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Valley Wye, Wales, 1409

All day, Terrwyn tried to peel away the ache that burrowed deep into her young bones. In spite of her efforts, the heavy residue from last eve’s dream weighed on her mind. She had hoped the mountains and rugged Welsh countryside would clear her thoughts. Even the four gray rabbits, bound and hanging from her saddle, were not enough to lift her spirits. Instead, her thoughts dashed back to worry her even more.

Her nursemaid had called her dreams the gift of night visions. Terrwyn remained unclear whether the gift was a blessing or a curse.

A flash of movement caught her eye. Her brother rode toward her on his little pony, his legs dangling over its round belly. Had their father still been lord of the valley, Drem would have already traveled to another household. There his duties as squire of the body would teach him all that was required of a knight. One day, his skill with sword and arrows might have earned the king’s favor.

That opportunity had been lost when the rebel Owain Glyndwr attempted to take the Welsh throne by force from England’s own Prince of Wales.

She wished for a way to share her night vision, her fears for her brother. But her pride remained bruised from the last time he scoffed at her warnings.

Reining in her mount, she called out, “We dare not travel farther. The English soldiers may be near.”

Although one year younger than she, Drem sat taller on his mount. He leaned down to yank a strand of her hair. “Afraid, are you?”

Terrwyn shook her head. “You know I’m not. But Mam and Father will wonder where we are.”

He pulled a face and frowned. “Not likely. Too busy crooning over red-faced babies.”

“Drem,” Terrwyn scolded, “the twins require their attention.”

“They near killed our mam,” he grumbled. “They aren’t even boys. At least then it would be but a few years until they lend a hand with the lambing—instead of being yet another burden.”

“Burden, is it?” The terse words barely hissed through her teeth. Squaring her shoulders, she edged her pony away. “I’ll be sure to relay your sentiments to Catrin.”

“What do you mean?”

“When the cold mountain air cuts against your bare skin, you’ll be wishing our sister does not know you count her darning skill among the burdens.” With a quick snap of the reins, she pointed the pony’s head down the hill. “Since you fill the valley with your importance, I find it too crowded for my taste. I shall leave you to yourself.”

Drem grabbed the halter and coaxed her pony close.

“Terrwyn, I didn’t mean to hurt your wee feelings. Nor do I close my eyes to Catrin’s skill with a needle. Thank the saints I have at least one sister who can sew a straight line. Mayhap the others will find a skill that will bring a blessing to our door.”

“Think you I’ve no skill to offer?”

That same question had burned often enough in her heart. Lacking the talent of plying needle to cloth was certainly a nuisance at times. However, the inability to stir up something edible in a cook pot was swiftly becoming a festering thorn in her pride.

After great thought, he gave his answer with a shrug. “None which adds value to a female.”

“You, a young boy of ten and two years, counts himself an authority on the fairer sex?”

Drem’s lips curled into a smirk. “I’ve more knowledge of fair damsels than you could ever imagine.”

Terrwyn swatted at his hand with the little riding whip she kept tucked in her boot. It whistled through the air, missing his knuckles by a faerie’s hair. Hearing him utter a curse under his breath, she crowed with glee. “Ha-ha! Instead of cabbage and broth, it will be your words you eat tonight.”

“Better my words than your cooking.” Ducking another swat, he moved his mount out of reach and yelped.

“Enough of this foolery,” Terrwyn said. “It will soon rain and I don’t want to be caught in the downpour. Let’s find the last lamb and be on our way home.”

Straightening in his saddle, he scoured the horizon with an intense scrutiny worthy of a sheepherder’s hound. “Look. Over there.” He pointed to the shelf of rocks jutting out from the hillside.

Terrwyn let the hood of her cloak fall back and leaned into the raised leather ridge of her saddle. Even if she squinted, she barely made out a movement. Trusting in her younger brother’s keen eye, she nodded in agreement. Letting him lead the way, she followed as he edged the pony around the patch of wide stone.

Drem dropped from his mount. Crouching low, he moved into the ravine. Moments later, he crawled out. His face was white as the craggy tops of a mountain in winter. A sheen of tears glittered from his eyes. He motioned for her to move down the hill.

