In the years of trial
When life was inconceivable
From the bottom of the sea the tide of destiny
Washed her up to him.
Boris Pasternak, Dr. Zhivago (1958)

Chapter One
Meriel, Merionedd
North Wales, mid-June 1144

Angharad’s head swam at the enormity of what she had discovered. What she’d done. Every instinct she possessed screamed for her to flee as fast as she could. But the dense summer foliage flanking either side of the forest track was so thick it hindered her black stallion’s every step.

She tried not to cringe as the branches plucked the flaming red cloak she had been forced to wear for her supposed pending nuptials. Tried not to cry out in terror at every rustle of a leaf or snap of a twig.

Angharad thanked the Lord for the tenth time since she had escaped from her escort that she’d stumbled across her step-mother Maelona’s real plans for her before she had fallen into the vile hands of blond, treacherous, Emlyn Ap Hugh. But what was she to do now?

The thought of being touched by Emlyn made her stomach churn, but that was the least of Angharad’s worries. This was a matter of life and death now. Not just for her, but her entire homeland. She had to stay alive, if only to warn Prince Owain he was in grave danger. But how to reach him before it was too late? And even if she did find him, would he ever believe her?

Angharad scarcely believed the extent of the treachery and betrayal herself, though she had seen the proof with her own eyes. Had heard Maelona and Emlyn conspiring against their lawful prince and plotting her death as well. She’d found the incriminating letter, with the usurping bastard Prince Cadwalder’s own seal of the Black Boar, secreted in her stepmother’s jewel casket. She’d read every scheming word twice just to be sure. Everyone knew Cadwalader was a man full of ambitions and violent passions. But to plot to overthrow his own half-brother Owain? It was unthinkable.

Terror and fury warred in her breast as Angharad heeled her horse hard down the forest path. She had given her makeshift wedding retinue the slip and taken the road east as fast as Bran could carry her, hoping her pursuers would think she was heading for England, before doubling back to head north-west. She knew she had to warn Owain, but at the same time, she was torn. Owain was certainly in danger, but her own home Meriel was in the most dire peril as well….

Angharad shoved a stray strand of auburn hair out of her emerald eyes impatiently to scan the wooded path once more for any sign of enemies. She was damned if she went back, and damned if she went forward. She longed to take out her sword and fight for her home, but certain death awaited her now that Cadwalader was using her beloved llys as the headquarters for his uprising. Yet she knew even if she found Owain, her reputation as the Mad Mistress of Meriel made it unlikely anyone would believe a single word she said. If only she had dared take the letter as proof before she had fled….

Hurry, hurry, lass, she goaded herself sternly. Worry about proof if and when you get that far. The sweat rolled down her shivering spine in rivulets, terror saturating her palms and the soles of her feet. She urged Bran forward even more urgently, well aware that even if Emlyn’s men didn’t find her, Cadwalader’s troops were amassing in the verdant valleys all around her. Even at the best of times, the mountain passes were full of lawless brigands committing all manner of depredations. This was no place for a lone female, even one who could wield a sword.

Cadwalader had already ravaged several prime estates in the south, leaving dozens dead, or homeless and desperate by all accounts. Angharad shuddered as she recalled the grim tales. Most horrid of all had been the stories regarding The Silver Wolf, whom Cadwalader painted as the Devil incarnate if anyone dared mention him in the Bastard Prince’s hearing. It was said that the Silver Wolf perfected every cruelty, the better to practice it upon those who fell under his nefarious power. Some even said he was a shape-shifter, a lycanthrope. A spawn of the devil, in league with the forces of darkness to make Cadwalader’s life a living hell. Angharad crossed herself fervently and prayed she would never cross paths with such a foul demon.

Angharad dragged her thoughts back to her own enemies. Her heart filled with dread at the prospect of what would happen to her beloved home. With her stepmother in command at Meriel, and Emlyn’s estate at Nairne, Cadwalader could split Owain’s kingdom in two. Then he would finish his conquest of the south of Merionedd, and finally thrust northwards from Meriel to Owain’s very own stronghold at Aber. If he won, it would truly be the end for the land she loved so well.

