A Moment in Time

you seek shelter here?' Wynne demanded of him, and he shook his head.

'And my lord Madoc?' the captain asked nervously.

'We will take my lord back to Raven's Rock,' she answered. 'Prepare a litter for his body that it may be carried with the honor and the dignity it deserves.'

'Shall I look for the archer, my lady?'

Wynne's green eyes looked bleakly at the soldier. ' Why? He knew not what he was doing. I want no one punished. I forgive the archer, whoever he was. I never want to know!' She turned away from the captain and reentered the hall to minister to Rhys's eyes.

Her wishes were immediately carried out. When she had finished treating the lord of St. Bride's, Brys had been placed upon his high board, cold and stiff. They piled furniture and other combustibles about him. On the floors above, flaming brands had already been placed in each nook and cranny of the castle. Now Wynne took a torch and lit Brys's funeral pyre. The scarlet flames leapt upward, casting dark dancing shadows on the walls. Wynne stood for several minutes watching, unable to leave until she saw the fire beginning to consume Brys's body. Then finally at a touch of Rhys's hand on her arm, she turned and walked slowly from the Great Hall of Castle Cai. Outside, and on the other side of the drawbridge, she paused and again stood watching as the castle, now fully engulfed in flames, burned. It stood as a beacon against the dark night sky, yet Wynne felt not the warmth of the fire.

Madoc was dead. The words burnt into her consciousness like a brand. She had lost him again even as their reunion had allowed her to believe that their difficulties were behind them, and that they would be together forever. Yet the choice had been Madoc's. He had not, of course, chosen to relinquish his life; but he had simply been unable to allow his friend to do so. Rhys, whose own sense of honor would not permit Madoc to destroy Brys, now owed his very existence to the prince's great sacrifice. And Madoc's actions had certainly included her and Arvel as well, Wynne thought sadly. Whatever sins he had committed against them in that other time and place had been surely expiated by the unselfish surrender of his own life in this time and place. It was a bitter comfort, but she understood.

Suddenly a small hand slipped into her cold one, and she heard her son's voice saying, 'Where is my uncle, Mama?'

Wynne looked down at him. 'Your uncle is dead, Arvel,' she told the little boy. 'He will never hurt you again.'

Arvel nodded at her with Madoc's look, and Wynne's heart contracted most painfully. 'Can we go home, Mama?'

'Aye, my lord prince,' she told him.

Arvel's smoky blue eyes widened at her words. 'Am I a prince?'

'You are the prince of Powys-Wenwynwyn, Arvel ap Madoc,' his mother told him.

'My home is not at Aelfdene?' Arvel was suddenly possessed by a new awareness.

'Nay, my lord prince,' she answered.

'Where is my home, Mama?'

'You are the lord of Raven's Rock, my son,' she told him.

Rhys came and said, 'Whatever you want, Wynne of Gwernach. Whatever help you need, ever. It is yours in return for a debt I can never repay, as well as for the kinship between us.'

She nodded. 'I thank you, my lord,' she answered him, and then she said to Arvel, 'This is your uncle, my son. He is Rhys, the lord of St. Bride's.'

Rhys bowed solemnly to the little child, saying, 'I am always and ever at your service, my lord prince. Is there any way in which I can now serve you?'

'Take me upon your horse, uncle,' the little boy answered. When they were all mounted, Arvel commanded Rhys to the head of the line of soldiers. 'I would go home now,' he said. 'I would go home to Raven's Rock.'

They moved away from the burning castle, the little boy upon his uncle's great horse leading them. Behind, the bearers surrounded by men-at-arms carrying lighted torches bore the body of Madoc of Powys-Wenwynwyn. They were followed by the women and the small army as they wended their way into the forest. Above them the night sky was lit by a bright, full moon now. Wynne looked up at the moon. It shone pure and white against the blackness.

Then suddenly the pristine beauty was marred a moment by the shadow of a raven as it flew across the moon. Wynne thought that perhaps she might even hear the bird's cry, but had she, it would have been a different cry. Madoc was dead. Once again they had been separated by a cruel moment in time. That they would be reunited again one day she had not a single doubt; and next time… oh, next time, it would be even better!

She was unaware of the tears that were flowing quickly down her beautiful face; unaware that her mouth had turned itself into a secret, small smile at her thoughts. Nothing mattered now but the children. Arvel, and Averel, and the new child growing within her. The children, and Raven's Rock, and her memories. Aye! Her memories. And what memories they were!

EPILOGUE

WALES, 1805

Forget not that I shall come back to you. A little while, and my longing shall gather dust and foam for another body. A little while, a moment of rest upon the wind, and another woman shall bear me.

Kahlil Gibran

The Prophet

'I am not certain; no indeed, I am not certain at all that we were wise to allow our young people to go off without a proper chaperone,' Lady Marcella Bowen fretted to no one in particular. A large, handsome woman in her mid-forties, she wore a purple gauze scarf wrapped in turban fashion about her graying locks that bobbed with her uncertainty as she peered myopically after the departing riders.

'Nonsense, m'dear,' her portly husband, Sir Rumford Bowen, replied jovially. 'Summertime… informality here in the country, y'know… not to worry.'

'Yes, indeed!' echoed Sir Rumford's good friend, Sir William Thorley. 'Informality quite the order of the day here at Tretower Wells.'

'We should have gone to Bath,' muttered Lady Marcella.

' Bath is out of fashion now, m'dear. Brummel himself has said so, and the ton is quite scattered this summer,' Sir Rum-ford told his spouse.

She glowered at him and said acidly, 'And to what purpose, I should like to know, sir? Every eligible male of good breeding in London is God only knows where, instead of in one central place, Bath, where they may be properly inspected and assessed by the families of young ladies of equal breeding. Mr. Brummel has rendered the natural order of things into chaos. If he were a decent man he would be quite repentant. Knowing him, however, I expect he finds all of this quite amusing, the wretch! How shall we ever find a husband for Honoria, I should like to know?'

'Now, now, m'dear,' Sir Rumford attempted to soothe his wife, 'there are several fine young men here at the spa, and others expected as the summer passes.'