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Morgan ab Kynan watched the sentry from the open flap of the tent where he'd
gotten barely two hours of sleep. He could tell by the irritated expression on
Rhys's face that Dain had been sighted, no doubt already breaking the
boundaries of the camp with his levrier hounds running alongside.
"Lavrans?" he called out, grimacing as he pulled on his boots. His jaw
tightened against the old pain in his right leg-
"Aye. Below the falls," the young man said, coming to a stop in front of the
tent, breathless from his sprint up the mountainside.
"I asked to know of his coming before he reached the river."
The sentry fought to hide a grim smile. "Ye know as well as me that e'en in
broad daylight he's like a shadow in the night."
Morgan nodded. "And Ceridwen?" He reached for the wineskin he'd hung on the
carved and tasseled tent pole and took a mouthful. He rinsed and spat the wine
out onto the ground.
"No sign beyond the ravine. She's still on this side, and we'll find her.
Dafydd is scouting west of the camp." Rhys used his sleeve to wipe the sweat
from his brow. A shock of brown hair fell back over his forehead. "I've never
seen a maid so skittish about marriage."
Morgan's mouth tightened. "You haven't met Caradoc." He cinched his belt
around his waist and reached for his bow.
"Then why do you take her to him?"
The sentry's eyes revealed a disapproval he didn't dare voice. It was a
problem Morgan remembered
well from his youth, the penchant to fall in love easily and usually where one
shouldn't. He understood
Rhys's attraction. Ceridwen ab Arawn was reasonably fair of face and had all
her teeth. It took little more to get a boy's blood running, yet Ceridwen had
more a sweet smile when she chose to use it, which wasn't often, and a voice
like cool water running through a forest glade. She also hadn't used her voice
often in the past sennight, except to accuse or plead.
Her pleading was not his problem this morning, finding her was, the
troublesome wench. He and his band of five men had combed the hills the whole
night long, but neither luck nor skill had been enough to bring her safely
back to camp.
"She goes to Caradoc," Morgan said in answer to Rhys, "because the most
powerful prince in all ofNorth Wales wills it, so she can bear her sons on the
land of her ancestors. 'Tis the same reason
Caradoc wants her, to be doubly bound by blood to the land he's won."
"Won by treachery and betrayal, and God knows what else." Rhys shuddered.
"Some say 'twas his own blade that hewed Gwrnach from gullet to cock."
"Some say," Morgan agreed. He'd heard the tales, and he knew the hatred
Caradoc had nursed for his father, but he also knew how the smallest twist of
the blade and the merest shift of intent could turn a killing into a
mutilation. Two thousand seven hundred Moslems had been slain by the
Lionheart's
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Crusaders atAcre . Decapitation had been the order, but by the end of it,
they'd all been hacking away at the hostages, slogging through blood and gore
up to their knees. How many had he killed and how many mutilated? He would
never know. Death was death, and by the sword 'twas never pretty.
He slipped his quiver over his shoulder and took off with long strides toward
where the horses were tied.
Rhys followed alongside, his boy's jaw jutting out.
"Methinks she would have been happier remaining with the nuns at Usk."
If Rhys would rather protect her than bed her, Morgan thought, there was hope
for him yet, for it was always the bedding that caused young men to completely
lose their senses.
"Have Rhodri and Drew cross the river, and send Owain to me," Morgan ordered,
ignoring Rhys's summation of the situation. The boy was a good tracker, and
with time he would become even better, but his feelings for the maid had
clouded his judgment. Ceridwen was no nun, not yet. "She heads for
Mychael and Strata Florida."
"Why?" the young sentry asked, surprised. "The monks won't take her, even if
her brother is one of their order."
"She doesn't go for sanctuary, but to rouse Mychael out of his monkish ways,
to put a sword in his hand."
"She thinks Mychael will fight for Balor?" Rhys's tone implied a hefty share
of doubt.
Morgan shared those doubts. He'd known Ceridwen's brother since his birth, and
Mychael was more likely to be sainted than knighted. The boy had taken to the
monkish life with a fervor. "When her father had it," he answered, " 'twas
called Carn Merioneth, and if Ceridwen could win it back, Mychael would no
doubt let her have the castle and no lord a'tall, or mayhaps the lord of her
choice."
"And has she chosen?" A betraying amount of hope crept into the young voice.
Morgan stopped short of his destination and flashed the sentry a reproving
grin. "She asked me, cub, but
I don't think her heart was in it."
Accusation glared from Rhys's eyes. "Then why did she run?"
Another knowing grin spread across Morgan's face. "I told her I had more to
offer a woman than my sword arm. Should she but care to notice and make me an
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