Traitor's Daughter
Invasion
Salvation
Cerddoniol!
Pendyffryn: The Inheritors: Book 1 | Justice
from Chapter One
Anarawd ap Rhodri Mawr Regis Gwynedd a Phowys
Cadell ap Rhodri Mawr a thad Hywel Dda Regis Seisyllwg
Amser y Pasg AD881
The blow caught him on the jaw, breaking the skin, drawing blood but not enough to bring him down. The crowd circled, cheering Eilir when he struck, laughing when he raised his fist in triumph. Still Marshal kept upright, lunging at his opponent as Eilir returned his attention to their quarrel. The crowd, among them men he knew, had fought beside and shared deprivation, shouted their encouragement for the Celt.
Marshal expected nothing less or more from them. Until his death, he served—and was the son of—a man they also served. Their service was dictated by necessity for survival. Though he loved his father and trusted he was loved in return, this hatred was a circumstance he endured in silence. If he fell now, if he complained, if he faltered, they were ready to inflict cruelties he did not have to imagine.
The kick, meant for Marshal’s groin, dropped Eilir Meinor like a child at Marshal’s feet. He stepped back, flexed the muscles of his shoulders, waiting for Eilir to rise, but the Celt kicked out again, twisting enough to bring Marshal to one knee while he leapt up, swinging at the gelyn man’s head.
Man. Could he claim manhood? Had he reached that status? Four years of this battle, on his own in this land he had grown to love like a native son. And still to be hated as a foreigner. He lived, survived without the ready tears of his childhood. Yes. Man. And soon, to endure four years of separation from his family.
He leaned back, steady on his back foot, pushed forward and swung his leg out as Eilir raised his fist to strike Marshal in the face again. Instead, the Celt toppled in the dust, spewing dirt and curses, struggling to get to his feet.
The crowd heaved forward.
Marshal ripped his tunic from the corral gate and strode toward the Gaer.
Gwennan Pendyffryn, shushing the squabbling youngest ones behind her with a quick snap of her fingers, greeted him with a shake of her head.
“What matter this time?”
“As it is always, Mam,” Marshal replied, accepting the scrutiny of her skilled gaze.
“Marshal—.”
He shook his head, washed the blood from his chin, twisting his lower jawbone to test its condition. When he turned back to his stepmother, he smiled and submitted to her affectionate pat on the opposite cheek.
“Marshal’s fighting again,” Tes, his younger sister, said to a dark-eyed girl at the table.
As much as he wanted to respond, to deny, to defend his actions, Marshal refrained, as he always now had to refrain, from striking back.
“Tes,” Gwennan commanded, “take Elan and Guidry to wash their faces. Tanglwys, prepare another place at the table. Marshal will have his meal with me this evening.”
“I am on duty, Mam.”
The thin girl he did not know stared at the table, her long fingers stilled at the edge. Another of Gwennan’s students. Marshal had lost count of the number of girls and little boys passing through the final years of his childhood, all of them the offspring of his father’s warriors, all of them gone within a few months to proffer their new skills elsewhere. Since he was also a beneficiary of her generosity, he could not fault them any more than he faulted his elder brother or Tes.
Until the birth of Daran Pendyffryn’s own grand-daughter, Tes had been the favored companion of their step-grandfather’s solitude. In a few months, though still young enough to stay with her family, his sister was to begin her training as Pendyffryn’s castellan, so adept at the position had she grown under Gwennan’s tutelage. One by one, Ieuan deFreveille’s first family were parted from one another.
“I will relieve you of your duty tonight.”
“If you do, I will have another fight tomorrow.”
His stepmother sighed, nodding her reluctant agreement. “At least, you can sit with me a moment.” She caught his hand as she had done when he was still living in the pennaeth’s household, and drew him away from the children to sit near the hearth. Before many months, only his younger half-brother, Guidry, and half-sister, Elan Cerith, would have the privilege of Gwennan Pendyffryn’s comfort and wisdom.
The stool at her knee had been a place of sanctuary for as long as he had known her but, on this night, he refused the offer, crouching instead to stoke the fire into flame.
“I know what you will ask, but I have no answer to give you. I came only to see you for a moment before I take my post at the gate tonight.”
“Is there nothing I can do?”
Marshal shrugged. They had had this talk many times since his tenth year but his answer was ever the same. “If I am unable to stand without you, I will not stand at all in their eyes. They may hate me, but they trust I am capable and a soldier in my own right.”
“Your father returns from Garn in a few days. He will have a way.”
“Even worse,” Marshal laughed. “His way may get me killed.” He hoped his smile belied the truth of his words. If she knew of Ieuan deFreveille’s plans for his second son, Marshal saw no evidence in her earnest gaze. While his father trusted his second wife in all things of consequence to Pendyffryn, he reserved the management of his first family’s future to his authority. The discussion between Marshal and his father had not been made known to her. Though Marshal respected his father’s decision, he longed for one last moment of childhood solace.
“He has never counted diplomacy among his skills, but he does surprise me.”
Gwennan’s perpetual faith in his father brought a sad smile but no comfort. Hers was the kind of love that he, her unsought stepson—like his two brothers—admired but was destined never to experience.
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is Cymraeg (Welsh) for wonderous