Sadly, that was not to be, as each of his comrades ran from the stone circle, through the wall of their shielded opponents. Most were cut down before they could make it through two men. Bevan ran with four of his closest comrades, and lost sight of them when the clash of steel against their mail reached his ears and rang true.

Victory was on the side of the English this night.

He was struck from behind with a hard object and fell to his knees. Bevan watched as the leader of their foes marched toward him. The man gripped his tunic with both hands and raised him to his feet. Beside him stood Gareth, the man Llywelyn banished months ago for his treason against their clan.

“Is this he?” their leader asked Gareth.

“Aye, ‘tis.” Gareth stood with a smirk on his face.

“He is betrothed to the warrior princess?”

“Aye, he is. Won’t be for long, my lord, will he?” Gareth snickered, and kicked the side of his leg, causing him to buckle at the knee.

Bevan tried to dislodge himself from the leader’s hold because no matter what happened to him this night, he wanted to kill the traitor.

It had been rumored that Gareth led their men into an ambush and most were killed. It could not be proved, and taking no risk, Llywelyn had him removed from their land, banished and never to return. Bevan now knew the truth. He indeed was a traitor.

“And ye say this warrior princess fights with the men? That she is skilled and can best a man? Oh that she will be mine.” The leader dislodged one of his hands and shook him. “Ye hear that? Your warrior woman will share my bed and I will be pleased by the sport.” He laughed maniacally, and then thrust his dagger into Bevan’s chest and shoved him.

He fell back and hit the ground, feeling the warmth flowing from the wound. As he lay looking up at the night sky, covered with his own blood, Bevan’s last thought was that of his beloved and the danger she was in.

Emlyn.

Chapter One

Gunn Keep, Northeast Scotland

Late July, 1224

It didn’t take long for James to get back to his routine on his return home from the border region. He awoke earlier than usual and set off to find embers before he’d take to the fields. When he finished dressing, he tucked the bound parchment pages into a protective pouch and put it inside his tunic for safekeeping. He headed for the kitchens knowing he’d be able to find what he was looking for. Outside, he heard the boisterous voice of the keep’s cook, Gell, shouting orders.

Gell was of an onerous nature and he only spoke softly to their laird’s lady, Bree. That didn’t stop James from entering the kitchens for the man’s bellows were mostly bluster.

“Young James, I don’t deem I’ve ever seen ye this early in the morn.” Gell stood beside a massive, steaming pot, holding a large spoon in his burly hand. His whitened hair stuck out in various places and gave him a comical look.

James stood by the main work table. “Gell, good day. Do you have any—”

“Aye, aye. Been a long time since ye came in here, but I’ve been saving the sticks for you. Over there, in the cup on the shelf.” Gell returned his attention to his pot and dismissed him.

James reached for the cup and found five burnt sticks. They would do well for his purpose. He’d discovered burnt cinders and sticks could be used to draw on parchment. He liked to make images of some of the wounds he tended. Only a handful of people knew his talent for medicinals and of his secret ability. That was the way he liked it for the more people who knew, the busier he’d be.

“My thanks, Gell. These will do well.” He added the sticks to the pouch and grabbed a large apple and a hunk of cheese before heading for the training fields.

He hastened his steps and reached the sloped hillside. Below, on the vast field, many Gunn soldiers already assembled for the day’s exercise. For the next two hours, he used his sword and tested his arm against the younger soldiers. His comrade, Duff, shouted at the unseasoned soldiers. Duff was the most formidable of their clan and was in charge of overseeing the training. His impatience grew to ire, and he all but stomped from the field, calling a rest.

James chuckled under his breath, for his laird really should find someone else to train the younger lads. They would do better under the tutelage of someone who had more patience.

During their rest period, James sat beneath the large oak at the top of the training field. He pulled out his parchment and one of the sticks, and attempted to finish the drawing he’d begun the day before.

Gordy, who had just been promoted to commander-in-arms, and in charge of the gate watch sat nearby. James was proud of the young soldier for he’d matured and finally reached an age where he could be of use to their clan. The lad had proven himself time and again, and they could do nothing but reward him with a prosperous position.

“What are you drawing, James?” He leaned close and got a glimpse before James could hide it. “Let me see it. Och, that’s gruesome.”

James looked down at his drawing and nodded. “Aye, but it’s accurate.” The image was of a battle wound one of the soldiers incurred the day before during training. His leg had been split by the sharp edge of a claymore. One could see the inside of the skin and the muscle. Such things interested him and he’d made images of them since he was a lad. Sometimes the images aided him when he was called upon to mend one of his comrades.

He used the burnt stick to shade the drawing and finished it off. Duff finally returned and called their rest to an end. James was about to take to the field when his friend stopped him.

“Grey wants to see you at the keep.”

“What does he want?” He sheathed his sword and swiped back his hair, for the day had grown warm.

Duff scowled and muttered a blasphemy. “Cosh, what do I look like, your personal messenger? I don’t know. He didn’t say.”

James shoved him and hastened off before he could retaliate.

Along the path to the keep, James wondered what his laird wanted. They had yet to discuss when they would leave on the mission for their king. They’d received the king’s missive on Saint Swithin’s day, a few weeks before, stating they were to go to Wales of all places. James reached the keep a few minutes later and entered. He noticed the look on his laird’s face when he got closer. Grey only wore that expression when something bothered him. It was a look none of the guardsman wanted to see.

“Laird, Duff said you wanted to see me?”

“Aye, I did. We’ve a visitor.”

James stopped at the buttery and dunked a cup in the ale barrel before he approached and stood next to his longtime friend and laird. He waited for him to elaborate, but Grey didn’t seem to want to impart who this visitor was.

“Is it the king?” He appreciated his friend’s dislike for the king, because their relationship was tedious at best. In the last years the king had caused somewhat of discord between his laird and their leader.

“Nay. It is your father. He wants you to come home.”

James could’ve been knocked on his arse at hearing this news. His father was a treasonous banshee. How could he ever forgive such a transgression? James suppressed his rage, but couldn’t refrain from sounding outraged. “He wants me to what?”

“He wants ye to return home.” Grey leaned against the chair in the great hall of the keep, appearing as cross at the news as James was.

James couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His father tried to kill his own brother to take over the clan. Many still carried the severity and remembrance of it in their hearts. Thankfully, James wasn’t held accountable for his father’s action so long ago. He’d been too young to remember the sordid details. Still, having one’s own father be so vindictive, caused bitterness inside him.