Although she froze at my initial words, Edyth relaxed into her chair before I finished my sentence.
“I see,” she said, also in Welsh. “Sir John knew of your connection to Gwynedd?”
“Yes, Prioress,” I said. “Perhaps that is why he sent me to you? Can you help me to return home?”
She looked down at her desk and tapped one finger rhythmically on the edge. “It may be possible to help you,” she said, after some thought. “I will ask my half-brother if he knows of a merchant who is traveling to Wales soon. Marc … has some contacts.”
She inspected me some more. “However, I would at least like the truth from you. Have you fled a convent? A second marriage you did not want? Did your father give you to an Englishman who has displeased you? Will I find a company of armed men on my doorstep in the morning, demanding your return?”
I looked at her, confused. “Pardon?”
“You might have fooled Sir John, but you cannot fool me so easily.” The prioress waved a hand toward me. “You may be from the line of Ednyfed Fychan, but according to what you told Sir John, you haven’t lived as well as that for many years. And yet, there is nothing about you that indicates a lowly existence in Shrewsbury. Your skin, your carriage, your ease of speech, your education, even your hands, belie your words!”
I looked down at my hands, now clenched together in my lap. They were soft as she said, not work-roughened, and I had trimmed my nails (though without polishing them, thankfully) the morning I boarded Marty’s plane.
I looked up at her. “I don’t know what to say.”
Edyth was angry. I was angry too—at myself. I thought my story was pretty good considering the difficulties with my situation. Sir John had bought it, but Edyth was smarter than Sir John and I shouldn’t have been surprised that it was easier to fool a man than another woman. I hated having to fool anyone. A long silence stretched between us.
“Fine,” I said. “As a young woman, I was consort to Prince Llywelyn, the Prince of Wales, and bore him a son.”
Edyth surged to her feet.
“You insult me with your stories and your lies!” She put her hands on her hips and glared at me. “What do you know of Prince Llywelyn’s family? I am one of his casualties, and yet I will not allow you to impugn his name.”
My chin had come up in response to her anger and my own outrage evaporated in the face of her defiance. “What did you say? How is it that you know Prince Llywelyn?”
Edyth scoffed under her breath. “I have never met the man, but my father, Evan, fought for him when he recaptured Cefnllys castle, many years ago. Unfortunately, in doing so, Prince Llywelyn aroused the anger of Roger Mortimer. To punish the Prince, Mortimer retaliated against the Welsh who lived within sight of his walls. We were evicted from our home.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, following her story without understanding its point.
Edyth shrugged. “I was only fifteen at the time. It was December, and my mother was carrying a child, though she wasn’t so far along that one might notice. She and I struggled west, into Wales, but when she miscarried on the road, I couldn’t do enough for her. Both she and the child died. When a sister to Prince Llywelyn heard of our fate, she offered to find a place for me in her own household. I was angry and defiant, however, and told my father that I wanted nothing of Wales, men, or marriage. I sought refuge in a place as far from home as possible. Eventually I found this nunnery, and my father brought me here.”
She stepped around her desk and leaned down, her finger in my face.
“Now that is a story. Yours is pathetic in comparison. I will find you passage to Wales if only to be rid of you, but in the meantime, trouble me no more with your paltry explanations for I do not want to hear them.”
Edyth passed me by and sailed from the room. The door slammed behind her.
Wow. I looked down at my hands. I have never been very good at lying.
* * * * *
The next morning, I saw Prioress Edyth in passing, and in church, but she didn’t summon me and I tried to achieve patience. It wasn’t as if I had a lot of free time. Bright and early, I found the nun hospitalier at my door, asking which service to the nunnery I would like to perform: weeding the garden, baking, or laundry. At first I was shocked by her request, but I assumed Edyth had ordered this, wanting me to get my hands dirty. I opted for the garden and the nun sent me to the herbalist who found a worn habit for me to wear and put me to work. I spent the day between the rows of plants.
