CHAPTER One
Black Oak Hall
Spring 1284
“’Tis bad news I bear.” Muir, self-proclaimed sorcerer and often times the village idiot slipped, like an eel through clear water, over the threshold of the counting house. Carrying a cane that was more for appearance then use, he cast a furtive glance over his shoulder, as if sensing he was being followed into this private room so near the lord’s chamber.
Trevin was not amused by the elder man’s theatrics. Muir was known to overplay a part; his dramatics were a bit of his questionable charm. Seated at a small, scarred table near the single window, he looked up from the feeble accounts the treasurer of Black Oak had recorded. “Come on in, Muir,” he suggested, leaning back in his chair until the front legs were elevated from the floor. “Do not be shy.”
“Ye mock me, boy,” the old one grumbled.
“You mock yourself.”
“Ah, ‘tis a sorry orphaned lad I raised into the lord of this fine castle, one who minces words with me.”
Trevin let the chair fall back to the floor, the legs banging and startling Muir.
“But I lose myself. There is news from Rhydd.”
Rhydd. The bane of his existence and the beginning of his journey to a barony he’d never wanted and now was forced to rule. Trevin’s jaw grew tight and the blackness that forever darkened his heart seemed only to deepen. The quill snapped between fingers that ached to do something, anything other than oversee the daily routine of the castle he’d won by a lucky roll of the dice. He was sick to the back teeth of grumbling peasants, lazy servants, crumbling walls, and a treasury with no coin. “Bad news?” He asked in his slow, angry whisper. “Is there any other kind?”
“I take it the ledgers bode ill.” Muir leaned heavily upon his crook and fastened his good eye on the man he had raised from a whimpering blue-lipped babe. He was the only man within the walls of the keep who had no fear of Trevin’s black rage.
“Aye, the ledgers bode ill. Very ill. As they always do.” Trevin rubbed the ache from his shoulders, then, disgusted, slammed the ledger book closed. A cloud of dust swirled upward. “But tell me of Rhydd.”
“I’ve seen a vision.”
“Ah.” Trevin folded his arms over his chest and tried not to notice the stale odor of wine that was forever Muir’s companion. After all, he’d grown up witnessing the old man’s fondness for the cup. “A vision of Rhydd. What this time?”
“There is trouble brewing in the keep.”
“At Rhydd?” After thirteen years he could hear the name of that castle without thinking of the nights he’d spent in Lady Gwynn’s bed and the fact that nine months later she’d borne a son. His son. A boy he’d allowed to be named after another, all for the price of a ruby ring, jeweled dagger, and a few gold coins.
“The Lord Roderick returns.”
Trevin’s head snapped up. His muscles tightened. “He’s been locked away at Castle Carter—”
“I know, I know. For as long as there has been peace, but now he’s escaped and is returning to Rhydd.”
“You saw this?”
“Aye.” Muir nodded. “In a dream.”
“A dream you had after falling asleep from too much ale?”
“Nay, m’lord—”
“Don’t call me that.” Trevin found it bothersome that the man who had raised him would refer to him as lord, sire, baron, or any such nonsense.
“But ye be the ruler here now.”
“Aye, because I was lucky with the dice and won the castle from an addled old man who’d been far too deep in his cups. But we stray from the point. Many of your ‘dreams’ and ‘visions’, Muir, have come to mean naught.”
“In the past, aye, I know.” He bobbed his bald head eagerly. “But this time ‘tis true. If ye do not trust me, then be so good as to speak with Farmer Hal who came from Castle Carter with the news of Roderick’s escape as well as a cart of fodder corn and seeds for the planting season.”
Trevin couldn’t help but raise a disbelieving eyebrow. “The good farmer comes with the news to Black Oak just as you see your ‘vision’, Muir? ‘Tis lucky timing, is it not?”
“You doubt me? Me who raised you from a sniffling, scrawny babe?”
“Never,” Trevin said and would have smiled at his mentor’s furrowed pate if he were not disturbed by the news. He snatched the book ledgers and placed it in an oak and iron chest, then hesitated and, for an unknown reason, picked up a small faded pouch wherein a ring was hidden—the darkly jeweled ring he’d stolen from the Lady of Rhydd. Though in need of coin or food or a steed many times over the years, he’d never sold that little bit of his past that reminded him of her. Fool. He slipped the ring into a pocket, then locked the chest securely once again.
