“It’s Llywelyn.” I gripped the back of David’s cloak. “I look terrible! My hair, my clothes are full of salt. I don’t even have shoes. He can’t see me like this.”
David ignored me, not dignifying my concerns with a response. Llywelyn left the battlements and reappeared at ground level. He crossed the bailey with his characteristic long stride, his head steady and his eyes fixed on me, and then halted at my knee. He reached for me. My heart breaking and healing in the same instant, I slid into his arms.
“I never meant to leave you, Llywelyn. I didn’t want to keep your son from you.”
Llywelyn slipped one arm around my waist and brought me close to him while threading his other hand through my hair. “I never for a moment thought you did,” he said. And kissed me.
* * * * *
Later that evening, after all the hubbub had died down and Llywelyn and I were alone, I sat on a stool by his chair in front of the fire, resting my head against his knee. We’d sat this way so many times when I was pregnant with David, it felt like I’d fallen through time—not just to Wales—but to when I was a girl.
But I wasn’t that girl—or even a girl—and the world was a different place now. Not just my world either, but his too. Neither of us were the same people who’d parted sixteen years ago, and that would take some getting used to.
Llywelyn rested his hand on my hair. He’d kissed me long and hard, not just the once but many times. He was determined, however, to abide by the Church’s restrictions for as long as it took to organize our wedding. In our hearts, we’d been married all along—and even been married legally if Llywelyn had been a commoner. All it took to be married in Wales in the Middle Ages was for both parties to claim it and consummate it. But to say so would have nullified his marriage to Elinor (who had died in 1282 giving birth to his daughter). Neither of us wanted to do that.
“Something is troubling you,” he said. I looked up at him, noting his serious tone. He smiled down at me. “More than you might be troubled by this change in your fortunes for a second time.”
“I don’t quite know where to begin,” I said. “We have so much to catch up on, and you have so many pressing cares.”
“None that are more important than you right now,” he said. “I missed you every day we were apart. Is that what is bothering you? Have you left someone behind?”
By someone, he meant someone male. “No, Llywelyn. I didn’t marry again. I couldn’t.”
“I imagine you had suitors …” his voice trailed off and I smiled. He didn’t want to ask but I saw no reason not to tell him the truth.
“You would be disappointed in the men of the twenty-first century if they hadn’t chased after me, wouldn’t you?”
I had him there. “I would.”
“None could compare to you,” I said, “and so none lasted. I had my work and my children.”
“And that was enough?”
“It was never enough.” I sighed. “But that’s not what you asked about.” I pushed to my feet and pulled a stool closer to him so my face was more level with his. “And that’s not what I need to tell you about.”
“Did something … happen to you on your journey here?”
Fear resounded in his voice, but I put a hand on his knee, anxious to reassure him that he was far off the mark. “No, Llywelyn. But I did have an encounter with a man, one who used to serve your brother, Dafydd.”
This was not what he’d been expecting. “What was his name?”
“Marc,” I said. “He and the prioress at the convent shared a father, Evan, who served you once upon a time, during a fight with Roger Mortimer in Powys.”
Llywelyn shook his head. “I have no memory of the man.”
“Well, the son was in your brother’s teulu, and you probably remember him. He was at Dafydd’s right hand all through the year I was with you, and in all the years since. Dafydd dismissed him only this spring.”
Llywelyn gazed into the fire, his eyes narrowing as he thought. “I do know of this man—of course I do. And it was in the spring that I noticed that Marc was no longer in attendance on Dafydd. Why does this concern you?”
“Because Marc spoke of a plot against you—or perhaps against our son.” I then related the whole story of my meeting with Marc, what he’d said to me about his dismissal being my fault, and the exchange on the road with Henry. “Marc used the words, the Prince, when he was speaking about the failed plot. At the time, I didn’t know David was here so I assumed he meant you. Marc fled in its aftermath and your brother was concerned enough that he might talk about it—betray him—that he sent men to track him down. I was with Marc when Henry found him.”
Llywelyn rubbed his chin with his right hand. “Did you say Henry?”
I nodded.
“That man is a snake.”
“So it seemed to me,” I said. “He certainly was out for Marc’s blood, and all the worse because they’re brothers too.”
“Do you know any more details of what they planned than this?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, my lord. I don’t.”
Llywelyn took in a deep breath and let it out. “I know of no plot against me or against our son. I don’t trust my brother, of course, but he has been loyal—almost to a fault—of late.”
“That’s what I understood,” I said. “But I had to tell you.”
“What I don’t understand is why Marc blamed you for his downfall.”
“He never made that clear. Thinking back, I’d guess your brother’s plot was against David, and I would have to agree that David’s existence is my fault. Your brother must feel enormous resentment against our son for taking his place as your heir. By extension, he must resent me.”
Llywelyn laughed. “Did I ever tell you what Dafydd said about you, right before we swept through Caerphilly?”
I shook my head.
“He said that you had quite a mouth on you.”
I smiled, as I knew he wanted.
Llywelyn laughed again. “He’s never had any real idea of what love is, or why you are so important to me.” He turned serious again, gazing into my eyes. And then he leaned forward and cupped my face in his hands. “I missed you. Your honesty, your uprightness, your beauty. I see you in our precious children. Thank you for them. Thank you for returning to me.”
I felt myself falling into him, falling in love with him all over again, as if the years we’d lost had never happened. His arms came around me.
“I spent sixteen years trying to find my way back to you,” I said.
“I know. I looked for you every day, everywhere I went. We need to make sure that none of you lose your way in time again.”
“I don’t know how to do that, Llywelyn. I don’t know why I ever came here in the first place.”
“I do.” Llywelyn eased back so he could look into my face. “You came to save me. And you have.”
________________________
Thank you for reading The Winds of Time. All of the books in the After Cilmeri series are available at any bookstore. For more information about dark age and medieval Wales, please see my web page: www.sarahwoodbury.com
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Winds of Time Page 7