Her sister was being selfish, but Meredith couldn’t bring herself to blame Ceridwen. If she’d been forced to marry against her will, a man she’d never seen before today, she’d sooner … yes, she’d sooner die.
Meredith finished twirling her favourite ribbon through her hair. The deep green silk enriched the copper and flame cascade of curls that fell down her back. She pulled on an embroidered dress of the softest green wool. The small gold framed jade pendant which matched her eyes hung low on her chest. Her breasts had grown slightly bigger lately and she pushed the jade to nestle between them.
She usually loved the Feast of Saint Valentine. Until last year she’d been very excited to watch the celebrations. Until last year, she’d knelt in the church for the special mass and prayed for the most holy Saint Valentine who had died to defend the sanctity of marriage from sin. What a difference a year made!
First her mother had died and with her, all laughter. Her father, lived only for political intrigue and power dealing. He was the man widely credited with plotting the overthrow of the old royal family and installing the present King on the throne of Wales. That left him little time for his own family and had abandoned Ceridwen and Meredith to cope with their mother’s loss by themselves. Ceridwen had secrets of her own, secret letters under a loose flagstone behind her bed. Meredith found herself alone with the memories of her mother’s laughter and songs, her mother’s warm cuddles. In her sad and silent room, one empty day followed another. Until…
Until she fell in love.
It wasn’t love at first; she had merely been curious about him. Behind the serious, sometimes austere public face, there was hidden sweetness that no one else saw. The jade pendant was his gift because the colour reminded him of her eyes.
So today, Meredith wore it next to her heart, for him. Her impatient heart fluttered like a bird trapped inside her chest. She smoothed a hand down the front of her embroidered gown and tried to still her jumping nerves.
He’d come to her last night, his golden hair unbound, a roguish grin lighting his face. As always, he filled the dark hours with his laughter, his rich voice, his scorching kisses. She pressed her bed covers to her nose trying to capture his lost scent.
“Meredith!” Lord Percival’s sharp voice made her jump
“Yes, Father?”
He was at the door, one foot in, half of him, as always, anxious to be elsewhere. “You should be helping your sister dress and make ready. Where is she?
“Dressing and making ready, I think.” The lie came easily. The sisters always lied to their father. It was easy because her never cared enough to look too closely.
But he did now. His eyes lingered on her reddening face then flicked to the bedsheets in her hand.
She dropped the covers guiltily “I was getting dressed. Do you need me?”
Lord Percival was the cleverest man in the kingdom, and, when he chose to pay attention, he saw too much. “No good will come of this, daughter.” He came fully into the room and took his youngest daughter by the hand, walked her to the narrow window to let the light fall on her.
“You are not a child anymore. I will speak to the Queen about making you one of her Ladies in Waiting.”
“No!” she said too sharply. Her heart, that fluttering bird, dropped as though shot with a fast arrow. Being under the Queen’s watchful eye would make an end of her romance. “No, please, father.”
“Meredith,” he fixed her with his cold eyes. “You have duties befitting our high position.”
“I’m still too young, and shouldn’t that position go to my sister first?” The words were out before she thought to hold them back.
“Where is Ceridwen? Why are you not with her? A noble lady should not be dressed by servants on the morning of her wedding.” He looked around again. The bed was very rumpled. “Enough of all that. Time you grew up, Meredith!”
What did he know? Meredith dropped her head to avoid meeting her father’s eye. “Yes, father.”
“Ceridwen!” he called, already hurrying out of her room, his robe flying behind him. “Someone find Lady Ceridwen!”
She waited until she knew he was completely out of sight, then ran back to her bed and buried her face in the covers. They still held his scent, a hint of the woods and fine leather, of sharp swords and bravery. On the pillow was a strand of his long golden hair.
