It was late the next day when the knights caught up to the Welsh warriors on the lower slopes of the Cambrian Mountains. They were traveling on foot, and though the cattle they’d stolen could have been driven faster, the Welsh indulgence in females cost them the race.

The village women screamed, running for the woods when their captors turned to fight. War cries hurtled through the air as the Celtic warriors drew longbows to cheeks and loosed arrows upon the knights. Once the arrows were spent, the Welshmen dropped the bows and charged with spears and battleaxes.

Even while he unsheathed his sword and prepared to charge into their midst, Richard didn’t fail to admire the indomitable spirit of the Welsh. They never hesitated to attack armored knights, despite their own lack of armor.

The warriors wore leather jerkins sewn with iron scales and carried shields made of toughened goatskin. They should be no match for well-equipped knights, but often they were.

This time was no exception. Most of the Englishmen were still trying to shake the aftereffects of too much ale, and the Welsh seized on the weakness.

The fighting wore on for a quarterhour. The icy air hung heavy with the shouts and grunts of men, the weeping of women, and the wailing of cattle.

Richard was bone-weary, but he closed off that part of his mind and drew from an inner well of strength and resolve that had never failed him.

He didn’t know how many men fell before his blade. He never did. He just fought until no more came, then turned and surveyed the battle scene.

Riderless horses joined the cattle. The snow ran crimson with the blood of the slain. Most of the bodies were Welsh, and for that he was thankful.

The Welshmen who still fought suddenly realized they weren’t going to win and turned for the forest. The knights managed to cut off the escape route for all but a handful.

The destriers’ sides heaved, their breath clouding the air with steam. Some of the knights slipped from their horses and collected the weapons from the bodies of the fallen Welshmen. Knives, broadswords, spears, and precious longbows.

Richard wiped the edge of his sword on his mantle and resheathed it. It would do no good to pursue the escapees through that tangle of trees. Let them carry their tale of defeat back to the clans.

The knights fanned out. Some gathered the cattle while others sifted through the bodies for those of their fallen comrades.

The village women huddled together at the edge of the trees, weeping. Richard shook his head in disgust, rage bubbling in his soul. Young, old, it did not matter, the Welsh had taken them all.

Couldn’t they see their time was up, their way of life obsolete? King Edward offered them better. He offered them law and order and a place in a larger society. Why couldn’t they just take it and end this bloody feuding for good?

Richard already knew the answer, though he didn’t like it. The Welsh were proud, stubborn, independent. Their laws and customs had served them well for centuries and they weren’t going to change willingly.

And he would continue to drag them, kicking and screaming and fighting, into the new realm. For their own good, and for England’s.

He rode over to Andrew. “How many did we lose?”

The captain wiped a bloody hand across his face. “Four, milord. But we killed ten of ‘em, and captured twelve.”

Richard felt the exhaustion creeping over his body. “Let’s make camp here. ’Tis almost night and we’ll not get far, even if we leave now.”

“Aye, milord,” Andrew replied.

One of the Welshmen jerked away from the knight who was tying him and hurried toward Richard.

With a quick nod, Richard assured his knight to let the man approach.

The warrior spat on Richard’s boot, his face twisting into a sneer. “Gwalchddu!”

Richard’s gaze trailed down his leg. “Wipe it off,” he said, his voice deceptively mild. His mood was already black and he was damn near ready to hang the lot of them.

The man glared at him. Frost hung on the ends of his long beard. He bared yellow teeth in a grimace. “Na.”

“You have a choice, my friend. Wipe it off and mayhap you will stand a chance in the king’s court of justice. Otherwise, I will hang you now.”

The man threw his head back and laughed. “The king’s justice! Since when has there been justice for a Welshman in an English court? God rot King Edward and his justice!”

Richard lashed out with his foot and cracked the man across the jaw. He fell back in the snow, then lifted himself up and rubbed his face.

“Watch how you speak of your king!” Richard glanced at the knight who awaited his orders. “Bring him.”

