Peaceweaver

by Judith Arnopp

  1059

  Gruffydd’s activities on the Welsh-Saxon border ensured that I remained largely undisturbed by his presence. He came and went, sometimes with minor injuries, sometimes in a bluff good humour and sometimes as sour as lemons. While he was in residence I was forced to suffer his attentions in the bedchamber but, after a while, I learned to disregard them and think of something more pleasant until it was over. If sometimes those thoughts were of my stepson Rhodri, well, I have no excuse but my youth and loving disposition. I did not see my growing affection for Rhodri as a sin and certainly saw no need to confess it to Father Daffydd when I took confession in his small wooden church. Rhodri was young and entertaining and my husband old and harsh and, moreover, I was more often in Rhodri’s company and so grew to know him well. It was no fault of mine that I must bed with an old man and there was nothing in the rulebook to suggest that I should enjoy it. Perhaps it was my own lack of sexual fulfilment that delayed matters or perhaps it was my tender years, but it was not until late in 1058 that my womb first quickened with Gruffydd’s child.

  I kept the news to myself, swearing Anwen to secrecy until we were sure, and then, one night before he had time to get his leg across me, I told him he could expect a son in the spring. He greeted my announcement with a grunt and immediately quit the chamber and thereafter avoided my bed altogether; a consequence that made me regret not telling him sooner.

  For six months I was able to enjoy the luxury of having the bed to myself. All day, if I wished, I could lie dreaming a young girl’s dreams and think of my coming child and the difference he would bring to my life. That he would be a son I had no doubt and I planned to call him Leofric, after the grandfather I had so loved. He would be tall and fair, with eyes like the sky. I pictured him as a newborn when, coated still with womb grease, I would first hold him in my arms. I imagined him as a small boy, flaxen haired and comical, and later, a man grown, riding to war in leather and steel. I spent my days lost in dreams until the morning the birth pangs began and reality reared its head.

  I woke early and lay staring unseeing into the absolute darkness wondering what it was that had disturbed me. An unspecific sense of unease hovered somewhere above the bed but I could determine nothing alarming in the chamber; straining my ears in the dark all I could hear were the usual night sounds of the llys. A dog barked and a curt voice cut across the night calling for silence and a far off door slammed. Then the frigid black silence resumed and my sense of disquiet grew stronger. At length I swung my legs over the side of the bed and rinsed my mouth with the mead that stood each night upon the nightstand. As I shifted to a more comfortable position I felt a gentle pop in some internal region and my inner thighs were swamped with a warm, sweet smelling fluid. Looking down in surprise I realised that my child had decided to put in an appearance. The delivery was not expected for another month and the birthing chamber not fully prepared.

  I called for Anwen and then lay back, smiling to myself, eager to greet my new son but also afraid. As if to cement my fear, a vigorous tightening of my stomach chased my smiles away. The tightening grew stronger until at last it became a real pain located at the base of my spine. I whimpered and stirred my lower limbs trying to shift the discomfort and, when the feeling abated, rose and took a taper to ignite the tallow candles that stood close to the bed. Where were the women? My mouth was dry and I took more mead from the cup swilling it around my mouth before swallowing. I could hear Anwen hollering for Tangwystl and the scurrying feet of the slaves as they hastened at her command.

  In a short while the fire had been stirred back to life and the torches lit. They hurried about, locating linen and setting the midwife’s tools ready upon a low table; potions, salves and a birthing bowl and swaddling bands for the infant. I perched on the edge of the bed trying to ignore the increasing intensity of the birth pangs. To distract my mind from the immediacy of what was going to happen to me I watched the huge shadows cast by the flare of the torches of my attendants, ducking and diving on the chamber walls.

  The fat midwife, the same who had attended the birthings of Bronwen the Fair, clucked into the room like an old hen and began to lift my nightgown. ‘That’s it, bach, lie back and let me feel your belly, I can tell then if all be well with the babe and judge how long we have to wait. There’s lovely. Well done, bach.’

