by Nicole Locke
He started and she stopped talking, leaving her discordant breathing the only sound. The air surrounding them was swirling, heavy and thick with moisture, the wind was sharper, abrasive. It whipped at Anwen’s hair and moulded her gown against her body. The coming rain would bring a storm and when Teague finally spoke, she knew it to be true.
‘You think I sided with Edward for my comfort?’ Teague said. ‘You, who give generously of yourself to others, judge me by my wealth?’
It was too late for caution; too much damage had been done. ‘I see what I see and I see what you have and what Brynmor had not!’
‘You do not see! You see my mews, my thick walls, but you have no idea what it took for me to hold on to it, or what sacrifices I made to build it.’
‘I know what happened; we all know what Gwalchdu’s lord did. When the rightful Prince Llewellyn was preparing for war against King Edward, you ran scared to the lap of the English dog! Brynmor, unprotected by the forces of Gwalchdu, didn’t stand a chance of defeating Edward. You betrayed us!’
His body was like stone, but something bubbling with life breathed just beneath the surface. ‘There was betrayal, Anwen, but not by me.’ Teague raised his hand. ‘No, wait! It is time you hear what I have to say.’
* * *
Anwen wrapped her cloak around her and crossed her arms. She’d listen to him.
But should he tell her? Teague could feel Anwen’s eyes on him and it was all he could do to ignore her as he must. It showed his weakness that he took her here, that he noticed she was tired.
The enemy was here and he could not be weak. He could not soften towards her. He wanted to laugh at the irony. At first, he stayed away because he thought her the enemy and now? Now there was true animosity between them.
‘Are you cold?’ he asked.
She shook her head. ‘Get on with what you want to say. I’ll return soon enough.’
She was obstinate. Brave. Grieving. But she would believe him.
‘You, no doubt, know my mother was Welsh, my father English.’ Teague swiped more rocks. ‘She sacrificed much when she married an Englishman, but she fancied herself in love. She died giving birth to Rhain on the day we received news of my father’s death. I was five and Gwalchdu was left vulnerable. What do you think happens to an estate the size of Gwalchdu when it is defended by a boy who cannot hold a sword?’
Teague tossed a rock, which sunk into the moving river. ‘The caretaking of the keep fell to Ffion. Gwalchdu had always been Welsh and it seemed it would remain Welsh. At that time, Llewellyn was the Prince of Wales and in good graces with the English King Henry, King Edward’s father. Luckily, too, the captain of my mother’s guard stayed and helped to defend the fortress. I think he was smitten with Ffion. Ffion had many suitors and I thought she’d marry, but she never did.’
Teague grabbed a flatter, wider, rock. When he threw it, it shot across the river, hitting the opposite bank. A small victory, when he had to talk about his greatest defeats.
‘Prince Llewellyn’s power was great and so was Urien’s. King Edward ruled England when I was ten, but Urien and Llewellyn refused to respect the new English King. It broke whatever fragile peace there was between Wales and England.’
Teague picked through the rocks at his feet until he found one that satisfied him, but this one he didn’t want to let go. ‘For most of my life, I heard only Ffion’s point of view on Welsh superiority. I was as deeply Welsh as any boy, and I despised the fact my mother married a weak Englishman.’
‘Urien knew peace was about to end. I was but ten when he rode to the gates of Gwalchdu with forty of his own men.’
Tossing the rock to catch it, he dared glance at Anwen. Her arms were still crossed, but her face was not quite so mutinous. Did she need to know this now? Did she ever need to know it? He wondered if he told her for his own selfish purposes. So that she might look at him in a different way. That was a weakness, perhaps, but then, when hadn’t he been selfish when it came to her?
Teague continued, ‘I know now he did it in case there was a protest to his taking control of Gwalchdu. Forty men behind a leader would have been a considerable force, but Ffion did not protest and neither did I. After all, he had been visiting and giving advice to us in those early years. It was natural for him to take over. That is my regret and has been all my life.’