Unless she could reach Owain first, she reminded herself, clinging onto this tiny shred of hope amid the maelstrom of grim thoughts which tormented her as she galloped northwards on her mission. Perhaps I could get help from one of the local lords? But who was loyal to Owain? Think, for pity’s sake, think…

She swallowed hard and fought back the wave of nausea that threatened to engulf her. No matter how she looked at it, she was surrounded by danger. Her life wasn’t worth a brass farthing if she couldn’t find Owain or his allies soon.

Emlyn’s men were waiting in the forest for her, she was sure of it. Where better to do so dark a deed than murder her in the dense woods which separated Meriel from Nairne, and then blame her death on bandits? Though she had never cared before if Angharad was clad in naught but rags, Maelona had insisted upon dressing her richly in the flaming red velvet cloak to make sure Angharad was easily seen. The cunning woman had even ostentatiously ‘gifted’ her with a few baubles now in Bran’s saddlebags as plausible reasons for her eventual death. Angharad’s only escort for the short distance to her supposed wedding had been three of the oldest and most decrepit warriors at Meriel.

Her stepmother had been clever, Angharad had to grant her that. Maelona and Emlyn had wanted to make sure she died under neither roof, so that neither guardian nor bridegroom would be blamed. Then they could enslave Angharad’s already oppressed people and bring Meriel to ruin with their selfishness and greed.

If only Ifor were still alive, Angharad wished, finally allowing a single tear to flow.

But her half-brother was dead, she recollected bitterly, and with him Ieuan, their master at arms, who had protected her, and taught her everything she knew about warfare. Who had been a kindly father figure to her when her remaining parent had died, and who had concealed her intelligence under guise of ‘madness’ from all save Ifor and a couple of select men.

Now all her allies were gone, dead or fled once Ifor had been killed by a ravening wolf the summer before. She was all alone. There was no sense wishing for help at Meriel with Maelona there ruling with an iron hand. Far better to take her chances upon the road, amongst strangers even, than to be slaughtered like a sacrificial lamb upon the altar of Maelona’s ambitions.

If only I were the Master of Meriel, instead of the Mad Mistress of Meriel, Angharad thought with a bitter pang, thinking of the great leader the local legends spoke of. The heroic Master of Meriel would turn back the tide of war and bring peace and prosperity in his wake. But as good as she was with her sword, she was a mere woman, no leader of men. Her birthright had been stolen from her by Maelona from the moment the sly woman had married Angharad’s father. Angharad knew she would never get her people to rally around her. Even if she asked them to help her save Owain, they would never believe her. Even if she showed the letter as proof, they would never forgive her for her years of deception and lack of courage.

I should have stood up to Maelona when I had the chance. But Ifor’s death was just too cruel a blow. Now it’s too late. Cadwalader and his men will cut me to pieces if I even try to tell the truth.

She steadied her trembling hands on the reins and scanned the shadowy woods once more for any sign of movement. The sun was dipping lower, the forest cooling already with the approach of night. She inhaled the pine fragrance of the forest, the salt tang of the nearby sea. She peered up the gloomy path and bit her lip pensively. All seemed peaceful and silent, but still….

She slowed the stallion now and inched forward, straining to listen. She told herself she was being silly. There was nothing, not even the chirping of a bird.

Angharad stiffened in the saddle. That telling silence prickled the length of her spine. Too late did she reach back for the sword she had concealed under her cloak. But the huge mail-clad warrior on a black stallion even more vast than her own had already loomed in front of her, and grabbed her right arm before she could even touch the hilt.

“Who are you? What’s your business here?” he demanded, the words spitting from full lips thinned to a feral snarl.

“I’m going to the convent but am lost, sir,” she replied, both astonished and thankful that her terror had not made her stammer like a serving girl.

He looked mildly surprised at her reply, why, she could not say. “Nay, you’re not lost. I saw you ride out of the llys at Meriel and rid yourself of your companions, then come this way. You were acting like a woman wandering in your wits, and terrified those old fools in order to get them to let you go. And you carry some goodly weapons,” he said with a pointed look at the embossed gold and enamel sword and shield hanging over her horse’s flanks under her cloak, which he had flicked up over the beast’s back with one deft tug. “So I ask you again, who are you, and what is your business here?”

