Rhuddlan (24 page)

Longsword’s mouth was dry and his head was
spinning. He needed wine, or even ale, desperately. My God! he
thought shakily; I’m going to be a father!

“My lord husband—” Teleri started.

“Just where do you propose I send a young,
pregnant woman, my lady?” he said.

“That isn’t my concern. I don’t care what you
do with her. Just get her out of Rhuddlan!”

He had to sit. He went to the chair that he’d
offered earlier to Teleri and collapsed into it heavily. He
couldn’t believe the news she’d just given him. “I’m not sending
Gladys away,” he said.

Teleri’s brown eyes flashed. “Yes, you
will—”

“If, my lady, you were doing what a good wife
is supposed to do you wouldn’t be standing here now making a fool
of yourself. You’re jealous, you know that? Jealous someone else
has what you want—”

“Don’t flatter yourself—”

“Well, you’re just going to have to swallow
it. She stays here.”

“Then I demand to be sent back to my uncle! I
won’t be subjected to this kind of treatment from my husband!”

“You’re only a woman, Teleri; you haven’t got
the right to make demands.”

“Welsh law—”

He cut in sharply, “Under this roof you’re
subject to Norman law! And there’s nothing in it that says I have
to do anything you want me to do!”

She stared malevolently at him for several
seconds. “You’ll regret this, my lord,” she said finally, in a calm
voice that sounded jarring after all the loud arguing that had
preceded it. Without another word, she turned on her heel and swept
through the doorway.

Longsword sagged in the chair. He felt as if
he’d just finished a solid hour of nonstop sword practice against a
man of twice his build and proficiency. He was glad the argument
had ended when it had because while he possessed a quick sword arm,
his mind was not as agile and Teleri would have soon reduced him to
ranting idiocy.

But it was impossible to dwell too long on
Teleri. He was going to be a father! Every time he said it to
himself, the same thrill ran from his stomach to the ends of his
toes and fingers, leaving him so excited that he couldn’t stay
seated. Damn Richard for being away, he thought; perhaps he ought
to send a man to the farm to fetch him back. Better yet, he would
go himself! At first light the next morning. The manor was less
than a day’s ride away and he could be celebrating with Delamere
before supper. He had yet to see the newest addition to his family,
another boy, born last November. It would be wonderful to share the
news with someone who could understand exactly what he felt.

But the storm that had been threatening all
day broke overnight, and when Longsword awoke the grey sky was
still swirling and the road leading out from Rhuddlan’s main gate
was invisible, buried under half a foot of snow like the
surrounding countryside. Although he was fairly confident of the
way, it made no sense to struggle to Delamere’s manor while snow
continued to fall. He returned to his bed, slipped an arm around
Gladys’ waist and went back to sleep.

The sudden storm had disrupted several of his
men’s plans as well. The trio had left Rhuddlan early the previous
day with the intention of pursuing whatever winter game they could
scare up. There was no pressing need to fill the castle stores but
boredom was a constant problem at Rhuddlan, one with which
Longsword commiserated and he invariably permitted his men the
freedom of the demense.

The sky had been grey when
the men had left but they had paid it scant attention because grey
seemed to be the usual color of the Welsh winter sky. It wasn’t
until one of them pointed out that the wind had picked up and the
air temperature had fallen that they’d decided to turn their
mounts’ heads towards home. When the first flakes of snow began to
scatter down, they realized they were further from Rhuddlan than
they’d figured. Daylight faded quickly and soon the snow was
falling fast and hard, blinding them, obscuring their path and
confusing the horses. When they chanced upon a
hendref
, a Welsh winter homestead,
consisting of a long house and a smaller building attached to one
side, they dismounted and led their horses to the rough wooden
door. One of them stepped forward and pounded on the
door.

It was opened by a bearded, middle-aged
Welshman who, despite his surprise at seeing a group of armed
foreigners inches from his face, immediately invited them in.