Teague threw the rock upstream, watching it cut through the flow of water. ‘Soon, it became clear Urien’s interest wasn’t in the betterment of Gwalchdu, but in stripping it of all its money and resources, so he could fortify Brynmor and increase its soldiers. He didn’t care about Gwalchdu’s people.
‘By the time Edward declared war, I did not see how my home could survive it. The servants were gaunt; the soldiers who stayed were more farmers than warriors. Gwalchdu’s walls, mostly wood at that time, needed repairing. Urien, through ignorance or ill intent, stripped it of any way to defend itself.’ Teague breathed in. ‘That man robbed me of any heritage, with no care of what he left behind. Gwalchdu was closest to the English borders and we were like reeds to the scythe.
‘After Edward kidnapped Prince Llewellyn’s intended bride, the time came to regain control of my family heritage and oust any Welsh sympathies from my home. I paid homage to the English King.’
‘Gwalchdu’s people starving, vulnerable?’ Anwen scoffed. ‘I never heard of such a tale.’
‘You wouldn’t. I ensured it didn’t last.’ He closed his eyes. Her anger was there, but so was her shock. She was listening. ‘It didn’t last, but Greta was there, as was Edith. If you doubt me, ask them.’
‘What happened next?’ she said, waving her hand at him.
‘I do not need to say what risks I took travelling the miles to Edward’s camp, or what would have happened to me if I’d been caught, by either side, before I was able to talk to the English King,’ Teague said. ‘But I did it because I knew people easily betrayed each other, but that stone was for ever. I would save Gwalchdu with my life and damn the consequences.’
‘Where was Rhain during this time?’ she asked.
‘When I gained Edward’s alliance before he declared war on Wales, I sent Rhain away to train at Edward’s hands. He was nine or ten at the time and as you know has recently returned. Ffion couldn’t stand what I’d done and soon left for the convent. Never fond of me, her opinion of me turned bitter and it was even more so when she returned.’ Teague picked up another rock, tested its weight in his hand.
‘But why didn’t King Edward hang Urien for his treachery?’
‘You want to find flaws in my story. Know this, there are flaws, not of truth, but of my own actions.’ Urien might be his greatest regret of all. ‘For this part of the tale, I have only myself to blame. King Edward showed mercy at my request.’ Teague huffed. ‘When I returned from the first war of the Welsh uprising, Urien already showed signs of what he would become. Drink was heavy on his breath, his clothing unkempt. Having to live life with bitter defeat, he was already suffering far worse than any executioner’s axe. It could only get worse and it did, didn’t it?’
Anwen’s stricken look told him everything.
‘I regret not having Urien tried for treason.’ Teague threw the rock. ‘Especially for your and Alinore’s suffering.’
‘What hatred I felt for the English ended with Urien of Wales. I earned my spurs and my home when Llewellyn signed the Aberconwy Treaty conceding Edward’s conquest of Wales. I was about fifteen at the time. Your anger is not with me. I did not turn traitor. Urien did.’
A smattering of raindrops hit her cheeks and nose. The heavy rain was coming, but she kept her eyes on his and he did not drop his own gaze.
‘I need to return,’ she whispered.
Chapter Nineteen
They barely entered the outer bailey before Anwen slid from the horse. Through the
roaring in her ears, she heard Teague call out her name, but she didn’t turn to face him. The icy wind shoved her skirts against her legs and she lifted them with both her hands as she ran. She knew where she needed to go.
The wind helped her open the heavy doors of the mews, but she pushed, hard, to get them closed. She was immediately surrounded by the smells of damp wood and hay. Behind the closed doors, she could hear the wind batter against the heavy oak building and rain pound against the rooftop. Breathing the much-needed musty air deeply, Anwen spun around.
The birds were awake and restless. The storm would be a bad one. She suddenly felt like a plump rabbit as heads swivelled and predatory unblinking eyes focused on her. The cold weather increased their appetites and, although she knew Teague fed them well, she was grateful they were all secured as she strode to Gully.