“Where is the lamb?” Terrwyn asked.

“It didn’t make it,” Drem choked out. “Too little to live through the chill in the air.”

“That makes two lambs this day.”

She did not have to say what was on both their minds and would soon be on the minds of the villagers. It was an omen of bad things to come. Someone was bound to point a finger to their newly arrived twin sisters and announce they were the harbingers of more evil to befall their tiny village.

The heaviness from last night’s dream resurfaced. “We best return home,” she said.
Drem gave a quick nod and moved his mount next to hers. He pulled out his finely made bow of dwarf elm and carefully readied the arrow in the notch.

“What is it, Drem? What do you see?”

“Mounted riders.”

The guilt of her silence pressed down. She should have made him listen to what she saw in her dream. The single word rushed out in a whisper. “English.”

“Warn the village.” Drem whacked the back of her mount with the flat of his hand.

“Nay!” she cried out.

The pony’s rump twitched before it set off down the hill. Heart beating in her throat, Terrwyn gripped the reins as she righted her seat. Gaining control of the mountain pony, she ignored her brother’s orders and whirled around to race back to his side.

The little pony trembled under her thighs. The ground shook with the pounding of hooves as the English soldiers raced after Drem. The air echoed with the sound of heavy leather and metal slapping against horseflesh. The glint of swords flashed in the daylight.

Her eyes widened. The men raced toward her brother just as they had in her dream. Unable to leave him behind, Terrwyn pulled out her bow. Bracing her heels in the wooden stirrups, she stood up from the saddle. The arrow placed in the notch, she aimed at the advancing men. The feather-quilled weapon screamed into the air.

She heard the horse’s panicked whinny, the soldiers’ angry shouts. Her aim had succeeded in turning them from Drem. The soldiers reined in and brought their mounts about. Relief for her brother’s safety flooded through her. It would not be long until he left the slab of stone and circled around for her. She prayed he did not take his merry time.

She looked toward the sound of hoof beats thundering nearer.

Her little pony pranced and blew out a nervous breath. Its muscles bunched and flinched. Terrwyn swung the bow over her shoulder. Dropping into the well of the saddle, she slapped at her pony’s flank with the riding crop. Her fingers tightened on the reins as the pony shot off down the hill toward the wooded glen.

The limp rabbits beat against her thigh, leaving streaks of bloodied fur upon her skirt. Green leaves of the great oaks blurred as she dashed past. She ducked under a low branch and narrowly missed taking off the top of her head. Mouth dry, her breath came in a ragged draw. She gripped the reins with one hand and leaned forward, stretching over the pommel of her saddle.

“Come on!” she urged the pony. “A few more steps. We’ll lose them by the falls.”

She needed only to round the bend to see the waterfall straightaway. The water would shield her from the men until Drem joined her. Reining in, she slowed her pace and maneuvered around a felled tree. She looked over her shoulder to scan the tree line, then heard the hiss of an arrow.

A frantic whinny erupted as her pony shied to one side. Its footing wavered. Terrwyn’s seat began to shift. Kicking out of the stirrup, she rolled away from flailing legs, narrowly dodging a sharp hoof. The pony grunted and fell to the ground. Its ragged breaths filled the glen.

Terrwyn sucked back the pain that threatened to break apart her chest. Anger burned in her throat. Her darling pony lay next to her. Gently sliding a palm over its velvet nose, she felt the soft blows of air, each breath coming slower, shallower. Until finally they diminished and Terrwyn knew its life lingered no more.

Flattening her body into the loam of the forest, she dug her fingers into the earth and did her best to squash the fear leaping in her throat. Her mind was a hive of questions. How close were the English? Had they seen the spot where she fell? Where was Drem?

Before she moved, she had her first answer.

The toe of a thick wooden-soled boot caught her in the ribs and rolled her over. Terrwyn clamped her lips together and kept from crying out. She stared openly at the ugly pale-skinned men and their long faces, weak chins, pale blue eyes and hair the color of gruel.

