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“No!” Such a cut to the stomach was fatal, everyone knew it. “Rhun!”

Her scream caused the Englishman to turn to her, a smirk on his face. He thought that he had won, and she would be his tonight. But he had not counted on a dying man’s desperation. Using what Johanna imagined were the last vestiges of his strength, Rhun threw his sword straight at his opponent’s neck.

Having allowed himself to get distracted at a moment when he should have been alert, Edwin could do nothing to stop the blow. The blade embedded itself deep into his unprotected neck. He reeled back, his sword falling at his feet in a dull clang. A moment later, he was lying on his back, dead. Too late, though, to save Rhun, who would never survive his injury.

Johanna ran to him while Cadell placed himself in front of Sir Hubert, who had jumped down from his horse. In his hands was Edwin’s mighty blade.

“Leave,” he barked. No one was getting past him. “You wanted this place for your man but your man is dead. So leave, before I cut you down where your stand.”

“Do you think me defenceless, Welshman?” Sir Hubert snarled. “Edwin might be dead but my men will tear you to pieces, and then they will⁠—”

“Halt!”

The voice, coming from the barbican, was so commanding that everyone froze.

Johanna almost shouted in relief when she saw that Lord Sheridan had just ridden through the gate, followed by a dozen fierce-looking men-at-arms. With them here, Sir Hubert was no longer in a position of power, and Cadell was no longer alone.

They were saved.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Sheridan demanded, surveying the frightful scene.

It would be quite easy to understand what had happened. Rhun lay injured on the ground, his head cradled in her lap. A bloodied Cadell was brandishing a sword, four other men were nursing injuries, and Edwin’s lifeless corpse was in the middle the bailey.

“Who the hell are you?” Sir Hubert snapped.

“I am Lord Sheridan. The question, is who are you?”

While the two Englishmen argued amongst each other, Johanna focused her attention back to her husband. Cadell had fallen to his knees and was pressing his hands on the wound. In vain. It was clear from the pallor on Rhun’s cheeks and his trembling mouth that the end was near.

“’Tis as it should be,” he said in a frightful rasp, his voice barely audible. “I should have died in that ambush, protecting my men. Instead I die now, defending my home, having had the chance to say goodbye to you, my wife. I leave you in the hands of a good man, who will love you as I could never love you. Forgive me for that. You deserved much better. Marry Cadell as soon as you can and be happy. Tonight, you’ll be free of me.”

Johanna was sobbing in earnest now, one hand on his chest, the other holding his head in place.

“No, it is not too late, you cannot⁠—”

“It is. But there is one thing I would ask of you, before I die,” Rhun looked at both her and Cadell. “I know after what I did I have no right to⁠—”

“What is it?” Cadell asked, cutting through the apology, for which Johanna was grateful. It was obvious Rhun did not have strength to spare and should go straight to the point. Every word was costing him.

He started talking in short, raspy bursts. “My cousin, Rhiannon. Like a little sister to me.” Yes. Johanna remembered him talking about his childhood companion, the only girl amongst boys in his family. “Yesterday. Received a letter. In my tunic. She’s in danger. Mother remarried. Englishman. The man is not… You must go find her, bring her here before… rid of her…”

“We will,” Cadell cut in again when Rhun’s voice started to fade. “Where can we find her?”

“England. Near the S⁠—”

But he could not finish the word. He started to shake, and his eyes rolled into the back of his head. A moment later, he stopped moving and went limp. Johanna stared at him, unable to believe what her eyes, her reason, were telling her. Rhun was dead. This time she could not doubt it. She was holding his corpse in her arms.

Suffocating with horror, she stared at Cadell, who was blinking, looking as shocked as she felt.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she registered the sound of horses’ hooves clattering over the drawbridge, indicating that Sir Hubert’s retinue was leaving. She did not turn her head, barely felt relief, because even though the men were gone, the damage was done.

A moment later, Lord Sheridan walked over to them.

“It’s over,” he said, his voice quiet.

Incapable of answering, Johanna nodded, her senses muffled. Her vision had dimmed, her ears were filled with wool, her skin was tingling all over. Oh no. She recognized the signs from the other day, when Rhun’s reappearance had caused her to faint. She was going to pass out again.

Desperate to shake some sense into herself, she stood up—only to collapse in a heap.