Reconciliation: Pendyffryn: The Conquerors, Book 5

By Lily Dewaruile

Christophe Maides has conquered Cwmdu and the flaxen-haired woman bred of the valley. The mountains that surround his new home pose no threat, nor does Morgan Cwmdu whose venom has tormented his beloved wife, Caryl Gernant, for months yet he cannot conquer the dreams torturing his nights and separating him from the only woman he has ever loved.

With the appearance of three hunters, Christophe is catapulted into a past life he has striven to forget and sees in the eldest hunter the man he might have been, the man his wife deserves.

The pain of his young manhood has driven him to live apart, to conceal his heart even from his closest friend. Reluctance to confront the truth drives him to an act of violence fueled by jealousy that costs him all he has fought to win.

The eldest of the hunters claims to be Christophe's younger brother and the two boys to be his nephews, the sons of brothers Christophe knows to have died before reaching manhood.

Caryl Gernant has always known in her heart that Rizah Izberec loved Christophe's father and is eager to hear Rizah's youngest son's story despite her husband's resistance and discomfort.

Christophe, to make reparation for his violence, faces his past and listens without protest to the story of his father and mother's life together. Though he denies there can be any truth in the tale this hunter tells, Christophe cannot deny the resemblance he shares with all three of the hunters, a physical similarity that links them all to his father, Gilles de Maides.

Jedeh Maides, the fifth son of Rizah and Gilles, was born six months after the death of his father. He was raised in the village of his mother's birth, with his elder brothers in the shadow of the one brother most like their father, the only brother who was not raised in the safety of their family home.

Throughout Jedeh’s life, Rizah grieved for the loss of her beloved husband and for the son she could not save as she had her three eldest sons. He and his nephews have traveled from Haiastan to find Christophe, learn from him and reassure his mother that Christophe lives and is well.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eres Books
• Release date: Jan 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9780983657798

Lily Dewaruile

Lily Dewaruile is a best-selling author of medieval Welsh fiction. Lily Dewaruile is the pen name of an American author who lived in Wales for thirty years. Her love of the Welsh language, culture and history has inspired her fiction since her first visit to Rhuthun where she heard Welsh spoken for the first time. During her time in Wales, she wrote over twenty novels, many of which are still manuscripts, awaiting their debut.Her first Welsh Medieval novel, TRAITOR'S DAUGHTER, was published while she was living in Wales. The photograph used for the cover of this book is of one the most spectacular sunsets over the historic town of Caerfyrddin, named for the medieval poet, Myrddin (the inspiration for the fictional character, Merlin), where Lily lived for twenty-five of her thirty years in Wales."You will know the man..." One woman stands against the INVASION of her home. One man holds her life in his hands. And... "he was not a man who needed a lot of women. He was a man who needed a lot of one woman. This woman." - INVASION, Book 1 of the Pendyffryn: The Conquerors series, now available. Publication date: November 17, 2012.SALVATION, Book 2 of the Pendyffryn: The Conquerors series. Publication date: January 17, 2013.BETRAYAL, Book 3 of the Pendyffryn: The Conquerors series. Publication date: March 17, 2013REVIVAL, Book 4 of the Pendyffryn: The Conquerors series. Publication date: June 9, 2013RECONCILIATION, Book 5 of the Pendyffryn: The Conquerors. Publication date: January 23, 2014JUSTICE, Book 1 of the Pendyffryn: The Inheritors, Publication date: October 20, 2016MERIT, Book 2 of the Pendyffryn: The Inheritors, Publican date: November 21, 2021More about all of Lily's independently published novels in the Pendyffryn:The Conquers and Pendyffryn:The Inheritors series are on her website: lilydewaruile.com and eresbooks.com, Smashwords, as well as KDP: Amazon and most independent online booksellers.Recent Posts: https://lilydewaruile.com/ysgrifau-posts/

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DEDICATION

For my fellow misfits —

&

the people who have always believed in me.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am especially grateful to all the historians and people of Cymru, Haiastan and other small countries who have, despite efforts to suppress their language, culture and history, known the truth and made it visible.

 Cymru am byth.

