Terri Brisbin Read Free Page A

apples, he took them with him as he left the dais to speak to his men.
    Remembering the cautious steps of his horse on their approach to the keep, he decided to check it in the stables before retiring. His men, assured of food and ale and a challenging dice game, were well cared for. As he walked through the hall and out into the yard, a pang of wanting, so strong that it took his breath away, struck him. Looking around he knew that this was what he wanted—a well-ordered, successful estate, his people well fed, and a family to enjoy it with him. Pushing away such sentimental thoughts, Braden focused on his problem.
    First he needed to find his betrothed and take her to Wynwydd. Then he needed to show his people that he could keep a wife and gain an heir. The wise-woman of his village had assured him that a spring bride, a woman of black she said, would be fruitful.
    At first he’d scoffed at the instructions she’d given him; any logical man would have. The ceremony should take place outside the walls of his castle, away from any place of death or fear and under a bower of fresh flowers and blossoms and vines. He should plant his seed during the time of the earth’s own fertility, in that same bower, and the dew of his wife’s release should mix with the morning dew. Gwanwyn promised that his seed would grow and produce a son and end the curse that had haunted their family for the past five generations.
    So, after years of not believing the stories and living in a sort of cowardly refusal to seek a wife and sons, Braden had finally faced the need for an heir. And he did not want to follow in the steps of the other Wynwydds before him—he wanted to live and see his sons. The wise-woman, raised in the ancient Cymric traditions, had been his last hope.
    Braden strode down the path that led to the stables. Shaking his head, he laughed under his breath at the speculation and rumors about his family and the powers they supposedly had. Although they were suspected of being warlocks and able to lay curses on others, it was someone else’s words that had seemed to damn the Wynwydd males to never living long enough to see their sons.
    All the deaths or injuries seemed to be natural, no foul play evident, but none of his male relatives or ancestors back to his great-great-great-grandfather had ever looked on a living son. Even wives were not immune from it—many had died while birthing sons who did not survive. The birth of daughters had saved many a Wynwydd life, but sons had been costly to produce and never enjoyed. By the time a son was born, his father had either died or gone mad or was blind. A terrible legacy and one which he prayed he’d found a way to end.
    Braden arrived at the stables and knew, from the quiet surrounding it, that all grooming and care was done for the night. Seeking the door, he opened it slowly and quietly so as to not disturb the animals inside and let his eyes adjust to the darkness. His horses stood in the stalls closest to this doorway and he found and quieted his own mount with a few soft whispers and an apple from Orrick’s table.
    It took but a few moments to check the horse’s back leg and determine that there was no injury. As he closed the gate of the stall behind him, a soft sound caught his attention. Turning around and peering down the shadowed line of stalls, he realized it came from the back of the stables. Followingthe enchanting sound, he walked softly on the packed dirt so as to not disturb the maker of it. A few yards from the back wall, he found the source.
    A lantern burned low, giving light to a small circle of the stables. Behind the last stall was an area where someone slept. A few blankets tossed in the corner made up a sleeping pallet, and the lantern and a cup and an empty bowl sat on a wooden crate. Then the crooning began again and he found the person making it, leaning over a colt that lay unmoving in the nearest stall.
    He froze as he recognized the voice. He’d