Merit, Book II, Pendyffryn: The Inheritors

By Lily Dewaruile

Fleeing the Saxon invaders, Jac travelled westward. His mother had been killed at dawn the day a Celt woman ran into the woods and hid in the underbrush. As the Saxons drew closer to the village he had hoped to reach before nightfall, Jac kept his vigil over the injured woman. Alone, old enough to begin training, the Saxon invasion had dashed his hopes of finding employment.
Hours passed. The chill of the night tore at his flimsy rags. His mother’s body lay miles behind him, buried beneath his cloak, forest soil, and brush with no grave marker save the cross he had fashioned from twigs and vines.
The woman’s rescue and Jac’s salvation rode a dark-spirited warhorse.
Once a fugitive, now a warrior trained by the most skilled and feared man on the battlefields of his new home, Jac seeks to gain merit enough in the eyes of Christophe Maides to ask for the hand of the girl Jac has loved from the day his mentor dragged him from the underbrush.
Winning a contest for the command of an army of warriors may bestow that merit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eres Books
• Release date: Sep 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005931070

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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Merit

Book II

Pendyffryn: The Inheritors

Lily Dewaruile

Merit

Book II

Pendyffryn: The Inheritors

Copyright © 2021 The Author/Eres Books

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-100593-107-0

Cover Design: Gwion Dulais

Merit is a work of fiction. The characters, descriptions, events and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, either living or dead, is coincidental.

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

eresbooks.com

Published and Printed in the United States

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgments

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

About the Author

Books by Lily

Glossary

Dedication

Rwy’n cyflwyno’r nofel hon i’m cyfeillion yng Nghymru sydd wedi fy nghefnogi ers i fi symud yno ac ers i fi symud i ffwrdd. Ac i’r gwladgarwyr sydd wedi gwneud gwahanaeth i’w teuluoedd, cyfeillion a gwlad.

I offer this novel to my friends in Wales who have supported me since I moved there and since I moved away. And to all the patriots who have made a difference—to their families, friends & country.

Ac yn arbennig, i’m hannwylaf ŵr a’n teulu ar ei brifiant am eu holl amynedd a chariad. Fe wyddoch ba mor bwysig ag ydych i fi.

And especially, to my dearest husband and our growing family for their patience and love. You know how important you are to me.

Acknowledgments

Rwy’n ddiolchgar i’r hanesyddwyr a’r dinesyddion o Gymru, a gwledydd bach eraill, sydd wedi—er ymdrechion i lethu eu hieithoedd, diwyddiant a’u hanes—gwybod y gwir a sicrhau ei fod yn weladwy.

I am especially grateful to all the historians and people of Cymru 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.

One

Bae Ceredigion[1], Gwanwyn[2] AD885

On the edge of the cliff, Jac Christophe crouched, fingering the blade in his belt. Though no immediate dangers lurked on the stretch of rocky shore beneath him, his caution was deep-rooted. Training and discipline warned against descent, at least until the woman standing, arms outstretched, on the boulder departed. Every instinct he had developed from his foster-father’s instruction confirmed she was no threat. Something else awakened his senses—her demeanor, her unaccountable solitude in a region rife with bandits and pirates—told the warrior more about her.

She was either fearless or reckless. She was either protected in some way that he could not discern or she was of no worth to any man.

Before she turned away from the waves, Jac sprawled on his belly but she seemed to have seen him. He leapt to his feet, holding his arms away from his body to show he was no threat to her. As he descended from the precipice, she ran inland, holding her skirt high above her knees.

Jac shrugged, resuming his original direction to enter the coastal village from the upland road, accepting that his approach would be expected now he had foolishly allowed the woman to observe him. Although his reason for the journey had no evil intent, assessing the character of the pennaeth[3] and his army unencumbered by their curiosity about him was preferable for his purposes. Since he had already failed these basic tactics, the young warrior clenched his jaw for a moment, straightened his shoulders, mounted his warhorse and proceeded toward his destination, determined to complete his mission.

At the porth[4], Jac rode past the crowd attending the festival, surprised there were no signs of welcome. Though he was only one among the many warriors who had answered the broad invitation to the contest, he had expected more—not for himself but for all who had shown their willingness to risk their lives to defend the cantref[5] of Caradog Llyr from Norse and Gael raiders.

Already nineteen, he had finally completed his training with his foster-father, Christophe Maides, only a few weeks before. Only two men in his acquaintance matched his skill—the man who trained him and his foster-brother whose training had started in the same year as his own. Though Heilyn ap Alun was six years his junior, the six-year-long training had benefited the younger boy equally. Unlike Jac, Heilyn had acquired no bad practices to overcome.

Though his uncertain parentage had limited his future in Cwmdu, as a stranger he had as much right as any warrior to seek his future among the penaethiaid[6] and in regions far from his home and the love he could never confess. Despite the indifference of the villagers of Abermwyn[7]—the village farthest from his home he could reach without crossing to Iwerddon[8]—Jac’s certainty the people would accept him as a warrior turned heads as he rode the chestnut battle-trained stallion along the festooned road to the arena.

