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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504008891 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Distribution |
| Publication date: | 03/24/2015 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 372 |
| File size: | 631 KB |
About the Author
Jo Ann Ferguson is a lifelong storyteller and the author of numerous romantic novels. She also writes as Jo Ann Brown and Mary Jo Kim. A former US Army officer, she has served as the president of the national board of the Romance Writers of America and taught creative writing at Brown University. She currently lives in Nevada with her family, which includes one very spoiled cat.
Read an Excerpt
Wake Not the Dragon
A Novel
By Jo Ann Ferguson
OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1996 Jo Ann FergusonAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-0889-1
CHAPTER 1
Northern Wales—1284
The spring bubbled a song against the water-worn rocks before tumbling into a languid pool. No greenery surrounded it, for the remnants of winter still clung to the uneven hillsides. The wind off the western sea held no mercy as twilight spread out of the mountain valleys and swept along the shore road.
Gizela de Montpellier dipped her hand into the cool water and drank deeply. The water was flavored with the taste of leather. For days, she had worn her riding gloves while she and her companions followed the road beside the sea, league after league, across the top of Wales. With Rhuddlan behind them, they would soon reach the king's court at the castle he was having raised in Caernarvon.
Where her husband would be waiting for her.
She sat back on her heels and gazed across the pool as her finger rubbed the ring he had given her as his bride. She had not seen Kenleigh de Montpellier in more than seven years. Then she had been but a child, and he a strapping young man riding off to enjoy his first campaign with the king. Even their wedding had not called him from the king's side, for Kenleigh, who held the title of Lord de Montpellier, had sent his most trusted servant to stand in his stead during their marriage ceremony.
Rising, she pressed her hand against her aching back. Her life at Talbot Hall had not been sedentary, but nothing had prepared her for this endless ride from her family's lands on the other side of Offa's Dyke. She lifted her heavy, murrey skirt and riding cloak, and climbed from the side of the water. The pouch and the sheathed knife at her waist, rubbed against her at every step, but she ignored them with the ease of habit. She had worn the pouch and knife every day since her eighth birthday.
The wind hit her cheeks, pulling at the linen of her wimple, but she turned to it. Never had she cowered before the wind. Its scents brought a promise of spring and a new life that must come with the defeat of the Welsh prince by King Edward. A new life for her, too—one where only the wind would strike her.
Kenleigh had guaranteed that by asking her to be his wife. Of all she remembered of Kenleigh, she remembered his gentleness most. Once he had been her haven, there to ease her fear. Now, he would do so again.
On the road, which was rutted from winter rains, a score of horses waited. Half that number of men crouched among them, seeking shelter from the cold. A single woman came forward. "Milady, you should not wander freely here," the old woman cried, her voice scratchy. "There is much danger among these hills."
Gizela put her hand out to her dearest retainer. Pomona had been her nurse before she became Gizela's bodyservant. She had replaced her mother, who had died giving birth to Gizela's only brother. A brother who had given up the fight for life only hours after he had been born. Pomona's thin cheeks were nearly as red as the stitchery on her cloak, and her hands trembled with cold.
"You can ride no farther this night," Gizela said.
Pomona huddled more deeply into her cloak, but murmured, "I shall not slow you, milady."
"Nonsense." She called to the leader of the men.
Fowler rushed to her, pressing his hand to his forelock. As always, his cheeks were as ruddy as Pomona's, but she suspected it was not from the frostiness. She wondered if the man would always blush in her company. All during the wedding rite, when he had stood proxy, he had been as scarlet as a sunset.
"Would it be wiser," she asked, "to spend the night here and to reach Caernarvon on the morrow?"
"Mayhap."
"Then you would suggest we go on?"
He shook his head, the feather bouncing on his wide-brimmed cap. "Nay, milady. If you would wish me to speak plainly—"
"I do."
"There is scant safety anywhere beyond the walls of Rhuddlan."
"Lord de Montpellier's missive asked us to come to Caernarvon," she chided softly. Pomona had told her of the men's grousing that they had to leave the thick walls of Rhuddlan to ride even more deeply into the Welsh wilderness. She did not fault them their caution, for she had seen the glares when they passed through a Welsh village. The English were not wanted in this barbaric land. However, Kenleigh had a special reason for asking her to come to Caernarvon.
She could not keep from smiling. Everyone in England knew the queen would soon be brought to childbed to give the king another child. Kenleigh had offered the queen the services of his wife at that most uncomfortable hour. Queen Eleanor had urged him to ask Gizela to visit her as soon as she arrived at Caernarvon.
Fowler bowed again, bringing her attention back to him. "I shall have a fire started, so that we might find some solace in this horrible place."
"Thank you."
He paused at her answer as he was about to step away, and, Gizela saw fear in his eyes. A shiver coursed through her. Kenleigh's men had joined him on many campaigns. She had thought fear was wrung from them, but more than one man had crossed himself surreptitiously when they entered the shadows along the road. She whispered a prayer that their fears would not come true.