The Welshman, who was passing the winter in
this low-lying area until the spring rains came and he could move
his livestock to higher pastures, spoke no French or English and
the soldiers spoke no Welsh, but at first this proved no impediment
to mutual goodwill. The strangers were set by the hearth, which
burned in the center of the room, smoke escaping through a hole in
the roof, and brought ale and warm food by the Welshman’s wife and
daughter.

It happened that the soldiers, who were
forced by necessity to speak only among themselves, fell to
discussing the physical merits of the daughter. She was a pretty
child, about fifteen years old, with long, dark hair and green eyes
with which she unabashedly scrutinized them until her mother called
her to bed on the opposite side of the hearth and protectively
cocooned between the wall and her parents. The men agreed that she
was the loveliest creature they had thus far seen in Wales and then
in drunken and lewd whispers, they began dissecting her further
until one by one they dropped into sleep.

That might have been the end of the matter
had the girl not been restless during the night, listening to the
screaming of the wind and the slashing of the snow against her
wall. As was her habit on the occasions she couldn’t sleep, she
crept over her parents and tiptoed across the earthen floor to find
the wooden bowl containing the last of the day’s milk. But this
time there were others in the house and one in particular who
opened bleary eyes and barely made out a lithe figure with flowing
hair standing almost over him. Without thinking, he sat up and
reached for the apparition and found it real and warm and soft. He
pulled it down to lay beside him and to him it seemed just a dream
and in the dream she was compliant and sensuous, writhing
exotically beneath him and calling out to spur him on and he
responded ardently until sudden, hard hands grabbed him from
behind, spun him around and hauled him roughly to his feet. He
protested and felt a fist land on his cheek. Then he was fully
awake. The shrieking of the storm outside was so loud that it
disoriented him until he realized the noise wasn’t made by the wind
but by the Welshman’s daughter, who was lying on his cloak, curled
into a little ball and screaming hysterically. For a split instant,
everything else in the room was silent and unmoving. His companions
were up on their elbows, staring at him blankly. The girl’s father
was red-faced, his hands made into fists. The mother was standing
in the shadows beyond the hearthlight, her palm covering her
mouth.

Just that one instant when he thought he and
the screaming girl were the only two alive and the rest all
statues…and while he stood on, staring dumbly, the Welshman rushed
at him with his fists flailing, beating him over and over until he
came to his senses and shoved the man backwards. Then the soldier
was angry with himself because he knew the man could have killed
him if he’d bothered to retrieve a dagger before attacking. He bent
down to get his sword, but the girl thought he was coming after her
again and shrieked even more loudly. He pushed her aside and she
kicked out at him. He could see the hilt of the sword peeking out
from beneath his cloak, against the hearth wall, and stretched out
a hand, but then one of his companions shouted his name and he
whirled around to see the girl’s father bearing down on him once
more. He put up his hands to protect himself but the attack never
came. Instead, he watched as the expression on the other man’s face
changed from anger and hatred to shock and pain. The Welshman sank
to the hard floor and collapsed near his daughter’s shaking body, a
dark stain spreading out from his back. When the soldier looked up,
he saw one of his companions standing before him with a bloody
sword in his hand.

When Richard Delamere saw William Longsword
standing in the gatehouse and staring directly at him as he rode up
to Rhuddlan, he felt a flash of annoyance. If, he thought,
Longsword was going to begrudge him every small moment with Olwen,
then he might as well move to the manor permanently and see his
friend’s angry face only when the time came each year for him to
give his service. Because he was unhappy with his wife, Longsword
seemed to expect that no one should find satisfaction with a
woman.

To Delamere’s surprise, however, as he neared
the fortress, Longword raised a hand in welcome and shouted down a
friendly greeting, and by the time he had ridden through the gate,
Longsword was down in the ward, waiting impatiently for him.

A groom ran up to take his horse. When he
turned around, Longsword caught him by surprise in a rough embrace,
kissed both his cheeks and clapped him on the shoulders. “Welcome
back, Richard!” he said heartily. “I hope the snow didn’t slow you
down too much? At least the sun is finally out. A fine day to
travel!”

