A Memory of Love (10 page)

Llywelyn ap Gruffydd watched the man at his side with amusement. He knew precisely what he was thinking. “Her mother descended from the Fair Folk, a fair race in ancient Cymri. She is beautiful, isn't she, despite the fact she favors me in her features?”

“I had not noticed,” his companion said, still slightly dazed.

“She'll give you beautiful children. Her mother did before she died. And she is accomplished, my lord. You have noted she speaks the Norman tongue as well as our own Welsh and Latin.”

Flushing, Edward realized he hadn't noticed at all, but then he gained mastery over himself and said, “I am pleased we shall be able to communicate easily. Tell me of her other achievements, my lord.”

“The nuns tell me she has great skill in weaving and spinning as well as in making medicines, poltices, and salves,” ap Gruffydd replied.

“I am knowledgeable in calculating and logic,” Rhonwyn told her bridegroom, moving her mount to his other side.

“These things are not important for women,” her father quickly said, as if she had told Edward de Beaulie something unseemly.

“I beg to differ with you, my lord, but they are most important. What if my husband should go to war, and I be left in charge of the castle? Do you think I want the servants cheating him in his absence? This knowledge is important for me to know. And, my lord—” She turned to Edward. “—you had best know the worst of me. I can both read and write.”

He nodded solemnly, but said nothing. This was not at all what he had expected. Not at all. Everything he had imagined was now blown away with the wind in the reality of this beautiful girl he was to marry on the morrow.

“She is musical,” ap Gruffydd said, eager to cover her deficiencies.

“All the Welsh are musical to some extent,” Rhonwyn replied dryly, and Edward de Beaulie laughed aloud.

Haven Castle suddenly came into view. He reached out and took her gloved hand. “Welcome home, my lady Rhonwyn.”

She was silent for a moment, and then said softly, “How lovely!”

They rode up the hill, across the drawbridge, and into the courtyard. De Beaulie noted his father-in-law taking in every aspect of the castle's defenses, and hid a smile. The wily Welsh prince would never enter Haven by force, and after his daughter's marriage it was unlikely he would ever enter it again. Once they were wed, Edward would allow no divided loyalties in his house.

Dismounting, he lifted Rhonwyn from her horse. She did not look at him but rather kept her glance modest and averted. He was already confused by her manner. Quiet one moment and outspoken the next. When they reached the door of the castle residence, de Beaulie surprised Rhonwyn by picking her up in his arms and carrying her over the threshold. “ 'Tis an old custom to carry the bride over the sill into her new home,” he said, setting her back on her feet.

“We are not wed yet, my lord,” she replied.

“All the legalities are signed and sealed, my lady. It is only for the priest to say the words over us. Licitly, you have been my wife since the treaty was ratified at Montgomery last autumn.”

“I was not aware of it,” Rhonwyn assured him. “I am not conversant with the law.”

“I would not expect you to be,” he told her as he led her into the great hall. “Are you thirsty? Or perhaps you would prefer to rest in your chamber? I have had my steward choose a young maidservant for you. Her name is Enit, and she will care for you.”

“You are kind, my lord. I have never had a servant,” Rhonwyn said. “I am quite capable of looking after myself.”

“My daughter has been raised simply,” ap Gruffydd said, quickly interjecting himself into the conversation before Rhonwyn said something she should not. “Mercy Abbey is not grand in material comforts.” He shot his daughter a quelling look that obviously did not intimidate her at all.

She shrugged, her return glance almost mocking.

Now what was that all about, de Beaulie wondered, and how was he to get to the bottom of it?

“I should enjoy some wine,” Rhonwyn said quietly.

The lord of the castle signaled to his servants, and the requested wine was immediately sent for.

“Come and sit by the fire,” he invited her. “April can be a cold month despite the fact it is spring.” He seated her on a bench facing the blaze.

Rhonwyn leaned forward, pulling her gloves from her hands and holding them toward the warmth. Even in profile she was beautiful, he thought. He took a goblet of wine from the serving man and handed it to her. She smiled up at him gratefully, taking it and admiring the beauty of the silver, its base studded in green stones. Slowly she sipped the wine and felt its warmth coursing through her veins.

“Will your guests arrive in time for the wedding?” ap Gruffydd asked his son-in-law jovially.

