He stared at her. No, that
wasn’t right; he
did
know her. He couldn’t remember where but he knew he had seen
her before. She stared back at him, a faint smile on her lips. Her
eyes were large and brown and crinkled at the corners.
“Welcome back, my lord,” she said. “You’ve
had a nice long rest. You must be thirsty.” She stood up again and
moved out of his view but came back almost immediately with a cup
in her hand. She wrapped the cloth around it and tipped it towards
his mouth. “Don’t try to raise your head. Just swallow slowly. It’s
wine flavored with rosemary. Just smelling rosemary reminds me of
spring. But it’s a very beneficial herb, too. It makes you feel
nice and comfortable inside…”
He felt a thin trickle of the wine invade his
mouth. He swallowed gingerly. His entire neck and left shoulder
ached and he didn’t want to exacerbate the pain. The chattering
girl seemed to know how much liquid was enough to fill his mouth
before he was forced to swallow. Not a drop ran down the sides of
his face.
She pulled the cup away and blotted his lips
with the cloth. “I don’t want you to have too much or you’ll fall
asleep. I’d like to get some broth inside you, first.”
Christ! His mind was full of cobwebs. He
couldn’t concentrate. It was driving him mad, wondering who the
hell she was and what she was doing with him. Gladys…Somewhere in
her rambling she’d said the name ‘Gladys.’ He remembered Gladys
now; she was the one who was carrying his child. And Teleri—that
was his damned wife. So who was this?
She’d gone back to the table. Longsword found
that if he gritted his teeth and moved his head very slowly, the
pain was not so great. He watched her move busily at the table. She
was dressed in something plain and brown and her dark hair was
gathered into a single loose braid which reached almost to her
waist. She was tall for a woman—she must surely tower over Teleri,
he thought—but not ungainly. She worked quickly, cutting up bread
and mixing it into a shallow bowl. The rhythmic motion of her hands
and his own steady breathing started to make him drowsy…
“I told you not to move your head, my
lord!”
His eyes snapped open. She was sitting near
him again, the bowl in one hand. She gave him an accusing look. “I
don’t want you to stretch and pull the wound until I’ve had the
chance to look at it,” she explained.
Wound? That must be why his neck and shoulder
ached. Now he remembered: the Welsh had shot an arrow at him; he’d
recovered but then the spot had broken open. Yes—it had happened at
Llanlleyn. And the Welsh had burned Llanlleyn to the ground before
he’d had the chance to do it himself. Rhirid ap Maelgwn…He had yet
to take his revenge on the Welshman.
But right now he wasn’t
about to allow this chit to dictate to him. If he wanted to move
his damned head, he’d move his damned head! So he straightened it
up, just to show her who was boss and instantly a bolt of pain
seared through his neck. Somehow he managed to keep his expression
even so she didn’t notice…he
hoped
she hadn’t noticed.
Luckily, she didn’t mention it. “It’s gotten
cool, my lord,” she said apologetically about the broth. “But at
least that will make it easier for you to swallow. Sir Richard told
me you were thin to start with, but you’ve gotten very skinny since
you fell ill with the fever. Gladys was hardly able to feed you
because you thrashed around so much.”
He listened to her ramble on with only half
an ear because he found he had to concentrate on chewing the soggy
pieces of bread and then swallowing. It was actually satisfying; he
hadn’t realized he was hungry. But it was a real effort and by the
time he’d finished, he was exhausted.
The last thing he was conscious of before he
slipped away into a deep sleep was the dampened cloth gently
blotting his mouth clean.
Richard Delamere was extremely pleased to
learn that Longsword had finally awakened although equally
disappointed that he hadn’t been there at the time. Once he passed
around the good news, the entire mood of the castle lightened.
Every one of the Normans had been holding his breath, waiting. To
those who had seen Longsword in the throes of the fever, it seemed
a miracle. One day he had been at the very threshold of the gates
of Heaven and then, only three days afterwards, he’d been snatched
back to earth.