  She pursed her moustached lips as her hands, which were dry and cold, probed gently at my distended stomach. Then she stood up and, to my surprise, squeezed each of my nipples and grunted in satisfaction when a bead of watery milk dripped onto the sheet. Pulling my shift demurely over my knees again she said,

  ‘Tis early days yet, Cariad, you must rest and keep calm. I’ll keep close by so you give me a call if you need to.’

  Anwen took her place by the bed and gripped my hand, smiling encouragement. ‘Oh, Anwen,’ I murmured in disbelief, ‘she says it will be ages yet but I am in sore pain already, do you think she may be mistaken and the birth is imminent?’

  ‘Old Lois knows her business, remember she’s been birthing the llys for twenty years or more. She told me she is preparing a brew of mother’s milk, motherwort, belladonna and malmsey to ease you in the later stages. Come, do not fret, Lady, you are strong and will easily bear the pain.’

  I was not so sure and, as the band tightened about my loins again, I gasped and gripped the wooden post of the bed, gritting my teeth and puffing hard. The women in the chamber, seemingly unmoved by my plight, sat diligently spinning, maintaining a light-hearted conversation to help the time pass. The braziers were kept well fuelled and the draughty windows muffled until the heat in the chamber grew to stifling proportions. I thought I would suffocate but Lois insisted that the night air was fatal for both mother and child and that they must be kept warm at all costs.

  When the pain grew too great I was dosed with Lois’ potion and some property within the concoction, either the herbs or the strong spirits, made me feel relaxed and drowsy and really rather silly. I floated off into a strange sleep in which my dreams were haunted by the past. My mother, father, Morcar and Edwin drifted in and out of my consciousness and, at other times it seemed Gruffydd were there and he was angry, shouting at me about something. I cried out more than once against him until Lois soothed my fears with more numbing drink. I sweated and twisted on the bed, detached from my companions and unreachable through a haze, isolated and imprisoned by fear and pain.

  When I felt I could bear no more Lois heaved herself from her stool by the fire and urged me onto my knees. My body felt leaden and solid, an immovable object ungoverned by my brain but, with the help of Anwen and Tangwystl, I heaved myself onto all fours and hung above the bed panting like a stricken cow, my braided hair dangling from my ears. I felt Lois behind me and my nightgown was pulled up and my nether regions exposed to allow her to examine the child’s progress,

  ‘Not long now, bach,’ the old woman encouraged, patting my bottom, ‘when the next pain hits you can push him out.’

  It was more comfortable to be on all fours and, with the weight of the child removed from my spine, I managed to take a quick look about the chamber. The sewing women in attendance seemed smug in their pain free serenity and Anwen and Tangwystl cruelly matter-of-fact in the face of my suffering.

  After a while I became aware of another pain, the sensations expanded in waves and I tried to breathe with them. I cried for my mother until the agony encompassed my very being while my body laboured to expel the child. I strained, hanging onto the twisted length of cloth that Lois had tied to the bedstead. With face distorted and teeth gritted, I pushed to rid myself of the interloper. Then the pain receded suddenly and I collapsed face down onto the mattress. Anwen was at my side bringing more milk and mead but, before I could drink, the assault began again and I tossed the vessel away making a dark stain upon the linen.

  I reared up, my knees parted and my head back, shrieking, teeth bared and twisting like a mad woman. While my mind begged respite from the labour my body
seemed to take control and forced me onward in the struggle for life until again I was briefly released from the vice like grip.

  Barely noticing the cool touch of the cloth with which Anwen bathed my forehead I rested, panting for breath, awaiting the next attack. Now though I became aware of a new sensation through the pain; something hard was pressing upon my person as though I needed the privy. Reaching a hand down I felt my child’s head, hot, sticky and pulsing with life between my legs and I was instantly refuelled with energy. When next the irresistible desire to push came I put my chin to my chest, gritted my teeth and screamed aloud with fearsome determination, then twisting myself around, I watched my son, followed by a stream of bloody liquid, flop onto the mattress behind me.

  In truth, now that it is over, I do not care to think to much about the birth, I have blocked it out of my mind for it was painful and I toiled long and hard to bring him forth. Gruffydd, who was away for my lying in, arrived a day or so later and when I heard, from my chamber, the sounds of his return, I sat up eagerly and called Anwen to me.

