The Sin Eater's Prince

"In the midst of life we are in death."

Ynghanol ein bywyd, yr ydym yn angau

Welsh Words and Their Meaning

Abergwaun: A town in Wales

Annwn: Heaven, the other world of youthful delights

Coblynau: Troll-like beings, miners

Cŵn Annwn: The black hounds of Hell

Cwth: A fiddle

Diawl:The devil

Draig: Dragon

Dyn Hysbys: A wizard

Glyndŵr: Welsh rebel

Gwyllion: Female faires with frightful characteristics

Gwrach y Rhibyn: The Hag of the Mist

Iolo Gocha: Court poet

Lladd amser: Killing Time

Nos Galan Gaeaf: The night the spirits walk the land

Owain ap Gruffydd Fychan: Prince of Wales full name (warlord

Sin Eater: A sin-eater is a person who consumes a ritual meal in order to spiritually take on the sins of a deceased person. Sin-eaters, as a consequence, carried the sins of all people whose sins they had eaten. Cultural anthropologists and folklorists classify sin-eating as a form of ritual.

Tad: Father

Tatws-a-llaeth: Potatoes and buttermilk

Tylwyth Teg: The Fae or fairy people

Tywysog Cymru: Prince of Wales, 1400

Uffern: Hell

Wdig: A town in Wales

Chapter One

Pembrokeshire, Southwest Wales

1842

Someone would die today.

The inexplicable forewarning pulsed through Owen’s veins. His tad had the same gift, or was it a curse bequeathed to all sin eaters? He didn’t want to dwell on his sire’s passing four years ago, or think about the oppressive mantle he’d inherited when the man the town folk called Halwn drew his last breath.

He’d rather stand on his summit and devour the magnificent view, watch the ocean crash into shore. Nestled between the brow of the peak and the town of Wdig, his father’s land belonged to him now. If one could say land belonged to man. Like many mornings, he studied the bustle of activity from the town below. He knew most of the villagers by sight. The dour-faced Widow McKee, broom in hand, shooed sand from her stoop, the lass known as Bridget toted pails of fresh milk to her cottage and neighbors Alden Alistair lent an ear to Duncan Moore over the picket fence between their properties. He’d never lived in the village, wouldn’t be welcomed in Wdig or the neighboring village of Abergwaun. Deemed unholy, sin eaters had been shunned by town folk for centuries.

Over his shoulder, the goats whined a chorus of bleats, competing with the throaty calls of the wood warblers. With a sigh, he turned from the panoramic view. He’d return in a few hours, watch the sea gulls soar along the long stretch of coastal marsh, or look west to the moors, a treeless stretch of land blanketed in dense bracken and wild heather. He loved his meager parcel of Duw’s earth. Other than his goats and fiddle, the land was all he had.

Childbed fever took his mother at his birth, which meant he’d never felt a woman’s gentle touch or had the pleasure of a sibling’s companionship. His life had been filled with nevers. And solitude.

An outcrop of yews along the steep path to his abode rustled. Since he’d awakened with a premonition of someone’s death, he expected a visitor soon.

A mass of copper tresses glistened when Carys appeared on the crest. "Good morn, Owen."

"Ye’ are about early, lass."

Huffing after the steep climb, the young woman drew several deep breaths. "Doctor Maddock sent me for a pint of goat milk. Mrs. Bellamy’s babe has the appetite of an ogre."

"A shame the woman died giving birth."

"I christened him Ifan. Does the name agree with ye?"

He shrugged. "I didn’t get a good look at the boy, but ’tis a suitable name."

"I thought ye might know what it means."

Owen walked to the pen, released the latch, and stepped inside. The goats meandered toward his familiar stool and the shiny, silver pail. "Mayhap he should have been named after his sire."

Carys wrinkled her small nose. "The man cares nothing for the child. ’Tis doubtful his sire has seen anything but the bottom of a tankard since his beloved Fanny died."

"What if one day he claims the lad?" Finished milking the first goat, Owen patted his rump and went to work on the second. "What will your heart say to that?"

A frown bowed her pretty mouth. "’Twould be too broken to speak."

"Ye should not attach yourself to the lad, Carys." She nodded, but he knew his admonition had fallen on deaf ears. The lass was kind-hearted, too kind-hearted at times. Owen milked the spotted goat with the ragged ears and came to his feet. "Wait here. I’ll fill a pint and ye can be on your way."

"Andras says ye are to bring the milk, return with me."

"Oh, he does, does he? How many years have ye been doing his bidding now?"

"Ye know full well I don’t do his bidding, Owen. I have helped him minister to the sick and dying for... well, for as long as I can remember."

"I awoke knowing it."

"Knowing what?"

"That someone would die soon."

"Are ye familiar with the cobbler from Abergwaun, Clough the elder?"

Owen nodded.

