Authors: Lynn Granville
Morwenna was nervous as she came down the stairs just behind her father that evening. He had come himself to fetch her as he had promised, looking at her in approval as he saw that she was wearing her best surcoat of cloth of gold over a tunic of white. Her dark blonde hair had been bound into thick plaits and wound each side of her head into circlets so that she could wear a small cap of gold mesh, with a veil hanging down her back. At her shoulder she had a pin of pearls and emeralds that he had given her as a keepsake after her mother died and was her only jewel of any note.
'You look well, daughter,' Hywell said and smiled at her. 'Come, I shall make you known to Owain's guests, and then you are invited to sit at his right hand for the evening. Is that not an honour for you?'
'Yes, Father,' she replied. 'I am glad to have such favour shown me. It was kind of Owain to single me out for the honour.'
'Well, I dare say it was yours by right as there are no other ladies here,' her father told her gruffly. She must not be allowed to become swollen headed after all. 'There are two young men at board with us tonight. Master Rhys Llewelyn and one of Owain's kinsmen, though the relationship is more distant than our own – Morgan Gruffudd's mother is a second cousin of Owain's through her father's side.'
Morwenna nodded her understanding. Recounting the ancestry of one's relations was a very important Welsh tradition. People often spoke of a man as being the son of someone who was the son of someone else, tracing their ancestry back in time to the Welsh princes and lords who had once held these lands in their own right. It was the bards who travelled the country singing their songs and stories of the past that kept these traditions alive, and the same thing happened in families where father's repeated the history of their lineage to their sons.
'I see,' she said, hoping that the man who had seen her watching him on the bank was not Morgan Gruffudd, or that if he was he would not recognise her this evening in all her finery. She had deliberately worn her best things to blind him to the truth, for surely a girl of her standing would not sit on a riverbank and stare at a naked man!
Her hand trembled a little on Hywell's arm as he led her towards the high table on the raised dais, where chairs had been set for three persons – Owain's own elaborately carved chair in the centre and plainer ones to each side. Everyone else sat on stools or benches, their importance denoted by their position above or below the salt. Several boards had been set on trestles ready for the feasting that evening, for Owain's men joined him in the Great Hall at night, and many had already taken their places.
Morwenna was aware that eyes followed her the length of the room, but she was used to it for she had felt the attention of a hall filled with men before this night, and it did not distress or frighten her. She was frightened only as she approached the high table and saw that Owain's guests had already taken their places there. One of them was to his left but not given the place of honour next to him. He was a handsome man of perhaps twenty summers with fair hair that was cut neatly about his ears and eyes that reminded her of a spring sky, not blue or yet grey. He smiled at her as she approached, but there was no knowledge or malice in his eyes, and she knew that he had not seen her clearly enough that morning to recognise her.
'Morwenna, this is Rhys Llewelyn,' her father said. 'Newly come to the service of the lord of Glyndyfrdwy – and this is Owain's kinsman, Morgan Gruffudd.'
Morwenna's heart stood still as she looked into the eyes of the young man who had stood so boldly on the bank of the river and laughed at her when he discovered her staring at his nakedness. His eyes were even brighter blue than she had thought at the time, and deep within them she saw the knowledge she had dreaded. A smile lurked at the corners of his mouth for an instant, though it was quickly hidden as he scowled at her and slouched down on his stool to her right.
'Sir,' she said in a voice hardly above a whisper. 'I am honoured to meet you.'
She received no more than a grunt in return and sat down as a page attended her chair. Morgan Gruffudd clearly had no manners, and his dress left much to be desired. His chin had been shaven recently for there was but a shadow of a beard, but his hair was long and looked in need of a trimming. His clothes were dark of hue and the same ones he had been wearing on his journey by the look of them, stained by travel and of coarse cloth. He had made no effort to improve his appearance for the evening, and she felt offended by his sloth. His appearance was an insult to his host and Owain's guests. Her own father was dressed in his best gown, belted with a girdle of gold thread and ornamented with a jewelled chain about his neck. If Morgan Gruffudd had no change of clothing with him, he could at least have had a page shave him in honour of the occasion – though she could not smell sweat on him and guiltily recalled that he must at least have cleansed his body in the river. Perhaps that was why he had taken the chance to plunge into the cold water, washing away the dirt of his journey before coming to his kinsman's house.
His laughter had sounded joyous then, and his manner had been bold and free, but she could almost think him a different man to the one who slouched by her side as the feasting commenced. He seemed surly and disinclined to talk, and after two attempts to engage him in conversation, Morwenna gave up. Let him sulk all night if he would, it was no matter to her! She stared straight ahead of her, ignoring her companion.
'You drink too much, Morgan,' Owain said when the evening was half done. 'If you do not heed your ways you will be useless to me. I have no place for a drunken fool in my service.'
Morgan's eyes were half closed as he glanced towards his host. 'You believe too much of what you hear, sir. I am no tame dog to be tied to my mother's skirts.'
'A man may be free of his mother's skirts but still remain sober,' Owain replied and gave him a cold, disdainful look. 'Pray oblige me by showing some manners to the lady Morwenna. You have scarce spoken to her all night.'
