Mary Reed McCall (27 page)

Her cousin, meanwhile, had swung his attention back to the throng, clearly desperate for a plan that would grant him some success in influencing them. Gwynne felt her mouth twist mockingly as she watched him struggle with both the situation and his mother’s pervasive interference. No matter how hard he tried, she knew that Lucan would never be the chieftain that Marrok was. He lacked both the wisdom and the compassion that would enable him to
make the kind of solid decisions his father did—decisions to affect the multitude.

But that wouldn’t stop him from trying anyway.

As the noise in the crowd burgeoned louder, Lucan raised his arms, calling out, “Hold—hold but for a moment if you wish to hear why I, as leader of this clan in my father’s absence, was forced to call for this trial!”

The noise ebbed a bit, and Lucan flushed, filled with a taste of the power he craved. “A warrior’s duty is to protect the people and uphold the laws”—he called out, flashing a hate-filled glare at Gwynne as he added—“and to obey the chieftain’s orders. I saw with my own eyes how this, our most famed warrior, spit in the face of those beliefs, choosing instead to embrace whole-heartedly a life with the English bastards, indulging in the lustful pleasures of a traitorous bed—whoring herself freely with the English criminal she was sent to destroy!”

The crowd erupted into shouting again, some calling for her destruction, while others yelled denial of the charges. Gwynne stood, stony-faced and unmoving, forcing herself to remain quiet. Not trusting what she would say—or do—to Lucan if she were given the chance.

Out of the chaos, one voice bellowed more loudly, ringing through the square with righteous anger.

“What you speak is a lie!”

Gwynne shifted to see who had chosen to single himself out in defense of her, her stomach dropping when she realized that it was Dafydd. She tried to signal to him with her expression, not wanting him to expose himself to more danger for her sake, but he ignored her command, pushing through the throng to confront Lucan face to face.

“I was at the English castle with
Chwedl
the entire time of her stay, and never did she do what you say,” Dafydd in
sisted. “She obeyed Marrok’s commands and conducted herself always as a true and noble warrior!”

The crowd hummed their approval, until Lucan sneered, his face sharp with contempt. “Is that so?” He raised his brow. “Tell me something, Dafydd. Were you not with me just yester morn when we came upon my cousin and the Englishman in the clearing beyond the castle walls of Dunston?”

Dafydd hesitated, his face darkening. The crowd waited for his answer, the air thick with expectation. “Aye, I was there,” he finally admitted in a low voice.

“Care you to explain what we saw, then, when we reached the clearing?”

Her bodyguard gave Lucan a glare that would have sent most men scurrying for cover. But her cousin was so engrossed in his plot of destruction that he seemed hardly to notice. Swinging to face her, he called out loudly, “And what of you, cousin? Will you not speak now to defend yourself in this?”

Gwynne gritted her teeth, aching to tell him exactly what she thought. But she wouldn’t. Nay, he didn’t deserve to be obeyed. Ever. “I will not speak until I speak with Marrok,” she growled, still not looking at him as she maintained her stance, her spine rigid with anger.

“Then allow me to do the honors,” he answered, undaunted, stepping toward the crowd with a flourish worthy of the finest traveling mummer. “What greeted me, good people, when I entered onto Dunston lands,” he called out, rolling each word glibly from his tongue, “was the sight of my cousin, your famed Dark Legend, half-clothed and lolling in the field, fresh from a traitorous rutting with Aidan de Brice himself, the cursed Scourge of Wales!”

Through the uproar that followed, Gwynne tried to ready herself for the call to sentencing that would most likely come next, if Lucan had his way. She kept as calm
as she could, looking to all points of the pushing, brawling crowd, seeking out those she might be able to count as allies, as well as those she should avoid if it came to a war between the factions that were aligning, even now, for or against her. She needed to plan how she could free her hands—how she could get hold of a sword so that she might defend herself and keep those who wished to harm her at bay. How she could—

And it was then that she saw him. He moved smoothly through the crowd, sidestepping the shouting, shoving groups of people as well as he could. At first she focused on him with disbelief, stunned, convinced that he was but a figment of her overtired imagination. But then he broke through the edge of the mob, stepping into full view of the circle’s center, and she knew that it was really him.

