A Memory of Love

by Bertrice Small

  Rhonwyn had turned fifteen now, and Morgan ap Owen began to worry. She dressed like a boy, but while her breasts were small they were still visible beneath her tunic. There wasn't anything feminine about her other than her chest. She strode boldly about like any young man at Cythraul. Her fair hair was cropped short. She could outride anyone at Cythraul, even her brother.

  It had been easier when she had been a little girl, but now, Morgan fretted, some of the younger men were beginning to look at her with lust in their eyes. He had twice in the last months seen her cornered. While she had attacked her foolish admirers so that one of them sustained several broken ribs and the other had his nose broken in two places, Morgan ap Owen knew it was just a matter of time before Rhonwyn would be forced to face the reality that she wasn't one of the lads, but rather a pretty lass.

  Before he might consider what to do about the situation, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd rode suddenly into Cythraul one day. He had not been to the border fortress since that day ten years ago when he had brought his children to Morgan ap Owen. This time he did not come alone, but rather with a troop of about twenty men in his train. The watch on the walls had called out the sighting of an armed party and then called again to say it was the prince himself. The portcullis was raised and the gates to Cythraul thrown open to welcome the lord of them all.

  "My lord prince, we are most happy to see you," Morgan said, coming forward. "What news?"

  "I have signed a treaty with King Henry. We will keep the peace a while longer, Morgan ap Owen." Ap Gruffydd looked about. "Where are my children?" he asked.

  Before the captain might answer, Oth came forward with Glynn, and Morgan said, "Here is your son, my prince."

  Ap Gruflydd looked at the lad and was pleased. The boy looked relatively healthy. He was almost as tall as his father, with dark blue eyes and black hair, but he was a bit thin. Ap Gruffydd remarked on it to his captain.

  "Lads are gangling at his age, my prince," Morgan answered. "He is growing, and we cannot keep him filled up with food." He smiled at Glynn, who grinned back mischievously.

  "How old are you now, lad?" the prince asked his son.

  "Thirteen, Tad," the boy replied.

  "Have you been happy here at Cythraul?"

  "Aye, Tad!" was the enthusiastic reply.

  "Good! Good!" ap Gruffydd said. He looked about. "Where is my daughter, Morgan?"

  "She is out hunting, my prince."

  "So she has been taught to ride," ap Gruffydd said, sounding satisfied with the news. "Excellent!"

  "Rhonwyn is the best rider and soldier at Cythraul!" came Glynn's endorsement. "All the men say so, Tad!"

  Ap Gruffydd chuckled. "A soldier, is she?" He was amused by his son's innocence, but then all the boy had ever known in his thirteen years were places of isolation. Perhaps that should change, but first he had his daughter to deal with, and her future was assured.

  "Aye, Tad," the boy continued, and Morgan ap Owen could only silently stand by. "Rhonwyn is very skilled with sword, main gauche, javelin, and mace, too. With the alborium, she never misses her target. She's our best hunter, Tad!" It was obvious the boy was extremely proud of his sister.

  Ap Gruffydd's attention had been quite engaged by his son's recitation. He looked to his captain. "You taught my daughter how to use weapons, Morgan?"

  "It was either teach her or have someone get injured, my lord prince" came the reply. "She wore padding and even has her own armor. We thought it best."

  "My daughter is the best soldier at Cythraul, I am told. Did you teach her nothing but warfare?"

  "It is all we could teach her, my lord prince," Morgan replied.

  "And my son? Have you taught him warfare, too? Why is he not considered as skilled as his sister?" came the query.

  "I do not like weapons, Tad," Glynn spoke up for himself. "Oh, I can use a sword if I must, and I ride well, but I do not like warfare. I cannot bear to see anything killed, even an animal."

  "Jesu! Mary!" ap Gruffydd swore, startling the boy, who shrank beneath his father's fierce gaze. Seeing it, the prince asked, "What do you like, Glynn ap Llywelyn?"

  "I… I l-like poetry, and tales of daring and magic," he half whispered. His father was not pleased. Did he not like stories?

  "The lad has the makings of a fine bard," Morgan said. "Gwilym our cook has taught him to play the harp and all the stories and poetry he knows. You'll see tonight in the hall what an excellent young bard you have sired, my lord prince."