The man nodded and grabbed the Welshman, jerking him to his feet. The warrior yanked his arm away, then thrust out his hands to be tied.

Too quick, he grabbed the dagger from the knight’s belt and hurled himself at Richard. Sirocco reared as the man latched on. The extra weight acted like an anchor, pulling Richard to earth.

His breath left him in a whoosh as he landed on his back with the Welshman on top. He fumbled blindly for his dagger, even while he struggled to breathe.

The Welshman snarled and brought the knife high. Blood dripped from the blade and Richard vaguely wondered where it had come from.

“Prepare to die, Gwalchddu!”

The knife descended, aiming at Richard’s unprotected face. He blocked the man’s arm, but the savage was too determined and Richard’s grip started to waver.

And then the Welshman went limp, his eyes glazing. The knife dropped harmlessly beside Richard’s head, and he uttered a silent prayer of thanks.

“Christ, milord, are ye all right?”

Andrew. The dead man was yanked off him then, and Richard looked up at his captain’s worried face. “Aye,” he said. He tried to sit up. “I feel dizzy…”

Andrew pushed him back down. “Don’t move, milord. The bastard must have held the knife between ye when ye fell. The impact drove it through yer hauberk. Ye’ve been hit.”

“Jesú…”

Richard closed his eyes. His last conscious thought was of Gwen and all the things he’d never had the chance to say.

---

“Pining for your lover?”

Gwen turned from the window as Anne came in and took a seat beside the fire.

Anne smiled sympathetically. “Poor, sweet thing. I knew a young girl like you would not be able to resist Richard. I did try to warn you, if you will remember.”

“’Tis none of your business, Lady Ashford.”

“Oh do call me Anne.” She waved a hand, smiling sweetly. “I fancied myself in love with him once, too. ’Twas a very long time ago, before I learned what he was truly like.”

Gwen didn’t want to hear any more, but she had to. “What do you mean?”

Anne’s look was bitter, unguarded. She gave a quick laugh, but it wasn’t humorous. “Do you think you are the only one to ever sit beside him in the hall and have him whisper naughty things in your ear? Aye, he used to be that attentive with me, feeding me, teasing me, and then taking me to bed and making love all night long. You are not the first, and neither was I!”

Gwen felt a stabbing pain in her heart. “He did?”

Anne snorted. “Of course he did! ’Tis what I am trying to tell you, little innocent. He does not care for you. He only plays with you until he tires of you, then he will seek another to take your place.”

Gwen desperately wanted to deny it but she could not. She’d told him she loved him and he’d said nothing. What if he didn’t love her? What if she spent her life adoring a man who felt nothing for her?

It wouldn’t be the first time she loved without being loved in return. Guilt swept over her then. She’d failed her father and let herself fall in love with the enemy.

She pressed her thumbs against her eyelids. How on earth could she love them both?

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked quietly. “You do not like me, nor I you.”

Anne shrugged. “Nay, I do not like you. But I like Richard even less. He would have married me if not for you. But he was just greedy enough to want to marry a princess, and quite willing to toss me aside to do it.”

Gwen shivered. Aye, he wanted a princess to give him access to a throne. She shot to her feet.

Once inside the passage, her steps quickened until she was running, though she knew not where. She ran until her lungs hurt, then kept on running until she flung open a door and emerged on the battlements.

An icy wind greeted her, roaring over the stone, isolating her from the sounds of the rest of the world. She raced to the edge and peered into the valley, hoping beyond hope she would see horses and riders cresting over a hill or emerging from the woods.

All she saw was a sea of white, as empty and bleak as she felt inside at this moment.

To the west, Snowdon’s peak rose above the other mountains, taunting her. It seemed to stare down at her, stern, disapproving. It said: you are Welsh, he is English; you are young and naive, he is hard and jaded; you seek love, he seeks vengeance.

God, what a fool she was! How could she have fallen in love with a man who wanted nothing more than to see her father dead?

---

When Richard’s eyes opened, he recoiled from the sight that greeted him. “Andrew!” he yelled.

