‘Yes indeed, John Rhys.’ Mimicking his accent, which she knew entertained him, Lalage grinned. ‘Some day soon,’ she said, ‘you'll have to start teaching me Welsh.’
‘Shall I?’ Her husband hugged her tight. ‘Why's that, then?’
‘So I can talk to you in your own language, of course. Your child must learn it. Won't his mother be the best person to teach him?’
‘God, no. It would hurt my ears beyond endurance, to hear a Saxon mangling the loveliest language in the world.’
‘Yet you married me.’ Lalage pouted. ‘You're always grumbling about the English. Saying you hate us. But you chose to wed a Saxon bride.’
‘Oh, you're not really a Saxon. You're a fairy's child.’ Laughing, John Rhys Morgan kissed her again. ‘Very well, Lali,’ he conceded. ‘I'll teach you Welsh. We'll have three days a week when we speak nothing else.
‘Listen to Bethan, yes? She may be a servant, but she has a way with words. She's quite poetic on occasions. In Welsh, that is. I know her English is a torment to hear. Lali, my darling?’
‘What?’
‘You're so beautiful. So soft and lovely! You're like a sweet, ripe apricot.’
‘Oh?’ Appeased, Lalage smiled again. She glanced down at her bump. ‘I'm a rather fat apricot,’ she laughed. ‘At any rate, I am just now.’
‘Doesn't hurt you to carry a bit more weight. Far too skinny you were before.’
They reached the inn where they would stay that night. They went straight upstairs. Taking his wife in his arms, John Rhys held her close. ‘Wrach Seisnig,’ he whispered, into her hair. ‘English witch.’
In bed, Lalage smiled to herself. She did know some Welsh. Quite a bit, in fact. For, in moments of intimacy, John Rhys Morgan's command of the English language deserted him. Welsh took over completely then.
* * * *
‘Another couple of months,’ said John Rhys. His passion spent, he lay back against his pillows and studied his wife with a farmer's critical eye. The English witch was a piece of livestock now. ‘Seven, eight weeks,’ he murmured. ‘Then you'll have your baby at your breast.’
‘But won't we get a woman in for that?’ asked Lalage. In her experience, only the labouring poor fed their own children. ‘Can't we — ’
‘Hire a wet–nurse?’ John Rhys shook his head. ‘Don't be ridiculous. You must nourish him. You'll want to, anyway. You'll see.’
‘Oh.’ Lalage wasn't so sure. Out driving in Warwickshire, she had observed many a field woman or tinker's wife squatting in a dry ditch or lurking under a hedge, one sagging breast spilling out of her dirty bodice while her brat took its fill. A perfectly repulsive sight it had always been. ‘I'll think about it,’ she said.
‘You'll do as you're told. I'm not having some scrofulous creature from Swansea feeding my child.’ Narrowing his eyes, John Rhys measured her. ‘You won't grow much bigger,’ he said now. He pressed her stomach with the flat of his hand. ‘There's hardly any fluid,’ he added. ‘A pint or two at most.’
‘Is that bad?’
‘Silly woman. It's good, of course. Why would you want to carry a gallon of water around? All that weight — it would only make your ankles swell. Fatigue you half to death.’
‘I'm not at all tired now.’ Lalage looked at him. ‘John? Do you love me?’
‘What a question.’ John Rhys took her in his arms. ‘Of course I love you. I could eat you alive.’
‘Will you, then?’ Lalage's eyes sparkled greedily. ‘Will you do it now?’
‘Well — yes.’ He laughed at her. ‘If you like.’
‘Wonderful.’ Lalage lay back. She closed her eyes and relaxed. She waited for the rapture to begin.
John Rhys always took his time with her. At first he was teasing and gentle, then fierce and urgent — but today, just as Lalage was almost there, he began to tease again. He even talked to her. ‘You taste of the sea,’ he told her. ‘You smell and taste of the cold, grey sea.’
‘Do I?’ Lalage couldn't imagine it. Contentedly, she sighed. ‘You tell such lies,’ she murmured.
‘It's true.’ His clever fingers busy, John Rhys grinned. ‘I should know, shouldn't I?’
Five, ten minutes went slowly by. Lalage wanted to touch herself. Her hand snaked down her stomach, into the nest of curling black hair, searching for a special place. But her husband knew exactly where it was. He had found it long ago. Now, he would not let her near it. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Have some patience. We'll do things my way today.’
‘Oh, let me!’ Fiercely, Lalage pulled his hair. ‘It's my body,’ she protested.