This was not the first time Muir had predicted a shadow over Rhydd, but in this instance, the old man seemed more sure of himself. “Let us see what the farmer has to say.” Swiftly, he ushered the magician out the door and turned the key in the lock.
Muir, despite his claims of pain in his knees, nearly flew down the stairs, the skirts of his sorry-looking tunic sailing behind him, the eyes of the ever-vigilant dogs watching him as he hurried past their resting spot on the landing.
One let out a short “woof,” then hung his head as he spied Trevin.
Hal, the farmer, was in the bailey arguing over the value of his seeds as he measured them for the steward. “’Tis the best beans in all of Wales, you can be sure,” he was saying, but paused in his boasting as Trevin approached.
“Muir tells me you bring news from Castle Carter,” Trevin said and, as the old man had predicted, the farmer told him of Roderick’s escape from the dungeon.
“…yea, the baron is expected back at Rhydd within a few days,” Hal said as the first few drops of rain fell from purple-bellied clouds scudding slowly across the sky. “’Tis a pity, if ye ask me, m’lord, for ‘tis no secret that Roderick is a hard ruler.” Hal shook his head. “Thank our Lord that the lady was able to bear him a son, elsewise I fear she would have met the same fate as those who had wed the baron before her.”
The muscles in the back of Trevin’s neck twisted into tight, painful knots.
“Now, no doubt, he’ll want more sons.”
“No doubt.” Trevin left the farmer and the steward to argue over the price of seeds and walked across the mashed grass of the bailey. Fingering the hilt of his dagger he silently cursed the fates that had caused him to steal Lady Gwynn’s ring so many years ago. As he had promised her on their parting, he should have forgotten that he had sired a son, that the boy now residing at Rhydd was his own flesh and blood. He could not cast that memory aside. Nor had the years diluted his need to see his boy, to claim him. If anything, his desire to give Gareth of Rhydd his name was stronger than ever.
There had been a time when he’d believed that he would father more children, that this very castle would be filled with so many of his sons and daughters he would rarely think of his firstborn, conceived in sin, raised as another man’s heir. But time and fate had played their cruel tricks upon his plans and now, he was certain, Gareth of Rhydd would be his only child; the only son he would ever spawn.
For nearly a year he’d struggled with himself, remembering his bargain with Gwynn, his promise of silence about the boy’s begetting. He’d kept the secret for years, secure in the knowledge that Roderick, bound forever a prisoner by Baron Hamilton of Castle Carter, would never guess the truth, never put the boy in danger.
“Lord Hamilton was never one to be trusted,” Muir said as if reading Trevin’s mind and flipped the hood of his tunic over his head as the rain pelted from the sky. His one good eye stared without blinking at Trevin. The old man had always had the disturbing ability to see into his young charge’s soul at the most dire of times. ‘Twas a constant battle to keep the sorcerer from looking too closely and spying Trevin’s weaknesses. “Ye, m’lord, have a duty to protect yer—”
“Devil be with you, Muir,” Trevin grumbled as the wind slapped against his face in icy gusts. “And don’t call me lord.”
Muir waved off his protest. “’Tis only ye who has to deal with the darkness in your soul. Only ye who have to face yer Maker and—”
“Oh, for the love of Christ!” Squinting against the rain that ran down his face and neck, Trevin threw an irritated glare up at the menacing heavens. His old bargain with Gwynn be damned. He’d pay her back tenfold, but by the gods of good and evil, he was going to claim his son.
“Holy Father forgive me, for I have sinned…” Gwynn whispered her prayers in the nave, hoping that her request wouldn’t fall upon deaf ears. Surely God wouldn’t forsake her now—or would He? She thought of all the spells she’d tried to weave, the runes she’d drawn, the pagan chants she’d murmured in the vain hope that her husband would never return. She’d lain with another man, deceived everyone in the castle, claiming her son was Roderick’s child.
Selfish, selfish woman. Creating a child so that you could live and now you have a son more precious than life itself.
Raindrops pounded upon the ceiling and the wind rushed noisily outside as Gwynn prayed.
For thirteen years she’d been favored. Her husband had been wounded in battle and held prisoner at a castle to the north without ever setting eyes upon the son she’d sworn was his. The ransom that Ian, his brother, had offered had been turned down by the Baron Hamilton of Castle Carter, the ruler who seemed to find some perverse pleasure in holding Roderick as his prisoner.
