Castle of Dreams (3 page)

“I know when to stop fighting, my lord,”
Branwen said, remembering just in time not to smack away the hand
he laid on her knee the moment she took her seat.

“Lord Edouard.” Father Conan bowed behind
them. “May I say a blessing before the feast begins?”

“Yes, priest, do that,” Sir Edouard replied.
“I’m inclined to favor you at the moment.” He shouted for
silence.

“And now,” Father Conan said when the
blessing was over, “may I suggest that Lady Branwen begin her new
duties at once? As Lady of Afoncaer she ought to oversee the
serving of your feast. It might be wise for her to assert her
authority as your chatelaine so that your household will be run as
smoothly as a great lord might wish.”

“My household?” Sir Edouard looked around at
his disorganized people, who were handing out food in a decidedly
sloppy manner. He watched as a servant dropped a spit filled with
small roasted birds. When it landed in the mud, the fellow picked
it up and began pushing the birds onto platters to be passed to the
revelers. The new Lord of Afoncaer regarded Branwen with increased
interest. “Can you make them into decent retainers?”

“I will do my best, my lord,” she said. “I
have been trained to manage servants and a large household. You
have only to tell me what you want done and I will see to it.”

“Go ahead then,” he told her, “but no tricks.
I know better than to trust you Welsh. I’ll be watching you.”

She felt his eyes on her all the way to the
cooking fires, where she began to give orders to the servants. A
short time later Father Conan joined her by the wine casks that had
been salvaged when fire ravaged the wooden buildings.

“The wine is my responsibility,” Branwen said
to a camp follower who was busily filling a pitcher. “Sir Edouard
has placed me in charge of the feast.”

With a sneer the woman looked her up and
down, then flounced away.

“I have the herbs concealed in my robe,”
Father Conan said. “Tell me how much is needed. Let us work
quickly, before we are seen or someone becomes suspicious.”

Under the pretense of overseeing or blessing
each cask and pitcher, Branwen and Father Conan slipped the herbs
into the wine and saw it passed to Edouard and his men. Branwen was
secretly pleased to catch the servants filching cups of the stuff.
Like a generous mistress she encouraged them to take more, saying
it was only right that all should drink heartily at a wedding
feast. When Sir Edouard called her back to his side she left the
remaining herbs with Father Conan.

“What? Is my proud sister changed so soon
into a humble wife?” laughed a drunken Griffin, coming to their
table with his arm around a woman wearing a tattered red dress that
proclaimed her as one of the camp followers. “I saw you supervising
the feast as though it pleased you to be Lady of Afoncaer.”

“She has seen the good sense of behaving
well,” Sir Edouard responded. “She understands now that it’s best
to obey me.”

Branwen said nothing. Let them think what
they wanted. She would play her part as the obedient wife until the
herbed wine had taken effect and she could attempt her escape.

The Normans drank heartily, becoming loud and
boisterous before one by one they began to fall asleep across the
tables. Some of them wandered off on unsteady feet, fading into the
woods with equally unsteady camp followers. Griffin disappeared,
too. Sir Edouard did not seem to notice anything strange about his
men’s behavior, but the wine had no obvious influence on him. He
drank as heartily as anyone else at the feast and urged cup after
cup on Branwen. She managed to spill most of it beneath the table
or pour it into his cup when he wasn’t looking. Not knowing when
she would find food again, she tried to make herself eat at his
order, but she was so nervous her stomach threatened to reject
anything she put into it.

After a while Sir Edouard rose and held out
his hand.

“Come,” he said, “it’s time to consummate
this marriage.”

Branwen thought her heart would stop. If she
protested and made him angry all her earlier pretenses would be for
naught and he might lock her up so there would be no hope of
escape. There was nothing for her to do but go with him peacefully
and hope the herbs would make him fall asleep before he could take
her to bed. She rose dutifully at his bidding and he took her hand
and led her across the clearing toward the chapel.

“My lord, where are you taking me?” Branwen
cried.