It was enjoyable to garden in the summer sun, and I began to feel almost grateful to Edyth for giving me something to do. I was useful and satisfied—that is, until I woke up the next morning so stiff and sore I could barely move. I managed to haul myself out of bed anyway, and back onto my hands and knees.
After three more days of this, I was sent to the laundry. This was a job worth hating. The clothes were heavy and the water icy cold, even in August. Just as I thought I couldn’t take any more, I was sent to the bakery. After three days kneading dough, it dawned on me that there was more to this than punishment for lying. Nearly two weeks had passed since my dinner with the Prioress, with no word from her, and it occurred to me that this must be some kind of test.
With that thought in mind, I waylaid her, as politely as I could, after services that evening.
“Prioress Edyth.” I curtseyed. “Might I have a moment of your time?”
She stopped, stifled a sigh, and turned to me. “Are you finding your days with us worthwhile, Mistress Margaret? We do not work you too hard?”
“Madam.” I was making an effort to disguise my impatience, but it was pretty feeble and I undoubtedly failed completely. “I was hoping that you have had word from your half-brother regarding my passage to Wales?”
“Come to me after dinner,” Edyth said, instead of answering my question. “I can see that you have not found the contentment here I hoped for and you intend to continue with your previously stated course of action. We have enjoyed your good bread.”
She swept away, leaving me thunderstruck. I couldn’t believe it. Good bread, indeed.
In truth, it was my pride that was most hurt. I had believed, in the first hours of my walk along Hadrian’s Wall, that I could control my destiny. Yes, I was a woman, but I was educated and intelligent, and had struggled and survived on my own with two children in the twenty-first century. Surely this counted for something? Surely what I’d learned in the last sixteen years and who I was now would make a difference? I was appalled to realize, several weeks later, that it had made no difference at all.
To Sir John, I’d been a burden. While grateful to me for helping his nephew, he had no use for me afterwards, no employment. I was a woman and a young and foolish one at that. Prioress Edyth knew of my intellectual abilities and believed that I’d grown up among the elite, but did she send me to the scriptorium or use my talents in any way? No, she put me to work in the kitchen.
Not that I minded baking or gardening, but in this world, women who could read were incredibly rare. And yet, two people who knew I had the skill had no use for me at all. On one hand, I was pleased that I could ‘pass’ as a medieval woman, but the truth was, I did not want to be a medieval woman. I never had and I found it frustrating and humiliating to be dependent on the kindness of others when I had skills I could offer them that would allow me to pay my own way.
Silently seething, I ate my meal as usual and then hurried to Edyth’s study. I walked in to find her seated as before behind her desk, but this time she wasn’t alone. She was having a discussion with a dark-haired man sitting with his right hip propped on her desk. He turned to look at me as I entered. His jaw dropped.
I froze.
I didn’t recognize him, but because his expression was one of shock. It told me that he recognized me. Something about his face niggled at the back of my mind—and yet, how could I know him?
“You have met before?” Edyth said sharply.
The man’s face cleared. “No
, dear sister. I am just surprised she is so young. You said she was a widow.”
Edyth’s eyes narrowed, disbelief plain on her face, but at his impassivity, she turned to me. I managed to compose my face in an expression of innocence.
“I am ready to leave as soon as possible,” I said.
Edyth pursed her lips but nodded. “Mistress Marged, this is my half-brother, Marc. Marc, this is Marged ferch—I am sorry, I don’t remember your father’s name.”
“Bran,” I said. Why do I feel like everything she says to me is some kind of test?
“Yes, Marged ferch Bran.”
I curtsied and Marc bowed as we greeted each other.
“Now.” Edyth rubbed her hands together. It seemed she’d decided to put the last few weeks behind her and was pleased to be ridding herself of me at last. “We must get Mistress Marged to Wales. I believe you said that you had some idea how this might be accomplished, Brother? I will give her a letter of introduction to St. Winifred’s nunnery in Conwy. They will take her in until she can make her way to her family.”
