Brides With Blades Read online

  Penelope held his gaze a moment longer before hanging her head. But as she did so, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. As quick as a cat, she jumped back and lifted her broadsword but she wasn’t fast enough; Kieran had come up behind her and now held her in a great bear hug from behind. Her arms were pinned by his iron grip and she could hardly move.

  “Uncle Kieran!” she grunted, struggling against him. “Let me go!”

  Kieran had her tightly; he was concerned what would happen to him should he lose his grip. Penelope could fight as well as any man.

  “In time,” he said calmly. “Drop the sword.”

  “Nay!”

  “Drop it or you will be very sorry.”

  Penelope began to kick and twist, but Kieran was so big that she truly didn’t have a chance against him. Suddenly, she began to twitch and spasm. Her howls filled the air.

  “Nay!” she screamed. “Don’t you dare do that!”

  Kieran was laughing low in his throat; the fingers of his right hand just happened to be along the left side of her torso, in a seam where the mail gapped, and he tickled her mercilessly as she screamed. The broadsword hit the ground and she began to beg for mercy as up in the keep, the servants had managed to straighten out the damaged door latch that was keeping William and his knights barricaded inside the solar.

  When the door opened, the knights all spilled out except for William. He remained by the window with his wife, watching Kieran tickle Penelope until she was gasping for air. She was captured, that was certain, but he knew it wouldn’t be the last of her rebellion. She was too stubborn for that. He knew the best course of action would be to get her to Wales as soon as possible. There, she would marry the Welsh warlord that was the most powerful man in all of Wales, if not all of England. The man had lands and wealth beyond the wildest dreams. He also had the reputation of the Devil.

  William had known many powerful warlords in his life. He was, in fact, one of the more powerful ones in the north of England; The Wolfe was legendary. But Sir Bhrodi ap Gaerwen de Shera went beyond William’s status. The man had Welsh royalty on his mother’s side and English nobility on his father’s; he fought for the Welsh when it suited him and the English when he felt like it. His loyalty was to himself and no one else.

  It was King Edward’s hope that marrying him to the daughter of a legendary English warlord would secure de Shera’s loyalty to England permanently. Securing the loyalty of the man known throughout the realm as The Serpent, and for very good reason.

  His strike was deadly.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Rhydilian Castle, the Month of May

  Isle of Anglesey, Wales

  “They are on their way.” A big knight with shaggy black hair entered the great hall with his grand announcement. “In fact, they are already in Wales.”

  His statement didn’t seem to have much impact to the occupants. Four pairs of eyes looked up at him from various positions around the great open pit in the center of the hall. The smoke from the fire in the pit was creating a fog of sorts, mostly because of the storm outside. Winds were preventing the smoke from escaping through holes in the thatched roof. Rain trickled down through the roof, hitting the glowing embers with a sharp hiss.

  The mood of the room was dark and somber, as was usual. There hadn’t been any levity in the room in well over two years, ever since “she” had died. No one was allowed to speak her name so she was only referred to as “she”. That was as far as it went, memories of “she” having long since been forced into the shadows. That was how their liege wanted it.

  As the announced words faded into the smoky blackness of the hall, a man seated near the fire with a sword in his hand, carefully sharpening it with a pumice stone, finally responded.

  “How do you know this?” he asked, his voice deep and melodic as he continued to run the stone over the edge of the blade. “Have we received word?”

  The knight with the shaggy hair nodded. “Indeed, my lord,” he replied. “Word has come. De Wolfe has accepted Edward’s proposal and is on his way with your bride.”

  The man sharpening the sword came to an unsteady halt. His eyes, the color of emeralds, seemed to flicker, to shift, before returning them to the blade. He resumed sharpening.

  “Why would he come?” he asked calmly. “I have not yet accepted Edward’s proposal. Do they think to force me to marry an English woman, then?”