A great brute bent over her and poked at her chest. “Here now! What do we have?” He moved the veil of dark hair from her face with the tip of his sword. “She’s small enough to be a woodland faerie.”

The other soldier dismounted and spoke over her as if she had no mind. “Don’t touch her,” he warned as he shoved the brute aside. “Me mum did say, if you had a taste of faerie, then your fella would fall off.”

Terrwyn stared at the mottled sky overhead. Tears burned her eyelids and her ears still rang from when she hit the ground. Her stomach twisted with concern for Drem. If he had escaped their trap, then he would have been there by now. She feared her ruse had not been enough to draw all the soldiers away from him.

She heard the creak of leather accepting the shift of weight. A horse nickered softly, mouthing the bit with its tongue. The sound of twigs crushed under heavy footsteps drew near. She blinked. An English soldier towered over her.

His scowling visage was flushed red with anger. “I don’t fear the Welsh tales,” he said as he pushed the men out of the way.

Grabbed by her tunic, Terrwyn was lifted from the ground. Her back slammed against the base of a large oak. The palm of his hand pressed against her shoulder, grinding her flesh into a ridge of rough bark.

“Be this your errant arrow?” The bloodied shaft he held under her nose was tipped by a wedge of dull gray iron just as any arrowhead might be. She shook her head.

Squinting, the cow-faced man looked as if he did not believe her. “You there,” he ordered one of the men, “bring that quiver to me.”

He poured out the contents on the ground and crushed her bow with his heel. Upon hearing her hushed gasp a smile of satisfaction lifted his lips.

“I knew I would find a lying Welshman. Just not a wench, young and tender as this one.” He licked his big lips and trapped her against the tree with a ham-sized hand on each side of her head. He moved closer, grinding his groin into her hip. “Aye, you’ll thank me for what I’m about to give ya.”

Unable to stand the sight and smell of the soldier, she turned her head. She squashed the whimper that threatened to bubble in her throat and gripped the tree, her nails digging into the bark. Her eyes squeezed tight, she began to whisper a prayer to the saints. As she ended her prayer, a yelp rang out.

Terrwyn opened her eyes to see why the soldier was now howling like an injured cur. A familiar arrow, its shaft marked with colored thread, impaled his hand. A volley of arrows shot through the air. Two more soldiers hit the ground, burrowing their stomachs into the leaves.

Attempting to drop to the ground, Terrwyn found her cloak gripped by the impaled soldier. She kicked out at his knees and felt the impact of her heel against his flesh right before she fell to the ground. His weight against the tree, the man cursed as another shaft narrowly missed his wrist, striking his sleeve instead.

“Do as I say this time,” Drem called out. “Run while I hold them here.”

Eager to put distance between herself and the soldiers, Terrwyn moved to do as she was told.

Her steps faltered. There, in the trees, the English soldiers stood behind her beloved brother. An uncontrolled shiver ran through her body as she reluctantly bent her knee and knelt on the ground.

One of the soldiers grabbed Drem, trapping his arms. Another soldier bound his wrists together. They ignored Drem’s thrashing legs and twisting body, lifted him up onto the destrier’s wide saddle and shackled his legs under the beast’s belly.

Drem aimed his elbow at his captor’s face. With a gruff warning, the soldier made a point to look toward Terrwyn. Satisfied she understood his threat, the soldier swung up behind Drem and motioned to his companions to prepare to leave.

Terrwyn stared intently, memorizing what she could. The stocky young brown-haired man spoke tersely to the men. The soldiers did not seem to notice their orders came from one so young. Her stomach knotted. When he turned his mount, she saw a mottled scar running along the left side of his nose and cheek. Could this be Henry of Monmouth, England’s Prince of Wales?

A young man about the same age as the prince rode up on a fine warhorse. Though he wore a soldier’s garb of leather jerkin and padded leggings, the badge on his chest displayed the red Lancaster rose. He tipped his head to show respect to the royal sitting beside him. Given leave to speak his mind, he leaned forward, resting his forearm on the pommel of his saddle.

Though Terrwyn could not hear his comments, she knew their conversation did not go well when the prince shook his head in denial at the lanky soldier’s request. The Prince of Wales’s unyielding visage darkened. Their conversation came to a swift end when the prince nudged his mount and rode away.

