The churl stood up and spoke to her. She
could not understand him. By gestures he asked if she had delivered
the child, and by gestures Branwen declared that she had.
He smiled at her. He had a pleasant face and
there was a warmth about him, a sense of dumb, undemanding goodness
that Branwen, her heart still tormented by what had happened at
Afoncaer, found oddly comforting. This man was no Sir Edouard. This
man could be trusted. She smiled back at him. She hoped he would
let her stay in his house for a day or two. It would be good to
sleep under a roof again, however poor that roof might be. She was
too tired to go any further.
The excitement of helping to bring new life
into the world was fading, and as it did, a weariness so heavy she
could not fight it came seeping through Branwen’s body, taking away
what little strength she had left. She staggered, her head reeling,
and the man caught her shoulders to steady her. He frowned when his
large hands felt the thinness of her shoulders and gave an
exclamation of dismay as his hands moved down to feel the bones of
her upper arms. His concerned expression gave Branwen the answer
she so desperately needed. She was welcome here.
“Alfric,” the man said to her, one hand on
his chest.
“Branwen.” She touched her own bosom.
“Bran-wen, Branwen.” He said it several times
to be sure he was doing it right, and then he began to speak again
in his own tongue.
Branwen spoke Welsh, a fair amount of Latin,
and knew a half-dozen or so words of French, but she spoke not one
word of English. She could see she would have to learn.
Reynaud
:
Sir Edouard the Outlaw did not reign long at
Afoncaer. A year after he had taken it, the Welsh rose up and
attacked him and claimed the fortress for their own again. The
knights sent into Wales by William the Conqueror were too
preoccupied by their own conflicts with the natives to help
Edouard, even had they been inclined to assist a knight who called
no man his liege lord.
In the summer of 1087, two years after
Branwen had fled from Afoncaer, the Conqueror died, and his second
son, William Rufus, became King of England. The new king was
involved with fighting both his older brother, Duke Robert, in
Normandy, and the Scottish king, Malcolm, in the north of England,
and had at first little time to think of Wales. Afoncaer enjoyed
ten peaceful years until the Normans came again.
It was twelve years before Branwen returned,
and by then there was Baron Lionel. And there was Lady Isabel.
Isobel
England, A.D 1090 – 1098
Westminster, early December, 1090
Isabel was pleased with the arrangements her
father had made for her. Sir Fulk of Brittany had said nothing to
her about his health, but she had watched him decline over the last
year. She knew one of his old battle wounds had opened yet again,
and the infection in it was slowly sapping his strength. The
physicians pretended optimism. Isabel no longer believed anything
they said. Her father would die soon, but before he joined her
mother in the next world he would make proper provision for Isabel.
He had always taken care of her and he would not fail her now. He
would find her a good husband.
She knew he had refused several previous
offers for her hand, including one from a certain highly placed
gentleman at the French court. In Sir Fulk’s opinion, opportunity
lay not in France, but across the Narrow Sea, in the land his old
friend William of Normandy had conquered nearly a quarter of a
century ago. There were still great titles to be won in England,
and Sir Fulk, whose lands in Brittany would all go to a nephew at
his death, had dreams of glory for his future grandchildren. He
made arrangements to entrust his beloved, if slightly spoiled, only
child, and her considerable dowry of his scattered properties in
England, to Sir Lionel fitz Lionel of Adderbury. He assured Isabel
that her proposed husband was young, good-looking, and, most
important to Sir Fulk, a close friend of king William Rufus.
“I have never met the new king,” Sir Fulk
told Isabel, “but let us hope he is as brave, and as good a ruler,
as his father was. You will live at the English court, where your
husband will no doubt hold a position of great honor and
authority.”
Isabel glowed at this news, her mind filled
with thoughts of gowns and jewels, great banquets and royal favors.
The prospect was all any young noblewoman could want. She had never
been more than a few miles from her father’s castle in Brittany,
and the thought of the exciting journey before her, ending in a
sumptuous wedding, was almost too marvelous to comprehend. She did
not even mind being seasick all the way to England. She had
recovered quickly once they landed, and now she stood in the room
allotted to her in the King’s House at Westminster and let her
maids robe her for her wedding to Sir Lionel.
