ROD GARCIA Y ROBERTSON STRONGBOW "These parts are much given to implacable quarrels and domestic feuds. I leave it to others to tell of the inhuman crimes committed in our own times: marriages most cruelly brought about, inflicted rather than contracted, only to be cut short by savage acts of family bloodshed.... --Gerald of Wales, 1191 Wall Walk CLARE HAD TO WALK THE walls just to breathe. Looking out at morning mist on hostile Welsh hills, she imagined the smell of death hung over the castle. Clinging to cold stone. Sunk into the straw and rushes strewn on the stone floors. Her stepfather was not yet dead, merely dying, but the smell was already there. As real to Clare as the white mist on the green hills. As real as Strongbow's ghost. Unloving and aloof, her stepfather had long been physically deaf, and utterly blind to her wants and needs. But it shook her to see him lying stricken and speechless, no longer anchoring her world. Pious to a fault, he slept on unwashed sheets and put sharp pebbles in his shoes. When he fell sick, the castle women found that he secretly wore a hair undershirt alive with vermin, knotted so tightly to his waist that the cords dug at his flesh. If death came for someone so pious and humble, how could anyone be safe? Clare had sat vigil in the sick chamber half the night, lulled by women's prayers and her stepfather's labored breath. At dawn she got up to walk the walls. No one told her no, or tried to stop her. It felt strange to be suddenly beyond adult control. To be the heiress, and at thirteen the lady of the castle. "Good morrow, little whore." Clare looked up to see her stepbrother, looming large in the morning light, dressed in his favorite fur-lined tunic and drawers. Edmund had always been bigger than she. Big, blond, and hateful. He hated her ever since their parents married, and he realized she stood between him and her mother's inheritance. It grated that "this tiny slut, this little worthless creature" could keep him from being lord of Caeradar. She turned back toward the hills, staring out over Ebbw Vale, muttering a spell that would send Edmund over the seas to be a harem slave among the Turks. He took her chin between his thumb and finger, twisting her head around, forcing her to face him. "I said, Good morrow, bastard sister." The magic had not worked. Edmund had an evil strength that foiled even her best spells. He had always been stronger, and able to hurt her. And he gloried in that strength and ability. She might be her mother's heiress -- and the family pet -- but he could always cause her pain, could casually make her cry. "Good morrow," she muttered, her chin still held painfully in his grip. As they had gotten older, his desire to hurt her had taken more sinister forms. When she was seven and he was ten, Edmund had pushed her into the mud, then ground his bootheel down on her hand, breaking her finger. But that had been child's play. Now Clare truly feared him, knowing he meant to break not only her body, but her spirit as well. "That's better, little bastard." Besides his strength, Edmund liked to hold his legitimacy over her. She might be her mother's heiress, but he was born in wedlock. It made robbing her a moral duty. He gave her face a gleeful inspection. "I don't know what I will do when Father is dead. Put you in a nunnery perhaps, like your crazy mother. Or maybe marry you to the Welsh dog-boy." He turned her head, forcing her to look into the lower bailey, where Rory was exercising the long loping Welsh greyhounds. Unable to move her head, she stared at Rory, a red-haired, green-eyed boy about Edmund's age. Remarkably clean-looking, considering he was Welsh, with straight legs and nimble feet, making him a good dancer. His sister Gwen was her serving girl. Rory must have heard, since he looked up. Somehow he knew they were talking about him, though he did not even speak English, much less Norman-French. But like all Welsh he had that animal knack for knowing without speech. He must not have liked being talked about, because he turned and walked away, taking the hounds with him. Edmund jerked her head back to face him. "Or perhaps I will just wall you up in some convenient tower, to die of thirst and madness amid your own filth." She saw that idea had a special appeal. "But whatever I do, we will first have a night to remember. You have that to look forward to." He let his hand drop, turned and walked away, having more important things to do than torment her. He too was scared. Clare could tell. Insulting the Welsh and bullying her were Edmund's two main ways of making himself feel better. She turned, staring back out over the hayfield dotted with the burnt remains of St. John's Eve bonfires, looking down on fish hawks soaring over the white torrent of the Ebbw. Edmund only had power over her if she let him. Before giving in she would climb to the highest part of the keep and hurl herself from the battlements. Suicide might be a mortal sin -- but that was between her and God. It would be her doing. Her decision. But throwing herself off the keep would do her small good, no matter how much it might disappoint Edmund. She desperately needed a more promising plan, one not requiring her gory demise. Her fingers dug at cold hard stone. Beyond the Ebbw, green Welsh hills rose and fell, a great timbered sea receding into misty distance. Within the walls people walked lightly. The lord of Caeradar lay dying, leaving everyone unsure of their station. But beyond the walls things were no better. All England was in an uncertain state. Indeed, all Christendom lay in disarray. The Lord God Almighty -- never unjust, but often not easy to understand -- had let the infidel Saladin take Holy Jerusalem. Kings and emperors had gone off on Crusade, along with hordes of lesser folk. Good King Richard Lionheart went with them, leaving behind a hated regent and a treacherous brother who were happily at each other's throats. No one could know what was coming. Not she. Not Edmund. Not even Prince John, the brother to King Richard. Only the wild Welsh in the surrounding hills knew what to make of it. They had already risen up in revolt. Witch's Night CLARE KNELT in the sick chamber, eyes closed, hands clasped, smelling burnt wax, frankincense, and the deathly sweet odor of disease. She could hear the women at their prayers, whispering words over and over again. Her own prayers were varied, but heartfelt. She begged for her stepfather's life. Not just because he had been pious and decent -- but out of horror at what Edmund would do. By now she knew which of Edmund's threats were real and which were made just to terrify her. At the absolute best he would brutalize her -- in ways he was not allowed to so long as his father lived. Afterward, if she was lucky, he would lock her up in a nunnery to keep her from her inheritance. Clare knew something of a nun's life from visits to her mother. They had shaved heads and slept on board beds, beneath itchy hair blankets. Bells woke them at Lauds, in the darkest hour of morning. They put on black habits -- the same ones they would be buried in -- and went to the chapel to pray, stretched out on the cold stones in total submission to Christ, their lord and husband. Then they filed back to their cells for an hour of rest before Prime. Breakfast was bread and water. Dinner not much better. They never knew a man's love, never had children, never enjoyed a free day to do as they pleased. A bleak life at best. But Edmund had the means to make it seem like heaven. The Matins bell rang. Clare crossed herself and rose. Women muttering prayers watched her leave. Last spring, she had turned thirteen, and been the castle pet, indulged and doted on by everyone save Edmund. Now her least action had grave meaning. For good or ill, Caeradar's future resided in her body. She mounted the spiral stairs leading to the top floor of the keep. The heart of Caeradar was the castle's great rectangular Norman keep. Sitting atop a limestone ridge above the river Ebbw, the four-story keep dominated the landscape, dwarfing the little Welsh round towers and hill forts, seeming to have been raised by titans. Her stepfather's sickroom was adjacent to the chapel. Winding stairs led to an anteroom directly above that had been her mother's bedroom, and now belonged to Clare. She closed and barred the door behind her. This room, the sickroom, and the chapel had become her sanctuary -- now that the wall walk was no longer safe. Night air smelled of lamp black. Curtains covered the arrow slits spaced around three sides of the bedchamber. The stone window seats beneath them were three feet tall, built for a race of giants. Two women waited in her bedchamber, one young, one old -- aside from hermits and prisoners, Clare's world had no concept of privacy. Gwen, her Welsh serving girl, slept on the floor at the foot of the canopy bed. Nuala, her big white-haired Irish nurse, sat on an oak chest, head nodding, a shawl around her shoulders. She looked up as the door closed. "Eat," Nuala ordered. She had brought hare-and-wine collops and honey cakes up from the kitchen. "Then wake the girl." Selecting a honey cake, Clare sat obediently at the older woman's feet. She might be the lady of the castle, but Nuala would always be her nurse -- who had suckled her, spanked her, and cared for her, crooning her to sleep and sharing her bed. "How goes it?" Nuala nodded toward the sickroom below. "He sinks fast," Clare admitted. She had every reason to wish her stepfather well, but she could not lie to Nuala. "Mother Mary gives and the Mother Mary takes," Nuala intoned. "Now eat your collops." Clare obeyed, though she never liked eating rabbits -- or anything cute. Once she had freed the castle's entire stock of hares, herding them out the upper bailey's high postern, amazing and frightening the Welsh, who had never seen rabbits before. Herd girls