There had been, at the behest of Ian a few failed attempts at freeing Roderick. The attacks on Castle Carter had been futile, costly in men and arms and Ian had finally given up. Gwynn had fervently hoped that she would never have to see the man she’d married again, never have to lie about Gareth’s conception.
Gareth. Her son. The boy who would someday rule Rhydd. Spawned by the thief so many years before and passed off as the heir to a heartless man who had murdered his first two wives.
Oh, cruel fate that Roderick was now returning.
As it had so many times in the past, guilt seeped into her soul but she steadfastly swept it aside. Had she not lain with the outlaw, had she not spent three days of bittersweet passion in the lord’s bed with him, she would never have conceived Gareth, her sole joy in life, her reason for living. “Our Lord, please hear my prayers,” she intoned as the stones of the floor pressed hard against her knees. Stiffening her spine and bowing her head, she closed her eyes. She wouldn’t feel any more guilt for bearing a child as bright and true as her son.
“You appear troubled, child.”
Gwynn nearly jumped out of her skin. Her hand flew to her chest, as if to hold her heart in place. She’d thought she’d been alone in the chapel and hadn’t heard the scrape of Father Anthony’s leather shoes on the worn floor or the sound of his wheezing breath as he’d approached.
Her prayers forgotten, Gwynn scrambled to her feet.
“What b-bothers you?” Father Anthony’s gentle voice seemed to reverberate from the rafters though, in truth, he barely moved his thin, white-rimmed lips.
“Oh, Father Anthony… you… you startled me.”
“’Twas n-not my intention.”
“I… I was in need of… of solace,” she said and saw his bloodless lips curve into a knowing smile.
A tall, thin man with stopped shoulders and a ring of blond hair around a bald pate, he nodded, as if he, too, felt a need for the cleansing of his soul. He laid a long-fingered hand upon her shoulder. “Do not let me d-disturb you.”
“Nay, I was finished,” she said and hoped that her cheeks were not as red as they felt. ‘Twas unsettling the way he could sneak up on a body.
“You were praying for the b-baron’s safe return.” Father Anthony’s eyebrows raised in silent question and his Adam’s apple started to wobble, betraying his anxiety.
“Aye.” The lie tripped over her tongue and she cringed inside. ‘Twas one thing to stretch the truth to suit one’s purposes but quite another to lie baldly to the priest in the very chapel itself. “Thank you, Father,” she said.
“Rest well.”
As if she could.
“And, please, Lady, d-do not heed old Idelle and her d-dark ways. She means well, b-but—” He spread his fingers wide, palms upward, as if he were imploring heaven to understand some great mystery. “She is b-but a woman and a weak one at that. The d-d-devil is always looking for those who are not strong.” His gaze held hers. “D-Do not let Satan fool you, even if he d-dresses in the guise of a midwife.”
“Idelle is no devil.”
“I said it not. Just be careful, m’lady. Lucifer d-dons many masks.”
“I know my heart, Father,” she said, though she couldn’t admit what was in the depths of her soul. Clutching the folds of her tunic, she nodded and slipped out the doorway to the corridor where the candles flickered and smoked.
The thought of seeing Roderick again was like a vile poison seeping through her blood and curdling in her innards. She’d never loved him, had been betrothed by her father, and had spent only two weeks with the older baron before he’d ridden off to battle nearly thirteen years before. Since then she’d been the lady of the castle and had only to deal with Roderick’s brother, Ian. She shivered at the thought of her brother-in-law. He was a huge man with meaty hands that were covered on the backside with the same sable brown hair that darkened his jaw.
Though educated, he had a crude manner of speaking and there was no light of kindness in his eyes. Often times when he’d sipped from too many cups of wine, his eyes had narrowed and he’d stared at his sister-in-law in silent, evil regard. His own wife had died two years before. A small slip of a woman with pale skin and eyes that were red from disease and painful tears, Margaret had given up her soul in her husband’s bed, leaving him, like his only brother, without any issue. Since Margaret’s death, Ian’s interest in Gwynn had been bolder than ever and his brooding gaze had grown evermore filled with a hideous lust that made her skin crawl.
At the thought, Gwynn’s stomach roiled. She hustled through a door and across a short path to the kitchen where the cook, a tiny freckled man named Jack, was scolding two boys turning a spit which an ox was roasting on. Fat that streamed from the carcass sizzled on the coals and smoke rose up a wide chimney where slabs of meat were hung to cure.