‘Wait,’ he repeated. He pushed her hand away, and went on with his work.
He had her now. The lightest touch electrified her. Aware of his power, he played with her, making her wait a little longer. Longer still.
A gasping sob made him look up. To his surprise, he saw she was in tears. Pitying her, he kissed her again.
The resulting convulsion almost tore her apart.
* * * *
‘So what do you think now?’ he asked, as she lay there motionless. Her eyes glazed, her breathing shallow, she was evidently exhausted. ‘Do I love you, Lali?’ he whispered. ‘Or do I not?’
‘You do.’ Happily, Lalage sighed. Then, sitting up, she looked into his eyes. ‘Would you do that with anyone else?’ she asked.
‘What?’ He laughed. ‘Well, there's a question.’
‘But you're always going off by yourself.’ Lalage frowned. ‘Are you ever unfaithful to me?’
‘I should think so.’ Still, he grinned. ‘Take half the girls in Wales to my bed, I do. Wear myself out pleasuring women.’
‘Tell me the truth.’ Lalage shook him. ‘Do you have mistresses?’
‘I have had particular friends. But since I married you, I've been as constant as the turtle dove.’
‘Truly?’
‘Yes, indeed.’ Solemn now, he kissed her. ‘You're the moon in the sky,’ he told her. ‘You're my love. You're my life. My heart is in your hands.’
* * * *
Back in Llangynnydd, the villagers would have had no time at all for that sort of romantic nonsense. They knew for a fact that the Englishwoman was a child of the devil. The hen wrach Seisnig had enchanted poor John Rhys. How else would such an old, dried–up, skinny bit of misery have caught a young, handsome bachelor? Then made him her devoted slave?
She was a spell–binder of the first order. As good, honest Christians, they should take her to the village green, pile up faggots and burn her, without further delay.
Fortunately for Lalage, everyone in Llangynnydd and the area round about was too frightened of John Rhys Morgan even to annoy him, let alone hurt his wife. In any case, he seemed well able to control her. No one could claim she made him neglect his stock or his land. Or his rather less legitimate concerns.
Once one of Lalage's fiercest critics, Bethan thought her mistress was beginning to turn out well after all. She was becoming the handiest of dairy–maids. She was learning to cook. She loved her husband. More than loved him. ‘Worships him, she does,’ declared Bethan. ‘She'd lie down and die for him. Indeed she would.’
Betty, now William Parry the cowman's wife, agreed. ‘She used to be such a madam,’ she said. ‘But look at her now. Tame as a pet lamb.’
She sighed. ‘Poor Mr Lowell. He couldn't manage her at all. But as for Mr Morgan! How did he do it? He's brought her to heel and no mistake. I'd love to know how.’
‘He's tamed creatures wilder than she ever was.’ Reflectively, William Parry chewed the stem of his pipe. ‘There's not a man on Gower would cross John Rhys,’ he observed. He eyed his wife. ‘No woman, either. You know about the fishing, do you?’
‘Bethan told me.’ Betty shrugged. ‘John Rhys is a fine fisherman, she says.’
‘None finer.’ William Parry stared into the fire. ‘His catches are always good ones. But he's a hard master. Very hard indeed. He runs a very tight ship.’
‘Does he?’
‘I'll say so.’ William looked up. ‘What do you think happens to a man who don't pull his weight? Or — worse than that — tries to cheat his master? Who decides to go fishing on his own account?’
‘I don't know. What?’
‘It's the marshes for him.’ William Parry looked grave. ‘The estuary, Betty. The north shore. A treacherous place indeed. You'll find quicksands there.’
‘Quicksands?’
‘That's right.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, girl. I don't know exactly how it happened, so I don't lay no blame. But a couple of years ago, a farmer by the name of Llewellyn thought he'd try a little fishing. All by himself.
‘Did all right until John Rhys heard of it. Then there was trouble. Big trouble. Arguments. Shots fired. Heads broken. Huw Llewellyn was a big man round here. A big farmer, with his own acres and his own flocks. Not a little cottager with one pig and a cabbage patch. No, indeed.’
‘What happened?’ Betty put her sewing aside. ‘William?’
‘One low tide, Huw went missing. At the next, he was found on the marshes. Staked out. Drowned. A warning, if you like.’
‘John Rhys did that?’ Betty was horrified. ‘Are you telling me he's a murderer?’
William Parry shrugged. ‘I don't know who took Huw Llewellyn to the marshes,’ he said. ‘I've no idea who tied him down.’
