A Memory of Love (9 page)

April first, the day marking Rhonwyn's sixteenth birthday, came, and Llywelyn ap Gruffydd appeared to reclaim his daughter. Her cool, elegant demeanor was slightly intimidating, but her manners were flawless. He was rather astounded to learn of all her accomplishments since her arrival at the abbey almost six months ago. He was equally appalled by the amount of baggage she would be leaving with, but accepted his sister's explanation on the matter and her dictate that he could not leave until the morrow.

Rhonwyn had been turned from a rough-speaking half-lad into a beautiful young woman. Her cropped hair had grown out. It was parted in the center and hung down her back, contained by a simple silver ribbon. Her bosom seemed larger, which was to his mind all to the good. Men liked a woman with plump breasts. She no longer walked with determined strides, but rather glided gracefully. The hands that had held a sword were now perfumed and soft, and the long fingers that had so skillfully drawn her bow now plucked at the strings of the mandora in her lap while she sang softly. The English could have no complaints about his daughter.

“You have worked a miracle, Gwynllian,” he told the abbess.

“Yes,” she agreed with a small, arch smile. “She is more than well worth the price you have paid for her transformation. However, brother, I must be honest with you. Were Rhonwyn not an intelligent girl, none of this would have been possible. And you should show the men of Cythraul some appreciation, for they are the ones who taught her honor and duty.”

“While turning her into a rough, foul-mouthed soldier,” he grumbled at his sister. “And that cost me a fortune to reverse. I am tempted to burn Cythraul down about their ears!”

“This is not someone else's fault, Llywelyn,” the abbess said sternly to her brother. “This mishap was your failing. You know it, and you know why. Put it behind you, and tomorrow take your daughter to England to her husband. Remember, however, this time you travel with a
lady
, and not a laddie.” Then the abbess chuckled at her own small play on words.

The morning of April second came, and Rhonwyn's baggage was loaded into a sturdy cart. She bid the sisters farewell, taking special time to thank those nuns who had given her all the knowledge she now possessed, particularly Sister Rhan and the abbess.

“Remember, my child, that you will always have a home and a refuge here at Mercy Abbey,” Gwynllian told her. “May God bless you with happiness and many children.”

“Not too many,” Rhonwyn teased her aunt. “But I do promise to save at least one girl for you, my lady abbess.”

With a chuckle, the abbess hugged her niece, kissing her on the cheek. “Godspeed, Rhonwyn uerch Llywelyn,” she said.

Mounted upon Hardd, Rhonwyn rode through the abbey gates by her father's side. She heard the portals close behind her, but she was not sad. She was free from the constrictions of the nuns at last and off on a new adventure. They had turned her into a mannerly lady, but they had not tamed her spirit nor dimmed her enthusiasm for life. She had spent these past months in earnest study so she could be worthy of her father's name and her new position. Now she must turn her mind to Edward de Beaulie, the man who was to be her husband. She couldn't even begin to imagine what he would be like, but over the next few days of their journey she tried.

“The messenger has arrived from Prince Llywelyn, my lord,” the servant said, bowing to his master.

“Bring him into the hall” came the reply.

“Yes, my lord.” The servant bowed again, and backed away some feet before turning about. He returned only moments later. “The messenger from Prince Llywelyn, my lord.”

Edward de Beaulie glanced briefly at the rugged Welshman.

“My master and the lady Rhonwyn will be here by nightfall, my lord,” he said. Then he fell silent.

“I await them” was the brief answer.

Cold bastard, the messenger thought as he bowed to the lord of Haven Castle and departed the place to ride back to ap Gruffydd with the reply.

Edward de Beaulie watched him go, and then absently took the silver goblet of wine his servant offered him, staring into the dancing red gold flames in the fireplace. He wasn't ready to marry, yet he would shortly have a wife. A wild Welsh girl half his age. But having no betrothal agreement with another and being located so conveniently near the border, the king had chosen him to be his sacrificial lamb in this treaty marriage. He had considered refusing, but Prince Edward had stared hard at him when the king announced his decision, and Edward de Beaulie had known he dared not refuse. The prince was an enemy he was not interested in having.

