LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter One

      1196, sixteen years later, along the Marches

      Already the battlefield reeked. Sir Raymond de Beauchamp wheeled his warhorse and arced his sword in a whistling blur of Spanish steel. The blade bit true and deep. He sucked in a great gulp of the stifling air within his helm, and watched the young Welshman topple from his small horse. The lordling died quietly, his blood streaming in bright contrast onto the spring verdure.

      A hollow stab of regret pierced Raymond’s soul. The fellow had fought well. But, there was no time to reflect upon the valor of one already dead. Raymond surveyed the chaos around him. His knights galloped in a disordered frenzy over the field, attempting to hack their way through the steadfast Welsh.

      Inwardly he groaned. As ever, the horsemen allowed their courage to outstrip their discipline, and for that they could lose the fight. Too many of the rebel Welsh were still in the safety of the forest beyond, firing deadly volleys from their formidable longbows. The dreadful hissing made Raymond’s gut clench even as he tried to calm his nervous horse. Neither his own mail, nor that covering the stallion would even begin to stop the penetration of a shaft loosed from one of those deceptively simple-looking weapons.

      Raymond turned his head sharply at a sudden movement along the field’s edge. What he had taken to be a lifeless body jumped up and ran to the warrior he had just sent heavenward. A lad, barely old enough to be a squire, cradled the dead man’s head and wailed his grief. Raymond’s heart twisted in pity, despite his practiced detachment. So much blood, so many tears. The pitched energy he had summoned for the battle dissipated into a numbing weariness that spread through his limbs.

      Hoofbeats thundered across the chopped turf of the meadow. It was his lieutenant, Giles. The boy would be cut to pieces and joining his master in a matter of moments. “Hold, Giles!” His friend could not hear him above the cries of fighting men and the keening of the lad. Raymond urged his mount forward and cut in front of Giles’s horse at a run.

      The boy stared openmouthed as the galloping chargers bore down upon him. Raymond leaned low and grabbed the scruff of the lad’s tunic, throwing him across his horse’s neck. He swerved to avoid trampling the slain Welshman and nearly collided with Giles’s stallion. Even as Raymond improved his grip on the shrieking boy, a piercing, red-hot pain struck him. His prized destrier emitted a huffing groan and bolted, veering sideways. It took all his strength and skill to control the animal without letting go of the child, especially since he could not move his left leg. Searing torment flourished and spread with every movement. He clenched his jaw and broke into a sweat.

      Then he looked down. An arrow had penetrated his thigh, his saddle, and mayhap even his horse. “Jesu—nay…” Raymond’s voice faded as the sharp agony wormed deeper. He fought to hold onto his struggling burden as they cantered toward safety. Giles already pounded away in useless pursuit of the hidden archer, a blood-curdling roar echoing after him.

      A fresh assault began, this time to Raymond’s right leg. The boy, hanging upside down over the shoulder of the horse, swung his arm rhythmically with each stride of the animal, stabbing at his rescuer with a small dagger.

      Raymond brought his knee up and gave the lad’s head a solid knock. The jabbing ceased. Pulling his horse to a rough halt in the shelter of a hillock, he threw the boy to the ground. The ungrateful whelp landed hard, gasping for breath.

      Raymond tried to slow the wild thudding of his heart. He relaxed methodically to combat the pain, and spoke softly to his trembling, sweating mount. It would be an ordeal worthy of an inquisitor to get free of the arrow. All because he had succumbed to pity. Always a mistake.

      The boy began to push himself up from the ground.

      “Halt.” The curt order froze the lad, and Raymond stared.

      Smooth cheeks beneath the mud, blood and tears. Long-lashed green eyes. A trembling body within a suspiciously full upper tunic. Holy Mary, if this was a boy, then he himself was a silkie from the sea. The horse took a deep breath and snorted. Raymond gritted his teeth against the jolt of fire that shot from hip to knee. “Take off that hood, damn you.”

      Tangles of wavy black hair spilled down about a charming, oval face. Raymond caught his breath. He was right. A girl, typically Welsh, and heart stopping in her fragile beauty. Except for the loathing that seethed from her eyes. He was used to hate-filled stares from his enemies, but this chit could not be more than fifteen years of age, the same as Meribel, his own beloved lady-wife.

      The thought of a young woman on a battlefield fanned his anger as well as his longing to be away from this outlandish place. Welsh women were famous for the atrocious battle-harvests they reaped from fallen enemies. His leg throbbed as his destrier pawed at the soft earth.

      “Idiot wench, what were you about? Be glad I do not beat you for my trouble.” He forgot not to move in his saddle, and ground his teeth as the pain surged. A steady patter dripped from the underside of his stirrup.

      “Just you try! Lord Talyessin’s archer has pinned you to your horse quite perfectly,” she said, grim triumph in her voice. “As you well deserve. I hope you die. Slowly.”

      Pretending to ignore her, he scanned the battlefield. The girl scrambled to her feet, her weapon still in her raised fist. Raymond turned his horse and a nudge of the destrier’s shoulder knocked her flat once again. His mount shivered beneath him, and pain assailed his leg with unrelenting ferocity. Hot fury leaped in his chest at the maid’s audacity. A girl-child gone to war. Hell and damnation.

      Perhaps his lord-brother Alonso was right. These people were mad. Bereft of reason. He shook his head at the sight of the girl, sprawled in the grass, one delicate hand clutching her knife as though it were a talisman against him and his kind.

      Her eyes filled with tears. “You misbegotten Norman bastard! You’ve killed Owain. Murderer!”

      Raymond regarded her in silence. Sympathy crept up on his pain and anger, but he swallowed the will-sapping emotion. He had already suffered a crippling wound on her behalf. “I am a misbegotten English bastard,” he growled. “And I would be your ally if your prince had any sense. Your friend Owain need not have died if you Welsh had the wits to capitulate.” With an effort, Raymond softened his voice. “Let us go home. You to yours, and I to mine. Do you understand, Cymraes?”

      The girl stared, apparently startled at his use of her language. Welshwoman. Perhaps he had mispronounced it. The little witch need not glare at him like that. Raymond bit his lip to stifle the moan that threatened as his restless horse shifted. Black spots floated before his eyes.

      “I do, Sais,” she said quietly. “And you understand this: I shall come for you one day, when you least expect it.”

      Raymond felt the blood rise in his neck and was grateful for the helm that hid his face. Sais. Saxon. Anyone the Welsh considered beneath contempt, they designated as Sais. Coming from a Welsh mouth the word was synonymous with “pagan brute.” She could have offered no worse insult. “So you will come for me. How do you plan to find me? Do you know who I am?”

      The girl raised her small chin defiantly. “It makes no difference—you are all the same. Filthy, two-faced marauders who bleed our borders in the name of the English king. I will find you. I will follow the carrion crows to your lord’s keep.”

      Raymond’s helm muffled his humorless laugh. It was absurd to argue with this creature while he bled to death. “Bon chance to you then, my lady.” He looked up as Giles crested the hill. The big knight’s horse bounced to a stiff-legged stop before them, and Raymond blinked hard as his own destrier jigged.

      “My lord, ’tis over. Talyessin’s men are slinking back to their holes. Come away from this vermin and let me see to your wounds.” Giles glanced briefly at the figure on the ground, then his steel-encased head swiveled back. “Merde, a lass? A bit bold for a camp-follower, methinks!”

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