Margaret Moore - The Warlord's Bride

The narrow river ran between banks of mossy red stones. A small, crooked wharf had been built close to the village and low-drafted boats were tied there or pulled up on the bank close by. Across the river was a forest of willow, ash and oak, pine and alders, so close together it was as if the trees were competing to see which one could reach the river first.

Farther downstream she could hear the happy shouts of children at play and the occasional sharp reprimand of a mother. The language was Welsh, the tone universal.

“Ah, like heaven itself, isn’t it?” Lloyd said with a sigh as they walked around a curve of the bank, so they were out of sight of the village, if not the high outer walls of the castle.

He pointed at the grove of leafy alders ahead. “I told you it was a pretty spot.”

“It is indeed,” she agreed, admiring the rugged beauty of the trees, rocks and river, with the rise of the mountain behind.

Then they entered the grove, and Roslynn’s jaw dropped. A man was rising from the river—a completely naked man. His back to them, he stretched his long, powerful arms over his head as if he was worshipping the sun. Water glistened on his muscular torso, while his black, waving hair spread over his broad, powerful shoulders as he shook himself, like a great bear.

The Bear of Brecon.

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