The Matchmaker's Mare

Prologue

Near Pentrebont, West Wales, sometime in the distant past.

“Faster Seren, faster.” Leaning low over the pony’s neck the young woman urged her into a mile-eating gallop. The mare’s hooves scarcely seemed to touch the ground as she appeared to fly across the rugged landscape. If only Seren really could gallop through the air, it would make her escape so much easier.

There had been something very special about the filly Rhiannon found as a motherless foal in the mountains and raised until fully grown. She named her Seren, meaning ‘Star’, for the perfect diamond-shaped star on her face. Seren needed no breaking-in or training, but allowed Rhiannon to sit on her back as soon as she was mature enough to take a rider. No one else could ride her, not even Sion Sienco. Now she could only hope the mare would carry her to Sion in time.

She cast one last, swift look over her shoulder at the only home she had ever known. The cottage receded into the distance, appearing forlorn in the soft moonlight before melting into the darkness. She could almost believe the cottage knew she would never return. With a sigh, she turned her head to concentrate on the rough road ahead.

Thoughts of the injured animals the villagers, or their children, would bring to the cottage for her to heal flashed into her mind, and hot tears stung her eyes. Her spells and herbs could heal most injuries provided they were not too severe. Now she would no longer be able to help them. Nor would she be able to use her gift of matchmaking to help the maidens in the village find their one true love. “Oh Sion,” she whispered, “Sion, where are you when I need you?”

She pushed the mare even faster. “Sion,” she whispered once more. “Sion, please let me find you.”

Her father’s harsh words rang in her head and a shiver ran through her, which had nothing to do with the chill night air. “It is all arranged. You will marry Gwynfor Pryce. We have already agreed on the marriage settlement and the wedding will take place a week today. There will be no more argument.”

Rhiannon knew then she must leave the little cottage where she had lived with her father since her mother died five years before. Leaving the dwelling where she’d lived her whole life, the only home she knew, made her heart ache. However, she would not marry a man she hated. A man many years her senior, whom she knew to be cruel to his servants and animals.

Along the edge of the forest and past the foot of the craggy Bryn Glas mountains they sped. Rhiannon clutched her hand to her breast to feel the reassuring bulk of the kerchief holding the only wealth she possessed—some silver coins, and a small gold ring inherited from her mother. She swung the pony southeast, to follow the drovers’ route she knew Sion would take on his return journey. “Faster, Seren,” she whispered once more. Her heart thudded in time to the pony’s heavy breathing. The tiny silver bells which decorated her girdle jingled as she urged the pony on as fast as she dared over the rough terrain.

At last, Rhiannon drew rein and allowed the pony a few minutes to catch her breath, before setting off again at a canter. She would rather spend the rest of her life with a penniless gypsy like Sion, than be married to a rich old man for whom she cared nothing. A rich old man who, the rumourmongers whispered, was also a mage. Pryce might own extensive lands and possess great wealth, but she shuddered at the mere thought of him touching her. No doubt her father would have squeezed the highest bride price possible from him. He'd sold her like a broodmare or a milk cow.

Well, they were both in for a disappointment. She would not submit to being forced to marry a man she despised. What had her father been thinking?

Customary though it might be for a father to arrange his daughter’s marriage, giving her no choice in the matter, surely her father could not be blind to Gwynfor Pryce’s true nature? A vision of Pryce’s cruel features swam into her mind, and she shivered again.

Taking one hand off the reins, she pulled her cloak more tightly around her shoulders and urged Seren into a gallop once more. She must find Sion before daybreak, before her father discovered her absence. Once he did, she knew he would likely follow her to bring her back. The further away she and Sion could get, the more chance they had of eluding him and starting a new life together. She drew in a deep breath. Please, she prayed silently. Please let me find him soon.

****

The last time Rhiannon and Sion met, he told her he had Romany family business to attend to on the English border, but he would see her again in three weeks. He’d given her a sprig of fragrant lavender to wear in her hair. Lavender, a symbol of devotion. Even now its scent surrounded her, reminding her of his love.

Having consulted her scrying bowl in secret, before she left the cottage, she knew he would be on his way back now, but still some distance away. Sion Sienco, both the love of her life and her greatest aggravation. When she’d met the young gypsy lad for the first time, at first he teased her and then wooed her. When she feigned disinterest, he took to playing tricks on her, causing her milk cow to go dry, or her hens to take to the water as if they were ducks. As it dawned on her he too had a little white magic, she scolded him until she became hoarse and ran out of words. For some reason, Sion seemed to find this amusing. Then he took her in his arms and kissed her until she was breathless and told her how sorry he was for causing her so much trouble. Of course, she forgave him, as she always would. After all, who could resist the charm of a Welsh gypsy, especially one as handsome and debonair as Sion Sienco? Sometimes she believed he played those silly tricks on her just for the satisfaction they both had when making up.