His hair was the first thing that drew her to him. Before loving him, she had watched him from afar. At the games on the Feast of Saint Valentine last year, he had competed against the best knights in the kingdom, even men ten years younger, and defeated them. His hands were strong on the hilt of his sword. And when he leapt off his horse and pulled off his helm and face guard, she saw, for an instant, the shape of laughter on his mouth. He had pulled off his chainmail and his undershirt and demanded to have the dust and sweat washed off him. It was. With pails of icy cold water which he welcomed with a roar. Meredith could not look away as he shook the water from his hair the way a golden stallion tossed his mane. She watched his wide bare chest and his powerful shoulders, and a thrill had curled deep in her belly.
Since that moment, her eyes were often on him, a little afraid but still entranced. He was not the man everyone saw, the real him was a secret.
It wasn’t until the end of spring that he had caught her looking at him and his sea blue eyes twinkled.
Weeks of secret glances and hidden smiles followed until, one evening, walking to dinner, he found her alone in a passage.
“Lady Meredith?” His voice was a deep rumble
Too nervous to utter a word, she merely nodded.
He passed her, then turned back to stand in front of her, so close, she could feel the heat from him.
“You are grown very beautiful.” He brushed a loose curl from her face.
At length he sighed. “We are not allowed this, Lady Meredith. You are a nobleman’s daughter. You should not be treated like a serving wench.” He smoothed his hand down her hair. “I should go. I’m expected in the great hall.”
They stood in silence, his fingers tracing small circles behind her ear and along the back of her neck. His warm palm sent shivers through her body. The minutes ticked. The shivers turned to tremors; her knees could no longer hold her. Just before her legs folded, his strong arm wrapped around her, pulled her to him and his lips claimed her.
Mid-Morning
Queen Timothea walked away from the window. Too many ignorant peasants below. “My Lord husband, I think it more fitting.” She turned to the King.
“’Tis not fitting at all. I am the King. What is fitting for me is to walk among my people and hear their appeals and concerns.” The King stood naked while a servant scrubbed his skin with a wash cloth.
She hated this constant washing, much like the Godless Romans and their unspeakable bath habits. King Gawain, despite his thirty seven years, was still too concerned with his body. He wore his fair hair unbraided over his wide shoulders and strutted his narrow hips like a young fearless warrior instead of a God-fearing King. “Precisely because you are the King, you should walk the Lady Ceridwen to the altar. One day, she will be Queen of Mercia.”
“One day, perhaps, but this day she is not the Queen of anything.” The King waved away the servant and his basin of water. “I, on the other hand, am the King of Wales, and today marks my tenth year on the throne.”
Still naked, he walked to the window and watched the crowds. “There are near two thousand below. I have a duty not only to Lord Percival’s daughter, but to all my people.”
“All your people.” She pointed at the window through which sounds of music and singing – to say nothing of mules, goats and chickens – drifted up from the field. “It wasn’t the peasants who put you on your throne, but the cunning of your advisors–”
“You mean the cunning of Lord Percival.” Gawain knew too well how his Chancellor liked scheming.
“And the support of our churches.” She gave him her disapproving thin lipped l
ook.
“By the churches, you mean the Bishop of Cardiff who transferred his loyalty and obedience from the last King to us when Percival promised him more gold and silver.”
“Husband, you should not stand unclothed. It offends God.”
“’Twas God who made me this way. Be careful wife you don’t offend God with your disapproval of his work.” He turned and faced her fully, daring her to look.
She flinched.
Gawain laughed, a hollow sound that echoed round his chamber. His wife could look at him naked for half the day and his manhood wouldn’t even twitch for her.
Once, fifteen years ago, he had enjoyed her. Even though she was hard as a plank and had the personality of a pitchfork. But she only allowed him near her until she’d produced their two sons. Since when, she declared herself more desirous of prayer and turned her cold back to him.
“Our treaty with the Kingdom of Mercia,” Timothea returned to her beloved subject, “will double our gold and silver.”
