She was a creature rarer even than the unicorn, a woman who, all her life, had been a law unto herself, as Duchess of Aquitaine, then as Queen of France, and finally as Queen of England. She had in her past two failed royal marriages, a crusade, scandal and lovers, even a rebellion, for when Henry betrayed her, she'd incited their sons to civil War, had spent sixteen years in confinement as a result. But she'd won in the end, had outlived the husband who'd shut her away from the world, from her beloved Aquitaine. Moreover, she had somehow survived those bitter years with her soul unscarred, her spirit unbroken.

Upon regaining her freedom, she had, at age sixty-nine, journeyed to Navarre to fetch a bride for her favorite son, brought the girl across the Alps to Richard in Sicily. She was now in her seventy-first year, and in the high, elegantly hollowed cheekbones, the posture that conceded nothing to age, and the slanting green-gold eyes, Will could still see traces of the great beauty she'd once been. He was both fascinated and repelled by this woman who'd dared to outrage every tenet of the code governing proper female behavior, but he was glad, nonetheless, to see her now, for she was the one person John might not dare to defy.

Will watched as John greeted her with guarded formality, did not mind in the least when she made it pleasantly yet perfectly plain that his presence was not required. In a contest of wills between John and his mother, he did not think John would prevail, indeed hoped he would not. But he did not care to be a witness to their confrontation; he suspected Eleanor's methods would be neither maternal nor merciful.

ELEANOR snapped her fingers and the last of the servants disappeared. As John handed her a goblet of mulled wine, she sipped in silence for some moments, then confirmed his worst fears. "I do hope you have not entangled poor Will in your intriguing, John. That would be rather unsporting, like spearing fish in a barrel."

"Should I know what that means, Madame?"

She leaned back against the settle cushions, eyed him reflectively.

Do you have any memories of Gwendolen, John? No, I see not. She was a young Welsh girl, nurse first to your sister Joanna and then to yu. I liked her, found the Welsh to be much like my own Poitevins, a people passionate yet practical. There was one Welsh proverb in par-52 ticular that Gwendolen was fond of quoting- 'Better a friend at court than gold on the finger.'" She smiled faintly, glanced down at her hands, at the jeweled fingers entwined loosely in her lap. "As you can see, I have gold rings in profusion. But I also have friends at court, John ... at the French court."

She waited, but John continued to look at her blankly, with the suggestion of a quizzical smile. "Why is it," he asked, "that I suddenly feel as if I've stumbled into the wrong conversation?"

"You do that very well, John. Honest bewilderment, with just the right touch of humor. I do not doubt your indignation will be equally impressive. And if you insist, we can play the game out to the end. I'll tell you exactly what my informants at the French court revealed, and you can deny any and all knowledge of Philip's intrigues. I'll confront you with the fact that I know you've coerced the constables of Wallingford, Berkshire, and Windsor to turn over the royal castles to you, and you can then concoct some perfectly innocent explanation for that "But eventually, John, we'll get to the truth. It may well take all night, but we will, that I promise you. So why do you not make it easy on both of us? It has been a very long day. I'm tired, John, am asking you to keep this charade mercifully brief . . . for my sake if not your own."

John could not say with which precise word she hit a nerve; it may have been the tone as much as the content. But by the time she stopped speaking, he was rigid with rage. "For your sake? There was a time when I'd have done anything on God's earth for you, just to get you to acknowledge I was even alive! But now? You're too late, Mother, years too late!"

There was a sudden silence. John rose, retreated into the sheltering shadows beyond the hearth, but he could not escape her eyes, could feel them following him all the while. What had ever possessed him? Fool1 In lashing out like that, he'd only shown her where his defenses were weakest, most vulnerable to attack.

"What would you have me say, John?" she said at last. "That you are my flesh and blood, my last-born, that I care, care more than you know? It would be easy enough to say, and I admit I might be tempted ... if I thought you'd believe me."

"I would not," he said hastily, and she gave him an unexpected smile, a look of sardonic and surprising approval.

"Why should you? You were not yet six when Henry confined me in Salisbury Tower, sixteen when next I saw you, twenty-one when Richard ordered my release. How could I love you? I do not even know you. You were ever Henry's, never mine."

