Daughter of Time: A Time Travel Romance (5 page)

I put my hand to my forehead where it ached,
feeling a large bump where my hairline started. “It hurts to touch,
and I have a bit of a headache.”

“I asked also for willow bark to mix with
your wine,” he said. He took a twist of cloth that I hadn’t noticed
on the tray, and dumped it into my cup. It didn’t seem possible,
but it appeared as if he thought it was possible to return to a
time before I attacked him, to normal interaction.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his weight
making it sag, and I rolled onto my back to counter it. Once again,
Llywelyn hooked his arm around my neck but this time he lifted me
so I could sip the wine. I looked into the deep red liquid with
little bits of bark floating in it, not liking the idea of drinking
something so unfamiliar. As before, however, his will was
impossible to defy and I didn’t feel I had choice.

“You must sleep,” he said. “We’ll talk more
in the morning. I swear to you that I will not hurt you.”

I gazed up at him. Somehow, I believed him.
“I’m sorry about the knife.”

Llywelyn gave me a hard look but I was too
tired to think about what he might mean by it. Mom and Elisa
definitely wouldn’t have approved of him. Elisa had already given
me a lecture about bringing a guy home
before
I went out
with him. What would she call this? A date? Not exactly
.
But
my head hurt so badly I couldn’t keep my eyes open and I couldn’t
fight him anymore. Even Elisa would have to agree that whatever
Llywelyn was, he was unexpected.

He picked up the blanket that I’d dropped to
the floor when I’d gone for the knife and tucked it around me.

“Sleep,” he said.

I closed my eyes. And then I opened them
again when I realized there was no way I was going to be able to
sleep with Anna on the other side of the room. I sat up. Llywelyn
watched me, his hands on his hips. Out of bed again, I hurried to
where Anna lay and crouched to grasp the rockers. With gentle tugs,
I got her bed moving across the floor.

“Marged,” Llywelyn said. “Don’t do that.”
His voice held a definite exasperation this time, but still, he
nudged me aside and bent to the cradle. With a slight exhale of
air, he lifted the trundle bed, his arms under the rockers, and
carried it across the room.

“Please put it there,” I said, pointing to a
spot on the floor beside the bed. He set the cradle down and I
climbed back under the covers. I reached out and found that the
tips of my fingers could just touch the rail of her bed. I rocked
her gently. Anna sighed and rolled onto her side. I looked up at
Llywelyn. “Thank you.”

He canted his head in acknowledgement, and
despite my fears and uncertainties, I finally closed my eyes and
slept.

* * * * *

“I must speak with the Prince!”

I swam awake, fighting through a strange fog
of half-remembered dreams and conversation from the night before.
Someone was pounding on the bedroom door and shouting in a confused
mix of French and Welsh. Or, at least confused to me since I
couldn’t make out every word. The intent, however, was clear.

Abruptly, the pounding stopped and a stern
voice cut through the commotion on the other side of the door. “The
Prince is . . . busy.”

“Stand aside! I must speak with him! Wake
him for me!”

“My brother, Dafydd, is a bit
intemperate.”

My breath froze in my lungs. I turned my
head and found myself looking into Llywelyn’s face. He was lying on
the bed—and admittedly it was a big bed because he was at least
three feet away—with his elbow on his pillow and his head propped
up on one hand, looking at me, clear amusement in his eyes. He had
an almost impish expression on his face that told me he was
enjoying himself enormously.

“What’s happening?”

“It seems my brother seeks an audience with
me. I suppose I ought to let him in before he wakes Anna.”

Llywelyn’s chest was bare and as he threw
back the cover,
I sure hope he has something on his lower
half
! had barely passed through my head before he straightened,
wearing—

Oh dear God! Absolutely nothing!

I must have squeaked because Llywelyn shot
me a look of amused condescension. He reached for his breeches,
which he’d left at the foot of the bed, and pulled them on. Didn’t
medieval people wear underwear? And if they didn’t, did he have to
make this whole thing so authentic?

