The Kingdom of Mercia, England, 756 AD

His horse's muscles flexed and bunched beneath him. Nausea rose in his throat at the stench of human blood. Blaise mustered his resolve and with smooth expertise raised the oval shield. He blocked an endless hail of arrows while he swung the long silver blade to and fro cutting down Saxons. His Father sent him to the border village to stop the bloodshed. How did he get caught up in the furry and lead the charge against Mercia? Death was all around him. "God's teeth, get me out of this alive," he mumbled beneath his breath.

His eardrums rung with the staggering high-pitched squeal of his horse. He glanced down at the black spear which impaled the steed's chest. He threw down his long sword, then tucked his legs in and fell as he had been trained. He hit the ground, tumbled forward, and stood. His heart plummeted as he gazed upon the roan quivering in a death spasm. Blaise's chest and belly clenched with a heavy sadness, but he didn't have time to mourn the noble beast's passing. He grabbed his sword off the ground, pivoted and swung at a blur of a man. A crimson puddle soaked the Saxon's tunic as he fell.

Blaise rushed forward with sword raised. He met another Saxon. Swords clashed. Sparks flew. Blaise sidestepped the foe's swing and moved in with a clean stab through the chest. He withdrew his blade as the body fell. Fevered with blood lust he swung his sword with a mad furry until an arrow struck him.

He moaned and stumbled back from the impact. A ruthless pain sliced through his chest. His upper body was on fire. The pain tore his breath into jagged gasps. He glanced at the shaft that pierced his chest and grasped the end. He pulled. It broke in his hand. The point and half the arrow shaft were lodged in his chest.

The heavy acidic odor of blood clung to the air. His insides turned over as wet blood seeped through his tunic, chilling his flesh.

With no time to tend his wounds, he tightened his hold on the sword's hilt and swung forward. Weak from the wound, he lost his grip. The sword hit the ground. Blaise collapsed in a hard thud onto the bloodstained dirt. He was conscious, but could not lift his head to see what was happening.

"God, don't let me die." He imagined his father's face in the dirt. Two bright blue eyes peaked out from bushy flame red hair and a long mustache. Father forgive me. You bade me prevent all of this.

What had he done? He felt like an addle-headed fool. He was supposed to calm the villagers. It was not time to battle with Mercia. Powys would make their move when the time was right. This was the first and probably the last time his father sent him on any mission.

In a groggy state, dazed from the loss of blood, he felt a tug at his neck. Someone turned him over. He tried to open his eyes. Easing his gaze into a narrow squint he caught a blurred image of three Saxons peering down at him.

"This one wears a torque."

"Ah, what have we here?"

"It's Elisedd's son, it is."

"Bring him to King Aethelbald."

They pulled him to his feet but his knees gave way. Blaise gritted his teeth against the bone-jarring pain as he hit the ground. The clumsy attempts at making him stand caused his muscles and head to throb. Finally they dragged him to a horse and flung him upon it like a sack of grain. Each jolt of the trotting steed caused a pain like the burn of fire and ice to cut through his chest.

The Saxon reined the horse to a stop, dismounted, and pulled Blaise off. Gripping him by his shoulders, two Saxons dragged him into the great hall. He swore and cursed all the way but no one seemed to care. They came to a sudden halt before the dais of king Aethelbald.

The balding Mercia king stepped forward and cupped Blaise's chin as he stared at him with large pale blue eyes, his gold brows bunched together. "The great Elisedd sends his youngest son to battle me with naught but a band of villagers?"

It was none of Elisedd's doing. Blaise alone was guilty. "A handful of Powys villagers are a fair match for a hundred well armed Saxons, soft and lazy as you are," he said with affront to hide his shame at being reckless and getting captured.

Aethelbald's eyes flickered with anger for a brief moment. Then he laughed loud and heartily. "You are Elisedd's son." The tall, stiff muscled king turned to his guards. "Take him to the hearth where the other dogs stay. Wrap a chain around the end of his torque and fasten the other end to the wall of the hearth. That will keep the cur in his place." Aethelbald flashed a toothy grin.

As the guards dragged Blaise to the hearth they kicked aside one of the yapping hounds. Even with the arrow still in his chest, Blaise was chained to the gray, soot-covered fireplace.

"God's teeth," he swore. "I should have listened to my Father."

He fixed a hard gaze upon Aethelbald. He had learned as a child in the practice yard of Dinas Bran to show no sign of pain or fear, lest his father would scowl and his older brother taunt him. Blaise would not let it show that his gashed chest throbbed nor his head reeled with grogginess.

The Saxon King neared the hearth. "I want Elisedd of Powys. If you were merely kept hostage in a fashion of hospitality your sire would bide his time." As he hovered about Blaise the stench of his sour ale-breath weakened the Celt's already queasy stomach. "But, when he hears I have chained you like a dog and will not feed you, then he will come," Aethelbald threatened with a baleful glare. "And I will finally be able to fight on my terms, not in the green bogs of the marshland nor that unbreachable castle of Dinas Bran. Here in Mercia I will put an end to Elisedd of Powys."

He choked back a gagging cough. "You are not man enough to kill a Powys king," he challenged in a cold steady tone.

"Father?"

Blaise glanced toward the sweet voice of a maiden. Glistening flaxen hair framed a soft face, sparkling blue eyes, and a small turned-up nose. Aethelbald's daughter.