I thank Gisa & Kamran Sanjabi for their help and support with the cuisine of Persia and other countries in the Middle East.

And especially Canon Patrick Thomas for his spiritual guidance as well as his cultural and religious memoir, From Carmarthen to Karabagh and his history of the 1915 massacre, Remembering the Armenian Genocide.

AD878, Blwyddyn marwolaeth Rhodri Mawr Regis

Anarawd mab Rhodri Regis

One

Mutti? Mutti, are you here? Bey Jedeh entered through the opposite door, at the far end of the long, empty room, carrying a round ceremonial shield and saddlebags draped over his arm. Where is my mother? Bey Jedeh did not answer but placed his burden beside him, on top of a long box. Emíl deFreveille spoke. Come, Christophe, we have no time. The boat will not wait for you to say goodbye to her. His mother was not in the house. His father was dead and his mother was free to go back to her people. You are like your father, Rizah told him. Go. Be what he was. There was no other word of farewell. He turned to face his father’s friend, hiding his eleven year old fear and the tears in his ice-blue eyes. Mutti.

The wharf steamed, reeking of sweat and fish. He carried the box, saddlebags and round shield without help. DeFreveille had taken his father’s weapons to the boat before dawn. The Greek sailors, some of them years younger than Christophe, ran in every direction to prepare for the sailing. DeFreveille pushed him ahead, jostled by the crowds of fishermen, sailors, drunkards and prostitutes. Get on the boat, boy, or we’ll be stranded here and your father’s property stolen. Christophe did not look back at the white house on the cliff above the harbor. No one he knew lived there anymore. Mutti.

Christophe? Caryl turned onto her back, toward her husband. Are you awake? His long body stretched over the bed, restless, sweating and fighting with the carthen that confined him. He threw them off with a growl.

The boat.

Christophe, are you dreaming?

The boat pitched as though Poseidon thrashed beneath them. Emíl deFreveille held him against the railings. Hold him, the eldest of the tutored boys yelled. We’ll see if this black one is human or demon. Christophe panted, fought his captors. The blade carved through the skin on his back but he did not scream. Demon, they whispered, awed he felt no pain. Demon.

Christophe!

But the pain tore his soul, wrenched it free of his body and cast hatred in his heart. The few people he still loved were driven out, leaving him empty of all but rage and hate. Don’t be a fool, Jehan-Emíl. Let the young demon fight his own battles. He will need to know how to fight if he is to live in this place.

Mutti, where did you go?

Christophe, Caryl pleaded, to wake him.

A woman. Endless steps to climb. Wanting—a new thing. And fear, as he had felt it as a boy, leaving his home to live among strangers, cast out, degraded by suspicion, repulsion. This woman invites. He reaches.

Caryl.

Yes, it’s me! she said, laying her head on his shoulder, stroking his chest, sighing.

They take her away from him, the tutored boys. They hide her and laugh in his face when he throws all his might to break through the wall their hatred and taunting have built. He is a man but their childish tricks keep the woman beyond his reach. Hold her. We will see whether the Demon has spoiled her. No!" He shoved the boys away and grabbed the eldest, ready to tear his throat open with his teeth.

His breath came ragged as he sat at the edge of the bed, staring at the white-washed walls surrounding him. Caryl, he said under his breath, staring at the pale hand resting on his arm, another on his shoulder, the pressure and heat of her body against his back. He steadied his breathing, concentrated his mind.

A dream, Christophe. Another dream.

Caryl?

Yes, it’s me, she whispered, wrapping her arms around his chest and staring at what she could see of his face, taking her breaths slow and deep to calm her terror. You were dreaming. She hugged him tight, relieved he had come to his senses before his rage exploded.

I do not dream.

No? she laughed. Is this like ‘not arrogance, certainty’? Not dreams, thoughts? She dropped her arms, folding them close to her body against the cold. Who is Mutti?

"Menyw, he said, glaring at her over his shoulder. What have you done to me?"