I53.

"That's a he," John said bitterly "You never cared for me, never1 Mot from the day I was born You think I do not remember how it was7"

"You exaggerate," she said, but there was that in her voice which he'd never heard before, a faintly defensive note "Mayhap I did not have you with me as often as I should in those early years, I'll concede that I'll concede, too, that I could take no joy in a pregnancy at fortyfjve Why should I7 I had just found out about Henry and that Clifford slut He'd even dared to install her at WoodstockWoodstock, my favorite manor1" She stopped abruptly, and John saw that she, too, had been goaded into saying that which she'd not meant to share "It is a pretty fiction that mothers must love each child in equal measure a fiction, no more than that There is always a favorite With me, it was Richard With Henry, it was you "

"No," John said, too quickly "I was not his favorite It was rather that I was the only son he had left Have ypu forgotten7 My brothers sided with you "

Again, John had the disquieting sense that he'd have done better to hold his tongue Eleanor's eyes were too probing, too knowing Cat's eyes, ever on the alert for movement in the grass, he thought uneasily, not reassured when she shrugged, said, "If that's how you'd rather remember it But I did not mean that as a reproach I do not, in truth, think less of you for having the common sense to abandon a ship once waves began to break over the bow Nor, after sixteen years shut away from the sun, am I likely to find tears to spare for Henry Plantagenet "

Without warning, she came abruptly to her feet, crossed swiftly to John "But Richardthat is another matter altogether, John Did you truly think I'd stand idly by whilst you plotted with Philip to usurp Richard's throne7"

When he sought to move away, she caught his arm "Of my children, I have ever loved Richard best, have never made a secret of it My first loyalties are to him, will always be to him But what you do not seem to realize is that they are then given to you You want to be Richard's heir Well, I, too, want that for you, am willing to do what I can to make it so "

She sounded sincere, but John knew how little that meant, neither of his parents had ever held veracity to be a virtue "Why7" he said wanly "The soul of sentiment you're not Mother "

She laughed "To your credit, neither are you I've always thought sentimentality to be one of the cardinal sins, second only to stupidity "

That afforded John a certain ironic amusement, for it was his private conviction that his brother Richard was decidedly stupid, in all but kill-54 ing, at which he excelled. But he said nothing, let Eleanor lead him back to the settle.

"Richard's marriage is not working out. Unfortunately, the girl is as insipid as she is innocent, and so absurdly sweet-tempered that I suspect if you cut her, she'd bleed pure sugar. She and Richard . . . well, it's been like pairing a butterfly with a gerfalcon. I do not think it likely she'll give him a son."

"And if she does not, that leaves only me ... or Geoffrey's son. Richard prefers the boy; why do you not, Madame?"

"Arthur is not yet five; you're twenty and four. That in itself would be reason enough to favor you. And you are my son; that's another. Lastly, I think you have it in you to be a better King than your past record would indicate. At least you're no fool, and most men are."

"Even if you do favor me over Arthur, what of it? Richard has already made his choice."

"No choice this side of the grave is irrevocable. Richard named Arthur as a means of keeping you in check whilst he was on crusade. Once he does return from the Holy Land, he may well reconsider, especially if I urge him to do so.

I'm sure you'll agree that if there be one voice he heeds, it is mine. If I speak for you, he's like to listen. But it does cut both ways, John. If I speak against you, he's apt to listen then, too. So it is up to you."

"What do you want me to do?"

"It is rather what I want you to refrain from doing. No intrigues with Philip.

No pleasure jaunts to Paris. No conniving with the Welsh or the Scots." She paused, hazel eyes holding his own. Satisfied with what she saw in them, she rose, stifling a yawn. "I expect a bedchamber has been made ready for me by now, so I'll bid you good night. I'm glad we did reach an understanding. But I rather thought we would, Johnny."

"Do not call me that!" John said sharply, startling himself even more than Eleanor. She stared at him, eyebrows arching, and he flushed.

"I'd almost forgotten," she said softly. "That was what Henry always called you, was it not?"