and hay cutters fled for the hills, pursued by frisking hares. But the way Nuala cooked them, with wine, onions, and oatmeal, gave them an agreeable nutty taste. She washed her collops down with wine, then looked toward the bed. "Shall I wake her? Nuala nodded. Clare went over and shook the girl lying at the foot of her bed, saying, "Wake up, Gwen. It is time." Green eyes flicked opened. Gwen sat up, red-haired, freckle-faced, half-asleep, and mumbling in Welsh, "O? Arglwyddes Caer?" Clare smiled, "Bore da." Meaning, "Good morning." She had taken in Gaelic with Nuala's milk, and Gwen had taught her Welsh. She spoke both languages better than she spoke English, the language of soldiers and serfs. Norman-French was her "native" speech, though she had never been to France, except in spirit. And she knew enough Latin to talk to God in his own tongue. In fact she found many similarities between Welsh and Latin. Words like "tripod" and "tribedd." Or "canis" and "ci." Proof that the Welsh were descended from the Trojan heroes who founded Rome. The serving girl rubbed her eyes and yawned. "Ydyn ni'n mynd?" Clare nodded. "Ydyn ni'n mynd." We are going. Locals called Clare "Arglwyddes Caer o Caeradar." Lady Caer of Caeradar. The Rabbit Girl. Caer meant "camp." Or "home." Caeradar meant, "Camp of the birds." Like Caerleon meant "Camp of the Legions." Gwen and her brother the dog-boy were the last hostages left loose in the castle. Last summer her people had overrun two castles, Laugharne and Llanstephen, three easy days to the east. Now the rising had spread to Ebbw Vale, condemning Gwen to death or disfigurement. The other locals not locked in the keep basement had all gone over the walls, or out the latrine postern, as soon as the hill tribes had risen -- taking flitches of bacon, tableware and tapestries, whatever they could lay hands on in lieu of wages. Theft was the Welsh way of saying thanks. Clare looked over at Nuala. "We're ready. Let's go. I want to see Mother." Her nurse had already blown out the lamps, leaving a single taper burning in the middle of the floor. Observing a holy silence, Nuala loosed her long single-piece Celtic robe, then pulled her French-cut blouse over her head. It was natural and comforting for Clare to see her nurse naked. Nuala was incredibly strong, topping thirteen stone, with wide hips, broad knotted shoulders, and arms like a troll. She had earth-magic in her blood. Not just a lady's nurse, Nuala was a blacksmith, boatwright, and harper -- who shoed her own horses, built her own boats, and composed her own verse. Born in the first half of the century, she could still out-row men and run down mares, and remained a fearsome wrestler, having beaten the garrison sergeant-at-arms two falls in three. Nuala was a force of nature. Clare was always in awe of her, and always depended on her. More so than on her own mother, who had a retiring and contemplative temperament. If Nuala said they must walk across the sea to Spain, or fly naked to the Moon, Clare would not have doubted they could do it. Clare took off her chamber slippers, then her loose-sleeved gown and the chemise underneath. Gwen removed her homespun cloak and dress, singing softly to herself as she stripped. She had been included to complete the coven, and as hostage she had little choice. Nuala was not someone you said "no" to. They knelt facing each other, forming a naked triangle around the lighted candle. Nuala smeared honey in the girls' mouths, and they linked hands. Tall shadows danced about the chamber. The Matins bell had rung, making it past midnight on Friday, Witch's Night. Nuala invoked Mary -- Virgin, All Mother, and Death Angel -- the female trinity. Then she began an ancient Irish chant, one she used to croon to Clare in her cradle, as soft and compelling as the rolling sea. Flickering candlelight, the rising and falling rhythm, the taste of honey, all drew Clare in. Cares fell away. Her eyes closed. She let herself drift away on Nuala's song. The world around her disappeared. Waiting in the darkness behind her eyelids was her spirit guide. Maid Marian. Mary as maiden, young and blonde, as ripe and wild as the greenwood. Dressed in a forest-colored tunic and hose, she had a huntsman's cap and horn, and carried a bow. The mannish garb showed she defied men's laws and assumed their prerogatives, unfettered by dresses and convention. Her bow symbolized her power over life and death. Her cap and horn meant she hunted for souls. She asked, "Why have you come, dear daughter?" "I have come to see my mother," Clare whispered back. "And so you have," Marian spun about and spread her arms. "My Earthly mother," Clare explained. Maid Marian smiled, showing sly dimples, looking as merry and roguish as the outlaws who worshipped her. "I knew that." In a twinkling Clare found herself standing in a narrow stone cell furnished with a plain oak chair and table. A woman slept on the low bed. The only decoration was a little picture of the Virgin on the wall, lighted by wax candles. Clare knew at once she was at Fontevrault Abbey on the banks of the Vienne, near Chion. The woman sleeping on the bed was her mother. Marian admired her likeness on the wall, while Clare stared down at her sleeping mother, envious of her serenity and shining chestnut hair. She always felt plain compared to her mother. Mother had been the great lady, mistress to an earl, a damsel for poets to sing of. Clare was the little cast-off bastard, an inconvenience to everyone. She also envied her mother's security, sleeping peacefully in this tight stone cell. Fontevrault was an utterly amazing place in a world otherwise ruled by men. Here the monks and lay brothers were completely subject to the Abbess, who by law had to be a widowed nun -- both chaste and maternal, and accustomed to managing a household. Under women's rule Fontevrault had become a refuge for battered wives, poor widows, prostitutes, discarded mistresses, incest victims, outcast concubines, and surplus princesses who could not find suitable marriages. Mother was none of these. Her husband, now dying, had been hopelessly devoted to her. She was neither battered, nor sick, nor outcast. She was not a nun, nor even a lay sister. But she was beautiful, charmingly willful, and adept at landing on her feet. She had found the one place in Christendom where no man's hand could reach her. Clare called out, "Mother." The sleeping form stirred. Clare tried again. "Mother." Her mother sat up, looking astonished, muttering, "Holy Mary!" Marian smiled and curtsied. Brushing shining brown hair out of her eyes, her mother stared at the two young women -- one naked, the other dressed up like Robin Hood. "Clare, is that you?" "It is me, mother." "Am I dreaming?" She looked about for something to prick herself with. "No. You are not dreaming." Her mother sat back. "Then it must be Friday." "Yes, it's Friday. You ought to have been expecting me." This was not Clare's first witch's flight to Fontevrault. Solemnly her mother got up and knelt in bed, managing to make it look graceful. She crossed herself, then thanked Marian "for bringing my daughter to me." Marian nodded, casually acknowledging the miracle. Turning back to her daughter, she asked, "And how is Nuala?" "Nuala is fine. It was she who sent me." Put off by pleasantries, Clare went straight to the purpose of the midnight visit. "You must know Stepfather is dying." "I am sorry for that. But if incessant prayers and a hair shirt cannot save him, what can I do?" "And Edmund...." "Edmund is dying too?" Her mother looked hopeful. "No. Edmund is a monster, and very much alive." It angered Clare that her mother instantly tried to wish away every problem. Mother sank back, looking from her to Marian, who wore an expression of virginal innocence, as if to say that Edmund was an Earthly issue. "What am I going to do?" Clare demanded. "He means to rape and murder me." Clare wanted to fight him, but did not have the means. She was not Nuala, and could not resist Edmund physically. She had come with the wild notion that she might pry her mother out of Fontevrault, getting her to come to Wales. Edmund was her stepson. Caeradar was her castle. Clearly that was not going to happen. Clare felt like a caterpillar crushed beneath a rock. Her mother sighed, "It is your father's fault." "For dying?" "No. I mean your real father. He saddled me with that castle." Clare's real father was Richard FitzGilbert de Clare, Earl of Pembroke, known as Strongbow, the fabled adventurer who brought Norman rule to Ireland. The Earl and her mother had never been married, which made Clare a bastard, despite her famous name. The earldom of Pembroke, and the great Clare estates in England, Ireland, and Wales had gone to Strongbow's legitimate daughter, Isabel de Clare, the damsel of Estriguil, who married William the Marshal -- "Good, courteous, beautiful, and wise" according to the troubadours. Clare and her mother got only the manor of Caeradar on the wild fringes of Glamorgan. "I never wanted to be tied to some tiresome border castle, with naught but the Welsh for neighbors...." Clare said nothing. No one had given her a choice. Caeradar was all she had ever known. "I wish your father were here, to see the mess he has made." "Beware what you wish for." Maid Marian snapped her thumb and a red-haired Norman knight appeared wearing a chain-mail hauberk with long sleeves, and a mail coif topped by a conical steel cap. He looked a bit out of fashion with his bare mail and pointed helmet -- surcoats and flat helms having just come into style -- but was still suitably impressive, with a big Welsh longbow across his back and the three de Clare chevrons on his shield. He had broad shoulders and bowman's arms, reaching all the way to his knees. Clare saw at once why she so little resembled her mother. Never having seen her father, she had spent hours