Mary Reed McCall (28 page)

“Perhaps you will reconsider that decision once you learn that it was I who took your shield and sent it to the English bastard you killed yesterday,” he retorted. “To the duke, whose daughter was to marry your lover!”

Stiffening, she frowned. “
You
stole my shield and gave it to Rutherford? But why?”

“I wanted you dead, or captured at the least and brought to trial as a traitor to the English king.”

“’Twas a selfish way of trying to rid yourself of me,
then,” she said, unsuccessful in stifling her anger. “You had to know ’twould endanger Dafydd and Owin as well.”

“Such extra losses are unavoidable in war—and this is war, woman, make no mistake,” Lucan grated. Then his expression shifted again, becoming more mocking. “But you were so easy to defeat, ’twas almost pitiful. ’Twas also I, you know,” he taunted, “who sent you the parchment in my father’s name, urging you to tempt de Brice with your body. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist coupling with him. And you proved yourself to be as weak as any other female, when you bedded him at my command.” He took another step toward her, sneering, “You have no claim to be called a Legend, woman—only a legendary
whore
.”

“I warned you before about that, you bastard,” she heard Aidan growl from behind her, and she turned, seeing him lunge forward, readying to attack Lucan, only to be wrenched back into place by several of the guards that were in charge of him. In the scuffle, he was struck, and he let go a string of curses, fighting back so fiercely that three other men needed to jump forward in order to help restrain him.

Gwynne called for them to stop and started to run toward him, but before she could take a few steps, her half-brother reached out and grabbed her by the arm, yanking her back and snarling, “Draw your weapon and fight. I’ll wait no longer!”

She froze, stunned by his self-destructive obstinacy.
The fool was going to force her hand
.

Jerking free of his grip, Gwynne took two steps back, impaling him with her gaze. The shock and emptiness that had numbed her earlier faded under the prick of more biting emotions, but still she struggled to maintain control and walk away—knowing that if she came to blows with Lucan, ’twould be disastrous.

She shook her head finally. “The same hatred that has
destroyed your mother is ruining you, Lucan. I have told you that I will not fight you here—not today or ever. Now, let it be.”

With a final glare, she stiffened her back and turned again to walk toward Aidan. But she felt a brush of air, a mere flicker of movement at the same time that Aidan shouted a warning to her.

Instincts that long ago had been honed razor-sharp slammed into place, then, and she whirled, ignoring the slashing stab of pain in her side as she cleared her sword from its sheath, raising the blade with a feral growl to meet Lucan’s vicious stroke.

They clashed together, and she knew without a doubt that each blow her half-brother dealt her was meant to kill. But she held her own, and within moments, the heat of battle masked the searing agony of twisting and lunging as she wielded her sword against him. People scurried out of the way as they came together again, sparks flying from their blades as they tried to drive each other back, out of the circle. She saw his face as he came at her, contorted with the dark forces at work in him, felt his rage coming at her in waves, heard him sucking in air even over her own gasping breaths as they fought in this struggle of life and death.

Of a sudden Lucan lunged sideways and raised his blade to slash at her, but the sun glinted off it, blinding her for a moment. She stumbled, her balance lost. With a howl of triumph he took the advantage, swinging his blade high, and forcing her to lift her arms to meet his next deadly thrust—exposing her injured side to the force of his momentum as he deliberately rammed into her, pulling his elbow back at the same time to jab it into her wound.

Agony rocked through Gwynne, jolting her with shock for one paralyzing moment before a cry ripped from her
throat and she dropped to the ground. Black spots converged on her vision and a buzzing sound filled her ears; more than anything, she wanted to give in to the welcoming blackness that would free her from the torment, the unbearable pain—but somehow she managed to roll to her feet again. Another of Lucan’s strokes missed her by a hair’s breadth as she stumbled back a few steps, hunched over now, with her left arm curled round her middle. She squinted at him through eyes that felt scraped with sand, grimacing, hissing her breath in through clenched teeth—little pants that kept the agony at bay enough for her to blink away the last of the dark spots and ready herself for his renewed assault.