John said nothing, and she moved toward the door, where she paused, turned to face him. "If you should happen to suffer a change of heart in the night, John, decide that Philip's offer is a better gamble than mine ... I think it only fair to tell you that, on the same day you sailed for France, I would personally give the command to seize all your lands, castles, and manors in England, confiscate them on behalf of the crown." And closing the door quietly behind her, she left him alone.5 GWYNEDD, WALES.

]anwry upj J.HEY left Ha warden Castle in the early hours of a cloud-darkened dawn. A week of unrelenting rains had reduced the road to a mere memory, and as they headed west into Wales, they found themselves trudging through mud as thick and clinging as molasses. It spattered their legs and tunics, squished into their boots, made them fight for every footprint of ground gained. Exhaustion soon claimed Edwin; so, too, did disillusionment. Stumbling after his companions, blinded by gusts of wind-driven rain, chilled and utterly wretched, he could only wonder where the glory had gone.

All of his eighteen years had been passed in the Cheshire village of Aldford.

He had never even seen Chester, a mere five miles to the north. But three months ago his cousin Godfrey had come back to Aidford. Godfrey was a legend in their family, the youth who'd willingly abandoned home and hearth for the alien world waiting without. Godfrey was a solidarius, a man who fought for pay, and he told his awestruck kin that he was now being paid by no less a lord than Ralph de Montalt, Lord of Hawarden and Mold, Seneschal of Chester.

And then he told them why he'd come back: for Edwin.

There was no question of refusal; any village lad would have pledged his soul for such a chance. Much envied, Edwin had accompanied Godfrey back to Hawarden, eager to learn about war and women and the world beckoning beyond Aldford. But at Hawarden he'd found only long hours, loneliness, scant pleasure. Garrison guard duty was monotonous and dreary. But this was far worse, this was unmitigated misery, and as he tripped and sprawled into the mud, blistered and sore and soaked to the skin, Edwin wished fervently that he'd never even heard of Godfrey, that he'd never laid eyes upon Hawarden Castle.

Of their mission, he knew only that the young knight they were56 escorting had an urgent message for Davydd ab Owain, a Welsh Prince who had allied himself with the Normans. Godfrey had told him the Welsh Prince was encamped at Rhuddlan Castle, some twenty-five miles from Hawarden, and he wondered how long the journey would take. He wondered, too, why they were no longer following the coast, why they'd swung inland at Basingwerk Abbey.

"Godfrey?" He quickened his pace, caught his cousin's arm. "Godfrey, why did we change our route? Are we not more vulnerable to attack in the hills?"

"You'd bloody well better believe it!" Godfrey tripped, cursed as the mud sucked at one of his boots. "But our guide told de Hodnet that this is a quicker way, a road made long past by the Romans. And that Norman whoreson is set upon getting us to Rhuddlan as fast he can, no matter the risk."

Edwin had been about to ask who were these Romans, but with his cousin's last words, he forgot all else, stared at Godfrey in amazement. De Hodnet was a Norman, a knight; to Edwin, that made him a being beyond criticism. He glanced ahead at the knight, his eyes lingering admiringly upon the man's roan stallion, the silvery chain-mail armor. He felt no resentment that de Hodnet should ride while they walked. That was just the way of it, and now he ventured a timid protest.

"But Godfrey, surely he knows what he's doing. After all, he's a knight."

"So? Does that make him the Lord Jesus Christ come down to earth again?"

Godfrey sneezed. "Think you that no man Norman-born can be a fool? As for his Norman knighthood, that'll count for naught against a Welsh longbow."

"Should you speak so?" Edwin asked uneasily, provoking a snort of derisive laughter from his cousin.

"You think he'll hear? Nay, he knows just enough English to order us about."

Godfrey reached out, grasped Edwin's arm. "If a man is like to lead you over a cliff, Little Cousin, you'd best see him for what he is. De Hodnet wears a long sword and sits a horse well, but he's no more fit to wage war against the Welsh than our Aunt Edith. He's as green as grass, lad, and as arrogant as Lucifer, and there are no more dangerous traits known to man or God."

Edwin stared at him, dismayed. "But . . . but he's been taught the ways of war. All knights ..."

"Aye, and I daresay he'd fare well enough on a battlefield in France or Flanders. But what does he know of the Welsh? He was in service with Lord Fitz Warin for a time, did garrison duty at Fitz Warin's manor of Lambourne in Berkshire. After that, he found a place with a Wiltshire lord. Then his lord took the cross like King Richard, and de Hodnet I57.

had no urge to see the Holy Land." Godfrey sneezed again, spat into the road.