  ‘Fetch me my comb, Anwen, I would look my best when I present my husband with his son.’ She combed the tangles from my hair and I smoothed my shift before sitting upright on my pillow with my son in my arms. It was sometime before I heard the clump of Gruffydd’s footsteps and the chamber door flew open. When my husband finally stumbled into the chamber my carefully constructed smile faded and I sank back deflated on my pillows.

  He was drunk, staggering and ugly, drunker than I had ever seen him and his condition, so early in the day, appalled me. Without so much as a glance in my direction he slumped onto the edge of my bed and sat with his head bowed and shoulders sagging. I realised then that it was not drink alone that palsied his hands and reddened his eyes. Never in my life had I seen a man so defeated.

  ‘What has happened?’ I cried and, when I received no reply, I grew fearful and cried again. ‘Gruffydd, tell me, my Lord, what has happened?’

  The silence stretched on until I reached out to touch his shoulder, ‘Gruffydd?’ I said again more gently, ‘Please tell me what ails you?’

  He raised his head and looked at me with a face haggard and full of despair. He tried to speak but could not seem to find his voice.

  He cleared his throat before croaking, ‘Tis my son, Owain.’ He stopped and ran a gnarled hand through his hair, swallowing deeply before continuing:

  ‘A day or two ago, we were skirmishing close to Brecknoc, nothing more than that, just a skirmish, ‘twas no more’n we’ve done a hundred times. We thought we’d seen them off. We’d chased a small band of Saxons for five mile or so but, on our return, as we laughed together at the ignominy of their flight, an arrow was let loose from the hills and struck Owain in the chest. He dropped like a stone and didn’t live more’n a few moments after I got to him; right in his heart the arrow had lodged. He held onto my hand, told me he was sorry and then he died, just like that… sudden, no time for goodbye.’

  It was the first time we had spoken to me intimately, as an equal. Gripping my hand, his jaw set, he silently asked for comfort but, young as I was, I did not know the words to console him. Appalled at his naked misery I was not equipped to help him and the opportunity to breach the gulf, that lay wide between us, passed.

  Looking down at my sleeping son, I realised with a pang that even he, the fruit of our loveless union, could do nothing to ease Gruffydd’s loss of a son born by Bronwen the Fair. I awkwardly stroked his hand, noting the contrast of his huge calloused fingers against my smooth skin. Our fingers remained entwined for a brief few moments before he snatched his hand away, stood up and abruptly quit the chamber; our chance of conciliation gone. He had not so much as glanced at our child.

  ‘What about naming him Llewelyn after Gruffydd’s father?’ I asked the company that gathered at the hearth, ‘That should not displease him should it?’

  ‘I thought you’d decided on Leofric after your own grandfather?’ Rhodri exclaimed playfully, ‘Can’t you make up your mind to anything?’

  ‘Gruffydd wouldn’t hear of it,’ I complained, ‘He said I could choose any damn name I cared to just so long as it wasn’t that of a damned, murdering Saxon.’

  Laughter rippled in the company in appreciation of my mimicry and Rhodri leant forward and offered the babe his finger who took it in his firm grip.

  ‘Hmph, doesn’t surprise me. I don’t think he will approve of Llewelyn though. Didn’t he fall out with his father? I don’t know if they were ever reconciled or not so it might be best to stick with something neutral.’

  ‘Well yes, there was a family quarrel but he seems to attract foes, twill certainly narrow our options if we’re to select a name from his tally list of friends.’

  Another babble of laughter trickled about the hall.

  ‘What about …Rhodri, after his step-brother?’ suggested Anwen slyly. She had guessed my secret long ago but I knew she would never betray it for all her teasing.

  ‘No.’ said Rhodri, ‘Not that, Gruffydd wouldn’t like that and don’t suggest Owain or you will have us all hung. My brother seems to have assumed the attributes of a saint since his death. I think you should choose something innocuous like Maredudd or Idwal. We don’t have any enemies with those names, or any friends either so I see no reason why he should object.’