The young man’s perfect posture remained rigid as his stallion pranced under his grip. He swept the chain-mail hood off his head. Two red splotches colored his high cheekbones as he tugged his long fingers through his coal black hair.

Terrwyn wondered at his bravery. Perhaps madness. No matter, she thought dejectedly, whatever his objections, they were lost on closed ears.

As the small band of men rode past, their leather boots blurred in front of her face. She blinked away remnants of dust and tears. Despite her struggle, hope slipped through her fingers as if it were silk from a milk thistle.

“You cannot do this,” she cried out. “He is but a child.”

The dark-haired soldier stopped his mount in front of her. He held out his hand.

Terrwyn stared at the simple chain-link gauntlet and could not force herself to rise. She lifted her head, fixing her eyes on his face. “Please. Release my brother.”

His eyes shimmered with concern before he shamefully turned his face away and rode on.

Drem’s mount drew near enough that Terrwyn thought she might reach out and touch his leg. His face was pale. Anger bloomed over his cheeks.

He shook his head violently when he saw she meant to go to him. “Nay,” he hissed. “’Tis naught you can do.”

She gripped the soldier’s boot and pleaded through tears. “Stop! I beg you.”

“Listen to the lad.” The cow-faced soldier tapped her shoulder with the flat of his blade. “Mind you, you’d have no troubles if not for Owain Glyndwr’s band of mischief makers.”

Drem looked back once more and shook his head. Helpless, Terrwyn watched the soldiers leave the glen. She swallowed her tears and vowed her first bitter taste of defeat would be her last.

* * *

Southeast Wales, a small village near Abergavenny (Aber-uh-vennie) Spring, 1415

Terrwyn slapped the cleaning rag on the trestle table and scrubbed at the congealed oats and puddles of stale ale. Tonight the Sheep’s Glen was nearly bursting. The villagers had crowded into the tavern when word came that strangers rode the hillside. Fear, swift as the river Usk, poured through the smoke-filled room.

“We know how the English soldiers work,” one of the men shouted.

“Aye,” agreed Smithy, a barrel-chested man. “They already took everything of value. What have they come for this time?” He turned toward the crowd of villeins, pumping his fist in the air. “I say we meet them with force, turn them away before they set foot in our village.”

Her father, Dafydd ap Hew, once lord of the lands, stood beside the great hearth, weariness on his face. The upheaval of hearth and home had marked his shoulder-length hair with gray streaks, and the salting of gray brows and beard heightened the depth of his solemn dark eyes. His stature bent with the weight of responsibility, belying his thirty-eight years. He raised his arm to gain their attention. His voiced boomed over the heated voices. “Good people, we’ve known one day the English king would send his soldiers again to us.”

“What do you intend to do?” yelled Smithy. “Drop your chausses and bend over as you did six years ago?” Encouraged by a few sniggers, he continued, “Do you aim to stand by and let the English king have his way again?”

His thick neck swelled with indignation, but Dafydd did not dignify the insult. He held his eyes on the crowd. A quiet, knowing smile lifted the corner of his lips as he let his gaze touch each and every man.

“Aye,” he said softly, “six years ago my lady wife and I paid the greatest price of all. If our first son yet lived, he would have reached ten and eight year.” He looked about the room, letting his eyes fall where Terrwyn stood. “Too late, I learned my error in judgment. Today we do not join forces with the rebel Owain Glyndwr. This time, we show the English soldiers we intend obedience to King Henry’s crown.” Dafydd’s voice grew despite the flutter of uncertainly in the room. “We will let them draw near. Encourage them to raise a horn of ale. Then we will know their intentions before they take place.”

The crowd erupted with alarm. Angry slurs turned into pushing and shoving until there was no safe place to stand.

“Silence!” Dafydd shouted. “My decision is made.”

He turned to leave and stopped.

“Dafydd.” Smithy gripped his shoulder, stalling him from vacating the tavern. “You cannot mean for us to dine beside them.” His hold tightened. “We’ve lost too much, man.”

