Chapter Two

A lantern near the door provided the meager light in Andras's stables. From his pile of hay in an empty stall, Owen clutched the woolen blanket and rolled to his side. He'd dissected the events in Andras's study a hundred times and stood no closer now to solving the mystery than he had hours ago.

He thought about his father's last days on earth. On his deathbed, the man had rambled about Welsh legend and lore, but Owen expected nothing less from the dyed-in-the-wool Welshman. Diphtheria had ravaged his body, the resultant fever addling his sharp brain. He blathered about Nos Galan Gaeaf, the night the spirits walk the land and the night the tail-less black sow comes to steal the living.

Andras had arrived at their dwelling in a vain attempt to save him, but departed at sunrise with a somber face and a shake of his long black hair. Afterward, his father had spewed endlessly about vampires, werewolves and other beastly creatures roaming the desolate lakes and mountain heights of Pembrokeshire.

"Beware of the long tooth, son," he'd said, his pale blue eyes fixed on the door. He'd spoken other words, freezing the blood in Owen's veins. "Lladd amser." Owen had seldom heard the words for Killing Time, but there could be no mistake in their meaning or the dire warning from his father's trembling lips.

Unable to sleep now, Owen rose from his bed of straw, believing a brisk walk around the massive interior might bring him respite. After tossing a woolen blanket his way, Bellamy, Andras's blade smith, had long ago retired to his modest cottage on the property.

Drawn to Bellamy's forge and an array of the smithy's tools—tongs, hammer and anvil—Owen's gaze drifted to a large chest sitting katy-corner to the man's slack tub. An ornate, oak trunk beckoned him. Well-crafted, it seemed out of place in such a rough-hewn setting. He dropped to his knees and stared at the wrought-iron clasp for several long moments before attempting to lift the lid. To his surprise, it wasn't locked.

A length of luxurious black silk hid the contents from view, heightening his curiosity. Pulling back a corner of the fabric, a short gasp of awe found him. There lay a sword. Not just any sword, but a weapon that would be the envy of every soldier and warlord in Wales. Owen looked over his shoulder to ensure no one had entered the stables, and then plucked the rapier from its secret grave. Laying it flat in his hands, he estimated the length to be over forty inches, the weight close to ten pounds.

On one side of the guard were the words Tywysog Cymru, Prince of Wales, 1400-16, and around the pommel was the full name of the warlord, Owain ap Gruffydd Fychan.

Owen's heart slowed to a heavy thud. Why would Andras be in possession of Glyndŵr's renowned sword? Latent memories of schooling from his father surfaced. Seated at the trestle table, and reading by lamplight, the elderly sin eater had read to him every night, his tedious lessons on Welsh history placing him into a snore at times.

"Our beloved Prince instigated the revolt against Henry IV of England over four hundred years ago," he'd said, pointing to a colorful depiction in a book. "'Tis true his army was put down, but not without triumph." Owen had asked at the time if the Prince of Wales died during the uprising. "Nay, but Glyndŵr disappeared, was never captured or betrayed. Some say he's buried on the land once owned by his children, but 'tis a secret. "The precious gems on the hilt winked at Owen, returning him to the present. He came to his feet, hefted the sword over his head and sliced through the stagnant air of the barn. A chuckle followed on the heels of his inept thrust. The sword was more than half his height in length, and him inexperienced, a casual observer would deem him a clumsy oaf for brandishing the weapon in such a manner.

He stooped and returned the rapier to the chest, the niggling questions about Andras more befuddling than before. The man emanated danger, lethal danger. It frightened and thrilled him.

Andras's voice echoed in the spacious chamber. "Owen? Why are ye not asleep?"

Turning to face him with his heart beating like a captured wren and a stutter falling from his lips, he met Andras's piercing gaze. "I-I thought I heard a noise coming from the forge."

Andras studied him for a long moment before speaking. "Mistress Clough calls for the sin eater."

He brushed the remnants of straw from his clothing and ran a hand through his tousled hair. "The elder has passed?"

"If not, he'll depart soon."

Under a star-fading sky, Owen kept pace with Andras's long strides as they descended the steep hill and made their way to the Clough's residence in lower town. Outside their abode, a handful of watchers stood ready--men who’d do their best in the next two days to raise Clough from the dead and in the process affirm the man had passed on to the afterlife.