  The shaggy knight eyed the lowered head of his liege; Sir Bhrodi ap Gaerwen de Shera was a cool man in most situations, cooler still when the circumstances grew harried and violent. But the man had been known to have a temper, legendary outbursts that were far and few between yet had been known to have dire if not deadly results. It took a great deal to provoke the man known as The Serpent, but when The Serpent struck, he laid waste to all he touched. Even the men around the fire were watching de Shera, waiting. It was a tense moment as the realization of the words settled.

  “De Wolfe’s messenger is in the bailey,” Ivor ap Bando replied steadily. “I made him wait whilst I informed you of the information he bore. Would you hear him now, my lord?”

  Bhrodi continued to rub the stone on the edge of the blade, coolly, but his brilliant mind was working steadily. They are on their way. He was mildly annoyed, that was true, but there was also curiosity in the mix. A daughter of the legendary Wolfe would soon be upon his doorstep. If he was to ever consider an English bride, it would only be from a family of a great warrior. Edward had known him well; the man was well aware of his enemy’s requirements. He understood his adversary and had acted accordingly. No woman but one from legendary warrior blood would be acceptable. Now, The Wolfe had come to Wales.

  Straight into The Serpent’s lair.

  Bhrodi continued sharpening the blade. “It is a dangerous time to make the journey,” he said, eyeing the razor-sharp steel. “By the full of the moon is not the best time to come to these parts.”

  Ivor nodded. “I realize that, my lord,” he said. “The messenger says they should be here on the morrow. Mayhap you should….”

  He was cut off by the slam of a door. It was a loud crack, a brutal sound in the depths of the darkened hall, but no one seemed particularly startled by it. It was merely a familiar interruption, one that occurred several times a night. But they all paused, glancing towards a large wardrobe that had been a permanent part of the great hall for longer than any of them could remember. It had been part of a cache of booty from raids along the coast of Eire decades ago and had once contained great and expensive things. But that had been years ago. Now, it contained something different altogether. By the time Bhrodi glanced over his shoulder to look at the wardrobe, something thin and wrath-like burst forth from the cabinet.

  A figure danced about in the shadows, shuffling and leaping. There was a good deal of grunting going on as the figure moved about, flickering through the streams of light that reached out from the hearth like fingers into the dim recesses of the room, recesses obscured by the darkness that cloaked the chamber like the dank depths of a polluted soul. They could all hear the hunting and grunting before the figure finally came closer, into the edge of the light, where they could see a little man dressed in filthy rags, with stringy white hair, waving his hand about in front of him as if extending an imaginary sword.

  It was evident the man was doing battle with unseen forces, and it was a fierce battle indeed. He thrust, he parried, and he charged forward when he thought he had the advantage. He even shrieked when the invisible weapons aiming for him came too close. It was a macabre dance of a clear madman, though one who was determined to protect himself and the occupants of the room from unseen demons.

  As Bhrodi and the others watched, the tiny man with the wild hair moved with leaps and bounds back towards his cabinet. Then, as quickly as the show began, it was summarily finished as he sheathed his imaginary sword and bowed swiftly to his ghostly opponent. And with that, he jumped back into his cabinet and closed the door.

  It was over as quickly as it had begun, but no one commented on it. They’d seen it before, many times, and they returned to what they had been doing as if nothing was amiss. Ivor, who had been speaking when the little man had emerged, continued on as if nothing strange had just occurred. It was all quite normal in their world.

  “Would you speak with the messenger, my lord?” he asked. “I have kept him in the gatehouse. If he is de Wolfe’s messenger, we do not want to show him any disrespect and have The Wolfe down around our ears. It would be wise for you to see him.”

  Bhrodi inhaled slowly, thoughtfully, and stopped sharpening his sword. “Show him in,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “I would like to know what the man has to say about a marriage contract I’ve not yet agreed to.”

  Ivor didn’t want to debate it with him; any talk of marriage, or women in general, were not healthy subjects to broach with his liege and he was eager for it to be someone else’s problem. Swiftly, he turned on his heal and headed back the way he had come.

