Peaceweaver

by Judith Arnopp

  I do not think he was a bad man, just rough and untutored in gentler manners but he overawed me nonetheless. His men were just like him, coarse and loud, drinking long into the night until they fell senseless and spent the night on the floor. But, for all their uncouth ways, they seemed somehow more alive than other men. I think they liked women for they never failed to bellow with pleasure should they encounter any of the ladies of the household and they made free use of the serving maids, none of whom seemed to object. After a while Mother and I learned not to mind them and once I even saw mother blush prettily at something Hardrada whispered into her ear when my father wasn’t looking.

  The Welsh and the Irish, I noticed, were gentle spoken, their voices soft like the breeze in the treetops or gentle rain tinkling from the roof. When I was in their company they were courteous, making way so I could pass by and calling me Cariad, although it was not until later that I learned what it meant.

  Sometimes the company sang; the Welsh bards wistfully of lost battles and lovers and the Irish gaily of bygone days. The Norwegian songs were sung with gusto, brave tales of bitter battles and valiant defeats.

  I grew sneaky during that time and, listening behind doors, witnessed behaviour I had never seen before and heard words that had never been used in my Saxon home. No longer sure if my father were a good man or not, I was confused. He seemed at home with these rogues, as my mother called them. I worried that he was playing into King Edward’s hands, turning his sons into traitors and destroying any chance we had of a pardon. If his plans failed then we would never be allowed to return home and what should we do then? Remain here, spending the rest of our days in this wet and dreary place, forced to adjust to the strange customs of its people? Did Father truly trust these men? Were they really his friends?

  He seemed to believe they were so and I could do nothing but place my faith in him. Surrounded by enemies as I was, I had yet to learn that an enemy can become a friend just as easily as a friend becomes an enemy.

  The Dragon’s Flame

  Winter-1057

  I screamed, pleaded and begged him to take me with him but he was as immovable as a stranger. Father shrugged off my clinging hands and sold me, like a brood mare, in marriage to his old enemy Gruffydd ap Llewelyn. I was his pawn; a bargaining tool to ensure that Gruffydd would keep to their agreement and help him in his fight against the Saxon king. I had spent a lifetime hearing him denounced as a murderer and a thief but now, in order that the alliance between them be sealed, I was expected to welcome him as my husband.

  The ceremony was taken in haste. ‘Mother.’ I entreated, but she refused to look at me and I had no choice but repeat the reluctant vow beneath Father’s malevolent glare. Bundled, weeping onto the ship I assumed we all returned to England but, after a brief stop on the coast of Cymru, Father’s ship sailed away leaving Anwen and I alone with the Welshmen on the shore.

  We ran down the beach to stand ankle deep and watch the ship disappear around the headland. Edwin raised his hand in a brief farewell but my father did not watch or wave God be wi’ ye; that congenial man with the laughing red face was gone and I would see neither him, nor my mother, ever again.

  All around us people rushed about in the incessant rain, calling to each other, their Welsh tongues too rapid for me to decipher. Pack ponies were laden with bundles and boxes that had been dumped on the beach and we were given a tiny white pony to ride. At least, I believed her to be white beneath her muddied coat. Men rode forth, sent by my new husband with messages to other chieftains.

  How strange it seemed to call that man ‘husband;’ Gruffydd was past fifty and, to my thirteen years, he was ancient. He was not tall but sturdily built, his long stringy hair that had once been black was worn caught up in a tail at the nape of his neck. I did not know then if he were kind or otherwise for we had never spoken a word except for the exchange of our hasty marriage vow. All I knew was that I did not want him as husband.

  Anwen’s native tongue was Welsh and she valiantly tried to interpret the conversation that batted around us but her quick voice made my head buzz all the more.

  ‘Oh, do hush, Anwen,’ I said at length, ‘it brings me no comfort.’ And so, we stood, two bedraggled children in the rain, waiting for someone to lead us to warmth and shelter.

  It was nigh on noon when we mounted our ponies and left the port to trail inland on an upward path through a blanket of rain. My cloak was soon wet through and my hands that clasped Anwen’s waist grew numb. I am shamed to say my nose began to drip and so despondent was I that I left it so.