Aidan
.

His name whispered from her lips on a breath, the myriad emotions that flooded her with it keeping her from paying as close attention as she should have to Lucan and his men. Her cousin spotted Aidan but a moment after she did, and the crowd gradually fell into shocked silence to realize that a stranger was in their midst.

“If you wish to invoke the name of the Scourge of Wales and detail his crimes, man,” Aidan called out,

“then, pray, do so—but to his face. Here I am, in flesh and blood, awaiting your judgment. But do not blame this woman, my former captive, for my actions. She is innocent of all wrongdoing and should be freed immediately.”

The people near the front of the mob went wild. “Seize him!” Lucan shouted in response, directing several of his men to take hold of Aidan. But he was losing control of the crowd, the very people he’d planned to use to his advantage against Gwynne, and he knew it. He sensed, just as she did, the way their anger was turning from her to Aidan—to the notorious English warrior that they blamed
for the deaths of so many of their husbands, sons, and brothers.

The crowd surged forward, a horde, thirsting to taste his blood, and it was all that Lucan’s men could do to keep them at bay and maintain order. The shouting and shoving increased, but after a few of the leading miscreants were beaten back by blows from the warrior’s spears, the people shifted a little, forced to content themselves for the moment, at least, to let the trial commence with the promise of this new morsel to appease their vengeance.

“What the devil are you doing here?” Gwynne muttered as the soldiers finally managed to drag him to stand next to her. Her joy at seeing him alive and well again was tempered by the knowledge that he wouldn’t long remain that way unless they found a way to turn this around.

“I could tell you the truth and admit that I came here because I’ve finally realized that I would rather die than live a moment of my life without you,” he murmured, speaking to her but keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the people around them who were still calling for his blood,

“but I think you’ll be more likely to believe me if I say that perhaps, like you, I am irresistibly lured by lost causes.” After he spoke, he looked away from the throng just long enough to glance at her, giving her a look that, even in the danger of the moment, set off a fluttering, twisting sensation inside of her.

I would rather die than live without you.

Those were his words, and the wondrous realization of them sank into her, deep into her bones, filling her with a warmth and light that made everything else happening around them seem a little less horrible. He’d come after her. Even after she’d done everything in her power to make sure it would be easier for him to follow his duty, he’d still risked his life to come here for her. And it hadn’t
been from a sense of obligation or duty, but because he’d wanted to do it,
for her
…

“Aye, well, I hate to ruin your pleasure,” she said at last, suppressing her joy enough to give him a wry look, “but I am afraid that my cousin isn’t going to release me simply because you told him to.”

“Enjoying a little romantic chat, are you?” Lucan drawled, stepping closer to them. “How stupid of you to try to play the hero, de Brice,” he gloated, though quietly enough that only they could hear him. “And how futile. You’ve accomplished nothing but to make my task today easier. When I am finished here, you’ll
both
be swinging from the nearest tree.”

“Only a fool believes in such certainties,” Aidan countered calmly. “I may be an easy conquest, but many of these people still support Gwynne; you’ll have a revolt on your hands if you attempt to harm her.”

“We shall see.” He turned his attention to Gwynne. “In the meantime,
cousin
—”

“What in
Lugh’s
name is going on here?”

The shouted question rocked through the clearing, making virtually every man, woman, and child in the village cease what they were doing in order to turn and face the owner of that imposing voice. Marrok continued slowly toward the center of the square, guiding his steed’s measured strides. Owin rode a little behind him, looking exhausted but pleased with himself; Marrok’s other scouts—another half score of men he’d brought with him a week previous—followed behind, eyeing the tumult in the square with brooding interest.