When the Welsh prince had asked the marriage be delayed until this spring because his daughter was completing her education at Mercy Abbey, Edward de Beaulie had been pleased to acquiesce. He had an attractive mistress and was in no hurry to wed. When he thought of it, though, a convent-bred wife did have her advantages. She would be meek and obedient, keeping his home in excellent condition and bearing his children. Haven had known no lady since his mother had died seven years ago. While he had enjoyed the company of his mistress, Renée de Faubourg, these past months, he had pensioned her off several weeks ago, with her own house in Shrewsbury and an annual allowance he placed with a reputable goldsmith. A wife was to be respected, and if the truth be known, he was beginning to tire of Renée.

He wondered what the Welsh girl would be like. She would probably be small, for so many of the Welsh were. And she would have dark hair and eyes and a fair skin. He wondered if she spoke the Norman tongue or if she was conversant only in Welsh. It probably didn't matter a great deal as no words were really needed when a man took a woman to his bed. She would eventually learn, of course, if she was to control the servants.

Still, he couldn't help but feel annoyed at having been forced to this marriage. But the girl had had no choice either, and was not to be blamed. Hopefully they would like one another and could come to an arrangement that would guarantee peace between them. He was uncomfortable, however, having Llywelyn ap gruffydd as a father-in-law. The prince was a dangerous man and extremely ambitious. Haven would be caught between him and Prince Edward, who liked not the Welshman one bit, for ap gruffydd had supported the prince's uncle, Simon de Montfort, quite openly against the king. Prince Edward might not have a great deal of respect for his sire's style of governance, but he did love his father.

de Beaulie arose and left the great hall, going to the south tower where his bride's apartments would be located. The young serving girl his steward had chosen to serve the bride turned startled eyes on him as he entered the dayroom. She curtsied quickly, keeping her frightened eyes lowered. He looked about the room. The furnishings of oak were polished, and the stone floor well swept. The lamps burned without smoking. There was a bowl of daffodils on a table. He smiled.

“You have done well, Enit,” he told her. “Your new mistress will arrive by nightfall, I have been informed. She may want to bathe after her journey. Make certain a tub is ready.”

“Yes, my lord,” Enit said, bobbing another curtsey. Her uncle was steward at Haven, and this was a great opportunity she had been given, particularly considering her mother was Welsh and not English. Enit was sixteen and had been in service at the castle for five years. She was a plain rather than pretty girl, with brown hair and eyes.

Edward de Beaulie left the apartment and went in search of his priest, Father John. All the legalities had been signed and sealed at Montgomery with regard to his marriage. All that was left was for the priest to perform the sacrament. He decided upon the morrow so his bride might have a proper night's rest. The king had personally instructed him that the marriage was to be consummated on his wedding night.

“I do not trust ap Gruffydd,” Henry had said. “Breach the girl, and make certain the bloody sheet flies from the castle top on the following morning for all to see.”

“Use her well,” Prince Edward had continued. “You want her with child as quickly as possible, my lord, else her sly sire attempt to annul your marriage and take her back to use to better advantage elsewhere. The Welsh are not honorable peoples, but with ap Gruffydd's daughter in our power, we may keep him under control. He must love the wench that he has kept her so secretly all these years.”

Edward de Beaulie now reached the priest's quarters. “Father, my bride approaches and will arrive at Haven before night. We will celebrate the formalities on the morrow.”

“My lord, the girl is young and gently reared,” the priest said. “Will you not give her some time to know you?”

“We must wed no matter,” Edward de Beaulie said. “Let it be sooner than later. ap Gruffydd will remain to see the deed done, and I would have him gone from Haven as quickly as possible. Though this match be the king's and prince's decision, I do not want the Welshman here any longer than necessary lest I later be accused of some misdeed. These are dangerous times, good father.”