  "A lass who's a warrior, and a lad who is a poet. Jesu!" ap Gruffydd said. Then he laughed at the absurdity of it.

  At that moment there was a clatter of horses behind them at the fortress's entrance, and a party of hunters came through.

  "Ho! Cousin Morgan," their leader called out to the captain. "I've brought you a fine young deer for our dinner!" The speaker rode directly up to Morgan ap Owen and pushed the deer from the saddle to fall at the captain's feet.

  "Rhonwyn?" Llywelyn ap Gruffydd didn't know whether to be pleased or horrified at the young ruffian who suddenly stared down at him at the mention of her name.

  Recognition dawned in the green eyes. "By the rood, lads! 'Tis my sire, the prince, come to pay us a call." She slid easily from her saddle and bowed mockingly. "My lord prince, I am at your service."

  He glared at her intently. Aye, she was female. Her bosoms betrayed her, hut other than that her sex was indistinguishable from any of the other men in the fortress. Her hair was cropped like a man's and dirty. She was dirty. Why had he thought she would be like her mother? Like his delicate and gentle Vala? "Jesu! Mary!" he swore. Then anger began to overwhelm him. He turned on Morgan ap Owen.

  "This is how you have raised my daughter? To be the toughest soldier at Cythraul? What the hell were you thinking, Morgan?"

  Morgan ap Owen wasn't in the least intimidated by his prince. "What did you expect us to do, Llywelyn? Ten years ago you brought me a five-year-old girl-child and a wee laddie of three. You left them here and have not returned once in all that time to see how they were. I did my best by them. They have been well fed and clothed and, aye, loved by the men of this fortress! We taught them what we could. Honor. Duty to you and to our people. What else was there?"

  "You might have taught her that she was a lass!" roared the prince of Wales.

  "How?" demanded his captain. "There are no women here, Llywelyn. We guard the Welshry for you. Oh, occasionally my men seek out a local whore, but they are not the kind of women we bring into the fort, nor are they the kind of women you would want your daughter associating with, my lord prince. Do not complain to me. Rhonwyn is a fine young lass even if she has not learned how to simper and preen like the highborn ladies you have undoubtedly been associating with, my lord prince. Do not blame me that your daughter has not the feminine traits you desire her to have. If you wanted her to have those virtues, you should have taken her to your sister, the abbess, instead of bringing her here! Come into the hall now. I need a drink if we are to continue this argument."

  Ap Gruffydd burst out laughing again and followed his captain. Inside the hall they quaffed cups of apple beer that had been aging in barrels since the previous autumn. The beer was strong with just a hint of sweetness. Their immediate thirst satisfied, they sat by the fire pit, and the prince explained the reason for his visit.

  "I have promised Rhonwyn in marriage," he said, "but the bridegroom will expect someone in a gown with a gentle manner, not this breeked and swearing huntress you have created out of my child. I thought she would be like her mother, but she isn't at all."

  "How could she be?" Morgan answered. "She has had no example but ours to follow, and we are a fort of rough men."

  "Jesu! Mary!" the prince swore softly again.

  "Can't you find another of your female relations for this man?" the captain asked sensibly. "Did you ever even bother to acknowledge Rhonwyn and Glynn to the church?"

  "Aye, that was done years ago. The prior in Cwm Hir at the Cistercian monastery
was told. He has documents with my signature." Llywelyn ap Gruffydd sighed deeply and shook his head.

  "The marriage is the unwritten portion of the treaty I signed with King Henry at Montgomery. As a show of good faith, I offered Rhonwyn in marriage with one of the king's chosen Marcher lords in the Englishry. His name is Edward de Beaulieu, Lord Thorley of Haven Castle. Having offered my daughter, I cannot substitute another without appearing to be deceitful with King Henry. It could jeopardize everything I have worked for, Morgan. Certainly you can understand why I will not do that."

  The captain nodded. "Aye, I can, Llywelyn. You have worked hard for our people, but what are you to do now? Rhonwyn is hardly anyone's idea of a blushing bride." He chuckled and his gaze went across the hall to where the girl was dicing and drinking with her companions. It was not Rhonwyn's fault that she was so unsuitable. "She is a virgin," he said as if to cheer his overlord. "Of that I am certain. She has no interest in the young men, although of late several have approached her. She has physically injured them in her refusals."