“Father…!” Lucan yelped, jumping away from Gwynne as if he’d been burned. “I was just—well, what I mean is that I thought it necessary, as acting prince, to lead a trial before the people, according to custom, in a
case involving these two,” he gestured lamely toward Gwynne and Aidan, flushing as he added, “since a clear act of treason has been committed. I—I was simply readying to decide upon the method of—I mean the manner of resolution we should attempt to determine guilt or innocence,” he finished, his face a dull brick color.

“Release her.”

Marrok’s simple command resounded through the clearing, echoing with a tone of authority that seemed to calm the crowd and ease, at least a bit, the tensions flaring between the two factions of villagers.

“But Father, I saw her treason with my own eyes!” Lucan argued. “She gave herself over to the Englishman. I caught them in the meadow, f—”

“I said, release her!” Marrok growled, making the men Lucan had appointed as her guards rush to obey him.

“And what of the Englishman?” Lucan called out after a moment of desperate silence. “Will you order
him
released without penalty as well—the Scourge of Wales, allowed to go free?”

“I will handle de Brice later,” Marrok answered evenly, dismounting and handing the reins of his steed to one of the boys in the crowd; a path cleared for him as he made his way to the center of the square.

Gwynne stood unmoving as her bonds were loosened, meeting Aidan’s gaze for another sweet moment before the soldiers pulled him to the edges of the crowd, under orders to hold him there until Marrok issued further command for what was to be done with him.

When her hands were free, she rubbed her wrists, looking back to her leader—to the man who was not only the just and noble prince of the people, but also her mentor as well. The man who had been more like a father to her than her own sire, who had cared for her, protecting and guiding her, as she made her way along the brutal
path Owain had laid out when he’d shaped her into a legendary warrior.

The man who had lied to her about her past and, in doing so, had forever betrayed the trust they’d forged together in those years of pain.

Grief washed over her, gripping her throat in an aching vise; she looked away, trying to steel herself to confront him now, here in the square. To confront him as she’d known she must, ever since that moment when the awful reality of his betrayal had burst into her memory—a gushing tide that had muddied her world and driven her to seek, once and for all, the truth of who she really was.

“Owin told me some of what has happened,
Chwedl
,” Marrok said, unaware of her feelings as he approached her; he nodded to one of the warriors, indicating that the man should return her swordbelt to her. Still moving stiffly from the pain caused by Lucan’s earlier interrogation, she took it from him and fastened it round her hips.

“We need to talk,” Marrok continued. “Come. Let us go inside to discuss what must be done from here.”

“Nay, Marrok,” she said huskily, facing him. Hurt lanced through her anew, but she forced herself to continue. “I will not go inside.”

“Why—what is the matter,
Chwedl
?” he asked, frowning, his familiar concern for her ripping a larger hole in her heart.

“I need you to explain something to me, Marrok,” she said, steeling herself to go on. “I want to know why you lied to me about who I was and what happened to me all of those years ago. Why you let me believe I was saved from a life of English captivity, when in truth it was you and the people of this clan who ravaged my home and stole me away by force from the man that I loved, and the only life I’d ever known.”

She swallowed, leveling her gaze at him, trying to keep
her tone even and calm, though her heart pounded furiously with all the emotions churning inside her.

“I want the answers to those questions, Marrok—and I want them now.”

T
he square had fallen silent with Gwynne’s accusation; even Lucan seemed taken aback by the seriousness of her charges. Marrok, too, had stiffened as she spoke, and now he swung his head toward her, meeting her gaze.

“It wasn’t like that,
Chwedl
,” he said at last, quietly.

“There were reasons for what we did—for what I—” He broke off, shaking his head. “Nay, there is much more to this than can be explained easily. So much more that you do not know…”

“But I remember everything, now,” Gwynne asserted.

“It has all come back—all of it—the happiness I felt in the peaceful, simple life I shared with my mother…” She shifted her gaze to Aidan, all that she’d cherished about him so long ago combining with all she felt for him now, filling her to overflowing.