pouring over old marginal illuminations, trying to know his face, though the pictures were often tiny and in manuscripts dated long after his death. Hair and eyes were as she had imagined. But all those illustrations -- even his stone effigies in the cathedrals -- had not captured how much his living face resembled hers. His features were fine and delicate, almost womanish. Brows and chin, and the arch of his nose were hers writ large. She stared in amazement. Until this moment her world had been defined by her father's absence -- in life and in name. Raised by a man who was not her father. Matched against a boy who was not her brother. With no male protector, in a world where men did as they pleased. She was not just illegitimate, but a posthumous bastard to boot. "The most useless thing imaginable," as Edmund liked to remind her. Strongbow bowed politely to her mother, "You wished for me, my Lady." His voice too was hers, pitched like woman's, soft and courteous. Mother sniffed, in no mood to be mollified. "I am no longer anyone's Lady, thank goodness." Strongbow smirked, "You seemed eager enough at the time." "I wanted to be your wife." He spread his hands in apology. "Alas, that was not possible." "You married that heathen tart fast enough." Mother never used Eva's name g as if Clare could somehow not know it. "Only for reasons of state." The ghost shrugged armored shoulders. "I was destitute, and Dermot McMurrough of Leinster offered a kingdom." It already pained Clare to see her parents fight. Mother leaned back against the wall of her cell, arms folded. "And now you are dead and useless." "Believe me, that was never my plan." "A thin excuse for leaving your daughter in desperate straits." She nodded at Clare. "My daughter?" Strongbow turned to stare, making Clare uncomfortably aware of her nudity. "This is the child you were carrying?" "Of course. She is why I called you here." Mother deftly appropriated Marian's miracle. "What is her name?" He seemed truly taken aback, suddenly confronted with his grown child. Clare saw that while she had known about him all her life, her father had no forewarning -- so much for the dead knowing everything. "I called her Clare." "She's beautiful." He was complimenting his own features, but it came from the heart. Clare had been called a million things, from ,,little clot of dung" to "Caer of Caeradar, the Rabbit Girl." Never had she imagined this was the first thing her true father would say on seeing her. In a single stroke, Richard FitzGilbert de Clare, Earl of Pembroke, the conqueror of Dublin, Waterford, Wexford, and Leinster, had won over his daughter. She had prayed for some male protector, some Saint George or Sir Galahad in shining armor, never expecting it would be her dead father. Turning about, he knelt before her mother, his gloved hand raised. "In the divine presence of Mary Mother of God, I promise to do all I can for our daughter. Whatever powers I have left, whatever gifts God may grant, I put them in her service." Mother snorted as if she had heard this all before, motioning Clare to her side. Clare carefully stepped around her kneeling father -- though they were both immaterial. "Do not fall for him," Mother warned. "He promised me the world, and could not deliver Ireland. I ended up destitute and alone at Caeradar, forced to marry your stepfather just to have a man at my side." She gave Strongbow a hard look. "I know he looks as fair as he talks, but had he left us a decent living, instead of some wild Welsh manor, all would be different." Turning back to Clare, her voice softened. "Heaven knows, I have done you no better. I wish I had you here in these cloisters. I would have taken you with me, but your stepfather refused to let both of us go. And I could not abide a man who brings lice into bed." If only one of them could escape, Mother made sure it was her -- Clare thought it, but did not say it. "I am sorry I could not do more. When your stepfather dies, I will take a nun's vows. But you are the heiress of Caeradar, which makes you a prisoner of the world." Witch's Night was not over, but Mother had plainly had enough. Before the Lauds bell rang, Maid Marian whisked Clare back to the Camp of the Birds. Besieged RETURNING TO the room that had been her mother's, Clare dressed in holy silence beside a sputtering puddle left by the burnt candle. She went back down to the sickroom when the Lauds bell rang in the chapel. Afterward Nuala's strong hands tucked her in. "I saw Mother," Clare whispered. "And Father." "I know," Nuala told her, pulling the coverlet over them. Clare snuggled up to the bigger woman. Had Nuala been there in spirit? Her nurse never talked about witches' flights, for fear of harming the spell. And what about Gwen, asleep at the foot of the bed? What sort of Witch's Night did the Welsh girl have? All Gwen ever said in the mornings was that she had sore feet, "O y ddawns neithiwr" -- "From the dancing last night." Despite living under a deferred death sentence, Gwen remained unfailingly cheerful, always making the most of the moment. Another Welsh habit that was hard to break. Clare was up again at Prime to pray. Her stepfather continued to sink. He had not spoken, or taken solid food for a week. Women spooned soup into him, but that could keep him alive only so long. Clare thought of Edmund's threat to wall her up without food, or water, or air. He had done half that already, making her a virtual prisoner, confined to the sickroom, the chapel, and her room above. Living under sentence, like Gwen. She missed the freedom of walking through sunlit woods. Of having the rabbits she loosed on the Welsh come up to eat from her hand. Or of standing on the wall walk feeling the breeze blow, knowing she had it in her to fly beyond the far horizon. What could her father's ghost do to free herr To disbelieve in magic was as unthinkable as denying religion -- it flew in the face of all reason and experience. But she was scared enough to fear her witch's flight had been some weird waking dream. Lulling her into doing nothing, while fate closed in. On Monday Clare awoke in dark morning, aroused by a low moaning. The Lauds bell had rung, sending Nuala to stand vigil in the sickroom. Clare sat up in bed. Moaning grew into fevered groans, then a sharp panting coming from Gwen. Clare could hear the Welsh girl thrashing at the foot of the bed. She listened, horridly fascinated, fearing Gwen might be sick, then realizing her serving girl was having far too good a time. Giggling and crying out, Gwen used Welsh words she had never taught to Clare. Lying back, Clare had a hard time getting to sleep. At Prime she got up to pray. Her maid lay sprawled on the floor, bedclothes in disarray, strands of red hair plastered to her face with sweat. A dark fertile odor filled the room. When Clare returned from the chapel, she found Gwen going about her tasks with a guilty look. By then Clare had other concerns. Armed men came riding up the Ebbw. From the roof of the keep, she recognized Bishop William of Llandaff with his personal retainers, plus a small escort of men-at-arms and a dozen mounted spearmen. Bishop William Saltmarsh was a good, pious, not very bright churchman -- which might be why the Welsh let him through unmolested. She entertained these visitors in the great hall on the third floor of the keep, the principal floor, with its middle wall replaced by massive columns. Wider windows, and the huge central light well, made the hall relatively airy, despite being enclosed by ten feet of stone. Edmund stood in for his father, and Clare for her mother. She wore a bright yellow tunic, topped by a damask surcoat and sable mantle, for the first time in days daring to share the same room with Edmund -- fairly sure he would not assault her before Bishop William and a brace of priests. Bishop William explained that three nights running the Holy Virgin had appeared to him in a dream, beseeching him to bring the pious and ailing Lord of Caeradar to Llandaff. Either to recover, or be buried beneath the church altar. A surprising request that could hardly be refused. Pack animals were loaded with sumpter-saddles, and a horse-litter prepared. They had to leave at once, since the Lord of Caeradar did not look likely to last the night. Edmund would go with his father, taking half the castle garrison. He was welcome to take them all, so long as he went. Clare feared him more than all the welsh in the hills. Before taking Edmund away, Bishop William insisted on a private word with her. Bubbling inside, she did her best to look serious. Good old William Saltmarsh seemed near to death himself, and was forever taking her aside for a few encouraging words, saying, "Remember, child, thou art but a sinful little soul, bearing up a corpse." Or something equally helpful. He had been a simple Bristol Abbot before his consecration, and barely spoke a word of Welsh. Which must have made him a puzzle to his parishioners, striving so earnestly in French and Latin to save their heathen souls. "My child," he told her, "this only concerns you. The Holy Virgin did not appear to me alone. All three times your father's spirit was with her. Your true father, Earl Richard de Clare." Bishop William prattled on about how this was a lesson for everyone, the dead earl showing concern for his mistress's husband. Atoning in part for his many sins of the flesh. Clare barely listened-- being a prime result of that sinning, she never held it against her father. Instead she thanked his ghost with all her heart for helping get Edmund out of Caeradar. It was up to her to somehow keep him out. Edmund and the Bishop set off, bearing Lord William in the horse-litter. Clare watched from atop the gatehouse. When word came back from Llandaff that her stepfather had died, she would seize the castle and bar the door to Edmund, accusing him of treason. Of conspiring with