Daughter of Time (Prequel to The After Cilmeri Series)

Daughter of Time (Chapter Eight)

Llywelyn

I poked my nose into my bedroom. Marged slept on the big bed, curled around Anna, whose raven locks I could just make out above the blankets they'd pulled nearly over their heads. I can appreciate that. A day like today makes me want to hide too. I had many questions for Marged but at least I'd settled the most important one. Whatever her origins, I would no longer consider the notion that she was a spy.

Her face, when she looked at me over the body of Geraint, had been so full of pity and understanding that I'd come close to weeping. She'd seen that too, seen the effort to contain it and saved me by speaking to Goronwy herself to give me a chance to find composure.

We lost, and lost, and lost again, and I could never find my heart so hard that it didn't rip me apart inside with each death. At least Geraint had been an old man, bent with years of age and care. He died knowing he'd left his lands and lord—his life's work—in the capable hands of his son, Tudur. The others we'd lost had been young, one only sixteen, and we could only raise our fists and curse at the utter, bloody waste of it.

The mood of all the men was dark, taking out the despair at death with anger at the men who'd done this. But as much as I wanted to start pulling out our prisoners' fingernails, I refrained. Now if I had Gruffydd ap Gwenwynwyn under my nose, Goronwy would be hard pressed to hold me back. Too bad he hid behind King Henry's skirts where I couldn't touch him.

I closed the door to the bedroom and turned toward the stairs that led to the kitchens. Even though it was nearly midnight, servants were still awake, preparing food and drink for those of my men who couldn't sleep after the day's work. The morning would come all too soon for everyone. I pushed open the door to the courtyard and strode towards the stables where Goronwy had put our two surviving prisoners.

"One's no older than my man-at-arms who'd died," Goronwy said in an undertone as I walked in. "Perhaps like him too, this was his first mission for his lord."

"He will be the one you break first," I said.

"His face is white and he's near in tears," Goronwy said. "Third stall from the right."

"Not much longer now, my lord," Hywel said.

He leaned back in a straight-back chair, his giant feet up on a trough. Lanterns blazed from hooks along the walls, sending light into the darkest corners. The stables had room for more than fifty horses, as was necessary given the number of men I often brought with me in my travels or for a day's hunting in the forest. The manor house itself barely deserved the name, however. It had a large hall and rear kitchen, but only three rooms above stairs. And no dungeons, which is why Goronwy was using two stalls for our prisoners instead of the usual horses.

I scuffed at the floor with my boot, glad to see that attention to detail of the stable boys, even in my absence. With only fire for light, even protected within a lantern, they had to be constantly vigilant about loose hay tracked across the floor.

"Shall I bring him out, my lord?" Goronwy said.

"It's your decision, Goronwy," I said. "I stand by your assessment."

Goronwy signaled to the two guards who stood on either side of the boy's stall. One of the guards was the man, Bevyn, whose charge it had been to care for Marged. She told me she'd ordered him to leave her, but I wasn't satisfied, even if he'd saved Goronwy's life. It was my orders that he needed to obey; neither his nor Marged's judgment had yet been proved, even if today's escapade had ended well for them. It might not have.

The guards disappeared inside the stall and came out leading the boy, his hands tied behind his back. Bevyn pushed him to his knees in front of Goronwy. The boy was older than Goronwy had implied, nearer to twenty than fifteen, of middle height and thin, with reddish hair and a pointed beak of a nose.