Owen followed Andras through the door and into the kitchen where the elderly man's corpse was laid out on the table. The new widow, sons, daughters and grandchildren surrounded his body, their mournful cries and prayers drifting toward the rafters of the meek dwelling.

The rotund, gray-haired wife looked up upon their entrance, walked to the cupboard and returned with a mazar bowl of ale and a loaf of bread. She placed the loaf on her husband's abdomen and reached across the corpse, handing Owen the bowl of ale with one hand, dropping a six-pence into his palm with the other.

She dabbed her red-rimmed eyes with the corner of her white apron and looked to Andras. "Will ye not pronounce him dead, sir?"

Andras placed two fingers against his neck, leaned over his body and closed his eyes. Moments later, he lifted his head and nodded. "He's gone."

A strangled sob left the woman's throat. "According to my husband's last wishes, instruct the sin eater to assume his transgressions."

When Andras turned to him with a nod, Owen stepped up to the table with the ale in his hand. He put the bowl to his lips and emptied it. Next, he picked up the bread from the man's torso, broke off several pieces from the crusty loaf and chewed. The room fell silent.

"I give easement and rest now to thee, Bevan Clough," he whispered. "Come not down the lanes or in our meadows. And for thy peace, I pawn my own soul. Amen."

His head bowed with his eyes cast upon the dead man, Owen stuffed the last of the bread into his mouth and chewed. A chorus of wails erupted in the room and the widow fell upon her husband's chest. Owen took a step back, his eyes drawn to the limpid, gray mist escaping the man's mouth.

He recalled the first time he saw a soul leave the body. At the young age of eleven, he'd accompanied his father to the parish house where the parson was abed, the death rattle wheezing from his chest. After the man breathed his last, and while his father stood over him partaking of the dead cakes, the man's soul slipped from his open mouth and disappeared skyward, like smoke up a chimney.

"We know not who is there to meet his soul," his father had said that evening. "'Tis for Duw and Diawl to fight over."

"Do the others not see his soul leave?" he'd asked.

"Nay, they do not wish to see."

Andras nudged his arm, breaching his memories. "Our duties are done; let us be on our way."

Dragging his feet through town, Owen had difficulty keeping up with Andras's brisk pace. The man had speed; he'd allow him that. By the time they reached the bottom of the steep knoll, Owen drew a deep breath and gathered his strength. A lack of sleep and the unsettling aspects of his duties contributed to his weariness.

Andras led the way up the rugged crag, looking over his shoulder now and then to see if he followed. Owen lumbered up the hill—he could only think of it as lumbering compared to Andras's graceful strides—and focused on the moonlit path, matching Andras's every footprint with one of his own. He had an uncanny feeling the nimble doctor would have reached the summit by now left to his own devices.

An owl screamed overhead, shattering Owen's concentration. He lost his footing, clutched a nearby branch and groaned when it slipped from his grasp. Tumbling backwards, his knees rolled over his shoulders in rapid succession and swallowed up the ground he'd just ascended. A dull thud reached his ears and a white-hot pain shot through him when his head made contact with the rock he'd used as a stepping stone minutes ago.

Coming to an abrupt halt, he lifted his battered body into a sitting position with a moan that seemed to come from outside his body. He looked up and imagined a cloaked hunter riding through the night sky. Wavering between lucidity and the dream world, Andras's dark visage floated before him, powerful and sure. His dazed brain registered the improbability—how had the man appeared so suddenly?

The stars shifted and then a black veil enveloped him.

* * *

Owen awoke to strange surroundings. A heather-scented pillow comforted his throbbing head and fine linen bed sheets rustled beneath him. I've died and entered heaven.

"No, ye haven't left the earth, Owen. I brought ye into the manor after the fall knocked ye senseless."

His pulse beat a painful rhythm near his temples when he snapped his head toward the voice. He hadn't said the words aloud, he was certain of it, and yet Andras knew what he'd been thinking. He rolled his legs toward the edge of the bed and attempted to rise.

"Do not leave that bed, Owen! Ye took a hard blow and I've stitched the torn flesh at the back of your head. Ye must remain abed for the day."