"’Tis rumored he’ll not last through sunset." She paused. "His wife has called for the sin eater. Andras says ye should bring the milk and tickle two feet with one feather."

A smile tugged his lips. Carys’ peculiar speech and strange superstitions amused him. Other than Andras Maddock, the lass had been the only human to show him kindness.

"Very well. I still must fill the pint before we journey down."

Her lovely face took on a contemplative expression.

"What is it, lass?"

"Do ye think Mistress Bellamy walked over a grave while carrying Ifan?"

"I don’t abide by superstitious nonsense and ye would be wise not to."

"During the babe’s christening, his head fell back into the arms holding him."

"What is the meaning of such an event?"

Green eyes narrowed. "He might live to a ripe old age had he kept his head up."

Owen shook his head and held back a laugh. "Tis time ye stop believing in foolish tales, Carys. After the babe’s harrowing birth, he lacked the strength to keep his head up."

Owen followed her eyes while she inspected his humble surroundings—the dilapidated wooden abode, a bowed-roof lean-to and decrepit goat pen. Bringing her scrutiny to an end, she caught his eyes again. "Do ye ever hear the faeries sing?" Without waiting for an answer, she continued. "Or monsters, giants, magicians, other creatures of the enchantment?"

"Ye think the Land of Faeries my neighbors, the home of the Tylwyth Teg?"

She nodded. "What say ye about the Coblynau who are said to haunt the mines and quarries? Is it true they stand one foot tall, are hideous and unsightly?"

He gave a dramatic shudder. "Revolting enough to scare the mustache off a hare."

"Don’t tease me. I know hares don’t have mustaches." A pensive look wrinkled her brow. "The elders claim ye live amid the green meadows of enchantment."

"Do they now?"

"Aye. Do ye?"

"I’ve seen the Gwyllion on occasion, female fairies of frightful characteristics. ’Tis said they haunt the lonely roads of the mountains to lead night-wanderers astray."

Her eyes grew wide for a moment and then narrowed again when he winked. "Oh, ye are spiteful, Owen Rhys. My time is squandered talking to ye about the fae and enchantment." An exasperated sigh left her lips. "I’ll not walk with ye down the hill. Deliver the pint before midday, and mayhap ye should prepare to spend the night. Sire Clough has one foot in this world, one in the afterlife."

"Tell Doctor Maddock I’ll bring the milk and remain until Clough passes."

She turned and called out over her shoulder. "If the Gwyllion take me, will be on your head."

"Carys, wait!"

With questioning eyes, she faced him. "Aye?"

"Most avoid me as they would a leper. Do ye not fear me?"

Her smile dazzled him. "I don’t abide by such superstitions and ye’d be wise not to, Owen Rhys."

She bounded off, a lively tune on her lips and her long, russet hair swaying against her slender back. Carys’ life mirrored his somewhat. Andras Maddock took her in after her parents were murdered. Villagers found their remains in the woods, their throats ripped out, and their limbs severed from their bodies.

Werewolves with eyes of fire, the elders claimed. ‘The lycanthrope journey from Pembroke Castle on occasion and haunt the shadowy domains of the forest.’ Owen didn’t know if the tales held merit or were the superstitious babblings of men after consuming large tankards of ale. He didn’t care to find out.

Carys was ten years of age when her parents passed. She considered Andras her only kin now. Owen envied the girl’s good fortune in that regard. What he wouldn’t give to gaze upon the physician every hour of every day.

A visit to the man’s elegant dwelling served as a dismal reminder of his own beggarly life. He didn’t have a prayer of elevating his station. Once his sire passed, he had two choices before him, follow in his tad’s footsteps or starve.

He no longer cared what the town folk thought of his miserable existence. He’d grown accustomed to their brash stares and ill-mannered remarks. Andras Maddock was another matter. The physician had never looked at him in an uncivil manner. On the contrary, the man’s dove-gray eyes held kindness and an unnamed emotion Owen couldn’t decipher.

Andras didn’t have the slightest inkling his nearness threatened to destroy the restraint Owen held in control. How could the man know he ignited a fire in his blood that could never be fanned to life? The physician dazzled him. He could think of no other word for what he felt toward the man.

None of the lasses from the village had ever granted him as much as a g’day, but at twenty-five years of age, shouldn’t he be wishing they would? Therein lay the problem. Not one fair-headed, long-limbed girl sent his pulse racing or caused his heart to thunder against his ribs. That euphoria was reserved for Andras.

"Nine shames on ye, Owen! Ye are nobody, destined to a life of carnal wonderings, longing for the caress of Andras’s hands." After his outburst, the doe looked his way with soulful eyes. He patted her flank and continued his tirade. "Ye lust after a man who doesn't know ye exist. If he did, he'd run fast and far to find out ye craved his look, his touch." He rose from the stool and plucked the full pail of milk from the ground. "Duw, help me. Is it not enough I must wear the heavy mantle of a sin eater, but must I covet what I can never have?"