“And I remember the love I felt for a young man,” she added softly, drawing strength from the tenderness and
passion she saw reflected back at her in Aidan’s eyes. The love he felt in return, deep, strong and true, for
her
.

“One morn,” she continued, “while we stood inside an ancient stone circle, he asked me to share the rest of my life with him.” Swallowing again against the thickness that had crept back into her throat, she pulled her gaze from Aidan, directing it at Marrok once more. “I gave myself in a sacred betrothal to Aidan de Brice that day, but moments later, I was forced to watch as your warriors cornered him near my mother’s cottage and buried an arrow in his chest. Then they grabbed me and hauled me away so violently that I lost all memory of the life that I’d loved.” Her face ached as she said huskily, “Damn it, Marrok, I want to know why.”

As she’d spoken, her mentor’s shoulders seemed to sag, his fists unclenching and his entire body drooping. He shook his head again, and when he finally met her gaze, he seemed to look at her through the eyes of an old man.

“Ah, Gwynne,” he murmured at last, “you do deserve the full truth. God knows you do after everything that has happened.” He took a deep breath. “Tell me what you want to know, and I will answer if I can.”

“My mother—” Gwynne said quietly and without hesitation. “I remember her now, and I know she was still alive after your warriors ambushed us. What happened to her?”

Marrok took a moment, bracing himself it seemed, for the release of these secrets, kept hidden for so many years. “That woman you remember from your childhood,” he said finally, “the gentle Druid who raised you for the first fourteen years of your life—she was not your true mother, Gwynne.”

“But how can that be?” Gwynne scowled, anger and confusion jabbing her. “I remember her. I remember our
little cottage, and the yellow cat that used to bask in the sunny window…”

Marrok shook his head. “She cared for you and raised you as her own, ’tis true, but she did so only at your real mother’s request.” His face tightened, his eyes showing the strain of calling up all of these memories again. “Your Mam was princess of this clan, as I told you on the day you were brought here. Her name was Gwendolyn, and she was as sweet and good as she was fair.”

At the mention of her name, many of the people in the crowd began to murmur—a hushed swell of sound, as those who had been alive, then, whispered recollections of her, old memories of a time long past. Marrok rubbed his brow before continuing, “My brother Owain saw her but once and decided that he had to have her. The marriage was arranged, the ceremony took place.” He paused, his face tightening. “And nearly nine months later, you were born.”

“Why did she leave me, then?” Gwynne couldn’t seem to stop herself from asking. “Why would my mother give me over to be raised by another?”

“’Twas because of the prophecy. Gwendolyn refused to accept it. When you were two weeks old, she stole away with you, determined to keep you from being raised as the Legend Owain claimed you to be.” He met her gaze, his eyes sad—so sad. “Your mother loved you more than her own life, Gwynne. She secreted you with the Druids, and then she ran, stumbling through the woods, trying to lead Owain away from you and them, so that he would never find you again.”

A sick feeling had begun to settle in Gwynne’s stomach, a vague sense of dread that churned with increasing ferocity. “And then?” she asked softly, terrified, in some hidden part of herself, of hearing the answer.

“Owain caught Gwendolyn not long after she’d hidden you with the Druids,” he answered, his voice as quiet as Gwynne’s had been. He closed his eyes for an instant, and when he opened them again, the grief she saw reflected there shook her to the core. “And when he found out what she had done with you, he killed her.”

The aching, hollow sensation slammed hard into Gwynne; many of the villagers gasped aloud, the sound echoing through the square. Her ears were ringing, and she wasn’t sure she was going to be able to breathe, but after a few agonizing moments, air rushed into her lungs, sweet and clear.

“How did he do it—how did he kill her?” she asked flatly when she could speak, wanting everyone in the village to hear, to know the monster her father had been—wanting to learn if the tingling, dark suspicion that had begun to swirl inside of her held any truth.