“There will be no guests,” de Beaulie replied. “I have no nearby family. My closest kin are my cousins, Rafe de Beaulie and his sister, Katherine. I have not yet told him of this marriage, for Rafe has always hoped I would wed Katherine. I suppose I might have, but there was no formal, or even informal, agreement between us. Besides, I could not be certain when you would arrive. You, your men, and my servants will witness the ceremony, but the formalities were settled months ago, my lord prince. I could bed your daughter tonight and be within my rights, but I prefer to wait until we have celebrated the sacrament in my church.”

Rhonwyn blanched at his words. The bedding was something that no one at Mercy Abbey had explained, and she was damned if she would ask her father. She remembered him with her mother and assumed it would be the same, although she had never quite known what they were doing, for their bodies had always been pressed so closely together. A small flame of rebellion burned deep within her. She wasn't certain that she wanted this bedding. If she was de Beaulie's wife, wasn't the treaty marriage agreement satisfied? She arose suddenly.

“I am weary, my lords. I would retire until the morrow.”

“I will show you to your chamber, my lady,” de Beaulie said, then turned to ap Gruffydd. “I will return shortly, my lord, and we will have food.” He took Rhonwyn by her arm and led her from his hall. “Your rooms face southwest, lady. It is the warmest tower.”

“My possessions …” she began hesitantly.

“Will have been brought to your apartment by now. Your young maidservant, Enit, will be unpacking for you.”

Suddenly Rhonwyn burst out, “I have never been in such a fine place, my lord. Am I truly to be mistress here?”

He smiled at her ingenuousness. “You are mistress here now, lady. This is your home, Rhonwyn uerch Llywelyn.” How charming she was, his convent-bred bride. He had to wed sometime, and now having seen this tender beauty, he thought that perhaps the king had done him a great favor, although that had not, of course, been Henry's intent when he had arranged this match with the Welsh prince. Rhonwyn was to all intents and purposes a hostage for her father's behavior; and he, Edward de Beaulie, Lord Thorley of Haven, was her keeper. The marriage was a practical matter, but if they were content with one another, so much the better.

He led her up the stone staircase and down a short passageway, and then opened the door to her apartment. Enit, hearing them, turned and curtsied, looking anxious. “Here, lady, are your chambers. There is a dayroom for your pleasure, a bedroom, and a garderobe for your clothing, which also has a sleeping space for Enit.” He led her from the dayroom, into her bedchamber. “That door connects with my apartment, lady.” He pointed.

Rhonwyn scarcely knew where to look. To have all these rooms for herself alone! At Cythraul she had slept in her sleeping space in the hall. At Mercy Abbey she had been assigned a tiny cell in the guest house. But
this
was all hers. There were tapestries on the walls. Sheepskins on the stone floors. Fine oak furniture the like of which she had certainly never seen. The bed appeared to her eyes to be huge and was hung with gold and green brocaded velvet curtains. There was a red fox coverlet atop it.

“I have two fireplaces?” She was astounded.

“Then you are pleased?” he asked her.

She turned, eyes shining. “Aye, my lord, I am pleased!”

“Would you like Enit to fetch you something to eat before you retire?” he asked her. Her eyes were so green. How could someone as hard as ap Gruffydd produce such a delicate creature for a daughter?

“Thank you, my lord. I should like something to eat, but I could not sit in the hall with my father another minute. I am weary,” she quickly explained, “for we rode several days from sunup to sunset.”

“I am glad for your coming,” he replied, “but your father should not have exhausted you so, Rhonwyn. I shall speak to him.”

“Do not bother, my lord. He will soon be gone from here, will he not?” She turned to look out the window to where the sun was setting. “How beautiful it is! I shall never grow tired of this view.” Then she turned back to him. “You are kind. I thank you for it.”

He flushed at her words, saying, “I suspect it will be easy to be kind to you, Rhonwyn. Now I bid you good night. Enit will see to your needs. We will meet tomorrow at the altar.” He bowed and was gone.

“With your permission, my lady, I will fetch you some food,” Enit said, looking anxiously toward her new mistress.