“Would you have a better solution?”

“You ask too much from us,” Smithy said.

“’Tis the only way to learn what brings them here and what will make them leave. We must know their purpose before it is too late to change it.”

Terrwyn shoved her hair from her face. The questions leapt from her mouth before she had time to stop them. “What would you have us do, Smithy? Fight them with pitchforks and hoes?”

Stunned, the men spun to look at her. Their glances shifted between father and daughter.

Terrwyn walked away from the table, the cleaning forgotten. “I, too, desire the English to keep to their own land. Just as I desire Owain would put a stop to his raids into the English holdings. You’ve heard the rumors, same as I. He hides close by. Each attack led by that devil and his band of followers brings more sanctions against us.”

Smithy thumbed his chest. “I say we send them on their way tonight.”

She smiled, willing her lips to hold firm. “I acknowledge, ’tis a brave and brawny group of men I see before me. But listen to my father. Our numbers are too small to raise a hand against English rule. Even now, they know ’tis lambing time. Already they wait with the temerity of slavering wolves for their share of the flock. Would you rather they take them all? You dream of a time when our children forget the ache of an empty belly.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “Peace is what we desire. Peace is what we’ll have if you listen to your lord and do as he says.”

Glancing up, Terrwyn met her father’s gaze and nodded encouragement.

Dafydd stepped up beside her and clasped her hand. “’Tis nothing you can do to stop Owain from stirring their English blood for revenge. But you can join us. ’Tis only for a short time. The soldiers will move on when they discover there is nothing more for them to seize.”

The heavy door swung open. As if one accord, the men lifted their heads and a hush settled over the smoke-filled room.

“Good wife,” Dafydd said, “what brings you here?”

Terrwyn’s mother squared her jaw and grasped the coarse woolen cloak tight around her middle. The men sat in uncomfortable silence, casting their eyes at the knots in the trestle table.

“Isn’t there a place for a woman filled with child to sit and rest?” She purposefully patted her rounding belly, pointing out the fullness of her own breeding time. A slight smile lifted the corner of her lips as a row of male backsides shuffled over.

Dafydd nodded toward the vacant spot on the bench closest to the hearth. “Gwenhwyfar, sit and be silent if you are able.”

She nodded in obedience and moved to squeeze in between the two brothers, Bran and Maffew. “Good eve, Bran.” She splayed her fingers over her cloak and rested her cupped hands upon the crest of her protruding belly. “Maffew, be certain to tell your mother I believe it will soon be time for her services.”

Bran cleared his throat. “We swear, my lord, to tell our mam when she returns from the mountains.”

Gwenhwyfar straightened her spine. The bulge under her cloak stretched the woolen material until the weave was about to split. “’Tis I, not Dafydd ap Hew, who is in need of a midwife.” Her words nipped at him as if she were a corgi after the heels of a wayward sheep. “I do not mince my words. ’Tis near a fortnight since your mother walked into the wooded hills. Find her and bring her back. I will need her skill before the end of tomorrow.”

Worry marked Dafydd’s face. “Go, do as she bids.”

Bran and Maffew nodded their obedience and stumbled out the door.

The silence in the tavern was stifling. The men shifted their seats. Throats cleared uncomfortably. They kept their heads down, entranced with the workmanship of their boots. Their deep frowns revealed that their trust had wavered.

Dafydd jerked his chin toward Gwenhwyfar, silently pleading for assistance.

Terrwyn edged toward the bench and touched her mother’s shoulder. “Come home to the cottage. Warm your insides with Catrin’s mulled cider.”

The bench creaked as Mam pulled away. Her glare bounced off Terrwyn, ricocheting to Dafydd. “I’ve heard the talk, my lord. The village is bursting with fear, wondering what you will do to save them this time.”

“Mam.” Terrwyn bent close. “You do not want to do this.”

“Aye, daughter, I do.” She rose from the bench, one hand supporting her back, the other gripping the edges of the cloak together. “You will not place yourself between your father and me.”