  "At least that is to the good," the prince remarked dryly. "I shall have to take her to my sister at Mercy Abbey. Gwynllian will be able to make her into a maiden fit to wed with a lord. I know now I should have done that in the first place, Morgan. And perhaps Glynn might have been better off there, too, until he was old enough to be fostered out, but I didn't want anyone to know of the children while they were so helpless. And I didn't want to separate them when they had just lost their mother so tragically. I should have come back for them." He sighed. "The years have gone too quickly, and there never seemed to be enough time for them. Still, at least my children have survived." He chuckled. "The English were mightily surprised when I announced I had a young daughter of marriageable age. How they would have loved to have Rhonwyn as their hostage these years past."

  "It might have been better for her if she had been their hostage," his captain replied. "She would have been treated with honor and raised as she should have been raised, Llywelyn. Will you take the lad, too?"

  The prince shook his head. "Nay. They are grown now and can be separated. Glynn can remain with you for the present."

  Morgan ap Owen knew what that meant. Glynn ap Llywelyn was of no current use to his father, and so he could stay where he was. Perhaps it was better that his lord wasn't married. He was not the best of fathers. He knew Glynn would be devastated to lose the sister he loved so devotedly, but, Morgan thought, at least the prince wouldn't attempt to make the boy into a rough soldier. Glynn was better off with the people who understood him best, and they were here at Cythraul.

  "When will you tell her, and when will you take her?" the captain asked his overlord.

  "I must take her immediately, for the wedding is set for a month from now. We will have to get to Mercy Abbey as quickly as possible." He looked across the hall. "Rhonwyn uerch Llywelyn, to me!" he called out.

  She arose to her feet almost reluctantly, tossed the dice to one of her companions, spit into the rushes, and then sauntered across the floor to where Morgan and her father sat by the fire pit. She bowed, but the courtesy was almost insulting. "What do you wish, my lord prince?" she asked him. Despite her demeanor, her voice, he found, was musical.

  Morgan arose from his seat. "Sit, Rhonwyn," he said.

  She looked at him with startled eyes, but sat. Then she saw the captain leave them. She was alone with her sire. What did he want of her?

  "How much do you know of my accomplishments?" he asked her.

  "Enough to realize you are a great lord," she replied.

  "I ratified a treaty several days ago at Montgomery with the English king. Part of the treaty agreement was a marriage between my blood kin and an English lord. It is a show of good faith between us. You are to be wed in a month's time to Edward de Beaulieu of Haven Castle. He is not an important man, but his family descends from one of the first of King Henry's sons, born on the body of the heiress of Thorley. Haven Castle is small, but the lands it possesses are prosperous. You are most fortunate to have gained such a fine husband," Llywelyn ap Gruffydd told his daughter, watching closely to gauge her reaction to his words, but for a long minute Rhonwyn said nothing, and he could not help but wonder what she was thinking. "Well?" he finally demanded.

  "What is a marriage?" she said at last.

  The four words stunned him. His mouth snapped open, and then closed again. His first thought was that she was simple-minded, but then he knew that not to be the truth. Why would she know of marriage here in this place? "A marriage," he said slowly and carefully, "is the formal and legal union between two people. It is an honorable estate, Rhonwyn. The treaty I have signed at Montgomery with King Henry must offer an outward show of trust between us besides our signatures and seals on the parchment. In a case like this it has always been the custom to make a marriage between the two sides. Do you understand at all what I have said to you, my daughter?"

  "What does this marriage involve?" she finally asked of him. "What am I expected to do? I have been taught I have a duty to you, my lord, and I would not he derelict in that duty or bring shame upon your good name."

  "You will become Edward de Beaulieu's wile, his mate. You will be expected to manage his home and give him children of your body."

  Her green eyes had widened slightly at his words, but she yet remained calm. "I have absolutely no idea of how to do any of the things you have told me I must, my lord prince. Have you not another female relation of your blood who would be better suited for this marriage?"

  "Nay, I do not, Rhonwyn, but more important, I have given my word that it is my daughter who will marry Edward de Beaulieu. Having given my word, I must keep it."

