"I'm taking you to Mercy because our aunt will certainly know how you may proceed. Our upbringing at Cythraul did not prepare us for such deceit, sister. You surely have an honest grievance against Edward de Beaulieu and must be compensated by him. I am a poet and a dreamer. I do not know how to advance your cause, but she will."
"How can you be certain of that? You never met her," Rhonwyn said to him.
"The abbess Gwynllian is well known in religious circles for her intellect and cleverness, sister. Her fame extends even as far as Shrewsbury. It will take us several days to reach her house, so we must begin now, Rhonwyn. Where else can you go to lick your wounds in safety and consider what you are to do next? Certainly not to our tad."
"Let us ride," his sister replied tersely.
They rode hard, resting the horses between dusk and dawn, eating oatcakes and wild berries, drinking from the streams of water that dotted the countryside. They came to Mercy Abbey in late afternoon. The cluster of stone buildings did not, this time, seem quite so forbidding as they had when she first saw it. Again the church bell was pealing for the office of None. Entering through the abbey gates, they waited for their aunt to emerge from the church.
Gwynllian had never met Glynn, but she recognized him immediately. Seeing Rhonwyn by his side, she said, "Praise God, you're alive! What has happened? Why are you here unannounced?" Her eyes mirrored her deep concern. "Come into the chapter house, and we will talk." Her glance flicked to Oth and Dewi. "You know where to put the horses," she told them. "Then go to the kitchens, and they will feed you. Come," she said, turning back to her niece and her nephew. She led them into her privy chamber and poured them each a small cup of wine. She motioned them to seats as she took her own. "Now," she said, "why have you come to me? Does your father know you are here and alive? And will it cause an incident with the English?" she demanded of them.
"It is a long story," Rhonwyn began. Then she told her aunt of what had happened in the several years since they had last seen one another. "I did not know where else to go," she finished. "I am too fine a lady now to live at Cythraul, aunt."
"Aye, you are," the abbess agreed.
"What am I to do?" Rhonwyn said. "Edward de Beaulieu has treated our family with great disdain. Surely he can be made to pay for that insult, but I have no idea where to begin."
"Do you want him dead?" her aunt queried.
Rhownyn shook her head. "That would be too easy," she replied. "The lady Katherine I hold blameless in the matter. She is meek and was subject to her brother's will."
"Do you want him dead?" Gwynllian asked, half jesting.
Rhonwyn actually laughed aloud. "Nay. I do not like Rafe de Beaulieu particularly, for he is arrogant and obviously has a lofty opinion of himself. However, he loves his sister and did what he believed was best for her even as my own brother, Glynn, did when he sought me out in Cinnebar."
"Restoring you to life legally will not be difficult," the abbess said thoughtfully. "Your existence cannot be denied. It is plain fact." Her long elegant fingers drummed lightly upon the long table before her. "As to the rest I must speak to the bishop at Hereford. Edward de Beaulieu discarded you without any real proof of your demise and quite hastily contracted another marriage without a decent period of mourning. But your induction into an infidel's harem as his second wife will surely stand against you, Rhonwyn. You were a Christian knight's wife, and yet you yielded to the lustful blandishments of another man. There are many who will think you should have died rather than succumb."
"Then they are ignorant of the harem," Rhonwyn replied spiritedly. "I had not even a knife to cut my food. I was constantly watched. There was absolutely no way I might have ended my life even if I had wanted to do so. But all I wanted was to escape and return to my husband, not knowing that he had already betrayed me!"
"That attitude will assuredly gain you a certain amount of sympathy," the abbess noted, "but it will not completely exonerate you."
"I was faithful in my heart to Edward de Beaulieu. He was not so faithful to me," Rhonwyn replied stonily.
Her aunt smiled. "Stoke the fires of your outrage, my child, and we shall gain some justice for you. Are you sure you wish to pursue this path?"
"I must, else my honor and the honor of our family be compromised," she said, "ap Gruffydd is a proud man, and this reflects upon him badly unless we can obtain some compensation for the slight upon our escutcheon, aunt."
