Two
Ten years later, early spring
“I have decided that you shall marry within the month, Bethan,” Sir Agnarr de Bellemare decreed. “I am done with your paltry excuses and maidenly foolishness.”
The self-proclaimed Lord of Lampeter made his announcement as the evening meal was being served. The hall bustled with activity, people, and noise, but Bethan felt several pairs of eyes turn to her. She imagined her stepfather had raised his voice intending to be overheard, intending to demonstrate yet again that he, and he alone, ruled this land and all who resided within it.
Bethan clutched her hands together in her lap so no one, especially de Bellemare, would see them tremble.
“Precisely who am I to marry, my lord?” she asked cautiously, trying to force a light, uncaring note into her voice. “’Tis over a year since any acceptable men have presented themselves to me as potential suitors.”
“The fault for your lack of suitors does not lie with me,” he spat out.
To her dismay, Bethan flinched. His words had struck a chord. At three-and-twenty she was well beyond the age when most women married. As she matured, there had been some interest, but any man that she was willing to consider quickly changed his mind when he tried to negotiate a bridal contract with her stepfather.
In the end, Bethan had not been too despondent, for she knew the one characteristic she required in a husband, above all others, was his ability to stand up to the Lord of Lampeter. Unfortunately, that man had yet to be found.
“I have been far too lenient about this matter,” de Bellemare announced. “I will select the groom myself and you will be pleased with my choice.”
“Your choice?” Bethan said in a clear voice that easily reached the end of the hall. “I agreed to an arranged marriage, my lord. Not a forced one.”
“Damn your insolent hide!” Lord Lampeter slammed his fist upon the trestle table so hard his goblet of wine shuddered, tipped, and fell over. The rich red liquid ran like a river to the edge, then trickled over the side.
Bethan straightened her shoulders. “Three years ago you agreed, sir, that I would have the final choice as to which man becomes my husband. Surely, you do not mean to break your promise to me, an oath sworn before God and our people?”
He glowered at her and Bethan felt a rising fear. ’Twas not prudent, or safe, to push his temper beyond a certain point, but she had to reestablish her rights in this process in front of witnesses. It was her only chance.
“You know your stepfather is a man of his word,” Lady Caryn said quietly. “He would never dishonor himself in such a fashion by breaking his promise.”
Bethan turned to her mother in gratitude, grateful for the support. The answering smile of encouragement she received nearly broke her heart. The once lovely Lady Caryn was thin to the point of gauntness, her complexion pale, bloodless. She was in so many ways a shadow of her former self, but her instinct to protect her daughter remained strong.
“I need no defense from you, lady wife,” de Bellemare grunted in disgust. “If you had given me a son, a proper heir, this matter would not be of such grave importance.”
Cowed, Lady Caryn bowed her head. The Lord of Lampeter never missed an opportunity to berate his wife over her failure to produce the requisite heir. Bethan felt it was especially unfair, since her mother had literally tried for years to bring forth a living child, becoming pregnant nearly every spring, and either miscarrying or burying a stillborn babe by fall. So much sadness and difficulties, both physical and emotional, had taken a toll on her health and spirit.
For a time Bethan thought he might put aside Lady Caryn and take a new wife, but surprisingly that had not come to pass.
Without a son to inherit, Bethan was heiress to Lampeter, a vast property of sizeable wealth. But de Bellemare had no intention of letting control of the property slip from his grasp any time soon. Though he left his true motivation unspoken, even a fool knew that Lord Lampeter meant to mold her bridegroom into his image, intending to train him to do his bidding.
Would they never escape this dreadful tyranny?
Bethan’s blood ran cold at the thought of spending the rest of her life joined to a man like her stepfather. Arrogant, violent, aloof, cruel. She would be better off dead. Or in a convent.
For a moment she let her mind wander as she contemplated life as a nun—serene, reflective, safe. It was tempting. Though she freely acknowledged she had no calling to do God’s work, the prospect of spending the rest of her life out from under the thumb of Agnarr de Bellemare held enormous appeal.
It was also a dream, a selfish dream. She could not abandon her mother, nor turn away from those who depended on her. De Bellemare was a harsh taskmaster. He slaughtered not only the soldiers he fought, but many of the innocent people they protected. He routinely burned villages, defiled women, cared not one wit when famine swept through Lampeter.