“You’re going to die today, woman,” Lucan rasped, gloating even through his own exhaustion. Sweat beaded on his face as he flashed a malevolent smile at her. “And I am going to enjoy dealing your final blow.”

“You are sick in your mind and your soul, Lucan,” she managed to gasp, still reeling from the agony, but welcoming the flood of anger—and strength—that surged through her with his taunting. “I don’t intend to die this day. Put up your weapon and end this—please. I do not want to hurt you.”

He barked a sneering laugh. “Hurt
me
? Worry about yourself, woman,” he scoffed, backing off a few steps to grip the hilt of his weapon in both hands, before leveling both the blade and his gaze at her, “And prepare to face the afterlife you’ve earned, because a
Legend
is about to end.”

He roared a fierce battle cry as he came at her for the last time, and Gwynne’s mind shut down to all but survival; at the last possible moment, she sucked in her breath and vaulted into the air, landing just beyond where Lucan had expected her to be, throwing off his aim and leaving him vulnerable to her return strike.

And then everything seemed to slow for her as it al
ways did, her focus narrowing down to the motion of her weapon, everything fading but the pounding rush of blood in her ears, the weight of the hilt in her grip, thick and heavy, no longer something apart from her, but an extension of her arm, her body…

With a growl, she whirled, swinging her blade over Lucan’s head in a lethal arc and then bringing it down with a precision borne of endless practice, to bury it in the tender flesh between his shoulder and neck.

Lucan stiffened in the instant following, his face going rigid with shock as she pulled back on the blade, yanking it up and away. Then he uttered a choked groan, blood gushing out over his shoulder, down his chest and arm, soaking his side with slick, red wetness. His sword thudded to the ground. A moment later, his eyes rolled back, and he crumpled to the dirt after it. Lifeless.

Dead
.

Gwynne knew it as soon as her mind began to clear from the battle rage that had locked her down for the kill. Her breath rasped harsh in her chest, and the thousand hurts of her injuries came back to rip through her like the fires of hell, but she was able to ignore them all, feeling so far removed as she did from everything, from everyone. She just stood there, gazing at Lucan’s body lying bloodied at her feet. With a gasping cry, she let her hands fall to her sides, let the tip of her sword gouge into the ground as grief and anguish swelled to a torrent inside of her, stinging her eyes and turning each breath into a raspy sob.

He was dead—oh, God, Lucan was dead. She’d just killed her own brother
…

“Gwynne—Gwynne, look at me! Are you hurt? Have you been cut? Damn it—look at me, Gwynne!”

The insistence of the voice sliced through the haze in her brain, and, woodenly, she swung her head to see who was shouting at her. The fog began to lift, pieces of the
present clicking back into place. She drew in a ragged breath, blinking to clear her vision; ’twas Aidan calling out to her. The crowd had fallen deadly silent around him, all of them staring.
Staring at her, standing over her brother’s body
. Aidan was the only one moving; cursing, he struggled to be free of the warriors who still held him, his face showing his desperation to get to her, to make sure she was all right.

“Release him,” she said, somehow managing to bark the hoarse command.

They stared at her, obviously uncertain whether or not they should obey. But then one of them mumbled something about her victory giving her the right, and without further pause, they did as she commanded.

Aidan reached her in three strides, enfolding her in his embrace with a groan of relief. And for the first time since this had all begun, she allowed herself to weaken, let herself sag against him, clinging to his warmth and his strength as if he was all that stood between her and the gaping jaws of hell.

“By all the saints, Gwynne, I thought I was going to lose you,” he murmured, his voice breaking with emotion.

“The bastards wouldn’t let me go to help you.”

“There was nothing you could have done,” she said, her voice echoing hollow in her ears.

God, she was tired—so tired. Her breath hitched, and she closed her eyes, still leaning against him. “’Twas my fight, and I had to see it through. I only wish it never had to happen.”

“’Twas unavoidable. I saw that—everyone did. You can’t blame yourself for Lucan’s hatred.” Aidan held her close, cradling her against his chest and stroking her hair as he murmured to her what comforts he could. She relaxed into his arms, the relief of being able to give over to his strength like a blessed elixir to her soul.