“There’s no fit place for us in the other
buildings,” Sir Edouard said. “They’re all burnt and the stink
annoys me. I noticed earlier that the priest has a small bedchamber
in his house. We can be private there.”

Just then Father Conan appeared, hurrying
toward them with a large pitcher of wine in one hand and two cups
in the other.

“We are going to your house, priest,” Sir
Edouard told him. “Make no objection.”

“I would not dream of trying to stop you, my
lord,” Father Conan said in a humble voice. “I only want to make
you comfortable. I have brought you more wine, and I will stand
guard if you wish, since your men all seem to be occupied.”

“I don’t need any wine,” Sir Edouard said
rudely.

“But I do,” Branwen cried, eager to seize
upon any delaying tactic she could find. “I want to please you, my
lord, but I’m so terribly nervous. It would be pleasant to take a
cup of wine with you in private and talk together a little before
we go to bed.” She blushed as she spoke of bed, hoping her reddened
cheeks would convince him of the truth of her words.

“Are you really as agreeable as you appear to
be?” He frowned at her. “Or is this just some Welsh trick? I know
you people can’t be trusted.”

“I have no choice but to be agreeable, my
lord,” Branwen said. “You are my husband now, and I will honor and
obey you.” The words nearly choked her, but she had her reward when
he relented.

“Well then, priest, bring in the wine,” he
said, “and then guard the bedchamber door. I don’t want to be
disturbed.”

“I’ll bring you a candle from the chapel to
light the room,” Father Conan offered.

When Branwen and Sir Edouard were alone in
the tiny bedchamber, with the door bolted and the light from the
single candle flickering across the stone walls, she began to pray
silently that he would fall into a drugged slumber before he could
carry out his intentions.

“Drink the wine you wanted,” Sir Edouard
ordered.

“I would like you to take some also,” Branwen
said in what she hoped was a pleasant tone. She handed him a full
cup, then pretended to sip at hers. “I know nothing about you, my
lord. Will you tell me a little of yourself, and why you came to
Afoncaer?”

“You know all you need to know about me,” he
responded, swallowing his wine. Branwen hastened to refill his cup.
He drank it down in a gulp, then set the cup on the bench that was
the only piece of furniture except for the bed.

“Come here, girl,” he said.

Branwen knew she had no choice. She did as he
ordered. He put both hands on her shoulders, looking at her with
wintry grey eyes. Branwen could only hope he did not see the terror
she felt at the thought of him possessing her, or her fading hope
that he would fall into an herb-induced stupor before he could do
her any harm.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Fourteen,” she replied.

“A good age for marriage. Kings’ daughters
marry at fourteen,” he said. “You are old enough to bear children,
and you look strong, though you are so small. We shall have sons,
Branwen.”

“Yes, my lord,” she said meekly, though she
silently vowed she would never give him any children at all. She
tried again to divert him from his purpose for a few valuable
moments, or at least to learn something about him that might be
useful. “How old are you, my lord?”

“You don’t need to know that,” he said. “Your
duty will be to obey me in everything without question, to bear my
children, to see to the ordering of my household, and to warm my
bed. I’ll tolerate no trickery from you, nor any idea that you have
any position at Afoncaer except at my sufferance. Do you understand
me?”

“Yes, my lord.” Would the herbs never take
effect? What was wrong with this man? Why did he not fall asleep as
his men were doing out in the feasting area?

“I’ve heard that Welsh women think they can
order their husbands about, even imagine they have some right to
property. You are now my property, Branwen, and you can hold none
in your own right. Understand that at once. Afoncaer is mine, not
yours.”

“Yes, my lord.” Had his stern face softened
at her quietly spoken words? Was he growing sleepy?

“Put down your wine cup and remove your
clothes,” he said.

“My lord, I’m very nervous,” she whispered,
hoping he would be willing to talk a little longer, though he
seemed to have no idea what conversation was. He only gave
orders.

“It’s natural for a virgin to be nervous,” he
said. “I will not hurt you any more than is necessary, Branwen. I
prefer that we not be enemies. If you will cooperate with me I will
treat you well.”