"Shropshire, Berkshire, Wiltshire. But not Wales, Edwin, not Wales."

He shook his head, said bitterly, "Giles tried to tell him, warned him that the risk be too great, what with Llewelyn known to be in the area. But what Norman ever heeded Saxon advice? He does not know his arse from his elbow when it comes to fighting the Welsh, but he gives the orders, we obey, and if we reach Rhuddlan Castle, it'll be only by the grace of the Almighty."

Edwin glanced over his shoulder at the shadowed, wet woods that rose up around them, dark spruce and pine blotting out the sky, giving shelter behind every bush to a Welsh bowman. The Welsh scorned the crossbow, preferred a weapon called a longbow, and they used it with deadly skill. According to Godfrey, a Welsh bowman could fire twelve arrows in the time it took to aim and fire one crossbow; he swore he once saw a Welsh bowman send an arrow through an oaken door fully four inches thick. Remembering that, Edwin hunched his shoulders forward, suddenly sure that even at that moment a Welsh arrow was being launched at his back.

"Who is Llewelyn?" he asked at last, and at once regretted it, for Godfrey gave him an incredulous look.

"God keep me if you are not as ignorant as de Hodnet!" But Edwin's discomfort was so painfully obvious that he relented somewhat. "You do know that Davydd ab Owain claims to rule most of North Wales? Well, Llewelyn ab lorweth is his nephew and sworn enemy. They've been warring for nigh on six years, and were I to wager on the outcome, I'd want my money on Llewelyn. He's not much older than you, I hear, yet he's been able to get the people on his side, has forced Davydd on the defensive. Davydd still holds a few strongholds like Rhuddlan Castle, but Llewelyn now controls the countryside, owns the night."

Edwin decided he did not want to hear any more, lapsed into a subdued silence.

The rain had ceased, but the small patches of sky visible through the trees were an ominous leaden grey. Although it was unusually mild for January, Edwin shivered each time the wind caught his gambeson. Stuffed with rags, quilted like eiderdown, it suddenly seemed a poor substitute for de Hodnet's chain-mail hauberk. He ran his hand over the padding, trying to convince himself that it could deflect a lance.

As the men moved deeper into the woods, so, too, deepened their sense of unease. They were bunching up, all but treading upon each other's heels, moving at an unusually brisk pace for men who'd been on the march all day.

Edwin paused to fish a pebble from his boot, sprinted58 to catch up. Panting, he slowed, came to a bewildered halt. The men had stopped, were gathered around Giles. Edwin squeezed into the circle, straining to hear.

Edwin was very much in awe of Giles. A dark, saturnine man in his forties, laconic and phlegmatic, he was renowned for his icy composure, and Edwin was stunned now to hear the raw emotion that crackled and surged in his voice.

"We've taken too great a risk as it is, should have followed the coast road.

But if we take this path, we are begging to be ambushed!"

"I do not agree. We're losing the light, are wasting time even now that we can ill afford to squander. I have an urgent dispatch for Davydd ab Owain, a message that comes from His Grace, the Earl of Chester. I swore to my lord Montalt that I'd get it to Rhuddlan without delay, and that is what I mean to do."

Giles stepped forward, stopped before the roan stallion. "Sir Walter, I urge you to heed what I say. You do not know the Welsh, you do not know how they fight. This is not war as you learned it. It is bloody, brutal work, with no quarter given. Let me tell you about the battle of Crogen. The old King, Henry of blessed memory, led an army into Wales, went up against Owain Fawr. The Welsh won the day, and King Henry was forced to retreat back into England. But ere he did, he had a number of Welsh hostages brought before him, wellborn men all, including two of Owain's own sons. He ordered them blinded, Sir Walter."

The other's face did not change. "That battle was fought nigh on thirty years ago. Why tell me this now?"

"Because you may be sure the Welsh do remember. Because that's how war is waged in Waleson both sides. I've fought in Normandy, in Scotland, even in Ireland, and I tell you true when I say the Welsh do make the worst enemies.