It was only through Bethan’s intervention these past years that so many of her own people survived. If she abandoned them now, they might all perish. Though it meant personal sacrifice, she knew she must do whatever she could to protect them.
That promise brought her mind to the book that awaited her in her bedchamber. Through means he would not divulge Father William had smuggled the missive to her and begun teaching her to read it. As a woman, she had not been given the benefit of learning, but the situation was so dire Father William could not refuse her pleas.
The book was an ancient tome, containing knowledge of pagan rights, the dark arts and the mystical, unholy creatures who performed them. There were accounts of men who could change their humanly form at will into an animal of prey such as a wolf; men who became glowing red-eyed monsters when the moon was full; others who possessed the upper body of a man and the lower body of a winged serpent.
There were tales of witchcraft, sorcery, and demons who made pacts with the devil. It fascinated and frightened Bethan, but she continued to study the volume each day, for what she sought was knowledge. Knowledge to understand her stepfather’s strange habits.
She was convinced he was not a man of this world. A witch perhaps? Or a wizard? ’Twas the only explanation for the things that could not be explained or understood. Nearly everyone in the castle feared de Bellemare too much to pay close attention, but Bethan had observed him for years.
While others had started to show the passage of time on their face and form, the Lord of Lampeter had not aged a day. Instead of declining, his physical strength had increased. Bethan had witnessed on several occasions his peculiar and disturbing ritual of drinking the warm blood of an animal he had just slain.
He was noticeably restless, edgy, and even more prone to strike out at others when the moon was full. He claimed the sunlight caused a pain in his eyes and thus avoided it, staying indoors on the rare days the sun shone brightly. But on such a day Bethan had been the only witness to a most bizarre event.
She had been tucked away in the corner of her mother’s solarium, enjoying a few moments of quiet solitude. Her stepfather had entered the chamber. Not finding what he sought, he turned to leave. But as he strode from the room he stepped too close to the window, passing his hand through a shaft of sunlight. The exposed flesh of his fingers had burst into flames.
Frightened, shocked, horrified, Bethan had curled herself into a tight ball, hiding herself behind the stone archway, praying she had not been seen. Cursing, de Bellemare had left the solarium. When he appeared at the evening meal, all traces of the wound were gone.
“We shall speak no more of your marriage,” de Bellemare ordered in a menacing voice, and the sound of his raised tone brought Bethan back to the present. “Since I gave you my word, I shall put forth two of my own knights as your potential bridegroom, so you may choose your husband. But mark me well, girl, you shall be married before the last crop has been planted on my lands or suffer the consequences.”
Though she vowed to remain impassive, Bethan was having trouble breathing. She knew from experience that once he had reached a decision, Lord Lampeter did not change his mind. There would be a wedding within the month, even if she had to be brought kicking and screaming to recite her vows.
She knew there was only one way to avoid a match to a man of her stepfather’s choosing. She needed to find herself a husband. Quickly.
There were many times in the past ten years that Bethan firmly believed God had forsaken her. The Almighty had delivered evil—in the form of Agnarr de Bellemare—on their doorstep and done little to keep it in check.
But a skirmish on the southern borders called her stepfather and his most loyal troops away and Bethan knew her prayers for a miracle had been answered. With Lord Lampeter otherwise occupied, she now had the chance to find her champion.
It had not been easy, but with a heartfelt plea and a touch of guilt, Bethan was able to persuade Sir Colwyn, the hardened soldier who had loyally served as her father’s garrison commander, to escort her on her quest.
They had traveled north on horseback with a handpicked contingent of soldiers, making only brief stops for food, water, and rest. They met few travelers as they climbed the mountains, the roads slick with mud from the constant rain, the forest blanketed with spindly trees not yet awakened from their winter sleep.
Bethan made no complaints as she lolled with exhaustion in her saddle, grateful that she had been given this chance. Sir Colwyn had been most skeptical indeed when she revealed her plan to find Lord Meifod, the man they called the Warrior of the North. He was said to be a bold, self-assured man, a battle-seasoned warrior with unrivaled fighting skills. She believed he was the one man in all of Wales who could protect her, and her people, from Agnarr de Bellemare.