  On and on we travelled, our wooded path often seeming to terminate suddenly only to reveal itself again as a sharp twist in the trail took us ever higher into the hills. The mist-shrouded terrain loomed threatening from the edges of the path, giving no clue as to our location and it was dark before we reached our resting place.

  Never had I seen such a welcome sight. The glowing firelight from within the ringed enclosure cheered me slightly as I was helped, stiff backed, from my pony.

  A dark haired boy, just a few years my senior, led the ponies away while we were ushered inside to thaw our hands and feet and slurp the hot bowl of watery soup that the Welsh called cawl. Gruffydd, who had ridden on ahead, was seated at the hearth with his teulu, the household knights that accompanied him everywhere, ready to die for him should the need arise. They barely looked up as, cold and dripping, Anwen and I joined them at the blazing hearth.

  The only furniture consisted of crude stools and benches set about a rough table and rough mattresses on the earthen floor. Smoke sulked from the central fire, seeking escape through the insufficient thatch, making the windowless place cheerless. Surely this could not be the home of the king of all Cymru. In my halting Welsh I asked the old woman, as she ladled cawl into small wooden bowls. She showed us her gums and cackled in amusement. ‘Nay Lady, ‘tis the property of one of Gruffydd’s thegns.’

  My mistake was batted around the Welsh contingent and their laughter lilted like music. They were not unfriendly but I felt alienated nonetheless and swallowed a sob. I wanted my mother and father, I was so lonely and homesick that had even Edwin or Morcar come into the room I should have rushed to them with outstretched arms.

  When the door opened again, bringing in a hail of cold wind everyone cursed as the fellow struggled in with my box. I beckoned Anwen and we sought a dark corner where she helped me change from my wet things.

  There was no privacy from the rest of the company but I made the best of it and, when the time came, snuggled with her beneath a fur covering on a straw pallet in one corner while the rest of the household snored around us. Gruffydd and his men sat up long into the night, drinking and conspiring in whispers before the fire.

  Anwen’s cry of surprise ripped into my uneasy dreams as she was dragged from the warmth of my bed. A masculine curse sent her scrabbling away and I realised, with some fear, that my lord had come.

  He climbed in beneath the furs beside me; grunting and cold and immediately began to fumble at my clothes. He was malodorous, still damp from the trail and reeking of mead. Although I knew what it meant to be married and had seen enough rutting dogs to know it wasn’t a delicate procedure, it was the closest I had ever been to a man.

  His huge, cold hand began to creep up my inner thigh and I tried to clamp my knees together but he wrenched my legs apart. Mortified, I tried to wriggle away but he grasped my jaw and snarled, ‘Be still,’ and so I lay still and, in the midst of the sleeping household, reluctantly surrendered.

  Cold, miserable and bruised the next morning I huddled on my pallet wrapped in blankets while the horses were made ready. We breakfasted on coarse bread and goat milk but my stomach craved something hot. I avoided Gruffydd’s eye and was not a little relieved when he and his huscarls rode out early. We were left with just a small escort to guide us.

  The young man, who appeared to have been left in charge, introduced himself as Rhodri. He smiled and bowed his head as I emerg
ed from the hut and then Anwen helped me to fasten my cloak before I prepared to mount my little mare.

  ‘How pretty she is now all brushed free of mud.’ I exclaimed, not missings Rhodri’s flush of pleasure at the compliment.

  ‘She is the best we have, Lady,’ he said, ‘bred of the finest native ponies and this one selected especially for you.’

  Stroking her soft pink nose and appreciating the thought that had gone into the gesture I warmed towards him.

  ‘I thank you for that, Rhodri. If she has no name already, I think I shall call her Glimmer, for last night on the trail, as it grew dark and my eyes heavy, all I could see was her mane glimmering in the gloom.’

  I looked upon his strong-boned face and honest, dark eyes and recognised a potential friend. He returned my smile briefly before turning to issue orders to load up the pack horses. Then, leaping onto the back of his mount he signalled for the party to move out and we proceeded on in single file along the narrow mountain track. I wished I was as able as Rhodri in the saddle for, while I bumped and slid about on my mare’s broad back, Rhodri’s leather clad torso moved in perfect unison with his horse.