His keen senses found the woman who had been at the shore as she darted out of the road, stumbling between market stalls, cursed by the traders. Without diverting his gaze from his destination, Jac made note of the building she entered, staring in his direction over her shoulder. Though tempted to acknowledge the woman’s interest, the discipline of his training kept his focus on the competitors gathering in the field.

Most were of a similar character to his own, but there was one who stood apart, not only from the group but in his manner. His confidence, to Jac’s mind, found its base in assumption, not ability or training. Though equally muscular, a lack of restraint and discipline warned opponents this man expected to win. He laughed and sneered at those who would contend for the prize. His pretty face and popularity with the womenfolk seemed his greatest strengths.

In his assessment of the others of his opponents, Jac selected those he considered credible adversaries, men he would choose for the war band he intended to build to defend the Abermwyn shores from pirates and raiders. Of his ability to accomplish his intent, Jac Christophe had no doubt. He was no ordinary mercenary—not the usual vagabond warrior seeking employment. The pride in his bearing, the confident intensity in his blue eyes announced his intention to give his utmost to earn the right to call Abermwyn his home.

The first days of the contest to determine which of the warriors was to become the commander of the pennaeth’s army allowed the contestants opportunity to test one another without damage. The men who would be his opponents in the final rounds soon emerged. His initial assessment of the pretty one confirmed Jac’s skill in judging character. Though the warrior was a clear favorite among the Abermwyn residents—though he was as arrogant and poorly trained as Jac first saw—the highborn combatant was least among them—a man no one could trust in battle or in gentler occupations.

Euros Llynuwch[9] strutted into the arena, accepting the cheers of his admirers with a wave of his hand. Underestimating his opponent was not an error Jac made. Euros had defeated many of the best but not by his skill. His tactics were more akin to deception, trickery and his opponents’ lack of confidence in the face of his popularity.

The following morning, as he prepared for the next contest, Jac sensed someone studied him with lively, intense scrutiny. When he, in turn, attended to the milling crowd of onlookers, he met the gaze of farmers, millers, bakers—men he had seen the previous days. As he focused his attention on the skills he needed for the opening event, he noticed a new face in the crowd. There had always been a few women—wives of the farmers, one or two of the pennaeth’s womenfolk—but this one, a girl several years younger than he had at first thought, he had not seen since the day he arrived.

Unlike the wives and daughters of the villagers, she was unkempt, with a mass of unbound brown hair tumbling over her shoulders, a pretty face marred by grime, bright eyes studying him as though he were a priest’s illumination. She wore the same tattered gray clothing over a frayed shift as on the day he saw her on the shore. Her soft leather boots were split at the seams.

Jac turned away to concentrate on winning the initial round in his climb to challenge the remaining contestants for command of Caradog Llyr’s army. Throughout the day, although he never lost the sensation the girl watched him for better reasons than mere entertainment, his discipline, the ease of the tasks and some lack of skill of the contestants, earned him several victories. He ended the day as the clear challenger to the favored victory of Euros Llynuwch.

With the exception of the son of Caradog’s neighbor, the combatants bathed from buckets of cold water and slept under stretched canvas on the contest field, cleared of the litter of the events. Their meal was scant—a cup of ale and oatcakes—but the camaraderie among them grew in the deprivation of hospitality. Their laughter and boasting continued as the torches’ light dimmed, far into the night.

Most were men of the region, some were warriors already in Caradog Llyr’s employ. Jac listened to their tales, gathering knowledge of his future employers and his family. He learned more about Euros Llynuwch, his expectations and noted the lack of respect Euros inspired.

Manon! Wake up. You are lazier every moment. Have you forgotten you have chores in the morning? You expect someone to do them for you, while you dream of Euros?

I was not dreaming, the girl replied, roughly dragging her fingers through the tangles of unruly curls. "I was waiting to see how long you would take to wake me, Seren, since you have been eager to go to the contest all these hours."

"Ych, the contests! Why should I care? Euros will win. I don’t know why the contests were even called."

Something for the soldiers to do, Manon said, slipping her gray tunic over her head and tying the twisted cords across her chest.

You have plenty to do, her older sister told her. You won’t have any time today to gape at the warriors sweating and grunting.

But—.

You have all the washing and mending. The soap stores are low. The lamps all need to be filled with oil. Torches need wrapping and dousing with tallow. You will be fortunate to finish before dawn.

If I were—.

Never mind all that, Seren snapped. You are not. You are merely another mouth to feed and that is all you will ever be. Do not forget how you came into this world. Get to your work.

Manon ran out of the small, cold room, avoiding the cuffing her sister meant her to have. The golchdy[10] steam wrapped around her, twisting her hair into tighter curls. She wore an apron but didn’t expect her clothing to stay dry. Disputing she was a burden was as foolish as denying her mother had died giving her life or disputing she was the youngest daughter of six.

She did fervently dispute she would always be a burden. She wanted more than a life of servitude to her sisters and their children. She would have much more. Even drenched to the skin with sweat and steam like the other women in the golchdy, though the steam was fragrant with soap and the sweat was sour, Manon was not like the older women. Some were too old to do anything other than hang the laundry on the long poles in the yard, too old to drag the baskets from the kitchen or scrub, beat, wring and, with aching arms, hang wet canvas on poles for hours.