“Good. Prince Edwyn must be glad to the bottom of his heart that his father’s gold goes into the coffers of our Bishop.”
Her face hardened. “The treaty will make us strong, with both our kingdoms allied, we can defeat the Viking invasion.” She talked to him as if he were a little boy. “The wedding today signals our new alliance. You must show your face.”
“The Kingdom of Mercia didn’t make an alliance with my face, nor is it my face that will defeat the Vikings .”
“Indeed not. Nor any part of you, my Lord.”
“Careful, wife,” He fixed her with an icy glare. “It would not do to chide your King.”
“Not chiding, only caring for your affairs.” She sank into a sham curtsey.
The servant came back to help him into his leggings. Good, Timothea looked happier with every garment that covered more of him.
“Why must you wash so frequently? Even in winter?” she nagged. “Only the Romans do this.”
It was another of her favourite complaints, and he didn’t feel the need to answer.
“You should have a care for your reputation, Lord husband, for the Bishop tells me the Roman men use their bath houses for sinful lechery with…” She wrinkled her nose. “With other men.”
This time, his laughter was genuine. “My lady wife, you astound me. I did not know the Bishop spoke of such things to his Queen. Dirty old man!”
“Husband! The bishop is a man of God. He only wants –”
“He only wants gold and silver.” King Gawain interrupted her. “He is ardent for riches. As you, dear wife are ardent for meddling in the governance of the realm. As you are ardent for playing King. Your tragedy is that God made you a woman, so you cannot be King.”
His wife’s bared her teeth in a clenched sneer. A moment later, she walked up to stands beside him, to speak softly, her voice shaking. “But your tragedy, dear husband, is that you were born a minor nobleman and the crown has tested you far beyond your capacity.”
She was lucky he didn’t have his sword belted on him or she would have died. “Enough madam.” He rounded her, but she was already on her way out of his chamber.
“Leave me.” He barked at the servant.
His fists clenched, his breathing laboured. It would take him an hour to calm his rage.
Unfortunately, he wouldn’t have an hour, not even a quarter of one, it seemed. Lord Percival hurried into the room. Lord Percival was always in a hurry, often in several directions at the same time.
“Lord.” He bowed. “I come with news.”
“Never mind your news, Percival, I need your help.”
“I am yours to command.” The words were dutiful, but the man seemed distracted. His rich blue robe sat askew on him as if he’d been running, and one sleeve had been folded over his arm. Not his usual slicked and groomed man who gave orders and ensured the smooth running of everything in the castle.
“The Queen.” Gawain waved his Chancellor to a seat.
But the chancellor didn’t sit. “What about the Queen?”
“I want her removed.”
Percival bounced from one foot to the other as if he needed to piss. “Removed from what, my Lord.”
“From the world. From The Castle. From my sight. Removed.”
Finally Percival stopped fidgeting and gave the question his full attention. “Where would you have her go?”
“To Hell. I should have ordered her removal long ago.” He had tried but always there was an impediment, and somehow she only seemed to gain more power, not less.
“My King?” Percival came closer, his head pitched to one side like a healer.
“Percival this is not a difficult command. I have not spoken to you in Danish nor Irish. The Queen, you remember her? Timothea of Essex. The battle-axe you forced me to marry. I want her gone.”
“But my King, I didn’t force you. As my Lord remembers, we spoke of many women, and you chose her.”
“Because you told me, she would make a suitable Queen. That she would help us.”
“And has she not?” Percival put on his healer look again, concern deep in his eyes.
“No.”
“But my Lord, it was Lady Timothea who brought the churches to our side. Without the Bishop’s help we could not have secured you on the throne, my Lord.”
Gawain went to sit on the wide bench. This was going to be a long talk. “Come Percival, we are old friends. Enough of this ‘my Lord’ business. Come sit beside me.”
Percival sighed. “Let me call for refreshment.” He waved to a servant in the outer chamber and issued quick, terse orders.