  Now that Gruffydd no longer rode with us, I noticed a different, lighter mood. The rain had stopped and some of the company began to sing as we climbed higher into rocky terrain. I have since learned that there is not another race on earth who can sing as well as the people of Cymru and, as I listened to their lilting voices, with the countryside sparkling all around me, I began to feel a little better. The sunlight illuminated the lingering raindrops and mirrored the bright blue skies and mountaintops in the surface of the lakes. Eagles soared above us, keening in the frigid air and, although the cold made my nose tingle, the sun was warm upon my back.

  At noon we broke our journey, pausing on a swathe of green where a leaping waterfall disturbed the surface of the lake. Far out on the mere, waterfowl glided, tranquil as the day. Anwen and I stretched our legs and strolled to the edge of a nearby wood while the servants lit a fire and prepared food. The voices of the company, still strange to my Saxon ears, followed us as we moved away from the camp. Bright shafts of sunlight sliced into the gloom and, as we made our way discreetly between the trees in search of privacy, a shout halted us and Rhodri ran up behind us.

  ‘Do not go deep into the wood, Lady; seek the cover of the undergrowth here and I will guard you. Bears and wolves lurk in these mountain forests and it does not do to wander off alone and there’s nothing one of our bears likes more than a plump, Saxon princess for his supper.’

  I blushed but said nothing as he turned his back discreetly and whistled between his teeth to conceal any sounds we made. More than a little alarmed at the prospect of becoming a bear’s supper, I cast anxiously about me as Anwen and I squatted, making dark puddles on the forest floor. We made the business as brief as possible before strolling with Rhodri to rejoin the rest of the party. In East Anglia and Mercia there were no longer any bears but here, it seemed, I must learn to be wary of new dangers.

  The company were relaxed, breaking into small groups to eat a small repast. I felt almost content squatting close to the fire watching the slow roasting small fowl that had been felled with arrows as we travelled along the way.

  Rhodri produced some skins of wine and some small, wizened apples and nuts and the conversation rose and fell as we replenished our appetites. We tarried too long and, by the time we had finished, the sun had passed its zenith and we knew the warmest part of the day was over.

  While the servants doused the fires and tidied up the remains of the meal, I remounted and we continued the journey. The gentle singing and the rhythmic motion of the pony lulled me into semi-consciousness. I don’t know if it was the singing or the effects of the food I had eaten but, with my eyes half closed and my hands loose on the reins, I was ill-prepared when a bird flew up suddenly in front of my mare and she reared, knocking me from the saddle.

  Anwen’s scream alerted the rest of the party as I fell heavily to the ground. I was only momentarily winded and, feeling foolish, I sat up just in time to see Glimmer darting off into the distance while various members of the party tried to catch at her trailing reins.

  Rhodri appeared, as if from nowhere, at my side.

  ‘Are you hurt, Lady?’ he asked and, behind him, I saw Anwen’s horrified face and the sight of her I made me giggle. I shook my head clear and smiled up at them.

  ‘I am perfectly all right,’ I assured him, ‘I should have paid more attention to where we were going instead of allowing myself to all but fall asleep. It is entirely my own fault.’

  Taking Rhodri’s proffered hand I staggered to my feet but, once upright, my head swam and my knees immediately gave way again. Rhodri broke my fall but, no lightweight, I fell half on top of him in the drying mud where, supporting me in his arms, he said.

  ‘It seems you are not all right, Lady, do not rush to get up, we do well enough here. Anwen fetch your mistress a drink, there is a skin of mead fixed to my saddle, and we will allow her to take time to recover. We must wait until they recapture your pony anyway, she could be half way to home by now.’

  I felt foolish sprawled upon the ground in Rhodri’s arms but, I confess, it was not an altogether unpleasant experience. I could smell his horsey odour and see where his soft beard was trying to sprout upon his cheeks. As we half lay there he asked me questions about my childhood and family. I told him about my parents and and he laughed when I mentioned my two dreadful older brothers. But, when I went on to tell him I was just thirteen years old, he snorted and I saw his jaw tighten, as if he were angry.