They do not play by your rules, they win when they are not supposed to, and they do not know when they're beaten. They're wild and cunning and treacherous, not to be underestimated. It's been only a week since we captured one of Llewelyn's men not a mile from Ha warden. When we put the knife to him, he admitted that Llewelyn was encamped in these woods. Knowing that, we'd be mad to take yon path, no matter how much time we'd save."

"Our guide assures me that this rebel you seem to fear so much is not in the area, that he's known to be in Arfon. He also assures me that this is the quickest way to Rhuddlan." Walter de Hodnet paused, his eyes moving from Giles to the encircling men. Although most of them spoke only rudimentary French, it was evident that they'd followed the argument; their faces were flushed, hostile. He stared them down and, turning back to Giles, said curtly, "Give the order to move out."59 Giles had black eyes, flat and shallow-lidded. They flickered now, mering with impotent fury. And then he nodded, signaled the men fo fall into line. There was hesitation, but only briefly. From the die, they were taught obedience to rank; rebellion was utterly beyond their ken.

But although they obeyed, they did not like it. Walter could hear them muttering among themselves in the guttural English he found so harsh upon the ear. Saxon swine. As a boy, he'd thought it was one word, Saxonswine. Stupid and sly, the lot of them. It was always his accursed ill luck to have such oafs under his command. Little wonder he'd yet to win the recognition he craved, to find his niche. But this time would be different. By getting Chester's message to Rhuddlan by nightfall, he'd stand high in Montalt's favor. It was not inconceivable that Montalt might even make mention of him to Chester.

A smile softened his mouth at that, and for a happy moment he indulged in a gratifying daydream, imagining himself summoned by the mighty Earl, friend to King Richard, one of the most powerful lords of the realm. A knight in Chester's service would be a made man. He'd have no reason then to envy his elder brother Baldwin; Baldwin might even envy him.

His smile faded; thoughts of Baldwin were always sure to sour his mood. There was less than a year between them, but Baldwin was the eldest born, Baldwin was his father's heir, would inherit all when Sir Odo died. For Walter, for his brothers Will and Stephen, there would be nothing, only what they could win with their wits or their swords. And a younger son's options were limited.

If he was fortunate, he might find a place for himself in some lord's household. Or he might try his luck in the tournament lists, but that was a risky way to earn a living. For those who'd failed to find service with a lord, or lost in the lists, there was little left but banditry. Of course, one could become a clerk, like his brother Will. But a clerk had no social status; he was a nonentity, of no account. Walter's mouth tightened. Was he any better off, in truth? What had he except his horse, his armor, and a shilling a day in wages?

But if he could do this for Montalt and Chester ... he glanced back over his shoulder, at Giles's dark, sullen face. He'd managed to infect them all with his damned fool fears; they were shying at every sound, as jumpy as cats. As little as he liked to admit it, it was even getting to him. He tilted his head back, studied the sky with narrowed eyes. Dusk was 'ailing fast. But if their guide was right, they were less than seven miles from Rhuddlan.

Walter slid his fingers under the noseguard of his helmet, rubbed the chafed skin across the bridge of his nose. What was the guide's60 name? Martin? A quiet sort, half-Welsh, half-Saxon, an outcast in both worlds.

But he knew these hills as few men did, and he "Sir Walter!" Giles had come up alongside his stallion. Keeping his voice pitched for Walter's ear alone, he said tensely, "You hear itthe silence?

Suddenly there is not a sound, no birds, nothing."

Walter stiffened, listened. Giles was right. "Oh, Christ," he whispered. He swung about in the saddle, peering into the surrounding shadows, saw nothing.

"Martin!" he called sharply. A few yards ahead, the guide turned, his face questioning. But as he did, a low humming noise cut through the eerie stillness. Walter gasped, flinched as a rush of hot air fanned past his face.

His stallion leapt sideways, and he jerked on the reins, turned the animal in a circle. Only then did he see Giles. The other man had dropped to his knees in the road. As Walter watched, he tugged at the arrow shaft protruding from his chest, and then fell forward, slowly slid into the mud churned up by Walter's stallion.