‘Greetings, old friend.’ She brushed her hand over his head, going against the grain of his thick winter feathers. Gully blinked his eyes in pleasure.
‘Melun tells me your training’s complete,’ she said. ‘It must have been hard to learn from another’s hand, but I guess we both have had our share of adversities recently.’ Softly, she continued, ‘I may have to have some retraining of my own. I hope I can be as successful as you.’
She struggled to find the falseness, the treachery in what Teague said, but everything rang true. It was staggering, heart hurting, but she could not deny the truth.
Teague, Gwalchdu’s lord, wasn’t the Traitor.
She had been eight when Teague earned his spurs. She was young, but old enough to have seen the difference of Brynmor before and after the Welsh Wars. Before the wars they had many soldiers, costly comforts and luxuries. After the wars, there had been few necessities and gardens became barren.
Never had she thought Brynmor’s prosperity before the war was because Urien stole from Gwalchdu. Brynmor was a great estate and so she assumed Urien must have been a great Welsh minor prince. Yet, had she ever seen the man who had sired her work a day in his life? No.
It wasn’t the wars that changed Urien; he never had the character to build Brynmor into a powerful estate. He stole from Gwalchdu to make Brynmor glorious. In turn, Teague had suffered.
All her life she insulted Gwalchdu’s lord and she wasn’t the only one. How many insults and slurs had he had to bear? Even one would have been too many and for no good cause. Teague had changed his fate by courage and intelligence. He hadn’t given in to Urien or Edward. He took the opportunity to benefit Gwalchdu and its people. In doing so, he sacrificed himself.
She justifiably mourned the way Brynmor had been before the wars because the poorer they became, the more Urien’s abuse grew out of control. He caused so much harm, so much pain, and she always blamed Teague.
But Teague wasn’t a traitor, and he wasn’t responsible for her sister’s death. Hadn’t he shown, with his past, that there were matters he couldn’t control?
But that didn’t solve her dilemma.
Teague was still a man of power, still a lord who ruled according to his wishes. He had imprisoned her and risked the lives at Brynmor to seek answers regarding this enemy of his. This enemy who had killed her sister.
Understanding the past did not help the present. Not when she was sure she was carrying his child. She carried a Marcher Lord’s child. With his power, he could not marry her, but she’d be damned before this child would be unloved and harmed like her. What would happen when Teague realised? She didn’t know.
But there were some truths she did know. She wouldn’t be carrying Teague’s child if she hadn’t felt some connection to him. And it wasn’t just desire, because she sought comfort and safety from him. She hadn’t rescued him from the fire only because she owed him the debt of her life. It was because of his loneliness, too.
He built homes for her people now, and gave kindness. Brynmor’s chaos wasn’t gone. Gwalchdu was almost like a home with Melun living here. Perhaps she could...make a home here.
Was it enough for her to tell him of their child? There were so many questions she needed to ask him, but she needed to find him first.
* * *
Rain drove down as she ran from the mews to the resident tower. She was cold and soaked as she scanned the Great Hall looking for Teague. Ffion was walking towards the stairs that led to the private apartments. Anwen stopped her.
‘Pray, Sister, have you seen Teague?’
Ffion, both her hands wrapped around her rosary, blinked rapidly. ‘Teague? He is usually on the ramparts at night.’
‘On a night like this?’
Ffion shook her head. ‘No, probably not. Some of his soldiers are outside guarding, but I doubt Teague could handle the storm. You know his constitution is not as strong as Rhain’s.’
Anwen ignored the taunt; she had no time to change Ffion’s views.
‘Why do you want to know the whereabouts of Gwalchdu’s heir? It is late. You should be alone and seeking prayer.’ Ffion’s eyes flashed, a mixture of some fervour and anger. ‘You have lain with him, haven’t you?’
Anwen had enough of this slander against Teague and herself. ‘Sister Ffion, I simply asked you his whereabouts.’