Two servants rushed in and laid a small table with mead and cups.
At last the servants left and Percival came to sit with the King.
“What troubles you, my Lord?” He poured ale for the king but not for himself.
“I am sick to the back teeth of her, Percival. I want a new wife. ” He drank then went on fortified with courage. “I have chosen the young lady, my old friend, and I look to you to help me.”
“Must it be a new wife? Could you not simply…” Percival’s eyes darted around to make sure the Queen wasn’t near, “bed the young lady?”
“No, she is a noble lady.” It was a lie, for Gawain had indeed tumbled with her on many nights. He pushed away the memory of her soft legs around his hips and her large firm tits in his hands. Plenty of time for that in future. But no need to tell Percival the whole truth. “It was your advice that making free with the daughters of my noblemen could offend them and cost me their loyalty. Besides, the Queen has a shrewish nature. She has punished many serving girls when she saw me looking at them.”
Percival grinned. “Looking, my friend?”
Both men laughed, but it didn’t last long, Gawain had a heavy heart and the last thing he wanted was his beautiful young lady to suffer some humiliation or worse at the hands of the Queen.
“How can we remove Timothea?”
Percival’s expression sobered. “I don’t see how we can. She has the support of the church, for she is a devout lady and has done much saintly work.”
“Stuff and nonsense, man.” Gawain drained his cup and Percival immediately poured him another.
“If the churches turn against you…” Percival’s eyebrows knitted. “You remember ten years ago when you challenged the old King, and called him a cuckold and his heir a bastard?”
“Because he was a cuckold and his heir, the bastard of some Roman archer who lay with the Queen.” Why were they talking of this old tale?
“The priests spoke in the pulpits in your cause. If they hadn’t called for the people to rise with you and overthrow the old King in your favour, then we would have both been long dead and our heads on spikes by the city gates.”
“But I’m now secure on the throne, I’ve had ten good years and now we have a treaty with the kingdom of Mercia.”
“Only because the Bishops continue to support you. Need I remind you, my dear King, today is the Fe
ast of Saint Valentine, a day dedicated to the sanctity of marriage. If you set aside your wife, you mock the church that married you to her. Will your people continue to pay for the Bishop’s blessing on their marriage? You might soon find yourself without his support.”
“So I am to be saddled with her.” Bitterness flooded his mouth. What was the point of being King if he could not choose the woman he loved?
“My friend, you have been a great King.”
An ugly laugh escaped Gawain. “Not what my wife thinks.”
Percival tipped his head. “Forgive her, she is woman.” Percival poured more ale for both of them. “I can find you a wench from the city to warm your bed tonight.” He tapped his own cup to the King’s.
Gawain drank the cup Percival had given him. He didn’t want a new wench; he wanted the lady he loved. The beautiful lady with jade-green eyes like stars in a summer sky. Should he tell Percival, after all? He should know, he might be better motivated to help if he knew whom Gawain loved.
But Percival was already on his feet. “My Lord I have news I must give you. Not happy news.”
“What, man, the giving away your first daughter weighs heavily on you?”
Percival shook his head.
It was then, with Percival shaking his head, the King had the first inkling that a calamity was in the making. As if to make the point, Queen Timothea swept into his chamber. Only Timothea could sweep in regally while wearing a modest grey gown and a wooden cross, her hair covered by a headdress more pious than a nun’s habit. Following the Queen the only person the King hated more than his wife. The elderly white-haired, big-bellied Bishop of Cardiff.
So it was that all of them heard Percival say. “I fear my daughter Ceridwen has fled the castle. I have searched everywhere for her. Her sister Meredith swears she hasn’t seen her all morning, and no one else has seen her.”
“But there are soldiers around the castle guarding every door?” the King asked.
“I fear she must have been in disguise as a serving wench, and she has taken all her jewels and silver.”
Valentine's Day Anthology: Hearts and Handcuffs Page 6