“What will you do when we meet Lord Meifod?” Sir Colwyn had asked.
“I will convince him to take me as his wife.”
“How do you know he does not already have a wife?”
“I have never heard any tales of a Lady Meifod.”
Colwyn snorted. “Perhaps she is a dull maiden, not worthy of a troubadour’s tale.”
“Hmmm, perhaps.” Bethan offered him a scant smile. A wife was but one of the many obstacles she faced, but she was not about to voice any of the nagging doubts that tormented her. Her only chance of escaping her stepfather’s ruthless domination was to strike a bargain with her future husband.
They rode another two leagues through a steep mountain pass and then Colwyn announced, “We are here, my lady.”
Teetering with exhaustion, Bethan was instantly revived by the knight’s words. She squinted at the castle perched high upon the crest of a hill, inordinately pleased to discover the impressive structure was constructed of timber, in keeping with the Welsh tradition.
The rain had stopped, the gray mists of the morning had burned away, leaving a rare afternoon of bright sunshine. Bethan nudged her horse forward. Her guard surrounded her on all sides, engulfing her in a protective ring as they joined the scattering of men, women, and children on the road to the castle.
There were wagons filled with casks of ale, carts pulled by oxen loaded with bags of grain. Women carried baskets of eggs and young spring vegetables, one lad hauled a pail of fish, another an armload of firewood.
“Are you certain we are at the right place?” Bethan asked. “’Tis said that Lord Meifod prefers solitude. This hardly appears to be the dwelling of a recluse.”
“Lord Meifod lives in the castle, my lady. Not the village,” Sir Colwyn replied.
Sir Colwyn kept his eye squarely on the castle looming ahead while Bethan took a moment to inspect the rest of the area. The village was set within a valley of rolling hills with steep mountain ranges on all sides that provided a natural defense.
She noticed a few fat cattle grazing in a nearby field, while a second meadow accommodated a substantial herd of sheep. The sounds of honking geese, clucking chickens, squealing pigs, and yapping dogs filled the air, along with the occasional shout of a child at play.
They were not challenged entry by the soldiers that stood sentry around the perimeter, yet all normal activity seemed to cease, as the villagers stopped whatever they were doing to turn and stare as they went by.
“I suspect they have few visitors, my lady,” Sir Colwyn commented.
“No doubt they have never seen such a fine and handsome escort,” Bethan teased as she offered a smile to a pretty, pregnant woman carrying a large basket of laundry under her arm. The woman returned the smile shyly, then lowered her head and hurried away.
The blacksmith, leatherworker, weaver, and potter all had shops disbursed among the cottages and each appeared to be doing a brisk business. Bethan was surprised and impressed by the obvious prosperity of the village. The buildings were in good repair, the merchant stalls stocked with a variety of goods, and the people examining the wares looked hale and hearty.
Once through the village, Sir Colwyn quickened their pace. A shout of warning was heard from the castle, long before they reached it. When they did arrive, the sentry standing high on the watchtower assessed them with a furrowed forehead. Bethan’s soldiers tightened the protective ring around her further as they halted in front of the large, closed oak gates.
“State your business,” the sentry called out.
“I am Lady Bethan of Lampeter. My guard and I seek shelter for the night.”
The sentry snorted, then said something to his companion, who took off at a run. Bethan straightened her back and tried to quell the nerves that had started fluttering in her stomach.
“Hardly a friendly greeting,” Bethan exclaimed wryly to Sir Colwyn, her eyes fixed on the archers lining the walls.
“The men are well trained,” Sir Colwyn commented, his voice echoing approval.
“Tis hardly necessary. Our numbers are too small to pose any sort of threat to a fortified castle of this size,” Bethan protested.
“A soldier who underestimates any potential threat quickly loses his position,” Sir Colwyn added. “And often his life.”
They continued to wait, the warm sun beating down on their heads, until an order was given granting them entry. Slowly the portcullis began to rise. Bethan and her guard moved together in synchronized step as they passed through the large gatehouse and across the outer bailey.
Bethan immediately noted that the calm serenity and cheerful atmosphere so prevalent in the village was clearly lacking within the castle walls. Armed knights patrolled the low battlements, while the archers lining the walls had shifted their attention inward, their notched arrows at the ready. There was no doubt that this was the home of a warrior, a mighty stronghold meant to keep others out.