the Welsh. Anything to keep him out. At the same time she would appeal to her feudal superiors. Even to Prince John if need be. But first she just meant to be free of the walls. She had hardly left the keep since her stepfather fell ill, and had not been outside the baileys since St. John's Eve. Telling Nuala, "Pack some food," she changed her pearl-stitched gloves and damask gown for a simple tunic and surcoat. She did not bother with boots, wanting to feel the green hay underfoot. Taking only a single mounted sergeant, she told Rory to turn out the pack. He and Gwen were supposed to be kept under lock and key, but if they meant to run off they would have done it by now. Going out the main gate, with her dogs, her nurse, her horse sergeant, and her pair of young Welsh prisoners --she felt at last like the lady of Caeradar. The slope down to the river had black patches burnt in it from St. John's Eve bonfires. On that shortest night of the year, castle boys brandished torches to scare off dragons and rolled burning wheels down to the river, symbolizing the sun's turn toward winter. Now it was Clare's turn to spin circles in the sunlight, glorying in her newfound freedom. When she was done making herself dizzy, she had Gwen spread out the food Nuala had brought, oat bread, cheeses, salt fish, boiled meats, cider and almonds. Rory exercised the hounds. They were Welsh greyhounds, so silent and graceful they barely seemed like dogs, more like magical creatures, aloof and curious. Clare decided to exercise her new power, asking Gwen, "What did you dream last night?" She meant to allow no mysteries from the Lady of Caeradar. Gwen's guilty look returned. She whispered in Welsh, "It was that sort of dream." "What sort?" "The wrong sort." No wonder she had awakened looking sheepish and smelling of sex. "Really?" Clare arched an eyebrow, surprised to find Gwen so flustered. Incubi were common in Wales, and Christian ways barely applied to the Welsh, who reveled in incest and premarital relations. "O, the dream was a delight. But such visits are a sign of strife to come." A safe enough prediction with the hill clans already in arms. "And all the more so because of the man." "What sort of man was he?" Clare never had night visitors, neither in spirit nor in the flesh, making her curious. "Your sort. A Saxon knight." To the Welsh they were all Saxons. Clare had been born in Ireland, to Franco-Norman parents, but she was still a "Saxon." "Really your sort," Gwen emphasized. "With long deft arms, and a big strong bow across his back." "And chevrons on his shield?" Clare made the sign in the air, and Gwen nodded. Her hostage maid servant had seen enough foreign heraldry to know whose spirit had lifted her night dress. Clare sat back, stunned. She pictured her father's ghost, kneeling in the cell at Fontevrault, making chivalrous vows to her mother, with the Holy Virgin looking on. Bastards know their fathers are not chaste, else how did they get to be bastards? But galloping Welsh serving girls on the floor went a bit far. In her mother's chamber. With Clare listening on the bed. Not the sort of spiritual support she had counted on. And a sign of strife to come. A shiver crept down her spine. She glanced toward the castle. A gust of wind at the gate made the tall grass bow and bend. Slowly the line of nodding grass tops grew longer, heading down toward the river. Rising to her feet, she heard a mournful groaning on the wind, like pipes played low and solemn. Bells tolled over the hills to the south. Greyhounds lifted their heads and howled. Rory made no attempt to silence the hounds. He stood staring uphill toward the castle, watching the nodding line of grass continue its slow march toward the Ebbw. Nuala crossed herself, making the sign that wards off the evil eye. "A faerie funeral." Gwen looked serious, no longer shy or ashamed. "The Little Folk are preparing to receive a soul." Rory turned to them, saying "Someone will die. And soon." No need to ask who. The line of bowing grass began at the gate Clare's stepfather had left through, and the tolling bells came from the direction of Llandaff -- where he had been headed. And the Little Folk never lied. No one could live in Wales without knowing about the Little Folk, who lived underground, never ate meat, rode horses the size of greyhounds, and spirited off children to a land of play and pleasure. They were fair and long-haired, and detested surface folk's pretenses and lies. Whatever they promised would come to pass. Determined not to waste the faeries' warning, Clare ordered Rory to call in the dogs, signaling to Nuala and the sergeant that they were returning to Caeradar. As they scrambled back up the hill toward the gate, she heard Gwen gasp. The serving girl grabbed at her arm and pointed downhill. Clare saw a second slow line cutting through the field of grass, right behind the first one and a little to the side. Someone besides her stepfather was about to die. Clare pulled Gwen toward the gate. They could not stop to guess at who that second funeral might be for; Clare had to get her castle into a state of defense. She never got her chance. As they reached the gatehouse a voice called down in English, "Riders a-coming." "Bar the gate," Clare ordered, out of breath from her run up the hill. Men obeyed. She turned to her mounted sergeant. "Bar all the gates. And turn out the bowmen." Her sergeant pounded off to summon the bowmen and see to the lesser posterns. A soft familiar voice in her head whispered, "That's the spirit." Clare shot up the gatehouse stairs, with Nuala and Gwen a half step behind her. Rory could be trusted to kennel his pack. He had a habit of treating the hounds as his, keeping him from having to hear obvious orders -- but earning him blows for insolence, and for not acting as a proper hostage. From the gatehouse tower Clare could see far down the green Vale. Woods covered the hills at either hand, broken by silver patches of river. A wagon track wound down the east bank, to connect with the bridge at Newport. She saw horsemen cantering up the track, entering the cleared space before the gate. With Edmund in the lead. He drew rein at the closed gate, demanding entrance. "Let me in. The Welsh ambushed us. Father and the bishop are taken." Clare could believe it. Their horses looked blown. One man sat bent over his blood-spattered mount, barely holding on. Saddles and armor were feathered with Welsh arrows. She called down, "Go away." Edmund stared up in absolute disbelief. After years of bullying her, and plotting to put her away, he seemed utterly astonished that Clare dared deny him anything. As soon as his father fell to the Welsh, he had counted Caeradar as his. Welsh bowmen came stumbling up the steps, stringing their six-foot bows. A half-dozen of them formed part of the permanent garrison. Coming from Gwent, they had no kin among the local hill clans, and could be semi-trusted in a crisis. Edmund shouted up from below, "Open the gate, you silly strumpet." The soft voice in her head said, "Daughter, have him dismount and approach alone." Clare glanced about. The Welsh waited silently, spaced along the wall, arrows nocked and bows bent. Her father repeated himself, "Tell him to come forward, alone and on foot." "Why?" she whispered, trying not to be seen talking to the air. "So the archers can get a clear shot." She stared down at Edmund. The Welsh bowmen would do it. They were glad to see the men below were Saxons, who could be punctured without setting Gwent and Glamorgan at feud. Edmund did not even deign to speak their language. "Do it," Strongbow commanded. "It is your life or his." Clutching the stone, Clare leaned forward, remembering her visit to Abergavenny Castle -- site of the infamous massacre, where the Sheriff of Hereford murdered his Welsh guests, and the men of Gwent had gone to get revenge. She had seen the points of Welsh arrows protruding from a gate door as thick as her hand. She called down to Edmund, "Go away, or I'll shoot." "No," Strongbow ordered. "Come forward." "Begone," Clare shouted. She could not bring herself to kill in cold blood. "Begone, or I'll shoot." "Idiot whore," he shouted back. "You would not dare." That's what you think. She turned to the archers, saying in Welsh, "Shoot." They shot. Arrows rained down on the disbelieving men below. Horses reared. Saddles fell empty. One man and mount spun in circles, an arrow passing through two folds of armor, the man's thigh, and the horse's saddle, had pinned the rider to the terrified animal's flank. But the man Clare wanted to see dead was not so much as scratched. Edmund wheeled his mount and raced away from the gate without an arrow coming near him. "That was foolish," her father informed her. Not just foolish but fatal. Clare saw Edmund heading for the latrine portal on the far side of the lower bailey. Shouting for the Welsh to follow, she ran along the wall walk to head him off. Though she had the shorter distance, his horse beat her to the postern, a narrow door in the bailey wall used to service the kitchens and latrines. Two mural towers, and the keep itself, overlooked the little gate which led into the lower bailey. Edmund dismounted. She could hear him pounding on the door, shouting that the Welsh had turned on them, saying, "Let me in. The Welsh are coming. His lordship and the bishop are taken." Of course they let him in. With his father gone, the men below were bound to obey him. Who else could hold Caeradar against the Welsh? Telling Gwen and Nuala to follow her, she leaped down onto the kitchen roof. No direct doors led from the wall walk to the keep -- so even if the outer baileys fell, the great tower would be unbreached. But Clare had grown up in the castle, and knew every shortcut from one part to the next. She left her Welsh archers on the wall walk, seeing no sense dragging them into a doomed