“Yes, Sister,” Marc said. “I can arrange it all if Mistress Marged can pay.”
I got the feeling that his ‘sister’ was not as respectful as it could have been. I didn’t see how I could go anywhere with this man, leastwise not until I figured out why he knew me.
Edyth glanced at me, and I nodded. Sir John had given me a few coins, as he’d promised. “She can pay, Marc. What do you have in mind?”
“Cousin Morgan is making a run to Anglesey,” Marc said. “I have asked him to take her as passenger. He said he will do it, if the money is right.” He turned to me. “The crossing is dangerous. The Irish Sea can be rough this time of year and the English haven’t taken kindly to Prince Llywelyn’s dominance of the region. They are harassing all ships that attempt to cross from England to Wales.”
“Is there no other way for me to get there?” I said. Under the best of conditions, I was a poor sailor. I preferred the mountains of Wales to its seas.
“You could wait for a merchant train that travels south by land,” Marc said. “However, Chester is an English stronghold and the Marcher lords guard the roads into Wales. The journey would be nearly impossible for a woman alone.”
I sighed inwardly. According to what little the nuns at the convent knew about current events—and I felt I could ask—Llywelyn’s forces had won a great victory against King Edward in January of 1283. An unofficial truce now held between England and Wales, which is why I had to make my way to Wales by boat. “With no other real choice, I am willing to risk a sea crossing. How long is the journey?”
“You will sail west from Silloth on the coast, towards Ireland. Captain Morgan has an arrangement with the villagers that allows him to dock there unmolested. He intends to sail from there to the Isle of Man and come into Anglesey from the north and west. It is a journey of some days.” Marc paused, and then said, “or, if the weather doesn’t hold, you might not arrive at all.”
I definitely didn’t like Marc.
“It is slightly more than a league from here to Silloth,” he said. “We will leave in two day’s time. Once you arrive, he will want to sail on the evening tide.”
“You will ensure that she reaches the boat safely, brother?” Edyth said.
“I will see to it personally, Sister.” Marc smiled and bowed over Edyth’s hand. As he did so, he glanced at me, and the expression on his face belied his jovial words. I took an involuntary step backwards and wondered desperately how I could avoid going anywhere with Marc.
“Very good, then,” Edyth said. “Mistress Marged, if you could see Marc out, I would be most obliged.”
“Certainly, Prioress.” I made a curtsy and then opened the door to the office. Striving to keep well ahead of Marc, I led the way down the passage to the courtyard of the priory.
Although I walked quickly, the thudding of Marc’s boots on the stones soon overtook my lighter steps. Just as I reached the doorway outside, he caught my arm. He pulled me back and crowded me against the doorpost.
“What are you doing here?” Marc hissed through gritted teeth. “You’re supposed to be dead!”
“Am I?” I spit the words back at him because in that instant, I remembered who he was: one of the men that Prince Dafydd, Llywelyn’s brother, kept around him. It had been Marc who had stood at his lord’s side and grinned at me when Dafydd had ‘rescued’ me from the river near Castell y Bere. I could appreciate his surprise at seeing me again, but I didn’t understand his anger.
“Do you think to return to Prince Llywelyn, is that it?” Marc said.
“Yes.” I glared at Marc, defiant.
“I should kill you where you stand. It is your fault that I no longer serve Prince Dafydd. Your fault that he dispensed with my services.”
“My fault? How could that be my fault? I haven’t been to Wales in sixteen years!”
“You—” Marc cut off his words, apparently so angry he couldn’t reply. His jaw bulged. “I will escort you to the sea, simply to see you on your way so you may never trouble me again.”
“How do I know you will do as you say? I can’t trust you.” My words were probably unwise, but I needed to know his full intentions.
Marc caught my chin in his hand and tipped it up so the back of my head clonked into the wall and my ears rang.
“You try my patience, woman! Be glad my sister has put her hand over you and keep your tongue between your teeth!”