The betrothal had taken place by proxy. The
marriage, originally planned for the summer just passed, had been
postponed by the deaths of Sir Lionel’s father, old Sir Lionel of
Adderbury, six months ago, and then his mother only a month later.
Sir Lionel had immediately been confirmed in inheritance of all his
late father’s honors by his good friend the king. He was now a very
wealthy man.
Now, several months later, Lady Isabel stood
in the room allotted to her in the King’s House at Westminster and
let her maids robe her for her wedding to Sir Lionel. The period of
mourning for Sir Lionel’s parents was ended. The marriage of Sir
Lionel and Lady Isabel would take place in early morning, and then
the king would give a feast in honor of the couple. Isabel had not
yet met her future husband, but that was not unusual, and she
trusted her father’s judgment in such an important matter.
Isabel sighed happily as Joan helped her to
pull the soft blue silk gown over her white linen under-dress and
Agnes draped a deeper blue mantle about her shoulders. Agnes was
weeping.
“My baby,” she sniffed. “If only your dear
mother were here today.” Agnes was old and looked frail, though she
was tough as steel. She had served Isabel’s mother, and on that
lady’s death had transferred her allegiance to Isabel.
Joan, the other maid, was younger, a sturdy
woman with a pretty, humorous face and capable hands that could
fashion beautiful gowns out of the plainest fabrics. It was Joan
who, in answer to Isabel’s halting questions, had explained the
most intimate duties of a wife, and had made that prospect seem
filled with exciting possibilities. Joan had also been a servant to
Isabel’s mother and had been married and widowed, and therefore
knew all about such matters.
Joan’s fingers tugged gently at the edge of
Isabel’s white silk veil, straightening the shoulder-length
material before she placed the gold circlet on top of it.
“You look beautiful,” Joan said. “Your mantle
matches your eyes, and it makes your hair look like spun gold. Sir
Lionel will adore you the very first moment he sees you.”
Agnes sniffed again, and Isabel, catching
Joan’s twinkling brown eyes, repressed a giggle. She was not the
least bit nervous. She knew she was beautiful, with or without the
deep blue mantle, and she had no doubt that Sir Lionel would love
her. Everyone she had ever known had loved her and had catered to
her little whims and soothed her temper when it occasionally
flared, and she fully expected her new husband to do the same. Once
the public aspect of the wedding ceremonies was completed, she was
certain all would go well.
Agnes opened the door. With her servants
following her, Isabel sailed out to meet her new life.
Isabel did not think she liked King William
Rufus. He had appeared unexpectedly in the chamber where she had
just been presented to Sir Lionel. This glittering, silk-robed
king, dazzling with gold embroidery, was too polite to her. He made
her feel uneasy, as though there were some hidden purpose to his
cordiality. He was tall and heavily built, with long, flowing blond
curls and a red face. William bent over her hand with affected
charm while she swept into a deep curtsey.
“Ah, Lady Isabel. How long we have awaited
your arrival.” Thick red lips briefly touched her fingers before
King William straightened and looked into her face with cold blue
eyes. “But you are exquisite! What a lovely ornament you will be to
our court. A sweet, innocent treasure, entrusted to the tender care
of our dear friend, Lionel.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Isabel could not
repress a shiver. The king’s eyes and his effusive words did not
match. She had the oddest feeling that he disliked her, though
there could be no reason why he should. He did not even know her.
She lifted her chin, reminding herself that her lineage was an old
and proud one, while this king was the son of a bastard and the
grandchild of a tanner’s daughter. “I am pleased to be in England
at last, my lord, and I am eager for the wedding to begin,” Isabel
said artlessly.
“An eager bride? How delightful. It is
usually the bridegroom who is eager.” The king’s laugh was mocking.
Around him his courtiers tittered, while Isabel felt herself
blushing bright red. Bestowing a last amused glance on the
embarrassed and confused girl, William Rufus left her, walking out
of the room with a peculiar mincing gait quite at odds with his
large, hulking figure.
