WAR DUKE OF BRITAIN by Tracy Cooper-Posey

Once and Future Hearts. Book 4.0

Ancient Historical Fantasy Romance

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She is invisible to everyone but the blind man…

Anwen is the least favored companion to Lady Igraine, the Duchess of Cornwall. No man will marry her, for she is old and plain. Instead, she teaches Igraine’s children to read.

Steffan of Durnovaria was once a celebrated warrior in the Duke of Cornwall’s army, a friend to Prince Uther, the High King’s brother, and destined for greatness, until a Saxon war hammer stole his sight and destroyed his life.

To deflect Steffan’s anger from the warriors around him, Igraine directs him to help Anwen teach her daughters. The assignment brings him no happiness and terrifies Anwen, who has never spoken to a man directly in her life.

When the new High King, Uther, meets Igraine for the first time and becomes obsessed with her, Anwen and Steffan are drawn into a web of lies and deceit that could destroy Britain’s fragile peace.

This story is part of the historical fantasy romance series, Once and Future Hearts, set in Britain during the time of King Arthur.

1.0 Born of No Man
2.0 Dragon Kin
3.0 Pendragon Rises
3.5 Once and Future Hearts Box One
4.0 War Duke of Britain
5.0 High King of Britain
6.0 Battle of Mount Badon
6.5 Once and Future Hearts Box Two
7.0 Abduction of Guenivere
8.0 Downfall of Cornwall
8.1 Touch by Maen Llia
9.0 Vengeance of Arthur
9.5 Once and Future Hearts Box Three
10.0 Grace of Lancelot
11.0 The Grail and Glory
12.0 Camlann

A Historical Fantasy Romance/Ancient Historical Romance series

This series is also available as a Special Bundle
{Also see: Fantasy, Historical Fantasy, Historical Romance, Fantasy Romance, Romance, Novels}

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Who’s Who and What’s What for the Series

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Excerpt

EXCERPT FROM WAR DUKE OF BRITAIN
COPYRIGHT © TRACY COOPER-POSEY 2019
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The day her life changed forever began simply enough.  Rhiannon begged a handful of breakfast rolls from the cook, who was yawning as she put together breakfast for the household.  Rhiannon kissed Maeve on the cheek, threw on her cloak, threaded her bow over her shoulder and picked up the staff she carried with her everywhere.

She stole out of the still-slumbering house, across the courtyard and out through the gates.  Emrys and Cai had gone ahead and thoughtfully left one side of the gate open for her.  They were heavy to move by herself.

She let the gate swing shut behind her.  It would no longer be barred, but Emrys and Cai wouldn’t have left it open if they thought there was any danger of marauders stealing through it.  They both had exceptional instincts for trouble.  Their wariness came from years of stealing away from the house to have adventures of their own in the forest.

It had been one such adventure, when they were all barely five years old, when they had met Myrddin, who had become a firm fixture in their lives.  It was likely Emrys and Cai were heading for Myrddin’s little house in the forest, next to the holy shrine he took care of.

Rhiannon bent to check their tracks.  Yes, they were heading in that direction.  They hadn’t bothered to disguise their steps this morning, although they sometimes did just to see if she could find them once more.  She always did.

The rolls she had begged from Maeve would be cold by the time she reached the little cottage but it didn’t matter.  Myrddin made the best oatcakes in the world and they were just as good for breakfast as the highly spiced rolls Maeve made.  The rolls could be warmed, later, as a mid-morning meal which would tide them over until the noon break, when it would be safe to return to the house once more.

The old Roman villa had once been a general’s country abode. The last vestiges of elegance and indolence in the house had been nearly obliterated by a century of harsh farm life.  Stables and lean-tos were attached to the outer walls.  The shady verandahs protected and stored hay and bags of grain for planting next season.  Meat hung, drying, in the high ceilings of nearly every room—especially if the room had a fire pit in the middle.

The old frescoes on the walls were faded and the mosaic patterns of the tiles ruined by broken tiles and missing pieces, whose spaces were filled by hardened mud.

Count Ector considered himself Roman to the core, while Druscilla, his wife, could count her Roman ancestors on both hands and recite their lineage when asked.  The vestiges of a Roman way of life were a result of her influence, not Ector’s.   The house had belonged to her ancestors and had been part of her dowry.  Ector had turned the run-down building into a working farm which kept all of them fed and sheltered when many in Britain could count on neither food nor warmth.

Rhiannon had learned all this over the years between observation, discussion with Emrys and Cai, and in formal debate with Myrddin, whose classical teaching was far harsher and disciplined than any lessons Rhiannon’s mother and father dispensed, even though they were the formal teachers in their lives.

Not that anyone had time for lessons anymore.  While Steffan and Anwen remained in the house with Ector as privileged residents, they had ceased formal lessons more than a year ago.  Now, Steffan was employed as Ector’s secretary and advisor, while Anwen provided the scribing and reading, as needed.  There was little of that, for Ector was not a great letter writer and the news from elsewhere in the world was grim at best.

Which was just as well, for Rhiannon’s mother’s eyes had grown weaker of late.  She could only read script that was large and well-formed, or in very good light.  More often than not, Rhiannon or Emrys or Cai would provide that service for Ector, while everyone pretended that Anwen could have read the script but had chosen not to.

There were other disturbing signs of age in her mother and father that had bothered Rhiannon of late.  Her father’s once pitch-black hair, which Rhiannon had inherited—to her mother’s eternal gratitude—was now thick with white and silver, especially at the temples.

Her mother’s skin, especially around her soft brown eyes and her chin and throat, was soft and loose.  She would sometimes lose track of what she was saying and have to start again, too. She preferred to linger by the fire even on days when the temperature was milder than it was today.  She read when she could or would stare into the flames.  Steffan often sat by her side and let her read to him.

Even Ector’s once rich brown hair was now nearly white.  Like her parents, Ector had come to fatherhood late in life and now he was content to live the life of a gentleman farmer.  It had been many years since he had answered the High King’s call for men and arms. Not in Rhiannon’s memory, at least.  Sometimes, during the winter, when it was safer to travel than high summer, Ector would journey to the south to meet with former army companions.  He returned from those long visits looking grumpy and grave and would huddle in his library with her mother and father, and talk long into the night.

It seemed to Rhiannon that news from beyond the borders of Galleva had always been grim and had grown darker of late.  That was why sneaking off into the forest just after dawn was a foolish thing to do, especially on her own.  The open roads were so chancy now she was more likely to meet someone who would kill them for their warm cloaks than not.

Mostly, the three of them flitted between the trees and stayed off the roads.  They knew every tree and blade of grass for a good five miles beyond Myrddin’s shrine, which gave them an advantage, for people always got lost in the Forest Sauvage.

Because she was hungry and wanted to eat, Rhiannon risked using the faster route along the road which ran through the outer corner of the forest where it jutted down from the north, to almost completely encircle Galleva.  A mile or so along the road, she could take the woodcutters’ tracks to cut across to the main road north where Myrddin’s shrine lay.

Half a mile inside the trees, Rhiannon slowed her steps.  The skin on the back of her neck prickled hard.

She was being followed.  She was certain of it.  There had been no sound. They were good hunters, whoever they were, which raised the risk.  It was the absence of sound which alerted her. The forest was too quiet.  Even at this time of year, before the snow had fully melted and the green appeared, birds and animals called and scurried.

None of those creatures made a sound now.  They were holding themselves still and silent until the intruders moved on.  The only sound was the soft whisper of bare branches overhead.