Morgan glowered at him, deliberately reaching for the wine sack and pouring more of the rich red liquid into his drinking cup before turning his intense blue gaze on Morwenna.
'I am bidden entertain you, lady. What would you have of me? I can sing you a fair song if you wish it? I have not my lute with me, but can carry a tune without it.'
Morwenna's cheeks grew warm as she looked into those eyes, which were the colour of a summer sky, seeming to see deeper than she wanted or expected. She suspected him of laughing at her. He was not drunk! She could almost swear it – but then why was he acting this way? There was some mystery here.
'If it is your pleasure I would hear you sing, sir.'
'It is your pleasure that matters. I would pleasure you, sweet lady.'
The soft, low tone of his voice, which was meant for her alone to hear, sent a shiver down Morwenna's spine. She sensed that he was insinuating he would enjoy more than merely singing for her, and she felt herself grow hot all over. For that look in his eyes could surely mean but one thing – and it was wicked of him to mock her so! Especially when she could not answer him as he deserved to be answered, with a slap on his face. She ground her teeth, remaining outwardly calm though inside she was fuming. If they were but alone she would show him what she thought of his manners!
'Sing if you think your voice deserves a hearing,' she said, raising her head proudly. 'I care not what you do, sir.'
She sat stiffly as Morgan rose to his feet and began to sing, struck by the beauty and clarity of the notes that came from his throat. His voice was as pure as any she had ever heard at the Eisteddfod. His song told of a lover dying of unrequited love, which brought tears to her eyes. She felt the anger inside her begin to melt, the sweetness of his voice drawing her to him. She was about to applaud him when his song drew to a close, but before she could do so, he drank deeply of his ale and then began to sing something that made her blush for shame. It was a ribald tale that should never have been sung before her, and made her look away in disgust.
'Be quiet!' Owain roared and rose to his feet, his anger plain for all to see. 'If you cannot behave respectably leave my board now. In the morning when you are sober you will apologise to the lady you have just insulted with your filth.'
'Be damned to you and her if she takes my song amiss,' Morgan said and lurched to his feet again. 'If my presence displeases you, I'll take myself off.'
His progress through the hall and out of the door at the other end was far from steady. More than once he stumbled as if he would fall, and then righted himself. As he disappeared out of the hall, Owain turned to her with an apology on his lips.
'I beg you will forgive Morgan's behaviour, Morwenna. He is clearly not used to strong ale. Fear not, I shall teach him better manners before he is allowed into your presence again.'
A ripple of laughter went round the hall at this, and Morwenna's cheeks were rosy as she smiled at Owain. She did not answer him, for she did not believe that Morgan Gruffudd had been drunk – but what was his purpose in making everyone believe it?
If he was determined to be thought a rogue perhaps he was one? Perhaps he had come here for some evil purpose?
'I think you should be careful of that man,' she whispered softly to Owain. 'It might be that he was not as drunk as he pretended – and that he seeks to do you harm.'
'Did you think that?' Owain's eyes narrowed and she thought she saw a gleam of appreciation. 'I thank you for your concern, Morwenna, but I am well protected in my own home.'
'Yes, of course.'
He would think her a fool. Yet she knew that all had not been as it seemed.
*
Morwenna dressed with the dawn in a simple tunic, belting it with a girdle of leather and slipping on the sheath that contained her tiny jewelled dagger so that it hung at her hip. She loved this time of day, before the household was completely awake, and often went walking in the dew of the morning. At home no one knew or troubled where she went, but here in her kinsman's house she was afraid she might be seen and questioned or sent back to her solar for her own safety.
However, although some of the men were stirring in the Great Hall, others were still snoring. The feasting had gone on long after she had retired, and many of them would have drunk deeply – more deeply than Morgan Gruffudd. Owain's reaction to his young kinsman's behaviour had surprised her, for she had not thought it worthy of so public a reprimand. After all, he had done no more than sing a bawdy song, which others had done before him, though seldom in her presence. Yet she was not such an innocent that she did not know how many of the men-at-arms and servants pleasured themselves with kitchen wenches. It was the natural order of things.
Besides, she was still convinced that Morgan Gruffudd had not truly been drunk, merely pretending to be so – but why? Her warning to Owain had been dismissed with a smile and she could do no more, for she knew that men seldom listened to what the women had to say.
She skirted the men still sleeping huddled on the floor around the now long extinguished fire, finding her way out into the courtyard where a few of the more hardy were dunking themselves in water drawn from the well. One or two called a friendly greeting, for they knew her of old and liked the pretty girl who usually had a smile for them. Morwenna inclined her head but did not tarry, escaping from the waking household through the orchard into the meadow. If she was to be confined to her chamber again today, she would take her customary walk first.
It was as she approached the edge of the forest, that she heard the thunder of hooves behind her and looking back saw a man on horseback riding at speed towards her. His black hair flew like a banner in the breeze, and she knew him at once, standing as if turned to stone as he approached. She thought he would sweep by her, but then he seemed to become aware of her and jerked on his reins, causing his horse to rear up a short distance away from her. She watched him fight with the spirited beast, admiring his strength and power as he controlled it in the end and then trotted up to her. Her heart raced as he grinned down at her.
'Are you away to the river, lady?' he asked, mischief in his eyes.