“Yes, thank you,” Rhonwyn replied absently, and when she heard the door to her chambers close behind the girl, she began a closer examination of her quarters. In a cham-ber—what had he called it? A garderobe!—she found her clothing neatly stored. There was a small door at the end of the garderobe. She opened it and was astonished to find a stone seat built into the wall. The seat had a hole in it. Next to the stone seat was a large bucket of water. She had never seen anything like it. What could it be? Enit would know. She closed the door on the dark stone seat and moved back out into the dayroom. The small fireplace was flanked by winged creatures on either side. In the center of the room was a rectangular oak table with tall high-backed chairs at either end of it. There was an oak settle adorned with a tapestried cushion to one side of the fire. There were two tall, narrow windows overlooking the hills and through which the setting sun now spilled into the room, turning the gray stone floors and the snowy sheepskins rosy. Rhonwyn stood in the alcove of one of the windows, looking out at the dark hills. Just a few days ago she had been on the other side of those hills, in Wales.

With a soft sigh she sat down on the settle before her fire. Could she really be the lady of Haven Castle? The abbess had assured her that she could, but it was all so strange and not just a little frightening. She didn't know if she really wanted this, and yet it was a duty, an obligation owed to Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, who had given her in marriage so easily and expected her to be everything a lady should be. But I am not a lady to the manor born, Rhonwyn thought rebelliously. Six months ago I was but one of the soldiers at Cythraul fortress. I would have as soon killed an Englishman as marry him.

She arose and began to pace restlessly. I am not certain I want to direct my servants and order provisions that we do not grow or make ourselves, she thought. I want to ride and hunt with my alborium, not sit meekly by the fire, weaving and spinning. Damn ap Gruffydd for condemning me to this life! I cannot be penned up any longer! How I bore those months at the abbey are beyond me, but I cannot be held captive like some wild thing they wish to tame. Oh, God! And what of the intimacy I must have with this man who is my husband? I know not what is expected of me, and I am not certain at all that I want to know!

The door to her dayroom opened, and Enit came in bearing a tray that she set down on the table. “I thought you might be hungry, but as you are tired, I chose delicate foods, my lady,” she said. “Come now and eat while it is still hot.”

Rhonwyn got up and came to the table, where Enit seated her. Then the young serving woman set before her new mistress a silver server upon which was roasted capon breast, small new peas, and a large crusty slice of hot bread, the cheese atop it browned and melting. There was also a silver goblet of fruity golden wine.

Rhonwyn fell upon the food, eating with gusto. When she had cleared half her plate she grinned up at Enit. “I have never been known for having a dainty belly. My kinsman, Morgan ap Owen, says I eat like a barbarian.”

Enit looked momentarily distressed. “Have I brought enough, then, my lady?”

Rhonwyn nodded. “Convent fare was not half as tasty,” she chuckled. “What about you, Enit? Have you eaten?”

“I will in the kitchens afterward, my lady,” the girl told her mistress. “We have kitchens beneath the hall, which is considered very modern. Most castles have a cookhouse, separate in the courtyard, but often the food is cold when it arrives. The master does not like cold food. He even created a device to bring the food quickly into the hall. It is a shaft in the walls that runs from below. The food is put upon a platform and by means of ropes drawn up into the hall.”

“That reminds me,” Rhonwyn cried, jumping up and signaling Enit to follow her into the garderobe. “What is this?” she demanded, opening the small wooden door that concealed the stone seat.

“You sit upon it and perform your necessary bodily functions, my lady,” Enit said. “When you are through, I flush the shaft clean with the water in the bucket. Is it not wonderful?”

“By the rood!” Rhonwyn swore, the words slipping out most unexpectedly, and then she blushed.

But Enit giggled. “I know,” she said, understanding. “My uncle, who is the steward here, says all the best castles have them. It is nice not to have to go outside and pee on a cold morning, my lady.”

Now it was Rhonwyn who giggled. “I have so much to learn, Enit. I have been raised in virtual isolation my whole life, and in Wales we have not these wonderful modern conveniences. Tomorrow I would speak with your uncle so he may inform me of all these wonders.”

“Tomorrow is your wedding day, my lady,” Enit reminded her.

“Then the day after tomorrow,” Rhonwyn said. “Is there a priest in residence here who says the mass?”

“Yes, my lady. It is Father John, and he says the mass at the hour of Prime each day.”