  It may have only been a tumble from a small pony but it took a full half hour for me to feel recovered enough to rise. Glimmer was led, shamefaced, toward me and I stroked her gentle muzzle to renew our friendship and show that there were no hard feelings. Once I had remounted and we were on our way once more, the lingering memory of Rhodri’s protective arms and the way his breath had hushed gently upon my face comforted me as we approached what was to be my new home.

  My first view of Rhuddlan is one that will stay with me forever. The mountain terrain gave way quite suddenly and I found that we were travelling downhill toward an area of marsh and mudflats. There, ringed by Cymru’s mountainous heart, Gruffydd’s llys stood proud and stark upon Twthill; a wooden fortress amid the marshy estuary beyond which I could glimpse the sparkling, open sea.

  We followed the track through a tiny settlement that clustered about the fording place on the river; ragged children, knee deep in the water, ceased their play to watch us ride by. As we splashed across, women collected their washing from where it had been drying on the bank and stood, hand to brow, watching as we passed. The gatekeepers noted our approach and the wooden gate swung back ready to admit us at the top of Twthill.

  As we passed into the stronghold the sudden cessation of the wind came as some relief; my hair, that had blown free of its confines to whip about my face, dropped to its customary place on my shoulders and my cheeks began to sting as the warmer air licked my frozen skin. Within the walls all was hustle and bustle; folk darted about scattering poultry and small children as they went. A rangy looking mongrel came to sniff at us as we dismounted but unimpressed, he lifted his leg against my travel box and trotted off in search of something more interesting. Rhodri shouted to a passing boy to lead the horses away while we sought the comfort of the hall. As he guided me through the throng the people jostled each other for a glimpse of their new princess.

  It was mercifully warm within, the central fire was blazing and servants were scurrying to seek refreshment for the travellers. As I unfastened my cloak I looked about me with some pleasure. Bright torches illuminated the dark corners revealing rich tapestries that lined the walls to exclude the drafts. Although not so grand as those in my father’s hall, they were fine enough and a welcome surprise after the squalor of the previous night’s lodging. A man and a woman all swathed in furs hurried forward to greet me and drew me closer to t
he warmth of the hearth.

  ‘Welcome to Rhuddlan, My Lady. My name is Llyward and I am the Lord Gruffydd’s chamberlain and this is my wife.’ He bowed low over my hand before gesturing his wife forward to make her greeting.

  ‘Welcome, Lady, I am Tangwystl and it is my pleasure to serve you. Come, take a seat at the Lord’s table. You must come to me should there be anything you require that we have not thought to provide.’ Truly all I wanted to do was sleep but Gruffydd’s people were eager to greet me, even though I was a Saxon. They put on such a hearty display of welcome that refusal would have seemed churlish.

  Bards emerged from nowhere and began to tune their lutes and mead began to flow as, suddenly ravenous, we devoured whatever Gruffydd’s cooks placed before us. Everyone gathered to make merry, even the lowliest slave was eager to welcome the proud Saxon princess who, in her husband’s absence, was placed at the head of the table. All assembled, it seemed, could sing or recite a ballad or pluck music from a harp and soon my belly bulged beneath my gown and my eyes grew heavy from the warmth and lack of sleep. As the company quietened a minstrel stepped forward and stroking his harp began to sing. I could not understand every word but his voice was rich and full and I sat back in my chair letting the beauty of the language wash over me.

  The heat and the mead made my eyes heavy and Rhodri, from his place further down the board, noticed my exhaustion and nestled his cheek on his hands to signify that I should go to sleep. Determined not to give in to my weariness, I smiled defiantly and shook my head, pulling myself straighter in my chair. Looking benevolently upon my newfound people I was, for the first time since I had left my father’s hall, relaxed and almost happy. The revelling grew louder and I tapped with my fingers to the rhythm of the music. At my feet two hounds, over excited by the furore, slobbered and growled over some scraps. I pushed at them with my foot to send them away and, as I did so, my slipper came free. Afraid that the dogs would steal it, I stooped down to retrieve it and, while I was engaged beneath the table, the music suddenly dwindled and a voice roared across the hall, silencing the festivities.