The Warlord's Bride. Margaret Moore

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      MADOC SILENTLY cursed as he galloped along the rutted road leading up the northern slope of the highest hill of his estate. Of course Trefor would choose this time to harass him. No doubt he wanted to embarrass his brother in front of his Norman guests. Perhaps Trefor had learned the purpose of their visit and considered that even more reason to trouble him.

      Madoc spotted a man running along the ridge—Trefor himself, Madoc realized with a surge of anger.

      He immediately turned his horse to follow, but once at the top of the hill, he discovered a mist covering the slope just beyond the ridge, like a white curtain.

      Cursing aloud this time, Madoc slipped from his saddle. His black gelding snorted and stamped, as anxious to give chase as his master. Unfortunately, from here it would be too dangerous to ride at a gallop, or even a canter. There could be hidden holes and loose scree that could cause a horse to slip or fall.

      “Steady, Cigfran, steady,” he murmured, running a hand over the horse’s strong neck as his men caught up to them.

      “Should we go after him, Madoc?” Ioan asked when he and the others reached the top of the ridge and dismounted.

      “No.”

      Trying to give chase on foot would be just as risky as on horseback. Besides, although he and most of his men had lived all of their lives on these hills and could run like deer, Trefor was just as familiar with the land and as fleet of foot.

      Madoc’s curt answer brought at least one groan of frustration from his men. Ioan, no doubt, for he was young and anxious to fight because he was good at it. Or maybe Hugh the Beak, who had the biggest nose in Llanpowell and was an expert with both sword and bow.

      “I said no,” Madoc repeated. “He’s gone to ground like a fox. We’ll never catch him.”

      “Madoc!”

      Taking hold of Cigfran’s reins, Madoc followed the call of his name, his disgruntled men behind him. He soon found Emlyn, the oldest and best of his shepherds. The gray-bearded man held a lamb in his arms as if it were a child, and at his feet lay a larger white shape splashed with violent red.

      A ewe dead and a lamb left to starve, or be the prey of fox, wolf, eagle or hawk.

      It was a cruel thing to do, and something new for Trefor.

      “A fox?” he asked the shepherd, although he already knew the answer. A fox would have killed the lamb, too.

      “Men for certain,” Emlyn replied.

      “Only the one ewe dead?”

      “No,” Emlyn replied. “Five more—and the big black ram is missing.”

      Madoc called Trefor an earthy Welsh epithet as he looked across the brow of the rise to the higher land, where Pontyrmwr, Trefor’s small estate, lay. He’d been counting on that ram to build his flock. Trefor would recognize the value of it, too. No wonder he’d taken it, the vindictive, disgraceful lout.

      Maybe he’d gotten more vicious and aggressive because he’d heard of Lady Roslynn’s dowry and assumed Madoc meant to have it, although that was still no excuse.

      “Not a broken branch, not a hoof-or footprint,” Emlyn noted. “Like magic it is, how they come and go, invisible as demons.”

      “Aye, like demons, but no magic,” Madoc said. “Trefor knows these hills as well as we do.”

      Emlyn sighed as the lamb in his arms continued to pleat plaintively. “Aye, that he does. I never thought he’d use that knowledge against us, though.”

      “He’s not the man he was,” Madoc muttered. Indeed, once he’d thought his older brother the epitome of a noble warrior—handsome, brave, skilled with weapons, irresistible to women but too honorable to take advantage of it. He’d trotted after Trefor like an admiring puppy and tried to imitate his brother in every way.

      Until his brother’s wedding day, when Trefor had disgraced not just himself, but his family, and nearly destroyed an alliance that had held for three generations.

      Madoc turned to the man who’d met his patrol yesterday to tell him the Normans had come. “Dafydd, take ten men and get me six sheep in kind from Trefor’s flock and try to find the black ram. No killing any of his animals, though. My quarrel is with my brother, not his livestock or his people who depend on him.”

      Dafydd nodded, then fingered the hilt of his sword. “What if them with the ram put up a fight?”

      “No killing, not even for the ram.”

      Madoc saw his men’s displeasure and ignored it, as he always did. His brother was still his brother, and he wouldn’t be the cause of Trefor’s death, for hanging was the punishment for theft. He wouldn’t attack Pontyrmwr unless Trefor attacked Llanpowell. He wouldn’t sacrifice other lives because of this feud with his bitter, resentful brother.

      “You three,” he said to the men standing nearest him, “help Emlyn with the carcasses. You’ll see to the lamb, Emlyn?”

      “Aye, Madoc. I’ve got a ewe lost one.”

      Madoc knew Emlyn would skin the dead lamb and put the pelt over the living one, then put it to suck at the ewe’s teat. If all went well, the ewe would accept the living lamb as her own.

      Content that he had done all that was necessary, Madoc gestured to the rest of the men to follow him back to their horses. There was no reason to linger here, and he had guests at home.

      Not that he was in any particular hurry to meet with them again.