“Here, milord.”

Richard focused on his captain. Thank God! If Andrew was truly here then he wasn’t dead yet. He peered at the thing that had startled him and realized it was an old woman.

Hundreds of deep-set wrinkles creased a brown, weather worn face. A beaked nose dominated that visage, though it was the eyes that drew the most attention. Watery-blue from age, they still crackled with a sharpness that belied the many winters they had witnessed.

“Such a handsome boy,” the old crone said, pinching his cheek with more familiarity than he liked. “Don’t worry yerself, yer gonna live. Didn’t hit nothing vital. Just the shock of the impact and loss of blood made ye pass out.”

“Who is she?” Richard demanded.

The woman cackled. She stood and ambled away, mumbling about men and impatience. Grinning, Andrew knelt beside him.

“’Tis the village healer. We brought you to yer tent and stripped off yer hauberk and she looked at yer wound. She bandaged it fer ye, though she says she don’t have her herbs and can’t give ye anything for pain. If ye lays quiet, it should stop bleeding.”

Richard tried to shift, and winced. “Jesú, how deep is it?”

“Half a blade.”

“No wonder it hurts like bloody hell.” He laughed, though that hurt too. “Now why couldn’t the woman have the decency to carry her herbs when her village was attacked?”

Andrew’s eyes sparkled. “Mayhap she will next time.”

“Have you taken care of everything?”

“Aye.”

Richard yawned. Jesú, he was damn tired. “I’m going to sleep then. And whatever you do, keep that woman away from me. She about scared the piss out of me when I woke.”

Andrew’s grin broadened as he leaned down. “I think she likes ye, milord. Mayhap she’d make a nice bedwarmer. I could ask her fer ye…”

Richard scowled. “I’ll stick your head on a pike if you do.”

Andrew straightened, laughing. “Come on, good mistress,” he called. “The earl no longer needs ye.”

Richard heard the rustling of the tent flap, then Andrew started whistling. The sound faded before he fell asleep.

When next he awoke, he was alone. His side throbbed. Grunting, he crawled to the opening and peered out. The sky was lightening to the east, indicating that dawn was not far off.

Men already stirred from their beds, making ready for the journey home. Richard pushed to his feet and staggered from the tent.

It was colder than he remembered. He still clutched his blanket and he wrapped it tighter around him, then started off through the camp.

“How soon do we leave, Andrew?”

The captain spun around from where he was saddling Sirocco. “Jesú, milord! Ye nearly scared me to death. What are ye doin’ up? Yer gonna start bleedin’ again if ye ain’t careful.”

Richard clenched his teeth and forced his spine to remain straight. “Nay, it feels much better,” he lied.

Andrew eyed him doubtfully. “Half an hour, no more. Can ye ride?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nay, I suppose not.”

The knights broke camp quickly, gathering the cattle and taking the women up with them. The prisoners were bound and forced to walk behind the destriers.

It was several hours later when they rode into Chedwell. The village men greeted the return of wives, sisters, mothers, and daughters with great enthusiasm. The cattle received slightly less attention.

Outside the village, lumps of fresh earth blemished the snow with the graves of the dead, a gruesome reminder of the perils of the Marches. Richard couldn’t tear his gaze from the ugly gashes.

“Milord?”

With great effort, he met Andrew’s eyes. “Aye?”

“I think we should go straight to Claiborne. Ye doesn’t look like ye should ride all the way to Shrewsbury.”

Richard was suddenly very conscious of the throbbing in his side. Every step Sirocco took jarred him even more. The sooner he was off the horse, the better.

He nodded. “Aye, whatever you say, Andrew.”

The captain frowned before relaying the order to the company.

Richard stripped his gauntlet and pressed his hand against his side. It was tender, and much warmer than the rest of him.

For a long time, he held his hand there, warming it. When he finally drew it away, he raised it to a level with his eyes.

Drops of pure crimson dripped from his fingers to fall onto Sirocco’s neck.