For a moment frozen in time, nothing happened. And then one of Walter's men, the one called Godfrey, dropped to the ground, rolled toward a fallen log, shouting, "Take shelter!" An arrow slammed into the log, scant inches from where he crouched, followed by an earsplitting, wordless yell, and Walter's men panicked, whirling about, slipping in the mud, crashing into one another in their haste to escape the trap.

Walter jerked his sword from its scabbard. Godfrey's action had been instinctive, but Walter knew it was also futile. The Welsh were firing from both sides of the road, with savage-sounding battle cries that only panicked his men all the more. The woods offered no refuge, only shafted death, and he shouted, "Make haste for the castle!" An arrow burned past his thigh, grazed his stallion's mane, and he spurred the animal forward. The horse stumbled over Giles's body, righted itself, and lengthened stride. In the fading light, Walter never saw the rope stretched across the road. It caught him in the chest; he reeled backward, hit the ground with jarring impact.

When he came to, dazed and disoriented, he did not at first remember where he was. He groaned, started to move, and a knife blade was at once laid against his throat. Behind the knife were the coldest green eyes he'd ever seen. The man was young, twenty at most. He said something in Welsh, and Walter said, "I do not understand."

The youth spoke again, harshly, and Walter shook his head, tried to sit up.

His coif was jerked off, and the knife nicked into his throat; a thin red line appeared upon his neck. He froze, scarcely breathing, and the pressure eased slightly.

From the corner of his eye he could see several figures huddled on the ground: a freckle-faced, frightened youngster, Godfrey, and a third61 an smeared with his own blood Beyond them a body lay sprawled in the mud, and nearby was a young Welshman, seeking to soothe Walter's roan stallion Another man was now bending over him, a huge youth with a scarred cheek and deepset brown eyes He reached for the neck of Walter's hauberk, and as Walter recoiled, he grinned "Easy, English," he said, m accented but understandable French "The Lord loveth a cheerful giver'"

He drew out the rolled parchment, eyes widening at sight of the Earl of Chester's seal "Chester," he murmured, passing the scroll to his companion "Well, well You fly high, English "

Walter drew a deep breath, thanking God for this French-speaking, amiable giant Surely he could reason with this one But the other he glanced at the glinting blade, swallowed, and said in a rush, "My name is Sir Walter de Hodnet, son of Sir Odo de Hodnet of Welbatch in Shropshire My father is a man of means, and will pay dear for my safe return "

"Indeed7" The Welshman smiled at him "Horses7 Gold7"

"Yes, both," he said, knowing his father would not part with so much as a shilling on his behalf "You hear, Rhys7 We've a man of wealth in our midst Tell me, English, what of your men there7 Who ransoms them7"

Walter stared up at him, perplexed Who'd pay money for men-atarms7 "I do not see"

"No, I know you do not But I'd wager your men do " He was no longer smiling, and Walter's mouth went dry Giles's voice was suddenly thudding in his ears He blinded them Blinded them Blinded them HE was barely twenty, his face contorted with pam, sweat beading his upper lip, his temples A dark stain was spreading rapidly across his tunic Llewelyn knew few injuries were as dangerous as an upper-thigh wound, all too often the man died before the bleeding could be checked Drawing his dagger, he split the tunic, set about fashioning a rude tourniquet It was with considerable relief that he saw it begin to take effect "You're a lucky lad, Dylan," he said, and grinned "Half a hand higher and you'd have lost the family jewels "

Dylan was chalk-white, but he managed a weak smile at that, whispered, "Jesu forfend "

Two men were bnngmg up a blanket stretched across two poles, and Llewelyn rose, watched as Dylan was lowered onto it A flash of movement caught his eye He turned, saw the guide, Martin, standing62 several feet away. Llewelyn unfastened a pouch at his belt, sent it spinning through the air. Martin caught it deftly, tucked it away in his tunic For a moment their eyes held; then he silently saluted Llewelyn and vanished into the wooded darkness beyond the road.

Ednyved was now at his side. He said, "Well?"

"Three dead, including one gutshot so badly that I thought he'd count death a mercy. Four captured. The rest fled. One horse taken. And this." Handing Llewelyn the parchment roll.

Llewelyn, too, was startled at sight of the seal. "Chester, no less!" He turned, beckoned to the closest man. "Rosser, fetch a torch."