  ‘Oh, I like Idwal, Rhodri; it is lovely. Yes,’ I said, looking down at my sleeping son. ‘That is it. Idwal ap Gruffydd you shall be, my lover.’

  The child thrived and grew apace while I continued, happily undisturbed by Gruffydd’s advances. The day of my churching came and went and, when Idwal was just one month old, at Gruffydd’s insistence a wet nurse was found and the first ties between mother and son were severed.

  Anwen found a girl from the village whose own child had perished and she was glad to nurse Idwal, if only to relieve her own aching body. Her name was Heulwen, which in the Welsh means ‘Sunshine’ and, never in all my life, have I known anyone with a less sunny disposition. I did my best to befriend her and bring her out of her sadness but, the loss of her child had merely enhanced her bleak nature, and she shuffled, hunch-shouldered about her duties. I was heart-broken at having to stop nursing Idwal; it was hard to lose the close bond that was just beginning to form and see his hungry tears comforted by another woman.

  As she nursed him I watched and envied her sore dugs and milk-stained bodice but, dutifully, I said nothing in protest; instead I tried to set my mind to other concerns.

  Owain’s death hit Gruffydd hard but, whether grief had tempered his aggression or there was another reason outside the scope of my knowledge, an uneasy peace was reached with the Saxons at this time. The truce with Earl Harold, at King Edward’s approval, altered many things. My grandfather, Leofric, had died and my father was reconciled with King Edward and reinstated in Mercia. Gruffydd was content to have regained the disputed lands along the border with England. The need for war was momentarily appeased which meant that Gruffydd was home much more. Instead of spending his days making war, he spent them hunting or administering his duties as king. He did not seem to dwell outwardly upon the loss of Owain but his authoritative presence at the llys dampened the congenial atmosphere that prevailed when he was from home. His close proximity meant that he spent many more nights in my bed and, much to my discomfiture, even the odd rainy afternoon.

  As a consequence Idwal was just three months old when I suspected that I was with child again. This time I told Gruffydd the news straight away and, as I had hoped, he immediately ceased to visit my chamber, leaving me again in blissful solitude.

  It was May, our large retinue was relaxed and happy as we traversed ancient pathways where blossom frothed thick in the hedgerows and birds and small mammals busied themselves with their young. We were on our way to a wedding, the journey was a lengthy one but Gruffydd was determined not to miss the nuptials of his favoured man.

  The first place of note that we came to was Chester; a town set precariously upo
n the border between Saxon England and Cymru. Gryffydd’s domain terminated at its wooden gate and the fortified settlement was ever vulnerable to spies and traitors from both sides of the divide. They exported salt, cloth and slaves and imported pelts, cattle and fish. It formed part of my father’s Mercian holdings and we planned to spend a few days enjoying the rare pleasures Chester had to offer. We had no towns in Cymru and my women and I had spent weeks planning our shopping.

  The streets teemed with life; shopkeepers, beggars, prostitutes and urchins jostled together, drovers cut through the throng driving sheep to market and rich merchants on horseback cursed at the crowd, slashing about them with their whips. The market place was packed with folk so a page walked ahead clearing a path for us. I found a stall selling fine disc brooches and I purchased one, set with an amber centre as a wedding gift for Alys. Tangwystl bought a fistful of coloured braid and Anwen some fine woven cloth to make a tunic for Idwal.

  Our spending frenzy sated, we lodged at the abbey overnight and, in the morning, journeyed on. We planned to stop at smaller holdings along the way, for it was a long journey to the splendid llys at Dinefwr in Gruffydd’s domain of Dehuebarth. Of course, the wedding feast of Gruffydd’s henchman was not the only reason for our journey. Gruffydd always had another agenda and it seemed had scores to settle with dissenters in the south where an old feud had flared up again.

  'There is no rest for Princes.' he declared, 'no holi days for me and, while my lowliest subjects are free to make merry on feast days, I must toil away to ensure their continued security. Why. I am more slave than Prince and there is always some upstart wanting to usurp my position.’

  ‘And he should know since he himself has usurped every other bugger’s seat,’ mumbled Anwen darkly at my side and I shushed her, fearful that our Lord would overhear.