  Ivor’s bootfalls faded as Bhrodi continued to sit, inactive, a pumice stone in one hand and his sword in the other, pondering the arrival of the Wolfe Pack. That was what everyone in military circles referred to them as; William de Wolfe and his stable of powerful and legendary fighting men were known as the Wolfe Pack. Bhrodi had been raised on stories of de Wolfe’s valor and wasn’t hard pressed to admit he admired the man greatly. Tales of de Wolfe’s exploits along the Scots border were almost mythical in proportion. Bhrodi wondered if de Wolfe himself would be accompanying his daughter; suspicion told him the man, no matter his advanced age, would come. This was too important a meeting to leave to lesser knights.

  So he continued to sharpen his blade, contemplating, as the men around him whispered among themsel
ves. Usually, he ignored it but tonight he wasn’t apt to. He spit on his pumice stone to wet it as he sharpened.

  “Ianto,” he said to the man sitting off to his right. “You will make sure we have accommodations for de Wolfe and his men. The bulk of the men can sleep in the hall but de Wolfe will have his own chamber. See to it.”

  Sir Ianto ap Huw, a big man from a fine and noble family, looked up from the cup of ale in his hand. “We can put him in the top of the keep,” he said. “There are two rooms there. It is big enough.”

  “See to it.”

  “Aye, fy arglwydd,” he said quietly. Aye, my lord. “But what of the woman he brings? This is no place for a woman.”

  Bhrodi stopped sharpening and turned to look at the group. “So that is what all of you are hissing about?” he asked. “The fact that Rhydilian is no place for women? You forget there was a woman here, once, and there is a woman here now.”

  “But she is kept to her chamber, fy arglwydd, and does not wander,” a round man with a receding hairline responded softly. “Rhydilian is not a friendly place. The walls of this hall have not seen any woman in over two years.”

  Bhrodi’s piercing green eyes fixed on him. “Two years, seven months, and eighteen days,” he said, his tone low and nearly threatening. “And so this hall will see a woman now, Gwyllim. Prepare the chamber next to mine for her.”

  “That is a small chamber,” Sir Gwyllim ap Evan replied again with his soft but firm tone. He was a man of great reason and often tried to counsel Bhrodi when the man was open to such things. “The chamber on the top floor is much larger and would be more comfortable for her. It is a woman’s chamber, after all.”

  Bhrodi shook his head brusquely, as they knew he would. No one spoke of the chamber on the top floor, a chamber that had been sealed up for two years, seven months, and eighteen days, ever since the day Bhrodi’s beloved Sian had died giving birth to a son. Since that day, no one had dared to venture into the room which was exactly how it was the moment Sian’s body had been removed. Bhrodi wouldn’t let anyone in to even clean it up. Stale, with still-bloodied linens and old ashes in the hearth, the chamber sat cold and dark and unloved. Gwyllim had taken his life in his hands by as much as suggesting they disturb what had become a shrine to grief.

  “Nay,” Bhrodi barked, his mood turning from calm to annoyed in a split second. “Put the woman next to me and that will be the end of it.”

  Gwyllim glanced at Ianto and another man seated around the fire, noting their various expressions of uncertainty; whereas Ianto tended to be the most outspoken of the group, the man next to him, Yestin ap Bran, would side with Bhrodi until the end. What Bhrodi said was good enough for him, no matter what it was.

  Bhrodi had put an end to the discussion of the chamber next to the hall, as they all knew he would. There was no more discussing it and no one would try. As Gwyllim rose wearily to his feet to carry out Bhrodi’s command, the keep entry door swung open. They could hear it snap back on the old iron hinges. Gwyllim paused, as did everyone else, their attention turning to the hall entry as Ivor entered the chamber with a knight on his heels.

  Immediately, the ambiance of the room changed. This was no ordinary knight; the stench of the Saesneg was upon them, an English knight of the highest and most professional order. The extremely tall man clad in expensive and well-used armor entered the hall, his mail jingling as he walked and his big boots thumping purposefully against the wooden floor. As he approached the fire pit where the men were gathered, Bhrodi’s men rose to their feet but Bhrodi did not. He was not apt to show any respect or curiosity to a mere English knight.