After a moment, he pulled back a little, cupping her face in his hand and forcing her to look at him. “Are you sure that you’re all right?”

“Aye,” she answered huskily, her eyes welling with tears as she added, “But I didn’t want to do it, Aidan. God help me, I didn’t. He was my brother; I should have—”

“It wasn’t your fault, lass,” another, deeper voice said from behind her. “You had no choice but to do what you did.”

Turning in Aidan’s arms, she met her father’s stare; he held a dampened rag to his temple, still trying to stem the bleeding from the blow Lucan had dealt him earlier, but it was the depth of sadness and resignation she saw in his eyes that made her heart contract anew. She stared at him in silence, unable to speak for a moment.

“I am sorry, Marrok—so sorry,” she said when she could, though the words caught in her throat.

“Not Marrok, lass,” he answered, giving her a soft look. “
Father
.”

She struggled to hold back tears, overcome with the gift of his forgiveness. “Aye—Father,” she repeated hoarsely. He stepped toward her, holding out his arms, and with a low cry, she fell into his embrace.

A few moments after, when everyone had had a chance to settle and begin the process of coming to terms with what had happened, Marrok called a meeting. He faced his people, not far from where his son’s body lay, and Gwynne noticed that the villagers had already started preparing Lucan’s body for burial. He’d been laid out on a small platform, a cloth spread beneath him, and much of the blood from his wound washed away. Finally, they’d placed his sword in his hands, resting it on his chest. Isolde was nowhere to be seen; shortly after her son’s death, she’d been led away in hysterics from her grief, and so now Marrok stood alone as he addressed the crowd.

“Much has happened here this day—and much was learned that should have been revealed years ago.” He looked down at Lucan’s body, sadness seeming to overwhelm him for a moment before he could go on. He took in a breath and held it, his eyes glistening when he finally shook his head, exhaling. “My son died today, in part, because of these secrets, and my daughter almost lost her life as well. The legacy of bloodshed and hatred must end, and it must end now.”

Turning to look at Gwynne and Aidan who stood, still embracing a little distance away, he nodded. “As chieftain of this clan, I have decided to propose a way to establish a peace between our people and England.”

He held up his hand to quell the exclamations and sounds of surprise that rose from the crowd. “We will be following the example of many other of our countrymen—of other Welsh clans—if we undertake this,” he assured them. “Prince Rhys ap Gruffyd, for one, signed a new treaty with England’s king little more than three months ago. I will send a messenger to enlist his aid, should our council agree, in working out a truce of our own with our neighbors to the east.”

Gwynne met Aidan’s gaze as the discussion swelled around them again, feeling the first inklings of hope. A ray of light in the darkness of this day. But in the next moment, that hope was dashed; one of the clan’s runners whose duty it was to patrol the area and serve as a watchman; hurtled into the square, his face ashen beneath a coating of sweat.

“Grab your weapons!” he gasped. “English forces—scores of them…they’re nearly here…!” he shouted brokenly, before bending over, coughing, and trying to catch his breath.

Gwynne reached for her blade, the other warriors rush
ing to gather arrows and spears, while the rest of the villagers scrambled for makeshift weapons—but they were all too late. With a crashing sound, an English warrior rode into the clearing at full tilt, wheeling his steed to a halt not twenty paces from them. He was followed by an army of more than five score soldiers, who strode into the square with an impressive show of force, their armor clanking as they stepped from behind the buildings that circled the area. ’Twas clear that the rebels were outnumbered; the English completely surrounded them, facing them down with three of their group for every Welsh warrior. They stood at attention, their finely honed blades gleaming and at the ready, waiting only for their leader’s command to take the entire group as captives in the name of England and her king.

“Rex!” Aidan said in surprise, recognizing the leader’s device. His foster-father paused before taking off his helm to face them, as Aidan took a few steps toward him, calling, “Kevyn reached you, then? He explained what happened?”

“Aye, he found me.” His face was grim, and a prickle of apprehension went down Gwynne’s spine; she kept her gaze fixed on him, this man who loved Aidan as his own son, but who also served as one of King Henry’s chief justiciars—realizing that whatever had brought him up into the mountains today with this many fully armed warriors wasn’t going to be good.