‘But you suspect it was John Rhys. Or some of his men.’
‘Perhaps.’ William tapped Betty's wrist. ‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘Don't go blabbing and gossiping, will you? I'm only telling you this so you know — ’
‘Oh, don't worry. I can keep my mouth shut.’ Breaking off a piece of thread, Betty sighed. ‘I have secrets, too. If I had a mind, I could send somebody we know straight to the gallows tree.’
‘Could you?’
‘Certainly.’ Remembering, Betty shuddered. But now, she smiled. ‘So, do you think Mr and Mrs Morgan are well– suited?’ she enquired.
‘They seem very happy together.’ Glad to get off the subject of murder, William Parry grinned. ‘She's too old, mind. Must be at least thirty, and he's not twenty five until gone Midsummer Day. She's a pretty little dwt, though.’
‘I think she's beautiful.’
‘So she is. Far too skinny — but that don't always signify. Some men swear by lean meat. Insist it's far tastier than fat or rind.’ William grinned again. ‘I'd say they were well matched.’
‘So would I.’ Betty threaded her needle. ‘Two of a kind,’ she murmured. ‘Two children of the devil. Well matched indeed.’
William Parry yawned. Standing up, he stretched. ‘What you muttering about?’ he asked, indulgently. ‘You're a proper old mumbler. Always talking to yourself.’
Betty shook her head. ‘I was just thinking,’ she said.
‘What about?’
‘I'm almost sure I'm going to have a baby.’ Betty smiled. ‘In fact, I know I am. Are you pleased?’
William stared. But then he beamed at her. ‘I'm thrilled, girl!’ he cried. ‘Delighted. Over the moon!’
* * * *
Even though her pregnancy was well advanced, Lalage still went for the long walks to which she'd become accustomed while Alex lay dying. Often, she was alone. But, now and again, her husband had time to go with her.
One Sunday, John Rhys Morgan announced that since it was such a fine day, they might walk out to the island on Penrhyn Gwyr. ‘But we'll only go if you feel strong enough,’ he added, considerate as always.
‘How far is it?’ asked Lalage.
‘About eight English miles. There and back.’ He grinned. ‘We'll take a picnic, shall we? Make a day of it?’
‘What if I tire?’
‘I'll carry you home.’
‘Very well.’
They set out. Hand in hand they walked along the flat sandy beach, making for the rocky causeway at the southern end of Rhosili Bay. This causeway led to the little island at the tip of Worm's Head, or Penrhyn Gwyr.
The tide was well out, so it was easy to scramble across the great boulders and stones which, at low tide, joined the Head to the mainland. ‘We shan't be cut off, shall we?’ asked Lalage, as she clambered over sharp, jutting rocks. ‘I don't fancy spending a night on Worm's Head.’
‘Don't worry.’ Stopping to help her over a particularly difficult stretch, John Rhys grinned. ‘Afraid to be left alone with me, is it?’ he demanded, his dark eyes glittering, wicked as they come.
‘I'm not afraid of you.’ Gathering her skirts and tucking her petticoats up to her knees, Lalage laughed. Taking his hand, she held it tightly. ‘Why ever should I fear you?’
‘Why, indeed?’ John Rhys laughed too. ‘I look at you, Lali — and all I see is that you're beautiful. I forget you're a devil's child. It's I who should be scared.’
‘What nonsense you talk.’ Reaching a well–trodden sheep–walk, Lalage let him go. ‘A babbling, drivelling idiot. That's all you are.’
‘You know something interesting, Lali? You're the only woman in Wales who's allowed to abuse me like this.’ For a moment, John Rhys Morgan's eyes were bright. Dangerously bright. But then they softened. ‘Come along, cariad,’ he said. His voice was controlled. Bland, even. ‘Let's get on.’
So on they went. They clambered over rocky outcrops. They walked on rabbit–bitten, springy turf. They crossed the Devil's Bridge, a fine arch of rock carved by wind and waves. Reaching a grassy knoll, they sat down.
All about them, gulls screeched and wheeled. The wind blew a fine colour into Lalage's cheeks, and the sun dazzled her eyes. ‘Tired, my darling?’ asked John Rhys.
‘Not at all.’ Lying back against a rock, Lalage stretched. Luxuriously, she sighed. ‘We're Adam and Eve, in the garden,’ she said.
‘You're an Eve, certainly.’ John Rhys grinned. ‘I hope I'm not such a fool as old Adam.’