  "Aye," she said, understanding his pledge was a matter of honor. "You are my lord, and I have been taught I owe you a duty," Rhonwyn began. "This marriage is my obligation to you, is it not?"

  "It is," he said. How amazing. She was incredibly ignorant in almost every way, but she understood duty and honor. He must thank Morgan. He had expected tears and refusal, not this calm acceptance.

  "My lack of knowledge and unfamiliarity with the world outside of Cythraul may prove an embarrassment to you, my lord prince. I do not wish to be a liability. I would not have people say Llywelyn ap Gruffydd has gulled the English by sending an unsuitable and uncivilized bride. What will you do to help me?" It was a reasonable request, and it pleased him that she was aware of her deficiencies.

  "We will leave on the morrow for Mercy Abbey, where my sister, your aunt, is the abbess. She will help you to become the lass you must be, Rhonwyn."

  "And my brother? What of him?"

  "He remains here," the prince said. "I have no use for him at the moment, and he is still but half grown." He saw the look of anger in her eyes, but she strangely remained silent. "You do not like me, Rhonwyn, do you?" he probed.

  "Nay, I do not, my lord prince. You gave me life, and you saved my brother and me from death once, but I do not like you. Why should I? You have done nought but a scant duty for us, but both Glynn and I will repay that duty with duty of our own."

  "Do you have any clean clothing?" he asked her, suddenly weary of their conversation.

  "I have what 1 wear, my lord. You sent no coin or fabric. Cythraul has little to spare. My cousin and his men have done their best by us. If it would please you, 1 will wash my garments. There is a warm wind to dry them in the night, and if they are a bit damp on the morrow, what matter."

  "And wash yourself," he ordered her. "What have you done with your beautiful hair, lass?"

  "Long hair does not fit under a helmet, my lord prince," she answered him sharply.

  "Leave the helmet here," he said. "You will not need it, nor the weapons with which I am told you are so proficient. I am to bring the English a sweet virgin to wed, not a warrior maid whose skills will terrify them and lead them to believe I meant the bridegroom harm."

  To his surprise Rhonwyn laughed aloud. "I am not like others my age, my lord prince, am I?"<
br />
  "Nay, lass, you are not," he admitted. "Go now."

  Dismissed, she hurried to find her brother in the kitchen with Gwilym. She told him everything that had passed between her and their father. Then she turned to the cook. "I need your help," she said.

  "Whatever I can do, Rhonwyn," he replied.

  "Hot water is the best for cleaning. Will you boil it up for me? I have been told to wash both my clothing and my person before we leave in the morning. Glynn, go and beg Morgan for the use of his extra sherte. I must have something to wear while I wash my own garments and to sleep in tonight while my clothing dries."

  Glynn ran off to do his sister's bidding.

  "Alter I've fed the hall, we'll set up a rack by the fire to dry your things," Gwilym said. "The wind will be too clamp, and you shouldn't ride wet on the morrow. After the meal, while I entertain the hall, you come down and do what you must. I will warn the captain and the prince of your intentions, and they will see you are not disturbed."

  She was not as she scrubbed her chemise, her sherte, and hose. Her tunic she brushed thoroughly of dirt and dust. Then after she had hung her garments on the drying rack, she polished her well-worn boots. The kitchen of the fortress's main building was located beneath the hall. Rhonwyn barred the doors leading to the kitchen garden and the hall. Satisfied she was secure, she removed Morgan's sherte and climbed into the small oak washtub to bathe herself. The water was still warm and very pleasant. On the rare occasions that she bathed, she did it like her companions, in a nearby stream. Cold water, however, was not conducive to a long stay. The thin sliver of soap she had used to wash her clothing easily removed the dirt from her person and hair.

  Rhonwyn climbed from the tub and rubbed herself dry with a rough cloth. She couldn't ever remember having been totally naked. Morgan had always insisted she bathe in her chemise when she went to the stream to wash herself. Curiously she began to examine her body. Her breasts seemed to be growing larger each year. She had a thick tangle of curls on the mound between her thighs. It was just slightly darker than her pale hair. Since she had caught a glimpse of Glynn once with the same thatch, it didn't bother her as much as her burgeoning breasts. She pulled the sherte back on, then sat by the kitchen fire to comb out her short, wet hair.