After changing into clean corduroy trousers―the one pair he owned―a fresh linen shirt and a leather jerkin, Owen set off for Abergwaun with a pint of milk tucked under his arm.

He'd avoid the main thoroughfare of his village, head east along the coast until he arrived at the back side of the brickworks in lower town Abergwaun. Once he climbed the steep cliff to upper town, he'd have to pass through the marketplace and village shops to reach Maddock Manor.

He wouldn't be assaulted, merely ignored. A beating would be preferable to abhorrence in his opinion, but the inhabitants would rather sell their souls than acknowledge, much less touch, a sin eater.

Following the sun's brilliant rays, Owen stopped at the top of Maddock's summit and took in the breathtaking view of the sea. The man shared the scene with a church and all shape and manner of houses near the common center. He drew a deep breath, turned, and walked through the crowded market with his head down, not bothering to glance at the residents bustling in and out of the quaint shops.

The stately manor loomed before him, its pristine white shutters and matching pillars glistening under golden streaks of light. Reaching for the brass knocker, he lifted it and rapped three times.

The tread of light footsteps reached him from the other side and then the door opened. Carys greeted him with a smile and a flourish of her arm toward the foyer. "Come, Andras awaits ye in his study."

A shiver of anticipation sent goose bumps rippling along his skin and he hadn't even laid eyes on the man yet. If only he could leave his wanton desire at the door stoop. He followed Carys into the study where Andras sat behind a large mahogany desk.

Rising from the chair, Andras skirted the desk and extended his hand toward the pint of milk. "Thank ye for coming, Owen."

He nodded and met his eyes, captivated by the power of his stare. Why did they always seem to shimmer in incandescent hues of scarlet? The room loomed dark, like the entire house. He'd never been inside Maddock Manor when it hadn't been cast in muted shades of gray. The heavy brocade draperies met in the middle, blocking out the sun, and the lanterns had been turned down. Behind him, the door eased shut and Carys' footsteps echoed down the hallway.

The air between him and Andras hummed with the usual undercurrents, but Owen never knew whether the awkwardness stemmed from his social ineptness or from another unknown source.

Across the room, Andras's eyes narrowed. "Carys told ye about Bevan Clough?"

"She did," he managed to eke out.

"I expect the man will leave us this night." The deep timbre of Andras's voice whispered over him, eliciting images that refused to leave his head.

"May Duw welcome him," he said willing the erotic visions to leave. "I'm prepared to stay in the stables until morn."

The gray eyes softened. "Ye will stay in the manor, in a room I've prepared for―"

"No, 'twould be unseemly."

A dark brow rose. "In what regard?"

"The presence of a sin eater in the manor would cast aspersions―"

"I'm lord of my manor." His mesmerizing voice filled the warm space between their bodies. "No man tells me who I might host under my own roof."

Owen breathed out a sigh. "I can't stay in the manor. 'Tis for one night, and I'm accustomed to lesser quarters."

"More than one night, I fear. Mistress Davies also courts death, although I expect her to linger a day or two." He took the pint of milk to his desk, attempted to remove the stopper and met resistance. "It makes little sense for ye to return to Wdig on the morrow only to make the journey again the following day."

The woman would die within the day, two at best. He'd felt the cold winds of death nudge his soul on two occasions of late. He didn't know who'd die but sensed the dark foreboding, as his father and grandfather had.

Intent on assisting him with the stopper, Owen walked toward him. "Let me help ye with..."

To his surprise, the stopper separated from the bottle, carrying with it an inch or two of glass. Andras's hand crashed into the jagged top of the pint and he grimaced. "Argh! Now I shall have to strain the milk through a cloth to be certain the babe doesn't ingest bits of glass."

Owen looked about the room for a cloth to stop the blood flow, shocked to discover not a drop oozed from the wound. He stood close enough to see the cut—the deep separation of skin—but not a dribble of blood appeared along the ragged tear.

When their eyes met, Andras reached into the pocket of his vest, pulled out a linen handkerchief, and clamped it over the wound. "'Tis not but a scratch, nothing to fret over."

His father's last words echoed in his mind. "Beware of the long tooth, son."

The faint red glow in Andras's eyes, the gloomy manor, and now the lack of blood set off warning bells in his head. Dazed by the likelihood, Owen took a step back with the word vampire roaring through his head.

"If ye insist on retiring with the beasts, see my man Bellamy, and he'll supply ye with a blanket."

"Very well, Doctor Maddock. I'll be on my way then. If ye need me for anything, ye will find me in the stables."

He stared at the handkerchief covering the wound, his brow creased.

"Aye, if I hear anything from the Cloughs, I'll summon ye."

Owen turned, headed for the door and repressed a shiver. On the way to the stables, he wondered if the shiver was a result of being in the exquisite man's presence or because he'd just held a conversation with a long tooth?