  He did, however, eye the man carefully; he was a big man with big hands and a crown of reddish-gold hair. As the knight and Bhrodi stared each other down, Ivor spoke.

  “You are in the presence of the King of Anglesey, Prince of Cefni, Lord of the Green Isle, and the Earl of Coventry,” he said in a formal tone. “You will show your respect to him, Saesneg.”

  The knight didn’t hesitate; he folded his long body over, bowing respectfully. “My lord,” the knight said in a deep and charismatic voice. “Mae’n anrhydedd yn eich presenoldeb.” I am honored in your presence.

  Bhrodi was studying the man intently, still seated upon a chair with a sword in his hand. It was a most disinterested stance, and meant to be that way. There was no shortage of arrogance in Bhrodi’s manner.

  “You will speak English in my presence,” he finally said. “I will not have the Welsh language sullied upon your tongue.”

  The knight nodded politely. “As you wish, my lord.”

  “What is your name?”

  “Sir Apollo de Norville, my lord,” he replied respectfully. “I serve Sir William de Wolfe.”

  “Where is The Wolfe?”

  “He is camped about six or seven miles to the east, my lord, on the other side of the lake which is at the base of your mountain,” he replied. “He thought it best to seek shelter and rest for the night and then present himself to you in the morning.”

  Something changed in Bhrodi’s eyes at that moment; an ominous flicker in the deep green depths. In fact, his entire expression seemed to tighten and he rose to his feet.

  “Where, exactly, did he camp?” he asked, an odd sense of urgency in his tone.

  Apollo tried to be more specific. “There is a clearing to the south, near a copse of trees,” he said. “A brook runs next to it and there are some rock formations to the north, although it was difficult to make them out, exactly.”

  “There is a smaller lake and a marsh next to this clearing.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Bhrodi’s gaze lingered on the knight for a moment before passing a glance at Ivor. “That is not a safe place,” he told him. “Get a party together. We must ride for them.”

  Apollo was confused. “I do not understand, my lord,” he said. “Are we not on your lands? Did we mistakenly venture into enemy territory?”

  Bhrodi could only shake his head as his men ran past him, calling for soldiers and mounts. Men began shouting and they could hear the calls out in the bailey. Apollo was genuinely puzzled as Bhrodi collected the sheath for his sword and moved past the knight.

  “Come along, Saesneg,” he said. “Let us see if we can save The Wolfe from the demon that lurks in the night.”

  Apollo followed, growing increasingly concerned. “Demon, my lord?” he repeated. “What demon?”

  Bhrodi cast the man a long glance as they headed out of the hall and into the full moon in the bailey beyond.

  “Let us hope you do not find out.”

  *

  “She is standing watch,” Jordan’s voice was soft. “She is tending tae her duties as always. Did ye think this journey would be any different than the others?”

  William sighed faintly. Bundled up against the cold night, he faced his wife in the well-appointed tent the family shared when they traveled. He had come looking for his daughter but found his wife alone before the brazier. Wrapped in furs, she was small and pale against the glowing embers, but her expression upon him was serious and all-knowing.

  “Nay,” he replied honestly. “I would expect her to behave as she always has.”

  “She will not shirk her duties.”

  William simply nodded, reflecting on his daughter and their journey from England. It had been almost three long weeks of travel, of contemplating Penelope’s future. There had been a lot of time to think. He sighed again.

  “I would not expect her to, as she is very dutiful,” he replied. “In fact, she has settled down remarkably since that scene back at Questing when she locked us all in the solar and attempted to challenge my decision. I have watched her for almost three weeks now and she has not said another word about her impending future. Has she said anything to you?”

  Jordan shrugged faintly. “Not in so many words,” she said softly. “She has mentioned how she will miss England but nothing more than that. But her expression at times… ye can see she has great longing. And great fear. Yet, she is a daughter of de Wolfe. She has accepted her duty.”