gwynne finally admitted defeat, pushing herself up and dragging her sleeve across her mouth. After a long moment, she pulled her gaze from Damon’s lifeless body and turned away, stalking to the edge of the glade to yank off her blood-spattered hauberk. It didn’t do much good; her woolen tunic and shirt beneath were soaked crimson.

The men kept their distance as she stood very still and just concentrated on breathing, trying to cool the rage, the hatred she felt before it spiraled out of control. It would do no good. Not now, anyway. Not until she faced the English bastards again.

After a moment, Dafydd, her chief guardsman, dared to come up to her and put his hand on her shoulder. She flinched from the contact but didn’t pull away.

“’Tis not your fault,” he said gently. “’Twas Damon’s time. Even a legend cannot stop the hand of God.”

Gwynne clenched her jaw, staring straight ahead into the shadows of the woodland. “I thank you for saying so, and yet I do not think that will comfort his Mam when we return to camp with his body in tow.” She glanced at Dafydd, who nodded somberly before she pulled away and walked back toward the corpse.

“Come,” she called to the men standing nearby. “Help me secure him to his mount.”

She was readying to lift the body when she suddenly stiffened. A chill went up her spine, and her senses seemed to pitch higher as she spun to glare into the woodland again.

“Isolde!”

Her combined bellow and scowl made a few of the younger men of the raiding party back away, while Dafydd
and the more seasoned of her guard stood firm, prepared from years of service with her to witnessing this more uncanny aspect of her powers.

“Curse it—Isolde, I know you’re near. Show yourself!”

A slight rustling of branches revealed a shadowy shape that stepped forward into the light of the clearing. Isolde’s cobalt robes looked strangely brilliant in the murky glade; her chestnut braids, shot through with silver, dangled over her shoulders, and she wore an expression Gwynne knew well: a hard, cold look that warned of her displeasure before she ever uttered a word.

“What is this?” Isolde finally snapped, flicking both her gaze and her slender fingers toward the corpse. “Another lad gone to waste thanks to your carelessness,
Chwedl
?”

Gwynne stiffened, and she felt the men around her pull in tighter, but no one murmured an answer to the sorceress.

Holding her robe close to her with one hand, Isolde frowned and moved in her odd, floating way toward Damon’s body. “You ought to take more care when you go into battle with green warriors,” she complained. “My sight cannot always be trusted to foretell such weighty matters.”

“Aye, and yet you bandy it about as the only truth when it suits you,” Gwynne muttered.

Isolde turned her icy glare on her again. “It has suited you in the past,
Legend
. You’d do well to—”

“Enough of your nagging, woman!”

The command came from one of the two fully geared warriors who stomped into the clearing with enough noise to make Gwynne and her men reach for their weapons. Upon sight of their faces, however, everyone relaxed and called out greetings before setting again to the task Gwynne had asked of them. Isolde just glowered at the intruders—her husband, Marrok, and their grown son, Lucan.

“Marrok,” Gwynne called, as she strode toward the man who was both the clan’s leader and her mentor in the arts of war. She clasped his forearm with her own, feeling a surge of gladness to see him. He was her rock, the only one she could truly rely on. He alone had trained her from the first day she’d held a sword, and aside from herself, he was the most gifted and respected warrior in the clan. She glanced at the younger man beside him, nodding acknowledgment. Lucan only jerked his head in response before shifting his gaze to his mother, who had slowly crossed the length of the clearing to stand beside him.

“What are you doing back so soon?” Gwynne asked them. “I thought your negotiations would keep you away for another fortnight at least.”

“Bah!” Marrok scowled. “The Welsh prince wants peace with the English, blast him. He talks of freedom, then in the next breath demands we stop our assaults on the border lords. We’ll get no aid from Rhys ap Gruffyd,
Chwedl
; we must rethink our tactics.”

“I won’t give up. Too many of our people have lost too much for us to stop the fight now.”

Marrok glanced beyond Gwynne to Damon’s pale corpse.

“’Twas a trap,” she said quietly, swinging around to view her men’s progress at securing him to his mount.

“The English knew we were coming. They set us up and attacked us in the open. We lost five men in the ambush—six, counting Damon.”

Isolde made a disgruntled sound. “You should have been more careful. Those you fought must possess their own power. An ability that helped them to hide their true purpose from my sight.”

“They were Englishmen,” Gwynne growled. “The only power they can claim is their ability to grovel at King Henry’s feet.”

“All right, enough,” Marrok chided, pulling Gwynne aside, even as he directed Isolde back. When they could talk privately, he asked, “How many English were there?”

“At least three score, led by that bastard who calls himself the Scourge of Wales. I recognized him by the device on his shield—a hawk swooping to pierce the neck of a dragon. ’Twas he who set the offering as a trap, I’m sure of it.”

“Then they know of our condition and the poverty that hampers our cause.”

“Aye, and they used it as bait against us.” Gwynne flashed a dark look. “But I left them with a few remembrances of my own. And I wounded their leader before we were forced to flee.”

“The Scourge himself?”

Gwynne made a scoffing sound. “He was less a Scourge than an idiot; he stood there stiff-legged, allowing me to swing at him before he even flinched to move out of my way.”

Marrok was silent for a long moment, and Gwynne felt a tingle of unease as her mentor’s gaze settled hard on her. Finally he murmured, “Where is your helm,
Chwedl
?”

She looked away and slipped her hauberk back over her head again before shrugging. “I lost it in the battle.”