struggle with the Saxon garrison. Jumping off the low kitchen roof, she raced across the bailey, beating Edmund to the main door of the keep. Bounding up the stone steps to the second floor entrance, with Gwen and Nuala at her heels, she ordered the door barred behind them. At best that bought time. Edmund had more than half the garrison with him in the lower bailey, not to mention the kitchens and latrines. If she tried to hold the keep against him, someone would surely let him in. Father had been right; only Edmund's death could have saved her. She led Nuala and Gwen straight through the keep and out the north door into the upper bailey. Bursting from shadowy stone back into bright sunlight, she shouted in Welsh for Rory. "Bring the hounds to the upper postern." Seeing him emerge from the kennels with the pack, she ordered surprised guards to throw open the gate. A narrow slice of rolling green Vale showed through the gap in the stonework, grassy slopes blended with wooded ridgelines fading into unbounded distance. Clare could feel the breeze blowing, beyond the walls. It was the same gate where she released the rabbits. "Go! Quickly!" she told her hostages in Welsh. "Ewch! Cyflym!" Rory did not stop to wonder. Saxon guards stared in astonishment as the dog-boy bolted out the postern and down the slope, followed by his hounds. Gwen looked pained. She wavered in the gate, turning to give Clare a swift embrace. For years they had been playmates and private confidants, sometimes mistress and servant, ofttimes pupil and teacher, but always each other's only same-age companion. Sisters are seldom so close. "Go," Clare warned. "It will mean your life if you stay." Gwen kissed her, then picked up her skirts and ran. Clare watched them vanish, feeling terribly alone, with no one to trust -- except for Nuala, who had been with her since birth. Telling her guards to close the high postern, she turned back toward the keep, very much a prisoner of the world. As soon as she entered the shadow of the keep, she could hear Edmund shouting for the Welsh hostages to be brought up from the basement guardroom. It must have taken him all of a minute to convince the guards to open the main door for him. Clare mounted the stone stairs, with Nuala at her side. Each step felt blunt and heavy underfoot. Her whole mismanaged life seemed aimed at this awful moment. Born a fatherless bastard. Abandoned by her mother. Her stepfather dead. Edmund was all the family she had left. And now she faced the fate he had been holding over her since they were children. As she gained the second floor entrance, Edmund was storming about, ordering the Welsh hostages herded out the far door of the keep. Most of them were sons and nephews of local headmen and clan chiefs. Guards drove them at spearpoint down the steps into the lower bailey. Edmund glanced about. His gaze swept over her. Then he strode out into the sunlit bailey after his prisoners -- without saying a word, without even pausing to gloat. Which almost seemed worse than a blow. Edmund clearly counted her as already his. A detail to be disposed of at leisure -- of less consequence than his cowering Welsh prisoners. She mounted the spiral stairs to the roof, with Nuala following close behind, keeping guard over her nursling. Skirting the rain water fishpond, and the great gaping lightwell, Clare ran to the south wall. From there she could see Edmund on the far side of the bailey, lining his hostages up along the gatehouse battlements. Leaning out an embrasure he began to harangue the silent countryside -- largely in French. After living most of his life at Caeradar, he only knew enough Welsh to curse. He got no answer. Empty air and green countryside did not give back even an echo. But no one doubted the Welsh were out there, keeping a sharp eye on Caeradar. Nothing happened hereabouts without the Welsh knowing it. When he finished his speech, Edmund turned to his prisoners. Clare watched horrified as he went down the line of hostages, picking victims at random. She could see he enjoyed having life or death power over his captives. Each hostage Edmund picked had his ankles tied together with a length of rope, then guards hoisted him up onto the battlements. After another barrage of insults, Edmund or his sergeant-at-arms would draw a knife across the prisoner's belly, spilling out his intestines. Then they would heave him off the wall, to hang head down from the outer battlements, so the Welsh outside could see him die. Some of the younger ones kicked and struggled, but most went stoically to their deaths, with only Edmund's curses breaking the terrible silence. Clare had often seen the Welsh suffer gruesome injuries without so much as a whimper, though they could be appallingly loud at weddings and funerals. Clearly these hostages expected no pity from a Saxon. When he was done, Edmund promised the mute countryside more of the same if anyone dared defy him. Then he stormed back across the bailey and into the keep, blood staining his hands. Clare cursed herself for not killing him when she had the chance. Her whole world seemed drowned in blood. Edmund was running amok, and now it would be war to the knife with the Welsh. Mailed feet rang on the steps. She turned to see the sergeant-at-arms emerge onto the roof. He too had blood on his leather gloves. Less than an hour ago, he had been at her beck and call, now he would not meet her gaze. "Lord Edmund wishes to see his sister." Clare gave him a cold look. "And who would these people be?" To her Edmund was lord of nothing, and hardly a brother. "Please don't make this hard, m'lady," the sergeant mumbled. He said it to her, but he was watching out for Nuala. The big Irish nurse had stepped forward, planting herself between Clare and the man-at-arms. Clare did not mean to take orders from a mere sergeant. She would die first -- this was the roof she had aimed to throw herself off of. She told the man, "I am heiress to Caeradar, and keeper of the castle in my mother's name. Obey me or suffer the consequences." Clare could not say what those consequences were, but she hoped they would be dire. Giving Nuala an uneasy glance, he held out a bloodstained glove. "Please come, m'lady." Clare stood her ground. If she let this man lay hands on her there would be no end to giving in. He stepped closer, meaning to take her whether she willed it or not. Nuala sprang at the armored sergeant, seizing him about the waist, lifting him off his feet. She shouted to Clare, "Run, my love. Seek sanctuary in the chapel." Instinctively she obeyed. Ducking past the sergeant -- now struggling in her nursemaid's embrace -- she dived down the spiral stairs, taking them two at a time. The dark stones of the keep closed around her, shutting out the shouts from above. At the fourth floor landing, she stopped. The chapel lay just below her, on the main floor of the keep. But it was just a castle chapel, not a true sanctuary like Fontevrault. Edmund would come for her even if she clung crying to the altar. She looked wildly about the upper hall, empty at the moment. Sunlight spilled out of tall window slits, and shone down the huge central light shaft. What was the use in running? Nowhere could she be truly safe. A man's horrified scream echoed off the stones. Clare stared in terror as Nuala plunged through the lightwell in the ceiling, her big cloak flapping like bat's wings. The sergeant, still locked in her grip, clawed the air as they fell. Together they shot through the hall and disappeared down the light shaft, headed for the deep basement cistern four floors below. Clare screamed too. Turning about, she ran for her mother's chamber, barring the oak door behind her. Tears blurred her view of the big stone bedchamber. She had meant to make a fight of it -- to at least die with dignity. But whatever happened she had expected to have Nuala at her side. Now the big strong woman who nursed her, rocked her, and taught her witchcraft was gone. Ripped from her when she needed her most. Someone pounded on the door at her back, demanding that she open it. The violence of the blows startled her out of her misery. Other than that door, there was no way in or out. She was in a stone box. Narrow arrow slits spaced along three of its walls showed thin slices of Welsh countryside. Called "murderesses," the slits were too narrow to climb through, and three stories off the ground. The pounding grew louder. She recognized Edmund's voice. "Open the door, you silly little fool." She did not answer, thinking of the Welsh children hanging from the wall. Edmund might be right, maybe she had been a silly fool to think she could defy him, but she knew it was death to open that door. "By God, I'll have you flayed and boiled." That was a new one. Clare leaned back against the door. A basin and pitcher by the bed held water. Bread and wine sat on the table beside a bowl of fruit. If she had known she had to stand a siege, she would have stocked the place better. The pounding ceased. She could hear Edmund giving orders on the far side of the door. The pounding became a great banging. They were trying to batter the door in, probably with one of the benches from the upper hall. But the door was brass-bound oak, and the bar was iron, set directly into stone. She heard the bench splinter, followed by more cursing. "Bring axes," Edmund ordered. They were going to cut their way in. Then what? Clare knew she could not hold out forever. What would she do when the door came down? A broad saxe knife lay on the table beside the wine. She went over and sat down next to it. The knife was big and ugly, but the blade was sharp. She had used it at breakfast to cut bread. Crazed with grief, she stared down at the sharply honed blade. Who could she use it on? Edmund? She had missed her chance to kill him. Herself? He would get a good laugh at that. If only Nuala were with