"I am forced to agree with you, my child," the abbess said. She turned to Glynn. "Have you nothing to say in this matter, ap Gruf-fydd's son? By the rood, how much you look like your father in his youth!"
"At first," Glynn said, "I thought to slay de Beaulieu, but my sister dissuaded me. She does not wish me to have a stain such as that upon my conscience, especially as I intend to return to the abbey at Shrewsbury and eventually take holy orders."
"So you would become a monk, Glynn ap Llywelyn?" the abbess said quietly. How interesting that her brother's son leaned toward the church and not toward a kingdom of his own.
"I have seen the world, aunt, and while I find it interesting, I am not meant for such a life. Soon my music and my poetry shall be in praise of God alone. The peace of the contemplative life is what I seek. I prefer its discipline and order to the hurly-burly of the world at large."
"Does your lather know of your decision, nephew?" Her fine brown eyes scanned his face.
"He will, although I know he considered this would be my path long ago when he came to fetch Rhonwyn. Tomorrow I will send Oth and Dewi to find him so he may be made aware of what has happened to my poor sister."
Rhonwyn hit him a blow upon the arm that staggered Glynn.
"Ouch!" he yelped.
"I am not to be pitied, brat!" she snapped at him. "It is my honor that has been besmirched. But make no mistake, Glynn, I need no man to make my life complete. I never did and I certainly don't need your pity!"
"There are but two paths for a respectable woman," Glynn said. "Either she enters into marriage or she enters a convent."
"I am no longer respectable, it would seem," Rhonwyn mocked him, laughing. "Therefore I may do what I please and plot my own course through life, brother. I am considering becoming a merchant and using the gold Baba Haroun so generously sewed into my cloak to set up a shop in Shrewsbury. I shall import silks and spices from the east and grow richer with each passing year. I shall take young men for lovers, and when I send them away because they have begun to bore me, they shall go grieving but wiser for their time with me."
The abbess burst out laughing, although her nephew looked shocked. "Thank God and His blessed Mother, Rhonwyn uerch Llywelyn, that you have not been broken by this experience," she said.
"My heart is broken, aunt, but only a little, and it will heal, I suspect. I returned because I believed in my heart that Edward loved me and would forgive my small sins. I wanted to share all that the caliph taught me about passion and make up to my husband for the early months of our marriage when passion frightened me so greatly I could scarcely bear for him to touch me. The loss is his, I fear, and he will never know the woman I truly am," Rhonwyn said softly. "I am very sorry for that."
The abbess nodded. "It would appear, my child, that you have more honor than Edward de Beaulieu. For that you may be proud."
ap Gruffydd appeared at Mercy Abbey five days later, prepared to berate his daughter for leaving her marriage. When, however, he heard the truth, he erupted into a fit of rage. Rhonwyn, to her own surprise, calmed him at long last.
"I am no longer unhappy over this, but our family's honor must be assuaged, my lord," she told him.
"Are we back to my lord then?" he demanded.
"Tad," she said with a small smile, mollifying him.
"I'll have another husband for you from King Henry else our treaty be broken for good and all," ap Gruffydd said.
"And have you kept so assiduously to that treaty, Tad?" she gently taunted him.
He laughed aloud. "I've
had little part in your life, Rhonwyn, and yet you know me better than some of my closest associates. Why is that, I wonder?"
"Because I am like you, Tad. I am proud and have always followed my own path, and devil take the hindmost. It seems to have gotten me into almost as much trouble as it has gotten you." She smiled sweetly at him. "I think, however, that I may have learned my lesson."
Both Llywelyn ap Gruffydd and his sister, Gwynllian, burst into laughter. Rhonwyn's assessment of the situation was absolutely correct.
Finally the prince said, "There is much of your aunt in you, too, lass."
"Praise God and His blessed Mother!" the abbess responded fervently, and she crossed herself.