They passed through to the inner bailey and here everyone seemed in a hurry, bustling quickly from task to task. The armorer was pounding out metal into swords, the carpenter repairing the door on the stables, the carter fixing a broken wheel on a large oxcart. Bethan watched for a moment, then realized with a startled surprise why it seemed so strange. There were no women. Those hauling the firewood, tending the kitchen herb garden, and hanging the laundry were all male servants.
A tall man wearing a long, hooded mantle emerged from behind a pile of wine casks and hurried toward them. Though the material of his garment was costly, Bethan did not think he was Lord Meifod. He seemed too slight in stature, too refined to be known as the Warrior of the North.
“Welcome, my lady.” He bowed, his eyes moving over her with interest. “I am Frederic Bonvalet, steward of the castle. I am pleased on behalf of Lord Meifod to offer you and your men shelter for the night.”
“I am Lady Bethan. We gratefully accept His Lordship’s kind offer of hospitality.”
Bethan smiled and with the steward’s assistance, dismounted. She fell in step beside him as they walked into the hall. Sir Colwyn followed at a respectable distance while the rest of the men saw to the horses. They crossed the wide expanse of the great hall and Bethan’s stomach rumbled as the scent of freshly baked bread and rich spices tempted her appetite.
“We will be serving the evening meal shortly,” Frederic remarked.
Bethan blushed. “Will your master be joining us?”
“No.”
“Oh. Is he away from the castle?” she asked, voicing a fear she had not anticipated. “Will he be gone long?”
“Lord Meifod is too busy to attend to any unexpected guests.”
“But I wish to express my gratitude for his hospitality to your lord in person, as any well-bred lady ought.”
“I will convey your thanks to him myself.”
“You do not understand.”
“I understand far more than you think,” the steward replied, not unkindly. “There are many who wish for an audience with Lord Meifod, but few are granted. And never to a woman.”
Bethan felt the blush on her face deepen as her cheeks heated with embarrassment. She had not meant to sound so desperate. “I am afraid I was unclear. I have traveled a great distance to speak with His Lordship concerning an urgent, personal matter. Surely he can spare me a few moments?”
The steward glanced at her impassively. “I will convey your request to Lord Meifod, but caution you not to hold out hope.” He cocked a brow. “I notice you are traveling without a maid. We have no female servants at the castle, but I can send for a woman from the village to attend you, if you wish.”
“Thank you, no. I can manage very well on my own.”
They had reached another door, which the steward opened. Bethan entered the bedchamber, hardly glancing at her surroundings.
“I will send a servant to fetch you when dinner is served,” Frederic said, bowing gracefully.
Though she smiled pleasantly, inside Bethan was nearly shaking with disappointment. So close! She had overcome so much to get here, and then to be so easily dismissed was a bitter, painful pill to swallow.
Her fingers gripped the base of the ewer set on the table near the canopied bed. Itching to lift it and hurl it across the room, Bethan instead forced herself to take several calming breaths.
All was not yet lost. She had found her way inside the castle. Somehow she would find a way to see Lord Meifod. She had not come this far to be denied.
Haydn stood well back from the deadly rays of sunshine and stared out the window of his bedchamber. With growing annoyance he watched the progression of the small troupe of soldiers as they wound their way through the village and started on the path to his castle.
“Hellfire and damnation!” Haydn cursed, curling his hands into fists, when he spied the female rider in the center of the pack.
“My lord?”
His steward, Frederic Bonvalet, appeared in the doorway.
“Grant them one night of shelter,” Haydn commanded, knowing the answer to the question before it was even asked. “No more.”
The steward bowed and hurried away. Not surprisingly he returned within the hour.
“The lady wishes an audience with you,” Frederic said.
“Did you tell her that I refuse?”
“I did. Several times. But that did not appease her.” The steward cleared his throat. “She claims ’tis a personal matter of great urgency.”
“Ah, great urgency. For women ’tis always urgent when it comes to getting their own way.”
“She seems especially desperate, my lord. Would you not consider making an exception this one time?”
Haydn’s mouth twisted in irritation. She must be a real beauty or a particularly fine actress to have influenced the loyal steward to plead her case.