Me? she asked with a pout, shoving him with a laugh. "I am not the one who is in battle with carthen and makes war with the night. His body stiffened even more, everywhere their bodies touched, his pulled away. Lay back, Christophe. It is still deep night. She drew him gently, steadily down to lay beside her. Rising to her elbow, she pressed close to him and peered into his angry eyes. It was only a bad dream. This one was as bad as the others but it is over now."

I do not dream, he insisted. I have not dreamed—not since I was a boy.

You have dreamed tonight.

It is you, he said. Because of you. My dreams. I did not dream until you came, until I loved you. Caryl turned her head to kiss the palm of the hand he raised to brush her hair from her cheek. You have broken me.

Don’t say that. She lowered her head to his shoulder. Not as though you blame me for loving you.

I do not blame you.

I have only loved you, Christophe. How can that be wrong?

Mutti is the name I called my mother.

And she was beautiful. Your father loved her very much.

She did not break him.

How have I broken you? How can you be less than you were, knowing that I love you?

You—I feel you, he said, clenching his fist on his chest. Here. Like fire. You disturb me, pain me, trouble me. And fill me. He pressed her shoulder to the bed. I do not want to feel these things for you.

I cannot stop loving you, even if my love hurts so much.

You should not have begun, he murmured. They do not call me ‘Demon’ without reason.

I know that, but they have not seen what I see.

What is that? he asked, pinning her to the bed, surging with pride when she draped her legs over the back of his thighs.

A man. Only a man. Will your son call me ‘Mutti’? Too soon to ask. His distance from her, his slow recovery, the weight of his responsibilities had driven any recognition of the changes in her body from his consciousness—as if she had never spoken. He did not need this other burden while these dreams and the violence they drove through his heart plagued him.

Pietro kept his eye on three hunters, riding lazily as he approached the dwindling market. Only the hardiest traders remained in the expanse of the sheltered hollow. The renegade warrior patrolled in a half-hearted way. Since his commander had returned to full strength and his quick judgment remained undisputed, the district had been free of all but the most heinous crimes.

When he saw the group of three men on the outskirts of the market, his mouth twisted in a quizzical frown, but only their clothing marked them as strangers. Each wore a multi-colored, hooded cloak over high boots and wide-blouson trwsus. Beneath the hood of the cloak, they all wore a scarf wrapped and folded around his head and over his shoulders. Because his commander’s wife sometimes whore a similar cloak and the commander wore a similar scarf, Pietro decided the men were, though causing no disturbance as they ate and conversed among others, to be watched.

Their weapons were those of hunters, not warriors, and they laughed openly with some of the farmers. He passed the group without a backward glance, secure his presence posed enough of a caution to avoid confrontation with men whose greatest challenge was facing down a stalwart buck, not an armed man trained to kill.

As the renegade moved on, a farmer nudged the hunter nearest him. Follow him if you want rights to cull in these forests.

He is the overlord? the hunter asked peering hard at the straight back of the warrior. We were told he was formidable. That one is impressive but not the man described to us.

"Ah, you want the Diawl, someone laughed. But no one asks him for rights."

Why?

No one dares. A chorus of cheerful voices answered. "After what happened to the gelyn soldiers who threatened his wife two days past. Better to ask the Iberian. He is not as frightened by the Diawl as others."

What frightens them?

You too would fear a man whose rage is like a tempest. And as lethal.  Those soldiers did nothing more than look at his wife.

They showed disrespect for her and for his command, another farmer said. They were intent on harm.

They are dead? asked the youngest of the three hunters.

Commander Maides was not so merciful, a farmer said, shaking his head. It is hard not to look at such a woman.

They deserved their punishment, protested another farmer. No one here disagrees about that. The commander’s judgment was fair, more so than I would have been if I had caught them watching my wife.

No one looks at your wife while she bathes.

She does not bathe, laughed another.

The oldest of the hunters joined in the laughter before he asked any other questions. Though the weather had changed since they first arrived in the valley, and their clothes showed months of continual use, the three bore themselves with a pride that was easy and inoffensive. Their clothes and mannerisms marked them as estron but the trading season, even at its end, brought all people. The farmers of the Llan were accustomed, in the two years since their country was invaded and a foreigner governed in the Gaer, to all manner of men travelling their roads.