Stirrings and bangs came from the other side
of the curtain and then Llywelyn appeared on my side of the bed,
fully dressed, his finger to his lips. He tugged the curtain closed
so it hid me. He left a little gap, however and through it, I could
see Llywelyn stride to the door and open it to reveal an agitated
man, his hair flattened to his head and his helmet under his arm.
Despite that, he was extraordinarily handsome, younger than
Llywelyn, shorter and not as lean.

“My lord,” the man said. “Brother.” He bowed
his head.

“What is it, Dafydd?” Llywelyn said, in
French. “I was sleeping.”

The man dismissed his words with a shake of
his head. “I’ve already breakfasted.”

“Good for you,” Llywelyn said, his voice
dry.

“Not all of us are lay-a-beds,” Dafydd said.
This was so patently unfair I wondered that Llywelyn didn’t correct
his brother, but he didn’t, just let the silence drag out until
Dafydd filled it with his news. “Clare is on the move. He knows
that Gruffydd ap Rhys has returned from Ireland with your support,
and that you have plans to give Senghenydd to him, along with
Castell Morgraig. Clare has begun work on a new castle at
Caerphilly.”

“Damn the man!” Llywelyn said. “That is my
land. He knows this will bring me out. Doesn’t he care?”

“Perhaps that’s his plan. Perhaps he intends
to thwart you with open battle or with treachery.”

Llywelyn eyed his brother. “Thank you,
Dafydd, for your news. I submit it could have waited until I was
awake.”

“Yes, brother,” he said, “but then I
wouldn’t have had the chance to glimpse your lovely new lady.” His
eyes met mine through the gap in the curtain and he smirked.

“She’s mine, Dafydd. Do not forget it.”

“Yes, brother.” Dafydd stepped back.
Llywelyn shot a glance at me and then followed Dafydd into the
hall, pulling the door closed behind him.

I lay there, feeling alternately horrified,
sick, extremely vulnerable, and then angry. Why was this happening
to me? Who were these lunatics and what were they going to do
next?

The door opened and Llywelyn stalked back
into the room, headed towards me. He jerked open the curtain and
leaned forward, his fists resting on the bed on either side of my
hips, his face only inches from mine, just as we’d been the night
before. This time, while he looked just as fierce, his eyes had a
glint of something else—amusement again perhaps, or mischief.

“I must meet with my counselors,” he said.
“A maid will come with clothes for you and Anna. I journey south
within the next two days. You must prepare, for I intend to take
you with me.”

“South?” I asked, feeling stupid again.
“Where?”

Llywelyn didn’t answer. Instead, he threaded
his fingers through the hair at the back of my head, lifted me up
and kissed me, hard, before letting me fall back onto the bed.
“Remember what I told my brother.”

Speechless again, all I could do was watch
him go.

I
was in high good
humor as I strode out of the bedroom. Still, I didn’t want to risk
my luck with a backwards glance, knowing I might find Marged
glaring after me, affronted at my impudence.

Ha!
The look on Marged’s face when I
kissed her was priceless and I found myself grinning at the
intelligence and fire in her. Then my smile faded as I remembered
last night’s incident with the knife, and the fear plainly revealed
on her face, that had driven her to attack me. She’d tried to flee,
afraid I would hurt her. I’d told her who I was, and yet, my
identity had meant little to her. What was behind that? I didn’t
know; didn’t know enough of her to even ask the right
questions.

And then a worse thought: had she bewitched
me? Was she from the devil? With the same instinct that had
prompted me to keep her in my rooms, I dismissed the notion. The
priests could spend their time questioning the nature of women.
Females were different from men, clearly put here for a different
purpose, but I had no interest in speculating beyond that.

I fixed my thoughts on my more immediate
problems, not the least of which was the very existence of my
brother, Dafydd. Welsh royal brothers, my own father and uncle
included, had a long history of enmity, backstabbing, and
bitterness. Harmonious relations among brothers in my family were
the exception, not the rule, and it was unlikely, given our past
history and present course, that Dafydd and I would prove
different.

“My lord!” Tudur stopped me as I entered the
great hall. He was hurrying, pulling on his cloak as intercepted
me. “Your brother. . .”

“He came to my room, Tudur. I’ve already
seen him.”

“I apologize, my lord, for allowing him to
wake you.”