He didn't want to stay in Andras's house. It reminded him of everything he lacked in life...and everything he desired, notwithstanding the mere presence of the man left him weak-kneed and tongue-tied.

"I can't stay; I must return..." The room spun and he felt his eyes roll back in his head. Andras bolted from his chair beside the bed and eased him back onto the pillow.

"Ye are safe here, Owen. No harm will come to ye."

A shiver coursed through him.

"Ye tremble. Is it me ye fear?"

He shook his head.

"What, then? Why do ye tremble?"

"I've never stayed in such a fine abode and feel well out of my element." He couldn't meet that smoky gaze, not now when he felt so weak, so vulnerable. "I'll keep my promise and stay in the stables until Mistress Davies passes."

Andras hadn't withdrawn his hand from his shoulder. "Tell me true, Owen, is it me ye fear?"

Ignoring his question, he asked one of his own. "What time of day is it?"

"Midday," Andras answered without pause and stared into his eyes for a long moment.

"Why are the curtains drawn? Why do ye never allow sunlight in?"

"Ye were sleeping, and after a head injury 'tis best to keep the patient calm, the room dark." He removed his hand from his shoulder, reached for a glass of water on the oak table near the bed and handed it to him. "Ye should have an ample amount of liquid if ye are able to stomach it."

"Your hand didn't bleed."

"Pardon?"

"When ye pulled the stopper from the pint of milk, your hand smashed into the jagged glass and tore your skin, yet there was no blood."

He stood back; his gaze locked with his. "Ye are mistaken. I assure ye, the wound bled."

Andras's familiar scent—a virile woodsy aroma—wafted over him, wreaking havoc on his befuddled mind.

"Whatever your overactive imagination has conjured, are ye certain your fear of me doesn't stem from another source?"

Fighting numbing fatigue, Owen struggled to process the question. Duw help him; if the man could read his mind, any answer he offered would be disassembled in a heartbeat. "What other source?" he managed, his pulse launching into an erratic tempo.

Andras's handsome face lost all expression. Owen recognized the man's ability to mask his emotions, a skill he also possessed. "Forgive me. This is not the proper time for this discussion." He ran a hand through the ebony strands at the side of his head and blew air out his lips. "I've prepared a tincture to help ye rest." Pulling a vial from his vest pocket, he popped the stopper with his thumb and handed it to him. "Know this: I'd rather cut off my hand than harm ye."

Owen rose to an elbow and sucked in a short breath. The tremor running through him was so intense the vial shook in his hand. He'd never been important to anyone except his father, never dreamed he'd hear such words from Andras's lips. Fearful his voice would crack under a response he put the bottle to his mouth and downed the bitter liquid. Then he eased his head onto the pillow again, aware of the stitches at the back of his head.

Andras remained at the foot of the bed, his dark form growing blurrier by the minute. The potent remedy warmed Owen's stomach and spread out to his feather-light limbs. His eyes grew heavy and the sound of footsteps heading toward the door came to him through a tunnel.

He surrendered to the blessed world of forgetfulness with Andras's words echoing in his ears, 'I'd rather cut off my hand than harm ye.'

* * *

Owen opened his eyes to ribbons of sunlight dancing across the wooden-plank floor. Remnants of strange dreams surfaced—his body rolling down a steep hill, a dark shape hovering over him, and Andras's reassuring voice. If only he could remember the words from the man's beautiful mouth.

He pushed up in bed and looked about the spacious chamber. He wasn't lying upon his dingy cot in his one-room hut. His cracked, plastered walls weren't adorned with Holbein the Younger's portraits of Edward, Prince of Wales, and Anne of Cleves. Nor did a mahogany wardrobe angled into a corner and matching Edwardian chest at the foot of the four-poster bed fill his vision when he awoke each morn.

A dull ache at the base of his skull took flight. If he'd acquired it tumbling down the steep incline he hadn't been dreaming.

Morsels of conversation trickled into his brain slower than molasses dripping on a wintry day. Heat rose in his cheeks. Had he asked Andras why his wound hadn't bled? Had he questioned the man about the lack of sunlight in the manor? Duw save him, he had.