“Faster, faster, you lazy swine,” Jack growled, boxing one of the lad’s ears. The boy yelped in pain but spun the roasting beast at a snappier pace. His partner, on the other side of the spit, avoided the cook’s eyes and put all his muscles behind rotating the cross bar. “That’s better… much better. See that ye keep it so.” Jack’s hands fisted and rested upon thin, bony hips. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint the lord when he returns, now, would we?”
Both boys shook their heads vigorously while a kitchen girl grinding spices with a mortar and pestle at a nearby table smothered a smile. Finally the cook, turning slightly, realized he wasn’t alone with his lazy charges. “Oh, m’lady,” he said, showing off uneven teeth and gesturing expansively to the bustle of his workers in the kitchen. One girl was paring winter apples, another plucking the feathers from a pheasant just outside the door. While boys carried bundles of firewood or buckets of wriggling eels, girls toted baskets of goose eggs. “As ye can see we’re making ready for the baron’s return.”
“Good, good,” Gwynn said, feigning interest, her fingers fumbling with the cross that dangled from the chain of gold encircling her throat.
“’Tis an intricate sugar castle we be making and the huntsman has brought us fine pheasants, six crane, and a stag.” The wiry man beamed at the thought of his feasts. “We’ve eels from the pond and salmon and—”
“—’tis pleased my husband will be. Carry on,” Gwynn interrupted, holding up a hand and heading toward the door leading to the bailey. All this talk of Roderick’s return was bringing an ache to her head and pain in her stomach. What was she to do? When he took one look at Gareth… Sweet Mother of the Lord, please help me. Ever since the messenger arrived with the news that her husband had escaped, Gwynn had been questioning herself, certain that she should have sent her boy to her sister, Luella. As the lady of Castle Heath far, far to the south, Luella would have seen to Gareth’s upbringing as well as to his safety. He would have become a page and a squire, learning the skills necessary to become a knight. He would have been safe. Gwynn could have sent word to Luella that Roderick was returning to Rhydd.
Oh, was a foolish, foolish woman she’d been! Had she really thought her husband would be imprisoned forever, or that he would die rotting in that dungeon? In thirteen years she’d become complacent, living within the comfort and safety of Rhydd’s thick stone walls, acting as if she were the baron, loving her son with all her heart, her only problem keeping her brother-in-law at arm’s length.
Since his wife’s death, Ian had become more impossible and bold, trying to corner her alone in dark corridors, brushing against her as they passed, staring at her with narrowed, sinister eyes that sent a chill racing through her blood.
But she would gladly face Ian a thousand times over if only Roderick would never return.
Her soft shoes sank into the mud as she dashed along the path winding through the bailey. Geese honked noisily, flapping their wings and losing feathers as they scattered toward the eel pond. Two boys hauling a dead boar veered out of her path as a young girl lugged a basket of wet laundry away from ropes strung near the north tower. Gwynn barely noticed as raindrops splashed against her tunic. She had to find Gareth and explain to a boy of barely twelve years that his life was in danger from the man who was supposed to be his father. When she’d hastily concocted her plan to conceive a child other than Roderick’s, she’d thought the baron wouldn’t know the babe was not his. Only later, after years of loving and doting on the lad would he suspect that the child might not have been his issue. By then he would have accepted the boy as his own or, should he suspect otherwise, not voice his fears as he would appear a stupid cuckold fool.
Oh, Lord, she must’ve been daft to think she could get away with her plan. But had she not lain with the thief, she would not have had her son. Nor would she have had years of memories of lovemaking. Even now, over a dozen years later, she could still remember the warmth of his touch, the sense of his tongue against her skin, the moist heat his kisses had inspired…
“Looking for your son?” Ian’s voice echoed through the bailey, ringing off the stone walls and thundering in her heart. She blushed, wondering if he could guess the turn of her wayward thoughts. ‘Twas silly and a waste of time to think of the youthful thief who had slipped out of the castle and her life just as she’d asked.
Now, Ian stood, fingering the blade of his knife as he watched a group of boys, Gareth among them, playing with wooden swords they’d constructed. Gareth, taller than the rest, was the most agile. A tight-muscled youth with black curls, sharp blue eyes, and quick reflexes, he was able to leap onto barrels or slide swiftly under a hayrick to avoid the advances of the thicker, clumsier boys.
