Free The Selkie’s Daughter by Deborah MacGillivray Page B

knighthood after a bloody battle in Wales.  He wanted a place he could call home––nothing fancy, but enough land to raise and train destriers.  Rhys was blessed with a true gift for teaching horses.  That ability was why the Earl Challon had sent for him.  Challon greatly valued the worth of a good steed in battle, a weapon that could see a knight hold onto his life. 
    More importantly, Rhys had never known the love of a good woman, someone he could take to wife.  On long winter nights, they could have passed the time before fireside, whispering of their love.  Such a heart’s desire had been pushed back, simply never enough time.  Too much of his life had been spent on the fields of battle under Edward Plantagenet’s banners.  Now, there would be no family to mourn his passing.  No one to place flowers on his grave.
    Oddly, suddenly, that vision was so strong.  He could see a warm cottage, snug against the storm, and the heat of the crackling flames began to fill him.  No longer did cold numb his fingers and feet, nor did icy wet flakes cover his cheeks.  Instead, he was resting on a small pallet, relishing the delicious comfort of the hot fire.  A woman was silhouetted against the yellow flames; firelight glinted and flickered over her long tan hair.  She sat and began plaiting the thick tresses, while humming an odd tune, a soothing fith-fath .  As if sensing he watched her, she turned and smiled, then reached out to him.  So overwhelmed by love for this woman he could not breathe, could not move.  Eyes shining with happiness, she leaned close and nudged his arm.
    His chest swelled with a great sadness, knowing this beautiful woman was meant to be his.  All he had to do was take her hand and pull her to him, and all in the world could be made right.  Rhys struggled to lift his arm, to grasp what he wanted so desperately.  Strangely, he could not move, just experience emotions he had never known.  His trembling fingers stretched, almost reaching her…
    Another nudge to his upper arm jerked him away from the beautiful dream.  He slowly opened his eyelids to see his destrier standing beside him.  Spirit’s velvety nostrils snorted vapor into the moist air.  Almost white, he appeared a wraith, born of the heavy falling snow.  The stallion had a quizzical expression in his dark eyes, as if he asked what Rhys was doing on the ground.  Once more, the animal reached out with his soft muzzle and prodded him.
    Then, he noticed the stirrup hanging… just above his face.  Born upon a surge of hope, he reached up, trying to snag it.  It may as well have been a league away.  With every fiber he strained and attempted once again to catch it.  His fingers brushed the leather and wood stirrup, but could not take hold.  Spirit murmured in his throat, understanding how desperate Rhys’s situation was.  The horse shifted, and knelt down on one knee, so the stirrup hung closer.
    “Good boy,” the words were barely more than a whisper, lost against the rising winds.  His hand slipped into the stirrup.  Fearing he could not hold on, he slid his lower arm through the opening, and cast his fate to the keeping of his charger.
    ****
    Cracking the twigs, Annys fed them slowly to the fire, fascinated how the hungry flames almost reached out for the fuel.  Once they had caught, she placed a small limb on top of the blaze.  It would push the peat to burn hotter, use it up faster, but this night was daunting.  She felt a rising unease to keep the chill at bay. 
    Never had she witnessed such a driving snow, the magnitude of the storm frightening.  The morn had been almost warm, the sun promising a hint of spring.  But then the winds shifted, coming straight out of the north, and brought with them a near blinding snowfall.  Such an early season storm was extremely hazardous.  Travelers would not be expecting it and could get caught out with no place for shelter.  The huge snowflakes were so heavy they