Perhaps he'd lost all sense of reason at the time, allowed his misguided judgment to speak on his behalf. Warmth enveloped him, the sun's warmth. The curtains weren't drawn shut, and outside, a golden sphere graced a vivid blue sky.

Curiosity compelled him to rise from bed. On wobbly legs, he padded toward the nine-paned window and took in the view of the courtyard below. Carys and a trio of her friends came into view. Perched on a circular stone bench surrounding a fountain, their heads were bowed, their eyes focused on the busy motion of their hands. He wondered what intrigued them so, but then lifted his chin to scan the area for Andras. Disappointment washed over him, and a flicker of recurring doubt. No matter how hard he tried to disavow it, the wound hadn't bled.

The sound of laughter drifted toward the window, drawing his gaze back to the young women. He knew Carys' friends, not personally, but knew of them. If they had an inkling that he, the sin eater, was at this very moment looking down at them from Andras's bedchamber, they'd flee as if a phantom had risen from the grave to chase them down.

Glynnis, daughter of Edward Hale, the village cordwainer, rose from her perch like a graceful swan to show off her wares to Bronwen, old widow Carnes's daughter. In the next instant, Tarren, youngest daughter of Sayer Daw, the stonemason, joined them and motioned for Carys.

Owen stepped back from the window, but not before Carys looked up and offered him a cheery smile. Nine shames! She'd spotted him, and there'd be the devil for her to pay if her companions caught sight of him.

Scurrying toward the bed on bare feet, his big toe caught the polished floor. His arms skittered out, his spine went rigid, and for a moment his upright momentum hung in the balance. After righting himself, he spied his clothing on a nearby chair and walked toward it. He had to get out of the manor, couldn't allow Andras's good name to be dragged through the mud for harboring a sin eater.

He pulled the nightshirt over his head—Andras's, he assumed—and stepped into his trousers. About to push his arms into the sleeves of his shirt, he heard the door creak open.

"And where might ye be off to, Owen Rhys?"

He offered Carys a weak smile. "I'm feeling well now and thought to help Bellamy in the stables."

She put the tray of food down on the night table and adjusted the paisley shawl about her squared shoulders. "I gave my word to Doctor Maddock ye'd not leave this room."

The sound of Andras's name caused his heart to flutter. "I can't stay here, Carys." He put his hands out, palms up. "Ye understand."

"I understand one thing. Ye are not leaving this bed today unless ye have little regard for my wrath." She snuck a peek at his bare chest with narrowed eyes. "I'm not leaving until ye are tucked in snugger than an earwig."

"Aye." His shoulders sagged in defeat. "Turn around and I'll shuck my trousers."

With a smug look, she folded her arms over her chest, showed him her back, and waited.

Owen exchanged the trousers for the nightshirt and climbed beneath the bed covers with his back resting against the headboard. "Ye can look now."

Carys pivoted, walked to the bed and pulled the quilt up to his chin, clucking like a hen as she arranged it. "Now, we'll have no more talk of ye leaving until Andras looks at that lump on your head."

Owen swallowed, hard. Did he want to know the answer to the question nagging him since he'd awakened in the man's bed? Yes, he did. "Where is Doctor Maddock this morning?"

The guarded edge to his voice drew her gaze to his face. "Asleep, as ye should be, and not looking out the window spying on pretty lasses."

Her attempt at humor put him at ease. "I wasn't spying, but I admit to curiosity. What were ye making?"

"Bronwen's mother harvested the last sheaves of corn this morn for dollies." Her features took on a thoughtful expression. "The widow claims spirits live in the fields and die when the corn is scythed. The corn dollies will provide resting places for the spirits and a bountiful harvest will follow next year."

Owen stifled a yawn, then a chuckle, and wondered about her penchant for superstitious musings.

Reaching for the tray next to the bed she set it on his lap. "I'll leave ye now to Cook's chicken broth and milk." She crossed the room and stopped by the door, turning to him again. "After I have your promise there'll be no more attempts to flee."

The delicious aroma of soup spiraled up his nose and his stomach growled. He wouldn't win the battle with the stubborn Welsh lass in any event. "Ye have my word."

After rewarding him with a smile, Carys closed the door behind her, leaving Owen to stew over a league of unanswered questions about the mysterious physician.