With only a few hours left before daylight, Rhiannon at last found the clearing where Sion had made his camp. A glowing fire still burned outside the caravan. The chomping of a horse sounded nearby, and she made out the shadowy form of Sion’s black cob grazing beneath the trees. Then she spotted Sion, lying on a blanket near the fire. He never did like sleeping indoors, not even in his wagon. He preferred to sleep under the stars whenever the weather permitted, even now, in winter. She leapt from the pony and knelt beside the young man, shaking his shoulder.

“Sion, Sion wake up for goodness sake. I need you to wake up.”

Sion raised himself on one elbow, blinking, before sitting upright. “Rhiannon, cariad—beloved one—what are you doing here? Should you not be tucked up in your own bed fast asleep? What is wrong?”

“Sion, listen to me. My father has arranged for me to marry Gwynfor Pryce in a week’s time. What am I to do, Sion? I cannot marry him. I will not.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “You know ‘tis you I want, and only you. We have to flee.”

Sion threw off his blanket and jumped to his feet. “Rhiannon, my love, I will never let another man have you, not if you love me. Yes, we must get away, ride as swiftly as our horses can carry us. We will find a preacher to marry us, somewhere we are not known. Then we will find a place to settle down far away, where no one will ever find us.”

“That sounds like a good plan, Sion, but I fear my father, or even worse, Pryce himself will come after us.”

“How will he know which road we have taken?”

“Have you forgotten? Gwynfor Pryce is a mage, or so they say. If I could find you, using a scrying bowl, then surely, he can do the same.”

“Then we must get moving fast. Once we have found someone to marry us, he will have no hold over you. Even Gwynfor Pryce will not dare to steal a wife from her husband.”

“I hope you are correct, Sion.”

The gypsy reached into the caravan and pulled out his horse’s saddle and bridle. Whistling to the animal to come to him, he quickly saddled him and sprang into the saddle. “Come, cariad, we must ride swiftly,” he said, but Rhiannon was already on Seren’s back and galloping ahead.

****

Early the next morning, a few hours after sunrise, they passed by a little chapel nestling in the valley. They knocked on the door of the chapel house and begged the clergyman to marry them. Rhiannon produced several of the silver coins and her mother's wedding ring from her kerchief. After a short ceremony, with the minister’s wife and daughter as witnesses, Sion slipped the ring on Rhiannon's finger and the minister pronounced them man and wife. They thanked him kindly and remounted, keen to put as much distance as possible between them and Rhiannon’s father or Pryce. No doubt one or the other, perhaps both, would be following them by now.

They rode toward the next range of mountains, pausing only to rest the horses and let them snatch some mouthfuls of grass, and drink when they found a river or stream. The wind whipped around them coming from the north, bringing with it flurries of snow. They huddled together on the ground when it grew too dark to ride safely, remounting as soon as the sky lightened with the first glow of dawn. Whenever they came across one of the isolated homesteads along the way, they stopped briefly to purchase a loaf of bread or some fruit, which they ate while riding.

On the third day since she fled her home, the snow started to fall in earnest, soon covering the rocky ground in thick drifts. Riding fast became dangerous, forcing them to slow to a walk, and the biting wind stung their faces, making it difficult to see through the swirling snow. After several hours, Seren whickered softly, as if in warning.

Rhiannon turned and looked back, peering through the driving snow. A rider appeared, like a wraith in the distance. “Sion, there is someone following us, it must be either my father or Gwynfor Pryce.”

“Make for the woods,” Sion yelled, turning his cob in the direction of a thick forest that covered the lower slopes of the steep mountain range known as Mynyddoedd y Ddraig —The Dragon Mountains. “Perhaps we may lose him in the trees.”

They leaned low over their horses’ necks, urging them on as fast as they dared. Both animals were swift and sure-footed, but the deep snow made it impossible for them to increase the distance between them and their pursuer.

They had to slow their mounts again in order to wend their way through the trees, scarcely able to see through the blinding snow which fell all around them. Before they realised it, their follower, revealing himself as Gwynfor Pryce, closed the distance between them and cast a spell over the forest. The trees the lovers thought would hide them, turned traitor, stretching out their branches to twine around the horses’ legs. They threw themselves from their saddles, and Sion hacked at the branches with his dagger, while Rhiannon tore at them with ice-cold fingers. At last, they were free. They remounted, and turning away from the treacherous forest, ploughed through the snow, along the narrow track up the precipitous mountainside.