Delamere felt it premature to thank Gwalaes
for her work. After all, although he could see quite plainly that
Longsword breathed easily and no longer flung himself violently
around a sweat-drenched bed, he had yet to speak to him or hear him
speak. And despite Gwalaes’ conviction that all was well, he still
wouldn’t let her leave Rhuddlan. She claimed that the worst was
over, that only rest and nourishment were necessary to fully
restore Longsword and that anyone could serve him now but in
Delamere’s mind she was the sole link between Longsword’s death and
return to life and he wasn’t about to lose her until Longsword was
up and walking.
That night Gwalaes, her mind churning, lay
awake on her pallet on the floor in Longsword’s chamber. She wanted
desperately to get back to the abbey. She and Bronwen had never
before been separated and, even though she knew such fears were
groundless, she worried that her child wasn’t eating properly or
sleeping quietly.
At length, she fell into a
fitful sleep, only to be awakened by a nightmare. The vivid memory
of it receded almost immediately but she knew quite clearly what it
had been about: Bronwen. Something terrible happening to Bronwen.
Something terrible had
happened
to Bronwen. Gwalaes was in agony for the rest of
the night. She tried to convince herself it was her earlier
worrying that had put apprehension for Bronwen in her mind but the
horrible sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach would not go
away. Only seeing her daughter again would dissolve it. She heard
Longsword shift his position in the dark. Tomorrow, she thought
with determination, he must come fully back. Delamere had all but
promised when Longsword regained his senses, she would be permitted
to leave Rhuddlan.
It was a simple enough matter for Rhirid and
his small band to come up on the abbey in the cold, clear morning
light and to swoop down upon its inhabitants like wild marauders,
swords drawn and whooping. It was simple enough to call forth the
abbess and to force the admission that someone there had indeed
tended to the seriously wounded Norman leader. It was simple enough
to threaten to burn down the entire compound if that person wasn’t
immediately given up to him. The rest of it was not so simple.
“The person whom you seek isn’t here,” the
abbess told Rhirid calmly. She did not appear to be frightened by
his sudden invasion. “Knights came from Rhuddlan. Lord William has
the fever and Gwalaes was compelled to return with them.”
Rhirid stared at the abbess. This was a twist
in his plan he hadn’t foreseen. “You permitted her to leave? These
knights are our enemy. You must have heard by now what happened at
Llanlleyn.”
“We are very sorry for the trouble at
Llanlleyn,” the abbess said carefully. “It certainly seems to have
been the fault of the Norman knights. But it is our Christian duty
to help those who need us—”
“So they might recover to order new murders?
New destruction?” Rhirid cut in angrily. “My father’s people lost
everything when Llanlleyn was burned to the ground! And now you
tell me your healer, this—this—Gwalaes, has gone to help the
Normans again?”
“She couldn’t do otherwise, Lord Rhirid! They
were holding her daughter hostage. It was only through my
intercession that they agreed to leave the girl here but if Gwalaes
had refused to go, there was no telling what they might have done
with Bronwen!” The abbess stopped to catch her breath. Normally
patient and reserved, the events of the last several weeks coupled
with this fresh assault had pushed her to the edge of civility.
“You and your hooligans can turn around and go home,” she added.
“You’re no different from the knights who came rushing in,
demanding this and that. Only they got here first!”
Rhirid raised his eyebrows in surprise at her
tone. But the insult just made his decision easier. At first he was
embarrassed to learn the object of his quest was not in residence.
His men had looked to him for answers and it seemed the one he’d
confidently given them was fizzling into nothing. They watched him
now, expectantly, certain of his ability because he was as
aggressive and determined as they were but with the additional
power of being a chief’s son. He dared not disappoint them. They
might never give him another chance.
His decision was obvious. “We’ve come here to
take revenge for the destruction of Llanlleyn,” he said to the
abbess, “because William Longsword was cured by your healer. It
would be justice if we burned your abbey to the ground. But—” he
held up a hand to override the abbess’ imminent objection, “—we
will go without further trouble…if you give us the girl.”
The abbess paled. “Bronwen?”
“That was the name you mentioned.”
“No! Bronwen is a little girl! You can’t take
out your revenge on a mere child!”