‘Time will tell.’ Lalage grinned too. ‘How can I tempt you?’ she asked.
‘You can't. Not just now, anyway.’ Taking a flask from his pocket, John Rhys unscrewed the cap. He offered Lalage the brandy. ‘Have some of this, eh?’
‘What is it?’
‘Best Cognac. None finer.’
‘I don't doubt it.’ Lalage shook her head. ‘I don't think I want any,’ she said.
‘Go on. Just a mouthful.’ John Rhys took some himself. ‘Warm you up, it will.’
‘I'm not cold. But I'm very hungry. Did you bring something to eat?’
‘My pockets are laden.’ John Rhys began to empty them. ‘Here,’ he said, holding out two pies. ‘The big one's yours.’
Lalage took it. ‘What's inside?’ she asked.
‘Rabbit, I should think.’
‘Splendid.’
Watching his wife stuff herself, John Rhys grinned. ‘You like Bethan's cooking, don't you?’ he demanded. ‘You would say it's the best there is.’
‘It's excellent.’ Wiping crumbs from her mouth, Lalage grinned back. ‘You like it, too.’
‘I've always enjoyed my food. But as for you! When we were first married, what a sparrow you were. Never saw such a little picker.’
Lalage shrugged. ‘Didn't you?’
‘God Almighty, no.’ Fastidiously, John Rhys took a piece of meat from his pie. ‘Oh, what's this?’ he cried, in a high falsetto. ‘Oh, John! It's bacon! I can't eat bacon. What's that? Beef? I can't digest beef. I take only breast of chicken. Very lightly fried.’
‘Oh, be quiet, do.’ Tearing a piece of bread off the loaf he had brought, Lalage threw it at him. ‘My appetite soon improved.’
‘Well, it had to.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You needed energy. I set you to work, remember? For the first time in your idle life, you had a job to do.’
‘True.’ Lalage finished her pie. She looked round for something else to eat. ‘You make me slave all day,’ she complained. ‘You wear me out. You're a tyrant.’
‘I know.’ Finishing his meal, John Rhy
s lay back against a boulder. He closed his eyes. ‘You can stop all that,’ he added, as Lalage kissed him, then began to walk her fingers up and down his chest.
‘Don't you like it?’ Stealthily, Lalage slid her hand under the waistband of his breeches. ‘You don't have to do anything, you know,’ she murmured. ‘Just lie there. Let me ravish you.’
‘God in heaven.’ Sitting up again, John Rhys removed Lalage's invading fingers. ‘Be a good girl, and I'll tell you a story,’ he said.
‘Will you?’ Unimpressed, Lalage pouted. ‘What about?’
‘A baby boy.’ John Rhys glanced at his wife's swollen stomach. ‘He can listen, too.’
‘You're sure it's a boy, aren't you?’
‘Certain.’
‘What if it were a girl?’
‘She'd be as welcome as the dawn, and I'd love her dearly. But all the same, you're going to have a boy.’ John Rhys frowned in concentration. ‘So now. To the story. Once upon a time — ’
‘Why do all stories begin so?’
‘Be quiet and listen. Once upon a time, on North Gower, there was a father who seduced his daughter. In due course, she bore a son. But the child was deformed. Poor creature, he had a badly twisted foot. The people in the village said this was a judgement. They pelted the girl with stones and mud, and drove her away.’
‘Poor girl.’
‘Let me go on. Well, the girl took the child to the High King of that country, and asked his advice. The king deliberated and prayed for two whole days. Then, wrap the baby warmly, he said. Put him in a wicker cradle — ’
‘Like Moses.’
‘Stop interrupting, Lali. Yes, like Moses. Put him in a wicker cradle, place the cradle on the river bank, and let the tide take him out to sea. There, God will decide his fate. So this was done.
‘Well, the tide carried the cradle out of the estuary, and into the open sea. That night, a great storm blew up. The cradle was smashed to little pieces against the rocks of Penrhyn Gwyr.
‘But God was merciful. The baby was unharmed. Then God sent his sea–birds, who pitied the child, and took him up. They laid him in a nest, they warmed him with their feathers, and they shielded him from the rain.
‘Soon, the child cried for food. The gulls and cormorants could not feed him, so they asked God what to do. In due course an angel came down from heaven, carrying a great golden bell. At the side of this was a metal breast, and from this the baby took his milk. When the time came for him to be weaned, the angel returned and told him what herbs were safe to eat and which were death. So, the boy grew up.
A Green Bay Tree Page 29