“’Twas a cruel and brutal thing,
Chwedl
,” Marrok said, his expression dark with the memory of it. “Better left unsaid.”

“Nay—I need to know.”

He gazed at her in silence, his pain nearly tangible. When he finally spoke, ’twas clear that he forced himself to it only because he knew that he owed it to her—that he owed her all of the truths she needed to hear right now, even if it would destroy him. Taking in a sharp breath, he looked away, the sheen in his eyes unmistakable. “Gwendolyn died when my brother slit her throat.”

He slit her throat…oh, God
…

The world began to spin, but Gwynne somehow kept her balance, locking her knees tight, so that she wouldn’t sink to the ground. “Tell me what she looked like,” she said, in a painful whisper that barely squeezed from her chest. “Please, Marrok—I need to know what my mother looked like…”

He seemed surprised for a moment, then his face twisted in a kind of agony, and he looked as if he might turn away to try to hide what he was feeling—to stop the pain of being forced to relive his memories. But, rubbing his hand across his eyes, he managed to compose himself enough to tell her what she’d asked. “Your mother was beautiful,” he rasped at last. “She was tall and slender and strong, with skin of silk and a mouth that looked as if it was made to laugh.” He let his gaze drift over her, giving her a sad smile. “In truth, you are much like her, Gwynne, except that her hair was light as the sun, like spun-gold, and she wore it long, hanging almost to her waist…”

Gwynne’s legs gave out then, and she sank slowly to her knees.
She was tall and slender, with long golden hair
…Oh God, the vision—the dream-woman that had haunted her for all these years—it had been her mother…her true mother, trying to tell her what had happened. All this time…

“Aye, your mother was a beautiful woman, Gwynne,” Marrok repeated, more vehemently, “and I loved her more than my own breath or life.”

The shock of his admission caught her by surprise; she heard Isolde gasp and sensed the crowd stirring again. Bewildered, she looked to him. He met her stare with his own unflinching one, and then he stepped forward, no longer showing suffering, but rather in command again as he turned to include the people in what he would say next.

“For too many years,” he called out to them, “I have kept the truth of those days secret, hidden in the darkness of my own soul—” He swung his gaze around, taking them all in, his eyes snapping with fire as he stood tall and strong before them. Gwynne was suddenly reminded of the man he had once been, the powerful warrior who had inspired terror in the hearts of his enemies and led his
people in a revolt against England, a country led by a king whose army was one of the greatest ever to have seen daylight.

“I have committed two great crimes in my life,” Marrok continued, resolute, “the first more than twenty-six years ago, when I stood by and let my brother take as his own the woman I loved, and the second, fourteen years later, when I found and kidnapped her child—the child she had died trying to protect.”

Gwynne had risen slowly to her feet again as he spoke, and now he turned to her, his eyes moist and his voice huskier, as he continued, “For the first crime, I have no excuse, other than my own weakness; I gave in to Gwendolyn’s pleas not to reveal our secret love, to protect myself and her by allowing Owain to marry her, as our two powerful clans had arranged.” He swallowed hard, never taking his gaze from her. “But for the second—that of kidnapping you from the peaceful existence your mother had died to give you—I did have reason, Gwynne. Owain was determined to find you, no matter what the cost. He had searched already for nearly fourteen years. ’Twas only a matter of time, I knew.”

Marrok took a step closer to her, seeming to reach out to her with his expression, asking her for understanding. For forgiveness.

“I led the search to bring you home, because if I did not, Owain would. And I wanted to be there, to protect you, knowing that I could not free you from the destiny that had marked you from the moment of your birth, but wanting to ensure, if I could, that you would possess the skill and power to survive it.”

He looked down for a moment, as if he were gathering his strength, before lifting his gaze to her again. “And there was one more reason, Gwynne. A reason that damned the others to hell by comparison.”

She felt her heart pound with slow, steady beats; her hands tightened into fists that she pressed into the outside of her thighs as she kept her gaze fixed on him, waiting for him to finish what he was going to say. Knowing, somehow, in her soul that what he was about to utter would change her world forever.