The prince grew serious once again. "King Henry has not been well these past few years. He will certainly be at his palace of Westminster in London. I will send him a letter, Rhonwyn, explaining that you are alive and returned home to discover yourself declared dead and your husband with a new wife. I will tell the English king that you do not desire to have Edward de Beaulieu back, as his new wife is with child. Besides, the betrayal and insult to you and your family make such a reunion impossible. I will ask for justice for my daughter, and tell him that you will come to Westminster by Lammastide to seek redress from the de Beaulieus. There is no viciousness in Henry Plantagenet, but beware his queen, Eleanor of Provence, who is called behind her back the noble termagant. She is and always has been ambitious for her family, and she will destroy without hesitation anyone that she believes a threat to them.
"Your dower portion, of course, must be returned to you. I cannot be expected to redower you for a new husband."
"I don't want a husband," Rhonwyn said.
"Nonetheless you must have one," her father said firmly. "We will not argue this point now, lass." He looked hard at her. "How is it possible that you have become more beautiful despite your adventures?"
Rhonwyn laughed. "You will not turn the subject that easily, Tad. I want no husband."
"Then it is the convent, daughter. How old are you now?"
"Nineteen, this April first past," she reminded him.
"We'll be lucky to find you a husband at your age. A widow with children is at least a proven breeder," the prince noted. "Do you want to enter your aunt's house, lass?"
"Nay," Rhonwyn said.
"Then another marriage is your only path," ap Gruffydd said.
Rhonwyn did not argue with him any further. She was a realist. The church would not accept her, for she would be considered a woman of ill repute-a disobedient wife who had run off to interfere in men's business and had been punished for it. And what man of good family would have for his wife such a woman? A woman who had given her body to an infidel? She wanted her dower back, and perhaps a bit of Haven's land for herself. That she would consider recompense for Edward de Beaulieu's behavior. Why argue with her father over something that would never be? There would be no more husbands for Rhonwyn uerch Llywelyn.
Chapter 14
Eleanor of Provence, queen of England, had lived five and a half decades. She was still a beautiful woman, with silver-streaked auburn hair and amber eyes that missed little. In her youth she, and her equally comely sisters, had been considered the most beautilul women in Europe. Her eldest sister, Margaret, had married King Louis IX of France. Her younger sister, Sanchia, was married to her brother-in-law, Richard of Cornwall, king of the Romans. Her youngest sister, Beatrice, was the wife of Charles of Anjou, the king of Naples and Sicily. Eleanor's mother, Beatrice of Savoy, and her father, Raymond Berenger V, count of Provence, had reigned over a brilliant court renowned for its patronage of the troubadours. The count himself was one of the last of the great Provençal poets.
At the age of nineteen Eleanor had traveled to her sister's court in France, and from there across a winter sea to marry King Henry III of England. From the moment the couple laid eyes upon one another, it had been a love match. The queen had borne her husband six sons and three daughters. Two sons and two daughters had reached adulthood. While there were some who resented her Savoyard kinsmen-who, along with the king's French half brothers, had come to England to seek their fortunes-the queen's chief care was for her family. Now her husband was slowly dying. She nursed him devotedly. Their kingdom was prosperous and secure. England was not involved in any wars. Their life was peaceful. And then there came from that rebellious Welsh prince a letter that the queen knew was going to cause difficulties.
She sat with the king in their dayroom. About them her ladies sat tending to various small tasks, their sewing and mending, the repair of a small tapestry. The queen's eyes scanned the letter, and she swore ever so softly beneath her breath. This caught the attention of her husband who lay upon his daybed, resting from the exertions of his morning bowel movement.
"What is it?" the king asked his wife weakly.
"Do you remember last year when Edward de Beaulieu returned home from Acre? His wife was alleged to have died, and he requested that she be declared dead so he might remarry?"
The king nodded.
"Well, she isn't dead. The prince of the Welsh's daughter appeared home this spring to find her husband no longer her husband, and his new wife full with a child, ap Gruffydd is outraged that his daughter has been so insulted. The prince requests justice for his child, but says she will not have de Beaulieu back now, for she would not put the stain of bastardy upon his newborn son. Now isn't this a nice kettle of fish, Henry? Rhonwyn uerch Llywelyn will come to Westminster at Lammastide for your justice. What are we to do?"