She wanted to tell him that holding her
prisoner when she wanted to leave him and forcing her to share his
bed did not constitute the kind of treatment she had always hoped
for from her husband. But then, she did understand that Sir Edouard
believed he was treating her kindly. He could have pushed her onto
the bed and ravished her at once and called his men to witness that
he was, indeed, Lord of Afoncaer. Instead, he was trying to
reassure her. What a woman wanted probably meant nothing to him,
yet he was making the effort to be polite.

“This dress does not fit you.” He unbuckled
the belt from which her small dagger hung and tossed it carelessly
aside. Then his hands were on the gown, raising it, lifting it over
her head.

“I can alter it, my lord,” she said, her head
emerging from the heavy silk folds.

“I’ll see you have other dresses. I want my
wife to be properly attired.” He dropped the gown on the beaten
earth floor.

Branwen stood before him clad only in her
linen shift and her shoes. He reached out both hands, caught her
hair and pulled it forward until the dark curls tumbled across each
shoulder and fell down over her bosom. He arranged the curls while
she trembled. Then he placed a hand on each of her breasts. His
palms were hot. He tested the size and shape of each breast, and
ran his fingers across her nipples.

Swallowing hard against the sensations he had
unexpectedly created in her body, Branwen closed her eyes. If the
herbed wine did not stop him soon, there would be no way to prevent
what he was going to do. Hope of escape had kept her from panic,
but now she had to consider the possibility that Sir Edouard would
take possession of her within a matter of moments. She felt his
hands on her hips, pulling her closer so he could push his male
hardness against her.

“Yes,” he said, his harsh voice now a rough
murmur, “Ah, yes, Branwen, I shall take great pleasure in making
you my own.”

He lowered his head, clamping his mouth over
hers in a forceful kiss. He pushed her lips apart and slipped his
tongue into her mouth. Branwen shivered, then stood perfectly
still, refusing to let herself feel anything. She did not want to
provoke him to either violence or a passionate rush of activity
that would end with her stretched beneath him on Father Conan’s
bed. When the kiss ended she put her hands on his shoulders and
tried to push him away.

“Please, my lord, may I have another cup of
wine?” she asked breathlessly.

“Am I so repulsive that you need to be drunk
to accept me?” he growled.

“No, my lord, I am so nervous. I am so
unskilled,” she added, sounding almost as desperate as she now
felt.

“You are supposed to be unskilled,” he
retorted, chuckling. “One cup only, and then no more delays. My men
will be wondering why I am taking so long about this.”

He swallowed the cup she gave him. She only
sipped at hers.

“You don’t want that,” he said, taking the
cup from her. “You are only delaying matters. Take off your shift
and get into bed.”

He began to remove his clothing. His
long-sleeved woolen tunic landed on the earth floor. Stripped to
the waist, his fingers at the laces of his hose, he paused,
watching her. She thought she saw him suppress a yawn and wished
she could make him drink another cup of wine.

“I said, take off your shift. I warn you, I
will tear it from you if you do not obey me at once.”

Branwen pulled the shift over her head,
kicked off her shoes, and climbed onto the narrow bed. With her
legs drawn up beneath her she sat watching him undress.

Some might have called Sir Edouard a handsome
man. Certainly he was well made, his chest and shoulders rippling
with hard muscles. Branwen had seen naked boys often enough when
she had cared for her youngest cousins, and she had romped in the
stream of Tynant with the older children during warm summer days.
But nothing about any young boy had prepared her for the sight of
the tall Norman who now approached her. Her eyes traveled from his
appallingly masculine body to his mocking face.

“Do I frighten you?” he asked, sitting beside
her. “All wives must learn to endure their husbands’ embraces,
Branwen. I will be gentle. It will only be painful for you this
first time. After that, you may find you enjoy it.”

Branwen was trembling violently. Sir Edouard
put one arm around her shoulders, slipped the other arm around her
bent knees and laid her back upon the bed, straightening her legs
out with a long caress down the length of her thighs and calves.
Then his hand glided upward on top of her leg to her hip and waist,
until he stopped at her breast.