Tom, the butcher’s son, lunged forward with his wooden sword, but Gareth ducked low, spun on one foot, and rolled beneath a peddler’s cart. “Clever lad.” Ian clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Much more clever than his father.”
Gwynn’s heart nearly stopped. “Is he?” she replied, lifting her chin though she felt the breath of doom against the back of her neck. She’d learned over the years that the best way to deal with Ian was to defy him openly and not allow him to see any hint or fear.
“Aye.” Ian’s pale gold eyes became slits and he rubbed the blade thoughtfully over the graying stubble of his beard. He was tall and muscular with a thick neck and sharp-edged teeth. “He’ll grow, though, given the time. Surely he’ll make his father proud.” He chuckled deep in his throat. “’Tis time Roderick met the lad.”
Never. Never will it be time. Despite the cool drizzle, Gwynn’s palms began to sweat.
“’Twill not be long now.”
God, please no! “Gareth, come!” she said, ignoring her brother-in-law as the boy spun and withdrawing a rock from the band of his pants, sent the pebble sailing, hitting one boy square in the buttocks. The lad sent up a howl and Gwynn had to shout over his cries of pain. “Gareth, please. Come along. Let us prepare to meet your father.”
Distracted from his game, her son looked up and was tagged by Tom whose wooden sword caught him between the shoulder blades. “Nay!”
“Got ye!” Tom said, laughing in a way that reminded Gwynn of an ass braying. He wound up again, ready to deliver another blow, but Gareth feigned to the left before diving right and catching not only Tom with the tip of his blade but two other boys as well. Sheathing his weapon in his belt, he hurried to his mother and she, feeling Ian’s keen eyes upon her back, ushered him into the keep.
“’Tis time I had a real sword,” he said.
“We’ll talk of this later.”
“But, Mother—”
“Later, Gareth.” He was changing, becoming a man before her eyes. ‘Twas only right that he would want his own weapons. And, considering all that was to happen, mayhap she should have given him more than the small dagger she’d bestowed upon him years earlier. “Remember how I told you that ‘twould be better if you went to live with my sister and her husband?” she asked when they were in the chamber where her son slept, he distracted by a pair of dice he’d won from Alfred, the foolish servant whose only talent was to train and keep the hunting dogs fit.
“Aye.” Gareth watched her as she threw his favorite tunic, hose, and mantle into a leather pack. Quickly she opened the purse at her belt and withdrew a few coins and dropped them, along with a gold cross she wore at her neck and two rings into the bag.
“’Tis time that you—”
“What?” As if finally understanding, he paled. “Time I left?”
“Long past time for your training—”
“Nay!”
“Do not argue, Gareth.”
His eyes thinned suspiciously as they had more often than not lately. Oh, he looked so much like his father. “But why now, Mother?” he asked.
She laughed, hoping to sound amused, but her voice was hollow from the fear that tore at her insides. “I’ve been selfish, Gareth, keeping you here when all the boys your age and younger are sent off to be pages and—”
“’Tis because father is returning.” He stared at her with eyes as blue and clear as a summer sky. So like the thief.
Gwynn swallowed hard. What could she say? The truth? Admit her lie? Tell her son, the very reason for her life, that she’d lain with a common stable boy-turned thief in order to conceive a child and deceive everyone, including the very child she’d borne? “’Tis not the time for questions, Gareth, now come along and—”
“’Tis a sin to lie. You say so. Father Anthony and old Idelle who agree on nothing say so. Yet you are lying, Mother. I can see it in your eyes.”
From the age of three Gareth had been able to read his mother’s expression with an uncanny observation, though he’d never guessed at the lie that was his birthright.
“’Tis a difficult time, son. Here, wear this.” Gwynn tossed him his heaviest mantle lined in squirrel fur.
“You are afraid.”
Sighing, she set the pack on a stool in the corner and shoved a wayward strand of hair from her eyes. “Yea, son. Sit down.” She pointed to the bed and for one of the first times in his young life, Gareth obeyed. Firelight played in his black hair and cast shadows on the walls and coved ceiling though it was barely noon. “’Tis difficult for me to say this,” she admitted tempering her words carefully. “Lord Roderick is not a kind man.”
Gareth snorted. The absent baron’s cruelty was common knowledge within the steep walls of Rhydd and, over the years of his imprisonment, the stories of his wretchedness had become legendary. Nary a child born within the keep did not know the mysteries of the lord’s first wives’ deaths.