“It is forgotten, Tudur. He can be very
persistent.”

Tudur bowed his head. “Yes, my lord.”

I strode to the dais where Dafydd now sat,
along with my friend, Goronwy, and Geraint, Tudur’s father. He’d
aged much in the last few years and had reluctantly given up the
stewardship—though not his service—in favor of his son. While the
other men stood as I approached, Dafydd did not. I had a momentary
urge to wipe the smirk off his face with my fist in his teeth but
restrained myself. Perhaps he couldn’t help what he was. I only
hoped he had a thought as to whom he might want to become.

Ignoring him, I said to Goronwy and Geraint,
“Please join me in my office as soon as possible. Dafydd brings
unwelcome news.”

The two men immediately fell into step
beside me. Geraint spoke in my ear as we left the hall. “Dare I say
‘as always?’”

“It appears that Dafydd has the unfortunate
responsibility of being the bearer of bad tidings, nothing more.
This is Clare’s action, not my brother’s. I can’t imagine otherwise
at this point.”

“I can imagine it.” That was Goronwy,
muttering under his breath. As he’d been my friend from boyhood, I
let it pass.

“Your brother has already been involved in
two revolts against you, my lord,” Tudur said, “though he was the
mastermind of neither. Do we allow him another opportunity?”

“No, we do not, friend,” I said. “But he is
my brother.” I led them back the way I’d come, up the stairs to my
office, next door to where Marged and Anna still lay. I allowed
myself a moment’s warmth at the thought and at Marged’s unexpected
spirit, and then turned to my counselors.

I had ignored their muttering, but didn’t
need to hear their words to know what was in their minds. While
Goronwy and Tudur were of an age with me, both forty now, Dafydd
was ten years younger—a different generation entirely. He’d not
been involved in any of the Welsh wars under the command of our
Uncle Dafydd. He’d only been two years old in 1240 when my
grandfather, Llywelyn Fawr, died and Uncle Dafydd took the
throne.

Nothing pleased an English king more than
bickering Welsh royalty. Englishmen of the Marche
—the disputed border territory between Wales and
England
—and of the English royal court had aided and abetted
my brother Dafydd in both of his revolts against me as a matter of
course, acts I could neither forgive nor forget, no matter how
often the perpetrators spoke of trust and noble brotherhood.

My grandfather had been a strong man, ruling
all Wales like few Princes ever had. But the stability had crumbled
with his death to the point that my Uncle Dafydd had imprisoned my
father and brother here at Criccieth to contain their rebellions.
My mother, Senana, had gone to Shrewsbury to beg King Henry of
England to intervene on their behalf with Uncle Dafydd. Henry had
agreed to their release, but betrayed their agreement. He turned
around and threw my entire family in the Tower of London.

Except for me.

“
You cannot go back, Llywelyn!”

Goronwy grabbed my arm and pulled me around
to face him. He’d come to meet me as I’d left the village for the
causeway to the castle and now pulled me off the road and into the
trees.

“
Why ever not?” I said. “What’s
happened?”

“
Word came this morning. King Henry has
finally agreed to intercede on your father’s behalf. Your family
leaves for England within the hour.”

I stared at him, my anger growing—not at
him, but at the circumstances that had brought my family to this
point. I’d never been to England and had no intention of finding
refuge there. To my mind, it meant trading one captivity for
another, even if my mother swore that wasn’t going to be the
case.

“
Your mother believes King Henry will be
true to his word,” Goronwy said, “but I . . .” He trailed
off.

“
I don’t believe it either,
Goronwy.”

I gazed up at the castle, just visible
through the branches of the trees that surrounded us. Men ran back
in forth in front of the gatehouse—my uncle’s men for the most
part, since he’d forced my father to send his away. Uncle Dafydd
was the Prince of Wales, and my father might be a rightful heir,
especially as the eldest son, but he was hot-tempered and
injudicious, and had lost everything he owned in fighting his
brother.

I nodded, finally, at my friend. “You’re
right. We can’t return or they’ll take me too. That wouldn’t serve
either my father or my uncle, don’t you think?”

“
No, my lord. I reckon not.”