the reins
to stay seated. Meghan sank down over her own horse’s neck.
‘He’s going to be killed,’ she moaned, ‘and before us all.’
At this, Morcar started to cry and Edyth swiftly checked her horse round to her littlest brother’s side.
‘Nonsense, Mama,’ she said brusquely. ‘He will not kill visitors who come in peace. He is a king.’
‘A Welsh king,’ Meghan said darkly and Morcar whimpered again.
‘Mama,’ Edyth admonished. ‘We must be strong, as my revered grandmother said.’
‘Yes, well, your revered grandmother is not stuck in the wilds of Wales, hoping for hospitality from some devil of a king.’
‘Mama!’ Morcar was crying louder now and Edwin was as white as the sheep surrounding them. Edyth reached out hands to both of her younger brothers. ‘All will be well, boys.
Truly.’
Morcar nodded obediently but Edwin just glared at her as, down the valley, Alfgar reached the armed men. The exchange was brief but swords were lowered and then heads bowed and suddenly Alfgar
was turning to hulloo heartily up the valley and wave them forward.
‘See,’ Edyth said to Edwin, ‘I told you all would be well.’
Still Edwin stayed silent, his pale eyes stormy beneath his wind-teased hair, and there was nothing left but to spur their horses down to the apparent safety of the Palace of Rhuddlan.
‘Is that the king?’ Morcar whispered, tugging on Edyth’s skirt.
She reached surreptitiously down to try and stop him. She’d changed out of her muddy travelling gown into the rich green one she had worn to the council and she did not want Elaine’s
so far unnoticed stitching to be pulled loose.
‘Of course it is, stupid,’ Edwin answered for her, his voice released by warmth and food. ‘He’s wearing a crown.’
‘But he’s so . . . so . . .’
Morcar struggled for an apt word and as Edyth looked across the packed hall, she could see why. King Griffin was stood at the huge central hearth with her parents, some ten paces from where she
and the boys waited nervously to be introduced. Although level with his subjects he seemed to stand high above them, his lean bulk at once magnificent and terrifying. Almost as tall and broad as
the legendary Earl Ward, his size was made all the more striking by a mane of dark hair run through with a rich copper and topped by a plain gold diadem that marked out both his majesty and his
warrior status.
Despite the chill, he wore a short-sleeved tunic in a heavy red fabric and great coils of gold snaked up both his arms, twining in the thick and equally coppery hair that dusted them like rust.
His legs were also bare save for a pair of beautifully worked leather boots which came all the way up to his knees. The leather was cut with intricate Celtic knots, picked out in blue. To his belt
was strapped a matching scabbard holding a sword whose solid, un-jewelled hilt sat like an obedient hound within quick reach of his big hand.
He looked, indeed, like the red devil he was known as, and yet his face was handsome and his eyes – the pale blue of aquamarines – shone with understanding, even intelligence. As
Alfgar beckoned Edyth forward and the crowds split curiously to let them through, those eyes turned her way and she felt as if he was absorbing every single thing about her, as if she were naked
before him. Unbidden, a thrill chased through her body like an arrow flying to the very heart of her physical being. The king smiled as if he had seen it – indeed, as if he had sent it
– and as she drew close she found herself smiling back.
Her father was trying to speak but Griffin stepped forward, cutting him off.
‘This must be the Lady Edyth.’
Alfgar swiftly gathered himself.
‘This is my daughter, Sire, yes.’
Edyth dropped into a deep curtsey and heard Griffin laugh, a rich, musical sound.
‘She has been brought up well. Such pretty English manners.’
He put out a big hand and Edyth gratefully reached for it to be raised from
to stay seated. Meghan sank down over her own horse’s neck.
‘He’s going to be killed,’ she moaned, ‘and before us all.’
At this, Morcar started to cry and Edyth swiftly checked her horse round to her littlest brother’s side.
‘Nonsense, Mama,’ she said brusquely. ‘He will not kill visitors who come in peace. He is a king.’
‘A Welsh king,’ Meghan said darkly and Morcar whimpered again.
‘Mama,’ Edyth admonished. ‘We must be strong, as my revered grandmother said.’
‘Yes, well, your revered grandmother is not stuck in the wilds of Wales, hoping for hospitality from some devil of a king.’
‘Mama!’ Morcar was crying louder now and Edwin was as white as the sheep surrounding them. Edyth reached out hands to both of her younger brothers. ‘All will be well, boys.
Truly.’
Morcar nodded obediently but Edwin just glared at her as, down the valley, Alfgar reached the armed men. The exchange was brief but swords were lowered and then heads bowed and suddenly Alfgar
was turning to hulloo heartily up the valley and wave them forward.
‘See,’ Edyth said to Edwin, ‘I told you all would be well.’
Still Edwin stayed silent, his pale eyes stormy beneath his wind-teased hair, and there was nothing left but to spur their horses down to the apparent safety of the Palace of Rhuddlan.
‘Is that the king?’ Morcar whispered, tugging on Edyth’s skirt.
She reached surreptitiously down to try and stop him. She’d changed out of her muddy travelling gown into the rich green one she had worn to the council and she did not want Elaine’s
so far unnoticed stitching to be pulled loose.
‘Of course it is, stupid,’ Edwin answered for her, his voice released by warmth and food. ‘He’s wearing a crown.’
‘But he’s so . . . so . . .’
Morcar struggled for an apt word and as Edyth looked across the packed hall, she could see why. King Griffin was stood at the huge central hearth with her parents, some ten paces from where she
and the boys waited nervously to be introduced. Although level with his subjects he seemed to stand high above them, his lean bulk at once magnificent and terrifying. Almost as tall and broad as
the legendary Earl Ward, his size was made all the more striking by a mane of dark hair run through with a rich copper and topped by a plain gold diadem that marked out both his majesty and his
warrior status.
Despite the chill, he wore a short-sleeved tunic in a heavy red fabric and great coils of gold snaked up both his arms, twining in the thick and equally coppery hair that dusted them like rust.
His legs were also bare save for a pair of beautifully worked leather boots which came all the way up to his knees. The leather was cut with intricate Celtic knots, picked out in blue. To his belt
was strapped a matching scabbard holding a sword whose solid, un-jewelled hilt sat like an obedient hound within quick reach of his big hand.
He looked, indeed, like the red devil he was known as, and yet his face was handsome and his eyes – the pale blue of aquamarines – shone with understanding, even intelligence. As
Alfgar beckoned Edyth forward and the crowds split curiously to let them through, those eyes turned her way and she felt as if he was absorbing every single thing about her, as if she were naked
before him. Unbidden, a thrill chased through her body like an arrow flying to the very heart of her physical being. The king smiled as if he had seen it – indeed, as if he had sent it
– and as she drew close she found herself smiling back.
Her father was trying to speak but Griffin stepped forward, cutting him off.
‘This must be the Lady Edyth.’
Alfgar swiftly gathered himself.
‘This is my daughter, Sire, yes.’
Edyth dropped into a deep curtsey and heard Griffin laugh, a rich, musical sound.
‘She has been brought up well. Such pretty English manners.’
He put out a big hand and Edyth gratefully reached for it to be raised from
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