her. Reaching out, she poured herself some wine. It was not the best, dark and fruity, barely fermented. But at least it was not bitter. There was grit in the bottom of the cup. A pinch of Irish soil, put there by Nuala to ward off poison. Steel rang against wood. They had gotten the axes. She heard the door start to splinter. In a matter of minutes they would be in. Oh, Mary help me. She gulped more wine. "Don't despair." The voice sounded so beautifully light and matter-of-fact, it seemed for a moment Mary had answered. She turned to see her father's ghost at the far end of the room, long arms folded, leaning against the stone wall. Like at Fontevrault, he was in full armor, with his big bow across his back. The ghost wore a mischievous grin. "You must have heard minstrels sing of the time I was besieged in Dublin Castle. Caught between High King Roderic O'Connor-- who raised 30,000 clansmen from all across the island -- and King Guthred of Man, who sat in the bay with a Viking fleet. I had but six score knights and a few hundred archers. Food became so dear a measure of flour sold for a silver mark. I would have given in myself, but King Roderic swore that I could only keep Dublin, Waterford, and Wexford, and not a foot more .... " "I don't have six score knights," she shouted at him. "Or so much as a single archer." It was easy for him to be brave. He was dead already. "And Edmund is not Roderic O'Connor," he reminded her cheerfully. "Or even Guthred of Man. But the principle's the same. Never despair. Face your enemies with a bold front, and you can send them packing." A big hunk of the door burst inward. Clare looked up and saw a steel ax blade protruding from the wood. The blade withdrew, then came crashing back, sending splinters flying across the room. The door sagged. She seized the heavy saxe knife, putting it behind her back -- still unsure how she meant to use it. More splinters shot into the room. She glanced hopelessly at her long-dead father. The ghost smirked. "In the end, I sent King Roderic running naked from his bath. A sight to see. And we lost no one of note. Naught but a single sergeant." God, she thought, Mother was right. He's mad. Utterly mad, and having a grand time of it. Reliving old glories. Visiting the bishop in his sleep. Tupping the Welsh chamber maid. But what has he done for me? No one was standing up for her -- except Nuala, and she had died for it. The door gave way, splitting in the middle. A mailed hand reached in and slid the bar aside. Strongbow's ghost vanished. Clare stood facing the doorway. Her hand tightened on the saxe knife behind her back. A bold front it had to be. She pictured herself driving the blade into Edmund's throat. The shattered door swung wide. Instead of Edmund she saw old Bishop William Saltmarsh of Llandaff, blinking like an owl in daylight. She had thought the Welsh had him, but here he was, looking more bemused than ever framed by the broken doorway. "My daughter," he croaked, "you must come out. The Welsh are at the gate. They have Lord William." "Lord William alive?" A wondrous reprieve. So long as her stepfather lived, Edmund could not be lord of Caeradar. "Barely. I have been released on parole to arrange an exchange." "An exchange?" The bishop nodded, still dithering in the doorway. "I am afraid they won't give up Lord William until they get what they want." "What do they want?" Whatever it was, she would give it -- short of surrendering Caeradar itself. She thought immediately of the surviving hostages. Luckily Edmund had left some few alive. Their freedom would be a trivial price to pay for getting her stepfather back. Seeing no alternative, old Bishop Saltmarsh summoned the courage to speak plainly. "My daughter, I fear what they want is you." "The Welsh are vindictive by nature, bloodthirsty and violent, avenging with great ferocity any wrong done them. Not just recent injuries, but old ones too, as if they were just received." -- Gerald of Wales Prisoner of the World CLARE FOUND Edmund ecstatic. When Bishop Saltmarsh brought her down to the great hall, her stepbrother greeted her gleefully, "Sister dear, how good to finally see you. I hear you had trouble with your door. We must have it replaced." Any reply only added to his triumph. Edmund had won. He had Caeradar. And she would end up in the hands of the Welsh -- to do with as they pleased. And with the bodies of their children hanging from the walls, what they pleased was bound to be unpleasant. The Welsh were thoughtlessly cruel, utterly unrestrained by chivalry, especially toward a "Saxon." Perjury, theft, rape, fratricide, adultery and incest were so common they were hardly counted crimes. Neither God's laws nor sworn oaths stood in the way of their vengeance. She merely insisted on changing to her best riding dress, royal blue trimmed with miniver, topped by a satin cape pinned with a pearl broach -- the Welsh had to know they were getting a lady. When she opened the clothes chest she nearly wept. Folded in with the dress was the tiny feathered body of a black and white kingfisher. Nuala had put the dead bird there, to impart a pleasant odor and keep the wool safe from moths. Edmund had a palfrey saddled, personally escorting her to the main gate. The Welsh were under the trees on the far side of the cleared space around the castle, dressed in linen war shirts and armed with spears, bows, and iron darts. Wild faces grinned above their round shields. Edmund gave her palfrey a slap on the rump, saying, "I hope they send you back in pieces." Emerging from the black shadow of the bloodstained gatehouse into the sun-drenched clearing, she felt like she was being sent out to sea in a bottomless boat, with old Bishop Saltmarsh at the tiller. The Welsh started Lord William's horse-litter from the edge of the wood, led by an old woman, barefoot and dressed in black, her white unbound hair hanging straight down. They met in the middle. Bishop Saltmarsh gave the palfrey's reins to the Welsh woman, taking charge of the horse-litter. Clare peered under the litter's awning to see how her stepfather fared. Immediately she pulled back, muttering a prayer and crossing herself, seeing why the Welsh had sent a crone in black to give him to a priest. She was being exchanged for a corpse. Summer sunlight seemed to flicker. Sitting on her horse, halfway between the clark gatehouse and the black space beneath the trees, she heard Strongbow's voice. "These Welsh are looking to get a lady. Don't let them see you cry." What did he know? In life he did as he pleased, and now he was beyond grief. She nodded to the woman in black, saying, "Ewch!" Meaning, "Go!" Having no choice, she could at least pretend to command. She still had the saxe knife hidden in her bodice. If she was brave, the best they could do was kill her. If she showed fear there would be no end to their impositions. "That's the spirit," whispered her father's ghost. At the trees, cheering Welsh closed in around her, waving bows and spears, behaving like big bearded children with edged weapons. Shouting greetings in barnyard Welsh, they called her "Rabbit Girl" and the like. If the merry bandits meant to kill her, they would have a happy time of it. Just when she thought they would pluck her off the palfrey, Gwen pushed through the pack, saying, "Caer, Caer, it is so good to have you here." Clare managed a wan smile. Her former maid-servant took the reins, leading her into the woods, prattling on about how wonderful it all was, "How exciting to be home." Rory was there, walking single file with the men. Elms and beeches closed in, cutting her off from Caeradar. Looking over her shoulder, she could not even see the keep through the treetops. Woods ahead got ever wilder. The path beneath her palfrey's hooves thinned and narrowed, turning into a game trail. She did not dare ask where they were going -- whatever answers they gave were equally unwelcome. Her captors treated the evil trek like a lark, sending a harper ahead of them, singing as he went. At a great cleft in the hills the trail went straight up, turning into a rocky stair climbing the wooded abyss, then disappearing completely. Here she had to dismount and lead the palfrey. The poor horse faced as dismal a fate as she did, taken from her warm stall and oat trough to stumble through wicked hills, starving on grass forage that would hardly feed a hare. Atop the pass she remounted. Here the land opened up, revealing a patch of high treeless moorland with an ancient standing stone in its center, surrounded by fairy rings. Heaven only knew how the Welsh had hauled the huge stone up to the summit. From that flat space Clare could see far and away, spying the great rounded billow of Mynydd Maen -- the Mountain of Stone. To the north rose the first peaks of the Black Mountains, a dark bloodstained district, implacably savage even for Wales. Aside from such dismal landmarks, she felt so cut off from the world that she might as well have been on the moon. Gwen reached up and took her hand, saying, "Caer, can you feel the magic?" Clare nodded silently. Any girl suckled by a witch could smell magic in the air. Bird song mixed with rushing water and the hot buzzing of summer. Farther off, the harper sang ahead of them. Saying a prayer for Nuala, she squeezed Gwen's hand, then she kicked her mount and they started again. Past the standing stone the trail reappeared, winding down into a wooded glen backed by tall cliffs. Torrents of white water tumbled in thin cataracts to a meadow sprinkled with rosemary and sweet-william. At the foot of this hidden glen sat a robber's roost, a square thatched hall half sunk in the ground, framed in oak and walled with lath and plaster, surrounded by fruit trees. Caeradar's greyhounds bounded out to greet Rory. Gwen helped her dismount, then pulled off her boots, washing her feet with water from an earthen well. Clare