The fire could not combat the cold, and the hard bread and cheese did little to fill their stomachs. Even the ale passed in its flask from hand-to-hand offered no warmth. When she saw Pomona shivering, Gizela rose to collect another cloak.
"Sit," she said, putting her hand on Pomona's thin shoulder as the old woman started to stand. "I swear your bones shall break from the cold if you move."
"You should not wait upon me, milady."
Gizela hid her smile. Pomona always insisted on doing exactly as custom dictated. How many times had the old woman advised Gizela to heed her, especially when Gizela's father was in Talbot Hall? Rubbing her cheek which had suffered her father's hand too many times, she squared her shoulders. Nothing she might have done or said would have eased her father's frustration that his only child was a girl. Three more wives had failed to give him the living son he craved. Even on the night of his death, Lord Esmond Talbot had cursed God and the wives who had denied him his most precious desire—forcing him to leave his lands to a mere daughter.
"Sit, Pomona," she ordered again. "I shall be but a moment." She waved to Fowler to remain seated as well. She would not be going beyond the glow of the fire, and the moon had risen to wash the forest in its cool, gray light.
The embroidered hem of her cote-hardie brushed the frozen ground. Sleep would not come easily tonight, although, she suspected the earth would be no less comfortable than the bed she had shared with Pomona last night in a wayside inn. Mayhap they should have stayed at Rhuddlan. No, Kenleigh had requested she join him at Caernarvon. She would try to show him, by obeying his command, that she would be a good and obedient wife.
Within her memory, she heard the echo of her father's harsh laugh. Lord Talbot had punished her endlessly for failing to acquiesce to his edicts.
Gizela shuddered as she shook off thoughts of the past. Bending by the packs that had been secured on the horses, she sought the one containing the few clothes she had been able to bring with her. The cloak of brown serge was the thickest. It would serve Pomona well.
A horse whinnied nervously and shifted against the others. She scanned the darkness. Was an animal stalking them? What sort of beasts lived within these mountains? Were there cats or bears or wolves?
She gathered the cloak, wrapping it around her arms. Rising, she froze at an unmistakable sound. A sword scraped from its scabbard. She gasped as Fowler shouted. The other men answered with a roar.
She whirled and stared at the man standing in the shaft of moonlight. He wore a bow and quiver over his broad shoulders and a long sword at his hip, but she was captured by his eyes. Although she could not see their color in the darkness, the strength of his gaze held her. He took a step forward, and the moonlight glinted off his golden hair which draped over his shoulders in the wild style favored by the barbarians of this country.
He raised his empty hands and smiled. "Noswaith dda," he called, then added in English, "I bid you good evening, fellow travelers."
Behind her, Fowler said in the French spoken in his lord's manor house, "Step aside, milady. I shall deal with this cur."
Gizela took a single step backward. The stranger's smile broadened, and heat climbed her cheeks. He thought she was afraid of him. What a foolish thought! He was a single Welshman facing ten, armed Englishmen who had survived the king's Welsh campaigns.
Lifting her hand to order her men to hold fast, she replied in English, "Good evening, sir. You have chosen a chilly night to travel."
"True. That is why when I saw the flicker of your fire, I had hoped you might spare a bit of its heat for me."
"Who are you?"
"I am called Rhys." He came closer and bowed his head toward her. "Grant me the boon of this small favor, milady."
She motioned for Fowler to lower his sword. "If you come in peace, you are welcome to join us."
"Peace is what Edward wishes for Cymru, is it not?"
Gizela was unsure if he meant his words to be inflammatory, but a rumble raced among her men. She doubted if the Welshman understood French, for he continued to smile in spite of the mumbled insults. A single glance at Fowler brought the order to hush. The war was past. The English were victorious, so it behooved them to be generous and offer the comfort of their fire to a Welsh traveler.
The men settled themselves around the fire, leaving a wide space between them and the stranger. His smile never wavered, so Gizela could not guess if he realized the aspersions aimed at him. She draped the dark-brown cloak over Pomona's shoulders and sat next to her. Only when she looked across the fire, did she discover that Rhys was directly opposite her.
Again his gaze caught hers. Now she could see his eyes were as brilliantly blue as the hottest flames. The fire flickered its reflection within them, hiding his thoughts. Shadows from the firelight carved the pattern of his roughly sculptured features. Clean-shaven, his face was scored with the lash of the wind.
Fowler rose and came to sit beside Gizela. He drew his knife from his belt. Paring his nails, he stared at the Welshman as tension tightened every muscle.
"I hope your kind heart will not betray us, milady," he murmured.
"There was no reason to turn away a fellow pilgrim," she answered. "A lone man offers nothing for us to fear."
"They are crafty beasts."
"He is but one."
"I pray you are not mistaken," Fowler grumbled, balancing his knife on his knee. He stiffened again when the stranger reached for his own belt.
Gizela released a taut breath when the Welshman said, "I have some bits of hare for my evening meal. I would be glad to share it with any of you."
Each of the men shook his head, and Gizela sighed. She would have enjoyed something other than the coarse bread and tasteless cheese, but to accept his generosity might exacerbate the apprehension around the fire. As Rhys cooked his supper on the blade of his belt knife, she tried to ignore the enticing scents.