As long as Commander Maides governed in Cwmdu, protecting their young pendefig, they had no complaints. Lawbreakers came swift to judgment. The estron among them were not distrusted until they did wrong.

"Where do we find this Diawl?"

If you look for him, he will find you soon enough, was the jovial answer.

You look for him? a woman asked, leaning into the circle of men and studying the hunters. You have business with that black-hearted beast?

Hold your tongue, whispered a farmer.

"If you want the Diawl, go to the Llan. His wife will present you and have your eyes put out, the woman laughed. See if I am wrong." The red-headed woman ran off, still laughing, in Pietro Varga’s wake.

That one is mad, another explained. Mad with envy.

You will come to no harm if you mean none.

The eldest hunter nodded and walked away, leading his companions with him. They crossed the market at leisure, buying a few loaves of bread and smoked meat before they disappeared beyond the carts and stalls into the woodlands.

Ingred found Pietro before he turned back for another circuit but too late to point out the men of whom she spoke. Pietro returned to the Llan and bedded his horse for the night before going to the house. From the beudy

¹ he listened to the commander’s deep voice, but as no one else spoke, he knocked at the door and ducked in when he was admitted to the join the family at their meal.

Come, eat, Maides said, pushing a platter of oat bread at his first captain. We have need of company.

Though Caryl moved to serve the Iberian, her husband prevented her from leaving his side. She leaned against him in the comfortable way women have with men they love and trust. Christophe encircled her, clenching his arm around her for a moment. When he returned his attention to Pietro, his expression held the proud seriousness the men in his command were now familiar with, more than any cold indifference.

Pietro smiled, taking a stool a little distance from the table that had nearly broken Bedwyn’s back a few short months before. Reaching for a small loaf of the bread, he accepted the cup of mead Susanna poured for him and ate in silence, watching first the two children playing near the hearth then glancing at the commander’s wife. She had always been pretty, even during the recent months of hardship at the Llan.

Now, with her husband recovered, Pietro understood the impulse that had cost the renegade soldiers the skin off their backs. His was a privileged position, trusted by the Sharkeyn to be near her and the two young ones without fear that his admiration for Señora Caryl was mistaken for disrespect.

You were in the market today, Christophe reminded the renegade, the corner of his mouth raised in what was his smile. You have a report?

‘Nothing unusual, amigo, Pietro replied, lowering his gaze from Caryl’s face. Three hunters. Foreigners by the look of them."

Trouble?

I was told they had asked for you.

The reason?

Not unusual this time of year, Pietro shrugged. Hunters come to help in the culling. The farmers say they take away part of the kill as their payment.

We have enough hunters.

That is hasty, when you know nothing of the cull or what it means to the Llan. You do not know how to accomplish this task, Caryl scoffed, shoving Christophe’s arm away with a laugh.

Pietro hung his head to hide a smile.

You think culling is the same as killing men.

How is it different? her husband asked, his eyes narrowing.

The forest is not a battlefield, Christophe. What will you and your men do but charge through it on your crazy horses, slashing at everything?

There is a better way? Maides asked, as amused as his captain. That this woman was fearless before his wrath filled him with pride.

Invite these hunters to instruct you.

Instruct? he demanded. I have not taken instruction from any man since I was a boy.

That explains your arrogance. Her smile broke the severe glare in her eyes. Pietro’s shoulders shook but he kept his laughter silent. Though he could feel his commander’s anger rising, he enjoyed the discomfort the woman caused him. Men so ‘certain’ deserved sharp-tongued wives.

You know better how to kill boar?

You will not kill a rabbit like that, she laughed. More certain the boar will kill you. And don’t tell me, she continued as his back stiffened and he opened his mouth to retort, that your skills are beyond those of mortal men. A wild boar is not blinded by the glory of any sword raised to slay him. Before you have even grazed his hide, he will be trampling your bowels under hoof.

You think so? Christophe challenged, clasping the hand she slapped against his belly and pulling her against him. She tilted her head back to look up at him. His eyes widened as a grin flashed over his face. If these hunters come to the Llan, Pietro, send them to me.