had seen the Welsh dig such wells, using forked sticks to find the right spot in a meadow or paddock, or even in the dirt floor of a hovel. They would dig down, and there would be water, cool and clear, deep beneath the ground. It was one of their more clever magics. Inside the robber's hall half an ox turned above the hearth, while a young girl sang and played on the harp. Children laughed and giggled at Clare. She wondered how such sweet winsome toddlers could be sired by astonishingly ugly brigands. Sitting her down, Gwen fetched ale to go with sheep's cheese and "coch yr wden" -- which turned out to mean "hung goat." Wrung out from the day's ordeal, Clare picked at her goat, confronted by table manners that would make the Irish wince. No napkins, no tablecloths, no tables, everyone ate together off the floor, from trenchers of boiled meat laid on green rushes. All were welcome at a Welsh feast. There was no such thing as a beggar -- the first slice of meat always going to the poor. Rory sat beside her, eating from the same trencher. Typical Welsh manners, seating a dog-boy next to a lady. But no insult could make the day any worse. Or so she assumed. "Eat, eat," Gwen chided. "This is special." Clare asked what was so special about hung goat. Gwen leaned closer, whispering in her ear. "This is your wedding feast." "My what?" She must have misheard the Welsh. "Well, not a Saxon wedding. Like in a church." That was certain. "Wedded to who?" "To Rory, of course." Clare stared in surprise at the red-headed dog-boy, fishing for meat from her trencher. Gwen reminded her, "Your brother Edmund swore many times that if he did not kill you, or lock you in a nunnery, he would wed you to Rory. Well, here you are, still alive and not a nun .... " "Don't I have anything to say?" Clare hissed back. She had feared she might be killed or raped, but forced matrimony was an unexpected torture --even from the Welsh. "Of course." Gwen looked surprised. "Any woman can refuse to wed. But you are of age. And in your present condition you could hardly do better. Look at him. He is fair, his limbs are strong, and his toes are long and straight. And one of the hostages your brother murdered was our cousin, Gruffydd ap Cadwallon, which makes Rory the rightful lord of Ebbw Vale. He is doing you an honor. Most men want to bed a woman before taking her to wife." Clare told her such talk was scandalous. It was hard to be a Christian under these conditions, but Clare meant to make the attempt -- she had no other defense. Gwen shook her head. "Not scandalous, Lady Caer, just common sense. Would you buy a pig in a sack? Choosing a mate is at least as important. The man of my dreams must be as upright in bed as he looks in the saddle. But my brother is headstrong. And he has loved you for a very long time." Clare snorted. She had seen the man of Gwen's dreams. As long as she had her saxe knife, no man or dog-boy was going to bed her at the finish of some drunken Welsh repast. No matter how long and straight his toes were. She stared across the boiled meat at Rory. Like all Welsh, he always seemed moody and imaginative, a hot-tempered troublesome hostage, prone to fits of gallantry. When she was seven, and Edmund knocked her down and broke her finger, it was Rory who picked her up, washed the mud off her, and carried her crying to Nuala. She had meant to thank him. But he had never asked for thanks, and she had never given it. Seeing him here, in his own hall, he did look straight and upright, and tolerably clean B but a Welsh lordling, handy with dogs, was hardly what she had looked for in a husband. She had always pictured herself catching the eye of some young earl, or passing prince. But none ever passed that close to Caeradar. Now it turned out, she had long ago caught someone's eye. Singing and feasting went on late into the summer evening. Even the children joined in, not singing along with their elders, but each taking different parts, all coming together at the end in perfect B-flat harmony. When every scrap of food was eaten, a thin bed of rushes was made up along one wall. Guests and hosts slept together, using cloaks for blankets, children burrowing in among the adults. Gwen lay on one side of her, Rory on the other -- making no attempt to take advantage of their makeshift "wedding" feast. Indeed, he had barely said two words to Clare, which irked her as much as physical insult. She got up in the middle of the night to huddle by the hearth fire, stiff on one side, frozen on the other -- thinking of her warm feather bed in Caeradar, and Nuala sleeping beside her. Many more nights like this might easily dive her mad. Slowly the fire warmed her, soothing her aches, lust when she was ready to attempt sleep, Gwen got up to join her. Then Rory. The three of them sat by the night fire, just like when they were young --when Clare was the castle pet, not yet a lady, and Gwen and Rory looked after her. Only this time there was no childish chatter. The day weighed hard on all three of them. Finally, Rory nodded toward the door, saying, "Come." Clare looked at Gwen. Her former servant and would be sister-in-law took her hand, and they went out side-by-side. Rory waited in the moonlight, being greeted by his dogs. Observing a holy silence, he led them back up the glen. The dogs came with them. Guided by the sound of rushing water, they climbed to the summit of the pass, where the standing stone stood amid fairy rings. Here Rory turned to speak, standing before the monolith, red hair shining in the moonlight, backed by his dogs. "First I will tell you my descent. I am Rory ap Owain ap Caradog ap Gruffydd .... "The boy went on and on, giving his descent back to Rhodri Mawr the ancestor of all South Welsh princes, then back to Brutus who fled the sack of Troy. An impressive display of memory, but being Welsh he could have easily gone back to Noah and the Flood. He ended by saying, "My sister will have told you I mean to make myself Lord of Ebbw Vale, and to take you to wed." Clare nodded. "So I have been told." "I have planned this for some time." Clare nodded again. She remembered how it had felt to be lifted up and held by him the time Edmund had broken her finger. He had been big and strong, and angry at Edmund, but exceptionally tender with her, though smelling badly of dog. In the years since, she had somewhat caught up to him in size, and surpassed him in station -- ceasing to be playmates, and becoming lady and servant. Until today. Rory went on, "It is only proper that I ask your family's consent. But your mother lives far away in the Land of the Franks. And I cannot ask your brother Edmund, who has murdered my kin." Clare thought, "You could ask me!" But she did not say it. Trying to deal rationally with the Welsh was as senseless as plowing the sea. "So I have brought you and Gwen here, that I may ask your father's consent." He nodded to Gwen, who knelt facing the priapic stone and crooned in Welsh, calling to her demon lover. Strongbow's ghost came striding into the clearing in full armor with his bow across his back. One look and the gazehounds went whimpering off, leaving the three humans and the spirit alone beside the standing stone. Gwen smiled and got up. Rory addressed the ghost gravely. "You will know why I have called you here. I wish to marry your daughter, and make her the Lady of Ebbw Vale. I vow to keep her, and honor her, and take no concubines without her consent." "Admirable intentions," Strongbow declared. "But you are asking for an carl's daughter, and must offer more than fair intentions." Clare cut in, feeling like the prize cow at a cattle auction. "This carl's daughter refuses to be bartered over without her consent." Whatever vows the boy made were bound to be meaningless. Not the promise of heaven, nor the threat of hell, could make the Welsh keep their word. They said whatever pleased them at the moment. And it clearly pleased Rory to have her to wife -- he would say what it took to get her. Strongbow looked taken aback. "Daughter, you must someday marry. This boy seems respectful, and marrying a savage has its special charms. I myself married an Irish princess .... " "Much to Mother's regret," Clare pointed out. "Your mother was never a practical woman." Rory interrupted, asking Clare, "What do you want?" "I want Caeradar." It was all she had ever wanted. "But Edmund holds it," Rory objected. "Then kill him," Strongbow suggested. "Hell would be all the happier for his company." Rory snorted. "Simpler said than done." Despite being addicted to strife, the Welsh were loath to suffer losses -- having no mercenaries or paid allies -- no one but friends and family to send into battle. "Use your native cunning," Strongbow suggested. "An Earl's daughter is not easily won. Did you ever hear of the time that I was besieged in Dublin .... " Rory nodded. "By High King Roderic O'Connor with 30,000 clansmen, and a Viking fleet in the bay. The harpers sing of it." Strongbow beamed, turning to Clare. "I told you he was a boy of parts --and educated to boot. You could well do worse." Clare said nothing. Doing worse was not at all her aim. "But you were safe within the walls of Dublin," Rory pointed out. "We are the ones outside. Edmund is in his big strong castle, behind heavy barred gates .... " "But he will open them for me," Clare declared. Ghost and dog-boy turned to stare at her. She crossed her arms, looking levelly at Rory. "If I get Edmund to open the gates. And if you defeat him. And if I am once more Lady of Caeradar. Then I will consider your suit." If you are brave, and loving, and I get a church wedding. Her father's ghost grinned. "Spoken like a Strongbow. My daughter has given her terms -- now you must meet them." Despite all that had happened, her heart still leaped when he called her daughter. The ghost winked at Gwen and disappeared, leaving his bow behind. Rory