Shrugging, Terrwyn stepped back, her palms up in surrender. She would know the breadth of her mother’s wrath before she closed her eyes for the evening. There were no secrets between father and daughter to keep. It was the residue from last eve’s dream that had brought her to the tavern. The feel of change in the air rubbed her senses raw.

“Well, Dafydd.” Gwenhwyfar motioned with a flip of her wrist, covering the span of the room. “What fine Welshmen do you intend to send to the English wolves this time? Whose heart do you intend to break tonight?”

“Gwennie.” Dafydd moved toward his wife. “Look about you. I assure you, they don’t come for the boys but for the mutton.”

Gwenhwyfar grasped the sleeve of Dafydd’s tunic. “Then why do they set up their camp outside the village? Archery targets are being set for competition as we speak. Which flock of wee lambs do you think they intend to take from us this day?”

* * *

Terrwyn could not shake the heaviness from her shoulders. The dream the night before gnawed at her head until she could not stand the feel of her mattress anymore. She rose from the bed she shared with her sisters. Moving quietly, so as not to rouse them, she dressed in the shadow of the morning light.

“And where do you think you are going?” her sister Catrin asked.

Terrwyn pressed a finger to her lips, motioning for quiet. “I need to prepare for the birth.”

“’Tis today?” Startled, Catrin began to sit up and stopped. The young twins, Glynis and Adain, slept on each side of her. During the night, the girls had draped their arms around her shoulders as if clinging to her for support. “You’ve had a dream,” she said, working to keep the fear from her voice so as not to awaken her bedmates.

Terrwyn nodded. She did not know how to put the feeling into words. Nevertheless, the feeling was there. She must heed the dream or receive another hour of sleepless thoughts. Mam would need all the faith their prayers could muster. “I will fetch Isolde and send her here.”

“And if the midwife has not returned from the mountains?” Catrin peeled the twin’s fingers from her hair and propped her head with her arm.

Terrwyn knelt to touch Catrin’s smooth cheek. She forced her own fears away and smiled confidently. “This is Mam’s seventh birthing. When it happens, it won’t be as long as the last time. She has been eating well and, up until the soldiers came, her thoughts have been light.”

“And if it is not a boy?” asked Catrin.

“Then our mam will ignore Isolde’s wisdom and try again for a son.”

“What did you see in you dream? Is it a fine healthy boy?”

The air caught in Terrwyn’s throat. She nodded. “Aye, a fine, healthy boy.” She rose from where she knelt beside Catrin’s crowded bed. “Dawn will soon be upon us. Keep an eye on the girls. I must find the herbs that will help Mam until Isolde returns.”

With Catrin’s simple nod, Terrwyn was free to leave and turn to the task of repairing the tranquility torn apart by her dream. After nineteen years, she knew well enough not to ignore the night visions. However, they were only a window to the future and could be altered if you were determined to see it done.

At least that was what she liked to tell herself.

Once outside the family cottage, she took in a deep breath. The sound of the English encampment tore into the quiet fabric of the gray-misted valley. A voice, so out of tune it would shame the singer’s own mother, sang a battle song glorifying the English crown. Someone cursed the minstrel and the song was forgotten as the soldiers’ argument filled the air.

Terrwyn cinched in the strap to her quiver and drew it snug across her back. Pulling her cloak tight, she hastened her pace. The path meandered past the small church building. The chapel’s wooden shutters remained closed to the heavy air. Pale stones, marking the loss of loved ones, stood erect in the burial garden behind the simply constructed building.

Outside the village circle, smoke swirled up from the thatched roof of the watermill. Tawny light filtered through the cracks of the sheep byre as herders prepared for another day of birthing lambs into the world.

Terrwyn twitched the edge of her skirt, saving the hem from a mud puddle. With her empty basket held tight to her side, she marched past the alehouse and did not look to see if a familiar figure stumbled out of the building. Ignoring the damp chill eating its way through the soles of her shoes, she headed to the outer edge of the village.

A small garden, readied for the spring planting of herbs and flowers, lay beside Isolde’s cottage. The doors and windows were shut snug and tight. Terrwyn eyed the chimney, searching for signs of the morning fire. Not a wisp of smoke curled up to the heavens. Nor did a light shine under the door.