Angharad stopped herself just in time from blurting out the whole truth about her terror of Cadwalader. Yet the fearsome-looking man was glaring at her in such a penetrating manner, she had to say something, and quickly too. She felt compelled to obey-he was so handsome despite his menacing air that she couldn’t help but feel under some sort of spell as she gazed back at him. “I’m escaping from an enforced marriage, heading for the convent at Awen to secure protection.”

His grim frown relaxed slightly. “Ah, that sounds a bit more likely. Who are you?”

“Angharad of Meriel.”

His ebony brows drew down over his piercing blue eyes once more. “Impossible.”

“Why?” she asked, bristling at his dismissive tone.

“That lady is said to be a mad woman. You’re evidently coherent, though you do look like a rag bag.”

She cringed inwardly at the mention of the dreadful cast-off green gown and crimson cloak her stepmother had given her as wedding ‘finery’. She lifted her chin and held her breath to stop the tears. What did it matter what she wore? Or what this ill-mannered man thought?

“And you, sir, look like a brigand. Now let me pass.” She jerked her arm out of the manacle of his warm hard grip, and nudged her stallion forward.

“Not until you tell me who you are,” he insisted, leaning forward to grasp a fistful of Bran’s thick jet mane.

“For pity’s sake, night is coming!” She pointed to the darkening sky overhead. “I must get to the convent, to safety. The woods are full of Emlyn ap Hugh’s men-“

His silvery eyes narrowed now. “Emlyn’s? Why?”

“Because they’ll be seeking me, his escaped bride!”

Now the stranger’s dark brows lofted skyward. “Damnation. Emlyn’s bride, you say? Who are you?”

“Stop gaping at me like that. I’ve already told you who I am, and time’s passing. I must be away at once.” She tried to inch her horse past him, to no avail.

“That lady is said to be mad. Who are you?” he demanded again, shaking her slightly.

“I’ve been naught but feigning being mad, to protect myself until I came of age,” she blurted out.

Her dark companion glowered even more darkly at that news. “It was quite a show. I imagine most fools would believe your performance. But even if you’re telling me the truth about who you are, Emlyn isn’t that foolish. And why would he ever wish to wed a half-wit?”

Angharad cast him a withering look, as if he were the witless one. “I’m sole heiress to my poor father Lord Aled’s estate of Meriel. I’m supposed to inherit as soon as I reach the eighteenth anniversary of my birth in a few days’ time.”

The warrior pressed closer, inching her toward the left side of the narrow track. “What’s Emlyn up to now? Trying to trap me?”

She opened her mouth to utter a stinging retort, only to clamp it shut again as a twig snapped nearby. She jumped a foot out of the saddle and glanced right and left in terror. “Please, Sir, we haven’t time! The woods are crawling with Emlyn’s warriors and robbers and-“

“Aye, the brigand called The Silver Wolf,” he said with a sneer, his strange cold eyes never leaving her face. “Was that rambling piece of lunacy the best tale you could come up with? I’ve never heard such a parcel of nonsense.”

Angharad took in his less than immaculate dark clothing, and decided to keep the man talking in the hope that she could give him the slip. He wasn’t one of Emlyn’s men, nor a Black Boar, but that didn’t mean he was any less of a threat. She couldn’t afford any delay on her urgent quest to help Prince Owain. And didn’t dare risk testing his loyalty as a potential ally by telling him the whole truth. Yet still, he seemed intelligent, not completely lawless…

“I assure you, every word of those stories was recounted to me by Prince Cadwalader himself at dinner last night,” she said, her eyes never leaving his handsome face as she gauged his response to her name-dropping.

Angharad never saw a man change so rapidly. He grabbed her shoulder hard, fury etched in every line of his finely boned cheeks and broad jaw. “Cadwalader’s here?” he growled, the words coming from deep in his belly causing her own to quiver. “Where?”

Angharad had tried to keep command of the situation with the raven-haired man through bluster and bravado, but the sudden shift in his emotions truly terrified her. She stared up into his odd blue eyes, so like quicksilver, changing from one strange hue to the next in the span of a blink.

Silver.

“Oh my God,” she gasped, staring up into his face.

His lips thinned to a bitter smile. “Not quite. But I’m said to be the very Devil when crossed.” He grabbed her bridle and shoved his stallion closer, trapping her against a tree trunk with his mount and own huge body. “So if you value your soul, Madam, tell me who you are and why you’re spying on me, or not even the good Lord will be able to save you.”

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