bent down and picked it up. It was no ghostly bow, but a real South Welsh longbow, cut from dwarf-elm, rough, unpolished, and deadly. He slung it over his shoulder and they trooped back toward the thatched hall. Halfway down the glen, the dogs came loping up to greet them. A ten-day later Clare saw Caeradar again. In the first blush of morning she came riding out of the wood on her palfrey headed past the upper bailey. Gwen rode at her side, aboard one of those meddlesome little Welsh ponies. Rory's dog pack loped ahead of the horses into the cleared space around the castle. The hay had not been cut, and as the hounds bounded forward they appeared and disappeared in the tall green-gold grass. When the Welsh first took her into the woods, she had thought she was seeing the castle for the last time. It felt strange to see Caeradar again, knowing she could not just go cantering up to the postern. It was the Rabbit Gate, the one she had released Rory and Gwen through. She had made sure she looked her best. Her blue riding dress was scrubbed and mended, and her cape was turned out to show the yellow satin lining. She wore a wreath of summer flowers in her hair and a heavy gold torque around her neck. More gold shone on her wrists and ankles. She felt part Welsh princess, part Our Lady of the May. The postern gate swung open. Clare cut slowly across the cleared space, not aimed for the postern, riding like she meant to pass beneath the castle walls and head on down the Ebbw. As if she were going to call on the Bishop in Llandaff, or visit her cousins in Caerleon. Edmund came riding out with a troop of horsemen at his heels, the castle men-at-arms and twenty mounted sergeants, trampling down the uncut hay. Edmund looked wary, dressed in a chain-mail hauberk and coif, and wearing a steel skull-cap. Clare knew he would come out. He might not have come if she had begged or threatened -- but he could not let her ride lackadaisically past, as if she had not a care in Creation. Nor could he be sure she would not make trouble downriver. Bishop Saltmarsh might easily take her side. Together they might go to her legitimate half-sister, Isabel de Clare, the "wise and good" Damsel of Estriguil, and her over-scrupulous husband, William the Marshal renowned for his honor and integrity. Or they could go to the Countess of Gloucester, who was married to Prince John. One of them might be willing to hear her case. If he let her slip past. Clare reined in, watching him come on. She rose in her saddle, calling out in a clear voice, "Leave me be." Edmund smiled. That was one thing he could not do. Since the Welsh had not killed her, he wanted her in his hands. "I beseech you. Go back," she shouted. Clare wanted it to be clear, to God and to all, that she had given him fair warning. The Lord Almighty does not seek the death of the sinner, but to see him turn away from wickedness. Edmund spurred his horse forward, his brisk confidence returning. The more she begged, the better he felt, the more sure he was that he had her. She settled back in her saddle, saying a soft prayer for Edmund's sake, "Then may Mary have mercy on you -- even as you have shown no mercy to me." Welsh rose up out of the long grass. Four dozen Gwent bowmen, whose fathers and uncles had been murdered by the Sheriff of Herefordshire at the Abergavenny massacre -- men always thirsting for revenge against the Saxon. Rory was with them, rising up and stringing her father's bow. They had hidden there half the night, with their bowstrings coiled beneath their armpits, to save them from the dew. The first flight of arrows caught the mounted men as they reined in, slicing through mail and leather jacks, creating havoc among the horses and emptying saddles. Two more flights was all it took to send the survivors fleeing for the bailey gate. Rory bounded after them, calling on Edmund to stand and fight. At the same time Gwen loosed the pack, and her brother shouted for the dogs to turn his prey. Welsh greyhounds are near to being the fastest creatures on four legs, far faster than a horse and armored rider. They quickly had Edmund's horse turned, leaping out of the grass in the startled animal's face, herding the frightened mount like some man-carrying sheep. Rory planted himself in the horseman's path, bending the big rough-cut bow. Edmund had his broadsword out, beating at the dogs. Seeing Rory he spurred his horse, guiding it with his knees, his shield covering his chest, his sword arm straight in front of him locked behind the point. Standing with bow bent, the nook to his ear, Rory waited until he could barely miss. Then his fingers released, and Strongbow's bow sang. Clare saw her father's ghost guiding the shaft. The arrow sped right between the horse's ears, over the top of the shield, and beneath the steel cap, straight into Edmund's right eye. Edmund's head snapped back, and his steel cap flew off. His sword dropped from nerveless fingers. He was dead before he felt the blow. An easier death than he had given others. Running up, Rory set down the bow and retrieved the fallen broadsword, using it to take off Edmund's head. He stood triumphant in the hay, giving a glad, fierce Welsh war cry, holding up Edmund's head by its bloody blond hair. The arrow shaft still stuck out of one eye. Turning her head away, Clare heard her father's ghost applaud, "Well done, lad." All she could think was, "This is the boy I mean to marry?" "Women are naturally inclined to witchcraft...the more women there are, the more witches there will be." --The Talmud Next Friday, Witch's Night found Clare by the banks of the Rhone dancing naked under the arches of the ancient bridge at Avignon. Gwen was with her, along with her mother, and witches from Ireland, Spain, and Germany. Maid Marian stood in the middle of the ring of dancers, women whirling around her, arms raised crescent-wise above their heads, singing: "Sous le pont d'Avignon, on y danse tout en fond..." A night wind blew the odors of the crowded city from across the river. Avignon's narrow filthy streets were so crammed with sewage, tannery waste, and open privies that the summer heat caused country visitors to faint. But on Witch's Night the only swooning came from women overwhelmed by worship and the dance. When the dancing was done her mother introduced her to Queen Eleanor, the patroness of Fontevrault, Queen of England, France, and Ireland, and Dutchess of Aquitaine. Though there was no royalty on Witch's Night, Clare fell to her knees. Eleanor had long been her heroine, the mother of King Richard and Prince John, coming from a famous family of excommunicates, having been personally damned by Saint Bernard. Near to seventy, she was still tall and stately, with long white hair and blue eyes. Every inch a queen even in the nude. Eleanor smiled. "Rise, young lady. On Mother's night we kneel only to Mary." Clare rose, still in awe of her queen. She could well believe the story that an infidel Sultan once begged Eleanor to be his Sultana. "Your mother says you will soon wed," observed Eleanor. Clare nodded, afraid to speak. "You are young. But so was I when I married my first king. As heiress of Aquitaine I had no choice. In the end, I had to marry a couple of kings to keep lesser lords from committing matrimony on me." Clare said it was much the same with her. "And do you love him?" Eleanor asked. Clare could not lie to her. "I do not know. Right now it feels like a grand adventure, all glorious and exciting. He is brave and comely, and Gwen's brother." She introduced her serving-girl-sister-in-law. "We have held each other's life in our hands -- I freed him, and he saved me. He has loved me since I was little, and together we shall rule the Ebbw Vale." "That is not the same thing as you loving him," Eleanor reminded her. "I know," Clare admitted. Clare's mother shook her head. "I envy her excitement. I loved a man dearly, but we were never married. Never together before the world." "And does that make you sad?" asked the Queen. Her own marriages had been notoriously unhappy. One husband divorced her, her second husband imprisoned her. For sixteen years her only freedom had been on Witch's Nights. "Sometimes," Clare's mother admitted. "But in one way I am infinitely blessed." "How is that?" Clare had never heard her mother speak so wistfully about her love for her father. Mother reached out and took her hand. "I had a child by the man I most loved in all the world. You are a love child in every sense of the word -- conceived in love, and love alone. Not for inheritance. Not for advantage. I would not have missed being your mother for anything. Not even to be .... " Mother stopped, flustered, flushing all the way down to her toes. Queen Eleanor smiled at her embarrassment. She knew women commonly said that they would not give up this or that, "Not even to be Queen of England and France." They just never said it to her face. Mother came to Llandaff for the wedding. They were married by Bishop Saltmarsh in his great Celtic church, with the Welsh on one side and the Normans on the other. Prince John was there to give her away. He was merely Earl of Gloucester -- and that only by right of marriage -- but since Good King Richard was well-known to be a sodomite, John was bound to succeed him. Already he had his own court, with a justiciar, chancellor, seal-bearer, and seneschal. With him was William de Briouze, who planned the Abergavenny massacre, along with his sharp-tongued wife, who had danced naked with Clare beneath the bridge at Avignon. Across the aisle the Welsh were led by Rory's royal kinsmen, Lord Rhys ap Gruffydd and Prince Morgan of Glamorgan, happily watching one of their own becoming lord of a Norman keep. Glad to win Ebbw Vale back from the Saxon. Gwen was maid of honor. And Strongbow's ghost was there at the altar to give Clare to Rory -- but only the three of them could see him.