The tales had been embellished with the passing of time and the gossip circulating from one mouth to another seeped like venom from the inner walls of the castle and through the gatehouse to the village. Few in Rhydd looked upon the baron’s return as a blessing.
“I fear him not.”
“’Tis foolish, for I-I worry for you.” There, it was said.
“Why?”
“Your father—” Oh, how her tongue tripped on that deceitful word. “—he, he might be displeased to know that you were not sent away as planned, that you are behind in learning to become a page and a knight.”
“Bah. If only I had a true sword I could—”
“You will have your bloody sword,” she assured him, to stave off the argument and with the final reality that he might, indeed, need a strong steel blade.
“Truly?” He was awed. A smile split his chin and he let out a whoop, reminding her that he, though starting to look a man, was still a boy.
“Aye, aye. But you must hurry now, don your mantle.”
“I can learn everything I needs know here,” Gareth wheedled, anxious to take advantage of her giving mood.
“Not if you want the weapon,” she said, bartering with the youth who had become a master at getting what he wanted from her. “Come, we have no time to waste. Idelle told the stable master to prepare a horse. Charles will ride with you to Heath. Hurry, now, don’t tarry.”
“There is something more.”
“What?” she asked sharply, feeling that with each passing second her son’s chances for safety were fleeting. “No, never mind, now come along!” With one hand she grabbed his upper arm, hauling him to his oversized feet, and heading toward the door. She scooped up the pouch holding his few belongings and slung his mantle over her arm.
“Do not send me away,” Gareth insisted, his forehead furrowing. “I should stay with you and protect you.”
“Protect me?”
“If Father has killed his other wives—”
“I will deal with him. Now, do not think such things. Maybe at Heath you’ll learn to treat your mother with some respect! Hurry!” There was no time for argument. She shepherded the boy down at the backstairs, past the solar, and along the path between the kitchens and keep.
The smells of baking bread and crushed garlic filtered through the alley as they half ran to the armorer’s hut where Gwynn procured a fine long sword, sheath, and belt that Gareth, grinning ear to ear, slipped around his thin waist.
“Now, let us be off,” Gwynn insisted, her worries growing with each second that passed. Clouds stole the sunlight as the mist turned to thick drops that peppered the ground to collect in muddy puddles. “Come,” Gwynn whispered as they ducked behind a grain cart and dashed to the stables where Charles, holding the reins of two of the best destriers in the castle, stood with his back huddled against the rain.
Gareth glanced at his mother for he’d never before been allowed to ride any horse other than a bay palfrey with an even temperament and no speed.
At the lift of his young eyebrow, Gwynn said, “Well, you don’t expect me to send you to Heath looking as if we’re poor, do you? What would my sister think?” She hugged her son fiercely and fought tears that suddenly filled her throat and burned the back of her eyes. Would she ever see him again, this, her only child?
Finally, she released him and, as if he finally recognized her fears, Gareth stared at her. “Fear not, Mother. I will return.”
“Of course you will.” She sniffed and cleared her throat.
“Soon.”
Oh, her heart tore into small pieces. “Aye. Now. Off with you!”
The black charger, a fiery beast named Dragon, snorted and half reared as Gareth quickly threw on his mantle, grabbed his leather bag, and tried to mount. The huge animal tossed his great head and sidestepped, rolling one dark, distrusting eye at the young man who dared tried to climb upon his back.
“Easy, there,” Charles murmured to the horse.
Gareth swung into the saddle and a prideful smile cut across a square jaw where a few early whiskers were beginning to sprout. “’Tis a grand animal you be, Dragon,” he said, taking up the reins.
“God help us,” Charles said under his breath. He was quickly astride the other charger, a red-brown animal with three white stockings and a barrel chest. “Let us be off.”
“Take care of yourself,” she said, raising her hand.
But as the words were uttered Gwynn heard the ominous blare of trumpets. Oh, God, no!
A shout rang through the bailey.
Gwynn’s knees grew weak. No! No! No!
But deep in her heart she knew all her plans were for naught. Her chest constricted and despair clutched at her heart.
“Mother?” Gareth asked, his fingers clutching the reins.
She bit her lip. “God help us,” she whispered as the wind whipped her skirts and rain fell mercilessly from the dark heavens.
The guard shouted down to the keeper of the gate. “Open the portcullis and give praise to the Holy Father! Lord Roderick has returned.”