"What does ap Gruffydd want?" the king asked cannily.
"His daughter's dower back from de Beaulieu. A new husband for the girl. And a penalty levied upon de Beaulieu for the affront. The Welsh prince suggests that some of Haven Castle's lands be given to his daughter to recompense her for the insult," the queen replied.
"It seems fair," the king said slowly.
"There is more to this than meets the eye, Henry," the queen told him astutely. "For one thing, what happened to the lady Rhonwyn that she became separated from her husband and our son's forces? We must send to Haven. Edward de Beaulieu should be allowed to speak for himself in this matter. Even if he believed his wife dead, he did remarry again in a rather hasty manner."
"Agreed," the king said.
"According to the Welsh prince, his daughter was declared dead. That oversight can be rectified immediately, but the rest will have to wait until we can hear a fuller story from both sides in this dispute."
Again the king nodded his agreement. His wife took a cool cloth and wiped his forehead, which was beaded with perspiration. Henry grew weaker each day, and every small task he must perform was difficult for him now. She had recently heard from their son Edward. He had only narrowly escaped an assassination attempt in Acre, and he was discouraged. The crusade had literally fallen into disarray. Mounting an expedition to retake Jerusalem was proving impossible. He was, Edward wrote, planning to return home with his wife shortly, after Eleanor recovered from the rigors of her recent childbirth. The baby, a little girl who had already been baptized Joan, was strong and healthy, unlike the infant who had been born and died the year before. They would come via Sicily and Provence, visiting relatives along the way. The queen was relieved, for while she knew she could hold England for her son, once Henry died her life would have little meaning. She was of a mind to retire to the Benedictine convent in Amesbury for the remainder of her life.
"I will send off messages to both Edward de Beaulieu at Haven Castle and to the lady Rhonwyn, who is with her aunt, the abbess of Mercy Abbey, in Wales," the queen told her husband, and again he nodded his assent.
Edward de Beaulieu was outraged to receive the royal summons to Westminster. "How dare the vixen complain to the king!" he said angrily.
"What did you expect?" his brother-in-law Rafe said. "While I am delighted that Katherine is your wife and the mother of your heir, you did marry her in some haste, cousin."
"I do not recall hear
ing you complain about my haste at the time," Edward replied dryly. "You could hardly wait for your sister to become the lady of Haven Castle."
"Our families have always hoped for the union," Rafe responded. "I was pleased that it was to be a reality at long last. You did not say how the lady Rhonwyn died, Edward. I did not press the issue because I believed her loss pained you or that possibly you had killed her yourself for her high spiritedness. Only the fact that the lady is generous has prevented my sister from being burdened with a terrible shame. What if Lady Rhonwyn demanded from the church that your marriage to Kate be declared null and void under the circumstances? Your son would then have been declared a bastard. A vindictive woman would have taken great delight in revenging herself on you for what you did."
"She cannot appeal to the church under the circumstances of her adventures," Edward said in assured tones. "Do you think the church would restore her to my side when she so merrily whored for another man? An infidel? When I expose her perfidy, she will be lucky they do not burn her at the stake for her adultery."
Rafe de Beaulieu looked closely at his cousin. "Do you love her then so much that you would destroy her, cousin?"
"I do not love her," Edward said honestly.
"Do you love my sister?" Rafe probed.
"Aye, I do. Kate is the perfect wife for me. I want no other," he said. "She is sweet natured and obedient to my will, as well as a good breeder. Look at our wee Neddie. What a fine lad he is."
"If you are happy with Kate," her brother replied, "then why does your anger burn so hot toward the lady Rhonwyn?"
"Because she betrayed me!" he said coldly. "Because she would destroy the happiness I now have."
"She believes you betrayed her," Rafe countered. " Tis an interesting conundrum, Edward. I will go with you to Westminster in order that you do not cost my sister and her child too much by your ire."
A Memory of Love Page 26