He surveyed the far hill. The men lined up on its crest shouted insults and taunts, goading their foe below. Cheers of ruthro Eingl, rout the English, rang in the sky. A few ran halfway down the hill and danced little jigs before sauntering back up.

It was impossible to tell how many were behind the thick line, on the far side of the low mountain. The challenge had been made, however, and could not be ignored. The troops being sent by other barons were at least two days away, but this skirmish was not going to wait for them.

Marcus rode with Addis and Arundal and Hubert to the front of their line of knights. The newly risen sun that had revealed the waiting enemy was barely visible in the overcast sky of this bitter, damp day.

Four hundred, Nesta had written to the Scots, and probably more now. He had but two hundred and fifty. Still, if the men held to this valley and clearing, they should prevail. If they were drawn into the forests or up into the hills, however, they could indeed be routed.

Even a small victory for the Welsh could turn this skirmish into the first battle of a long and bloody war.

“What are you waiting for?” Hubert asked, pacing his steed back and forth in front of Marcus.

“For them to attack.”

“I say we go up that hill,” Hubert snarled.

Even Arundal rolled his eyes at that. “Oh, aye, attack men who hold high ground. That is shrewd, Hubert. How much did your father pay the King to secure your position here?”

“One hundred marks,” Hubert said, missing the sarcasm.

“Do not let the Welsh know that,” Marcus said. “They will fight harder to repay the insult that the King accepted such a small bribe before sending them such a great fool.”

Hubert’s face turned red. Marcus was glad to see it. If goaded enough, Hubert might actually fight well after his bluster fell beneath the first sword he faced.

The jeering on the hilltop suddenly ceased. An unnatural silence poured down instead of the taunts. As if attached to rods, the distant heads turned in unison to the line’s center.

The line parted, and two horses rode through. A huge cry came across the valley in a wave, growing louder as the shouts from the back of Carwyn’s army were joined by those of the men who had just seen their leader.

Carwyn wore armor, but he was one of the few Welsh who did. The figure beside him certainly did not. As the two horses rode back and forth in front of the men on the crest of the hill, the small figure on the second horse became very visible. Long dark hair floated behind it. Carwyn held the reins of the horse, pulling it along, displaying the rider like a banner whether she welcomed it or not.