“My answer remains the same. And it would behoove you to remember that your allegiance is to me, Frederic, not some flighty noblewoman with a pretty face and a heaving bosom.”
The steward wilted under Haydn’s disapproving gaze. “Forgive me.”
Haydn dismissed Frederic with a wave of his hand, but his thoughts remained on the mysterious lady.
She was hardly the first to come and beg for his assistance. For years, women had flocked to his castle, seeking something from the Warrior of the North. They flattered him, pleaded for help, even coyly offered him sexual favors.
At first, he was polite, yet firm with his refusals, trying to cushion the rejections. Still, they came. So after a time, he ceased meeting them. In his experience, mortal women of noble means brought nothing but trouble.
Haydn moved to the window and released the heavy linen curtain, plunging the chamber into blackness. Dark as pitch, he waited for the calm to settle his agitation, but it eluded him. Haydn’s jaw tightened. It was the woman. Her presence within his castle walls had stirred the air, had created a tension that would not leave until she departed.
Perhaps it was time for him to consider returning to the fortress where he had lived with his parents. He had seen it three years ago, a dark and deserted ruin, blackened by fire, overgrown with brambles. The locals claimed it was cursed, a sinister place, fit only for the devil.
He could reclaim it, repair it, make it comfortable for himself, but even restored, he knew no humans would willingly reside there with him. He closed his eyes, wondering if he was ready to embrace that life.
He lived here in solitude, but had come to appreciate the occasional company of those who lived under his command. They accepted him because they knew not what he truly was, a vampire, a creature of darkness who hunted in the dead of night, thirsting for blood.
The villagers worshiped him from afar, because he kept them safe. His soldiers, in awe of his battle prowess, were loyal to him, the male servants who worked at the castle were content, because he treated them fairly.
He was pleased with the life he had created for himself, yet never far from his mind was the purpose of his existence, the need to plot his revenge against his bitter enemy, Agnarr de Bellemare.
His gut still burned every time he thought of de Bellemare’s treachery, but Haydn had learned to leash his anger, to harness the demons that clamored in his head. He knew he would have but one chance to annihilate his enemy. He knew also that if he failed he would suffer the same grim fate as his parents.
The afternoon sunshine eventually gave way to the dusk of evening, but Haydn did not leave his chamber. He sat in the dark. He sat in silence. He sat alone and pondered his future.
“They want us to depart within the hour, my lady,” Sir Colwyn told Bethan the following morning.
“But we cannot leave! I have yet to see the Warrior of the North and made my proposition.”
Colwyn shook his head. “Bonvalet was most adamant in his instructions. I suspect we will get our innards spilled all over the great hall if we remain much longer.”
Bethan rubbed her temples to alleviate some of the pain that was throbbing over her eyes. Her initial worry of having her proposal soundly denied by Lord Meifod seemed like a ridiculous concern, considering that she was finding it almost impossible to even present that plan.
“Tell him that I am ill,” she said.
“My lady—”
Bethan held up her hand to silence Sir Colwyn’s protests. “Tell the steward that I am ill, unable to rise from my bed. Explain this is a usual occurrence, one that happens each month to me.”
“Each month?” Sir Colwyn’s bushy brows drew together in confusion, and then a blush of red heated his cheeks.
“Precisely.” Bethan paced between the window and bed, trying to release her nervous energy. “I am hoping the hint of womanly difficulties will embarrass the steward enough to buy us another day inside these walls.”
“But what good is another day? Lord Meifod has refused to see you.”
“True, he has refused me a formal audience. But a casual meeting will serve me just as well. Today you must discover the location of the master’s chambers and plot a route from my room to his. I shall wait until the castle sleeps and then go to him in the dead of night to plead my case.”
“Lady Bethan, you are a maiden! You cannot present yourself to this warrior in his bedchamber. Whatever will he think of you?”
“He will think I am serious,” she retorted. “And desperate. Both of which are true.”
“I cannot allow it,” the knight declared. “I am sworn to protect you and this plan puts you directly in harm’s way.”
Bethan threw back her shoulders. She knew Sir Colwyn was right. Her unexpected, uninvited appearance in Lord Meifod’s bedchamber would put her in a very precarious position indeed.