“I have no wish to harm a child,” Rhirid
agreed. “What I really want is her mother. If the Normans were
successful using the girl as bait, why should I not also
succeed?”
“It is an evil plan!”
He shrugged. “Very well.” He called Dylan ab
Owain over to his side. “Bring every female child you can find to
stand before me,” he instructed.
For the first time, the abbess looked
frightened. “We are under the protection of the bishop at St.
Asaph’s and of Prince Dafydd himself!”
”We have no quarrel with the prince, only
with those who shelter and aid our common enemy.”
The peaceful morning was brutally shattered
by the screams and pleas of children ripped from their parents and
carried forcibly to form a small group under the shadow of Rhirid’s
spotted grey horse. There weren’t many girls; perhaps a dozen. But
there was only one who was bent over a scraggly grey dog, trying
vainly to comfort herself by comforting it.
Bronwen didn’t understand what was happening
but she knew the man on the horse wanted her. He had said her name;
she was the only Bronwen at the abbey. She glanced up and craned
her neck, searching for the woman who was watching her while her
mother was gone but when their eyes met, the woman covered her face
with her hands and turned away. That just made Bronwen even more
nervous.
She looked instead at the angry man who had
said her name. He was speaking very loudly to the abbess, who
seemed upset. The other men stood about, unsmiling. Bronwen was
afraid of them. They were rough-looking and held long swords in
their hands. The Normans had been neat and had kept their swords by
their sides.
She heard her name again. Kigva was barking
and growling, standing her ground. Bronwen saw with dismay that one
of the rough men—one who had long black hair and big black
mustaches—was coming towards her. She backed away but there wasn’t
anywhere she could go. Too late she saw that she was standing alone
with Kigva; the other girls had fled to the safety of their
mothers’ arms.
Then one of the sisters lurched forward
suddenly as if she would throw herself between Bronwen and the
menace to her safety. But after a few steps, she stumbled and
clutched a hand to her chest. Her mouth moved but no words came out
and finally her eyes rolled back in her head. Before anyone nearby
could catch her, she collapsed onto the ground, dead as a
stone.
“Murderer!” a woman screamed. “Murderer!”
Bronwen shrieked as Dylan ab Owain seized her
and lifted her off her feet. Kigva hurled herself at the strange
pair of legs but the warrior gave her a mighty kick which sent her
skidding across the ground with a whimper. The Welshman handed
Bronwen up to the nearest horseman.
Rhirid watched the proceedings without
expression. Inwardly, however, he was annoyed. He couldn’t
understand the tremendous uproar to his seizure of one small child.
It wasn’t even as if someone had stepped forward and claimed to be
kin to the girl. She was practically an orphan; what did she
matter?
He nodded to Dylan. “Fire anything that will
burn.”
“No!” The abbess stepped forward. “You
promised if you got Bronwen—”
“If you gave her up to me,” Rhirid
interrupted. “Which you didn’t.”
“Please, Lord Rhirid! Isn’t it enough that
you have the child? That one of our own is dead because of you and
your men?”
Rhirid craned his neck to watch the first
straw and mud roof succumb to one of Dylan’s torches. There were
shrieks and screams from the on-lookers.
“No,” he answered at length.
He glanced down at the abbess. “I have the feeling that when it
comes to William Longsword, it won’t be enough until one of
us
is dead.” He took the
reins up in his hands. All around him the timbered buildings were
burning. Although some of the inhabitants had fled, most were
gathered near the stone church and the nuns. “Tell him I look
forward to meeting him again.” Then, without warning, he kicked the
flanks of his mount and shouted to his men. After several
thunderous moments, the abbey grounds were once more
peaceful.
Except for the wailing.
Chapter 24
March, 1177
Rhuddlan Castle, Gwynedd
Longsword woke up irritated. Dawn was
breaking; his chamber was filled with a murky grey light, a certain
indication of a cloudy sky. Why was the weather always so damned
dreary in Wales, he thought grumpily. And why were the shutters
standing open, anyway? He didn’t remember leaving them open the
night before…