“I needed to lead the effort to find you, Gwynne—I needed to be the one pushing you, training you to become a legendary warrior as Owain wished,” Marrok said slowly, painfully, “because I was afraid that he would discover the truth if I didn’t. And God help me, but I feared that he would kill you as he had killed Gwendolyn if he found out—because, though everyone believed it so, you are not Owain’s child.”

The gasps and cries that greeted Marrok’s confession faded for the rushing that had begun to fill Gwynne’s head. But she kept looking at him, kept herself still, so still, controlling herself and her breathing, as he had always taught her to do.

“You were conceived more than a month before Gwendolyn and Owain wed—the child of a secret love—and that was why I had to do everything I could to protect you,” Marrok continued gently, facing her as he spoke the final words, his eyes brimming. “Owain was not your father, lass. I am.”

Gwynne couldn’t move. Her breath had finally frozen in her chest, the ancient secret to that rhythmic flow of life forgotten under the force of her shock. She stared at Marrok, at this man who had been many things to her—her leader, her taskmaster, her mentor, her friend—and suddenly it all made sense. He was the one who had been there whenever she needed someone to turn to, who had given her the only affection she’d known among people who had viewed her as something untouchable, as a myth in their midst. The one who had held her, during those first
few months, when she’d collapsed, retching and sobbing, from Owain’s brutal attempts to make her strong.

The one who had stood up to his brother and demanded to be given control over her training so that she might live and grow in skill and power.

“
You’re my father
…?” she breathed, locking her gaze with him.

But before he could answer her, she heard Lucan roar a denial of it. He threw himself into the clearing, looking as if he would like to strike Marrok, but holding himself back enough to snarl at him, “’Tis a lie! This traitor is no more my sister than she is the Dark Legend!”

“She is, Lucan,” Marrok said darkly, approaching him as if to place a hand on his arm to calm him. “Now, come inside with us and we will all try to—”

“Nay!” Lucan shouted, pulling away from him, in the same motion sliding his sword, hissing, from its sheath and slamming his father in the temple with the hilt.

Caught unawares by the blow, Marrok crumpled to the dirt, and Lucan stepped over him, brandishing his blade as he came closer to Gwynne. She backed up a few steps, wary. Someone reached in to pull the chieftain’s limp form out of harm’s way, and the entire crowd moved, as if they would surge forward again, perhaps to try to stop Lucan—but then, with more muttered arguments and shoving, the circle reformed. The group hummed with tension, Gwynne noticed, but seemed content, for the moment, to watch as this struggle for power between the chieftain’s two offspring played itself out.

Lucan directed his hate-filled glare at her, muttering at last, “No matter what my father says, I will never accept that you are either my sister or the true Dark Legend. And while there may be no way for me to disprove that you are his spawn, I can show everyone right here and now that
’twas his coddling and not any mythic ability that has kept you safe from death in battle thus far,
woman
.”

He waved his weapon at her again, scoffing, “Come—draw your sword and prove yourself the warrior that our clan has been duped into believing you to be!”

Gwynne faced him, watching him carefully, her instincts prickling as they always did at the prospect of danger. Her hand tingled with readiness to grasp her hilt and defend herself, yet she knew she would avoid fighting him if she could. She had no wish to cross blades with him. Not here—not ever. That she knew he was her brother now would have been reason enough, but what she’d just learned about Marrok—what she’d learned about herself and the missing pieces of her life—had left her drained of everything but the wish to walk away. More than anything, she wanted to give over this life of war and violence, a life she’d never been meant to lead, to go back to Aidan and what they might still be able to build together, if only they were given the chance…

“Put away your weapon, Lucan,” she said quietly, opening her hands in a gesture of peace. She almost felt sorry for him now, standing before her with so much hate and jealousy burning in his heart. “You need prove nothing to me or anyone else. It is over now. I will fight no more.”