But she had little choice. Time was running out. Her tale of a womanly illness would not work beyond today. She must see him tonight or else forever lose the chance to save herself, to save her people.
“No arguments. Just find that bedchamber, Sir Colwyn.”
The hallway was dark, cast in shadow by the few lit torches scattered along the wall. Bethan had spent the past two hours memorizing the directions Sir Colwyn had given her and she was grateful to have committed the details to memory, for her nerves were making it difficult to think. Tamping down her doubts, Bethan allowed her feet to carry her forward, through one corridor, then up a steep set of stairs to the next level and chamber where Lord Meifod slept.
She felt the goose bumps rise on her skin and she sent up a hasty prayer that she would find him soon. Biting her lip, she hurried onward into the darkness. She took but two more steps before the hair on the nape of her neck rose in warning, giving her the heart-stopping sensation that she was being watched.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” she whispered.
Icy silence was the only reply. Bethan drew herself up, paused, and listened. She froze, allowing her senses to sharpen; then slowly pivoting her head, she studied the shadows behind her, half expecting someone to materialize and confront her.
But there was nothing.
Shaking her head at her foolish nerves, she continued, until suddenly from out of the darkness came a dark figure, large and imposing. Bethan gasped and took a step backward, nearly stumbling over her clumsy feet.
The noise catapulted the figure into action. The shadow moved, so swiftly she was unsure she could trust her eyes that it had in truth been real. Then suddenly a bulky arm came out of the shadows and snaked around her waist. Before she had a chance to utter a sound, a second hand clamped over her mouth, snuffing her cry of alarm.
For the space of a heartbeat, pure terror pounded through her veins, rendering her immobile. Her captor dragged her down the hall and Bethan came to life. Kicking, thrashing, and twisting, she fought to escape the iron bonds that held her prisoner.
Oh, why had she not listened to Sir Colwyn? It was utter madness to put herself in such grave danger by wandering the hallways of a strange castle in the middle of the night. Tears of frustration came to her eyes when she realized she might very well pay for her foolishness with her life.
“Cease your struggles at once or else you shall wake my guards.”
The voice that spoke was low and arrogant. Bethan winced and tried to calm herself, knowing this must be the man she sought. She remained perfectly still and he removed his hand from her face. But the other arm, strong as steel, remained around her waist.
Bethan could barely breathe, was terrified of moving. Yet slowly she turned and looked up at her captor, straining to see the features hidden within the hooded cowl of the man’s mantle, but it was too dark.
“Who are you?” he demanded.
His tone was menacing and angry. The panic tightened in her breast. Bethan tried to summon a smile, but her lips trembled so forcefully she knew the effort was a failure.
Stay calm. Keep your wits. “I am Bethan of Lampeter. My men and I arrived yesterday afternoon.”
“There are no guest chambers in this section of the castle. What were you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
A rumble of displeasure rose from deep within his chest. “Well, now you have seen me. I bid you good night, my lady.”
He released his grip and turned to leave. Bethan felt despair tear at her soul. “Wait! Please, I must speak with you on a matter of grave importance. Is there somewhere private we may converse?”
“Private?”
“Your bedchamber, perhaps?”
He shifted and his hood fell from his head, revealing his face. Bethan was almost afraid to look, worried he might be hideously scarred or disfigured. But her fears were unfounded. The Warrior of the North was an uncommonly handsome man. Black hair, silky thick and straight, hung to his shoulders. The arch of his brow was noble, his cheeks chiseled, his jaw square and strong and perfectly symmetrical. His eyes were pale and silver, alert and intelligent.
For one brief, fanciful instant she thought there was something familiar about him, but knew that was impossible.
“There is but one reason for a woman to come to a man’s chambers in the middle of the night.”
“I just want to talk,” she muttered.
“That’s what they all say.” A menacing smirk quirked one corner of his mouth. “Come.”
Bethan stared at him, sensing it could be dangerous to trust him, yet all the while knowing he was likely her only hope of defeating her stepfather. Her breath rasped out of her lungs in thin puffs. She swallowed hard, her courage dwindling for a moment. Then burying deep the fear that choked her throat and robbed her of speech, Bethan held out her hand and let the volatile stranger lead her away.