Still young enough to dream of a life better than her sisters whose husbands did little even when they were not drunk on ale, Manon determined her husband would command Caradog’s army and father sons enough to command war bands to defend every cantref throughout the whole length of Bae Ceredigion. Euros Llynuwch had won every contest. He was Caradog’s choice and he was her desperate hope for husband.

Though she had other work, once Manon finished in the golchdy, she bathed, washed her own clothes and dressed in her only change of equally warn shift and tunic. Fortunate to have even that though it had been worn nearly to rags by one or another of her five older sisters. She let her hair dry loose, tangled even more from washing, and dashed through the crowds to witness the final qualifying contests before Euros met the best of the challengers.

There had been little doubt, from the first day, who among the challengers was to face Euros in the final contests. No one who met Euros on the field was near to his skill, though he had not been overly taxed, to save his strength for the final day. Manon heard rumors of a stranger whose skill was keen and who defeated every warrior with a warm laugh. This warrior seemed not to exert his strength no matter what effort was set against him. He congratulated his opponents on their abilities, laughed and joked with the crowd.

Manon had studied him fearfully through the second day. The stranger was a match for Euros. He could defeat the favorite. He had to have a weakness and Manon avidly sought the chink that would secure Euros his rightful place as commander. And, he would…she might—Manon did not allow her thoughts to complete the expression of her most fervent, desperate hope. Instead, she concentrated on finding a way to defeat the terrible threat to her happiness, her future.

Late in the afternoon, most of the contests had ended. The contestants were dressing their flesh wounds or drowning their disappointments in young ale. She had learned that the stranger had been trained in a discipline unlike any other but no one could tell her what that meant.

Near the end of the final bouts that day, the onlookers had marveled and winced with every blow and commented, You see how he does that? He baited and taunted and invited blows but no one touched him. He disarmed all in a few strokes, conversing all the while, never winded though his tanned skin glistened with a light sweat. His muscles were taut and his flesh was smooth and unblemished.

He had suffered no injury that could be seen. Manon’s heart stopped when he lifted his battle sword above his head, suspended like a bridge over him between his two powerful hands. The muscles in his back rippled beneath his skin. With a cheerful grin, he acknowledged her presence, capturing her gaze, singling her out for scrutiny as she scrutinized him. The pit of her belly tightened. When he took a step toward her, Manon held her breath, ready to bolt.

Two of her sisters were among the many women around the arena. Manon stepped farther back into the crowd of men, praying they had not seen her. Her sisters watched the stranger with the same bemused smile on their faces as the other women, sighing as she had sighed when he raised his sword in triumph. Even Siriol, Manon’s elder by just ten months—the most miserable of all of her sisters—smiled at the stranger when his opponent had dropped in exhaustion to his knees before him. If they had followed his gaze when he caught sight of Manon, they seemed indifferent to her presence as they stared at the warrior who threatened her dreams.

The stranger lowered the sword slowly, still grinning. His opponent, gasping for breath, raised a hand to acknowledge Jac’s superiority. Though the victor deserved to receive a cheer of praise for his achievement, the crowd was silent. Even she could not deny, though she refused to admit aloud, the tall, lean, skillful stranger was going to face their own champion on the following day. There was no longer any certainty of the outcome, unless Caradog Llyr also refused to accept the stranger was the better warrior.

His spirit, his discipline, his character all spoke to his ability to lead and to inspire loyalty. As he collected his weapons and walked away, the Abermwyn residents murmured their uncertainty about him and their preference for Euros Llynuwch.

Manon worked her way slowly through the crowd, keeping the fair-haired stranger in sight until he veered toward the river. She held back until she believed she could follow without detection.

He stripped from his leather breeches and boots, diving headlong into the deepest pool. Manon hid behind an oak as he swam and dove, stroking through the water as if he were born from it. He stood knee deep, facing her, stretched and flexed his body, with no sign of the arrogance others displayed, only pride born of hard training and confidence.

This man would defeat Euros and none of her plans and dreams would come true. She would wash and mend and polish and smell of lamp oil for the rest of her life.

Suddenly, the warrior fell backwards in the water with a noisy splash and disappeared. Manon waited for him to come up but, after a few minutes, she thought he may have been hurt and debated whether to investigate. Several more minutes passed. Finally, Manon moved closer to the river and peered over the bank into the water. There was no sign of the warrior in the pool or anywhere along the riverbank. He was too big to be swept away like a leaf and too good a swimmer to have drown unless he was injured.

He could not have been injured. She had seen no wound nor heard an arrow. He had fallen backward…suddenly. Staring at the opposite bank, she searched for an assailant armed with arrows or a dagger. She ran a short distance downstream but still could not find any trace of the stranger. The manner of his disappearance was shameful and mysterious, yet she was relieved. If he was truly gone, Euros had no rivals for command of the Abermwyn army.

A terrible chill crept up into her heart. Who could have killed such a skilled warrior? She crouched