The Siren’s Daughter by Claire Fuge

In 1066, Duke Guillaume of Normandy, known to the English as William the Conqueror, won the Battle of Hastings and was crowned King of England.

In 1087, the Norman barons began their invasion of Wales.

By 1126, after countless deaths amongst the thorn-infested hills, swamps, and forests, the Normans had managed to subdue all five Welsh kingdoms. More or less.

Chapter 1. HOMECOMING

All Hallows’ Eve, 1126. West Wales

When the castle loomed out of the hailstorm above her, Angharad was careful not to crane her head upwards in awe as her Norman guards did. Her mother had commanded her to uphold her dignity, no matter what, so she kept her back straight and sat rigid in her saddle. Although the steepness of the hill made her feel as if spikes of ice were being hurled down at her by the castle itself, she didn’t cower. She pretended not to hear the guards cursing about having to drag a pair of heathen women out of the Welsh wildlands. She alone would be her mother’s last, unfailing support.

Angharad’s mother, Nesta, rode alongside, her imperious glare fixed on the track ahead, ignoring the water that streamed from her claw-black hair onto her horse’s flank. Even dressed in threadbare travelling clothes, Nesta didn’t look like the prisoner she was, finally recaptured by the Normans after three years of threats, bribes, and attempted ambushes. She didn’t look like a new bride either, although she was bound to marry the Constable of the castle; the contract had been sealed. No. What Nesta looked like, in the arrogant line of her jaw, in the resolute set of her flawless face, was what she was born to be.

Royalty.

During her nineteen years of life, Angharad had been reminded daily that her mother was the last living princess of Deheubarth, once the most renowned of the Welsh kingdoms. Angharad’s bloodline was the only wealth she possessed; she must look the part.

‘Amongst wolves,’ Nesta had said – and many wolves lived in the cloud-draped forests of these lands – ‘you can tell the leader of the pack from the way he draws every eye towards him. My father looked like a king from two arrowshots away, even when he was wounded from the endless wars, even when he was starving and freezing and caked in mud. Whatever fate we meet in this castle, I refuse to grovel before them. Hold your head high, Angharad. We must not disgrace the memory of our glorious ancestors.’

Luckily, deception was one of Angharad’s talents: Nesta had trained her in it since she was a child. Angharad had the skill of appearing haughty whilst at her most powerless.

When Nesta dismounted on the crest of the hill, Angharad copied, stifling a wince at the cramp in her thighs. Sixty miles they had travelled from the open meadows where they had spent their years of sanctuary amongst the Welsh: a journey of three days and nights, riding and walking through a wasteland of swamps and brambles, the Norman guards watchful behind them, bloodhounds running at their flanks to warn them of rebels and outlaws, with every hamlet full of hostile eyes and nothing to buy and almost nothing to steal. But here they were, at last.