"I am surprised you stopped here," he said in a tone that suggested they all were long-standing comrades, "when there is an inn at the next village."
"The next village is near?" asked Pomona, peeking out from beneath her cloak.
"An hour's ride, mayhap two."
She groaned and drew back beneath her robes.
"I seldom ride," Rhys continued. "I prefer to walk these hills."
"Are you a herder?" asked Gizela.
"My duty is to guard against the dangers of the hills."
Fowler frowned. "Sheep? Goats? Is that what you herd? Where are they?"
"Safe for the night." Rhys smiled as he pulled the blade from the fire and ran his finger over the greasy pieces on it. His smile broadened as he licked his finger, then held the meat in the flames again. "I must say you have chosen a wondrous night to travel."
"Wondrous? 'Tis nearly cold enough to freeze our breaths within us."
"True, but the stars are as bright as sun-washed foam on the sea."
"You speak with the words of a minstrel," Gizela said.
"All men of this land are bards." He drew a piece of the meat from his knife and chewed on it. Glancing around the circle facing him, he smiled and hummed a lilting tune. "We sing of the law and of the old ways, teaching those who will follow what they must know."
"The ways of this land will be English now," Fowler said in English, startling Gizela, for he seldom spoke the language he considered worthy only of peasants.
"What has been among these mountains will remain."
Fowler gripped the haft of his knife. "You speak treason."
Gizela put her hand on his arm. "Let us speak of something else."
"Milady," argued Fowler, "if the king were to hear such words—"
"The king is not here."
He gaped at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. When she saw Rhys's grin, she wondered if Fowler might be right. She simply did not want to suffer through an exchange of heated words while the cold was gnawing at her bones.
"You shall find," Rhys said, his voice still serene, "Caernarvon more comfortable than this clearing."
"How do you know where we travel to?" she asked.
"Where else would you go on this road?" He pulled another slice of meat from his knife and cursed aloud as it burned his finger.
"No!" Gizela cried, jumping to her feet as Rhys held his knife and the dripping meat over his finger.
Fowler shouted after her, but she did not pause as she knelt next to the Welshman. Opening the pouch she wore at her waist, she drew out a small bag. She poured fine powder into her palm. Licking her finger, she dipped it into the powder and spread it across the red spots on his skin.
"The grease will ease the soreness, but add to the injury," she said, as she sat back on her heels. Brushing the unused powder from her palm, she drew from the pouch a narrow strip of linen. "Do not leave this on past tomorrow evening," she said, wrapping it around his burned finger. "For tonight, this will hold the herbs in place to soothe the burn."
"You are a healer?" he asked incredulously.
She smiled at his astonishment. "I only dabble with such things."
"I had not guessed that an English lord would allow his daughter such learning."
"My father and I shared a difference of opinion on that subject, it is true, but I studied as I could." She would not lay bare her past before a stranger. Tying the linen securely, she said, "That should alleviate the pain."
He wiggled his finger. "Very much. Your touch has a mystical way of healing, milady."
"It is knowledge, not magic."
"Is there a difference?" He leaned toward her, his intense eyes even with hers. "What one man calls sorcery, another knows is gained by hard work and wisdom. There are many kinds of enchantment, milady, within the mountains of this land. The ways here go back to the beginning of time, before the first memory of the first man."
"And they can be learned with hard work and wisdom?" she whispered, caught anew in the soft, potent warmth of his voice that sang through her.
"By those who believe." He touched her palm which was still dusted with the healing herbs. "The old ways say that the Lady of Llyn-y-Fan Fach was of the fairy folk, and that it was she who taught her sons the secrets that all healers heed. The secrets you have learned so well, milady."
"Nonsense!" snapped Pomona.
Gizela broke away from Rhys's gaze to discover her servant standing directly behind her. Rising, she put her hand on Pomona's arm. Pomona grasped Gizela's hand and tugged.
"You do not believe in the ways of the ancients?" Rhys asked, still unperturbed, but this time his question was for Pomona. Holding up his hand, he added, "I see the proof before my eyes."
"Milady learned her healing by long study, not by magic."
"Did I not say that the two may be one and the same?"
Pomona started to speak, stuttered, and then was silent. She tugged again on Gizela's hand with wrapping her away from the Welshman who drew the last piece of charred meat from his blade.
"Thank you, milady, for your kindness and wisdom," Rhys said, dipping his head in her direction. "I am in your debt."
"No debt exists between us," Gizela replied. Having this man owe her an obligation made her oddly uncomfortable. How easily he twisted words with the skill of a master minstrel! She wanted nothing tying them together, not even the courtesy of a debt of honor.
He stood, and she could not help stepping backward again. Although his clothes were rough, he possessed a regal mien that was unsettling. "The debt is mine, milady. You cannot dislodge it by being gracious, for that puts me further into your debt."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Wake Not the Dragon by Jo Ann Ferguson. Copyright © 1996 Jo Ann Ferguson. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
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