Worry began to knot her stomach. The night hours had passed and still Bran and Maffew had not returned with their mother. Surely Isolde would come back as soon as she received Mam’s message. The midwife had to be there to change the outcome of Mam’s fate. Pounding on the doorframe until her knuckles were raw, Terrwyn glanced at the nearby rolling meadow. Dew on the new grass shimmered under the dawning light. No sign of fresh tracks marked the lush hill.

Forced to change the fates herself, Terrwyn searched her memory for the lesson in healing Isolde had recently given her. She turned from the cottage and began the climb toward the glen that held the early flowers that might ease her mother’s pain.

The sun moved higher, burning the mist out of the sky. Refusing defeat, she clung to the hope of Isolde’s imminent return and pulled up a few timid shoots of wild onions. They would serve well as a token gift for the midwife’s wisdom. And still, she did not find the herbs Isolde had used in the times before. Nor did she find the flowers she saw in her dream.

Hearing her name, Terrwyn straightened and quickly abandoned her search for hidden balls of spring mushrooms. Her little sisters ran toward her as fast as their legs could carry them.

Their errand so urgent, Adain failed to notice when her hair caught on a bramble bush. It was only when the thorn scraped against her scalp that she stopped with a yelp.

Following a few steps behind, Glynis yanked her twin’s long brown strands from the snare. “Come quick, Terrwyn! Mam is hurting.”

Terrwyn’s heart pounded savagely against her ribs. She could not help casting a desperate glance to the horizon. Surely Bran and Maffew were only on the other side of the knoll.

“Terrwyn,” Adain urged. “There is no time to waste!”

Terrwyn nodded. Grabbing up the hem of her skirts, she lifted it above her knees and hurried down the hill. Near the village, she stopped to catch her breath. “Where is Father?”

Glynis and Adain looked at each other.

Terrwyn captured Glynis by the sleeve and shook her arm. “And where is Catrin? Why isn’t she by Mam’s side while I am out?”

Adain answered before Glynis opened her mouth. “He is with the English soldiers. They came for him early this morn. Catrin went to fetch him home but has not returned.”

Terrwyn smoothed Adain and Glynis’s hair and offered them a brave smile. “All right then.” She kissed their cheeks. “I know that you are weary, but I ask you to scamper back to Mam. I will be there as soon as I am able.”

Tears welled up in Glynis’s dark brown eyes.

“Hurry now!” Terrwyn said. “I’ve a stop to make at the midwife’s before I return home. Then I’ll be there straightaway.”

“But, Terrwyn,” Aiden asked. “What are we to do?”

Hearing the catch in Aiden’s words, Terrwyn spoke gently. “Not to worry. Babies have a time all to themselves. They will be here when they are ready. While you hold Mam’s hand and smooth her brow, Glynis can sing her a song or two. That will surely bring a smile to her face.”

The twins nodded in unison, then ran hand-in-hand in the direction of their cottage.

Terrwyn headed back to the midwife’s home. Drem’s disappearance had taken a toll on their mother’s health. Everyone in the village knew this pregnancy was against Isolde’s advice. The twins had been Mam’s last successful birthing. And the stillbirths of the two babes after them had forged a determination in her mother that would not allow failure. She would birth another son for her Dafydd. A son to carry the land in his name. Even if it took her last breath.

Terrwyn could not imagine how she was to guide mother and baby through the valley of life. She had been by her mam’s side when the little ones were delivered, still and lifeless. She had seen the torment of yet another loss to both her parents. And she had no idea how to make this one any better than the last two.

Not if her night visions were true.

Terrwyn paused. A horseshoe hung over the door, promising luck to those who entered. She touched the smooth iron, praying its force would spread through her and pass onto her family.

Knocking twice, she stepped inside the cottage. The last time she and Isolde met had ended in frustration. The midwife had taken the notion in her head that she could not count on Bran and Maffew to succeed her in the skill of healing. To Terrwyn’s dismay, Isolde looked upon her to take up the role. At the time, Terrwyn thought faeries had touched the old woman’s mind in the middle of the night. Now she thanked the saints for their hand in fate.