With that he released me and stalked off. I watched him go, rubbing the back of my head, and thinking that perhaps that was the best advice I had been given in some time.
Chapter Five
Two days later, Marc came for me at dawn, as he had promised. I wondered at the propriety of our journeying together, even if only for a day. Perhaps, because I was a widow, I was allowed this kind of freedom. It could also have been that Prioress Edyth was happy to get me off her hands in any fashion she could. Sort of like Sir John, in point of fact. I guess at thirty-seven, I am a far less endearing person than I was at twenty.
I debated returning to Prioress Edyth and trying again to convince her that I knew Marc from when I’d lived with Llywelyn, but in the end decided against it. By now, I didn’t have very many choices—did I have any choices?—and although I didn’t trust Marc, he appeared to have a certain sort of honor. To make myself feel safer, I stole a small knife from the kitchen and secreted it in my pack. If Marc was determined to kill me, it wouldn’t be of much use, but it helped me keep a grip on rationality.
It was a fine day in late August—perfect for jogging along on the horse Marc had provided. For over an hour after we left the convent, Marc didn’t say a single word to me. He rode a few yards ahead, his shoulders stiff and his back straight. Clearly, our meeting had brought up bad memories and he hadn’t forgiven me for whatever it was that he believed I’d done.
And truly, I wanted to know what that was. “When did you leave Prince Dafydd’s service?” I raised my voice so my words could cross the yards that separated us.
I thought at first that he wasn’t going to answer, he took so long to speak, but then he said, “Earlier this year.”
“How, then, can your leaving him be my fault?”
But Marc had gone mute again. As a result, I dropped further behind him. In the weeks since I’d arrived, I’d thought of little else but that single year with Llywelyn that had changed my life so completely. Marc had barely played into it, which is why it had taken so long to recognize him—that and the years hadn’t been as kind to him as they’d apparently been to me. He’d been there at the river. I’d seen him in the company of Prince Dafydd during his visit to Brecon when I was pregnant with David. What had Marc done to turn Prince Dafydd against him sixteen years later that had anything to do with me?
Suddenly, two men on horseback burst from the woods in front of Marc. One of them held a sword. I reined in, my horse feeling my panic and skittering sideways.
“Stay
away from me!” Fifty feet ahead of me, Marc’s horse danced away from the two others.
I didn’t know what to do. I sidled my horse to the side of the road, warring between turning tail and running and staying to help—if I even could. It wasn’t as if I could ride to Marc’s rescue.
The man with the sword had fair hair and a short, stocky build. He stuck out his chin at Marc. “You dare to give me orders?”
Marc, however, wasn’t intimidated. “Is this not cowardly, Henry?” He pulled out his sword too and waved it at the lead rider. “Are your orders to dispose of me now? Why can’t Prince Dafydd let me live in peace?”
“You failed in your duty, Marc.” Henry’s voice was all reason, as if it was perfectly acceptable for him to attack Marc in the middle of the day and Marc should simply yield. “You know too much about his plans. The Prince lives, and thus, you must die.”
My brain could barely process Henry’s words. Prince Dafydd had plotted against Llywelyn again? Is that what they were talking about?
For all that Llywelyn had tried to protect me from scenes such as this, I had seen violence when I’d lived with him. But I hadn’t faced a sword in so long, the fear caught me by surprise, closing my throat and making my heart beat in my ears. I felt disembodied, hovering above the men as they hacked at each other and as the historian in me objectively observed how awkward it was to try to fight on horseback.
Although he received at least one solid blow to the head from the unnamed second man’s shield, Marc was able to ram his sword through the man’s stomach before slashing the throat of Henry’s horse. Henry slipped his feet from the stirrups before the horse could crush him and landed on his feet. From the saddle, Marc swung his sword at him. Henry backed way and balanced on the edge of the road, in danger of losing his footing on the soft ground near the trees.
Marc, in this incarnation, had no regrets or recriminations. He face had fallen into grim and determined lines. He wasn’t going to lie down and die before Henry.
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