Ffion took a step back, horror on her face. One hand now clutched the rosary, the other reached out with fingers spread like claws. ‘But you shouldn’t have lain with him, child. I told you how he craved you like no other; how determined he was to have you. Why did you challenge him?’
Anwen had never seen the Sister this angry before. She just stopped herself from clutching her arms around her middle to protect her baby from Ffion’s cutting fervency. Even so, Ffion’s eyes glared at Anwen’s stomach.
‘He has spilled his seed in you and now all is lost! Lost!’
Ffion swayed and Anwen rushed to hold her.
‘Heathen! Adulterer!’ Ffion spat, spittle spraying out. She said no more words, but staccato animalistic noises came from the back of her throat as she flung out her arms.
The Hall was deserted. If Ffion collapsed as she did at Brynmor, Anwen couldn’t hope to keep her steady as Teague and Robert did.
If Ffion reacted like this when she only suspected Anwen carried Teague’s baby, how would she react when she learned the truth?
The older woman shook more violently before soon her tremors eased and she slowly sagged against her.
‘Sister Ffion?’ Anwen shuffled her towards the small hearth.
‘I need Greta.’
‘I don’t want to leave you just now.’
Ffion slumped into a chair. ‘Please, child, bring Greta to me. I must speak to her immediately!’
Anwen found Greta in the kitchens, her great arms deep in a copper pot. Anwen clutched her arm. ‘Ffion needs you.’
Greta dropped the pot unsteadily on the carving table and shoved her cloth into the drawstring around her waist as she followed Anwen out to the Hall.
When they reached her, Ffion appeared half-alive. Her upper lip held beads of sweat; her skin was white as if it hadn’t a drop of blood. Greta lifted Ffion in her arms.
‘Will she fare well?’
Greta, her brow furrowed, nodded.
‘What can I do? Do you need me?’
Greta shook her head once.
Anwen paused. It didn’t feel right to just abandon them, but she needed to find Teague. Maybe when she found him, she could tell him of Ffion’s episode.
If Teague wasn’t in the Hall, he could be many places, but Ffion was right when she said Teague was usually on the ramparts at night. If his soldiers were there on a night like this, then he would be, too.
‘I’m going to find Teague,’ she told Greta, before racing along the long corridor to the soldiers’ towers.
* * *
He couldn’t find her!
Rain plastered Teague’s ha
ir and clothes to his body; his chest heaved from running. He’d searched the entire grounds for Anwen, but no one had seen her.
She appeared almost stricken when she jumped off his horse that he let her go, but it had been hours since she’d run to the mews. She was no longer there. She was no longer anywhere.
There was only one place she could be: the ramparts. It was the dead of night and a storm raged. The few men guarding never patrolled the ramparts on a night like this. There would be no visibility gained and they were slippery and too dangerous.
Lightning speared the horizon, illuminating the night sky as Teague grabbed a torch and ran up the stairs to the battlements on the north tower. The thick oak door separated him from the storm outside, but he heard a faint cry before the thunder cracked and any sound disappeared.
He pulled the door’s handle. It didn’t budge and his keys were in the chamber below. Lowering his torch, in the flickering light he could see the crushed keyhole. Even if he had a key, it would be useless.
He slammed the torch into its wall mount. Using his weight, he rammed his shoulder against the door. It shook with the force, but it didn’t open.
‘Teague!’
Blood rushed to his feet and a cold sweat instantly set on his back. The voice was barely audible, but he heard it. Anwen was on the other side of the door, on the slippery narrow ramparts, in a wind that had already felled trees.
His heart rammed against his chest and he shoved at the door again. For the first time, he was cursing the defensive construction of his doors. He would have to get a tool, something heavy and sharp to break the door. The sword at his side would be just as useless as his shoulder.
The thought of leaving her sent him almost into a panic. Pounding his fist on the door, he yelled, ‘Stay low!’
He had no idea if she heard him. He slipped his way to the armoury where he chose a double-sided battleaxe. He ran back up the steps and hoped he wasn’t too late.