The priest shook his head. “I cannot disagree with you, my lord,” he said sadly. “I will marry you tomorrow afternoon. That will give the lady Rhonwyn time to recover from her long trek.”

“Agreed,” Edward de Beaulie said, and left the priest. As he crossed the courtyard of his castle, he called to the watch upon its heights, “What do you see?”

“Nought yet, my lord” came the reply.

Edward de Beaulie decided suddenly to go to his stables. “Saddle my horse,” he told the groom who hurried forth to meet him.

“How many men will you be taking with you, my lord?” the groom asked him.

“No escort,” he said. “I am riding out to meet my bride, and I am safe on my own lands.”

The black stallion was brought out, and the lord of Haven Castle mounted him and rode forth from his home. He was pleased to see the fields were already being plowed for planting. Soon those fields would be golden with wheat and barley. In his meadows the black-faced white sheep browsed, followed by their gamboling and enthusiastic lambs, which were in plentiful supply this year. He possessed a large herd of cows who gave a rich milk that was made into butter and cheese and sold in Shrewsbury on market days. Beyond his fields were great stands of woods where he might hunt. And below the hill on which his castle stood, the river Severn flowed.

He stopped in his passage and turned about to look at his home. It was a fine castle, small and elegant in structure, not at all great or impressive like others he had seen. The grayish-brown stone of which it was built was mellowed with age and in some places covered in ivy. There were four towers, one facing each compass point. Despite the castle's battlements, its interior was more that of a comfortable manor house. Edward de Beaulie loved his home. The one good thing, he thought, about his marriage was that he would have children with whom to share his love of Haven Castle. For her sake, he hoped his bride would like it, too.

He turned his horse again to the road the Welsh prince and his train would be traveling. He rode for several miles before coming upon Llywelyn ap Gruffydd and his party. He stopped, allowing them to approach. The prince rode forward and greeted his son-in-law.

“Are you eager then, Edward de Beaulie, to meet your bride?”

The Englishman smiled sardonically, but before he could answer the girl rode forward, stopping at her fa-ther's side.

“I think him curious,” she said in a sweetly musical voice. “Is that not so, my lord?” Her look challenged him.

He answered as quickly, “And you, lady, are you not curious as well?”

Rhonwyn laughed aloud, but did not speak. Suddenly her eyes were lowered, and she appeared every bit the meek conventbred wife he had been told would be delivered to him. He was confused.

“May I welcome you to Haven Castle, my lord prince. And the lady Rhonwyn as well. I know your journey has been arduous. My home is but a few miles onward. There is warmth and wine. I know you will want to rest, lady. Our marriage will be celebrated tomorrow afternoon.”

Well, she thought, he wasn't giving her a great deal of time, was he? And since she had not ever imagined what he would be like, Edward de Beaulie came as a pleasant surprise to Rhonwyn. He was tall and lean, a man obviously used to physical pursuits. The shape of his face was oval, as were his silvery gray eyes. His nose, longer rather than shorter, had a bump in it and had obviously been broken at one time. He had high cheekbones, and his mouth was long, the lips narrow. His hair, which was cut short, had a bang. It was the warm brown color of oak leaves on the forest floor in autumn. The big hands guiding the black stallion so skillfully were square, the nails pared and short. He would not be unpleasant to look at across the hall.

If she had examined him in their brief encounter, so had Edward de Beaulie scrutinized her as well. He was astonished by the lady Rhonwyn's beauty. He had not expected it at all. A small, dark Welsh girl was what he had anticipated, not this slender creature of medium height with delicate features and even more delicate coloring. The silk gauze veil she wore did little to hide the glorious pale gilt of her hair.
And her eyes!
They were every bit as green as the emeralds in his sword's hilt. Her cheeks were brushed with rose, her brows and lashes startling ebony against her snowy complexion. Her nose was in perfect proportion with her heart-shaped face, narrow and flaring only in the nostrils. Her mouth was small, but the lips were full.