She glided gracefully to Blaise and laid her hand on his shoulder. "You are wounded."

He stared, unable to speak.

With her hands on her hips she turned to Aethelbald. "Sire, 'tis my duty to tend his wounds. In truth, when I am taken from Mercia there will be no one to tend to the wounded."

"Daughter, do not speak of this now," Aethelbald warned in a sharp demanding tone.

After a dramatic toss of her head, she flashed Aethelbald a seething, tight-lipped expression. "Is he not a prince of Powys?"

"Aye, 'tis Elisedd's youngest get."

"Then I will tend him. Now." She glanced at the prisoner. "What is your name?"

"I am Blaise." His gaze locked on her face: creamy skin, an impish nose, and sparkling eyes.

She turned to her father. " 'Tis my duty as I am the lady of Mercia and I will do it. If not, the Prince of Powys will die and fetch you nay a coin as a hostage."

The tone in her voice was almost a dare to her sire. Even in his groggy state it was clear to Blaise that she was angry at the king. And whatever it was about, Aethelbald didn't want to speak of it.

The king waved his large, ring-covered hand airily. "Aye Ricole, tend his wounds. But feed him nothing and do not loosen his chains."

"I cannot heal him properly if he is not fed." She rolled her large azure eyes. " 'Tis not right, father." She shook her yellow head.

"Daughter, do as I say."

"Well it will not be my fault if he is slow to mend."

He couldn't tear his gaze away from the maiden. Comely she was and she stood up to Aethelbald. Nay, she was a Mercian princess. His enemy. He may have to kill her one day so he could not think of her as a woman. But how could he not? His mouth dropped open.

"I have to pull out the arrow." She turned toward a servant. "Bring ale." Then she looked at Blaise. "Drink to lessen the pain."

"Pull it now," he said for the pain bolstered his courage.

"Nay. You will drink first." Her crisp tone showed she was used to giving commands. She held a goblet brimmed with ale to his lips. "Drink."

She called for another goblet and poured some of the ale on his wound. He gritted his teeth to keep from cringing at the sting.

"I know it hurts." Her tone was tender.

"Nay," he answered curtly. "It does not hurt!"

Now she rolled her eyes and shook her head at him. Then she took a hot poker from the fire and set it against the flames.

Two guards held him down by his arms with his neck still chained to the wall.

She took a deep breath. "Ready?"

He nodded.

She yanked out the arrow stub. He would not yell out, yet he could not stop his eyes from watering from the pain. Ricole then laid the hot poker against the wound to stop the bleeding. The burning scent of his own flesh turned his stomach. He closed his eyes, shutting his gaze from her for the first time.

A servant brought another goblet of golden ale which Blaise drank. Then he handed the empty cup to the princess. He gazed once more into her large blue eyes. That was the last thing he saw before he passed out.

* * *

The next day he awoke to a dog licking his face. He pushed himself up and kicked at the dog. "Be gone!"

But the hounds paced about the hearth. It was their home and now his as well. His stomach felt hollow and he craved food. But Aethelbald had ordered that he not be fed.

"I want water." Cool water for his lips and his face. He turned his head. The hall was empty save for one young guard. "I need a damp cloth and a cup of cool water," Blaise said.

"I am not to leave my post. I am here to guard you."

At that moment, the princess walked in. She nodded to the guard. "Good morn Scan. How fares the hostage?"

"He needs a damp cloth and a cup of water."

Ricole looked at Blaise and smiled. "I will have the servants fetch it."

She went back to the kitchen and returned with a servant holding a rag and a cup. Ricole held two shiny red apples. Blaise looked up at her as she placed the rag on his forehead with a soft feathery touch, her eyes as bright as a full moon. They glistened. He was lost in their depth and could not look away. Ricole put the cup to his lips and bade him drink.

"Sip slowly," she said. When he finished she handed him one of the apples and gave one to Scan.

Blaise bit into the ripe fruit. The gold apples of Avalon could not have tasted better. He devoured the apple, core and all in a blink of the eye.

"I shall bring you more food this eve. Take care not to anger my father and it may go better for you." She turned with poise and gracefully strolled away.

Blaise wiped the juice off his chin with the back of his hand. "Your princess seems kind."

"It is her duty to tend the wounded."

"You think she sees me more as a wounded solider then a hostage."

"Aye. As lady of the manor she has nothing to do with hostages but she is in charge of the wounded."

"She tends well to the wounded then." He paused. "Is she betrothed?" Now why did he ask that?

"King Aethelbald means to use her for an alliance with Cuthred of Wessex. She says she won't marry the brute."

So that was why the princess was mad at her sire. "Cuthred is a barbarian. Why does Aethelbald give his daughter to such a man?"

"The king means to make peace. Aside from Powys, Wessex is our greatest enemy."

"So, he ordered the princess to wed Cuthred. She seems more likely to give orders than to take them."

"She was always bossy, even as a child. She is the king's daughter and the only noble lady at the royal manor. People do what she says and Aethelbald spends little time with her. This is the first and only order he ever gave her," Scan answered.

Blaise smiled. "It sounds like you know her well."

"She is my friend."

Blaise had to bite back his laughter. The princess? His friend? This know-nothing guard was too friendly with the princess and with enemies of the court. The fool would say anything. Blaise could get all the information he needed by just asking. Then he could make his escape when the time was right.

Copyright © 2002 by Cornelia Amiri