Casting a hasty look about, she found the saltbox on the shelf. Beneath it was a bottle of holy water to keep Isolde’s home pure. Underneath the shelf was a willow basket filled with red woolen yarn and matching flannel. Isolde swore red brought luck and would not only restrain the faeries’ mischief but also keep sickness at bay. Terrwyn did not know if she put much stock in that notion, but the flannel cloth had helped Glynis when she last had a sore throat.

Terrwyn pulled out the soft material from the basket. She filled it with the herbs the midwife had pointed out to her on her last visit. Crushed motherwort, raspberry leaves for tea, and oil infused with rosemary were added to the pile. Just as she was leaving, she realized she had nearly forgotten the most important item of all.

The large wooden birthing chair sat in the corner waiting for her to figure out how she would move it without a lot of fuss. Father was a proud man and would not take kindly to the notion of having his private business bantered about the village, but Mam needed that chair.

Someone was whistling a song outside the window. It was an old tune her brother used to sing to her. When she was a young child. When life was pleasant.

She looked out the doorway and saw a tall stranger, a man strong of arms and straight of back, walking down the path with apparently no rush in his step. He carried himself with pride. She hesitated. The cut of his tunic was rough and serviceable. He had a look about him that caused a person to think he could handle whatever befell him. Sure as the saints lived, he could not be an Englishman. Yet there was something oddly familiar about him. Perhaps he traveled from the North Country.

Without another thought, she waved him over. “You there. Pick your feet up and bring yourself here.”

The man paused. The morning breeze ruffled a tuft of his black hair. He turned to look over his shoulder and then to the right. His face flashed a moment of surprise as he seemed to finally notice her. Thumbing his chest, he pointed at himself.

“Aye, you.” Terrwyn nodded. “Hurry!” Relief lifted her spirits. Although the man appeared to be simpleminded, it did not matter so long as he had a good strong back and carried the chair without complaint.

As the stranger closed the distance between them, Terrwyn noticed the red rose badge of the English king sewn on his tunic. Relief fled as quickly as it came. Oh, how could she have been so foolish? She felt the blood drain from her cheeks. Her mouth went dry. She thought of nothing but running behind the safety of the door.

“Is there something amiss?” His deep voice trailed over her skin.

Terrwyn grasped the leather handle, tugging to pull the door shut. “Forgive me. ’Twas a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Concern darkened his eyes. Reaching over her head, he pushed on the edge of the door. It swung easily on well-oiled hinges. He looked about the room and glanced down. “My own mam would cuff my ears if I didn’t help a healer.”

“Oh, no, I am not—” Terrwyn began.

“Have you a bug in your head? You called me over and none too quietly. Do you require my help or not?”

Terrwyn squared her shoulders and pushed against his chest with the flat of her hand. “I don’t require anything from an Englishman.”

“And would you accept my help if I were Welsh?”

“The only thing of Welsh I see before me is the wool that covers your legs.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Terrwyn felt her face flush. She had no reason to notice how his clothing covered his limbs. She dutifully ignored the way the corner of his mouth twitched before he spoke.

“I don’t think my mother would find your comment amusing. Now, heed the common sense. If you required my help minutes ago, you’ll require it now.”

Terrwyn wanted to deny him. The desire to slam the door on his face rushed through her veins. How could she admit he was right? “You think I don’t show wisdom?”

“I think you Welsh are a prideful, stubborn lot.” He took a step in, closing the gap between them. “Now use your head and let me help you.”

Terrwyn’s thoughts raced to her mother. She should be at Mam’s side. Not arguing with this irritating stranger.

A common soldier trotted up. Breathless, he touched his touched his forehead and bent an awkward bow. “Sir James, the villagers are waiting for your attention to the targets.”

“Sir James, is it?” Terrwyn bristled. “Ah, aye, a fine Welsh name indeed.”

Spying a familiar face, she shouted to the sheepherder’s son striding across the path. “Gareth, come assist your lord’s daughter.”

With her feet planted square and firm, she nodded to the scowling man before her. “Go to your men, Sir James. I have no need for your help, nor will I ever.”