However, the delay had cost them precious minutes, and soon their pursuer caught up with them and they had no means of escape.

Chapter One

A New Start and a Mystery

Megan, Ty Gwyn, near Pentrebont, West Wales. Spring, 2023

Megan Johnson stepped out of her ten-year-old SUV and contemplated the centuries-old stone cottage with its whitewashed walls and slate roof. Ty Gwyn nestled in a grove of trees, the branches reaching over its roof on each side as if to keep the little house safe.

Ty Gwyn—White House—was hers. She still found it a little hard to take in. She hesitated for a moment, swallowing a pang of guilt. Perhaps she shouldn’t be so happy to have inherited the cottage. After all, she’d been very fond of dear Great Uncle Thomas. Although he had been in his late eighties, his death still came as something of a shock, as did the solicitor’s letter informing her of her inheritance. She’d never really considered the possibility he might leave his cottage to her but apparently, she was now his only living relative.

After removing her suitcase, she locked the vehicle and walked up the winding path to the front porch, graced by an old but solid wooden bench. Early clumps of yellow daffodils, like splashes of sunshine, lined the path, valiantly trying to avoid being stifled by the weeds.

Memories flooded in of frequent childhood visits to Wales; memories of herself sitting on the bench, while her mother helped Uncle Thomas prepare supper.

She allowed herself a soft smile. This place emanated such a peaceful atmosphere, a far cry from the noise and bustle of London. The family moved there from the Welsh countryside when her father changed his job. She had been ten years old at the time and never felt completely at home in the city.

The smile faded and she blinked away tears. Barely six months had passed since her mother died in a car accident, less than a year after her father suffered a fatal heart attack. The pain of their loss was still raw. Why did she have to lose everyone she loved? She swallowed hard. After the funeral, Megan discovered her mother had accumulated many debts and taken out several high-interest loans. She never mentioned money problems, and Megan had been devastated to think her mother had carried the worry herself, rather than come to her for help.

Think of the future, not the past. The money from the sale of the family home had paid off the debts and left a little over. She hoped there would be enough to allow her to give the cottage some new fittings and furniture, and a lick of paint inside and out. Since her great uncle modernised the cottage several years earlier, it was in a reasonably good state of repair and would not require too much work.

She’d managed to secure a job working as one of two receptionists for the local veterinary surgery. Although a big change from her previous high-level position as an administrator in a busy commercial office, she relished the prospect. She’d always loved animals and dealing with people. The position being mainly part-time, she would usually be finished by early or mid-afternoon. This meant there would be time to indulge her passion for painting, a passion she hoped one day to be able to make her career. On balmy summer evenings she could sit on the bench and sketch. Perhaps now she would be able to put the past behind her and instead look forward to the new possibilities this inheritance had given her. She smiled. No more business suits and severe hairstyles. No more working in a stuffy office at a monotonous, if well-paid, job. No more paying an extortionate rent for a small London flat—and no more trying to please Richard. From now on she intended to be totally independent, needing to please no-one but herself.

A faint scent of lavender drifted toward her on the warm, silky breeze. She sniffed appreciatively. It seemed a bit early for lavender, but she would have to check out the back garden once she settled in. There must be lavender bushes at the back of the cottage since she couldn’t see any in the rather overgrown and neglected front garden.

She inserted the key in the door and paused. Something like the tinkle of little bells sounded close by. She looked up to see if anything in the trees could account for the sound. It might be garden chimes, but her great uncle had not been the type to have such ‘fripperies’ as he would have called them. She didn’t think there were any other houses close enough for the sound to carry. She must be imagining things.

Megan took a deep breath and stepped into the cottage. A new home, a new job and a new beginning: A chance to put behind her the traumas of the last twelve months and start afresh.

Glyn Phillips, Hafod Farm, near Pentrebont, West Wales. Spring, 2023

Glyn knew there was something odd about the chestnut pony when it appeared, seemingly out of nowhere in one of his paddocks. At first, he thought she must be one of the ponies which roamed semi-wild on the mountains. They were all owned by someone and usually freeze-branded or microchipped, but this one had no owner’s mark on her and his scanner revealed no microchip. Strange, and rather concerning, since they were now a legal requirement.

Unlike most of the mares on the mountain she didn’t seem to be in foal, nor did she have a foal ‘at foot’. So, if she had been running with one of the mountain herds, it couldn’t have been for very long. She’d probably strayed when someone left a gate open, or perhaps she jumped out of her own paddock. The only way she could have got into his field was to have leapt over the fence.