“Yes…” Delamere answered cautiously, confused
by this strange attitude. Since when had Longsword ever noticed the
weather except to complain about it?

“How is Olwen? And the boys? The little one
thrives, I hope? You haven’t lost any beasts to the cold?”

“No, they’re all—everything is—I mean,
everyone is fine. What’s—”

“Come inside!” Longsword interrupted. “I’m
freezing! I’ve been waiting in that drafty gatehouse for you. No
wonder the men have been griping about watch duty. It wasn’t built
right. My father just threw up this castle, for God’s sake. I’ve
been thinking about ripping it down and putting up a new one. The
gatehouse, that is. Have to wait until the spring, of course and
probably by then no one will remember how miserable it was up
there, anyway.” He laughed. “It might be easier to just give them
all an extra cloak to put on.”

They climbed the steps to the hall, Longsword
taking them two at a time. Delamere, a little stiff from riding
half the day in the cold, was slower but though he lagged behind,
he could hear his friend chattering away as if he were still at his
shoulder. He was astonished. He had never heard Longsword speak so
much at one time; even after hours of drinking he remained taciturn
and since his marriage he’d been positively morose. The only time
he ever ran on was when something happened to put him in a good
mood, but the last two years in Wales had made him nothing but
blatantly miserable.

Longsword paused at the head of the stairway
and looked down at him. “You’ve got to be hungry after that ride,
right? I’ve had dinner saved for you.” He clicked his tongue
impatiently. “Come on, will you?”

He’d saved dinner? Delamere had to stop and
take a good look around to assure himself that he was indeed in
Rhuddlan. Surely there was some kind of magic being worked on him.
Perhaps he was only dreaming and he’d soon awaken to find Olwen’s
warm body next to him.

But as soon as he walked into the hall, he
knew he was at Rhuddlan and not dreaming. In his dream, the stone
walls of the hall would be freshly whitewashed and unstained by
soot marks from the rushlights in the sconces lining them. The
trestle tables and benches would have been neatly put away after
the last meal instead of littering the floor as they now did, or at
least cleared of debris. The floor itself would have been swept
clean of the old, crumbled and crumb-filled rushes and strewn with
fresh ones and sweet-smelling herbs. And most certainly, in his
dream, a handful of young serving women would not be sitting with
the dozen or so soldiers who had nothing better to do than to while
away the afternoon drinking, playing dice and telling each other
tall tales. For some time, Delamere had been after Longsword to get
a steward to keep the household in order; he hated returning from
the calm organization of Olwen’s house to the chaos of Rhuddlan’s
hall but apparently Longsword had no interest in making the
fortress remotely comfortable.

“…And what do you think
about
that
?” his
friend was saying.

Delamere frowned. “About what?”

“Oh, never mind,” Longsword grinned. He
grabbed the other man’s arm and pulled him along to the dais where
a place lay waiting for him at the table. “Come on! There’d better
be wine in that pitcher. I tried to make them understand I wanted
wine.” Longsword picked up the pitcher and sniffed at it. “Good!”
he pronounced and poured himself and Delamere a cupful. He raised
his and gestured to Delamere to do the same.

“All right, Will,” Delamere said in
exasperation. “Can you just tell me what the hell is going on?
Because I can’t really take anymore of your cheerfulness. I’m not
used to it and it’s tiring me out to keep up with you.”

Longsword’s expression sobered. “Congratulate
me. I’m going to become a father,” he answered solemnly, and then
broke into another uncontrollable grin. He banged his cup down on
the table so hard that wine splashed over the rim, grabbed his
friend by the shoulders and shook him joyfully. “I’m going to be a
father! Do you hear me?”

“How can I not, with you shouting?” Delamere
was even more puzzled than before. “Forgive me if I’m speechless; I
can’t believe this news.”

Longsword retrieved his cup and drank down
its contents in one long gulp. “Why can’t you believe it?” he
asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Do you think
you’re the only one who can get children on these Welshwomen?”