Isabel, recovering from her embarrassment
after a few moments, transferred all her attention to Sir Lionel.
She thought he was the handsomest man she had ever seen. He was
nearly twenty-two years old to her fourteen, tall and blue-eyed,
with golden hair and harsh good looks. He had an enchanting smile
and excellent manners, and she was prepared to love him
immediately. He had been gracious and most courteous when she was
presented to him by her father, and now he extended his hand to her
with a little bow.
“We will meet again, very soon,” he said,
smiling, and then he followed his king out of the room.
A short time later in the chapel, Lionel
seemed a little uncertain during the contract reading and at the
mass that followed it. He drank overmuch at King William’s
splendid, day-long banquet for the newly wedded couple, but Isabel
told herself that was only to be expected of a nervous bridegroom.
They would soon grow accustomed to each other, and then his
uncertainty would disappear.
Isabel admired Lionel’s fine clothes, his
embroidered blue tunic, his red leather shoes with the curled-up
toes, his jeweled belt and the finely wrought clasp on his bright
green cloak. His hair, like that of the king, was worn much longer
than the men in Brittany wore theirs. It was oiled and curled, a
style greatly favored by the king and imitated by his courtiers, as
Isabel could see by glancing about her.
Lionel’s companions were arrayed in plumage
as gaudy as that of the king and the bridegroom. Isabel noticed her
father’s lifted eyebrows as he too surveyed the younger men at the
feast. She suspected he was disappointed in the king. She knew he
had expected a man of martial bearing. Of course, Sir Fulk would
disapprove of elegant court dress. He was a tough old soldier, a
veteran of many battles, who wore plain leather tunics and heavy
boots suited for riding when he was not in his chain mail armor. He
had no understanding of a more cultivated and peaceable generation,
and his increasing ill-health sometimes made him irritable. Isabel
disregarded her father’s stern looks at the young courtiers and
concentrated on the conversation. It was coarse, with the bawdy
jokes to be expected at a nuptial feast, and soon brought a blush
to the new bride’s cheek.
There was one in Sir Lionel’s party who did
not wear silk or jewels. Young Guy of Adderbury, Lionel’s
thirteen-year-old brother, was a page attached to King William’s
household, but temporarily freed from his usual duties in order to
attend his brother during the wedding festivities.
Guy was still a boy, his features and
coloring, so like Lionel’s, not yet cast into a manly mold, and he
was quiet. He watched Lionel and his noisy friends with a serious,
thoughtful gaze. His eyes occasionally rested on Isabel, and when
she met them he smiled as if in encouragement.
Did he think she was afraid of the night to
come? He was only a silly boy, a whole year younger than she was.
Isabel looked away, her delicate nose in the air. When she caught
sight of Guy again later he was in solemn conversation with her
father. They suited each other, Isabel decided, both too serious.
She turned back to her laughing, handsome husband.
When the feasting was nearly over, Isabel
began to feel the first stirring of nervousness. She tried to
ignore the sudden fluttering of her heart and the breathlessness
that overtook her each time she looked at Lionel. She noticed that
he had begun to avoid meeting her eyes. She thought that he too was
nervous about what was to come, although he continued to drink and
laugh with his friends. Then, suddenly, it was time for her to
retire, and her father came to her.
“Go with these women,” he said, “They will
tend to you, my dear. Sir Lionel has suggested that the bedding be
done privately. The king has agreed to this. Indeed, His Majesty
seemed most eager to grant you complete privacy.” Sir Fulk sounded
surprised at this concession.
Isabel, who had been prepared for the
customary public inspection of the bride in her bedchamber,
followed by at least a semipublic first bedding and consummation of
her marriage, was also surprised. Perhaps she had been wrong and
the king did not dislike her after all. Or perhaps he had agreed to
please his friend Sir Lionel. Whatever the reason, Isabel was
grateful to King William and close to worshiping Sir Lionel for his
unusual consideration of her. She felt much more comfortable now,
knowing the first occasion of intimacy with her new husband would
not occur with only drawn bedcurtains to separate them from the
lecherous eyes and randy comments of the courtiers.