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Two

Though Pietro and others were on duty as the market dwindled and the first of the heaving rains swept through the valley, bringing mud from the mountains, the hunters were never seen by the Iberian or his friends. Their presence somewhere in the vicinity was known. They were sometimes seen by farmers storing their crops or baker women selling their bread but they never came within speaking distance of anyone.

That foreigners camped in the woodlands did not concern the commander. That they had enquired of him and his family but did nothing to arrange a meeting alerted Maides to danger to Caryl and her children.

Without alarming her, he set a guard on the Llan. Unable to be with her at every moment, he trusted no one near his family when he was called away. His command of marauders and renegades, men who had no loyalty or friendships to govern them, were trusted. Respect for his ability and fear of his nature kept the army at bay but the Sharkeyn was not deluded that any personal feeling would prevent an assault on Caryl if the opportunity came.

Though he did not know the identities of the men who hunted him nor the country of their origin, Christophe Maides—having no doubt they came in answer to some action he had taken in the past, seeking revenge for an evil he committed—prepared for battle. Because he did not know his enemy or their reason for hunting him, he could not locate his rage. He had not lifted a sword in combat since he recovered from his recent wounds. He had many more reasons for avoiding confrontation than seeking it.

At the end of the season, his captains reported the hunters were camped in the area but no sign of them was found and no game was taken. The constant threat was too great a risk. If he waited longer, the temptation to take foolish action increased.

Early the following morning, after a night of clear skies, he rode with six others into the woodlands, carrying only the light weapons needed for hunting and no armor. No longer believing that his visitors were hunters, Christophe had no choice but to run them into the open.

Caryl had forgotten about the hunters and the cull. That morning she had forgotten she had eaten and had another meal when Susanna and Heilyn awoke. Later, as she walked across the buarth, wrapped in shawls, she forgot where she had intended to go. Standing for a moment in the crisp and stinging wind, she turned instead toward the spinning shed, seeking refuge there from all the demands on her that filled her head, confused and monopolized her thoughts. In the solitude of the shed, there were no distractions from her pre-occupation.

She was warm and comfortable amid the skeins of spun wool, laid her hands on her round belly to feel her baban’s life strengthening, his body growing, forming and to wonder at the magnitude and splendor of carrying a child whose father she loved and who made her happy—even when he made her angry. She had no regret of the punishment Christophe had imposed on his renegade soldiers. She regretted the necessity. They had meant her harm, showing their disregard for her, their contempt for him.

Had Christophe not taken the lash to them for dishonoring her, there would have been no end to their humiliation. She witnessed their punishment with the thought they should have behaved better. Christophe had taken the lash in his own hand rather than ask a subordinate to mete out his judgment. He controlled his rage, delivering only the punishment befitting the crime. They were fortunate he had not killed them as he had threatened.

Her baban stirred as she rested—thinking, planning and wondering until she drifted to sleep. She dreamt in a fog of vague shapes and images. Nothing had threatened her for months so when she was no longer alone, she was not startled into wakefulness, only turned toward the man who entered the shed. Her eyes fluttered.

His hand crushed her mouth. Her assailant tore away the white linen covering her hair. The hand across her mouth pinned her head against the wood panel of the stall, scratching her cheek. The man pushed her down until she was buried in the wool, her mouth and lungs fillings with dust and fibers. She flayed her arms, bruising her skin on his hard muscles. His heavy, labored breathing spewed in her face. He hissed and snarled when she slapped at him.

Desperate to breathe and fighting for a chance to scream, Caryl pleaded for help to defeat him, snapping at his fingers and scratching at his eyes. In the second that it took him to cover her face with wool, smothering her, he trapped her beneath him and ripped at her skirts. He was too heavy for her to kick until he dragged her skirts past her knees. Sobbing for air, Caryl twisted and kicked but the man was not deterred. In despair, Caryl pushed against his shoulders as he forced her legs apart.

The pain she expected never came. Instead, the weight of his body crushed her as he fell, limp on top of her. She pushed with all her strength to move him. Clawing at the skeins of